Jane Eyre

By Charlotte Bronte

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Preface

A preface to the first edition of ‘Jane Eyre’ being unnec-

essary, I gave none: this second edition demands a few
words both of acknowledgment and miscellaneous remark.
My thanks are due in three quarters.
To the Public, for the indulgent ear it has inclined to a
plain tale with few pretensions.
To the Press, for the fair field its honest suffrage has
opened to an obscure aspirant.
To my Publishers, for the aid their tact, their energy,
their practical sense and frank liberality have afforded an
unknown and unrecommended Author.
The Press and the Public are but vague personifications
for me, and I must thank them in vague terms; but my Pub-
lishers are definite: so are certain generous critics who have
encouraged me as only large-hearted and high-minded men
know how to encourage a struggling stranger; to them, i.e.,
to my Publishers and the select Reviewers, I say cordially,
Gentlemen, I thank you from my heart.
Having thus acknowledged what I owe those who have
aided and approved me, I turn to another class; a small one,
so far as I know, but not, therefore, to be overlooked. I mean
the timorous or carping few who doubt the tendency of such
books as ‘Jane Eyre:’ in whose eyes whatever is unusual is
wrong; whose ears detect in each protest against bigotry—

 Jane Eyre
that parent of crime—an insult to piety, that regent of God
on earth. I would suggest to such doubters certain obvious
distinctions; I would remind them of certain simple truths.
Conventionality is not morality. Self-righteousness is
not religion. To attack the first is not to assail the last. To
pluck the mask from the face of the Pharisee, is not to lift an
impious hand to the Crown of Thorns.
These things and deeds are diametrically opposed: they
are as distinct as is vice from virtue. Men too often con-
found them: they should not be confounded: appearance
should not be mistaken for truth; narrow human doctrines,
that only tend to elate and magnify a few, should not be
substituted for the world-redeeming creed of Christ. There
is—I repeat it—a difference; and it is a good, and not a bad
action to mark broadly and clearly the line of separation
between them.
The world may not like to see these ideas dissevered, for
it has been accustomed to blend them; finding it convenient
to make external show pass for sterling worth—to let white-
washed walls vouch for clean shrines. It may hate him who
dares to scrutinise and expose—to rase the gilding, and
show base metal under it—to penetrate the sepulchre, and
reveal charnel relics: but hate as it will, it is indebted to
him.
Ahab did not like Micaiah, because he never prophesied
good concerning him, but evil; probably he liked the sy-
cophant son of Chenaannah better; yet might Ahab have
escaped a bloody death, had he but stopped his ears to flat-
tery, and opened them to faithful counsel.

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 There is a man in our own days whose words are not
framed to tickle delicate ears: who, to my thinking, comes
before the great ones of society, much as the son of Imlah
came before the throned Kings of Judah and Israel; and
who speaks truth as deep, with a power as prophet-like and
as vital—a mien as dauntless and as daring. Is the satirist
of ‘Vanity Fair’ admired in high places? I cannot tell; but I
think if some of those amongst whom he hurls the Greek fire
of his sarcasm, and over whom he flashes the levin-brand of
his denunciation, were to take his warnings in time—they
or their seed might yet escape a fatal Rimoth-Gilead.
Why have I alluded to this man? I have alluded to him,
Reader, because I think I see in him an intellect profounder
and more unique than his contemporaries have yet recog-
nised; because I regard him as the first social regenerator
of the day—as the very master of that working corps who
would restore to rectitude the warped system of things; be-
cause I think no commentator on his writings has yet found
the comparison that suits him, the terms which rightly
characterise his talent. They say he is like Fielding: they talk
of his wit, humour, comic powers. He resembles Fielding as
an eagle does a vulture: Fielding could stoop on carrion, but
Thackeray never does. His wit is bright, his humour attrac-
tive, but both bear the same relation to his serious genius that
the mere lambent sheet-lightning playing under the edge of
the summer-cloud does to the electric death-spark hid in its
womb. Finally, I have alluded to Mr. Thackeray, because to
him—if he will accept the tribute of a total stranger—I have
dedicated this second edition of ‘JANE EYRE.’

 Jane Eyre
 CURRER BELL.
December 21st, 1847.
NOTE TO THE THIRD EDITION
I avail myself of the opportunity which a third edition
of ‘Jane Eyre’ affords me, of again addressing a word to the
Public, to explain that my claim to the title of novelist rests
on this one work alone. If, therefore, the authorship of oth-
er works of fiction has been attributed to me, an honour is
awarded where it is not merited; and consequently, denied
where it is justly due.
This explanation will serve to rectify mistakes which
may already have been made, and to prevent future errors.
CURRER BELL.
April 13th, 1848.

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Chapter I

T here was no possibility of taking a walk that day. We

had been wandering, indeed, in the leafless shrubbery
an hour in the morning; but since dinner (Mrs. Reed, when
there was no company, dined early) the cold winter wind
had brought with it clouds so sombre, and a rain so pen-
etrating, that further out-door exercise was now out of the
question.
I was glad of it: I never liked long walks, especially on
chilly afternoons: dreadful to me was the coming home in
the raw twilight, with nipped fingers and toes, and a heart
saddened by the chidings of Bessie, the nurse, and hum-
bled by the consciousness of my physical inferiority to Eliza,
John, and Georgiana Reed.
The said Eliza, John, and Georgiana were now clustered
round their mama in the drawing-room: she lay reclined
on a sofa by the fireside, and with her darlings about her
(for the time neither quarrelling nor crying) looked per-
fectly happy. Me, she had dispensed from joining the
group; saying, ‘She regretted to be under the necessity of
keeping me at a distance; but that until she heard from Bes-
sie, and could discover by her own observation, that I was
endeavouring in good earnest to acquire a more sociable
and childlike disposition, a more attractive and sprightly
manner— something lighter, franker, more natural, as it

 Jane Eyre
were—she really must exclude me from privileges intended
only for contented, happy, little children.’
‘What does Bessie say I have done?’ I asked.
‘Jane, I don’t like cavillers or questioners; besides, there is
something truly forbidding in a child taking up her elders
in that manner. Be seated somewhere; and until you can
speak pleasantly, remain silent.’
A breakfast-room adjoined the drawing-room, I slipped
in there. It contained a bookcase: I soon possessed myself
of a volume, taking care that it should be one stored with
pictures. I mounted into the window-seat: gathering up my
feet, I sat cross-legged, like a Turk; and, having drawn the
red moreen curtain nearly close, I was shrined in double
retirement.
Folds of scarlet drapery shut in my view to the right
hand; to the left were the clear panes of glass, protecting,
but not separating me from the drear November day. At in-
tervals, 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 letterpress thereof I cared little for, generally speaking;
and yet there were certain introductory pages that, child
as I was, I could not pass quite as a blank. They were those
which treat of the haunts of sea-fowl; of ‘the solitary rocks
and promontories’ by them only inhabited; of the coast of
Norway, studded with isles from its southern extremity, the

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Lindeness, or Naze, to the North Cape—

‘Where the Northern Ocean, in vast whirls,

Boils round the naked, melancholy isles
Of farthest Thule; and the Atlantic surge
Pours in among the stormy Hebrides.’

Nor could I pass unnoticed the suggestion of the bleak

shores of Lapland, Siberia, Spitzbergen, Nova Zembla, Ice-
land, Greenland, with ‘the vast sweep of the Arctic Zone,
and those forlorn regions of dreary space,—that reservoir
of frost and snow, where firm fields of ice, the accumula-
tion of centuries of winters, glazed in Alpine heights above
heights, surround the pole, and concentre the multiplied
rigours of extreme cold.’ Of these death-white realms I
formed an idea of my own: shadowy, like all the half-com-
prehended notions that float dim through children’s brains,
but strangely impressive. The words in these introductory
pages connected themselves with the succeeding vignettes,
and gave significance to the rock standing up alone in a sea
of billow and spray; to the broken boat stranded on a deso-
late coast; to the cold and ghastly moon glancing through
bars of cloud at a wreck just sinking.
I cannot tell what sentiment haunted the quite solitary
churchyard, with its inscribed headstone; its gate, its two
trees, its low horizon, girdled by a broken wall, and its new-
ly-risen crescent, attesting the hour of eventide.
The two ships becalmed on a torpid sea, I believed to be
marine phantoms.

 Jane Eyre
 The fiend pinning down the thief’s pack behind him, I
passed over quickly: it was an object of terror.
So was the black horned thing seated aloof on a rock,
surveying a distant crowd surrounding a gallows.
Each picture told a story; mysterious often to my un-
developed understanding and imperfect feelings, yet ever
profoundly interesting: as interesting as the tales Bessie
sometimes narrated on winter evenings, when she chanced
to be in good humour; and when, having brought her iron-
ing-table to the nursery hearth, she allowed us to sit about
it, and while she got up Mrs. Reed’s lace frills, and crimped
her nightcap borders, fed our eager attention with passages
of love and adventure taken from old fairy tales and other
ballads; or (as at a later period I discovered) from the pages
of Pamela, and Henry, Earl of Moreland.
With Bewick on my knee, I was then happy: happy at
least in my way. I feared nothing but interruption, and that
came too soon. The breakfast-room door opened.
‘Boh! Madam Mope!’ cried the voice of John Reed; then
he paused: he found the room apparently empty.
‘Where the dickens is she!’ he continued. ‘Lizzy! Georgy!
(calling to his sisters) Joan is not here: tell mama she is run
out into the rain—bad animal!’
‘It is well I drew the curtain,’ thought I; and I wished fer-
vently 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.’

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 And I came out immediately, for I trembled at the idea of
being dragged forth by the said Jack.
‘What do you want?’ I asked, with awkward diffidence.
‘Say, ‘What do you want, Master Reed?’’ was the answer.
‘I want you to come here;’ and seating himself in an arm-
chair, he intimated by a gesture that I was to approach and
stand before him.
John Reed was a schoolboy of fourteen years old; four
years older than I, for I was but ten: large and stout for his
age, with a dingy and unwholesome skin; thick lineaments
in a spacious visage, heavy limbs and large extremities. He
gorged himself habitually at table, which made him bilious,
and gave him a dim and bleared eye and flabby cheeks. He
ought now to have been at school; but his mama had taken
him home for a month or two, ‘on account of his delicate
health.’ Mr. Miles, the master, affirmed that he would do
very well if he had fewer cakes and sweetmeats sent him
from home; but the mother’s heart turned from an opinion
so harsh, and inclined rather to the more refined idea that
John’s sallowness was owing to over-application and, per-
haps, to pining after home.
John had not much affection for his mother and sisters,
and an antipathy to me. He bullied and punished me; not
two or three times in the week, nor once or twice in the
day, but continually: every nerve I had feared him, and ev-
ery morsel of flesh in my bones shrank when he came near.
There were moments when I was bewildered by the terror
he inspired, because I had no appeal whatever against ei-
ther his menaces or his inflictions; the servants did not like

10 Jane Eyre
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, how-
ever, behind her back.
Habitually obedient to John, I came up to his chair: he
spent some three minutes in thrusting out his tongue at me
as far as he could without damaging the roots: I knew he
would soon strike, and while dreading the blow, I mused
on the disgusting and ugly appearance of him who would
presently deal it. I wonder if he read that notion in my face;
for, all at once, without speaking, he struck suddenly and
strongly. I tottered, and on regaining my equilibrium re-
tired back a step or two from his chair.
‘That is for your impudence in answering mama awhile
since,’ said he, ‘and for your sneaking way of getting behind
curtains, and for the look you had in your eyes two minutes
since, you rat!’
Accustomed to John 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?’ 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 de-
pendent, mama says; you have no money; your father left
you none; you ought to beg, and not to live here with gen-
tlemen’s children like us, and eat the same meals we do, and

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wear clothes at our mama’s expense. Now, I’ll teach you to
rummage my bookshelves: for they ARE mine; all the house
belongs to me, or will do in a few years. Go and stand by the
door, out of the way of the mirror and the windows.’
I did so, not at first aware what was his intention; but
when I saw him lift and poise the book and stand in act to
hurl it, I instinctively started aside with a cry of alarm: not
soon enough, however; the volume was flung, it hit me, and
I fell, striking my head against the door and cutting it. The
cut bled, the pain was sharp: my terror had passed its cli-
max; other feelings succeeded.
‘Wicked and cruel boy!’ I said. ‘You are like a murder-
er—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 paral-
lels in silence, which I never thought thus to have declared
aloud.
‘What! what!’ he cried. ‘Did she say that to me? Did you
hear her, Eliza and Georgiana? Won’t I tell mama? but
first—‘
He ran headlong at me: I felt him grasp my hair and my
shoulder: he had closed with a desperate thing. I really saw
in him a tyrant, a murderer. I felt a drop or two of blood
from my head trickle down my neck, and was sensible of
somewhat pungent suffering: these sensations for the time
predominated over fear, and I received him in frantic sort.
I don’t very well know what I did with my hands, but he
called me ‘Rat! Rat!’ and bellowed out aloud. Aid was near

12 Jane Eyre
him: Eliza and Georgiana had run for Mrs. Reed, who was
gone upstairs: she now came upon the scene, followed by
Bessie and her maid Abbot. We were parted: I heard the
words—
‘Dear! dear! What a fury to fly at Master John!’
‘Did ever anybody see such a picture of passion!’
Then Mrs. Reed subjoined—
‘Take her away to the red-room, and lock her in there.’
Four hands were immediately laid upon me, and I was
borne upstairs.

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Chapter II

I resisted all the way: a new thing for me, and a circum-
stance which greatly strengthened the bad opinion Bessie
and Miss Abbot were disposed to entertain of me. The fact
is, I was a trifle beside myself; or rather OUT of myself, as
the French would say: I was conscious that a moment’s mu-
tiny had already rendered me liable to strange penalties,
and, like any other rebel slave, I felt resolved, in my desper-
ation, 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 benefactress’s son! Your young master.’
‘Master! How is he my master? Am I a servant?’
‘No; you are less than a servant, for you do nothing for
your keep. There, sit down, and think over your wicked-
ness.’
They had got me by this time into the apartment indi-
cated by Mrs. Reed, and had thrust me upon a stool: my
impulse was to rise from it like a spring; their two pair of
hands arrested me instantly.
‘If you 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

14 Jane Eyre
ligature. This preparation for bonds, and the additional ig-
nominy it inferred, took a little of the excitement out of me.
‘Don’t take them off,’ I cried; ‘I will not stir.’
In guarantee whereof, I attached myself to my seat by
my hands.
‘Mind you don’t,’ said Bessie; and when she had ascer-
tained that I was really subsiding, she loosened her hold of
me; then she and Miss Abbot stood with folded arms, look-
ing darkly and doubtfully on my face, as incredulous of my
sanity.
‘She never did so before,’ at last said Bessie, turning to
the Abigail.
‘But it was always in her,’ was the reply. ‘I’ve told Missis
often my opinion about the child, and Missis agreed with
me. She’s an underhand little thing: I never saw a girl of her
age with so much cover.’
Bessie answered not; but ere long, addressing me, she
said—‘You ought to be aware, Miss, that you are under ob-
ligations to Mrs. Reed: she keeps you: if she were to turn you
off, you would have to go to the poorhouse.’
I had nothing to say to these words: they were not new to
me: my very first recollections of existence included hints of
the same kind. This reproach of my dependence had become
a vague sing-song in my ear: very painful and crushing, but
only half intelligible. Miss Abbot joined in—
‘And you ought not to think yourself on an equality with
the Misses Reed and Master Reed, because Missis kindly al-
lows 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

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humble, and to try to make yourself agreeable to them.’
‘What we tell you is for your good,’ added Bessie, in no
harsh voice, ‘you should try to be useful and pleasant, then,
perhaps, you would have a home here; but if you become
passionate and rude, Missis will send you away, I am sure.’
‘Besides,’ said Miss Abbot, ‘God will punish her: He
might strike her dead in the midst of her tantrums, and
then where would she go? Come, Bessie, we will leave her:
I wouldn’t have her heart for anything. Say your prayers,
Miss Eyre, when you are by yourself; for if you don’t re-
pent, something bad might be permitted to come down the
chimney and fetch you away.’
They went, shutting the door, and locking it behind
them.
The red-room was a square chamber, very seldom slept
in, I might say never, indeed, unless when a chance influx
of visitors at Gateshead Hall rendered it necessary to turn
to account all the accommodation it contained: yet it was
one of the largest and stateliest chambers in the mansion. A
bed supported on massive pillars of mahogany, hung with
curtains of deep red damask, stood out like a tabernacle in
the centre; the two large windows, with their blinds always
drawn down, were half shrouded in festoons and falls of
similar drapery; the carpet was red; the table at the foot of
the bed was covered with a crimson cloth; the walls were
a soft fawn colour with a blush of pink in it; the wardrobe,
the toilet-table, the chairs were of darkly polished old ma-
hogany. Out of these deep surrounding shades rose high,
and glared white, the piled-up mattresses and pillows of the

16 Jane Eyre
bed, spread with a snowy Marseilles counterpane. Scarcely
less prominent was an ample cushioned easy-chair near the
head of the bed, also white, with a footstool before it; and
looking, as I thought, like a pale throne.
This room was chill, because it seldom had a fire; it was
silent, because remote from the nursery and kitchen; sol-
emn, 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 intervals, visited it to review the con-
tents of a certain secret drawer in the wardrobe, where were
stored divers parchments, her jewel-casket, and a miniature
of her deceased husband; and in those last words lies the
secret of the red-room—the spell which kept it so lonely in
spite of its grandeur.
Mr. Reed had been dead nine years: it was in this cham-
ber he breathed his last; here he lay in state; hence his coffin
was borne by the undertaker’s men; and, since that day, a
sense of dreary consecration had guarded it from frequent
intrusion.
My seat, to which Bessie and the bitter Miss Abbot had
left me riveted, was a low ottoman near the marble chim-
ney-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 looking-glass between them re-
peated the vacant majesty of the bed and room. I was not
quite sure whether they had locked the door; and when I
dared move, I got up and went to see. Alas! yes: no jail was

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ever more secure. Returning, I had to cross before the look-
ing-glass; my fascinated glance involuntarily explored the
depth it revealed. All looked colder and darker in that vi-
sionary hollow than in reality: and the strange little figure
there gazing at me, with a white face and arms specking the
gloom, and glittering eyes of fear moving where all else was
still, had the effect of a real spirit: I thought it like one of the
tiny phantoms, half fairy, half imp, Bessie’s evening stories
represented as coming out of lone, ferny dells in moors, and
appearing before the eyes of belated travellers. I returned
to my stool.
Superstition was with me at that moment; but it was not
yet her hour for complete victory: my blood was still warm;
the mood of the revolted slave was still bracing me with its
bitter vigour; I had to stem a rapid rush of retrospective
thought before I quailed to the dismal present.
All John Reed’s violent tyrannies, all his sisters’ proud
indifference, all his mother’s aversion, all the servants’ par-
tiality, turned up in my disturbed mind like a dark deposit
in a turbid well. Why was I always suffering, always brow-
beaten, always accused, for ever condemned? Why could I
never please? Why was it useless to try to win any one’s fa-
vour? Eliza, who was headstrong and selfish, was respected.
Georgiana, who had a spoiled temper, a very acrid spite, a
captious and insolent carriage, was universally indulged.
Her beauty, her pink cheeks and golden curls, seemed to give
delight to all who looked at her, and to purchase indemnity
for every fault. John no one thwarted, much less punished;
though he twisted the necks of the pigeons, killed the little

18 Jane Eyre
pea-chicks, set the dogs at the sheep, stripped the hothouse
vines of their fruit, and broke the buds off the choicest
plants in the conservatory: he called his mother ‘old girl,’
too; sometimes reviled her for her dark skin, similar to his
own; bluntly disregarded her wishes; not unfrequently tore
and spoiled her silk attire; and he was still ‘her own darling.’
I dared commit no fault: I strove to fulfil every duty; and
I was termed naughty and tiresome, sullen and sneaking,
from morning to noon, and from noon to night.
My head still ached and bled with the blow and fall I had
received: no one had reproved John for wantonly striking
me; and because I had turned against him to avert farther
irrational violence, I was loaded with general opprobrium.
‘Unjust!—unjust!’ said my reason, forced by the agonis-
ing stimulus into precocious though transitory power: and
Resolve, equally 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 after-
noon! 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 cease-
less inward question—WHY I thus suffered; 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 chil-
dren, or her chosen vassalage. If they did not love me, in
fact, as little did I love them. They were not bound to regard

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with affection a thing that could not sympathise with one
amongst them; a heterogeneous thing, opposed to them in
temperament, in capacity, in propensities; a useless thing,
incapable of serving their interest, or adding to their plea-
sure; a noxious thing, cherishing the germs of indignation
at their treatment, of contempt of their judgment. I know
that had I been a sanguine, brilliant, careless, exacting,
handsome, romping child—though equally dependent and
friendless—Mrs. Reed would have endured my presence
more complacently; her children would have entertained
for me more of the cordiality of fellow-feeling; the servants
would have been less prone to make me the scapegoat of the
nursery.
Daylight began to forsake the red-room; it was past four
o’clock, and the beclouded afternoon was tending to drear
twilight. I heard the rain still beating continuously on the
staircase window, and the wind howling in the grove be-
hind the hall; I grew by degrees cold as a stone, and then my
courage sank. My habitual mood of humiliation, self-doubt,
forlorn depression, fell damp on the embers of my decaying
ire. All said I was wicked, and perhaps I might be so; what
thought had I been but just conceiving of starving myself to
death? That certainly was a crime: and was I fit to die? Or
was the vault under the chancel of Gateshead Church an in-
viting bourne? In such vault I had been told did Mr. Reed
lie buried; and led by this thought to recall his idea, I dwelt
on it with gathering dread. I could not remember him; but
I knew that he was my own uncle—my mother’s brother—
that he had taken me when a parentless infant to his house;

20 Jane Eyre
and that in his last moments he had required a promise of
Mrs. Reed that she would rear and maintain me as one of
her own children. Mrs. Reed probably considered she had
kept this promise; and so she had, I dare say, as well as her
nature would permit her; but how could she really like an
interloper not of her race, and unconnected with her, after
her husband’s death, by any tie? It must have been most irk-
some to find herself bound by a hard-wrung pledge to stand
in the stead of a parent to a strange child she could not love,
and to see an uncongenial alien permanently intruded on
her own family group.
A singular notion dawned upon me. I doubted not—nev-
er doubted— that if Mr. Reed had been alive he would have
treated me kindly; and now, as I sat looking at the white
bed and overshadowed walls— occasionally also turning a
fascinated eye towards the dimly gleaning 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 oppressed; and
I thought Mr. Reed’s spirit, harassed 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 realised:
with all my might I endeavoured to stifle itI endeavoured to
be firm. Shaking my hair from my eyes, I lifted my head and

Free eBooks at Planet [Link] 21

tried to look boldly round the dark room; at this moment
a light gleamed on the wall. Was it, I asked myself, a ray
from the moon penetrating some aperture in the blind? No;
moonlight was still, and this stirred; while I gazed, it glided
up to the ceiling and quivered over my head. I can now con-
jecture readily that this streak of light was, in all likelihood,
a gleam from a lantern carried by some one across the lawn:
but then, prepared as my mind was for horror, shaken as my
nerves were by agitation, I thought the swift darting beam
was a herald of some coming vision from another world. My
heart beat thick, my head grew hot; a sound filled my ears,
which I deemed the rushing of wings; something seemed
near me; I was oppressed, suffocated: endurance broke
down; I rushed to the door and shook the lock in desperate
effort. Steps came running along the outer passage; the key
turned, Bessie and Abbot entered.
‘Miss Eyre, are you ill?’ said Bessie.
‘What a dreadful noise! it went quite through me!’ ex-
claimed Abbot.
‘Take me out! Let me go into the nursery!’ was my cry.
‘What for? Are you hurt? Have you seen something?’
again demanded Bessie.
‘Oh! I saw a light, and I thought a ghost would come.’ I
had now got hold of Bessie’s hand, and she did not snatch
it from me.
‘She has screamed out on purpose,’ declared Abbot, in
some disgust. ‘And what a scream! If she had been in great
pain one would have excused it, but she only wanted to
bring us all here: I know her naughty tricks.’

22 Jane Eyre
 ‘What is all this?’ demanded another voice peremptorily;
and Mrs. Reed came along the corridor, her cap flying wide,
her gown rustling stormily. ‘Abbot and Bessie, I believe I
gave orders that Jane Eyre should be left in the red-room till
I came to her myself.’
‘Miss Jane screamed so loud, ma’am,’ pleaded Bessie.
‘Let her go,’ was the only answer. ‘Loose Bessie’s hand,
child: you cannot succeed in getting out by these means, be
assured. I abhor artifice, particularly in children; it is my
duty to show you that tricks will not answer: you will now
stay here an hour longer, and it is only on condition of per-
fect submission and stillness that I shall liberate you then.’
‘O aunt! have pity! Forgive me! I cannot endure it—let
me be punished some other way! I shall be killed if—‘
‘Silence! This violence is all most repulsive:’ and so, no
doubt, she felt it. I was a precocious actress in her eyes; she
sincerely looked on me as a compound of virulent passions,
mean spirit, and dangerous duplicity.
Bessie and Abbot having retreated, Mrs. Reed, impatient
of my now frantic anguish and wild sobs, abruptly thrust
me back and locked me in, without farther parley. I heard
her sweeping away; and soon after she was gone, I suppose I
had a species of fit: unconsciousness closed the scene.

Free eBooks at Planet [Link] 23

Chapter III

T he 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 muf-
fled 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 dis-
solved: 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 pro-
tection 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,

24 Jane Eyre
sometimes called in by Mrs. Reed when the servants were
ailing: for herself and the children she employed a physi-
cian.
‘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 Bes-
sie, 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 de-
parted; 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 sen-
tence 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 ques-
tion.
‘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—

Free eBooks at Planet [Link] 25

 ‘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 won-
der 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 dis-
cussed.
‘Something passed her, all dressed in white, and van-
ished’—‘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 wake-
fulness; strained by dread: such dread as children only can
feel.
No severe or prolonged bodily illness followed this in-
cident 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-
rooting 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 draw-
ing from me silent tears; no sooner had I wiped one salt

26 Jane Eyre
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. Ab-
bot, too, was sewing in another room, and Bessie, as she
moved hither and thither, putting away toys and arrang-
ing 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 enthu-
siastic 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 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 nar-
rative of facts, and discovered in it a vein of interest deeper

Free eBooks at Planet [Link] 27

than what I found in fairy tales: for as to the elves, having
sought them in vain among foxglove leaves and bells, un-
der 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 sav-
age country where the woods were wilder and thicker, and
the population more scant; whereas, Lilliput and Brobdig-
nag 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 mas-
tiffs, 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 re-
gions. 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 live-
ly delight; for Bessie had a sweet voice,—at least, I thought

28 Jane Eyre
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 linger-
ingly; ‘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;

Free eBooks at Planet [Link] 29

 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

30 Jane Eyre
 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

Free eBooks at Planet [Link] 31

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 par-
tially 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 im-
parting 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 wom-
an.’

32 Jane Eyre
 ‘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 pos-
sibly 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 industri-
ous, 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 pur-
chase 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?’

Free eBooks at Planet [Link] 33

 Again I reflected: I scarcely knew what school was: Bes-
sie sometimes spoke of it as a place where young ladies sat
in the stocks, wore backboards, 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 (gath-
ered 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 en-
trance into a new life.
‘I should indeed like to go to school,’ was the audible con-
clusion 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

34 Jane Eyre
 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 tire-
some, 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

Free eBooks at Planet [Link] 35

 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.

36 Jane Eyre
Chapter IV

F rom my discourse with Mr. Lloyd, and from the above

reported conference between Bessie and Abbot, I gath-
ered enough of hope to suffice as a motive for wishing to get
well: a change seemed near,I desired and waited it in silence.
It tarried, however: days and weeks passed: I had regained
my normal state of health, but no new allusion was made to
the subject over which I brooded. Mrs. Reed surveyed me
at times with a severe eye, but seldom addressed me: since
my illness, she had drawn a more marked line of separation
than ever between me and her own children; appointing me
a small closet to sleep in by myself, condemning me to take
my meals alone, and pass all my time in the nursery, while
my cousins were constantly in the drawing-room. Not a
hint, however, did she drop about sending me to school: still
I felt an instinctive certainty that she would not long endure
me under the same roof with her; for her glance, now more
than ever, when turned on me, expressed an insuperable
and rooted aversion.
Eliza and Georgiana, evidently acting according to or-
ders, spoke to me as little as possible: John thrust his tongue
in his cheek whenever he saw me, and once attempted chas-
tisement; 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

Free eBooks at Planet [Link] 37

desist, and ran from me tittering execrations, and vowing
I had burst his nose. I had indeed levelled at that promi-
nent feature as hard a blow as my knuckles could inflict;
and when I saw that either that or my look daunted him, I
had the greatest inclination to follow up my advantage to
purpose; but he was already with his mama. I heard him
in a blubbering tone commence the tale of how ‘that nasty
Jane Eyre’ had flown at him like a mad cat: he was stopped
rather harshly—
‘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 down on the edge of my crib, dared me in an
emphatic voice to rise from that place, or utter one syllable
during the remainder of the day.
‘What would Uncle Reed say to you, if he were alive?’ was
my scarcely voluntary demand. I say scarcely voluntary, for
it seemed as if my tongue pronounced words without my
will consenting to their utterance: something spoke out of
me over which I had no control.
‘What?’ said Mrs. Reed under her breath: her usually
cold composed grey eye became troubled with a look like
fear; she took her hand from my arm, and gazed at me as if

38 Jane Eyre
she really did not know whether I were child or fiend. I was
now in for it.
‘My Uncle Reed is in heaven, and can see all you do and
think; and so can papa and mama: they know how you shut
me up all day long, and how you wish me dead.’
Mrs. Reed soon rallied her spirits: she shook me most
soundly, she boxed both my ears, and then left me without
a word. Bessie supplied the hiatus by a homily of an 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 surg-
ing in my breast.
November, December, and half of January passed
away. Christmas and the New Year had been celebrated at
Gateshead with the usual festive cheer; presents had been
interchanged, dinners and evening parties given. From ev-
ery enjoyment I was, of course, excluded: my share of the
gaiety consisted in witnessing the daily apparelling of Eliza
and Georgiana, and seeing them descend to the drawing-
room, dressed out in thin muslin frocks and scarlet sashes,
with hair elaborately ringletted; and afterwards, in listening
to the sound of the piano or the harp played below, to the
passing to and fro of the butler and footman, to the jingling
of glass and china as refreshments were handed, to the bro-
ken hum of conversation as the drawing-room door opened
and closed. When tired of this occupation, I would retire
from the stairhead to the solitary and silent nursery: there,
though somewhat sad, I was not miserable. To speak truth, I
had not the least wish to go into company, for in company I

Free eBooks at Planet [Link] 39

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 bearing the can-
dle along with her. I then sat with my doll on my knee till
the fire got low, glancing round occasionally to make sure
that nothing worse than myself haunted the shadowy room;
and when the embers sank to a dull red, I undressed hast-
ily, tugging at knots and strings as I best might, and sought
shelter from cold and darkness in my crib. To this crib I al-
ways took my doll; human beings must love something, and,
in the dearth of worthier objects of affection, I contrived to
find a pleasure in loving and cherishing a faded graven im-
age, shabby as a miniature scarecrow. It puzzles me now to
remember with what absurd sincerity I doated on this little
toy, half fancying it alive and capable of sensation. I could
not sleep unless it was folded in my night-gown; and when
it lay there safe and warm, I was comparatively happy, be-
lieving it to be 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 fin-
ished, she would tuck the clothes round me, and twice she

40 Jane Eyre
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 al-
ways be so pleasant and amiable, and never push me about,
or scold, or task me unreasonably, as she was too often wont
to do. Bessie Lee must, I think, have been a girl of good
natural capacity, for she was smart in all she did, and had a
remarkable knack of narrative; so, at least, I judge from the
impression made on me by her nursery tales. She was pretty
too, if my recollections of her face and person are correct.
I remember her as a slim young woman, with black hair,
dark eyes, very nice features, and good, clear complexion;
but she had a capricious and hasty temper, and indifferent
ideas of principle or justice: still, such as she was, I preferred
her to any one else at Gateshead Hall.
It was the fifteenth of January, about nine o’clock in the
morning: Bessie was gone down to breakfast; my cousins
had not yet been summoned to their mama; Eliza was put-
ting on her bonnet and warm garden-coat to go and feed
her poultry, an occupation of which she was fond: and not
less so of selling the eggs to the housekeeper and hoarding
up the money she thus obtained. She had a turn for traffic,
and a marked propensity for saving; shown not only in the
vending of eggs and chickens, but also in driving hard bar-
gains 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

Free eBooks at Planet [Link] 41

to her money, she first secreted it in odd corners, wrapped
in a rag or an old curl-paper; but some of these hoards hav-
ing 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 or-
ders from Bessie to get it arranged before she returned (for
Bessie now frequently employed me as a sort of under-nurs-
erymaid, to tidy the room, dust the chairs, &c.). Having
spread the quilt and folded my night-dress, I went to the
window-seat to put in order some picture-books and doll’s
house furniture scattered there; an abrupt command from
Georgiana to let her playthings alone (for the tiny chairs
and mirrors, the fairy plates and cups, were her property)
stopped my proceedings; and then, for lack of other occupa-
tion, 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

42 Jane Eyre
often came to Gateshead, but none ever brought visitors in
whom I was interested; it stopped in front of the house, the
door-bell rang loudly, the new-comer was admitted. All this
being nothing to me, my vacant attention soon found liveli-
er attraction in the spectacle of a little hungry robin, which
came and chirruped on the twigs of the leafless cherry-tree
nailed against the wall near the casement. The remains of
my breakfast of bread and milk stood on the table, and 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 upstairs into the nursery.
‘Miss Jane, take off your pinafore; what are you doing
there? Have you washed your hands and face this morn-
ing?’ I gave another tug before I answered, for I wanted the
bird to be secure of its bread: the sash yielded; I scattered
the crumbs, some on the stone sill, some on the cherry-tree
bough, then, closing the window, I replied—
‘No, Bessie; I have only just finished dusting.’
‘Troublesome, careless child! and what are you doing
now? You look quite red, as if you had been about some mis-
chief: what were you opening the window for?’
I was spared the trouble of answering, for Bessie seemed
in too great a hurry to listen to explanations; she hauled
me to the washstand, inflicted a merciless, but happily brief
scrub on my face and hands with soap, water, and a coarse
towel; disciplined my head with a bristly brush, denuded
me of my pinafore, and then hurrying me to the top of
the stairs, bid me go down directly, as I was wanted in the
breakfast-room.

Free eBooks at Planet [Link] 43

 I would have asked who wanted me: I would have de-
manded if Mrs. Reed was there; but Bessie was already gone,
and had closed the nursery-door upon me. I slowly descend-
ed. For nearly three months, I had never been called to Mrs.
Reed’s presence; restricted so long to the nursery, the break-
fast, dining, and drawing-rooms were become for me awful
regions, on which it dismayed me to intrude.
I now stood in the empty hall; before me was the break-
fast-room door, and I stopped, intimidated and trembling.
What a miserable little poltroon had fear, engendered of un-
just punishment, made of me in those days! I feared to return
to the nursery, and feared to go forward to the parlour; ten
minutes I stood in agitated hesitation; the vehement ringing
of the breakfast-room bell decided me; I MUST enter.
‘Who could want me?’ I asked inwardly, as with both
hands I turned the stiff door-handle, which, for a second
or two, resisted my efforts. ‘What should I see besides Aunt
Reed in the apartment?—a man or a woman?’ The handle
turned, the door unclosed, and passing through and curt-
seying 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.
Mrs. Reed occupied her usual seat by the fireside; she
made a signal to me to approach; I did so, and she intro-
duced me to the stony stranger with the words: ‘This is the
little girl respecting whom I applied to you.’
HE, for it was a man, turned his head slowly towards

44 Jane Eyre
 where I stood, and having examined me with the two in-
quisitive-looking grey eyes which twinkled under a pair of
bushy brows, said solemnly, and in a bass voice, ‘Her size is
small: what is her age?’
‘Ten years.’
‘So much?’ was the doubtful answer; and he prolonged
his scrutiny for some minutes. Presently he addressed 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 an-
swered for me by an expressive shake of the head, adding
soon, ‘Perhaps the less said on that subject the better, Mr.
Brocklehurst.’
‘Sorry indeed to hear it! she and I must have some talk;’
and bending from the perpendicular, he installed his per-
son 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, ‘es-
pecially a naughty little girl. Do you know where the wicked

Free eBooks at Planet [Link] 45

go after death?’
‘They go to hell,’ was my ready and orthodox answer.
‘And what is hell? Can you tell me that?’
‘A pit full of fire.’
‘And should you like to fall into that pit, and to be burn-
ing there for ever?’
‘No, sir.’
‘What must you do to avoid it?’
I deliberated a moment; my answer, when it did come,
was objectionable: ‘I must keep in good health, and not die.’
‘How can you keep in good health? Children younger
than you die daily. I buried a little child of five years old
only a day or two since,—a good little child, whose soul is
now in heaven. It is to be feared the same could not be said
of you were you to be called hence.’
Not being in a condition to remove his doubt, I only cast
my eyes down on the two large feet planted on the rug, and
sighed, wishing myself far enough away.
‘I hope that sigh is from the heart, and that you repent of
ever having been the occasion of discomfort to your excel-
lent benefactress.’
‘Benefactress! benefactress!’ said I inwardly: ‘they all call
Mrs. Reed my benefactress; if so, a benefactress is a dis-
agreeable thing.’
‘Do you say your prayers night and morning?’ continued
my interrogator.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Do you read your Bible?’
‘Sometimes.’

46 Jane Eyre
 ‘With pleasure? Are you fond of it?’
‘I like Revelations, and the book of Daniel, and Genesis
and Samuel, and a little bit of Exodus, and some parts of
Kings and Chronicles, and Job and Jonah.’
‘And the Psalms? I hope you like them?’
‘No, sir.’
‘No? oh, shocking! I have a little boy, younger than you,
who knows six Psalms by heart: and when you ask him
which he would rather have, a gingerbread-nut to eat or a
verse of a Psalm to learn, he says: ‘Oh! the verse of a Psalm!
angels sing Psalms;’ says he, ‘I wish to be a little angel here
below;’ he then gets two nuts in recompense for his infant
piety.’
‘Psalms are not interesting,’ I remarked.
‘That proves you have a wicked heart; and you must pray
to God to change it: to give you a new and clean one: to take
away your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh.’
I was about to propound a question, touching the man-
ner in which that operation of changing my heart was to
be performed, when Mrs. Reed interposed, telling me to sit
down; she then proceeded to carry on the conversation her-
self.
‘Mr. Brocklehurst, I believe I intimated in the letter
which I wrote to you three weeks ago, that this little girl has
not quite the character and disposition I could wish: should
you admit her into Lowood school, I should be glad if the
superintendent and teachers were requested to keep a strict
eye on her, and, above all, to guard against her worst fault,
a tendency to deceit. I mention this in your hearing, Jane,

Free eBooks at Planet [Link] 47

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 strenu-
ously I strove to please her, my efforts were still repulsed
and repaid by such sentences as the above. Now, uttered be-
fore a stranger, the accusation cut me to the heart; I dimly
perceived that she was already obliterating hope from the
new phase of existence which she destined me to enter; I
felt, though I could not have expressed the feeling, that she
was sowing aversion and unkindness along my future path;
I saw myself transformed under Mr. Brocklehurst’s eye into
an artful, noxious child, and what could I do to remedy the
injury?
‘Nothing, indeed,’ thought I, as I struggled to repress a
sob, and hastily wiped away some tears, the impotent evi-
dences of my anguish.
‘Deceit is, indeed, a sad fault in a child,’ said Mr. Brock-
lehurst; ‘it is akin to falsehood, and all liars will have their
portion in the lake burning with fire and brimstone; she
shall, however, be watched, Mrs. Reed. I will speak to Miss
Temple and the teachers.’
‘I should wish her to be brought up in a manner suiting
her prospects,’ continued my benefactress; ‘to be made use-
ful, to be kept humble: as for the vacations, she will, with
your permission, spend them always at Lowood.’
‘Your decisions are perfectly judicious, madam,’ returned
Mr. Brocklehurst. ‘Humility is a Christian grace, and one
peculiarly appropriate to the pupils of Lowood; I, therefore,

48 Jane Eyre
direct that especial care shall be bestowed on its cultiva-
tion amongst them. I have studied how best to mortify in
them the worldly sentiment of pride; and, only the other
day, I had a pleasing proof of my success. My second daugh-
ter, Augusta, went with her mama to visit the school, and
on her return she exclaimed: ‘Oh, dear papa, how quiet and
plain all the girls at Lowood look, with their hair combed
behind their ears, and their long pinafores, and those little
holland pockets outside their frocks—they are almost like
poor people’s children! and,’ said she, ‘they looked at my
dress and mama’s, as if they had never seen a silk gown be-
fore.’’
‘This is the state of things I quite approve,’ returned Mrs.
Reed; ‘had I sought all England over, I could scarcely have
found a system more exactly fitting a child like Jane Eyre.
Consistency, my dear Mr. Brocklehurst; I advocate consis-
tency in all things.’
‘Consistency, madam, is the first of Christian duties; and
it has been observed in every arrangement connected with
the establishment of Lowood: plain fare, simple attire, unso-
phisticated accommodations, hardy and active habits; such
is the order of the day in the house and its inhabitants.’
‘Quite right, sir. I may then depend upon this child being
received as a pupil at Lowood, and there being trained in
conformity to her position and prospects?’
‘Madam, you may: she shall be placed in that nursery of
chosen plants, and I trust she will show herself grateful for
the inestimable privilege of her election.’
‘I will send her, then, as soon as possible, Mr. Brockle-

Free eBooks at Planet [Link] 49

 hurst; 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 no-
tice that she is to expect a new girl, so that there will he no
difficulty about receiving her. Good-bye.’
‘Good-bye, Mr. Brocklehurst; remember me to Mrs. and
Miss Brocklehurst, and to Augusta and Theodore, and Mas-
ter Broughton Brocklehurst.’
‘I will, madam. Little girl, here is a book entitled the
‘Child’s Guide,’ read it with prayer, especially that part con-
taining ‘An account of the awfully sudden death of Martha
G—, a naughty child addicted to falsehood and deceit.’’
With these words Mr. Brocklehurst put into my hand a
thin pamphlet sewn in a cover, and having rung for his car-
riage, he departed.
Mrs. Reed and I were left alone: some minutes passed
in silence; she was sewing, I was watching her. Mrs. Reed
might be at that time some six or seven and thirty; she was
a woman of robust frame, square-shouldered and strong-
limbed, not tall, and, though stout, not obese: she had a
somewhat large face, the under jaw being much developed
and very solid; her brow was low, her chin large and promi-
nent, mouth and nose sufficiently regular; under her light
eyebrows glimmered an eye devoid of ruth; her skin was
dark and opaque, her hair nearly flaxen; her constitution
was sound as a bell—illness never came near her; she was

50 Jane Eyre
an exact, clever manager; her household and tenantry were
thoroughly under her control; her children only at times
defied her authority and laughed it to scorn; she dressed
well, and had a presence and port calculated to set off hand-
some 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 ap-
propriate warning. What had just passed; what Mrs. Reed
had said concerning me to Mr. Brocklehurst; the whole ten-
or of their conversation, was recent, raw, and stinging in my
mind; I had felt every word as acutely as I had heard it plain-
ly, and a passion of resentment fomented now within me.
Mrs. Reed looked up from her work; her eye settled on
mine, her fingers at the same time suspended their nimble
movements.
‘Go out of the room; return to the nursery,’ was her man-
date. My look or something else must have struck her as
offensive, for she spoke with extreme though suppressed ir-
ritation. I got up, I went to the door; I came back again; I
walked to the window, across the room, then close up to
her.
SPEAK I must: I had been trodden on severely, and
MUST turn: but how? What strength had I to dart retalia-
tion 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-

Free eBooks at Planet [Link] 51

body in the world except John Reed; and this book about
the liar, you may give to your girl, Georgiana, for it is she
who tells lies, and not I.’
Mrs. Reed’s hands still lay on her work inactive: her eye
of ice continued to dwell freezingly on mine.
‘What more have you to say?’ she asked, rather in the
tone in which a person might address an opponent of adult
age than such as is ordinarily used to a child.
That eye of hers, that voice stirred every antipathy I had.
Shaking from head to foot, thrilled with ungovernable
excitement, I continued—
‘I am glad you are no relation of mine: I will never call
you aunt again as long as I live. I will never come to see you
when I am grown up; and if any one asks me how I liked
you, and how you treated me, I will say the very thought of
you makes me sick, and that you treated me with miserable
cruelty.’
‘How dare you affirm that, Jane Eyre?’
‘How dare I, Mrs. Reed? How dare I? Because it is the
TRUTH. You think I have no feelings, and that I can do
without one bit of love or kindness; but I cannot live so:
and you have no pity. I shall remember how you thrust me
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

52 Jane Eyre
you a good woman, but you are bad, hard- hearted. YOU
are deceitful!’
Ere I had finished this reply, my soul began to expand,
to exult, with the strangest sense of freedom, of triumph,
I ever felt. It seemed as if an invisible bond had burst, and
that I had struggled out into unhoped-for liberty. Not with-
out cause was this sentiment: Mrs. Reed looked frightened;
her work had slipped from her knee; she was lifting up her
hands, rocking herself to and fro, and even twisting her
face as if she would cry.
‘Jane, you are under a mistake: what is the matter with
you? Why do you tremble so violently? Would you like to
drink some water?’
‘No, Mrs. Reed.’
‘Is there anything else you wish for, Jane? I assure you, I
desire to be your friend.’
‘Not you. You told Mr. Brocklehurst I had a bad charac-
ter, a deceitful disposition; and I’ll let everybody 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 cannot lie down: send me to school
soon, Mrs. Reed, for I hate to live here.’
‘I will indeed send her to school soon,’ murmured Mrs.

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Reed sotto voce; and gathering up her work, she abruptly
quitted the apartment.
I was left there alone—winner of the field. It was the
hardest battle I had fought, and the first victory I had
gained: I stood awhile on the rug, where Mr. Brocklehu-
rst 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 accelerated throb of my
pulses. A child cannot quarrel with its elders, as I had done;
cannot give its furious feelings uncontrolled play, as I had
given mine, without experiencing afterwards the pang of
remorse and the chill of reaction. A ridge of lighted heath,
alive, glancing, devouring, would have been a meet 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 represented as meetly 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 position.
Something of vengeance I had tasted for the first time; as
aromatic wine it seemed, on swallowing, warm and racy: its
after-flavour, metallic and corroding, gave me a sensation
as if I had been poisoned. Willingly would I now have gone
and asked Mrs. Reed’s pardon; but I knew, partly from ex-
perience and partly from instinct, that was the way to make
her repulse me with double scorn, thereby re-exciting every
turbulent impulse of my nature.
I would fain exercise some better faculty than that of
fierce speaking; fain find nourishment for some less fiendish

54 Jane Eyre
feeling than that of sombre indignation. I took a book—
some Arabian tales; I sat down and endeavoured to read. I
could make no sense of the subject; my own thoughts swam
always between me and the page I had usually found fasci-
nating. I opened the glass-door in the breakfast-room: the
shrubbery was quite still: the black frost reigned, unbroken
by sun or breeze, through the grounds. I covered my head
and arms with the skirt of my frock, and went out to walk
in a part of the plantation which was quite sequestrated; but
I found no pleasure in the silent trees, the falling fir-cones,
the congealed relics of autumn, russet leaves, swept by past
winds in heaps, and now stiffened together. I leaned against
a gate, and looked into an empty field where no sheep were
feeding, where the short grass was nipped and blanched. It
was a very grey day; a most opaque sky, ‘onding on snaw,’
canopied all; thence flakes felt it intervals, which settled on
the hard path and on the hoary lea without melting. I stood,
a wretched child enough, whispering to myself over and
over again, ‘What shall I do?—what shall I do?’
All at once I heard a clear voice call, ‘Miss Jane! where
are you? Come to lunch!’
It was Bessie, I knew well enough; but I did not stir; her
light step came tripping down the path.
‘You naughty little thing!’ she said. ‘Why don’t you come
when you are called?’
Bessie’s presence, compared with the thoughts over
which I had been brooding, seemed cheerful; even though,
as usual, she was somewhat cross. The fact is, after my con-
flict with and victory over Mrs. Reed, I was not disposed to

Free eBooks at Planet [Link] 55

care much for the nursemaid’s transitory anger; and I WAS
disposed to bask in her youthful lightness of heart. I just
put my two arms round her and said, ‘Come, Bessie! 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 roving, solitary thing: and you are go-
ing to school, I suppose?’
I nodded.
‘And won’t you be sorry to leave poor Bessie?’
‘What does Bessie care for me? She is always scolding
me.’
‘Because you’re such a queer, frightened, shy little thing.
You should 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 sorrowful eyes you fix
on me! Well, but Missis and the young ladies and Master
John are going out to tea this afternoon, and you shall have
tea with me. I’ll ask cook to bake you a little cake, and then
you shall help me to look over your drawers; for I am soon
to pack your trunk. Missis intends you to leave Gateshead
in a day or two, and you shall choose what toys you like to
take with you.’

56 Jane Eyre
 ‘Bessie, you must promise not to scold me any more till
I go.’
‘Well, I will; but mind you are a very good girl, and don’t
be afraid of me. Don’t start when I chance to speak rather
sharply; it’s so provoking.’
‘I don’t think I shall ever be afraid of you again, Bessie,
because I have got used to you, and I shall soon have an-
other set of people to dread.’
‘If you dread them they’ll dislike you.’
‘As you do, Bessie?’
‘I don’t dislike you, Miss; I believe I am fonder of you
than of all the others.’
‘You don’t show it.’
‘You little sharp thing! you’ve got quite a new way of talk-
ing. What makes you so venturesome 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 bet-
ter to remain silent on that head.
‘And so you’re glad to leave me?’
‘Not at all, Bessie; indeed, just now I’m rather sorry.’
‘Just now! and rather! How coolly my little lady says it! I
dare say now if I were to ask you for a kiss you wouldn’t give
it me: you’d say you’d RATHER not.’
‘I’ll kiss you and welcome: bend your head down.’ Bes-
sie stooped; we mutually embraced, and I followed her into
the house quite comforted. That afternoon lapsed in peace
and harmony; and in the evening Bessie told me some of her
most enchaining stories, and sang me some of her sweetest

Free eBooks at Planet [Link] 57

songs. Even for me life had its gleams of sunshine.

58 Jane Eyre
Chapter V

F ive o’clock had hardly struck on the morning of the 19th

of January, when Bessie brought a candle into my closet
and found me already up and nearly dressed. I had risen
half-an-hour before her entrance, and had washed my face,
and put on my clothes by the light of a half-moon just set-
ting, whose rays streamed through the narrow window near
my crib. I was to leave Gateshead that day by a coach which
passed the lodge gates at six a.m. Bessie was the only per-
son yet risen; she had lit a fire in the nursery, where she
now proceeded to make my breakfast. Few children can
eat when excited with the thoughts of a journey; nor could
I. Bessie, having pressed me in vain to take a few spoon-
fuls of the boiled milk and bread she had prepared for me,
wrapped up some biscuits in a paper and put them into my
bag; then she helped me on with my pelisse and bonnet, and
wrapping herself in a shawl, she and I left the nursery. As we
passed Mrs. Reed’s bedroom, she said, ‘Will you go in and
bid Missis good-bye?’
‘No, Bessie: she came to my crib last night when you were
gone down to supper, and said I need not disturb her in the
morning, or my cousins either; and she told me to remem-
ber that she had always been my best friend, and to speak of
her and be grateful to her accordingly.’
‘What did you say, Miss?’

Free eBooks at Planet [Link] 59

 ‘Nothing: I covered my face with the bedclothes, and
turned from her to the wall.’
‘That was wrong, Miss Jane.’
‘It was quite right, Bessie. Your Missis has not been my
friend: she has been my foe.’
‘O Miss Jane! don’t say so!’
‘Good-bye to Gateshead!’ cried I, as we passed through
the hall and went out at the front door.
The moon was set, and it was very dark; Bessie carried a
lantern, whose light glanced on wet steps and gravel road
sodden by a recent thaw. Raw and chill was the winter
morning: my teeth chattered as I hastened down the drive.
There was a light in the porter’s lodge: when we reached it,
we found the porter’s wife just kindling her fire: my trunk,
which had been carried down the evening before, stood
corded at the door. It wanted but a few minutes of six, and
shortly after that hour had struck, the distant roll of wheels
announced the coming coach; I went to the door and
watched its lamps approach rapidly through the gloom.
‘Is she going by herself?’ asked the porter’s wife.
‘Yes.’
‘And how far is it?’
‘Fifty miles.’
‘What a long way! I wonder Mrs. Reed is not afraid to
trust her so far alone.’
The coach drew up; there it was at the gates with its four
horses and its top laden with passengers: the guard and
coachman loudly urged haste; my trunk was hoisted up; I
was taken from Bessie’s neck, to which I clung with kisses.

60 Jane Eyre
 ‘Be sure and take good care of her,’ cried she to the guard,
as he lifted me into the inside.
‘Ay, ay!’ was the answer: the door was slapped to, a voice
exclaimed ‘All right,’ and on we drove. Thus was I severed
from Bessie and Gateshead; thus whirled away to unknown,
and, as I then deemed, remote and mysterious regions.
I remember but little of the journey; I only know that
the day seemed to me of a preternatural length, and that
we appeared to travel over hundreds of miles of road. We
passed through several towns, and in one, a very large one,
the coach stopped; the horses were taken out, and the pas-
sengers alighted to dine. I was carried into an inn, where
the guard wanted me to have some dinner; but, as I had no
appetite, he left me in an immense room with a fireplace
at each end, a chandelier pendent from the ceiling, and a
little red gallery high up against the wall filled with musical
instruments. Here I walked about for a long time, feeling
very strange, and mortally apprehensive of some one com-
ing in and kidnapping me; for I believed in kidnappers,
their exploits having frequently figured in Bessie’s fireside
chronicles. At last the guard returned; once more I was
stowed away in the coach, my protector mounted his own
seat, sounded his hollow horn, and away we rattled over the
‘stony street’ of L-.
The afternoon came on wet and somewhat misty: as it
waned into dusk, I began to feel that we were getting very far
indeed from Gateshead: we ceased to pass through towns;
the country changed; great grey hills heaved up round the
horizon: as twilight deepened, we descended a valley, dark

Free eBooks at Planet [Link] 61

with wood, and long after night had overclouded the pros-
pect, I heard a wild wind rushing amongst trees.
Lulled by the sound, I at last dropped asleep; I had not
long slumbered when the sudden cessation of motion awoke
me; the coach- door was open, and a person like a servant
was standing at it: I saw her face and dress by the light of
the lamps.
‘Is there a little girl called Jane Eyre here?’ she asked. I
answered ‘Yes,’ and was then lifted out; my trunk was hand-
ed down, and the coach instantly drove away.
I was stiff with long sitting, and bewildered with the
noise and motion of the coach: Gathering my faculties, I
looked about me. Rain, wind, and darkness filled the air;
nevertheless, I dimly discerned a wall before me and a door
open in it; through this door I passed with my new guide:
she shut and locked it behind her. There was now visible a
house or houses—for the building spread far—with many
windows, and lights burning in some; we went up a broad
pebbly path, splashing wet, and were admitted at a door;
then the servant led me through a passage into a room with
a fire, where she left me alone.
I stood and warmed my numbed fingers over the blaze,
then I looked round; there was no candle, but the uncer-
tain light from the hearth showed, by intervals, papered
walls, carpet, curtains, shining mahogany furniture: it was
a parlour, not so spacious or splendid as the drawing-room
at Gateshead, but comfortable enough. I was puzzling to
make out the subject of a picture on the wall, when the door
opened, and an individual carrying a light entered; another

62 Jane Eyre
 followed close behind.
The first was a tall lady with dark hair, dark eyes, and a
pale and large forehead; her figure was partly enveloped in a
shawl, her countenance was grave, her bearing erect.
‘The child is very young to be sent alone,’ said she, putting
her candle down on the table. She considered me attentively
for a minute or two, then further added—
‘She had better be put to bed soon; she looks tired: are
you tired?’ she asked, placing her hand on my shoulder.
‘A little, ma’am.’
‘And hungry too, no doubt: let her have some supper be-
fore she goes to bed, Miss Miller. Is this the first time you
have left your parents to come to school, my little girl?’
I explained to her that I had no parents. She inquired
how long they had been dead: then how old I was, what was
my name, whether I could read, write, and sew a little: then
she touched my cheek gently with her forefinger, and saying,
‘She hoped I should be a good child,’ dismissed me along
with Miss Miller.
The lady I had left might be about twenty-nine; the one
who went with me appeared some years younger: the first
impressed me by her voice, look, and air. Miss Miller was
more ordinary; ruddy in complexion, though of a careworn
countenance; hurried in gait and action, like one who had
always a multiplicity of tasks on hand: she looked, indeed,
what I afterwards found she really was, an under-teacher.
Led by her, I passed from compartment to compartment,
from passage to passage, of a large and irregular building;
till, emerging from the total and somewhat dreary silence

Free eBooks at Planet [Link] 63

pervading that portion of the house we had traversed, we
came upon the hum of many voices, and presently entered a
wide, long room, with great deal tables, two at each end, on
each of which burnt a pair of candles, and seated all round
on benches, a congregation of girls of every age, from nine
or ten to twenty. Seen by the dim light of the dips, their
number to me appeared countless, though not in reality ex-
ceeding eighty; they were uniformly dressed in brown stuff
frocks of quaint fashion, and long holland pinafores. It was
the hour of study; they were engaged in conning over their
to- morrow’s task, and the hum I had heard was the com-
bined result of their whispered repetitions.
Miss Miller signed to me to sit on a bench near the door,
then walking up to the top of the long room she cried out—
‘Monitors, collect the lesson-books and put them away!
Four tall girls arose from different tables, and going round,
gathered the books and removed them. Miss Miller again
gave the word of command—
‘Monitors, fetch the supper-trays!’
The tall girls went out and returned presently, each bear-
ing a tray, with portions of something, I knew not what,
arranged thereon, and a pitcher of water and mug in the
middle of each tray. The portions were handed round; those
who liked took a draught of the water, the mug being com-
mon to all. When it came to my turn, I drank, for I was
thirsty, but did not touch the food, excitement and fatigue
rendering me incapable of eating: I now saw, however, that
it was a thin oaten cake shared into fragments.
The meal over, prayers were read by Miss Miller, and the

64 Jane Eyre
classes filed off, two and two, upstairs. Overpowered by this
time with weariness, I scarcely noticed what sort of a place
the bedroom was, except that, like the schoolroom, I saw it
was very long. To-night I was to be Miss Miller’s bed-fellow;
she helped me to undress: when laid down I glanced at the
long rows of beds, each of which was quickly filled with two
occupants; in ten minutes the single light was extinguished,
and amidst silence and complete darkness I fell asleep.
The night passed rapidly. I was too tired even to dream; I
only once awoke to hear the wind rave in furious gusts, and
the rain fall in torrents, and to be sensible that Miss Miller
had taken her place by my side. When I again unclosed my
eyes, a loud bell was ringing; the girls were up and dress-
ing; day had not yet begun to dawn, and a rushlight or two
burned in the room. I too rose reluctantly; it was bitter cold,
and I dressed as well as I could for shivering, and washed
when there was a basin at liberty, which did not occur soon,
as there was but one basin to six girls, on the stands down
the middle of the room. Again the bell rang: all formed in
file, two and two, and in that order descended the stairs and
entered the cold and dimly lit schoolroom: here prayers
were read by Miss Miller; afterwards she called out—
‘Form classes!’
A great tumult succeeded for some minutes, during
which Miss Miller repeatedly exclaimed, ‘Silence!’ and ‘Or-
der!’ When it subsided, I saw them all drawn up in four
semicircles, before four chairs, placed at the four tables; all
held books in their hands, and a great book, like a Bible,
lay on each table, before the vacant seat. A pause of some

Free eBooks at Planet [Link] 65

seconds succeeded, filled up by the low, vague hum of num-
bers; Miss Miller walked from class to class, hushing this
indefinite sound.
A distant bell tinkled: immediately three ladies entered
the room, each walked to a table and took her seat. Miss
Miller assumed the fourth vacant chair, which was that
nearest the door, and around which the smallest of the chil-
dren were assembled: to this inferior class I was called, and
placed at the bottom of it.
Business now began, the day’s Collect was repeated, then
certain texts of Scripture were said, and to these succeeded
a protracted reading of chapters in the Bible, which lasted
an hour. By the time that exercise was terminated, day had
fully dawned. The indefatigable bell now sounded for the
fourth time: the classes were marshalled and marched into
another room to breakfast: how glad I was to behold a pros-
pect of getting something to eat! I was now nearly sick from
inanition, having taken so little the day before.
The refectory was a great, low-ceiled, gloomy room; on
two long tables smoked basins of something hot, which,
however, to my dismay, sent forth an odour far from invit-
ing. I saw a universal manifestation of discontent when the
fumes of the repast met the nostrils of those destined to
swallow it; from the van of the procession, the tall girls of
the first class, rose the whispered words—
‘Disgusting! The porridge is burnt again!’
‘Silence!’ ejaculated a voice; not that of Miss Miller, but
one of the upper teachers, a little and dark personage, smart-
ly dressed, but of somewhat morose aspect, who installed

66 Jane Eyre
herself at the top of one table, while a more buxom lady pre-
sided at the other. I looked in vain for her I had first seen the
night before; she was not visible: Miss Miller occupied the
foot of the table where I sat, and a strange, foreign-looking,
elderly lady, the French teacher, as I afterwards found, took
the corresponding seat at the other board. A long grace was
said and a hymn sung; then a servant brought in some tea
for the teachers, and the meal began.
Ravenous, and now very faint, I devoured a spoonful
or two of my portion without thinking of its taste; but the
first edge of hunger blunted, I perceived I had got in hand
a nauseous mess; burnt porridge is almost as bad as rotten
potatoes; famine itself soon sickens over it. The spoons were
moved slowly: I saw each girl taste her food and try to swal-
low it; but in most cases the effort was soon relinquished.
Breakfast was over, and none had breakfasted. Thanks be-
ing returned for what we had not got, and a second hymn
chanted, the refectory was evacuated for the schoolroom.
I was one of the last to go out, and in passing the tables, I
saw one teacher take a basin of the porridge and taste it;
she looked at the others; all their countenances expressed
displeasure, and one of them, the stout one, whispered—
‘Abominable stuff! How shameful!’
A quarter of an hour passed before lessons again began,
during which the schoolroom was in a glorious tumult; for
that space of time it seemed to be permitted to talk loud and
more freely, and they used their privilege. The whole con-
versation ran on the breakfast, which one and all abused
roundly. Poor things! it was the sole consolation they had.

Free eBooks at Planet [Link] 67

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 pro-
nounced by some lips; at which Miss Miller shook her head
disapprovingly; but she made no great effort to cheek the
general wrath; doubtless she shared in it.
A clock in the schoolroom struck nine; Miss Miller left
her circle, and standing in the middle of the room, cried—
‘Silence! To your seats!’
Discipline prevailed: in five minutes the confused throng
was resolved into order, and comparative silence quelled
the Babel clamour of tongues. The upper teachers now
punctually resumed their posts: but still, all seemed to wait.
Ranged on benches down the sides of the room, the eighty
girls sat motionless and erect; a quaint assemblage they ap-
peared, all with plain locks combed from their faces, not a
curl visible; in brown dresses, made high and surrounded
by a narrow tucker about the throat, with little pockets of
holland (shaped something like a Highlander’s purse) tied
in front of their frocks, and destined to serve the purpose of
a work- bag: all, too, wearing woollen stockings and coun-
try-made shoes, fastened with brass buckles. Above twenty
of those clad in this costume were full-grown girls, or rath-
er young women; it suited them ill, and gave an air of oddity
even to the prettiest.
I was still looking at them, and also at intervals ex-
amining 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

68 Jane Eyre
Miller, poor thing! looked purple, weather- beaten, and
over-worked—when, as my eye wandered from face to face,
the whole school rose simultaneously, as if moved by a com-
mon spring.
What was the matter? I had heard no order given: I was
puzzled. Ere I had gathered my wits, the classes were again
seated: but as all eyes were now turned to one point, mine
followed the general direction, and encountered the person-
age who had received me last night. She stood at the bottom
of the long room, on the hearth; for there was a fire at each
end; she surveyed the two rows of girls silently and gravely.
Miss Miller approaching, seemed to ask her a question, and
having received her answer, went back to her place, and said
aloud—
‘Monitor of the first class, fetch the globes!’
While the direction was being executed, the lady con-
sulted moved slowly up the room. I suppose I have a
considerable organ of veneration, for I retain yet the sense
of admiring awe with which my eyes traced her steps. Seen
now, in broad daylight, she looked tall, fair, and shapely;
brown eyes with a benignant light in their irids, and a fine
pencilling of long lashes round, relieved the whiteness of
her large front; on each of her temples her hair, of a very
dark brown, was clustered in round curls, according to the
fashion of those times, when neither smooth bands nor
long ringlets were in vogue; her dress, also in the mode of
the day, was of purple cloth, relieved by a sort of Spanish
trimming of black velvet; a gold watch (watches were not
so common then as now) shone at her girdle. Let the reader

Free eBooks at Planet [Link] 69

add, to complete the picture, refined features; a complex-
ion, 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 afterwards
saw the name written in a prayer-book intrusted to me to
carry to church.
The superintendent of Lowood (for such was this lady)
having taken her seat before a pair of globes placed on one
of the tables, summoned the first class round her, and com-
menced giving a lesson on geography; the lower classes
were called by the teachers: repetitions in history, grammar,
&c., went on for an hour; writing and arithmetic succeeded,
and music lessons were given by Miss Temple to some of
the elder girls. The duration of each lesson was measured by
the clock, which at last struck twelve. The superintendent
rose—
‘I have a word to address to the pupils,’ said she.
The tumult of cessation from lessons was already
breaking forth, but it sank at her voice. She went on—
‘You had this morning a breakfast which you could not
eat; you must be hungry:—I have ordered that a lunch of
bread and cheese shall be served to all.’
The teachers looked at her with a sort of surprise.
‘It is to be done on my responsibility,’ she added, in an
explanatory tone to them, and immediately afterwards left
the room.
The bread and cheese was presently brought in and dis-
tributed, to the high delight and refreshment of the whole
school. The order was now given ‘To the garden!’ Each put

70 Jane Eyre
on a coarse straw bonnet, with strings of coloured calico,
and a cloak of grey frieze. I was similarly equipped, and,
following the stream, I made my way into the open air.
The garden was a wide inclosure, surrounded with walls
so high as to exclude every glimpse of prospect; a covered
verandah ran down one side, and broad walks bordered a
middle space divided into scores of little beds: these beds
were assigned as gardens for the pupils to cultivate, and
each bed had an owner. When full of flowers they would
doubtless look pretty; but now, at the latter end of Janu-
ary, all was wintry blight and brown decay. I shuddered
as I stood and looked round me: it was an inclement day
for outdoor exercise; not positively rainy, but darkened by
a drizzling yellow fog; all under foot was still soaking wet
with the floods of yesterday. The stronger among the girls
ran about and engaged in active games, but sundry pale and
thin ones herded together for shelter and warmth in the ve-
randah; and amongst these, as the dense mist penetrated
to their shivering frames, I heard frequently the sound of a
hollow cough.
As yet I had spoken to no one, nor did anybody seem to
take notice of me; I stood lonely enough: but to that feeling
of isolation I was accustomed; it did not oppress me much. I
leant against a pillar of the verandah, drew my grey mantle
close about me, and, trying to forget the cold which nipped
me without, and the unsatisfied hunger which gnawed me
within, delivered myself up to the employment of watch-
ing and thinking. My reflections were too undefined and
fragmentary to merit record: I hardly yet knew where I was;

Free eBooks at Planet [Link] 71

Gateshead and my past life seemed floated away to an im-
measurable distance; the present was vague and strange,
and of the future I could form no conjecture. I looked
round the convent-like garden, and then up at the house—a
large building, half of which seemed grey and old, the other
half quite new. The new part, containing the schoolroom
and dormitory, was lit by mullioned and latticed windows,
which gave it a church-like aspect; a stone tablet over the
door bore this inscription:-
‘Lowood Institution.—This portion was rebuilt A.D.—,
by Naomi Brocklehurst, of Brocklehurst Hall, in this coun-
ty.’ ‘Let your light so shine before men, that they may see
your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heav-
en.’— 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 pen-
etrate their import. I was still pondering the signification
of ‘Institution,’ and endeavouring to make out a connection
between the first words and the verse of Scripture, when the
sound of a cough close behind me made me turn my head.
I saw a girl sitting on a stone bench near; she was bent over
a book, on the perusal of which she seemed intent: from
where I stood I could see the title—it was ‘Rasselas;’ a name
that struck me as strange, and consequently attractive. In
turning a leaf she happened to look up, and I said to her
directly—
‘Is your book interesting?’ I had already formed the in-
tention of asking her to lend it to me some day.
‘I like it,’ she answered, after a pause of a second or two,

72 Jane Eyre
during which she examined me.
‘What is it about?’ I continued. I hardly know where I
found the hardihood thus to open a conversation with a
stranger; the step was contrary to my nature and habits: but
I think her occupation touched a chord of sympathy some-
where; for I too liked reading, though of a frivolous and
childish kind; I could not digest or comprehend the serious
or substantial.
‘You may look at it,’ replied the girl, offering me the
book.
I did so; a brief examination convinced me that the
contents were less taking than the title: ‘Rasselas’ looked
dull to my trifling taste; I saw nothing about fairies, noth-
ing about genii; no bright variety seemed spread over the
closely-printed pages. I returned it to her; she received it
quietly, and without saying anything she was about to re-
lapse into her former studious mood: again I ventured to
disturb her—
‘Can you tell me what the writing on that stone over the
door means? What is Lowood Institution?’
‘This house where you are come to live.’
‘And why do they call it Institution? Is it in any way dif-
ferent from other schools?’
‘It is partly a charity-school: you and I, and all the rest of
us, are charity-children. I suppose you are an orphan: are
not either your father or your mother dead?’
‘Both died before I can remember.’
‘Well, all the girls here have lost either one or both parents,
and this is called an institution for educating orphans.’

Free eBooks at Planet [Link] 73

 ‘Do we pay no money? Do they keep us for nothing?’
‘We pay, or our friends pay, fifteen pounds a year for
each.’
‘Then why do they call us charity-children?’
‘Because fifteen pounds is not enough for board and
teaching, and the deficiency is supplied by subscription.’
‘Who subscribes?’
‘Different benevolent-minded ladies and gentlemen in
this neighbourhood and in London.’
‘Who was Naomi Brocklehurst?’
‘The lady who built the new part of this house as that
tablet records, and whose son overlooks and directs every-
thing here.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he is treasurer and manager of the establish-
ment.’
‘Then this house does not belong to that tall lady who
wears a watch, and who said we were to have some bread
and cheese?’
‘To Miss Temple? Oh, no! I wish it did: she has to answer
to Mr. Brocklehurst for all she does. Mr. Brocklehurst buys
all our food and all our clothes.’
‘Does he live here?’
‘No—two miles off, at a large hall.’
‘Is he a good man?’
‘He is a clergyman, and is said to do a great deal of
good.’
‘Did you say that tall lady was called Miss Temple?’
‘Yes.’

74 Jane Eyre
 ‘And what are the other teachers called?’
‘The one with red cheeks is called Miss Smith; she at-
tends to the work, and cuts out—for we make our own
clothes, our frocks, and pelisses, and everything; the little
one with black hair is Miss Scatcherd; she teaches history
and grammar, and hears the second class repetitions; and
the one who wears a shawl, and has a pocket- handkerchief
tied to her side with a yellow ribband, is Madame Pierrot:
she comes from Lisle, in France, and teaches French.’
‘Do you like the teachers?’
‘Well enough.’
‘Do you like the little black one, and the Madame—?—I
cannot pronounce her name as you do.’
‘Miss Scatcherd is hasty—you must take care not to of-
fend her; Madame Pierrot is not a bad sort of person.’
‘But Miss Temple is the best—isn’t she?’
‘Miss Temple is very good and very clever; she is above
the rest, because she knows far more than they do.’
‘Have you been long here?’
‘Two years.’
‘Are you an orphan?’
‘My mother is dead.’
‘Are you happy here?’
‘You ask rather too many questions. I have given you an-
swers enough for the present: now I want to read.’
But at that moment the summons sounded for dinner;
all re-entered the house. The odour which now filled the
refectory was scarcely more appetising than that which had
regaled our nostrils at breakfast: the dinner was served in

Free eBooks at Planet [Link] 75

two huge tin-plated vessels, whence rose a strong steam
redolent of rancid fat. I found the mess to consist of indif-
ferent potatoes and strange shreds of rusty meat, mixed and
cooked together. Of this preparation a tolerably abundant
plateful was apportioned to each pupil. I ate what I could,
and wondered within myself whether every day’s fare would
be 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 dis-
missed in disgrace by Miss Scatcherd from a history class,
and sent to stand in the middle of the large schoolroom.
The punishment seemed to me in a high degree ignomini-
ous, especially for so great a girl—she looked thirteen or
upwards. I expected she would show signs of great distress
and shame; but to my surprise she neither wept nor blushed:
composed, though grave, she stood, the central mark of all
eyes. ‘How can she bear it so quietly—so firmly?’ I asked of
myself. ‘Were I in her place, it seems to me I should wish the
earth to open and swallow me up. She looks as if she were
thinking of something beyond her 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? 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

76 Jane Eyre
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.

Free eBooks at Planet [Link] 77

Chapter VI

T he next day commenced as before, getting up and dress-

ing by rushlight; but this morning we were obliged to
dispense with the ceremony of washing; the water in the
pitchers was frozen. A change had taken place in the weath-
er the preceding evening, and a keen north-east wind,
whistling through the crevices of our bedroom windows all
night long, had made us shiver in our beds, and turned the
contents of the ewers to ice.
Before the long hour and a half of prayers and Bible-read-
ing was over, I felt ready to perish with cold. Breakfast-time
came at last, and this morning the porridge was not burnt;
the quality was eatable, the quantity small. How small my
portion seemed! I wished it had been doubled.
In the course of the day I was enrolled a member of
the fourth class, and regular tasks and occupations were
assigned me: hitherto, I had only been a spectator of the
proceedings at Lowood; I was now to become an actor
therein. At first, being little accustomed to learn by heart,
the lessons appeared to me both long and difficult; the fre-
quent 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 schoolroom, with directions to hem the

78 Jane Eyre
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 manner in which each girl ac-
quitted herself, and the animadversions or commendations
of Miss Scatcherd on the performance. It was English his-
tory: among the readers I observed my acquaintance of the
verandah: at the commencement of the lesson, her place
had been at the top of the class, but for some error of pro-
nunciation, or some inattention to stops, she was suddenly
sent to the very bottom. Even in that obscure position, Miss
Scatcherd continued to make her an object of constant no-
tice: she was continually addressing to her such phrases as
the following:-
‘Burns’ (such it seems was her name: the girls here were
all called by their surnames, as boys are elsewhere), ‘Burns,
you are standing on the side of your shoe; turn your toes out
immediately.’ ‘Burns, you poke your chin most unpleasant-
ly; 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 com-
prised part of the reign of Charles I., and there were sundry
questions about tonnage and poundage and ship-money,
which most of them appeared unable to answer; still, every
little difficulty was solved instantly when it reached Burns:
her memory seemed to have retained the substance of the
whole lesson, and she was ready with answers on every
point. I kept expecting that Miss Scatcherd would praise

Free eBooks at Planet [Link] 79

her attention; but, instead of that, she suddenly cried out—
‘You dirty, disagreeable girl! you have never cleaned your
nails this morning!’
Burns made no answer: I wondered at her silence. ‘Why,’
thought I, ‘does she not explain that she could neither clean
her nails nor wash her face, as the water was frozen?’
My attention was now called off by Miss Smith desiring
me to hold a skein of thread: while she was winding it, she
talked to me from time to time, asking whether I had ever
been at school before, whether I could mark, stitch, knit,
&c.; till she dismissed me, I could not pursue my observa-
tions 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 immediately left the class,
and going into the small inner room where the books were
kept, returned in half a minute, carrying in her hand a bun-
dle of twigs tied together at one end. This ominous tool she
presented to Miss Scatcherd with a respectful curtesy; then
she quietly, and without being told, unloosed her pinafore,
and the teacher instantly and sharply inflicted on her neck
a dozen strokes with the bunch of twigs. Not a tear rose to
Burns’ eye; and, while I paused from my sewing, because
my fingers quivered at this spectacle with a sentiment of un-
availing 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 hand-

80 Jane Eyre
kerchief 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 schoolroom felt warmer than in the morn-
ing—its fires being allowed to burn a little more brightly,
to supply, in some measure, the place of candles, not yet
introduced: the ruddy gloaming, the licensed uproar, the
confusion of many voices gave one a welcome sense of lib-
erty.
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 com-
panion, 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 par-
ents, this would have been the hour when I should most
keenly have regretted the separation; that wind would then
have saddened my heart; this obscure chaos would have
disturbed my peace! as it was, I derived from both a strange
excitement, and reckless and feverish, I wished the wind to
howl more wildly, the gloom to deepen to darkness, and the
confusion to rise to clamour.

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 Jumping over forms, and creeping under tables, I made
my way to one of the fire-places; there, kneeling by the high
wire fender, I found Burns, absorbed, silent, abstracted
from all round her by the companionship of a book, which
she read by the dim glare of the embers.
‘Is it still ‘Rasselas’?’ I asked, coming behind her.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘and I have just finished it.’
And in five minutes more she shut it up. I was glad of this.
‘Now,’ thought I, ‘I can perhaps get her to talk.’ I sat down
by her on the floor.
‘What is your name besides Burns?’
‘Helen.’
‘Do you come a long way from here?’
‘I come from a place farther north, quite on the borders
of Scotland.’
‘Will you ever go back?’
‘I hope so; but nobody can be sure of the future.’
‘You must wish to leave Lowood?’
‘No! why should I? I was sent to Lowood to get an edu-
cation; and it would be of no use going away until I have
attained that object.’
‘But that teacher, Miss Scatcherd, is so cruel to you?’
‘Cruel? Not at all! She is severe: she dislikes my faults.’
‘And if I were in your place I should dislike her; I should
resist her. If she struck me with that rod, I should get it from
her hand; I should break it under her nose.’
‘Probably you would do nothing of the sort: but if you
did, Mr. Brocklehurst would expel you from the school; that
would be a great grief to your relations. It is far better to

82 Jane Eyre
endure patiently a smart which nobody feels but yourself,
than to commit a hasty action whose evil consequences will
extend to all connected with you; and besides, the Bible
bids us return good for evil.’
‘But then it seems disgraceful to be flogged, and to be
sent to stand in the middle of a room full of people; and you
are such a great girl: I am far younger than you, and I could
not bear it.’
‘Yet it would be your duty to bear it, if you could not avoid
it: it is weak and silly to say you CANNOT BEAR what it is
your fate to be required to bear.’
I heard her with wonder: I could not comprehend this
doctrine of endurance; and still less could I understand
or sympathise with the forbearance she expressed for her
chastiser. Still I felt that Helen Burns considered things by
a light invisible to my eyes. I suspected she might be right
and I wrong; but I would not ponder the matter deeply; like
Felix, I put it off to a more convenient season.
‘You say you have faults, Helen: what are they? To me you
seem very good.’
‘Then learn from me, not to judge by appearances: I am,
as Miss Scatcherd said, slatternly; I seldom put, and never
keep, things, in order; I am careless; I forget rules; I read
when I should learn my lessons; I have no method; and
sometimes I say, like you, I cannot BEAR to be subjected to
systematic arrangements. This is all very provoking to Miss
Scatcherd, who is naturally neat, punctual, and particular.’
‘And cross and cruel,’ I added; but Helen Burns would
not admit my addition: she kept silence.

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 ‘Is Miss Temple as severe to you as Miss Scatcherd?’
At the utterance of Miss Temple’s name, a soft smile flit-
ted over her grave face.
‘Miss Temple is full of goodness; it pains her to be severe
to any one, even the worst in the school: she sees my errors,
and tells me of them gently; and, if I do anything worthy of
praise, she gives me my meed liberally. One strong proof of
my wretchedly defective nature is, that even her expostula-
tions, so mild, so rational, have not influence to cure me of
my faults; and even her praise, though I value it most highly,
cannot stimulate me to continued care and foresight.’
‘That is curious,’ said I, ‘it is so easy to be careful.’
‘For YOU I have no doubt it is. I observed you in your
class this morning, and saw you were closely attentive:
your thoughts never seemed to wander while Miss Mill-
er explained the lesson and questioned you. Now, mine
continually rove away; when I should be listening to Miss
Scatcherd, and collecting all she says with assiduity, often I
lose the very sound of her voice; I fall into a sort of dream.
Sometimes I think I am in Northumberland, and that the
noises I hear round me are the bubbling of a little brook
which runs through Deepden, near our house;—then, when
it comes to my turn to reply, I have to be awakened; and
having heard nothing of what was read for listening to the
visionary brook, I have no answer ready.’
‘Yet how well you replied this afternoon.’
‘It was mere chance; the subject on which we had been
reading had interested me. This afternoon, instead of
dreaming of Deepden, I was wondering how a man who

84 Jane Eyre
wished to do right could act so unjustly and unwisely as
Charles the First sometimes did; and I thought what a pity it
was that, with his integrity and conscientiousness, he could
see no farther than the prerogatives of the crown. If he had
but been able to look to a distance, and see how what they
call the spirit of the age was tending! Still, I like Charles—I
respect him—I pity him, poor murdered king! Yes, his en-
emies 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 subject she discussed. I recalled her to
my level.
‘And when Miss Temple teaches you, do your thoughts
wander then?’
‘No, certainly, not often; because Miss Temple has
generally something to say which is newer than my own re-
flections; her language is singularly agreeable to me, and the
information she communicates is often just what I wished
to gain.’
‘Well, then, with Miss Temple you are good?’
‘Yes, in a passive way: I make no effort; I follow as incli-
nation 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 peo-
ple would have it all their own way: they would never feel
afraid, and so they would never alter, but would grow worse
and worse. When we are struck at without a reason, we

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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 old-
er: as yet you are but a little untaught girl.’
‘But I feel this, Helen; I must dislike those who, what-
ever 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 pun-
ishment when I feel it is deserved.’
‘Heathens and savage tribes hold that doctrine, but
Christians and civilised nations disown it.’
‘How? I don’t understand.’
‘It is not violence that best overcomes hate—nor ven-
geance that most certainly heals injury.’
‘What then?’
‘Read the New Testament, and observe what Christ says,
and how He acts; make His word your rule, and His con-
duct your example.’
‘What does He say?’
‘Love your enemies; bless them that curse you; do good
to them that hate you and despitefully use you.’
‘Then I should love Mrs. Reed, which I cannot do; I
should bless her son John, which is impossible.’
In her turn, Helen Burns asked me to explain, and I pro-
ceeded 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 the end: I expected she

86 Jane Eyre
would then make a remark, but she said nothing.
‘Well,’ I asked impatiently, ‘is not Mrs. Reed a hard-heart-
ed, bad woman?’
‘She has been unkind to you, no doubt; because you see,
she dislikes your cast of character, as Miss Scatcherd does
mine; but how minutely you remember all she has done and
said to you! What a singularly deep impression her injustice
seems to have made on your heart! No ill-usage so brands
its record on my feelings. Would you not be happier if you
tried to forget her severity, together with the passionate
emotions it excited? Life appears to me too short to be spent
in nursing animosity or registering wrongs. We are, and
must be, one and all, burdened with faults in this world: but
the time will soon come when, I trust, we shall put them off
in putting off our corruptible bodies; when debasement and
sin will fall from us with this cumbrous frame of flesh, and
only the spark of the spirit will remain,—the impalpable
principle of light and thought, pure as when it left the Cre-
ator to inspire the creature: whence it came it will return;
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! Sure-
ly it will never, on the contrary, be suffered to degenerate
from man to fiend? No; I cannot believe that: I hold another
creed: which no one ever taught me, and which I seldom
mention; but in which I delight, and to which I cling: for
it extends hope to all: it makes Eternity a rest—a mighty
home, not a terror and an abyss. Besides, with this creed,
I can so clearly distinguish between the criminal and his

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crime; I can so sincerely forgive the first while I abhor the
last: with this creed revenge never worries my heart, degra-
dation never too deeply disgusts me, injustice never crushes
me too low: I live in calm, looking to the end.’
Helen’s head, always drooping, sank a little lower as
she finished this sentence. I saw by her look she wished no
longer to talk to me, but rather to converse with her own
thoughts. She was not allowed much time for meditation: a
monitor, a great rough girl, presently came up, exclaiming
in a strong Cumberland accent—
‘Helen Burns, if you don’t go and put your drawer in order,
and fold up your work this minute, I’ll tell Miss Scatcherd
to come and look at it!’
Helen sighed as her reverie fled, and getting up, obeyed
the monitor without reply as without delay.

88 Jane Eyre
Chapter VII

M y 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 un-
wonted tasks. The fear of failure in these points harassed
me worse than the physical hardships of my lot; though
these were no trifles.
During January, February, and part of March, the deep
snows, and, after their melting, the almost impassable roads,
prevented our stirring beyond the garden walls, except to
go to church; but within these limits we had to pass an hour
every day in the open air. Our clothing was insufficient to
protect us from the severe cold: we had no boots, the snow
got into our shoes and melted there: our ungloved hands be-
came numbed and covered with chilblains, as were our feet:
I remember well the distracting irritation I endured from
this cause every evening, when my feet inflamed; and the
torture of thrusting the swelled, raw, and stiff toes into my
shoes in the morning. Then the scanty supply of food was
distressing: with the keen appetites of growing children, we
had scarcely sufficient to keep alive a delicate invalid. From
this deficiency of nourishment resulted an abuse, which
pressed hardly on the younger pupils: whenever the fam-
ished great girls had an opportunity, they would coax or
menace the little ones out of their portion. Many a time I

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have shared between two claimants the precious morsel of
brown bread distributed at tea-time; and after relinquish-
ing to a third half the contents of my mug of coffee, I have
swallowed the remainder with an accompaniment of secret
tears, forced from me by the exigency of hunger.
Sundays were dreary days in that wintry season. We had
to walk two miles to Brocklebridge Church, where our pa-
tron officiated. We set out cold, we arrived at church colder:
during the morning service we became almost paralysed.
It was too far to return to dinner, and an allowance of cold
meat and bread, in the same penurious proportion ob-
served in our ordinary meals, was served round between
the services.
At the close of the afternoon service we returned by an
exposed and hilly road, where the bitter winter wind, blow-
ing over a range of snowy summits to the north, almost
flayed the skin from our faces.
I can remember Miss Temple walking lightly and rap-
idly along our drooping line, her plaid cloak, which the
frosty wind fluttered, gathered close about her, and encour-
aging us, by precept and example, to keep up our spirits,
and march forward, as she said, ‘like stalwart soldiers.’ The
other teachers, poor things, were generally themselves too
much dejected to attempt the task of cheering others.
How we longed for the light and heat of a blazing fire
when we got back! But, to the little ones at least, this was
denied: each hearth in the schoolroom was immediately
surrounded by a double row of great girls, and behind them
the younger children crouched in groups, wrapping their

90 Jane Eyre
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 heb-
domadal treat to which we all looked forward from Sabbath
to Sabbath. I generally contrived to reserve a moiety of this
bounteous repast for myself; but the remainder I was in-
variably obliged to part with.
The Sunday evening was spent in repeating, by heart, the
Church Catechism, and the fifth, sixth, and seventh chap-
ters of St. Matthew; and in listening to a long sermon, read
by Miss Miller, whose irrepressible yawns attested her wea-
riness. A frequent interlude of these performances was the
enactment of the part of Eutychus by some half-dozen of
little girls, who, overpowered with sleep, would fall down,
if not out of the third loft, yet off the fourth form, and be
taken up half dead. The remedy was, to thrust them for-
ward into the centre of the schoolroom, and oblige them to
stand there till the sermon was finished. Sometimes their
feet failed them, and they sank together in a heap; they were
then propped up with the monitors’ high stools.
I have not yet alluded to the visits of Mr. Brocklehu-
rst; and indeed that gentleman was from home during the
greater part of the first month after my arrival; perhaps pro-
longing his stay with his friend the archdeacon: his absence
was a relief to me. I need not say that I had my own reasons
for dreading his coming: but come he did at last.
One afternoon (I had then been three weeks at Lowood),
as I was sitting with a slate in my hand, puzzling over a

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sum in long division, my eyes, raised in abstraction to the
window, caught sight of a figure just passing: I recognised
almost instinctively that gaunt outline; and when, two min-
utes after, all the school, teachers included, rose en masse,
it was not necessary for me to look up in order to ascertain
whose entrance they thus greeted. A long stride measured
the schoolroom, and presently beside Miss Temple, who
herself had risen, stood the same black column which had
frowned on me so ominously from the hearthrug of Gates-
head. I now glanced sideways at this piece of architecture.
Yes, I was right: it was Mr. Brocklehurst, buttoned up in a
surtout, and looking longer, narrower, and more rigid than
ever.
I had my own reasons for being dismayed at this appa-
rition; 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 teach-
ers of my vicious nature. All along I had been dreading the
fulfilment of this promise,—I had been looking out daily for
the ‘Coming Man,’ whose information respecting my past
life and conversation was to brand me as a bad child for
ever: now there he was.
He stood at Miss 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, expect-
ing every moment to see its dark orb turn on me a glance of
repugnance and contempt. I listened too; and as I happened
to be seated quite at the top of the room, I caught most of
what he said: its import relieved me from immediate ap-

92 Jane Eyre
prehension.
‘I suppose, Miss Temple, the thread I bought at Lowton
will do; it struck me that it would be just of the quality for
the calico chemises, and I sorted the needles to match. You
may tell Miss Smith that I forgot to make a memorandum
of the darning needles, but she shall have some papers sent
in next week; and she is not, on any account, to give out
more than one at a time to each pupil: if they have more,
they are apt to be careless and lose them. And, O ma’am! I
wish the woollen stockings were better looked to!—when I
was here last, I went into the kitchen-garden and examined
the clothes drying on the line; there was a quantity of black
hose in a very bad state of repair: from the size of the holes
in them I was sure they had not been well mended from
time to time.’
He paused.
‘Your directions shall be attended to, sir,’ said Miss Tem-
ple.
‘And, ma’am,’ he continued, ‘the laundress tells me some
of the girls have two clean tuckers in the week: it is too
much; the rules limit them to one.’
‘I think I can explain that circumstance, sir. Agnes and
Catherine Johnstone were invited to take tea with some
friends at Lowton last Thursday, and I gave them leave to
put on clean tuckers for the occasion.’
Mr. Brocklehurst nodded.
‘Well, for once it may pass; but please not to let the cir-
cumstance occur too often. And there is another thing
which surprised me; I find, in settling accounts with the

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housekeeper, that a lunch, consisting of bread and cheese,
has twice been served out to the girls during the past fort-
night. How is this? I looked over the regulations, and I find
no such meal as lunch mentioned. Who introduced this in-
novation? and by what authority?’
‘I must be responsible for the circumstance, sir,’ replied
Miss Temple: ‘the breakfast was so ill prepared that the pu-
pils could not possibly eat it; and I dared not allow them to
remain fasting till dinner-time.’
‘Madam, allow me an instant. You are aware that my plan
in bringing up these girls is, not to accustom them to habits
of luxury and indulgence, but to render them hardy, patient,
self-denying. Should any little accidental disappointment
of the appetite occur, such as the spoiling of a meal, the un-
der or the over dressing of a dish, the incident ought not to
be neutralised by replacing with something more delicate
the comfort lost, thus pampering the body and obviating
the aim of this institution; it ought to be improved to the
spiritual edification of the pupils, by encouraging them to
evince fortitude under temporary privation. A brief address
on those occasions would not be mistimed, wherein a judi-
cious instructor would take the opportunity of referring to
the sufferings of the primitive Christians; to the torments
of martyrs; to the exhortations of our blessed Lord Himself,
calling upon His disciples to take up their cross and follow
Him; to His warnings that man shall not live by bread alone,
but by every word that proceedeth out of the mouth of God;
to His divine consolations, ‘If ye suffer hunger or thirst for
My sake, happy are ye.’ Oh, madam, when you put bread

94 Jane Eyre
and cheese, instead of burnt 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; es-
pecially her mouth, closed as if it would have required a
sculptor’s chisel to open it, and her brow settled gradually
into petrified severity.
Meantime, Mr. Brocklehurst, standing on the hearth
with his hands behind his back, majestically surveyed the
whole school. Suddenly his eye gave a blink, as if it had met
something that either dazzled or shocked its pupil; turning,
he said in more rapid accents than he had hitherto used—
‘Miss Temple, Miss Temple, what—WHAT is that girl
with curled hair? Red hair, ma’am, curled—curled all over?’
And extending his cane he pointed to the awful object, his
hand shaking as he did so.
‘It is Julia Severn,’ replied Miss Temple, very quietly.
‘Julia Severn, 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?’
‘Julia’s hair curls naturally,’ returned Miss Temple, still
more quietly.
‘Naturally! Yes, but we are not to conform to nature; I

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wish these girls to be the children of Grace: and why that
abundance? I have again and again intimated that I desire
the hair to be arranged closely, modestly, plainly. Miss Tem-
ple, 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 smile that curled them; she
gave the order, however, and when the first class could take
in what was required of them, they obeyed. Leaning a little
back on my bench, I could see the looks and grimaces with
which they commented on this manoeuvre: it was a pity
Mr. Brocklehurst could not see them too; he would perhaps
have felt that, whatever he might do with the outside of the
cup and platter, the inside was further beyond his interfer-
ence than he imagined.
He scrutinised the reverse of these living medals some
five minutes, then pronounced sentence. These words fell
like the knell of doom—
‘All those top-knots must be cut off.’
Miss Temple seemed to remonstrate.
‘Madam,’ he pursued, ‘I have a Master to serve whose
kingdom is not of this world: my mission is to mortify in
these girls the lusts of the flesh; to teach them to clothe
themselves with shame-facedness and sobriety, not with
braided hair and costly apparel; and each of the young per-
sons before us has a string of hair twisted in plaits which

96 Jane Eyre
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 vis-
itors, ladies, now entered the room. They ought to have
come a little sooner to have heard his lecture on dress, for
they were splendidly attired in velvet, silk, and furs. The
two younger of the trio (fine girls of sixteen and seventeen)
had grey beaver hats, then in fashion, shaded with ostrich
plumes, and from under the brim of this graceful head-
dress fell a profusion of light tresses, elaborately curled; the
elder lady was enveloped in a costly velvet shawl, trimmed
with ermine, and she wore a false front of French curls.
These ladies were deferentially received by Miss Tem-
ple, as Mrs. and the Misses Brocklehurst, and conducted
to seats of honour at the top of the room. It seems they had
come in the carriage with their reverend relative, and had
been conducting a rummaging scrutiny of the room up-
stairs, while he transacted business with the housekeeper,
questioned the laundress, and lectured the superintendent.
They now proceeded to address divers remarks and reproofs
to Miss Smith, who was charged with the care of the linen
and the inspection of the dormitories: but I had no time
to listen to what they said; other matters called off and en-
chanted my attention.
Hitherto, while gathering up the discourse of Mr. Brock-
lehurst and Miss Temple, I had not, at the same time,
neglected precautions to secure my personal safety; which
I thought would be effected, if I could only elude observa-
tion. To this end, I had sat well back on the form, and while

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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, di-
rectly drawn every eye upon me; I knew it was all over now,
and, as I stooped to pick up the two fragments of slate, I ral-
lied my forces for the worst. It came.
‘A careless girl!’ said Mr. Brocklehurst, and immediately
after—‘It is the new pupil, I perceive.’ And before I could
draw breath, ‘I must not forget I have a word to say respect-
ing her.’ Then aloud: how loud it seemed to me! ‘Let the
child who broke her slate come forward!’
Of my own accord I could not have stirred; I was para-
lysed: but the two great girls who sit on each side of me, set
me on my legs and pushed me towards the dread judge, and
then Miss Temple gently assisted me to his very feet, and I
caught her whispered counsel—
‘Don’t be afraid, Jane, I saw it was an accident; you shall
not be punished.’
The kind whisper went to my heart like a dagger.
‘Another minute, and she will despise me for a hypocrite,’
thought I; and an impulse of fury against Reed, Brocklehu-
rst, and Co. bounded in my pulses at the conviction. I was
no Helen Burns.
‘Fetch that stool,’ said Mr. Brocklehurst, pointing to a
very high one from which a monitor had just risen: it was
brought.
‘Place the child upon it.’
And I was placed there, by whom I don’t know: I was in

98 Jane Eyre
no condition to note particulars; 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 plum-
age extended and waved below me.
Mr. Brocklehurst hemmed.
‘Ladies,’ said he, turning to his family, ‘Miss Temple,
teachers, and children, you all see this girl?’
Of course they did; for I felt their eyes directed like burn-
ing- glasses against my scorched skin.
‘You see she is yet young; you observe she possesses the
ordinary form of childhood; God has graciously given her
the shape that He has given to all of us; no signal deformity
points her out as a marked character. Who would think that
the Evil One had already found a servant and agent in her?
Yet such, I grieve to say, is the case.’
A 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 marble clergyman,
with pathos, ‘this is a sad, a melancholy occasion; for it be-
comes my duty to warn you, that this girl, who might be
one of God’s own lambs, is a little castaway: not a member
of the true flock, but evidently an interloper and an alien.
You must be on your guard against her; you must shun her
example; if necessary, avoid her company, exclude her from
your sports, and shut her out from your converse. Teach-
ers, you must watch her: keep your eyes on her movements,
weigh well her words, scrutinise her actions, punish her

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body to save her soul: if, indeed, such salvation be possible,
for (my tongue falters while I tell it) this girl, this child, the
native of a Christian land, worse than many a little heathen
who says its prayers to Brahma and kneels before Jugger-
naut—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-handker-
chiefs and apply them to their optics, while the elderly lady
swayed herself to and fro, and the two younger ones whis-
pered, ‘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 gen-
erosity the unhappy girl repaid by an ingratitude so bad, so
dreadful, that at last her excellent patroness was obliged
to separate her from her own young ones, fearful lest her
vicious example should contaminate their purity: she has
sent her here to be healed, even as the Jews of old sent their
diseased to the troubled pool of Bethesda; and, teachers,
superintendent, I beg of you not to allow the waters to stag-
nate round her.’
With this sublime conclusion, Mr. Brocklehurst adjusted
the top button of his surtout, muttered something to his
family, who rose, bowed to Miss Temple, and then all the
great people sailed in state from the room. Turning at the
door, my judge said—
‘Let her stand half-an-hour longer on that stool, and let
no one speak to her during the remainder of the day.’

100 Jane Eyre

 There was I, then, mounted aloft; I, who had said I could
not bear the shame of standing on my natural feet in the
middle of the room, was now exposed to general view on a
pedestal of infamy. What my sensations were no language
can describe; but just as they all rose, stifling my breath
and constricting my throat, a girl came up and passed
me: in passing, she lifted her eyes. What a strange light in-
spired them! What an extraordinary sensation that ray sent
through me! How the new feeling bore me up! It was as if a
martyr, a hero, had passed a slave or victim, and imparted
strength in the transit. I mastered the rising hysteria, lifted
up my head, and took a firm stand on the stool. Helen Burns
asked some slight question about her work of Miss Smith,
was chidden for the triviality of the inquiry, returned to her
place, and smiled at me as she again went by. What a smile! I
remember it now, and I know that it was the effluence of fine
intellect, of true courage; it lit up her marked lineaments,
her thin face, her sunken grey eye, like a reflection from the
aspect of an angel. Yet at that moment Helen Burns wore on
her arm ‘the untidy badge;’ scarcely an hour ago I had heard
her condemned by Miss Scatcherd to a dinner of bread and
water on the morrow because she had blotted an exercise in
copying it out. Such is the imperfect nature of man! such
spots are there on the disc of the clearest planet; and eyes
like Miss Scatcherd’s can only see those minute defects, and
are blind to the full brightness of the orb.

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Chapter VIII

E re the half-hour ended, five o’clock struck; school was

dismissed, and all were gone into the refectory to tea. I
now ventured to descend: it was deep dusk; I retired into a
corner and sat down on the floor. The spell by which I had
been so far supported began to dissolve; reaction took place,
and soon, so overwhelming was the grief that seized me,
I sank prostrate with my face to the ground. Now I wept:
Helen Burns was not here; nothing sustained me; left to my-
self I abandoned myself, and my tears watered the boards.
I had meant to be so good, and to do so much at Lowood:
to make so many friends, to earn respect and win affection.
Already I had made visible progress: that very morning I
had reached the head of my class; Miss Miller had praised
me warmly; Miss Temple had smiled approbation; she had
promised to teach me drawing, and to let me learn French,
if I continued to make similar improvement two months
longer: and then I was well received by my fellow-pupils;
treated as an equal by those of my own age, and not mo-
lested by any; now, here I lay again crushed and trodden on;
and could I ever rise more?
‘Never,’ I thought; and ardently I wished to die. While
sobbing out this wish in broken accents, some one ap-
proached: I started up— again Helen Burns was near me;
the fading fires just showed her coming up the long, vacant

102 Jane Eyre

room; she brought my coffee and bread.
‘Come, eat something,’ she said; but I put both away
from me, feeling as if a drop or a crumb would have choked
me in my present condition. Helen regarded me, probably
with surprise: I could not now abate my agitation, though I
tried hard; I continued to weep aloud. She sat down on the
ground near me, embraced her knees with her arms, and
rested her head upon them; in that attitude she remained
silent as an Indian. I was the first who spoke—
‘Helen, why do you stay with a girl whom everybody be-
lieves to be a liar?’
‘Everybody, Jane? Why, there are only eighty people who
have heard you called so, and the world contains hundreds
of millions.’
‘But what have I to do with millions? The eighty, I know,
despise me.’
‘Jane, you are mistaken: probably not one in the school
either despises or dislikes you: many, I am sure, pity you
much.’
‘How can they pity me after what Mr. Brocklehurst has
said?’
‘Mr. Brocklehurst is not a god: nor is he even a great and
admired man: he is little liked here; he never took steps
to make himself liked. Had he treated you as an especial
favourite, you would have found enemies, declared or co-
vert, 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 con-
cealed in their hearts; and if you persevere in doing well,

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these feelings will ere long appear so much the more evi-
dently for their temporary suppression. Besides, Jane’—she
paused.
‘Well, Helen?’ said I, putting my hand into hers: she
chafed my fingers gently to warm them, and went on—
‘If all the world hated you, and believed you wicked,
while your own conscience approved you, and absolved you
from guilt, you would not be without friends.’
‘No; I know I should think well of myself; but that is
not enough: if others don’t love me I would rather die than
live—I cannot bear to be solitary and hated, Helen. Look
here; to gain some real affection from you, or Miss Temple,
or any other whom I truly love, I would willingly submit to
have the bone of my arm broken, or to let a bull toss me, or
to stand behind a kicking horse, and let it dash its hoof at
my chest—‘
‘Hush, Jane! you think too much of the love of human
beings; you are too impulsive, too vehement; the sover-
eign hand that created your frame, and put life into it, has
provided you with other resources than your feeble self, or
than creatures feeble as you. Besides this earth, and besides
the race of men, there is an invisible world and a kingdom
of spirits: that world is round us, for it is everywhere; and
those spirits watch us, for they are commissioned to guard
us; and if we were dying in pain and shame, if scorn smote
us on all sides, and hatred crushed us, angels see our tor-
tures, recognise our innocence (if innocent we be: as I
know you are of this charge which Mr. Brocklehurst has
weakly and pompously repeated at second-hand from Mrs.

104 Jane Eyre

Reed; for I read a sincere nature in your ardent eyes and
on your clear front), and God waits only the separation of
spirit from flesh to crown us with a full reward. Why, then,
should we ever sink overwhelmed with distress, when life
is so soon over, and death is so certain an entrance to hap-
piness— to glory?’
I was silent; Helen had calmed me; but in the tranquil-
lity 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 momen-
tarily 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 si-
lence. 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 approach-
ing figure, which we at once recognised as Miss Temple.
‘I came on purpose to find you, Jane Eyre,’ said she; ‘I
want you in my room; and as Helen Burns is with you, she
may come too.’
We went; following the superintendent’s guidance, we
had to thread 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.

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 ‘Is it all over?’ she asked, looking down at my face. ‘Have
you cried your grief away?’
‘I am afraid I never shall do that.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I have been wrongly accused; and you, ma’am,
and everybody else, will now think me wicked.’
‘We shall think you what you prove yourself to be, my
child. Continue to act as a good girl, and you will satisfy
us.’
‘Shall I, Miss Temple?’
‘You will,’ said she, passing her arm round me. ‘And now
tell me who is the lady whom Mr. Brocklehurst called your
benefactress?’
‘Mrs. Reed, my uncle’s wife. My uncle is dead, and he left
me to her care.’
‘Did she not, then, adopt you of her own accord?’
‘No, ma’am; she was sorry to have to do it: but my uncle,
as I have often heard the servants say, got her to promise be-
fore he died that she would always keep me.’
‘Well now, Jane, you know, or at least I will tell you, that
when a criminal is accused, he is always allowed to speak
in his own defence. You have been charged with falsehood;
defend yourself to me as well as you can. Say whatever your
memory suggests is true; but add nothing and exaggerate
nothing.’
I resolved, in the depth of my heart, that I would be most
moderatemost correct; and, having reflected a few minutes
in order to arrange coherently what I had to say, I told her
all the story of my sad childhood. Exhausted by emotion,

106 Jane Eyre

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 wormwood than ordinary.
Thus restrained and simplified, it sounded more credible: I
felt as I went on that Miss Temple fully believed me.
In the course of the tale I had mentioned Mr. Lloyd as
having come to see me after the fit: for I never forgot the, to
me, frightful episode of the red-room: in detailing which,
my excitement was sure, in some degree, to break bounds;
for nothing could soften in my recollection the spasm of ag-
ony which clutched my heart when Mrs. Reed spurned my
wild supplication for pardon, and locked me a second time
in the dark and haunted chamber.
I had finished: Miss Temple regarded me a few minutes
in silence; she then said—
‘I know something of Mr. Lloyd; I shall write to him; if
his reply agrees with your statement, you shall be publicly
cleared from every imputation; to me, Jane, you are clear
now.’
She kissed me, and still keeping me at her side (where I
was well contented to stand, for I derived a child’s pleasure
from the contemplation of her face, her dress, her one or
two ornaments, her white forehead, her clustered and shin-
ing curls, and beaming dark eyes), she proceeded to address
Helen Burns.
‘How are you to-night, Helen? Have you coughed much
to-day?’
‘Not quite so much, I think, ma’am.’

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 ‘And the pain in your chest?’
‘It is a little better.’
Miss Temple got up, took her hand and examined her
pulse; then she returned to her own seat: as she resumed it,
I heard her sigh low. She was pensive a few minutes, then
rousing herself, she said cheerfully—
‘But you two are my visitors to-night; I must treat you as
such.’ She rang her bell.
‘Barbara,’ she said to the servant who answered it, ‘I have
not yet had tea; bring the tray and place cups for these two
young ladies.’
And a tray was soon brought. How pretty, to my eyes, did
the china cups and bright teapot look, placed on the little
round table near the fire! How fragrant was the steam of
the beverage, and the scent of the toast! of which, however, I,
to my dismay (for I was beginning to be hungry) discerned
only a very small portion: Miss Temple discerned it too.
‘Barbara,’ said she, ‘can you not bring a little more bread
and butter? There is not enough for three.’
Barbara went out: she returned soon—
‘Madam, Mrs. Harden says she has sent up the usual
quantity.’
Mrs. Harden, be it observed, was the housekeeper: a
woman after Mr. Brocklehurst’s own heart, made up of
equal parts of whalebone and iron.
‘Oh, very well!’ returned Miss Temple; ‘we must make it
do, Barbara, I suppose.’ And as the girl withdrew she added,
smiling, ‘Fortunately, I have it in my power to supply defi-
ciencies for this once.’

108 Jane Eyre

 Having invited Helen and me to approach the table, and
placed before each of us a cup of tea with one delicious but
thin morsel of toast, she got up, unlocked a drawer, and tak-
ing from it a parcel wrapped in paper, disclosed presently to
our eyes a good-sized seed-cake.
‘I meant to give each of you some of this to take with you,’
said she, ‘but as there is so little toast, you must have it now,’
and she proceeded to cut slices with a generous hand.
We feasted that evening as on nectar and ambrosia; and
not the least delight of the entertainment was the smile
of gratification with which our hostess regarded us, as we
satisfied our famished appetites on the delicate fare she lib-
erally supplied.
Tea over and the tray removed, she again summoned us
to the fire; we sat one on each side of her, and now a conver-
sation followed between her and Helen, which it was indeed
a privilege to be admitted to hear.
Miss Temple had always something of serenity in her air,
of state in her mien, of refined propriety in her language,
which precluded deviation into the ardent, the excited, the
eager: something which chastened the pleasure of those who
looked on her and listened to her, by a controlling sense of
awe; and such was my feeling now: but as to Helen Burns, I
was struck with wonder.
The refreshing meal, the brilliant fire, the presence and
kindness of her beloved instructress, or, perhaps, more than
all these, something in her own unique mind, had roused
her powers within her. They woke, they kindled: first, they
glowed in the bright tint of her cheek, which till this hour

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I had never seen but pale and bloodless; then they shone in
the liquid lustre of her eyes, which had suddenly acquired a
beauty more singular than that of Miss Temple’s—a beauty
neither of fine colour nor long eyelash, nor pencilled brow,
but of meaning, of movement, of radiance. Then her soul sat
on her lips, and language flowed, from what source I cannot
tell. Has a girl of fourteen a heart large enough, vigorous
enough, to hold the swelling spring of pure, full, fervid elo-
quence? Such was the characteristic of Helen’s discourse on
that, to me, memorable evening; her spirit seemed hasten-
ing 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 na-
tions 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 pos-
sessed! Then they seemed so familiar with French names
and French authors: but my amazement reached its climax
when Miss Temple asked Helen if she sometimes snatched
a moment to recall the Latin her father had taught her, and
taking a book from a shelf, bade her read and construe a
page of Virgil; and Helen obeyed, my organ of veneration
expanding at every sounding line. She had scarcely finished
ere the bell announced bedtime! no delay could be admit-
ted; Miss Temple embraced us both, saying, as she drew us
to her heart—
‘God bless you, my children!’
Helen she held a little longer than me: she let her go more
reluctantly; it was Helen her eye followed to the door; it was

110 Jane Eyre

for her she a second time breathed a sad sigh; for her she
wiped a tear from her cheek.
On reaching the bedroom, we heard the voice of Miss
Scatcherd: she was examining drawers; she had just pulled
out Helen Burns’s, and when we entered Helen was greet-
ed with a sharp reprimand, and told that to-morrow she
should have half-a-dozen of untidily folded articles pinned
to her shoulder.
‘My things were indeed in shameful disorder,’ murmured
Helen to me, in a low voice: ‘I intended to have arranged
them, but I forgot.’
Next morning, Miss Scatcherd wrote in conspicuous
characters on a piece of pasteboard the word ‘Slattern,’ and
bound it like a phylactery round Helen’s large, mild, intelli-
gent, 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 nar-
rated, Miss Temple, who had written to Mr. Lloyd, received
his answer: it appeared that what he said went to corrobo-
rate my account. Miss Temple, having assembled the whole
school, announced that inquiry had been made into the
charges alleged against Jane Eyre, and that she was most
happy to be able to pronounce her completely cleared from

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every imputation. The teachers then shook hands with me
and kissed me, and a murmur of pleasure ran through the
ranks of my companions.
Thus relieved of a grievous load, I from that hour set to
work afresh, resolved to pioneer my way through every dif-
ficulty: I toiled hard, and my success was proportionate to
my efforts; my memory, not naturally tenacious, improved
with practice; exercise sharpened my wits; in a few weeks
I was promoted to a higher class; in less than two months
I was allowed to commence French and drawing. I learned
the first two tenses of the verb ETRE, and sketched my
first cottage (whose walls, by-the-bye, outrivalled in slope
those of the leaning tower of Pisa), on the same day. That
night, on going to bed, I forgot to prepare in imagination
the Barmecide supper of hot roast potatoes, or white bread
and new milk, with which I was wont to amuse my inward
cravings: I feasted instead on the spectacle of ideal draw-
ings, which I saw in the dark; all the work of my own hands:
freely pencilled houses and trees, picturesque rocks and
ruins, Cuyp-like groups of cattle, sweet paintings of butter-
flies hovering over unblown roses, of birds picking at ripe
cherries, of wren’s nests enclosing pearl-like eggs, wreathed
about with young ivy sprays. I examined, too, in thought,
the possibility of my ever being able to translate currently a
certain little French story which Madame Pierrot had that
day shown me; nor was that problem solved to my satisfac-
tion 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.’

112 Jane Eyre

 I would not now have exchanged Lowood with all its pri-
vations for Gateshead and its daily luxuries.

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Chapter IX

B ut the privations, or rather the hardships, of Lowood

lessened. Spring drew on: she was indeed already come;
the frosts of winter had ceased; its snows were melted, its
cutting winds ameliorated. My wretched feet, flayed and
swollen to lameness by the sharp air of January, began to
heal and subside under the gentler breathings of April; the
nights and mornings no longer by their Canadian tempera-
ture 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, freshening daily,
suggested the thought that Hope traversed them at night,
and left each morning brighter traces of her steps. Flow-
ers peeped out amongst the leaves; snow- drops, crocuses,
purple auriculas, and golden-eyed pansies. On Thursday af-
ternoons (half-holidays) we now took walks, and found still
sweeter flowers opening by the wayside, under the hedges.
I discovered, too, that a great pleasure, an enjoyment
which the horizon only bounded, lay all outside the high
and spike-guarded walls of our garden: this pleasure
consisted in prospect of noble summits girdling a great hill-
hollow, rich in verdure and shadow; in a bright beck, full of
dark stones and sparkling eddies. How different had this
scene looked when I viewed it laid out beneath the iron sky

114 Jane Eyre

of winter, stiffened in frost, shrouded with snow!— when
mists as chill as death wandered to the impulse of east
winds along those purple peaks, and rolled down ‘ing’ and
holm till they blended with the frozen fog of the beck! That
beck itself was then a torrent, turbid and curbless: it tore
asunder the wood, and sent a raving sound through the air,
often thickened with wild rain or whirling sleet; and for the
forest on its banks, THAT showed only ranks of skeletons.
April advanced to May: a bright serene May it was; days
of blue sky, placid sunshine, and soft western or southern
gales filled up its duration. And now vegetation matured
with vigour; Lowood shook loose its tresses; it became all
green, all flowery; its great elm, ash, and oak skeletons were
restored to majestic life; woodland plants sprang up pro-
fusely in its recesses; unnumbered varieties of moss filled
its hollows, and it made a strange ground-sunshine out of
the wealth of its wild primrose plants: I have seen their pale
gold gleam in overshadowed spots like scatterings of the
sweetest lustre. All this I enjoyed often and fully, free, un-
watched, and almost alone: for this unwonted liberty and
pleasure there was a cause, to which it now becomes my task
to advert.
Have I not described a pleasant site for a dwelling, when I
speak of it as bosomed in hill and wood, and rising from the
verge of a stream? Assuredly, pleasant enough: but whether
healthy or not is another question.
That forest-dell, where Lowood lay, was the cradle of fog
and fog- bred pestilence; which, quickening with the quick-
ening spring, crept into the Orphan Asylum, breathed

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typhus through its crowded schoolroom and dormitory,
and, ere May arrived, transformed the seminary into an
hospital.
Semi-starvation and neglected colds had predisposed
most of the pupils to receive infection: forty-five out of the
eighty girls lay ill at one time. Classes were broken up, rules
relaxed. The few who continued well were allowed almost
unlimited license; because the medical attendant insisted
on the necessity of frequent exercise to keep them in health:
and had it been otherwise, no one had leisure to watch or
restrain them. Miss 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 other necessary
preparations for the departure of those girls who were for-
tunate enough to have friends and relations able and willing
to remove them from the seat of contagion. Many, already
smitten, went home only to die: some died at the school,
and were buried quietly and quickly, the nature of the mal-
ady forbidding delay.
While disease had thus become an inhabitant of Lowood,
and death its frequent visitor; while there was gloom and
fear within its walls; while its rooms and passages steamed
with hospital smells, the drug and the pastille striving vainly
to overcome the effluvia of mortality, that bright May shone
unclouded over the bold hills and beautiful woodland out
of doors. Its garden, too, glowed with flowers: hollyhocks
had sprung up tall as trees, lilies had opened, tulips and ros-
es were in bloom; the borders of the little beds were gay with

116 Jane Eyre

pink thrift and crimson double daisies; the sweetbriars gave
out, morning and evening, their scent of spice and apples;
and these fragrant treasures were all useless for most of the
inmates of Lowood, except to furnish now and then a hand-
ful of herbs and blossoms to put in a coffin.
But I, and the rest who continued well, enjoyed ful-
ly the beauties of the scene and season; they let us ramble
in the wood, like gipsies, from morning till night; we did
what we liked, went where we liked: we lived better too.
Mr. Brocklehurst and his family never came near Lowood
now: household matters were not scrutinised into; the cross
housekeeper was gone, driven away by the fear of infection;
her successor, who had been matron at the Lowton Dispen-
sary, unused to the ways of her new abode, provided with
comparative liberality. Besides, there were fewer to feed; the
sick could eat little; our breakfast-basins were better filled;
when there was no time to prepare a regular dinner, which
often happened, she would give us a large piece of cold pie,
or a thick slice of bread and cheese, and this we carried away
with us to the wood, where we each chose the spot we liked
best, and dined sumptuously.
My favourite seat was a smooth and broad stone, rising
white and dry from the very middle of the beck, and only to
be got at by wading through the water; a feat I accomplished
barefoot. The stone was just broad enough to accommodate,
comfortably, another girl and me, at that time my chosen
comrade—one Mary Ann Wilson; a shrewd, observant per-
sonage, whose society I took pleasure in, partly because she
was witty and original, and partly because she had a man-

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ner which set me at my ease. Some years older than I, she
knew more of the world, and could tell me many things I
liked to hear: with her my curiosity found gratification: to
my faults also she gave ample indulgence, never imposing
curb or rein on anything I said. She had a turn for narrative,
I for analysis; she liked to inform, I to question; so we got on
swimmingly together, deriving much entertainment, if not
much improvement, from our mutual intercourse.
And where, meantime, was Helen Burns? Why did I not
spend these sweet days of liberty with her? Had I forgotten
her? or was I so worthless as to have grown tired of her pare
society? Surely the Mary Arm Wilson I have mentioned
was inferior to my first acquaintance: she could only tell me
amusing stories, and reciprocate any racy and pungent gos-
sip I chose to indulge in; while, if I have spoken truth of
Helen, she was qualified to give those who enjoyed the priv-
ilege 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 cher-
ish 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 cir-
cumstances, evinced for me a quiet and faithful friendship,
which ill-humour never soured, nor irritation never 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

118 Jane Eyre

consumption, not typhus: and by consumption I, in my ig-
norance, understood something mild, which time and care
would be sure to alleviate.
I was confirmed in this idea by the fact of her once or
twice coming downstairs on very warm sunny afternoons,
and being taken by Miss Temple into the garden; but, on
these occasions, I was not allowed to go and speak to her;
I only saw her from the schoolroom window, and then not
distinctly; for she was much wrapped up, and sat at a dis-
tance 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, sep-
arated ourselves from the others, and had wandered far; so
far that we lost our way, and had to ask it at a lonely cottage,
where a man and woman lived, who looked after a herd of
half-wild swine that fed on the mast in the wood. When we
got back, it was after moonrise: a pony, which we knew to be
the surgeon’s, was standing at the garden door. Mary Ann
remarked that she supposed some one must be very ill, as
Mr. Bates had been sent for at that time of the evening. She
went into the house; I stayed behind a few minutes to plant
in my garden a handful of roots I had dug up in the forest,
and which I feared would wither if I left them till the morn-
ing. This done, I lingered yet a little longer: the flowers smelt
so sweet as the dew fell; it was such a pleasant evening, so
serene, so warm; the still glowing west promised so fairly
another fine day on the morrow; the moon rose with such
majesty in the grave east. I was noting these things and en-
joying them as a child might, when it entered my mind as it

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had never done before:-
‘How sad to be lying now on a sick bed, and to be in dan-
ger of dying! This world is pleasant—it would be dreary to
be called from it, and to have to go who knows where?’
And then my mind made its first earnest effort to com-
prehend 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 totter-
ing, and plunging amid that chaos. While pondering this
new idea, I heard the front door open; Mr. Bates came out,
and with him was a nurse. After she had seen him mount
his horse and depart, she was about to close the door, but I
ran up to her.
‘How is Helen Burns?’
‘Very poorly,’ was the answer.
‘Is it her Mr. Bates has been to see?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what does he say about her?’
‘He says 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 it 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

120 Jane Eyre

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 I go up and speak to her?’
‘Oh no, child! It is not likely; and now it is time for you
to come in; you’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 en-
trance which led to the schoolroom: 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 wrapt 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, enter-
ing here and there at passage windows, enabled me to find
it without difficulty. An odour of camphor and burnt vin-
egar warned me when I came near the fever room: and I
passed its door quickly, fearful lest the nurse who sat up all
night should hear me. I dreaded being discovered and sent
back; for I MUST see Helen,—I must embrace her before
she died,—I must give her one last kiss, exchange with her
one last word.
Having descended a staircase, traversed a portion of the

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house below, and succeeded in opening and shutting, with-
out noise, two doors, I reached another flight of steps; these
I mounted, and then just opposite to me was Miss Temple’s
room. A light shone through the keyhole and from under
the door; a profound stillness pervaded the vicinity. Com-
ing 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 unsnuffed candle burnt dimly on the table. Miss
Temple was not to be seen: I knew afterwards that she had
been called to a delirious patient in the fever-room. I 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?’
She stirred herself, put back the curtain, and I saw her
face, pale, wasted, but quite composed: she looked so little
changed that my fear was instantly dissipated.
‘Can it be you, Jane?’ she asked, in her own gentle voice.
‘Oh!’ I thought, ‘she is not going to die; they are mistak-
en: she could not speak and look so calmly if she were.’
I got on to her crib and kissed her: her forehead was cold,
and her cheek both cold and thin, and so were her hand and

122 Jane Eyre

wrist; but she smiled as of old.
‘Why are you come here, Jane? 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-bye, then: you are just in time
probably.’
‘Are you going somewhere, Helen? Are you going home?’
‘Yes; to my long home—my last home.’
‘No, no, Helen!’ I stopped, distressed. While I tried to
devour my tears, a fit of coughing seized Helen; it did not,
however, wake the nurse; when it was over, she lay some
minutes exhausted; then she whispered—
‘Jane, your little feet are bare; lie down and cover yourself
with my quilt.’
I did so: she put her arm over me, and I nestled close to
her. After a long silence, she resumed, still whispering—
‘I am very happy, Jane; and when you hear that I am dead,
you must be sure and not grieve: there is nothing to grieve
about. We all must die one day, and the illness which is re-
moving 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 dy-
ing young, I shall escape great sufferings. I had not qualities
or talents to make my way very well in the world: I should
have been continually at fault.’
‘But where are you going to, Helen? Can you see? Do you
know?’
‘I believe; I have faith: I am going to God.’

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 ‘Where is God? What is God?’
‘My Maker and yours, who will never destroy what He
created. I rely implicitly on His power, and confide wholly
in His goodness: I count the hours till that eventful one ar-
rives which shall restore me to Him, reveal Him to me.’
‘You are sure, then, Helen, that there is such a place as
heaven, and that our souls can get to it when we die?’
‘I am sure there is a future state; I believe God is good;
I can resign my immortal part to Him without any mis-
giving. God is my father; God is my friend: I love Him; I
believe He loves me.’
‘And shall I see you again, Helen, when I die?’
‘You will come to the same region of happiness: be re-
ceived by the same mighty, universal Parent, no doubt, dear
Jane.’
Again I questioned, but this time only in thought. ‘Where
is that region? Does it exist?’ And I clasped my arms closer
round Helen; she seemed dearer to me than ever; I felt as if
I could not let her go; I lay with my face hidden on her neck.
Presently she said, in the sweetest tone—
‘How comfortable I am! That last fit of coughing has tired
me a little; I feel as if I could sleep: but don’t leave me, Jane;
I like to have you near me.’
‘I’ll stay with you, DEAR Helen: no one shall take me
way.’
‘Are you warm, darling?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good-night, Jane.’
‘Good-night, Helen.’

124 Jane Eyre

 She kissed me, and I her, and we both soon slumbered.
When I awoke it was day: an unusual movement roused
me; I looked up; I was in somebody’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; peo-
ple had something else to think about; no explanation was
afforded then to my many questions; but a day or two after-
wards I learned that Miss Temple, on returning to her own
room at dawn, had found me laid in the little crib; my face
against Helen Burns’s shoulder, my arms round her neck. I
was asleep, and Helen was—dead.
Her grave is in Brocklebridge churchyard: for fifteen
years after her death it was only covered by a grassy mound;
but now a grey marble tablet marks the spot, inscribed with
her name, and the word ‘Resurgam.’

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Chapter X

H itherto I have recorded in detail the events of my in-

significant existence: to the first ten years of my life I
have given almost as many chapters. But this is not to be a
regular autobiography. I am only bound to invoke Memory
where I know her responses will possess some degree of in-
terest; therefore I now pass a space of eight years almost in
silence: a few lines only are necessary to keep up the links
of connection.
When the typhus fever had fulfilled its mission of dev-
astation at Lowood, it gradually disappeared from thence;
but not till its virulence and the number of its victims had
drawn public attention on the school. Inquiry was made
into the origin of the scourge, and by degrees various facts
came out which excited public indignation in a high degree.
The unhealthy nature of the site; the quantity and quality
of the children’s food; the brackish, fetid water used in its
preparation; the pupils’ wretched clothing and accommoda-
tions—all these things were discovered, and the discovery
produced a result mortifying to Mr. Brocklehurst, but ben-
eficial to the institution.
Several wealthy and benevolent individuals in the coun-
ty subscribed largely for the erection of a more convenient
building in a better situation; new regulations were made;
improvements in diet and clothing introduced; the funds

126 Jane Eyre

of the school were intrusted to the management of a com-
mittee. Mr. Brocklehurst, who, from his wealth and family
connections, could not be overlooked, still retained the post
of treasurer; but he was aided in the discharge of his duties
by gentlemen of rather more enlarged and sympathising
minds: his office of inspector, too, was shared by those who
knew how to combine reason with strictness, comfort with
economy, compassion with uprightness. The school, thus
improved, became in time a truly useful and noble institu-
tion. I remained an inmate of its walls, after its regeneration,
for eight years: six as pupil, and two as teacher; and in both
capacities I bear my testimony to its value and importance.
During these eight years my life was uniform: but not
unhappy, because it was not inactive. I had the means of
an excellent education placed within my reach; a fondness
for some of my studies, and a desire to excel in all, together
with a great delight in pleasing my teachers, especially such
as I loved, urged me on: I availed myself fully of the advan-
tages offered me. In time I rose to be the first girl of the first
class; then I was invested with the office of teacher; which
I discharged with zeal for two years: but at the end of that
time I altered.
Miss Temple, through all changes, had thus far contin-
ued superintendent of the seminary: to her instruction I
owed the best part of my acquirements; her friendship and
society had been my continual solace; she had stood me in
the stead of mother, governess, and, latterly, companion. At
this period she married, removed with her husband (a cler-
gyman, an excellent man, almost worthy of such a wife) to a

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distant county, and consequently was lost to me.
From the day she left I was no longer the same: with her
was gone every settled feeling, every association that had
made Lowood in some degree a home to me. I had imbibed
from her something of her nature and much of her habits:
more harmonious thoughts: what seemed better regulated
feelings had become the inmates of my mind. I had given
in allegiance to duty and order; I was quiet; I believed I was
content: to the eyes of others, usually even to my own, I ap-
peared a disciplined and subdued character.
But destiny, in the shape of the Rev. Mr. Nasmyth, came
between me and Miss Temple: I saw her in her travelling
dress step into a post-chaise, shortly after the marriage cer-
emony; I watched the chaise mount the hill and disappear
beyond its brow; and then retired to my own room, and
there spent in solitude the greatest part of the half-holiday
granted in honour of the occasion.
I walked about the chamber most of the time. I imag-
ined myself only to be regretting my loss, and thinking how
to repair it; but when my reflections were concluded, and
I looked up and found that the afternoon was gone, and
evening far advanced, another discovery dawned on me,
namely, that in the interval I had undergone a transform-
ing process; that my mind had put off all it had borrowed of
Miss Temple—or rather that she had taken with her the se-
rene 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

128 Jane Eyre

was not the power to be tranquil which had failed me, but
the reason for tranquillity was no more. My world had for
some years been in Lowood: my experience had been of its
rules and systems; now I remembered that the real world
was wide, and that a varied field of hopes and fears, of sen-
sations and excitements, awaited those who had courage
to go forth into its expanse, to seek real knowledge of life
amidst its perils.
I went to my window, opened it, and looked out. There
were the two wings of the building; there was the garden;
there were the skirts of Lowood; there was the hilly horizon.
My eye passed all other objects to rest on those most remote,
the blue peaks; it was those I longed to surmount; all within
their boundary of rock and heath seemed prison-ground,
exile limits. I traced the white road winding round the base
of one mountain, and vanishing in a gorge between two;
how I longed to follow it farther! I recalled the time when
I had travelled that very road in a coach; I remembered de-
scending 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; nei-
ther she nor any of her family had ever been to visit me. I
had had no communication by letter or message with the
outer world: school-rules, school-duties, school-habits and
notions, and voices, and faces, and phrases, and costumes,
and preferences, and antipathies—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;

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for liberty I gasped; for liberty I uttered a prayer; it seemed
scattered on the wind then faintly blowing. I abandoned it
and framed a humbler supplication; for change, stimulus:
that petition, too, seemed swept off into vague space: ‘Then,’
I cried, half desperate, ‘grant me at least a new servitude!’
Here a bell, ringing the hour of supper, called me down-
stairs.
I was not free to resume the interrupted chain of my re-
flections till bedtime: even then a teacher who occupied the
same room with me kept me from the subject to which I
longed to recur, by a prolonged effusion of small talk. How
I wished sleep would silence her. It seemed as if, could I but
go back to the idea which had last entered my mind as I
stood at the window, some inventive suggestion would rise
for my relief.
Miss Gryce snored at last; she was a heavy Welshwom-
an, 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 in-
stantly revived.
‘A new servitude! There is something in that,’ I solilo-
quised (mentally, be it understood; I did not talk aloud), ‘I
know there is, because it does not sound too sweet; it is not
like such words as Liberty, Excitement, Enjoyment: delight-
ful 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

130 Jane Eyre

to serve elsewhere. Can I not get so much of my own will? 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 attaining it.’
I sat up in bed by way of arousing this said brain: it was a
chilly night; I covered my shoulders with a shawl, and then
I proceeded TO THINK again with all my might.
‘What do I want? A new place, in a new house, amongst
new faces, under new circumstances: I want this because it
is of no use wanting anything better. How do people do to
get a new place? They apply to friends, I suppose: I have no
friends. There are many others who have no friends, who
must look about for themselves and be their own helpers;
and what is their resource?’
I could not tell: nothing answered me; I then ordered my
brain to find a response, and quickly. It worked and worked
faster: I felt the pulses throb in my head and temples; but for
nearly an hour it worked in chaos; and no result came of its
efforts. Feverish with vain labour, I got up and took a turn
in the room; undrew the curtain, noted a star or two, shiv-
ered with cold, and again crept to bed.
A kind fairy, in my absence, had surely dropped the re-
quired suggestion on my pillow; for as I lay down, it came
quietly and naturally to my mind.—‘Those who want situa-
tions advertise; you must advertise in the—shire Herald.’
‘How? I know nothing about advertising.’
Replies rose smooth and prompt now:-
‘You must enclose the advertisement and the money to
pay for it under a cover directed to the editor of the Herald;

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 you must put it, the first opportunity you have, into the post
at Lowton; answers must be addressed to J.E., at the post-of-
fice there; you can go and inquire in about a week after you
send your letter, if any are come, and act accordingly.’
This scheme I went over twice, thrice; it was then di-
gested in my mind; I had it in a clear practical form: I felt
satisfied, and fell asleep.
With earliest day, I was up: I had my advertisement writ-
ten, enclosed, and directed before the bell rang to rouse the
school; it ran thus:-
‘A young lady accustomed to tuition’ (had I not been a
teacher two years?) ‘is desirous of meeting with a situation
in a private family where the children are under fourteen
(I thought that as I was barely eighteen, it would not do to
undertake the guidance of pupils nearer my own age). She
is qualified to teach the usual branches of a good English
education, together with French, Drawing, and Music’ (in
those days, reader, this now narrow catalogue of accom-
plishments, would have been held tolerably comprehensive).
‘Address, J.E., Post-office, Lowton,—shire.’
This document remained locked in my drawer all day:
after tea, I asked leave of the new superintendent to go to
Lowton, in order to perform some small commissions for
myself and one or two of my fellow-teachers; permission
was readily granted; I went. It was a walk of two miles, and
the evening was wet, but the days were still long; I visited
a shop or two, slipped the letter into the post- office, and
came back through heavy rain, with streaming garments,
but with a relieved heart.

132 Jane Eyre

 The succeeding week seemed long: it came to an end at
last, however, like all sublunary things, and once more, to-
wards 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 mea-
sured for a pair of shoes; so I discharged that business first,
and when it was done, I stepped across the clean and quiet
little street from the shoemaker’s to the post-office: it was
kept by an old dame, who wore horn spectacles on her nose,
and black mittens on her hands.
‘Are there any letters for J.E.?’ I asked.
She peered at me over her spectacles, and then she
opened a drawer and fumbled among its contents for a long
time, so long that my hopes began to falter. At last, having
held a document before her glasses for nearly five minutes,
she presented it across the counter, accompanying the act
by another inquisitive and mistrustful 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 obliged me to be back by eight, and it was already half-
past seven.
Various duties awaited me on my arrival. I had to sit with

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the girls during their hour of study; then it was my turn to
read prayers; to see them to bed: afterwards I supped with
the other teachers. Even when we finally retired for the
night, the inevitable Miss Gryce was still my companion:
we had only a short end of candle in our candlestick, and I
dreaded lest she should talk till it was all burnt out; fortu-
nately, however, the heavy supper she had eaten produced
a soporific effect: she was already snoring before I had fin-
ished 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 Thurs-
day, possesses the acquirements mentioned, and if she is in
a position to give satisfactory references as to character and
competency, a situation can be offered her where there is
but one pupil, a little girl, under ten years of age; and where
the salary is thirty pounds per annum. J.E. is requested to
send references, name, address, and all particulars to the
direction:-
‘Mrs. Fairfax, Thornfield, near Millcote,—shire.’
I examined the document long: the writing was old-fash-
ioned and rather uncertain, like that of in elderly lady. This
circumstance was satisfactory: a private fear had haunted
me, that in thus acting for myself, and by my own guidance,
I ran the risk of getting into some scrape; and, above all
things, I wished the result of my endeavours to be respect-
able, proper, en regle. I now felt that an elderly lady was no
bad ingredient in the business I had on hand. Mrs. Fairfax!
I saw her in a black gown and widow’s cap; frigid, perhaps,

134 Jane Eyre

but not uncivil: a model of elderly English respectability.
Thornfield! that, doubtless, was the name of her house: a
neat orderly spot, I was sure; though I failed in my efforts
to conceive a correct plan of the premises. Millcote,— shire;
I brushed up my recollections of the map of England, yes,
I saw it; both the shire and the town.—shire was seventy
miles nearer London than the remote county where I now
resided: that was a recommendation to me. I longed to go
where there was life and movement: Millcote was a large
manufacturing town on the banks of the A-; a busy place
enough, doubtless: so much the better; it would be a com-
plete change at least. Not that my fancy was 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
an audience of the superintendent during the noontide rec-
reation, I told her I had a prospect of getting a new situation
where the salary would be double what I now received (for
at Lowood I only got 15 pounds per annum); and requested
she would break the matter for me to Mr. Brocklehurst, or
some of the committee, and ascertain whether they would
permit me to mention them as references. She obligingly
consented to act as mediatrix in the matter. The next day
she laid the affair before Mr. Brocklehurst, who said that

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Mrs. Reed must be written to, as she was my natural guard-
ian. A note was accordingly addressed to that lady, who
returned for answer, that ‘I might do as I pleased: she had
long relinquished all interference in my affairs.’ This note
went the round of the committee, and at last, after what ap-
peared 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 ca-
pacity, signed by the inspectors of that institution, should
forthwith be furnished me.
This testimonial I accordingly received in about a month,
forwarded a copy of it to Mrs. Fairfax, and got that lady’s
reply, stating that she was satisfied, and fixing that day fort-
night as the period for my assuming the post of governess
in her house.
I now busied myself in preparations: the fortnight passed
rapidly. I had not a very large wardrobe, though it was ad-
equate to my wants; and the last day sufficed to pack my
trunk,—the same I had brought with me eight years ago
from Gateshead.
The box was corded, the card nailed on. In half-an-hour
the carrier was to call for it to take it to Lowton, whether
I myself was to repair at an early hour the next morning
to meet the coach. I had brushed my black stuff travelling-
dress, prepared my bonnet, gloves, and muff; sought in all
my drawers to see that no article was left behind; and now
having nothing more to do, I sat down and tried to rest. I
could not; though I had been on foot all day, I could not

136 Jane Eyre

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 fever-
ishly while the change was being accomplished.
‘Miss,’ said a servant who met me in the lobby, where I
was wandering like a troubled spirit, ‘a person below wishes
to see you.’
‘The carrier, no doubt,’ I thought, and ran downstairs
without inquiry. I was passing the back-parlour or teachers’
sitting-room, the door of which was half open, to go to the
kitchen, when some one ran out—
‘It’s her, I am sure!—I could have told her anywhere!’
cried the individual who stopped my progress and took my
hand.
I looked: I saw a woman attired like a well-dressed ser-
vant, matronly, yet still young; very good-looking, with
black hair and eyes, and lively complexion.
‘Well, who is it?’ she asked, in a voice and with a smile
I half recognised; ‘you’ve not quite forgotten me, I think,
Miss Jane?’
In another second I was embracing and kissing her rap-
turously: ‘Bessie! Bessie! Bessie!’ that was all I said; whereat
she half laughed, half cried, and we both went into the par-
lour. By the fire stood a little fellow of three years old, in
plaid frock and trousers.
‘That is my little boy,’ said Bessie directly.
‘Then you are married, Bessie?’
‘Yes; nearly five years since to Robert Leaven, the coach-
man; and I’ve a little girl besides Bobby there, that I’ve

Free eBooks at Planet [Link] 137

christened Jane.’
‘And you don’t live at Gateshead?’
‘I live at the lodge: the old porter has left.’
‘Well, and how do they all get on? Tell me everything
about them, Bessie: 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 winter with her mama,
and there everybody admired her, and a young lord fell
in love with her: but his relations were against the match;
and—what do you think?—he and Miss Georgiana made it
up to run away; but they were found out and stopped. It was
Miss Reed that found them out: I believe she was envious;
and now she and her sister lead a cat and dog life together;
they are always quarrelling—‘
‘Well, and what of John Reed?’
‘Oh, he is not doing so well as his mama could wish. He
went to college, and he got—plucked, I think they call it:
and then his uncles wanted him to be a barrister, and study
the law: but he is such a dissipated young man, they will
never make much of him, I think.’
‘What does he look like?’
‘He is very tall: some people call him a fine-looking

138 Jane Eyre

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 herhe spends a deal of money.’
‘Did she send you here, Bessie?’
‘No, indeed: but I have long wanted to see you, and when
I heard that there had been a letter from you, and that you
were going to another part of the country, I thought I’d just
set of, and get a look at you before you were quite out of my
reach.’
‘I am afraid you are disappointed in me, Bessie.’ I said
this laughing: I perceived that Bessie’s glance, though it ex-
pressed regard, did in no shape denote admiration.
‘No, Miss Jane, not exactly: you are genteel enough; you
look like a lady, and it is as much as ever I expected of you:
you were no beauty as a child.’
I smiled at Bessie’s frank answer: I felt that it was cor-
rect, but I confess I was not quite indifferent to its import:
at eighteen most people wish to please, and the conviction
that they have not an exterior likely to second that desire
brings anything but gratification.
‘I dare say you are clever, though,’ continued Bessie, by
way of solace. ‘What can you do? Can you play on the pi-
ano?’
‘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.

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 ‘The Miss Reeds could not play as well!’ said she exult-
ingly. ‘I always said you would surpass them in learning:
and can you draw?’
‘That is one of my paintings over the chimney-piece.’ It
was a landscape in water colours, of which I had made a
present to the superintendent, in acknowledgment of her
obliging mediation with the committee on my behalf, and
which she had framed and glazed.
‘Well, that is beautiful, Miss Jane! It is as fine a picture as
any Miss Reed’s drawing-master could paint, let alone the
young ladies themselves, who could not come near it: and
have you learnt French?’
‘Yes, Bessie, I can both read it and speak it.’
‘And you can work on muslin and canvas?’
‘I can.’
‘Oh, you are quite a lady, Miss Jane! I knew you would
be: you will get on whether your relations notice you or not.
There was something I wanted to ask you. Have you ever
heard anything from your father’s kinsfolk, the Eyres?’
‘Never in my life.’
‘Well, you know Missis always said they were poor and
quite despicable: and they may be poor; but I believe they
are as much gentry as the Reeds are; for one day, nearly sev-
en years ago, a Mr. Eyre came to Gateshead and wanted to
see you; Missis said you were it school fifty miles off; he
seemed so much disappointed, for he could not stay: he was
going on a voyage to a foreign country, and the ship was to
sail from London in a day or two. He looked quite a gentle-
man, and I believe he was your father’s brother.’

140 Jane Eyre

 ‘What foreign country was he going to, Bessie?’
‘An island thousands of miles off, where they make
wine—the butler did tell me—‘
‘Madeira?’ I suggested.
‘Yes, that is it—that is the very word.’
‘So he went?’
‘Yes; he did not stay many minutes in the house: Mis-
sis was very high with him; she called him afterwards a
‘sneaking tradesman.’ My Robert believes he was a wine-
merchant.’
‘Very likely,’ I returned; ‘or perhaps clerk or agent to a
wine- merchant.’
Bessie and I conversed about old times an hour longer,
and then she was obliged to leave me: I saw her again for
a few minutes the next morning at Lowton, while I was
waiting for the coach. We parted finally at the door of the
Brocklehurst Arms there: each went her separate way; she
set off for the brow of Lowood Fell to meet the conveyance
which was to take her back to Gateshead, I mounted the ve-
hicle which was to bear me to new duties and a new life in
the unknown environs of Millcote.

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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 orna-
ments on the mantelpiece, such prints, including a portrait
of George the Third, and another of the Prince of Wales,
and a representation of the death of Wolfe. All this is visible
to you by the light of an oil lamp hanging from the ceiling,
and by that of an excellent fire, near which I sit in my cloak
and bonnet; my muff and umbrella lie on the table, and I
am warming away the numbness and chill contracted by
sixteen hours’ exposure to the rawness of an October day: I
left Lowton at four o’clock a.m., and the Millcote town clock
is now just striking eight.
Reader, though I look comfortably accommodated, I am
not very tranquil in my mind. I thought when the coach
stopped here there would be some one to meet me; I looked
anxiously round as I descended the wooden steps the ‘boots’
placed for my convenience, expecting to hear my name pro-
nounced, 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

142 Jane Eyre

no resource but to request to be shown into a private room:
and here I am waiting, while all sorts of doubts and fears
are troubling my thoughts.
It is a very strange sensation to inexperienced youth
to feel itself quite alone in the world, cut adrift from ev-
ery connection, uncertain whether the port to which it is
bound can be reached, and prevented by many impedi-
ments from returning to that it has quitted. The charm of
adventure sweetens that sensation, the glow of pride warms
it; but then the throb of fear disturbs it; and fear with me
became predominant when half-an-hour elapsed and still I
was alone. I bethought myself to ring the bell.
‘Is there a place in this neighbourhood called Thornfield?’
I asked of the waiter who answered the summons.
‘Thornfield? I don’t know, ma’am; I’ll inquire at the bar.’
He vanished, but reappeared instantly—
‘Is your name Eyre, Miss?’
‘Yes.’
‘Person here waiting for you.’
I jumped up, took my muff and umbrella, and hastened
into the inn- passage: a man was standing by the open door,
and in the lamp-lit street I dimly saw a one-horse convey-
ance.
‘This will be your luggage, I suppose?’ said the man rath-
er abruptly when he saw me, pointing to my trunk in the
passage.
‘Yes.’ He hoisted it on to the vehicle, which was a sort of
car, and then I got in; before he shut me up, I asked him how
far it was to Thornfield.

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 ‘A matter of six miles.’
‘How long shall we be before we get there?’
‘Happen an hour and a half.’
He fastened the car door, climbed to his own seat out-
side, 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 comfort-
able though not elegant conveyance, I meditated much at
my ease.
‘I suppose,’ thought I, ‘judging from the plainness of the
servant and carriage, Mrs. Fairfax is not a very dashing per-
son: so much the better; I never lived amongst fine people
but once, and I was very miserable with them. I wonder if
she lives alone except this little girl; if so, and if she is in
any degree amiable, I shall surely be able to get on with her;
I will do my best; it is a pity that doing one’s best does not
always answer. At Lowood, indeed, I took that resolution,
kept it, and succeeded in pleasing; but with Mrs. Reed, I re-
member my best was always spurned with scorn. I pray God
Mrs. Fairfax may not turn out a second Mrs. Reed; but if she
does, I am not bound to stay with her! let the worst come to
the worst, I can advertise again. How far are we on our road
now, I wonder?’
I let down the window and looked out; Millcote was be-
hind 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

144 Jane Eyre

picturesque; more stirring, less romantic.
The roads were heavy, the night misty; my conductor let
his horse walk all the way, and the hour and a half extended,
I verify believe, to two hours; at last he turned in his seat
and said—
‘You’re noan so far fro’ Thornfield now.’
Again I looked out: we were passing a church; I saw its
low broad tower against the sky, and its bell was tolling a
quarter; I saw a narrow galaxy of lights too, on a hillside,
marking a village or hamlet. About ten minutes after, the
driver got down and opened a pair of gates: we passed
through, and they clashed to behind us. We now slowly as-
cended a drive, and came upon the long front of a house:
candlelight gleamed from one curtained bow-window; all
the rest were dark. The car stopped at the front door; it was
opened by a maid-servant; I alighted and went in.
‘Will you walk this way, ma’am?’ said the girl; and I fol-
lowed her across a square hall with high doors all round:
she ushered me into a room whose double illumination
of fire and candle at first dazzled me, contrasting as it did
with the darkness to which my eyes had been for two hours
inured; when I could see, however, a cosy and agreeable pic-
ture presented itself to my view.
A snug small room; a round table by a cheerful fire; an
arm-chair high-backed and old-fashioned, wherein sat the
neatest imaginable little elderly lady, in 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

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her feet; nothing in short was wanting to complete the beau-
ideal of domestic comfort. A more reassuring introduction
for a new governess could scarcely be conceived; there was
no grandeur to overwhelm, no stateliness to embarrass; and
then, as I entered, the old lady got up and promptly and
kindly came forward to meet me.
‘How do you do, my dear? I am afraid you have had a te-
dious ride; John drives so slowly; you must be cold, come
to the fire.’
‘Mrs. Fairfax, I suppose?’ said I.
‘Yes, you are right: do sit down.’
She conducted me to her own chair, and then began to
remove my shawl and untie my bonnet-strings; I begged she
would not give herself so much trouble.
‘Oh, it is no trouble; I dare say your own hands are almost
numbed with cold. Leah, make a little hot negus and cut a
sandwich or two: here are the keys of the storeroom.’
And she produced from her pocket a most housewifely
bunch of keys, and delivered them to the servant.
‘Now, then, draw nearer to the fire,’ she continued. ‘You’ve
brought your luggage with you, haven’t you, my dear?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘I’ll see it carried into your room,’ she said, and bustled
out.
‘She treats me like a visitor,’ thought I. ‘I little expected
such a reception; I anticipated only coldness and stiffness:
this is not like what I have heard of the treatment of govern-
esses; but I must not exult too soon.’
She returned; with her own hands cleared her knit-

146 Jane Eyre

ting apparatus and a book or two from the table, to make
room for the tray which Leah now brought, and then her-
self handed me the refreshments. I felt rather confused at
being the object of more attention than I had ever before re-
ceived, and, that too, shown by my employer and superior;
but as she did not herself seem to consider she was doing
anything out of her place, I thought it better to take her ci-
vilities quietly.
‘Shall I have the pleasure of seeing Miss Fairfax to-night?’
I asked, when I had partaken of what she offered me.
‘What did you say, my dear? I am a little deaf,’ returned
the good lady, approaching her ear to my mouth.
I repeated the question more distinctly.
‘Miss Fairfax? Oh, you mean Miss Varens! Varens is the
name of your future pupil.’
‘Indeed! Then she is not your daughter?’
‘No,—I have no family.’
I should have followed up my first inquiry, by asking in
what way Miss Varens was connected with her; but I recol-
lected it was not polite to ask too many questions: besides, I
was sure to hear in time.
‘I am so glad,’ she continued, as she sat down opposite to
me, and took the cat on her knee; ‘I am so glad you are come;
it will be quite pleasant living here now with a companion.
To be sure it is pleasant at any time; for Thornfield is a fine
old hall, rather neglected of late years perhaps, but still it is
a respectable place; yet you know in winter-time one feels
dreary quite alone in the best quarters. I say alone—Leah is
a nice girl to be sure, and John and his wife are very decent

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people; but then you see they are only servants, and one
can’t converse with them 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 very severe one, if you recollect,
and when it did not snow, it rained and blew), not a crea-
ture but the butcher and postman came to the house, from
November till February; and I really got quite melancholy
with sitting night after night alone; I had Leah in to read to
me sometimes; but I 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, little
Adela Varens came and her nurse: a child makes a house
alive all at once; and now you are here I shall be quite gay.’
My heart really warmed to the worthy lady as I heard
her talk; and I drew my chair a little nearer to her, and ex-
pressed my sincere wish that she might find my company as
agreeable as she anticipated.
‘But I’ll not keep you sitting up late to-night,’ said she; ‘it
is on the stroke of twelve now, and you have been travelling
all day: you must feel tired. If you have got your feet well
warmed, I’ll show you your bedroom. I’ve had the room next
to mine prepared for you; it is only a small apartment, but I
thought you would like it better than one of the large front
chambers: to be sure they have finer furniture, but they are
so dreary and solitary, I never sleep in them myself.’
I thanked her for her considerate choice, and as I really
felt fatigued with my long journey, expressed my readiness
to retire. She took her candle, and I followed her from the

148 Jane Eyre

room. First she went to see if the hall-door was fastened;
having taken the key from the lock, she led the way upstairs.
The steps and banisters were of oak; the staircase window
was high and latticed; both it and the long gallery into which
the bedroom doors opened looked as if they belonged to a
church rather than a house. A very chill and vault- like air
pervaded the stairs and gallery, suggesting cheerless ideas
of space and solitude; and I was glad, when finally ushered
into my chamber, to find it of small dimensions, and fur-
nished in ordinary, modern style.
When Mrs. Fairfax had bidden me a kind good-night,
and I had fastened my door, gazed leisurely round, and in
some measure effaced the eerie impression made by that
wide hall, that dark and spacious staircase, and that long,
cold gallery, by the livelier aspect of my little room, I re-
membered that, after a day of bodily fatigue and mental
anxiety, I was now at last in safe haven. The impulse of grat-
itude swelled my heart, and I knelt down at the bedside, and
offered up thanks where thanks were due; not forgetting,
ere I rose, to implore aid on my further path, and the power
of meriting the kindness which seemed so frankly offered
me before it was earned. My couch had no thorns in it that
night; my solitary room no fears. At once weary and con-
tent, I slept soon and soundly: when I awoke it was broad
day.
The chamber looked such a bright little place to me as the
sun shone in between the gay blue chintz window curtains,
showing papered walls and a carpeted floor, so unlike the
bare planks and stained plaster of Lowood, that my spirits

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rose at the view. Externals have a great effect on the young:
I thought that a fairer era of life was beginning for me, one
that was to have its flowers and pleasures, as well as its thorns
and toils. My faculties, roused by the change of scene, the
new field offered to hope, seemed all astir. I cannot precisely
define what they expected, but it was something pleasant:
not perhaps that day or that month, but at an indefinite fu-
ture period.
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 contrary, I ever wished to
look as well as I could, and to please as much as my want
of beauty would permit. I sometimes regretted that I was
not handsomer; I sometimes wished to have rosy cheeks, a
straight nose, and small cherry mouth; I desired to be tall,
stately, and finely developed in figure; I felt it a misfortune
that I was so little, so pale, and had features so irregular and
so marked. And why had I these aspirations and these re-
grets? It would be difficult to say: I could not then distinctly
say it to myself; yet I had a reason, and a logical, natural rea-
son too. However, when I had brushed my hair very smooth,
and put on my black frock—which, Quakerlike 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 pu-
pil would not at least recoil from me with antipathy. Having
opened my chamber window, and seen that I left all things

150 Jane Eyre

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 from the ceiling, at a great clock whose case
was of oak curiously carved, and ebon black with time and
rubbing. Everything appeared very stately and imposing to
me; but then I was so little accustomed to grandeur. The
hall-door, which was half of glass, stood open; I stepped
over the threshold. It was a fine autumn morning; the early
sun shone serenely on embrowned groves and still green
fields; advancing on to the lawn, I looked up and sur-
veyed the front of the mansion. It was three storeys high,
of proportions not vast, though considerable: a gentleman’s
manor-house, not a nobleman’s seat: battlements round the
top gave it a picturesque look. Its grey front stood out well
from the background of a rookery, whose cawing tenants
were now on the wing: they flew over the lawn and grounds
to alight in a great meadow, from which these were sepa-
rated by a sunk fence, and where an array of mighty old
thorn trees, strong, knotty, and broad as oaks, at once
explained the etymology of the mansion’s designation. Far-
ther off were hills: not so lofty as those round Lowood, nor
so craggy, nor so like barriers of separation from the living
world; but yet quiet and lonely hills enough, and seeming to
embrace Thornfield with a seclusion I had not expected to
find existent so near the stirring locality of Millcote. A little

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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 be-
tween the house and gates.
I was yet enjoying the calm prospect and pleasant fresh
air, yet listening with delight to the cawing of the rooks, yet
surveying the wide, hoary front of the hall, and thinking
what a great place it was for one lonely little dame like Mrs.
Fairfax to inhabit, when that lady appeared at the door.
‘What! out already?’ said she. ‘I see you are an early riser.’
I went up to her, and was received with an affable kiss and
shake of the hand.
‘How do you like Thornfield?’ she asked. I told her I liked
it very much.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘it is a pretty place; but I fear it will be get-
ting out of order, unless Mr. Rochester should take it into
his head to come and reside here permanently; or, at least,
visit it rather oftener: great houses and fine grounds require
the presence of the proprietor.’
‘Mr. Rochester!’ I exclaimed. ‘Who is he?’
‘The owner of Thornfield,’ she responded quietly. ‘Did
you not know he was called Rochester?’
Of course I did not—I had never heard of him before; but
the old lady seemed to regard his existence as a universally
understood fact, with which everybody must be acquainted
by instinct.
‘I thought,’ I continued, ‘Thornfield belonged to you.’
‘To me? Bless you, child; what an idea! To me! I am only
the housekeeper—the manager. To be sure I am distantly

152 Jane Eyre

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 husband: but I never
presume on the connection—in fact, it is nothing to me; I
consider myself quite in the light of an ordinary housekeep-
er: my employer is always civil, and I expect nothing more.’
‘And the little girl—my pupil!’
‘She is Mr. Rochester’s ward; he commissioned me to
find a governess for her. He intended to have her brought
up in—shire, I believe. Here she comes, 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 de-
pendant like myself. I did not like her the worse for that;
on the contrary, I felt better pleased than ever. The equality
between her and me was real; not the mere result of conde-
scension on her part: so much the better—my position was
all the freer.
As I was meditating on this discovery, a little girl, fol-
lowed by her attendant, came running up the lawn. I looked
at my pupil, who did not at first appear to notice me: she
was quite a child, perhaps seven or eight years old, slightly
built, with a pale, small-featured face, and a redundancy of
hair falling in curls to her waist.
‘Good morning, Miss Adela,’ said Mrs. Fairfax. ‘Come
and speak to the lady who is to teach you, and to make you
a clever woman some day.’ She approached.
‘C’est le ma gouverante!’ said she, pointing to me, and

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addressing her nurse; who answered—
‘Mais oui, certainement.’
‘Are they foreigners?’ I inquired, amazed at hearing the
French language.
‘The nurse is a foreigner, and Adela was born on the Con-
tinent; 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 I had had the advantage of being taught
French by a French lady; and as I had always made a point
of conversing with Madame Pierrot as often as I could, and
had besides, during the last seven years, learnt a portion
of French by heart daily—applying myself to take pains
with my accent, and imitating as closely as possible the pro-
nunciation of my teacher, I had acquired a certain degree
of readiness and correctness in the language, and was not
likely to be much at a loss with Mademoiselle Adela. She
came and shook hand with me when she heard that I was
her governess; and as I led her in to breakfast, I addressed
some phrases to her in her own tongue: she replied briefly
at first, but after we were seated at the table, and she had 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: I can talk to you as I can to him, and
so can Sophie. She will be glad: nobody here understands
her: Madame Fairfax is all English. Sophie is my nurse; she

154 Jane Eyre

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. Rochester lay
down on a sofa in a pretty room called the salon, and So-
phie 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?’
‘Eyre—Jane Eyre.’
‘Aire? Bah! I cannot 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 beau-
tiful large house, larger than this and finer, called an hotel.
We stayed there nearly a week: I and Sophie used to walk
every day in a great green place full of trees, called the Park;
and there were many children there besides me, and a pond
with beautiful birds in it, that I fed with crumbs.’
‘Can you understand her when she runs on so fast?’ asked
Mrs. Fairfax.
I understood her very well, for I had been accustomed to
the fluent tongue of Madame Pierrot.
‘I wish,’ continued the good lady, ‘you would ask her a
question or two about her parents: I wonder if she remem-
bers them?’
‘Adele,’ I inquired, ‘with whom did you live when you
were in that pretty clean town you spoke of?’
‘I lived long ago with mama; but she is gone to the Holy

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Virgin. Mama used to teach me to dance and sing, and to
say verses. A great many gentlemen and ladies came to see
mama, and I used to dance before them, or to sit on their
knees and sing to them: I liked it. Shall I let you hear me
sing now?’
She had finished her breakfast, so I permitted her to give
a specimen of her accomplishments. Descending from her
chair, she came and placed herself on my knee; then, folding
her little hands demurely before her, shaking back her curls
and lifting her eyes to the ceiling, she commenced singing
a song from some opera. It was the strain of a forsaken lady,
who, after bewailing the perfidy of her lover, calls pride to
her aid; desires her attendant to deck her in her brightest
jewels and richest robes, and resolves to meet the false one
that night at a ball, and prove to him, by the gaiety of her
demeanour, how little his desertion has affected her.
The subject seemed strangely chosen for an infant singer;
but I suppose the point of the exhibition lay in hearing the
notes of love and jealousy warbled with the lisp of child-
hood; and in very bad taste that point was: at least I thought
so.
Adele sang the canzonette tunefully enough, and with
the naivete of her age. This achieved, she jumped from my
knee and said, ‘Now, Mademoiselle, I will repeat you some
poetry.’
Assuming an attitude, she began, ‘La Ligue des Rats: fa-
ble 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 in-

156 Jane Eyre

deed at her age, and which proved she had been carefully
trained.
‘Was it your mama who taught you that piece?’ I asked.
‘Yes, and she just used to say it in this way: ‘Qu’ avez vous
donc? lui dit un de ces rats; parlez!’ She made me lift my
hand—so—to remind me to raise my voice at the question.
Now shall I dance for you?’
‘No, that will do: but after your mama went to the Holy
Virgin, as you say, with whom did you live then?’
‘With Madame 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 mama. I was not long there.
Mr. Rochester asked me if I would like to go and live with
him in England, and I said yes; for I knew Mr. Rochester
before I knew Madame Frederic, and he was always kind to
me and gave me pretty dresses and toys: but you see he has
not kept his word, for he has brought me to England, and
now he is gone back again himself, and I never see him.’
After breakfast, Adele and I withdrew to the library,
which room, it appears, Mr. Rochester had directed should
be used as the schoolroom. Most of the books were locked
up behind glass doors; but there was one bookcase left open
containing everything that could be needed in the way of
elementary works, and several volumes of light literature,
poetry, biography, travels, a few romances, &c. I suppose
he had considered that these were all the governess would
require for her private perusal; and, indeed, they contented
me amply for the present; compared with the scanty pick-
ings I had now and then been able to glean at Lowood, they

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seemed to offer an abundant harvest of entertainment and
information. In this room, too, there was a cabinet piano,
quite new and of superior tone; also an easel for painting
and a pair of globes.
I found my pupil sufficiently docile, though disinclined
to apply: she had not been used to regular occupation of any
kind. I felt it would be injudicious to confine her too much
at first; so, when I had talked to her a great deal, and got
her to learn a little, and when the morning had advanced
to noon, I allowed her to return to her nurse. I then pro-
posed to occupy myself till dinner-time in drawing some
little sketches for her use.
As I was going upstairs to fetch my portfolio and pen-
cils, Mrs. Fairfax called to me: ‘Your morning school-hours
are over now, I suppose,’ said she. She was in a room the
folding-doors of which stood open: I went in when she ad-
dressed me. It was a large, stately apartment, with purple
chairs and curtains, a Turkey carpet, walnut-panelled walls,
one vast window rich in slanted glass, and a lofty ceiling,
nobly moulded. Mrs. Fairfax was dusting some vases of fine
purple spar, which stood on a sideboard.
‘What a beautiful room!’ I exclaimed, as I looked round;
for I had never before seen any half so imposing.
‘Yes; this is the dining-room. I have just opened the win-
dow, to let in a little air and sunshine; for everything gets so
damp in apartments that are seldom inhabited; the draw-
ing-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.

158 Jane Eyre

 Mounting to it by two broad steps, and looking through, I
thought I caught a glimpse of a fairy place, so bright to my
novice-eyes appeared the view beyond. Yet it was merely a
very pretty drawing-room, and within it a boudoir, both
spread with white carpets, on which seemed laid brilliant
garlands of flowers; both ceiled with snowy mouldings of
white grapes and vine-leaves, beneath which glowed in rich
contrast crimson couches and ottomans; while the orna-
ments on the pale Pariain mantelpiece were of sparkling
Bohemian glass, ruby red; and between the windows large
mirrors repeated the general blending of snow and fire.
‘In what order you keep these rooms, Mrs. Fairfax!’ said I.
‘No dust, no canvas coverings: except that the air feels chilly,
one would think they were inhabited daily.’
‘Why, Miss Eyre, though Mr. Rochester’s visits here are
rare, they are always sudden and unexpected; and as I ob-
served that it put him out to find everything swathed up,
and to have a bustle of arrangement on his arrival, I thought
it best to keep the rooms in readiness.’
‘Is Mr. Rochester an exacting, fastidious sort of man?’
‘Not particularly so; but he has a gentleman’s tastes and
habits, and he expects to have things managed in confor-
mity to them.’
‘Do you like him? Is he generally liked?’
‘Oh, yes; the family have always been respected here. Al-
most all the land in this neighbourhood, as far as you can
see, has belonged to the Rochesters time out of mind.’
‘Well, but, leaving his land out of the question, do you
like him? Is he liked for himself?’

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 ‘I have no cause to do otherwise than like him; and I
believe he is considered a just and liberal landlord by his
tenants: but he has never lived much amongst them.’
‘But has he no peculiarities? What, in short, is his char-
acter?’
‘Oh! his character is unimpeachable, I suppose. He is
rather peculiar, perhaps: he has travelled a great deal, and
seen a great deal of the world, I should think. I dare say he is
clever, but I never had much conversation with him.’
‘In what way is he peculiar?’
‘I don’t know—it is not easy to describe—nothing strik-
ing, but you feel it when he speaks to you; you cannot be
always sure whether he is in jest or earnest, whether he is
pleased or the contrary; you 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 sketching a character, or observing and describ-
ing 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 further, and evidently wondered
at my wish to gain a more definite notion of his identity.
When we left the dining-room, she proposed to show me
over the rest of the house; and I followed her upstairs and
downstairs, admiring as I went; for all was well arranged
and handsome. The large front chambers I thought espe-

160 Jane Eyre

cially grand: and some of the third-storey rooms, though
dark and low, were interesting from their air of antiquity.
The furniture once appropriated to the lower apartments
had from time to time been removed here, as fashions
changed: and the imperfect light entering by their nar-
row casement showed bedsteads of a hundred years old;
chests in oak or walnut, looking, with their strange carv-
ings of palm branches and cherubs’ heads, like types of
the Hebrew ark; rows of venerable chairs, high-backed and
narrow; stools still more antiquated, on whose cushioned
tops were yet apparent traces of half-effaced embroideries,
wrought by fingers that for two generations had been coffin-
dust. All these relics gave to the third storey of Thornfield
Hall the aspect of a home of the past: a shrine of memory. I
liked the hush, the gloom, the quaintness of these retreats
in the day; but I by no means coveted a 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 Eng-
lish hangings crusted with thick work, portraying effigies
of strange flowers, and stranger birds, and strangest human
beings,— all which would have looked strange, indeed, by
the pallid gleam of moonlight.
‘Do the servants sleep in these rooms?’ I asked.
‘No; they occupy a range of smaller apartments to the
back; no one ever sleeps here: one would almost say that,
if there were a ghost at Thornfield Hall, this would be its
haunt.’
‘So I think: you have no ghost, then?’
‘None that I ever heard of,’ returned Mrs. Fairfax, smil-

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 ing.
‘Nor any traditions of one? no legends or ghost stories?’
‘I believe not. And yet it is said the Rochesters have
been rather a violent than a quiet race in their time: per-
haps, 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 mov-
ing away.
‘On to the leads; will you come and see the view from
thence?’ I followed still, up a very narrow staircase to the at-
tics, and thence by a ladder and through a trap-door to the
roof of the hall. I was now on a level with the crow colony,
and could see into their nests. Leaning over the battlements
and looking far down, I surveyed the grounds laid out like
a map: the bright and velvet lawn closely girdling the grey
base of the mansion; the field, wide as a park, dotted with
its ancient timber; the wood, dun and sere, divided by a
path visibly overgrown, greener with moss than the trees
were with foliage; the church at the gates, the road, the tran-
quil 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 sunlit scene of
grove, pasture, and green hill, of which the hall was the cen-
tre, and over which I had been gazing with delight.

162 Jane Eyre

 Mrs. Fairfax stayed behind a moment to fasten the trap-
door; I, by drift of groping, found the outlet from the attic,
and proceeded to descend the narrow garret staircase. I lin-
gered in the long passage to which this led, separating the
front and back rooms of the third storey: narrow, low, and
dim, with only one little window at the far end, and looking,
with its two rows of small black doors all shut, like a corri-
dor in some Bluebeard’s castle.
While I paced softly on, the last sound I expected to hear
in so still a region, a laugh, struck my ear. It was a curi-
ous laugh; distinct, formal, mirthless. I stopped: the sound
ceased, only for an instant; it began again, louder: for at first,
though distinct, it was very low. It passed off in a clamorous
peal that seemed to wake an echo in every lonely chamber;
though it originated but in one, and I could have pointed
out the door whence the accents issued.
‘Mrs. Fairfax!’ I called out: for I now heard her descend-
ing the great stairs. ‘Did you hear that loud laugh? Who is
it?’
‘Some of the servants, very likely,’ she answered: ‘perhaps
Grace Poole.’
‘Did you hear it?’ I again inquired.
‘Yes, plainly: I often hear her: she sews in one of these
rooms. Sometimes Leah is with her; they are frequently
noisy together.’
The laugh was repeated in its low, syllabic tone, and ter-
minated in an odd murmur.
‘Grace!’ exclaimed Mrs. Fairfax.
I really did not expect any Grace to answer; for the laugh

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was as tragic, as preternatural a laugh as any I ever heard;
and, but that it was high noon, and that no circumstance
of ghostliness accompanied the curious cachinnation; but
that neither scene nor season favoured fear, I should have
been superstitiously afraid. However, the event showed me
I was a fool for entertaining a sense even of surprise.
The door nearest me opened, and a servant came out,—a
woman of between thirty and forty; a set, square-made fig-
ure, red-haired, and with a hard, plain face: any apparition
less romantic or less ghostly could scarcely be conceived.
‘Too much noise, Grace,’ said Mrs. Fairfax. ‘Remember
directions!’ Grace curtseyed silently and went in.
‘She is a person we have to sew and assist Leah in her
housemaid’s work,’ continued the widow; ‘not altogether
unobjectionable in some points, but she does well enough.
By-the-bye, how have you got on with your new pupil this
morning?’
The conversation, thus turned on Adele, continued 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,
moi!’
We found dinner ready, and waiting for us in Mrs. Fair-
fax’s room.

164 Jane Eyre

Chapter XII

T he promise of a smooth career, which my first calm in-

troduction to Thornfield Hall seemed to pledge, was not
belied on a longer acquaintance with the place and its in-
mates. Mrs. Fairfax turned out to be what she appeared, a
placid-tempered, kind-natured woman, of competent edu-
cation and average intelligence. My pupil was a lively child,
who had been spoilt and indulged, and therefore was some-
times wayward; but as she was committed entirely to my
care, and no injudicious interference from any quarter ever
thwarted my plans for her improvement, she soon forgot her
little freaks, and became obedient and teachable. She had
no great talents, no marked traits of character, no peculiar
development of feeling or taste which raised her one inch
above the ordinary level of childhood; but neither had she
any deficiency or vice which sunk her below it. She made
reasonable progress, entertained for me a vivacious, though
perhaps not very profound, affection; and by her simplic-
ity, gay prattle, and efforts to please, inspired me, in return,
with a degree of attachment sufficient to make us both con-
tent in each other’s society.
This, par parenthese, will be thought cool language by
persons who entertain solemn doctrines about the angelic
nature of children, and the duty of those charged with their
education to conceive for them an idolatrous devotion: but

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I am not writing to flatter parental egotism, to echo cant, or
prop up humbug; I am merely telling the truth. I felt a con-
scientious solicitude for Adele’s welfare and progress, and
a quiet liking for her little self: just as I cherished towards
Mrs. Fairfax a thankfulness for her kindness, and a plea-
sure in her society proportionate to the tranquil regard she
had for me, and the moderation of her mind and character.
Anybody may blame me who likes, when I add fur-
ther, 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 staircases, raised the trap-door of
the attic, and having reached the leads, looked out afar over
sequestered field and hill, and along dim sky-line—that
then I longed for a power of vision which might overpass
that limit; which might reach the busy world, towns, re-
gions 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 acquaintance 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 believed in I wished to behold.
Who blames me? Many, no doubt; and I shall be called
discontented. I could not help it: the restlessness was in my
nature; it agitated me to pain sometimes. Then my sole relief
was to walk along the corridor of the third storey, back-
wards and forwards, safe in the silence and solitude of the

166 Jane Eyre

spot, and allow my mind’s eye to dwell on whatever bright
visions rose before it—and, certainly, they were many and
glowing; to let my heart be heaved by the exultant move-
ment, which, while it swelled it in trouble, expanded it with
life; and, best of all, to open my inward ear to a tale that was
never ended—a tale my imagination created, and narrated
continuously; quickened with all of incident, life, fire, feel-
ing, that I desired and had not in my actual existence.
It is in vain to say human beings ought to be satisfied
with tranquillity: they must have action; and they will
make it if they cannot find it. Millions are condemned to
a stiller doom than mine, and millions are in silent revolt
against their lot. Nobody knows how many rebellions be-
sides political rebellions ferment in the masses of life which
people earth. Women are supposed to be very calm gener-
ally: but women feel just as men feel; they need exercise for
their faculties, and a field for their efforts, as much as their
brothers do; they suffer from too rigid a restraint, too ab-
solute a stagnation, precisely as men would suffer; and it is
narrow-minded in their more privileged fellow-creatures to
say that they ought to confine themselves to making pud-
dings and knitting stockings, to playing on the piano and
embroidering bags. It is thoughtless to condemn them, or
laugh at them, if they seek to do more or learn more than
custom has pronounced necessary for their sex.
When thus alone, I not unfrequently heard Grace Poole’s
laugh: the same peal, the same low, slow ha! ha! which,
when first heard, had thrilled me: I heard, too, her eccentric
murmurs; stranger than her laugh. There were days when

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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 re-
turn, generally (oh, romantic reader, forgive me for telling
the plain truth!) bearing a pot of porter. Her appearance
always acted as a damper to the curiosity raised by her oral
oddities: hard-featured and staid, she had no point to which
interest could attach. I made some attempts to draw her
into conversation, but she seemed a person of few words:
a monosyllabic reply usually cut short every effort of that
sort.
The other members of the household, viz., John and his
wife, Leah the housemaid, and Sophie the French nurse,
were decent people; but in no respect remarkable; with
Sophie I used to talk French, and sometimes I asked her
questions about her native country; but she was not of a de-
scriptive or narrative turn, and generally gave such vapid
and confused answers as were calculated rather to check
than encourage inquiry.
October, November, December passed away. One after-
noon in January, Mrs. Fairfax had begged a holiday for Adele,
because she had a cold; and, as Adele seconded the request
with an ardour that reminded me how precious occasional
holidays had been to me in my own childhood, I accorded it,
deeming that I did well in showing pliability on the point. It
was a fine, calm day, though very cold; I was tired of sitting
still in the library through a whole long morning: Mrs. Fair-
fax had just written a letter which was waiting to be posted,

168 Jane Eyre

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 parlour fireside, and given
her her best wax doll (which I usually kept enveloped in
silver paper in a drawer) to play with, and a story-book for
change of amusement; and having replied to her ‘Revenez
bientot, ma bonne amie, ma chere Mdlle. Jeannette,’ with a
kiss I set out.
The ground was hard, the air was still, my road was lone-
ly; I walked fast till I got warm, and then I walked slowly to
enjoy and analyse the species of pleasure brooding for me
in the hour and situation. It was three 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 possessing a few coral treasures in
hips and haws, but whose best winter delight lay in its utter
solitude and leafless repose. If a breath of air stirred, it made
no sound here; for there was not a holly, not an evergreen to
rustle, and the stripped hawthorn and hazel bushes were as
still as the white, worn stones which causewayed the mid-
dle of the path. Far and wide, on each side, there were only
fields, where no cattle now browsed; and the little brown
birds, which stirred occasionally in the hedge, looked like
single russet leaves that had forgotten to drop.
This lane inclined up-hill all the way to Hay; having
reached the middle, I sat down on a stile which led thence

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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 cause-
way, where a little brooklet, now congealed, had overflowed
after a rapid thaw some days since. From my seat I could
look down on Thornfield: the grey and battlemented hall
was the principal object in the vale below me; its woods and
dark rookery rose against the west. I lingered till the sun
went down amongst the trees, and sank crimson and clear
behind them. I then turned eastward.
On the hill-top above me sat the rising moon; pale yet as
a cloud, but brightening momentarily, she looked over Hay,
which, half lost in trees, sent up a blue smoke from its few
chimneys: it was yet a mile distant, but in the absolute hush
I could hear plainly its thin murmurs of life. My ear, too,
felt the flow of currents; in what dales and depths I could
not tell: but there were many hills beyond Hay, and doubt-
less 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 whisper-
ings, at once so far away and so clear: a positive tramp, tramp,
a metallic clatter, which effaced the soft wave-wanderings;
as, in a picture, the solid mass of a crag, or the rough boles
of a great oak, drawn in dark and strong on the foreground,
efface the 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. I was just

170 Jane Eyre

 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 nurs-
ery stories were there amongst other rubbish; and when
they recurred, maturing youth added to them a vigour and
vividness beyond what childhood could give. As this horse
approached, and as I watched for it to appear through the
dusk, I remembered certain of Bessie’s tales, wherein fig-
ured a North-of-England spirit called a ‘Gytrash,’ which, in
the form of horse, mule, or large dog, haunted solitary ways,
and sometimes came upon belated travellers, as this horse
was now coming upon me.
It was very near, but not yet in sight; when, in addition to
the tramp, tramp, I heard a rush under the hedge, and close
down by the hazel stems glided a great dog, whose black and
white colour made him a distinct object against the trees. It
was exactly one form of Bessie’s Gytrash—a lion-like crea-
ture with long hair and a huge head: it passed me, however,
quietly enough; not staying to look up, with strange preter-
canine eyes, in my face, as I half expected it would. The
horse followed,—a tall steed, and on its back a rider. The
man, the human being, broke the spell at once. Nothing
ever rode the Gytrash: it was always alone; and goblins, to
my notions, though they might tenant the dumb carcasses
of beasts, could scarce covet shelter in the commonplace
human form. No Gytrash was this,—only a traveller taking
the short cut to Millcote. He passed, and I went on; a few
steps, and I turned: a sliding sound and an exclamation of
‘What the deuce is to do now?’ and a clattering tumble, ar-

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rested 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 predic-
ament, and hearing the horse groan, barked till the evening
hills echoed the sound, which was deep in proportion to his
magnitude. He snuffed round the prostrate group, and then
he ran up to me; it was all he could do,—there was no other
help at hand to summon. I obeyed him, and walked down
to the traveller, by this time struggling himself free of his
steed. His efforts were so vigorous, I thought he could not
be much hurt; but I asked him the question—
‘Are you injured, sir?’
I think he was swearing, but am not certain; however, he
was pronouncing some formula which prevented him from
replying to me directly.
‘Can I do anything?’ I asked again.
‘You must just stand on one side,’ he answered as he rose,
first to his knees, and then to his feet. I did; whereupon be-
gan a heaving, stamping, clattering process, accompanied
by a barking and baying which removed me effectually
some yards’ distance; but I would not be driven quite away
till I saw the event. This was finally fortunate; the horse
was re-established, and the dog was silenced with a ‘Down,
Pilot!’ The traveller now, stooping, felt his foot and leg, as
if trying whether they were sound; apparently something
ailed them, for he halted to the stile whence I had just risen,
and sat down.
I was in the mood for being useful, or at least officious, I
think, for I now drew near him again.

172 Jane Eyre

 ‘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 re-
sult extorted an involuntary ‘Ugh!’
Something of daylight still lingered, and the moon was
waxing bright: I could see him plainly. His figure was en-
veloped in a riding cloak, fur collared and steel clasped; its
details were not apparent, but I traced the general points of
middle height and considerable breadth of chest. He had
a dark face, with stern features and a heavy brow; his eyes
and gathered eyebrows looked ireful and thwarted just now;
he was past youth, but had not reached middle-age; perhaps
he might be thirty-five. I felt no fear of him, and but little
shyness. Had he been a handsome, heroic-looking young
gentleman, I should not have dared to stand thus question-
ing him against his will, and offering my services unasked.
I had hardly ever seen a handsome youth; never in my life
spoken to one. I had a theoretical reverence and homage
for beauty, elegance, gallantry, fascination; but had I met
those qualities incarnate in masculine shape, I should have
known instinctively that they neither had nor could have
sympathy with anything in me, and should have shunned
them as one would fire, lightning, or anything else that is
bright but antipathetic.
If even this stranger had smiled and been good-hu-
moured to me when I addressed him; if he had put off my
offer of assistance gaily and with thanks, I should have
gone on my way and not felt any vocation to renew inqui-

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 ries: but the frown, the roughness of the traveller, set me at
my ease: I retained my station when he waved to me to go,
and announced—
‘I cannot think of leaving you, sir, at so late an hour, in
this solitary lane, till I see you are fit to mount your horse.’
He looked at me when I said this; he had hardly turned
his eyes in my direction before.
‘I should think you ought to be at home yourself,’ said he,
‘if you have a home in this neighbourhood: where do you
come from?’
‘From just below; and I am not at all afraid of being out
late when it is moonlight: I will run over to Hay for you with
pleasure, if you wish it: indeed, I am going there to post a
letter.’
‘You live just below—do you mean at that house with
the battlements?’ pointing to Thornfield Hall, on which the
moon cast a hoary gleam, bringing it out distinct and pale
from the woods that, by contrast with the western sky, now
seemed one mass of shadow.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Whose house is it?’
‘Mr. Rochester’s.’
‘Do you know Mr. Rochester?’
‘No, I have never seen him.’
‘He is not resident, then?’
‘No.’
‘Can you tell me where he is?’
‘I cannot.’
‘You are not a servant at the hall, of course. You are—‘

174 Jane Eyre

He stopped, ran his eye over my dress, which, as usual, was
quite simple: a black merino cloak, a black beaver bon-
net; neither of them half fine enough for 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 governess!’ and again my raiment under-
went scrutiny. In two minutes he rose from the stile: his face
expressed pain when he tried to move.
‘I cannot commission you to fetch help,’ he said; ‘but you
may help me a little yourself, if you will be so kind.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You have not an umbrella that I can use as a stick?’
‘No.’
‘Try to get hold of my horse’s bridle and lead him to me:
you are not afraid?’
I should have been afraid to touch a horse when alone,
but when told to do it, I was disposed to obey. I put down
my muff on the stile, and went up to the tall steed; I endea-
voured to catch the bridle, but it was a spirited thing, and
would not let me come near its head; I made effort on effort,
though in vain: meantime, I was mortally afraid of its tram-
pling fore-feet. The traveller waited and watched for some
time, and at last he laughed.
‘I see,’ he said, ‘the mountain will never be brought to
Mahomet, so all you can do is to aid Mahomet to go to the
mountain; I must beg of you to come here.’
I came. ‘Excuse me,’ he continued: ‘necessity compels me
to make you useful.’ He laid a heavy hand on my shoulder,

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 and leaning on me with some stress, limped to his horse.
Having once caught the bridle, he mastered it directly and
sprang to his saddle; grimacing grimly as he made the ef-
fort, for it wrenched his sprain.
‘Now,’ said he, releasing his under lip from a hard bite,
‘just hand me my whip; it lies there under the hedge.’
I sought it and found it.
‘Thank you; now make haste with the letter to Hay, and
return as fast as you can.’
A touch of a spurred heel made his horse first start and
rear, and then bound away; the dog rushed in his traces; all
three vanished,
‘Like heath that, in the wilderness, The wild wind whirls
away.’
I took up my muff and walked on. The incident had
occurred and was gone for me: it WAS an incident of no
moment, no romance, no interest in a sense; yet it marked
with change one single hour of a monotonous life. My help
had been needed and claimed; I had given it: I was pleased
to have done something; trivial, transitory though the deed
was, it was yet an active thing, and I was weary of an exis-
tence 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 mas-
culine; 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 min-
ute, looked round and listened, with an idea that a horse’s

176 Jane Eyre

 hoofs might ring on the causeway again, and that a rider in
a cloak, and a Gytrash-like Newfoundland dog, might be
again apparent: I saw only the hedge and a pollard willow
before me, rising up still and straight to meet the moon-
beams; 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, tra-
versing 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 thresh-
old was to return to stagnation; to cross the silent hall, to
ascend the darksome staircase, to seek my own lonely little
room, and then to meet tranquil Mrs. Fairfax, and spend
the long winter evening with her, and her only, was to quell
wholly the faint excitement wakened by my walk,—to slip
again over my faculties the viewless fetters of an uniform
and too still existence; of an existence whose very privileges
of security and ease I was becoming incapable of appreciat-
ing. What good it would have done me at that time to have
been tossed in the storms of an uncertain struggling life,
and to have been taught by rough and bitter experience to
long for the calm amidst which I now repined! Yes, just as
much good as it would do a man tired of sitting still in a
‘too easy chair’ to take a long walk: and just as natural was
the wish to stir, under my circumstances, as it would be un-
der his.
I lingered at the gates; I lingered on the lawn; I paced
backwards and forwards on the pavement; the shutters of
the glass door were closed; I could not see into the interior;

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and both my eyes and spirit seemed drawn from the gloomy
house—from the grey-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
trembling stars that followed her course; they made my
heart tremble, my veins glow when I viewed them. Little
things recall us to earth; the clock struck in the hall; that
sufficed; I turned from moon and stars, opened a side-door,
and went in.
The hall was not dark, nor yet was it lit, only by the high-
hung bronze lamp; a warm glow suffused both it and the
lower steps of the oak staircase. This ruddy shine issued
from the great dining-room, whose two-leaved door stood
open, and showed a genial fire in the grate, glancing on
marble hearth and brass fire-irons, and revealing purple
draperies and polished furniture, in the most pleasant ra-
diance. It revealed, too, a group near the mantelpiece: I had
scarcely caught it, and scarcely become aware of a cheerful
mingling of voices, amongst which I seemed to distinguish
the tones of 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 for-

178 Jane Eyre

ward and said—‘Pilot’ and the thing got up and came to me
and snuffed me. I caressed him, and he wagged his great
tail; but he looked an eerie creature to be alone with, and
I could not tell whence he had come. I rang the bell, for I
wanted a candle; and I wanted, too, to get an account of this
visitant. Leah entered.
‘What dog is this?’
‘He came with master.’
‘With whom?’
‘With master—Mr. Rochester—he is just arrived.’
‘Indeed! and is Mrs. Fairfax with him?’
‘Yes, and Miss Adele; they are in the dining-room, and
John is gone for a surgeon; for master has had an accident;
his horse fell and his ankle is sprained.’
‘Did the horse fall in Hay Lane?’
‘Yes, coming down-hill; it slipped on some ice.’
‘Ah! Bring me a candle will you Leah?’
Leah brought it; she entered, followed by Mrs. Fairfax,
who repeated the news; adding that Mr. Carter the surgeon
was come, and was now with Mr. Rochester: then she hur-
ried out to give orders about tea, and I went upstairs to take
off my things.

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Chapter XIII

M r. Rochester, it seems, by the surgeon’s orders, went to

bed early that night; nor did he rise soon next morn-
ing. 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
lit in an apartment upstairs, and there I carried our books,
and arranged it for the future schoolroom. I discerned in the
course of the morning that Thornfield Hall was a changed
place: no longer silent as a church, it echoed every hour or
two to a knock at the door, or a clang of the bell; steps, too,
often traversed the hall, and new voices spoke in different
keys below; a rill from the outer world was flowing through
it; it had a master: for my part, I liked it better.
Adele was not easy to teach that day; she could not apply:
she kept running to the door and looking over the banis-
ters to see if she could get a glimpse of Mr. Rochester; then
she coined pretexts to go downstairs, in order, as I shrewd-
ly suspected, to visit the library, where I knew she was not
wanted; then, when I got a little angry, and made her sit
still, she continued to talk incessantly of her ‘ami, Monsieur
Edouard Fairfax DE Rochester,’ as she dubbed him (I had
not before heard his prenomens), and to conjecture what

180 Jane Eyre

presents he had brought her: for it appears he had intimated
the night before, that when his luggage came from Millcote,
there would be found amongst it a little box in whose con-
tents she had an interest.
‘Et cela doit signifier,’ said she, ‘qu’il y aura le dedans un
cadeau pour moi, et peut-etre pour vous aussi, mademoi-
selle. Monsieur a parle de vous: il m’a demande le nom de
ma gouvernante, et si elle n’etait pas une petite personne,
assez mince et un peu pale. J’ai dit qu’oui: car c’est vrai, n’est-
ce pas, mademoiselle?’
I and my pupil dined as usual in Mrs. Fairfax’s parlour;
the afternoon was wild and snowy, and we passed it in the
schoolroom. At dark I allowed Adele to put away books
and work, and to run downstairs; for, from the compara-
tive silence below, and from the cessation of appeals to the
door-bell, I conjectured that Mr. Rochester was now at lib-
erty. Left alone, I walked to the window; but nothing was to
be seen thence: twilight and snowflakes together thickened
the air, and hid the very shrubs on the lawn. I let down the
curtain and went back to the fireside.
In the clear embers I was tracing a view, not unlike a pic-
ture I remembered to have seen of the castle of Heidelberg,
on the Rhine, when Mrs. Fairfax came in, breaking up by
her entrance the fiery mosaic I had been piercing together,
and scattering too some heavy unwelcome thoughts that
were beginning to throng on my solitude.
‘Mr. Rochester would be glad if you and your pupil would
take tea with him in the drawing-room this evening,’ said
she: ‘he has been so much engaged all day that he could not

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ask to see you before.’
‘When is his tea-time?’ I inquired.
‘Oh, at six o’clock: he keeps early hours in the country.
You had better change your frock now; I will go with you
and fasten it. Here is a candle.’
‘Is it necessary to change my frock?’
‘Yes, you had better: I always dress for the evening when
Mr. Rochester is here.’
This additional ceremony seemed somewhat stately;
however, I repaired to my room, and, with Mrs. 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
grey, which, in my Lowood notions of the toilette, I thought
too fine to be worn, except on first-rate occasions.
‘You want a brooch,’ said Mrs. Fairfax. I had a single little
pearl ornament which Miss Temple gave me as a parting
keepsake: I put it on, and then we went downstairs. Unused
as I was to strangers, it was rather a trial to appear thus
formally summoned in Mr. Rochester’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 mantelpiece; basking in the light and heat of a su-
perb fire, lay Pilot—Adele knelt near him. Half reclined on
a couch appeared 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 traveller with his broad and jetty

182 Jane Eyre

eyebrows; his square forehead, made squarer by the hori-
zontal sweep of his black hair. I recognised his decisive nose,
more remarkable for character than beauty; his full nostrils,
denoting, I thought, choler; his grim mouth, chin, and jaw—
yes, all three were very grim, and no mistake. His shape,
now divested of cloak, I perceived harmonised in square-
ness with his physiognomy: 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 appeared he was not in the
mood to notice us, for he never lifted his head as we ap-
proached.
‘Here is Miss Eyre, sir,’ said Mrs. Fairfax, in her quiet way.
He bowed, still not taking his eyes from the group of the
dog and child.
‘Let Miss Eyre be seated,’ said he: and there was some-
thing in the forced stiff bow, in the impatient yet formal
tone, which seemed further to express, ‘What the deuce is it
to me whether Miss Eyre be there or not? At this moment I
am not disposed to accost her.’
I sat down quite disembarrassed. A reception of finished
politeness would probably have confused me: I could not
have returned or repaid it by answering grace and elegance
on my part; but harsh caprice laid me under no obligation;
on the contrary, a decent quiescence, under the freak of
manner, gave me the advantage. Besides, the eccentricity of
the proceeding was piquant: I felt interested to see how he
would go on.

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 He went on as a statue would, that is, he neither spoke nor
moved. Mrs. Fairfax seemed to think it necessary that some
one should be amiable, and she began to talk. Kindly, as
usual—and, as usual, rather trite—she condoled with him
on the pressure of business he had had all day; on the an-
noyance it must have been to him with that painful sprain:
then she commended his patience and perseverance in go-
ing through with it.
‘Madam, I should like some tea,’ was the sole rejoinder
she got. She hastened to ring the bell; and when the tray
came, she proceeded to arrange the cups, spoons, &c., with
assiduous celerity. I and 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 propitious for making a request
in my favour, cried out—
‘N’est-ce pas, monsieur, qu’il y a un cadeau pour Made-
moiselle Eyre dans votre petit coffre?’
‘Who talks of cadeaux?’ said he gruffly. ‘Did you expect
a present, Miss Eyre? Are you fond of presents?’ and he
searched my face with eyes that I saw were dark, irate, and
piercing.
‘I hardly know, sir; I have little experience of them: they
are generally thought pleasant things.’
‘Generally thought? But what do YOU think?’
‘I should be obliged to take time, sir, before I could give
you an answer worthy of your acceptance: a present has

184 Jane Eyre

many faces to it, has it not? and one should consider all, be-
fore pronouncing an opinion as to its nature.’
‘Miss Eyre, you are not so unsophisticated as Adele: she
demands a ‘cadeau,’ clamorously, the moment she sees me:
you beat about the bush.’
‘Because I have less confidence in my deserts than Adele
has: she can prefer the claim of old acquaintance, and the
right too of custom; for she says you have always been in
the habit of giving her playthings; but if I had to make out
a case I should be puzzled, since I am a stranger, and have
done nothing to entitle me to an acknowledgment.’
‘Oh, don’t fall back on over-modesty! I have examined
Adele, and find you have taken great pains with her: she is
not bright, she has no talents; yet in a short time she has
made much improvement.’
‘Sir, you have now given me my ‘cadeau;’ I am obliged to
you: it is the meed teachers most covet—praise of their pu-
pils’ progress.’
‘Humph!’ said Mr. Rochester, and he took his tea in si-
lence.
‘Come to the fire,’ said the master, when the tray was tak-
en 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 ornaments
on the consoles and chiffonnieres. 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?’
‘Yes, sir.’

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 ‘And you came from—?’
‘From Lowood school, in—shire.’
‘Ah! a charitable concern. How long were you there?’
‘Eight years.’
‘Eight years! you must be tenacious of life. I thought half
the time in such a place would have done up any constitu-
tion! No wonder you have rather the look of another world.
I marvelled where you had got that sort of face. When you
came on me in Hay Lane last night, I thought unaccount-
ably of fairy tales, and had half a mind to demand whether
you had bewitched my horse: I am not sure yet. Who are
your parents?’
‘I have none.’
‘Nor ever had, I suppose: do you remember them?’
‘No.’
‘I thought not. And so you were waiting for your people
when you sat on that stile?’
‘For whom, sir?’
‘For the men in green: it was a proper moonlight evening
for them. Did I break through one of your rings, that you
spread that damned ice on the causeway?’
I shook my head. ‘The men in green all forsook England
a hundred years ago,’ said I, speaking as seriously as he had
done. ‘And not even in Hay Lane, or the fields about it, could
you find a trace of them. I don’t think either summer or har-
vest, 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,

186 Jane Eyre

you must have some sort of kinsfolk: uncles and aunts?’
‘No; none that I ever saw.’
‘And your home?’
‘I have none.’
‘Where do your brothers and sisters live?’
‘I have no brothers or sisters.’
‘Who recommended you to come here?’
‘I advertised, and Mrs. Fairfax answered my advertise-
ment.’
‘Yes,’ said the good lady, who now knew what ground we
were upon, ‘and I am daily thankful for the choice Provi-
dence led me to make. Miss Eyre has been an invaluable
companion to me, and a kind and careful teacher to Adele.’
‘Don’t trouble yourself to give her a character,’ returned
Mr. Rochester: ‘eulogiums will not bias me; I shall judge for
myself. She began by felling my horse.’
‘Sir?’ said Mrs. Fairfax.
‘I have to thank her for this sprain.’
The widow looked bewildered.
‘Miss Eyre, have you ever lived in a town?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Have you seen much society?’
‘None but the pupils and teachers of Lowood, and now
the inmates of Thornfield.’
‘Have you read much?’
‘Only such books as came in my way; and they have not
been numerous or very learned.’
‘You have lived the life of a nun: no doubt you are well
drilled in religious forms;—Brocklehurst, who I under-

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stand directs Lowood, is a parson, is he not?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And you girls probably worshipped him, as a convent
full of religieuses would worship their director.’
‘Oh, no.’
‘You are very cool! No! What! a novice not worship her
priest! That sounds blasphemous.’
‘I disliked Mr. Brocklehurst; and I was not alone in the
feeling. He is a harsh man; at once pompous and meddling;
he cut off our hair; and for 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 offending?’ de-
manded Mr. Rochester.
‘He starved us when he had the sole superintendence of
the provision department, before the committee was ap-
pointed; and he bored us with long lectures once a week,
and with evening readings from books of his own inditing,
about sudden deaths and judgments, which made us afraid
to go to bed.’
‘What age were you when you went to Lowood?’
‘About ten.’
‘And you stayed there eight years: you are now, then,
eighteen?’
I assented.
‘Arithmetic, you see, is useful; without its aid, I should
hardly have been able to guess your age. It is a point diffi-
cult to fix where the features and countenance are so much

188 Jane Eyre

at variance as in your case. And now what did you learn at
Lowood? Can you play?’
‘A little.’
‘Of course: that is the established answer. Go into the
library—I mean, if you please.—(Excuse my tone of com-
mand; I am used to say, ‘Do this,’ and it is done: I cannot
alter my customary habits for one new inmate.)—Go, then,
into the library; take a candle with you; leave the door open;
sit down to the piano, and play a tune.’
I departed, obeying his directions.
‘Enough!’ he called out in a few minutes. ‘You play A
LITTLE, I see; like any other English school-girl; perhaps
rather better than some, but not well.’
I closed the piano and returned. Mr. Rochester contin-
ued—‘Adele showed me some sketches this morning, which
she said were yours. I don’t know whether they were entire-
ly 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 recognise patch-
work.’
‘Then I will say nothing, and you shall judge for your-
self, sir.’
I brought the portfolio from the library.
‘Approach the table,’ said he; and I wheeled 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

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faces up to mine.’
He deliberately scrutinised each sketch and painting.
Three he laid aside; the others, when he had examined them,
he swept from him.
‘Take them off to the other table, Mrs. Fairfax,’ said he,
and look at them with Adele;—you’ (glancing at me) ‘re-
sume your seat, and answer my questions. I perceive those
pictures were done by one hand: was that hand yours?’
‘Yes.’
‘And when did you find time to do them? They have taken
much time, and some thought.’
‘I did them in the last two vacations I spent at Lowood,
when I had no other occupation.’
‘Where did you get your copies?’
‘Out of my head.’
‘That head I see now on your shoulders?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Has it other furniture of the same kind within?’
‘I should think it may have: I should hope—better.’
He spread the pictures before him, and again surveyed
them alternately.
While he is so occupied, I will tell you, reader, what they
are: and first, I must premise that they are nothing won-
derful. The subjects had, indeed, risen vividly on my mind.
As I saw them with the spiritual eye, before I attempted to
embody them, they were striking; but my hand would not
second my fancy, and in each case it had wrought out but a
pale portrait of the thing I had conceived.
These pictures were in water-colours. The first represent-

190 Jane Eyre

ed clouds low and livid, rolling over a swollen sea: all the
distance was in eclipse; so, too, was the foreground; or rath-
er, the nearest billows, for there was no land. One gleam
of light lifted into relief a half-submerged mast, on which
sat a cormorant, dark and large, with wings flecked with
foam; its beak held a gold bracelet set with gems, that I had
touched with as brilliant tints as my palette could yield, and
as glittering distinctness as my pencil could impart. Sink-
ing below the bird and mast, a drowned corpse glanced
through the green water; a fair arm was the only limb clear-
ly visible, whence the bracelet had been washed or torn.
The second picture contained for foreground only the
dim peak of a hill, with grass and some leaves slanting as
if by a breeze. Beyond and above spread an expanse of sky,
dark blue as at twilight: rising into the sky was a 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 below were seen as through the suffusion
of vapour; the eyes shone dark and wild; the hair streamed
shadowy, like a beamless cloud torn by storm or by elec-
tric travail. On the neck lay a pale reflection like moonlight;
the same faint lustre touched the train of thin clouds from
which rose and bowed this vision of the Evening Star.
The third showed the pinnacle of an iceberg piercing a
polar winter sky: a muster of northern lights reared their
dim lances, close serried, along the horizon. Throwing these
into distance, rose, in the foreground, a head,—a colossal
head, inclined towards the iceberg, and resting against it.
Two thin hands, joined under the forehead, and support-

Free eBooks at Planet [Link] 191

ing it, drew up before the lower features a sable veil, a brow
quite bloodless, white as bone, and an eye hollow and fixed,
blank of meaning but for the glassiness of despair, alone
were visible. Above the temples, amidst wreathed turban
folds of black drapery, vague in its character and consis-
tency as cloud, gleamed a ring of white flame, gemmed with
sparkles of a more lurid tinge. This pale crescent was ‘the
likeness of a kingly crown;’ what it diademed was ‘the shape
which shape had none.’
‘Were you happy when you painted these pictures?’ asked
Mr. Rochester presently.
‘I was absorbed, sir: yes, and I was happy. To paint them,
in short, was to enjoy one of the keenest pleasures I have
ever known.’
‘That is not saying much. Your pleasures, by your own ac-
count, have been few; but I daresay you 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 favoured my in-
clination to apply.’
‘And you felt self-satisfied with the result of your ardent
labours?’
‘Far from it. I was tormented by the contrast between my
idea and my handiwork: in each case I had imagined some-
thing which I was quite powerless to realise.’
‘Not quite: you have secured the shadow of your thought;
but no more, probably. You had not enough of the artist’s

192 Jane Eyre

skill and science to give it full being: yet the drawings are,
for a school- girl, peculiar. As to the thoughts, they are elf-
ish. These eyes in the Evening Star you must have seen in
a dream. How could you make them look so clear, and yet
not at all brilliant? for the planet above quells their rays.
And what meaning is that in their solemn depth? And who
taught you to paint wind. There is a high gale in that sky,
and on this hill-top. Where did you see Latmos? For that is
Latmos. There! put the drawings away!’
I had scarce tied the strings of the portfolio, when,
looking at his watch, he said abruptly—
‘It is nine o’clock: what are you about, Miss Eyre, to let
Adele sit up so long? Take her to bed.’
Adele went to kiss him before quitting the room: he en-
dured 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 move-
ment of the hand towards the door, in token that he was
tired of our company, and wished to dismiss us. Mrs. Fair-
fax folded up her knitting: I took my portfolio: we curtseyed
to him, received a frigid bow in return, and so withdrew.
‘You said Mr. Rochester was not strikingly peculiar, Mrs.
Fairfax,’ I observed, when I rejoined her in her room, after
putting Adele to bed.
‘Well, is he?’
‘I think so: he is very changeful and abrupt.’
‘True: no doubt he may appear so to a stranger, but I am
so accustomed to his manner, I never think of it; and then, if
he has peculiarities of temper, allowance should be made.’

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 ‘Why?’
‘Partly because it is his nature—and we can none of us
help our nature; and partly because he has painful thoughts,
no doubt, to harass him, and make his spirits unequal.’
‘What about?’
‘Family troubles, for one thing.’
‘But he has no family.’
‘Not now, but he has had—or, at least, relatives. He lost
his elder brother a few years since.’
‘His ELDER brother?’
‘Yes. The present Mr. Rochester has not been very long in
possession of the property; only about nine years.’
‘Nine years is a tolerable time. Was he so very fond of his
brother as to be still inconsolable for his loss?’
‘Why, no—perhaps not. I believe there were some mis-
understandings 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 mon-
ey, and anxious to keep the family estate together. He did
not like to diminish the property by division, and yet he
was anxious that Mr. Edward should have wealth, too, to
keep up the consequence of the name; and, soon after he
was of age, some steps were taken that were not quite fair,
and made a great deal of mischief. Old Mr. Rochester and
Mr. Rowland combined to bring Mr. Edward into what he
considered a painful position, for the sake of making his
fortune: what the precise nature of that position was I never
clearly knew, but his spirit could not brook what he had to
suffer in it. He is not very forgiving: he broke with his fam-

194 Jane Eyre

ily, and now for many years he has led an unsettled kind of
life. I don’t think he has ever been resident at Thornfield for
a fortnight together, since the death of his brother without
a will left him master of the estate; and, indeed, no wonder
he shuns the old place.’
‘Why should he shun it?’
‘Perhaps he thinks it gloomy.’
The answer was evasive. I should have liked something
clearer; but Mrs. 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 sub-
ject, which I did accordingly.

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Chapter XIV

F or several subsequent days I saw little of Mr. Rochester.

In the mornings he seemed much engaged with busi-
ness, and, in the afternoon, gentlemen from Millcote or the
neighbourhood called, and sometimes stayed to dine with
him. When his sprain was well enough to admit of horse
exercise, he rode out a good deal; probably to return these
visits, as he generally did not come back till late at night.
During this interval, even Adele was seldom sent for to
his presence, and all my acquaintance with him was con-
fined to an occasional rencontre in the hall, on the stairs, or
in the gallery, when he would sometimes pass me haugh-
tily and coldly, just acknowledging my presence by a distant
nod or a cool glance, and sometimes bow and smile with
gentlemanlike affability. His changes of mood did not of-
fend me, because I saw that I had nothing to do with their
alternation; the ebb and flow depended on causes quite dis-
connected with me.
One day he had had company to dinner, and had sent for
my portfolio; in order, doubtless, to exhibit its contents: the
gentlemen went away early, to attend a public meeting at
Millcote, as Mrs. Fairfax informed me; but the night being
wet and inclement, Mr. Rochester did not accompany them.
Soon after they were gone he rang the bell: a message came
that I and Adele were to go downstairs. I brushed Adele’s

196 Jane Eyre

hair and made her neat, and having ascertained that I was
myself in my usual Quaker trim, where there was nothing
to retouch— all being too close and plain, braided locks in-
cluded, 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 de-
layed. She was gratified: there it stood, a little carton, on the
table when we entered the dining-room. She appeared to
know it by instinct.
‘Ma boite! ma boite!’ exclaimed she, running towards it.
‘Yes, there is your ‘boite’ at last: take it into a corner, you
genuine daughter of Paris, and amuse yourself with dis-
embowelling 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 entrails: let your oper-
ation be conducted in silence: tiens-toi tranquille, enfant;
comprends-tu?’
Adele seemed scarcely to need the warning—she had
already retired to a sofa with her treasure, and was busy un-
tying the cord which secured the lid. Having removed this
impediment, and lifted certain silvery envelopes of tissue
paper, she merely exclaimed—
‘Oh ciel! Que c’est beau!’ and then remained absorbed in
ecstatic contemplation.
‘Is Miss Eyre there?’ now demanded the master, half ris-
ing from his seat to look round to the door, near which I
still stood.

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 ‘Ah! well, come forward; be seated here.’ He drew a chair
near his own. ‘I am not fond of the prattle of children,’ he
continued; ‘for, old bachelor as I am, I have no pleasant
associations connected with their lisp. It would be intoler-
able to me to pass a whole evening tete-e-tete with a brat.
Don’t draw that chair farther off, Miss Eyre; sit down exact-
ly where I placed it—if you please, that is. Confound these
civilities! I continually forget them. Nor do I particularly
affect simple-minded old ladies. By- the-bye, I must have
mine in mind; it won’t do to neglect her; she is a Fairfax, or
wed to one; and blood is said to be thicker than water.’
He rang, and despatched an invitation to Mrs. Fairfax,
who soon arrived, knitting-basket in hand.
‘Good evening, madam; I sent to you for a charitable
purpose. I have forbidden Adele to talk to me about her
presents, and she is bursting with repletion: have the good-
ness to serve her as auditress and interlocutrice; it will be
one of the most benevolent acts you ever performed.’
Adele, indeed, no sooner saw Mrs. Fairfax, than she sum-
moned her to her sofa, and there quickly filled her lap with
the porcelain, the ivory, the waxen contents of her ‘boite;’
pouring out, meantime, explanations and raptures in such
broken English as she was mistress of.
‘Now I have performed the part of a good host,’ pursued
Mr. Rochester, ‘put my guests into the way of amusing each
other, I ought to be at liberty to attend to my own pleasure.
Miss Eyre, draw your chair still a little farther forward: you
are yet too far back; I cannot see you without disturbing my
position in this comfortable chair, which I have no mind

198 Jane Eyre

to do.’
I did as I was bid, though I would much rather have re-
mained somewhat in the shade; but Mr. Rochester had such
a direct way of giving orders, it seemed a matter of course
to obey him promptly.
We were, as I have said, in the dining-room: the lustre,
which had been lit for dinner, filled the room with a festal
breadth of light; the large fire was all red and clear; the pur-
ple curtains hung rich and ample before the lofty window
and loftier arch; everything 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 to 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 probable. He was, in short,
in his after-dinner mood; more expanded and genial, and
also more self-indulgent than the frigid and rigid temper
of the morning; still he looked preciously grim, cushioning
his massive head against the swelling back of his chair, and
receiving the light of the fire on his granite-hewn features,
and in his great, dark eyes; for he had great, dark eyes, and
very fine eyes, too—not without a certain change in their
depths sometimes, which, if it was not softness, reminded
you, at least, of that feeling.
He had been looking two minutes at the fire, and I had
been looking the same length of time at him, when, turning
suddenly, he caught my gaze fastened on his physiognomy.

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 ‘You examine me, Miss Eyre,’ said he: ‘do you think me
handsome?’
I should, if I had deliberated, have replied to this ques-
tion 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-
bye, when they are directed piercingly to my face; as just
now, for instance); and when one asks you a question, or
makes a remark to which you are obliged to reply, you rap
out a round rejoinder, which, if not blunt, is at least brusque.
What do you mean by it?’
‘Sir, I was too plain; I beg your pardon. I ought to have
replied that it was not easy to give an impromptu answer to
a question about appearances; that tastes mostly differ; and
that beauty is of little consequence, or something of that
sort.’
‘You ought to have replied no such thing. Beauty of little
consequence, indeed! And so, under pretence of softening
the previous outrage, of stroking and soothing me into pla-
cidity, you stick a sly penknife under my ear! Go on: what
fault do you find with me, pray? I suppose I have all my
limbs and all my features like any other man?’
‘Mr. Rochester, allow me to disown my first answer: I in-
tended no pointed repartee: it was only a blunder.’
‘Just so: I think so: and you shall be answerable for it.

200 Jane Eyre

Criticise me: does my forehead not please you?’
He lifted up the sable waves of hair which lay horizontally
over his brow, and showed a solid enough mass of intellec-
tual organs, but an abrupt deficiency where the suave sign
of benevolence should have risen.
‘Now, ma’am, am I a fool?’
‘Far from it, sir. You would, perhaps, think me rude if I
inquired in return whether you are a philanthropist?’
‘There again! Another stick of the penknife, when she
pretended to pat my head: and that is because I said I did
not like the society of children and old women (low be it
spoken!). No, young lady, I am not a general philanthropist;
but I bear a conscience;’ and he pointed to the prominences
which are said to indicate that faculty, and which, fortunate-
ly for him, were sufficiently conspicuous; giving, indeed, a
marked breadth to the upper part of his head: ‘and, besides,
I once had a kind of rude tenderness of heart. When I was as
old as you, I was a feeling fellow enough, partial to the un-
fledged, unfostered, and unlucky; but Fortune has knocked
me about since: she has even kneaded me with her knuckles,
and now I flatter myself I am hard and tough as an India-
rubber ball; pervious, though, through a chink or two still,
and with one sentient point in the middle of the lump. Yes:
does that leave hope for me?’
‘Hope of what, sir?’
‘Of my final re-transformation from India-rubber back
to flesh?’
‘Decidedly he has had too much wine,’ I thought; and I
did not know what answer to make to his queer question:

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how could I tell whether he was capable of being re-trans-
formed?
‘You looked very much puzzled, Miss Eyre; and though
you are not pretty any more than I am handsome, yet a puz-
zled air becomes you; besides, it is convenient, for it keeps
those searching eyes of yours away from my physiognomy,
and busies them with the worsted flowers of the rug; so
puzzle on. Young lady, I am disposed to be gregarious and
communicative to-night.’
With this announcement he rose from his chair, and
stood, leaning his arm on the marble mantelpiece: in that
attitude his shape was seen plainly as well as his face; his
unusual breadth of chest, disproportionate almost to his
length of limb. I am sure most people would have thought
him an ugly man; yet there was so much unconscious pride
in his port; so much ease in his demeanour; such a look of
complete indifference to his own external appearance; so
haughty a reliance on the power of other qualities, intrinsic
or adventitious, to atone for the lack of mere personal at-
tractiveness, that, in looking at him, one inevitably shared
the indifference, and, even in a blind, imperfect sense, put
faith in the confidence.
‘I am disposed to be gregarious and communicative to-
night,’ he repeated, ‘and that is why I sent for you: the fire
and the chandelier were not sufficient company for me; nor
would Pilot have been, for none of these can talk. Adele is a
degree better, but still far below the mark; Mrs. Fairfax dit-
to; you, I am persuaded, can suit me if you will: you puzzled
me the first evening I invited you down here. I have almost

202 Jane Eyre

 forgotten you since: other ideas have driven yours from my
head; but to-night I am resolved to be at ease; to dismiss
what importunes, and recall what pleases. It would please
me now to draw you out—to learn more of you—therefore
speak.’
Instead of speaking, I smiled; and not a very complacent
or submissive smile either.
‘Speak,’ he urged.
‘What about, sir?’
‘Whatever you like. I leave both the choice of subject and
the manner of treating it entirely to yourself.’
Accordingly I sat and said nothing: ‘If he expects me to
talk for the mere sake of talking and showing off, he will find
he has addressed himself to the wrong person,’ I thought.
‘You are dumb, Miss Eyre.’
I was dumb still. He bent his head a little towards me,
and with a single hasty glance seemed to dive into my eyes.
‘Stubborn?’ he said, ‘and annoyed. Ah! it is consistent. I
put my request in an absurd, almost insolent form. Miss
Eyre, I beg your pardon. The fact is, once for all, I 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 experi-
ence. This is legitimate, et j’y tiens, as Adele would say; and
it is by virtue of this superiority, and this alone, that I de-
sire 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, and

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I did not feel insensible to his condescension, and would
not seem so.
‘I am willing to amuse you, if I can, sir—quite willing;
but I cannot introduce a topic, because how do I know what
will interest you? Ask me questions, and I will do my best
to answer them.’
‘Then, in the first place, do you agree with me that I have
a right to be a little masterful, abrupt, perhaps exacting,
sometimes, on the grounds I stated, namely, that I am old
enough to be your father, and that I have battled through
a varied experience with many men of many nations, and
roamed over half the globe, while you have lived quietly
with one set of people in one house?’
‘Do as you please, sir.’
‘That is no answer; or rather it is a very irritating, because
a very evasive one. Reply clearly.’
‘I don’t think, sir, you have a right to command me,
merely because you are older than I, or because you have
seen more of the world than I have; your claim to superi-
ority 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 indif-
ferent, not to say a bad, use of both advantages. Leaving
superiority out of the question, then, you must still agree
to receive my orders now and then, without being piqued or
hurt by the tone of command. Will you?’
I smiled: I thought to myself Mr. Rochester IS peculiar—
he seems to forget that he pays me 30 pounds per annum for

204 Jane Eyre

receiving his orders.
‘The smile is very well,’ said he, catching instantly the
passing expression; ‘but speak too.’
‘I was thinking, sir, that very few masters would trouble
themselves to inquire whether or not their paid subordi-
nates were piqued and hurt by their orders.’
‘Paid subordinates! What! you are my paid subordinate,
are you? Oh yes, I had forgotten the salary! Well then, on
that mercenary ground, will you agree to let me hector a
little?’
‘No, sir, not on that ground; but, on the ground that you
did forget it, and that you care whether or not a dependent
is comfortable in his dependency, I agree heartily.’
‘And will you consent to dispense with a great many con-
ventional forms and phrases, without thinking that the
omission arises from insolence?’
‘I am sure, sir, I should never mistake informality for in-
solence: one I rather like, the other nothing free-born would
submit to, even for a salary.’
‘Humbug! Most things free-born will submit to any-
thing for a salary; therefore, keep to yourself, and don’t
venture on generalities of which you are intensely igno-
rant. However, I mentally shake hands with you for your
answer, despite its inaccuracy; and as much for the manner
in which it was said, as for the substance of the speech; the
manner was frank and sincere; one does not often see such
a manner: no, on the contrary, affectation, or coldness, or
stupid, coarse-minded misapprehension of one’s meaning
are the usual rewards of candour. Not three in three thou-

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sand raw school-girl-governesses would have answered me
as you have just done. But I don’t mean to flatter you: if you
are cast in a different mould to the majority, it is no merit of
yours: Nature did it. And then, after all, I go too fast in my
conclusions: for what I yet know, you may be no better than
the rest; you may have intolerable defects to counterbalance
your few good points.’
‘And so may you,’ I thought. My eye met his as the idea
crossed my mind: he seemed to read the glance, answering
as if its import had been spoken as well as imagined—
‘Yes, yes, you are right,’ said he; ‘I have plenty of faults
of my own: I know it, and I don’t wish to palliate them, I
assure you. God wot I need not be too severe about oth-
ers; I have a past existence, a series of deeds, a colour of
life to contemplate within my own breast, which might well
call my sneers and censures from my neighbours to myself.
I started, or rather (for like other defaulters, I like to lay
half the blame on ill fortune and adverse circumstances)
was thrust on to a wrong tack at the age of one-and- twen-
ty, and have never recovered 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 conscience, your unpolluted memory.
Little girl, a memory without blot or contamination must
be an exquisite treasure—an inexhaustible source of pure
refreshment: is it not?’
‘How was your memory when you were eighteen, sir?’
‘All right then; limpid, salubrious: no gush of bilge water
had turned it to fetid puddle. I was your equal at eighteen—

206 Jane Eyre

quite your equal. Nature meant me to be, on the whole, a
good man, Miss Eyre; one of the better kind, and you see
I am not so. You would say you don’t see it; at least I flatter
myself I read as much in your eye (beware, by-the-bye, what
you express with that organ; I am quick at interpreting its
language). Then take my word for it,—I am not a villain:
you are not to suppose that—not to attribute to me any such
bad eminence; but, owing, I verily believe, rather to circum-
stances than to my natural bent, I am a trite commonplace
sinner, hackneyed in all the poor petty dissipations with
which the rich and worthless try to put on life. Do you won-
der that I avow this to you? Know, that in the course of your
future life you will often find yourself elected the involun-
tary confidant of your acquaintances’ secrets: people will
instinctively find out, as I have done, that it is not your forte
to tell of yourself, but to listen while others talk of them-
selves; they will feel, too, that you listen with no malevolent
scorn of their indiscretion, but with a kind of innate sym-
pathy; not the less comforting and encouraging because it
is very unobtrusive in its manifestations.’
‘How do you know?—how can you guess all this, sir?’
‘I know it well; therefore I proceed almost as freely as
if I were writing my thoughts in a diary. You would say, I
should have been superior to circumstances; so I 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 cannot flatter myself that I
am better than he: I am forced to confess that he and I are

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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? 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 plea-
sure? 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?—you never tried it. How very seri-
ous—how very solemn you look: and you are as ignorant of
the matter as this cameo head’ (taking one from the man-
telpiece). ‘You have no right to preach to me, you neophyte,
that have not passed the porch of life, and are absolutely un-
acquainted with its mysteries.’
‘I only remind you of your own words, sir: you said error
brought remorse, and you pronounced remorse the poison
of existence.’
‘And who talks of error now? I scarcely think the notion
that flittered across my brain was an error. I believe it was
an inspiration rather than a temptation: it was very genial,
very 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

208 Jane Eyre

angel of light. I think I must admit so fair a guest when it
asks entrance to my heart.’
‘Distrust it, sir; it is not a true angel.’
‘Once more, how do you know? By what instinct do you
pretend to distinguish between a fallen seraph of the abyss
and a messenger from the eternal 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 yourself uneasy. Here, come in, bonny wander-
er!’
He said this as if he spoke to a vision, viewless to any eye
but his own; then, folding his arms, which he had half ex-
tended, on his chest, he seemed to enclose in their embrace
the invisible being.
‘Now,’ he continued, again addressing me, ‘I have re-
ceived the pilgrim—a disguised deity, as I verify 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, because it has got out of my
depth. Only one thing, I know: you said you were not as
good as you should like to be, and that you regretted your
own imperfection;—one thing I can comprehend: you inti-
mated that to have a sullied memory was a perpetual bane.
It seems to me, that if you tried hard, you would in time find

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it possible to become what you yourself would approve; and
that if from this day you began with resolution to correct
your thoughts and actions, you would in a few years have
laid up a new and stainless store of recollections, to which
you might revert with pleasure.’
‘Justly thought; rightly said, Miss Eyre; and, at this mo-
ment, I am paving hell with energy.’
‘Sir?’
‘I am laying down good intentions, which I believe du-
rable as flint. Certainly, my associates and pursuits shall be
other than they have been.’
‘And better?’
‘And better—so much better as pure ore is than foul
dross. You seem to 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 cannot be, sir, if they require a new statute to le-
galise them.’
‘They are, Miss Eyre, though they absolutely require a
new statute: unheard-of combinations of circumstances de-
mand unheard-of rules.’
‘That sounds a dangerous maxim, sir; because one can
see at once that it is liable to abuse.’
‘Sententious sage! so it is: but I swear by my household
gods not to abuse it.’
‘You are human and fallible.’
‘I am: so are you—what then?’
‘The human and fallible should not arrogate a power with

210 Jane Eyre

which the divine and perfect alone can be safely intrusted.’
‘What power?’
‘That of saying of any strange, unsanctioned line of ac-
tion,—‘Let it 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
beyond my penetration; at least, beyond its present reach;
and feeling the uncertainty, the vague sense of insecurity,
which accompanies a conviction of ignorance.
‘Where are you going?’
‘To put Adele to bed: it is past her bedtime.’
‘You are afraid of me, because I talk like a Sphynx.’
‘Your language is enigmatical, sir: but though I am be-
wildered, I am certainly not afraid.’
‘You ARE afraid—your self-love dreads a blunder.’
‘In that sense I do feel apprehensive—I have no wish to
talk nonsense.’
‘If you did, it would be in such a grave, quiet manner, I
should mistake it 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 nat-
urally austere, any more than I am naturally vicious. The
Lowood constraint still clings to you somewhat; control-
ling 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 gaily,

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speak too freely, or move too quickly: but, in time, I think
you will learn to be natural with me, as I find it impossi-
ble to be conventional with you; and then your looks and
movements will have more vivacity and variety than they
dare offer now. I see at intervals the glance of a curious sort
of bird through the close-set bars of a cage: a vivid, restless,
resolute captive is there; were it but free, it would soar cloud-
high. You are still bent on going?’
‘It has struck nine, sir.’
‘Never mind,—wait a minute: 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, favours observation. While talk-
ing to you, I have also occasionally watched Adele (I have
my own reasons for thinking her a curious study,—reasons
that I may, nay, that I shall, impart to you some day). She
pulled out of her box, about ten minutes ago, a little pink
silk frock; rapture lit her face as she unfolded it; coquetry
runs in her blood, blends with her brains, and seasons the
marrow of her bones. ‘Il faut que je l’essaie!’ cried she, ‘et e
l’instant 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 see,—a miniature
of Celine Varens, as she used to appear on the boards at
the rising of— But never mind that. However, my tenderest
feelings are about to receive a shock: such is my presenti-
ment; stay now, to see whether it will be realised.’
Ere long, Adele’s little foot was heard tripping across the
hall. She entered, transformed as her guardian had predict-
ed. A dress of rose-coloured satin, very short, and as full in

212 Jane Eyre

the skirt as it could be gathered, replaced the brown frock
she had previously worn; a wreath of rosebuds circled her
forehead; her feet were dressed in silk stockings and small
white satin sandals.
‘Est-ce que ma robe va bien?’ cried she, bounding for-
wards; ‘et mes souliers? et mes bas? Tenez, je crois que je
vais danser!’
And spreading out her dress, she chasseed across the
room till, having reached Mr. Rochester, she wheeled light-
ly round before him on tip-toe, then dropped on one knee
at his feet, exclaiming—
‘Monsieur, je vous remercie mille fois de votre bonte;’
then rising, she added, ‘C’est comme cela que maman fai-
sait, n’est-ce pas, monsieur?’
‘Pre-cise-ly!’ was the answer; ‘and, ‘comme cela,’ she
charmed my English gold out of my British breeches’ pock-
et. I have been green, too, Miss Eyre,—ay, grass green: not a
more vernal tint freshens you now than once freshened me.
My Spring is gone, however, but it has left me that French
floweret on my hands, which, in some moods, I would fain
be rid of. Not valuing now the root whence it sprang; hav-
ing found that it was of a sort which nothing but gold dust
could manure, I 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 ex-
plain all this some day. Good- night.’

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Chapter XV

M r. 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 op-
era-dancer, Celine Varens, towards whom he had once
cherished what he called a ‘grande passion.’ This passion
Celine had professed to return with even superior ardour.
He thought himself her idol, ugly as he was: he believed, as
he said, that she preferred his ‘taille d’athlete’ to the ele-
gance of the Apollo Belvidere.
‘And, Miss Eyre, so much was I flattered by this preference
of the Gallic sylph for her British gnome, that I installed her
in an hotel; gave her a complete establishment of servants,
a carriage, cashmeres, diamonds, dentelles, &c. In short, I
began the process of ruining myself in the received style,
like any other spoony. I had not, it seems, the originality to
chalk out a new road to shame and destruction, but trode
the old track with stupid exactness not to deviate an inch
from the beaten centre. I had—as I deserved to have—the
fate of all other spoonies. Happening to call one evening
when Celine did not expect me, I found her out; but it was
a warm night, and I was tired with strolling through Par-

214 Jane Eyre

 is, so I sat down in her boudoir; happy to breathe the air
consecrated so lately by her presence. No,—I exaggerate; I
never thought there was any consecrating virtue about her:
it was rather a sort of pastille perfume she had left; a scent
of musk and amber, than an odour of sanctity. I was just be-
ginning to stifle with the fumes of conservatory flowers and
sprinkled essences, when I bethought myself to open the
window and step out on to the balcony. It was moonlight
and gaslight besides, and very still and serene. The balcony
was furnished with a chair or two; I sat down, and took out
a cigar,—I will take one now, if you will excuse me.’
Here ensued a pause, filled up by the producing and
lighting of a cigar; having placed it to his lips and breathed
a trail of Havannah incense on the freezing and sunless air,
he went on—
‘I liked bonbons too in those days, Miss Eyre, and I was
croquant— (overlook the barbarism)—croquant chocolate
comfits, and smoking alternately, watching meantime the
equipages that rolled along the fashionable streets towards
the neighbouring opera-house, when in an elegant close
carriage drawn by a beautiful pair of English horses, and
distinctly seen in the brilliant city-night, I recognised the
‘voiture’ I had given Celine. She was returning: of course my
heart thumped with impatience against the iron rails I leant
upon. The carriage stopped, as I had expected, at the hotel
door; my flame (that is the very word for an opera inamo-
rata) alighted: though muffed in a cloak—an unnecessary
encumbrance, by-the-bye, on so warm a June evening—I
knew her instantly by her little foot, seen peeping from the

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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 under the arched porte cochere of the hotel.
‘You never felt jealousy, did you, Miss Eyre? Of course
not: I need not ask you; because you never felt love. You
have both sentiments yet to experience: your soul sleeps;
the shock is yet to be given which shall waken it. You think
all existence lapses in as quiet a flow as that in which your
youth has hitherto slid away. Floating on with closed eyes
and muffled ears, you neither see the rocks bristling not far
off in the bed of the flood, nor hear the breakers boil at their
base. But I tell you—and you may mark my words—you will
come some day to a craggy pass in the channel, where the
whole of life’s stream will be broken up into whirl and tu-
mult, foam and noise: either you will be dashed to atoms on
crag points, or lifted up and borne on by some master-wave
into a calmer currentas I am now.
‘I like this day; I like that sky of steel; I like the sternness
and stillness of the world under this frost. I like Thornfield,
its antiquity, its retirement, its old crow-trees and thorn-
trees, its grey facade, and lines of dark windows reflecting
that metal welkin: and yet how long have I abhorred the
very thought of it, shunned it like a great plague-house?
How I do still abhor—.’
He ground his teeth and was silent: he arrested his step

216 Jane Eyre

and struck his boot against the hard ground. Some hated
thought seemed to have him in its grip, and to hold him so
tightly that he could not advance.
We were ascending the avenue when he thus paused;
the hall was before us. Lifting his eye to its battlements, he
cast over them a glare such as I never saw before or since.
Pain, shame, ire, impatience, disgust, detestation, seemed
momentarily to hold a quivering conflict in the large pu-
pil 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 ar-
ranging a point with my destiny. She stood there, by that
beech-trunk—a hag like one of those who appeared to Mac-
beth on the heath of Forres. ‘You like Thornfield?’ she said,
lifting her finger; and then she wrote in the air a memento,
which ran in lurid hieroglyphics all along the house-front,
between the upper and lower row of windows, ‘Like it if you
can! Like it if you dare!’
‘I will like it,’ said I; ‘I dare like it;’ and’ (he subjoined
moodily) ‘I will keep my word; I will break obstacles to
happiness, to 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, hindrances which
others count as iron and brass, I will esteem but straw and
rotten wood.’
Adele here ran before him with her shuttlecock. ‘Away!’

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he cried harshly; ‘keep at a distance, child; or go in to So-
phie!’ Continuing then to pursue his walk in silence, I
ventured to recall him to the point whence he had abruptly
diverged—
‘Did you leave the balcony, sir,’ I asked, ‘when Mdlle. Va-
rens entered?’
I almost expected a rebuff for this hardly well-timed
question, but, on the contrary, waking out of his scowling
abstraction, he turned his eyes towards me, and the shade
seemed to clear off his brow. ‘Oh, I had forgotten Celine!
Well, to resume. When I saw my charmer thus come in ac-
companied by a cavalier, I seemed to hear a hiss, and the
green snake of jealousy, rising on undulating coils from
the moonlit balcony, glided within my waistcoat, and ate
its way in two minutes to my heart’s core. Strange!’ he ex-
claimed, suddenly starting again from the point. ‘Strange
that I should choose you for the confidant of all this, young
lady; passing strange that you should listen to me quietly, as
if it were the most usual thing in the world for a man like
me to tell stories of his opera-mistresses to a quaint, inex-
perienced girl like you! But the last singularity explains the
first, as I intimated once before: you, with your gravity, con-
siderateness, 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. Hap-
pily I do not mean to harm it: but, if I did, it would not take
harm from me. The more you and I converse, the better; for
while I cannot blight you, you may refresh me.’ After this

218 Jane Eyre

digression he proceeded—
‘I remained in the balcony. ‘They will come to her bou-
doir, 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 lov-
ers’ whispered vows: then I stole back to my chair; and as I
resumed it the pair came in. My eye was quickly at the ap-
erture. Celine’s chamber-maid entered, lit a lamp, left it on
the table, and withdrew. The couple were thus revealed to
me clearly: both removed their cloaks, and there was ‘the
Varens,’ shining in satin and jewels,—my gifts of course,—
and there was her companion in an 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 despised him so ab-
solutely. On recognising him, the fang of the snake Jealousy
was instantly broken; because at the same moment my love
for Celine sank under an extinguisher. A woman who could
betray me for such a rival was not worth contending for; she
deserved only scorn; less, however, than I, who had been
her dupe.
‘They began to talk; their conversation eased me com-
pletely: frivolous, mercenary, heartless, and senseless, it was
rather calculated to weary than enrage a listener. A card
of mine lay on the table; this being perceived, brought my
name under discussion. Neither of them possessed ener-
gy or wit to belabour me soundly, but they insulted me as

Free eBooks at Planet [Link] 219

 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 launch out into fervent admiration of what she called my
‘beaute male:’ wherein she differed diametrically from you,
who told me point-blank, at the second interview, that you
did not think me handsome. The contrast struck me at the
time and—‘
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 protec-
tion; gave her notice to vacate her hotel; offered her a purse
for immediate exigencies; disregarded screams, hysterics,
prayers, protestations, convulsions; made an appointment
with the vicomte for a meeting at the Bois de Boulogne.
Next morning I had the pleasure of encountering him; left a
bullet in one of his poor etiolated arms, feeble as the wing of
a chicken in the pip, and then thought I had done with the
whole crew. But unluckily the Varens, six months before,
had given me this filette Adele, who, she affirmed, was my
daughter; and perhaps she may be, though I see no proofs
of such grim paternity written in her countenance: Pilot is
more like me than she. Some years after I had broken with
the mother, she abandoned her child, and ran away to It-
aly 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

220 Jane Eyre

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 country gar-
den. Mrs. Fairfax found you to train it; but now you know
that it is the illegitimate offspring of a French opera- girl,
you will perhaps think differently of your post and prote-
gee: you will be coming to me some day with notice that you
have found another place—that you beg me to look out for a
new governess, &[Link]?’
‘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 spoilt pet of a wealthy fam-
ily, who would hate her governess as a nuisance, to a lonely
little orphan, who leans towards her as a friend?’
‘Oh, that is the light in which you view it! Well, I must go
in now; and you too: it darkens.’
But I stayed out a few minutes longer with Adele and Pi-
lot—ran a race with her, and played a game of battledore
and shuttlecock. When we went in, and I had removed her
bonnet and coat, I took her on my knee; kept her there an
hour, allowing her to prattle as she liked: not rebuking even
some little freedoms and trivialities into which she was apt
to stray when much noticed, and which betrayed in her a
superficiality of character, inherited probably from her
mother, hardly congenial to an English mind. Still she had
her merits; and I was disposed to appreciate all that was
good in her to the utmost. I sought in her countenance and

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features a likeness to Mr. Rochester, but found none: no
trait, no turn of expression announced relationship. It was
a pity: if she could but have been proved to resemble him, he
would have thought more of her.
It was not till after I had withdrawn to my own chamber
for the night, that I steadily reviewed the tale Mr. Rochester
had told me. As he had said, there was probably nothing at
all extraordinary in the substance of the narrative itself: a
wealthy 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 wonderingly on this incident; but
gradually quitting it, as I found it for the present inexpli-
cable, 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 towards me than at the first. I never seemed
in his way; he did not take fits of chilling hauteur: when
he met me unexpectedly, the encounter seemed welcome;
he had always a word and sometimes a smile for me: when
summoned by formal invitation to his presence, I was hon-
oured by a cordiality of reception that made me feel I really
possessed the power to amuse him, and that these evening
conferences were sought as much for his pleasure as for my
benefit.

222 Jane Eyre

 I, indeed, talked comparatively little, but I heard him
talk with relish. It was his nature to be communicative;
he liked to open to a mind unacquainted with the world
glimpses of its scenes and ways (I do not mean its corrupt
scenes and wicked ways, but such as derived their interest
from the great scale on which they were acted, the strange
novelty by which they were characterised); and I had a keen
delight in receiving the new ideas he offered, in imagin-
ing the new pictures he portrayed, and following him in
thought through the new regions he disclosed, never star-
tled or troubled by one noxious allusion.
The ease of his manner freed me from painful restraint:
the friendly frankness, as correct as cordial, with which he
treated me, drew me to him. I felt at times as if he were
my relation rather than my master: yet he was imperious
sometimes still; but I did not mind that; I saw it was his way.
So happy, so gratified did I become with this new interest
added to life, that I ceased to pine after kindred: my thin
crescent-destiny seemed to enlarge; the blanks of existence
were filled up; my bodily health improved; I gathered flesh
and strength.
And was Mr. Rochester now ugly in my eyes? No, reader:
gratitude, and many associations, all pleasurable and genial,
made his face the object I best liked to see; his presence in
a room was more cheering than the brightest fire. Yet I had
not forgotten his faults; indeed, I could not, for he brought
them frequently before me. He was proud, sardonic, harsh
to inferiority of every description: in my secret soul I knew
that his great kindness to me was balanced by unjust sever-

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ity to many others. He was moody, too; unaccountably so;
I more than once, when sent for to read to him, found him
sitting in his library alone, with his head bent on his folded
arms; and, when he looked up, a morose, almost a malig-
nant, scowl blackened his features. But I believed that his
moodiness, his harshness, and his former faults of moral-
ity (I say FORMER, for now he seemed corrected of them)
had their source in some cruel cross of fate. I believed he
was naturally a man of better tendencies, higher principles,
and purer tastes than such as circumstances had developed,
education instilled, or destiny encouraged. I thought there
were excellent materials in him; though for the present they
hung together somewhat spoiled and tangled. I cannot deny
that I grieved for his grief, whatever that was, and would
have given much to assuage it.
Though I had now extinguished my candle and was laid
down in bed, I could not sleep for thinking of his look when
he paused in the avenue, and told how his destiny had risen
up before him, and dared him to be happy at Thornfield.
‘Why not?’ I asked myself. ‘What alienates him from the
house? Will he leave it again soon? Mrs. Fairfax said he sel-
dom 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, sum-
mer, and autumn: how joyless sunshine and fine days will
seem!’
I hardly know whether I had slept or not after this musing;
at any rate, I started wide awake on hearing a vague mur-
mur, peculiar and lugubrious, which sounded, I thought,

224 Jane Eyre

just above me. I wished I had kept my candle burning: the
night was drearily dark; my spirits were depressed. I rose
and sat up in bed, listening. The sound was hushed.
I tried again to sleep; but my heart beat anxiously: my
inward tranquillity was broken. The clock, far down in the
hall, struck two. Just then it seemed my chamber-door was
touched; as if fingers had swept the panels in groping a way
along the dark gallery outside. I said, ‘Who is there?’ Noth-
ing 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 unfre-
quently found his way up to the threshold of Mr. Rochester’s
chamber: I had seen him lying there myself in the morn-
ings. The idea calmed me somewhat: I lay down. Silence
composes the nerves; and as an unbroken hush now reigned
again through the whole house, I began to feel the return of
slumber. But it was not fated that I should sleep that night.
A dream had scarcely approached my ear, when it fled af-
frighted, scared by a marrow-freezing incident enough.
This was a demoniac laugh—low, suppressed, and deep—
uttered, 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
reiterated: and I knew it came from behind the panels. My
first impulse was to rise and fasten the bolt; my next, again
to cry out, ‘Who is there?’
Something gurgled and moaned. Ere long, steps retreat-

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ed up the gallery towards the third-storey staircase: a door
had lately been made to shut in that staircase; I heard it
open and close, and all was still.
‘Was that Grace Poole? and is she possessed with a dev-
il?’ thought I. Impossible now to remain longer by myself: I
must go to Mrs. Fairfax. I hurried on my frock and a shawl;
I withdrew the bolt and opened the door with a trembling
hand. There was a candle burning just outside, and on the
matting in the gallery. I was surprised at this circumstance:
but still more was I amazed to perceive the air quite dim, as
if filled with smoke; and, while looking to the right hand
and left, to find whence these blue wreaths issued, I became
further aware of a strong smell of burning.
Something creaked: it was a door ajar; and that door
was Mr. 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 instant, I was with-
in the chamber. Tongues of flame darted round the bed: the
curtains were on fire. In the midst of blaze and vapour, Mr.
Rochester lay stretched motionless, in deep sleep.
‘Wake! wake!’ I cried. I shook him, but he only mur-
mured and turned: the smoke had stupefied him. Not a
moment could be lost: the very sheets were kindling, I
rushed to his basin and ewer; fortunately, one was wide and
the other deep, and both were filled with water. I heaved
them up, deluged the bed and its occupant, flew back to my
own room, brought my own water-jug, baptized the couch
afresh, and, by God’s aid, succeeded in extinguishing the
flames which were devouring it.

226 Jane Eyre

 The hiss of the quenched element, the breakage of a
pitcher which I flung from my hand when I had emptied it,
and, above all, the splash of the shower-bath I had liberally
bestowed, roused Mr. Rochester at last. Though it was now
dark, I knew he was awake; because I heard him fulminat-
ing strange anathemas at finding himself lying in a pool of
water.
‘Is there a flood?’ he cried.
‘No, sir,’ I answered; ‘but there has been a fire: get up, do;
you are quenched now; I will fetch you a candle.’
‘In the name of all the elves in Christendom, is that Jane
Eyre?’ he demanded. ‘What have you done with me, witch,
sorceress? Who is in the room besides you? Have you plot-
ted to drown me?’
‘I will fetch you a candle, sir; and, in Heaven’s name, get
up. Somebody has plotted something: you cannot too soon
find out who and what it is.’
‘There! I am up now; but at your peril you fetch a can-
dle 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? and who did it?’ he asked. I briefly related
to him what had transpired: the strange laugh I had heard
in the gallery: the step ascending to the third storey; the
smoke,—the smell of fire which had conducted me to his

Free eBooks at Planet [Link] 227

 room; in what state I had found matters there, and how I
had deluged him with all the water I could lay hands on.
He listened very gravely; his face, as I went on, expressed
more concern than astonishment; he did not immediately
speak when I had concluded.
‘Shall I call Mrs. Fairfax?’ I asked.
‘Mrs. Fairfax? No; what the deuce would you call her for?
What can she do? Let her sleep unmolested.’
‘Then I will fetch Leah, and wake John and his wife.’
‘Not at all: just be still. You have a shawl on. If you are
not warm enough, you may take my cloak yonder; wrap it
about you, and sit down in the arm-chair: there,—I will put
it on. Now place your feet on the stool, to keep them out of
the wet. I am going to leave you a few minutes. I shall take
the candle. Remain where you are till I return; be as still as
a mouse. I must pay a visit to the second storey. Don’t move,
remember, or call any one.’
He went: I watched the light withdraw. He passed up the
gallery very softly, unclosed the staircase door with as little
noise as possible, shut it 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

228 Jane Eyre

out,’ said he, setting his candle down on the washstand; ‘it
is as I thought.’
‘How, sir?’
He made no reply, but stood with his arms folded, look-
ing on the ground. At the end of a few minutes he inquired
in rather a peculiar tone—
‘I forget whether you said you saw anything when you
opened your chamber door.’
‘No, sir, only the candlestick on the ground.’
‘But you heard an odd laugh? You have heard that laugh
before, I should think, or something like it?’
‘Yes, sir: there is a woman who sews here, called Grace
Poole,—she laughs in that way. She is a singular person.’
‘Just so. Grace Poole—you have guessed it. She is, as
you say, singular—very. Well, I shall reflect on the subject.
Meantime, I am glad that you are the only person, besides
myself, acquainted with the precise details of to-night’s in-
cident. You are no talking fool: say nothing about it. I will
account for this state of affairs’ (pointing to the bed): ‘and
now return to your own room. I shall do very well on the
sofa in the library for the rest of the night. It is near four:- in
two hours the servants will be up.’
‘Good-night, then, sir,’ said I, departing.
He seemed surprised—very inconsistently so, as he had
just told me to go.
‘What!’ he exclaimed, ‘are you quitting me already, and
in that way?’
‘You said I might go, sir.’
‘But not without taking leave; not without a word or two

Free eBooks at Planet [Link] 229

of acknowledgment and good-will: not, in short, in that
brief, dry fashion. Why, you have saved my life!—snatched
me from a horrible and excruciating death! and you walk
past me as if we were mutual strangers! At least shake
hands.’
He held out his hand; I gave him mine: he took it first in
one, them in both his own.
‘You have saved my life: I have a pleasure in owing you so
immense a debt. I cannot say more. Nothing else that has
being would have been tolerable to me in the character of
creditor for such an obligation: but you: it is different;—I
feel your benefits no burden, Jane.’
He paused; gazed at me: words almost visible trembled
on his lips,but his voice was checked.
‘Good-night again, sir. There is no debt, benefit, burden,
obligation, in the case.’
‘I knew,’ he continued, ‘you would do me good in some
way, at some time;—I saw it in your eyes when I first be-
held you: their expression and smile did not’—(again he
stopped)—‘did not’ (he proceeded hastily) ‘strike delight to
my very inmost heart so for nothing. People talk of natu-
ral sympathies; I have heard of good genii: there are grains
of truth in the wildest fable. My cherished preserver, good-
night!’
Strange energy was in his voice, strange fire in his look.
‘I am glad I happened to be awake,’ I said: and then I was
going.
‘What! you WILL go?’
‘I am cold, sir.’

230 Jane Eyre

 ‘Cold? Yes,—and standing in a pool! Go, then, Jane; go!’
But he still retained my hand, and I could not free it. I be-
thought myself of an expedient.
‘I think I hear Mrs. Fairfax move, sir,’ said I.
‘Well, leave me:’ he relaxed his fingers, and I was gone.
I regained my couch, but never thought of sleep. Till
morning dawned I was tossed on a buoyant but unquiet sea,
where billows of trouble rolled under surges of joy. I thought
sometimes I saw beyond its wild waters a shore, sweet as the
hills of Beulah; and now and then a freshening gale, wak-
ened by hope, bore my spirit triumphantly towards the
bourne: but I could not reach it, even in fancy—a counter-
acting 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.

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Chapter XVI

I both wished and feared to see Mr. Rochester on the day

which followed this sleepless night: I wanted to hear his
voice again, yet feared to meet his eye. During the early part
of the morning, I momentarily expected his coming; he was
not in the frequent habit of entering the schoolroom, but he
did step in for a few minutes sometimes, and I had the im-
pression that he was sure to visit it that day.
But the morning passed just as usual: nothing happened
to interrupt the quiet course of Adele’s studies; only soon
after breakfast, I heard some bustle in the neighbourhood
of Mr. Rochester’s chamber, Mrs. Fairfax’s voice, and Le-
ah’s, and the cook’s—that is, John’s wife—and even John’s
own gruff tones. There were exclamations of ‘What a mercy
master was not burnt in his bed!’ ‘It is always dangerous to
keep a candle lit at night.’ ‘How providential that he had
presence of mind to think of the water-jug!’ ‘I wonder he
waked nobody!’ ‘It is to be hoped he will not take cold with
sleeping on the library sofa,’ &c.
To much confabulation succeeded a sound of scrubbing
and setting to rights; and when I passed the room, in go-
ing downstairs to dinner, I saw through the open door that
all was again restored to complete order; only the bed was
stripped of its hangings. Leah stood up in the window-seat,
rubbing the panes of glass dimmed with smoke. I was about

232 Jane Eyre

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 oth-
er than Grace Poole.
There she sat, staid and taciturn-looking, as usual, in
her brown stuff gown, her check apron, white handkerchief,
and cap. She was intent on her work, in which her whole
thoughts seemed absorbed: on her hard forehead, and in
her commonplace features, was nothing either of the pale-
ness 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 colour betrayed emotion, consciousness of guilt,
or fear of detection. She said ‘Good morning, Miss,’ in her
usual phlegmatic and brief manner; and taking up another
ring and more tape, went on with her sewing.
‘I will put her to some test,’ thought I: ‘such absolute im-
penetrability is past comprehension.’
‘Good morning, Grace,’ I said. ‘Has anything happened
here? I thought I heard the servants all talking together a
while ago.’
‘Only master had been reading in his bed last night; he
fell asleep with his candle lit, and the curtains got on fire;
but, fortunately, he awoke before the bed-clothes or the
wood-work caught, and contrived to quench the flames

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with the water in the ewer.
‘A strange affair!’ I said, in a low voice: then, looking at
her fixedly—‘Did Mr. Rochester wake nobody? Did no one
hear him move?’
She again raised her eyes to me, and this time there was
something of consciousness in their expression. She seemed
to examine me warily; then she answered—
‘The servants sleep so far off, you know, Miss, they would
not be likely to hear. Mrs. Fairfax’s room and yours are the
nearest to master’s; but Mrs. Fairfax said she heard nothing:
when people get elderly, they often sleep heavy.’ She paused,
and then added, with a sort of assumed indifference, but
still in a marked and significant tone—‘But you are young,
Miss; and I should say a light sleeper: perhaps you may have
heard a noise?’
‘I did,’ said I, dropping my voice, so that Leah, who was
still polishing the panes, could not hear me, ‘and at first I
thought it was Pilot: but Pilot cannot laugh; and I am cer-
tain I heard a laugh, and a strange one.’
She took a new needleful of thread, waxed it carefully,
threaded her needle with a steady hand, and then observed,
with perfect composure—
‘It is hardly likely master would laugh, I should think,
Miss, when he was in such danger: You must have been
dreaming.’
‘I was not dreaming,’ I said, with some warmth, for her
brazen coolness provoked me. Again she looked at me; and
with the same scrutinising and conscious eye.
‘Have you told master that you heard a laugh?’ she in-

234 Jane Eyre

 quired.
‘I have not had the opportunity of speaking to him this
morning.’
‘You did not think of opening your door and looking out
into the gallery?’ she further asked.
She appeared to be cross-questioning me, attempting to
draw from me information unawares. The idea struck me
that if she discovered I knew or suspected her guilt, she
would be playing of some of her malignant pranks on me; I
thought it advisable to be on my guard.
‘On the contrary,’ said I, ‘I bolted my door.’
‘Then you are not in the habit of bolting your door every
night before you get into bed?’
‘Fiend! she wants to know my habits, that she may lay her
plans accordingly!’ Indignation again prevailed over pru-
dence: I replied sharply, ‘Hitherto I have often omitted to
fasten the bolt: I did not think it necessary. I was not aware
any danger or annoyance was to be dreaded at Thornfield
Hall: but in future’ (and I laid marked stress on the words)
‘I shall take good care to make all secure before I venture to
lie down.’
‘It will be wise so to do,’ was her answer: ‘this neigh-
bourhood is as quiet as any I know, and I never heard of
the hall being attempted by robbers since it was a house;
though there are hundreds of pounds’ worth of plate in the
plate-closet, as is well known. And you see, for such a large
house, there are very few servants, because master has never
lived here much; and when he does come, being a bachelor,
he needs little waiting on: but I always think it best to err

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on the safe side; a door is soon fastened, and it is as well
to have a drawn bolt between one and any mischief that
may be about. A deal of people, Miss, are for trusting all to
Providence; but I say Providence will not dispense with the
means, though He often blesses them when they are used
discreetly.’ And here she closed her harangue: a long one for
her, and uttered with the demureness of a Quakeress.
I still stood absolutely dumfoundered at what appeared
to me her miraculous self-possession and most inscrutable
hypocrisy, when the cook entered.
‘Mrs. Poole,’ said she, addressing Grace, ‘the servants’
dinner will soon be ready: will you come down?’
‘No; just put my pint of porter and bit of pudding on a
tray, and I’ll carry it upstairs.’
‘You’ll have some meat?’
‘Just a morsel, and a taste of cheese, that’s all.’
‘And the sago?’
‘Never mind it at present: I shall be coming down before
teatime: I’ll make it myself.’
The 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 po-
sition at Thornfield and questioning why she had not been
given into custody that morning, or, at the very least, dis-
missed from her master’s service. He had almost as much as
declared his conviction of her criminality last night: what

236 Jane Eyre

mysterious cause withheld him from accusing her? Why
had he enjoined me, too, to secrecy? It was strange: a bold,
vindictive, and haughty gentleman seemed somehow in the
power of one of the meanest of his dependants; so much in
her power, that even when she lifted her hand against his
life, he dared not openly charge her with the attempt, much
less punish her for it.
Had Grace been young and handsome, I should have
been tempted to think that tenderer feelings than prudence
or fear influenced Mr. Rochester in her behalf; but, hard-
favoured and matronly as she was, the idea could not be
admitted. ‘Yet,’ I reflected, ‘she has been young once; her
youth would be contemporary with her master’s: Mrs. Fair-
fax told me once, she had lived here many years. I don’t think
she can ever have been pretty; but, for aught I know, she
may possess originality and strength of character to com-
pensate for the want of personal advantages. Mr. Rochester
is an amateur of the decided and eccentric: Grace is eccen-
tric at least. What if a former caprice (a freak very possible
to a nature so sudden and headstrong as his) has delivered
him into her power, and she now exercises over his actions
a secret influence, the result of his own indiscretion, which
he cannot shake off, and dare not disregard?’ But, having
reached this point of conjecture, Mrs. Poole’s square, flat
figure, and uncomely, dry, even coarse face, recurred so dis-
tinctly to my mind’s eye, that I thought, ‘No; impossible!
my supposition cannot be correct. Yet,’ suggested the secret
voice which talks to us in our own hearts, ‘you are not beau-
tiful either, and perhaps Mr. Rochester approves you: at any

Free eBooks at Planet [Link] 237

rate, you have often felt as if he did; and last night—remem-
ber his words; remember his look; remember his voice!’
I well remembered all; language, glance, and tone seemed
at the moment vividly renewed. I was now in the 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?’ said she. ‘Vos doigts
tremblent comme la feuille, et vos joues sont rouges: mais,
rouges comme des cerises!’
‘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 differ-
ent. Bessie 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 colour and more flesh,
more life, more vivacity, because I had brighter hopes and
keener enjoyments.
‘Evening approaches,’ said I, as I looked towards the win-
dow. ‘I have never heard Mr. Rochester’s voice or step in
the house to-day; but surely I shall see him before night: I
feared the meeting in the morning; now I desire it, because
expectation has been so long baffled that it is grown impa-
tient.’
When dusk actually closed, and when Adele left me to go
and play in the nursery with Sophie, I did most keenly de-
sire it. I listened for the bell to ring below; I listened for Leah
coming up with a message; I fancied sometimes I heard Mr.

238 Jane Eyre

 Rochester’s own tread, and I turned to the door, expecting
it to open and admit him. The door remained shut; dark-
ness 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 re-
ally believed it was she who had made last night’s hideous
attempt; and if so, why he kept her wickedness a secret. It lit-
tle mattered whether my curiosity irritated him; I knew the
pleasure of vexing and soothing him by turns; it was one I
chiefly delighted in, and a sure instinct always prevented me
from going too far; beyond the verge of provocation I never
ventured; on the extreme brink I liked well to try my skill.
Retaining every minute form of respect, every propriety of
my station, I could still meet him in argument without fear
or uneasy restraint; this suited both him and me.
A tread creaked on the stairs at last. Leah made her ap-
pearance; but it was only to intimate that tea was ready in
Mrs. Fairfax’s room. Thither I repaired, glad at least to go
downstairs; for that brought me, I imagined, nearer to Mr.
Rochester’s presence.
‘You must want your tea,’ said the good lady, as I joined
her; ‘you ate so little at dinner. I am afraid,’ she continued,
‘you are not well to-day: you look flushed and feverish.’
‘Oh, quite well! I never felt better.’
‘Then you must prove it by evincing a good appetite; will
you fill the teapot while I knit off this needle?’ Having com-

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pleted her task, she rose to draw down the blind, which she
had hitherto kept up, by way, I suppose, of making the most
of daylight, though dusk was now fast deepening into total
obscurity.
‘It is fair to-night,’ said she, as she looked through the
panes, ‘though not starlight; Mr. Rochester has, on the
whole, had a favourable day for his journey.’
‘Journey!—Is Mr. Rochester gone anywhere? I did not
know he was out.’
‘Oh, he set of the moment he had breakfasted! He is gone
to the Leas, Mr. Eshton’s place, ten miles on the other side
Millcote. I believe there is quite a party assembled there;
Lord Ingram, Sir George Lynn, Colonel Dent, and others.’
‘Do you expect him back to-night?’
‘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
gaiety, so well provided with all that can please and enter-
tain, they are in no hurry to separate. Gentlemen especially
are often in request on such occasions; and Mr. Rochester is
so talented and so lively in society, that I believe he is a gen-
eral favourite: the ladies are very fond of him; though you
would not think his appearance calculated to recommend
him particularly in their eyes: but I suppose his acquire-
ments and abilities, perhaps his wealth and good blood,
make amends for any little fault of look.’
‘Are there ladies at the Leas?’
‘There are Mrs. Eshton and her three daughters—very el-
egant young ladies indeed; and there are the Honourable

240 Jane Eyre

Blanche and Mary Ingram, most beautiful women, I sup-
pose: indeed I have seen Blanche, six or seven years since,
when she was a girl of eighteen. She came here to a Christ-
mas ball and party Mr. Rochester gave. You should have
seen the dining-room that day—how richly it was decorated,
how brilliantly lit up! I should think there were fifty ladies
and gentlemen present—all of the first county families; and
Miss Ingram was considered the belle of the evening.’
‘You saw her, you say, Mrs. Fairfax: what was she like?’
‘Yes, I saw her. The dining-room doors were thrown
open; and, as it was Christmas-time, the servants were al-
lowed to assemble in the hall, to hear some of the ladies sing
and play. Mr. Rochester would have me to come in, and I
sat down in a quiet corner and watched them. I never saw a
more splendid scene: the ladies were magnificently dressed;
most of them—at least most of the younger ones—looked
handsome; but Miss Ingram was certainly the queen.’
‘And what was she like?’
‘Tall, fine bust, sloping shoulders; long, graceful neck: ol-
ive complexion, dark and clear; noble features; eyes rather
like Mr. Rochester’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-coloured
scarf was passed over her shoulder and across her breast,
tied at the side, and descending in long, fringed ends below
her knee. She wore an amber-coloured flower, too, in her
hair: it contrasted well with the jetty mass of her curls.’

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 ‘She was greatly admired, of course?’
‘Yes, indeed: and not only for her beauty, but for her
accomplishments. She was one of the ladies who sang:
a gentleman accompanied her on the piano. She and Mr.
Rochester sang a duet.’
‘Mr. Rochester? I was not aware he could sing.’
‘Oh! he has a fine bass voice, and an excellent taste for
music.’
‘And Miss Ingram: what sort of a voice had she?’
‘A very rich and powerful one: she sang delightfully; it
was a treat to listen to her;—and she played afterwards. I am
no judge of music, but Mr. Rochester is; and I heard him say
her execution was remarkably good.’
‘And this beautiful and accomplished lady, she is not yet
married?’
‘It appears not: I fancy neither she nor her sister have very
large fortunes. Old Lord Ingram’s estates were chiefly en-
tailed, and the eldest son came in for everything almost.’
‘But I wonder no wealthy nobleman or gentleman has
taken a fancy to her: Mr. Rochester, for instance. He is rich,
is he not?’
‘Oh! yes. But you see there is a considerable difference in
age: Mr. Rochester is nearly forty; she is but twenty-five.’
‘What of that? More unequal matches are made every
day.’
‘True: yet I should scarcely fancy Mr. Rochester would
entertain an idea of the sort. But you eat nothing: you have
scarcely tasted since you began tea.’
‘No: I am too thirsty to eat. Will you let me have another

242 Jane Eyre

cup?’
I was about again to revert to the probability of a union
between Mr. Rochester and the beautiful Blanche; but
Adele came in, and the conversation was turned into an-
other channel.
When once more alone, I reviewed the information I had
got; looked into my heart, examined its thoughts and feel-
ings, and endeavoured to bring back with a strict hand such
as had been straying through imagination’s boundless and
trackless waste, into the safe fold of common sense.
Arraigned at my own bar, Memory having given her
evidence of the hopes, wishes, sentiments I had been cher-
ishing since last night—of the general state of mind in
which I had indulged for nearly a fortnight past; Reason
having come forward and told, in her own quiet way a plain,
unvarnished tale, showing how I had rejected the real, and
rabidly devoured the ideal;—I pronounced judgment to this
effect:-
That a greater fool than Jane Eyre had never breathed the
breath of life; that a more fantastic idiot had never surfeit-
ed herself on sweet lies, and swallowed poison as if it were
nectar.
‘YOU,’ I said, ‘a favourite with Mr. Rochester? YOU gift-
ed with the power of pleasing him? YOU of importance to
him in any way? Go! your folly sickens me. And you have
derived pleasure from occasional tokens of preference—
equivocal tokens shown by a gentleman of family and a
man of the world to a dependent and a novice. How dared
you? Poor stupid dupe!—Could not even self- interest make

Free eBooks at Planet [Link] 243

you wiser? You repeated to yourself this morning the brief
scene of last night?—Cover your face and be ashamed! He
said something in praise of your eyes, did he? Blind pup-
py! Open their bleared lids and look on your own accursed
senselessness! It does good to no woman to be flattered by
her superior, who cannot possibly intend to marry her; and
it is madness in all women to let a secret love kindle within
them, which, if unreturned and unknown, must devour the
life that feeds it; and, if discovered and responded to, must
lead, ignis-fatus-like, into miry wilds whence there is no ex-
trication.
‘Listen, then, Jane Eyre, to your sentence: tomorrow,
place the glass before you, and draw in chalk your own pic-
ture, faithfully, without softening one defect; omit no harsh
line, smooth away no displeasing irregularity; write under
it, ‘Portrait of a Governess, disconnected, poor, and plain.’
‘Afterwards, take a piece of smooth ivory—you have one
prepared in your drawing-box: take your palette, mix your
freshest, finest, clearest tints; choose your most delicate
camel-hair pencils; delineate carefully the loveliest face you
can imagine; paint it in your softest shades and sweetest
lines, according to the description given by Mrs. Fairfax of
Blanche Ingram; remember the raven ringlets, the oriental
eye;—What! you revert to Mr. Rochester as a model! Order!
No snivel!—no sentiment!—no regret! I will endure only
sense and resolution. Recall the august yet harmonious
lineaments, the Grecian neck and bust; let the round and
dazzling arm be visible, and the delicate hand; omit neither
diamond ring nor gold bracelet; portray faithfully the attire,

244 Jane Eyre

aerial lace and glistening satin, graceful scarf and golden
rose; call it ‘Blanche, an accomplished lady of rank.’
‘Whenever, in future, you should chance to fancy Mr.
Rochester thinks well of you, take out these two pictures
and compare them: say, ‘Mr. Rochester might probably win
that noble lady’s love, if he chose to strive for it; is it likely
he would waste a serious thought on this indigent and in-
significant plebeian?’’
‘I’ll do it,’ I resolved: and having framed this determina-
tion, I grew calm, and fell asleep.
I kept my word. An hour or two sufficed to sketch my
own portrait in crayons; and in less than a fortnight I had
completed an ivory miniature of an imaginary Blanche In-
gram. It looked a lovely face enough, and when compared
with the real head in chalk, the contrast was as great as self-
control could desire. I derived benefit from the task: it had
kept my head and hands employed, and had given force and
fixedness to the new impressions I wished to stamp indel-
ibly on my heart.
Ere long, I had reason to congratulate myself on the
course of wholesome discipline to which I had thus forced
my feelings to submit. Thanks to it, I was able to meet sub-
sequent occurrences with a decent calm, which, had they
found me unprepared, I should probably have been unequal
to maintain, even externally.

Free eBooks at Planet [Link] 245

Chapter XVII

A week passed, and no news arrived of Mr. Roches-

ter: ten days, and still he did not come. Mrs. Fairfax
said she should not be surprised if he were to go straight
from the Leas to London, and thence to the Continent, and
not show his face again at Thornfield for a year to come;
he had not unfrequently quitted it in a manner quite as
abrupt and unexpected. When I heard this, I was begin-
ning to feel a strange chill and failing at the heart. I was
actually permitting myself to experience a sickening sense
of disappointment; but rallying my wits, and recollecting
my principles, I at once called my sensations to order; and
it was wonderful how I got over the temporary 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 teach-
ing his protegee, and to be grateful for such respectful and
kind treatment as, if you do your duty, you have a right to
expect at his hands. Be sure that is the only tie he seriously
acknowledges between you and him; so 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

246 Jane Eyre

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 suggestions kept wandering across my brain of
reasons why I should quit Thornfield; and I kept involun-
tarily framing advertisements and pondering conjectures
about new situations: these thoughts I did not think check;
they might germinate and bear fruit if they could.
Mr. Rochester had been absent upwards of a fortnight,
when the post brought Mrs. Fairfax a letter.
‘It is from the master,’ said she, as she looked at the di-
rection. ‘Now I suppose we shall know whether we are to
expect his return or not.’
And while she broke the seal and perused the document,
I went on taking my coffee (we were at breakfast): it was hot,
and I attributed to that circumstance a fiery glow which
suddenly rose to my face. Why my hand shook, and why I
involuntarily spilt half the contents of my cup into my sau-
cer, 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 specta-
cles.
Ere I permitted myself to request an explanation, 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?’

Free eBooks at Planet [Link] 247

 ‘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
directions for all the best bedrooms to be prepared; and the
library and drawing-rooms are to be cleaned out; I am to
get more kitchen hands from the George Inn, at Millcote,
and from wherever else I can; and the ladies will bring their
maids and the gentlemen their valets: so we shall have a full
house of it.’ And Mrs. Fairfax swallowed her breakfast and
hastened away to commence operations.
The three days were, as she had foretold, busy enough. I
had thought all the rooms at Thornfield beautifully clean
and well arranged; but it appears I was mistaken. Three
women were got to help; and such scrubbing, such brushing,
such washing of paint and beating of carpets, such taking
down and putting up of pictures, such polishing of mirrors
and lustres, such lighting of fires in bedrooms, such airing
of sheets and feather-beds on hearths, I never beheld, ei-
ther before or since. Adele ran quite wild in the midst of
it: the preparations for company and the prospect of their
arrival, seemed to throw her into ecstasies. She would have
Sophie to look over all her ‘toilettes,’ as she called frocks; to
furbish up any that were ‘passees,’ and to air and arrange
the new. For herself, she did nothing but caper about in the
front chambers, jump on and off the bedsteads, and lie on
the mattresses and piled-up bolsters and pillows before the
enormous fires roaring in the chimneys. From school du-
ties she was exonerated: Mrs. Fairfax had pressed me into
her service, and I was all day in the storeroom, helping (or

248 Jane Eyre

hindering) her and the cook; learning to make custards and
cheese-cakes and French pastry, to truss game and garnish
desert-dishes.
The party were expected to arrive on Thursday afternoon,
in time for dinner at six. During the intervening period I
had no time to nurse chimeras; and I believe I was as active
and gay as anybody—Adele excepted. Still, now and then, I
received a damping check to my cheerfulness; and was, in
spite of myself, thrown back on the region of doubts and
portents, and dark conjectures. This was when I chanced
to see the third-storey staircase door (which of late had al-
ways been kept locked) open slowly, and give passage to the
form of Grace Poole, in prim cap, white apron, and hand-
kerchief; when I watched her glide along the gallery, her
quiet tread muffled in a list slipper; when I saw her look
into the bustling, topsy-turvy bedrooms,—just say a word,
perhaps, to the charwoman about the proper way to polish
a grate, or clean a marble mantelpiece, or take stains from
papered walls, and then pass on. She would thus descend
to the kitchen once a day, eat her dinner, smoke a moderate
pipe on the hearth, and go back, carrying her pot of porter
with her, for her private solace, in her own gloomy, upper
haunt. Only one hour in the twenty-four did she pass with
her fellow-servants below; all the rest of her time was spent
in some low-ceiled, oaken chamber of the second storey:
there she sat and 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 habits, or seemed to marvel at them:

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no one discussed her position or employment; no one pitied
her solitude or isolation. I once, indeed, overheard part of a
dialogue between Leah and one of the charwomen, of which
Grace formed the subject. Leah had been saying something
I had not caught, and the charwoman remarked—
‘She gets good wages, I guess?’
‘Yes,’ said Leah; ‘I wish I had as good; not that mine are
to complain of,—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 in-
dependent if she liked to leave; but I suppose she’s got used
to the place; and then she’s not forty yet, and strong and
able for anything. It is too soon for her to give up business.’
‘She is a good hand, I daresay,’ said the charwoman.
‘Ah!—she understands what she has to do,—nobody bet-
ter,’ 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 wonder whether the mas-
ter—‘
The charwoman was going on; but here Leah turned
and perceived me, and she instantly 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 mystery at Thornfield; and that from participa-
tion in that mystery I was purposely excluded.
Thursday came: all work had been completed the pre-

250 Jane Eyre

 vious evening; carpets were laid down, bed-hangings
festooned, radiant white counterpanes spread, toilet ta-
bles arranged, furniture rubbed, flowers piled in vases:
both chambers and saloons looked as fresh and bright as
hands could make them. The hall, too, was scoured; and
the great carved clock, as well as the steps and banisters of
the staircase, were polished to the brightness of glass; in the
dining-room, the sideboard flashed resplendent with plate;
in the drawing-room and boudoir, vases of exotics bloomed
on all sides.
Afternoon arrived: Mrs. Fairfax assumed her best black
satin gown, her gloves, and her gold watch; for it was her
part to receive the company,—to conduct the ladies to their
rooms, &c. Adele, too, would be dressed: though I thought
she had little chance of being introduced to the party that
day at least. However, to please her, I allowed Sophie to ap-
parel her in one of her short, full muslin frocks. For myself,
I had no need to make any change; I should not be called
upon to quit my sanctum of the schoolroom; for a sanctum
it was now become to me,—‘a very pleasant refuge in time
of trouble.’
It had been a mild, serene spring day—one of those days
which, towards the end of March or the beginning of April,
rise shining over the earth as heralds of summer. It was
drawing to an end now; but the evening was even warm,
and I sat at work in the schoolroom with the window open.
‘It gets late,’ said Mrs. Fairfax, entering in rustling state.
‘I am glad I ordered dinner an hour after the time Mr. Roch-
ester mentioned; for it is past six now. I have sent John down

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to the gates to see if there is anything on the road: one can
see a long way from thence in the direction of Millcote.’ She
went to the window. ‘Here he is!’ said she. ‘Well, John’ (lean-
ing out), ‘any news?’
‘They’re coming, ma’am,’ was the answer. ‘They’ll be here
in ten minutes.’
Adele flew to the window. I followed, taking care to stand
on one side, so that, screened by the curtain, I could see
without being seen.
The ten minutes John had given seemed very long, but
at last wheels were heard; four equestrians galloped up the
drive, and after them came two open carriages. Fluttering
veils and waving plumes filled the vehicles; two of the cava-
liers were young, dashing-looking gentlemen; the third was
Mr. Rochester, on his black horse, Mesrour, Pilot bound-
ing before him; at his side rode a lady, and he and she were
the first of the party. Her purple riding-habit almost swept
the ground, her veil streamed long on the breeze; mingling
with its transparent folds, and gleaming through them,
shone rich raven ringlets.
‘Miss Ingram!’ exclaimed Mrs. Fairfax, and away she
hurried to her post below.
The cavalcade, following the sweep of the drive, quickly
turned the angle of the house, and I lost sight of it. Adele
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

252 Jane Eyre

being told this; but as I began to look very grave, she con-
sented at last to wipe them.
A joyous stir was now audible in the hall: gentlemen’s
deep tones and ladies’ silvery accents blent harmoniously
together, and distinguishable above all, though not loud,
was the sonorous voice of the master of Thornfield Hall, wel-
coming his fair and gallant guests under its roof. Then light
steps ascended the stairs; and there was a tripping through
the gallery, and soft cheerful laughs, and opening and clos-
ing doors, and, for a time, a hush.
‘Elles changent de toilettes,’ said Adele; who, listening at-
tentively, had followed every movement; and she sighed.
‘Chez maman,’ said she, ‘quand il y avait du monde, je le
suivais partout, au salon et e leurs chambres; souvent je re-
gardais les femmes de chambre coiffer et habiller les dames,
et c’etait si amusant: comme cela on apprend.’
‘Don’t you feel hungry, Adele?’
‘Mais oui, mademoiselle: voile cinq ou six heures que
nous n’avons pas mange.’
‘Well now, while the ladies are in their rooms, I will ven-
ture down and get you something to eat.’
And issuing from my asylum with precaution, I sought a
back-stairs which conducted directly to the kitchen. All in
that region was fire and commotion; the soup and fish were
in the last stage of projection, and the cook hung over her
crucibles in a frame of mind and body threatening sponta-
neous combustion. In the servants’ hall two coachmen and
three gentlemen’s gentlemen stood or sat round the fire;
the abigails, I suppose, were upstairs with their mistresses;

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the new servants, that had been hired from Millcote, were
bustling about everywhere. Threading this chaos, I at last
reached the larder; there I took possession of a cold chicken,
a roll of bread, some tarts, a plate or two and a knife and
fork: with this booty I made a hasty retreat. I had regained
the gallery, and was just shutting the back-door behind me,
when an accelerated hum warned me that the ladies were
about to issue from their chambers. I could not proceed to
the schoolroom without passing some of their doors, and
running the risk of being surprised with my cargo of vict-
ualage; 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 af-
ter another: each came out gaily and airily, with dress that
gleamed lustrous through the dusk. For a moment they
stood grouped together at the other extremity of the gallery,
conversing in a key of sweet subdued vivacity: they then de-
scended the staircase almost as noiselessly as a bright mist
rolls down a hill. Their collective appearance had left on me
an impression of high-born elegance, such as I had never
before received.
I found Adele peeping through the schoolroom door,
which she held ajar. ‘What beautiful ladies!’ cried she in
English. ‘Oh, I wish I might go to them! Do you think Mr.
Rochester will send for us by- and-bye, after dinner?’
‘No, indeed, I 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.’

254 Jane Eyre

 She was really hungry, so the chicken and tarts served to
divert her attention for a time. It was well I secured this for-
age, or both she, I, and Sophie, to whom I conveyed a share
of our repast, would have run a chance of getting no dinner
at all: every one downstairs was too much engaged to think
of us. The dessert was not carried out till after nine and at
ten footmen were still running to and fro with trays and
coffee-cups. I allowed Adele to sit up much later than usual;
for she declared she could not possibly go to sleep while the
doors kept opening and shutting below, and people bustling
about. Besides, she added, a message might possibly come
from Mr. Rochester when she was undressed; ‘et alors quel
dommage!’
I told her stories as long as she would listen to them;
and then for a change I took her out into the gallery. The
hall lamp was now lit, and it amused her to look over the
balustrade and watch the servants passing backwards and
forwards. When the evening was far advanced, a sound of
music issued from the drawing-room, whither the piano
had been removed; Adele and I sat down on the top step of
the stairs to listen. Presently a voice blent with the rich tones
of the instrument; it was a lady who sang, and very sweet
her notes were. The solo over, a duet followed, and then a
glee: a joyous conversational murmur filled up the inter-
vals. I listened long: suddenly I discovered that my ear was
wholly intent on analysing the mingled sounds, and trying
to discriminate amidst the confusion of accents those of Mr.
Rochester; and when it caught them, which it soon did, it
found a further task in framing the tones, rendered by dis-

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 tance inarticulate, into words.
The clock struck eleven. I looked at Adele, whose head
leant against my shoulder; her eyes were waxing heavy,
so I took her up in my arms and carried her off to bed. It
was near one before the gentlemen and ladies sought their
chambers.
The next day was as fine as its predecessor: it was devoted
by the party to an excursion to some site in the neighbour-
hood. They set out early in the forenoon, some on horseback,
the rest in carriages; I witnessed both the departure and the
return. Miss Ingram, as before, was the only lady equestri-
an; and, as before, Mr. Rochester galloped at her side; the
two rode a little apart from the rest. I pointed out this cir-
cumstance to Mrs. Fairfax, who was standing at the window
with me—
‘You said it was not likely they should think of being
married,’ said I, ‘but you see Mr. Rochester evidently pre-
fers her to any of the other ladies.’
‘Yes, I daresay: no doubt he admires her.’
‘And she him,’ I added; ‘look how she leans her head to-
wards him as if she were conversing confidentially; I wish I
could see her face; I have never had a glimpse of it yet.’
‘You will see her this evening,’ answered Mrs. Fairfax.
‘I happened to remark to Mr. Rochester how much Adele
wished to be introduced to the ladies, and he said: ‘Oh! let
her come into the drawing-room after dinner; and request
Miss Eyre to accompany her.’’
‘Yes; he said that from mere politeness: I need not go, I
am sure,’ I answered.

256 Jane Eyre

 ‘Well, I observed to him that as you were unused to com-
pany, I did not think you would like appearing before so
gay a party—all strangers; and he replied, in his quick way—
‘Nonsense! If she objects, tell her it is my particular wish;
and if she resists, say I shall come and fetch her in case of
contumacy.’’
‘I will not give him that trouble,’ I answered. ‘I will go, if
no better may be; but I don’t like it. Shall you be there, Mrs.
Fairfax?’
‘No; I pleaded off, and he admitted my plea. I’ll tell you
how to manage so as to avoid the embarrassment of mak-
ing a formal entrance, which is the most disagreeable part
of the business. You must go into the drawing-room while
it is empty, before the ladies leave the dinner-table; choose
your seat in any quiet nook you like; you need not stay long
after the gentlemen come in, unless you please: just let Mr.
Rochester see you are there and then slip away—nobody
will notice you.’
‘Will these people remain long, do you think?’
‘Perhaps two or three weeks, certainly not more. After
the Easter recess, Sir George Lynn, who was lately elected
member for Millcote, will have to go up to town and take
his seat; I daresay Mr. Rochester will accompany him: it
surprises me that he has already made so protracted a stay
at Thornfield.’
It was with some trepidation that I perceived the hour
approach when I was to repair with my charge to the draw-
ing-room. Adele had been in a state of ecstasy all day, after
hearing she was to be presented to the ladies in the eve-

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ning; 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 mit-
tens 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 pre-
viously to lift up the satin skirt for fear she should crease it,
and assured me she would not stir thence till I was ready.
This I quickly was: my best dress (the silver-grey one, pur-
chased for Miss Temple’s wedding, and never worn since)
was soon put on; my hair was soon smoothed; my sole orna-
ment, the pearl brooch, soon assumed. We descended.
Fortunately there was another entrance to the draw-
ing-room than that through the saloon where they were all
seated at dinner. We found the apartment vacant; a large
fire burning silently on the marble hearth, and wax candles
shining in bright solitude, amid the exquisite flowers with
which the tables were adorned. The crimson curtain hung
before the arch: slight as was the separation this drapery
formed from the party in the adjoining saloon, they spoke
in so low a key that nothing of their conversation could be
distinguished beyond a soothing murmur.
Adele, who appeared to be still under the influence of a
most solemnising impression, sat down, without a word, on
the footstool I pointed out to her. I retired to a window-seat,
and taking a book from a table near, endeavoured to read.
Adele brought her stool to my feet; ere long she touched my

258 Jane Eyre

knee.
‘What is it, Adele?’
‘Est-ce que je ne puis pas prendrie une seule de ces fleurs
magnifiques, mademoiselle? Seulement pour completer ma
toilette.’
‘You think too much of your ‘toilette,’ Adele: but you may
have a flower.’ And I took a rose from a vase and fastened it
in her sash. She sighed a sigh of ineffable satisfaction, as if
her cup of happiness were now full. I turned my face away
to conceal a smile I could not suppress: there was some-
thing ludicrous as well as painful in the little Parisienne’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 din-
ing-room, with its lit lustre pouring down light on the silver
and glass of a magnificent dessert-service covering a long
table; a band of ladies stood in the opening; they entered,
and the curtain fell behind them.
There were but eight; yet, somehow, as they flocked in,
they gave the impression of a much larger number. Some
of them were very tall; many were dressed in white; and all
had a sweeping amplitude of array that seemed to magnify
their persons as a mist magnifies the moon. I rose and curt-
seyed to them: one or two bent their heads in return, the
others only stared at me.
They dispersed about the room, reminding me, by the
lightness and buoyancy of their movements, of a flock of
white plumy birds. Some of them threw themselves in half-
reclining positions on the sofas and ottomans: some bent

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over the tables and examined the flowers and books: the
rest gathered in a group round the fire: all talked in a low
but clear tone which seemed habitual to them. I knew their
names afterwards, and may as well mention them now.
First, there was Mrs. Eshton and two of her daughters.
She had evidently been a handsome woman, and was well
preserved still. Of her daughters, the eldest, Amy, was rather
little: naive, and child-like in face and manner, and piquant
in form; her white muslin dress and blue sash became her
well. The second, Louisa, was taller and more elegant in fig-
ure; with a very pretty face, of that order the French term
minois chiffone: both sisters were fair as lilies.
Lady Lynn was a large and stout personage of about forty,
very erect, very haughty-looking, richly dressed in a satin
robe of changeful sheen: her dark hair shone glossily un-
der the shade of an azure plume, and within the circlet of a
band of gems.
Mrs. Colonel Dent was less showy; but, I thought, more
lady-like. She had a slight figure, a pale, gentle face, and fair
hair. Her black satin dress, her scarf of rich foreign lace, and
her pearl ornaments, pleased me better than the rainbow
radiance of the titled dame.
But the three most distinguished—partly, perhaps, be-
cause 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 women. The Dowager might
be between forty and fifty: her shape was still fine; her hair
(by candle-light at least) still black; her teeth, too, were still
apparently perfect. Most people would have termed her a

260 Jane Eyre

splendid woman of her age: and so she was, no doubt, physi-
cally speaking; but then there was an expression of almost
insupportable haughtiness in her bearing and countenance.
She had Roman features and a double chin, disappearing
into a throat like a pillar: these features appeared to me not
only inflated and darkened, but even furrowed with pride;
and the chin was sustained by the same principle, in a po-
sition of almost preternatural erectness. 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 in-
flections very pompous, very dogmatical,—very intolerable,
in short. A crimson velvet robe, and a shawl turban of some
gold-wrought Indian fabric, invested her (I suppose she
thought) with a truly imperial dignity.
Blanche and Mary were of equal stature,—straight and
tall as poplars. Mary was too slim for her height, but Blanche
was moulded like a Dian. I regarded her, of course, with spe-
cial interest. First, I wished to see whether her appearance
accorded with Mrs. Fairfax’s description; secondly, whether
it at all resembled 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’s description. The noble bust,
the sloping shoulders, the graceful neck, the dark eyes and
black ringlets were all there;—but her face? Her face was
like her mother’s; a youthful unfurrowed likeness: the same
low brow, the same high features, the same pride. It was not,
however, so saturnine a pride! she laughed continually; her

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laugh was satirical, and so was the habitual expression of
her arched and haughty lip.
Genius is said to be self-conscious. I cannot tell whether
Miss Ingram was a genius, but she was self-conscious—re-
markably self- conscious indeed. She entered into a discourse
on botany with the gentle Mrs. Dent. It seemed Mrs. Dent
had not studied that science: though, as she said, she liked
flowers, ‘especially wild ones;’ Miss Ingram had, and she
ran over its vocabulary with an air. I presently perceived
she was (what is vernacularly termed) TRAILING Mrs.
Dent; that is, playing on her ignorance—her TRAIL might
be clever, but it was decidedly not good-natured. She played:
her execution was brilliant; she sang: her voice was fine; she
talked French apart to her mamma; and she talked it well,
with fluency and with a good accent.
Mary had a milder and more open countenance than
Blanche; softer features too, and a skin some shades fair-
er (Miss Ingram was dark as a Spaniard)—but Mary was
deficient in life: her face lacked expression, her eye lustre;
she had nothing to say, and having once taken her seat, re-
mained fixed like a statue in its niche. The sisters were both
attired in spotless white.
And did I now think Miss Ingram such a choice as Mr.
Rochester would be likely to make? I could not tell—I did
not know his taste in female beauty. If he liked the majestic,
she was the very type of majesty: then she was accomplished,
sprightly. Most gentlemen would admire her, I thought; and
that he DID admire her, I already seemed to have obtained
proof: to remove the last shade of doubt, it remained but to

262 Jane Eyre

 see them together.
You are not to suppose, reader, that Adele has all this
time been sitting motionless on the stool at my feet: no;
when the ladies entered, she rose, advanced to meet them,
made a stately reverence, and said with gravity—
‘Bon jour, mesdames.’
And Miss Ingram had looked down at her with a mock-
ing air, and exclaimed, ‘Oh, what a little puppet!’
Lady Lynn had remarked, ‘It is Mr. Rochester’s ward, I
suppose—the little French girl he was speaking of.’
Mrs. Dent had kindly taken her hand, and given her a
kiss.
Amy and Louisa Eshton had cried out simultaneously—
‘What a love of a child!’
And then they had called her to a sofa, where she now sat,
ensconced between them, chattering alternately in French
and broken English; absorbing not only the young ladies’
attention, but that of Mrs. Eshton and Lady Lynn, and get-
ting spoilt to her heart’s content.
At last coffee is brought in, and the gentlemen are sum-
moned. I sit in the shade—if any shade there be in this
brilliantly-lit apartment; the window-curtain half hides me.
Again the arch yawns; they come. The collective appearance
of the gentlemen, like that of the ladies, is very imposing:
they are all costumed in black; most of them are tall, some
young. Henry and Frederick Lynn are very dashing sparks
indeed; and Colonel Dent is a fine soldierly man. Mr. Esh-
ton, the magistrate of the district, is gentleman-like: his hair
is quite white, his eyebrows and whiskers still dark, which

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gives him something of the appearance of a ‘pere noble de
theatre.’ 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 vi-
vacity of blood or vigour of brain.
And where is Mr. Rochester?
He comes in last: I am not looking at the arch, yet I see
him enter. I try to concentrate my attention on those net-
ting-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 behold his figure, and I inevitably re-
call the moment when I last saw it; just after I had rendered
him, what he deemed, an essential service, and he, hold-
ing my hand, and looking down on my face, surveyed me
with eyes that revealed a heart full and eager to overflow; in
whose emotions I had a part. How near had I approached
him at that moment! What had occurred since, calculated
to change his and my relative positions? Yet now, how dis-
tant, how far estranged we were! So far estranged, that I did
not expect him to come and speak to me. I did not wonder,
when, without looking at me, he took a seat at the other side
of the room, and began conversing with some of the ladies.
No sooner did I see that his attention was riveted on
them, and that I might gaze without being observed, than
my eyes were drawn involuntarily to his face; I could not
keep their lids under control: they would rise, and the irids
would fix on him. I looked, and had an acute pleasure in
looking,—a precious yet poignant pleasure; pure gold, with

264 Jane Eyre

a steely point of agony: a pleasure like what the thirst-per-
ishing 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 colourless, olive face, square, massive brow, broad
and jetty eyebrows, deep eyes, strong features, firm, grim
mouth,—all energy, decision, will,—were not beautiful, ac-
cording to rule; but they were more than beautiful to me;
they were full of an interest, an influence that quite mas-
tered 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 arrived, green and
strong! He made me love him without looking at me.
I compared him with his guests. What was the gallant
grace of the Lynns, the languid elegance of Lord Ingram,—
even the military distinction of Colonel Dent, contrasted
with his look of native pith and genuine power? I had no
sympathy in their appearance, their expression: yet I could
imagine that most observers would call them attractive,
handsome, imposing; while they would pronounce Mr.
Rochester at once harsh-featured and melancholy-looking.
I saw them smile, 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 significance as their laugh. I saw Mr. Roch-
ester smile:- his stern features softened; his eye grew both
brilliant and gentle, its ray both searching and sweet. He

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was talking, at the moment, to Louisa and Amy Eshton. I
wondered to see them receive with calm that look which
seemed to me so penetrating: I expected their eyes to fall,
their colour to rise under it; yet I was glad when I found they
were in no sense moved. ‘He is not to them what he is to me,’
I thought: ‘he is not of their kind. I believe he is of mine;—I
am sure he is—I feel akin to him—I understand the lan-
guage 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 paymas-
ter? 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 re-
member that he cannot care much for me. For when I say
that I am of his kind, I do not mean that I have his force to
influence, and his spell to attract; I mean only that I have
certain tastes and feelings in common with him. I must,
then, repeat continually that we are for ever sundered:- and
yet, while I breathe and think, I must love him.’
Coffee is handed. The ladies, since the gentlemen en-
tered, 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-bye, I have forgotten to describe,—a very big, and very
fresh-looking country gentleman, stands before their sofa,

266 Jane Eyre

coffee-cup in hand, and occasionally puts in a word. Mr.
Frederick Lynn has taken a seat beside Mary Ingram, and is
showing her the engravings of a splendid volume: she looks,
smiles now and then, but apparently says little. The tall and
phlegmatic Lord Ingram leans with folded arms on the
chair-back of the little and lively Amy Eshton; she glanc-
es up at him, and chatters like a wren: she likes him better
than she does Mr. Rochester. Henry Lynn has taken posses-
sion 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 pair? She
is standing alone at the table, bending gracefully over an al-
bum. 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 mantel-
piece.
‘Mr. Rochester, I thought you were not fond of children?’
‘Nor am I.’
‘Then, what induced you to take charge of such a little
doll as that?’ (pointing to Adele). ‘Where did you pick her
up?’
‘I did not pick her up; she was left on my hands.’
‘You should have sent her to school.’
‘I could not afford it: schools are so dear.’
‘Why, I suppose you have a governess for her: I saw a
person with her just now—is she gone? Oh, no! there she is
still, behind the window-curtain. You pay her, of course; I

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should think it quite as expensive,—more so; for you have
them both to keep in addition.’
I feared—or should I say, hoped?—the allusion to me
would make Mr. Rochester glance my way; and I involun-
tarily shrank farther into the shade: but he never turned
his eyes.
‘I have not considered the subject,’ said he indifferently,
looking straight before him.
‘No, you men never do consider economy and common
sense. You should hear mama on the chapter of governesses:
Mary and I have had, I should think, a dozen at least in our
day; half of them detestable and the rest ridiculous, and all
incubi—were they not, mama?’
‘Did you speak, my own?’
The young lady thus claimed as the dowager’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 incom-
petency and caprice. I thank Heaven I have now done with
them!’
Mrs. Dent here bent over to the pious lady and whispered
something in her ear; I suppose, from the answer elicited,
it was a reminder that one of the anathematised race was
present.
‘Tant pis!’ said her Ladyship, ‘I hope it may do her good!’
Then, in a lower tone, but still loud enough for me to hear, ‘I
noticed her; I am a judge of physiognomy, and in hers I see
all the faults of her class.’
‘What are they, madam?’ inquired Mr. Rochester aloud.

268 Jane Eyre

 ‘I will tell you in your private ear,’ replied she, wagging
her turban three times with portentous significancy.
‘But my curiosity will be past its appetite; it craves food
now.’
‘Ask Blanche; she is nearer you than I.’
‘Oh, don’t refer him to me, mama! I have just one word
to say of the whole tribe; they are a nuisance. Not that I
ever suffered much from them; I took care to turn the ta-
bles. What tricks Theodore and I used to play on our Miss
Wilsons, and Mrs. Greys, and Madame Jouberts! Mary was
always too sleepy to join in a plot with spirit. The best fun
was with Madame Joubert: Miss Wilson was a poor sickly
thing, lachrymose and low-spirited, not worth the trouble
of vanquishing, in short; and Mrs. Grey was coarse and
insensible; no blow took effect on her. But poor Madame
Joubert! I see her yet in her raging passions, when we had
driven her to extremities—spilt our tea, crumbled our bread
and butter, tossed our books up to the ceiling, and played a
charivari with the ruler and desk, the fender and fire-irons.
Theodore, do you remember those merry days?’
‘Yaas, to be sure I do,’ drawled Lord Ingram; ‘and the
poor old stick used to cry out ‘Oh you villains childs!’—and
then we sermonised her on the presumption of attempting
to teach such clever blades as we were, when she was herself
so ignorant.’
‘We did; and, Tedo, you know, I helped you in prosecut-
ing (or persecuting) your tutor, whey-faced Mr. Vining—the
parson in the pip, as we used to call him. He and Miss Wil-
son took the liberty of falling in love with each other—at

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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 ben-
efit of our discovery; we employed it as a sort of lever to
hoist our dead-weights from the house. Dear mama, there,
as soon as she got an inkling of the business, found out that
it was of an immoral tendency. Did you not, my lady-moth-
er?’
‘Certainly, my best. And I was quite right: depend on
that: there are a thousand reasons why liaisons between
governesses and tutors should never be tolerated a moment
in any well-regulated house; firstly—‘
‘Oh, gracious, mama! Spare us the enumeration! Au reste,
we all know them: danger of bad example to innocence of
childhood; distractions and consequent neglect of duty on
the part of the attached—mutual alliance and reliance; con-
fidence thence resultinginsolence accompanying—mutiny
and general blow-up. Am I right, Baroness Ingram, of In-
gram Park?’
‘My lily-flower, you are right now, as always.’
‘Then no more need be said: change the subject.’
Amy Eshton, not hearing or not heeding this dictum,
joined in with her soft, infantine tone: ‘Louisa and I used
to quiz our governess too; but she was such a good creature,
she would bear anything: nothing put her out. She was nev-
er cross with us; was she, Louisa?’
‘No, never: we might do what we pleased; ransack her
desk and her workbox, and turn her drawers inside out; and
she was so good- natured, she would give as anything we

270 Jane Eyre

asked for.’
‘I suppose, now,’ said Miss Ingram, curling her lip sar-
castically, ‘we shall have an abstract of the memoirs of all
the governesses extant: in order to avert such a visitation, I
again move the introduction of a new topic. Mr. Rochester,
do you second my motion?’
‘Madam, I support you on this point, as on every other.’
‘Then on me be the onus of bringing it forward. Signior
Eduardo, are you in voice to-night?’
‘Donna Bianca, if you command it, I will be.’
‘Then, signior, I lay on you my sovereign behest to fur-
bish up your lungs and other vocal organs, as they will be
wanted on my royal service.’
‘Who would not be the Rizzio of so divine a Mary?’
‘A fig for Rizzio!’ cried she, tossing her head with all its
curls, as she moved to the piano. ‘It is my opinion the fid-
dler David must have been an insipid sort of fellow; I like
black Bothwell better: to my mind a man is nothing without
a spice of the devil in him; and history may say what it will
of James Hepburn, but I have a notion, he was just the sort
of wild, fierce, bandit hero whom I could have consented to
gift with my hand.’
‘Gentlemen, you hear! Now which of you most resembles
Bothwell?’ cried Mr. Rochester.
‘I should say the preference lies with you,’ responded Col-
onel Dent.
‘On my honour, I am much obliged to you,’ was the re-
ply.
Miss Ingram, who had now seated herself with proud

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grace at the piano, spreading out her snowy robes in queenly
amplitude, commenced a brilliant prelude; talking mean-
time. She appeared to be on her high horse to-night; both
her words and her air seemed intended to excite not only
the admiration, but the amazement of her auditors: she was
evidently bent on striking them as something very dashing
and daring indeed.
‘Oh, I am so sick of the young men of the present day!’
exclaimed she, rattling away at the instrument. ‘Poor, puny
things, not fit to stir a step beyond papa’s park gates: nor
to go even so far without mama’s permission and guard-
ianship! Creatures so absorbed in care about their pretty
faces, and their white hands, and their small feet; as if a
man had anything to do with beauty! As if loveliness were
not the special prerogative of woman—her legitimate appa-
nage and heritage! I grant an ugly WOMAN is a blot on the
fair face of creation; but as to the GENTLEMEN, let them
be solicitous to possess only strength and valour: let their
motto be:- Hunt, shoot, and fight: the rest is not worth a fil-
lip. Such should be my device, were I a man.’
‘Whenever I marry,’ she continued after a pause which
none interrupted, ‘I am resolved my husband shall not be
a rival, but a foil to me. I will suffer no competitor near the
throne; I shall exact an undivided homage: his devotions
shall not be shared between me and the shape he sees in his
mirror. Mr. Rochester, now sing, and I will play for you.’
‘I am all obedience,’ was the response.
‘Here then is a Corsair-song. Know that I doat on Cor-
sairs; and for that reason, sing it con spirito.’

272 Jane Eyre

 ‘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 en-
deavour to fail.’
‘Gardez-vous en bien! If you err wilfully, I shall devise a
proportionate punishment.’
‘Miss Ingram ought to be clement, for she has it in her
power to inflict a chastisement beyond mortal endurance.’
‘Ha! explain!’ commanded the lady.
‘Pardon me, madam: no need of explanation; your own
fine sense must inform you that one of your frowns would
be a sufficient substitute for capital punishment.’
‘Sing!’ said she, and again touching the piano, she com-
menced 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 mel-
low, powerful bass, into which he threw his own feeling, his
own force; finding a way through the ear to the heart, and
there waking sensation strangely. I waited till the last deep
and full vibration had expired—till the tide of talk, checked
an instant, had resumed its flow; I then quitted my shel-
tered corner and made my exit by the side-door, which was
fortunately near. Thence a narrow passage led into the hall:
in crossing it, I perceived my sandal was loose; I stopped to
tie it, kneeling down for that purpose on the mat at the foot
of the staircase. I heard the dining-room door unclose; a

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gentleman came out; rising hastily, I stood face to face with
him: it was Mr. Rochester.
‘How do you do?’ he asked.
‘I am very well, sir.’
‘Why did you not come and speak to me in the room?’
I thought I might have retorted the question on him who
put it: but I would not take that freedom. I answered—
‘I did not wish to disturb you, as you seemed engaged,
sir.’
‘What have you been doing during my absence?’
‘Nothing particular; teaching 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?’
‘Not she least.’
‘Return to the drawing-room: you are deserting too ear-
ly.’
‘I am tired, sir.’
He looked at me for a minute.
‘And a little depressed,’ he said. ‘What about? Tell me.’
‘Nothing—nothing, sir. I am not depressed.’
‘But I affirm that you are: so much depressed that a few
more words would 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

274 Jane Eyre

visitors stay, I expect you to appear in the drawing-room ev-
ery evening; it is my wish; don’t neglect it. Now go, and send
Sophie for Adele. Good-night, my—‘ He stopped, bit his lip,
and abruptly left me.

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Chapter XVIII

M erry days were these at Thornfield Hall; and busy

days too: how different from the first three months
of stillness, monotony, and solitude I had passed beneath
its roof! All sad feelings seemed now driven from the house,
all gloomy associations forgotten: there was life everywhere,
movement all day long. You could not now traverse the gal-
lery, once so hushed, nor enter the front chambers, once so
tenantless, 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 the saloons were only
left void and still when the blue sky and halcyon sunshine
of the genial spring weather called their occupants out into
the grounds. Even when that weather was broken, and con-
tinuous rain set in for some days, no damp seemed cast over
enjoyment: indoor amusements only became more lively
and varied, in consequence of the stop put to outdoor gai-
ety.
I wondered what they were going to do the first evening a
change of entertainment was proposed: they spoke of ‘play-
ing charades,’ but in my ignorance I did not understand the
term. The servants were called in, the dining-room tables
wheeled away, the lights otherwise disposed, the chairs
placed in a semicircle opposite the arch. While Mr. Roches-

276 Jane Eyre

ter and the other gentlemen directed these alterations, the
ladies were running up and down stairs ringing for their
maids. Mrs. Fairfax was summoned to give information
respecting the resources of the house in shawls, dresses,
draperies of any kind; and certain wardrobes of the third
storey were ransacked, and their contents, in the shape
of brocaded and hooped petticoats, satin sacques, black
modes, lace lappets, &c., were brought down in armfuls by
the abigails; then a selection was made, and such things as
were chosen were carried to the boudoir within the draw-
ing-room.
Meantime, Mr. Rochester had again summoned the la-
dies round him, and was selecting certain of their number
to be of his party. ‘Miss Ingram is mine, of course,’ said he:
afterwards he named the two Misses Eshton, and Mrs. Dent.
He looked at me: I happened to be near him, as I had been
fastening the clasp of Mrs. Dent’s bracelet, which had got
loose.
‘Will you play?’ he asked. I shook my head. He did not
insist, which I rather feared he would have done; he allowed
me to return quietly to my usual seat.
He and his aids now withdrew behind the curtain: the
other party, which was headed by Colonel Dent, sat down
on the crescent of chairs. One of the gentlemen, Mr. Eshton,
observing me, seemed to propose that I should be asked to
join them; but Lady Ingram instantly negatived the notion.
‘No,’ I heard her say: ‘she looks too stupid for any game
of the sort.’
Ere long a bell tinkled, and the curtain drew up. Within

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the arch, the bulky figure of Sir George Lynn, whom Mr.
Rochester had likewise chosen, was seen enveloped in a
white sheet: before him, on a table, lay open a large book;
and at his side stood Amy Eshton, draped in Mr. Roch-
ester’s cloak, and holding a book in her hand. Somebody,
unseen, rang the bell merrily; then Adele (who had insist-
ed on being one of her guardian’s party), bounded forward,
scattering round her the contents of a basket of flowers she
carried on her arm. Then appeared the magnificent fig-
ure of Miss Ingram, clad in white, a long veil on her head,
and a wreath of roses round her brow; by her side walked
Mr. Rochester, and together they drew near the table. They
knelt; while Mrs. Dent and Louisa Eshton, dressed also in
white, took up their stations behind them. A ceremony fol-
lowed, in dumb show, in which it was easy to recognise the
pantomime of a marriage. At its termination, Colonel Dent
and his party consulted in whispers for two minutes, then
the Colonel called out—
‘Bride!’ Mr. Rochester bowed, and the curtain fell.
A considerable interval elapsed before it again rose. Its
second rising displayed a more elaborately prepared scene
than the last. The drawing-room, as I have before observed,
was raised two steps above the dining-room, and on the top
of the upper step, placed a yard or two back within the room,
appeared a large marble basin— which I recognised 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 ac-
count of its size and weight.

278 Jane Eyre

 Seated on the carpet, by the side of this basin, was seen
Mr. Rochester, costumed in shawls, with a turban on his
head. His dark eyes and swarthy skin and Paynim features
suited the costume exactly: he looked the very model of an
Eastern emir, an agent or a victim of the bowstring. Pres-
ently advanced into view Miss Ingram. She, too, was attired
in oriental fashion: a crimson scarf tied sash-like round
the waist: an embroidered handkerchief knotted about her
temples; her beautifully-moulded arms bare, one of them
upraised in the act of supporting a pitcher, poised grace-
fully on her head. Both her cast of form and feature, her
complexion and her general air, suggested the idea of some
Israelitish princess of the patriarchal days; and such was
doubtless the character she intended to represent.
She approached the basin, and bent over it as if to fill her
pitcher; she again lifted it to her head. The personage on the
well-brink now seemed to accost her; to make some request:-
‘She hasted, let down her pitcher on her hand, and gave him
to drink.’ From the bosom of his robe he then produced
a casket, opened it and showed magnificent bracelets and
earrings; she acted astonishment and admiration; kneeling,
he laid the treasure at her feet; incredulity and delight were
expressed by her looks and gestures; the stranger fastened
the bracelets on her arms and the rings in her ears. It was
Eliezer and Rebecca: the camels only were wanting.
The divining party again laid their heads together: ap-
parently they could not agree about the word or syllable the
scene illustrated. Colonel Dent, their spokesman, demand-
ed ‘the tableau of the whole;’ whereupon the curtain again

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descended.
On its third rising only a portion of the drawing-room
was disclosed; the rest being concealed by a screen, hung
with some sort of dark and coarse drapery. The marble
basin was removed; in its place, stood a deal table and a
kitchen chair: these objects were visible by a very dim light
proceeding from a horn lantern, the wax candles being all
extinguished.
Amidst this sordid scene, sat a man with his clenched
hands resting on his knees, and his eyes bent on the ground.
I knew Mr. Rochester; though the begrimed face, the dis-
ordered dress (his coat hanging loose from one arm, as
if it had been almost torn from his back in a scuffle), the
desperate and scowling countenance, the rough, bristling
hair might well have disguised him. As he moved, a chain
clanked; to his wrists were attached fetters.
‘Bridewell!’ exclaimed Colonel Dent, and the charade
was solved.
A sufficient interval having elapsed for the perform-
ers to resume their ordinary costume, they re-entered the
dining-room. Mr. Rochester led in Miss Ingram; she was
complimenting him on his acting.
‘Do you know,’ said she, ‘that, of the three characters, I
liked you in the last best? Oh, had you but lived a few years
earlier, what a gallant gentleman-highwayman you would
have made!’
‘Is all the soot washed from my face?’ he asked, turning
it towards her.
‘Alas! yes: the more’s the pity! Nothing could be more be-

280 Jane Eyre

coming to your complexion than that ruffian’s rouge.’
‘You would like a hero of the road then?’
‘An English hero of the road would be the next best thing
to an Italian bandit; and that could only be surpassed by a
Levantine pirate.’
‘Well, whatever I am, remember you are my wife; we
were married an hour since, in the presence of all these wit-
nesses.’ She giggled, and her colour rose.
‘Now, Dent,’ continued Mr. Rochester, ‘it is your turn.’
And as the other party withdrew, he and his band took the
vacated seats. Miss Ingram placed herself at her leader’s
right hand; the other diviners filled the chairs on each side
of him and her. I did not now watch the actors; I no lon-
ger waited with interest for the curtain to rise; my attention
was absorbed by the spectators; my eyes, erewhile fixed on
the arch, were now irresistibly attracted to the semicircle
of chairs. What charade Colonel Dent and his party played,
what word they chose, how they acquitted themselves, I no
longer remember; but I still see the consultation which fol-
lowed each scene: I see Mr. Rochester turn to Miss Ingram,
and Miss Ingram to him; I see her incline her head towards
him, till the jetty curls almost touch his shoulder and wave
against his cheek; I hear their mutual whisperings; I re-
call their interchanged glances; and something even of the
feeling roused by the spectacle returns in memory at this
moment.
I have told you, reader, that I had learnt to love Mr. Roch-
ester: I could not unlove him now, merely because I found
that he had ceased to notice me—because I might pass hours

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in his presence, and he would never once turn his eyes in
my direction—because I saw all his attentions appropriated
by a great lady, who scorned to touch me with the hem of
her robes as she passed; who, if ever her dark and imperi-
ous eye fell on me by chance, would withdraw it instantly as
from an object too mean to merit observation. I could not
unlove him, because I felt sure he would soon marry this
very lady—because I read daily in her a proud security in
his intentions respecting her—because I witnessed hourly
in him a style of courtship which, if careless and choosing
rather to be sought than to seek, was yet, in its very careless-
ness, captivating, and in its very pride, irresistible.
There was nothing to cool or banish love in these cir-
cumstances, though much to create despair. Much too, you
will think, reader, to engender jealousy: if a woman, in my
position, could presume to be jealous of a woman in Miss
Ingram’s. But I was not jealous: or very rarely;—the na-
ture of the pain I suffered could not be explained by that
word. Miss Ingram was a mark beneath jealousy: she was
too inferior to excite the feeling. Pardon the seeming para-
dox; I mean what I say. She was very showy, but she was
not genuine: she had a fine person, many brilliant attain-
ments; but her mind was poor, her heart barren by nature:
nothing bloomed spontaneously on that soil; no unforced
natural fruit delighted by its freshness. She was not good;
she was not original: she used to repeat sounding phras-
es from books: she never offered, nor had, an opinion of
her own. She advocated a high tone of sentiment; but she
did not know the sensations of sympathy and pity; tender-

282 Jane Eyre

ness and truth were not in her. Too often she betrayed this,
by the undue vent she gave to a spiteful antipathy she had
conceived against little Adele: pushing her away with some
contumelious epithet if she happened to approach her;
sometimes ordering her from the room, and always treating
her with coldness and acrimony. Other eyes besides mine
watched these manifestations of character—watched them
closely, keenly, shrewdly. Yes; the future bridegroom, Mr.
Rochester himself, exercised over his intended a ceaseless
surveillance; and it was from this sagacity—this guard-
edness of his—this perfect, clear consciousness of his fair
one’s defects— this obvious absence of passion in his senti-
ments towards her, that my ever-torturing pain arose.
I saw he was going to marry her, for family, perhaps po-
litical reasons, because her rank and connections suited
him; I felt he had not given her his love, and that her qual-
ifications were ill adapted to win from him that 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, fervour, kindness, sense, I should have
had one vital struggle with two tigers—jealousy and de-
spair: 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 superior-

Free eBooks at Planet [Link] 283

ity, the deeper would have been my admiration—the more
truly tranquil my quiescence. But as matters really stood,
to watch Miss Ingram’s efforts at fascinating Mr. Roches-
ter, to witness their repeated failure—herself unconscious
that they did fail; vainly fancying that each shaft launched
hit the mark, and infatuatedly pluming herself on success,
when her pride and self-complacency repelled further and
further what she wished to 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 continually 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 soft-
ness 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 privi-
leged to draw so near to him?’ I asked myself. ‘Surely she
cannot truly like him, or not like him with true affection!
If she did, she need not coin her smiles so lavishly, flash
her glances so unremittingly, manufacture airs so elaborate,
graces so multitudinous. It seems to me that she might, by
merely sitting quietly at his side, saying little and looking
less, get nigher his heart. I have seen in his face a far differ-
ent expression from that which hardens it now while she is
so vivaciously accosting him; but then it came of itself: it was
not elicited by meretricious arts and calculated manoeu-
vres; and one had but to accept it—to answer what he asked
without pretension, to address him when needful without

284 Jane Eyre

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 yet it might be managed; and
his wife might, I verily believe, be the very happiest woman
the sun shines on.’
I have not yet said anything condemnatory of Mr. Roch-
ester’s project of marrying for interest and connections. It
surprised me when I first discovered that such was his in-
tention: 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 par-
ties, the less I felt justified in judging and blaming either
him or Miss Ingram for acting in conformity to ideas and
principles instilled into them, doubtless, from their child-
hood. All their class held these principles: I supposed, then,
they had reasons for holding them such as I could not fath-
om. 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 happiness offered by this plan convinced me that there
must be arguments against its general adoption of which I
was quite ignorant: otherwise I felt sure all the world would
act as I wished to act.
But in other points, as well as this, I was growing very le-
nient to my master: I was forgetting all his faults, for which
I had once kept a sharp look-out. It had formerly been my
endeavour to study all sides of his character: to take the bad
with the good; and from the just weighing of both, to form

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an equitable judgment. Now I saw no bad. The sarcasm that
had repelled, the harshness that had startled me once, were
only like keen condiments in a choice dish: their presence
was pungent, but their absence would be felt as compara-
tively insipid. And as for the vague something—was it a
sinister or a sorrowful, a designing or a desponding expres-
sion?— 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 wander-
ing amongst volcanic-looking hills, and had suddenly felt
the ground quiver and seen it gape: that something, I, at in-
tervals, beheld 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, be-
cause one day she might look into the abyss at her leisure,
explore its secrets and analyse their nature.
Meantime, while I thought only of my master and his fu-
ture 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 inter-
ests and pleasures. The Ladies Lynn and Ingram continued
to consort in solemn conferences, where they nodded their
two turbans at each other, and held up their four hands in
confronting gestures of surprise, or mystery, or horror, ac-
cording to the theme on which their gossip ran, like a pair
of magnified puppets. Mild Mrs. Dent talked with good-
natured Mrs. Eshton; and the two sometimes bestowed a
courteous word or smile on me. Sir George Lynn, Colonel

286 Jane Eyre

Dent, and Mr. Eshton discussed politics, or county affairs,
or justice business. Lord Ingram flirted with Amy Eshton;
Louisa played and sang to and with one of the Messrs. Lynn;
and Mary Ingram listened languidly to the gallant speeches
of the other. Sometimes all, as with one consent, suspended
their by-play to observe and listen to the principal actors:
for, after all, Mr. Rochester and—because closely connected
with him—Miss Ingram were the life and soul of the party.
If he was absent from the room an hour, a perceptible dul-
ness seemed to steal over the spirits of his guests; and his
re-entrance was sure to give a fresh impulse to the vivacity
of conversation.
The want of his animating influence appeared to be pe-
culiarly felt 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 to take to see
a gipsy camp, lately pitched on a common beyond Hay, was
consequently deferred. Some of the gentlemen were gone
to the stables: the younger ones, together with the young-
er 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 supercil-
ious taciturnity, some efforts of Mrs. Dent and Mrs. Eshton
to draw her into conversation, had first murmured over
some sentimental tunes and airs on the piano, and then,
having fetched a novel from the library, had flung herself in
haughty listlessness on a sofa, and prepared to beguile, by
the spell of fiction, the tedious hours of absence. The room
and the house were silent: only now and then the merri-

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ment of the billiard-players was heard from above.
It was verging on dusk, and the clock had already giv-
en warning of the hour to dress for dinner, when little
Adele, who knelt by me in the drawing-room window-seat,
suddenly exclaimed—
‘Voile, Monsieur Rochester, qui revient!’
I turned, and Miss Ingram darted forwards from her
sofa: the others, too, looked up from their several occu-
pations; for at the same time a crunching of wheels and a
splashing tramp of horse-hoofs became audible on the wet
gravel. A post-chaise was approaching.
‘What can possess him to come home in that style?’ said
Miss Ingram. ‘He rode Mesrour (the black horse), did he
not, when he went out? and Pilot was with him:- what has
he done with the animals?’
As she said this, she approached her tall person and am-
ple garments so near the window, that I was obliged to bend
back almost to the breaking of my spine: in her eagerness
she did not observe me at first, but when she did, she curled
her lip and moved to another casement. The post-chaise
stopped; the driver rang the door-bell, and a gentleman
alighted attired in travelling garb; but it was not Mr. Roch-
ester; it was a tall, fashionable-looking man, a stranger.
‘How provoking!’ exclaimed Miss Ingram: ‘you tiresome
monkey!’ (apostrophising Adele), ‘who perched you up in
the window to give false intelligence?’ and she cast on me
an angry glance, as if I were in fault.
Some parleying was audible in the hall, and soon the
new-comer entered. He bowed to Lady Ingram, as deeming

288 Jane Eyre

her the eldest lady present.
‘It appears I come at an inopportune time, madam,’ said
he, ‘when my friend, Mr. Rochester, is from home; but I ar-
rive from a very long journey, and I think I may presume
so far on old and intimate acquaintance as to instal myself
here till he returns.’
His manner was polite; his accent, in speaking, struck
me as being somewhat unusual,—not precisely foreign,
but still not altogether English: his age might be about Mr.
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 of 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
before: it struck me as being at the same time unsettled
and inanimate. His eye wandered, and had no meaning in
its wandering: this gave him an odd look, such as I nev-
er remembered to have seen. For a handsome and not an
unamiable-looking man, he repelled me exceedingly: there
was no power in that smooth-skinned face of a full oval
shape: no firmness in that aquiline nose and small cherry
mouth; there was no thought on the low, even forehead; no
command in that blank, brown eye.
As I sat in my usual nook, and looked at him with the

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light of the girandoles on the mantelpiece 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 com-
pared him with Mr. Rochester. I think (with deference be it
spoken) the contrast could not be much greater between a
sleek gander and a fierce falcon: between a meek sheep and
the rough-coated keen-eyed dog, its guardian.
He had spoken of Mr. Rochester as an old friend. A curi-
ous friendship theirs must have been: a pointed illustration,
indeed, of the old adage that ‘extremes meet.’
Two or three of the gentlemen sat near him, and I caught
at times scraps of their conversation across the room. At
first I could not make much sense of what I heard; for the
discourse of Louisa Eshton and Mary Ingram, who sat near-
er to me, confused the fragmentary sentences that reached
me at intervals. These last were discussing the stranger; they
both called him ‘a beautiful man.’ Louisa said he was ‘a love
of a creature,’ and she ‘adored him;’ and Mary instanced
his ‘pretty little mouth, and nice nose,’ as her ideal of the
charming.
‘And what a sweet-tempered forehead he has!’ cried Lou-
isa,—‘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 Lynn summoned
them to the other side of the room, to settle some point
about the deferred excursion to Hay Common.
I was now able to concentrate my attention on the group
by the fire, and I presently gathered that the new-comer
was called Mr. Mason; then I learned that he was but just

290 Jane Eyre

arrived in England, and that he came from some hot coun-
try: which was the reason, doubtless, his face was so sallow,
and that he sat so near the hearth, and wore a surtout in
the house. Presently the words Jamaica, Kingston, Span-
ish Town, indicated the West Indies as his residence; and
it was with no little surprise I gathered, ere long, that he
had there first seen and become acquainted with Mr. Roch-
ester. 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 traveller: Mrs. Fairfax had said so; but
I thought the continent of Europe had bounded his wander-
ings; till now I had never heard a hint given of visits to more
distant shores.
I was pondering these things, when an incident, and a
somewhat unexpected one, broke the thread of my mus-
ings. Mr. Mason, shivering as some one chanced to open
the door, asked for more coal to be put on the fire, which
had burnt out its flame, though its mass of cinder still shone
hot and red. The footman who brought the coal, in going
out, stopped near Mr. Eshton’s chair, and said something
to him in a low voice, of which I heard only the words, ‘old
woman,’—‘quite troublesome.’
‘Tell her she shall be put in the stocks if she does not take
herself off,’ replied the magistrate.
‘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—‘La-
dies, you talked of going to Hay Common to visit the gipsy
camp; Sam here says that one of the old Mother Bunches is

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in the servants’ hall at this moment, and insists upon being
brought in before ‘the quality,’ to tell them their fortunes.
Would you like to see her?’
‘Surely, colonel,’ cried Lady Ingram, ‘you would not en-
courage such a low impostor? Dismiss her, by all means, at
once!’
‘But I cannot persuade her to go away, my lady,’ said the
footman; ‘nor can any of the servants: Mrs. Fairfax is with
her just now, entreating her to be gone; but she has taken a
chair in the chimney- comer, and says nothing shall stir her
from it till she gets leave to come in here.’
‘What does she want?’ asked Mrs. Eshton.
‘To tell the gentry their fortunes,’ she says, ma’am; and
she swears she must and will do it.’
‘What is she like?’ inquired the Misses Eshton, in a
breath.
‘A shockingly ugly old creature, miss; almost as black as
a crock.’
‘Why, she’s a real sorceress!’ cried Frederick Lynn. ‘Let us
have her in, of course.’
‘To be sure,’ rejoined his brother; ‘it would be a thousand
pities to throw away such a chance of fun.’
‘My dear boys, what are you thinking about?’ exclaimed
Mrs. Lynn.
‘I cannot possibly countenance any such inconsistent
proceeding,’ chimed in the Dowager Ingram.
‘Indeed, mama, but you can—and will,’ pronounced
the haughty voice of Blanche, as she turned round on the
piano-stool; where till now she had sat silent, apparently ex-

292 Jane Eyre

 amining sundry sheets of music. ‘I have a curiosity to hear
my fortune told: therefore, Sam, order the beldame for-
ward.’
‘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 still lingered. ‘She looks such a rough one,’
said he.
‘Go!’ ejaculated Miss Ingram, and the man went.
Excitement instantly seized the whole party: a running
fire of raillery and jests was proceeding when Sam re-
turned.
‘She won’t come now,’ said he. ‘She says it’s not her mis-
sion 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 Lady 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?’
‘Yes, ma’am—but she looks such a tinkler.’
‘Cease that chatter, blockhead! and do my bidding.’
Again Sam vanished; and mystery, animation, expecta-
tion rose to full flow once more.
‘She’s ready now,’ said the footman, as he reappeared.

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‘She wishes to know who will be her first visitor.’
‘I think I had better just look in upon her before any of
the ladies go,’ said Colonel Dent.
‘Tell her, Sam, a gentleman is coming.’
Sam went and returned.
‘She says, sir, that she’ll have no gentlemen; they need not
trouble themselves to come near her; nor,’ he added, with
difficulty suppressing a titter, ‘any ladies either, except the
young, and single.’
‘By Jove, she has taste!’ exclaimed Henry Lynn.
Miss Ingram rose solemnly: ‘I go first,’ she said, in a
tone which might have befitted the leader of a forlorn hope,
mounting a breach in the van of his men.
‘Oh, my best! oh, my dearest! pause—reflect!’ was her
mama’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
‘le cas’ to wring her hands: which she did accordingly. Miss
Mary declared she felt, for her part, she never dared ven-
ture. Amy and Louisa Eshton tittered under their breath,
and looked a little frightened.
The minutes passed very slowly: fifteen were counted be-
fore the library-door again opened. Miss Ingram returned
to us through the arch.
Would she laugh? Would she take it as a joke? All eyes
met her with a glance of eager curiosity, and she met all eyes
with one of rebuff and coldness; she looked neither flurried
nor merry: she walked stiffly to her seat, and took it in si-

294 Jane Eyre

lence.
‘Well, Blanche?’ said Lord Ingram.
‘What did she say, sister?’ asked Mary.
‘What did you think? How do you feel?—Is she a real for-
tune- teller?’ demanded the Misses Eshton.
‘Now, now, good people,’ returned Miss Ingram, ‘don’t
press upon me. Really your organs of wonder and credu-
lity are easily excited: you seem, by the importance of you
all—my good mama included—ascribe to this matter, abso-
lutely to believe we have a genuine witch in the house, who
is in close alliance with the old gentleman. I have seen a
gipsy vagabond; she has practised in hackneyed fashion the
science of palmistry and told me what such people usually
tell. My whim is gratified; and now I think Mr. Eshton will
do well to put the hag in the stocks to-morrow morning, as
he threatened.’
Miss Ingram took a book, leant back in her chair, and
so declined further conversation. I watched her for nearly
half-an-hour: during all that time she never turned a page,
and her face grew momently darker, more dissatisfied, and
more sourly expressive of disappointment. She had obvi-
ously not heard anything to her advantage: and it seemed
to me, from her prolonged fit of gloom and taciturnity, that
she herself, notwithstanding her professed indifference, at-
tached undue importance to whatever revelations had been
made her.
Meantime, Mary Ingram, Amy and Louisa Eshton, de-
clared they dared not go alone; and yet they all wished to
go. A negotiation was opened through the medium of the

Free eBooks at Planet [Link] 295

ambassador, Sam; and after much pacing to and fro, till, I
think, the said Sam’s calves must have ached with the exer-
cise, permission was at last, with great difficulty, extorted
from the rigorous Sibyl, for the three to wait upon her in a
body.
Their visit was not so still as Miss Ingram’s had been: we
heard hysterical giggling and little shrieks proceeding from
the library; and at the end of about twenty minutes they
burst the door open, and came running across the hall, as if
they were half-scared out of their wits.
‘I am sure she is something not right!’ they cried, one and
all. ‘She told us such things! She knows all about us!’ and
they sank breathless into the various seats the gentlemen
hastened to bring them.
Pressed for further explanation, they declared she had
told them of things they had said and done when they were
mere children; described books and ornaments they had in
their boudoirs at home: keepsakes that different relations
had presented to them. They affirmed that she had even di-
vined their thoughts, and had whispered in the ear of each
the name of the person she liked best in the world, and in-
formed 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, of-
fered vinaigrettes and wielded fans; and again and again
reiterated the expression of their concern that their warn-
ing had not been taken in time; and the elder gentlemen

296 Jane Eyre

laughed, and the younger urged their services on the agi-
tated 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 an-
other young single lady in the room who has not been to
her yet, and she swears she will not go till she has seen all.
I thought it must be you: there is no one else for it. What
shall I tell her?’
‘Oh, I will go by all means,’ I answered: and I was glad
of the unexpected opportunity to gratify my much-excit-
ed curiosity. I slipped out of the room, unobserved by any
eye—for the company were gathered in one mass about the
trembling trio just returned—and I closed the door quietly
behind me.
‘If you like, miss,’ said Sam, ‘I’ll wait in the hall for you;
and if 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 ex-
cited.

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Chapter XIX

T he library looked tranquil enough as I entered it, and

the Sibyl— if Sibyl she were—was seated snugly enough
in an easy-chair at the chimney-corner. She had on a red
cloak and a black bonnet: or rather, a broad-brimmed gipsy
hat, tied down with a striped handkerchief under her chin.
An extinguished candle stood on the table; she was bending
over the fire, and seemed reading in a little black book, like
a prayer-book, by the light of the blaze: she muttered the
words to herself, as most old women do, while she read; she
did not desist immediately on my entrance: it appeared she
wished to finish a paragraph.
I stood on the rug and warmed my hands, which were
rather cold with sitting at a distance from the drawing-room
fire. I felt now as composed as ever I did in my life: there was
nothing indeed in the 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 white band which passed
under her chin, and came half over her cheeks, or rather
jaws: her eye confronted me at once, with a bold and direct
gaze.
‘Well, and you want your fortune told?’ she said, in a
voice as decided as her glance, as harsh as her features.

298 Jane Eyre

 ‘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 so: I expected 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?’
‘I’m not cold.’
‘Why don’t you turn pale?’
‘I am not sick.’
‘Why don’t you consult my art?’
‘I’m not silly.’
The old crone ‘nichered’ a laugh under her bonnet and
bandage; she then drew out a short black pipe, and lighting
it began to smoke. Having indulged a while in this sedative,
she raised her bent body, took the pipe from her lips, and
while gazing steadily at the fire, said very deliberately—‘You
are cold; you are sick; and you are silly.’
‘Prove it,’ I rejoined.
‘I will, in few words. You are cold, because you are alone:
no contact strikes the fire from you that is in you. You are
sick; because the best of feelings, the highest and the sweet-
est given to man, keeps far away from you. You are silly,
because, suffer as you may, you will not beckon it to ap-
proach, nor will you stir one step to meet it where it waits
you.’
She again put her short black pipe to her lips, and re-

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newed her smoking with vigour.
‘You might say all that to almost any one who you knew
lived as a solitary dependent in a great house.’
‘I might say it to almost any one: but would it be true of
almost any one?’
‘In my circumstances.’
‘Yes; just so, in YOUR circumstances: but find me anoth-
er precisely placed as you are.’
‘It would be easy to find you thousands.’
‘You could scarcely find me one. If you knew it, you are
peculiarly situated: very near happiness; yes, within reach of
it. The materials are all prepared; there only wants a move-
ment to combine them. Chance laid them somewhat apart;
let them be once approached and bliss results.’
‘I don’t understand enigmas. I never could guess a riddle
in my life.’
‘If you wish me to speak more plainly, show me your
palm.’
‘And I must cross it with silver, I suppose?’
‘To be sure.’
I gave her a shilling: she put it into an old stocking-foot
which she took out of her pocket, and having tied it round
and returned it, she told me to hold out my hand. I did. She
ached her face to the palm, and pored over it without touch-
ing it.
‘It is too fine,’ said she. ‘I can make nothing of such a
hand as that; almost without lines: besides, what is in a
palm? Destiny is not written there.’
‘I believe you,’ said I.

300 Jane Eyre

 ‘No,’ she continued, ‘it is in the face: on the forehead,
about the eyes, in the lines of the mouth. Kneel, and lift up
your head.’
‘Ah! now you are coming to reality,’ I said, as I obeyed her.
‘I shall begin to put some faith in you presently.’
I knelt within half a yard of her. She stirred the fire, so
that a ripple of light broke from the disturbed coal: the glare,
however, as she sat, only threw her face into deeper shadow:
mine, it illumined.
‘I wonder with what feelings you came to me to-night,’
she said, when she had examined me a while. ‘I wonder
what thoughts are busy in your heart during all the hours
you sit in yonder room with the fine people flitting before
you like shapes in a magic-lantern: just as little sympathetic
communion passing between you and them as if they were
really mere shadows of human forms, and not the actual
substance.’
‘I feel tired often, sleepy sometimes, but seldom sad.’
‘Then you have some secret hope to buoy you up and
please you with whispers of the future?’
‘Not I. The utmost I hope is, to save money enough out
of my earnings to set up a school some day in a little house
rented by myself.’
‘A mean nutriment for the spirit to exist on: and sitting in
that window-seat (you see I know your habits )—‘
‘You have learned them from the servants.’
‘Ah! you think yourself sharp. Well, perhaps I have: to
speak truth, I have an acquaintance with one of them, Mrs.
Poole—‘

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 I started to my feet when I heard the name.
‘You have—have you?’ thought I; ‘there is diablerie in the
business after all, then!’
‘Don’t be alarmed,’ continued the strange being; ‘she’s a
safe hand is Mrs. Poole: close and quiet; any one may repose
confidence in her. But, as I was saying: sitting in that win-
dow-seat, do you think of nothing but your future school?
Have you no present interest in any of the company who oc-
cupy the sofas and chairs before you? Is there not one face
you study? one figure whose movements you follow with at
least curiosity?’
‘I like to observe all the faces and all the figures.’
‘But do you never single one from the 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?’
‘Oh, I have not much choice! They generally run on the
same theme— courtship; and promise to end in the same
catastrophe—marriage.’
‘And do you like that monotonous theme?’
‘Positively, I don’t care about it: it is nothing to me.’
‘Nothing to you? When a lady, young and full of life and
health, charming with beauty and endowed with the gifts
of rank and fortune, sits and smiles in the eyes of a gentle-
man you—‘
‘I what?’
‘You know—and perhaps think well of.’
‘I don’t know the gentlemen here. I have scarcely inter-

302 Jane Eyre

changed a syllable with one of them; and as to thinking well
of them, I consider some respectable, and stately, and mid-
dle-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 know the gentlemen here? You have not ex-
changed a syllable with one of them? Will you say that of
the master of the house!’
‘He is not at home.’
‘A profound remark! A most ingenious quibble! He went
to Millcote this morning, and will be back here to-night or
to-morrow: does that circumstance exclude him from the
list of your acquaintance— blot him, as it were, out of ex-
istence?’
‘No; but I can scarcely see what Mr. Rochester has to do
with the theme you had introduced.’
‘I was talking of ladies smiling in the eyes of gentlemen;
and of late so many smiles have been shed into Mr. Roch-
ester’s eyes that they overflow like two cups filled above the
brim: have you never remarked that?’
‘Mr. Rochester has a right to enjoy the society of his
guests.’
‘No question about his right: but have you never observed
that, of all the tales told here about matrimony, Mr. Roch-
ester has been favoured with the most lively and the most
continuous?’
‘The eagerness of a listener quickens the tongue of a nar-
rator.’ I said this rather to myself than to the gipsy, whose

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strange talk, voice, manner, had by this time wrapped me in
a kind of dream. One unexpected sentence came from her
lips after another, till I got involved in a web of mystifica-
tion; and wondered what unseen spirit had been sitting for
weeks by my heart watching its workings and taking record
of every pulse.
‘Eagerness of a listener!’ repeated she: ‘yes; Mr. Rochester
has sat by the hour, his ear inclined to the fascinating lips
that took such delight in their task of communicating; and
Mr. Rochester was so willing to receive and looked so grate-
ful for the pastime given him; you have noticed this?’
‘Grateful! I cannot remember detecting gratitude in his
face.’
‘Detecting! You have analysed, then. And what did you
detect, if not gratitude?’
I said nothing.
‘You have seen love: have you not?—and, looking forward,
you have seen him married, and beheld his bride happy?’
‘Humph! Not exactly. Your witch’s skill is rather at fault
sometimes.’
‘What the devil have you seen, then?’
‘Never mind: I came here to inquire, not to confess. Is it
known that Mr. Rochester is to be married?’
‘Yes; and to the beautiful Miss Ingram.’
‘Shortly?’
‘Appearances would warrant that conclusion: and, no
doubt (though, with 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, ac-

304 Jane Eyre

complished lady; and probably she loves him, or, if not his
person, at least his purse. I know she considers the Roch-
ester estate eligible to the last degree; though (God pardon
me!) I told her something on that point about an hour ago
which made her look wondrous grave: the corners of her
mouth fell half an inch. I would advise her blackaviced suit-
or to look out: if another comes, with a longer or clearer
rent-roll,—he’s dished—‘
‘But, mother, I did not come to hear Mr. Rochester’s for-
tune: I came to hear my own; and you have told me nothing
of it.’
‘Your fortune is yet doubtful: when I examined your face,
one trait contradicted another. Chance has meted you a
measure of happiness: that I know. I knew it before I came
here this evening. She has laid it carefully on one side for
you. I saw her do it. It depends on yourself to stretch out
your hand, and take it up: but whether you will do so, is the
problem I study. Kneel again on the rug.’
‘Don’t keep me long; the fire scorches me.’
I knelt. She did not stoop towards me, but only gazed,
leaning back in her chair. She began muttering,—
‘The flame flickers in the eye; the eye shines like dew; it
looks soft and full of feeling; it smiles at my jargon: it is
susceptible; impression follows impression through its clear
sphere; where it ceases to smile, it is sad; an unconscious las-
situde 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

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both of sensibility and chagrin: its pride and reserve only
confirm me in my opinion. The eye is favourable.
‘As to the mouth, it delights at times in laughter; it is
disposed to impart all that the brain conceives; though I
daresay it would be silent on much the heart experiences.
Mobile and flexible, it was never intended to be compressed
in the eternal silence of solitude: it is a mouth which should
speak much and smile often, and have human affection for
its interlocutor. That feature too is propitious.
‘I see no enemy to a fortunate issue but in the brow; and
that brow professes to say,—‘I can live alone, if self-respect,
and circumstances require me so to do. I need not sell my
soul to buy bliss. I have an inward treasure born with me,
which can keep me alive if all extraneous delights should be
withheld, or offered only at a price I cannot afford to give.’
The forehead declares, ‘Reason sits firm and holds the reins,
and she will not let the feelings burst away and hurry her
to wild chasms. The passions may rage furiously, like true
heathens, as they are; and the desires may imagine all sorts
of vain things: but judgment shall still have the last word
in every argument, and the casting vote in every decision.
Strong wind, earthquake-shock, and fire may pass by: but I
shall follow the guiding of that still small voice which inter-
prets 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 attended to the claims of conscience, the coun-
sels of reason. I know how soon youth would fade and bloom
perish, if, in the cup of bliss offered, but one dreg of shame,

306 Jane Eyre

or one flavour 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 endearments, 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 gov-
erned myself thoroughly. I have acted as I inwardly swore
I would act; but further might try me beyond my strength.
Rise, Miss Eyre: leave me; the play is played out’.’
Where was I? Did I wake or sleep? Had I been dreaming?
Did I dream still? The old woman’s voice had changed: her
accent, her gesture, and all were familiar to me as my own
face in a glass—as the speech of my own tongue. I got up,
but did not go. I looked; I stirred the fire, and I looked again:
but she drew her bonnet and her bandage closer about her
face, and again beckoned me to depart. The flame illumi-
nated 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 sup-
ple 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 be-
fore. Again I looked at the face; which was no longer turned
from me—on the contrary, the bonnet was doffed, the ban-
dage displaced, the head advanced.
‘Well, Jane, do you know me?’ asked the familiar voice.
‘Only take off the red cloak, sir, and then—‘
‘But the string is in a knot—help me.’

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 ‘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? Don’t you think so?’
‘With the ladies you must have managed well.’
‘But not with you?’
‘You did not act the character of a gipsy with me.’
‘What character did I act? My own?’
‘No; some unaccountable one. In short, I believe you have
been trying to draw me out—or in; you have been talking
nonsense to make me talk nonsense. It is scarcely fair, sir.’
‘Do you forgive me, Jane?’
‘I cannot tell till I have thought it all over. If, on reflection,
I find I have fallen into no great absurdity, I shall try to for-
give you; but it was not right.’
‘Oh, you have been very correct—very careful, very sen-
sible.’
I reflected, and thought, on the whole, I had. It was a
comfort; but, indeed, I had been on my guard almost from
the beginning of the interview. Something of masquerade
I suspected. I knew gipsies and fortune-tellers did not ex-
press themselves as this seeming old woman had expressed
herself; besides I had noted her feigned voice, her anxiety
to conceal her features. But my mind had been running on
Grace Poole—that living enigma, that mystery of mysteries,
as I considered her. I had never thought of Mr. Rochester.
‘Well,’ said he, ‘what are you musing about? What does
that grave smile signify?’

308 Jane Eyre

 ‘Wonder and self-congratulation, sir. I have your permis-
sion to retire now, I suppose?’
‘No; stay a moment; and tell me what the people in the
drawing-room yonder are doing.’
‘Discussing the gipsy, I daresay.’
‘Sit down!—Let me hear what they said about me.’
‘I had better not stay long, sir; it must be near eleven
o’clock. Oh, are you aware, Mr. Rochester, that a stranger
has arrived here since you left this morning?’
‘A stranger!—no; who can it be? I expected no one; is he
gone?’
‘No; he said he had known you long, and that he could
take the liberty of installing himself here till you returned.’
‘The devil he did! Did he give his name?’
‘His name is Mason, sir; and he comes from the West In-
dies; from Spanish Town, in Jamaica, I think.’
Mr. Rochester was standing near me; he had taken my
hand, as if to lead me to a chair. As I spoke he gave my wrist
a convulsive grip; the smile on his lips froze: apparently a
spasm caught his breath.
‘Mason!—the West Indies!’ he said, in the tone one might
fancy a speaking automaton to enounce its single words;
‘Mason!—the West Indies!’ he reiterated; and he went over
the syllables three times, growing, in the intervals of speak-
ing, 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.’

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 ‘Jane, you offered me your shoulder once before; let me
have it now.’
‘Yes, sir, yes; and my arm.’
He sat down, and made me sit beside him. Holding my
hand in both his own, he chafed it; gazing on me, at the
same time, with the most troubled and dreary look.
‘My little friend!’ said he, ‘I wish I were in a quiet island
with only you; and trouble, and danger, and hideous recol-
lections removed from me.’
‘Can I help you, sir?—I’d give my life to serve you.’
‘Jane, if aid is wanted, I’ll seek it at your hands; I prom-
ise 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 sup-
per, as Mr. Rochester had said; they were not seated at
table,—the supper was arranged on the sideboard; each had
taken what he chose, and they stood about here and there
in groups, their plates and glasses in their hands. Every one
seemed in high glee; laughter and conversation were gen-
eral and animated. Mr. Mason stood near the fire, talking
to Colonel and Mrs. Dent, and appeared as merry as any
of them. I filled a wine-glass (I saw Miss Ingram watch me
frowningly as I did so: she thought I was taking a liberty, I
daresay), and I returned to the library.
Mr. Rochester’s extreme pallor had disappeared, and he

310 Jane Eyre

looked once more firm and stern. He took the glass from
my hand.
‘Here is to your health, ministrant spirit!’ he said. He
swallowed the contents and returned it to me. ‘What are
they doing, Jane?’
‘Laughing and talking, sir.’
‘They don’t look grave and mysterious, as if they had
heard something strange?’
‘Not at all: they are full of jests and gaiety.’
‘And Mason?’
‘He was laughing too.’
‘If all these people came in a body and spat at me, what
would you do, Jane?’
‘Turn them out of the room, sir, if I could.’
He half smiled. ‘But if I were to go to them, and they only
looked at me coldly, and whispered sneeringly amongst
each other, and then dropped off and left me one by one,
what then? Would you go with them?’
‘I rather think not, sir: I should have more pleasure in
staying with you.’
‘To comfort me?’
‘Yes, sir, to comfort you, as well as I could.’
‘And if they laid you under a ban for adhering to me?’
‘I, probably, should know nothing about their ban; and if
I did, I should care nothing about it.’
‘Then, you could dare censure for my sake?’
‘I could dare it for the sake of any friend who deserved
my adherence; as you, I am sure, do.’
‘Go back now into the room; step quietly up to Mason,

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and whisper in his ear that Mr. Rochester is come and wish-
es to see him: show him in here and then leave me.’
‘Yes, sir.’
I did his behest. The company all stared at me as I passed
straight among them. I sought Mr. Mason, delivered the
message, and preceded him from the room: I ushered him
into the library, and then I went upstairs.
At a late hour, after I had been in bed some time, I heard
the visitors repair to their chambers: I distinguished Mr.
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-blind. The consequence
was, that when the moon, which was full and bright (for the
night was fine), came in her course to that space in the sky
opposite my casement, and looked in at me through the un-
veiled 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
Thornfield Hall.
My pulse stopped: my heart stood still; my stretched
arm was paralysed. The cry died, and was not renewed. In-

312 Jane Eyre

 deed, whatever being uttered that fearful shriek could not
soon repeat it: not the widest-winged condor on the Andes
could, twice in succession, send out such a yell from the
cloud shrouding his eyrie. The thing delivering such utter-
ance must rest ere it could repeat the effort.
It came out of the third storey; for it passed overhead.
And overhead—yes, in the room just above my chamber-
ceiling—I now heard a struggle: a deadly one it seemed
from the noise; and a half-smothered voice shouted—
‘Help! help! help!’ three times rapidly.
‘Will no one come?’ it cried; and then, while the stagger-
ing and stamping went on wildly, I distinguished through
plank and plaster:-
‘Rochester! Rochester! for God’s sake, come!’
A chamber-door opened: some one ran, or rushed, along
the gallery. Another step stamped on the flooring above
and something fell; and there was silence.
I had put on some clothes, though horror shook all my
limbs; I issued from my apartment. The sleepers were all
aroused: ejaculations, terrified murmurs sounded in every
room; door after door unclosed; one looked out and an-
other looked out; the gallery filled. Gentlemen and ladies
alike had quitted their beds; and ‘Oh! what is it?’—‘Who is
hurt?’—‘What has happened?’—‘Fetch a light!’—‘Is it fire?’—
‘Are there robbers?’—‘Where shall we run?’ was demanded
confusedly on all hands. But for the moonlight they would
have been in complete darkness. They ran to and fro; they
crowded together: some sobbed, some stumbled: the confu-
sion was inextricable.

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 ‘Where the devil is Rochester?’ cried Colonel Dent. ‘I
cannot find him in his bed.’
‘Here! here!’ was shouted in return. ‘Be composed, all of
you: 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 storey. One of the ladies ran to him directly;
she seized his arm: it was Miss Ingram.
‘What awful event has taken place?’ said she. ‘Speak! let
us know the worst at once!’
‘But don’t pull me down or strangle me,’ he replied: for
the Misses Eshton were clinging about him now; and the
two dowagers, in vast white wrappers, were bearing down
on him like ships in full sail.
‘All’s right!—all’s right!’ he cried. ‘It’s a mere rehearsal of
Much Ado about Nothing. Ladies, keep off, or I shall wax
dangerous.’
And dangerous he looked: his black eyes darted sparks.
Calming himself by an effort, he added—
‘A servant has had the nightmare; that is all. She’s an ex-
citable, nervous person: she construed her dream into an
apparition, or something of that sort, no doubt; and has
taken a fit with fright. Now, then, I must see you all back
into your rooms; for, till the house is settled, she cannot be
looked after. Gentlemen, have the goodness to set the ladies
the example. Miss Ingram, I am sure you will not fail in
evincing superiority to idle terrors. Amy and Louisa, return
to your nests like a pair of doves, as you are. Mesdames’ (to
the dowagers), ‘you will take cold to a dead certainty, if you

314 Jane Eyre

stay in this chill gallery any longer.’
And so, by dint of alternate coaxing and commanding,
he contrived to get them all once more enclosed in their
separate dormitories. I did not wait to be ordered back to
mine, but retreated unnoticed, as unnoticed I had left it.
Not, however, to go to bed: on the contrary, I began and
dressed myself carefully. The sounds I had heard after the
scream, and the words that had been uttered, had proba-
bly 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 giv-
en was merely an invention framed to pacify his guests. I
dressed, then, to be ready for emergencies. When dressed,
I sat a long time by the window looking out over the silent
grounds and silvered fields and waiting for I knew not what.
It seemed to me that some event must follow the strange cry,
struggle, and call.
No: stillness returned: each murmur and movement
ceased gradually, and in about an hour Thornfield Hall was
again as hushed as a desert. It seemed that sleep and night
had resumed their empire. Meantime the moon declined:
she was about to set. Not liking to sit in the cold and dark-
ness, I thought I would lie down on my bed, dressed as I was.
I left the window, and moved with little noise across the
carpet; as I stooped to take off my shoes, a cautious hand
tapped low at the door.
‘Am I wanted?’ I asked.
‘Are you up?’ asked the voice I expected to hear, viz., my

Free eBooks at Planet [Link] 315

master’s.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And dressed?’
‘Yes.’
‘Come out, then, quietly.’
I obeyed. Mr. Rochester stood in the gallery holding a
light.
‘I want you,’ he said: ‘come this way: take your time, and
make no noise.’
My slippers were thin: I could walk the matted floor as
softly as a cat. He glided up the gallery and up the stairs,
and stopped in the dark, low corridor of the fateful third
storey: I had followed and stood at his side.
‘Have you a sponge in your room?’ he asked in a whis-
per.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Have you any salts—volatile salts? Yes.’
‘Go back and fetch both.’
I returned, sought the sponge on the washstand, the salts
in my drawer, 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 ad-
dressed me again.
‘You don’t turn sick at the sight of blood?’
‘I think I shall not: I have never been tried yet.’
I felt a thrill while I answered him; but no coldness, and
no faintness.
‘Just give me your hand,’ he said: ‘it will not do to risk a
fainting fit.’

316 Jane Eyre

 I put my fingers into his. ‘Warm and steady,’ was his re-
mark: he turned the key and opened the door.
I saw a room I remembered to have seen before, the day
Mrs. Fairfax showed me over the house: it was hung with
tapestry; but the tapestry was now looped up in one part,
and there was a door apparent, which had then been con-
cealed. This door was open; a light shone out of the room
within: I heard thence a snarling, snatching sound, almost
like a dog quarrelling. Mr. Rochester, putting down his can-
dle, 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 arrange-
ment without speaking, though I heard a low voice address
him: he came out and closed the door behind him.
‘Here, Jane!’ he said; and I walked round to the other side
of a large bed, which with its drawn curtains concealed a
considerable portion of the chamber. An easy-chair was
near the bed-head: a man sat in it, dressed with the excep-
tion of his coat; he was still; his head leant back; his eyes
were closed. Mr. Rochester held the candle over him; I
recognised in his pale and seemingly lifeless face—the
stranger, Mason: I saw too that his linen on one side, and
one arm, was almost soaked in blood.
‘Hold the candle,’ said Mr. Rochester, and I took it: he
fetched a basin of water from the washstand: ‘Hold that,’ said
he. I obeyed. He took the sponge, dipped it in, and moist-
ened the corpse-like face; he asked for my smelling-bottle,
and applied it to the nostrils. Mr. Mason shortly unclosed

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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’ll fetch a surgeon for you now, myself: you’ll be
able to be removed by morning, I hope. Jane,’ he continued.
‘Sir?’
‘I shall have to leave you in this room with this gentle-
man, 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 if you speak to her:
open your lips—agitate yourselfand 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, ap-
peared almost to paralyse him. Mr. Rochester put the now
bloody sponge into my hand, and I proceeded to use it as
he had done. He watched me a second, then saying, ‘Re-
member!—No conversation,’ he left the room. I experienced
a strange feeling as the key grated in the lock, and the sound
of his retreating step ceased to be heard.
Here then I was in the third storey, fastened into one of
its mystic cells; night around me; a pale and bloody specta-
cle under my eyes and hands; a murderess hardly separated
from me by a single door: yes—that was appalling—the rest
I could bear; but I shuddered at the thought of Grace Poole

318 Jane Eyre

bursting out upon me.
I must keep to my post, however. I must watch this
ghastly countenance—these blue, still lips forbidden to
unclose—these eyes now shut, now opening, now wander-
ing through the room, now fixing on me, and ever glazed
with the dulness of horror. I must dip my hand again and
again in the basin of blood and water, and wipe away the
trickling gore. I must see the light of the unsnuffed can-
dle 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 opposite—whose front, divided
into twelve panels, bore, in grim design, the heads of the
twelve apostles, each enclosed in its separate panel as in a
frame; while above them at the top rose an ebon crucifix
and a dying Christ.
According as the shifting obscurity and flickering gleam
hovered here or glanced there, it was now the bearded phy-
sician, Luke, that bent his brow; now St. John’s long hair
that waved; and anon the devilish face of Judas, that grew
out of the panel, and seemed gathering life and threaten-
ing a revelation of the arch-traitor—of Satan himself—in
his subordinate’s form.
Amidst all this, I had to listen as well as watch: to listen
for the movements of the wild beast or the fiend in yonder
side den. But since Mr. Rochester’s visit it seemed spell-
bound: all the night I heard but three sounds at three long
intervals,—a step creak, a momentary renewal of the snarl-
ing, canine noise, and a deep human groan.

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 Then my own thoughts worried me. What crime was this
that lived incarnate in this sequestered mansion, and could
neither be expelled nor subdued by the owner?—what mys-
tery, that broke out now in fire and now in blood, at the
deadest hours of night? What creature was it, that, masked
in an ordinary woman’s face and shape, uttered the voice,
now of a mocking demon, and anon of a carrion-seeking
bird of prey?
And this man I bent over—this commonplace, quiet
stranger—how had he become involved in the web of hor-
ror? 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. Roch-
ester assign him an apartment below—what brought him
here! And why, now, was he so tame under the violence
or treachery done him? Why did he so quietly submit to
the concealment Mr. Rochester enforced? Why DID Mr.
Rochester enforce this concealment? His guest had been
outraged, his own life on a former occasion had been hid-
eously plotted against; and both attempts he smothered in
secrecy and sank in oblivion! Lastly, I saw Mr. Mason was
submissive to Mr. Rochester; that the impetuous will of the
latter held complete sway over the inertness of the former:
the few words which had passed between them assured me
of this. It was evident that in their former intercourse, the
passive disposition of the one had been habitually influ-
enced by the active energy of the other: whence then had
arisen Mr. Rochester’s dismay when he heard of Mr. Ma-
son’s arrival? Why had the mere name of this unresisting

320 Jane Eyre

individual—whom his word now sufficed to control like a
child—fallen on him, a few hours since, as a thunderbolt
might fall on an oak?
Oh! I could not forget his look and his paleness when he
whispered: ‘Jane, I have got a blow—I have got a blow, Jane.’
I could not forget how the arm had trembled which he rest-
ed on my shoulder: and it was no light matter which could
thus bow the resolute spirit and thrill the vigorous frame of
Fairfax Rochester.
‘When will he come? When will he come?’ I cried in-
wardly, 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 men-
tal suffering, or loss of blood, or all three combined, were
fast prostrating his strength. He moaned so, and looked so
weak, wild, and lost, I feared he was dying; ant I might not
even speak to him.
The candle, wasted at last, went out; as it expired, I per-
ceived streaks of grey light edging the window curtains:
dawn was then approaching. Presently I heard Pilot bark
far below, out of his distant kennel in the courtyard: hope
revived. Nor was it unwarranted: in five minutes more the
grating key, the yielding lock, warned me my watch was re-
lieved. 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.

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 ‘Now, Carter, be on the alert,’ he said to this last: ‘I give
you but half-an-hour for dressing the wound, fastening the
bandages, getting the patient downstairs and all.’
‘But is he fit to move, sir?’
‘No doubt of it; it is nothing serious; he is nervous, his
spirits must be kept up. Come, set to work.’
Mr. Rochester drew back the thick curtain, drew up the
holland blind, let in all the daylight he could; and I was sur-
prised and cheered to see how far dawn was advanced: what
rosy streaks were beginning to brighten the east. Then he
approached Mason, whom the surgeon was already han-
dling.
‘Now, my good fellow, how are you?’ he asked.
‘She’s done for me, I fear,’ was the faint reply.
‘Not a whit!—courage! This day fortnight you’ll hardly
be a pin the worse 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 cut. This wound
was not done with a knife: there have been teeth here!’
‘She bit me,’ he murmured. ‘She worried me like a tigress,
when Rochester got the knife from her.’
‘You should not have yielded: you should have grappled
with her at once,’ said Mr. Rochester.
‘But under such circumstances, what could one do?’ re-
turned Mason. ‘Oh, it was frightful!’ he added, shuddering.
‘And I did not expect it: she looked so quiet at first.’

322 Jane Eyre

 ‘I warned you,’ was his friend’s answer; ‘I said—be on
your guard when you go near her. Besides, you might have
waited till to- morrow, and had me with you: it was mere
folly to attempt the interview to-night, and alone.’
‘I thought I could have done some good.’
‘You thought! you thought! Yes, it makes me impatient to
hear you: but, however, you have suffered, and are likely to
suffer enough for not taking my advice; so 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 sucked the blood: she said she’d drain my heart,’
said Mason.
I saw Mr. Rochester shudder: a singularly marked ex-
pression of disgust, horror, hatred, warped his countenance
almost to distortion; but he only said—
‘Come, be silent, Richard, and never mind her gibberish:
don’t repeat it.’
‘I wish I could forget it,’ was the answer.
‘You will when you are out of the country: when you get
back to Spanish Town, you may think of her as dead and
buried—or rather, you need not think of her at all.’
‘Impossible to forget this night!’
‘It is not impossible: have some energy, man. You thought
you were as dead as a herring two hours since, and you are
all alive and talking now. There!—Carter has done with you
or nearly so; I’ll make you decent in a trice. Jane’ (he turned

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to me for the first time since his re-entrance), ‘take this key:
go down into my bedroom, and walk straight forward into
my dressing-room: open the top drawer of the wardrobe
and take out a clean shirt and neck- handkerchief: bring
them here; and be nimble.’
I went; sought the repository he had mentioned, found
the articles named, and returned with them.
‘Now,’ said he, ‘go to the other side of the bed while I or-
der his toilet; but don’t leave the room: you may be wanted
again.’
I retired as directed.
‘Was anybody stirring below when you went down, Jane?’
inquired Mr. Rochester presently.
‘No, sir; all was very still.’
‘We shall get you off cannily, Dick: and it will be bet-
ter, both for your sake, and for that of the poor creature in
yonder. I have striven long to avoid exposure, and I should
not like it to come at last. Here, Carter, help him on with
his waist-coat. Where did you leave your furred cloak? You
can’t travel a mile without that, I know, in this damned cold
climate. In your room?—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 with fur.
‘Now, I’ve another errand for you,’ said my untiring mas-
ter; ‘you must away to my room again. What a mercy you
are shod with velvet, Jane!—a clod-hopping messenger
would never do at this juncture. You must open the middle

324 Jane Eyre

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 ad-
ministering 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 in-
discriminately, but it is good upon occasion: as now, for
instance. Jane, a little water.’
He held out the tiny glass, and I half filled it from the wa-
ter- bottle on the washstand.
‘That will do;—now wet the lip of the phial.’
I did so; he measured twelve drops of a crimson liquid,
and presented it to Mason.
‘Drink, Richard: it will give you the heart you lack, for
an hour or so.’
‘But will it hurt me?—is it inflammatory?’
‘Drink! drink! drink!’
Mr. Mason obeyed, because it was evidently useless to
resist. He was dressed now: he still looked pale, but he was
no longer gory and sullied. Mr. Rochester let him sit three
minutes after he had swallowed the liquid; he then took his
arm—
‘Now I am sure you can get on your feet,’ he said—‘try.’
The patient rose.
‘Carter, take him under the other shoulder. Be of good
cheer, Richard; step out—that’s it!’
‘I do feel better,’ remarked Mr. Mason.
‘I am sure you do. Now, Jane, trip on before us away to

Free eBooks at Planet [Link] 325

the backstairs; unbolt the side-passage door, and tell 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 coming: and, Jane, if any
one is about, come to the foot of the stairs and hem.’
It was by this time half-past five, and the sun was on the
point of rising; but I found the kitchen still dark and silent.
The side- passage door was fastened; I opened it with as little
noise as possible: all the yard was quiet; but the gates stood
wide open, and there was a post-chaise, with horses ready
harnessed, and driver seated on the box, stationed outside.
I approached him, and said the gentlemen were coming; he
nodded: then I looked carefully round and listened. The
stillness of early morning slumbered everywhere; the cur-
tains were yet drawn over the servants’ chamber windows;
little birds were just twittering in the blossom-blanched or-
chard trees, whose boughs drooped like white garlands over
the wall enclosing one side of the yard; the carriage horses
stamped from time to time in their closed stables: all else
was still.
The gentlemen now appeared. Mason, supported by Mr.
Rochester and the surgeon, seemed to walk with tolerable
ease: they assisted him into the chaise; Carter followed.
‘Take care of him,’ said Mr. Rochester to the latter, ‘and
keep him at your house till he is quite well: I shall ride over
in a day or two to see how he gets on. Richard, how is it with
you?’
‘The fresh air revives me, Fairfax.’
‘Leave the window open on his side, Carter; there is no

326 Jane Eyre

wind—good- bye, Dick.’
‘Fairfax—‘
‘Well what is it?’
‘Let her be taken care of; let her be treated as tenderly as
may be: let her—‘ he stopped and burst into tears.
‘I do my best; and have done it, and will do it,’ was the
answer: he shut up the chaise door, and the vehicle drove
away.
‘Yet would to God there was an end of all this!’ added Mr.
Rochester, as he closed and barred the heavy yard-gates.
This done, he moved with slow step and abstracted air
towards a door in the wall bordering the orchard. I, suppos-
ing he had done with me, prepared to return to the house;
again, however, I heard him call ‘Jane!’ He had opened feel
portal and stood at it, waiting for me.
‘Come where there is some freshness, for a few moments,’
he said; ‘that house is a mere dungeon: don’t you feel it so?’
‘It seems to me a splendid mansion, sir.’
‘The glamour of inexperience is over your eyes,’ he an-
swered; ‘and you see it through a charmed medium: you
cannot discern that the gilding is slime and the silk draper-
ies cobwebs; that the marble is sordid slate, and the polished
woods mere refuse chips and scaly bark. Now HERE’ (he
pointed to the leafy enclosure we had entered) ‘all is real,
sweet, and pure.’
He strayed down a walk edged with box, with apple trees,
pear trees, and cherry trees on one side, and a border on the
other full of all sorts of old-fashioned flowers, stocks, sweet-
williams, primroses, pansies, mingled with southernwood,

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sweet-briar, and various fragrant herbs. They were fresh
now as a succession of April showers and gleams, followed
by a lovely spring morning, could make them: the sun was
just entering the dappled east, and his light illumined the
wreathed and dewy orchard trees and shone down the quiet
walks under them.
‘Jane, will you have a flower?’
He gathered a half-blown rose, the first on the bush, and
offered it to me.
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Do you like this sunrise, Jane? That sky with its high and
light clouds which are sure to melt away as the day waxes
warm—this placid and balmly atmosphere?’
‘I do, very much.’
‘You have passed a strange night, Jane.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And it has made you look pale—were you afraid when I
left you alone with Mason?’
‘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 careless shepherd if I had left a lamb—
my pet lamb—so near a wolf’s den, unguarded: you were
safe.’
‘Will Grace Poole live here still, sir?’
‘Oh yes! don’t trouble your head about her—put the thing
out of your thoughts.’
‘Yet it seems to me your life is hardly secure while she
stays.’
‘Never fear—I will take care of myself.’

328 Jane Eyre

 ‘Is the danger you apprehended last night gone by now,
sir?’
‘I cannot vouch for that till Mason is out of England: nor
even then. To live, for me, Jane, is to stand on a crater-crust
which may crack and spue fire any day.’
‘But Mr. Mason seems a man easily led. Your influence,
sir, is evidently potent with him: he will never set you at de-
fiance or wilfully injure you.’
‘Oh, no! Mason will not defy me; nor, knowing it, will he
hurt me— but, unintentionally, he might in a moment, by
one careless word, deprive me, if not of life, yet for ever of
happiness.’
‘Tell him to be cautious, sir: let him know what you fear,
and show him how to avert the danger.’
He laughed sardonically, hastily took my hand, and as
hastily threw it from him.
‘If I could do that, simpleton, where would the danger
be? Annihilated in a moment. Ever since I have known Ma-
son, I have only had to say to him ‘Do that,’ and the thing
has been done. But I cannot give him orders in this case: I
cannot say ‘Beware of harming me, Richard;’ for it is