Presentiments are
strange things! and so are sympathies;
and so are signs; and the three
combined make one mystery to which
humanity has
not yet found the key. I never laughed at presentiments in my life,
because I have had strange ones of my own. Sympathies, I believe,
exist (for instance, between far-distant, long-absent, wholly
estranged relatives asserting, notwithstanding their alienation, the
unity of the source to which each traces his origin) whose workings
baffle mortal comprehension. And signs, for aught we know, may be
but the sympathies of Nature with man.
When I was a little girl, only
six years old, I one night heard
Bessie Leaven say to Martha Abbot
that she had been dreaming about
a little child; and that to dream
of children was a sure sign of
trouble, either to one's self
or one's kin. The saying might
have worn out of my memory, had
not a circumstance immediately
followed which served indelibly
to fix it there. The next day
Bessie was sent for home to the
deathbed of her little sister.
Of late I had often recalled
this saying and this incident;
for during the past week scarcely
a night had gone over my couch
that had not brought with it
a dream of an infant, which I
sometimes hushed in my arms,
sometimes dandled on my knee,
sometimes watched playing with
daisies on a lawn, or again,
dabbling its hands in running
water. It was a wailing child
this night, and a laughing one
the next: now it nestled close
to me, and now it ran from me;
but whatever mood the apparition
evinced, whatever aspect it wore,
it failed not for seven successive
nights to meet me the moment
I entered the land of slumber.
I did not like this iteration
of one idea--this strange recurrence
of one image, and I grew nervous
as bedtime approached and the
hour of the vision drew near.
It was from companionship with
this baby- phantom I had been
roused on that moonlight night
when I heard the cry; and it
was on the afternoon of the day
following I was summoned downstairs
by a message that some one wanted
me in Mrs. Fairfax's room. On
repairing thither, I found a
man waiting for me, having the
appearance of a gentleman's servant:
he was dressed in deep mourning,
and the hat he held in his hand
was surrounded with a crape band.
"I daresay you hardly remember
me, Miss," he said, rising as
I entered; "but my name is Leaven:
I lived coachman with Mrs. Reed
when you were at Gateshead, eight
or nine years since, and I live
there still."
"Oh,
Robert! how
do you do?
I remember
you very well:
you
used to give me a ride sometimes
on Miss Georgiana's bay pony.
And how is Bessie? You are married
to Bessie?"
"Yes,
Miss: my wife
is very hearty,
thank you;
she brought
me another little one about two
months since--we have three now--and
both mother and child are thriving."
"And
are the family
well at the
house, Robert?"
"I
am sorry I
can't give
you better
news of them,
Miss: they
are very badly at present--in
great trouble."
"I hope no one is dead," I
said, glancing at his black dress.
He too looked down at the crape
round his hat and replied -
"Mr.
John died yesterday
was a week,
at his chambers
in London."
"Mr.
John?"
"Yes."
"And
how does his
mother bear
it?"
"Why,
you see, Miss
Eyre, it is
not a common
mishap: his
life
has been very wild: these last
three years he gave himself up
to strange ways, and his death
was shocking."
"I
heard from
Bessie he was
not doing well."
"Doing
well! He could
not do worse:
he ruined his
health and
his estate amongst the worst
men and the worst women. He got
into debt and into jail: his
mother helped him out twice,
but as soon as he was free he
returned to his old companions
and habits. His head was not
strong: the knaves he lived amongst
fooled him beyond anything I
ever heard. He came down to Gateshead
about three weeks ago and wanted
missis to give up all to him.
Missis refused: her means have
long been much reduced by his
extravagance; so he went back
again, and the next news was
that he was dead. How he died,
God knows!--they say he killed
himself."
I was silent: the things were
frightful. Robert Leaven resumed
-
"Missis
had been out
of health herself
for some time:
she had
got very stout, but was not strong
with it; and the loss of money
and fear of poverty were quite
breaking her down. The information
about Mr. John's death and the
manner of it came too suddenly:
it brought on a stroke. She was
three days without speaking;
but last Tuesday she seemed rather
better: she appeared as if she
wanted to say something, and
kept making signs to my wife
and mumbling. It was only yesterday
morning, however, that Bessie
understood she was pronouncing
your name; and at last she made
out the words, 'Bring Jane--fetch
Jane Eyre: I want to speak to
her.' Bessie is not sure whether
she is in her right mind, or
means anything by the words;
but she told Miss Reed and Miss
Georgiana, and advised them to
send for you. The young ladies
put it off at first; but their
mother grew so restless, and
said, 'Jane, Jane,' so many times,
that at last they consented.
I left Gateshead yesterday: and
if you can get ready, Miss, I
should like to take you back
with me early to- morrow morning."
"Yes,
Robert, I shall
be ready: it
seems to me
that I ought
to
go."
"I
think so too,
Miss. Bessie
said she was sure you would not
refuse: but I suppose you will
have to ask leave before you
can get off?"
"Yes; and I will do it now;" and
having directed him to the servants'
hall, and recommended him to
the care of John's wife, and
the attentions of John himself,
I went in search of Mr. Rochester.
He
was not in
any of the
lower rooms;
he was not
in the yard,
the stables, or the grounds.
I asked Mrs. Fairfax if she had
seen him;- -yes: she believed
he was playing billiards with
Miss Ingram. To the billiard-room
I hastened: the click of balls
and the hum of voices resounded
thence; Mr. Rochester, Miss Ingram,
the two Misses Eshton, and their
admirers, were all busied in
the game. It required some courage
to disturb so interesting a party;
my errand, however, was one I
could not defer, so I approached
the master where he stood at
Miss Ingram's side. She turned
as I drew near, and looked at
me haughtily: her eyes seemed
to demand, "What can the creeping
creature want now?" and when
I said, in a low voice, "Mr.
Rochester," she made a movement
as if tempted to order me away.
I remember her appearance at
the moment--it was very graceful
and very striking: she wore a
morning robe of sky-blue crape;
a gauzy azure scarf was twisted
in her hair. She had been all
animation with the game, and
irritated pride did not lower
the expression of her haughty
lineaments.
"Does that person want you?" she
inquired of Mr. Rochester; and
Mr. Rochester turned to see who
the "person" was. He made a curious
grimace--one of his strange and
equivocal demonstrations--threw
down his cue and followed me
from the room.
"Well, Jane?" he
said, as he
rested his back against the schoolroom
door, which he had shut.
"If
you please,
sir, I want
leave of absence for a week or
two."
"What
to do?--where
to go?"
"To
see a sick
lady who has
sent for me."
"What
sick lady?--where
does she live?"
"At
Gateshead;
in -shire."
"-shire?
That is a hundred
miles off! Who may she be that
sends for people to see her that
distance?"
"Her
name is Reed,
sir--Mrs. Reed."
"Reed
of Gateshead?
There was a
Reed of Gateshead,
a magistrate."
"It
is his widow,
sir."
"And
what have you
to do with
her? How do
you know her?"
"Mr.
Reed was my
uncle--my mother's
brother."
"The
deuce he was!
You never told
me that before:
you always
said you had no relations."
"None
that would
own me, sir.
Mr. Reed is dead, and his wife
cast me off."
"Why?"
"Because
I was poor,
and burdensome,
and she disliked me."
"But
Reed left children?--you
must have cousins? Sir George
Lynn was talking of a Reed of
Gateshead yesterday, who, he
said, was one of the veriest
rascals on town; and Ingram was
mentioning a Georgiana Reed of
the same place, who was much
admired for her beauty a season
or two ago in London."
"John
Reed is dead,
too, sir: he
ruined himself
and half-ruined
his family, and is supposed to
have committed suicide. The news
so shocked his mother that it
brought on an apoplectic attack."
"And
what good can
you do her?
Nonsense, Jane! I would never
think of running a hundred miles
to see an old lady who will,
perhaps, be dead before you reach
her: besides, you say she cast
you off."
"Yes,
sir, but that
is long ago;
and when her
circumstances
were very different: I could
not be easy to neglect her wishes
now."
"How
long will you
stay?"
"As
short a time
as possible,
sir."
"Promise
me only to
stay a week--"
"I
had better
not pass my
word: I might
be obliged
to break it."
"At
all events
you WILL come
back: you will not be induced
under any pretext to take up
a permanent residence with her?"
"Oh,
no! I shall
certainly return
if all be well."
"And
who goes with
you? You don't
travel a hundred
miles
alone."
"No,
sir, she has
sent her coachman."
"A
person to be
trusted?"
"Yes,
sir, he has
lived ten years
in the family."
Mr.
Rochester meditated. "When
do you wish to go?"
"Early
to-morrow morning,
sir."
"Well, you must have some money;
you can't travel without money,
and I daresay you have not much:
I have given you no salary yet.
How much have you in the world,
Jane?" he asked, smiling.
I
drew out my
purse; a meagre
thing it was. "Five shillings,
sir." He took the purse, poured
the hoard into his palm, and
chuckled over it as if its scantiness
amused him. Soon he produced
his pocket- book: "Here," said
he, offering me a note; it was
fifty pounds, and he owed me
but fifteen. I told him I had
no change.
"I
don't want
change; you
know that.
Take your wages."
I declined accepting more than
was my due. He scowled at first;
then, as if recollecting something,
he said -
"Right,
right! Better
not give you
all now: you
would, perhaps,
stay away three months if you
had fifty pounds. There are ten;
is it not plenty?"
"Yes,
sir, but now
you owe me
five."
"Come
back for it,
then; I am
your banker
for forty pounds."
"Mr.
Rochester,
I may as well
mention another matter of business
to you while I have the opportunity."
"Matter
of business?
I am curious
to hear it."
"You
have as good
as informed
me, sir, that you are going shortly
to be married?"
"Yes;
what then?"
"In
that case,
sir, Adele
ought to go
to school:
I am sure you
will perceive the necessity of
it."
"To
get her out
of my bride's
way, who might otherwise walk
over her rather too emphatically?
There's sense in the suggestion;
not a doubt of it. Adele, as
you say, must go to school; and
you, of course, must march straight
to--the devil?"
"I
hope not, sir;
but I must
seek another
situation somewhere."
"In course!" he
exclaimed,
with a twang
of voice and
a distortion
of features equally fantastic
and ludicrous. He looked at me
some minutes.
"And
old Madam Reed,
or the Misses,
her daughters,
will be
solicited by you to seek a place,
I suppose?"
"No,
sir; I am not
on such terms
with my relatives
as would
justify me in asking favours
of them--but I shall advertise."
"You shall walk up the pyramids
of Egypt!" he growled. "At your
peril you advertise! I wish I
had only offered you a sovereign
instead of ten pounds. Give me
back nine pounds, Jane; I've
a use for it."
"And so have I, sir," I returned,
putting my hands and my purse
behind me. "I could not spare
the money on any account."
"Little niggard!" said he, "refusing
me a pecuniary request! Give
me five pounds, Jane."
"Not
five shillings,
sir; nor five
pence."
"Just
let me look
at the cash."
"No,
sir; you are
not to be trusted."
"Jane!"
"Sir?"
"Promise
me one thing."
"I'll
promise you
anything, sir,
that I think
I am likely
to perform."
"Not
to advertise:
and to trust
this quest of a situation to
me. I'll find you one in time."
"I
shall be glad
so to do, sir,
if you, in
your turn,
will
promise that I and Adele shall
be both safe out of the house
before your bride enters it."
"Very
well! very
well! I'll
pledge my word
on it. You
go
to- morrow, then?"
"Yes,
sir; early."
"Shall
you come down
to the drawing-room
after dinner?"
"No,
sir, I must
prepare for
the journey."
"Then
you and I must
bid good-bye
for a little while?"
"I
suppose so,
sir."
"And
how do people
perform that
ceremony of
parting, Jane?
Teach me; I'm not quite up to
it."
"They
say, Farewell,
or any other
form they prefer."
"Then
say it."
"Farewell,
Mr. Rochester,
for the present."
"What
must I say?"
"The
same, if you
like, sir."
"Farewell,
Miss Eyre,
for the present;
is that all?"
"Yes?"
"It
seems stingy,
to my notions,
and dry, and unfriendly. I should
like something else: a little
addition to the rite. If one
shook hands, for instance; but
no--that would not content me
either. So you'll do no more
than say Farewell, Jane?"
"It
is enough,
sir: as much
good-will may be conveyed in
one hearty word as in many."
"Very
likely; but
it is blank
and cool--'Farewell.'"
"How long is he going to stand
with his back against that door?" I
asked myself; "I want to commence
my packing." The dinner-bell
rang, and suddenly away he bolted,
without another syllable: I saw
him no more during the day, and
was off before he had risen in
the morning.
I reached the lodge at Gateshead
about five o'clock in the afternoon
of the first of May: I stepped
in there before going up to the
hall. It was very clean and neat:
the ornamental windows were hung
with little white curtains; the
floor was spotless; the grate
and fire-irons were burnished
bright, and the fire burnt clear.
Bessie sat on the hearth, nursing
her last-born, and Robert and
his sister played quietly in
a corner.
"Bless you!--I knew you would
come!" exclaimed Mrs. Leaven,
as I entered.
"Yes, Bessie," said I, after
I had kissed her; "and I trust
I am not too late. How is Mrs.
Reed?--Alive still, I hope."
"Yes,
she is alive;
and more sensible
and collected
than she
was. The doctor says she may
linger a week or two yet; but
he hardly thinks she will finally
recover."
"Has
she mentioned
me lately?"
"She
was talking
of you only
this morning, and wishing you
would come, but she is sleeping
now, or was ten minutes ago,
when I was up at the house. She
generally lies in a kind of lethargy
all the afternoon, and wakes
up about six or seven. Will you
rest yourself here an hour, Miss,
and then I will go up with you?"
Robert here entered, and Bessie
laid her sleeping child in the
cradle and went to welcome him:
afterwards she insisted on my
taking off my bonnet and having
some tea; for she said I looked
pale and tired. I was glad to
accept her hospitality; and I
submitted to be relieved of my
travelling garb just as passively
as I used to let her undress
me when a child.
Old times crowded fast back
on me as I watched her bustling
about-- setting out the tea-tray
with her best china, cutting
bread and butter, toasting a
tea-cake, and, between whiles,
giving little Robert or Jane
an occasional tap or push, just
as she used to give me in former
days. Bessie had retained her
quick temper as well as her light
foot and good looks.
Tea ready, I was going to approach
the table; but she desired me
to sit still, quite in her old
peremptory tones. I must be served
at the fireside, she said; and
she placed before me a little
round stand with my cup and a
plate of toast, absolutely as
she used to accommodate me with
some privately purloined dainty
on a nursery chair: and I smiled
and obeyed her as in bygone days.
She wanted to know if I was
happy at Thornfield Hall, and
what sort of a person the mistress
was; and when I told her there
was only a master, whether he
was a nice gentleman, and if
I liked him. I told her he rather
an ugly man, but quite a gentleman;
and that he treated me kindly,
and I was content. Then I went
on to describe to her the gay
company that had lately been
staying at the house; and to
these details Bessie listened
with interest: they were precisely
of the kind she relished.
In
such conversation
an hour was
soon gone:
Bessie restored
to me my bonnet, &c., and, accompanied
by her, I quitted the lodge for
the hall. It was also accompanied
by her that I had, nearly nine
years ago, walked down the path
I was now ascending. On a dark,
misty, raw morning in January,
I had left a hostile roof with
a desperate and embittered heart--a
sense of outlawry and almost
of reprobation- -to seek the
chilly harbourage of Lowood:
that bourne so far away and unexplored.
The same hostile roof now again
rose before me: my prospects
were doubtful yet; and I had
yet an aching heart. I still
felt as a wanderer on the face
of the earth; but I experienced
firmer trust in myself and my
own powers, and less withering
dread of oppression. The gaping
wound of my wrongs, too, was
now quite healed; and the flame
of resentment extinguished.
"You shall go into the breakfast-room
first," said Bessie, as she preceded
me through the hall; "the young
ladies will be there."
In another moment I was within
that apartment. There was every
article of furniture looking
just as it did on the morning
I was first introduced to Mr.
Brocklehurst: the very rug he
had stood upon still covered
the hearth. Glancing at the bookcases,
I thought I could distinguish
the two volumes of Bewick's British
Birds occupying their old place
on the third shelf, and Gulliver's
Travels and the Arabian Nights
ranged just above. The inanimate
objects were not changed; but
the living things had altered
past recognition.
Two young ladies appeared before
me; one very tall, almost as
tall as Miss Ingram--very thin
too, with a sallow face and severe
mien. There was something ascetic
in her look, which was augmented
by the extreme plainness of a
straight-skirted, black, stuff
dress, a starched linen collar,
hair combed away from the temples,
and the nun-like ornament of
a string of ebony beads and a
crucifix. This I felt sure was
Eliza, though I could trace little
resemblance to her former self
in that elongated and colourless
visage.
The other was as certainly
Georgiana: but not the Georgiana
I remembered--the slim and fairy-like
girl of eleven. This was a full-blown,
very plump damsel, fair as waxwork,
with handsome and regular features,
languishing blue eyes, and ringleted
yellow hair. The hue of her dress
was black too; but its fashion
was so different from her sister's--so
much more flowing and becoming--it
looked as stylish as the other's
looked puritanical.
In each of the sisters there
was one trait of the mother--and
only one; the thin and pallid
elder daughter had her parent's
Cairngorm eye: the blooming and
luxuriant younger girl had her
contour of jaw and chin--perhaps
a little softened, but still
imparting an indescribable hardness
to the countenance otherwise
so voluptuous and buxom.
Both
ladies, as
I advanced,
rose to welcome me, and both
addressed me by the name of "Miss
Eyre." Eliza's greeting was delivered
in a short, abrupt voice, without
a smile; and then she sat down
again, fixed her eyes on the
fire, and seemed to forget me.
Georgiana added to her "How d'ye
do?" several commonplaces about
my journey, the weather, and
so on, uttered in rather a drawling
tone: and accompanied by sundry
side-glances that measured me
from head to foot--now traversing
the folds of my drab merino pelisse,
and now lingering on the plain
trimming of my cottage bonnet.
Young ladies have a remarkable
way of letting you know that
they think you a "quiz" without
actually saying the words. A
certain superciliousness of look,
coolness of manner, nonchalance
of tone, express fully their
sentiments on the point, without
committing them by any positive
rudeness in word or deed.
A sneer, however, whether covert
or open, had now no longer that
power over me it once possessed:
as I sat between my cousins,
I was surprised to find how easy
I felt under the total neglect
of the one and the semi-sarcastic
attentions of the other--Eliza
did not mortify, nor Georgiana
ruffle me. The fact was, I had
other things to think about;
within the last few months feelings
had been stirred in me so much
more potent than any they could
raise--pains and pleasures so
much more acute and exquisite
had been excited than any it
was in their power to inflict
or bestow--that their airs gave
me no concern either for good
or bad.
"How is Mrs. Reed?" I
asked soon,
looking calmly
at Georgiana,
who thought fit to bridle at
the direct address, as if it
were an unexpected liberty.
"Mrs.
Reed? Ah! mama,
you mean; she
is extremely
poorly: I doubt
if you can see her to-night."
"If," said I, "you
would just
step upstairs
and tell her
I
am come, I should be much obliged
to you."
Georgiana
almost started,
and she opened
her blue eyes
wild
and wide. "I know she had a particular
wish to see me," I added, "and
I would not defer attending to
her desire longer than is absolutely
necessary."
"Mama dislikes being disturbed
in an evening," remarked Eliza.
I soon rose, quietly took off
my bonnet and gloves, uninvited,
and said I would just step out
to Bessie--who was, I dared say,
in the kitchen--and ask her to
ascertain whether Mrs. Reed was
disposed to receive me or not
to-night. I went, and having
found Bessie and despatched her
on my errand, I proceeded to
take further measures. It had
heretofore been my habit always
to shrink from arrogance: received
as I had been to-day, I should,
a year ago, have resolved to
quit Gateshead the very next
morning; now, it was disclosed
to me all at once that that would
be a foolish plan. I had taken
a journey of a hundred miles
to see my aunt, and I must stay
with her till she was better--or
dead: as to her daughters' pride
or folly, I must put it on one
side, make myself independent
of it. So I addressed the housekeeper;
asked her to show me a room,
told her I should probably be
a visitor here for a week or
two, had my trunk conveyed to
my chamber, and followed it thither
myself: I met Bessie on the landing.
"Missis is awake," said she; "I
have told her you are here: come
and let us see if she will know
you."
I did not need to be guided
to the well-known room, to which
I had so often been summoned
for chastisement or reprimand
in former days. I hastened before
Bessie; I softly opened the door:
a shaded light stood on the table,
for it was now getting dark.
There was the great four-post
bed with amber hangings as of
old; there the toilet- table,
the armchair, and the footstool,
at which I had a hundred times
been sentenced to kneel, to ask
pardon for offences by me uncommitted.
I looked into a certain corner
near, half-expecting to see the
slim outline of a once dreaded
switch which used to lurk there,
waiting to leap out imp-like
and lace my quivering palm or
shrinking neck. I approached
the bed; I opened the curtains
and leant over the high-piled
pillows.
Well did I remember Mrs. Reed's
face, and I eagerly sought the
familiar image. It is a happy
thing that time quells the longings
of vengeance and hushes the promptings
of rage and aversion. I had left
this woman in bitterness and
hate, and I came back to her
now with no other emotion than
a sort of ruth for her great
sufferings, and a strong yearning
to forget and forgive all injuries--to
be reconciled and clasp hands
in amity.
The well-known face was there:
stern, relentless as ever--there
was that peculiar eye which nothing
could melt, and the somewhat
raised, imperious, despotic eyebrow.
How often had it lowered on me
menace and hate! and how the
recollection of childhood's terrors
and sorrows revived as I traced
its harsh line now! And yet I
stooped down and kissed her:
she looked at me.
"Is this Jane Eyre?" she
said.
"Yes,
Aunt Reed.
How are you,
dear aunt?"
I had once vowed that I would
never call her aunt again: I
thought it no sin to forget and
break that vow now. My fingers
had fastened on her hand which
lay outside the sheet: had she
pressed mine kindly, I should
at that moment have experienced
true pleasure. But unimpressionable
natures are not so soon softened,
nor are natural antipathies so
readily eradicated. Mrs. Reed
took her hand away, and, turning
her face rather from me, she
remarked that the night was warm.
Again she regarded me so icily,
I felt at once that her opinion
of me--her feeling towards me--was
unchanged and unchangeable. I
knew by her stony eye--opaque
to tenderness, indissoluble to
tears--that she was resolved
to consider me bad to the last;
because to believe me good would
give her no generous pleasure:
only a sense of mortification.
I felt pain, and then I felt
ire; and then I felt a determination
to subdue her--to be her mistress
in spite both of her nature and
her will. My tears had risen,
just as in childhood: I ordered
them back to their source. I
brought a chair to the bed-head:
I sat down and leaned over the
pillow.
"You sent for me," I said, "and
I am here; and it is my intention
to stay till I see how you get
on."
"Oh,
of course!
You have seen
my daughters?"
"Yes."
"Well,
you may tell
them I wish
you to stay
till I can
talk
some things over with you I have
on my mind: to-night it is too
late, and I have a difficulty
in recalling them. But there
was something I wished to say--let
me see--"
The wandering look and changed
utterance told what wreck had
taken place in her once vigorous
frame. Turning restlessly, she
drew the bedclothes round her;
my elbow, resting on a corner
of the quilt, fixed it down:
she was at once irritated.
"Sit up!" said she; "don't
annoy me with holding the clothes
fast. Are you Jane Eyre?"
"I
am Jane Eyre."
"I
have had more
trouble with
that child than any one would
believe. Such a burden to be
left on my hands--and so much
annoyance as she caused me, daily
and hourly, with her incomprehensible
disposition, and her sudden starts
of temper, and her continual,
unnatural watchings of one's
movements! I declare she talked
to me once like something mad,
or like a fiend--no child ever
spoke or looked as she did; I
was glad to get her away from
the house. What did they do with
her at Lowood? The fever broke
out there, and many of the pupils
died. She, however, did not die:
but I said she did--I wish she
had died!"
"A
strange wish,
Mrs. Reed;
why do you
hate her so?"
"I
had a dislike
to her mother
always; for she was my husband's
only sister, and a great favourite
with him: he opposed the family's
disowning her when she made her
low marriage; and when news came
of her death, he wept like a
simpleton. He would send for
the baby; though I entreated
him rather to put it out to nurse
and pay for its maintenance.
I hated it the first time I set
my eyes on it--a sickly, whining,
pining thing! It would wail in
its cradle all night long--not
screaming heartily like any other
child, but whimpering and moaning.
Reed pitied it; and he used to
nurse it and notice it as if
it had been his own: more, indeed,
than he ever noticed his own
at that age. He would try to
make my children friendly to
the little beggar: the darlings
could not bear it, and he was
angry with them when they showed
their dislike. In his last illness,
he had it brought continually
to his bedside; and but an hour
before he died, he bound me by
vow to keep the creature. I would
as soon have been charged with
a pauper brat out of a workhouse:
but he was weak, naturally weak.
John does not at all resemble
his father, and I am glad of
it: John is like me and like
my brothers--he is quite a Gibson.
Oh, I wish he would cease tormenting
me with letters for money? I
have no more money to give him:
we are getting poor. I must send
away half the servants and shut
up part of the house; or let
it off. I can never submit to
do that--yet how are we to get
on? Two-thirds of my income goes
in paying the interest of mortgages.
John gambles dreadfully, and
always loses--poor boy! He is
beset by sharpers: John is sunk
and degraded--his look is frightful--I
feel ashamed for him when I see
him."
She
was getting
much excited. "I
think I had better leave her
now," said I to Bessie, who stood
on the other side of the bed.
"Perhaps
you had, Miss:
but she often
talks in this
way towards
night--in the morning she is
calmer."
I
rose. "Stop!" exclaimed Mrs.
Reed, "there is another thing
I wished to say. He threatens
me--he continually threatens
me with his own death, or mine:
and I dream sometimes that I
see him laid out with a great
wound in his throat, or with
a swollen and blackened face.
I am come to a strange pass:
I have heavy troubles. What is
to be done? How is the money
to be had?"
Bessie now endeavoured to persuade
her to take a sedative draught:
she succeeded with difficulty.
Soon after, Mrs. Reed grew more
composed, and sank into a dozing
state. I then left her.
More than ten days elapsed
before I had again any conversation
with her. She continued either
delirious or lethargic; and the
doctor forbade everything which
could painfully excite her. Meantime,
I got on as well as I could with
Georgiana and Eliza. They were
very cold, indeed, at first.
Eliza would sit half the day
sewing, reading, or writing,
and scarcely utter a word either
to me or her sister. Georgiana
would chatter nonsense to her
canary bird by the hour, and
take no notice of me. But I was
determined not to seem at a loss
for occupation or amusement:
I had brought my drawing materials
with me, and they served me for
both.
Provided with a case of pencils,
and some sheets of paper, I used
to take a seat apart from them,
near the window, and busy myself
in sketching fancy vignettes,
representing any scene that happened
momentarily to shape itself in
the ever-shifting kaleidoscope
of imagination: a glimpse of
sea between two rocks; the rising
moon, and a ship crossing its
disk; a group of reeds and water-flags,
and a naiad's head, crowned with
lotus-flowers, rising out of
them; an elf sitting in a hedge-sparrow's
nest, under a wreath of hawthorn-
bloom
One
morning I fell
to sketching
a face: what sort of a face it
was to be, I did not care or
know. I took a soft black pencil,
gave it a broad point, and worked
away. Soon I had traced on the
paper a broad and prominent forehead
and a square lower outline of
visage: that contour gave me
pleasure; my fingers proceeded
actively to fill it with features.
Strongly-marked horizontal eyebrows
must be traced under that brow;
then followed, naturally, a well-defined
nose, with a straight ridge and
full nostrils; then a flexible-
looking mouth, by no means narrow;
then a firm chin, with a decided
cleft down the middle of it:
of course, some black whiskers
were wanted, and some jetty hair,
tufted on the temples, and waved
above the forehead. Now for the
eyes: I had left them to the
last, because they required the
most careful working. I drew
them large; I shaped them well:
the eyelashes I traced long and
sombre; the irids lustrous and
large. "Good! but not quite the
thing," I thought, as I surveyed
the effect: "they want more force
and spirit;" and I wrought the
shades blacker, that the lights
might flash more brilliantly--a
happy touch or two secured success.
There, I had a friend's face
under my gaze; and what did it
signify that those young ladies
turned their backs on me? I looked
at it; I smiled at the speaking
likeness: I was absorbed and
content.
"Is that a portrait of some
one you know?" asked Eliza, who
had approached me unnoticed.
I responded that it was merely
a fancy head, and hurried it
beneath the other sheets. Of
course, I lied: it was, in fact,
a very faithful representation
of Mr. Rochester. But what was
that to her, or to any one but
myself? Georgiana also advanced
to look. The other drawings pleased
her much, but she called that "an
ugly man." They both seemed surprised
at my skill. I offered to sketch
their portraits; and each, in
turn, sat for a pencil outline.
Then Georgiana produced her album.
I promised to contribute a water-colour
drawing: this put her at once
into good humour. She proposed
a walk in the grounds. Before
we had been out two hours, we
were deep in a confidential conversation:
she had favoured me with a description
of the brilliant winter she had
spent in London two seasons ago--of
the admiration she had there
excited-- the attention she had
received; and I even got hints
of the titled conquest she had
made. In the course of the afternoon
and evening these hints were
enlarged on: various soft conversations
were reported, and sentimental
scenes represented; and, in short,
a volume of a novel of fashionable
life was that day improvised
by her for my benefit. The communications
were renewed from day to day:
they always ran on the same theme--herself,
her loves, and woes. It was strange
she never once adverted either
to her mother's illness, or her
brother's death, or the present
gloomy state of the family prospects.
Her mind seemed wholly taken
up with reminiscences of past
gaiety, and aspirations after
dissipations to come. She passed
about five minutes each day in
her mother's sick-room, and no
more.
Eliza
still spoke
little: she
had evidently no time to talk.
I never saw a busier person than
she seemed to be; yet it was
difficult to say what she did:
or rather, to discover any result
of her diligence. She had an
alarm to call her up early. I
know not how she occupied herself
before breakfast, but after that
meal she divided her time into
regular portions, and each hour
had its allotted task. Three
times a day she studied a little
book, which I found, on inspection,
was a Common Prayer Book. I asked
her once what was the great attraction
of that volume, and she said, "the
Rubric." Three hours she gave
to stitching, with gold thread,
the border of a square crimson
cloth, almost large enough for
a carpet. In answer to my inquiries
after the use of this article,
she informed me it was a covering
for the altar of a new church
lately erected near Gateshead.
Two hours she devoted to her
diary; two to working by herself
in the kitchen-garden; and one
to the regulation of her accounts.
She seemed to want no company;
no conversation. I believe she
was happy in her way: this routine
sufficed for her; and nothing
annoyed her so much as the occurrence
of any incident which forced
her to vary its clockwork regularity.
She told me one evening, when
more disposed to be communicative
than usual, that John's conduct,
and the threatened ruin of the
family, had been a source of
profound affliction to her: but
she had now, she said, settled
her mind, and formed her resolution.
Her own fortune she had taken
care to secure; and when her
mother died--and it was wholly
improbable, she tranquilly remarked,
that she should either recover
or linger long--she would execute
a long-cherished project: seek
a retirement where punctual habits
would be permanently secured
from disturbance, and place safe
barriers between herself and
a frivolous world. I asked if
Georgiana would accompany her.
"Of
course not.
Georgiana and
she had nothing in common: they
never had had. She would not
be burdened with her society
for any consideration. Georgiana
should take her own course; and
she, Eliza, would take hers."
Georgiana,
when not unburdening
her heart to me, spent most of
her time in lying on the sofa,
fretting about the dulness of
the house, and wishing over and
over again that her aunt Gibson
would send her an invitation
up to town. "It would be so much
better," she said, "if she could
only get out of the way for a
month or two, till all was over." I
did not ask what she meant by "all
being over," but I suppose she
referred to the expected decease
of her mother and the gloomy
sequel of funeral rites. Eliza
generally took no more notice
of her sister's indolence and
complaints than if no such murmuring,
lounging object had been before
her. One day, however, as she
put away her account-book and
unfolded her embroidery, she
suddenly took her up thus -
"Georgiana,
a more vain
and absurd
animal than
you was certainly
never allowed to cumber the earth.
You had no right to be born,
for you make no use of life.
Instead of living for, in, and
with yourself, as a reasonable
being ought, you seek only to
fasten your feebleness on some
other person's strength: if no
one can be found willing to burden
her or himself with such a fat,
weak, puffy, useless thing, you
cry out that you are ill-treated,
neglected, miserable. Then, too,
existence for you must be a scene
of continual change and excitement,
or else the world is a dungeon:
you must be admired, you must
be courted, you must be flattered--you
must have music, dancing, and
society--or you languish, you
die away. Have you no sense to
devise a system which will make
you independent of all efforts,
and all wills, but your own?
Take one day; share it into sections;
to each section apportion its
task: leave no stray unemployed
quarters of an hour, ten minutes,
five minutes--include all; do
each piece of business in its
turn with method, with rigid
regularity. The day will close
almost before you are aware it
has begun; and you are indebted
to no one for helping you to
get rid of one vacant moment:
you have had to seek no one's
company, conversation, sympathy,
forbearance; you have lived,
in short, as an independent being
ought to do. Take this advice:
the first and last I shall offer
you; then you will not want me
or any one else, happen what
may. Neglect it--go on as heretofore,
craving, whining, and idling--and
suffer the results of your idiocy,
however bad and insuperable they
may be. I tell you this plainly;
and listen: for though I shall
no more repeat what I am now
about to say, I shall steadily
act on it. After my mother's
death, I wash my hands of you:
from the day her coffin is carried
to the vault in Gateshead Church,
you and I will be as separate
as if we had never known each
other. You need not think that
because we chanced to be born
of the same parents, I shall
suffer you to fasten me down
by even the feeblest claim: I
can tell you this--if the whole
human race, ourselves excepted,
were swept away, and we two stood
alone on the earth, I would leave
you in the old world, and betake
myself to the new."
She closed her lips.
"You might have spared yourself
the trouble of delivering that
tirade," answered Georgiana. "Everybody
knows you are the most selfish,
heartless creature in existence:
and I know your spiteful hatred
towards me: I have had a specimen
of it before in the trick you
played me about Lord Edwin Vere:
you could not bear me to be raised
above you, to have a title, to
be received into circles where
you dare not show your face,
and so you acted the spy and
informer, and ruined my prospects
for ever." Georgiana took out
her handkerchief and blew her
nose for an hour afterwards;
Eliza sat cold, impassable, and
assiduously industrious.
True, generous feeling is made
small account of by some, but
here were two natures rendered,
the one intolerably acrid, the
other despicably savourless for
the want of it. Feeling without
judgment is a washy draught indeed;
but judgment untempered by feeling
is too bitter and husky a morsel
for human deglutition.
It was a wet and windy afternoon:
Georgiana had fallen asleep on
the sofa over the perusal of
a novel; Eliza was gone to attend
a saint's-day service at the
new church--for in matters of
religion she was a rigid formalist:
no weather ever prevented the
punctual discharge of what she
considered her devotional duties;
fair or foul, she went to church
thrice every Sunday, and as often
on week- days as there were prayers.
I bethought myself to go upstairs
and see how the dying woman sped,
who lay there almost unheeded:
the very servants paid her but
a remittent attention: the hired
nurse, being little looked after,
would slip out of the room whenever
she could. Bessie was faithful;
but she had her own family to
mind, and could only come occasionally
to the hall. I found the sick-room
unwatched, as I had expected:
no nurse was there; the patient
lay still, and seemingly lethargic;
her livid face sunk in the pillows:
the fire was dying in the grate.
I renewed the fuel, re-arranged
the bedclothes, gazed awhile
on her who could not now gaze
on me, and then I moved away
to the window.
The
rain beat strongly
against the
panes, the
wind blew tempestuously: "One
lies there," I thought, "who
will soon be beyond the war of
earthly elements. Whither will
that spirit--now struggling to
quit its material tenement--flit
when at length released?"
In
pondering the
great mystery,
I thought of Helen Burns, recalled
her dying words--her faith--her
doctrine of the equality of disembodied
souls. I was still listening
in thought to her well- remembered
tones--still picturing her pale
and spiritual aspect, her wasted
face and sublime gaze, as she
lay on her placid deathbed, and
whispered her longing to be restored
to her divine Father's bosom--
when a feeble voice murmured
from the couch behind: "Who is
that?"
I knew Mrs. Reed had not spoken
for days: was she reviving? I
went up to her.
"It
is I, Aunt
Reed."
"Who--I?" was her answer. "Who
are you?" looking at me with
surprise and a sort of alarm,
but still not wildly. "You are
quite a stranger to me--where
is Bessie?"
"She
is at the lodge,
aunt."
"Aunt," she repeated. "Who
calls me aunt? You are not one
of the Gibsons; and yet I know
you--that face, and the eyes
and forehead, are quiet familiar
to me: you are like--why, you
are like Jane Eyre!"
I said nothing: I was afraid
of occasioning some shock by
declaring my identity.
"Yet," said she, "I am afraid
it is a mistake: my thoughts
deceive me. I wished to see Jane
Eyre, and I fancy a likeness
where none exists: besides, in
eight years she must be so changed." I
now gently assured her that I
was the person she supposed and
desired me to be: and seeing
that I was understood, and that
her senses were quite collected,
I explained how Bessie had sent
her husband to fetch me from
Thornfield.
"I am very ill, I know," she
said ere long. "I was trying
to turn myself a few minutes
since, and find I cannot move
a limb. It is as well I should
ease my mind before I die: what
we think little of in health,
burdens us at such an hour as
the present is to me. Is the
nurse here? or is there no one
in the room but you?"
I assured her we were alone.
"Well, I have twice done you
a wrong which I regret now. One
was in breaking the promise which
I gave my husband to bring you
up as my own child; the other--" she
stopped. "After all, it is of
no great importance, perhaps," she
murmured to herself: "and then
I may get better; and to humble
myself so to her is painful."
She made an effort to alter
her position, but failed: her
face changed; she seemed to experience
some inward sensation--the precursor,
perhaps, of the last pang.
"Well,
I must get
it over. Eternity
is before me:
I had
better tell her.--Go to my dressing-case,
open it, and take out a letter
you will see there."
I
obeyed her
directions. "Read
the letter," she said.
It was short, and thus conceived:-
"Madam,--Will you have the
goodness to send me the address
of my niece, Jane Eyre, and to
tell me how she is? It is my
intention to write shortly and
desire her to come to me at Madeira.
Providence has blessed my endeavours
to secure a competency; and as
I am unmarried and childless,
I wish to adopt her during my
life, and bequeath her at my
death whatever I may have to
leave.--I am, Madam, &c., &c.,
"JOHN EYRE,
Madeira."
It was dated three years back.
"Why did I never hear of this?" I
asked.
"Because I
disliked you too fixedly and
thoroughly ever to
lend a hand in lifting you to
prosperity. I could not forget
your conduct to me, Jane--the
fury with which you once turned
on me; the tone in which you
declared you abhorred me the
worst of anybody in the world;
the unchildlike look and voice
with which you affirmed that
the very thought of me made you
sick, and asserted that I had
treated you with miserable cruelty.
I could not forget my own sensations
when you thus started up and
poured out the venom of your
mind: I felt fear as if an animal
that I had struck or pushed had
looked up at me with human eyes
and cursed me in a man's voice.--
Bring me some water! Oh, make
haste!"
"Dear Mrs. Reed," said I, as
I offered her the draught she
required, "think no more of all
this, let it pass away from your
mind. Forgive me for my passionate
language: I was a child then;
eight, nine years have passed
since that day."
She heeded nothing of what
I said; but when she had tasted
the water and drawn breath, she
went on thus -
"I tell you
I could not forget it; and
I took my revenge: for
you to be adopted by your uncle,
and placed in a state of ease
and comfort, was what I could
not endure. I wrote to him; I
said I was sorry for his disappointment,
but Jane Eyre was dead: she had
died of typhus fever at Lowood.
Now act as you please: write
and contradict my assertion--expose
my falsehood as soon as you like.
You were born, I think, to be
my torment: my last hour is racked
by the recollection of a deed
which, but for you, I should
never have been tempted to commit."
"If you could
but be persuaded to think no
more of it, aunt,
and to regard me with kindness
and forgiveness"
"You have a very bad disposition," said
she, "and one to this day I feel
it impossible to understand:
how for nine years you could
be patient and quiescent under
any treatment, and in the tenth
break out all fire and violence,
I can never comprehend."
"My disposition
is not so bad as you think:
I am passionate,
but not vindictive. Many a time,
as a little child, I should have
been glad to love you if you
would have let me; and I long
earnestly to be reconciled to
you now: kiss me, aunt."
I approached my cheek to her
lips: she would not touch it.
She said I oppressed her by leaning
over the bed, and again demanded
water. As I laid her down--for
I raised her and supported her
on my arm while she drank--I
covered her ice-cold and clammy
hand with mine: the feeble fingers
shrank from my touch--the glazing
eyes shunned my gaze.
"Love me, then, or hate me,
as you will," I said at last, "you
have my full and free forgiveness:
ask now for God's, and be at
peace."
Poor, suffering woman! it was
too late for her to make now
the effort to change her habitual
frame of mind: living, she had
ever hated me--dying, she must
hate me still.
The nurse now entered, and
Bessie followed. I yet lingered
half-an- hour longer, hoping
to see some sign of amity: but
she gave none. She was fast relapsing
into stupor; nor did her mind
again rally: at twelve o'clock
that night she died. I was not
present to close her eyes, nor
were either of her daughters.
They came to tell us the next
morning that all was over. She
was by that time laid out. Eliza
and I went to look at her: Georgiana,
who had burst out into loud weeping,
said she dared not go. There
was stretched Sarah Reed's once
robust and active frame, rigid
and still: her eye of flint was
covered with its cold lid; her
brow and strong traits wore yet
the impress of her inexorable
soul. A strange and solemn object
was that corpse to me. I gazed
on it with gloom and pain: nothing
soft, nothing sweet, nothing
pitying, or hopeful, or subduing
did it inspire; only a grating
anguish for HER woes--not MY
loss--and a sombre tearless dismay
at the fearfulness of death in
such a form.
Eliza surveyed her parent calmly.
After a silence of some minutes
she observed -
"With her constitution she
should have lived to a good old
age: her life was shortened by
trouble." And then a spasm constricted
her mouth for an instant: as
it passed away she turned and
left the room, and so did I.
Neither of us had dropt a tear.
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