JANE EYRE


By Charlotte Bronte


Chapter 1

There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. We had been wandering, 
indeed, in the leafless shrubbery an hour in the morning; but since dinner 
(Mrs Reed, when there was no company, dined early) the cold winter wind had 
brought with it clouds so sombre, and a rain so penetrating, that further 
outdoor 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 humbled 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 
perfectly 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 Bessie, 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 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 small 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 intervals, while turning over the leaves of my book, 
I studied the aspect of that winter afternoon. Afar, it offered a pale 
blank of mist and cloud; near, a scene of wet lawn and storm-beat shrub, 
with ceaseless rain sweeping away wildly before a long and lamentable 
blast.
I returned to my book - Bewick's History of British Birds: the letter-press 
thereof I cared little for, generally speaking; and yet there were certain 
introductory pages that, child as I was, I could not pass quite as a blank. 
They were those which treat of the haunts of sea-fowl; of "the solitary 
rocks and promontories" by them only inhabited; of the coast of Norway, 
studded with isles from its southern extremity, the Lindeness, or Naze, to 
the North Cape -

"Where the Northern Ocean, in vast whirls
Boils round the naked, melancholy isles
Of farthest Thule; and the Atlantic surge
Pours in among the stormy Hebrides."

Nor could I pass unnoticed the suggestion of the bleak shores of Lapland, 
Siberia, Spitzbergen, Nova Zembla, Iceland, Greenland, with "the vast sweep 
of the Arctic Zone, and those forlorn regions of dreary space, - that 
reservoir of frost and snow, where firm fields of ice, the accumulation of 
centuries of winters, glazed in Alpine heights above heights, surround the 
pole, and concentre the multiplied rigors of extreme cold." Of these death-
white realms I formed an idea of my own: shadowy, like all the half-
comprehended notions that float dim through children's brains, but 
strangely impressive. The words in these introductory pages 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 desolate 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 newly-risen crescent, attesting the hour of even-
tide.
The two ships becalmed on a torpid sea, I believed to be marine phantoms.
The fiend pinning down the thief's pack behind him, I passed over quickly: 
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 undeveloped 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 ironing-table to the 
nursery-hearth, she allowed us to sit about it, and while she got up Mrs 
Reed's lace frills, and crimped her night-cap borders, fed our eager 
attention with passages of love and adventure taken from old fairy tales 
and older ballads; or (as at a later period I discovered) from the pages of 
Pamela, and Henry, Earl of Moreland.
With Bewick on my knee, I was then happy: happy at least in my way. I 
feared nothing but interruption, and that came too soon. The breakfast-room 
door opened.
"Boh! Madam Mope!" 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 fervently he might 
not discover my hiding-place; nor would John Reed have found it out 
himself; he was not quick either of vision or conception; but Eliza just 
put her head in at the door, and said at once: -
"She is in the window-seat, to be sure, Jack."
And I came out immediately; for I trembled at the idea of being dragged 
forth by the said Jack.
"What do you 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 armchair, 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, perhaps, 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 every morsel of flesh on 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 either his menaces or his inflictions; the servants 
did not like to offend their young master by taking my part against him, 
and Mrs Reed was blind and deaf on the subject: she never saw him strike or 
heard him abuse me; though he did both now and then in her very presence: 
more frequently, however, behind her back.
Habitually obedient to John, 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 retired back a step or two from his chair.
"That is for your impudence in answering mama a while since," said he, "and 
for your sneaking way of getting behind curtains, and for the look you had 
in your eyes two minutes since, you rat!"
Accustomed to John Reed's abuse, I never had an idea of replying to it; my 
care was how to endure the blow which would certainly follow the insult.
"What were you doing behind the curtain?" 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 dependant, mama says; 
you have no money; your father left you none; you ought to beg, and not to 
live here with gentlemen's children like us, and eat the same meals we do, 
and 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 climax; 
other feelings succeeded.
"Wicked and cruel boy!" I said. "You are like a murderer - you are like a 
slave-driver - you are like the Roman emperors!"
I had read Goldsmith's History of Rome, and had formed my opinion of Nero, 
Caligula, etc. Also I had drawn parallels in silence, which I never thought 
thus to have declared aloud.
"What! what!" he cried. "Did she say that to me? 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 him: Eliza and Georgiana had run for Mrs 
Reed, who was gone up stairs; she now came upon the scene, followed by 
Bessie and her maid Abbot. We were parted: I heard the words: -
"Dear! dear! What a fury to fly at 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.


Chapter 2

I resisted all the way: a new thing for me, and a circumstance which 
greatly strengthened the bad opinion Bessie and Miss Abbot were disposed to 
entertain of 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 mutiny 
had already rendered me liable to strange penalties, and like any other 
rebel slave, I felt resolved, in my desperation, to go all lengths.
"Hold her arms, Miss Abbot; she's like a mad cat."
"For shame! for shame!" cried the lady's-maid. "What shocking conduct, 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 wickedness."
They had got me by this time into the apartment indicated 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 ligature. This 
preparation for bonds, and the additional ignominy it inferred, took a 
little of the excitement out of me.
"Don't take them off," I cried; "I will not stir."
In guarantee whereof, I attached myself to my seat by my hands.
"Mind you don't," said Bessie; and when she had ascertained that I was 
really subsiding, she loosened her hold of me; then she and Miss Abbot 
stood with folded arms, looking 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 obligations to Mrs Reed: 
she keeps you: if she were to turn you off, you would have to go to the 
poor-house."
I had nothing to say to these words: they were not new to me: my very first 
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 allows you to be brought up with 
them. They will have a great deal of money, and you will have none: it is 
your place to be humble, and to try to make yourself agreeable to them."
"What we tell you, is for your good," 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 repent, something bad 
might be permitted to come down the chimney, and fetch you away."
They went, shutting the door, and locking it behind them.
The red-room was a spare 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 mahogany. Out of these deep surrounding shades rose 
high, and glared white, the piled-up mattresses and pillows of the 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 kitchens; solemn, because it was known to be so 
seldom entered. The housemaid 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 contents 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 chamber he breathed his 
last; here he lay in state; hence his coffin was borne by the undertaker's 
men; and, since that day, a sense of dreary consecration had guarded it 
from frequent intrusion.
My seat, to which Bessie and the bitter Miss Abbot had left me riveted, was 
a low ottoman near the marble chimney-piece; the bed rose before me; to my 
right hand there was the high, dark wardrobe, with subdued, broken 
reflections varying the gloss of its panels; to my left were the muffled 
windows; a great looking-glass between them repeated 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 
ever more secure. Returning, I had to cross before the looking-glass; my 
fascinated glance involuntarily explored the depth it revealed. All looked 
colder and darker in that visionary 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' partiality, turned up in my 
disturbed mind like a dark deposit in a turbid well. Why was I always 
suffering, always browbeaten, always accused, for ever condemned? Why could 
I never please? Why was it useless to try to win any one's favour? 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 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 agonizing stimulus into 
precocious though transitory power; and Resolve, equally wrought up, 
instigated some strange expedient 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.
W hat a consternation of soul was mine that dreary afternoon! How all my 
brain was in tumult, and all my heart in insurrection! Yet in what 
darkness, what dense ignorance, was the mental battle fought! I could not 
answer the ceaseless inward question - why I thus 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 children, or her chosen vassalage. If they 
did not love me, in fact, as little did I love them. They were not bound to 
regard with affection a thing that could not sympathize with one 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 pleasure; 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 behind 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 ht to die? Or was the vault under the chancel of Gateshead church an 
inviting 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; 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 daresay, 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 irksome to find herself bound by a hard-
wrung pledge to stand in the stead of a parent to a strange child she could 
not love, and to see an uncongenial alien permanently intruded on her own 
family group.
A singular notion dawned upon me. I doubted not - never 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 gleaming mirror - I began to recall what 
I had heard of dead men, troubled in their graves by the violation of their 
last wishes, revisiting the earth to punish the perjured and avenge the 
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 it - I endeavoured to be firm. Shaking my hair from 
my eyes, I lifted my head and tried to look boldly round the dark room: at 
this moment a light 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 conjecture 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 carne 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!" exclaimed Abbot.
"Take me out! Let me go into the nursery!" was my cry.
"What for? Are you hurt? Have you seen something?" again demanded Bessie.
"Oh! I saw a light, and I thought a ghost would come." I had now got hold 
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. "
"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 perfect submission and stillness that I shall liberate you then."
"Oh 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.


Chapter 3

The next thing I remember is, waking up with a feeling as if I had had a 
frightful nightmare, and seeing before me a terrible red glare, crossed 
with thick black bars. I heard voices, too, speaking with a hollow sound, 
and as if muffled by a rush of wind or water: agitation, uncertainty, and 
an all-predominating sense of terror confused my faculties. Ere long, I 
became aware that some one was handling me; lifting me up and supporting me 
in a sitting posture: and that more tenderly than I had ever been raised or 
upheld before. I rested my head against a pillow or an arm, and felt easy.
In five minutes more, the cloud of bewilderment dissolved: I knew quite 
well that I was in my own bed, and that the red glare was the nursery fire. 
It was night: a candle burnt on the table; Bessie stood at the bed-foot 
with a basin in her hand, and a gentleman sat in a chair near my pillow, 
leaning over me.
I felt an inexpressible relief, a soothing conviction of protection and 
security, when I knew that there was a stranger in the room: an individual 
not belonging to Gateshead, and not related to Mrs Reed. Turning from 
Bessie (though her presence was far less obnoxious to me than that of 
Abbot, for instance, would have been), I scrutinized the face of the 
gentleman: I knew him; it was Mr Lloyd, an apothecary, sometimes called in 
by Mrs Reed when the servants were ailing: for herself and the children she 
employed a physician.
"Well, who am I?" he asked.
I pronounced his name, offering him at the same time my hand: he took it, 
smiling and saying, "We shall do very well by-and-by." Then he laid me 
down, and addressing Bessie, charged her to be very careful that I was not 
disturbed during the night. Having given some further directions, and 
intimated that he should call again the next day, he departed; to my grief: 
I felt so sheltered and befriended while he sat in the chair near my 
pillow; and as he closed the door after him, all the room darkened and my 
heart again sank: inexpressible sadness weighed it down.
"Do you feel as if you should sleep, Miss?" asked Bessie, rather softly.
Scarcely dared I answer her; for I feared the next sentence might be rough. 
"I will try."
"Would you like to drink, or could you eat anything?"
"No, thank you, Bessie."
"Then I think I shall go to bed, for it is past twelve o'clock; but you may 
call me if you want anything in the night."
Wonderful civility this! It emboldened me to ask a question.
"Bessie, what is the matter with me? Am I ill?"
"You fell sick, I suppose, in the red-room with crying; you'll be better 
soon, no doubt."
Bessie went into the housemaid's apartment which was near. I heard her say, 
-
"Sarah, come and sleep with me in the nursery; I daren't for my life be 
alone with that poor child tonight; she might die: it's such a strange 
thing she should have that fit: I wonder if she saw anything. Missis was 
rather too hard."
Sarah came back with her; they both went to bed; they were whispering 
together for half an hour before they fell asleep. I caught scraps of their 
conversation, from which I was able only too distinctly to infer the main 
subject discussed.
"Something passed her, all dressed in white, and vanished" - "A great black 
dog behind him" - "Three loud raps on the chamber door" - "A light in the 
churchyard just over his grave" - etc., etc.
At last both slept: the fire and the candle went out. For me, the watches 
of that long night passed in ghastly wakefulness; ear, eye, and mind were 
alike strained by dread: such dread as children only can feel.
No severe or prolonged bodily illness followed this incident of the red-
room: it only gave my nerves a shock; of which I feel the reverberation to 
this day. Yes, Mrs Reed, to you I owe some fearful pangs of mental 
suffering. But I ought to forgive you, for you knew not what you did: while 
rending my heart-strings, you thought you were only uprooting my bad 
propensities.
Next day, by noon, I was up and dressed, and sat wrapped in a shawl by the 
nursery hearth. I felt physically weak and broken down: but my worst 
ailment was an unutterable wretchedness of mind: a wretchedness which kept 
drawing from me silent tears; no sooner had I wiped one salt drop from my 
cheek than another followed. Yet I thought, I ought to have been happy, for 
none of the Reeds were there; they were all gone out in the carriage with 
their mama: Abbot, too, was sewing in another room, and Bessie, as she 
moved hither and thither, putting away toys and arranging drawers, 
addressed to me every now and then a word of unwonted kindness. This state 
of things should have been to me a paradise of peace, accustomed as I was 
to a life of ceaseless reprimand and thankless fagging; but, in fact, my 
racked nerves were now in such a state that no calm could soothe, and no 
pleasure excite them agreeably.
Bessie had been down into the kitchen, and she brought up with her a tart 
on a certain brightly painted china plate, whose bird of paradise, nestling 
in a wreath of convolvuli and rosebuds, had been wont to stir in me a most 
enthusiastic sense of admiration; and which plate I had often petitioned to 
be allowed to take in my hand in order to examine it more closely, but had 
always hitherto been deemed unworthy of such a privilege. This precious 
vessel was now placed on my knee, and I was cordially invited to eat the 
circlet of delicate pastry upon it. Vain favour! coming, like most other 
favours long deferred and often wished for, too late! I could not eat the 
tart. and the plumage of the bird, the tints of the flowers, seemed 
strangely faded: I put both plate and tart away. Bessie asked if I would 
have a book: the word book acted as a transient stimulus, and I begged her 
to fetch Gulliver's Travels from the library. This book I had again and 
again perused with delight; I considered it a narrative of facts, and 
discovered in it a vein of interest deeper than what I found in fairy 
tales: for as to the elves, having sought them in vain among foxglove 
leaves and bells, under mushrooms and beneath the ground-ivy mantling old 
wall-nooks, I had at length made up my mind to the sad truth that they were 
all gone out of England to some savage country, where the woods were wilder 
and thicker, and the population more scant; whereas, Lilliput and 
Brobdignag being, in my creed, solid parts of the earth's surface, I 
doubted not that I might one day, by taking a long voyage, see with my own 
eyes the little fields, houses, and trees, the diminutive people, the tiny 
cows, sheep, and birds of the one realm; and the corn-fields forest-high, 
the mighty mastiffs, the monster cats, the towerlike men and women, of the 
other. Yet, when this cherished volume was now placed in my hand - when I 
turned over its leaves, and sought in its marvellous pictures the charm I 
had, till now, never failed to find all was eerie and dreary; the giants 
were gaunt goblins, the pigmies malevolent and fearful imps, Gulliver a 
most desolate wanderer in most dread and dangerous regions. I closed the 
book, which I dared no longer peruse, and put it on the table, beside the 
untasted tart.
Bessie had now finished dusting and tidying the room, and having washed her 
hands, she opened a certain little drawer, full of splendid shreds of silk 
and satin, and began making a new bonnet for Georgiana's doll. Meantime she 
sang: her song was -

"In the days when we went gypsying,
				A long time ago."

I had often heard the song before, and always with lively delight; for 
Bessie had a sweet voice, - at least, I thought so. But now, though her 
voice was still sweet, I found in its melody an indescribable sadness. 
Sometimes, preoccupied with her work, she sang the refrain very low, very 
lingerly; "A long time ago" came out like the saddest cadence of a funeral 
hymn. She passed into another ballad, this time a really doleful one.

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

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

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

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

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

"Come, Miss Jane, don't cry," said Bessie, as she finished. She might as 
well have said to the fire "don't burn!" but how could she divine the 
morbid suffering to which I was a prey? In the course of the morning Mr 
Lloyd came again.
"What, already up!" said he, as he entered the nursery. "Well, nurse, how 
is she?"
Bessie answered that I was doing very well.
"Then she ought to look more cheerful. Come here, Miss Jane: your name is 
Jane, is it not?"
"Yes, sir, Jane Eyre."
"Well, you have been crying, Miss Jane Eyre, can you tell me what about? 
Have you any pain?"
"No, sir."
"Oh! I daresay she is crying because she could not go out with Missis in 
the carriage," interposed Bessie.
"Surely not! why, she is too old for such pettishness."
I thought so too; and my self-esteem being wounded by the false charge, I 
answered promptly, "I never cried for such a thing in my life: I hate going 
out in the carriage. I cry because I am miserable."
"Oh fie, Miss!" said Bessie.
The good apothecary appeared a little puzzled. I was standing before him; 
he fixed his eyes on me very steadily: his eyes were small and grey; not 
very bright, but I daresay I should think them shrewd now: he had a hard-
featured yet good-natured looking face. Having considered me at leisure, he 
said -
"What made you ill yesterday?"
"She had a fall," said Bessie, again putting in her word.
"Fall! why that is like a baby again! Can't she manage to walk at her age? 
She must be eight or nine years old."
"I was knocked down," was the blunt explanation jerked out of me by another 
pang of mortified pride: "but that did not make me ill," I added; while Mr 
Lloyd helped himself to a pinch of snuff.
As he was returning the box to his waistcoat pocket, a loud bell rang for 
the servants' dinner; he knew what it was. "That's for you, nurse," said 
he; "you can go down; I'll give Miss Jane a lecture till you come back."
Bessie would rather have stayed; but she was obliged to go, because 
punctuality at meals was rigidly enforced at Gateshead Hall.
"The fall did not make you ill; what did, then?" pursued Mr Lloyd, when 
Bessie was gone.
"I was shut up in a room where there is a ghost, till after dark."
I saw Mr Lloyd smile and frown at the same time: "Ghostly! What, you are a 
baby after all! You are afraid of ghosts?"
"Of Mr Reed's ghost I am: he died in that room, and was laid out there. 
Neither Bessie nor any one else will go into it at night, if they can help 
it; and it was cruel to shut me up alone without a candle, - so cruel that 
I think I shall never forget it. "
"Nonsense! And is it that makes you so miserable? Are you afraid now in 
daylight?"
"No; but night will come again before long: and besides, - I am unhappy, - 
very unhappy, for other things."
"What other things? Can you tell me some of them?"
How much I wished to reply fully to this question! How difficult it was to 
frame any answer! Children can feel, but they cannot analyze their 
feelings; and if the analysis is partially effected in thought, they know 
not how to express the result of the process in words. Fearful, however, of 
losing this first and only opportunity of relieving my grief by imparting 
it, I, after a disturbed pause, contrived to frame a meagre, though as far 
as it went, true response.
"For one thing, I have no father or mother, brothers or sisters."
"You have a kind aunt and cousins."
Again I paused; then bunglingly announced:
"But John Reed knocked me down, and my aunt shut me up in the red-room."
Mr Lloyd a second time produced his snuff-box.
"Don't you think Gateshead Hall a very beautiful house?" asked he. "Are you 
not very thankful to have such a fine place to live at?"
"It is not my house, sir; and Abbot says I have less right to be here than 
a servant."
"Pooh! you can't be silly enough to wish to leave such a splendid place?"
"If I had anywhere else to go, I should be glad to leave it; but I can 
never get away from Gateshead till I am a woman. "
"Perhaps you may - who knows? Have you any relations besides Mrs Reed?"
"I think not, sir."
"None belonging to your father?"
"I don't know: I asked aunt Reed once, and she said possibly I might have 
some poor, low relations called Eyre, but she knew nothing about them."
"If you had such, would you like to go to them?"
I reflected. Poverty looks grim to grown people; still more so to children: 
they have not much idea of industrious, working, respectable poverty; they 
think of the word only as connected with ragged clothes, scanty food, 
fireless grates, rude manners, and debasing vices: poverty for me was 
synonymous with degradation.
"No; I should not like to belong to poor people," was my reply.
"Not even if they were kind to you?"
I shook my head: I could not see how poor people had the means of being 
kind; and then to learn to speak like them, to adopt their manners, to be 
uneducated, to grow up like one of the poor women I saw sometimes nursing 
their children or washing their clothes at the cottage doors of the village 
of Gateshead: no, I was not heroic enough to purchase liberty at the price 
of caste.
"But are your relatives so very poor? Are they working people?"
"I cannot tell; Aunt Reed says if I have any, they must be a beggarly set: 
I should not like to go a begging."
"Would you like to go to school?"
Again I reflected: I scarcely knew what school was; Bessie sometimes spoke 
of it as a place where young ladies sat in the stocks, wore backboards, and 
were expected to be exceedingly genteel and precise; John Reed hated his 
school, and abused his master: but John Reed's tastes were no rule for 
mine, and if Bessie's accounts of school discipline (gathered from the 
young ladies of a family where she had lived before coming to Gateshead) 
were somewhat appalling, her details of certain accomplishments attained by 
these same young ladies were, I thought, equally attractive. She boasted of 
beautiful paintings of landscapes and flowers by them executed; of songs 
they could sing and pieces they could play, of purses they could net, of 
French books they could translate; till my spirit was moved to emulation as 
I listened. Besides, school would be a complete change: it implied a long 
journey, an entire separation from Gateshead, an entrance into a new life.
"I should indeed like to go to school," was the audible conclusion of my 
musings.
"Well, well; who knows what may happen?" said Mr Lloyd, as he got up: "The 
child ought to have change of air and scene;" he added, speaking to 
himself, "nerves not in a good state."
Bessie now returned; at the same moment the carriage was heard rolling up 
the gravel-walk.
"Is that your mistress, nurse?" asked Mr Lloyd: "I should like to speak to 
her before I go."
Bessie invited him to walk into the breakfast-room, and led the way out. In 
the interview which followed between him and Mrs Reed, I presume, from 
after-occurrences, that the apothecary ventured to recommend my being sent 
to school; and the recommendation was no doubt readily enough adopted: for 
as Abbot said, in discussing the subject with Bessie when both sat sewing 
in the nursery one night, after I was in bed, and, as they thought, asleep, 
"Missis was, she dared say, glad enough to get rid of such a tiresome, ill-
conditioned child, who always looked as if she were watching everybody, and 
scheming plots underhand." Abbot, I think, gave me credit for being a sort 
of infantine Guy Fawkes.
On that same occasion I learned, for the first time, from Miss Abbot's 
communications to Bessie, that my father had been a poor clergyman; that my 
mother had married him against the wishes of her friends, who considered 
the match beneath her; that my grandfather Reed was so irritated at her 
disobedience, he cut her off without a shilling; that after my mother and 
father had been married a year, the latter caught the typhus fever while 
visiting among the poor of a large manufacturing town where his curacy was 
situated, and where that disease was then prevalent; that my mother took 
the infection from him, and both died within a month of each other.
Bessie, when she heard this narrative, sighed and said, "Poor Miss Jane is 
to be pitied, too, Abbot."
"Yes," responded Abbot, "if she were a nice, pretty child, one might 
compassionate her forlornness; but one really cannot care for such a little 
toad as that."
"Not a great deal, to be sure," agreed Bessie: "at any rate a beauty like 
Miss Georgiana would be more moving in the same condition."
"Yes, I dote 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.


Chapter 4

From my discourse with Mr Lloyd, and from the above reported conference 
between Bessie and Abbot, I gathered enough of hope to suffice as a motive 
for wishing to get well: a change seemed near, - I desired and waited it in 
silence. It tarried, however: days and weeks passed: I had regained my 
normal state of health, but no new allusion was made to the subject over 
which I brooded. Mrs Reed surveyed mealtimes 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 orders, spoke to me as 
little as possible: John thrust his tongue in his cheek whenever he saw me, 
and once attempted chastisement; but as I instantly turned against him, 
roused by the same sentiment of deep ire and desperate revolt which had 
stirred my corruption before, he thought it better to desist, and ran from 
me uttering execrations, and vowing I had burst his nose. I had indeed 
levelled at that prominent feature as hard a blow as my knuckles could 
inflict; and when I saw that either that or my look daunted him, I had the 
greatest inclination to follow up my advantage to purpose; but he was 
already with his 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 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 surging in my breast.
November, December, and half of January passed away. Christmas and the New 
Year had been celebrated at Gateshead with the usual festive cheer; 
presents had been interchanged, dinners and evening parties given. From 
every 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 broken hum of conversation as the 
drawing-room doors opened and closed. When tired of this occupation, I 
would retire from the stair-head to the solitary and silent nursery: there, 
though somewhat sad, I was not miserable. To speak truth, I had not the 
least wish to go in to company, for in company I was very rarely noticed; 
and if Bessie had but been kind and companionable, I should have deemed it 
a treat to spend the evenings quietly with her, instead of passing them 
under the formidable eye of Mrs Reed, in a room full of ladies and 
gentlemen. But Bessie, as soon as she had dressed her young ladies, used to 
take herself off to the lively regions of the kitchen and housekeeper's 
room, generally bearing the candle along with her. I then sat with my doll 
on my knee, till the fire got low, glancing round occasionally, to make 
sure that nothing worse than myself haunted the shadowy room; and when the 
embers sank to a dull red, I undressed hastily, tugging at knots and 
strings as I best might, and sought shelter from cold and darkness in my 
crib. To this crib I always took my doll; human beings must love something, 
and in the dearth of worthier objects of affection, I contrived to find a 
pleasure in loving and cherishing a faded graven image, shabby as a 
miniature scarecrow. It puzzles me now to remember with what absurd 
sincerity I doted on this little toy; half-fancying it alive and capable of 
sensation. I could not sleep unless it was folded in my nightgown; and when 
it lay there safe and warm, I was comparatively happy, believing it to be 
happy likewise.
Long did the hours seem while I waited the departure of the company, and 
listened for the sound of Bessie's step on the stairs: sometimes she would 
come up in the interval to seek her thimble or her scissors, or perhaps to 
bring me something by way of supper - a bun or a cheese-cake; then she 
would sit on the bed while I ate it, and when I had finished, she would 
tuck the clothes round me, and twice she kissed me, and said, "Good-night, 
Miss Jane." When thus gentle, Bessie seemed to me the best, prettiest, 
kindest being in the world; and I wished most intensely that she would 
always be so pleasant and amiable, and never push me about, or scold, or 
task me unreasonably, as she was too often wont to do. Bessie Lee must, I 
think, 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 putting on her bonnet and warm garden-coat to go and feed 
her poultry, an occupation of which she was fond: and not less so of 
selling the eggs to the housekeeper and hoarding up the money she thus 
obtained. She had a turn for traffic, and a marked propensity for saving; 
shown not only in the vending of eggs and chickens, but also in driving 
hard bargains with the gardener about flower-roots, seeds, and slips of 
plants; that functionary having orders from Mrs Reed to buy of his young 
lady all the products of her parterre she wished to sell: and Eliza would 
have sold the hair off her head if she could have made a handsome profit 
thereby. As to her money, she first secreted it in odd corners, wrapped in 
a rag or an old curl-paper; but some of these hoards having been discovered 
by the housemaid, Eliza, fearful of one day losing her valued treasure, 
consented to intrust it to her mother, at a usurious rate of interest - 
fifty or sixty per cent.: which interest she exacted every quarter, keeping 
her accounts in a little book with anxious accuracy.
Georgiana sat on a high stool, dressing her hair at the glass, and 
interweaving her curls with artificial flowers and faded feathers, of which 
she had found a store in a drawer in the attic. I was making my bed; having 
received strict orders from Bessie to get it arranged before she returned 
(for Bessie now frequently employed me as a sort of under nursery-maid, to 
tidy the room, dust the chairs, etc.). Having spread the quilt and folded my 
nightdress, 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 occupation, I fell to breathing on the frost-flowers with 
which the window was fretted, and thus clearing a space in the glass 
through which I might look out on the grounds, where all was still and 
petrified under the influence of a hard frost.
From this window were visible the porter's lodge and the carriage-road, and 
just as I had dissolved so much of the silver-white foliage veiling the 
panes, as left room to look out, I saw the gates thrown open and a carriage 
roll through. I watched it ascending the drive with indifference: carriages 
often came to 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 livelier 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 having crumbled a morsel of roll, 
I was tugging at the sash to put out the crumbs on the window-sill, when 
Bessie came running up stairs into the nursery.
"Miss Jane, take off your pinafore: what are you doing there? Have you 
washed your hands and face this morning?" 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 mischief: 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.
I would have asked who wanted me: I would have demanded if Mrs Reed was 
there; but Bessie was already gone, and had closed the nursery-door upon 
me: I slowly descended. For nearly three months, I had never been called to 
Mrs Reed's presence: restricted so long to the nursery, the breakfast, 
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 breakfast-room door, and I 
stopped, intimidated and trembling. What a miserable little poltroon had 
fear, engendered of unjust punishment, made of me in those days! I feared 
to return to the nursery; I 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 curtseying 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 introduced me to the stony stranger with the 
words: "This is the little girl respecting whom I applied to you."
He, for it was a man, turned his head slowly towards where I stood, and 
having examined me with the two inquisitive-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 answered 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 person in the armchair, opposite Mrs 
Reed's. "Come here," he said.
I stepped across the rug; he placed me square and straight before him. What 
a face he had, now that it was almost on a level with mine! what a great 
nose! and what a mouth! and what large prominent teeth!
"No sight so sad as that of a naughty child," he began, "especially a 
naughty little girl. Do you know where the wicked go after death?"
"They go to hell," was my ready and orthodox answer.
"And what is hell? Can you tell me that?"
"A pit full of fire."
"And should you like to fail into that pit, and to be burning there for 
ever?"
"No, sir."
"What must you do to avoid it?"
I deliberated a moment; my answer, when it did come, was objectionable: "I 
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 disagreeable thing."
"Do you say your prayers night and morning?" continued my interrogator.
"Yes, sir."
"Do you read your bible?"
"Sometimes."
"With pleasure? Are you fond of it?"
"I like Revelations, and the book of Daniel, and Genesis and Samuel, and 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 anew and a clean one: to take away your heart of stone and 
give you a heart of flesh."
I was about to propound a question, touching the manner in which that 
operation of changing my heart was to be performed, when Mrs Reed 
interposed, telling me to sit down; she then proceeded to carry on the 
conversation herself.
"Mr Brocklehurst, I believe I intimated in the letter which I wrote to you 
three weeks ago, that this little girl has not quite the 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, 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 strenuously I strove to please her, my efforts were still 
repulsed and repaid by such sentences as the above. Now, uttered before a 
stranger, the accusation cut me to the heart: I dimly perceived that she 
was already obliterating hope from the new phase of existence which she 
destined me to enter; I felt, though I could not have expressed the 
feeling, that she was Sowing aversion and unkindness along my 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 evidences of my anguish.
"Deceit is, indeed, a sad fault in a child," said Mr Brocklehurst; "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 useful, 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, direct that especial care shall be bestowed 
on its cultivation 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 daughter, 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 before.' "
"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. Consistence, my dear Mr Brocklehurst; I 
advocate consistency 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, unsophisticated 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 Brocklehurst; for, I assure 
you, I feel anxious to be relieved of a responsibility that was becoming 
too irksome."
"No doubt, no doubt, madam: and now I wish you good morning. I shall return 
to Brocklehurst-hall in the course of a week or two: my good friend, the 
Archdeacon, will not permit me to leave him sooner. I shall send Miss 
Temple notice that she is to expect a new girl, so that there will be no 
difficulty about receiving her. Good-bye."
"Good-bye, Mr Brocklehurst; remember me to Mrs and Miss Brocklehurst, and 
to Augusta and Theodore, and Master Broughton Brocklehurst."
"I will, madam. Little girl, here is a book entitled the 'Child's Guide;' 
read it with prayer, especially that part containing '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 carriage, 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 prominent, mouth and nose sufficiently regular; 
under her light eyebrows glimmered an eye devoid of truth; her skin was 
dark and opaque, her hair nearly flaxen; her constitution was sound as a 
bell - illness never came near her; she was an exact, clever manager, her 
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 handsome attire.
Sitting on a low stool, a few yards from her armchair, I examined her 
figure; I perused her features. In my hand I held the tract, containing the 
sudden death of the Liar: to which narrative my attention had been pointed 
as to an appropriate warning. What had just passed; what Mrs Reed had said 
concerning me to Mr Brocklehurst; the whole tenor of their conversation, 
was recent, raw, and stinging in my mind; I had felt every word as acutely, 
as I had heard it plainly; 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 mandate. My look or 
something else must have struck her as offensive, for she spoke with 
extreme, though suppressed irritation. I got up, I went to the door; I came 
back again; I walked to the window, across the room, then close up to her.
Speak I must: I had been trodden on severely, and must turn: but how? What 
strength had I to dart retaliation at my antagonist? I gathered my energies 
and launched them in this blunt sentence: -
"I am not deceitful: if I were, I should say I loved you; but I declare I 
do not love you: I dislike you the worst of anybody 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 anybody who asks me questions, 
this exact tale. People think 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 without 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 character, 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 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 Brocklehurst had stood, and I enjoyed my conqueror's solitude. 
First, I smiled to myself and felt elate; but this fierce pleasure subsided 
in me as fast as did the 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 emblem 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 
experience 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 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 fascinating. 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 sequestered: 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 fell at 
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 conflict with, and victory over Mrs Reed, I was not 
disposed to 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 going to school, I suppose?"
I nodded.
"And won't you be sorry to leave poor Bessie?"
"What does Bessie care for me? She is always scolding me."
"Because you're such a queer, frightened, shy, little thing. You should 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."
"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 another set of people to dread."
"If you dread them, they'll dislike you."
"As you do, Bessie?"
"I don't dislike you, Miss; I believe I am fonder of you than of all the 
others."
"You don't show it."
"You little sharp thing! you've got quite a new way of talking. 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 better to remain silent on that head.
"And so you're glad to leave me?"
"Not at all, Bessie; indeed, just now I am rather sorry."
"Just now! and rather! How coolly my little lady says it! I daresay 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." Bessie 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 
songs. Even for me life had its gleams of sunshine.



Chapter 5

Five 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 setting, 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 person 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 spoonfuls 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 remember that she had always been my best 
friend, and to speak of her and be grateful to her accordingly."
"What did you say, Miss?"
"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."
"Oh, 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.
"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 passengers 
alighted to dine. I was carried into an inn, where the guard wanted me to 
have some dinner; but, as I had no appetite, he left me in an immense room 
with a fireplace at 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 coming 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 
with wood, and long after night had overclouded the prospect, 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 handed 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 uncertain light from the hearth showed by 
intervals, papered walls, carpet, curtains, shining mahogany furniture: it 
was a parlour, not so spacious or splendid as the drawing-room at 
Gateshead, but 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 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 before 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 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 exceeding 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 tomorrow's task, 
and the hum I had heard was the combined 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 bearing 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 common 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 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. Tonight 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; 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 
dressing; day had not yet begun to dawn, and a rushlight or two burnt 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 "Order! " 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 seconds succeeded, 
filled up by the low, vague hum of numbers; 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 children 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 prospect 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 inviting. 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, smartly dressed, but of 
somewhat morose aspect, who installed herself at the top of one table, 
while a more buxom lady presided at the other. I looked in vain for her I 
had first seen the night before; she was not visible: Miss Miller occupied 
the foot of the table where I sat, and a strange foreign looking, elderly 
lady, the French 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 swallow it; but in 
most cases the effort was soon relinquished. Breakfast was over, and none 
had breakfasted. Thanks being returned for what we had not got, and a 
second hymn chanted, 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 conversation ran on the breakfast, which one and all abused 
roundly. Poor things! it was the sole consolation they had. Miss Miller was 
now the only teacher in the room: a group of great girls standing about 
her, spoke with serious and sullen gestures. I heard the name of Mr 
Brocklehurst pronounced by some lips; at which Miss Miller shook her head 
disapprovingly; but she made no great effort to check 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 appeared, all with plain 
locks combed from their faces, not a curl visible; in brown dresses, made 
high and surrounded by a narrow tucker about the throat, with little 
pockets of 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 country-made shoes, fastened with brass 
buckles. Above twenty of those clad in this costume were full-grown girls; 
or rather young women: it suited them ill, and gave an air of oddity even 
to the prettiest.
I was still looking at them, and also at intervals examining the teachers - 
none of whom precisely pleased me; for the stout one was a little coarse, 
the dark one not a little fierce, the foreigner harsh and grotesque, and 
Miss Miller, poor thing! looked purple, weather-beaten, and overworked - 
when, as my eye wandered from face to face, the whole school rose 
simultaneously, as if moved by a common 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 personage who had received me last night. She stood at the bottom of 
the long room, on the hearth; for there was a fire at each end: she 
surveyed the two rows of girls silently and gravely. Miss Miller 
approaching, seemed to ask her a question, and having received her answer, 
went back to her place, and said aloud, -
"Monitor of the first class, fetch the globes!"
Wile the direction was being executed, the lady consulted 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 add, to complete the picture, refined features; a complexion, if 
pale, clear; and a stately air and carriage, and he will have, at least, as 
clearly as words can give it, a correct idea of the exterior of Miss 
Temple, - Maria Temple, as I afterwards saw the name written in a prayer-
book entrusted 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 commenced giving a lesson in geography; the lower 
classes were called by the teachers: repetitions in history, grammar, etc., 
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 distributed, to the high 
delight and refreshment of the whole school. The order was now given "To 
the garden!" Each put 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 enclosure, surrounded with walls so high as to 
exclude every glimpse of prospect; a covered veranda 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 January, 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 underfoot was still soaking wet with the floods of 
yesterday. The stronger among the girls ran about and engaged in active 
games, but sundry pale and thin ones herded together for shelter and warmth 
in the veranda; 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 veranda, 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 watching and thinking. My reflections were 
too undefined and fragmentary to merit record: I hardly yet knew where I 
was; Gateshead and my past life seemed floated away to an immeasurable 
distance; the present was vague and strange, and of the future I could form 
no conjecture. I looked 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 county." "Let your light so 
shine before men that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father 
which is in heaven." - St Matt. v. 16.
I read these words over and over again: I felt that an explanation belonged 
to them, and was unable fully to penetrate their import. I was still 
pondering the signification of "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 intention of asking 
her to lend it to me some day.
"I like it," she answered, after a pause of a second or two, during which 
she examined me.
"What is it about?" I continued. I hardly know where I found the hardihood 
thus to open a conversation with a stranger; the step was contrary to my 
nature and habits: but I think her occupation touched a chord of sympathy 
somewhere; for I too liked reading, though of a frivolous and childish 
kind; I could not digest or comprehend the serious or substantial.
"You may look at it," replied the girl, 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, nothing about genii; no bright variety seemed spread 
over the closely-printed pages. I returned it to her; she received it 
quietly, and without saying anything she was about to relapse into her 
former studious mood: again I ventured to disturb her: -
"Can you tell me what the writing on that stone over the door, means? What 
is Lowood Institution?"
"This house where you are come to live."
"And why do they call it Institution? Is it in any way different 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."
"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 everything here."
"Why?"
"Because he is treasurer and manager of the establishment."
"Then this house does not belong to that tall lady who wears a watch, and 
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."
"And what are the other teachers called?"
"The one with red cheeks is called Miss Smith; she attends to the work, and 
cuts out - for we make our own clothes, our frocks, and pelisses, and 
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 riband, 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 offend 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 answers 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 
appetizing than that which had regaled our nostrils at breakfast: the 
dinner was served in two huge tin-plated vessels, whence rose a strong 
steam redolent of rancid fat. I found the mess to consist of indifferent 
potatoes and strange shreds of rusty meat, mixed and cooked together. Of 
this 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 schoolroom: lessons 
recommenced, and were continued till five o'clock.
The only marked event of the afternoon was, that I saw the girl with whom I 
had conversed in the veranda, dismissed 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 ignominious, 
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 nor 
before her. I have heard of daydreams - is she in a daydream 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 good or naughty."
Soon after five P.M. we had another meal, consisting of a small mug of 
coffee, and half a slice of brown bread. I devoured my bread and drank my 
coffee with relish; but I should have been glad of as much more - I was 
still hungry. Half an hour's recreation succeeded, then study; then the 
glass of water and the piece of oat-cake, prayers, and bed. Such was my 
first day at Lowood.


Chapter 6

The next day commenced as before, getting up and dressing 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 weather 
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 reading 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 frequent change from task to 
task, too, bewildered me; and I was glad, when, about three o'clock in the 
afternoon, Miss Smith put into my hands a border of muslin two yards long, 
together with needle, thimble, etc., and sent me to sit in a quiet comer of 
the schoolroom, with directions to hem the same. At that hour most of the 
others were sewing likewise; but one class still stood round Miss 
Scatcherd's chair reading, and as all was quiet, the subject of their 
lessons could be heard, together with the manner in which each girl 
acquitted herself, and the animadversions or commendations of Miss 
Scatcherd on the performance. It was English history; among the readers, I 
observed my acquaintance of the veranda; at the commencement of the lesson, 
her place had been at the top of the class, but for some error of 
pronunciation or some inattention to stops, she was suddenly sent to the 
very bottom. Even in that obscure position, Miss Scatcherd continued to 
make her an object of constant notice: 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 unpleasantly, draw it in." "Burns, I insist on your holding your 
head up: I will not have you before me in that attitude," etc. etc.
A chapter having been read through twice, the books were closed and the 
girls examined. The lesson had comprised part of the reign of Charles I., 
and there were sundry questions about 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 
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, etc.; till she dismissed me, I could not pursue my 
observations on Miss Scatcherd's movements. When I returned to my seat, 
that lady was just delivering an order, of which I did not catch the 
import; but Burns 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 bundle of twigs tied together at one end. This ominous tool 
she presented to Miss Scatcherd with a respectful courtesy; then she 
quietly, and without being told, unloosed her pinafore, and the teacher 
instantly and sharply inflicted on her neck a dozen strokes with the bunch 
of twigs. Not a tear rose to Burns's eye; and, while I paused from my 
sewing, because my fingers quivered at this spectacle with a sentiment of 
unavailing and impotent anger, not a feature of her pensive face altered 
its ordinary expression.
"Hardened girl!" exclaimed Miss Scatcherd, "nothing can correct you of your 
slatternly habits: carry the rod away."
Burns obeyed: I looked at her narrowly as she emerged from the book-closet; 
she was just putting back her handkerchief into her pocket, and the trace 
of a tear glistened on her thin cheek.
The play-hour in the evening I thought the pleasantest fraction of the day 
at Lowood: the bit of bread, the draught of coffee swallowed at five 
o'clock had revived vitality, if it had not satisfied hunger; the long 
restraint of the day was slackened; the schoolroom felt warmer than in the 
morning: its fires being allowed to burn a little more brightly to supply, 
in some measure, the place of candles, not yet introduced; the ruddy 
gloaming, the licensed uproar, the confusion of many voices gave one a 
welcome sense of liberty.
On the evening of the day on which I had seen Miss Scatcherd flog her 
pupil, Burns, I wandered as usual among the forms and tables and laughing 
groups without a companion, yet not feeling lonely: when I passed the 
windows, I now and then lifted a blind and looked out; it snowed fast, a 
drift was already forming against the lower panes; putting my ear close to 
the window, I could distinguish from the gleeful tumult within, the 
disconsolate moan of the wind outside.
Probably, if I had lately left a good home and kind parents, this would 
have been the hour when I should most keenly have regretted the separation: 
that wind would then have 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.
Jumping over forms, and creeping under tables, I made my way to one of the 
fireplaces: there, kneeling by the high wire fender, I found Burns, 
absorbed, silent, abstracted from all round her by the companionship of a 
book, which she read by the dim glare of the embers.
"Is it still 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 further north; quite on the borders of Scotland."
"Will you ever go back?"
"I hope so; but nobody can be sure of the future. "
"You must wish to leave Lowood?"
"No: why should I? I was sent to Lowood to get an education; and it would 
be 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 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 sympathize with the forbearance she 
expressed for her chastiser. Still I felt that Helen Burns considered 
things by a light invisible to my eyes. I suspected she might be right and 
I wrong; but I would not ponder the matter deeply: like Felix, I put it off 
to a more convenient season.
"You say you have faults, Helen: what are they? 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.
"Is Miss Temple as severe to you as Miss Scatcherd?"
At the utterance of Miss Temple's name, a soft smile flitted over her grave 
face.
"Miss Temple is full of goodness; it pains her to be severe to any one, 
even the worst in the school: she sees my errors, and tells me of them 
gently; and, if I do anything worthy of praise, she gives me my meed 
liberally. One strong proof of my wretchedly defective nature is, that even 
her expostulations, so mild, so rational, have not influence to cure me of 
my faults; and even her praise, though I value it most highly, 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 Miller 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 wakened; 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 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 enemies 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 reflections: 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 inclination guides 
me. There is no merit in such goodness."
"A great deal: you are good to those who are good to you. It is all I ever 
desire to be. If people were always kind and obedient to those who are 
cruel and unjust, the wicked people would have it all their own way: they 
would never feel afraid, and so they would never alter, but would grow 
worse and worse. When we are struck at without a reason, we should strike 
back again very hard; I am sure we should - so hard as to teach the person 
who struck us never to do it again."
"You will change your mind, I hope, when you grow older: as yet you are but 
a little untaught girl."
"But I feel this, Helen: I must dislike those who, whatever I do to please 
them, persist in disliking me; I must resist those who punish me unjustly. 
It is as natural as that I should love those who show me affection, or 
submit to punishment when I feel it is deserved."
"Heathens and savage tribes hold that doctrine; but Christians and 
civilized nations disown it."
"How? I don't understand."
"It is not violence that best overcomes hate - nor vengeance 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 conduct 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 proceeded forthwith to 
pour out, in my own way, the tale of my sufferings and resentments. Bitter 
and truculent when excited, I spoke as I felt, without reserve or 
softening.
Helen heard me patiently to the end: I expected she would then make a 
remark, but she said nothing.
"Well," I asked impatiently, "is not Mrs Reed a hardhearted, 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 life and thought, pure as when it 
left the Creator 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! Surely 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 
crime; I can so sincerely forgive the first while I abhor the last: with 
this creed revenge never worries my heart, degradation never too deeply 
disgusts me, injustice never crushes me too low: I live in calm, looking to 
the end."
Helen's head, always drooping, 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.



Chapter 7

My first quarter at Lowood seemed an age; and not the golden age either: it 
comprised an irksome struggle with difficulties in habituating myself to 
new rules and unwonted tasks. The fear of failure in these points harassed 
me worse than the physical hardships of my lot; though these were no 
trifles.
During January, February, and part of March, the deep snows, and after 
their 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 became 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 famished great 
girls had an opportunity, they would coax or menace the little ones out of 
their portion. Many a time I have shared between two claimants the precious 
morsel of brown bread distributed at teatime; and after relinquishing to a 
third, half the contents of my mug of coffee, I have swallowed the 
remainder with an accompaniment of secret tears, forced from me by the 
exigency of hunger.
Sundays were dreary days in that wintry season. We had to walk two miles to 
Brocklebridge church, where our patron officiated. We set out cold, we 
arrived at church colder: during the morning service we became almost 
paralyzed. It was too far to return to dinner, and an allowance of cold 
meat and bread, in the same penurious proportion observed in our ordinary 
meals, was served round between the services.
At the close of the afternoon service we returned by an exposed and hilly 
road, where the bitter winter wind, blowing over a range of snowy summits 
to the north, almost flayed the skin from our faces.
I can remember Miss Temple walking lightly and rapidly along our drooping 
line, her plaid cloak, which the frosty wind fluttered, gathered close 
about her, and encouraging us, by precept and example, to keep up our 
spirits, and march forward, as she said, "like stalwart soldiers." The 
other teachers, poor things, were 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 starved 
arms in their pinafores.
A little solace came at tea time, in the shape of a double ration of bread -
 a whole, instead of a half-slice - with the delicious addition of a thin 
scrape of butter: it was the hebdomadal treat to which we all looked 
forward from Sabbath to Sabbath. I generally contrived to reserve a moiety 
of this bounteous repast for myself; but the remainder I was invariably 
obliged to part with.
The Sunday evening was spent in repeating, by heart, the Church Catechism, 
and the fifth, sixth, and seventh chapters of St. Matthew; and in listening 
to a long sermon, read by Miss Miller, whose irrepressible yawns attested 
her weariness. 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 forward 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 Brocklehurst; and indeed that 
gentleman was from home during the greater part of the first month after my 
arrival; perhaps prolonging his stay with his friend the archdeacon: his 
absence was a relief to me. 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 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 minutes 
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 Gateshead. 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 apparition; too well I 
remembered the perfidious hints given by Mrs Reed about my disposition, 
etc.; the promise pledged by Mr Brocklehurst to apprise Miss Temple and the 
teachers 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, expecting 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 apprehension.
"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 Temple.
"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 circumstance occur 
too often. And there is another thing which surprised me; I find, in 
settling accounts with the housekeeper, that a lunch, consisting of bread 
and cheese, has twice been served out to the girls during the past 
fortnight. How is this? I looked over the regulations, and I find no such 
meal as lunch mentioned. Who introduced this innovation? and by what 
authority?"
"I must be responsible for the circumstance, sir," replied Miss Temple: 
"the breakfast was so ill prepared that the pupils 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 under 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 the temporary privation. A brief address on 
those occasions would not be mistimed, wherein a judicious 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 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; especially 
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 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 Temple, that girl's hair must be cut off entirely; I will send a 
barber tomorrow: 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 
interference 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 persons before us 
has a string of hair twisted in plaits which vanity itself might have 
woven; these, I repeat, must be cut off; think of the time wasted, of -"
Mr Brocklehurst was here interrupted: three other visitors, ladies, now 
entered the room. They ought to have come a little sooner to have heard his 
lecture on dress, for they were splendidly attired in velvet, silk, and 
furs. The two younger of the trio (fine girls of 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 Temple, 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 upstairs, 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 enchained my attention.
Hitherto, while gathering up the discourse of Mr Brocklehurst and Miss 
Temple, I had not, at the same time, neglected precautions to secure my 
personal safety; which I thought would be effected, if I could only elude 
observation. To this end, I had sat well back on the form, and while 
seeming to be busy with my sum, had held my slate in such a manner as to 
conceal my face: I might have escaped notice, had not my treacherous slate 
somehow happened to slip from my hand, and falling with an obtrusive crash, 
directly drawn every eye upon me; I knew it was all over now, and, as I 
stooped to pick up the two fragments of slate, I rallied my forces for the 
worst. It came.
"A careless girl!" said Mr Brocklehurst, and 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 respecting 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 paralysed: but the two 
great girls who sat 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, Brocklehurst, and Co. bounded in my pulses 
at the conviction. I was no Helen Burns.
"Fetch that stool," said Mr Brocklehurst, pointing to a very high one from 
which a monitor had just risen: it was brought.
"Place the child upon it."
And I was placed there, by whom I don't know: I was in no condition to 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 plumage 
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 burning-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 becomes my duty to warn you, that 
this girl, who might be one of God's own lambs, is a little castaway: not a 
member of 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. Teachers, you must watch her: keep your eyes on her movements, 
weigh well her words, scrutinise her actions, punish her body to save her 
soul: if, indeed, 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 
Juggernaut - this girl is - a liar!"
Now came a pause of ten minutes, during which I, by this time in perfect 
possession of my wits, observed all the female Brocklehursts produce their 
pocket-handkerchiefs and apply them to their optics, while the elderly lady 
swayed herself to and fro, and the two younger ones whispered, "How 
shocking!"
Mr Brocklehurst resumed.
"This I learned from her benefactress; from the pious and charitable lady 
who adopted her in her orphan state, reared her as her own daughter, and 
whose kindness, whose generosity 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 
stagnate round her."
With this sublime conclusion, Mr Brocklehurst adjusted the 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."
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 inspired them! What an extraordinary 
sensation that ray sent through me! How the new feeling bore me up! It was 
as if a martyr, a hero, had passed a slave or victim, and 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.


Chapter 8

Ere the half-hour ended, five o'clock struck; school was dismissed, and all 
were gone into the refectory to tea. I now ventured to descend: it was deep 
dusk: I retired into a comer 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 myself 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 molested 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 approached: I started up - again Helen 
Burns was near me; the fading fires just showed her coming up the long, 
vacant room; she brought my coffee and bread.
"Come, eat something," she said; but I put both away from me, feeling as if 
a drop or a crumb would have choked me in my present condition. Helen 
regarded me, probably with surprise: I could not now abate my agitation, 
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 believes 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 covert, all around you; as it is, the greater number would 
offer you sympathy if they dared. Teachers and pupils may look coldly on 
you for a day or two, but friendly feelings are concealed in their hearts; 
and if you persevere in doing well, these feelings will ere long appear so 
much the more evidently for their temporary suppression. Besides, Jane" - 
she paused.
"Well, Helen?" 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 sovereign hand that created your frame, and 
put life into it, has provided you with other resources than your feeble 
self, or than creatures feeble as you. Besides this earth, and besides the 
race of men, there is an invisible world and a kingdom of spirits: that 
world is round us, for it is 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 
tortures, 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 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 happiness - to glory?"
I was silent; Helen had calmed me; but in the tranquillity she imparted 
there was an alloy of inexpressible sadness. I felt the impression of woe 
as she spoke, but I could not tell whence it came; and when, having done 
speaking, she breathed a little fast and coughed a short cough, I 
momentarily forgot my own sorrows to yield to a vague concern for her.
Resting my head on Helen's shoulder, I put my arms round her waist; she 
drew me to her, and we reposed in silence. We had not sat long thus, when 
another person came in. Some heavy clouds, swept from the sky by a rising 
wind, had left the moon bare; and her light, streaming in through a window 
near, shone full both on us and on the approaching figure, which we at once 
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 staircase before we reached her apartment; 
it contained a good fire, and looked cheerful. Miss Temple told Helen Burns 
to be seated in a low arm-chair on one side of the hearth, and herself 
taking another, she called me to her side.
"Is it all 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 before he died that she would 
always keep me."
"Well now, Jane, you know, or at least I will tell you, that when a 
criminal is accused, he is always allowed to speak in his own defence. You 
have been charged with falsehood; defend yourself to me as well as you can. 
Say whatever your memory suggests as true; but add nothing and exaggerate 
nothing."
I resolved, in the depth of my heart, that I would be most moderate - most 
correct; and, having reflected a few minutes in order to arrange coherently 
what I had to say, I told her all the story of my sad childhood. Exhausted 
by emotion, my language was more subdued than it generally was when it 
developed that sad theme; and mindful of Helen's warnings 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 agony 
which clutched my heart when Mrs Reed spurned my wild supplication for 
pardon, and locked me a second time in the dark and haunted 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 shining curls, and beaming dark eyes), she proceeded to 
address Helen Burns.
"How are you tonight, Helen? Have you coughed much today?"
"Not quite so much, I think, ma'am."
"And the pain in your chest?"
"It is a little better."
Miss Temple got up, took her hand and examined her pulse; then she returned 
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 tonight; 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 deficiencies for this once."
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 taking 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 liberally 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 conversation 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 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 eloquence? Such was the 
characteristic of Helen's discourse on that, to me, memorable evening; her 
spirit seemed hastening to live within a very brief span as much as many 
live during a protracted existence.
They conversed of things I had never heard of; of nations and times past; 
of countries far away; of secrets of nature discovered or guessed at: they 
spoke of books: how many they had read! What stores of knowledge they 
possessed! Then they seemed so 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 admitted; 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 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 greeted with a sharp reprimand, and told that tomorrow 
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, intelligent, and benign-looking forehead. She wore it 
till evening, patient, unresentful, regarding it as a deserved punishment. 
The moment Miss Scatcherd withdrew after afternoon school, I ran to Helen, 
tore it off, and thrust it into the fire: the fury of which she was 
incapable had been burning in my soul all day, and tears, hot and large, 
had continually been scalding my cheek; for the spectacle of her sad 
resignation gave me an intolerable pain at the heart.
About a week subsequently to the incidents above narrated, Miss Temple, who 
had written to Mr Lloyd, received his answer: it appeared that what he said 
went to corroborate my 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 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 difficulty: 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, 
out-rivalled 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 drawings, 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 butterflies hovering over 
unblown roses, of birds picking at ripe cherries, of wrens' 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 storybook which Madame Pierrot had that day shown me; 
nor was that problem solved to my satisfaction ere I fell sweetly asleep.
Well has Solomon said: - "Better is a dinner of herbs where love is, than a 
stalled ox and hatred therewith."
I would not now have exchanged Lowood with all its privations, for 
Gateshead and its daily luxuries.



Chapter 9

But 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 temperature 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 greenness 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. Flowers peeped out amongst the leaves; snowdrops, crocuses, purple 
auriculas, and golden-eyed pansies. On Thursday afternoons (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 a 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 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 profusely in its 
recesses; unnumbered varieties of moss filled its hollows, and it made a 
strange ground-sunshine out of the wealth of its wild primrose plants: I 
have seen their pale gold gleam in overshadowed spots like scatterings of 
the sweetest lustre. All this I enjoyed often and fully, free, unwatched, 
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 quickening spring, crept into the 
Orphan Asylum, breathed 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 fortunate 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 malady forbidding delay.
While disease had thus become an inhabitant of Lowood, and death its 
frequent visitor; while there was gloom and fear within its walls; while 
its rooms and passages steamed with hospital smells, the drug and the 
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 roses were in bloom; the borders of 
the little beds were gay with pink thrift and crimson double daisies; the 
sweet-briers gave out, morning and evening, their scent of spice and 
apples; and these fragrant treasures were all useless for most of the 
inmates of Lowood, except to furnish now and then a handful of herbs and 
blossoms to put in a coffin.
But I, and the rest who continued well, enjoyed fully the beauties of the 
scene and season; they let us ramble in the wood, like gypsies, 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 Dispensary, unused to the ways of her new abode, 
provided with comparative liberality. Besides, there were fewer to feed; 
the sick could eat little; our breakfast-basins were better filled; when 
there was no time to prepare a regular dinner, which often happened, she 
would give us a large piece of cold pie, or a thick slice of bread and 
cheese, and this we carried away with us to the wood, where we each chose 
the spot we liked best, and dined sumptuously.
My 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 personage, whose society 
I took pleasure in, partly because she was witty and original, and partly 
because she had a manner which set me at my ease. Some years older than I, 
she knew more of the world, and could tell me many things I liked to hear: 
with her my curiosity found 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 pure society? Surely the Mary Ann Wilson I have 
mentioned was inferior to my first acquaintance: she could only tell me 
amusing stories, and reciprocate any racy and pungent gossip I chose to 
indulge in; while, if I have spoken truth of Helen, she was qualified to 
give those who enjoyed the privilege of her converse a taste of far higher 
things.
True, reader; and I knew and felt this: and though I am a defective being, 
with many faults and few redeeming points, yet I never tired of Helen 
Burns; nor ever ceased to cherish for her a sentiment of attachment, as 
strong, tender, and respectful as any that ever animated my heart. How 
could it be otherwise, when Helen, at all times and under all 
circumstances, evinced for me a quiet and faithful friendship, which ill-
humour never soured, nor irritation never troubled? But Helen was ill at 
present: for some weeks she had been removed from my sight to I knew not 
what room upstairs. She was not, I was told, in the hospital portion of the 
house with the fever patients; for her complaint was consumption, not 
typhus: and by consumption I, in my ignorance, understood something mild, 
which time and care would be sure to 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 distance under the verandah.
One evening, in the beginning of June, I had stayed out very late with Mary 
Ann in the wood; we had, as usual, separated ourselves from the others, and 
had wandered far; so far that we lost our way, and had to ask it at a 
lonely cottage, where a man and woman lived, who looked after a herd of 
half-wild swine that fed on the mast in the wood. When we got 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 morning. 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 enjoying them as a child might, 
when it entered my mind as it had never done before: -
"How sad to be lying now on a sick bed, and to be in danger of dying! This 
world is 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 comprehend what had been 
infused into it concerning heaven and hell; and for the first time it 
recoiled, baffled; and for the first time glancing behind, on each side, 
and before it, it saw all round an unfathomed gulf: it felt the one point 
where it stood - the present; all the rest was formless cloud and vacant 
depth; and it shuddered at the thought of tottering, and plunging amid that 
chaos. While pondering this new idea, I heard the front door open; Mr Bates 
came out, and with him was a nurse. After she had seen him mount his horse 
and depart, she was about to close the door, but I ran up to her.
"How is Helen Burns?"
"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 
instantly now! It opened clear on my comprehension that Helen Burns was 
numbering her last days in this world, and that she was going to be taken 
to the region of spirits, if such region there were. I experienced a shock 
of horror, then a strong thrill of grief, then a desire - a necessity to 
see her; and I asked in what room she lay.
"She is in Miss Temple's room," said the nurse.
"May 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 entrance 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 wrapped in profound repose - rose 
softly, put on my frock over my night-dress, and, without shoes, crept from 
the apartment, and set off in quest of Miss Temple's room. It was quite at 
the other end of the house; but I knew my way; and the light of the 
unclouded summer moon, entering here and there at passage windows, enabled 
me to find it without difficulty. An odour of camphor and burnt vinegar 
warned me when I came near the fever room: and I passed its door quickly, 
fearful lest the nurse who sat up all night should hear me. I dreaded being 
discovered and sent back; for I must see Helen, - I must embrace her before 
she died, - I must give her one last kiss, exchange with her one last word.
Having descended a staircase, traversed a portion of the house below, and 
succeeded in opening and shutting, without noise, two doors, I reached 
another flight of steps; these I 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. Coming near, I found the 
door slightly ajar; probably to admit some fresh air into the close abode 
of sickness. Indisposed to hesitate, and full of impatient impulses - soul 
and senses quivering with keen throes - I put it back and looked in. My eye 
sought Helen, and feared to find death.
Close by Miss Temple's bed, and half covered with its white curtains, there 
stood a little crib. I saw the outline of a form under the clothes, but the 
face was hid by the hangings: the nurse I had spoken to in the garden sat 
in an easy-chair asleep; an 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 advanced; 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 mistaken: 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 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 removing me is not painful; it is gentle and 
gradual: my mind is at rest. I leave no one to regret me much: I have only 
a father; and he is lately married, and will not miss me. By dying young, I 
shall escape great sufferings. I had not 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."
"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 arrives which shall restore me to Him, reveal 
Him to me."
"You are sure, then, Helen, that there is such a place as heaven, and that 
our souls can get to it when we die?"
"I am sure there is a future state; I believe God is good; I can resign my 
immortal part to Him without any misgiving. God is my father; God is my 
friend: I love Him; I believe He loves me."
"And shall I see you again, Helen, when I die?"
"You will come to the same region of happiness: be received by the same 
mighty, universal Parent, no doubt, dear Jane."
Again I questioned; but this time only in thought. "Where is that region? 
Does it exist?" And I clasped my arms closer round Helen; she seemed dearer 
to me than ever; I felt as if I could not let her go; I lay with my face 
hidden on her neck. Presently she said in the sweetest tone, -
"How comfortable I am! That last fit of coughing has tired me a little; I 
feel as if I could sleep: but don't leave me, Jane; I like to have you near 
me."
"I'll stay with you, dear Helen: no one shall take me away."
"Are you warm, darling?"
"Yes."
"Good-night, Jane."
"Good-night, Helen."
She kissed me, and I her; and we both soon slumbered.
When I awoke it was day; an unusual movement roused me; I looked up; I was 
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; 
people had something else to think about: no explanation was afforded then 
to my many questions; but a day or two afterwards I learned that Miss 
Temple, on returning to her own room at dawn, had found me laid in a 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."



Chapter 10

Hitherto I have recorded in detail the events of my insignificant 
existence: to the first ten years of my life, I have given almost as many 
chapters. But this is not to be a regular autobiography: I am only bound to 
invoke memory where I know her responses will possess some degree of 
interest; 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 devastation 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 
accommodations: all these things were discovered; and the discovery 
produced a result mortifying to Mr Brocklehurst, but beneficial to the 
institution.
Several wealthy and benevolent individuals in the county subscribed largely 
for the erection of a more convenient building in a better situation; new 
regulations were made; improvements in diet and clothing introduced; the 
funds of the school were entrusted to the management of a committee. Mr 
Brocklehurst, who, from his wealth and family connections, could not be 
overlooked, still retained the post of treasurer; but he was aided in the 
discharge of his duties by gentlemen of rather more enlarged and 
sympathizing minds: his office of inspector, too, was shared by those who 
knew how to combine reason with strictness, comfort with economy, 
compassion with uprightness. The school, thus improved, became in time a 
truly useful and noble institution. I remained an 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 advantages 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 continued 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 clergyman, an excellent man, 
almost worthy of such a wife) to a distant county, and consequently was 
lost to me.
From the day she left I was no longer the same: with her was gone every 
settled feeling, every association that had made Lowood in some degree a 
home to me. I had imbibed from her something of her nature and much of her 
habits: more harmonious thoughts: what seemed better regulated feelings had 
become the inmates of my mind. I had given in allegiance to duty and order; 
I was quiet; I believed I was content: to the eyes of others, usually even 
to my own, I appeared 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 ceremony; 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 imagined 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 transforming process; that my mind had put off 
all it had borrowed of Miss Temple - or rather that she had taken with her 
the serene atmosphere I had been breathing in her vicinity - and that now I 
was left in my natural element, and beginning to feel the stirring of old 
emotions. It did not seem as if a prop were withdrawn, but rather as if a 
motive were gone: it was not the power to 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 sensations 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 
descending that hill at twilight; an age seemed to have elapsed since the 
day which brought me first to Lowood, and I had never quitted it since. My 
vacations had all been spent at school: Mrs Reed had never sent for me to 
Gateshead; neither she nor any of her family had ever been to visit me. I 
had had no 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; 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 downstairs.
I was not free to resume the interrupted chain of my reflections till 
bedtime: even then a teacher who occupied the same room with me kept me 
from the 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 Welshwoman, and till now her 
habitual nasal strains had never been regarded by me in any other light 
than as a nuisance; tonight I hailed the first deep notes with 
satisfaction; I was debarrassed of interruption; my half-effaced thought 
instantly revived.
"A new servitude! There is something in that," I soliloquised (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: delightful sounds truly; but no more than sounds for me; and so 
hollow and fleeting that it is mere waste of time to listen to them. But 
Servitude! That must be matter of fact. Any one may serve: I have served 
here eight years; now all I want is to serve elsewhere. Can I not get so 
much of my own will? 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, shivered with 
cold, and again crept to bed.
A kind fairy, in my absence, had surely dropped the required suggestion on 
my pillow; for as I lay down, it came quietly and naturally to my mind: - 
"Those who want situations advertise; you
"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; you must put it, the first 
opportunity you have, into the post at Lowton; answers must be addressed to 
J. E., at the post-office there; you can go and 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 digested 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 written, 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 accomplishments, would have been held tolerably 
comprehensive).
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.
The succeeding week seemed long: it came to an end at last, however, like 
all sublunary things, and once more, towards the close of a pleasant autumn 
day, I found myself afoot on the road to Lowton. A picturesque track it 
was, by the way; lying along the side of the beck and through the sweetest 
curves of the dale: but that day I thought more of the letters, that might 
or might not be awaiting me at the little burgh whither I was bound, than 
of the charms of lea and water.
My ostensible errand on this occasion was to get measured for a pair of 
shoes; so I 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 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; fortunately, however, the heavy 
supper she had eaten produced a soporific effect: she was already snoring 
before I had finished undressing. There still remained an inch of candle: I 
now took out my letter; the seal was an initial F.; I broke it; the 
contents were brief. Thursday, 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: -
I examined the document long: the writing was old-fashioned and rather 
uncertain, like that of an elderly lady. This circumstance was 
satisfactory: a private fear had haunted me, that in thus acting for 
myself, and by 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 
respectable, 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, 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 recollections of the map of England; yes, I saw it; both the 
shire and 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 
doubtless: so much the better; it would be a complete 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 recreation, 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 L15 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 Mrs Reed must be written to, as she was my 
natural guardian. A note was accordingly addressed to that lady, who 
returned for answer, that "I might do as I pleased: she had long 
relinquished all interference in my affairs." This note went the round of 
the committee, and at last, after what appeared to me most tedious delay, 
formal leave was given me to better my condition if I could; and an 
assurance added, that as I had always conducted myself well, both as 
teacher and pupil, at Lowood, a testimonial of character and capacity, 
signed by the inspectors of that institution, should forthwith be 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 fortnight 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 adequate 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, whither 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 now repose an instant; I was too much excited. A phase 
of my life was closing tonight, a new one opening tomorrow: impossible to 
slumber in the interval; I must watch feverishly while the change was being 
accomplished.
"Miss," said a servant who met me in the lobby, where I was wandering like 
a troubled spirit, "a person below wishes to see you."
"The carrier, no doubt," I thought, and ran 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 servant, matronly, yet 
still young; very good-looking, with black hair and eyes, and lively 
complexion.
"Well, who is it?" she asked, in a voice and with a smile I half 
recognised; "you've not quite forgotten me, I think, Miss Jane?"
In another second I was embracing and kissing her rapturously: "Bessie! 
Bessie! Bessie!" that was all I said; whereat she half laughed, half cried, 
and we both went into the parlour. 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 coachman; and I've a 
little girl besides Bobby there, that I've christened Jane."
"And you don't live at Gateshead?"
"I live at the lodge: the old porter has left."
"Well, and how do they all get on? Tell me 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 daresay 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 young man; but he has 
such thick lips."
"And Mrs Reed?"
"Missis looks stout and well enough in the face, but I think she's not 
quite easy in her mind: Mr John's conduct does not please her - he spends a 
deal of money."
"Did she send you here, Bessie?"
"No, indeed: but I have long wanted to see you, and when I heard that there 
had been a letter from you, and that you were going to another part of the 
country, I thought I'd just set off, 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 expressed 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 correct, 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 daresay you are clever, though," continued Bessie, by way of solace. 
"What can you do? Can you play on the piano?"
"A little."
There was one in the room; Bessie went and opened it, and then asked me to 
sit down and give her a tune: I played a waltz or two, and she was charmed.
"The Miss Reeds could not play as well!" said she exultingly. "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 seven years ago, a Mr Eyre came to Gateshead and 
wanted to see you; Missis said you were at school fifty miles off; he 
seemed so much 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 gentleman, and I believe he was your father's 
brother."
"What foreign country was he going to, Bessie?"
"An island thousands of miles off, where they make wine - the butler did 
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: Missis 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 vehicle which was to bear me to new duties and 
a new life in the unknown environs of Millcote.


Chapter 11

A new chapter in a novel is something like a new scene in a play; and when 
I draw up the curtain this time, reader, you must fancy you see a room in 
the George Inn at Millcote, with such large figured papering on the walls 
as inn rooms have; such a carpet, such furniture, such ornaments on the 
mantel-piece, 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 P.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 pronounced, 
and to see some description of carriage waiting to convey me to Thornfield. 
Nothing of the sort was visible; and when I asked a waiter if any one had 
been to inquire after a Miss Eyre, I was answered in the negative: so I had 
no resource but to request to be shown into a private room: and here I am 
waiting, while all sorts of doubts and fears are troubling my thoughts.
It is a very strange sensation to inexperienced youth to feel itself quite 
alone in the world: cut adrift from every connection; uncertain whether the 
port to which it is bound can be reached, and prevented by many impediments 
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 conveyance.
"This will be your luggage, I suppose?" said the man rather abruptly when 
he saw me, pointing to my trunk in the passage.
"Yes." He hoisted it on to the vehicle, which was a sort of car, and then I 
got in: before he shut me up, I asked him how far it was to Thornfield.
"A matter of six miles."
"How long shall we be before we get there?"
"Happen an hour and a half."
He fastened the car door, climbed to his own seat outside, and we set off. 
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 comfortable 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 person: 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 remember my best was always spurned with 
scorn. I pray God Mrs Fairfax may not turn out a second Mrs Reed; but if 
she does, I am not bound to stay with her: let the worst come to the worst, 
I can advertise again. How far are we on our road now, I wonder?"
I let down the window and looked out: Millcote was behind us; judging by 
the number of its lights, it seemed a place of considerable magnitude, much 
larger than Lowton. We were now, as far as I could see, on a sort of 
common; but there were houses scattered all over the district; I felt we 
were in a different region to Lowood, more populous, less 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 verily 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 ascended 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 followed 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 picture 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 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 tedious 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 daresay 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 governesses; but I must not exult too 
soon."
She returned; with her own hands cleared her knitting apparatus and a book 
or two from the table, to make room for the tray which Leah now brought, 
and then herself handed me the refreshments. I felt rather confused at 
being the object of more attention than I had ever before received, 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 civilities quietly.
"Shall I have the pleasure of seeing Miss Fairfax tonight?" 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 recollected it was not polite to ask 
too many questions: besides, I was sure to hear in time.
"I am so glad," she continued, as she sat down opposite to me, and took the 
cat on her knee; "I am so glad you are come; it will be quite pleasant 
living here now with a 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 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 creature 
but the butcher and postman came to the house, from November till February; 
and I really got quite melancholy with sitting night after night alone; I 
had Leah in to read to me 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 expressed my sincere wish that she 
might find my company as agreeable as she anticipated.
"But I'll not keep you sitting up late tonight," 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 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 furnished in ordinary, 
modern style.
When Mrs Fairfax had bidden me a kind good-night, and I had fastened my 
door, gazed leisurely round, and in some measure effaced the eerie 
impression made by that wide hall, that dark and spacious staircase, and 
that long, cold gallery, by the livelier aspect of my little room, I 
remembered that, after a day of bodily fatigue and mental anxiety, I was 
now at last in safe haven. The impulse of gratitude 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 content, I slept soon and soundly: when I awoke it was 
broad day.
The chamber looked such a bright little place to me as the sun shone in 
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 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 future 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 regrets? 
It would be difficult to say: I could not then distinctly say it to myself; 
yet I had a reason, and a logical, natural reason too. However, when I had 
brushed my hair very smooth, and put on my black frock - which, 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 pupil would not at least recoil from me 
with antipathy. Having opened my chamber window, and seen that I left all 
things straight and neat on the toilet table, I ventured forth.
Traversing the long and matted gallery, I descended the slippery steps of 
oak; then I gained the hall: I halted there a minute; I looked at some 
pictures on the walls (one, I remember, 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 surveyed 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 separated by 
a sunk fence, and where an array of mighty old thorn trees, strong, knotty, 
and broad as oaks, at once explained the etymology of the mansion's 
designation. Farther 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 hamlet, whose roofs were blent with trees, 
straggled up the side of one of these hills; the church of the district 
stood nearer Thornfield: its old tower-top looked over a knoll between the 
house and gates.
I was yet enjoying the calm prospect and 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 getting out 
of order, unless Mr Rochester should take it into his head to come and 
reside here permanently; or, at least, visit it rather oftener: great 
houses and fine grounds require the presence of the 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 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, 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 
housekeeper: 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 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 
dependant 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 condescension on her part: so much the 
better - my position was all the freer.
As I was meditating on this discovery, a little girl, followed by her 
attendant, came 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 la ma gouvernante!" said she, pointing to me, and addressing her 
nurse; who answered -
"Mais oui, certainement."
"Are they foreigners?" I inquired, amazed at hearing the French language.
"The nurse is a foreigner, and Adela was born on the Continent; and, I 
believe, never left it till within six months ago. When she first came here 
she 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 daresay."
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 pronunciation of my 
teacher, I had acquired a certain degree of readiness and correctness in 
the language, and was not likely to be much at a loss with Mademoiselle 
Adela. She came and shook hands with me when she heard that I was her 
governess; and as I led her 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 examined 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 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 Sophie 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 beautiful large 
house, larger than this and finer, called an hotel. We stayed there nearly 
a week: I and Sophie used to walk every day in a great green place full of 
trees, called the Park; and 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 remembers 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 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 childhood; and in very bad taste that point was: 
at least I thought so.
Adele sang the canzonette tunefully enough, and with the naÔvete 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: fable de La Fontaine." 
She then declaimed the little piece with an attention to punctuation and 
emphasis, a flexibility of voice and an appropriateness of gesture, very 
unusual indeed at her age, and which proved she had been carefully trained.
"Was it your 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 Frederick 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 Frederick, 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, etc. 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 
pickings I had now and then been able to glean at Lowood, they 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 proposed to 
occupy myself till dinner-time in drawing some little sketches for her use.
As I was going upstairs to fetch my portfolio and pencils, 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 addressed me. It was a large, stately apartment, with purple 
chairs and curtains, a Turkey carpet, walnut-panelled walls, one vast 
window rich in stained 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 window, to let in a 
little air and sunshine; for everything gets so damp in apartments that are 
seldom inhabited; the drawing-room yonder feels like a vault."
She pointed to a wide arch corresponding to the window, and hung like it 
with a Tyrian-dyed curtain, now looped up. Mounting to it by two broad 
steps, and looking through, I thought I caught a glimpse of a fairy place, 
so bright to my novice-eyes appeared 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 ornaments on the 
pale Parian 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 observed 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 conformity to them."
"Do you like him? Is he generally liked?"
"Oh, yes; the family have always been respected here. Almost 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?"
"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 character?"
"Oh! his character is unimpeachable, I suppose. He is rather peculiar, 
perhaps: he has travelled a great deal, and seen a great deal of the world, 
I should think. I daresay he is clever, but I never had much conversation 
with him."
"In what way is he peculiar?"
"I don't know - it is not easy to describe - nothing striking, but you feel 
it 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 describing salient points, either in persons or things: the 
good lady evidently belonged to this class; my queries puzzled, but did not 
draw her out. Mr Rochester was Mr Rochester in her eyes; a gentleman, a 
landed proprietor - nothing more: she inquired and searched no 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 
especially 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 narrow 
casement showed bedsteads of a hundred years old; chests in oak or walnut, 
looking, with their strange carvings of palm branches and cherubs' heads, 
like types of the Hebrew ark; rows of venerable chairs, high-backed and 
narrow; stools still more 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 English 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, smiling.
"Nor any traditions of one? no legends or ghost stories?"
"I believe not. And yet it is said the Rochesters have been rather a 
violent than a quiet race in their time: perhaps, though, that is the 
reason they rest tranquilly in their graves now."
"Yes - 'after life's fitful fever they sleep well,'" I muttered. "Where are 
you going now, Mrs Fairfax?" for she was moving away.
"On to the leads; will you come and see the view from thence?" I followed 
still, up a very narrow staircase to the attics, and thence by a ladder and 
through a trap-door to the roof of the hall. I was now on a level with the 
crow colony, and could see into their nests. 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 tranquil hills, 
all reposing in the autumn day's sun; the horizon bounded by a propitious 
sky, azure, marbled with pearly white. No feature in the scene was 
extraordinary, but all was pleasing. When I turned from it and repassed the 
trap-door, I could scarcely see my way down the ladder; the attic seemed 
black as a vault compared with that arch of blue air to which I had been 
looking up, and to that sunlit scene of grove, pasture, and green hill, of 
which the hall was the centre, and over which I had been gazing with 
delight.
Mrs Fairfax stayed behind a moment to fasten the trap-door; I, by dint of 
groping, found the outlet from the attic, and proceeded to descend the 
narrow garret staircase. I lingered 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 corridor 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 curious laugh; distinct, formal, 
mirthless. I stopped: the sound ceased, only for an instant; it began 
again, louder: for at first, though distinct, it was very low. It passed 
off in 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 descending the great 
stairs. "Did you hear that loud laugh? Who is it?"
"Some of the servants, very likely," she answered: "perhaps Grace Poole."
"Did you hear it?" I again inquired.
"Yes, plainly: I often hear her: she sews in one of these rooms. Sometimes 
Leah is with her: they are frequently noisy together."
The laugh was repeated in its low, syllabic tone, and terminated in an odd 
murmur.
"Grace!" exclaimed Mrs Fairfax.
I really did not expect any Grace to answer; for the laugh was as tragic, 
as preternatural a laugh as any I ever heard; and, but that it was high 
noon, and that no circumstance of ghostliness accompanied the curious 
cachination; 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 figure, red-haired, and with a hard, 
plain face: any apparition less romantic or less ghostly could scarcely be 
conceived.
"Too much noise, Grace," said Mrs Fairfax. "Remember directions!" 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-by, 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 Fairfax's room.


Chapter 12

The promise of a smooth career, which my first calm introduction to 
Thornfield-Hall seemed to pledge, was not belied on a longer acquaintance 
with the place and its inmates. Mrs Fairfax turned out to be what she 
appeared, a placid-tempered, kind-natured woman, of competent education and 
average intelligence. My pupil was a lively child, who had been spoilt and 
indulged, and therefore was sometimes wayward; but as she was committed 
entirely to my care, and no injudicious interference from any quarter ever 
thwarted my plans for her 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 simplicity, gay prattle, and efforts to please, 
inspired me, in return, with a degree of attachment sufficient to make us 
both content 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 I am not writing to flatter parental egotism, to 
echo cant, or prop up humbug; I am merely telling the truth. I felt a 
conscientious solicitude for Adele's welfare and progress, and a quiet 
liking to her little self; just as I cherished towards Mrs Fairfax a 
thankfulness for her kindness, and a pleasure in her society proportionate 
to the tranquil regard she had for me, and the moderation of her mind and 
character.
Anybody may blame me who likes, when I add further, that, now and then, 
when I took a walk by myself in the grounds; when I went down to the gates 
and looked through them along the road; or when, while Adele played with 
her nurse, and Mrs Fairfax made jellies in the storeroom, 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, regions full of life I had 
heard of but never seen - that then I desired more of practical experience 
than I possessed; more of intercourse with my kind, of 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, backwards and forwards, safe in the silence and solitude of the 
spot, and allow my mind's eye to dwell on whatever bright visions rose 
before it - and, certainly, they were many and glowing; to let my heart be 
heaved by the exultant movement, 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, feeling, 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 besides 
political rebellions ferment in the masses of life which people earth. 
Women are supposed to be very calm generally: 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 absolute 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 puddings 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 she was quite silent; but there were others when I could not 
account for the sounds she made. Sometimes I saw her: she would come out of 
her room with a basin, or a plate, or a tray in her hand, go down to the 
kitchen and shortly return, 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 
descriptive 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 afternoon 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 Fairfax had just written a letter which 
was waiting to be posted, so I put on my bonnet and cloak and volunteered 
to carry it to Hay; the distance, two miles, would be a pleasant winter 
afternoon walk. Having seen Adele comfortably seated in her little chair by 
Mrs Fairfax's 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 a 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 lonely; 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 middle of the path. Far and wide, on each side, 
there were only fields, where no cattle now browsed; and the little brown 
birds, which stirred occasionally in the hedge, looked like single russet 
leaves that had 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 into a field. Gathering my mantle 
about me, and sheltering my hands in my muff, I did not feel the cold, 
though it froze keenly; as was attested by a sheet of ice covering the 
causeway, where a little brooklet, now congealed, had overflowed after a 
rapid thaw some days since. From my seat I could look down on Thornfield: 
the 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 doubtless many becks threading 
their passes. That evening calm betrayed alike the tinkle of the nearest 
streams, the sough of the most remote.
A rude noise broke on these fine ripplings and whisperings, at once so far 
away and so clear: a positive tramp, tramp, a metallic clatter, which 
effaced the soft wave-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 leaving the stile; yet, as the 
path was narrow, I sat still to let it go by. In those days I was young, 
and all sorts of fancies bright and dark tenanted my mind: the memories of 
nursery 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 figured 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 creature with long hair and a huge head: it passed me, however, 
quietly enough; not staying to look up, with strange pretercanine eyes, in 
my face, as I half expected it would. The horse followed, - a tall steed, 
and on its back a rider. The man, the human being, broke the spell at once. 
Nothing ever rode the Gytrash: it was always alone; and goblins, to my 
notions, though they might tenant the dumb carcasses of beasts, could 
scarce covet shelter in the commonplace human form. No Gytrash was this, - 
only a 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, arrested my attention. 
Man and horse were down; they had slipped on the sheet of ice which glazed 
the causeway. The dog came bounding back, and seeing his master in a 
predicament, and hearing the horse groan, barked till the evening hills 
echoed the sound, which was deep in proportion to his magnitude. He snuffed 
round the prostrate group, and then he ran up to me; it was all he could 
do, - there was no other help at hand to summon. I obeyed him, and walked 
down to the 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 began 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.
"If you are hurt, and want help, sir, I can fetch some one either from 
Thornfield Hall or from Hay."
"Thank you: I shall do: I have no broken bones, - only a sprain;" and again 
he stood up and tried his foot, but the result extorted an involuntary 
"Ugh!"
Something of daylight still lingered, and the moon was waxing bright: I 
could see him plainly. His figure was enveloped in a riding cloak, fur 
collared and 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 questioning 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-humoured 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 
inquiries: 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 -" He stopped, ran 
his eye over my dress, which, as usual, was quite simple: a black merino 
cloak, a black beaver bonnet; neither of them half fine enough 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 underwent 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 endeavoured 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 trampling forefeet. 
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, 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 effort, 
for it wrenched his sprain.
"Now," said he, releasing his under lip from a hard bite, "just hand me my 
whip; it lies there under the hedge."
I sought it and found it.
"Thank you; now make haste with the 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 existence all passive. The new face, too, was 
like a new picture introduced to the gallery of memory; and it was 
dissimilar to all the others hanging there: firstly, because it was 
masculine; and, secondly, because it was dark, strong, and stern. I had it 
still before me when I entered Hay, and slipped the letter into the post-
office; I saw it as I walked fast down-hill all the way home. When I came 
to the stile, I stopped a minute, looked round and listened, with an idea 
that a horse's hoofs might ring on the 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 moonbeams; I heard only the faintest waft of wind 
roaming fitful among the trees round Thornfield, a mile distant; and when I 
glanced down in the direction of the murmur, my eye, traversing the hall-
front, caught a light kindling in a window: it reminded me that I was late, 
and I hurried on.
I did not like re-entering Thornfield. To pass its threshold was to return 
to stagnation; to cross the silent hall, to ascend the darksome 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 appreciating. What good it would have done me at that time to 
have been tossed in the storms of an uncertain struggling life, and to have 
been taught by rough and bitter 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 under 
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; 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 radiance. 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 forward 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 hurried out to give orders about tea, and I went 
upstairs to take off my things.



Chapter 13

Mr Rochester, it seems, by the surgeon's orders, went to bed early that 
night; nor did he rise soon next morning. When he did come down, it was to 
attend to business: his agent and some of his tenants were arrived, and 
waiting to speak with him.
Adele and I had now to vacate the library: it would be in daily requisition 
as a reception-room for callers. A fire was lit in an apartment up stairs, 
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 banisters to see if she could get a 
glimpse of Mr Rochester; then she coined pretexts to go down stairs, in 
order, as I shrewdly suspected, to visit the library, where I knew she was 
not wanted; then, when I got a little angry, and made her sit still, she 
continued to talk incessantly of her "ami, Monsieur Edouard Fairfax de 
Rochester," as she dubbed him (I had not before heard his prenomens), and 
to conjecture what presents he had brought her: for it appears he had 
intimated the night before that when his luggage came from Millcote, there 
would be found amongst it a little box in whose contents she had an 
interest.
"Et cela doit signifier," said she, "qu'il y aura la dedans un cadeau pour 
moi, et peutetre pour vous aussi, mademoiselle. 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 
comparative silence below, and from the cessation of appeals to the door-
bell, I conjectured that Mr Rochester was now at liberty. Left alone, I 
walked to the window; but nothing was to be seen thence: twilight and 
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 picture 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 piecing 
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 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 down stairs. 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 superb 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 
eyebrows; his square forehead, made squarer by the horizontal 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 harmonized in squareness 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 approached.
"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 something in the forced 
stiff bow, in the impatient yet formal tone, which seemed further to 
express, "What the deuce is it to me whether Miss Eyre be there or not? 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.
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 
annoyance it must have been to him with that painful sprain: then she 
commended his patience and perseverance in going through with it.
"Madam, I should like some tea," was the sole rejoinder she got. She 
hastened to ring the bell; and, when the tray came, she proceeded to 
arrange the cups, spoons, etc., 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 Mademoiselle 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 many faces to it, has it not? and 
one should consider all, before 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 pupils' progress."
"Humph!" said Mr Rochester, and he took his tea in silence.
"Come to the fire," said the master, when the tray was taken away and Mrs 
Fairfax had settled into a corner with her knitting; while Adele was 
leading me by the hand round the room, showing me the beautiful books and 
ornaments on the consoles and chiffionnieres. 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."
"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 constitution! 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 unaccountably 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 harvest, or winter moon, will ever shine on their revels 
more."
Mrs Fairfax had dropped her knitting, and with raised eyebrows, seemed 
wondering what sort of talk this was.
"Well," resumed Mr Rochester, "if you disown parents, you must have some 
sort of kinsfolk: uncles and aunts?"
"No; none that I ever saw."
"And your 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 advertisement."
"Yes," said the good lady, who now knew what ground we were upon, "and I am 
daily thankful for the choice Providence led me to make. Miss Eyre has been 
an invaluable 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 understand 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?" demanded Mr Rochester.
"He starved us when he had the sole superintendence of the provision 
department, before the committee was appointed; and he bored us with long 
lectures once a week, and with evening readings from books of his own 
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 difficult to fix where the features 
and countenance are so much at variance as in your case. And now, what did 
you learn at Lowood? Can you play?"
"A little."
"Of course: that is the established answer. Go into the library - I mean, 
if you please. Excuse my tone of command; I am used to say 'Do this,' and 
it is done: I 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 schoolgirl: perhaps rather better than some, but not 
well."
I closed the piano, and returned. Mr Rochester continued.
"Adele showed me some sketches this morning, which she said were yours. I 
don't know whether they were entirely of your doing: probably a master 
aided you?"
"No, indeed!" I interjected.
"Ah! that pricks pride. Well, fetch me your portfolio, if you can vouch for 
its contents being original; but don't pass your word unless you are 
certain: I can recognise patchwork."
"Then I will say nothing, and you shall judge for yourself, sir."
I brought the portfolio from the library.
"Approach the table," said he; and I wheeled it to his couch. Adele and Mrs 
Fairfax drew near to see the pictures.
"No crowding," said Mr Rochester: "take the drawings from my hand as I 
finish with them; but don't push your faces up to mine."
He deliberately scrutinized each sketch and painting. Three he laid aside; 
the others, when he had examined them, he swept from him.
"Take them off to the other table, Mrs Fairfax," said he, "and look at them 
with Adele - you" (glancing at me) "resume your seat, and answer my 
questions. I perceive these pictures were done by 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 wonderful. 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 represented clouds low and 
livid, rolling over a swollen sea: all the distance was in eclipse; so, 
too, was the foreground; or rather, the nearest billows, for there was no 
land. 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. Sinking below the bird and mast, a drowned corpse 
glanced through the green water; a fair arm was the only limb clearly 
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 
electric 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 supporting it, drew up before 
the lower features a sable veil; a brow quite bloodless, white as bone, and 
an eye hollow and fixed, blank of meaning but for the glassiness of 
despair, alone were visible. Above the temples, amidst wreathed turban 
folds of black drapery, vague in its character and consistency as cloud, 
gleamed a ring of white flame, gemmed with sparkles of a more lurid tinge. 
This pale crescent was "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 account, 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 inclination to apply."
"And you felt self-satisfied with the result of your ardent labours?"
"Far from it. I was tormented by the contrast between my idea and my 
handiwork: in each case I had imagined something which I was quite 
powerless to realize."
"Not quite: - you have secured the shadow of your thought; but no more, 
probably. You had not enough of the artist's skill and science to give it 
full being: yet the drawings are, for a school girl, peculiar. As to the 
thoughts, they are elfish. These eyes in the Evening Star you must have 
seen in a dream. How could you make them look so clear, and yet not at all 
brilliant? for the planet above quells their rays. And what meaning is that 
in their 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 endured the caress, but 
scarcely seemed to relish it more than Pilot would have done, nor so much.
"I wish you all good-night, now," said he, making a movement of the hand 
towards the door, in token that he was tired of our company, and wished to 
dismiss us. Mrs Fairfax folded up her knitting: I took my portfolio: we 
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."
"Why?"
"Partly, because it is his nature - and we can none of us help our nature; 
and partly, he has painful thoughts, no doubt, to harass 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 elaer 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 misunderstandings between 
them. Mr Rowland Rochester was not quite just to Mr Edward; and perhaps he 
prejudiced his father against him. The old gentleman was fond of money, and 
anxious to keep the family estate together. He did not like to diminish the 
property by division, and yet he was anxious that Mr Edward should have 
wealth, too, to keep up the consequence of the name; and soon after he was 
of 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 family, 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 subject; which I did 
accordingly.


Chapter 14

For several subsequent days I saw little of Mr Rochester. In the mornings 
he seemed much engaged with business, 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 confined to an occasional rencontre in the 
hall, on the stairs, or in the gallery; when he would sometimes pass me 
haughtily 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 offend me, because I saw that I had nothing to do 
with their alternation; the ebb and flow depended on causes quite 
disconnected with me.
One day he had had company to dinner, and had sent for my portfolio; in 
order, doubtless, to exhibit its contents: the gentlemen went away early, 
to attend a public meeting at 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 down stairs. I brushed Adele's 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 
included, to admit of disarrangement - we descended; Adele wondering 
whether the petit coffre was at length come: for owing to some mistake, its 
arrival had hitherto been delayed. She was gratified: there it stood, a 
little carton, on the table when we entered the dining-room. She appeared 
to know it by instinct.
"Ma boÓte! ma boÓte!" exclaimed she, running towards it.
"Yes - there is your 'boÓte' at last: take it into a corner, you genuine 
daughter of Paris, and amuse yourself with disembowelling 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 operation 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 untying 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 rising from his seat 
to look round to the door, near which I still stood.
"Ah! well; come forward: be seated here." He drew a chair near his own. "I 
am not fond of the prattle of children," he continued; "for, old bachelor 
as I am, I have no pleasant associations connected with their lisp. It 
would be intolerable to me to pass a whole evening tete-a-tete with a brat 
Don't draw that chair further off, Miss Eyre; sit down exactly 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-by, 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 goodness 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 summoned her to her 
sofa, and there quickly filled her lap with the porcelain, the ivory, the 
waxen contents of her "boite"; pouring out, meantime, explanations and 
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 to 
do."
I did as I was bid, though I would much rather have remained somewhat in 
the shade; but Mr Rochester had such a direct way of giving orders, it 
seemed a matter of course to obey him promptly.
We were, as I have said, in the dining-room: the 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 purple 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.
"You examine me, Miss Eyre," said he: "do you think me handsome?"
I should, if I had deliberated, have replied to this question by something 
conventionally vague and polite; but the answer somehow slipped from my 
tongue before I was aware - "No, sir."
"Ah! By my word! there is something singular about you," said he: "you have 
the air of a little nonnette; quaint, quiet, grave, and simple, as you sit 
with your hands before you, and your eyes generally bent on the carpet 
(except, by the 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 placidity, 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 intended no pointed 
repartee: it was only a blunder."
"Just so: I think so: and you shall be answerable for it. 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 intellectual 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, fortunately 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 unfledged, unfostered, and unlucky; but Fortune has knocked me about 
since: she has even kneaded me with her knuckles, and now I flatter myself 
I am hard and tough as an 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: how could I tell whether he was 
capable of being re-transformed?
"You looked very much puzzled, Miss Eyre; and though you are not pretty any 
more than I am handsome, yet a puzzled 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 tonight."
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 
attractiveness, that, in looking at him, one inevitably shared the 
indifference, and, even in a blind, imperfect sense, put faith in the 
confidence.
"I am disposed to be gregarious and communicative tonight," 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 
ditto; you, I am persuaded, can suit me if you will: you puzzled me the 
first evening I invited you down here. I have almost forgotten you since: 
other ideas have driven yours from my head; but tonight 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 experience. This 
is legitimate, et j'y tiens, as Adele would say; and it is by virtue of 
this superiority, and this alone, that I desire you to have the goodness to 
talk to me a little now, and divert my thoughts, which are galled with 
dwelling on one point - cankering as a rusty nail."
He had deigned an explanation, almost an apology, and 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 superiority depends on the use you have made of your time and 
experience."
"Humph! Promptly spoken. But I won't allow that, seeing that it would never 
suit my case, as I have made an indifferent, 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 L30 per annum for receiving his orders.
"The smile is very well," said he, catching instantly the passing 
expression; "but speak too."
"I was thinking, sir, that very few masters would trouble themselves to 
inquire whether or not their paid subordinates were piqued and hurt by 
their orders."
"Paid subordinates! What! you are my paid subordinate, are you? Oh yes, I 
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 dependant is comfortable in his 
dependency, I agree heartily."
"And will you consent to dispense with a great many conventional forms and 
phrases, without thinking that the omission arises from insolence?"
"I am sure, sir, I should never mistake informality for insolence: one I 
rather like, the other nothing free-born would submit to, even for a 
salary."
"Humbug! Most things free-born will submit to anything for a salary; 
therefore, keep to yourself, and don't venture on generalities of which you 
are intensely ignorant. 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 thousand 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 others; 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-
twenty, 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 - 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 circumstances 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 wonder that I avow this to you? 
Know, that in the course of your future life you will often find yourself 
elected the involuntary 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 themselves; they will 
feel, too, that you listen with no malevolent scorn of their indiscretion, 
but with a kind of innate sympathy; not the less comforting and encouraging 
because it is very unobtrusive in its manifestations."
"How do you know? - 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 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 pleasure? And I may 
get it as sweet and fresh as the wild honey the bee gathers on the moor."
"It will sting - it will taste bitter, sir."
"How do you know? - you never tried it. How very serious - how very solemn 
you look: and you are as ignorant of the matter as this cameo head" (taking 
one from the mantelpiece). "You have no right to preach to me, you 
neophyte, that have not passed the porch of life, and are absolutely 
unacquainted 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 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 wanderer!"
He said this as if he spoke to a vision, viewless to any eye but his own; 
then, folding his arms, which he had half extended, on his chest, he seemed 
to enclose in their embrace the invisible being.
"Now," he continued, again addressing me, "I have received the pilgrim - a 
disguised deity, as I verily believe. Already it has done me good: my heart 
was a sort of charnel; it will now be a shrine."
"To speak truth, sir, I don't understand you at all: I cannot 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 
intimated that to have a sullied memory was a perpetual bane. It seems to 
me, that if you tried hard, you would in time find it possible to become 
what you yourself would approve; and that if from this day you began with 
resolution to correct your thoughts and actions, you would in a few 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 moment, I am paving 
hell with energy."
"Sir?"
"I am laying down good intentions, which I believe durable as flint. 
Certainly, my associates and pursuits shall be other than they have been."
"And better?"
"And better - so much better as pure ore is than foul dross. You seem to 
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 legalise them."
"They are, Miss Eyre, though they absolutely require a new statute: unheard-
of combinations or circumstances demand 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 which the divine 
and perfect alone can be safely intrusted."
"What power?"
"That of saying of any strange, unsanctioned line of action, - '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 bewildered, 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 naturally austere, any more than I am naturally vicious. The Lowood 
constraint still clings to you somewhat; controlling your features, 
muffling your voice, and restricting your limbs; and you fear in the 
presence of a man and a brother - or father, or master, or what you will - 
to smile too gaily, speak too freely, or move too quickly: but, in time, I 
think you will learn to be natural with me, as I find it impossible to be 
conventional with you; and then your looks and movements will have more 
vivacity and variety than they dare offer now. I see at intervals the 
glance of a curious sort of bird through the close-set bars of 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 talking 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 a 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 
presentiment; 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 predicted. A dress of rose-
coloured satin, very short, and as full in the skirt as it could be 
gathered, replaced the brown frock she had previously worn; a wreath of 
rosebuds circled her forehead; her feet were dressed in silk stockings and 
small white satin sandals.
"Est-ce que ma robe va bien?" cried she, bounding forwards; "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 lightly 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 faisait, n'est-ce pas, monsieur?"
"Pre-cise-ly!" was the answer; "and, 'comme cella,' she charmed my English 
gold out of my British breeches' pocket. I have been green, too, Miss Eyre -
 ay, grass green: not a more vernal tint freshens you now than once 
freshened me. My Spring is gone, however, but it has left me that French 
floweret on my hands, which, in some moods, I would fain be rid of. Not 
valuing now the root whence it sprang; having found that it was of a sort 
which nothing but gold dust could manure, I have but half a liking to the 
blossom, especially when it looks so artificial as just now. I keep it and 
rear it rather on the Roman Catholic principle of expiating numerous sins, 
great or small, by one good work. I'll explain all this some day. Good-
night."



Chapter 15

Mr Rochester did, on a future occasion, explain it.
It was one afternoon, when he chanced to meet me and Adele in the grounds; 
and while she played with Pilot and her shuttlecock, he asked me to walk up 
and down a long beech avenue within sight of her.
He then said that she was the daughter of a French opera dancer, Celine 
Varens; 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 elegance of the 
Apollo Belvidree.
"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, etc. In short, I began the process of ruining myself in the 
received style; like any other spoonie. 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 Paris, 
so I sat down in her boudoir; happy to breathe the air consecrated so 
lately by her presence. No, - I exaggerate; I never thought there was any 
consecrating virtue about her: it was rather a sort of pastile perfume she 
had left; a scent of musk and amber, than an odour of sanctity. I was just 
beginning 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, 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 inammorata) alighted: though muffled in a cloak - an unnecessary 
encumbrance, by-the-by, on so warm a June evening - I knew her instantly by 
her little foot, seen peeping from the skirt of her dress, as she skipped 
from the carriage-step. Bending over the balcony I was about to murmur, 
'Mon ange' - in a tone, of course, which should be audible to the ear of 
love alone - when a figure jumped from the carriage after her; cloaked 
also; but that was a spurred heel which had rung on the pavement, and that 
was a hatted head which now passed 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 
tumult, 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 current - as I 
am now.
"I like this day; I like that sky of steel; I like the sterness 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 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 
pupil dilating under his ebon eyebrow. Wild was the wrestle which should be 
paramount; but another feeling rose and triumphed: something hard and 
cynical: self-willed and resolute: it settled his passion and petrified his 
countenance: he went on -
"During the moment I was silent, Miss Eyre, I was arranging a point with my 
destiny. She stood there, by that beech-trunk - a hag like one of those who 
appeared to Macbeth on the heath of Forres. 'You like Thornfield?' she 
said, lifting her finger; and then she wrote in the air a memento, which 
ran in lurid 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!" he cried harshly; 
"keep at a distance, child; or go in to Sophie!" 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. Varens 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 
accompanied 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 exclaimed, 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, inexperienced girl like you! But the last 
singularity explains the first, as I intimated once before: you, with your 
gravity, considerateness, and caution were made to be the recipient of 
secrets. Besides, I know what sort of a mind I have placed in communication 
with my own: I know it is one not liable to take infection: it is a 
peculiar mind: it is a unique one. Happily I do not mean to harm it: but, 
if I did, it would not take harm from me. The more you and I converse, the 
better; for while I cannot blight you, you may refresh me." After this 
digression he proceeded -
"I remained in the balcony. 'They will come to her boudoir, no doubt,' 
thought I: 'Let me prepare an ambush.' So putting my hand in through the 
open window, I drew the curtain over it, leaving only an opening through 
which I could take observations; then I closed the casement, all but a 
chink just wide enough to furnish an outlet to lovers' whispered vows: then 
I stole back to my chair; and as I resumed it the pair came in. My eye was 
quickly at the aperture. Celine's chambermaid 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 absolutely. 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 completely: frivolous, 
mercenary, heartless, and senseless, it was rather calculated to weary than 
enrage a listener. A card of mine lay on the table; this being perceived, 
brought my name under discussion. Neither of them possessed energy or wit 
to belabour me soundly, but they insulted me as coarsely as they could in 
their little way: especially Celine, who even waxed rather brilliant on my 
personal defects - deformities she termed them. Now it had been her custom 
to 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 protection; gave her notice to vacate her 
hotel; offered her a purse for immediate exigencies; disregarded screams, 
hysterics, prayers, protestations, convulsions; made an appointment with 
the vicomte for 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 Italy with 
a musician or singer. I acknowledged no natural claim on Adele's part to be 
supported by me, nor do I now acknowledge any, for I am not her father; but 
hearing that she was quite destitute, I e'en took the poor thing out of the 
slime and mud of Paris, and transplanted it here, to grow up clean in the 
wholesome soil of an English country garden. 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 protegee: 
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, etc. - Eh?"
"No: Adele is not answerable for either her mother's faults or yours: I 
have a regard for her; and now that I know she is, in a sense, parentless - 
forsaken by her mother and disowned by you, sir - I shall cling closer to 
her than before. How could I possibly prefer the spoilt pet of a wealthy 
family, who would 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 Pilot - 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 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 inexplicable, I turned to the 
consideration of my master's manner to myself. The confidence he had 
thought fit to repose in me seemed a tribute to my discretion: I regarded 
and accepted it as such. His deportment had now for some weeks been more 
uniform 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 honoured 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.
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 imagining the new pictures he portrayed, and following him in 
thought through the new regions he disclosed, never startled 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 severity 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 malignant, scowl 
blackened his features. But I believed that his moodiness, his harshness, 
and his former faults of morality (I say former, for now he seemed 
corrected of them) had their source in some cruel cross of fate. I believed 
he was naturally a man of better tendencies, 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 seldom stayed here longer than a 
fortnight at a time; and he has now been resident eight weeks. If he does 
go, the change will be doleful. Suppose he should be absent spring, summer, 
and 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 murmur, peculiar and lugubrious, 
which sounded, I thought, just above me. I wished I had kept my candle 
burning: the night was drearily dark; my spirits were depressed. I rose and 
sat up in bed, 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?" 
Nothing answered. I was chilled with fear.
All at once I remembered that it might be Pilot, who, when the kitchen-door 
chanced to be left open, not unfrequently found his way up to the threshold 
of Mr Rochester's chamber: I had seen him lying there myself in the 
mornings. 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 
affrighted, 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 retreated 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 devil?" 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 within 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 murmured and turned: the 
smoke had stupefied him. Not a moment could be lost: the very sheets were 
kindling, I rushed to his basin and ewer; fortunately, one was wide and the 
other deep, and both were filled with water. I heaved them up, deluged the 
bed 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.
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 fulminating 
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 plotted 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 candle yet: wait two 
minutes till I get into some dry garments, if any dry there be - yes, here 
is my dressing-gown. Now run!"
I did run; I brought the candle which still remained in the gallery. He 
took it from my hand, held it up, and surveyed the bed, all blackened and 
scorched, the sheets drenched, the carpet round swimming in water.
"What is it? 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 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 out," said he, 
setting his candle down on the washstand; "it is as I thought."
"How, sir?"
He made no reply, but stood with his arms folded, looking on the ground. At 
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 
tonight's incident. 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 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, then 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 beheld 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 natural 
sympathies; I have heard of good genii: - there are grains of truth in the 
wildest fable. My cherished preserver, goodnight!"
Strange energy was in his voice; strange fire in his look.
"I am glad I happened to be awake," I said; and then I was going.
"What! you will go?"
"I am cold, sir."
"Cold? Yes, - and standing in a pool! Go, then, Jane; go!" But he still 
retained my hand, and I could not free it. I bethought myself of an 
expedient.
"I think I hear Mrs Fairfax move, sir," said I.
"Well, leave me:" he relaxed his fingers, and I was gone.
I regained my couch, but never thought of sleep. Till morning dawned I was 
tossed on a buoyant but unquiet sea, where billows of trouble rolled under 
surges of joy. I thought sometimes I saw beyond its wild waters a shore, 
sweet as the hills of Beulah; and now and then a freshening gale wakened by 
hope, bore my spirit triumphantly towards the bourne: but I could not reach 
it, even in fancy, - a counteracting breeze blew off land, and continually 
drove me back. Sense would resist delirium: judgment would warn passion. 
Too feverish to rest, I rose as soon as day dawned.


Chapter 16

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 impression 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 Leah'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," etc.
To much confabulation succeeded a sound of scrubbing and setting to rights; 
and when I passed the room, in going down stairs 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 to address her; for I 
wished to know what account had been given of the affair: but, on 
advancing, I saw a second person in the chamber - a woman sitting on a 
chair by the bedside, and sewing rings to new curtains. That woman was no 
other than Grace Poole.
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 paleness or 
desperation one would have expected to see marking the countenance of a 
woman who had attempted murder, and whose intended victim had followed her 
last night to her lair, and (as I believed), charged her with the crime she 
wished to perpetrate. I was amazed-confounded. She looked up, while I still 
gazed at her: no start, no increase or failure of 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 impenetrability 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 bedclothes or the woodwork caught, and contrived to quench the 
flames 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 certain 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 inquired.
"I have not had the opportunity of speaking to him this morning."
"You did not think of opening your door and looking out into the gallery?" 
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 off some of her malignant pranks 
on me; I thought it advisable to be on my guard.
"On the contrary," said I, "I bolted my door."
"Then you are not in the habit of bolting your door every night before you 
get into bed?"
"Fiend! she wants to know my habits, that she may lay her plans 
accordingly!" Indignation again prevailed over prudence: 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 neighbourhood 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 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 dumfounded 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 tea-time: 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 
position at Thornfield and questioning why she had not been given into 
custody that morning, or, at the very least, dismissed from her master's 
service. He had almost as much as declared his conviction of her 
criminality last night: what mysterious cause withheld him from accusing 
her? Why had he enjoined me, too, to secrecy? It was strange: a bold, 
vindictive, and haughty 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 Fairfax 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 
compensate for the want of personal advantages. Mr Rochester is an amateur 
of the decided and eccentric: Grace is eccentric at least. What if a former 
caprice (a freak very possible 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 distinctly 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 beautiful either, and perhaps 
Mr Rochester approves you: at any rate, you have often felt as if he did; 
and last night - remember his words; remember his look; remember his 
voice!"
I well remembered all; language, glance, and tone seemed at the moment 
vividly renewed. I was now in the schoolroom; 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 different. 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 window. "I have never 
heard Mr Rochester's voice or step in the house today; 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 impatient."
When dusk actually closed, and when Adele left me to go and play in the 
nursery with Sophie, I did most keenly desire it. I listened for the bell 
to ring below; I listened for Leah coming up with a message; I fancied 
sometimes I heard Mr Rochester's own tread, and I turned to the door, 
expecting it to open and admit him. The door remained shut; darkness only 
came in through the window. Still it was not late; he often sent for me at 
seven and eight o'clock, and it was yet but six. Surely I should not be 
wholly disappointed tonight, when I had so many things to say to him! I 
wanted again to introduce the subject of Grace Poole, and to hear what he 
would answer; I wanted to ask him plainly if he really believed it was she 
who had made last night's hideous attempt; and if so, why he kept her 
wickedness a secret. It little 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 appearance; 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 today: 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 completed her task, she rose 
to draw down the blind, which she had hitherto kept up, by way, I suppose, 
of making the most of daylight, though dusk was now fast deepening into 
total obscurity.
"It is fair tonight," 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 off the moment he had breakfast! He is gone to the Leas, Mr 
Eshton's place, ten miles on the other side Millcote. I believe there is 
quite a party assembled there; Lord Ingram, Sir George Lynn, Colonel Dent, 
and others."
"Do you expect him back tonight?"
"No - nor tomorrow 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 entertain, 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 general 
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 acquirements and abilities, perhaps his wealth and good blood, 
make amends for any little fault of look."
"Are there ladies at the Leas?"
"There are Mrs Eshton and her three daughters - very elegant young ladies 
indeed; and there are the Honourable Blanche and Mary Ingram, most 
beautiful women, I suppose: indeed I have seen Blanche, six or seven years 
since, when she was a girl of eighteen. She came here to a Christmas ball 
and party Mr Rochester gave. You should have seen the dining-room that day -
 how richly it was 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 allowed 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: olive 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."
"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 entailed, 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 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 another channel.
When once more alone, I reviewed the information I had got; looked into my 
heart, examined its thoughts and feelings, 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 cherishing 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 surfeited herself on sweet lies, and 
swallowed poison as if it were nectar.
"You," I said, "a favourite with Mr Rochester? You gifted 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 
dependant and a novice. How dared you? Poor stupid dupe! - Could not even 
self-interest make 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 puppy! 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-fatuus-like, into miry 
wilds whence there is no extrication.
"Listen, then, Jane Eyre, to your sentence: tomorrow, place the glass 
before you, and draw in chalk your own picture, faithfully, without 
softening one defect; omit no harsh line, smooth away no displeasing 
irregularity; write under it, 'Portrait of a Governess, disconnected, poor, 
and plain.'
"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 hues, 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, 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 
insignificant plebeian?'"
"I'll do it," I resolved: and having framed this determination, I grew 
calm, and fell asleep.
I kept my word. An hour or two sufficed to sketch my own portrait in 
crayons; and in less than a fortnight I had completed an ivory miniature of 
an imaginary Blanche Ingram. 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 indelibly on my heart.
Ere long, I had reason to congratulate myself on the course of wholesome 
discipline to which I had thus forced my feelings to submit. Thanks to it, 
I was able to meet subsequent occurrences with a decent calm, which, had 
they found me unprepared, I should probably have been unequal to maintain, 
even externally.



Chapter 17

A week passed, and no news arrived of Mr Rochester: ten days; and still he 
did not come. Mrs Fairfax said she should not be surprised if he were to go 
straight from the Leas to 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 beginning 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 teaching 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 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 involuntarily framing advertisements and pondering 
conjectures about new situations: these thoughts I did not think it 
necessary to 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 direction. "Now I 
suppose we shall know whether we are to expect his return or not."
And while she broke the seal and perused the document, I went on taking my 
coffee (we were 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 
saucer, I did not choose to consider.
"Well - I sometimes think we are too quiet; but we run a chance of being 
busy enough now: for a little while at least," said Mrs Fairfax, still 
holding the note before her spectacles.
Ere I permitted myself to request an 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?"
"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; and I am 
to get more kitchen hands from the George Inn, at Millcote, and from 
wherever else I can; and the ladies will bring their maids and the 
gentlemen their valets: so we shall have a full house of it." And Mrs 
Fairfax swallowed her breakfast and hastened away to commence operations.
The three days were, as she had foretold, busy enough. I had thought all 
the rooms at Thornfield beautifully clean and well arranged; but it appears 
I was mistaken. Three women were got to help; and such scrubbing, such 
brushing, such washing of paint and beating of carpets, such taking down 
and putting up of pictures, such polishing of mirrors and lustres, such 
lighting of fires in bedrooms, such airing of sheets and feather-beds on 
hearths, I never beheld, either before or since. Adele ran quite wild in 
the midst of it: the 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 duties she was exonerated: Mrs 
Fairfax had pressed me into her service, and I was all day in the 
storeroom, helping (or hindering) her and the cook; learning to make 
custards and cheese-cakes and French pastry, to truss game and garnish 
dessert-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 always been kept locked) open slowly, and give passage 
to the form of Grace Poole, in prim cap, white apron, and handkerchief; 
when I watched her glide along the gallery, her quiet tread muffled in a 
list slipper; when I saw her look into the bustling, topsy-turvy bedrooms, -
 just say a word, 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: 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 
independent if she liked to leave; but I suppose she's got used to the 
place; and then she's not forty yet, and strong and able for 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 better," rejoined Leah 
significantly; "and it is not every one could fill her shoes - not for all 
the money she gets."
"That it is not!" was the reply. "I wonder whether the master -"
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 participation in that mystery I was purposely 
excluded.
Thursday came: all work had been completed the previous evening; carpets 
were laid down, bed-hangings festooned, radiant white counterpanes spread, 
toilet tables 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, etc. 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 apparel her 
in one of her short, full muslin frocks. For myself, I had no need to make 
any change; I should not be called upon to quit my sanctum of the 
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 Rochester mentioned; for it is 
past six now. I have sent John down 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" 
(leaning 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 cavaliers were young, dashing-looking gentlemen; the third was Mr 
Rochester, on his black horse, Mesrour, Pilot bounding before him; at his 
side rode a lady, and he and she were the first of the party. Her purple 
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, etc. "Some natural tears she shed" on being told this; but as I 
began to look very grave, she consented at last to wipe them.
A joyous stir was now audible in the hall: gentlemen's deep tones and 
ladies' silvery accents blent harmoniously together, and distinguishable 
above all, though not loud, was the sonorous voice of the master of 
Thornfield Hall, welcoming his fair and gallant guests under its roof. Then 
light steps ascended the stairs; and there was a tripping through the 
gallery, and soft cheerful laughs, and opening and closing doors, and, for 
a time, a hush.
"Elles changent de toilettes," said Adele; who, listening attentively, had 
followed every movement; and she sighed.
"Chez maman," said she, "quand il y avait du monde, je le suivais partout, 
au salon et a leurs chambres; souvent je regardais 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: voila cinq ou six heures que nous n'avons pas 
mange."
"Well now, while the ladies are in their rooms, I will venture down and get 
you something to eat."
And issuing from my asylum with precaution, I sought a backstairs 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 
spontaneous 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; 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 victuallage; so I stood still at this end, 
which, being windowless, was dark: quite dark now, for the sun was set and 
twilight gathering.
Presently the chambers gave up their fair tenants one after another: each 
came out 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 
descended 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 by, after dinner?"
"No, indeed, I don't; Mr Rochester has something else to think about. Never 
mind the ladies tonight; perhaps you will see them tomorrow: here is your 
dinner."
She was really hungry, so the chicken and tarts served to divert her 
attention for a time. It was well I secured this forage, or both 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 intervals. 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 distance 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 neighbourhood. 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 
equestrian; and, as before, Mr Rochester galloped at her side; the two rode 
a little apart from the rest. I pointed out this circumstance to Mrs 
Fairfax, who was standing at the window with me -
"You said it was not likely they should think of being married," said I, 
"but you see Mr Rochester evidently prefers her to any of the other 
ladies."
"Yes, I daresay: no doubt he admires her."
"And she him," I added; "look how she leans her head towards him as if she 
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.
"Well, I observed to him that as you were unused to company, 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 making 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 drawing-room. Adele had been in a state of 
ecstasy all day, after hearing she was to be presented to the ladies in the 
evening; and it was not till Sophie commenced the operation of dressing her 
that she sobered down. Then the importance of the process quickly steadied 
her, and by the time she had her curls arranged in well-smoothed, drooping 
clusters, her pink satin frock put on, her long sash tied, and her lace 
mittens adjusted, she looked as grave as any judge. No need to warn her not 
to disarrange her attire: when she was dressed, she sat demurely down in 
her little chair, taking care previously to lift up the satin skirt for 
fear she should crease it, and assured me she would not stir thence till I 
was ready. This I quickly was: my best dress (the silver-grey one, 
purchased for Miss Temple's wedding, and never worn since) was soon put on; 
my hair was soon smoothed; my sole ornament, the pearl brooch, soon 
assumed. We descended.
Fortunately there was another entrance to the drawing-room than that 
through the saloon where they were all seated at dinner. We found the 
apartment vacant; a large fire 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 knee.
"What is it, Adele?"
"Est-ce que je ne puis pas prendre une seule de ces fleurs magnifiques, 
mademoiselle? Seulement pour completer ma toilette."
"You think too much of your 'toilette,' 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 
something 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 dining-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 curtseyed 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 
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 figure; 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 under the shade of an azure plume, and within the 
circlet of a band of gems.
Mrs Colonel Dent was less showy; but, I thought, more 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, because the tallest 
figures of the band - were the Dowager Lady Ingram and her daughters, 
Blanche and Mary. They were all three of the loftiest stature of women. The 
Dowager might be between forty and fifty: her shape was still fine; her 
hair (by candlelight at least) still black; her teeth, too, were still 
apparently perfect. Most people would have termed her a splendid woman of 
her age: and so she was, no doubt, physically speaking; but then there was 
an expression of almost 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 position 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 inflections 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 special 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 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 - remarkably 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 mama; and she talked it well, with fluency and with a good 
accent.
Mary had a milder and more open countenance than Blanche; softer features 
too, and a skin some shades fairer (Miss Ingram was dark as a Spaniard) - 
but Mary was deficient in life: her face lacked expression, her eye lustre; 
she had nothing to say, and having once taken her seat, remained 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 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 mocking 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 getting spoilt to her heart's content.
At last coffee is brought in, and the gentlemen are summoned. 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 Eshton, the magistrate of the district, is gentleman-
like: his hair is quite white, his eyebrows and whiskers still dark, which 
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 vivacity 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 netting-needles, on the meshes of the 
purse I am forming - I wish to think only of the work I have in my hands, 
to see only the silver beads and silk threads that lie in my lap; whereas, 
I distinctly behold his figure, and I inevitably recall the moment when I 
last saw it; just after I had rendered him, what he deemed, an essential 
service, and he, holding my hand, and looking down on my face, surveyed me 
with eyes 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 distant, 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 a steely point of 
agony: a pleasure like what the thirst-perishing 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, according to rule; but they were more than beautiful 
to me; they were full of an interest, an influence that quite mastered me, -
 that took my feelings from my own power and fettered them in his. I had 
not intended to love him; the reader knows I had wrought hard to extirpate 
from my soul the germs of love there detected; and now, at the first 
renewed 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 Rochester smile: - his stern features 
softened; his eye grew both brilliant and gentle, its ray both searching 
and sweet. He was talking, at the moment, to Louisa and Amy Eshton. I 
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 language of 
his countenance and movements: though rank and wealth sever us widely, I 
have something in my brain and heart, in my blood and nerves, that 
assimilates me mentally to him. Did I say, a few days since, that I had 
nothing to do with him but to receive my salary at his hands? Did I forbid 
myself to think of him in any other light than as a paymaster? Blasphemy 
against nature! Every good, true, vigorous feeling I have gathers 
impulsively round him. I know I must conceal my sentiments: I must smother 
hope; I must remember that he 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 entered, have become 
lively as larks; conversation waxes brisk and merry. Colonel Dent and Mr 
Eshton argue on politics; their wives listen. The two proud dowagers, Lady 
Lynn and Lady Ingram, confabulate together. Sir George - whom, by the bye, 
I have forgotten to describe, - a very big, and very fresh-looking country 
gentleman, stands before their sofa, 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 glances up at him, and chatters like a wren: she likes him 
better than she does Mr Rochester. Henry Lynn has taken possession of an 
ottoman at the feet of Louisa: Adele shares it with him: he is trying to 
talk French with her, and Louisa laughs at his blunders. With whom will 
Blanche Ingram pair? She is standing alone at the table, bending gracefully 
over an album. She seems waiting to be sought; but she will not wait too 
long: she herself selects a mate.
Mr Rochester, having quitted the Eshtons, stands on the hearth as solitary 
as she stands by the table: she confronts him, taking her station on the 
opposite side of the mantelpiece.
"Mr Rochester, I thought you were not fond of children?"
"Nor am I."
"Then, what induced you to take charge of such a little doll as that?" 
(pointing to 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 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 involuntarily 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 incompetency 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 
car; 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.
"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 tables. 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 prosecuting (or persecuting) 
your tutor, whey-faced Mr Vining - the parson in the pip, as we used to 
call him. He and Miss Wilson took the liberty of falling in love with each 
other - at least Tedo and I thought so; we surprised sundry tender glances 
and sighs which we interpreted as tokens of 'la belle passion,' and I 
promise you the public soon had the benefit of our discovery; we employed 
it as a sort of lever to hoist our dead-weights from the house. Dear 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-mother?"
"Certainly, my best. And I was quite right: depend on that: there are a 
thousand reasons why liaisons between governesses and tutors should never 
be tolerated a moment in any well-regulated house; firstly -"
"Oh, gracious, 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; confidence thence resulting - insolence accompanying - mutiny 
and general blow-up. Am I right, Baroness Ingram, of Ingram Park?"
"My lily-flower, you are right now, as always."
"Then no more need be said: change the subject."
Amy Eshton, not hearing or not heeding this dictum, joined in with her 
soft, infantine tone: "Louisa and I used to quiz our governess too; but she 
was such a good creature, she would bear anything: nothing put her out. She 
was never 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 us anything we asked for."
"I suppose, now," said Miss Ingram, curling her lip sarcastically, "we 
shall have an abstract of the memoirs of all the governesses extant: in 
order to avert such a visitation, I again move the introduction of a new 
topic. Mr 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 tonight?"
"Donna Bianca, if you command it, I will be."
"Then, signior, I lay on you my sovereign behest to furbish up your lungs 
and other vocal organs, as they will be wanted on my royal service."
"Who would not be the Rizzio of so divine a 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 fiddler David must have been an 
insipid sort of fellow; I like black Bothwell better: to my mind a man is 
nothing without a spice of the devil in him; and history may say what it 
will of James Hepburn, but I have a notion, he was just the sort of wild, 
fierce, bandit hero whom I could have consented to gift with my hand."
"Gentlemen, you hear! Now which of you most resembles Bothwell?" cried Mr 
Rochester.
"I should say the preference lies with you," responded Colonel Dent.
"On my honour, I am much obliged to you," was the reply.
Miss Ingram, who had now seated herself with proud grace at the piano, 
spreading out her snowy robes in queenly amplitude, commenced a brilliant 
prelude; talking meantime. She appeared to be on her high horse tonight; 
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 guardianship! 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 appanage and heritage! I grant an ugly woman is a blot on 
the fair face of creation; but as to the gentlemen, let them be solicitous 
to possess only strength and valour: let their motto be: - Hunt, shoot, and 
fight: the rest is not worth a fillip. Such should be my device, were I a 
man."
"Whenever I marry," she continued after a pause which none interrupted, "I 
am 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 dote on Corsairs; and for that 
reason, sing it con spirito."
"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 endeavour 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 commenced an 
accompaniment in spirited style.
"Now is my time to slip away," thought I: but the tones that then severed 
the air arrested me. Mrs Fairfax had said Mr Rochester possessed a fine 
voice: he did - a mellow, powerful bass, into which he threw his own 
feeling, his own force: finding a way through the ear to the heart, and 
there waking 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 sheltered corner and made my exit by 
the side-door, which was fortunately near. Thence a narrow passage led into 
the hall: in crossing it, I perceived my sandal 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 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 the least."
"Return to the drawing-room: you are deserting too early."
"I am tired, sir."
He looked at me for a minute.
"And a little depressed," he said. "What about? Tell me."
"Nothing - nothing, sir. I am not depressed."
"But I affirm that you are: so much depressed that a few more words would 
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, tonight I excuse 
you; but understand that so long as my visitors stay, I expect you to 
appear in the drawing-room every 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.



Chapter 18

Merry 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 gallery, 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 
continuous 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 gaiety.
I wondered what they were going to do the first evening a change of 
entertainment was proposed: they spoke of "playing charades," but in my 
ignorance I did not understand the term. The servants were called in, the 
dining-room tables wheeled away, the lights otherwise disposed, the chairs 
placed in a semicircle opposite the arch. While Mr Rochester 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 story were 
ransacked, and their contents, in the shape of brocaded and hooped 
petticoats, satin sacques, black modes, lace lappets, etc., 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 drawing-room.
Meantime, Mr Rochester had again summoned the ladies 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 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 Rochester's cloak, and 
holding a book in her hand. Somebody, unseen, rang the bell merrily; then 
Adele (who had insisted 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 figure 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 followed, 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, surrounded by exotics, and 
tenanted by gold fish - and whence it must have been transported with some 
trouble, on account of its size and weight.
Seated on the 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. Presently 
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 gracefully 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: apparently they could 
not agree about the word or syllable the scene illustrated. Colonel Dent, 
their spokesman, demanded "the tableau of the whole"; whereupon the curtain 
again descended.
On its third rising only a portion of the drawing-room was disclosed; the 
rest being concealed by a screen, 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 disordered dress (his coat hanging loose from one arm, 
as if it had been almost torn from his back in a scuffle), the desperate 
and scowling 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 performers 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 becoming 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 witnesses." 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 longer 
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 followed 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 
recall 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 Rochester: I could 
not unlove him now, merely because I found that he had ceased to notice me -
 because I might pass hours 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 imperious 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 carelessness, captivating, and in its very pride, irresistible.
There was nothing to cool or banish love in these circumstances, though 
much to create despair. Much too, you will think, reader, to engender 
jealousy: if a woman, in my position, could presume to be jealous of a 
woman in Miss Ingram's. But I was not jealous: or very rarely; - the nature 
of the pain I suffered 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 paradox; I mean what I say. She was very showy, but she was not 
genuine: she had a fine person, many brilliant attainments; 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 phrases from books: 
she never offered, nor had, an opinion of her own. She advocated a high 
tone of sentiment; but she did not know the sensations of sympathy and 
pity; tenderness and truth were not in her. Too often she betrayed this, by 
the undue vent she gave to a spiteful antipathy she had 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 
guardedness of his - this perfect, clear consciousness of his fair one's 
defects - this obvious absence of passion in his sentiments towards her, 
that my ever-torturing pain arose.
I saw he was going to marry her, for family, perhaps political reasons, 
because her rank and connections suited him; I felt he had not given her 
his love, and that her qualifications 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 despair: then, 
my heart torn out and devoured, I should have admired her - acknowledged 
her excellence, and been quiet for the rest of my days: and the more 
absolute her superiority, the deeper would have been my admiration - the 
more truly tranquil my quiescence. But as matters really stood, to watch 
Miss Ingram's efforts at fascinating Mr Rochester, 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 softness into his 
sardonic face; or, better still, without weapons a silent conquest might 
have been won.
"Why can she not influence him more, when she is privileged to draw so near 
to him?" 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 different 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 manoeuvres; and one 
had but to accept it - to answer what he asked without pretension, to 
address him when needful without grimace - and it increased and grew kinder 
and more genial, 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 Rochester's project of 
marrying for interest and connections. It surprised me when I first 
discovered that such was his intention: I had thought him a man unlikely to 
be influenced by motives so commonplace in his choice of a wife; but the 
longer I considered the position, education, etc., of the parties, 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 childhood. All their class held these principles: I 
supposed, then, they had reasons for holding them such as I could not 
fathom. It seemed to me that, were I a gentleman like him, I would take to 
my bosom only such a wife as I could love; but the very obviousness of the 
advantages to the husband's own 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 lenient 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 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 comparatively insipid. And as for the vague something - 
was it a sinister or a sorrowful, a designing or a desponding expression? - 
that opened upon a careful observer, now and then, in his eye, and closed 
again before one could fathom the strange depth partially disclosed; that 
something which used to make me fear and shrink, as if I had been wandering 
amongst volcanic-looking hills, and had suddenly felt the ground quiver and 
seen it gape: that something, I, at intervals, 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, 
because 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 future bride - saw only 
them, heard only their discourse, and considered only their movements of 
importance - the rest of the party were occupied with their own separate 
interests and pleasures. The Ladies Lynn and Ingram continued to consort in 
solemn conferences, where they nodded their two turbans at each other, and 
held up their four hands in confronting gestures of surprise, or mystery, 
or horror, according to the theme on which their gossip ran, like a pair of 
magnified puppets. Mild Mrs Dent talked with good-natured Mrs Eshton; and 
the two sometimes bestowed a courteous word or smile on me. Sir George 
Lynn, Colonel 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 dulness 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 peculiarly felt one day 
that he had been summoned to Millcote on business, and was not likely to 
return till late. The afternoon was wet: a walk the party had proposed to 
take to see a gypsy 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 younger ladies, were playing billiards in 
the billiard-room. The dowagers Ingram and Lynn sought solace in a quiet 
game at cards. Blanche Ingram, after having repelled, by supercilious 
taciturnity, some efforts of Mrs Dent and Mrs Eshton to draw her into 
conversation, had first murmured over some sentimental tunes and airs on 
the piano, and then, having fetched a novel from the library, had flung 
herself in haughty listlessness on a sofa, and prepared to beguile, by the 
spell of fiction, the tedious hours of absence. The room and the house were 
silent: only now and then the merriment of the billiard-players was heard 
from above.
It was verging on dusk, and the dock had already given warning of the hour 
to dress for dinner, when little Adele, who knelt by me in the drawing-room 
window-seat, suddenly exclaimed -
"Voila Monsieur Rochester, qui revient!"
I turned, and Miss Ingram darted forwards from her sofa: the others, too, 
looked up from their several occupations; for at the same time a crunching 
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 ample garments so near 
the window, that I was obliged to bend back almost to the breaking of my 
spine: in her eagerness she did not observe me at first, but when she did, 
she curled her lip and moved to another casement. The post-chaise stopped; 
the driver rang the door-bell, and a gentleman alighted attired in 
travelling garb; but it was not Mr Rochester; 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 newcomer entered. He 
bowed to Lady Ingram, as deeming her the eldest lady present.
"It appears I come at an inopportune time, madam," said he, "when my 
friend, Mr Rochester, is from home; but I arrive from a very long journey, 
and I think I may presume so far on old and intimate acquaintance as to 
install 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 never 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 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 compared 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 curious friendship theirs 
must have been: a pointed illustration, indeed, of the old adage that 
"extremes meet."
Two or three of the gentlemen sat near him, and I caught at times scraps of 
their 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 
nearer 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 hast" cried Louisa, - "so smooth - 
none of those frowning irregularities I dislike so much; and such a placid 
eye and smile!"
And then, to my great relief, Mr Henry 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 newcomer was called Mr Mason; then I learned 
that he was but just arrived in England, and that he came from some hot 
country: which was the reason, doubtless, his face was so sallow, and that 
he sat so near the hearth, and wore a surtout in the house. Presently the 
words Jamaica, Kingston, Spanish Town, indicated the West Indies as his 
residence; and it was with no little surprise I gathered, ere long, that he 
had there first seen and become acquainted with Mr Rochester. He spoke of 
his friend's dislike of the burning heats, the hurricanes, and rainy 
seasons of that region. I knew Mr Rochester had been a traveller: Mrs 
Fairfax had said so; but I thought the continent of Europe had bounded his 
wanderings; 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 musings. 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 - "Ladies, you talked of going to Hay Common to visit 
the gypsy camp; Sam here says that one of the old Mother Bunches is 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 encourage 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-corner, 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 examining sundry sheets of music. "I have a curiosity to 
hear my fortune told: therefore, Sam, order the beldame forward."
"My darling Blanche! recollect -"
"I do - I recollect all you can suggest; and I must have my will - quick, 
Sam!"
"Yes - yes - yes!" cried all the juveniles, both ladies and gentlemen. "Let 
her come - it will be excellent sport!"
The footman 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 returned.
"She won't come now," said he. "She says it's not her mission to appear 
before the 'vulgar herd' (them's her words). I must show her into a room by 
herself, and then those who wish to consult her must go to her one by one."
"You see now, my queenly Blanche," began 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, expectation rose to full flow 
once more.
"She's ready now," said the footman, as he reappeared. "She wishes to know 
who will be her first 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 venture. Amy and Louisa Eshton tittered under their 
breath, and looked a little frightened.
The minutes passed very slowly: fifteen were counted before the library-
door again opened. Miss Ingram returned to us through the arch.
Would she laugh? Would she take it as 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 silence.
"Well, Blanche?" said Lord Ingram.
"What did she say, sister?" asked Mary.
"What did you think? How do you feel? Is she a real fortune-teller?" 
demanded the Misses Eshton.
"Now, now, good people," returned Miss Ingram, "don't press upon me. Really 
your organs of wonder and credulity are easily excited: you seem, by the 
importance you all - my good mama included - ascribe to this matter, 
absolutely to believe we have a genuine witch in the house, who is in close 
alliance with the old gentleman. I have seen a gypsy 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 tomorrow 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 
obviously 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, attached undue importance to 
whatever revelations had been made her.
Meantime, Mary Ingram, Amy and Louisa Eshton, declared they dared not go 
alone; and yet they all wished to go. A negotiation was opened through the 
medium of the ambassador, Sam; and after much pacing to and fro, till, I 
think, the said Sam's calves must have ached with the exercise, permission 
was at last, with great 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 divined 
their thoughts, and had whispered in the ear of each the name of the person 
she liked best in the world, and informed them of what they most wished 
for.
Here the gentlemen interposed with earnest petitions to be further 
enlightened on these two last-named points; but they got only blushes, 
ejaculations, tremors, and titters, in return for their importunity. The 
matrons, meantime, offered vinaigrettes and wielded fans; and again and 
again reiterated the expression of their concern that their warning had not 
been taken in time; and the elder gentlemen laughed, and the younger urged 
their services on the agitated fair ones.
In the midst of the tumult, and while my eyes and ears were fully engaged 
in the scene before me, I heard a hem close at my elbow: I turned, and saw 
Sam.
"If you please, Miss, the gypsy declares that there is another young single 
lady in the room who has not been to her yet, and she swears she will not 
go till she has seen 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-excited 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 excited.


Chapter 19

The library looked tranquil enough as I entered it, and the Sybil - if 
Sybil 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 gypsy 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 gypsy'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.
"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 sweetest given to man, keeps far away from 
you. You are silly, because, suffer as you may, you will not beckon it to 
approach, nor will you stir one step to meet it where it waits you."
She again put her short black pipe to her lips, and renewed her smoking 
with vigour.
"You might say all that to almost any one who you knew lived as a solitary 
dependant 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 another precisely placed 
as you are."
"It would be easy to find you thousands."
"You could scarcely find me one. If you knew it, you are peculiarly 
situated: very near happiness; yes, within reach of it. The materials are 
all prepared; there only wants a movement to combine them. Chance laid them 
somewhat apart; let them be once approached and bliss results."
"I don't understand enigmas. I never could guess a riddle in my life."
"If you wish me to speak more plainly, show me your palm."
"And I must cross it with silver, I suppose?"
"To be sure."
I gave her a shilling: she put it into an old stocking-foot which she took 
out of her pocket, and having tied it round and returned it, she told me to 
hold out my hand. I did. She approached her face to the palm, and pored 
over it without touching 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.
"No," she continued, "it is in the face: on the forehead, about the eyes, 
in the eyes themselves, 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 tonight," 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 -"
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 window-seat, do you think of nothing but your 
future school? Have you no present interest in any of the company who 
occupy 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 gentleman you -"
"I what?"
"You know - and perhaps think well of."
"I don't know the gentlemen here. I have scarcely interchanged a syllable 
with one of them; and as to thinking well of them, I consider some 
respectable, and stately, and middle-aged, and others young, dashing, 
handsome, and lively: but certainly they are all at liberty to be the 
recipients of whose smiles they please, without my feeling disposed to 
consider the transaction of any moment to me."
"You don't know the gentlemen here? You have not exchanged 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 tonight or tomorrow: does that circumstance 
exclude him from the list of your acquaintance - blot him, as it were, out 
of existence?"
"No; but I can scarcely see what Mr Rochester has to do with the theme you 
had introduced."
"I was talking of ladies smiling in the eyes of gentlemen; and of late so 
many smiles have been shed into Mr Rochester's eyes that they 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 Rochester has been favoured with the 
most lively and the most continuous?"
"The eagerness of a listener quickens the tongue of a narrator." I said 
this rather to myself than to the gypsy, whose strange talk, voice, manner, 
had by this time wrapped me in a kind of dream. One unexpected sentence 
came from her lips after another, till I got involved in a web of 
mystification; 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 grateful for the pastime given him; you have noticed this?"
"Grateful! I cannot remember detecting gratitude in his face."
"Detecting! You have analysed, then. And what did you detect, if 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, accomplished lady; and probably she loves him, or, if not his 
person, at least his purse. I know she considers the Rochester estate 
eligible to the last degree; though (God pardon me!) I told her something 
on that point about an hour ago which made her look wondrous grave: the 
corners of her mouth fell half an inch. I would advise her black-aviced 
suitor to look out: if another comes, with a longer or clearer rent-roll, - 
he's dished -"
"But, mother, I did not come to hear Mr Rochester's fortune: I came to hear 
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 lassitude weighs on the lid: that signifies 
melancholy resulting from loneliness. It turns from me; it will not suffer 
further scrutiny; it seems to deny, by a mocking glance, the truth of the 
discoveries I have already made, - to disown the charge both of sensibility 
and chagrin: its pride and reserve only confirm me in my opinion. The eye 
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 interprets the dictates of 
conscience.'
"Well said, forehead; your declaration shall be respected. I have formed my 
plans - right plans I deem them - and in them I have attended to the claims 
of conscience, the counsels of reason. I know how soon youth would fade and 
bloom perish, if, in the cup of bliss offered, but one dreg of shame, 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 governed 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 illuminated her hand stretched out: roused 
now, and on the alert for discoveries, I at once noticed that hand. It was 
no more the withered limb of eld than my own; it was a rounded supple 
member, with smooth fingers, symmetrically turned; a broad ring flashed on 
the little finger, and stooping forward, I looked at it, and saw a gem I 
had seen a hundred times before. Again I looked at the face; which was no 
longer turned from me - on the contrary, the bonnet was doffed, the bandage 
displaced, the head advanced.
"Well, Jane, do you know me?" asked the familiar voice.
"Only take off the red cloak, sir, and then -"
"But the string is in a knot - help me."
"Break it, sir."
"There, then - 'Off, ye lendings!'" And Mr Rochester stepped out of 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 gypsy 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 forgive you; but it was 
not right."
"Oh, you have been very correct - very careful, very sensible."
I reflected, and thought, on the whole, I had. It was a comfort; but, 
indeed, I had been on my guard almost from the beginning of the interview. 
Something of masquerade I suspected. I knew gypsies and fortune-tellers did 
not express themselves as this seeming old woman had expressed herself; 
besides I had noted her feigned voice, her anxiety to conceal her 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?"
"Wonder and self-congratulation, sir. I have your permission to retire now, 
I suppose?"
"No; stay a moment; and tell me what the people in the drawing-room yonder 
are doing."
"Discussing the gypsy, 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 Indies; from Spanish 
Town, in Jamaica, I think."
Mr Rochester was standing near me; he had taken my hand, as if to lead me 
to 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 speaking, whiter than ashes: he hardly seemed to know what he 
was doing.
"Do you feel ill, sir?" I inquired.
"Jane, I've got a blow; I've got a blow, Jane!" He staggered.
"Oh, lean on me, sir."
"Jane, you offered me your shoulder 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 recollections removed from me."
"Can I help you, sir? - I'd give my life to serve you."
"Jane, if aid is wanted, I'll seek it at your hands; I promise you that."
"Thank you, sir. Tell me what to do, - I'll try, at least, to do it."
"Fetch me now, Jane, a glass of wine from the dining-room: they will be at 
supper there; and tell me if Mason is with them, and what he is doing."
I went. I found all the party in the dining-room at supper, as Mr Rochester 
had said; they were not seated at table, - the supper was arranged on the 
sideboard; each had taken what he chose, and they stood about here and 
there in groups, their plates and glasses in their hands. Every one seemed 
in high glee; laughter and conversation were general 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 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, and whisper in his 
ear that Mr Rochester is come and wishes 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 20

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 unveiled 
panes, her glorious gaze roused me. Awaking in the dead of night, I opened 
my eyes on her disk - silver-white and crystal-clear. It was beautiful, but 
too solemn: I half rose, and stretched my arm to draw the curtain.
Good God! What a cry!
The night - its silence - its rest, was rent in twain by a savage, a sharp, 
a shrilly sound that ran from end to end of Thornfield-Hall.
My pulse stopped: my heart stood still; my stretched arm was paralyzed. The 
cry died, and was not renewed. Indeed, whatever being uttered that fearful 
shriek could not soon repeat it: not the widest-winged condor on the Andes 
could, twice in succession, send out such a yell from the cloud shrouding 
his eyrie. The thing delivering such utterance must rest ere it could 
repeat the effort.
It came out of the third story; 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 staggering 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 
another 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 confusion was 
inextricable.
"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 story. One of the 
ladies ran to him directly; she seized his arm: it was Miss Ingram.
"What awful event has taken place?" said she. "Speak! let us know the worst 
at once!"
"But don't pull me down or strangle me," he replied: for the Misses Eshton 
were 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 excitable, nervous 
person: she construed her dream into an apparition, or something of that 
sort, no doubt; and has taken a fit with fright. Now, then, I must see you 
all back into your rooms; for, till the house is settled, she 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 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 probably been heard only by me; for they had proceeded 
from the room above mine: but they assured me that it was not a servant's 
dream which had thus struck horror through the house; and that the 
explanation Mr Rochester had given was merely an invention framed to pacify 
his guests. I dressed, then, to be ready for emergencies. When dressed, I 
sat a long time by the 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 darkness, I thought 
I would lie down on my bed, dressed as I was. I left the window, and moved 
with little noise across the carpet; as I stooped to take off my shoes, a 
cautious hand tapped low at the door.
"Am I wanted?" I asked.
"Are you up?" asked the voice I expected to hear, viz., my master's.
"Yes, sir."
"And dressed?"
"Yes."
"Come out, then, quietly."
I obeyed. Mr Rochester stood in the gallery holding a light.
"I want you," he said: "come this way: take your time, and make no noise."
My slippers were thin: I could walk the matted floor as softly as a cat. 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 whisper.
"Yes, sir."
"Have you any salts - volatile salts?"
"Yes."
"Go back and fetch both."
I returned, sought the sponge on the washstand, the salts in my drawer, and 
once more retraced my steps. He still waited; he held a key in his hand: 
approaching one of the small, black doors, he put it in the lock; he 
paused, and addressed me again.
"You don't turn sick at the sight of blood?"
"I think I shall not: I have never been tried yet."
I felt a thrill while I answered him; but no coldness, and no faintness.
"Just give me your hand," he said: "it will not do to risk a fainting fit."
I put my fingers into his. "Warm and steady," was his remark: he turned the 
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 
concealed. 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 candle, said to me, "Wait a minute," and he 
went forward to the inner apartment. A shout of laughter greeted his 
entrance; noisy at first, and terminating in Grace Poole's own goblin ha! 
ha! She then was there. He made some sort of arrangement without speaking, 
though I heard a low voice address him: he came out and closed the door 
behind him.
"Here, Jane!" he said; and I walked round to the other side of a large bed, 
which with its drawn curtains concealed a considerable portion of the 
chamber. An easy-chair was near the bed-head: a man sat in it, dressed with 
the exception of his coat; he was still; his head 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 moistened the corpse-like face; he asked for my 
smelling-bottle, and applied it to the nostrils. Mr Mason shortly unclosed 
his eyes; he groaned. Mr Rochester opened the shirt of the wounded man, 
whose arm and shoulder were bandaged: he sponged away blood, trickling fast 
down.
"Is there immediate danger?" murmured Mr Mason.
"Pooh! No - a mere scratch. Don't be so overcome, man: bear up! I'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 gentleman, 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 yourself - and I'll not answer for the consequences."
Again the poor man groaned; he looked as if he dared not move; fear, either 
of death or of something else, appeared almost to 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, "Remember! - No 
conversation," he left the room. I experienced a strange feeling as the key 
grated in the lock, and the sound of his retreating step ceased to be 
heard.
Here then I was in the third storey, fastened into one of its mystic cells; 
night around me; a pale and bloody spectacle under my eyes and hands; a 
murderess hardly separated from me by a single door: yes - that was 
appalling - the rest I could bear; but I shuddered at the thought of Grace 
Poole 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 wandering 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 candle wane on my employment; the shadows darken on the 
wrought, antique tapestry round me, and grow black under the hangings of 
the vast old bed, and quiver strangely over the doors of a great cabinet 
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 physician, 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 threatening 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 spellbound: all the night I heard but three 
sounds at three long intervals, - a step creak, a momentary renewal of the 
snarling, canine noise, and a deep human groan.
Then my own thoughts worried me. What crime was this, that lived incarnate 
in this sequestered mansion, and could neither be expelled nor subdued by 
the owner? - what mystery, 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 horror? and why had the Fury flown at him? 
What made him seek this quarter of the house at an untimely season, when he 
should have been asleep in bed? I had heard Mr Rochester assign him an 
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 hideously 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 influenced by the active 
energy of the other: whence then had arisen Mr Rochester's dismay when he 
heard of Mr Mason's arrival? Why had the mere name of this unresisting 
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 rested on my shoulder: and it was no light matter 
which could thus bow the resolute spirit and thrill the vigorous frame of 
Fairfax Rochester.
"When will he come? When will he come?" I cried inwardly, as the night 
lingered and lingered - as my bleeding patient drooped, moaned, sickened: 
and neither day nor aid arrived. I had, again and again, held the water to 
Mason's white lips; again and again offered him the stimulating salts: my 
efforts seemed ineffectual: either bodily or mental suffering, or loss of 
blood, or all three combined, were fast prostrating his strength. He moaned 
so, and looked so weak, wild, and lost, I feared he was dying; and I might 
not even speak to him.
The candle, wasted at last, went out; as it expired, I perceived streaks of 
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 relieved. It could not have 
lasted more than two hours: many a week has seemed shorter.
Mr Rochester entered, and with him the surgeon he had been to fetch.
"Now, Carter, be on the alert," he said to this last: "I give you but half 
an hour for dressing the wound, fastening the bandages, getting the patient 
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 surprised and cheered to see how far 
dawn was advanced: what rosy streaks were beginning to brighten the east. 
Then he approached Mason, whom the surgeon was already handling.
"Now, my good fellow, how are you?" he asked.
"She's done for me, I fear," was the faint reply.
"Not a whit! - courage! This day fortnight you'll hardly be a pin the worse 
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?" returned Mason. "Oh, it 
was frightful!" he added, shuddering. "And I did not expect it: she looked 
so quiet at first."
"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 tomorrow, and had me 
with you: it was mere folly to attempt the interview tonight, 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 expression of disgust, 
horror, hatred, warped his countenance almost to distortion, but he only 
said -
"Come, be silent, Richard, and never mind her gibberish: don't repeat it."
"I wish I could forget it," was the answer.
"You will when you are out of the country: when you get back to Spanish 
Town, you may think of her as dead and buried - or rather, you need not 
think of her 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 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 order 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 better, both for your 
sake, and for that of the poor creature in yonder. I have striven long to 
avoid exposure, and I should not like it to come at last. Here, Carter, 
help him on with his waistcoat. Where did you leave your furred cloak? 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 master; 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 
drawer of my toilet-table and take out a little phial and a little glass 
you will find there, - quick!"
I flew thither and back, bringing the desired vessels.
"That's well! Now, doctor, I shall take the liberty of administering a dose 
myself, on my own responsibility. I got this cordial at Rome, of an Italian 
charlatan - a fellow you would have kicked, Carter. It is not a thing to be 
used indiscriminately, 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 water-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 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 curtains were yet drawn over the servants' 
chamber windows; little birds were just twittering in the blossom-blanched 
orchard trees, whose boughs drooped like white garlands over the wall 
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 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, supposing he had done with me, prepared to 
return to the house; again, however, I heard him call "Jane!" He had opened 
the portal and stood at it, waiting for me.
"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 answered; "and you see 
it through a charmed medium: you cannot discern that the gilding is slime 
and the silk draperies 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, 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 balmy 
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."
"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 defiance or wilfully injure you."
"Oh no! Mason will not defy me; nor, knowing it, will he hurt me - but, 
unintentionally, he might in a moment, by one careless word, deprive me, if 
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 Mason, I have only had to say to him 'Do 
that,' and the thing has been done. But I cannot give him orders in this 
case: I cannot say 'Beware of harming me, Richard'; for it is imperative 
that I should keep him ignorant that harm to me is possible. Now you look 
puzzled; and I will puzzle you further. You are my little friend, are you 
not?"
"I like to serve you, sir, and to obey you in all that is right."
"Precisely: I see you do. I see genuine contentment in your gait and mien, 
your eye and face, when you are helping me and pleasing me - working for 
me, and with me, in, as you characteristically say, 'all that is right': 
for if I bid you do what you thought wrong, there would be no light-footed 
running, no neat-handed alacrity, no lively glance and animated complexion. 
My friend would then turn to me, quiet and pale, and would say, 'No, sir; 
that is impossible: I cannot do it, because it is wrong'; and would become 
immutable as a fixed star. Well, you too have power over me, and may injure 
me: yet I dare not show you where I am vulnerable, lest, faithful and 
friendly as you are, you should transfix me at once."
"If you have no more to fear from Mr Mason than you have from me, sir, you 
are very safe."
"God grant it may be so! Here, Jane, is an arbour; sit down."
The arbour was an arch in the wall, lined with ivy; it contained a rustic 
seat. Mr Rochester took it, leaving room, however, for me: but I stood 
before him.
"Sit," he said; "the bench is long enough for two. You don't hesitate to 
take a place at my side, do you? Is that wrong, Jane?"
I answered him by assuming it: to refuse would, I felt, have been unwise.
"Now, my little friend, while the sun drinks the dew - while all the 
flowers in this old garden awake and expand, and the birds fetch their 
young ones' breakfast out of the Thornfield, and the early bees do their 
first spell of work - I'll put a case to you, which you must endeavour to 
suppose your own: but first, look at me, and tell me you are at ease, and 
not fearing that I err in detaining you, or that you err in staying."
"No, sir; I am content."
"Well then, Jane, call to aid your fancy: - suppose you were no longer a 
girl well reared and disciplined, but a wild boy indulged from childhood 
upwards; imagine yourself in a remote foreign land; conceive that you there 
commit a capital error, no matter of what nature or from what motives, but 
one whose consequences must follow you through life and taint all your 
existence. Mind, I don't say a crime; I am not speaking of shedding of 
blood or any other guilty act, which might make the perpetrator amenable to 
the law: my word is error. The results of what you have done become in time 
to you utterly insupportable; you take measures to obtain relief: unusual 
measures, but neither unlawful nor culpable. Still you are miserable; for 
hope has quitted you on the very confines of life: your sun at noon darkens 
in an eclipse, which you feel will not leave it till the time of setting. 
Bitter and base associations have become the sole food of your memory: you 
wander here and there, seeking rest in exile: happiness in pleasure - I 
mean in heartless, sensual pleasure - such as dulls intellect and blights 
feeling. Heart-weary and soul-withered, you come home after years of 
voluntary banishment: you make a new acquaintance - how or where no matter: 
you find in this stranger much of the good and bright qualities which you 
have sought for twenty years, and never before encountered; and they are 
all fresh, healthy, without soil and without taint. Such society revives, 
regenerates: you feel better days come back-higher wishes, purer feelings; 
you desire to recommence your life, and to spend what remains to you of 
days in a way more worthy of an immortal being. To attain this end, are you 
justified in overleaping an obstacle of custom-a mere conventional 
impediment which neither your conscience sanctifies nor your judgment 
approves?"
He paused for an answer: and what was I to say? Oh, for some good spirit to 
suggest a judicious and satisfactory response! Vain aspiration! The west 
wind whispered in the ivy round me; but no gentle Ariel borrowed its breath 
as a medium of speech: the birds sang in the tree-tops; but their song, 
however sweet, was inarticulate.
Again Mr Rochester propounded his query:
"Is the wandering and sinful, but now rest-seeking and repentant, man 
justified in daring the world's opinion, in order to attach to him for ever 
this gentle, gracious, genial stranger, thereby securing his own peace of 
mind and regeneration of life?"
"Sir," I answered, "a wanderer's repose or a sinner's reformation should 
never depend on a fellow-creature. Men and women die; philosophers falter 
in wisdom, and Christians in goodness: if any one you know has suffered and 
erred, let him look higher than his equals for strength to amend and solace 
to heal."
"But the instrument - the instrument! God, who does the work, ordains the 
instrument. I have myself - I tell it you without parable - been a worldly, 
dissipated, restless man; and I believe I have found the instrument for my 
cure in -"
He paused: the birds went on carolling, the leaves lightly rustling. I 
almost wondered they did not check their songs and whispers to catch the 
suspended revelation; but they would have had to wait many minutes - so 
long was the silence protracted. At last I looked up at the tardy speaker: 
he was looking eagerly at me.
"Little friend," said he, in quite a changed tone - while his face changed 
too, losing all its softness and gravity, and becoming harsh and sarcastic -
 "you have noticed my tender penchant for Miss Ingram: don't you think if I 
married her she would regenerate me with a vengeance?"
He got up instantly, went quite to the other end of the walk, and when he 
came back he was humming a tune.
"Jane, Jane," said he, stopping before me, "you are quite pale with your 
vigils: don't you curse me for disturbing your rest?"
"Curse you? No, sir. "
"Shake hands in confirmation of the word. What cold fingers! They were 
warmer last night when I touched them at the door of the mysterious 
chamber. Jane, when will you watch with me again?"
"Whenever I can be useful, sir."
"For instance, the night before I am married! I am sure I shall not be able 
to sleep. Will you promise to sit up with me to bear me company? To you I 
can talk of my lovely one: for now you have seen her and know her."
"Yes, sir."
"She's a rare one, is she not, Jane?"
"Yes, sir."
"A strapper - a real strapper, Jane: big, brown, and buxom; with hair just 
such as the ladies of Carthage must have had. Bless me! there's Dent and 
Lynn in the stables! Go in by the shrubbery, through that wicket."
As I went one way, he went another, and I heard him in the yard, saying 
cheeringly: -
"Mason got the start of you all this morning; he was gone before sunrise: I 
rose at four to see him off."



Chapter 21

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

"MADAM,
	"Will you have the goodness to send me the address of my niece, Jane Eyre, 
and to tell me how she is: it is my intention to write shortly and desire 
her to come to me at Madeira. Providence has blessed my endeavours to 
secure a competency; and as I am unmarried and childless, I wish to adopt 
her during my life, and bequeath her at my death whatever I may have to 
leave.
				"I am, Madam, etc., etc.
						"JOHN EYRE, Madeira."

It was dated three years back.
"Why did I never hear of this?" I asked.
"Because I disliked you too fixedly and thoroughly ever to lend a hand in 
lifting you to prosperity. I could not forget your conduct to me, Jane - 
the fury with which you once turned on me; the tone in which you declared 
you abhorred me the worst of anybody in the world; the unchildlike look and 
voice with which you affirmed that the very thought of me made you sick, 
and asserted that I had treated you with miserable cruelty. I could not 
forget my own sensations when you thus started up and poured out the venom 
of your mind: I felt fear, as if an animal that I had struck or pushed had 
looked up at me with human eyes and cursed me in a man's voice. - Bring me 
some water! Oh, make haste!"
"Dear Mrs Reed," said I, as I offered her the draught she required, "think 
no more of all this, let it pass away from your mind. Forgive me for my 
passionate language: I was a child then; eight, nine years have passed 
since that
She heeded nothing of what I said; but when she had tasted the water and 
drawn breath, she went on thus: -
"I tell you I could not forget it; and I took my revenge: for you to be 
adopted by your uncle, and placed in a state of ease and comfort was what I 
could not endure. I wrote to him; I said I was sorry for his 
disappointment, but Jane Eyre was dead: she had died of typhus fever at 
Lowood. Now act as you please: write and contradict my assertion - expose 
my falsehood as soon as you like. You were born, I think, to be my torment: 
my last hour is racked by the recollection of a deed, which, but for you, I 
should never have been tempted to commit."
"If you could but be persuaded to think no more of it, aunt, and to regard 
me with kindness and forgiveness "
"You have a very bad disposition," said she, "and one to this day I feel it 
impossible to understand: how for nine years you could be patient and 
quiescent under any treatment, and in the tenth break out all fire and 
violence, I can never comprehend."
"My disposition is not so bad as you think: I am passionate, but not 
vindictive. Many a time, as a little child, I should have been glad to love 
you if you would have let me; and I long earnestly to be reconciled to you 
now: kiss me, aunt."
I approached my cheek to her lips: she would not touch it. She said I 
oppressed her by leaning over the bed; and again demanded water. As I laid 
her down - for I raised her and supported her on my arm while she drank - I 
covered her ice-cold and clammy hand with mine: the feeble fingers shrank 
from my touch - the glazing eyes shunned my gaze.
"Love me, then, or hate me, as you will," I said at last, "you have my full 
and free forgiveness: ask now for God's; and be at peace."
Poor, suffering woman! it was too late for her to make now the effort to 
change her habitual frame of mind: living, she had ever hated me - dying, 
she must hate me still.
The nurse now entered, and Bessie followed. I yet lingered half an hour 
longer, hoping to see some sign of amity: but she gave none. She was fast 
relapsing into stupor; nor did her mind again rally: at twelve o'clock that 
night she died. I was not present to close her eyes; nor were either of her 
daughters. They came to tell us the next morning that all was over. She was 
by that time laid out. Eliza and I went to look at her: Georgiana, who had 
burst out into loud weeping, said she dared not go. There was stretched 
Sarah Reed's once robust and active frame, rigid and still: her eye of 
flint was covered with its cold lid; her brow and strong traits wore yet 
the impress of her inexorable soul. A strange and solemn object was that 
corpse to me. I gazed on it with gloom and pain: nothing soft, nothing 
sweet, nothing pitying, or hopeful, or subduing, did it inspire; only a 
grating anguish for her woes - not my loss - and a sombre tearless dismay 
at the fearfulness of death in such a form.
Eliza surveyed her parent calmly. After a silence of some minutes she 
observed, -
"With her constitution she should have lived to a good old age: her life 
was shortened by trouble." And then a spasm constricted her mouth for an 
instant: as it passed away she turned and left the room, and so did I. 
Neither of us had dropped a tear.



Chapter 22

Mr Rochester had given me but one week's leave of absence: yet a month 
elapsed before I quitted Gateshead. I wished to leave immediately after the 
funeral; but Georgiana entreated me to stay till she could get off to 
London: whither she was now at last invited by her uncle, Mr Gibson; who 
had come down to direct his sister's interment, and settle the family 
affairs. Georgiana said she dreaded being left alone with Eliza; from her 
she got neither sympathy in her dejection, support in her fears, nor aid in 
her preparations; so I bore with her feeble-minded quailings, and selfish 
lamentations, as well as I could, and did my best in sewing for her and 
packing her dresses. It is true, that while I worked, she would idle; and I 
thought to myself, "If you and I were destined to live always together, 
cousin, we would commence matters on a different footing. I should not 
settle tamely down into being the forbearing party; I should assign you 
your share of labour, and compel you to accomplish it, or else it should be 
left undone: I should insist, also, on your keeping some of those drawling, 
half-insincere complaints hushed in your own breast. It is only because our 
connection happens to be very transitory, and comes at a peculiarly 
mournful season, that I consent thus to render it so patient and compliant 
on my part."
At last I saw Georgiana off; but now it was Eliza's turn to request me to 
stay another week. Her plans required all her time and attention, she said: 
she was about to depart for some unknown bourne; and all day long she 
stayed in her own room, her door bolted within, filling trunks, emptying 
drawers, burning papers, and holding no communication with any one. She 
wished me to look after the house, to see callers, and answer notes of 
condolence.
One morning, she told me I was at liberty. "And," she added, "I am obliged 
to you for your valuable services and discreet conduct. There is some 
difference between living with such a one as you, and with Georgiana: you 
perform your own part in life, and burden no one. Tomorrow," she continued, 
"I set out for the continent. I shall take up my abode in a religious 
house, near Lisle - a nunnery you would call it: there I shall be quiet and 
unmolested. I shall devote myself for a time to the examination of the 
Roman Catholic dogmas, and to a careful study of the workings of their 
system; if I find it to be, as I half suspect it is, the one best 
calculated to ensure the doing of all things decently and in order, I shall 
embrace the tenets of Rome and probably take the veil."
I neither expressed surprise at this resolution nor attempted to dissuade 
her from it. "The vocation will fit you to a hair," I thought: "much good 
may it do you!"
When we parted, she said: "Good-bye, cousin Jane Eyre; I wish you well: you 
have some sense."
I then returned: "You are not without sense, cousin Eliza; but what you 
have, I suppose in another year will be walled up alive in a French 
convent. However, it is not my business, and so it suits you - I don't much 
care."
"You are in the right," said she: and with these words we each went our 
separate way. As I shall not have occasion to refer either to her or her 
sister again, I may as well mention here, that Georgiana made an 
advantageous match with a wealthy wornout man of fashion; and that Eliza 
actually took the veil, and is at this day superior of the convent where 
she passed the period of her novitiate: and which she endowed with her 
fortune.
How people feel when they are returning home from an absence, long or 
short, I did not know: I had never experienced the sensation. I had known 
what it was to come back to Gateshead when a child, after a long walk - to 
be scolded for looking cold or gloomy; and later, what it was to come back 
from church to Lowood - to long for a plenteous meal and a good fire, and 
to be unable to get either. Neither of these returnings were very pleasant 
or desirable: no magnet drew me to a given point, increasing in its 
strength of attraction the nearer I came. The return to Thornfield was yet 
to be tried.
My journey seemed tedious - very tedious: fifty miles one day, a night 
spent at an inn; fifty miles the next day. During the first twelve hours I 
thought of Mrs Reed in her last moments: I saw her disfigured and 
discoloured face, and heard her strangely altered voice. I mused on the 
funeral day, the coffin, the hearse, the black train of tenants and 
servants - few was the number of relatives - the gaping vault, the silent 
church, the solemn service. Then I thought of Eliza and Georgiana: I beheld 
one the cynosure of a ballroom, the other the inmate of a convent cell; and 
I dwelt on and analyzed their separate peculiarities of person and 
character. The evening arrival at the great town of scattered these 
thoughts; night gave them quite another turn: laid down on my traveller's 
bed, I left reminiscence for anticipation.
I was going back to Thornfield: but how long was I to stay there? Not long; 
of that I was sure. I had heard from Mrs Fairfax in the interim of my 
absence: the party at the hall was dispersed; Mr Rochester had left for 
London three weeks ago, but he was then expected to return in a fortnight. 
Mrs Fairfax surmised that he was gone to make arrangements for his wedding, 
as he had talked of purchasing a new carriage: she said the idea of his 
marrying Miss Ingram still seemed strange to her; but from what everybody 
said, and from what she had herself seen, she could no longer doubt that 
the event would shortly take place. "You would be strangely incredulous if 
you did doubt it," was my mental comment. "I don't doubt it."
The question followed, "Where was I to go?" I dreamt of Miss Ingram all the 
night: in a vivid morning dream I saw her closing the gates of Thornfield 
against me and pointing me out another road; and Mr Rochester looked on 
with his arms folded - smiling sardonically, as it seemed, at both her and 
me.
I had not notified to Mrs Fairfax the exact day of my return; for I did not 
wish either car or carriage to meet me at Millcote. I proposed to walk the 
distance quietly by myself; and very quietly, after leaving my box in the 
ostler's care, did I slip away from the George Inn, about six o'clock of a 
June evening, and take the old road to Thornfield: a road which lay chiefly 
through fields, and was now little frequented.
It was not a bright or splendid summer evening, though fair and soft: the 
haymakers were at work all along the road; and the sky, though far from 
cloudless, was such as promised well for the future: its blue - where blue 
was visible - was mild and settled, and its cloud strata high and thin. The 
west, too, was warm: no watery gleam chilled it - it seemed as if there was 
a fire lit, an altar burning behind its screen of marbled vapour, and out 
of apertures shone a golden redness.
I felt glad as the road shortened before me: so glad that I stopped once to 
ask myself what that joy meant: and to remind reason that it was not to my 
home I was going, or to a permanent resting-place, or to a place where fond 
friends looked out for me and waited my arrival. "Mrs Fairfax will smile 
you a calm welcome, to be sure," said I; "and little Adele will clap her 
hands and jump to see you: but you know very well you are thinking of 
another than they; and that he is not thinking of you."
But what is so headstrong as youth? What so blind as inexperience? These 
affirmed that it was pleasure enough to have the privilege of again looking 
on Mr Rochester, whether he looked on me or not; and they added - "Hasten! 
hasten! be with him while you may: but a few more days or weeks, at most, 
and you are parted with him for ever! " And then I strangled a new-born 
agony - a deformed thing which I could not persuade myself to own and rear -
 and ran on.
They are making hay, too, in Thornfield meadows: or rather, the labourers 
are just quitting their work, and returning home with their rakes on their 
shoulders: now, at the hour I arrive. I have but a held or two to traverse, 
and then I shall cross the road and reach the gates. How full the hedges 
are of roses! But I have no time to gather any; I want to be at the house. 
I passed a tall briar, shooting leafy and flowery branches across the path; 
I see the narrow stile with stone steps; and I see - Mr Rochester sitting 
there, a book and a pencil in his hand: he is writing.
Well, he is not a ghost; yet every nerve I have is unstrung: for a moment I 
am beyond my own mastery. What does it mean? I did not think I should 
tremble in this way when I saw him - or lose my voice or the power of 
motion in his presence. I will go back as soon as I can stir: I need not 
make an absolute fool of myself. I know another way to the house. It does 
not signify if I knew twenty ways; for he has seen me.
"Hillo! " he cries; and he puts up his book and his pencil. "There you are! 
Come on, if you please."
I suppose I do come on; though in what fashion I know not: being scarcely 
cognisant of my movements, and solicitous only to appear calm; and, above 
all, to control the working muscles of my face - which I feel rebel 
insolently against my will, and struggle to express what I had resolved to 
conceal. But I have a veil - it is down: I may make shift yet to behave 
with decent composure.
"And this is Jane Eyre? Are you coming from Millcote, and on foot? Yes - 
just one of your tricks: not to send for a carriage, and come clattering 
over street and road like a common mortal, but to steal into the vicinage 
of your home along with twilight, just as if you were a dream or a shade. 
What the deuce have you done with yourself this last month?"
"I have been with my aunt, sir, who is dead."
"A true Janian reply! Good angels be my guard! She comes from the other 
world - from the abode of people who are dead; and tells me so when she 
meets me alone here in the gloaming! If I dared, I'd touch you, to see if 
you are substance or shadow, you elf! - but I'd as soon offer to take hold 
of a blue ignis fatuus light in a marsh. Truant! truant!" he added, when he 
had paused an instant. "Absent from me a whole month: and forgetting me 
quite, I'll be sworn!"
I knew there would be pleasure in meeting my master again; even though 
broken by the fear that he was so soon to cease to be my master, and by the 
knowledge that I was nothing to him: but there was ever in Mr Rochester (so 
at least I thought) such a wealth of the power of communicating happiness, 
that to taste but of the crumbs he scattered to stray and stranger birds 
like me, was to feast genially. His last words were balm: they seemed to 
imply that it imported something to him whether I forgot him or not. And he 
had spoken of Thornfield as my home - would that it were my home!
He did not leave the stile, and I hardly liked to ask to go by. I inquired 
soon if he had not been to London.
"Yes: I suppose you found that out by second-sight."
"Mrs Fairfax told me in a letter."
"And did she inform you what I went to do?"
"Oh, yes, sir! Everybody knew your errand."
"You must see the carriage, Jane, and tell me if you don't think it will 
suit Mrs Rochester exactly; and whether she won't look like Queen Boadicea, 
leaning back against those purple cushions. I wish, Jane, I were a trifle 
better adapted to match with her externally. Tell me now, fairy as you are, 
- can't you give me a charm, or a philter, or something of that sort, to 
make me a handsome man?"
"It would be past the power of magic, sir;" and, in thought, I added, "A 
loving eye is all the charm needed: to such you are handsome enough; or 
rather, your sternness has a power beyond beauty."
Mr Rochester had sometimes read my unspoken thoughts with an acumen to me 
incomprehensible: in the present instance he took no notice of my abrupt 
vocal response; but he smiled at me with a certain smile he had of his own, 
and which he used but on rare occasions. He seemed to think it too good for 
common purposes: it was the real sunshine of feeling - he shed it over me 
now.
"Pass, Janet," said he, making room for me to cross the stile: "go up home, 
and stay your weary little wandering feet at a friend's threshold."
All I had now to do was to obey him in silence: no need for me to 
colloquize further. I got over the stile without a word, and meant to leave 
him calmly. An impulse held me fast, - a force turned me round. I said - or 
something in me said for me, and in spite of me: -
"Thank you, Mr Rochester, for your great kindness. I am strangely glad to 
get back again to you; and wherever you are is my home, - my only home."
I walked on so fast that even he could hardly have overtaken me had he 
tried. Little Adele was half wild with delight when she saw me. Mrs Fairfax 
received me with her usual plain friendliness. Leah smiled; and even Sophie 
bid me "bon soir" with glee. This was very pleasant: there is no happiness 
like that of being loved by your fellow-creatures, and feeling that your 
presence is an addition to their comfort.
I, that evening, shut my eyes resolutely against the future: I stopped my 
ears against the voice that kept warning me of near separation and coming 
grief. When tea was over and Mrs Fairfax had taken her knitting, and I had 
assumed a low seat near her, and Adele, kneeling on the carpet, had nestled 
close up to me, and a sense of mutual affection seemed to surround us with 
a ring of golden peace, I uttered a silent prayer that we might not be 
parted far or soon; but when, as we thus sat, Mr Rochester entered, 
unannounced, and looking at us, seemed to take pleasure in the spectacle of 
a group so amicable - when he said he supposed the old lady was all right 
now that she had got her adopted daughter back again, and added that he saw 
Adele was "prete a croquer sa petite maman Anglaise" - I half ventured to 
hope that he would, even after his marriage, keep us together somewhere 
under the shelter of his protection, and not quite exiled from the sunshine 
of his presence.
A fortnight of dubious calm succeeded my return to Thornfield-Hall. Nothing 
was said of the master's marriage, and I saw no preparation going on for 
such an event. Almost every day I asked Mrs Fairfax if she had yet heard 
anything decided: her answer was always in the negative. Once, she said, 
she had actually put the question to Mr Rochester as to when he was going 
to bring his bride home; but he had answered her only by a joke, and one of 
his queer looks, and she could not tell what to make of him.
One thing specially surprised me, and that was, there were no journeyings 
backward and forward, no visits to Ingram Park: to be sure it was twenty 
miles off, on the borders of another county; but what was that distance to 
an ardent lover? To so practised and indefatigable a horseman as Mr 
Rochester, it would be but a morning's ride. I began to cherish hopes I had 
no right to conceive: that the match was broken off; that rumour had been 
mistaken; that one or both parties had changed their minds. I used to look 
at my master's face to see if it were sad or fierce; but I could not 
remember the time when it had been so uniformly clear of clouds or evil 
feelings. If, in the moments I and my pupil spent with him, I lacked 
spirits and sank into inevitable dejection, he became even gay. Never had 
he called me more frequently to his presence; never been kinder to me when 
there - and, alas! never had I loved him so well.




Chapter 23

A splendid Midsummer shone over England: skies so pure, suns so radiant as 
were then seen in long succession, seldom favour, even singly, our wave-
girt land. It was as if a band of Italian days had come from the South, 
like a flock of glorious passenger birds, and lighted to rest them on the 
cliffs of Albion. The hay was all got in; the fields round Thornfield were 
green and shorn; the roads white and baked; the trees were in their dark 
prime: hedge and wood, full-leaved and deeply tinted, contrasted well with 
the sunny hue of the cleared meadows between.
On Midsummer-eve, Adele, weary with gathering wild strawberries in Hay-Lane 
half the day, had gone to bed with the sun. I watched her drop asleep, and 
when I left her I sought the garden.
It was now the sweetest hour of the twenty-four: - "Day its fervid fires 
had wasted," and dew fell cool on panting plain and scorched summit. Where 
the sun had gone down in simple state - pure of the pomp of clouds - spread 
a solemn purple, burning with the light of red jewel and furnace flame at 
one point, on one hill-peak, and extending high and wide, soft and still 
softer, over half heaven. The east had its own charm of fine, deep blue, 
and its own modest gem, a rising and solitary star: soon it would boast the 
moon; but she was yet beneath the horizon.
I walked a while on the pavement; but a subtle, well-known scent - that of 
a cigar - stole from some window; I saw the library casement open a 
handbreadth; I knew I might be watched thence; so I went apart into the 
orchard. No nook in the grounds more sheltered and more Edenlike; it was 
full of trees, it bloomed with flowers: a very high wall shut it out from 
the court, on one side; on the other, a beech avenue screened it from the 
lawn. At the bottom was a sunk fence; its sole separation from lonely 
fields: a winding walk, bordered with laurels and terminating in a giant 
horse-chestnut, circled at the base by a seat, led down to the fence. Here 
one could wander unseen. While such honey-dew fell, such silence reigned, 
such gloaming gathered, I felt as if I could haunt such shade for ever: but 
in threading the flower and fruit-parterres at the upper part of the 
enclosure, enticed there by the light the now-rising moon casts on this 
more open quarter, my step is stayed - not by sound, not by sight, but once 
more by a warning fragrance.
Sweet-briar and southernwood, jasmine, pink, and rose have long been 
yielding their evening sacrifice of incense: this new scent is neither of 
shrub nor flower; it is - I know it well - it is Mr Rochester's cigar. I 
look round and I listen. I see trees laden with ripening fruit. I hear a 
nightingale warbling in a wood half a mile off; no moving form is visible, 
no coming step audible; but that perfume increases: I must flee. I make for 
the wicket leading to the shrubbery, and I see Mr Rochester entering. I 
step aside into the ivy recess; he will not stay long: he will soon return 
whence he came, and if I sit still he will never see me.
But no - eventide is as pleasant to him as to me, and this antique garden 
as attractive; and he strolls on, now lifting the gooseberry-tree branches 
to look at the fruit, large as plums, with which they are laden; now taking 
a ripe cherry from the wall; now stooping towards a knot of flowers, either 
to inhale their fragrance or to admire the dew-beads on their petals. A 
great moth goes humming by me; it alights on a plant at Mr Rochester's 
foot: he sees it, and bends to examine it.
"Now, he has his back towards me," thought I, "and he is occupied too; 
perhaps, if I walk softly, I can slip away unnoticed."
I trode on an edging of turf that the crackle of the pebbly gravel might 
not betray me: he was standing among the beds at a yard or two distant from 
where I had to pass; the moth apparently engaged him. "I shall get by very 
well," I meditated. As I crossed his shadow, thrown long over the garden by 
the moon, not yet risen high, he said quietly without turning: -
"Jane, come and look at this fellow."
I had made no noise: he had not eyes behind - could his shadow feel? I 
started at first, and then I approached him.
"Look at his wings," said he, "he reminds me rather of a West Indian 
insect; one does not often see so large and gay a night-rover in England: 
there! he is flown."
The moth roamed away. I was sheepishly retreating also: but Mr Rochester 
followed me, and when we reached the wicket, he said: -
"Turn back: on so lovely a night it is a shame to sit in the house; and 
surely no one can wish to go to bed while sunset is thus at meeting with 
moonrise."
It is one of my faults, that though my tongue is sometimes prompt enough at 
an answer, there are times when it sadly fails me in framing an excuse; and 
always the lapse occurs at some crisis, when a facile word or plausible 
pretext is specially wanted to get me out of painful embarrassment. I did 
not like to walk at this hour alone with.Mr Rochester in the shadowy 
orchard; but I could not find a reason to allege for leaving him. I 
followed with lagging step, and thoughts busily bent on discovering a means 
of extrication; but he himself looked so composed and so grave also, I 
became ashamed of feeling any confusion: the evil - if evil existent or 
prospective there was - seemed to lie with me only; his mind was 
unconscious and quiet.
"Jane," he recommenced, as we entered the laurel-walk, and slowly strayed 
down in the direction of the sunk fence and the horse-chestnut, "Thornfield 
is a pleasant place in summer, is it not?"
"Yes, sir."
"You must have become in some degree attached to the house, - you, who have 
an eye for natural beauties, and a good deal of the organ of Adhesiveness?"
"I am attached to it, indeed."
"And, though I don't comprehend how it is, I perceive you have acquired a 
degree of regard for that foolish little child Adele, too; and even for 
simple dame Fairfax?"
"Yes, sir; in different ways, I have an affection for both."
"And would be sorry to part with them?"
"Yes."
"Pity!" he said, and sighed and paused. "It is always the way of events in 
this life," he continued presently: "no sooner have you got settled in a 
pleasant resting-place, than a voice calls out to you to rise and move on, 
for the hour of repose is expired."
"Must I move on, sir?" I asked. "Must I leave Thornfield?"
"I believe you must, Jane. I am sorry, Janet, but I believe indeed you 
must."
This was a blow: but I did not let it prostrate me.
"Well, sir, I shall be ready when the order to march comes."
"It is come now - I must give it tonight."
"Then you are going to be married, sir?"
"Ex-act-ly - pre-cise-ly: with your usual acuteness, you have hit the nail 
straight on the head."
"Soon, sir?"
"Very soon, my that is, Miss Eyre: and you'll remember, Jane, the first 
time I, or Rumour, plainly intimated to you that it was my intention to put 
my old bachelor's neck into the sacred noose, to enter into the holy estate 
of matrimony - to take Miss Ingram to my bosom, in short (she's an 
extensive armful: but that's not to the point - one can't have too much of 
such a very excellent thing as my beautiful Blanche): well, as I was saying 
- listen to me, Jane! You're not turning your head to look after more 
moths, are you? That was only a lady-clock, child, 'flying away home.' I 
wish to remind you that it was you who first said to me, with that 
discretion I respect in you - with that foresight, prudence, and humility 
which befit your responsible and dependent position - that in case I 
married Miss Ingram - both you and little Adele had better trot forthwith. 
I pass over the sort of slur conveyed in this suggestion on the character 
of my beloved; indeed, when you are far away, Janet, I'll try to forget it: 
I shall notice only its wisdom; which is such that I have made it my law of 
action. Adele must go to school; and you, Miss Eyre, must get a new 
situation."
"Yes, sir, I will advertise immediately: and meantime, I suppose " I was 
going to say, "I suppose I may stay here, till I find another shelter to 
betake myself to:" but I stopped, feeling it would not do to risk a long 
sentence, for my voice was not quite under command.
"In about a month I hope to be a bridegroom," continued Mr Rochester; "and 
in the interim I shall myself look out for employment and an asylum for 
you."
"Thank you, sir; I am sorry to give "
"Oh, no need to apologize! I consider that when a dependant does her duty 
as well as you have done yours, she has a sort of claim upon her employer 
for any little assistance he can conveniently render her; indeed I have 
already, through my future mother-in-law, heard of a place that I think 
will suit: it is to undertake the education of the five daughters of Mrs 
Dionysius O'Gall of Bitternutt Lodge, Connaught, Ireland. You'll like 
Ireland, I think: they're such warm-hearted people there, they say."
"It is a long way off, sir."
"No matter - a girl of your sense will not object to the voyage or the 
distance."
"Not the voyage, but the distance: and then the sea is a barrier "
"From what, Jane?"
"From England and from Thornfield: and "
"Well?"
"From you, sir."
I said this almost involuntarily; and, with as little sanction of free 
will, my tears gushed out. I did not cry so as to be heard, however; I 
avoided sobbing. The thought of Mrs O'Gall and Bitternutt Lodge struck cold 
to my heart; and colder the thought of all the brine and foam, destined, as 
it seemed, to rush between me and the master at whose side I now walked; 
and coldest the remembrance of the wider ocean - wealth, caste, custom 
intervened between me and what I naturally and inevitably loved.
"It is a long way," I again said.
"It is to be sure; and when you get to Bitternutt Lodge, Connaught, 
Ireland, I shall never see you again, Jane: that's morally certain. I never 
go over to Ireland, not having myself much of a fancy for the country. We 
have been good friends, Jane; have we not?"
"Yes, sir."
"And when friends are on the eve of separation, they like to spend the 
little time that remains to them close to each other. Come - we'll talk 
over the voyage and the parting quietly, half an hour or so, while the 
stars enter into their shining life up in heaven yonder: here is the 
chestnut tree; here is the bench at its old roots. Come, we will sit there 
in peace tonight, though we should never more be destined to sit there 
together." He seated me and himself.
"It is a long way to Ireland, Janet, and I am sorry to send my little 
friend on such weary travels: but if I can't do better, how is it to be 
helped? Are you anything akin to me, do you think, Jane?"
I could risk no sort of answer by this time: my heart was full.
"Because," he said, "I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you - 
especially when you are near me, as now: it is as if I had a string 
somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar 
string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little frame. And if 
that boisterous channel, and two hundred miles or so of land come broad 
between us, I am afraid that cord of communion will be snapped; and then 
I've a nervous notion I should take to bleeding inwardly. As for you, - 
you'd forget me."
"That I never should, sir: you know " impossible to proceed.
"Jane, do you hear that nightingale singing in the wood ? Listen!"
In listening, I sobbed convulsively; for I could repress what I endured no 
longer; I was obliged to yield, and I was shaken from head to foot with 
acute distress. When I did speak, it was only to express an impetuous wish 
that I had never been born, or never come to Thornfield.
"Because you are sorry to leave it?"
The vehemence of emotion, stirred by grief and love within me, was claiming 
mastery, and struggling for full sway; and asserting a right to 
predominate: to overcome, to live, rise, and reign at last; yes, - and to 
speak.
"I grieve to leave Thornfield: I love Thornfield: - I love it, because I 
have lived in it a full and delightful life, - momentarily at least. I have 
not been trampled on. I have not been petrified. I have not been buried 
with inferior minds, and excluded from every glimpse of communion with what 
is bright and energetic, and high. I have talked, face to face, with what I 
reverence; with what I delight in, - with an original, a vigorous, an 
expanded mind. I have known you, Mr Rochester; and it strikes me with 
terror and anguish to feel I absolutely must be torn from you for ever. I 
see the necessity of departure; and it is like looking on the necessity of 
death."
"Where do you see the necessity?" he asked, suddenly.
"Where? You, sir, have placed it before me."
"In what shape?"
"In the shape of Miss Ingram; a noble and beautiful woman, - your bride."
"My bride! What bride? I have no bride!"
"But you will have."
"Yes; - I will! - I will !" He set his teeth.
"Then I must go: - you have said it yourself. "
"No: you must stay! I swear it - and the oath shall be kept."
"I tell you I must go!" I retorted, roused to something like passion. "Do 
you think I can stay to become nothing to you? Do you think I am an 
automaton? - a machine without feelings? and can bear to have my morsel of 
bread snatched from my lips, and my drop of living water dashed from my 
cup? Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain, and little, I am 
soulless and heartless? - You think wrong! - I have as much soul as you, - 
and full as much heart! And if God had gifted me with some beauty, and much 
wealth, I should have made it as hard for you to leave me, as it is now for 
me to leave you. I am not talking to you now through the medium of custom, 
conventionalities, nor even of mortal flesh: - it is my spirit that 
addresses your spirit; just as if both had passed through the grave, and we 
stood at God's feet, equal, - as we are!"
"As we are!" repeated Mr Rochester - "so," he added, enclosing me in his 
arms, gathering me to his breast, pressing his lips on my lips: "so, Jane!"
"Yes, so, sir," I rejoined: "and yet not so; for you are a married man - or 
as good as a married man, and wed to one inferior to you - to one with whom 
you have no sympathy - whom I do not believe you truly love; for I have 
seen and heard you sneer at her. I would scorn such a union: therefore I am 
better than you - let me go ! "
"Where, Jane? To Ireland?"
"Yes - to Ireland. I have spoken my mind, and can go anywhere now."
"Jane, be still; don't struggle so, like a wild, frantic bird that is 
rending its own plumage in its desperation."
"I am no bird; and no net ensnares me: I am a free human being with an 
independent will; which I now exert to leave you."
Another effort set me at liberty, and I stood erect before him.
"And your will shall decide your destiny," he said: "I offer you my hand, 
my heart, and a share of all my possessions."
"You play a farce, which I merely laugh at."
"I ask you to pass through life at my side - to be my second self, and best 
earthly companion."
"For that fate you have already made your choice, and must abide by it."
"Jane, be still a few moments; you are over-excited: I will be still too."
A waft of wind came sweeping down the laurel-walk, and trembled through the 
boughs of the chestnut: it wandered away - away - to an indefinite distance 
- it died. The nightingale's song was then the only voice of the hour: in 
listening to it, I again wept. Mr Rochester sat quiet, looking at me gently 
and seriously. Some time passed before he spoke; he at last said: -
"Come to my side, Jane, and let us explain and understand one another."
"I will never again come to your side: I am torn away now, and cannot 
return."
"But, Jane, I summon you as my wife: it is you only I intend to marry."
I was silent: I thought he mocked me.
"Come, Jane - come hither."
"Your bride stands between us."
He rose, and with a stride reached me.
"My bride is here," he said, again drawing me to him, "because my equal is 
here, and my likeness. Jane, will you marry me?"
Still I did not answer, and still I writhed myself from his grasp: for I 
was still incredulous.
"Do you doubt me, Jane?"
"Entirely."
"You have no faith in me?"
"Not a whit."
"Am I a liar in your eyes?" he asked passionately. "Little sceptic, you 
shall be convinced. What love have I for Miss Ingram? None: and that you 
know. What love has she for me? None: as I have taken pains to prove: I 
caused a rumour to reach her that my fortune was not a third of what was 
supposed, and after that I presented myself to see the result; it was 
coldness both from her and her mother. I would not - I could not - marry 
Miss Ingram. You - you strange - you almost unearthly thing! - I love as my 
own flesh. You - poor and obscure, and small and plain as you are - I 
entreat to accept me as a husband."
"What, me!" I ejaculated: beginning in his earnestness - and especially in 
his incivility - to credit his sincerity: "me who have not a friend in the 
world but you - if you are my friend: not a shilling but what you have 
given me?"
"You, Jane. I must have you for my own - entirely my own. Will you be mine? 
Say yes, quickly."
"Mr Rochester, let me look at your face: turn to the moonlight."
"Why?"
"Because I want to read your countenance; turn!"
"There: you will find it scarcely more legible than a crumpled, scratched 
page. Read on: only make haste, for I suffer."
His face was very much agitated and very much flushed, and there were 
strong workings in the features, and strange gleams in the eyes.
"Oh, Jane, you torture me!" he exclaimed. "With that searching and yet 
faithful and generous look, you torture me!"
"How can I do that? If you are true, and your offer real, my only feelings 
to you must be gratitude and devotion - they cannot torture."
"Gratitude!" he ejaculated; and added wildly - "Jane, accept me quickly. 
Say, Edward - give me my name - Edward - I will marry you."
"Are you in earnest? - Do you truly love me? - Do you sincerely wish me to 
be your wife?"
"I do; and if an oath is necessary to satisfy you, I swear it.
"Then, sir, I will marry you."
"Edward - my little wife ! "
"Dear Edward!"
"Come to me - come to me entirely now," said he: and added, in his deepest 
tone, speaking in my ear as his cheek was laid on mine, "Make my happiness -
 I will make yours."
"God pardon me!" he subjoined ere long; "and man meddle not with me: I have 
her, and will hold her."
"There is no one to meddle, sir. I have no kindred to interfere."
"No - that is the best of it," he said. And if I had loved him less I 
should have thought his accent and look of exultation savage: but, sitting 
by him, roused from the nightmare of parting - called to the paradise of 
union - I thought only of the bliss given me to drink in so abundant a 
flow. Again and again he said, "Are you happy, Jane?" And again and again I 
answered, "Yes." After which he murmured, "It will atone - it will atone. 
Have I not found her friendless, and cold, and comfortless? Will I not 
guard, and cherish, and solace her? Is there not love in my heart, and 
constancy in my resolves? It will expiate at God's tribunal. I know my 
Maker sanctions what I do. For the world's judgment - I wash my hands 
thereof. For man's opinion - I defy it."
But what had befallen the night? The moon was not yet set, and we were all 
in shadow: I could scarcely see my master's face, near as I was. And what 
ailed the chestnut tree? it writhed and groaned; while wind roared in the 
laurel walk, and came sweeping over us.
"We must go in," said Mr Rochester: "the weather changes. I could have sat 
with thee till morning, Jane."
"And so," thought I, "could I with you." I should have said so, perhaps, 
but a livid, vivid spark leapt out of a cloud at which I was looking, and 
there was a crack, a crash, and a close rattling peal; and I thought only 
of hiding my dazzled eyes against Mr Rochester's shoulder.
The rain rushed down. He hurried me up the walk, through the grounds, and 
into the house; but we were quite wet before we could pass the threshold. 
He was taking off my shawl in the hall, and shaking the water out of my 
loosened hair, when Mrs Fairfax emerged from her room. I did not observe 
her at first, nor did Mr Rochester. The lamp was lit. The clock was on the 
stroke of twelve.
"Hasten to take off your wet things," said he; "and before you go, good-
night - good-night, my darling!"
He kissed me repeatedly. When I looked up, on leaving his arms, there stood 
the widow, pale, grave, and amazed. I only smiled at her, and ran up 
stairs. "Explanation will do for another time," thought I. Still, when I 
reached my chamber, I felt a pang at the idea she should even temporarily 
misconstrue what she had seen. But joy soon effaced every other feeling; 
and loud as the wind blew, near and deep as the thunder crashed, fierce and 
frequent as the lightning gleamed, cataract-like as the rain fell during a 
storm of two hours' duration, I experienced no fear, and little awe. Mr 
Rochester came thrice to my door in the course of it, to ask if I was safe 
and tranquil: and that was comfort, that was strength for anything.
Before I left my bed in the morning, little Adele came running in to tell 
me that the great horse-chestnut at the bottom of the orchard had been 
struck by lightning in the night, and half of it split away.



Chapter 24

As I rose and dressed, I thought over what had happened, and wondered if it 
were a dream. I could not be certain of the reality till I had seen Mr 
Rochester again, and heard him renew his words of love and promise.
While arranging my hair, I looked at my face in the glass, and felt it was 
no longer plain: there was hope in its aspect, and life in its colour; and 
my eyes seemed as if they had beheld the fount of fruition, and borrowed 
beams from the lustrous ripple. I had often been unwilling to look at my 
master, because I feared he could not be pleased at my look; but I was sure 
I might lift my face to his now, and not cool his affection by its 
expression. I took a plain but clean and light summer dress from my drawer 
and put it on: it seemed no attire had ever so well become me; because none 
had I ever worn in so blissful a mood.
I was not surprised, when I ran down into the hall, to see that a brilliant 
June morning had succeeded to the tempest of the night; and to feel, 
through the open glass door, the breathing of a fresh and fragrant breeze. 
Nature must be gladsome when I was so happy. A beggar-woman and her little 
boy - pale, ragged objects both - were coming up the walk, and I ran down 
and gave them all the money I happened to have in my purse - some three or 
four shillings: good or bad, they must partake of my jubilee. The rooks 
cawed, and blither birds sang; but nothing was so merry or so musical as my 
own rejoicing heart.
Mrs Fairfax surprised me by looking out of the window with a sad 
countenance, and saying gravely, "Miss Eyre, will you come to breakfast?" 
During the meal she was quiet and cool: but I could not undeceive her then. 
I must wait for my master to give explanations; and so must she. I ate what 
I could, and then I hastened up stairs. I met Adele leaving the schoolroom.
"Where are you going? It is time for lessons."
"Mr Rochester has sent me away to the nursery."
"Where is he?"
"In there," pointing to the apartment she had left; and I went in, and 
there he stood.
"Come and bid me good-morning," said he. I gladly advanced; and it was not 
merely a cold word now, or even a shake of the hand that I received, but an 
embrace and a kiss. It seemed natural: it seemed genial to be so well-
loved, so caressed by him.
"Jane, you look blooming, and smiling, and pretty," said he: "truly pretty 
this morning. Is this my pale, little elf? Is this my mustard-seed? This 
little sunny-faced girl with the dimpled cheek and rosy lips; the satin-
smooth hazel hair, and the radiant hazel eyes?" (I had green eyes, reader; 
but you must excuse the mistake: for him they were new dyed, I suppose.)
"It is Jane Eyre, sir."
"Soon to be Jane Rochester," he added: "in four weeks, Janet; not a day 
more. Do you hear that?"
I did, and I could not quite comprehend it: it made me giddy. The feeling, 
the announcement sent through me, was something stronger than was 
consistent with joy - something that smote and stunned: it was, I think, 
almost fear.
"You blushed, and now you are white, Jane: what is that for?"
"Because you gave me a new name - Jane Rochester; and it seems so strange."
"Yes; Mrs Rochester," said he; "young Mrs Rochester - Fairfax Rochester's 
girl-bride."
"It can never be, sir; it does not sound likely. Human beings never enjoy 
complete happiness in this world. I was not born for a different destiny to 
the rest of my species: to imagine such a lot befalling me is a fairy tale -
 a daydream."
"Which I can and will realise. I shall begin today. This morning I wrote to 
my banker in London to send me certain jewels he has in his keeping, - 
heirlooms for the ladies of Thornfield. In a day or two I hope to pour them 
into your lap: for every privilege, every attention shall be yours, that I 
would accord a peer's daughter, if about to marry her."
"Oh, sir! - never mind jewels! I don't like to hear them spoken of. Jewels 
for Jane Eyre sounds unnatural and strange: I would rather not have them."
"I will myself put the diamond chain round your neck, and the circlet on 
your forehead, - which it will become: for nature, at least, has stamped 
her patent of nobility on this brow, Jane; and I will clasp the bracelets 
on these fine wrists, and load these fairy-like fingers with rings."
"No, no, sir! think of other subjects, and speak of other things, and in 
another strain. Don't address me as if I were a beauty; I am your plain, 
Quakerish governess."
"You are a beauty, in my eyes; and a beauty just after the desire of my 
heart, - delicate and aerial."
"Puny and insignificant, you mean. You are dreaming, sir - or you are 
sneering. For God's sake, don't be ironical!"
"I will make the world acknowledge you a beauty, too," he went on, while I 
really became uneasy at the strain he had adopted; because I felt he was 
either deluding himself, or trying to delude me. "I will attire my Jane in 
satin and lace, and she shall have roses in her hair; and I will cover the 
head I love best with a priceless veil."
"And then you won't know me, sir; and I shall not be your Jane Eyre any 
longer, but an ape in a harlequin's jacket, - a jay in borrowed plumes. I 
would as soon see you, Mr Rochester, tricked out in stage-trappings, as 
myself clad in a court lady's robe; and I don't call you handsome, sir, 
though I love you most dearly: far too dearly to flatter you. Don't flatter 
me."
He pursued his theme, however, without noticing my deprecation. "This very 
day I shall take you in the carriage to Millcote, and you must choose some 
dresses for yourself. I told you we shall be married in four weeks. The 
wedding is to take place quietly, in the church down below yonder; and then 
I shall waft you away at once to town. After a brief stay there, I shall 
bear my treasure to regions nearer the sun: to French vineyards and Italian 
plains; and she shall see whatever is famous in old story and in modern 
record: she shall taste, too, of the life of cities; and she shall learn to 
value herself by just comparison with others."
"Shall I travel? - and with you, sir?"
"You shall sojourn at Paris, Rome, and Naples: at Florence, Venice, and 
Vienna: all the ground I have wandered over shall be re-trodden by you: 
wherever I stamped my hoof, your sylph's foot shall step also. Ten years 
since, I flew through Europe half mad; with disgust, hate, and rage, as my 
companions: now I shall revisit it healed and cleansed, with a very angel 
as my comforter."
I laughed at him as he said this. "I am not an angel," I asserted; "and I 
will not be one till I die: I will be myself. Mr Rochester, you must 
neither expect nor exact anything celestial of me - for you will not get 
it, any more than I shall get it of you: which I do not at all anticipate."
"What do you anticipate of me?"
"For a little while you will perhaps be as you are now, - a very little 
while; and then you will turn cool; and then you will be capricious; and 
then you will be stern, and I shall have much ado to please you: but when 
you get well used to me, you will perhaps like me again, - like, I say, not 
love me. I suppose your love will effervesce in six months, or less. I have 
observed in books written by men, that period assigned as the farthest to 
which a husband's ardour extends. Yet, after all, as a friend and 
companion, I hope never to become quite distasteful to my dear master."
"Distasteful! and like you again! I think I shall like you again and yet 
again: and I will make you confess I do not only like, but love you - with 
truth, fervour, constancy."
"Yet are you not capricious, sir?"
"To women who please me only by their faces, I am the very devil when I 
find out they have neither souls nor hearts - when they open to me a 
perspective of flatness, triviality, and perhaps imbecility, coarseness, 
and ill-temper: but to the clear eye and eloquent tongue, to the soul made 
of fire, and the character that bends but does not break - at once supple 
and stable, tractable and consistent - I am ever tender and true."
"Had you ever experience of such a character, sir? Did you ever love such 
an one?"
"I love it now."
"But before me: if I, indeed, in any respect come up to that difficult 
standard?"
"I never met your likeness. Jane: you please me, and you master me - you 
seem to submit, and I like the sense of pliancy you impart; and while I am 
twining the soft, silken skein round my finger, it sends a thrill up my arm 
to my heart. I am influenced - conquered; and the influence is sweeter than 
I can express; and the conquest I undergo has a witchery beyond any triumph 
I can win. Why do you smile, Jane? What does that inexplicable, that 
uncanny turn of countenance mean?"
"I was thinking, sir (you will excuse the idea; it was involuntary), I was 
thinking of Hercules and Samson with their charmers - "
"You were, you little elfish "
"Hush, sir! You don't talk very wisely just now; any more than those 
gentlemen acted very wisely. However, had they been married, they would no 
doubt by their severity as husbands have made up for their softness as 
suitors; and so will you, I fear. I wonder how you will answer me a year 
hence, should I ask a favour it does not suit your convenience or pleasure 
to grant."
"Ask me something now, Janet - the least thing: I desire to be entreated "
"Indeed, I will, sir; I have my petition all ready."
"Speak! But if you look up and smile with that countenance, I shall swear 
concession before I know to what, and that will make a fool of me."
"Not at all, sir; I ask only this: don't send for the jewels, and don't 
crown me with roses: you might as well put a border of gold lace round that 
plain pocket handkerchief you have there."
"I might as well 'gild refined gold.' I know it: your request is granted 
then - for the time. I will remand the order I despatched to my banker. But 
you have not yet asked for. anything; you have prayed a gift to be 
withdrawn: try again."
"Well, then, sir; have the goodness to gratify my curiosity, which is much 
piqued on one point."
He looked disturbed. "What? what?" he said hastily. "Curiosity is a 
dangerous petition: it is well I have not taken a vow to accord every 
request -"
"But there can be no danger in complying with this, sir."
"Utter it, Jane: but I wish that instead of a mere inquiry into, perhaps, a 
secret, it was a wish for half my estate."
"Now, king Ahasuerus ! What do I want with half your estate? Do you think I 
am a Jew-usurer, seeking good investment in land? I would much rather have 
all your confidence. You will not exclude me from your confidence, if you 
admit me to your heart?"
"You are welcome to all my confidence that is worth having, Jane: but for 
God's sake, don't desire a useless burden! Don't long for poison - don't 
turn out a downright Eve on my hands !"
"Why not, sir? You have just been telling me how much you liked to be 
conquered, and how pleasant over-persuasion is to you. Don't you think I 
had better take advantage of the confession, and begin and coax, and 
entreat - even cry and be sulky if necessary - for the sake of a mere essay 
of my power?"
"I dare you to any such experiment. Encroach, presume, and the game is up."
"Is it, sir? You soon give in. How stern you look now! Your eyebrows have 
become as thick as my finger, and your forehead resembles, what, in some 
very astonishing poetry, I once saw styled, 'a blue-piled thunderloft.' 
That will be your married look, sir, I suppose?"
"If that will be your married look, I, as a Christian, will soon give up 
the notion of consorting with a mere sprite or salamander. But what had you 
to ask, thing? - out with it!"
"There, you are less than civil now; and I like rudeness a great deal 
better than flattery. I had rather be a thing than an angel. This is what I 
have to ask, - Why did you take such pains to make me believe you wished to 
marry Miss Ingram?"
"Is that all? Thank God, it is no worse!" And now he unknit his black 
brows; looked down, smiling at me, and stroked my hair, as if well pleased 
at seeing a danger averted. "I think I may confess," he continued, "even 
although I should make you a little indignant, Jane - and I have seen what 
a fire-spirit you can be when you are indignant. You glowed in the cool 
moonlight last night, when you mutinied against fate, and claimed your rank 
as my equal. Janet, by-the-by, it was you who made me the offer."
"Of course, I did. But to the point if you please, sir - Miss Ingram?"
"Well, I feigned courtship of Miss Ingram, because I wished to render you 
as madly in love with me as I was with you; and I knew jealousy would be 
the best ally I could call in for the furtherance of that end."
"Excellent! - Now you are small - not one whit bigger than the end of my 
little finger. It was a burning shame, and a scandalous disgrace to act in 
that way. Did you think nothing of Miss Ingram's feelings, sir?"
"Her feelings are concentrated in one - pride; and that needs humbling. 
Were you jealous, Jane?"
"Never mind, Mr Rochester: it is in no way interesting to you to know that. 
Answer me truly once more. Do you think Miss Ingram will not suffer from 
your dishonest coquetry? Won't she feel forsaken and deserted?"
"Impossible! - when I told you how she, on the contrary, deserted me: the 
idea of my insolvency cooled, or rather extinguished, her flame in a 
moment."
"You have a curious, designing mind, Mr Rochester. I am afraid your 
principles on some points are eccentric."
"My principles were never trained, Jane: they may have grown a little awry 
for want of attention."
"Once again, seriously; may I enjoy the great good that has been vouchsafed 
to me, without fearing that any one else is suffering the bitter pain I 
myself felt a while ago?"
"That you may, my good little girl: there is not another being in the world 
has the same pure love for me as yourself - for I lay that pleasant unction 
to my soul, Jane, a belief in your affection."
I turned my lips to the hand that lay on my shoulder. I loved him very much 
- more than I could trust myself to say - more than words had power to 
express.
"Ask something more," he said presently; "it is my delight to be entreated, 
and to yield."
I was again ready with my request. "Communicate your intentions to Mrs 
Fairfax, sir: she saw me with you last night in the hall, and she was 
shocked. Give her some explanation before I see her again. It pains me to 
be misjudged by so good a woman."
"Go to your room, and put on your bonnet," he replied. "I mean you to 
accompany me to Millcote this morning; and while you prepare for the drive, 
I will enlighten the old lady's understanding. Did she think, Janet, you 
had given the world for love, and considered it well lost?"
"I believe she thought I had forgotten my station; and yours, sir."
"Station! station! - your station is in my heart, and on the necks of those 
who would insult you, now or hereafter. - Go."
I was soon dressed; and when I heard Mr Rochester quit Mrs Fairfax's 
parlour, I hurried down to it. The old lady had been reading her morning 
portion of Scripture - the lesson for the day; her Bible lay open before 
her, and her spectacles were upon it. Her occupation, suspended by Mr 
Rochester's announcement, seemed now forgotten: her eyes, fixed on the 
blank wall opposite, expressed the surprise of a quiet mind, stirred by 
unwonted tidings. Seeing me, she roused herself: she made a sort of effort 
to smile, and framed a few words of congratulation; but the smile expired, 
and the sentence was abandoned unfinished. She put up her spectacles, shut 
the Bible, and pushed her chair back from the table.
"I feel so astonished," she began, "I hardly know what to say to you, Miss 
Eyre. I have surely not been dreaming, have I? Sometimes I half fall asleep 
when I am sitting alone, and fancy things that have never happened. It has 
seemed to me more than once when I have been in a doze, that my dear 
husband, who died fifteen years since, has come in and sat down beside me; 
and that I have even heard him call me by my name, Alice, as he used to do. 
Now, can you tell me whether it is actually true that Mr Rochester has 
asked you to marry him? Don't laugh at me. But I really thought he came in 
here five minutes ago, and said, that in a month you would be his wife."
"He has said the same thing to me," I replied.
"He has! Do you believe him? Have you accepted him?"
"Yes."
She looked at me bewildered.
"I could never have thought it. He is a proud man: all the Rochesters were 
proud: and his father, at least, liked money. He, too, has always been 
called careful. He means to marry you?"
"He tells me so."
She surveyed my whole person: in her eyes I read that they had there found 
no charm powerful enough to solve the enigma.
"It passes me!" she continued: "but no doubt it is true since you say so. 
How it will answer, I cannot tell: I really don't know. Equality of 
position and fortune is often advisable in such cases; and there are twenty 
years of difference in your ages. He might almost be your father."
"No, indeed, Mrs Fairfax!" exclaimed I, nettled: "he is nothing like my 
father! No one, who saw us together, would suppose it for an instant. Mr 
Rochester looks as young, and is as young as some men at five-and-twenty."
"Is it really for love he is going to marry you?" she asked.
I was so hurt by her coldness and scepticism, that the tears rose to my 
eyes.
"I am sorry to grieve you," pursued the widow; "but you are so young, and 
so little acquainted with men, I wished to put you on your guard. It is an 
old saying that 'all is not gold that glitters'; and in this case I do fear 
there will be something found to be different to what either you or I 
expect."
"Why? - am I a monster?" I said: "is it impossible that Mr Rochester should 
have a sincere affection for me?"
"No: you are very well; and much improved of late; and Mr Rochester, I 
daresay, is fond of you. I have always noticed that you were a sort of pet 
of his. There are times when, for your sake, I have been a little uneasy at 
his.marked preference, and have wished to put you on your guard: but I did 
not like to suggest even the possibility of wrong. I knew such an idea 
would shock, perhaps offend you; and you were so discreet, and so 
thoroughly modest and sensible, I hoped you might be trusted to protect 
yourself. Last night I cannot tell you what I suffered when I sought all 
over the house, and could find you nowhere, nor the master either; and 
then, at twelve o'clock, saw you come in with him."
"Well, never mind that now," I interrupted impatiently: "it is enough that 
all was right."
"I hope all will be right in the end," she said: "but, believe me, you 
cannot be too careful. Try and keep Mr Rochester at a distance: distrust 
yourself as well as him. Gentlemen in his station are not accustomed to 
marry their governesses."
I was growing truly irritated: happily, Adele ran in.
"Let me go, - let me go to Millcote too!" she cried. "Mr Rochester won't: 
though there is so much room in the new carriage. Beg him to let me go, 
mademoiselle."
"That I will, Adele;" and I hastened away with her, glad to quit my gloomy 
monitress. The carriage was ready: they were bringing it round to the 
front, and my master was pacing the pavement, Pilot following him backwards 
and forwards.
"Adele may accompany us, may she not, sir?"
"I told her no. I'll have no brats ! - I'll have only you."
"Do let her go, Mr Rochester, if you please: it would be better."
"Not it: she will be a restraint."
He was quite peremptory, both in look and voice. The chill of Mrs Fairfax's 
warnings, and the damp of her doubts were upon me: something of 
unsubstantiality and uncertainty had beset my hopes. I half lost the sense 
of power over him. I was about mechanically to obey him, without further 
remonstrance; but as he helped me into the carriage, he looked at my face.
"What is the matter?" he asked: "all the sunshine is gone. Do you really 
wish the bairn to go? Will it annoy you if she is left behind?"
"I would far rather she went, sir."
"Then off for your bonnet, and back, like a flash of lightning!" cried he 
to Adele.
She obeyed him with what speed she might.
"After all, a single morning's interruption will not matter much," said he, 
"when I mean shortly to claim you - your thoughts, conversation, and 
company - for life."
Adele, when lifted in, commenced kissing me, by way of expressing her 
gratitude for my intercession: she was instantly stowed away into a corner 
on the other side of him. She then peeped round to where I sat; so stern a 
neighbour was too restrictive: to him, in his present fractious mood, she 
dared whisper no observations, nor ask of him any information.
"Let her come to me," I entreated: "she will, perhaps, trouble you, sir: 
there is plenty of room on this side."
He handed her over as if she had been a lap-dog; "I'll send her to school 
yet," he said, but now he was smiling.
Adele heard him, and asked if she was to go to school "sans mademoiselle?"
"Yes," he replied, "absolutely sans mademoiselle; for I am to take 
mademoiselle to the moon, and there I shall seek a cave in one of the white 
valleys among the volcano-tops, and mademoiselle shall live with me there, 
and only me."
"She will have nothing to eat: you will starve her," observed Adele.
"I shall gather manna for her morning and night: the plains and hill-sides 
in the moon are bleached with manna, Adele."
"She will want to warm herself: what will she do for a fire?"
"Fire rises out of the lunar mountains: when she is cold, I'll carry her up 
to a peak and lay her down on the edge of a crater."
"Oh, qu'elle y sera mal - peu comfortable! And her clothes, they will wear 
out: how can she get new ones?"
Mr Rochester professed to be puzzled. "Hem!" said he. "What would you do, 
Adele? Cudgel your brains for an expedient. How would a white or a pink 
cloud answer for a gown, do you think? And one could cut a pretty enough 
scarf out of a rainbow."
"She is far better as she is," concluded Adele, after musing some time: 
"besides, she would get tired of living with only you in the moon. If I 
were mademoiselle, I would never consent to go with you."
"She has consented: she has pledged her word."
"But you can't get her there: there is no road to the moon: it is all air; 
and neither you nor she can fly."
"Adele, look at that field." We were now outside Thornfield gates, and 
bowling lightly along the smooth road to Millcote, where the dust was well 
laid by the thunderstorm, and where the low hedges and lofty timber trees 
on each side glistened green, and rain-refreshed.
"In that field, Adele, I was walking late one evening about a fortnight 
since - the evening of the day you helped me to make hay in the orchard 
meadows; and as I was tired with raking swaths, I sat down to rest me on a 
stile; and there I took out a little book and a pencil, and began to write 
about a misfortune that befell me long ago, and a wish I had for happy days 
to come: I was writing away very fast, though daylight was fading from the 
leaf, when something came up the path, and stopped two yards off me. I 
looked at it. It was a little thing with a veil of gossamer on its head. I 
beckoned it to come near me: it stood soon at my knee. I never spoke to it, 
and it never spoke to me, in words: but I read its eyes, and it read mine; 
and our speechless colloquy was to this effect: -
"It was a fairy, and come from Elf-land, it said; and its errand was to 
make me happy: I must go with it out of the common world to a lonely place -
 such as the moon, for instance - and it nodded its head towards her horn, 
rising over Hay-hill: it told me of the alabaster cave and silver vale 
where we might live. I said I should like to go; but reminded it, as you 
did me, that I had no wings to fly.
"'Oh,' returned the fairy, 'that does not signify! Here is a talisman will 
remove all difficulties;' and she held out a pretty gold ring. 'Put it,' 
she said, 'on the fourth finger of my left hand, and I am yours, and you 
are mine; and we shall leave earth, and make our own heaven yonder.' She 
nodded again at the moon. The ring, Adele, is in my breeches-pocket, under 
the disguise of a sovereign: but I mean soon to change it to a ring again."
"But what has mademoiselle to do with it? I don't care for the fairy: you 
said it was mademoiselle you would take to the moon? "
''Mademoiselle is a fairy," he said, whispering mysteriously. Whereupon I 
told her not to mind his badinage; and she, on her part, evinced a fund of 
genuine French scepticism: denominating Mr Rochester "un vrai menteur," and 
assuring him that she made no account whatever of his "Contes de fee," and 
that "du reste, il n'y avait pas de fees, et quand meme il y en avait :" 
she was sure they would never appear to him, nor ever give him rings, or 
offer to live with him in the moon.
The hour spent at Millcote was a somewhat harassing one to me. Mr Rochester 
obliged me to go to a certain silk warehouse: there I was ordered to choose 
half a dozen dresses. I hated the business, I begged leave to defer it: no -
 it should be gone through with now. By dint of entreaties expressed in 
energetic whispers, I reduced the half-dozen to two: these, however, he 
vowed he would select himself. With anxiety I watched his eye rove over the 
gay stores: he fixed on a rich silk of the most brilliant amethyst dye, and 
a superb pink satin. I told him in a new series of whispers, that he might 
as well buy me a gold gown and a silver bonnet at once: I should certainly 
never venture to wear his choice. With infinite difficulty, for he was 
stubborn as a stone, I persuaded him to make an exchange in favour of a 
sober black satin and pearl-grey silk. "It might pass for the present," he 
said; "but he would yet see me glittering like a parterre." Glad was I to 
get him out of the silk warehouse, and then out of a jeweller's shop: the 
more he bought me, the more my cheek burned with a sense of annoyance and 
degradation. As we re-entered the carriage, and I sat back feverish and 
fagged, I remembered what in the hurry of events, dark and bright, I had 
wholly forgotten - the letter of my uncle, John Eyre, to Mrs Reed: his 
intention to adopt me and make me his legatee. "It would, indeed, be a 
relief," I thought, "if I had ever so small an independency; I never can 
bear being dressed like a doll by Mr Rochester, or sitting like a second 
Danae with the golden shower falling daily round me. I will write to 
Madeira the moment I get home, and tell my uncle John I am going to be 
married, and to whom: if I had but a prospect of one day bringing Mr 
Rochester an accession of fortune, I could better endure to be kept by him 
now." And somewhat relieved by this idea (which I failed not to execute 
that day), I ventured once more to meet my master's and lover's eye; which 
most pertinaciously sought mine, though I averted both face and gaze. He 
smiled; and I thought his smile was such as a sultan might, in a blissful 
and fond moment, bestow on a slave his gold and gems had enriched: I 
crushed his hand, which was ever hunting mine, vigorously, and thrust it 
back to him red with the passionate pressure -
"You need not look in that way," I said: "if you do, I'll wear nothing but 
my old Lowood frocks to the end of the chapter. I'll be married in this 
lilac gingham - you may make a dressing-gown for yourself out of the pearl-
grey silk, and an infinite series of waistcoats out of the black satin."
He chuckled; he rubbed his hands: "Oh, it is rich to see and hear her!" he 
exclaimed. "Is she original? Is she piquant? I would not exchange this one 
little English girl for the grand Turk's whole seraglio; gazelle-eyes, 
houri forms and all!"
The eastern allusion bit me again: "I'll not stand you an inch in the stead 
of a seraglio," I said; "so don't consider me an equivalent for one; if you 
have a fancy for anything in that line, away with you, sir, to the bazaars 
of Stamboul without delay; and lay out in extensive slave-purchases some of 
that spare cash you seem at a loss to spend satisfactorily here."
"And what will you do, Janet, while I am bargaining for so many tons of 
flesh and such an assortment of black eyes?"
"I'll be preparing myself to go out as a missionary to preach liberty to 
them that are enslaved - your harem inmates amongst the rest. I'll get 
admitted there, and I'll stir up mutiny; and you, three-tailed bashaw as 
you are, sir, shall in a trice find yourself fettered amongst our hands: 
nor will I, for one, consent to cut your bonds till you have signed a 
charter, the most liberal that despot ever yet conferred."
"I would consent to be at your mercy, Jane."
"I would have no mercy, Mr Rochester, if you supplicated for it with an eye 
like that. While you looked so, I should be certain that whatever charter 
you might grant under coercion, your first act, when released, would be to 
violate its conditions."
"Why, Jane, what would you have? I fear you will compel me to go through a 
private marriage ceremony, besides that performed at the altar. You will 
stipulate, I see, for peculiar terms - what will they be?"
"I only want an easy mind, sir; not crushed by crowded obligations. Do you 
remember what you said of Celine Varens? - of the diamonds, the cashmeres 
you gave her? I will not be your English Celine Varens. I shall continue to 
act as Adele's governess: by that I shall earn my board and lodging, and 
thirty pounds a year besides. I'll furnish my own wardrobe out of that 
money, and you shall give me nothing but "
"Well, but what?"
"Your regard: and if I give you mine in return, that debt will be quit."
"Well, for cool native impudence, and pure innate pride, you haven't your 
equal," said he. We were now approaching Thornfield. "Will it please you to 
dine with me today?" he asked, as we re-entered the gates.
"No, thank you, sir."
"And what for, 'no, thank you' ? if one may inquire. "
"I never have dined with you, sir: and I see no reason why I should now: 
till - "
"Till what? You delight in half phrases."
"Till I can't help it."
"Do you suppose I eat like an ogre, or a ghoul, that you dread being the 
companion of my repast?"
"I have formed no supposition on the subject, sir; but I want to go on as 
usual for another month."
"You will give up your governessing slavery at once."
"Indeed! begging your pardon, sir, I shall not. I shall just go on with it 
as usual. I shall keep out of your way all day, as I have been accustomed 
to do: you may send for me in the evening, when you feel disposed to see 
me, and I'll come then; but at no other time."
"I want a smoke, Jane, or a pinch of snuff, to comfort me under all this 
'pour me donner une contenance,' as Adele would say; and unfortunately I 
have neither my cigar-case, nor my snuff-box. But listen - whisper - it is 
your time now, little tyrant, but it will be mine presently: and when once 
I have fairly seized you, to have and to hold, I'll just - figuratively 
speaking - attach you to a chain like this" (touching his watch-guard). 
"Yes, bonny wee thing, I'll wear you in my bosom, lest my jewel I should 
tyne."
He said this as he helped me to alight from the carriage; and while he 
afterwards lifted out Adele, I entered the house, and made good my retreat 
up stairs.
He duly summoned me to his presence in the evening. I had prepared an 
occupation for him; for I was determined not to spend the whole time in a 
tete-a-tete conversation; I remembered his fine voice; I knew he liked to 
sing - good singers generally do. I was no vocalist myself, and in his 
fastidious judgment, no musician, either; but I delighted in listening when 
the performance was good. No sooner had twilight, that hour of romance, 
begun to lower her blue and starry banner over the lattice, than I rose, 
opened the piano, and entreated him, for the love of heaven, to give me a 
song. He said I was a capricious witch, and that he would rather sing 
another time; but I averred that no time was like the present.
"Did I like his voice?" he asked.
"Very much." I was not fond of pampering that susceptible vanity of his; 
but for once, and from motives of expediency, I would e'en soothe and 
stimulate it.
"Then, Jane, you must play the accompaniment."
"Very well, sir, I will try."
I did try, but was presently swept off the stool and denominated, "a little 
bungler." Being pushed unceremoniously to one side - which was precisely 
what I wished - he usurped my place, and proceeded to accompany himself: 
for he could play as well as sing. I hied me to the window-recess; and 
while I sat there and looked out on the still trees and dim lawn, to a 
sweet air was sung in mellow tones, the following strain: -

The truest love that ever heart
Felt at its kindled core
Did through each vein, in quickened start,
The tide of being pour.

Her coming was my hope each day,
Her parting was my pain;
The chance that did her steps delay
Was ice in every vein.

I dreamed it would be nameless bliss,
As I loved, loved to be;
And to this object did I press
As blind as eagerly.

But wide as pathless was the space
That lay, our lives, between,
And dangerous as the foamy race
Of ocean-surges green.

And haunted as a robber-path
Through wilderness or wood;
For Might and Right, and Woe and Wrath,
Between our spirits stood.

I dangers dared; I hind'rance scorned;
I omens did defy:
Whatever menaced, harassed, warned,
I passed impetuous by.

On sped my rainbow, fast as light;
I flew as in a dream;
For glorious rose upon my sight
That child of Shower and Gleam.

Still bright on clouds of suffering dim
Shines that soft, solemn joy;
Nor care I now, how dense and grim
Disasters gather nigh:

I care not in this moment sweet,
Though all I have rushed o'er
Should come on pinion, strong and fleet,
Proclaiming vengeance sore:

Though haughty Hate should strike me down,
Right, bar approach to me,
And grinding Might, with furious frown,
Swear endless enmity.

My love has placed her little hand
With noble faith in mine,
And vowed that wedlock's sacred band
Our nature shall entwine.

My love has sworn, with sealing kiss,
With me to live - to die;
I have at last my nameless bliss:
As I love - loved am I!
He rose and came towards me, and I saw his face all kindled, and his full 
falcon-eye flashing, and tenderness and passion in every lineament. I 
quailed momentarily - then I rallied. Soft scene, daring demonstration, I 
would not have; and I stood in peril of both: a weapon of defence must be 
prepared - I whetted my tongue: as he reached me, I asked with asperity, 
"whom he was going to marry now?"
"That was a strange question to be put by his darling Jane."
"Indeed! I considered it a very natural and necessary one: he had talked of 
his future wife dying with him. What did he mean by such a pagan idea? I 
had no intention of dying with him - he might depend on that."
"Oh, all he longed, all he prayed for, was that I might live with him! 
Death was not for such as I."
"Indeed it was: I had as good a right to die when my time came as he had: 
but I should bide that time, and not be hurried away in a suttee."
"Would I forgive him for the selfish idea, and prove my pardon by a 
reconciling kiss?"
"No: I would rather be excused."
Here I heard myself apostrophized as a "hard little thing"; and it was 
added, "any other woman would have been melted to marrow at hearing such 
stanzas crooned in her praise."
I assured him I was naturally hard - very flinty, and that he would often 
find me so; and that, moreover, I was determined to show him divers rugged 
points in my character before the ensuing four weeks elapsed: he should 
know fully what sort of a bargain he had made, while there was yet time to 
rescind it.
"Would I be quiet, and talk rationally?"
"I would be quiet if he liked; and as to talking rationally, I flattered 
myself I was doing that now."
He fretted, pished, and pshawed."Very good," I thought; "you may fume and 
fidget as you please: but this is the best plan to pursue with you, I am 
certain. I like you more than I can say; but I'll not sink into a bathos of 
sentiment: and with this needle of repartee I'll keep you from the edge of 
the gulf too; and, moreover, maintain by its pungent aid that distance 
between you and myself most conducive to our real mutual advantage."
From less to more, I worked him up to considerable irritation; then, after 
he had retired, in dudgeon, quite to the other end of the room, I got up, 
and saying, "I wish you good-night, sir," in my natural and wonted 
respectful manner, I slipped out by the side-door and got away.
The system thus entered on, I pursued during the whole season of probation; 
and with the best success. He was kept, to be sure, rather cross and 
crusty: but on the whole I could see he was excellently entertained; and 
that a lamblike submission and turtle-dove sensibility, while fostering his 
despotism more, would have pleased his judgment, satisfied his common-
sense, and even suited his taste, less.
In other people's presence I was, as formerly, deferential and quiet; any 
other line of conduct being uncalled for: it was only in the evening 
conferences I thus thwarted and afflicted him. He continued to send for me 
punctually the moment the clock struck seven; though when I appeared before 
him now, he had no such honeyed terms as "love" and "darling" on his lips: 
the best words at my service were "provoking puppet," "malicious elf," 
"sprite," "changeling," etc. For caresses, too, I now got grimaces; for a 
pressure of the hand, a pinch on the arm; for a kiss on the cheek, a severe 
tweak of the ear. It was all right: at present I decidedly preferred these 
fierce favours to anything more tender. Mrs Fairfax, I saw approved me: her 
anxiety on my account vanished; therefore I was certain I did well. 
Meantime, Mr Rochester affirmed I was wearing him to skin and bone, and 
threatened awful vengeance for my present conduct at some period fast 
coming. I laughed in my sleeve at his menaces: "I can keep you in 
reasonable check now," I reflected; "and I don't doubt to be able to do it 
hereafter: if one expedient loses its virtue, another must be devised."
Yet after all my task was not an easy one; often I would rather have 
pleased than teased him. My future husband was becoming to me my whole 
world; and more than the world: almost my hope of heaven. He stood between 
me and every thought of religion, as an eclipse intervenes between man and 
the broad sun. I could not, in those days, see God for his creature: of 
whom I had made an idol.



Chapter 25

The month of courtship had wasted: its very last hours were being numbered. 
There was no putting off the day that advanced - the bridal day; and all 
preparations for its arrival were complete. I, at least, had nothing more 
to do: there were my trunks, packed, locked, corded, ranged in a row along 
the wall of my little chamber; tomorrow, at this time, they would be far on 
their road to London: and so should I (D.V.), - or rather, not I, but one 
Jane Rochester, a person whom as yet I knew not. The cards of address alone 
remained to nail on: they lay, four little squares, on the drawer. Mr 
Rochester had himself written the direction, "Mrs Rochester, Hotel, 
London," on each: I could not persuade myself to affix them, or to have 
them affixed. Mrs Rochester! She did not exist: she would not be born till 
tomorrow, some time after eight o'clock A.M.; and I would wait to be 
assured she had come into the world alive, before I assigned to her all 
that property. It was enough that in yonder closet, opposite my dressing-
table, garments said to be hers had already displaced my black stuff Lowood 
frock and straw bonnet: for not to me appertained that suit of wedding 
raiment; the pearl-coloured robe, the vapoury veil, pendent from the 
usurped portmanteau. I shut the closet, to conceal the strange, wraithlike 
apparel it contained; which, at this evening hour - nine o'clock - gave out 
certainly a most ghostly shimmer through the shadow of my apartment. "I 
will leave you by yourself, white dream," I said. "I am feverish: I hear 
the wind blowing: I will go out of doors and feel it."
It was not only the hurry of preparation that made me feverish; not only 
the anticipation of the great change - the new life which was to commence 
tomorrow: both these circumstances had their share, doubtless, in producing 
that restless, excited mood which hurried me forth at this late hour into 
the darkening grounds; but a third cause influenced my mind more than they.
I had at heart a strange and anxious thought. Something had happened which 
I could not comprehend; no one knew of or had seen the event but myself: it 
had taken place the preceding night. Mr Rochester that night was absent 
from home; nor was he yet returned: business had called him to a small 
estate of two or three farms he possessed thirty miles off - business it 
was requisite he should settle in person, previously to his meditated 
departure from England. I waited now his return; eager to disburthen my 
mind, and to seek of him the solution of the enigma that perplexed me. Stay 
till he comes, reader; and, when I disclose my secret to him, you shall 
share the confidence.
I sought the orchard: driven to its shelter by the wind, which all day had 
blown strong and full from the south; without, however, bringing a speck of 
rain. Instead of subsiding as night drew on, it seemed to augment its rush 
and deepen its roar: the trees blew steadfastly one way, never writhing 
round, and scarcely tossing back their boughs once in an hour; so 
continuous was the strain bending their branchy heads northward - the 
clouds drifted from pole to pole, fast following, mass on mass: no glimpse 
of blue sky had been visible that July day.
It was not without a certain wild pleasure I ran before the wind delivering 
my trouble of mind to the measureless air torrent thundering through space. 
Descending the laurel walk, I faced the wreck of the chestnut-tree; it 
stood up, black and riven: the trunk, split down the centre, gasped 
ghastly. The cloven halves were not broken from each other, for the firm 
base and strong roots kept them unsundered below; though community of 
vitality was destroyed - the sap could flow no more: their great boughs on 
each side were dead, and next winter's tempests would be sure to fell one 
or both to earth: as yet, however, they might be said to form one tree - a 
ruin; but an entire ruin.
"You did right to hold fast to each other," I said: as if the monster-
splinters were living things, and could hear me. "I think, scathed as you 
look, and charred and scorched, there must be a little sense of life in you 
yet; rising out of that adhesion at the faithful, honest roots: you will 
never have green leaves more - never more see birds making nests and 
singing idyls in your boughs; the time of pleasure and love is over with 
you; but you are not desolate: each of you has a comrade to sympathize with 
him in his decay." As I looked up at them, the moon appeared momentarily in 
that part of the sky which filled their fissure; her disk was blood-red and 
half overcast; she seemed to throw on me one bewildered, dreary glance, and 
buried herself again instantly in the deep drift of cloud. The wind fell, 
for a second, round Thornfield; but far away over wood and water, poured a 
wild, melancholy wail: it was sad to listen to, and I ran off again.
Here and there I strayed through the orchard, gathered up the apples with 
which the grass round the tree roots was thickly strewn: then I employed 
myself in dividing the ripe from the unripe; I carried them into the house 
and put them away in the store-room. Then I repaired to the library to 
ascertain whether the fire was lit; for, though summer, I knew on such a 
gloomy evening, Mr Rochester would like to see a cheerful hearth when he 
came in: yes, the fire had been kindled some time, and burnt well. I placed 
his armchair by the chimney-corner: I wheeled the table near it: I let down 
the curtain, and had the candles brought in ready for lighting. More 
restless than ever, when I had completed these arrangements I could not sit 
still, nor even remain in the house: a little time-piece in the room and 
the old clock in the hall simultaneously struck ten.
"How late it grows!" I said: "I will run down to the gates: it is moonlight 
at intervals; I can see a good way on the road. He may be coming now, and 
to meet him will save some minutes of suspense."
The wind roared high in the great trees which embowered the gates; but the 
road as far as I could see, to the right hand and the left, was all still 
and solitary: save for the shadows of clouds crossing it at intervals, as 
the moon looked out, it was but a long pale line, unvaried by one moving 
speck.
A puerile tear dimmed my eye while I looked - a tear of disappointment and 
impatience: ashamed of it, I wiped it away. I lingered; the moon shut 
herself wholly within her chamber, and drew close her curtain of dense 
cloud: the night grew dark; rain came driving fast on the gale.
"I wish he would come! I wish he would come!" I exclaimed, seized with 
hypochondriac foreboding. I had expected his arrival before tea; now it was 
dark: what could keep him? Had an accident happened? The event of last 
night again recurred to me. I interpreted it as a warning of disaster. I 
feared my hopes were too bright to be realized; and I had enjoyed so much 
bliss lately that I imagined my fortune had passed its meridian, and must 
now decline.
"Well, I cannot return to the house," I thought; "I cannot sit by the 
fireside, while he is abroad in inclement weather: better tire my limbs 
than strain my heart; I will go forward and meet him."
I set out; I walked fast, but not far: ere I had measured a quarter of a 
mile, I heard the tramp of hoofs; a horseman came on, full gallop; a dog 
ran by his side. Away with evil presentiment ! It was he: here he was, 
mounted on Mesrour, followed by Pilot. He saw me; for the moon had opened a 
blue held in the sky, and rode in it watery bright: he took his hat off, 
and waved it round his head. I now ran to meet him.
"There!" he exclaimed, as he stretched out his hand and bent from the 
saddle: "You can't do without me, that is evident. Step on my boot-toe; 
give me both hands: mount!"
I obeyed; joy made me agile: I sprang up before him. A hearty kissing I got 
for a welcome: and some boastful triumph; which I swallowed as well as I 
could. He checked himself in his exultation to demand, "But is there 
anything the matter, Janet, that you come to meet me at such an hour? Is 
there anything wrong?"
"No; but I thought you would never come. I could not bear to wait in the 
house for you, especially with this rain and wind."
"Rain and wind, indeed! Yes, you are dripping like a mermaid; pull my cloak 
round you: but I think you are feverish, Jane; both your cheek and hand are 
burning hot. I ask again, is there anything the matter?"
"Nothing, now: I am neither afraid nor unhappy."
"Then you have been both?"
"Rather: but I'll tell you all about it by-and-by, sir; and I daresay you 
will only laugh at me for my pains."
"I'll laugh at you heartily when tomorrow is past; till then I dare not: my 
prize is not certain. This is you; who have been as slippery as an eel this 
last month, and as thorny as a briar-rose? I could not lay a finger 
anywhere but I was pricked; and now I seem to have gathered up a stray lamb 
in my arms: you wandered out of the fold to seek your shepherd, did you, 
Jane?"
"I wanted you: but don't boast. Here we are at Thornfield: now let me get 
down."
He landed me on the pavement. As John took his horse, and he followed me 
into the hall, he told me to make haste and put something dry on, and then 
return to him in the library; and he stopped me, as I made for the 
staircase, to extort a promise that I would not be long: nor was I long; in 
five minutes I rejoined him. I found him at supper.
"Take a seat and bear me company, Jane: please God, it is the last meal but 
one you will eat at Thornfield-Hall for a long time."
I sat down near him; but told him I could not eat.
"Is it because you have the prospect of a journey before you, Jane? Is it 
the thoughts of going to London that takes away your appetite?"
"I cannot see my prospects clearly tonight, sir; and I hardly know what 
thoughts I have in my head. Everything in life seems unreal."
"Except me: I am substantial enough: - touch me."
"You, sir, are the most phantom-like of all: you are a mere dream."
He held out his hand, laughing: "Is that a dream?" said he, placing it 
close to my eyes. He had a rounded, muscular, and vigorous hand, as well as 
along, strong arm.
"Yes; though I touch it, it is a dream," said I, as I put it down from 
before my face. "Sir, have you finished supper?"
"Yes, Jane."
I rang the bell, and ordered away the tray. When we were again alone, I 
stirred the fire, and then took a low seat at my master's knee.
"It is near midnight," I said.
"Yes: but remember, Jane, you promised to wake with me the night before my 
wedding."
"I did; and I will keep my promise, for an hour or two at least: I have no 
wish to go to bed."
"Are all your arrangements complete?"
"All, sir."
"And on my part, likewise," he returned, "I have settled everything; and we 
shall leave Thornfield tomorrow, within half an hour after our return from 
church. "
"Very well, sir."
"With what an extraordinary smile you uttered that word - 'very well,' 
Jane! What a bright spot of colour you have on each cheek! and how 
strangely your eyes glitter! Are you well?"
"I believe I am."
"Believe! What is the matter? - Tell me what you feel."
"I could not, sir: no words could tell you what I feel. I wish this present 
hour would never end: who knows with what fate the next may come charged?"
"This is hypochondria, Jane. You have been over-excited, or over-fatigued."
"Do you, sir, feel calm and happy?"
"Calm? - no: but happy - to the heart's core."
I looked up at him to read the signs of bliss in his face: it was ardent 
and flushed.
"Give me your confidence, Jane," he said: "relieve your mind of any weight 
that oppresses it, by imparting it to me. What do you fear? - that I shall 
not prove a good husband?"
"It is the idea farthest from my thoughts."
"Are you apprehensive of the new sphere you are about to enter? - of the 
new life into which you are passing?"
"No."
"You puzzle me, Jane: your look and tone of sorrowful audacity perplex and 
pain me. I want an explanation. "
"Then, sir, - listen. You were from home last night?"
"I was: - I know that; and you hinted a while ago at something which had 
happened in my absence: - nothing, probably, of consequence; but, in short, 
it has disturbed you. Let me hear it. Mrs Fairfax has said something, 
perhaps? or you have overheard the servants talk? - your sensitive self-
respect has been wounded?"
"No, sir." It struck twelve - I waited till the time-piece had concluded 
its silver chime, and the clock its hoarse, vibrating stroke, and then I 
proceeded.
"All day, yesterday, I was very busy, and very happy in my ceaseless 
bustle; for I am not, as you seem to think, troubled by any haunting fears 
about the new sphere, et cetera: I think it a glorious thing to have the 
hope of living with you, because I love you. No, sir, don't caress me now - 
let me talk undisturbed. Yesterday I trusted well in Providence, and 
believed that events were working together for your good and mine: it was a 
fine day, if you recollect - the calmness of the air and sky forbade 
apprehensions respecting your safety or comfort on your journey. I walked a 
little while on the pavement after tea, thinking of you; and I beheld you 
in imagination so near me, I scarcely missed your actual presence. I 
thought of the life that lay before me - your life, sir - an existence more 
expansive and stirring than my own: as much more so as the depths of the 
sea to which the brook runs, are than the shallows of its own strait 
channel. I wondered why moralists call this world a dreary wilderness: for 
me it blossomed like a rose. Just at sunset, the air turned cold and the 
sky cloudy: I went in. Sophie called me upstairs to look at my wedding-
dress, which they had just brought; and under it in the box I found your 
present - the veil which, in your princely extravagance, you sent for from 
London: resolved, I suppose, since I would not have jewels, to cheat me 
into accepting something as costly. I smiled as I unfolded it, and devised 
how I would tease you about your aristocratic tastes, and your efforts to 
masque your plebeian bride in the attributes of a peeress. I thought how I 
would carry down to you the square of unembroidered blonde I had myself 
prepared as a covering for my low-born head, and ask if that was not good 
enough for a woman who could bring her husband neither fortune, beauty, nor 
connections. I saw plainly how you would look; and heard your impetuous 
republican answers, and your haughty disavowal of any necessity on your 
part to augment your wealth, or elevate your standing, by marrying either a 
purse or a coronet."
"How well you read me, you witch!" interposed Mr Rochester: "but what did 
you find in the veil besides its embroidery? Did you find poison, or a 
dagger, that you look so mournful now?"
"No, no, sir; besides the delicacy and richness of the fabric, I found 
nothing save Fairfax Rochester's pride; and that did not scare me, because 
I am used to the sight of the demon. But, sir, as it grew dark, the wind 
rose: it blew yesterday evening, not as it blows now - wild and high - but 
'with a sullen, morning sound' far more eerie. I wished you were at home. I 
came into this room, and the sight of the empty chair and fireless hearth 
chilled me. For some time after I went to bed, I could not sleep - a sense 
of anxious excitement distressed me. The gale still rising, seemed to my 
ear to muffle a mournful under-sound; whether in the house or abroad I 
could not at first tell, but it recurred, doubtful yet doleful at every 
lull: at last I made out it must be some dog howling at a distance. I was 
glad when it ceased. On sleeping, I continued in dreams the idea of a dark 
and gusty night. I continued also the wish to be with you, and experienced 
a strange, regretful consciousness of some barrier dividing us. During all 
my first sleep, I was following the windings of an unknown road; total 
obscurity environed me; rain pelted me; I was burdened with the charge of a 
little child: a very small creature, too young and feeble to walk, and 
which shivered in my cold arms, and wailed piteously in my ear. I thought, 
sir, that you were on the road a long way before me; and I strained every 
nerve to overtake you, and made effort on effort to utter your name and 
entreat you to stop - but my movements were fettered; and my voice still 
died away inarticulate; while you, I felt, withdrew farther and farther 
every moment."
"And these dreams weigh on your spirits now, Jane, when I am close to you? 
Little nervous subject! Forget visionary woe, and think only of real 
happiness! You say you love me, Janet: yes - I will not forget that; and 
you cannot deny it. Those words did not die inarticulate on your lips. I 
heard them clear and soft: a thought too solemn perhaps, but sweet as music 
- 'I think it is a glorious thing to have the hope of living with you, 
Edward, because I love you.' - Do you love me, Jane? repeat it."
"I do, sir. - I do, with my whole heart."
"Well," he said, after some minutes' silence, "it is strange: but that 
sentence has penetrated my breast painfully. Why? I think because you said 
it with such an earnest, religious energy; and because your upward gaze at 
me now is the very sublime of faith, truth, and devotion: it is too much as 
if some spirit were near me. Look wicked, Jane; as you know well how to 
look; coin one of your wild, shy, provoking smiles; tell me you hate me - 
tease me, vex me; do anything but move me: I would rather be incensed than 
saddened."
"I will tease you and vex you to your heart's content, when I have finished 
my tale: but hear me to the end."
"I thought, Jane, you had told me all. I thought I had found the source of 
your melancholy in a dream!"
I shook my head. "What! is there more? But I will not believe it to be 
anything important. I warn you of incredulity beforehand. Go on."
The disquietude of his air, the somewhat apprehensive impatience of his 
manner, surprised me: but I proceeded.
"I dreamt another dream, sir: that Thornfield-Hall was a dreary ruin, the 
retreat of bats and owls. I thought that of all the stately front nothing 
remained but a shell-like wall, very high, and very fragile-looking. I 
wandered, on a moonlight night, through the grass-grown enclosure within: 
here I stumbled over a marble hearth, and there over a fallen fragment of 
cornice. Wrapped up in a shawl, I still carried the unknown little child: I 
might not lay it down anywhere, however tired were my arms - however much 
its weight impeded my progress, I must retain it. I heard the gallop of a 
horse at a distance on the road: I was sure it was you; and you were 
departing for many years, and for a distant country. I climbed the thin 
wall with frantic perilous haste, eager to catch one glimpse of you from 
the top: the stones rolled from under my feet, the ivy branches I grasped 
gave way, the child clung round my neck in terror, and almost strangled me: 
at last I gained the summit. I saw you like a speck on a white track, 
lessening every moment. The blast blew so strong I could not stand. I sat 
down on the narrow ledge; I hushed the scared infant in my lap: you turned 
an angle of the road; I bent forward to take a last look; the wall 
crumbled; I was shaken; the child rolled from my knee; I lost my balance, 
fell, and woke."
"Now, Jane, that is all."
"All the preface, sir; the tale is yet to come. On waking, a gleam dazzled 
my eyes: I thought - oh, it is daylight! But I was mistaken: it was only 
candlelight. Sophie, I supposed, had come in. There was a light on the 
dressing-table, and the door of the closet, where, before going to bed, I 
had hung my wedding-dress and veil, stood open: I heard a rustling there. I 
asked, 'Sophie, what are you doing?' No one answered; but a form emerged 
from the closet: it took the light, held it aloft and surveyed the garments 
pendent from the portmanteau. 'Sophie! Sophie!' I again cried: and still it 
was silent. I had risen up in bed, I bent forward: first, surprise, then 
bewilderment, came over me; and then my blood crept cold through my veins. 
Mr Rochester, this was not Sophie, it was not Leah, it was not Mrs Fairfax: 
it was not - no, I was sure of it, and am still - it was not even that 
strange woman, Grace Poole."
"It must have been one of them," interrupted my master.
"No, sir, I solemnly assure you to the contrary. The shape standing before 
me had never crossed my eyes within the precincts of Thornfield-Hall 
before; the height, the contour were new to me."
"Describe it, Jane."
"It seemed, sir, a woman, tall and large, with thick and dark hair hanging 
long down her back. I know not what dress she had on: it was white and 
straight; but whether gown, sheet, or shroud, I cannot tell."
"Did you see her face?"
"Not at first. But presently she took my veil from its place; she held it 
up, gazed at it long, and then she threw it over her own head, and turned 
to the mirror. At that moment I saw the reflection of the visage and 
features quite distinctly in the dark oblong glass."
"And how were they?"
"Fearful and ghastly to me - oh, sir, I never saw a face like it! It was a 
discoloured face - it was a savage face. I wish I could forget the roll of 
the red eyes and the fearful blackened inflation of the lineaments!"
"Ghosts are usually pale, Jane."
"This, sir, was purple: the lips were swelled and dark; the brow furrowed; 
the black eyebrows widely raised over the bloodshot eyes. Shall I tell you 
of what it reminded me?"
"You may."
"Of the foul German spectre - the Vampyre."
"Ah! - what did it do?"
"Sir, it removed my veil from its gaunt head, rent it in two parts, and 
flinging both on the floor, trampled on them."
"Afterwards?"
"It drew aside the window-curtain and looked out: perhaps it saw dawn 
approaching, for, taking the candle, it retreated to the door. Just at my 
bedside, the figure stopped: the fiery eye glared upon me - she thrust up 
her candle close to my face, and extinguished it under my eyes. I was aware 
her lurid visage flamed over mine, and I lost consciousness: for the second 
time in my life - only the second time - I became insensible from terror."
"Who was with you when you revived?"
"No one, sir; but the broad day. I rose, bathed my head and face in water, 
drank a long draught; felt that though enfeebled I was not ill, and 
determined that to none but you would I impart this vision. Now, sir, tell 
me who and what that woman was?"
"The creature of an over-stimulated brain; that is certain. I must be 
careful of you, my treasure: nerves like yours were not made for rough 
handling. "
"Sir, depend on it, my nerves were not in fault; the thing was real: the 
transaction actually took place."
"And your previous dreams: were they real too? Is Thornfield-Hall a ruin? 
Am I severed from you by insuperable obstacles? Am I leaving you without a 
tear - without a kiss - without a word?"
"Not yet."
"Am I about to do it? - Why the day is already commenced which is to bind 
us indissolubly; and when we are once united, there shall be no recurrence 
of these mental terrors: I guarantee that."
"Mental terrors, sir! I wish I could believe them to be only such: I wish 
it more now than ever; since even you cannot explain to me the mystery of 
that awful visitant."
"And since I cannot do it, Jane, it must have been unreal."
"But, sir, when I said so to myself on rising this morning, and when I 
looked round the room to gather courage and comfort from the cheerful 
aspect of each familiar object in full daylight, there - on the carpet - I 
saw what gave the distinct lie to my hypothesis, - the veil, torn from top 
to bottom in two halves !"
I felt Mr Rochester start and shudder; he hastily flung his arms round me: 
"Thank God!" he exclaimed, "that if anything malignant did come near you 
last night, it was only the veil that was harmed. - Oh, to think what might 
have happened!"
He drew his breath short, and strained me so close to him, I could scarcely 
pant. After some minutes' silence, he continued, cheerily: -
"Now, Janet, I'll explain to you all about it. It was half dream, half 
reality: a woman did, I doubt not, enter your room: and that woman was - 
must have been - Grace Poole. You call her a strange being yourself: from 
all you know, you have reason so to call her - what did she do to me? what 
to Mason? In a state between sleeping and waking, you noticed her entrance 
and her actions; but feverish, almost delirious as you were, you ascribed 
to her a goblin appearance different from her own: the long dishevelled 
hair, the swelled black face, the exaggerated stature, were figments of 
imagination; results of nightmare: the spiteful tearing of the veil was 
real: and it is like her. I see you would ask why I keep such a woman in my 
house: when we have been married a year and a day, I will tell you; but not 
now. Are you satisfied, Jane? Do you accept my solution of the mystery?"
I reflected, and in truth it appeared to me the only possible one: 
satisfied I was not, but to please him I endeavoured to appear so - 
relieved, I certainly did feel; so I answered him with a contented smile. 
And now, as it was long past one, I prepared to leave him.
"Does not Sophie sleep with Adele in the nursery?" he asked, as I lit my 
candle.
"Yes, sir."
"And there is room enough in Adele's little bed for you. You must share it 
with her tonight, Jane: it is no wonder that the incident you have related 
should make you nervous, and I would rather you did not sleep alone: 
promise me to go to the nursery."
"I shall be very glad to do so, sir."
"And fasten the door securely on the inside. Wake Sophie when you go up 
stairs, under pretence of requesting her to rouse you in good time 
tomorrow; for you must be dressed and have finished breakfast before eight. 
And now, no more sombre thoughts: chase dull care away, Janet. Don't you 
hear to what soft whispers the wind has fallen? and there is no more 
beating of rain against the windowpanes: look here" (he lifted up the 
curtain) - "it is a lovely night!"
It was. Half heaven was pure and stainless: the clouds, now trooping before 
the wind, which had shifted to the west, were filing off eastward in long, 
silvered columns. The moon shone peacefully.
"Well," said Mr Rochester, gazing inquiringly into my eyes, "how is my 
Janet now?"
"The night is serene, sir; and so am I."
"And you will not dream of separation and sorrow tonight; but of happy love 
and blissful union."
This prediction was but half fulfilled: I did not indeed dream of sorrow, 
but as little did I dream of joy; for I never slept at all. With little 
Adele in my arms, I watched the slumber of childhood - so tranquil, so 
passionless, so innocent - and waited for the coming day: all my life was 
awake and astir in my frame: and as soon as the sun rose, I rose too. I 
remember Adele clung to me as I left her: I remember I kissed her as I 
loosened her little hands from my neck; and I cried over her with strange 
emotion, and quitted her because I feared my sobs would break her still 
sound repose. She seemed the emblem of my past life; and he, I was now to 
array myself to meet, the dread, but adored, type of my unknown future day.



Chapter 26

Sophie came at seven to dress me; she was very long indeed in accomplishing 
her task; so long that Mr Rochester, grown, I suppose, impatient of my 
delay, sent up to ask why I did not come. She was just fastening my veil 
(the plain square of blond after all) to my hair with a brooch; I hurried 
from under her hands as soon as I could.
"Stop!" she cried in French. "Look at yourself in the mirror: you have not 
taken one peep."
So I turned at the door: I saw a robed and veiled figure, so unlike my 
usual self that it seemed almost the image of a stranger. "Jane!" called a 
voice, and I hastened down. I was received at the foot of the stairs by Mr 
Rochester.
"Lingerer," he said, "my brain is on fire with impatience; and you tarry so 
long!"
He took me into the dining-room, surveyed me keenly all over, pronounced me 
"fair as a lily, and not only the pride of his life, but the desire of his 
eyes," and then telling me he would give me but ten minutes to eat some 
breakfast, he rang the bell. One of his lately hired servants, a footman, 
answered it.
"Is John getting the carriage ready?"
"Yes, sir."
"Is the luggage brought down?"
"They are bringing it down, sir."
"Go you to the church: see if Mr Wood (the clergyman) and the clerk are 
there: return and tell me."
The church, as the reader knows, was but just beyond the gates; the footman 
soon returned.
"Mr Wood is in the vestry, sir, putting on his surplice."
"And the carriage?"
"The horses are harnessing."
"We shall not want it to go to church; but it must be ready the moment we 
return: all the boxes and luggage arranged and strapped on, and the 
coachman in his seat."
"Yes, sir."
"Jane, are you ready?"
I rose. There were no groomsmen, no bridesmaids, no relatives to wait for 
or marshal: none but Mr Rochester and I. Mrs Fairfax stood in the hall as 
we passed. I would fain have spoken to her, but my hand was held by a grasp 
of iron: I was hurried along by a stride I could hardly follow; and to look 
at Mr Rochester's face was to feel that not a second of delay would be 
tolerated for any purpose. I wonder what other bridegroom ever looked as he 
did - so bent up to a purpose, so grimly resolute: or who, under such 
steadfast brows, ever revealed such flaming and flashing eyes.
I know not whether the day was fair or foul; in descending the drive, I 
gazed neither on sky nor earth: my heart was with my eyes; and both seemed 
migrated into Mr Rochester's frame. I wanted to see the invisible thing on 
which, as we went along, he appeared to fasten a glance fierce and fell. I 
wanted to feel the thoughts whose force he seemed breasting and resisting.
At the churchyard wicket he stopped: he discovered I was quite out of 
breath. "Am I cruel in my love?" he said. "Delay an instant: lean on me, 
Jane."
And now I can recall the picture of the grey old house of God rising calm 
before me, of a rook wheeling round the steeple, of a ruddy morning sky 
beyond. I remember something, too, of the green grave-mounds; and I have 
not forgotten, either, two figures of strangers, straying amongst the low 
hillocks, and reading the mementoes graven on the few mossy headstones. I 
noticed them, because, as they saw us, they passed round to the back of the 
church; and I doubted not they were going to enter by the side-aisle door 
and witness the ceremony. By Mr Rochester they were not observed; he was 
earnestly looking at my face, from which the blood had, I daresay, 
momentarily fled: for I felt my forehead dewy, and my cheeks and lips cold. 
When I rallied, which I soon did, he walked gently with me up the path to 
the porch.
We entered the quiet and humble temple; the priest waited in his white 
surplice at the lowly altar, the clerk beside him. All was still: two 
shadows only moved in a remote corner. My conjecture had been correct: the 
strangers had slipped in before us, and they now stood by the vault of the 
Rochesters, their backs towards us, viewing through the rails the old times-
stained marble tomb, where a kneeling angel guarded the remains of Damer de 
Rochester, slain at Marston Moor in the time of the civil wars, and of 
Elizabeth, his wife.
Our place was taken at the communion rails. Hearing a cautious step behind 
me, I glanced over my shoulder: one of the strangers - a gentleman, 
evidently - was advancing up the chancel. The service began. The 
explanation of the intent of matrimony was gone through; and then the 
clergyman came a step farther forward, and, bending slightly towards Mr 
Rochester, went on.
"I require and charge you both (as ye will answer at the dreadful day of 
judgment, when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed), that if 
either of you know any impediment why ye may not lawfully be joined 
together in matrimony, ye do now confess it; for be ye well assured that so 
many as are coupled together otherwise than God's Word doth allow, are not 
joined together by God, neither is their matrimony lawful."
He paused, as the custom is. When is the pause after that sentence ever 
broken by reply? Not, perhaps, once in a hundred years. And the clergyman, 
who had not lifted his eyes from his book, and had held his breath but for 
a moment, was proceeding: his hand was already stretched towards Mr 
Rochester, as his lips unclosed to ask, "Wilt thou have this woman for thy 
wedded wife? -" when a distinct and near voice said -
"The marriage cannot go on: I declare the existence of an impediment."
The clergyman looked up at the speaker and stood mute; the clerk did the 
same; Mr Rochester moved slightly, as if an earthquake had rolled under his 
feet: taking a firmer footing, and not turning his head or eyes, he said, 
"Proceed."
Profound silence fell when he had uttered that word, with deep but low 
intonation. Presently Mr Wood said -
"I cannot proceed without some investigation into what has been asserted, 
and evidence of its truth or falsehood."
"The ceremony is quite broken off," subjoined the voice behind us. "I am in 
a condition to prove my allegation: an insuperable impediment to this 
marriage exists."
Mr Rochester heard, but heeded not: he stood stubborn and rigid, making no 
movement but to possess himself of my hand. What a hot and strong grasp he 
had! and how like quarried marble was his pale, firm, massive front at this 
moment! How his eye shone, still watchful, and yet wild beneath!
Mr Wood seemed at a loss. "What is the nature of the impediment?" he asked. 
"Perhaps it may be got over - explained away?"
"Hardly," was the answer. "I have called it insuperable, and I speak 
advisedly."
The speaker came forward and leaned on the rails. He continued, uttering 
each word distinctly, calmly, steadily, but not loudly -
"It simply consists in the existence of a previous marriage. Mr Rochester 
has a wife now living."
My nerves vibrated to those low-spoken words as they had never vibrated to 
thunder - my blood felt their subtle violence as it had never felt frost or 
fire; but I was collected, and in no danger of swooning. I looked at Mr 
Rochester: I made him look at me. His whole face was colourless rock: his 
eye was both spark and flint. He disavowed nothing: he seemed as if he 
would defy all things. Without speaking, without smiling, without seeming 
to recognise in me a human being, he only twined my waist with his arm and 
riveted me to his side.
"Who are you?" he asked of the intruder.
"And you would thrust on me a wife?"
"I would remind you of your lady's existence, sir, which the law 
recognises, if you do not."
"Favour me with an account of her - with her name, her parentage, her place 
of abode."
"Certainly." Mr Briggs calmly took a paper from his pocket, and read out in 
a sort of official, nasal voice: -
"'I affirm and can prove that on the 20th of October, A.D., -, (a date of 
fifteen years back), 'Edward Fairfax Rochester, of Thornfield-Hall, in the 
county of --, and of Ferndean Manor, in --shire, England, was married to my 
sister, Bertha Antoinetta Mason, daughter of Jonas Mason, merchant, and of 
Antoinetta his wife, a Creole, at -- church, Spanish-Town, Jamaica. The 
record of the marriage will be found in the register of that church - a 
copy of it is now in my possession. Signed, Richard Mason.'"
"That - if a genuine document - may prove I have been married, but it does 
not prove that the woman mentioned therein as my wife is still living."
"She was living three months ago," returned the lawyer.
"How do you know?"
"I have a witness to the fact, whose testimony even you, sir, will scarcely 
controvert."
"Produce him - or go to hell."
"I will produce him first - he is on the spot. Mr Mason, have the goodness 
to step forward."
Mr Rochester, on hearing the name, set his teeth; he experienced, too, a 
sort of strong convulsive quiver; near to him as I was, I felt the 
spasmodic movement of fury or despair run through his frame. The second 
stranger, who had hitherto lingered in the background, now drew near; a 
pale face looked over the solicitor's shoulder - yes, it was Mason himself. 
Mr Rochester turned and glared at him. His eye, as I have often said, was a 
black eye: it had now a tawny, nay, a bloody light in its gloom; and his 
face flushed - olive cheek and hueless forehead received a glow as from 
spreading, ascending heart-fire: and he stirred, lifted his strong arm - he 
could have struck Mason, dashed him on the church-floor, shocked by 
ruthless blow the breath from his body - but Mason shrank away and cried 
faintly, "Good God!" Contempt fell cool on Mr Rochester - his passion died 
as if a blight had shrivelled it up: he only asked - "What have you to 
say?"
An inaudible reply escaped Mason's white lips.
"The devil is in it if you cannot answer distinctly. I again demand, what 
have you to say?"
"Sir - sir," interrupted the clergyman, "do not forget you are in a sacred 
place." Then addressing Mason, he inquired gently, "Are you aware, sir, 
whether or not this gentleman's wife is still living?"
"Courage," urged the lawyer, - "speak out."
"She is now living at Thornfield Hall," said Mason, in more articulate 
tones: "I saw her there last April. I am her brother."
"At Thornfield Hall!" ejaculated the clergyman. "Impossible! I am an old 
resident in this neighbourhood, sir, and I never heard of a Mrs Rochester 
at Thornfield Hall."
I saw a grim smile contort Mr Rochester's lips, and he muttered -
"No, by God! I took care that none should hear of it - or of her under that 
name." He mused - for ten minutes he held counsel with himself: he formed 
his resolve, and announced it -
"Enough! all shall bolt out at once, like the bullet from the barrel. Wood, 
close your book and take off your surplice; John Green (to the clerk), 
leave the church: there will be no wedding today." The man obeyed.
Mr Rochester continued, hardily and recklessly: "Bigamy is an ugly word! - 
I meant, however, to be a bigamist; but fate has out-manoeuvred me, or 
Providence has checked me, - perhaps the last. I am little better than a 
devil at this moment; and, as my pastor there would tell me, deserve no 
doubt the sternest judgments of God, even to the quenchless fire and 
deathless worm. Gentlemen, my plan is broken up: - what this lawyer and his 
client say is true: I have been married, and the woman to whom I was 
married lives! You say you never heard of a Mrs Rochester at the house up 
yonder, Wood; but I daresay you have many a time inclined your ear to 
gossip about the mysterious lunatic kept there under watch and ward. Some 
have whispered to you that she is my bastard half-sister: some, my cast-off 
mistress. I now inform you that she is my wife, whom I married fifteen 
years ago, - Bertha Mason by name; sister of this resolute personage, who 
is now, with his quivering limbs and white cheeks, showing you what a stout 
heart men may bear. Cheer up, Dick! - never fear me! - I'd almost as soon 
strike a woman as you. Bertha Mason is mad; and she came of a mad family; 
idiots and maniacs through three generations! Her mother, the Creole, was 
both a mad-woman and a drunkard! - as I found out after I had wed the 
daughter: for they were silent on family secrets before. Bertha, like a 
dutiful child, copied her parent in both points. I had a charming partner - 
pure, wise, modest: you can fancy I was a happy man. I went through rich 
scenes! Oh! my experience has been heavenly, if you only knew it! But I owe 
you no further explanation. Briggs, Wood, Mason, I invite you all to come 
up to the house and visit Mrs Poole's patient, and my wife! You shall see 
what sort of a being I was cheated into espousing, and judge whether or not 
I had a right to break the compact, and seek sympathy with something at 
least human. This girl," he continued, looking at me, "knew no more than 
you, Wood, of the disgusting secret: she thought all was fair and legal, 
and never dreamt she was going to be entrapped into a feigned union with a 
defrauded wretch, already bound to a bad, mad, and embruted partner! Come 
all of you - follow!"
Still holding me fast, he left the church: the three gentlemen came after. 
At the front door of the hall we found the carriage.
"Take it back to the coach-house, John," said Mr Rochester coolly: "it will 
not be wanted today."
At our entrance, Mrs Fairfax, Adele, Sophie, Leah, advanced to meet and 
greet us.
"To the right-about - every soul!" cried the master; "away with your 
congratulations! Who wants them? Not I! - they are fifteen years too late!"
He passed on and ascended the stairs, still holding my hand, and still 
beckoning the gentlemen to follow him, which they did. We mounted the first 
staircase, passed up the gallery, proceeded to the third storey: the low, 
black door, opened by Mr Rochester's master-key, admitted us to the 
tapestried room, with its great bed and its pictorial cabinet.
"You know this place, Mason," said our guide; "she bit and stabbed you 
here."
He lifted the hangings from the wall, uncovering the second door: this, 
too, he opened. In a room without a window, there burnt a fire guarded by a 
high and strong fender, and a lamp suspended from the ceiling by a chain. 
Grace Poole bent over the fire, apparently cooking something in a saucepan. 
In the deep shade, at the farther end of the room, a figure ran backwards 
and forwards. What it was, whether beast or human being, one could not, at 
first sight, tell: it grovelled, seemingly, on all fours; it snatched and 
growled like some strange wild animal: but it was covered with clothing, 
and a quantity of dark, grizzled hair, wild as a mane, hid its head and 
face.
"Good-morrow, Mrs Poole!" said Mr Rochester. "How are you? and how is your 
charge today?"
"We're tolerable, sir, I thank you," replied Grace, lifting the boiling 
mess carefully on to the hob: "rather snappish, but not 'rageous."
A fierce cry seemed to give the lie to her favourable report: the clothed 
hyena rose up, and stood tall on its hind-feet.
"Ah! sir, she sees you!" exclaimed Grace: "you'd better not stay."
"Only a few moments, Grace: you must allow me a few moments."
"Take care then, sir! - for God's sake, take care!"
The maniac bellowed: she parted her shaggy locks from her visage, and gazed 
wildly at her visitors. I recognised well that purple face, - those bloated 
features. Mrs Poole advanced.
"Keep out of the way," said Mr Rochester, thrusting her aside: "she has no 
knife now, I suppose, and I'm on my guard!"
"One never knows what she has, sir: she is so cunning: it is not in mortal 
discretion to fathom her craft."
"We had better leave her," whispered Mason.
"Go to the devil!" was his brother-in-law's recommendation.
"'Ware!" cried Grace. The three gentlemen retreated simultaneously. Mr 
Rochester flung me behind him: the lunatic sprang and grappled his throat 
viciously, and laid her teeth to his cheek: they struggled. She was a big 
woman, in stature almost equalling her husband, and corpulent besides: she 
showed virile force in the contest - more than once she almost throttled 
him, athletic as he was. He could have settled her with a well-planted 
blow: but he would not strike: he would only wrestle. At last he mastered 
her arms; Grace Poole gave him a cord, and he pinioned them behind her: 
with more rope, which was at hand, he bound her to a chair. The operation 
was performed amidst the fiercest yells and the most convulsive plunges. Mr 
Rochester then turned to the spectators: he looked at them with a smile 
both acrid and desolate.
"That is my wife," said he. "Such is the sole conjugal embrace I am ever to 
know - such are the endearments which are to solace my leisure hours! And 
this is what I wished to have" (laying his hand on my shoulder): "this 
young girl, who stands so grave and quiet at the mouth of hell, looking 
collectedly at the gambols of a demon. I wanted her just as a change after 
that fierce ragout. Wood and Briggs, look at the difference! Compare these 
clear eyes with the red balls yonder - this face with that mask - this form 
with that bulk; then judge me, priest of the gospel and man of the law, and 
remember with what judgment ye judge ye shall be judged! Off with you now. 
I must shut up my prize."
We all withdrew. Mr Rochester stayed a moment behind us, to give some 
further order to Grace Poole. The solicitor addressed me as he descended 
the stair.
"You, madam," said he, "are cleared from all blame: your uncle will be glad 
to hear it - if, indeed, he should be still living - when Mr Mason returns 
to Madeira."
"My uncle! What of him? Do you know him?"
"Mr Mason does: Mr Eyre has been the Funchal correspondent of his house for 
some years. When your uncle received your letter intimating the 
contemplated union between yourself and Mr Rochester, Mr Mason, who was 
staying at Madeira to recruit his health, on his way back to Jamaica, 
happened to be with him. Mr Eyre mentioned the intelligence; for he knew 
that my client here was acquainted with a gentleman of the name of 
Rochester. Mr Mason, astonished and distressed as you may suppose, revealed 
the real state of matters. Your uncle, I am sorry to say, is now on a sick-
bed; from which, considering the nature of his disease - decline - and the 
stage it has reached, it is unlikely he will ever rise. He could not then 
hasten to England himself, to extricate you from the snare into which you 
had fallen, but he implored Mr Mason to lose no time in taking steps to 
prevent the false marriage. He referred him to me for assistance. I used 
all despatch, and am thankful I was not too late: as you, doubtless, must 
be also. Were I not morally certain that your uncle will be dead ere you 
reach Madeira, I would advise you to accompany Mr Mason back; but as it is, 
I think you had better remain in England till you can hear further, either 
from or of Mr Eyre. Have we anything else to stay for?" he inquired of Mr 
Mason.
"No, no - let us be gone," was the anxious reply; and without waiting to 
take leave of Mr Rochester, they made their exit at the hall door. The 
clergyman stayed to exchange a few sentences, either of admonition or 
reproof, with his haughty parishioner; this duty done, he too departed.
I heard him go as I stood at the half-open door of my own room, to which I 
had now withdrawn. The house cleared, I shut myself in, fastened the bolt 
that none might intrude, and proceeded - not to weep, not to mourn, I was 
yet too calm for that, but - mechanically to take off the wedding-dress, 
and replace it by the stuff gown I had worn yesterday, as I thought, for 
the last time. I then sat down: I felt weak and tired. I leaned my arms on 
a table, and my head dropped on them. And now I thought: till now I had 
only heard, seen, moved - followed up and down where I was led or dragged - 
watched event rush on event, disclosure open beyond disclosure: but now, I 
thought.
The morning had been a quiet morning enough - all except the brief scene 
with the lunatic: the transaction in the church had not been noisy; there 
was no explosion of passion, no loud altercation, no dispute, no defiance 
or challenge, no tears, no sobs: a few words had been spoken, a calmly 
pronounced objection to the marriage made; some stern, short questions put 
by Mr Rochester; answers, explanations given, evidence adduced; an open 
admission of the truth had been uttered by my master; then the living proof 
had been seen; the intruders were gone, and all was over.
I was in my own room as usual - just myself, without obvious change: 
nothing had smitten me, or scathed me, or maimed me. And yet, where was the 
Jane Eyre of yesterday? - where was her life? - where were her prospects?
Jane Eyre, who had been an ardent, expectant woman - almost a bride - was a 
cold, solitary girl again: her life was pale; her prospects were desolate. 
A Christmas frost had come at midsummer; a white December storm had whirled 
over June; ice glazed the ripe apples, drifts crushed the blowing roses; on 
hay-field and corn-field lay a frozen shroud: lanes which last night 
blushed full of flowers, today were pathless with untrodden snow; and the 
woods, which twelve hours since waved leafy and fragrant as groves between 
the tropics, now spread, waste, wild, and white as pine-forests in wintry 
Norway. My hopes were all dead - struck with a subtle doom, such as, in one 
night, fell on all the first-born in the land of Egypt. I looked on my 
cherished wishes, yesterday so blooming and glowing; they lay stark, chill, 
livid corpses that could never revive. I looked at my love: that feeling 
which was my master's - which he had created; it shivered in my heart, like 
a suffering child in a cold cradle; sickness and anguish had seized it; it 
could not seek Mr Rochester's arms - it could not derive warmth from his 
breast. Oh, never more could it turn to him; for faith was blighted - 
confidence destroyed! Mr Rochester was not to me what he had been; for he 
was not what I had thought him. I would not ascribe vice to him; I would 
not say he had betrayed me: but the attribute of stainless truth was gone 
from his idea; and from his presence I must go: that I perceived well. When 
- how - whither, I could not yet discern: but he himself, I doubted not, 
would hurry me from Thornfield. Real affection, it seemed, he could not 
have for me; it had been only fitful passion: that was balked; he would 
want me no more. I should fear even to cross his path now: my view must be 
hateful to him. Oh, how blind had been my eyes ! How weak my conduct!
My eyes were covered and closed: eddying darkness seemed to swim round me, 
and reflection came in as black and confused a flow. Self-abandoned, 
relaxed, and effortless, I seemed to have laid me down in the dried-up bed 
of a great river; I heard a flood loosened in remote mountains, and felt 
the torrent come: to rise I had no will, to flee I had no strength. I lay 
faint; longing to be dead. One idea only still throbbed life-like within me 
- a remembrance of God: it begot an unuttered prayer: these words went 
wandering up and down in my rayless mind, as something that should be 
whispered; but no energy was found to express them: -
"Be not far from me, for trouble is near: there is none to help."
It was near: and as I had lifted no petition to Heaven to avert it - as I 
had neither joined my hands, nor bent my knees, nor moved my lips - it 
came: in full, heavy swing the torrent poured over me. The whole 
consciousness of my life lorn, my love lost, my hope quenched, my faith 
death-struck, swayed full and mighty above me in one sullen mass. That 
bitter hour cannot be described: in truth, "the waters came into my soul; I 
sank in deep mire: I felt no standing; I came into deep waters; the floods 
overflowed me."


Chapter 27

Some time in the afternoon I raised my head, and looking round and seeing 
the western sun gilding the sign of its decline on the wall, I asked, "What 
am I to do?"
But the answer my mind gave - "Leave Thornfield at once" - was so prompt, 
so dread, that I stopped my ears: 1 said, I could not bear such words now. 
"That I am not Edward Rochester's bride is the least part of my woe," I 
alleged: "that I have wakened out of most glorious dreams, and found them 
all void and vain, is a horror I could bear and master; but that I must 
leave him decidedly, instantly, entirely, is intolerable. I cannot do it."
But, then, a voice within me averred that I could do it; and foretold that 
I should do it. I wrestled with my own resolution: I wanted to be weak that 
I might avoid the awful passage of further suffering I saw laid out for me; 
and conscience, turned tyrant, held passion by the throat, told her 
tauntingly, she had yet but dipped her dainty foot in the slough, and swore 
that with that arm of iron, he would thrust her down to unsounded depths of 
agony.
"Let me be torn away, then!" I cried. "Let another help me!"
"No; you shall tear yourself away, none shall help you: you shall, 
yourself, pluck out your right eye: yourself cut off your right hand: your 
heart shall be the victim; and you, the priest, to transfix it."
I rose up suddenly, terror-struck at the solitude which so ruthless a judge 
haunted, - at the silence which so awful a voice filled. My head swam as I 
stood erect: I perceived that I was sickening from excitement and 
inanition: neither meat nor drink had passed my lips that day, for I had 
taken no breakfast. And, with a strange pang, I now reflected that, long as 
I had been shut up here, no message had been sent to ask how I was, or to 
invite me to come down: not even little Adele had tapped at the door; not 
even Mrs Fairfax had sought me. "Friends always forget those whom fortune 
forsakes," I murmured, as I undrew the bolt and passed out. I stumbled over 
an obstacle: my head was still dizzy, my sight was dim, and my limbs were 
feeble. I could not soon recover myself. I fell, but not on to the ground: 
an out-stretched arm caught me; I looked up - I was supported by Mr 
Rochester, who sat in a chair across my chamber threshold.
"You come out at last," he said. "Well, I have been waiting for you long, 
and listening: yet not one movement have I heard, nor one sob: five minutes 
more of that deathlike hush, and I should have forced the lock like a 
burglar. So, you shun me? - you shut yourself up and grieve alone! I would 
rather you had come and upbraided me with vehemence. You are passionate: I 
expected a scene of some kind. I was prepared for the hot rain of tears; 
only I wanted them to be shed on my breast: now a senseless floor has 
received them, or your drenched handkerchief. But I err: you have not wept 
at all! I see a white cheek and a faded eye, but no trace of tears. I 
suppose, then, your heart has been weeping blood?
"Well, Jane; not a word of reproach? Nothing bitter - nothing poignant? 
Nothing to cut a feeling or sting a passion? You sit quietly where I have 
placed you, and regard me with a weary, passive look.
"Jane, I never meant to wound you thus. If the man who had but one little 
ewe lamb that was dear to him as a daughter, that ate of his bread and 
drank of his cup, and lay in his bosom, had by some mistake slaughtered it 
at the shambles, he would not have rued his bloody blunder more than I now 
rue mine. Will you everforgive me?"
Reader ! - I forgave him at the moment, and on the spot. There was such 
deep remorse in his eye, such true pity in his tone, such manly energy in 
his manner; and besides, there was such unchanged love in his whole look 
and mien - I forgave him all: yet not in words, not outwardly; only at my 
heart's core.
"You know I am a scoundrel, Jane?" ere long he inquired wistfully - 
wondering, I suppose, at my continued silence and tameness, the result 
rather of weakness than of will.
"Yes, sir."
"Then tell me so roundly and sharply - don't spare me."
"I cannot: I am tired and sick. I want some water." He heaved a sort of 
shuddering sigh, and taking me in his arms, carried me downstairs. At first 
I did not know to what room he had borne me; all was cloudy to my glazed 
sight: presently I felt the reviving warmth of a fire; for, summer as it 
was, I had become icy cold in my chamber. He put wine to my lips; I tasted 
it and revived; then I ate something he offered me, and was soon myself. I 
was in the library - sitting in his chair - he was quite near. "If I could 
go out of life now, without too sharp a pang, it would be well for me," I 
thought; "then I should not have to make the effort of cracking my heart-
strings in rending them from among Mr Rochester's. I must leave him, it 
appears. I do not want to leave him - I cannot leave him."
"How are you now, Jane?"
"Much better, sir; I shall be well soon."
"Taste the wine again, Jane."
I obeyed him; then he put the glass on the table, stood before me, and 
looked at me attentively. Suddenly he turned away, with an inarticulate 
exclamation, full of passionate emotion of some kind; he walked fast 
through the room and came back; he stooped towards me as if to kiss me; but 
I remembered caresses were now forbidden. I turned my face away and put his 
aside.
"What! - How is this?" he exclaimed hastily. "Oh, I know! you won't kiss 
the husband of Bertha Mason? You consider my arms filled and my embraces 
appropriated?"
"At any rate, there is neither room nor claim for me, sir."
"Why, Jane? I will spare you the trouble of much talking; I will answer for 
you - Because I have a wife already, you would reply. - I guess rightly?"
"Yes."
"If you think so, you must have a strange opinion of me; you must regard me 
as a plotting profligate - a base and low rake who has been simulating 
disinterested love in order to draw you into a snare deliberately laid, and 
strip you of honour and rob you of self-respect. What do you say to that? I 
see you can say nothing: in the first place, you are faint still, and have 
enough to do to draw your breath; in the second place, you cannot yet 
accustom yourself to accuse and revile me, and besides, the flood-gates of 
tears are opened, and they would rush out if you spoke much; and you have 
no desire to expostulate, to upbraid, to make a scene: you are thinking how 
to act - talking you consider is of no use. I know you - I am on my guard."
"Sir, I do not wish to act against you," I said; and my unsteady voice 
warned me to curtail my sentence.
"Not in your sense of the word, but in mine you are scheming to destroy me. 
You have as good as said that I am a married man - as a married man you 
will shun me, keep out of my way: just now you have refused to kiss me. You 
intend to make yourself a complete stranger to me: to live under this roof 
only as Adele's governess; if ever I say a friendly word to you, if ever a 
friendly feeling inclines you again to me, you will say, - 'That man had 
nearly made me his mistress: I must be ice and rock to him'; and ice and 
rock you will accordingly become."
I cleared and steadied my voice to reply: "All is changed about me, sir; I 
must change too - there is no doubt of that; and to avoid fluctuations of 
feeling, and continual combats with recollections and associations, there 
is only one way - Adele must have a new governess, sir."
"Oh, Adele will go to school - I have settled that already; nor do I mean 
to torment you with the hideous associations and recollections of 
Thornfield Hall - this accursed place - this tent of Achan - this insolent 
vault, offering the ghastliness of living death to the light of the open 
sky - this narrow stone hell, with its one real fiend, worse than a legion 
of such as we imagine. Jane, you shall not stay here, nor will I. I was 
wrong ever to bring you to Thornfield Hall, knowing as I did how it was 
haunted. I charged them to conceal from you, before I ever saw you, all 
knowledge of the curse of the place; merely because I feared Adele never 
would have a governess to stay if she knew with what inmate she was housed, 
and my plans would not permit me to remove the maniac elsewhere - though I 
possess an old house, Ferndean Manor, even more retired and hidden than 
this, where I could have lodged her safely enough, had not a scruple about 
the unhealthiness of the situation, in the heart of a wood, made my 
conscience recoil from the arrangement. Probably those damp walls would 
soon have eased me of her charge: but to each villain his own vice; and 
mine is not a tendency to indirect assassination, even of what I most hate.
"Concealing the mad-woman's neighbourhood from you, however, was something 
like covering a child with a cloak and laying it down near an upas-tree: 
that demon's vicinage is poisoned, and always was. But I'll shut up 
Thornfield Hall: I'll nail up the front door and board the lower windows: 
I'll give Mrs Poole two hundred a year to live here with my wife, as you 
term that fearful hag: Grace will do much for money, and she shall have her 
son, the keeper at Grimsby Retreat, to bear her company and be at hand to 
give her aid in the paroxysms, when my wife is prompted by her familiar to 
burn people in their beds at night, to stab them, to bite their flesh from 
their bones, and so on -"
"Sir," I interrupted him, "you are inexorable for that unfortunate lady: 
you speak of her with hate - with vindictive antipathy. It is cruel - she 
cannot help being mad."
"Jane, my little darling (so I will call you, for so you are), you don't 
know what you are talking about; you misjudge me again: it is not because 
she is mad I hate her. If you were mad, do you think I should hate you?"
"I do indeed, sir."
"Then you are mistaken, and you know nothing about me, and nothing about 
the sort of love of which I am capable. Every atom of your flesh is as dear 
to me as my own: in pain and sickness it would still be dear. Your mind is 
my treasure, and if it were broken, it would be my treasure still: if you 
raved, my arms should confine you, and not a strait waistcoat - your grasp, 
even in fury, would have a charm for me: if you flew at me as wildly as 
that woman did this morning, I should receive you in an embrace, at least 
as fond as it would be restrictive. I should not shrink from you with 
disgust as I did from her: in your quiet moments you should have no watcher 
and no nurse but me; and I could hang over you with untiring tenderness, 
though you gave me no smile in return; and never weary of gazing into your 
eyes, though they had no longer a ray of recognition for me. - But why do I 
follow that train of ideas? I was talking of removing you from Thornfield. 
All, you know, is prepared for prompt departure: tomorrow you shall go. I 
only ask you to endure one more night under this roof, Jane; and then, 
farewell to its miseries and terrors for ever! I have a place to repair to, 
which will be a secure sanctuary from hateful reminiscences, from unwelcome 
intrusion - even from falsehood and slander."
"And take Adele with you, sir," I interrupted; "she will be a companion for 
you."
"What do you mean, Jane? I told you I would send Adele to school; and what 
do I want with a child for a companion, and not my own child, - a French 
dancer's bastard? Why do you importune me about her! I say, why do you 
assign Adele to me for a companion?"
"You spoke of a retirement, sir; and retirement and solitude are dull: too 
dull for you."
"Solitude! solitude!" he reiterated with irritation. "I see I must come to 
an explanation. I don't know what Sphynx-like expression is forming in your 
countenance. You are to share my solitude. Do you understand?"
I shook my head: it required a degree of courage, excited as he was 
becoming, even to risk that mute sign of dissent. He had been walking fast 
about the room, and he stopped, as if suddenly rooted to one spot. He 
looked at me long and hard: I turned my eyes from him, fixed them on the 
fire, and tried to assume and maintain a quiet, collected aspect.
"Now for the hitch in Jane's character," he said at last, speaking more 
calmly than from his look I had expected him to speak. "The reel of silk 
has run smoothly enough so far; but I always knew there would come a knot 
and a puzzle: here it is. Now for vexation, and exasperation, and endless 
trouble! By God! I long to exert a fraction of Samson's strength, and break 
the entanglement like tow!"
He recommenced his walk, but soon again stopped, and this time just before 
me.
"Jane! will you hear reason?" (he stooped and approached his lips to my 
ear); "because, if you won't, I'll try violence. His voice was hoarse; his 
look that of a man who is just about to burst an insufferable bond and 
plunge headlong into wild license. I saw that in another moment, and with 
one impetus of frenzy more, I should be able to do nothing with him. The 
present - the passing second of time - was all I had in which to control 
and restrain him: a movement of repulsion, flight, fear would have sealed 
my doom, - and his. But I was not afraid: not in the least. I felt an 
inward power; a sense of influence, which supported me. The crisis was 
perilous; but not without its charm: such as the Indian, perhaps, feels 
when he slips over the rapid in his canoe. I took hold of his clenched 
hand, loosened the contorted fingers, and said to him, soothingly -
"Sit down; I'll talk to you as long as you like, and hear all you have to 
say, whether reasonable or unreasonable."
He sat down: but he did not get leave to speak directly. I had been 
struggling with tears for some time: I had taken great pains to repress 
them, because I knew he would not like to see me weep. Now, however, I 
considered it well to let them flow as freely and as long as they liked. If 
the flood annoyed him, so much the better. So I gave way and cried 
heartily.
Soon I heard him earnestly entreating me to be composed. I said I could not 
while he was in such a passion.
"But I am not angry, Jane: I only love you too well; and you had steeled 
your little pale face with such a resolute, frozen look, I could not endure 
it. Hush, now, and wipe your eyes."
His softened voice announced that he was subdued; so I, in my turn, became 
calm. Now he made an effort to rest his head on my shoulder, but I would 
not permit it. Then he would draw me to him: no.
"Jane! Jane!" he said, in such an accent of bitter sadness it thrilled 
along every nerve I had; "you don't love me, then? It was only my station, 
and the rank of my wife, that you valued? Now that you think me 
disqualified to become your husband, you recoil from my touch as if I were 
some toad or ape."
These words cut me: yet what could I do or say? I ought probably to have 
done or said nothing; but I was so tortured by a sense of remorse at thus 
hurting his feelings, I could not control the wish to drop balm where I had 
wounded.
"I do love you," I said, "more than ever: but I must not show or indulge 
the feeling: and this is the last time I must express it."
"The last time, Jane! What! do you think you can live with me, and see me 
daily, and yet, if you still love me, be always cold and distant?"
"No, sir; that I am certain I could not; and therefore I see there is but 
one way: but you will be furious if I mention it."
"Oh, mention it! If I storm, you have the art of weeping."
"Mr Rochester, I must leave you."
"For how long, Jane? For a few minutes, while you smooth your hair - which 
is somewhat dishevelled; and bathe your face - which looks feverish?"
"I must leave Adele and Thornfield. I must part with you for my whole life: 
I must begin a new existence among strange faces and strange scenes."
"Of course: I told you you should. I pass over the madness about parting 
from me. You mean you must become a part of me. As to the new existence, it 
is all right: you shall yet be my wife: I am not married. You shall be Mrs 
Rochester - both virtually and nominally. I shall keep only to you so long 
as you and I live. You shall go to a place I have in the south of France: a 
whitewashed villa on the shores of the Mediterranean. There you shall live 
a happy, and guarded, and most innocent life. Never fear that I wish to 
lure you into error - to make you my mistress. Why did you shake your head? 
Jane, you must be reasonable, or in truth I shall again become frantic."
His voice and hand quivered: his large nostrils dilated; his eye blazed: 
still I dared to speak.
"Sir, your wife is living: that is a fact acknowledged this morning by 
yourself. If I lived with you as you desire, I should then be your 
mistress: to say otherwise is sophistical - is false."
"Jane, I am not a gentle-tempered man - you forget that: I am not long-
enduring; I am not cool and dispassionate. Out of pity to me and yourself, 
put your finger on my pulse, feel how it throbs, and - beware!"
He bared his wrist, and offered it to me: the blood was forsaking his cheek 
and lips, they were growing livid; I was distressed on all hands. To 
agitate him thus deeply, by a resistance he so abhorred, was cruel: to 
yield was out of the question. I did what human beings do instinctively 
when they are driven to utter extremity - looked for aid to one higher than 
man: the words "God help me!" burst involuntarily from my lips.
"I am a fool!" cried Mr Rochester suddenly. "I keep telling her I am not 
married, and do not explain to her why. I forget she knows nothing of the 
character of that woman, or of the circumstances attending my infernal 
union with her. Oh, I am certain Jane will agree with me in opinion, when 
she knows all that I know! Just put your hand in mine, Janet - that I may 
have the evidence of touch as well as sight, to prove you are near me - and 
I will in a few words show you the real state of the case. Can you listen 
to me?"
"Yes, sir; for hours if you will."
"I ask only minutes. Jane, did you ever hear or know that I was not the 
eldest son of my house: that I had once a brother older than I?"
"I remember Mrs Fairfax told me so once."
"And did you ever hear that my father was an avaricious, grasping man?"
"I have understood something to that effect."
"Well, Jane, being so, it was his resolution to keep the property together; 
he could not bear the idea of dividing his estate and leaving me a fair 
portion: all, he resolved, should go to my brother, Rowland. Yet as little 
could he endure that a son of his should be a poor man. I must be provided 
for by a wealthy marriage. He sought me a partner betimes. Mr Mason, a West 
India planter and merchant, was his old acquaintance. He was certain his 
possessions were real and vast: he made inquiries. Mr Mason, he found, had 
a son and daughter; and he learned from him that he could and would give 
the latter a fortune of thirty thousand pounds: that sufficed. When I left 
college, I was sent out to Jamaica, to espouse a bride already courted for 
me. My father said nothing about her money; but he told me Miss Mason was 
the boast of Spanish Town for her beauty: and this was no lie. I found her 
a fine woman, in the style of Blanche Ingram: tall, dark, and majestic. Her 
family wished to secure me because I was of a good race; and so did she. 
They showed her to me in parties, splendidly dressed. I seldom saw her 
alone, and had very little private conversation with her. She flattered me, 
and lavishly displayed for my pleasure her charms and accomplishments. All 
the men in her circle seemed to admire her and envy me. I was dazzled, 
stimulated: my senses were excited; and being ignorant, raw, and 
inexperienced, I thought I loved her. There is no folly so besotted that 
the idiotic rivalries of society, the prurience, the rashness, the 
blindness of youth, will not hurry a man to its commission. Her relatives 
encouraged me; competitors piqued me; she allured me: a marriage was 
achieved almost before I knew where I was. Oh, I have no respect for myself 
when I think of that act! - an agony of inward contempt masters me. I never 
loved, I never esteemed, I did not even know her. I was not sure of the 
existence of one virtue in her nature: I had marked neither modesty, nor 
benevolence, nor candour, nor refinement in her mind or manners - and, I 
married her: - gross, grovelling, mole-eyed blockhead that I was! With less 
sin I might have - But let me remember to whom I am speaking.
"My bride's mother I had never seen: I understood she was dead. The 
honeymoon over, I learned my mistake; she was only mad, and shut up in a 
lunatic asylum. There was a younger brother, too - a complete dumb idiot. 
The elder one, whom you have seen (and whom I cannot hate, whilst I abhor 
all his kindred, because he has some grains of affection in his feeble 
mind, shown in the continued interest he takes in his wretched sister, and 
also in a dog-like attachment he once bore me), will probably be in the 
same state one day. My father and my brother Rowland knew all this; but 
they thought only of the thirty thousand pounds, and joined in the plot 
against me.
"These were vile discoveries; but except for the treachery of concealment, 
I should have made them no subject of reproach to my wife, even when I 
found her nature wholly alien to mine, her tastes obnoxious to me, her cast 
of mind common, low, narrow, and singularly incapable of being led to 
anything higher, expanded to anything larger - when I found that I could 
not pass a single evening, nor even a single hour of the day with her in 
comfort; that kindly conversation could not be sustained between us, 
because whatever topic I started, immediately received from her a turn at 
once coarse and trite, perverse and imbecile - when I perceived that I 
should never have a quiet or settled household, because no servant would 
bear the continued outbreaks of her violent and unreasonable temper, or the 
vexations of her absurd, contradictory, exacting orders - even then I 
restrained myself: I eschewed upbraiding, I curtailed remonstrance; I tried 
to devour my repentance and disgust in secret; I repressed the deep 
antipathy I felt.
"Jane, I will not trouble you with abominable details: some strong words 
shall express what I have to say. I lived with that woman upstairs four 
years, and before that time she had tried me indeed: her character ripened 
and developed with frightful rapidity; her vices sprang up fast and rank: 
they were so strong, only cruelty could check them, and I would not use 
cruelty. What a pigmy intellect she had, and what giant propensities! How 
fearful were the curses those propensities entailed on me! Bertha Mason, 
the true daughter of an infamous mother, dragged me through all the hideous 
and degrading agonies which must attend a man bound to a wife at once 
intemperate and unchaste.
"My brother in the interval was dead, and at the end of the four years my 
father died too. I was rich enough now - yet poor to hideous indigence: a 
nature the most gross, impure, depraved I ever saw, was associated with 
mine, and called by the law and by society a part of me. And I could not 
rid myself of it by any legal proceedings: for the doctors now discovered 
that my wife was mad - her excesses had prematurely developed the germs of 
insanity. Jane, you don't like my narrative; you look almost sick - shall I 
defer the rest to another day?"
"No, sir, finish it now; I pity you - I do earnestly pity you."
"Pity, Jane, from some people is a noxious and insulting sort of tribute, 
which one is justified in hurling back in the teeth of those who offer it; 
but that is the sort of pity native to callous, selfish hearts; it is a 
hybrid, egotistical pain at hearing of woes, crossed with ignorant contempt 
for those who have endured them. But that is not your pity, Jane; it is not 
the feeling of which your whole face is full at this moment - with which 
your eyes are now almost overflowing - with which your heart is heaving - 
with which your hand is trembling in mine. Your pity, my darling, is the 
suffering mother of love: its anguish is the very natal pang of the divine 
passion. I accept it, Jane; let the daughter have free advent - my arms 
wait to receive her."
"Now, sir, proceed; what did you do when you found she was mad?"
"Jane, I approached the verge of despair; a remnant of self-respect was all 
that intervened between me and the gulf. In the eyes of the world, I was 
doubtless covered with grimy dishonour; but I resolved to be clean in my 
own sight - and to the last I repudiated the contamination of her crimes, 
and wrenched myself from connection with her mental defects. Still, society 
associated my name and person with hers; I yet saw her and heard her daily: 
something of her breath (faugh!) mixed with the air I breathed; and 
besides, I remembered I had once been her husband - that recollection was 
then, and is now, inexpressibly odious to me; moreover, I knew that while 
she lived I could never be the husband of another and better wife; and, 
though five years my senior (her family and her father had lied to me even 
in the particular of her age), she was likely to live as long as I, being 
as robust in frame as she was infirm in mind. Thus, at the age of twenty-
six, I was hopeless.
"One night I had been awakened by her yells - (since the medical men had 
pronounced her mad, she had, of course, been shut up) - it was a fiery West 
Indian night; one of the description that frequently precede the hurricanes 
of those climates. Being unable to sleep in bed, I got up and opened the 
window. The air was like sulphur-steams - I could find no refreshment 
anywhere. Mosquitoes came buzzing in and hummed sullenly round the room; 
the sea, which I could hear from thence, rumbled dull like an earthquake - 
black clouds were casting up over it; the moon was setting in the waves, 
broad and red, like a hot cannon-ball - she threw her last bloody glance 
over a world quivering with the ferment of tempest. I was physically 
influenced by the atmosphere and scene, and my ears were filled with the 
curses the maniac still shrieked out; wherein she momentarily mingled my 
name with such a tone of demon-hate, with such language! - no professed 
harlot ever had a fouler vocabulary than she: though two rooms off, I heard 
every word - the thin partitions of the West India house opposing but 
slight obstruction to her wolfish cries.
"'This life,' said I at last, 'is hell: this is the air - those are the 
sounds of the bottomless pit! I have a right to deliver myself from it if I 
can. The sufferings of this mortal state will leave me with the heavy flesh 
that now cumbers my soul. Of the fanatic's burning eternity I have no fear: 
there is not a future state worse than this present one - let me break 
away, and go home to God!'
"I said this whilst I knelt down at, and unlocked a trunk which contained a 
brace of loaded pistols: I meant to shoot myself. I only entertained the 
intention for a moment; for, not being insane, the crisis of exquisite and 
unalloyed despair, which had originated the wish and design of self-
destruction, was past in a second.
"A wind fresh from Europe blew over the ocean and rushed through the open 
casement: the storm broke, streamed, thundered, blazed, and the air grew 
pure. I then framed and fixed a resolution. While I walked under the 
dripping orange-trees of my wet garden, and amongst its drenched 
pomegranates and pineapples, and while the refulgent dawn of the tropics 
kindled round me - I reasoned thus, Jane - and now listen; for it was true 
Wisdom that consoled me in that hour, and showed me the right path to 
follow.
"The sweet wind from Europe was still whispering in the refreshed leaves, 
and the Atlantic was thundering in glorious liberty; my heart, dried up and 
scorched for a long time, swelled to the tone, and filled with living blood 
- my being longed for renewal - my soul thirsted for a pure draught. I saw 
hope revive - and felt regeneration possible. From a flowery arch at the 
bottom of my garden I gazed over the sea - bluer than the sky: the old 
world was beyond; clear prospects opened thus: -
"'Go,' said Hope, 'and live again in Europe: there it is not known what a 
sullied name you bear, nor what a filthy burden is bound to you. You may 
take the maniac with you to England; confine her with due attendance and 
precautions at Thornfield: then travel yourself to what clime you will, and 
form what new tie you like. That woman, who has so abused your long-
suffering, so sullied your name, so outraged your honour, so blighted your 
youth, is not your wife, nor are you her husband. See that she is cared for 
as her condition demands, and you have done all that God and humanity 
require of you. Let her identity, her connection with yourself, be buried 
in oblivion: you are bound to impart them to no living being. Place her in 
safety and comfort: shelter her degradation with secrecy, and leave her.'
"I acted precisely on this suggestion. My father and brother had not made 
my marriage known to their acquaintance; because, in the very first letter 
I wrote to apprise them of the union - having already begun to experience 
extreme disgust of its consequences, and, from the family character and 
constitution, seeing a hideous future opening to me - I added an urgent 
charge to keep it secret: and very soon the infamous conduct of the wife my 
father had selected for me was such as to make him blush to own her as his 
daughter-in-law. Far from desiring to publish the connection, he became as 
anxious to conceal it as myself.
"To England, then, I conveyed her; a fearful voyage I had with such a 
monster in the vessel. Glad was I when I at last got her to Thornfield, and 
saw her safely lodged in that third storey room, of whose secret inner 
cabinet she has now for ten years made a wild beast's den - a goblin's 
cell. I had some trouble in finding an attendant for her, as it was 
necessary to select one on whose fidelity dependence could be placed; for 
her ravings would inevitably betray my secret: besides, she had lucid 
intervals of days - sometimes weeks - which she filled up with abuse of me. 
At last I hired Grace Poole from the Grimsby Retreat. She and the surgeon, 
Carter (who dressed Mason's wounds that night he was stabbed and worried), 
are the only two I have ever admitted to my confidence. Mrs Fairfax may 
indeed have suspected something, but she could have gained no precise 
knowledge as to facts. Grace has, on the whole, proved a good keeper; 
though, owing partly to a fault of her own, of which it appears nothing can 
cure her, and which is incident to her harassing profession, her vigilance 
has been more than once lulled and baffled. The lunatic is both cunning and 
malignant; she has never failed to take advantage of her guardian's 
temporary lapses; once to secrete the knife with which she stabbed her 
brother, and twice to possess herself of the key of her cell, and issue 
therefrom in the night-time. On the first of these occasions, she 
perpetrated the attempt to burn me in my bed; on the second, she paid that 
ghastly visit to you. I thank Providence, who watched over you, that she 
then spent her fury on your wedding apparel, which perhaps brought back 
vague reminiscences of her own bridal days: but on what might have 
happened, I cannot endure to reflect. When I think of the thing which flew 
at my throat this morning, hanging its black and scarlet visage over the 
nest of my dove, my blood curdles -"
"And what, sir," I asked, while he paused, "did you do when you had settled 
her here? Where did you go?"
"What did I do, Jane? I transformed myself into a will-o'-the-wisp. Where 
did I go? I pursued wanderings as wild as those of the March-spirit. I 
sought the Continent, and went devious through all its lands. My fixed 
desire was to seek and find a good and intelligent woman, whom I could 
love: a contrast to the fury I left at Thornfield -"
"But you could not marry, sir."
"I had determined and was convinced that I could and ought. It was not my 
original intention to deceive, as I have deceived you. I meant to tell my 
tale plainly, and make my proposals openly: and it appeared to me so 
absolutely rational that I should be considered free to love and be loved, 
I never doubted some woman might be found willing and able to understand my 
case and accept me, in spite of the curse with which I was burdened."
"Well, sir?"
"When you are inquisitive, Jane, you always make me smile. You open your 
eyes like an eager bird, and make every now and then a restless movement, 
as if answers in speech did not flow fast enough for you, and you wanted to 
read the tablet of one's heart. But before I go on, tell me what you mean 
by your 'Well, sir?' It is a small phrase very frequent with you; and which 
many a time has drawn me on and on through interminable talk: I don't very 
well know why."
"I mean, - What next? How did you proceed? What came of such an event?"
"Precisely! and what do you wish to know now?"
"Whether you found any one you liked: whether you asked her to marry you; 
and what she said."
"I can tell you whether I found any one I liked, and whether I asked her to 
marry me: but what she said is yet to be recorded in the book of Fate. For 
ten long years I roved about, living first in one capital, then another: 
sometimes in St. Petersburg; oftener in Paris; occasionally in Rome, 
Naples, and Florence. Provided with plenty of money and the passport of an 
old name, I could choose my own society: no circles were closed against me. 
I sought my ideal of a woman amongst English ladies, French countesses, 
Italian signoras, and German grafinnen. I could not find her. Sometimes, 
for a fleeting moment, I thought I caught a glance, heard a tone, beheld a 
form, which announced the realisation of my dream: but I was presently 
undeceived. You are not to suppose that I desired perfection, either of 
mind or person. I longed only for what suited me - for the antipodes of the 
Creole: and I longed vainly. Amongst them all I found not one whom, had I 
been ever so free, I - warned as I was of the risks, the horrors, the 
loathings of incongruous unions - would have asked to marry me. 
Disappointment made me reckless. I tried dissipation - never debauchery: 
that I hated, and hate. That was my Indian Messalina's attribute: rooted 
disgust at it and her restrained me much, even in pleasure. Any enjoyment 
that bordered on riot seemed to approach me to her and her vices, and I 
eschewed it.
"Yet I could not live alone; so I tried the companionship of mistresses. 
The first I chose was Celine Varens - another of those steps which make a 
man spurn himself when he recalls them. You already know what she was, and 
how my liaison with her terminated. She had two successors: an Italian, 
Giacinta, and a German, Clara; both considered singularly handsome. What 
was their beauty to me in a few weeks? Giacinta was unprincipled and 
violent: I tired of her in three months. Clara was honest and quiet; but 
heavy, mindless, and unimpressible: not one whit to my taste. I was glad to 
give her a sufficient sum to set her up in a good line of business, and so 
get decently rid of her. But, Jane, I see by your face you are not forming 
a very favourable opinion of me just now. You think me an unfeeling, loose-
principled rake: don't you?"
"I don't like you so well as I have done sometimes, indeed, sir. Did it not 
seem to you in the least wrong to live in that way, first with one mistress 
and then another? You talk of it as a mere matter of course."
"It was with me; and I did not like it. It was a grovelling fashion of 
existence: I should never like to return to it. Hiring a mistress is the 
next worse thing to buying a slave: both are often by nature, and always by 
position, inferior: and to live familiarly with inferiors is degrading. I 
now hate the recollection of the time I passed with Celine, Giacinta, and 
Clara."
I felt the truth of these words; and I drew from them the certain 
inference, that if I were so far to forget myself and all the teaching that 
had ever been instilled into me, as - under any pretext - with any 
justification - through any temptation - to become the successor of these 
poor girls, he would one day regard me with the same feeling which now in 
his mind desecrated their memory. I did not give utterance to this 
conviction: it was enough to feel it. I impressed it on my heart, that it 
might remain there to serve me as aid in the time of trial.
"Now, Jane, why don't you say 'Well, sir?' I have not done. You are looking 
grave. You disapprove of me still, I see. But let me come to the point. 
Last January, rid of all mistresses - in a harsh, bitter frame of mind, the 
result of a useless, roving, lonely life - corroded with disappointment, 
sourly disposed against all men, and especially against all womankind (for 
I began to regard the notion of an intellectual, faithful, loving woman as 
a mere dream), recalled by business, I came back to England.
"On a frosty winter afternoon, I rode in sight of Thornfield Hall. Abhorred 
spot! I expected no peace - no pleasure there. On a stile in Hay Lane I saw 
a quiet little figure sitting by itself. I passed it as negligently as I 
did the pollard willow opposite to it: I had no presentiment of what it 
would be to me; no inward warning that the arbitress of my life - my genius 
for good or evil - waited there in humble guise. I did not know it, even 
when, on the occasion of Mesrour's accident, it came up and gravely offered 
me help. Childish and slender creature! It seemed as if a linnet had hopped 
to my foot and proposed to bear me on its tiny wing. I was surly; but the 
thing would not go: it stood by me with strange perseverance, and looked 
and spoke with a sort of authority. I must be aided, and by that hand: and 
aided I was.
"When once I had pressed the frail shoulder, something new - a fresh sap 
and sense - stole into my frame. It was well I had learnt that this elf 
must return to me - that it belonged to my house down below - or I could 
not have felt it pass away from under my hand, and seen it vanish behind 
the dim hedge, without singular regret. I heard you come home that night, 
Jane, though probably you were not aware that I thought of you or watched 
for you. The next day I observed you - myself unseen - for half an hour, 
while you played with Adele in the gallery. It was a snowy day, I 
recollect, and you could not go out of doors. I was in my room; the door 
was ajar: I could both listen and watch. Adele claimed your outward 
attention for a while; yet I fancied your thoughts were elsewhere: but you 
were very patient with her, my little Jane; you talked to her and amused 
her a long time. When at last she left you, you lapsed at once into deep 
reverie: you betook yourself slowly to pace the gallery. Now and then, in 
passing a casement, you glanced out at the thick-falling snow; you listened 
to the sobbing wind, and again you paced gently on and dreamed. I think 
those day visions were not dark: there was a pleasurable illumination in 
your eye occasionally, a soft excitement in your aspect, which told of no 
bitter, bilious, hypochondriac brooding: your look revealed rather the 
sweet musings of youth when its spirit follows on willing wings the flight 
of Hope up and on to an ideal heaven. The voice of Mrs Fairfax, speaking to 
a servant in the hall, wakened you: and how curiously you smiled to and at 
yourself, Janet! There was much sense in your smile: it was very shrewd, 
and seemed to make light of your own abstraction. It seemed to say - 'My 
fine visions are all very well, but I must not forget they are absolutely 
unreal. I have a rosy sky and a green flowery Eden in my brain; but 
without, I am perfectly aware, lies at my feet a rough tract to travel, and 
around me gather black tempests to encounter.' You ran downstairs and 
demanded of Mrs Fairfax some occupation: the weekly house accounts to make 
up, or something of that sort, I think it was. I was vexed with you for 
getting out of my sight.
"Impatiently I waited for evening, when I might summon you to my presence. 
An unusual - to me - a perfectly new character I suspected was yours: I 
desired to search it deeper and know it better. You entered the room with a 
look and air at once shy and independent: you were quaintly dressed - much 
as you are now. I made you talk: ere long I found you full of strange 
contrasts. Your garb and manner were restricted by rule; your air was often 
diffident, and altogether that of one refined by nature, but absolutely 
unused to society, and a good deal afraid of making herself 
disadvantageously conspicuous by some solecism or blunder; yet when 
addressed, you lifted a keen, a daring, and a glowing eye to your 
interlocutor's face: there was penetration and power in each glance you 
gave; when plied by close questions, you found ready and round answers. 
Very soon you seemed to get used to me: I believe you felt the existence of 
sympathy between you and your grim and cross master, Jane; for it was 
astonishing to see how quickly a certain pleasant ease tranquillised your 
manner: snarl as I would, you showed no surprise, fear, annoyance, or 
displeasure at my moroseness; you watched me, and now and then smiled at me 
with a simple yet sagacious grace I cannot describe. I was at once content 
and stimulated with what I saw: I liked what I had seen, and wished to see 
more. Yet, for a long time, I treated you distantly, and sought your 
company rarely. I was an intellectual epicure, and wished to prolong the 
gratification of making this novel and piquant acquaintance: besides, I was 
for a while troubled with a haunting fear that if I handled the flower 
freely its bloom would fade - the sweet charm of freshness would leave it. 
I did not then know that it was no transitory blossom, but rather the 
radiant resemblance of one, cut in an indestructible gem. Moreover, I 
wished to see whether you would seek me if I shunned you - but you did not; 
you kept in the schoolroom as still as your own desk and easel; if by 
chance I met you, you passed me as soon, and with as little token of 
recognition, as was consistent with respect. Your habitual expression in 
those days, Jane, was a thoughtful look; not despondent, for you were not 
sickly; but not buoyant, for you had little hope, and no actual pleasure. I 
wondered what you thought of me, or if you ever thought of me, and resolved 
to find this out.
"I resumed my notice of you. There was something glad in your glance, and 
genial in your manner, when you conversed: I saw you had a social heart; it 
was the silent schoolroom - it was the tedium of your life - that made you 
mournful. I permitted myself the delight of being kind to you; kindness 
stirred emotion soon: your face became soft in expression, your tones 
gentle; I liked my name pronounced by your lips in a grateful happy accent. 
I used to enjoy a chance meeting with you, Jane, at this time: there was a 
curious hesitation in your manner: you glanced at me with a slight trouble -
 a hovering doubt: you did not know what my caprice might be - whether I 
was going to play the master and be stern, or the friend and be benignant. 
I was now too fond of you often to simulate the first whim; and, when I 
stretched my hand out cordially, such bloom and light and bliss rose to 
your young, wistful features, I had much ado often to avoid straining you 
then and there to my heart."
"Don't talk any more of those days, sir," I interrupted, furtively dashing 
away some tears from my eyes; his language was torture to me; for I knew 
what I must do - and do soon - and these reminiscences, and these 
revelations of his feelings, only made my work more difficult.
"No, Jane," he returned: "what necessity is there to dwell on the Past, 
when the Present is so much surer - the Future so much brighter?"
I shuddered to hear the infatuated assertion.
"You see now how the case stands - do you not?" he continued. "After a 
youth and manhood passed half in unutterable misery and half in dreary 
solitude, I have for the first time found what I can truly love - I have 
found you. You are my sympathy - my better self - my good angel. I am bound 
to you with a strong attachment. I think you good, gifted, lovely: a 
fervent, a solemn passion is conceived in my heart; it leans to you, draws 
you to my centre and spring of life, wraps my existence about you, and, 
kindling in pure, powerful flame, fuses you and me in one.
"It was because I felt and knew this, that I resolved to marry you. To tell 
me that I had already a wife is empty mockery: you know now that I had but 
a hideous demon. I was wrong to attempt to deceive you; but I feared a 
stubbornness that exists in your character. I feared early instilled 
prejudice: I wanted to have you safe before hazarding confidences. This was 
cowardly: I should have appealed to your nobleness and magnanimity at 
first, as I do now - opened to you plainly my life of agony - described to 
you my hunger and thirst after a higher and worthier existence - shown to 
you, not my resolution (that word is weak), but my resistless bent to love 
faithfully and well, where I am faithfully and well loved in return. Then I 
should have asked you to accept my pledge of fidelity and to give me yours. 
Jane - give it me now."
A pause.
"Why are you silent, Jane?"
I was experiencing an ordeal: a hand of fiery iron grasped my vitals. 
Terrible moment: full of struggle, blackness, burning! Not a human being 
that ever lived could wish to be loved better than I was loved; and him who 
thus loved me I absolutely worshipped: and I must renounce love and idol. 
One drear word comprised my intolerable duty - "Depart!"
"Jane, you understand what I want of you? Just this promise - 'I will be 
yours, Mr Rochester.'"
"Mr Rochester, I will not be yours."
Another long silence.
"Jane!" recommenced he, with a gentleness that broke me down with grief, 
and turned me stone-cold with ominous terror - for this still voice was the 
pant of a lion rising - "Jane, do you mean to go one way in the world, and 
to let me go another?"
"I do."
"Jane" (bending towards and embracing me), "do you mean it now?"
"I do."
"And now?" softly kissing my forehead and cheek.
"I do," extricating myself from restraint rapidly and completely.
"Oh, Jane, this is bitter! This - this is wicked. It would not be wicked to 
love me."
"It would to obey you."
A wild look raised his brows - crossed his features: he rose; but he 
forbore yet. I laid my hand on the back of a chair for support: I shook, I 
feared - but I resolved.
"One instant, Jane. Give one glance to my horrible life when you are gone. 
All happiness will be torn away with you. What then is left? For a wife I 
have but the maniac upstairs: as well might you refer me to some corpse in 
yonder churchyard. What shall I do, Jane? Where turn for a companion and 
for some hope?"
"Do as I do: trust in God and yourself. Believe in heaven. Hope to meet 
again there."
"Then you will not yield?"
"No."
"Then you condemn me to live wretched and to die accursed?" His voice rose.
"I advise you to live sinless, and I wish you to die tranquil."
"Then you snatch love and innocence from me? You fling me back on lust for 
a passion - vice for an occupation?"
"Mr Rochester, I no more assign this fate to you than I grasp at it for 
myself. We were born to strive and endure - you as well as I: do so. You 
will forget me before I forget you."
"You make me a liar by such language: you sully my honour. I declared I 
could not change: you tell me to my face I shall change soon. And what a 
distortion in your judgment, what a perversity in your ideas, is proved by 
your conduct! Is it better to drive a fellow-creature to despair than to 
transgress a mere human law, no man being injured by the breach? for you 
have neither relatives nor acquaintances whom you need fear to offend by 
living with me?"
This was true: and while he spoke my very conscience and reason turned 
traitors against me, and charged me with crime in resisting him. They spoke 
almost as loud as Feeling: and that clamoured wildly. "Oh, comply!" it 
said. "Think of his misery; think of his danger - look at his state when 
left alone; remember his headlong nature; consider the recklessness 
following on despair - soothe him; save him; love him; tell him you love 
him and will be his. Who in the world cares for you? or who will be injured 
by what you do?"
Still indomitable was the reply - "I care for myself. The more solitary, 
the more friendless, the more unsustained I am, the more I will respect 
myself. I will keep the law given by God; sanctioned by man. I will hold to 
the principles received by me when I was sane, and not mad - as I am now. 
Laws and principles are not for the times when there is no temptation: they 
are for such moments as this, when body and soul rise in mutiny against 
their rigour; stringent are they; inviolate they shall be. If at my 
individual convenience I might break them, what would be their worth? They 
have a worth - so I have always believed; and if I cannot believe it now, 
it is because I am insane - quite insane: with my veins running fire, and 
my heart beating faster than I can count its throbs. Preconceived opinions, 
foregone determinations, are all I have at this hour to stand by: there I 
plant my foot."
I did. Mr Rochester, reading my countenance, saw I had done so. His fury 
was wrought to the highest: he must yield to it for a moment, whatever 
followed; he crossed the floor and seized my arm and grasped my waist. He 
seemed to devour me with his flaming glance: physically, I felt, at the 
moment, powerless as stubble exposed to the draught and glow of a furnace: 
mentally, I still possessed my soul, and with it the certainty of ultimate 
safety. The soul, fortunately, has an interpreter - often an unconscious, 
but still a truthful interpreter - in the eye. My eye rose to his; and 
while I looked in his fierce face I gave an involuntary sigh; his gripe was 
painful, and my overtaxed strength almost exhausted.
"Never," said he, as he ground his teeth, "never was anything at once so 
frail and so indomitable. A mere reed she feels in my hand!" (And he shook 
me with the force of his hold.) "I could bend her with my finger and thumb: 
and what good would it do if I bent, if I uptore, if I crushed her? 
Consider that eye: consider the resolute, wild, free thing looking out of 
it, defying me, with more than courage - with a stern triumph. Whatever I 
do with its cage, I cannot get at it - the savage, beautiful creature! If I 
tear, if I rend the slight prison, my outrage will only let the captive 
loose. Conqueror I might be of the house; but the inmate would escape to 
heaven before I could call myself possessor of its clay dwelling-place. And 
it is you, spirit - with will and energy, and virtue and purity - that I 
want: not alone your brittle frame. Of yourself you could come with soft 
flight and nestle against my heart, if you would: seized against your will, 
you will elude the grasp like an essence - you will vanish ere I inhale 
your fragrance. Oh! come, Jane, come!"
As he said this, he released me from his clutch, and only looked at me. The 
look was far worse to resist than the frantic strain: only an idiot, 
however, would have succumbed now. I had dared and baffled his fury; I must 
elude his sorrow: retired to the door.
"You are going, Jane?"
"I am going, sir."
"You are leaving me?"
"Yes."
"You will not come? You will not be my comforter, my rescuer? My deep love, 
my wild woe, my frantic prayer, are all nothing to you?"
What unutterable pathos was in his voice! How hard it was to reiterate 
firmly, "I am going."
"Jane!"
"Mr Rochester!"
"Withdraw, then, - I consent; but remember, you leave me here in anguish. 
Go up to your own room; think over all I have said, and, Jane, cast a 
glance on my sufferings - think of me."
He turned away; he threw himself on his face on the sofa. "Oh, Jane! my 
hope - my love - my life!" broke in anguish from his lips. Then came a 
deep, strong sob.
I had already gained the door; but, reader, I walked back - walked back as 
determinedly as I had retreated. I knelt down by him; I turned his face 
from the cushion to me; I kissed his cheek; I smoothed his hair with my 
hand.
"God bless you, my dear master!" I said. "God keep you from harm and wrong -
 direct you, solace you - reward you well for your past kindness to me."
"Little Jane's love would have been my best reward," he answered; "without 
it, my heart is broken. But Jane will give me her love: yes - nobly, 
generously."
Up the blood rushed to his face; forth flashed the fire from his eyes; 
erect he sprang; he held his arms out; but I evaded the embrace, and at 
once quitted the room.
"Farewell!" was the cry of my heart as I left him. Despair added, "Farewell 
for ever!"

*** *** *** *** *** ***

That night I never thought to sleep; but a slumber fell on me as soon as I 
lay down in bed. I was transported in thought to the scenes of childhood: I 
dreamt I lay in the red-room at Gateshead; that the night was dark, and my 
mind impressed with strange fears. The light that long ago had struck me 
into syncope, recalled in this vision, seemed glidingly to mount the wall, 
and tremblingly to pause in the centre of the obscured ceiling. I lifted up 
my head to look: the roof resolved to clouds, high and dim; the gleam was 
such as the moon imparts to vapours she is about to sever. I watched her 
come - watched with the strangest anticipation; as though some word of doom 
were to be written on her disk. She broke forth as never moon yet burst 
from cloud: a hand first penetrated the sable folds and waved them away; 
then, not a moon, but a white human form shone in the azure, inclining a 
glorious brow earthward. It gazed and gazed on me. It spoke to my spirit: 
immeasurably distant was the tone, yet so near, it whispered in my heart -
"My daughter, flee temptation."
"Mother, I will."
So I answered after I had waked from the trance-like dream. It was yet 
night, but July nights are short: soon after midnight, dawn comes. "It 
cannot be too early to commence the task I have to fulfil," thought I. I 
rose: I was dressed; for I had taken off nothing but my shoes. I knew where 
to find in my drawers some linen, a locket, a ring. In seeking these 
articles, I encountered the beads of a pearl necklace Mr Rochester had 
forced me to accept a few days ago. I left that; it was not mine: it was 
the visionary bride's who had melted in air. The other articles I made up 
in a parcel; my purse, containing twenty shillings (it was all I had), I 
put in my pocket: I tied on my straw bonnet, pinned my shawl, took the 
parcel and my slippers, which I would not put on yet, and stole from my 
room.
"Farewell, kind Mrs Fairfax!" I whispered, as I glided past her door. 
"Farewell, my darling Adele! I said, as I glanced towards the nursery. No 
thought could be admitted of entering to embrace her. I had to deceive a 
fine ear: for aught I knew it might now be listening.
I would have got past Mr Rochester's chamber without a pause; but my heart 
momentarily stopping its beat at that threshold, my foot was forced to stop 
also. No sleep was there: the inmate was walking restlessly from wall to 
wall; and again and again he sighed while I listened. There was a heaven - 
a temporary heaven - in this room for me, if I chose: I had but to go in 
and to say -
"Mr Rochester, I will love you and live with you through life till death," 
and a fount of rapture would spring to my lips. I thought of this.
That kind master, who could not sleep now, was waiting with impatience for 
day. He would send for me in the morning; I should be gone. He would have 
me sought for: vainly. He would feel himself forsaken; his love rejected: 
he would suffer; perhaps grow desperate. I thought of this too. My hand 
moved towards the lock: I caught it back, and glided on.
Drearily I wound my way downstairs: I knew what I had to do, and I did it 
mechanically. I sought the key of the side-door in the kitchen; I sought, 
too, a phial of oil and a feather; I oiled the key and the lock. I got some 
water, I got some bread: for perhaps I should have to walk far; and my 
strength, sorely shaken of late, must not break down. All this I did 
without one sound. I opened the door, passed out, shut it softly. Dim dawn 
glimmered in the yard. The great gates were closed and locked; but a wicket 
in one of them was only latched. Through that I departed: it, too, I shut; 
and now I was out of Thornfield.
A mile off, beyond the fields, lay a road which stretched in the contrary 
direction to Millcote; a road I had never travelled, but often noticed, and 
wondered where it led: thither I bent my steps. No reflection was to be 
allowed now: not one glance was to be cast back; not even one forward. Not 
one thought was to be given either to the past or to the future. The first 
was a page so heavenly sweet - so deadly sad - that to read one line of it 
would dissolve my courage and break down my energy. The last was an awful 
blank: something like the world when the deluge was gone by.
I skirted fields, and hedges, and lanes till after sunrise. I believe it 
was a lovely summer morning: I know my shoes, which I had put on when I 
left the house, were soon wet with dew. But I looked neither to rising sun, 
nor smiling sky, nor wakening nature. He who is taken out to pass through a 
fair scene to the scaffold, thinks not of the flowers that smile on his 
road, but of the block and axe-edge; of the disseverment of bone and vein; 
of the grave gaping at the end: and I thought of drear flight and homeless 
wandering - and oh! with agony I thought of what I left. I could not help 
it. I thought of him now - in his room - watching the sunrise; hoping I 
should soon come to say I would stay with him, and be his. I longed to be 
his; I panted to return: it was not too late; I could yet spare him the 
bitter pang of bereavement. As yet my flight, I was sure, was undiscovered. 
I could go back and be his comforter - his pride; his redeemer from misery; 
perhaps from ruin. Oh, that fear of his self-abandonment - far worse than 
my abandonment - how it goaded me! It was a barbed arrowhead in my breast; 
it tore me when I tried to extract it; it sickened me when Remembrance 
thrust it further in. Birds began singing in brake and copse: birds were 
faithful to their mates; birds were emblems of love. What was I? In the 
midst of my pain of heart, and frantic effort of principle, I abhorred 
myself. I had no solace from self-approbation: none even from self-respect. 
I had injured - wounded - left my master. I was hateful in my own eyes. 
Still I could not turn, nor retrace one step. God must have led me on. As 
to my own will or conscience, impassioned grief had trampled one and 
stifled the other. I was weeping wildly as I walked along my solitary way: 
fast, fast I went like one delirious. A weakness, beginning inwardly, 
extending to the limbs, seized me, and I fell: I lay on the ground some 
minutes, pressing my face to the wet turf. I had some fear - or hope - that 
here I should die: but I was soon up; crawling forwards on my hands and 
knees, and then again raised to my feet - as eager and as determined as 
ever to reach the road.
When I got there I was forced to sit to rest me under the hedge; and while 
I sat, I heard wheels, and saw a coach come on. I stood up and lifted my 
hand; it stopped. I asked where it was going: the driver named a place a 
long way off, and where I was sure Mr Rochester had no connections. I asked 
for what sum he would take me there; he said thirty shillings; I answered I 
had but twenty; well, he would try to make it do. He further gave me leave 
to get into the inside, as the vehicle was empty: I entered, was shut in, 
and it rolled on its way.
Gentle reader, may you never feel what I then felt! May your eyes never 
shed such stormy, scalding, heart-wrung tears as poured from mine. May you 
never appeal to Heaven in prayers so hopeless and so agonized as in that 
hour left my lips: for never may you, like me, dread to be the instrument 
of evil to what you wholly love.


Chapter 28

Two days are passed. It is a summer evening; the coachman has set me down 
at a place called Whitcross; he could take me no farther for the sum I had 
given, and I was not possessed of another shilling in the world. The coach 
is a mile off by this time; I am alone. At this moment I discover that I 
forgot to take my parcel out of the pocket of the coach, where I had placed 
it for safety; there it remains, there it must remain; and now, I am 
absolutely destitute.
Whitcross is no town, nor even a hamlet; it is but a stone pillar set up 
where four roads meet: whitewashed, I suppose to be more obvious at a 
distance and in darkness. Four arms spring from its summit: the nearest 
town to which these point is, according to the inscription, distant ten 
miles; the farthest, above twenty. From the well-known names of these towns 
I learn in what county I have lighted; a north-midland shire, dusk with 
moorland, ridged with mountain: this I see. There are great moors behind 
and on each hand of me; there are waves of mountains far beyond that deep 
valley at my feet. The population here must be thin, and I see no 
passengers on these roads: they stretch out east, west, north, and south - 
white, broad, lonely; they are all cut in the moor, and the heather grows 
deep and wild to their very verge. Yet a chance traveller might pass by; 
and I wish no eye to see me now: strangers would wonder what I am doing, 
lingering here at the sign-post, evidently objectless and lost. I might be 
questioned: I could give no answer but what would sound incredible, and 
excite suspicion. Not a tie holds me to human society at this moment - not 
a charm or hope calls me where my fellow-creatures are - none that saw me 
would have a kind thought or a good wish for me. I have no relative but the 
universal mother, nature: I will seek her breast and ask repose.
I struck straight into the heath; I held on to a hollow I saw deeply 
furrowing the brown moorside; I waded knee-deep in its dark growth; I 
turned with its turnings, and finding a moss-blackened granite crag in a 
hidden angle, I sat down under it. High banks of moor were about me; the 
crag protected my head: the sky was over that.
Some time passed before I felt tranquil even here: I had a vague dread that 
wild cattle might be near, or that some sportsman or poacher might discover 
me. If a gust of wind swept the waste, I looked up, fearing it was the rush 
of a bull; if a plover whistled, I imagined it a man. Finding my 
apprehensions unfounded, however, and calmed by the deep silence that 
reigned as evening declined to nightfall, I took confidence. As yet I had 
not thought; I had only listened, watched, dreaded; now I regained the 
faculty of reflection.
What was I to do? Where to go? Oh, intolerable questions, when I could do 
nothing and go nowhere! - when a long way must yet be measured by my weary, 
trembling limbs, before I could reach human habitation - when cold charity 
must be entreated before I could get a lodging: reluctant sympathy 
importuned: almost certain repulse incurred: before my tale could be 
listened to, or one of my wants relieved!
I touched the heath: it was dry, and yet warm with the heat of the summer-
day. I looked at the sky; it was pure: a kindly star twinkled just above 
the chasm ridge. The dew fell, but with propitious softness; no breeze 
whispered. Nature seemed to me benign and good; I thought she loved me, 
outcast as I was; and I, who from man could anticipate only mistrust, 
rejection, insult, clung to her with filial fondness. Tonight, at least, I 
would be her guest - as I was her child: my mother would lodge me without 
money and without price. I had one morsel of bread yet: the remnant of a 
roll I had bought in a town we passed through at noon with a stray penny - 
my last coin. I saw ripe bilberries gleaming here and there, like jet beads 
in the heath: I gathered a handful and ate them with the bread. My hunger, 
sharp before, was, if not satisfied, appeased by this hermit's meal. I said 
my evening prayers at its conclusion, and then chose my couch.
Beside the crag the heath was very deep: when I lay down my feet were 
buried in it; rising high on each side, it left only a narrow space for the 
night-air to invade. I folded my shawl double, and spread it over me for a 
coverlet; a low, mossy swell was my pillow. Thus lodged, I was not, at 
least at the commencement of the night, cold.
My rest might have been blissful enough, only a sad heart broke it. It 
plained of its gaping wounds, its inward bleeding, its riven chords. It 
trembled for Mr Rochester and his doom; it bemoaned him with bitter pity; 
it demanded him with ceaseless longing; and, impotent as a bird with both 
wings broken, it still quivered its shattered pinions in vain attempts to 
seek him.
Worn out with this torture of thought, I rose to my knees. Night was come, 
and her planets were risen: a safe, still night: too serene for the 
companionship of fear. We know that God is everywhere; but certainly we 
feel His presence most when His works are on the grandest scale spread 
before us; and it is in the unclouded night-sky, where His worlds wheel 
their silent course, that we read clearest His infinitude, His omnipotence, 
His omnipresence. I had risen to my knees to pray for Mr Rochester. Looking 
up, I, with tear-dimmed eyes, saw the mighty Milky-way. Remembering what it 
was - what countless systems there swept space like a soft trace of light - 
I felt the might and strength of God. Sure was I of His efficiency to save 
what He had made: convinced I grew that neither earth should perish, nor 
one of the souls it treasured. I turned my prayer to thanksgiving: the 
Source of Life was also the Saviour of spirits. Mr Rochester was safe: he 
was God's, and by God would he be guarded. I again nestled to the breast of 
the hill; and ere long in sleep forgot sorrow.
But next day, Want came to me pale and bare. Long after the little birds 
had left their nests; long after bees had come in the sweet prime of day to 
gather the heath honey before the dew was dried - when the long morning 
shadows were curtailed, and the sun filled earth and sky - I got up, and I 
looked round me.
What a still, hot, perfect day! What a golden desert this spreading moor! 
Everywhere sunshine. I wished I could live in it and on it. I saw a lizard 
run over the crag; I saw a bee busy among the sweet bilberries. I would 
fain at the moment have become bee or lizard, that I might have found 
fitting nutriment, permanent shelter here. But I was a human being, and had 
a human being's wants: I must not linger where there was nothing to supply 
them. I rose; I looked back at the bed I had left. Hopeless of the future, 
I wished but this - that my Maker had that night thought good to require my 
soul of me while I slept; and that this weary frame, absolved by death from 
further conflict with fate, had now but to decay quietly, and mingle in 
peace with the soil of this wilderness. Life, however, was yet in my 
possession, with all its requirements, and pains, and responsibilities. The 
burden must be carried; the want provided for; the suffering endured; the 
responsibility fulfilled. I set out.
Whitcross regained, I followed a road which led from the sun, now fervent 
and high. By no other circumstance had I will to decide my choice. I walked 
a long time, and when I thought I had nearly done enough, and might 
conscientiously yield to the fatigue that almost overpowered me - might 
relax this forced action, and, sitting down on a stone I saw near, submit 
resistlessly to the apathy that clogged heart and limb - I heard a bell 
chime - a church bell.
I turned in the direction of the sound, and there, amongst the romantic 
hills, whose changes and aspect I had ceased to note an hour ago, I saw a 
hamlet and a spire. All the valley at my right hand was full of pasture-
fields, and cornfields, and wood; and a glittering stream ran zigzag 
through the varied shades of green, the mellowing grain, the sombre 
woodland, the clear and sunny lea. Recalled by the rumbling of wheels to 
the road before me, I saw a heavily-laden waggon labouring up the hill, and 
not far beyond were two cows and their drover. Human life and human labour 
were near. I must struggle on: strive to live and bend to toil like the 
rest.
About two o'clock P.M. I entered the village. At the bottom of its one 
street there was a little shop with some cakes of bread in the window. I 
coveted a cake of bread. With that refreshment I could perhaps regain a 
degree of energy: without it, it would be difficult to proceed. The wish to 
have some strength and some vigour returned to me as soon as I was amongst 
my fellow-beings. I felt it would be degrading to faint with hunger on the 
causeway of a hamlet. Had I nothing about me I could offer in exchange for 
one of these rolls? I considered. I had a small silk handkerchief tied 
round my throat; I had my gloves. I could hardly tell how men and women in 
extremities of destitution proceeded. I did not know whether either of 
these articles would be accepted: probably they would not; but I must try.
I entered the shop: a woman was there. Seeing a respectably-dressed person, 
a lady as she supposed, she came forward with civility. How could she serve 
me? I was seized with shame: my tongue would not utter the request I had 
prepared. I dared not offer her the half-worn gloves, the creased 
handkerchief: besides, I felt it would be absurd. I only begged permission 
to sit down a moment, as I was tired. Disappointed in the expectation of a 
customer, she coolly acceded to my request. She pointed to a seat; I sank 
into it. I felt sorely urged to weep; but conscious how unseasonable such a 
manifestation would be, I restrained it. Soon I asked her "if there were 
any dressmaker or plain-workwoman in the village?"
"Yes; two or three. Quite as many as there was employment for."
I reflected. I was driven to the point now. I was brought face to face with 
Necessity. I stood in the position of one without a resource, without a 
friend, without a coin. I must do something. What? I must apply somewhere. 
Where?
"Did she know of any place in the neighbourhood where a servant was 
wanted?"
"Nay; she couldn't say."
"What was the chief trade in this place? What did most of the people do?"
"Some were farm labourers; a good deal worked at Mr Oliver's needle-
factory, and at the foundry."
"Did Mr Oliver employ women?"
"Nay; it was men's work."
"And what do the women do?"
"I knawn't," was the answer. "Some does one thing, and some another. Poor 
folk mun get on as they can."
She seemed to be tired of my questions: and, indeed, what claim had I to 
importune her? A neighbour or two came in; my chair was evidently wanted. I 
took leave.
I passed up the street, looking as I went at all the houses to the right 
hand and to the left; but I could discover no pretext, nor see an 
inducement to enter any. I rambled round the hamlet, going sometimes to a 
little distance and returning again, for an hour or more. Much exhausted, 
and suffering greatly now for want of food, I turned aside into a lane and 
sat down under the hedge. Ere many minutes had elapsed, I was again on my 
feet, however, and again searching something - a resource, or at least an 
informant. A pretty little house stood at the top of the lane, with a 
garden before it, exquisitely neat and brilliantly blooming. I stopped at 
it. What business had I to approach the white door or touch the glittering 
knocker? In what way could it possibly be the interest of the inhabitants 
of that dwelling to serve me? Yet I drew near and knocked. A mild-looking, 
cleanly-attired young woman opened the door. In such a voice as might be 
expected from a hopeless heart and fainting frame - a voice wretchedly low 
and faltering - I asked if a servant was wanted here?
"No," said she; "we do not keep a servant."
"Can you tell me where I could get employment of any kind?" I continued. "I 
am a stranger, without acquaintance in this place. I want some work: no 
matter what."
But it was not her business to think for me, or to seek a place for me: 
besides, in her eyes, how doubtful must have appeared my character, 
position, tale. She shook her head, she "was sorry she could give me no 
information," and the white door closed, quite gently and civilly: but it 
shut me out. If she had held it open a little longer, I believe I should 
have begged a piece of bread; for I was now brought low.
I could not bear to return to the sordid village, where, besides, no 
prospect of aid was visible. I should have longed rather to deviate to a 
wood I saw not far off, which appeared in its thick shade to offer inviting 
shelter; but I was so sick, so weak, so gnawed with nature's cravings, 
instinct kept me roaming round abodes where there was a chance of food. 
Solitude would be no solitude - rest no rest - while the vulture, hunger, 
thus sank beak and talons in my side.
I drew near houses; I left them, and came back again, and again I wandered 
away: always repelled by the consciousness of having no claim to ask - no 
right to expect interest in my isolated lot. Meantime, the afternoon 
advanced, while I thus wandered about like a lost and starving dog. In 
crossing a field, I saw the church spire before me: I hastened towards it. 
Near the churchyard, and in the middle of a garden, stood a well-built 
though small house, which I had no doubt was the parsonage. I remembered 
that strangers who arrive at a place where they have no friends, and who 
want employment, sometimes apply to the clergyman for introduction and aid. 
It is the clergyman's function to help - at least with advice - those who 
wished to help themselves. I seemed to have something like a right to seek 
counsel here. Renewing then my courage, and gathering my feeble remains of 
strength, I pushed on. I reached the house, and knocked at the kitchen-
door. An old woman opened: I asked was this the parsonage?
"Yes."
"Was the clergyman in?"
"No."
"Would he be in soon?"
"No, he was gone from home."
"To a distance?"
"Not so far - happen three mile. He had been called away by the sudden 
death of his father: he was at Marsh End now, and would very likely stay 
there a fortnight longer."
"Was there any lady of the house?"
"Nay, there was naught but her, and she was housekeeper"; and of her, 
reader, I could not bear to ask the relief for want of which I was sinking; 
I could not yet beg; and again I crawled away.
Once more I took off my handkerchief - once more I thought of the cakes of 
bread in the little shop. Oh, for but a crust! for but one mouthful to 
allay the pang of famine! Instinctively I turned my face again to the 
village; I found the shop again, and I went in; and though others were 
there besides the woman I ventured the request - "Would she give me a roll 
for this handkerchief?"
She looked at me with evident suspicion: "Nay, she never sold stuff i' that 
way."
Almost desperate, I asked for half a cake; she again refused. "How could 
she tell where I had got the handkerchief?" she said.
"Would she take my gloves?"
"No! what could she do with them?"
Reader, it is not pleasant to dwell on these details. Some say there is 
enjoyment in looking back to painful experience past; but at this day I can 
scarcely bear to review the times to which I allude: the moral degradation, 
blent with the physical suffering, form too distressing a recollection ever 
to be willingly dwelt on. I blamed none of those who repulsed me. I felt it 
was what was to be expected, and what could not be helped: an ordinary 
beggar is frequently an object of suspicion; a well-dressed beggar 
inevitably so. To be sure, what I begged was employment; but whose business 
was it to provide me with employment? Not, certainly, that of persons who 
saw me then for the first time, and who knew nothing about my character. 
And as to the woman who would not take my handkerchief in exchange for her 
bread, why, she was right, if the offer appeared to her sinister or the 
exchange unprofitable. Let me condense now. I am sick of the subject.
A little before dark I passed a farmhouse, at the open door of which the 
farmer was sitting, eating his supper of bread and cheese. I stopped and 
said -
"Will you give me a piece of bread? for I am very hungry." He cast on me a 
glance of surprise; but without answering, he cut a thick slice from his 
loaf, and gave it to me. I imagine he did not think I was a beggar, but 
only an eccentric sort of lady, who had taken a fancy to his brown loaf. As 
soon as I was out of sight of his house, I sat down and ate it.
I could not hope to get a lodging under a roof, and sought it in the wood I 
have before alluded to. But my night was wretched, my rest broken: the 
ground was damp, the air cold: besides, intruders passed near me more than 
once, and I had again and again to change my quarters: no sense of safety 
or tranquillity befriended me. Towards morning it rained; the whole of the 
following day was wet. Do not ask me, reader, to give a minute account of 
that day; as before, I sought work; as before, I was repulsed; as before, I 
starved; but once did food pass my lips. At the door of a cottage I saw a 
little girl about to throw a mess of cold porridge into a pig trough. "Will 
you give me that?" I asked.
She stared at me. "Mother!" she exclaimed, "there is a woman wants me to 
give her these porridge."
"Well, lass," replied a voice within, "give it her if she's a beggar. T' 
pig doesn't want it."
The girl emptied the stiffened mould into my hands and I devoured it 
ravenously.
As the wet twilight deepened, I stopped in a solitary bridle-path, which I 
had been pursuing an hour or more.
"My strength is quite failing me," I said in a soliloquy. "I feel I cannot 
go much farther. Shall I be an outcast again this night? While the rain 
descends so, must I lay my head on the cold, drenched ground? I fear I 
cannot do otherwise: for who will receive me? But it will be very dreadful, 
with this feeling of hunger, faintness, chill, and this sense of desolation 
- this total prostration of hope. In all likelihood, though, I should die 
before morning. And why cannot I reconcile myself to the prospect of death? 
Why do I struggle to retain a valueless life? Because I know, or believe, 
Mr Rochester is living: and then, to die of want and cold is a fate to 
which nature cannot submit passively. Oh, Providence! sustain me a little 
longer! Aid! - direct me!"
My glazed eye wandered over the dim and misty landscape. I saw I had 
strayed far from the village: it was quite out of sight. The very 
cultivation surrounding it had disappeared. I had, by cross-ways and by-
paths, once more drawn near the tract of moorland; and now, only a few 
fields, almost as wild and unproductive as the heath from which they were 
scarcely reclaimed, lay between me and the dusky hill.
"Well, I would rather die yonder than in a street or on a frequented road," 
I reflected. "And far better that crows and ravens - if any ravens there be 
in these regions - should pick my flesh from my bones, than that they 
should be prisoned in a workhouse coffin and moulder in a pauper's grave."
To the hill, then, I turned. I reached it. It remained now only to find a 
hollow where I could lie down, and feel at least hidden, if not secure. But 
all the surface of the waste looked level. It showed no variation but of 
tint: green, where rush and moss overgrew the marshes; black, where the dry 
soil bore only heath. Dark as it was getting, I could still see these 
changes, though but as mere alternations of light and shade; for colour had 
faded with the daylight.
My eye still roved over the sullen swell and along the moor-edge, vanishing 
amidst the wildest scenery, when at one dim point, far in among the marshes 
and the ridges, a light sprang up. "That is an ignis-fatuus," was my first 
thought; and I expected it would soon vanish. It burnt on, however, quite 
steadily, neither receding nor advancing. "Is it, then, a bonfire just 
kindled?" I questioned. I watched to see whether it would spread: but no; 
as it did not diminish, so it did not enlarge. "It may be a candle in a 
house," I then conjectured; "but if so, I can never reach it. It is much 
too far away: and were it within a yard of me, what would it avail? I 
should but knock at the door to have it shut in my face."
And I sank down where I stood, and hid my face against the ground. I lay 
still a while: the night-wind swept over the hill and over me, and died 
moaning in the distance; the rain fell fast, wetting me afresh to the skin. 
Could I but have stiffened to the still frost - the friendly numbness of 
death - it might have pelted on; I should not have felt it; but my yet 
living flesh shuddered at its chilling influence. I rose ere long.
The light was yet there, shining dim but constant through the rain. I tried 
to walk again: I dragged my exhausted limbs slowly towards it. It led me 
aslant over the hill, through a wide bog, which would have been impassable 
in winter, and was splashy and shaking even now, in the height of summer. 
Here I fell twice; but as often I rose and rallied my faculties. This light 
was my forlorn hope: I must gain it.
Having crossed the marsh, I saw a trace of white over the moor. I 
approached it; it was a road or a track: it led straight up to the light, 
which now beamed from a sort of knoll, amidst a clump of trees - firs, 
apparently, from what I could distinguish of the character of their forms 
and foliage through the gloom. My star vanished as I drew near: some 
obstacle had intervened between me and it. I put out my hand to feel the 
dark mass before me: I discriminated the rough stones of a low wall - above 
it, something like palisades, and within, a high and prickly hedge. I 
groped on. Again a whitish object gleamed before me: it was a gate - a 
wicket; it moved on its hinges as I touched it. On each side stood a sable 
bush - holly or yew.
Entering the gate and passing the shrubs, the silhouette of a house rose to 
view, black, low, and rather long; but the guiding light shone nowhere. All 
was obscurity. Were the inmates retired to rest? I feared it must be so. In 
seeking the door, I turned an angle: there shot out the friendly gleam 
again, from the lozenged panes of a very small latticed window, within a 
foot of the ground, made still smaller by the growth of ivy or some other 
creeping plant, whose leaves clustered thick over the portion of the house 
wall in which it was set. The aperture was so screened and narrow, that 
curtain or shutter had been deemed unnecessary; and when I stooped down and 
put aside the spray of foliage shooting over it, I could see all within. I 
could see clearly a room with a sanded floor, clean scoured; a dresser of 
walnut, with pewter plates ranged in rows, reflecting the redness and 
radiance of a glowing peat-fire. I could see a clock, a white deal table, 
some chairs. The candle, whose ray had been my beacon, burnt on the table; 
and by its light an elderly woman, somewhat rough-looking, but scrupulously 
clean, like all about her, was knitting a stocking.
I noticed these objects cursorily only - in them there was nothing 
extraordinary. A group of more interest appeared near the hearth, sitting 
still amidst the rosy peace and warmth suffusing it. Two young, graceful 
women - ladies in every point - sat, one in a low rocking-chair, the other 
on a lower stool; both wore deep mourning of crape and bombazeen, which 
sombre garb singularly set off very fair necks and faces: a large old 
pointer dog rested its massive head on the knee of one girl - in the lap of 
the other was cushioned a black cat.
A strange place was this humble kitchen for such occupants! Who were they? 
They could not be the daughters of the elderly person at the table; for she 
looked like a rustic, and they were all delicacy and cultivation. I had 
nowhere seen such faces as theirs: and yet, as I gazed on them, I seemed 
intimate with every lineament. I cannot call them handsome - they were too 
pale and grave for the word: as they each bent over a book, they looked 
thoughtful almost to severity. A stand between them supported a second 
candle and two great volumes, to which they frequently referred, comparing 
them, seemingly, with the smaller books they held in their hands, like 
people consulting a dictionary to aid them in the task of translation. This 
scene was as silent as if all the figures had been shadows and the firelit 
apartment a picture: so hushed was it, I could hear the cinders fall from 
the grate, the clock tick in its obscure corner; and I even fancied I could 
distinguish the click-click of the woman's knitting-needles. When, 
therefore, a voice broke the strange stillness at last, it was audible 
enough to me.
"Listen, Diana," said one of the absorbed students; "Franz and old Daniel 
are together in the night-time, and Franz is telling a dream from which he 
has awakened in terror - listen!" And in a low voice she read something, of 
which not one word was intelligible to me; for it was in an unknown tongue -
 neither French nor Latin. Whether it were Greek or German I could not 
tell.
"That is strong," she said, when she had finished: "I relish it." The other 
girl, who had lifted her head to listen to her sister, repeated, while she 
gazed at the fire, a line of what had been read. At a later day, I knew the 
language and the book; therefore, I will here quote the line: though, when 
I first heard it, it was only like a stroke on sounding brass to me - 
conveying no meaning: -
"'Da trat hervor Einer, anzusehen wie die Sternen Nacht.' Good! good!" she 
exclaimed, while her dark and deep eye sparkled. "There you have a dim and 
mighty archangel fitly set before you! The line is worth a hundred pages of 
fustian. 'Ich wage die Gedanken in der Schale meines Zornes und die Werke 
mit dem Gewichte meines Grimms.' I like it!"
Both were again silent.
"Is there ony country where they talk i' that way?" asked the old woman, 
looking up from her knitting.
"Yes, Hannah - a far larger country than England, where they talk in no 
other way."
"Well, for sure case, I knawn't how they can understand t'one t'other: and 
if either o' ye went there, ye could tell what they said, I guess?"
"We could probably tell something of what they said, but not all - for we 
are not as clever as you think us, Hannah. We don't speak German, and we 
cannot read it without a dictionary to help us."
"And what good does it do you?"
"We mean to teach it some time - or at least the elements, as they say; and 
then we shall get more money than we do now."
"Varry like: but give ower studying; ye've done enough for tonight."
"I think we have: at least I'm tired. Mary, are you?"
"Mortally: after all, it's tough work fagging away at a language with no 
master but a lexicon."
"It is, especially such a language as this crabbed but glorious Deutsch. I 
wonder when St. John will come home."
"Surely he will not be long now: it is just ten (looking at a little gold 
watch she drew from her girdle). It rains fast, Hannah: will you have the 
goodness to look at the fire in the parlour?"
The woman rose: she opened a door, through which I dimly saw a passage: 
soon I heard her stir a fire in an inner room; she presently came back.
"Ah, childer!" said she, "it fair troubles me to go into yond' room now: it 
looks so lonesome wi' the chair empty and set back in a corner."
She wiped her eyes with her apron: the two girls, grave before, looked sad 
now.
"But he is in a better place," continued Hannah: "we shouldn't wish him 
here again. And then, nobody need to have a quieter death nor he had."
"You say he never mentioned us?" inquired one of the ladies.
"He hadn't time, bairn: he was gone in a minute, was your father. He had 
been a bit ailing like the day before, but naught to signify; and when Mr 
St. John asked if he would like either o' ye to be sent for, he fair 
laughed at him. He began again with a bit of a heaviness in his head the 
next day - that is, a fortnight sin' - and he went to sleep and niver 
wakened: he wor a'most stark when your brother went into t' chamber and 
fand him. Ah, childer! that's t' last o' t' old stock - for ye and Mr St. 
John is like of different soart to them 'at's gone; for all your mother wor 
mich i' your way, and a'most as book-learned. She wor the pictur' o' ye, 
Mary: Diana is more like your father."
I thought them so similar I could not tell where the old servant (for such 
I now concluded her to be) saw the difference. Both were fair complexioned 
and slenderly made; both possessed faces full of distinction and 
intelligence. One, to be sure, had hair a shade darker than the other, and 
there was a difference in their style of wearing it; Mary's pale brown 
locks were parted and braided smooth: Diana's duskier tresses covered her 
neck with thick curls. The clock struck ten.
"Ye'll want your supper, I am sure," observed Hannah; "and so will Mr St. 
John when he comes in."
And she proceeded to prepare the meal. The ladies rose; they seemed about 
to withdraw to the parlour. Till this moment, I had been so intent on 
watching them, their appearance and conversation had excited in me so keen 
an interest, I had half-forgotten my own wretched position: now it recurred 
to me. More desolate, more desperate than ever, it seemed from contrast. 
And how impossible did it appear to touch the inmates of this house with 
concern on my behalf; to make them believe in the truth of my wants and 
woes - to induce them to vouchsafe a rest for my wanderings! As I groped 
out the door, and knocked at it hesitatingly, I felt that last idea to be a 
mere chimera. Hannah opened.
"What do you want?" she inquired, in a voice of surprise, as she surveyed 
me by the light of the candle she held.
"May I speak to your mistresses?" I said.
"You had better tell me what you have to say to them. Where do you come 
from?"
"I am a stranger."
"What is your business here at this hour?"
"I want a night's shelter in an out-house or anywhere, and a morsel of 
bread to eat."
Distrust, the very feeling I dreaded, appeared in Hannah's face. "I'll give 
you a piece of bread," she said, after a pause; "but we can't take in a 
vagrant to lodge. It isn't likely."
"Do let me speak to your mistresses."
"No, not I. What can they do for you? You should not be roving about now; 
it looks very ill."
"But where shall I go if you drive me away? What shall I do?"
"Oh, I'll warrant you know where to go and what to do. Mind you don't do 
wrong, that's all. Here is a penny; now go -"
"A penny cannot feed me, and I have no strength to go farther. Don't shut 
the door: - oh, don't, for God's sake!"
"I must; the rain is driving in -"
"Tell the young ladies. Let me see them -"
"Indeed, I will not. You are not what you ought to be, or you wouldn't make 
such a noise. Move off."
"But I must die if I am turned away."
"Not you. I'm fear'd you have some ill plans agate, that bring you about 
folk's houses at this time o' night. If you've any followers - 
housebreakers or such like - anywhere near, you may tell them we are not by 
ourselves in the house; we have a gentleman, and dogs, and guns." Here the 
honest but inflexible servant clapped the door to and bolted it within.
This was the climax. A pang of exquisite suffering - a throe of true 
despair - rent and heaved my heart. Worn out, indeed, I was; not another 
step could I stir. I sank on the wet doorstep: I groaned - I wrung my hands 
- I wept in utter anguish. Oh, this spectre of death! Oh, this last hour, 
approaching in such horror! Alas, this isolation - this banishment from my 
kind! Not only the anchor of hope, but the footing of fortitude was gone - 
at least for a moment; but the last I soon endeavoured to regain.
"I can but die," I said, "and I believe in God. Let me try to wait His will 
in silence."
These words I not only thought, but uttered; and thrusting back all my 
misery into my heart, I made an effort to compel it to remain there - dumb 
and still.
"All men must die," said a voice quite close at hand; "but all are not 
condemned to meet a lingering and premature doom, such as yours would be if 
you perished here of want."
"Who or what speaks?" I asked, terrified at the unexpected sound, and 
incapable now of deriving from any occurrence a hope of aid. A form was 
near - what form, the pitch-dark night and my enfeebled vision prevented me 
from distinguishing. With a loud long knock, the newcomer appealed to the 
door.
"Is it you, Mr St. John?" cried Hannah.
"Yes - yes; open quickly."
"Well, how wet and cold you must be, such a wild night as it is! Come in - 
your sisters are quite uneasy about you, and I believe there are bad folks 
about. There has been a beggar-woman - I declare she is not gone yet! - 
laid down there. Get up! for shame! Move off, I say!"
"Hush, Hannah! I have a word to say to the woman. You have done your duty 
in excluding, now let me do mine in admitting her. I was near, and listened 
to both you and her. I think this is a peculiar case - I must at least 
examine into it. Young woman, rise, and pass before me into the house."
With difficulty I obeyed him. Presently I stood within that clean, bright 
kitchen - on the very hearth - trembling, sickening; conscious of an aspect 
in the last degree ghastly, wild, and weather-beaten. The two ladies, their 
brother, Mr St. John, the old servant, were all gazing at me.
"St. John, who is it?" I heard one ask.
"I cannot tell: I found her at the door," was the reply.
"She does look white," said Hannah.
"As white as clay or death," was responded. "She will fall: let her sit."
And indeed my head swam: I dropped, but a chair received me. I still 
possessed my senses, though just now I could not speak.
"Perhaps a little water would restore her. Hannah, fetch some. But she is 
worn to nothing. How very thin, and how very bloodless!"
"A mere spectre!"
"Is she ill, or only famished?"
"Famished, I think. Hannah, is that milk? Give it me, and a piece of 
bread."
Diana (I knew her by the long curls which I saw drooping between me and the 
fire as she bent over me) broke some bread, dipped it in milk, and put it 
to my lips. Her face was near mine: I saw there was pity in it, and I felt 
sympathy in her hurried breathing. In her simple words, too, the same balm-
like emotion spoke: "Try to eat."
"Yes - try," repeated Mary gently; and Mary's hand removed my sodden bonnet 
and lifted my head. I tasted what they offered me: feebly at first, eagerly 
soon.
"Not too much at first - restrain her," said the brother; "she has had 
enough." And he withdrew the cup of milk and the plate of bread.
"A little more, St. John - look at the avidity in her eyes."
"No more at present, sister. Try if she can speak now - ask her her name."
I felt I could speak, and I answered - "My name is Jane Elliott." Anxious 
as ever to avoid discovery, I had before resolved to assume an alias.
"And where do you live? Where are your friends?"
I was silent.
"Can we send for any one you know?"
I shook my head.
"What account can you give of yourself?"
Somehow, now that I had once crossed the threshold of this house, and once 
was brought face to face with its owners, I felt no longer outcast, 
vagrant, and disowned by the wide world. I dared to put off the mendicant - 
to resume my natural manner and character. I began once more to know 
myself; and when Mr St. John demanded an account - which at present I was 
far too weak to render - I said after a brief pause -
"Sir, I can give you no details tonight."
"But what, then," said he, "do you expect me to do for you?"
"Nothing," I replied. My strength sufficed for but short answers. Diana 
took the word: -
"Do you mean," she asked, "that we have now given you what aid you require? 
and that we may dismiss you to the moor and the rainy night?"
I looked at her. She had, I thought, a remarkable countenance; instinct 
both with power and goodness. I took sudden courage. Answering her 
compassionate gaze with a smile, I said: "I will trust you. If I were a 
masterless and stray dog, I know that you would not turn me from your 
hearth tonight: as it is, I really have no fear. Do with me and for me as 
you like; but excuse me from much discourse - my breath is short - I feel a 
spasm when I speak." All three surveyed me, and all three were silent.
"Hannah," said Mr St John, at last, "let her sit there at present, and ask 
her no questions; in ten minutes more, give her the remainder of that milk 
and bread. Mary and Diana, let us go into the parlour and talk the matter 
over."
They withdrew. Very soon one of the ladies returned - I could not tell 
which. A kind of pleasant stupor was stealing over me as I sat by the 
genial fire. In an under tone she gave some directions to Hannah. Ere long, 
with the servant's aid, I contrived to mount a staircase; my dripping 
clothes were removed; soon, a warm, dry bed received me. I thanked God - 
experienced amidst unutterable exhaustion a glow of grateful joy - and 
slept.


Chapter 29

The recollection of about three days and nights succeeding this is very dim 
in my mind. I can recall some sensations felt in that interval; but few 
thoughts framed, and no actions performed. I knew I was in a small room, 
and in a narrow bed. To that bed I seemed to have grown; I lay on it 
motionless as a stone; and to have torn me from it would have been almost 
to kill me. I took no note of the lapse of time - of the change from 
morning to noon, from noon to evening. I observed when any one entered or 
left the apartment; I could even tell who they were; I could understand 
what was said when the speaker stood near to me; but I could not answer; to 
open my lips or move my limbs was equally impossible. Hannah, the servant, 
was my most frequent visitor. Her coming disturbed me. I had a feeling that 
she wished me away; that she did not understand me or my circumstances; 
that she was prejudiced against me. Diana and Mary appeared in the chamber 
once or twice a day. They would whisper sentences of this sort at my 
bedside: -
"It is very well we took her in."
"Yes; she would certainly have been found dead at the door in the morning, 
had she been left out all night. I wonder what she has gone through?"
"Strange hardships, I imagine - poor, emaciated, pallid wanderer!"
"She is not an uneducated person, I should think, by her manner of 
speaking; her accent was quite pure; and the clothes she took off, though 
splashed and wet, were little worn and fine. "
"She has a peculiar face; fleshless and haggard as it is, I rather like it; 
and when in good health and animated, I can fancy her physiognomy would be 
agreeable."
Never once in their dialogues did I hear a syllable of regret at the 
hospitality they had extended to me, or of suspicion of, or aversion to, 
myself. I was comforted.
Mr St. John came but once: he looked at me, and said my state of lethargy 
was the result of reaction from excessive and protracted fatigue. He 
pronounced it needless to send for a doctor: nature, he was sure, would 
manage best, left to herself. He said every nerve had been overstrained in 
some way, and the whole system must sleep torpid a while. There was no 
disease. He imagined my recovery would be rapid enough when once commenced. 
These opinions he delivered in a few words, in a quiet, low voice; and 
added, after a pause, in the tone of a man little accustomed to expansive 
comment, "Rather an unusual physiognomy; certainly, not indicative of 
vulgarity or degradation."
"Far otherwise," responded Diana. "To speak truth, St. John, my heart 
rather warms to the poor little soul. I wish we may be able to benefit her 
permanently."
"That is hardly likely," was the reply. "You will find she is some young 
lady who has had a misunderstanding with her friends, and has probably 
injudiciously left them. We may, perhaps, succeed in restoring her to them, 
if she is not obstinate: but I trace lines of force in her face which make 
me sceptical of her tractability." He stood considering me some minutes; 
then added, "She looks sensible, but not at all handsome."
"She is so ill, St. John."
"Ill or well, she would always be plain. The grace and harmony of beauty 
are quite wanting in those features."
On the third day I was better; on the fourth, I could speak, move, rise in 
bed, and turn. Hannah had brought me some gruel and dry toast, about, as I 
supposed, the dinner-hour. I had eaten with relish: the food was good - 
void of the feverish flavour which had hitherto poisoned what I had 
swallowed. When she left me, I felt comparatively strong and revived: ere 
long satiety of repose and desire for action stirred me. I wished to rise; 
but what could I put on? Only my damp and bemired apparel; in which I had 
slept on the ground and fallen in the marsh. I felt ashamed to appear 
before my benefactors so clad. I was spared the humiliation.
On a chair by the bedside were all my own things, clean and dry. My black 
silk frock hung against the wall. The traces of the bog were removed from 
it; the creases left by the wet smoothed out: it was quite decent. My very 
shoes and stockings were purified and rendered presentable. There were the 
means of washing in the room, and a comb and brush to smooth my hair. After 
a weary process, and resting every five minutes, I succeeded in dressing 
myself. My clothes hung loose on me; for I was much wasted, but I covered 
deficiencies with a shawl, and once more, clean and respectable looking - 
no speck of the dirt, no trace of the disorder I so hated, and which seemed 
so to degrade me, left - I crept down a stone staircase with the aid of the 
banisters, to a narrow low passage, and found my way presently to the 
kitchen.
It was full of the fragrance of new bread and the warmth of a generous 
fire. Hannah was baking. Prejudices, it is well known, are most difficult 
to eradicate from the heart whose soil has never been loosened or 
fertilised by education: they grow there, firm as weeds among stones. 
Hannah had been cold and stiff, indeed, at the first: latterly she had 
begun to relent a little; and when she saw me come in tidy and well-
dressed, she even smiled.
"What, you have got up!" she said. "You are better, then. You may sit you 
down in my chair on the hearthstone, if you will."
She pointed to the rocking-chair: I took it. She bustled about, examining 
me every now and then with the corner of her eye. Turning to me, as she 
took some loaves from the oven, she asked bluntly -
"Did you ever go a-begging afore you came here?"
I was indignant for a moment; but remembering that anger was out of the 
question, and that I had indeed appeared as a beggar to her, I answered 
quietly, but still not without a certain marked firmness -
"You are mistaken in supposing me a beggar. I am no beggar; any more than 
yourself or your young ladies."
After a pause she said, "I dunnut understand that: you've like no house, 
nor no brass, I guess?"
"The want of house or brass (by which I suppose you mean money) does not 
make a beggar in your sense of the word."
"Are you book-learned?" she inquired presently.
"Yes, very."
"But you've never been to a boarding-school?"
"I was at a boarding-school eight years."
She opened her eyes wide. "Whatever cannot ye keep yourself for, then?"
"I have kept myself; and, I trust, shall keep myself again. What are you 
going to do with these gooseberries?" I inquired as she brought out a 
basket of the fruit.
"Mak' 'em into pies."
"Give them to me and I'll pick them."
"Nay; I dunnut want ye to do nought."
"But I must do something. Let me have them."
She consented; and she even brought me a clean towel to spread over my 
dress, 'lest," as she said, "I should mucky it."
"Ye've not been used to sarvant's wark, I see by your hands," she remarked. 
"Happen ye've been a dressmaker?"
"No, you are wrong. And now, never mind what I have been: don't trouble 
your head further about me; but tell me the name of the house where we 
are."
"Some calls it Marsh End, and some calls it Moor House."
"And the gentleman who lives here is called Mr St. John?"
"Nay; he doesn't live here: he is only staying a while. When he is at home, 
he is in his own parish at Morton."
"That village a few miles off?"
"Aye."
"And what is he?"
"He is a parson."
I remembered the answer of the old housekeeper at the parsonage, when I had 
asked to see the clergyman. "This, then, was his father's residence?"
"Aye; old Mr Rivers lived here, and his father, and grandfather, and gurt 
(great) grandfather afore him."
"The name, then, of that gentleman, is Mr St. John Rivers?"
"Aye; St. John is like his kirstened name."
"And his sisters are called Diana and Mary Rivers?"
"Yes."
"Their father is dead?"
"Dead three weeks sin' of a stroke."
"They have no mother?"
"The mistress has been dead this mony a year."
"Have you lived with the family long?"
"I've lived here thirty year. I nursed them all three"
"That proves you must have been an honest and faithful servant. I will say 
so much for you, though you have had the incivility to call me a beggar."
She again regarded me with a surprised stare. "I believe," she said, "I was 
quite mista'en in my thoughts of you: but there is so mony cheats goes 
about, you mun forgie me."
"And though," I continued, rather severely, "you wished to turn me from the 
door, on a night when you should not have shut out a dog."
"Well, it was hard: but what can a body do? I thought more o' th' childer 
nor of mysel: poor things! They've like nobody to tak' care on 'em but me. 
I'm like to look sharpish."
I maintained a grave silence for some minutes.
"You munnut think too hardly of me," she again remarked.
"But I do think hardly of you," I said; "and I'll tell you why - not so 
much because you refused to give me shelter, or regarded me as an impostor, 
as because you just now made it a species of reproach that I had no 'brass' 
and no house. Some of the best people that ever lived have been as 
destitute as I am; and if you are a Christian, you ought not to consider 
poverty a crime."
"No more I ought," said she: "Mr St. John tells me so too; and I see I wor 
wrang - but I've clear a different notion on you now to what I had. You 
look a raight down dacent little crater."
"That will do - I forgive you now. Shake hands."
She put her floury and horny hand into mine; another and heartier smile 
illumined her rough face, and from that moment we were friends.
Hannah was evidently fond of talking. While I picked the fruit, and she 
made the paste for the pies, she proceeded to give me sundry details about 
her deceased master and mistress, and "the childer," as she called the 
young people.
Old Mr Rivers, she said, was a plain man enough, but a gentleman, and of as 
ancient a family as could be found. Marsh End had belonged to the Rivers 
ever since it was a house: and it was, she affirmed, "aboon two hundred 
year old - for all it looked but a small, humble place, naught to compare 
wi' Mr Oliver's grand hall down i' Morton Vale. But she could remember Bill 
Oliver's father a journeyman needle-maker; and th' Rivers wor gentry i' th' 
owd days o' th' Henrys, as onybody might see by looking into th' registers 
i' Morton Church vestry." Still, she allowed, "the owd maister was like 
other folk - naught mich out o' th' common way: stark mad o' shooting, and 
farming, and sich like." The mistress was different. She was a great 
reader, and studied a deal; and the "bairns" had taken after her. There was 
nothing like them in these parts, nor ever had been; they had liked 
learning, all three, almost from the time they could speak; and they had 
always been "of a mak' of their own." Mr St. John, when he grew up, would 
go to college and be a parson; and the girls, as soon as they left school, 
would seek places as governesses: for they had told her their father had 
some years ago lost a great deal of money by a man he had trusted turning 
bankrupt; and as he was now not rich enough to give them fortunes, they 
must provide for themselves. They had lived very little at home for a long 
while, and were only come now to stay a few weeks on account of their 
father's death; but they did so like Marsh End and Morton, and all these 
moors and hills about. They had been in London, and many other grand towns; 
but they always said there was no place like home; and then they were so 
agreeable with each other - never fell out nor "threaped." She did not know 
where there was such a family for being united.
Having finished my task of gooseberry picking, I asked where the two ladies 
and their brother were now.
"Gone over to Morton for a walk; but they would be back in half an hour to 
tea."
They returned within the time Hannah had allotted them: they entered by the 
kitchen door. Mr St. John, when he saw me, merely bowed and passed through; 
the two ladies stopped: Mary, in a few words, kindly and calmly expressed 
the pleasure she felt in seeing me well enough to be able to come down; 
Diana took my hand: she shook her head at me.
"You should have waited for my leave to descend," she said. "You still look 
very pale - and so thin! Poor child! - poor girl!"
Diana had a voice toned, to my ear, like the cooing of a dove. She 
possessed eyes whose gaze I delighted to encounter. Her whole face seemed 
to me full of charm. Mary's countenance was equally intelligent - her 
features equally pretty; but her expression was more reserved, and her 
manners, though gentle, more distant. Diana looked and spoke with a certain 
authority: she had a will, evidently. It was my nature to feel pleasure in 
yielding to an authority supported like hers, and to bend, where my 
conscience and self-respect permitted, to an active will.
"And what business have you here?" she continued. "It is not your place. 
Mary and I sit in the kitchen sometimes, because at home we like to be 
free, even to license - but you are a visitor, and must go into the 
parlour."
"I am very well here."
"Not at all, with Hannah bustling about and covering you with flour."
"Besides, the fire is too hot for you," interposed Mary.
"To be sure," added her sister. "Come, you must be obedient." And still 
holding my hand she made me rise, and led me into the inner room.
"Sit there," she said, placing me on the sofa, "while we take our things 
off and get the tea ready; it is another privilege we exercise in our 
little moorland home - to prepare our own meals when we are so inclined, or 
when Hannah is baking, brewing, washing, or ironing."
She closed the door, leaving me solus with Mr St. John, who sat opposite, a 
book or newspaper in his hand. I examined first, the parlour, and then its 
occupant.
The parlour was rather a small room, very plainly furnished, yet 
comfortable, because clean and neat. The old-fashioned chairs were very 
bright, and the walnut-wood table was like a looking-glass. A few strange, 
antique portraits of the men and women of other days decorated the stained 
walls; a cupboard with glass doors contained some books and an ancient set 
of china. There was no superfluous ornament in the room - not one modern 
piece of furniture, save a brace of workboxes and a lady's desk in 
rosewood, which stood on a side-table: everything - including the carpet 
and curtains - looked at once well worn and well saved.
Mr St. John - sitting as still as one of the dusty pictures on the walls, 
keeping his eyes fixed on the page he perused, and his lips mutely sealed - 
was easy enough to examine. Had he been a statue instead of a man, he could 
not have been easier. He was young - perhaps from twenty-eight to thirty - 
tall, slender; his face riveted the eye; it was like a Greek face, very 
pure in outline: quite a straight, classic nose; quite an Athenian mouth 
and chin. It is seldom, indeed, an English face comes so near the antique 
models as did his. He might well be a little shocked at the irregularity of 
my lineaments, his own being so harmonious. His eyes were large and blue, 
with brown lashes; his high forehead, colourless as ivory, was partially 
streaked over by careless locks of fair hair.
This is a gentle delineation, is it not, reader? Yet he whom it describes 
scarcely impressed one with the idea of a gentle, a yielding, an 
impressible, or even of a placid nature. Quiescent as he now sat, there was 
something about his nostril, his mouth, his brow, which, to my perceptions, 
indicated elements within either restless, or hard, or eager. He did not 
speak to me one word, nor even direct to me one glance, till his sisters 
returned. Diana, as she passed in and out, in the course of preparing tea, 
brought me a little cake, baked on the top of the oven.
"Eat that now," she said: "you must be hungry. Hannah says you have had 
nothing but some gruel since breakfast."
I did not refuse it, for my appetite was awakened and keen. Mr Rivers now 
closed his book, approached the table, and, as he took a seat, fixed his 
blue pictorial-looking eyes full on me. There was an unceremonious 
directness, a searching, decided steadfastness in his gaze now, which told 
that intention and not diffidence, had hitherto kept it averted from the 
stranger.
"You are very hungry," he said.
"I am, sir." It is my way - it always was my way, by instinct - ever to 
meet the brief with brevity, the direct with plainness.
"It is well for you that a low fever has forced you to abstain for the last 
three days: there would have been danger in yielding to the cravings of 
your appetite at first. Now you may eat, though still not immoderately."
"I trust I shall not eat long at your expense, sir," was my very clumsily-
contrived, unpolished answer.
"No," he said coolly: "when you have indicated to us the residence of your 
friends, we can write to them, and you may be restored to home."
"That, I must plainly tell you, is out of my power to do; being absolutely 
without home and friends."
The three looked at me, but not distrustfully; I felt there was no 
suspicion in their glances: there was more of curiosity. I speak 
particularly of the young ladies. St. John's eyes, though clear enough in a 
literal sense, in a figurative one were difficult to fathom. He seemed to 
use them rather as instruments to search other people's thoughts, than as 
agents to reveal his own: the which combination of keenness and reserve was 
considerably more calculated to embarrass than to encourage.
"Do you mean to say," he asked, "that you are completely isolated from 
every connection?"
"I do. Not a tie links me to any living thing: not a claim do I possess to 
admittance under any roof in England."
"A most singular position at your age!"
Here I saw his glance directed to my hands, which were folded on the table 
before me. I wondered what he sought there: his words soon explained the 
quest.
"You have never been married? You are a spinster?"
Diana laughed. "Why, she can't be above seventeen or eighteen years old, 
St. John," said she.
"I am near nineteen: but I am not married. No."
I felt a burning glow mount to my face; for bitter and agitating 
recollections were awakened by the allusion to marriage. They all saw the 
embarrassment and the emotion. Diana and Mary relieved me by turning their 
eyes elsewhere than to my crimsoned visage; but the colder and sterner 
brother continued to gaze, till the trouble he had excited forced out tears 
as well as colour.
"Where did you last reside?" he now asked.
"You are too inquisitive, St. John," murmured Mary in a low voice; but he 
leaned over the table and required an answer by a second firm and piercing 
look.
"The name of the place where, and of the person with whom I lived, is my 
secret," I replied concisely.
"Which, if you like, you have, in my opinion, a right to keep, both from 
St. John and every other questioner," remarked Diana.
"Yet if I know nothing about you or your history, I cannot help you," he 
said. "And you need help, do you not?"
"I need it, and I seek it so far, sir, that some true philanthropist will 
put me in the way of getting work which I can do, and the remuneration for 
which will keep me, if but in the barest necessaries of life."
"I know not whether I am a true philanthropist; yet I am willing to aid you 
to the utmost of my power in a purpose so honest. First, then, tell me what 
you have been accustomed to do, and what you can do."
I had now swallowed my tea. I was mightily refreshed by the beverage; as 
much so as a giant with wine: it gave new tone to my unstrung nerves, and 
enabled me to address this penetrating young judge steadily.
"Mr Rivers," I said, turning to him, and looking at him, as he looked at 
me, openly and without diffidence, "you and your sisters have done me a 
great service - the greatest man can do his fellow-being; you have rescued 
me, by your noble hospitality, from death. This benefit conferred gives you 
an unlimited claim on my gratitude, and a claim, to a certain extent, on my 
confidence. I will tell you as much of the history of the wanderer you have 
harboured, as I can tell without compromising my own peace of mind - my own 
security, moral and physical, and that of others.
"I am an orphan; the daughter of a clergyman. My parents died before I 
could know them. I was brought up a dependant; educated in a charitable 
institution. I will even tell you the name of the establishment, where I 
passed six years as a pupil, and two as a teacher - Lowood Orphan Asylum, - 
-- shire: you will have heard of it, Mr Rivers? - the Rev. Robert 
Brocklehurst is the treasurer."
"I have heard of Mr Brocklehurst, and I have seen the school."
"I left Lowood nearly a year since to become a private governess. I 
obtained a good situation, and was happy. This place I was obliged to leave 
four days before I came here. The reason of my departure I cannot and ought 
not to explain: it would be useless, dangerous, and would sound incredible. 
No blame attached to me: I am as free from culpability as any one of you 
three. Miserable I am, and must be for a time; for the catastrophe which 
drove me from a house I had found a paradise was of a strange and direful 
nature. I observed but two points in planning my departure - speed, 
secrecy: to secure these, I had to leave behind me everything I possessed 
except a small parcel; which, in my hurry and trouble of mind, I forgot to 
take out of the coach that brought me to Whitcross. To this neighbourhood, 
then, I came, quite destitute. I slept two nights in the open air, and 
wandered about two days without crossing a threshold: but twice in that 
space of time did I taste food; and it was when brought by hunger, 
exhaustion, and despair almost to the last gasp, that you, Mr Rivers, 
forbade me to perish of want at your door, and took me under the shelter of 
your roof. I know all your sisters have done for me since - for I have not 
been insensible during my seeming torpor - and I owe to their spontaneous, 
genuine, genial compassion as large a debt as to your evangelical charity."
"Don't make her talk any more now, St. John," said Diana, as I paused; "she 
is evidently not yet fit for excitement. Come to the sofa and sit down now, 
Miss Elliott."
I gave an involuntary half start at hearing the alias: I had forgotten my 
new name. Mr Rivers, whom nothing seemed to escape, noticed it at once.
"You said your name was Jane Elliott?" he observed.
"I did say so; and it is the name by which I think it expedient to be 
called at present: but it is not my real name, and when I hear it, it 
sounds strange to me."
"Your real name you will not give?"
"No: I fear discovery above all things; and whatever disclosure would lead 
to it I avoid. "
"You are quite right, I am sure," said Diana. "Now do, brother, let her be 
at peace a while."
But when St John had mused a few moments, he recommenced, as imperturbably, 
and with as much acumen as ever.
"You would not like to be long dependent on our hospitality - you would 
wish, I see, to dispense as soon as may be with my sisters' compassion; 
and, above all, with my charity (I am quite sensible of the distinction 
drawn, nor do I resent it - it is just):you desire to be independent of 
us?"
"I do: I have already said so. Show me how to work, or how to seek work: 
that is all I now ask; then let me go, if it be but to the meanest cottage -
 but till then, allow me to stay here: I dread another essay of the horrors 
of homeless destitution."
"Indeed, you shall stay here," said Diana, putting her white hand on my 
head. "You shall," repeated Mary, in the tone of undemonstrative sincerity, 
which seemed natural to her.
"My sisters, you see, have a pleasure in keeping you," said Mr St John, "as 
they would have a pleasure in keeping and cherishing a half-frozen bird, 
some wintry wind might have driven through their casement. If eel more 
inclination to put you in the way of keeping yourself: and shall endeavour 
to do so: but observe, my sphere is narrow. I am but the incumbent of a 
poor country parish: my aid must be of the humblest sort. And if you are 
inclined to despise the day of small things, seek some more efficient 
succour than such as I can offer."
"She has already said that she is willing to do anything honest she can 
do," answered Diana, for me; "and you know, St John, she has no choice of 
helpers: she is forced to put up with such crusty people as you. "
"I will be a dressmaker: I will be a plain-work-woman; I will be a servant, 
a nurse-girl, if I can be no better," I answered.
"Right," said Mr St John, quite coolly. "If such is your spirit, I promise 
to aid you; in my own time and way."
He now resumed the book with which he had been occupied before tea. I soon 
withdrew; for I had talked as much, and sat up as long, as my present 
strength would permit.



Chapter 30

The more I knew of the inmates of Moor-House, the better I liked them. In a 
few days I had so far recovered my health that I could sit up all day, and 
walk out sometimes. I could join with Diana and Mary in all their 
occupations; converse with them as much as they wished, and aid them when 
and where they would allow me. There was a reviving pleasure in this 
intercourse, of a kind now tasted by me for the first time - the pleasure 
arising from perfect congeniality of tastes, sentiments, and principles.
I liked to read what they liked to read: what they enjoyed, delighted me; 
what they approved, I reverenced. They loved their sequestered home. I, 
too, in the grey, small, antique structure, with its low roof, its latticed 
casements, its mouldering walls, its avenue of aged firs - all grown aslant 
under the stress of mountain winds; its garden, dark with yew and holly - 
and where no flowers but of the hardiest species would bloom - found a 
charm both potent and permanent. They clung to the purple moors behind and 
around their dwelling - to the hollow vale into which the pebbly bridle-
path leading from their gate descended; and which wound between fern-banks 
first, and then amongst a few of the wildest little pasture-fields that 
ever bordered a wilderness of heath, or gave sustenance to a flock of grey 
moorland sheep, with their little mossy-faced lambs: - they clung to this 
scene, I say, with a perfect enthusiasm of attachment. I could comprehend 
the feeling, and share both its strength and truth. I saw the fascination 
of the locality. I felt the consecration of its loneliness: my eye feasted 
on the outline of swell and sweep - on the wild colouring communicated to 
ridge and dell, by moss, by heath-bell, by flower-sprinkled turf, by 
brilliant bracken, and mellow granite crag. These details were just to me 
what they were to them - so many pure and sweet sources of pleasure. The 
strong blast and the soft breeze; the rough and the halcyon day; the hours 
of sunrise and sunset; the moonlight and the clouded night, developed for 
me, in these regions, the same attraction as for them - wound round my 
faculties the same spell that entranced theirs.
Indoors we agreed equally well. They were both more accomplished and better 
read than I was: but with eagerness I followed in the path of knowledge 
they had trodden before me. I devoured the books they lent me: then it was 
full satisfaction to discuss with them in the evening what I had perused 
during the day. Thought fitted thought; opinion met opinion: we coincided, 
in short, perfectly.
If in our trio there was a superior and a leader, it was Diana. Physically, 
she far excelled me: she was handsome; she was vigorous. In her animal 
spirits, there was an affluence of life, and certainty of flow, such as 
excited my wonder, while it baffled my comprehension. I could talk a while 
when the evening commenced: but the first gush of vivacity and fluency 
gone, I was fain to sit on a stool at Diana's feet, to rest my head on her 
knee, and listen alternately to her and Mary; while they sounded thoroughly 
the topic on which I had but touched. Diana offered to teach me German. I 
liked to learn of her: I saw the part of instructress pleased and suited 
her; that of scholar pleased and suited me no less. Our natures dovetailed: 
mutual affection - of the strongest kind - was the result. They discovered 
I could draw: their pencils and colour-boxes were immediately at my 
service. My skill, greater in this one point than theirs, surprised and 
charmed them. Mary would sit and watch me by the hour together: then she 
would take lessons; and a docile, intelligent, assiduous pupil, she made. 
Thus occupied, and mutually entertained, days passed like hours, and weeks 
like days.
As to Mr St John, the intimacy which had arisen so naturally and rapidly 
between me and his sisters, did not extend to him. One reason of the 
distance yet observed between us was, that he was comparatively seldom at 
home: a large proportion of his time appeared devoted to visiting the sick 
and poor among the scattered population of his parish.
No weather seemed to hinder him in these pastoral excursions: rain or fair, 
he would, when his hours of morning study were over, take his hat, and, 
followed by his father's old pointer, Carlo, go out on his mission of love 
or duty - I scarcely know in which light he regarded it. Sometimes, when 
the day was very unfavourable, his sisters would expostulate. He would then 
say, with a peculiar smile, more solemn than cheerful, -
"And if I let a gust of wind or a sprinkling of rain turn me aside from 
these easy tasks, what preparation would such sloth be for the future I 
propose to myself ?"
Diana and Mary's general answer to this question was a sigh, and some 
minutes of apparently mournful meditation.
But besides his frequent absences, there was another barrier to friendship 
with him: he seemed of a reserved, an abstracted, and even of a brooding 
nature. Zealous in his ministerial labours, blameless in his life and 
habits, he yet did not appear to enjoy that mental serenity, that inward 
content, which should be the reward of every sincere Christian and 
practical philanthropist. Often, of an evening, when he sat at the window, 
his desk and papers before him, he would cease reading or writing, rest his 
chin on his hand, and deliver himself up to I know not what course of 
thought: but that it was perturbed and exciting might be seen in the 
frequent flash and changeful dilation of his eye. I think, moreover, that 
Nature was not to him that treasury of delight it was to his sisters. He 
expressed once, and but once in my hearing, a strong sense of the rugged 
charm of the hills, and an inborn affection for the dark roof and hoary 
walls he called his home: but there was more of gloom than pleasure in the 
tone and words in which the sentiment was manifested; and never did he seem 
to roam the moors for the sake of their soothing silence - never seek out 
or dwell upon the thousand peaceful delights they could yield.
Incommunicative as he was, some time elapsed before I had an opportunity of 
gauging his mind. I first got an idea of its calibre when I heard him 
preach in his own church at Morton. I wish I could describe that sermon: 
but it is past my power. I cannot even render faithfully the effect it 
produced on me.
It began calm - and indeed, as far as delivery and pitch of voice went, it 
was calm to the end: an earnestly felt, yet strictly restrained zeal 
breathed soon in the distinct accents, and prompted the nervous language. 
This grew to force - compressed, condensed, controlled. The heart was 
thrilled, the mind astonished, by the power of the preacher: neither were 
softened. Throughout there was a strange bitterness; an absence of 
consolatory gentleness: stern allusions to Calvinistic doctrines - 
election, predestination, reprobation - were frequent; and each reference 
to these points sounded like a sentence pronounced for doom. When he had 
done, instead of feeling better, calmer, more enlightened by his discourse, 
I experienced an inexpressible sadness; for it seemed to me - I know not 
whether equally so to others - that the eloquence to which I had been 
listening had sprung from a depth where lay turbid dregs of disappointment -
 where moved troubling impulses of insatiate yearnings and disquieting 
aspirations. I was sure St John Rivers - pure-lived, conscientious, zealous 
as he was - had not yet found that peace of God which passeth all 
understanding: he had no more found it, I thought, than had I; with my 
concealed and racking regrets for my broken idol and lost elysium - regrets 
to which I have latterly avoided referring; but which possessed me and 
tyrannized over me ruthlessly.
Meantime a month was gone. Diana and Mary were soon to leave Moor-House, 
and return to the far different life and scene which awaited them, as 
governesses in a large, fashionable, south-of-England city; where each held 
a situation in families, by whose wealthy and haughty members they were 
regarded only as humble dependants, and who neither knew nor sought one of 
their innate excellences, and appreciated only their acquired 
accomplishments as they appreciated the skill of their cook, or the taste 
of their waiting-woman. Mr St John had said nothing to me yet about the 
employment he had promised to obtain for me; yet it became urgent that I 
should have a vocation of some kind. One morning, being left alone with him 
a few minutes in the parlour, I ventured to approach the window-recess - 
which his table, chair, and desk consecrated as a kind of study - and I was 
going to speak; though not very well knowing in what words to frame my 
inquiry - for it is at all times difficult to break the ice of reserve 
glassing over such natures as his - when he saved me the trouble, by being 
the first to commence a dialogue.
Looking up as I drew near - "You have a question to ask of me?" he said.
"Yes; I wish to know whether you have heard of any service I can offer 
myself to undertake. "
"I found or devised something for you three weeks ago; but as you seemed 
both useful and happy here - as my sisters had evidently become attached to 
you, and your society gave them unusual pleasure - I deemed it inexpedient 
to break in on your mutual comfort, till their approaching departure from 
Marsh-End should render yours necessary."
"And they will go in three days now?" I said.
"Yes; and when they go, I shall return to the parsonage at Morton: Hannah 
will accompany me; and this old house will be shut up."
I waited a few moments, expecting he would go on with the subject first 
broached; but he seemed to have entered another train of reflection: his 
look denoted abstraction from me and my business. I was obliged to recall 
him to a theme which was of necessity one of close and anxious interest to 
me.
"What is the employment you had in view, Mr Rivers? I hope this delay will 
not have increased the difficulty of securing it."
"Oh, no; since it is an employment which depends only on me to give, and 
you to accept."
He again paused: there seemed a reluctance to continue. I grew impatient: a 
restless movement or two, and an eager and exacting glance fastened on his 
face, conveyed the feeling to him as effectually as words could have done, 
and with less trouble.
"You need be in no hurry to hear," he said: "let me frankly tell you, I 
have nothing eligible or profitable to suggest. Before I explain, recall, 
if you please, my notice, clearly given, that if I helped you, it must be 
as the blind man would help the lame. I am poor; for I find that, when I 
have paid my father's debts, all the patrimony remaining to me will be this 
crumbling grange, the row of scathed firs behind, and the patch of moorish 
soil, with the yew-trees and holly-bushes in front. I am obscure: Rivers is 
an old name; but of the three sole descendants of the race, two earn the 
dependant's crust among strangers, and the third considers himself an alien 
from his native country - not only for life, but in death. Yes, and deems, 
and is bound to deem, himself honoured by the lot, and aspires but after 
the day when the cross of separation from fleshly ties shall be laid on his 
shoulders, and when the Head of that church-militant of whose humblest 
members he is one, shall give the word, 'Rise, follow me!"'
St John said these words as he pronounced his sermons, with a quiet, deep 
voice; with an unflushed cheek, and a coruscating radiance of glance. He 
resumed: -
"And since I am myself poor and obscure, I can offer you but a service of 
poverty and obscurity. You may even think it degrading - for I see now your 
habits have been what the world calls refined: your tastes lean to the 
ideal; and your society has at least been amongst the educated - but I 
consider that no service degrades which can better our race. I hold that 
the more arid and unreclaimed the soil where the Christian labourer's task 
of tillage is appointed him - the scantier the meed his toil brings - the 
higher the honour. His, under such circumstances, is the destiny of the 
pioneer: and the first pioneers of the Gospel were the Apostles - their 
captain was Jesus, the Redeemer, himself."
"Well ?" I said, as he again paused - "proceed."
He looked at me before he proceeded: indeed, he seemed leisurely to read my 
face, as if its features and lines were characters on a page. The 
conclusions drawn from this scrutiny he partially expressed in his 
succeeding observations.
"I believe you will accept the post I offer you," said he; "and hold it for 
a while: not permanently, though: any more than I could permanently keep 
the narrow and narrowing - the tranquil, hidden office of English country 
incumbent: for in your nature is an alloy as detrimental to repose as that 
in mine; though of a different kind."
"Do explain," I urged, when he halted once more.
"I will; and you shall hear how poor the proposal is, - how trivial - how 
cramping. I shall not stay long at Morton, now that my father is dead, and 
that I am my own master. I shall leave the place probably in the course of 
a twelvemonth: but while I do stay, I will exert myself to the utmost for 
its improvement. Morton, when I came to it two years ago, had no school: 
the children of the poor were excluded from every hope of progress. I 
established one for boys: I mean now to open a second school for girls. I 
have hired a building for the purpose, with a cottage of two rooms attached 
to it for the mistress's house. Her salary will be thirty pounds a year: 
her house is already furnished, very simply, but sufficiently, by the 
kindness of a lady, Miss Oliver; the only daughter of the sole rich man in 
my parish - Mr Oliver, the proprietor of a needle-factory and iron-foundry 
in the valley. The same lady pays for the education and clothing of an 
orphan from the workhouse; on condition that she shall aid the mistress in 
such menial offices connected with her own house and the school, as her 
occupation of teaching will prevent her having time to discharge in person. 
Will you be this mistress?"
He put the question rather hurriedly; he seemed half to expect an 
indignant, or at least a disdainful rejection of the offer: not knowing all 
my thoughts and feelings, though guessing some, he could not tell in what 
light the lot would appear to me. In truth it was humble - but then it was 
sheltered, and I wanted a safe asylum: it was plodding - but then, compared 
with that of a governess in a rich house, it was independent; and the fear 
of servitude with strangers entered my soul like iron: it was not ignoble - 
not unworthy - not mentally degrading. I made my decision.
"I thank you for the proposal, Mr Rivers; and I accept it with all my 
heart."
"But you comprehend me?" he said. "It is a village school: your scholars 
will be only poor girls - cottagers' children - at the best, farmers' 
daughters. Knitting, sewing, reading, writing, cyphering, will be all you 
will have to teach. What will you do with your accomplishments? What, with 
the largest portion of your mind - sentiments - tastes?
"Save them till they are wanted. They will keep."
"You know what you undertake, then?"
"I do."
He now smiled: and not a bitter or a sad smile; but one well pleased and 
deeply gratified.
"And when will you commence the exercise of your function?"
"I will go to my house tomorrow; and open the school, if you like, next 
week."
"Very well: so be it."
He rose and walked through the room. Standing still, he again looked at me. 
He shook his head.
"What do you disapprove of, Mr Rivers?" I asked.
"You will not stay at Morton long: no, no!"
"Why ! What is your reason for saying so?"
"I read it in your eye; it is not of that description which promises the 
maintenance of an even tenor in life."
"I am not ambitious."
He started at the word "ambitious." He repeated, "No. What made you think 
of ambition? Who is ambitious? I know I am: but how did you find it out?"
"I was speaking of myself."
"Well, if you are not ambitious, you are " He paused.
"What?"
"I was going to say, impassioned: but perhaps you would have misunderstood 
the word, and been displeased. I mean, that human affections and sympathies 
have a most powerful hold on you. I am sure you cannot long be content to 
pass your leisure in solitude, and to devote your working hours to a 
monotonous labour wholly void of stimulus; any more than I can be content," 
he added, with emphasis, "to live here buried in morass, pent in with 
mountain - my nature, that God gave me, contravened; my faculties, heaven 
bestowed, paralyzed - made useless. You hear now how I contradict myself. 
I, who preached contentment with a humble lot, and justified the vocation 
even of hewers of wood, and drawers of water, in God's service - I, his 
ordained minister, almost rave in my restlessness. Well, propensities and 
principles must be reconciled by some means. "
He left the room. In this brief hour I had learnt more of him than in the 
whole previous month: yet still he puzzled me.
Diana and Mary Rivers became more sad and silent as the day approached for 
leaving their brother, and their home. They both tried to appear as usual; 
but the sorrow they had to struggle against was one that could not be 
entirely conquered or concealed. Diana intimated that this would be a 
different parting from any they had ever yet known. It would probably, as 
far as St John was concerned, be a parting for years: it might be a parting 
for life.
"He will sacrifice all to his long-framed resolves," she said: "natural 
affection and feelings more potent still. St John looks quiet, Jane; but he 
hides a fever in his vitals. You would think him gentle, yet in some things 
he is inexorable as death; and the worst of it is, my conscience will 
hardly permit me to dissuade him from his severe decision: certainly, I 
cannot for a moment blame him for it. It is right, noble, Christian: yet it 
breaks my heart." And the tears gushed to her fine eyes. Mary bent her head 
low over her work.
"We are now without father: we shall soon be without home and brother," she 
murmured.
At that moment a little accident supervened, which seemed decreed by fate, 
purposely to prove the truth of the adage, that "misfortunes never come 
singly;" and to add to their distresses the vexing one of the slip between 
the cup and the lip. St John passed the window reading a letter. He 
entered.
"Our uncle John is dead," said he.
Both the sisters seemed struck: not shocked or appalled: the tidings 
appeared in their eyes rather momentous than afflicting.
"Dead?" repeated Diana.
"Yes."
She riveted a searching gaze on her brother's face. "And what then?" she 
demanded, in a low voice.
"What then, Die?" he replied, maintaining a marble immobility of feature. 
"What then? Why - nothing. Read."
He threw the letter into her lap. She glanced over it, and handed it to 
Mary. Mary perused it in silence, and returned it to her brother. All three 
looked at each other, and all three smiled - a dreary, pensive smile 
enough.
"Amen! We can yet live," said Diana, at last.
"At any rate, it makes us no worse off than we were before," remarked Mary.
"Only it forces rather strongly on the mind the picture of what might have 
been," said Mr Rivers; "and contrasts it somewhat too vividly with what 
is."
He folded the letter, locked it in his desk, and again went out.
For some minutes no one spoke. Diana then turned to me.
"Jane, you will wonder at us and our mysteries," she said; "and think us 
hard-hearted beings not to be more moved at the death of so near a relation 
as an uncle; but we have never seen him or known him. He was my mother's 
brother. My father and he quarrelled long ago. It was by his advice that my 
father risked most of his property in the speculation that ruined him. 
Mutual recrimination passed between them: they parted in anger, and were 
never reconciled. My uncle engaged afterwards in more prosperous 
undertakings: it appears he realized a fortune of twenty thousand pounds. 
He was never married, and had no near kindred but ourselves, and one other 
person, not more closely related than we. My father always cherished the 
idea that he would atone for his error, by leaving his possessions to us; 
that letter informs us that he has bequeathed every penny to the other 
relation; with the exception of thirty guineas, to be divided between St 
John, Diana, and Mary Rivers, for the purchase of three mourning rings. He 
had a right, of course, to do as he pleased: and yet a momentary damp is 
cast on the spirits by the receipt of such news. Mary and I would have 
esteemed ourselves rich with a thousand pounds each; and to St John such a 
sum would have been valuable, for the good it would have enabled him to 
do."
This explanation given, the subject was dropped, and no further reference 
made to it, by either Mr Rivers or his sisters. The next day, I left Marsh-
End for Morton. The day after, Diana and Mary quitted it for distant B--. 
In a week, Mr Rivers and Hannah repaired to the parsonage: and so the old 
grange was abandoned.

Chapter 31

My home, then, - when I at last find a home, - is a cottage: a little room 
with white-washed walls, and a sanded floor; containing four painted chairs 
and a table, a clock, a cupboard, with two or three plates and dishes, and 
a set of tea-things in delf. Above, a chamber of the same dimensions as the 
kitchen, with a deal bedstead, and chest of drawers; small, yet too large 
to be filled with my scanty wardrobe: though the kindness of my gentle and 
generous friends has increased that, by a modest stock of such things as 
are necessary.
It is evening. I have dismissed, with the fee of an orange, the little 
orphan who serves me as a handmaid. I am sitting alone on the hearth. This 
morning, the village school opened. I had twenty scholars. But three of the 
number can read: none write or cypher. Several knit, and a few sew a 
little. They speak with the broadest accent of the district. At present, 
they and I have a difficulty in understanding each other's language. Some 
of them are unmannered, rough, intractable, as well as ignorant; but others 
are docile, have a wish to learn, and evince a disposition that pleases me. 
I must not forget that these coarsely-clad little peasants are of flesh and 
blood as good as the scions of gentlest genealogy; and that the germs of 
native excellence, refinement, intelligence, kind feeling, are as likely to 
exist in their hearts as in those of the best-born. My duty will be to 
develop these germs: surely I shall find some happiness in discharging that 
office. Much enjoyment I do not expect in the life opening before me: vet 
it will, doubtless, if I regulate my mind, and exert my powers as I ought, 
yield me enough to live on from day to day.
Was I very gleeful, settled, content, during the hours I passed in yonder 
bare, humble school-room this morning and afternoon? Not to deceive myself, 
I must reply - No: I felt desolate to a degree. I felt - yes, idiot that I 
am - I felt degraded. I doubted I had taken a step which sank instead of 
raising me in the scale of social existence. I was weakly dismayed at the 
ignorance, the poverty, the coarseness of all I heard and saw round me. But 
let me not hate and despise myself too much for these feelings: I know them 
to be wrong - that is a great step gained; I shall strive to overcome them. 
Tomorrow, I trust, I shall get the better of them partially; and in a few 
weeks, perhaps, they will be quite subdued. In a few months, it is 
possible, the happiness of seeing progress, and a change for the better in 
my scholars, may substitute gratification for disgust.
Meantime, let me ask myself one question - Which is better? - To have 
surrendered to temptation; listened to passion; made no painful effort - no 
struggle; - but to have sunk down in the silken snare; fallen asleep on the 
flowers covering it; wakened in a southern clime, amongst the luxuries of a 
pleasure-villa: to have been now living in France, Mr Rochester's mistress; 
delirious with his love half my time - for he would - oh, yes, he would 
have loved me well for a while. He did love me - no one will ever love me 
so again. I shall never more know the sweet homage given to beauty, youth, 
and grace - for never to any one else shall I seem to possess these charms. 
He was fond and proud of me - it is what no man besides will ever be. - But 
where am I wandering, and what am I saying; and, above all, feeling? 
Whether is it better, I ask, to be a slave in a fool's paradise at 
Marseilles-fevered with delusive bliss one hour - suffocating with the 
bitterest tears of remorse and shame the next - or to be a village-
schoolmistress, free and honest, in a breezy mountain nook in the healthy 
heart of England?
Yes; I feel now that I was right when I adhered to prin ciple and law, and 
scorned and crushed the insane promptings of a frenzied moment. God 
directed me to a correct choice: I thank His providence for the guidance!
Having brought my eventide musings to this point, I rose, went to my door, 
and looked at the sunset of the harvest-day, and at the quiet fields before 
my cottage, which, with the school, was distant half a mile from the 
village. The birds were singing their last strains -

"The air was mild, the dew was balm."

While I looked, I thought myself happy, and was surprised to find myself 
ere long weeping - and why? For the doom which had reft me from adhesion to 
my master: for him I was no more to see; for the desperate grief and fatal 
fury - consequences of my departure - which might now, perhaps, be dragging 
him from the path of right, too far to leave hope of ultimate restoration 
thither. At this thought, I turned my face aside from the lovely sky of eve 
and lonely vale of Morton - I say lonely, for in that bend of it visible to 
me there was no building apparent save the church and the parsonage, half-
hid in trees, and, quite at the extremity, the roof of Vale Hall, where the 
rich Mr Oliver and his daughter lived. I hid my eyes, and leant my head 
against the stone frame of my door; but soon a slight noise near the wicket 
which shut in my tiny garden from the meadow beyond it made me look up. A 
dog - old Carlo, Mr Rivers' pointer, as I saw in a moment - was pushing the 
gate with his nose, and St. John himself leant upon it with folded arms; 
his brow knit, his gaze, grave almost to displeasure, fixed on me. I asked 
him to come in.
"No, I cannot stay; I have only brought you a little parcel My sisters left 
for you. I think it contains a colour-box, pencils, and paper."
I approached to take it: a welcome gift it was. He examined my face, I 
thought, with austerity, as I came near: the traces of tears were doubtless 
very visible upon it.
"Have you found your first day's work harder than you expected?" he asked.
"Oh, no! On the contrary, I think in time I shall get on with my scholars 
very well."
"But perhaps your accommodations - your cottage - your furniture - have 
disappointed your expectations? They are, in truth, scanty enough; but -" I 
interrupted -
"My cottage is clean and weather-proof; my furniture sufficient and 
commodious. All I see has made me thankful, not despondent. I am not 
absolutely such a fool and sensualist as to regret the absence of a carpet, 
a sofa, and silver plate; besides, five weeks ago I had nothing - I was an 
outcast, a beggar, a vagrant; now I have acquaintance, a home, a business. 
I wonder at the goodness of God; the generosity of my friends; the bounty 
of my lot. I do not repine."
"But you feel solitude an oppression? The little house there behind you is 
dark and empty."
"I have hardly had time yet to enjoy a sense of tranquillity, much less to 
grow impatient under one of loneliness."
"Very well; I hope you feel the content you express: at any rate, your good 
sense will tell you that it is too soon yet to yield to the vacillating 
fears of Lot's wife. What you had left before I saw you, of course I do not 
know; but I counsel you to resist firmly every temptation which would 
incline you to look back: pursue your present career steadily, for some 
months at least."
"It is what I mean to do," I answered. St. John continued -
"It is hard work to control the workings of inclination and turn the bent 
of nature; but that it may be done, I know from experience. God has given 
us, in a measure, the power to make our own fate; and when our energies 
seem to demand a sustenance they cannot get - when our will strains after a 
path we may not follow - we need neither starve from inanition, nor stand 
still in despair: we have but to seek another nourishment for the mind, as 
strong as the forbidden food it longed to taste - and perhaps purer; and to 
hew out for the adventurous foot a road as direct and broad as the one 
Fortune has blocked up against us, if rougher than it.
"A year ago I was myself intensely miserable, because I thought I had made 
a mistake in entering the ministry: its uniform duties wearied me to death. 
I burnt for the more active life of the world - for the more exciting toils 
of a literary career - for the destiny of an artist, author, orator; 
anything rather than that of a priest: yes, the heart of a politician, of a 
soldier, of a votary of glory, a lover of renown, a lustre after power, 
beat under my curate's surplice. I considered; my life was so wretched, it 
must be changed, or I must die. After a season of darkness and struggling, 
light broke and relief fell: my cramped existence all at once spread out to 
a plain without bounds - my powers heard a call from heaven to rise, gather 
their full strength, spread their wings, and mount beyond ken. God had an 
errand for me; to bear which afar, to deliver it well, skill and strength, 
courage and eloquence, the best qualifications of soldier, statesman, and 
orator, were all needed: for these all centre in the good missionary.
"A missionary I resolved to be. From that moment my state of mind changed; 
the fetters dissolved and dropped from every faculty, leaving nothing of 
bondage but its galling soreness - which time only can heal. My father, 
indeed, opposed the determination, but since his death, I have not a 
legitimate obstacle to contend with; some affairs settled, a successor for 
Morton provided, an entanglement or two of the feelings broken through or 
cut asunder - a last conflict with human weakness, in which I know I shall 
overcome, because I have vowed that I will overcome - and I leave Europe 
for the East."
He said this, in his peculiar, subdued, yet emphatic voice; looking, when 
he had ceased speaking, not at me, but at the setting sun, at which I 
looked too. Both he and I had our backs towards the path leading up the 
field to the wicket. We had heard no step on the grass-grown track; the 
water running in the vale was the one lulling sound of the hour and scene; 
we might well then start when a gay voice, sweet as a silver bell, 
exclaimed -
"Good evening, Mr Rivers. And good evening, old Carlo. Your dog is quicker 
to recognise his friends than you are, sir; he pricked his ears and wagged 
his tail when I was at the bottom of the field, and you have your back 
towards me now."
It was true. Though Mr Rivers had started at the first of those musical 
accents, as if a thunderbolt had split a cloud over his head, he stood yet, 
at the close of the sentence, in the same attitude in which the speaker had 
surprised him - his arm resting on the gate, his face directed towards the 
west. He turned at last, with measured deliberation. A vision, as it seemed 
to me, had risen at his side. There appeared, within three feet of him, a 
form clad in pure white-a youthful, graceful form: full, yet fine in 
contour; and when, after bending to caress Carlo, it lifted up its head, 
and threw back a long veil, there bloomed under his glance a face of 
perfect beauty. Perfect beauty is a strong expression; but I do not retrace 
or qualify it: as sweet features as ever the temperate clime of Albion 
moulded; as pure hues of rose and lily as ever her humid gales and vapoury 
skies generated and screened, justified, in this instance, the term. No 
charm was wanting, no defect was perceptible; the young girl had regular 
and delicate lineaments; eyes shaped and coloured as we see them in lovely 
pictures, large, and dark, and full; the long and shadowy eyelash which 
encircles a fine eye with so soft a fascination; the pencilled brow which 
gives such clearness; the white smooth forehead, which adds such repose to 
the livelier beauties of tint and ray; the cheek oval, fresh, and smooth; 
the lips, fresh too, ruddy, healthy, sweetly formed; the even and gleaming 
teeth without flaw; the small dimpled chin; the ornament of rich, plenteous 
tresses - all advantages, in short, which, combined, realise the ideal of 
beauty, were fully hers. I wondered, as I looked at this fair creature: I 
admired her with my whole heart. Nature had surely formed her in a partial 
mood; and, forgetting her usual stinted step-mother dole of gifts, had 
endowed this, her darling, with a grand-dame's bounty.
What did St. John Rivers think of this earthly angel? I naturally asked 
myself that question as I saw him turn to her and look at her; and, as 
naturally, I sought the answer to the inquiry in his countenance. He had 
already withdrawn his eye from the Peri, and was looking at a humble tuft 
of daisies which grew by the wicket.
"A lovely evening, but late for you to be out alone," he said, as he 
crushed the snowy heads of the closed flowers with his foot. town some 
twenty miles distant) "this afternoon. Papa told me you had opened your 
school, and that the new mistress was come; and so I put on my bonnet after 
tea, and ran up the valley to see her: this is she?" pointing to me.
"It is," said St. John.
"Do you think you shall like Morton?" she asked of me, with a direct and 
naive simplicity of tone and manner, pleasing, if child-like.
"I hope I shall. I have many inducements to do so."
"Did you find your scholars as attentive as you expected?"
"Quite."
"Do you like your house?"
"Very much."
"Have I furnished it nicely?"
"Very nicely, indeed."
"And made a good choice of an attendant for you in Alice Wood?"
"You have indeed. She is teachable and handy." (This then, I thought, is 
Miss Oliver, the heiress; favoured, it seems, in the gifts of fortune, as 
well as in those of nature! What happy combination of the planets presided 
over her birth, I wonder?)
"I shall come up and help you to teach sometimes," she added. "It will be a 
change for me to visit you now and then; and I like a change. Mr Rivers, I 
have been so gay during my stay at S--. Last night, or rather this morning, 
I was dancing till two o'clock. The --th regiment are stationed there, 
since the riots; and the officers are the most agreeable men in the world: 
they put all our young knife-grinders and scissor merchants to shame."
It seemed to me that Mr St. John's under lip protruded, and his upper lip 
curled a moment. His mouth certainly looked a good deal compressed, and the 
lower part of his face unusually stern and square, as the laughing girl 
gave him this information. He lifted his gaze, too, from the daisies, and 
turned it on her. An unsmiling, a searching, a meaning gaze it was. She 
answered it with a second laugh, and laughter well became her youth, her 
roses, her dimples, her bright eyes.
As he stood, mute and grave, she again fell to caressing Carlo. "Poor Carlo 
loves me," said she. "He is not stern and distant to his friends; and if he 
could speak, he would not be silent."
As she patted the dog's head, bending with native grace before his young 
and austere master, I saw a glow rise to that master's face. I saw his 
solemn eye melt with sudden fire, and flicker with resistless emotion. 
Flushed and kindled thus, he looked nearly as beautiful for a man as she 
for a woman. His chest heaved once, as if his large heart, weary of 
despotic constriction, had expanded, despite the will, and made a vigorous 
bound for the attainment of liberty. But he curbed it, I think, as a 
resolute rider would curb a rearing steed. He responded neither by word nor 
movement to the gentle advances made him.
"Papa says you never come to see us now," continued Miss Oliver, looking 
up. "You are quite a stranger at Vale Hall. He is alone this evening, and 
not very well: will you return with me and visit him?"
"It is not a seasonable hour to intrude on Mr Oliver," answered St. John.
"Not a seasonable hour! But I declare it is. It is just the hour when papa 
most wants company: when the works are closed and he has no business to 
occupy him. Now, Mr Rivers, do come. Why are you so very shy, and so very 
sombre?" She filled up the hiatus his silence left by a reply of her own.
"I forgot!" she exclaimed, shaking her beautiful curled head, as if shocked 
at herself. "I am so giddy and thoughtless! Do excuse me. It had slipped my 
memory that you have good reasons to be indisposed for joining in my 
chatter. Diana and Mary have left you, and Moor House is shut up, and you 
are so lonely. I am sure I pity you. Do come and see papa."
"Not tonight, Miss Rosamond, not tonight."
Mr St. John spoke almost like an automaton: himself only knew the effort it 
cost him thus to refuse.
"Well, if you are so obstinate, I will leave you; for I dare not stay any 
longer: the dew begins to fall. Good evening!"
She held out her hand. He just touched it. "Good evening!" he repeated, in 
a voice low and hollow as an echo. She turned, but in a moment returned.
"Are you well?" she asked. Well might she put the question: his face was 
blanched as her gown.
"Quite well," he enunciated; and, with a bow, he left the gate. She went 
one way; he another. She turned twice to gaze after him as she tripped 
fairy-like down the field; he, as he strode firmly across, never turned at 
all.
This spectacle of another's suffering and sacrifice rapt my thoughts from 
exclusive meditation on my own. Diana Rivers had designated her brother 
"inexorable as death." She had not exaggerated.


Chapter 32

I continued the labours of the village-school as actively and faithfully as 
I could. It was truly hard work at first. Some time elapsed before, with 
all my efforts, I could comprehend my scholars and their nature. Wholly 
untaught, with faculties quite torpid, they seemed to me hopelessly dull; 
and, at first sight, all dull alike: but I soon found I was mistaken. There 
was a difference amongst them as amongst the educated; and when I got to 
know them, and they me, this difference rapidly developed itself. Their 
amazement at me, my language, my rules, and ways, once subsided, I found 
some of these heavy-looking, gaping rustics wake up into sharp-witted girls 
enough. Many showed themselves obliging, and amiable too; and I discovered 
amongst them not a few examples of natural politeness, and innate self-
respect, as well as of excellent capacity, that won both my good-will and 
my admiration. These soon took a pleasure in doing their work well, in 
keeping their persons neat, in learning their tasks regularly, in acquiring 
quiet and orderly manners. The rapidity of their progress, in some 
instances, was even surprising; and an honest and happy pride I took in it: 
besides, I began personally to like some of the best girls; and they liked 
me. I had amongst my scholars several farmers' daughters: young women 
grown, almost. These could already read, write, and sew; and to them I 
taught the elements of grammar, geography, history, and the finer kinds of 
needlework. I found estimable characters amongst them - characters desirous 
of information and disposed for improvement - with whom I passed many a 
pleasant evening hour in their own homes. Their parents then (the farmer 
and his wife) loaded me with attentions. There was an enjoyment in 
accepting their simple kindness, and in repaying it by a consideration - a 
scrupulous regard to their feelings - to which they were not, perhaps, at 
all times accustomed, and which both charmed and benefited them; because, 
while it elevated them in their own eyes, it made them emulous to merit the 
deferential treatment they received.
I felt I became a favourite in the neighbourhood. Whenever I went out, I 
heard on all sides cordial salutations, and was welcomed with friendly 
smiles. To live amidst general regard, though it be but the regard of 
working people, is like "sitting in sunshine, calm and sweet"; serene 
inward feelings bud and bloom under the ray. At this period of my life, my 
heart far oftener swelled with thankfulness than sank with dejection: and 
yet, reader, to tell you all, in the midst of this calm, this useful 
existence - after a day passed in honourable exertion amongst my scholars, 
an evening spent in drawing or reading contentedly alone - I used to rush 
into strange dreams at night: dreams many-coloured, agitated, full of the 
ideal, the stirring, the stormy - dreams where, amidst unusual scenes, 
charged with adventure, with agitating risk and romantic chance, I still 
again and again met Mr Rochester, always at some exciting crisis; and then 
the sense of being in his arms, hearing his voice, meeting his eye, 
touching his hand and cheek, loving him, being loved by him - the hope of 
passing a lifetime at his side, would be renewed, with all its first force 
and fire. Then I awoke. Then I recalled where I was, and how situated. Then 
I rose up on my curtainless bed, trembling and quivering; and then the 
still, dark night witnessed the convulsion of despair, and heard the burst 
of passion. By nine o'clock the next morning I was punctually opening the 
school; tranquil, settled, prepared for the steady duties of the day.
Rosamond Oliver kept her word in coming to visit me. Her call at the school 
was generally made in the course of her morning ride. She would canter up 
to the door on her pony, followed by a mounted livery servant. Anything 
more exquisite than her appearance, in her purple habit, with her Amazon's 
cap of black velvet placed gracefully above the long curls that kissed her 
cheek and floated to her shoulders, can scarcely be imagined: and it was 
thus she would enter the rustic building, and glide through the dazzled 
ranks of the village children. She generally came at the hour when Mr 
Rivers was engaged in giving his daily catechising lesson. Keenly, I fear, 
did the eye of the visitress pierce the young pastor's heart. A sort of 
instinct seemed to warn him of her entrance, even when he did not see it; 
and when he was looking quite away from the door, if she appeared at it, 
his cheek would glow, and his marble-seeming features, though they refused 
to relax, changed indescribably, and in their very quiescence became 
expressive of a repressed fervour, stronger than working muscle or darting 
glance could indicate.
Of course, she knew her power: indeed, he did not, because he could not, 
conceal it from her. In spite of his Christian stoicism, when she went up 
and addressed him, and smiled gaily, encouragingly, even fondly in his 
face, his hand would tremble and his eye burn. He seemed to say, with his 
sad and resolute look, if he did not say it with his lips, "I love you, and 
I know you prefer me. It is not despair of success that keeps me dumb. If I 
offered my heart, I believe you would accept it. But that heart is already 
laid on a sacred altar: the fire is arranged round it. It will soon be no 
more than a sacrifice consumed."
And then she would pout like a disappointed child; a pensive cloud would 
soften her radiant vivacity; she would withdraw her hand hastily from his, 
and turn in transient petulance from his aspect, at once so heroic and so 
martyr-like. St. John, no doubt, would have given the world to follow, 
recall, retain her, when she thus left him; but he would not give one 
chance of heaven, nor relinquish, for the elysium of her love, one hope of 
the true, eternal Paradise. Besides, he could not bind all that he had in 
his nature - the rover, the aspirant, the poet, the priest - in the limits 
of a single passion. He could not - he would not - renounce his wild field 
of mission warfare for the parlours and the peace of Vale Hall. I learnt so 
much from himself in an inroad I once, despite his reserve, had the daring 
to make on his confidence.
Miss Oliver already honoured me with frequent visits to my cottage. I had 
learnt her whole character, which was without mystery or disguise: she was 
coquettish, but not heartless; exacting, but not worthlessly selfish. She 
had been indulged from her birth, but was not absolutely spoilt. She was 
hasty, but good-humoured; vain (she could not help it, when every glance in 
the glass showed her such a flush of loveliness), but not affected; liberal-
handed; innocent of the pride of wealth; ingenuous; sufficiently 
intelligent; gay, lively, and unthinking: she was very charming, in short, 
even to a cool observer of her own sex like me; but she was not profoundly 
interesting or thoroughly impressive. A very different sort of mind was 
hers from that, for instance, of the sisters of St. John. Still, I liked 
her almost as I liked my pupil Adele; except that, for a child whom we have 
watched over and taught, a closer affection is engendered than we can give 
an equally attractive adult acquaintance.
She had taken an amiable caprice to me. She said I was like Mr Rivers, 
only, certainly, she allowed, "not one-tenth so handsome, though I was a 
nice neat little soul enough, but he was an angel." I was, however, good, 
clever, composed, and firm, like him. I was a lusus naturae, she affirmed, 
as a village schoolmistress: she was sure my previous history, if known, 
would make a delightful romance.
One evening, while, with her usual child-like activity, and thoughtless yet 
not offensive inquisitiveness, she was rummaging the cupboard and the table-
drawer of my little kitchen, she discovered first two French books, a 
volume of Schiller, a German grammar and dictionary, and then my drawing-
materials and some sketches, including a pencil-head of a pretty little 
cherub-like girl, one of my scholars, and sundry views from nature, taken 
in the Vale of Morton and on the surrounding moors. She was first 
transfixed with surprise, and then electrified with delight.
"Had I done these pictures? Did I know French and German? What a love - 
what a miracle I was! I drew better than her master in the first
"With pleasure," I replied; and I felt a thrill of artist-delight at the 
idea of copying from so perfect and radiant a model. She had then on a dark-
blue silk dress; her arms and her neck were bare; her only ornament was her 
chestnut tresses, which waved over her shoulders with all the wild grace of 
natural curls. I took a sheet of fine card-board, and drew a careful 
outline. I promised myself the pleasure of colouring it; and, as it was 
getting late then, I told her she must come and sit another day.
She made such a report of me to her father, that Mr Oliver himself 
accompanied her next evening - a tall, massive-featured, middle-aged, and 
grey-headed man, at whose side his lovely daughter looked like a bright 
flower near a hoary turret. He appeared a taciturn, and perhaps a proud 
personage; but he was very kind to me. The sketch of Rosamond's portrait 
pleased him highly: he said I must make a finished picture of it. He 
insisted, too, on my coming the next day to spend the evening at Vale Hall.
I went. I found it a large, handsome residence, showing abundant evidences 
of wealth in the proprietor. Rosamond was full of glee and pleasure all the 
time I stayed. Her father was affable; and when he entered into 
conversation with me after tea, he expressed in strong terms his 
approbation of what I had done in Morton school, and said he only feared, 
from what he saw and heard, I was too good for the place, and would soon 
quit it for one more suitable.
"Indeed," cried Rosamond, "she is clever enough to be a governess in a high 
family, papa."
I thought I would far rather be where I am than in any high family in the 
land. Mr Oliver spoke of Mr Rivers - of the Rivers family - with great 
respect. He said it was a very old name in that neighbourhood; that the 
ancestors of the house were wealthy; that all Morton had once belonged to 
them; that even now he considered the representative of that house might, 
if he liked, make an alliance with the best. He accounted it a pity that so 
fine and talented a young man should have formed the design of going out as 
a missionary; it was quite throwing a valuable life away. It appeared, 
then, that her father would throw no obstacle in the way of Rosamond's 
union with St. John. Mr Oliver evidently regarded the young clergyman's 
good birth, old name, and sacred profession as sufficient compensation for 
the want of fortune.
It was the 5th of November, and a holiday. My little servant, after helping 
me to clean my house, was gone, well satisfied with the fee of a penny for 
her aid. All about me was spotless and bright - scoured floor, polished 
grate, and well-rubbed chairs. I had also made myself neat, and had now the 
afternoon before me to spend as I would.
The translation of a few pages of German occupied an hour; then I got my 
palette and pencils, and fell to the more soothing, because easier 
occupation, of completing Rosamond Oliver's miniature. The head was 
finished already: there was but the background to tint and the drapery to 
shade off; a touch of carmine, too, to add to the ripe lips - a soft curl 
here and there to the tresses - a deeper tinge to the shadow of the lash 
under the azured eyelid. I was absorbed in the execution of these nice 
details, when, after one rapid tap, my door unclosed, admitting St. John 
Rivers.
"I am come to see how you are spending your holiday," he said. "Not, I 
hope, in thought? No, that is well: while you draw you will not feel 
lonely. You see, I mistrust you still, though you have borne up wonderfully 
so far. I have brought you a book for evening solace," and he laid on the 
table a new publication - a poem: one of those genuine productions so often 
vouchsafed to the fortunate public of those days - the golden age of modern 
literature. Alas! the readers of our era are less favoured. But courage! I 
will not pause either to accuse or repine. I know poetry is not dead, nor 
genius lost; nor has Mammon gained power over either, to bind or slay: they 
will both assert their existence, their presence, their liberty and 
strength again one day. Powerful angels, safe in heaven! they smile when 
sordid souls triumph, and feeble ones weep over their destruction. Poetry 
destroyed? Genius banished? No! Mediocrity, no: do not let envy prompt you 
to the thought. No; they not only live, but reign and redeem: and without 
their divine influence spread everywhere, you would be in hell - the hell 
of your own meanness.
While I was eagerly glancing at the bright pages of Marmion (for Marmion it 
was), St. John stooped to examine my drawing. His tall figure sprang erect 
again with a start: he said nothing. I looked up at him: he shunned my eye. 
I knew his thoughts well, and could read his heart plainly; at the moment I 
felt calmer and cooler than he: I had then temporarily the advantage of 
him, and I conceived an inclination to do him some good, if I could.
"With all his firmness and self-control," thought I, "he tasks himself too 
far: locks every feeling and pang within - expresses, confesses, imparts 
nothing. I am sure it would benefit him to talk a little about this sweet 
Rosamond, whom he thinks he ought not to marry: I will make him talk."
I said first, "Take a chair, Mr Rivers." But he answered, as he always did, 
that he could not stay. "Very well," I responded, mentally, "stand if you 
like; but you shall not go just yet, I am determined: solitude is at least 
as bad for you as it is for me. I'll try if I cannot discover the secret 
spring of your confidence, and find an aperture in that marble breast 
through which I can shed one drop of the balm of sympathy."
"Is this portrait like?" I asked bluntly.
"Like! Like whom? I did not observe it closely."
"You did, Mr Rivers."
He almost started at my sudden and strange abruptness: he looked at me 
astonished. "Oh, that is nothing yet," I muttered within. "I don't mean to 
be baffled by a little stiffness on your part; I'm prepared to go to 
considerable lengths." I continued, "You observed it closely and 
distinctly; but I have no objection to your looking at it again," and I 
rose and placed it in his hand.
"A well-executed picture," he said; "very soft, clear colouring; very 
graceful and correct drawing."
"Yes, yes; I know all that. But what of the resemblance? Who is it like?"
Mastering some hesitation, he answered, "Miss Oliver, I presume."
"Of course. And now, sir, to reward you for the accurate guess, I will 
promise to paint you a careful and faithful duplicate of this very picture, 
provided you admit that the gift would be acceptable to you. I don't wish 
to throw away my time and trouble on an offering you would deem worthless."
He continued to gaze at the picture: the longer he looked, the firmer he 
held it, the more he seemed to covet it. "It is like!" he murmured; "the 
eye is well managed: the colour, light, expression, are perfect. It 
smiles!"
"Would it comfort, or would it wound you to have a similar painting? Tell 
me that. When you are at Madagascar, or at the Cape, or in India, would it 
be a consolation to have that memento in your possession? or would the 
sight of it bring recollections calculated to enervate and distress?"
He now furtively raised his eyes: he glanced at me, irresolute, disturbed: 
he again surveyed the picture.
"That I should like to have it is certain: whether it would be judicious or 
wise is another question."
Since I had ascertained that Rosamond really preferred him, and that her 
father was not likely to oppose the match, I - less exalted in my views 
than St. John - had been strongly disposed in my own heart to advocate 
their union. It seemed to me that, should he become the possessor of Mr 
Oliver's large fortune, he might do as much good with it as if he went and 
laid his genius out to wither, and his strength to waste, under a tropical 
sun. With this persuasion I now answered -
"As far as I can see, it would be wiser and more judicious if you were to 
take to yourself the original at once."
By this time he had sat down: he had laid the picture on the table before 
him, and with his brow supported on both hands, hung fondly over it. I 
discerned he was now neither angry nor shocked at my audacity. I saw even 
that to be thus frankly addressed on a subject he had deemed unapproachable 
- to hear it thus freely handled - was beginning to be felt by him as a new 
pleasure - an unhoped-for relief. Reserved people often really need the 
frank discussion of their sentiments and griefs more than the expansive. 
The sternest-seeming stoic is human after all; and to "burst" with boldness 
and good-will into "the silent sea" of their souls is often to confer on 
them the first of obligations.
"She likes you, I am sure," said I, as I stood behind his chair, "and her 
father respects you. Moreover, she is a sweet girl - rather thoughtless; 
but you would have sufficient thought for both yourself and her. You ought 
to marry her."
"Does she like me?" he asked.
"Certainly; better than she likes any one else. She talks of you 
continually: there is no subject she enjoys so much or touches upon so 
often."
"It is very pleasant to hear this," he said - "very: go on for another 
quarter of an hour." And he actually took out his watch and laid it upon 
the table to measure the time.
"But where is the use of going on," I asked, "when you are probably 
preparing some iron blow of contradiction, or forging a fresh chain to 
fetter your heart?"
"Don't imagine such hard things. Fancy me yielding and melting, as I am 
doing: human love rising like a freshly opened fountain in my mind and 
overflowing with sweet inundation all the field I have so carefully and 
with such labour prepared - so assiduously sown with the seeds of good 
intentions, of self-denying plans. And now it is deluged with a nectarous 
flood - the young germs swamped - delicious poison cankering them: now I 
see myself stretched on an ottoman in the drawing-room at Vale Hall at my 
bride Rosamond Oliver's feet: she is talking to me with her sweet voice - 
gazing down on me with those eyes your skilful hand has copied so well - 
smiling at me with these coral lips. She is mine - I am hers - this present 
life and passing world suffice to me. Hush! say nothing - my heart is full 
of delight - my senses are entranced - let the time I marked pass in 
peace."
I humoured him: the watch ticked on: he breathed fast and low: I stood 
silent. Amidst this hush the quarter sped; he replaced the watch, laid the 
picture down, rose, and stood on the hearth.
"Now," said he, "that little space was given to delirium and delusion. I 
rested my temples on the breast of temptation, and put my neck voluntarily 
under her yoke of flowers; I tasted her cup. The pillow was burning: there 
is an asp in the garland: the wine has a bitter taste: her promises are 
hollow - her offers false: I see and know all this."
I gazed at him in wonder.
"It is strange," pursued he, "that while I love Rosamond Oliver so wildly - 
with all the intensity, indeed, of a first passion, the object of which is 
exquisitely beautiful, graceful, and fascinating - I experience at the same 
time a calm, unwarped consciousness that she would not make me a good wife; 
that she is not the partner suited to me; that I should discover this 
within a year after marriage; and that to twelve months' rapture would 
succeed a lifetime of regret. This I know."
"Strange indeed!" I could not help ejaculating.
"While something in me," he went on, "is acutely sensible to her charms, 
something else is as deeply impressed with her defects: they are such that 
she could sympathise in nothing I aspired to - co-operate in nothing I 
undertook. Rosamond a sufferer, a labourer, a female apostle? Rosamond a 
missionary's wife? No!"
"But you need not be a missionary. You might relinquish that scheme."
"Relinquish! What! my vocation? My great work? My foundation laid on earth 
for a mansion in heaven? My hopes of being numbered in the band who have 
merged all ambitions in the glorious one of bettering their race - of 
carrying knowledge into the realms of ignorance - of substituting peace for 
war - freedom for bondage - religion for superstition - the hope of heaven 
for the fear of hell? Must I relinquish that? It is dearer than the blood 
in my veins. It is what I have to look forward to, and to live for."
After a considerable pause, I said - "And Miss Oliver? Are her 
disappointment and sorrow of no interest to you?"
"Miss Oliver is ever surrounded by suitors and flatterers: in less than a 
month, my image will be effaced from her heart. She will forget me; and 
will marry, probably, some one who will make her far happier than I should 
do."
"You speak coolly enough; but you suffer in the conflict. You are wasting 
away."
"No. If I get a little thin, it is with anxiety about my prospects, yet 
unsettled - my departure, continually procrastinated. Only this morning, I 
received intelligence that the successor, whose arrival I have been so long 
expecting, cannot be ready to replace me for three months to come yet; and 
perhaps the three months may extend to six."
"You tremble and become flushed whenever Miss Oliver enters the 
schoolroom."
Again the surprised expression crossed his face. He had not imagined that a 
woman would dare to speak so to a man. For me, I felt at home in this sort 
of discourse. I could never rest in communication with strong, discreet, 
and refined minds, whether male or female, till I had passed the outworks 
of conventional reserve, and crossed the threshold of confidence, and won a 
place by their heart's very hearthstone.
"You are original," said he, "and not timid. There is something brave in 
your spirit, as well as penetrating in your eye; but allow me to assure you 
that you partially misinterpret my emotions. You think them more profound 
and potent than they are. You give me a larger allowance of sympathy than I 
have a just claim to. When I colour, and when I shake before Miss Oliver, I 
do not pity myself. I scorn the weakness. I know it is ignoble: a mere 
fever of the flesh: not, I declare, the convulsion of the soul. That is 
just as fixed as a rock, firm set in the depths of a restless sea. Know me 
to be what I am - a cold, hard man."
I smiled incredulously.
"You have taken my confidence by storm," he continued, "and now it is much 
at your service. I am simply, in my original state - stripped of that blood-
bleached robe with which Christianity covers human deformity - a cold, 
hard, ambitious man. Natural affection only, of all the sentiments, has 
permanent power over me. Reason, and not feeling, is my guide; my ambition 
is unlimited: my desire to rise higher, to do more than others, insatiable. 
I honour endurance, perseverance, industry, talent; because these are the 
means by which men achieve great ends and mount to lofty eminence. I watch 
your career with interest, because I consider you a specimen of a diligent, 
orderly, energetic woman: not because I deeply compassionate what you have 
gone through, or what you still suffer."
"You would describe yourself as a mere pagan philosopher," I said.
"No. There is this difference between me and deistic philosophers: I 
believe; and I believe the Gospel. You missed your epithet. I am not a 
pagan, but a Christian philosopher - a follower of the sect of Jesus. As 
His disciple I adopt His pure, His merciful, His benignant doctrines. I 
advocate them: I am sworn to spread them. Won in youth to religion, she has 
cultivated my original qualities thus: - From the minute germ, natural 
affection, she has developed the overshadowing tree, philanthropy. From the 
wild stringy root of human uprightness, she has reared a due sense of the 
Divine justice. Of the ambition to win power and renown for my wretched 
self, she has formed the ambition to spread my Master's kingdom; to achieve 
victories for the standard of the cross. So much has religion done for me; 
turning the original materials to the best account; pruning and training 
nature. But she could not eradicate nature: nor will it be eradicated 'till 
this mortal shall put on immortality.'"
Having said this, he took his hat, which lay on the table beside my 
palette. Once more he looked at the portrait.
"She is lovely," he murmured. "She is well named the Rose of the World, 
indeed!"
"And may I not paint one like it for you?"
"Cui bono? No."
He drew over the picture the sheet of thin paper on which I was accustomed 
to rest my hand in painting, to prevent the card-board from being sullied. 
What he suddenly saw on this blank paper, it was impossible for me to tell; 
but something had caught his eye. He took it up with a snatch; he looked at 
the edge; then shot a glance at me, inexpressibly peculiar, and quite 
incomprehensible: a glance that seemed to take and make note of every point 
in my shape, face, and dress; for it traversed all, quick, keen as 
lightning. His lips parted, as if to speak: but he checked the coming 
sentence, whatever it was.
"What is the matter?" I asked.
"Nothing in the world," was the reply; and, replacing the paper, I saw him 
dextrously tear a narrow slip from the margin. It disappeared in his glove; 
and, with one hasty nod and "good-afternoon," he vanished.
"Well!" I exclaimed, using an expression of the district, "that caps the 
globe, however!"
I, in my turn, scrutinised the paper; but saw nothing on it save a few 
dingy stains of paint where I had tried the tint in my pencil. I pondered 
the mystery a minute or two; but finding it insolvable, and being certain 
it could not be of much moment, I dismissed, and soon forgot it.



Chapter 33

When Mr St. John went, it was beginning to snow; the whirling storm 
continued all night. The next day a keen wind brought fresh and blinding 
falls; by twilight the valley was drifted up and almost impassable. I had 
closed my shutter, laid a mat to the door to prevent the snow from blowing 
in under it, trimmed my fire, and after sitting nearly an hour on the 
hearth listening to the muffled fury of the tempest, I lit a candle, took 
down Marmion, and beginning -

"Day set on Norham's castled steep,
And Tweed's fair river broad and deep,
And Cheviot's mountains lone;
The massive towers, the donjon keep,
The flanking walls that round them sweep,
In yellow lustre shone" -

I soon forgot storm in music.
I heard a noise: the wind, I thought, shook the door. No; it was St. John 
Rivers, who, lifting the latch, came in out of the frozen hurricane - the 
howling darkness - and stood before me: the cloak that covered his tall 
figure all white as a glacier. I was almost in consternation, so little had 
I expected any guest from the blocked-up vale that night.
"Any ill news?" I demanded. "Has anything happened?"
"No. How very easily alarmed you are!" he answered, removing his cloak and 
hanging it up against the door, towards which he again coolly pushed the 
mat which his entrance had deranged. He stamped the snow from his boots.
"I shall sully the purity of your floor," said he, "but you must excuse me 
for once." Then he approached the fire. "I have had hard work to get here, 
I assure you," he observed, as he warmed his hands over the flame. "One 
drift took me up to the waist; happily the snow is quite soft yet."
"But why are you come?" I could not forbear saying.
"Rather an inhospitable question to put to a visitor; but since you ask it, 
I answer simply to have a little talk with you; I got tired of my mute 
books and empty rooms. Besides, since yesterday I have experienced the 
excitement of a person to whom a tale has been half-told, and who is 
impatient to hear the sequel."
He sat down. I recalled his singular conduct of yesterday, and really I 
began to fear his wits were touched. If he were insane, however, his was a 
very cool and collected insanity: I had never seen that handsome-featured 
face of his look more like chiselled marble than it did just now, as he put 
aside his snow-wet hair from his forehead and let the firelight shine free 
on his pale brow and cheek as pale, where it grieved me to discover the 
hollow trace of care or sorrow now so plainly graved. I waited, expecting 
he would say something I could at least comprehend; but his hand was now at 
his chin, his finger on his lip: he was thinking. It struck me that his 
hand looked wasted like his face. A perhaps uncalled-for gush of pity came 
over my heart: I was moved to say -
"I wish Diana or Mary would come and live with you: it is too bad that you 
should be quite alone; and you are recklessly rash about your own health."
"Not at all," said he: "I care for myself when necessary. I am well now. 
What do you see amiss in me?"
This was said with a careless, abstracted indifference, which showed that 
my solicitude was, at least in his opinion, wholly superfluous. I was 
silenced.
He still slowly moved his finger over his upper lip, and still his eye 
dwelt dreamily on the glowing grate; thinking it urgent to say something, I 
asked him presently if he felt any cold draught from the door, which was 
behind him.
"No, no!" he responded shortly and somewhat testily.
"Well," I reflected, "if you won't talk, you may be still; I'll let you 
alone now, and return to my book."
So I snuffed the candle and resumed the perusal of Marmion. He soon 
stirred; my eye was instantly drawn to his movements; he only took out a 
morocco pocket-book, thence produced a letter, which he read in silence, 
folded it, put it back, relapsed into meditation. It was vain to try to 
read with such an inscrutable fixture before me; nor could I, in my 
impatience, consent to be dumb; he might rebuff me if he liked, but talk I 
would.
"Have you heard from Diana and Mary lately?"
"Not since the letter I showed you a week ago."
"There has not been any change made about your own arrangements? You will 
not be summoned to leave England sooner than you expected?"
"I fear not, indeed: such chance is too good to befall me." Baffled so far, 
I changed my ground. I bethought myself to talk about the school and my 
scholars.
"Mary Garrett's mother is better, and Mary came back to the school this 
morning, and I shall have four new girls next week from the Foundry Close - 
they would have come today but for the snow."
"Indeed!"
"Mr Oliver pays for two."
"Does he?"
"He means to give the whole school a treat at Christmas."
"I know."
"Was it your suggestion?"
"No."
"Whose, then?"
"His daughter's, I think."
"It is like her: she is so good-natured."
"Yes."
Again came the blank of a pause: the clock struck eight strokes. It aroused 
him; he uncrossed his legs, sat erect, turned to me.
"Leave your book a moment, and come a little nearer the fire," he said.
Wondering, and of my wonder finding no end, I complied.
"Half an hour ago," he pursued, "I spoke of my impatience to hear the 
sequel of a tale: on reflection, I find the matter will be better managed 
by my assuming the narrator's part, and converting you into a listener. 
Before commencing, it is but fair to warn you that the story will sound 
somewhat hackneyed in your ears; but stale details often regain a degree of 
freshness when they pass through new lips. For the rest, whether trite or 
novel, it is short.
"Twenty years ago, a poor curate - never mind his name at this moment - 
fell in love with a rich man's daughter: she fell in love with him, and 
married him, against the advice of all her friends, who consequently 
disowned her immediately after the wedding. Before two years passed, the 
rash pair were both dead, and laid quietly side by side under one slab. (I 
have seen their grave; it formed part of the pavement of a huge churchyard 
surrounding the grim, soot-black old cathedral of an overgrown 
manufacturing town in --shire.) They left a daughter, which, at its very 
birth, Charity received in her lap - cold as that of the snow-drift I 
almost stuck fast in tonight. Charity carried the friendless thing to the 
house of its rich maternal relations; it was reared by an aunt-in-law, 
called (I come to names now) Mrs Reed of Gateshead. You start - did you 
hear a noise? I daresay it is only a rat scrambling along the rafters of 
the adjoining schoolroom: it was a barn before I had it repaired and 
altered, and barns are generally haunted by rats. - To proceed. Mrs Reed 
kept the orphan ten years: whether it was happy or not with her, I cannot 
say, never having been told; but at the end of that time she transferred it 
to a place you know - being no other than Lowood School, where you so long 
resided yourself. It seems her career there was very honourable: from a 
pupil, she became a teacher, like yourself - really it strikes me there are 
parallel points in her history and yours - she left it to be a governess: 
there, again, your fates were analogous; she undertook the education of the 
ward of a certain Mr Rochester."
"Mr Rivers!" I interrupted.
"I can guess your feelings," he said, "but restrain them for a while: I 
have nearly finished; hear me to the end. Of Mr Rochester's character I 
know nothing, but the one fact that he professed to offer honourable 
marriage to this young girl, and that at the very altar she discovered he 
had a wife yet alive, though a lunatic. What his subsequent conduct and 
proposals were is a matter of pure conjecture; but when an event transpired 
which rendered inquiry after the governess necessary, it was discovered she 
was gone - no one could tell when, where, or how. She had left Thornfield 
Hall in the night; every research after her course had been vain: the 
country had been scoured far and wide; no vestige of information could be 
gathered respecting her. Yet that she should be found is become a matter of 
serious urgency: advertisements have been put in all the papers; I myself 
have received a letter from one Mr Briggs, a solicitor, communicating the 
details I have just imparted. Is it not an odd tale?"
"Just tell me this," said I, "and since you know so much, you surely can 
tell it me - what of Mr Rochester? How and where is he? What is he doing? 
Is he well?"
"I am ignorant of all concerning Mr Rochester: the letter never mentions 
him but to narrate the fraudulent and illegal attempt I have adverted to. 
You should rather ask the name of the governess - the nature of the event 
which requires her appearance."
"Did no one go to Thornfield Hall, then? Did no one see Mr Rochester?"
"I suppose not."
"But they wrote to him?"
"Of course."
"And what did he say? Who has his letters?"
"Mr Briggs intimates that the answer to his application was not from Mr 
Rochester, but from a lady: it is signed 'Alice Fairfax.'"
I felt cold and dismayed: my worst fears then were probably true: he had in 
all probability left England and rushed in reckless desperation to some 
former haunt on the Continent. And what opiate for his severe sufferings - 
what object for his strong passions - had he sought there? I dared not 
answer the question. Oh, my poor master - once almost my husband - whom I 
had often called "my dear Edward!"
"He must have been a bad man," observed Mr Rivers.
"You don't know him - don't pronounce an opinion upon him," I said, with 
warmth.
"Very well," he answered quietly: "and indeed my head is otherwise occupied 
than with him: I have my tale to finish. Since you won't ask the 
governess's name, I must tell it of my own accord. Stay! I have it here - 
it is always more satisfactory to see important points written down, fairly 
committed to black and white."
And the pocket-book was again deliberately produced, opened, sought 
through; from one of its compartments was extracted a shabby slip of paper, 
hastily torn off: I recognised in its texture and its stains of ultra-
marine, and lake, and vermilion, the ravished margin of the portrait-cover. 
He got up, held it close to my eyes: and I read, traced in Indian ink, in 
my own handwriting, the words "JANE EYRE" - the work doubtless of some 
moment of abstraction.
"Briggs wrote to me of a Jane Eyre:" he said, "the advertisements demanded 
a Jane Eyre: I knew a Jane Elliott. - I confess I had my suspicions, but it 
was only yesterday afternoon they were at once resolved into certainty. You 
own the name and renounce the alias?"
"Yes - yes; but where is Mr Briggs? He perhaps knows more of Mr Rochester 
than you do."
"Briggs is in London. I should doubt his knowing anything at all about Mr 
Rochester; it is not in Mr Rochester he is interested. Meantime, you forget 
essential points in pursuing trifles: you do not inquire why Mr Briggs 
sought after you - what he wanted with you."
"Well, what did he want?"
"Merely to tell you that your uncle, Mr Eyre of Madeira, is dead; that he 
has left you all his property, and that you are now rich - merely that - 
nothing more."
"I! - rich?"
"Yes, you, rich - quite an heiress."
Silence succeeded.
"You must prove your identity of course," resumed St. John presently: "a 
step which will offer no difficulties; you can then enter on immediate 
possession. Your fortune is vested in the English funds; Briggs has the 
will and the necessary documents."
Here was a new card turned up! It is a fine thing, reader, to be lifted in 
a moment from indigence to wealth - a very fine thing; but not a matter one 
can comprehend or consequently enjoy, all at once. And then there are other 
chances in life far more thrilling and rapture-giving: this is solid, an 
affair of the actual world, nothing ideal about it: all its associations 
are solid and sober, and its manifestations are the same. One does not 
jump, and spring, and shout hurrah! at hearing one has got a fortune; one 
begins to consider responsibilities, and to ponder business; on a base of 
steady satisfaction rise certain grave cares, and we contain ourselves, and 
brood over our bliss with a solemn brow.
Besides, the words Legacy, Bequest, go side by side with the words, Death, 
Funeral. My uncle I had heard was dead - my only relative; ever since being 
made aware of his existence, I had cherished the hope of one day seeing 
him: now, I never should. And then this money came only to me: not to me 
and a rejoicing family, but to my isolated self. It was a grand boon 
doubtless; and independence would be glorious - yes, I felt that - that 
thought swelled my heart.
"You unbend your forehead at last," said Mr Rivers. "I thought Medusa had 
looked at you, and that you were turning to stone. Perhaps now you will ask 
how much you are worth?"
"How much am I worth?"
"Oh, a trifle! Nothing of course to speak of - twenty thousand pounds, I 
think they say - but what is that?"
"Twenty thousand pounds?"
Here was a new stunner - I had been calculating on four or five thousand. 
This news actually took my breath for a moment: Mr St. John, whom I had 
never heard laugh before, laughed now.
"Well," said he, "if you had committed a murder, and I had told you your 
crime was discovered, you could scarcely look more aghast."
"It is a large sum - don't you think there is a mistake?"
"No mistake at all."
"Perhaps you have read the figures wrong - it may be two thousand!"
"It is written in letters, not figures, - twenty thousand."
I again felt rather like an individual of but average gastronomical powers 
sitting down to feast alone at a table spread with provisions for a 
hundred. Mr Rivers rose now and put his cloak on.
"If it were not such a very wild night," he said, "I would send Hannah down 
to keep you company: you look too desperately miserable to be left alone. 
But Hannah, poor woman! could not stride the drifts so well as I: her legs 
are not quite so long: so I must e'en leave you to your sorrows. Good-
night."
He was lifting the latch: a sudden thought occurred to me.
"Stop one minute!" I cried.
"Well?"
"It puzzles me to know why Mr Briggs wrote to you about me; or how he knew 
you, or could fancy that you, living in such an out-of-the-way place, had 
the power to aid in my discovery."
"Oh! I am a clergyman," he said; "and the clergy are often appealed to 
about odd matters." Again the latch rattled.
"No; that does not satisfy me!" I exclaimed: and indeed there was something 
in the hasty and unexplanatory reply which, instead of allaying, piqued my 
curiosity more than ever.
"It is a very strange piece of business," I added; "I must know more about 
it."
"Another time."
"No; tonight! - tonight!" and as he turned from the door, I placed myself 
between it and him. He looked rather embarrassed.
"You certainly shall not go till you have told me all," I said.
"I would rather not just now."
"You shall! - you must!"
"I would rather Diana or Mary informed you."
Of course these objections wrought my eagerness to a climax: gratified it 
must be, and that without delay; and I told him so.
"But I apprised you that I was a hard man," said he, "difficult to 
persuade."
"And I am a hard woman, - impossible to put off."
"And then," he pursued, "I am cold: no fervour infects me."
"Whereas I am hot, and fire dissolves ice. The blaze there has thawed all 
the snow from your cloak; by the same token, it has streamed on to my 
floor, and made it like a trampled street. As you hope ever to be forgiven, 
Mr Rivers, the high crime and misdemeanour of spoiling a sanded kitchen, 
tell me what I wish to know."
"Well, then," he said, "I yield; if not to your earnestness, to your 
perseverance: as stone is worn by continual dropping. Besides, you must 
know some day, - as well now as later. Your name is Jane Eyre?"
"Of course: that was all settled before."
"You are not, perhaps, aware that I am your namesake? - that I was 
christened St. John Eyre Rivers?"
"No, indeed! I remember now seeing the letter E. comprised in your initials 
written in books you have at different times lent me; but I never asked for 
what name it stood. But what then? Surely -"
I stopped: I could not trust myself to entertain, much less to express, the 
thought that rushed upon me - that embodied itself, - that, in a second, 
stood out a strong, solid probability. Circumstances knit themselves, 
fitted themselves, shot into order: the chain that had been lying hitherto 
a formless lump of links was drawn out straight, - every ring was perfect, 
the connection complete. I knew, by instinct, how the matter stood, before 
St. John had said another word; but I cannot expect the reader to have the 
same intuitive perception, so I must repeat his explanation.
"My mother's name was Eyre; she had two brothers; one a clergyman, who 
married Miss Jane Reed, of Gateshead; the other, John Eyre, Esq., merchant, 
late of Funchal, Madeira. Mr Briggs, being Mr Eyre's solicitor, wrote to us 
last August to inform us of our uncle's death, and to say that he had left 
his property to his brother the clergyman's orphan daughter, overlooking 
us, in consequence of a quarrel, never forgiven, between him and my father. 
He wrote again a few weeks since, to intimate that the heiress was lost, 
and asking if we knew anything of her. A name casually written on a slip of 
paper has enabled me to find her out. You know the rest." Again he was 
going, but I set my back against the door.
"Do let me speak," I said; "let me have one moment to draw breath and 
reflect." I paused - he stood before me, hat in hand, looking composed 
enough. I resumed -
"Your mother was my father's sister?"
"Yes."
"My aunt, consequently?"
He bowed.
"My uncle John was your uncle John? You, Diana, and Mary are his sister's 
children, as I am his brother's child?"
"Undeniably."
"You three, then, are my cousins; half our blood on each side flows from 
the same source?"
"We are cousins; yes."
I surveyed him. It seemed I had found a brother: one I could be proud of, - 
one I could love; and two sisters, whose qualities were such, that, when I 
knew them but as mere strangers, they had inspired me with genuine 
affection and admiration. The two girls, on whom, kneeling down on the wet 
ground, and looking through the low, latticed window of Moor House kitchen, 
I had gazed with so bitter a mixture of interest and despair, were my near 
kinswomen; and the young and stately gentleman who had found me almost 
dying at his threshold was my blood relation. Glorious discovery to a 
lonely wretch! This was wealth indeed! - wealth to the heart! - a mine of 
pure, genial affections. This was a blessing, bright, vivid, and 
exhilarating; - not like the ponderous gift of gold: rich and welcome 
enough in its way, but sobering from its weight. I now clapped my hands in 
sudden joy - my pulse bounded, my veins thrilled.
"Oh, I am glad! - I am glad!" I exclaimed.
St. John smiled. "Did I not say you neglected essential points to pursue 
trifles?" he asked. "You were serious when I told you you had got a 
fortune; and now, for a matter of no moment, you are excited."
"What can you mean? It may be of no moment to you; you have sisters and 
don't care for a cousin; but I had nobody; and now three relations, - or 
two, if you don't choose to be counted, - are born into my world full-
grown. I say again, I am glad!"
I walked fast through the room: I stopped, half suffocated with the 
thoughts that rose faster than I could receive, comprehend, settle them: - 
thoughts of what might, could, would, and should be, and that ere long. I 
looked at the blank wall: it seemed a sky thick with ascending stars, - 
every one lit me to a purpose or delight. Those who had saved my life, 
whom, till this hour, I had loved barrenly, I could now benefit. They were 
under a yoke, - I could free them: they were scattered, - I could reunite 
them: the independence, the affluence which was mine, might be theirs too. 
Were we not four? Twenty thousand pounds shared equally, would be five 
thousand each, - enough and to spare: justice would be done, - mutual 
happiness secured. Now the wealth did not weigh on me: now it was not a 
mere bequest of coin, - it was a legacy of life, hope, enjoyment.
How I looked while these ideas were taking my spirit by storm, I cannot 
tell; but I perceived soon that Mr Rivers had placed a chair behind me, and 
was gently attempting to make me sit down on it. He also advised me to be 
composed; I scorned the insinuation of helplessness and distraction, shook 
off his hand, and began to walk about again.
"Write to Diana and Mary tomorrow," I said, "and tell them to come home 
directly. Diana said they would both consider themselves rich with a 
thousand pounds, so with five thousand they will do very well."
"Tell me where I can get you a glass of water," said St. John; "you must 
really make an effort to tranquillise your feelings."
"Nonsense! and what sort of an effect will the bequest have on you? Will it 
keep you in England, induce you to marry Miss Oliver, and settle down like 
an ordinary mortal?"
"You wander: your head becomes confused. I have been too abrupt in 
communicating the news; it has excited you beyond your strength."
"Mr Rivers! you quite put me out of patience: I am rational enough; it is 
you who misunderstand, or rather who affect to misunderstand."
"Perhaps, if you explained yourself a little more fully, I should 
comprehend better."
"Explain! What is there to explain? You cannot fail to see that twenty 
thousand pounds, the sum in question, divided equally between the nephew 
and three nieces of our uncle, will give five thousand to each? What I want 
is, that you should write to your sisters and tell them of the fortune that 
has accrued to them."
"To you, you mean."
"I have intimated my view of the case: I am incapable of taking any other. 
I am not brutally selfish, blindly unjust, or fiendishly ungrateful. 
Besides, I am resolved I will have a home and connections. I like Moor 
House, and I will live at Moor House; I like Diana and Mary, and I will 
attach myself for life to Diana and Mary. It would please and benefit me to 
have five thousand pounds; it would torment and oppress me to have twenty 
thousand; which, moreover, could never be mine in justice, though it might 
in law. I abandon to you, then, what is absolutely superfluous to me. Let 
there be no opposition, and no discussion about it; let us agree amongst 
each other, and decide the point at once."
"This is acting on first impulses; you must take days to consider such a 
matter, ere your word can be regarded as valid."
"Oh! if all you doubt is my sincerity, I am easy: you see the justice of 
the case?"
"I do see a certain justice; but it is contrary to all custom. Besides, the 
entire fortune is your right: my uncle gained it by his own efforts; he was 
free to leave it to whom he would: he left it to you. After all, justice 
permits you to keep it: you may, with a clear conscience, consider it 
absolutely your own."
"With me," said I, "it is fully as much a matter of feeling as of 
conscience: I must indulge my feelings; I so seldom have had an opportunity 
of doing so. Were you to argue, object, and annoy me for a year, I could 
not forego the delicious pleasure of which I have caught a glimpse - that 
of repaying, in part, a mighty obligation, and winning to myself life-long 
friends."
"You think so now," rejoined St. John, "because you do not know what it is 
to possess, nor consequently to enjoy wealth: you cannot form a notion of 
the importance twenty thousand pounds would give you; of the place it would 
enable you to take in society; of the prospects it would open to you: you 
cannot -"
"And you," I interrupted, "cannot at all imagine the craving I have for 
fraternal and sisterly love. I never had a home, I never had brothers or 
sisters; I must and will have them now: you are not reluctant to admit me 
and own me, are you?"
"Jane, I will be your brother - my sisters will be your sisters - without 
stipulating for this sacrifice of your just rights."
"Brother? Yes; at the distance of a thousand leagues! Sisters? Yes; slaving 
amongst strangers! I, wealthy - gorged with gold I never earned and do not 
merit! You, penniless! Famous equality and fraternisation! Close union! 
Intimate attachment!"
"But, Jane, your aspirations after family ties and domestic happiness may 
be realised otherwise than by the means you contemplate: you may marry."
"Nonsense, again! Marry! I don't want to marry, and never shall marry."
"That is saying too much: such hazardous affirmations are a proof of the 
excitement under which you labour."
"It is not saying too much: I know what I feel, and how averse are my 
inclinations to the bare thought of marriage. No one would take me for 
love; and I will not be regarded in the light of a mere money speculation. 
And I do not want a stranger - unsympathising, alien, different from me; I 
want my kindred: those with whom I have full fellow-feeling. Say again you 
will be my brother: when you uttered the words I was satisfied, happy; 
repeat them, if you can, repeat them sincerely."
"I think I can. I know I have always loved my own sisters; and I know on 
what my affection for them is grounded, - respect for their worth and 
admiration of their talents. You too have principle and mind: your tastes 
and habits resemble Diana's and Mary's; your presence is always agreeable 
to me; in your conversation I have already for some time found a salutary 
solace. I feel I can easily and naturally make room in my heart for you, as 
my third and youngest sister."
"Thank you: that contents me for tonight. Now you had better go; for if you 
stay longer, you will perhaps irritate me afresh by some mistrustful 
scruple."
"And the school, Miss Eyre? It must now be shut up, I suppose?"
"No. I will retain my post of mistress till you get a substitute."
He smiled approbation: we shook hands, and he took leave.
I need not narrate in detail the further struggles I had, and arguments I 
used, to get matters regarding the legacy settled as I wished. My task was 
a very hard one; but, as I was absolutely resolved - as my cousins saw at 
length that my mind was really and immutably fixed on making a just 
division of the property - as they must in their own hearts have felt the 
equity of the intention; and must, besides, have been innately conscious 
that in my place they would have done precisely what I wished to do - they 
yielded at length so far as to consent to put the affair to arbitration. 
The judges chosen were Mr Oliver and an able lawyer: both coincided in my 
opinion: I carried my point. The instruments of transfer were drawn out: 
St. John, Diana, Mary, and I, each became possessed of a competency.



Chapter 34

It was near Christmas by the time all was settled: the season of general 
holiday approached. I now closed Morton school, taking care that the 
parting should not be barren on my side. Good fortune opens the hand as 
well as the heart wonderfully; and to give somewhat when we have largely 
received, is but to afford a vent to the unusual ebullition of the 
sensations. I had long felt with pleasure that many of my rustic scholars 
liked me, and when we parted, that consciousness was confirmed: they 
manifested their affection plainly and strongly. Deep was my gratification 
to find I had really a place in their unsophisticated hearts: I promised 
them that never a week should pass in future that I did not visit them, and 
give them an hour's teaching in their school.
Mr Rivers came up as, having seen the classes, now numbering sixty girls, 
file out before me, and locked the door, I stood with the key in my hand, 
exchanging a few words of special farewell with some half-dozen of my best 
scholars: as decent, respectable, modest, and well-informed young women as 
could be found in the ranks of the British peasantry. And that is saying a 
great deal; for after all, the British peasantry are the best taught, best 
mannered, most self-respecting of any in Europe: since those days I have 
seen paysannes and Bauerinnen; and the best of them seemed to me ignorant, 
coarse, and besotted, compared with my Morton girls.
"Do you consider you have got your reward for a season of exertion?" asked 
Mr Rivers, when they were gone. "Does not the consciousness of having done 
some real good in your day and generation give pleasure?"
"Doubtless."
"And you have only toiled a few months! Would not a life devoted to the 
task of regenerating your race be well spent?"
"Yes," I said; "but I could not go on for ever so: I want to enjoy my own 
faculties as well as to cultivate those of other people. I must enjoy them 
now; don't recall either my mind or body to the school; I am out of it and 
disposed for full holiday."
He looked grave. "What now? What sudden eagerness is this you evince? What 
are you going to do?"
"To be active: as active as I can. And first I must beg you to set Hannah 
at liberty, and get somebody else to wait on you."
"Do you want her?"
"Yes, to go with me to Moor House. Diana and Mary will be at home in a 
week, and I want to have everything in order against their arrival."
"I understand. I thought you were for flying off on some excursion. It is 
better so: Hannah shall go with you."
"Tell her to be ready by tomorrow then; and here is the schoolroom key: I 
will give you the key of my cottage in the morning."
He took it. "You give it up very gleefully," said he; "I don't quite 
understand your light-heartedness, because I cannot tell what employment 
you propose to yourself as a substitute for the one you are relinquishing. 
What aim, what purpose, what ambition in life have you now?"
"My first aim will be to clean down (do you comprehend the full force of 
the expression?) - to clean down Moor House from chamber to cellar; my next 
to rub it up with bees-wax, oil, and an indefinite number of cloths, till 
it glitters again; my third, to arrange every chair, table, bed, carpet, 
with mathematical precision; afterwards I shall go near to ruin you in 
coals and peat to keep up good fires in every room; and lastly, the two 
days preceding that on which your sisters are expected will be devoted by 
Hannah and me to such a beating of eggs, sorting of currants, grating of 
spices, compounding of Christmas cakes, chopping up of materials for mince-
pies, and solemnising of other culinary rites, as words can convey but an 
inadequate notion of to the uninitiated like you. My purpose, in short, is 
to have all things in an absolutely perfect state of readiness for Diana 
and Mary before next Thursday; and my ambition is to give them a beau-ideal 
of a welcome when they come."
St. John smiled slightly: still he was dissatisfied.
"It is all very well for the present," said he; "but seriously, I trust 
that when the first flush of vivacity is over, you will look a little 
higher than domestic endearments and household joys."
"I mean, on the contrary, to be busy."
"Jane, I excuse you for the present: two months' grace I allow you for the 
full enjoyment of your new position, and for pleasing yourself with this 
late-found charm of relationship; but then, I hope you will begin to look 
beyond Moor House and Morton, and sisterly society, and the selfish calm 
and sensual comfort of civilised affluence. I hope your energies will then 
once more trouble you with their strength."
I looked at him with surprise. "St. John," I said, "I think you are almost 
wicked to talk so. I am disposed to be as content as a queen, and you try 
to stir me up to restlessness! To what end?"
"To the end of turning to profit the talents which God has committed to 
your keeping; and of which He will surely one day demand a strict account. 
Jane, I shall watch you closely and anxiously - I warn you of that. And try 
to restrain the disproportionate fervour with which you throw yourself into 
commonplace home pleasures. Don't cling so tenaciously to ties of the 
flesh; save your constancy and ardour for an adequate cause; forbear to 
waste them on trite transient objects. Do you hear, Jane?"
"Yes; just as if you were speaking Greek. I feel I have adequate cause to 
be happy, and I will be happy. Good-bye!"
Happy at Moor House I was, and hard I worked; and so did Hannah: she was 
charmed to see how jovial I could be amidst the bustle of a house turned 
topsy-turvy - how I could brush, and dust, and clean, and cook. And really, 
after a day or two of confusion worse confounded, it was delightful by 
degrees to invoke order from the chaos ourselves had made. I had previously 
taken a journey to S--, to purchase some new furniture: my cousins having 
given me carte blanche to effect what alterations I pleased, and a sum 
having been set aside for that purpose. The ordinary sitting-room and 
bedrooms I left much as they were: for I knew Diana and Mary would derive 
more pleasure from seeing again the old homely tables, and chairs, and 
beds, than from the spectacle of the smartest innovations. Still some 
novelty was necessary, to give to their return the piquancy with which I 
wished it to be invested. Dark handsome new carpets and curtains, an 
arrangement of some carefully selected antique ornaments in porcelain and 
bronze, new coverings, and mirrors, and dressing-cases, for the toilet-
tables, answered the end: they looked fresh without being glaring. A spare 
parlour and bedroom I refurnished entirely, with old mahogany and crimson 
upholstery: I laid canvas on the passage, and carpets on the stairs. When 
all was finished, I thought Moor House as complete a model of bright modest 
snugness within, as it was, at this season, a specimen of wintry waste and 
desert dreariness without.
The eventful Thursday at length came. They were expected about dark, and 
ere dusk fires were lit upstairs and below; the kitchen was in perfect 
trim; Hannah and I were dressed, and all was in readiness.
St. John arrived first. I had entreated him to keep quite clear of the 
house till everything was arranged: and, indeed, the bare idea of the 
commotion, at once sordid and trivial, going on within its walls sufficed 
to scare him to estrangement. He found me in the kitchen, watching the 
progress of certain cakes for tea, then baking. Approaching the hearth, he 
asked, "If I was at last satisfied with housemaid's work?" I answered by 
inviting him to accompany me on a general inspection of the result of my 
labours. With some difficulty, I got him to make the tour of the house. He 
just looked in at the doors I opened; and when he had wandered upstairs and 
downstairs, he said I must have gone through a great deal of fatigue and 
trouble to have effected such considerable changes in so short a time: but 
not a syllable did he utter indicating pleasure in the improved aspect of 
his abode.
This silence damped me. I thought perhaps the alterations had disturbed 
some old associations he valued. I inquired whether this was the case: no 
doubt in a somewhat crestfallen tone.
"Not at all; he had, on the contrary, remarked that I had scrupulously 
respected every association: he feared, indeed, I must have bestowed more 
thought on the matter than it was worth. How many minutes, for instance, 
had I devoted to studying the arrangement of this very room? - By the bye, 
could I tell him where such a book was?"
I showed him the volume on the shelf: he took it down, and withdrawing to 
his accustomed window recess, he began to read it.
Now, I did not like this, reader. St. John was a good man; but I began to 
feel he had spoken truth of himself when he said he was hard and cold. The 
humanities and amenities of life had no attraction for him - its peaceful 
enjoyments no charm. Literally, he lived only to aspire - after what was 
good and great, certainly; but still he would never rest, nor approve of 
others resting round him. As I looked at his lofty forehead, still and pale 
as a white stone - at his fine lineaments fixed in study - I comprehended 
all at once that he would hardly make a good husband: that it would be a 
trying thing to be his wife. I understood, as by inspiration, the nature of 
his love for Miss Oliver; I agreed with him that it was but a love of the 
senses. I comprehended how he should despise himself for the feverish 
influence it exercised over him; how he should wish to stifle and destroy 
it; how he should mistrust its ever conducing permanently to his happiness 
or hers. I saw he was of the material from which nature hews her heroes - 
Christian and Pagan - her lawgivers, her statesmen, her conquerors: a 
steadfast bulwark for great interests to rest upon; but, at the fireside, 
too often a cold cumbrous column, gloomy and out of place.
"This parlour is not his sphere," I reflected: "the Himalayan ridge or 
Caffre bush, even the plague-cursed Guinea Coast swamp would suit him 
better. Well may he eschew the calm of domestic life; it is not his 
element: there his faculties stagnate - they cannot develop or appear to 
advantage. It is in scenes of strife and danger - where courage is proved, 
and energy exercised, and fortitude tasked - that he will speak and move, 
the leader and superior. A merry child would have the advantage of him on 
this hearth. He is right to choose a missionary's career - I see it now."
"They are coming! they are coming!" cried Hannah, throwing open the parlour 
door. At the same moment old Carlo barked joyfully. Out I ran. It was now 
dark; but a rumbling of wheels was audible. Hannah soon had a lantern lit. 
The vehicle had stopped at the wicket; the driver opened the door: first 
one well-known form, then another, stepped out. In a minute I had my face 
under their bonnets, in contact first with Mary's soft cheek, then with 
Diana's flowing curls. They laughed - kissed me - then Hannah: patted 
Carlo, who was half wild with delight; asked eagerly if all was well; and 
being assured in the affirmative, hastened into the house.
They were stiff with their long and jolting drive from Whitcross, and 
chilled with the frosty night air; but their pleasant countenances expanded 
to the cheerful firelight. While the driver and Hannah brought in the 
boxes, they demanded St. John. At this moment he advanced from the parlour. 
They both threw their arms round his neck at once. He gave each one quiet 
kiss, said in a low tone a few words of welcome, stood a while to be talked 
to, and then, intimating that he supposed they would soon rejoin him in the 
parlour, withdrew there as to a place of refuge.
I had lit their candles to go upstairs, but Diana had first to give 
hospitable orders respecting the driver; this done, both followed me. They 
were delighted with the renovation and decorations of their rooms; with the 
new drapery, and fresh carpets, and rich tinted china vases: they expressed 
their gratification ungrudgingly. I had the pleasure of feeling that my 
arrangements met their wishes exactly, and that what I had done added a 
vivid charm to their joyous return home.
Sweet was that evening. My cousins, full of exhilaration, were so eloquent 
in narrative and comment, that their fluency covered St. John's 
taciturnity: he was sincerely glad to see his sisters; but in their glow of 
fervour and flow of joy he could not sympathise. The event of the day - 
that is, the return of Diana and Mary - pleased him; but the accompaniments 
of that event, the glad tumult, the garrulous glee of reception irked him: 
I saw he wished the calmer morrow was come. In the very meridian of the 
night's enjoyment, about an hour after tea, a rap was heard at the door. 
Hannah entered with the intimation that "a poor lad was come, at that 
unlikely time, to fetch Mr Rivers to see his mother, who was drawing away."
"Where does she live, Hannah?"
"Clear up at Whitcross Brow, almost four miles off, and moor and moss all 
the way."
"Tell him I will go."
"I'm sure, sir, you had better not. It's the worst road to travel after 
dark that can be: there's no track at all over the bog. And then it is such 
a bitter night - the keenest wind you ever felt. You had better send word, 
sir, that you will be there in the morning."
But he was already in the passage, putting on his cloak; and without one 
objection, one murmur, he departed. It was then nine o'clock: he did not 
return till midnight. Starved and tired enough he was: but he looked 
happier than when he set out. He had performed an act of duty; made an 
exertion; felt his own strength to do and deny, and was on better terms 
with himself.
I am afraid the whole of the ensuing week tried his patience. It was 
Christmas week: we took to no settled employment, but spent it in a sort of 
merry domestic dissipation. The air of the moors, the freedom of home, the 
dawn of prosperity, acted on Diana and Mary's spirits like some life-giving 
elixir: they were gay from morning till noon, and from noon till night. 
They could always talk; and their discourse, witty, pithy, original, had 
such charms for me, that I preferred listening to, and sharing in it, to 
doing anything else. St. John did not rebuke our vivacity; but he escaped 
from it: he was seldom in the house; his parish was large, the population 
scattered, and he found daily business in visiting the sick and poor in its 
different districts.
One morning at breakfast, Diana, after looking a little pensive for some 
minutes, asked him, "If his plans were yet unchanged."
"Unchanged and unchangeable," was the reply. And he proceeded to inform us 
that his departure from England was now definitely fixed for the ensuing 
year.
"And Rosamond Oliver?" suggested Mary, the words seeming to escape her lips 
involuntarily: for no sooner had she uttered them, than she made a gesture 
as if wishing to recall them. St. John had a book in his hand - it was his 
unsocial custom to read at meals - he closed it, and looked up.
"Rosamond Oliver," said he, "is about to be married to Mr Granby, one of 
the best connected and most estimable residents in S--, grandson and heir 
to Sir Frederick Granby: I had the intelligence from her father yesterday."
His sisters looked at each other and at me; we all three looked at him: he 
was serene as glass.
"The match must have been got up hastily," said Diana: "they cannot have 
known each other long."
"But two months: they met in October at the county ball at S--. But where 
there are no obstacles to a union, as in the present case, where the 
connection is in every point desirable, delays are unnecessary: they will 
be married as soon a S-- Place, which Sir Frederic gives up to them, can be 
refitted for their reception."
The first time I found St. John alone after this communication, I felt 
tempted to inquire if the event distressed him: but he seemed so little to 
need sympathy, that, so far from venturing to offer him more, I experienced 
some shame at the recollection of what I had already hazarded. Besides, I 
was out of practice in talking to him: his reserve was again frozen over, 
and my frankness was congealed beneath it. He had not kept his promise of 
treating me like his sisters; he continually made little, chilling 
differences between us, which did not at all tend to the development of 
cordiality: in short, now that I was acknowledged his kinswoman, and lived 
under the same roof with him, I felt the distance between us to be far 
greater than when he had known me only as the village schoolmistress. When 
I remembered how far I had once been admitted to his confidence, I could 
hardly comprehend his present frigidity.
Such being the case, I felt not a little surprised when he raised his head 
suddenly from the desk over which he was stooping, and said -
"You see, Jane, the battle is fought and the victory won."
Startled at being thus addressed, I did not immediately reply: after a 
moment's hesitation I answered -
"But are you sure you are not in the position of those conquerors whose 
triumphs have cost them too dear? Would not such another ruin you?"
"I think not; and if I were, it does not much signify; I shall never be 
called upon to contend for such another. The event of the conflict is 
decisive: my way is now clear; I thank God for it!" So saying, he returned 
to his papers and his silence.
As our mutual happiness (i.e., Diana's, Mary's, and mine) settled into a 
quieter character, and we resumed our usual habits and regular studies, St. 
John stayed more at home: he sat with us in the same room, sometimes for 
hours together. While Mary drew, Diana pursued a course of encyclopaedic 
reading she had (to my awe and amazement) undertaken, and I fagged away at 
German, he pondered a mystic lore of his own: that of some Eastern tongue, 
the acquisition of which he thought necessary to his plans.
Thus engaged, he appeared, sitting in his own recess, quiet and absorbed 
enough; but that blue eye of his had a habit of leaving the outlandish-
looking grammar, and wandering over, and sometimes fixing upon us, his 
fellow-students, with a curious intensity of observation: if caught, it 
would be instantly withdrawn; yet ever and anon, it returned searchingly to 
our table. I wondered what it meant: I wondered, too, at the punctual 
satisfaction he never failed to exhibit on an occasion that seemed to me of 
small moment, namely, my weekly visit to Morton school; and still more was 
I puzzled when, if the day was unfavourable, if there was snow, or rain, or 
high wind, and his sisters urged me not to go, he would invariably make 
light of their solicitude, and encourage me to accomplish the task without 
regard to the elements.
"Jane is not such a weakling as you would make her," he would say: "she can 
bear a mountain blast, or a shower, or a few flakes of snow, as well as any 
of us. Her constitution is both sound and elastic; - better calculated to 
endure variations of climate than many more robust."
And when I returned, sometimes a good deal tired, and not a little weather-
beaten, I never dared complain, because I saw that to murmur would be to 
vex him: on all occasions fortitude pleased him; the reverse was a special 
annoyance.
One afternoon, however, I got leave to stay at home, because I really had a 
cold. His sisters were gone to Morton in my stead: I sat reading Schiller; 
he, deciphering his crabbed Oriental scrolls. As I exchanged a translation 
for an exercise, I happened to look his way: there I found myself under the 
influence of the ever-watchful blue eye. How long it had been searching me 
through and through, and over and over, I cannot tell: so keen was it, and 
yet so cold, I felt for the moment superstitious - as if I were sitting in 
the room with something uncanny.
"Jane, what are you doing?"
"Learning German."
"I want you to give up German and learn Hindostanee."
"You are not in earnest?"
"In such earnest that I must have it so: and I will tell you why."
He then went on to explain that Hindostanee was the language he was himself 
at present studying; that, as he advanced, he was apt to forget the 
commencement; that it would assist him greatly to have a pupil with whom he 
might again and again go over the elements, and so fix them thoroughly in 
his mind; that his choice had hovered for some time between me and his 
sisters; but that he had fixed on me because he saw I could sit at a task 
the longest of the three. Would I do him this favour? I should not, 
perhaps, have to make the sacrifice long, as it wanted now barely three 
months to his departure.
St. John was not a man to be lightly refused: you felt that every 
impression made on him, either for pain or pleasure, was deep-graved and 
permanent. I consented. When Diana and Mary returned, the former found her 
scholar transferred from her to her brother: she laughed, and both she and 
Mary agreed that St. John should never have persuaded them to such a step. 
He answered quietly -
"I know it."
I found him a very patient, very forbearing, and yet an exacting master: he 
expected me to do a great deal; and when I fulfilled his expectations, he, 
in his own way, fully testified his approbation. By degrees, he acquired a 
certain influence over me that took away my liberty of mind: his praise and 
notice were more restraining than his indifference. I could no longer talk 
or laugh freely when he was by, because a tiresomely importunate instinct 
reminded me that vivacity (at least in me) was distasteful to him. I was so 
fully aware that only serious moods and occupations were acceptable, that 
in his presence every effort to sustain or follow any other became vain: I 
fell under a freezing spell. When he said "go," I went; "come," I came; "do 
this," I did it. But I did not love my servitude: I wished, many a time, he 
had continued to neglect me.
One evening when, at bedtime, his sisters and I stood round him, bidding 
him good-night, he kissed each of them, as was his custom; and, as was 
equally his custom, he gave me his hand. Diana, who chanced to be in a 
frolicsome humour (she was not painfully controlled by his will; for hers, 
in another way, was as strong), exclaimed -
"St. John! you used to call Jane your third sister, but you don't treat her 
as such: you should kiss her too."
She pushed me towards him. I thought Diana very provoking, and felt 
uncomfortably confused; and while I was thus thinking and feeling, St. John 
bent his head; his Greek face was brought to a level with mine, his eyes 
questioned my eyes piercingly - he kissed me. There are no such things as 
marble kisses or ice kisses, or I should say my ecclesiastical cousin's 
salute belonged to one of these classes; but there may be experiment 
kisses, and his was an experiment kiss. When given, he viewed me to learn 
the result; it was not striking: I am sure I did not blush; perhaps I might 
have turned a little pale, for I felt as if this kiss were a seal affixed 
to my fetters. He never omitted the ceremony afterwards, and the gravity 
and quiescence with which I underwent it, seemed to invest it for him with 
a certain charm.
As for me, I daily wished more to please him; but to do so, I felt daily 
more and more that I must disown half my nature, stifle half my faculties, 
wrest my tastes from their original bent, force myself to the adoption of 
pursuits for which I had no natural vocation. He wanted to train me to an 
elevation I could never reach; it racked me hourly to aspire to the 
standard he uplifted. The thing was as impossible as to mould my irregular 
features to his correct and classic pattern, to give to my changeable green 
eyes the sea-blue tint and solemn lustre of his own.
Not his ascendancy alone, however, held me in thrall at present. Of late it 
had been easy enough for me to look sad: a cankering evil sat in my heart 
and drained my happiness at its source - the evil of suspense.
Perhaps you think I had forgotten Mr Rochester, reader, amidst these 
changes of place and fortune. Not for a moment. His idea was still with me, 
because it was not a vapour sunshine could disperse, nor a sand-traced 
effigy storms could wash away; it was a name graven on a tablet, fated to 
last as long as the marble it inscribed. The craving to know what had 
become of him followed me everywhere; when I was at Morton, I re-entered my 
cottage every evening to think of that; and now at Moor House, I sought my 
bedroom each night to brood over it.
In the course of my necessary correspondence with Mr Briggs about the will, 
I had inquired if he knew anything of Mr Rochester's present residence and 
state of health; but, as St. John had conjectured, he was quite ignorant of 
all concerning him. I then wrote to Mrs Fairfax, entreating information on 
the subject. I had calculated with certainty on this step answering my end: 
I felt sure it would elicit an early answer. I was astonished when a 
fortnight passed without reply; but when two months wore away, and day 
after day the post arrived and brought nothing for me, I fell a prey to the 
keenest anxiety.
I wrote again: there was a chance of my first letter having missed. Renewed 
hope followed renewed effort: it shone like the former for some weeks, 
then, like it, it faded, flickered: not a line, not a word reached me. When 
half a year wasted in vain expectancy, my hope died out, and then I felt 
dark indeed.
A fine spring shone round me, which I could not enjoy. Summer approached; 
Diana tried to cheer me: she said I looked ill, and wished to accompany me 
to the sea-side. This St. John opposed; he said I did not want dissipation, 
I wanted employment; my present life was too purposeless, I required an 
aim; and, I suppose, by way of supplying deficiencies, he prolonged still 
further my lessons in Hindostanee, and grew more urgent in requiring their 
accomplishment: and I, like a fool, never thought of resisting him - I 
could not resist him.
One day I had come to my studies in lower spirits than usual; the ebb was 
occasioned by a poignantly felt disappointment. Hannah had told me in the 
morning there was a letter for me, and when I went down to take it, almost 
certain that the long-looked-for tidings were vouchsafed me at last, I 
found only an unimportant note from Mr Briggs on business. The bitter check 
had wrung from me some tears; and now, as I sat poring over the crabbed 
characters and flourishing tropes of an Indian scribe, my eyes filled 
again.
St. John called me to his side to read; in attempting to do this my voice 
failed me: words were lost in sobs. He and I were the only occupants of the 
parlour: Diana was practising her music in the drawing-room, Mary was 
gardening - it was a very fine May day, clear, sunny, and breezy. My 
companion expressed no surprise at this emotion, nor did he question me as 
to its cause; he only said -
"We will wait a few minutes, Jane, till you are more composed." And while I 
smothered the paroxysm with all haste, he sat calm and patient, leaning on 
his desk, and looking like a physician watching with the eye of science an 
expected and fully understood crisis in a patient's malady. Having stifled 
my sobs, wiped my eyes, and muttered something about not being very well 
that morning, I resumed my task, and succeeded in completing it. St. John 
put away my books and his, locked his desk, and said -
"Now, Jane, you shall take a walk; and with me."
"I will call Diana and Mary."
"No; I want only one companion this morning, and that must be you. Put on 
your things; go out by the kitchen-door: take the road towards the head of 
Marsh Glen: I will join you in a moment."
I know no medium: I never in my life have known any medium in my dealings 
with positive, hard characters, antagonistic to my own, between absolute 
submission and determined revolt. I have always faithfully observed the 
one, up to the very moment of bursting, sometimes with volcanic vehemence, 
into the other; and as neither present circumstances warranted, nor my 
present mood inclined me to mutiny, I observed careful obedience to St. 
John's directions; and in ten minutes I was treading the wild track of the 
glen, side by side with him.
The breeze was from the west: it came over the hills, sweet with scents of 
heath and rush; the sky was of stainless blue; the stream descending the 
ravine, swelled with past spring rains, poured along plentiful and clear, 
catching golden gleams from the sun, and sapphire tints from the firmament. 
As we advanced and left the track, we trod a soft turf, mossy fine and 
emerald green, minutely enamelled with a tiny white flower, and spangled 
with a star-like yellow blossom: the hills, meantime, shut us quite in; for 
the glen, towards its head, wound to their very core.
"Let us rest here," said St. John, as we reached the first stragglers of a 
battalion of rocks, guarding a sort of pass, beyond which the beck rushed 
down a waterfall; and where, still a little farther, the mountain shook off 
turf and flower, had only heath for raiment and crag for gem - where it 
exaggerated the wild to the savage, and exchanged the fresh for the 
frowning - where it guarded the forlorn hope of solitude, and a last refuge 
for silence.
I took a seat: St. John stood near me. He looked up the pass and down the 
hollow; his glance wandered away with the stream, and returned to traverse 
the unclouded heaven which coloured it: he removed his hat, let the breeze 
stir his hair and kiss his brow. He seemed in communion with the genius of 
the haunt: with his eye he bade farewell to something.
"And I shall see it again," he said aloud, "in dreams when I sleep by the 
Ganges: and again in a more remote hour - when another slumber overcomes me 
- on the shore of a darker stream!"
Strange words of a strange love! An austere patriot's passion for his 
fatherland! He sat down; for half an hour we never spoke; neither he to me 
nor I to him: that interval past, he recommenced -
"Jane, I go in six weeks; I have taken my berth in an East India-man which 
sails on the 20th of June."
"God will protect you; for you have undertaken His work," I answered.
"Yes," said he, "there is my glory and joy. I am the servant of an 
infallible Master. I am not going out under human guidance, subject to the 
defective laws and erring control of my feeble fellow-worms: my king, my 
lawgiver, my captain, is the All-perfect. It seems strange to me that all 
round me do not burn to enlist under the same banner, - to join in the same 
enterprise."
"All have not Your powers, and it would be folly for the feeble to wish to 
march with the strong."
"I do not speak to the feeble, or think of them: I address only such as are 
worthy of the work, and competent to accomplish it."
"Those are few in number, and difficult to discover."
"You say truly; but when found, it is right to stir them up - to urge and 
exhort them to the effort - to show them what their gifts are, and why they 
were given - to speak Heaven's message in their ear, - to offer them, 
direct from God, a place in the ranks of His chosen."
"If they are really qualified for the task, will not their own hearts be 
the first to inform them of it?"
I felt as if an awful charm was framing round and gathering over me: I 
trembled to hear some fatal word spoken which would at once declare and 
rivet the spell.
"And what does your heart say?" demanded St. John.
"My heart is mute - my heart is mute," I answered, struck and thrilled.
"Then I must speak for it," continued the deep, relentless voice. "Jane, 
come with me to India: come as my helpmeet and fellow-labourer."
The glen and sky spun round: the hills heaved! It was as if I had heard a 
summons from Heaven - as if a visionary messenger, like him of Macedonia, 
had announced, "Come over and help us!" But I was no apostle, - I could not 
behold the herald, - I could not receive his call.
"Oh, St. John!" I cried, "have some mercy!"
I appealed to one who, in the discharge of what he believed his duty, knew 
neither mercy nor remorse. He continued -
"God and nature intended you for a missionary's wife. It is not personal, 
but mental endowments they have given you: you are formed for labour, not 
for love. A missionary's wife you must - shall be. You shall be mine: I 
claim you - not for my pleasure, but for my Sovereign's service."
"I am not fit for it: I have no vocation," I said.
He had calculated on these first objections: he was not irritated by them. 
Indeed, as he leaned back against the crag behind him, folded his arms on 
his chest, and fixed his countenance, I saw he was prepared for a long and 
trying opposition, and had taken in a stock of patience to last him to its 
close - resolved, however, that that close should be conquest for him.
"Humility, Jane," said he, "is the groundwork of Christian virtues: you say 
right that you are not fit for the work. Who is fit for it? Or who, that 
ever was truly called, believed himself worthy of the summons? I, for 
instance, am but dust and ashes. With St. Paul, I acknowledge myself the 
chiefest of sinners; but I do not suffer this sense of my personal vileness 
to daunt me. I know my Leader: that He is just as well as mighty; and while 
He has chosen a feeble instrument to perform a great task, He will, from 
the boundless stores of His providence, supply the inadequacy of the means 
to the end. Think like me, Jane - trust like me. It is the Rock of Ages I 
ask you to lean on: do not doubt but it will bear the weight of your human 
weakness."
"I do not understand a missionary life: I have never studied missionary 
labours."
"There I, humble as I am, can give you the aid you want: I can set you your 
task from hour to hour; stand by you always; help you from moment to 
moment. This I could do in the beginning: soon (for I know your powers) you 
would be as strong and apt as myself, and would not require my help."
"But my powers - where are they for this undertaking? I do not feel them. 
Nothing speaks or stirs in me while you talk. I am sensible of no light 
kindling - no life quickening - no voice counselling or cheering. Oh, I 
wish I could make you see how much my mind is at this moment like a rayless 
dungeon, with one shrinking fear fettered in its depths - the fear of being 
persuaded by you to attempt what I cannot accomplish!"
"I have an answer for you - hear it. I have watched you ever since we first 
met: I have made you my study for ten months. I have proved you in that 
time by sundry tests: and what have I seen and elicited? In the village 
school I found you could perform well, punctually, uprightly, labour 
uncongenial to your habits and inclinations; I saw you could perform it 
with capacity and tact: you could win while you controlled. In the calm 
with which you learnt you had become suddenly rich, I read a mind clear of 
the vice of Demas: - lucre had no undue power over you. In the resolute 
readiness with which you cut your wealth into four shares, keeping but one 
to yourself, and relinquishing the three others to the claim of abstract 
justice, I recognised a soul that revelled in the flame and excitement of 
sacrifice. In the tractability with which, at my wish, you forsook a study 
in which you were interested, and adopted another because it interested me; 
in the untiring assiduity with which you have since persevered in it - in 
the unflagging energy and unshaken temper with which you have met its 
difficulties - I acknowledge the complement of the qualities I seek. Jane, 
you are docile, diligent, disinterested, faithful, constant, and 
courageous; very gentle, and very heroic: cease to mistrust yourself - I 
can trust you unreservedly. As a conductress of Indian schools, and a 
helper amongst Indian women, your assistance will be to me invaluable."
My iron shroud contracted round me; persuasion advanced with slow, sure 
step. Shut my eyes as I would, these last words of his succeeded in making 
the way, which had seemed blocked up, comparatively clear. My work, which 
had appeared so vague, so hopelessly diffuse, condensed itself as he 
proceeded, and assumed a definite form under his shaping hand. He waited 
for an answer. I demanded a quarter of an hour to think, before I again 
hazarded a reply.
"Very willingly," he rejoined; and rising, he strode a little distance up 
the pass, threw himself down on a swell of heath, and there lay still.
"I can do what he wants me to do: I am forced to see and acknowledge that," 
I meditated, - "that is, if life be spared me. But I feel mine is not the 
existence to be long protracted under an Indian sun. What then? He does not 
care for that: when my time came to die, he would resign me, in all 
serenity and sanctity, to the God who gave me. The case is very plain 
before me. In leaving England, I should leave a loved but empty land - Mr 
Rochester is not there; and if he were, what is, what can that ever be to 
me? My business is to live without him now: nothing so absurd, so weak as 
to drag on from day to day, as if I were waiting some impossible change in 
circumstances, which might reunite me to him. Of course (as St. John once 
said) I must seek another interest in life to replace the one lost: is not 
the occupation he now offers me truly the most glorious man can adopt or 
God assign? Is it not, by its noble cares and sublime results, the one best 
calculated to fill the void left by uptorn affections and demolished hopes? 
I believe I must say, Yes - and yet I shudder. Alas! If I join St. John, I 
abandon half myself: if I go to India, I go to premature death. And how 
will the interval between leaving England for India, and India for the 
grave, be filled? Oh, I know well! That, too, is very clear to my vision. 
By straining to satisfy St. John till my sinews ache, I shall satisfy him - 
to the finest central point and farthest outward circle of his 
expectations. If I do go with him - if I do make the sacrifice he urges, I 
will make it absolutely: I will throw all on the altar - heart, vitals, the 
entire victim. He will never love me; but he shall approve me; I will show 
him energies he has not yet seen, resources he has never suspected. Yes, I 
can work as hard as he can, and with as little grudging.
"Consent, then, to his demand is possible: but for one item - one dreadful 
item. It is - that he asks me to be his wife, and has no more of a 
husband's heart for me than that frowning giant of a rock, down which the 
stream is foaming in yonder gorge. He prizes me as a soldier would a good 
weapon, and that is all. Unmarried to him, this would never grieve me; but 
can I let him complete his calculations - coolly put into practice his 
plans - go through the wedding ceremony? Can I receive from him the bridal 
ring, endure all the forms of love (which I doubt not he would scrupulously 
observe) and know that the spirit was quite absent? Can I bear the 
consciousness that every endearment he bestows is a sacrifice made on 
principle? No: such a martyrdom would be monstrous. I will never undergo 
it. As his sister, I might accompany him - not as his wife: I will tell him 
so."
I looked towards the knoll: there he lay, still as a prostrate column; his 
face turned to me: his eye beaming watchful and keen. He started to his 
feet and approached me.
"I am ready to go to India, if I may go free."
"Your answer requires a commentary," he said; "it is not clear."
"You have hitherto been my adopted brother - I, your adopted sister: let us 
continue as such: you and I had better not marry."
He shook his head. "Adopted fraternity will not do in this case. If you 
were my real sister it would be different: I should take you, and seek no 
wife. But as it is, either our union must be consecrated and sealed by 
marriage, or it cannot exist: practical obstacles oppose themselves to any 
other plan. Do you not see it, Jane? Consider a moment - your strong sense 
will guide you."
I did consider; and still my sense, such as it was, directed me only to the 
fact that we did not love each other as man and wife should: and therefore 
it inferred we ought not to marry. I said so. "St. John," I returned, "I 
regard you as a brother - you, me as a sister: so let us continue."
"We cannot - we cannot," he answered, with short, sharp determination: "it 
would not do. You have said you will go with me to India: remember - you 
have said that."
"Conditionally."
"Well - well. To the main point - the departure with me from England, the 
co-operation with me in my future labours - you do not object. You have 
already as good as put your hand to the plough: you are too consistent to 
withdraw it. You have but one end to keep in view - how the work you have 
undertaken can best be done. Simplify your complicated interests, feelings, 
thoughts, wishes, aims; merge all considerations in one purpose: that of 
fulfilling with effect - with power - the mission of your great Master. To 
do so, you must have a coadjutor: not a brother - that is a loose tie - but 
a husband. I, too, do not want a sister: a sister might any day be taken 
from me. I want a wife: the sole helpmeet I can influence efficiently in 
life, and retain absolutely till death."
I shuddered as he spoke: I felt his influence in my marrow - his hold on my 
limbs.
"Seek one elsewhere than in me, St. John: seek one fitted to you."
"One fitted to my purpose, you mean - fitted to my vocation. Again I tell 
you it is not the insignificant private individual - the mere man, with the 
man's selfish senses - I wish to mate: it is the missionary."
"And I will give the missionary my energies - it is all he wants - but not 
myself: that would be only adding the husk and shell to the kernel. For 
them he has no use: I retain them."
"You cannot - you ought not. Do you think God will be satisfied with half 
an oblation? Will He accept a mutilated sacrifice? It is the cause of God I 
advocate: it is under His standard I enlist you. I cannot accept on His 
behalf a divided allegiance: it must be entire."
"Oh! I will give my heart to God," I said. "You do not want it."
I will not swear, reader, that there was not something of repressed sarcasm 
both in the tone in which I uttered this sentence, and in the feeling that 
accompanied it. I had silently feared St. John till now, because I had not 
understood him. He had held me in awe, because he had held me in doubt. How 
much of him was saint, how much mortal, I could not heretofore tell: but 
revelations were being made in this conference: the analysis of his nature 
was proceeding before my eyes. I saw his fallibilities: I comprehended 
them. I understood that, sitting there where I did, on the bank of heath, 
and with that handsome form before me, I sat at the feet of a man, erring 
as I. The veil fell from his hardness and despotism. Having felt in him the 
presence of these qualities, I felt his imperfection and took courage. I 
was with an equal - one with whom I might argue - one whom, if I saw good, 
I might resist.
He was silent after I had uttered the last sentence, and I presently risked 
an upward glance at his countenance. His eye, bent on me, expressed at once 
stern surprise and keen inquiry. "Is she sarcastic, and sarcastic to me!" 
it seemed to say. "What does this signify?"
"Do not let us forget that this is a solemn matter," he said ere long; "one 
of which we may neither think nor talk lightly without sin. I trust, Jane, 
you are in earnest when you say you will give your heart to God: it is all 
I want. Once wrench your heart from man, and fix it on your Maker, the 
advancement of that Maker's spiritual kingdom on earth will be your chief 
delight and endeavour; you will be ready to do at once whatever furthers 
that end. You will see what impetus would be given to your efforts and mine 
by our physical and mental union in marriage: the only union that gives a 
character of permanent conformity to the destinies and designs of human 
beings; and, passing over all minor caprices - all trivial difficulties and 
delicacies of feeling - all scruple about the degree, kind, strength or 
tenderness of mere personal inclination - you will hasten to enter into 
that union at once."
"Shall I?" I said briefly; and I looked at his features, beautiful in their 
harmony, but strangely formidable in their still severity; at his brow, 
commanding but not open; at his eyes, bright and deep and searching, but 
never soft; at his tall imposing figure; and fancied myself in idea his 
wife. Oh! it would never do! As his curate, his comrade, all would be 
right: I would cross oceans with him in that capacity; toil under Eastern 
suns, in Asian deserts with him in that office; admire and emulate his 
courage and devotion and vigour; accommodate quietly to his masterhood; 
smile undisturbed at his ineradicable ambition; discriminate the Christian 
from the man: profoundly esteem the one, and freely forgive the other. I 
should suffer often, no doubt, attached to him only in this capacity: my 
body would be under rather a stringent yoke, but my heart and mind would be 
free. I should still have my unblighted self to turn to: my natural 
unenslaved feelings with which to communicate in moments of loneliness. 
There would be recesses in my mind which would be only mine, to which he 
never came, and sentiments growing there fresh and sheltered which his 
austerity could never blight, nor his measured warrior-march trample down: 
but as his wife - at his side always, and always restrained, and always 
checked - forced to keep the fire of my nature continually low, to compel 
it to burn inwardly and never utter a cry, though the imprisoned flame 
consumed vital after vital - this would be unendurable.
"St. John!" I exclaimed, when I had got so far in my meditation.
"Well?" he answered icily.
"I repeat I freely consent to go with you as your fellow-missionary, but 
not as your wife; I cannot marry you and become part of you."
"A part of me you must become," he answered steadily: "otherwise the whole 
bargain is void. How can I, a man not yet thirty, take out with me to India 
a girl of nineteen, unless she be married to me? How can we be for ever 
together - sometimes in solitudes, sometimes amidst savage tribes - and 
unwed?"
"Very well," I said shortly; "under the circumstances, quite as well as if 
I were either your real sister, or a man and a clergyman like yourself."
"It is known that you are not my sister; I cannot introduce you as such: to 
attempt it would be to fasten injurious suspicions on us both. And for the 
rest, though you have a man's vigorous brain, you have a woman's heart and -
 it would not do."
"It would do," I affirmed with some disdain, "perfectly well. I have a 
woman's heart, but not where you are concerned; for you I have only a 
comrade's constancy; a fellow-soldier's frankness, fidelity, fraternity, if 
you like; a neophyte's respect and submission to his hierophant: nothing 
more - don't fear."
"It is what I want," he said, speaking to himself; "it is just what I want. 
And there are obstacles in the way: they must be hewn down. Jane, you would 
not repent marrying me - be certain of that; we must be married. I repeat 
it: there is no other way; and undoubtedly enough of love would follow upon 
marriage to render the union right even in your eyes."
"I scorn your idea of love," I could not help saying, as I rose up and 
stood before him, leaning my back against the rock. "I scorn the 
counterfeit sentiment you offer: yes, St. John, and I scorn you when you 
offer it."
He looked at me fixedly, compressing his well-cut lips while he did so. 
Whether he was incensed or surprised, or what, it was not easy to tell: he 
could command his countenance thoroughly.
"I scarcely expected to hear that expression from you," he said: "I think I 
have done and uttered nothing to deserve scorn."
I was touched by his gentle tone, and overawed by his high, calm mien.
"Forgive me the words, St. John; but it is your own fault that I have been 
roused to speak so unguardedly. You have introduced a topic on which our 
natures are at variance - a topic we should never discuss: the very name of 
love is an apple of discord between us. If the reality were required, what 
should we do? How should we feel? My dear cousin, abandon your scheme of 
marriage - forget it."
"No," said he; "it is a long-cherished scheme, and the only one which can 
secure my great end: but I shall urge you no further at present. Tomorrow, 
I leave home for Cambridge: I have many friends there to whom I should wish 
to say farewell. I shall be absent a fortnight - take that space of time to 
consider my offer: and do not forget that if you reject it, it is not me 
you deny, but God. Through my means, He opens to you a noble career; as my 
wife only can you enter upon it. Refuse to be my wife, and you limit 
yourself for ever to a track of selfish ease and barren obscurity. Tremble 
lest in that case you should be numbered with those who have denied the 
faith, and are worse than infidels!"
He had done. Turning from me, he once more -

"Looked to river, looked to hill."

But this time his feelings were all pent in his heart: I was not worthy to 
hear them uttered. As I walked by his side homeward, I read well in his 
iron silence all he felt towards me: the disappointment of an austere and 
despotic nature, which has met resistance where it expected submission - 
the disapprobation of a cool, inflexible judgment, which has detected in 
another feelings and views in which it has no power to sympathise: in 
short, as a man, he would have wished to coerce me into obedience: it was 
only as a sincere Christian he bore so patiently with my perversity, and 
allowed so long a space for reflection and repentance.
That night, after he had kissed his sisters, he thought proper to forget 
even to shake hands with me, but left the room in silence. I - who, though 
I had no love, had much friendship for him - was hurt by the marked 
omission: so much hurt that tears started to my eyes.
"I see you and St. John have been quarrelling, Jane," said Diana, "during 
your walk on the moor. But go after him; he is now lingering in the passage 
expecting you - he will make it up."
I have not much pride under such circumstances: I would always rather be 
happy than dignified; and I ran after him - he stood at the foot of the 
stairs.
"Good-night, St. John," said I.
"Good-night, Jane," he replied calmly.
"Then shake hands," I added.
What a cold, loose touch he impressed on my fingers! He was deeply 
displeased by what had occurred that day; cordiality would not warm, nor 
tears move him. No happy reconciliation was to be had with him - no 
cheering smile or generous word: but still the Christian was patient and 
placid; and when I asked him if he forgave me, he answered that he was not 
in the habit of cherishing the remembrance of vexation; that he had nothing 
to forgive, not having been offended.
And with that answer he left me. I would much rather he had knocked me 
down.



Chapter 35

He did not leave for Cambridge the next day, as he had said he would. He 
deferred his departure a whole week, and during that time he made me feel 
what severe punishment a good yet stern, a conscientious yet implacable man 
can inflict on one who has offended him. Without one overt act of 
hostility, one upbraiding word he contrived to impress me momently with the 
conviction that I was put beyond the pale of his favour.
Not that St. John harboured a spirit of unchristian vindictiveness - not 
that he would have injured a hair of my head, if it had been fully in his 
power to do so. Both by nature and principle, he was superior to the mean 
gratification of vengeance: he had forgiven me for saying I scorned him and 
his love, but he had not forgotten the words; and as long as he and I lived 
he never would forget them. I saw by his look, when he turned to me, that 
they were always written on the air between me and him; whenever I spoke, 
they sounded in my voice to his ear, and their echo toned every answer he 
gave me.
He did not abstain from conversing with me: he even called me as usual each 
morning to join him at his desk; and I fear the corrupt man within him had 
a pleasure unimparted to, and unshared by, the pure Christian, in evincing 
with what skill he could, while acting and speaking apparently just as 
usual, extract from every deed and every phrase the spirit of interest and 
approval which had formerly communicated a certain austere charm to his 
language and manner. To me, he was in reality become no longer flesh, but 
marble; his eye was a cold, bright, blue gem; his tongue a speaking 
instrument - nothing more.
All this was torture to me - refined, lingering torture. It kept up a slow 
fire of indignation and a trembling trouble of grief, which harassed and 
crushed me altogether. I felt how - if I were his wife, this good man, pure 
as the deep sunless source, could soon kill me, without drawing from my 
veins a single drop of blood, or receiving on his own crystal conscience 
the faintest stain of crime. Especially I felt this when I made any attempt 
to propitiate him. No ruth met my ruth. He experienced no suffering from 
estrangement - no yearning after reconciliation; and though, more than 
once, my fast falling tears blistered the page over which we both bent, 
they produced no more effect on him than if his heart had been really a 
matter of stone or metal. To his sisters, meantime, he was somewhat kinder 
than usual: as if afraid that mere coldness would not sufficiently convince 
me how completely I was banished and banned, he added the force of 
contrast; and this I am sure he did not by malice, but on principle.
The night before he left home, happening to see him walking in the garden 
about sunset, and remembering, as I looked at him, that this man, alienated 
as he now was, had once saved my life, and that we were near relations, I 
was moved to make a last attempt to regain his friendship. I went out and 
approached him as he stood leaning over the little gate; I spoke to the 
point at once.
"St. John, I am unhappy because you are still angry with me. Let us be 
friends."
"I hope we are friends," was the unmoved reply; while he still watched the 
rising of the moon, which he had been contemplating as I approached.
"No, St. John, we are not friends as we were. You know that."
"Are we not? That is wrong. For my part, I wish you no ill and all good."
"I believe you, St. John; for I am sure you are incapable of wishing any 
one ill; but, as I am your kinswoman, I should desire somewhat more of 
affection than that sort of general philanthropy you extend to mere 
strangers."
"Of course," he said. "Your wish is reasonable, and I am far from regarding 
you as a stranger."
This, spoken in a cool, tranquil tone, was mortifying and baffling enough. 
Had I attended to the suggestions of pride and ire, I should immediately 
have left him; but something worked within me more strongly than those 
feelings could. I deeply venerated my cousin's talent and principle. His 
friendship was of value to me: to lose it tried me severely. I would not so 
soon relinquish the attempt to reconquer it.
"Must we part in this way, St. John? And when you go to India, will you 
leave me so, without a kinder word than you have yet spoken?"
He now turned quite from the moon and faced me.
"When I go to India, Jane, will I leave you! What! do you not go to India?"
"You said I could not unless I married you."
"And you will not marry me! You adhere to that resolution?"
Reader, do you know, as I do, what terror those cold people can put into 
the ice of their questions? How much of the fall of the avalanche is in 
their anger? of the breaking up of the frozen sea in their displeasure?
"No, St. John, I will not marry you. I adhere to my resolution."
The avalanche had shaken and slid a little forward, but it did not yet 
crash down.
"Once more, why this refusal?" he asked.
"Formerly," I answered, "because you did not love me; now, I reply, because 
you almost hate me. If I were to marry you, you would kill me. You are 
killing me now."
His lips and cheeks turned white - quite white.
"I should kill you - I am killing you? Your words are such as ought not to 
be used: violent, unfeminine, and untrue. They betray an unfortunate state 
of mind: they merit severe reproof: they would seem inexcusable, but that 
it is the duty of man to forgive his fellow even until seventy-and-seven 
times."
I had finished the business now. While earnestly wishing to erase from his 
mind the trace of my former offence, I had stamped on that tenacious 
surface another and far deeper impression: I had burnt it in.
"Now you will indeed hate me," I said. "It is useless to attempt to 
conciliate you: I see I have made an eternal enemy of you."
A fresh wrong did these words inflict: the worse, because they touched on 
the truth. That bloodless lip quivered to a temporary spasm. I knew the 
steely ire I had whetted. I was heart-wrung.
"You utterly misinterpret my words," I said, at once seizing his hand: "I 
have no intention to grieve or pain you - indeed, I have not."
Most bitterly he smiled - most decidedly he withdrew his hand from mine. 
"And now you recall your promise, and will not go to India at all, I 
presume?" said he, after a considerable pause.
"Yes, I will, as your assistant," I answered.
A very long silence succeeded. What struggle there was in him between 
Nature and Grace in this interval, I cannot tell: only singular gleams 
scintillated in his eyes, and strange shadows passed over his face. He 
spoke at last.
"I before proved to you the absurdity of a single woman of your age 
proposing to accompany abroad a single man of mine. I proved it to you in 
such terms as, I should have thought, would have prevented your ever again 
alluding to the plan. That you have done so, I regret - for your sake."
I interrupted him. Anything like a tangible reproach gave me courage at 
once. "Keep to common sense, St. John: you are verging on nonsense. You 
pretend to be shocked by what I have said. You are not really shocked: for, 
with your superior mind, you cannot be either so dull or so conceited as to 
misunderstand my meaning. I say again, I will be your curate, if you like, 
but never your wife."
Again he turned lividly pale; but, as before, controlled his passion 
perfectly. He answered emphatically but calmly -
"A female curate, who is not my wife, would never suit me. With me, then, 
it seems, you cannot go: but if you are sincere in your offer, I will, 
while in town, speak to a married missionary, whose wife needs a coadjutor. 
Your own fortune will make you independent of the Society's aid; and thus 
you may still be spared the dishonour of breaking your promise and 
deserting the band you engaged to join."
Now I never had, as the reader knows, either given any formal promise or 
entered into any engagement; and this language was all much too hard and 
much too despotic for the occasion. I replied -
"There is no dishonour, no breach of promise, no desertion in the case. I 
am not under the slightest obligation to go to India, especially with 
strangers. With you I would have ventured much, because I admire, confide 
in, and, as a sister, I love you; but I am convinced that, go when and with 
whom I would, I should not live long in that climate."
"Ah! you are afraid of yourself," he said, curling his lip.
"I am. God did not give me my life to throw away; and to do as you wish me 
would, I begin to think, be almost equivalent to committing suicide. 
Moreover, before I definitely resolve on quitting England, I will know for 
certain whether I cannot be of greater use by remaining in it than by 
leaving it."
"What do you mean?"
"It would be fruitless to attempt to explain; but there is a point on which 
I have long endured painful doubt, and I can go nowhere till by some means 
that doubt is removed."
"I know where your heart turns and to what it clings. The interest you 
cherish is lawless and unconsecrated. Long since you ought to have crushed 
it: now you should blush to allude to it. You think of Mr Rochester?"
It was true. I confessed it by silence.
"Are you going to seek Mr Rochester?"
"I must find out what is become of him."
"It remains for me, then," he said, "to remember you in my prayers, and to 
entreat God for you, in all earnestness, that you may not indeed become a 
castaway. I had thought I recognised in you one of the chosen. But God sees 
not as man sees: His will be done."
He opened the gate, passed through it, and strayed away down the glen. He 
was soon out of sight.
On re-entering the parlour, I found Diana standing at the window, looking 
very thoughtful. Diana was a great deal taller than I:. she put her hand on 
my shoulder, and, stooping, examined my face.
"Jane," she said, "you are always agitated and pale now. I am sure there is 
something the matter. Tell me what business St. John and you have on hands. 
I have watched you this half hour from the window; you must forgive my 
being such a spy, but for a long time I have fancied I hardly know what. 
St. John is a strange being -"
She paused - I did not speak: soon she resumed -
"That brother of mine cherishes peculiar views of some sort respecting you, 
I am sure: he has long distinguished you by a notice and interest he never 
showed to any one else - to what end? I wish he loved you - does he, Jane?"
I put her cool hand to my hot forehead; "No, Die, not one whit."
"Then why does he follow you so with his eyes, and get you so frequently 
alone with him, and keep you so continually at his side? Mary and I had 
both concluded he wished you to marry him."
"He does - he has asked me to be his wife."
Diana clapped her hands. "That is just what we hoped and thought! And you 
will marry him, Jane, won't you? And then he will stay in England."
"Far from that, Diana; his sole idea in proposing to me is to procure a 
fitting fellow-labourer in his Indian toils."
"What! He wishes you to go to India?"
"Yes."
"Madness!" she exclaimed. "You would not live three months there, I am 
certain. You never shall go: you have not consented, have you, Jane?"
"I have refused to marry him -"
"And have consequently displeased him?" she suggested.
"Deeply: he will never forgive me, I fear: yet I offered to accompany him 
as his sister."
"It was frantic folly to do so, Jane. Think of the task you undertook - one 
of incessant fatigue, where fatigue kills even the strong, and you are 
weak. St. John - you know him - would urge you to impossibilities: with him 
there would be no permission to rest during the hot hours; and 
unfortunately, I have noticed, whatever he exacts, you force yourself to 
perform. I am astonished you found courage to refuse his hand. You do not 
love him then, Jane?"
"Not as a husband."
"Yet he is a handsome fellow."
"And I am so plain, you see, Die. We should never suit."
"Plain! You? Not at all. You are much too pretty, as well as too good, to 
be grilled alive in Calcutta." And again she earnestly conjured me to give 
up all thoughts of going out with her brother.
"I must indeed," I said; "for when just now I repeated the offer of serving 
him for a deacon, he expressed himself shocked at my want of decency. He 
seemed to think I had committed an impropriety in proposing to accompany 
him unmarried: as if I had not from the first hoped to find in him a 
brother, and habitually regarded him as such."
"What makes you say he does not love you, Jane?"
"You should hear himself on the subject. He has again and again explained 
that it is not himself, but his office he wishes to mate. He has told me I 
am formed for labour - not for love: which is true, no doubt. But, in my 
opinion, if I am not formed for love, it follows that I am not formed for 
marriage. Would it not be strange, Die, to be chained for life to a man who 
regarded one but as a useful tool?"
"Insupportable - unnatural - out of the question!"
"And then," I continued, "though I have only sisterly affection for him 
now, yet, if forced to be his wife, I can imagine the possibility of 
conceiving an inevitable, strange, torturing kind of love for him, because 
he is so talented; and there is often a certain heroic grandeur in his 
look, manner, and conversation. In that case, my lot would become 
unspeakably wretched. He would not want me to love him; and if I showed the 
feeling, he would make me sensible that it was a superfluity, unrequired by 
him, unbecoming in me. I know he would."
"And yet St. John is a good man," said Diana.
"He is a good and a great man; but he forgets, pitilessly, the feelings and 
claims of little people, in pursuing his own large views. It is better, 
therefore, for the insignificant to keep out of his way, lest, in his 
progress, he should trample them down. Here he comes! I will leave you, 
Diana." And I hastened upstairs as I saw him entering the garden.
But I was forced to meet him again at supper. During that meal he appeared 
just as composed as usual. I had thought he would hardly speak to me, and I 
was certain he had given up the pursuit of his matrimonial scheme: the 
sequel showed I was mistaken on both points. He addressed me precisely in 
his ordinary manner, or what had, of late, been his ordinary manner - one 
scrupulously polite. No doubt he had invoked the help of the Holy Spirit to 
subdue the anger I had roused in him, and now believed he had forgiven me 
once more.
For the evening reading before prayers, he selected the twenty-first 
chapter of Revelation. It was at all times pleasant to listen while from 
his lips fell the words of the Bible: never did his fine voice sound at 
once so sweet and full - never did his manner become so impressive in its 
noble simplicity, as when he delivered the oracles of God: and tonight that 
voice took a more solemn tone - that manner a more thrilling meaning - as 
he sat in the midst of his household circle (the May moon shining in 
through the uncurtained window, and rendering almost unnecessary the light 
of the candle on the table): as he sat there, bending over the great old 
Bible, and described from its page the vision of the new heaven and the new 
earth - told how God would come to dwell with men, how He would wipe away 
all tears from their eyes, and promised that there should be no more death, 
neither sorrow nor crying, nor any more pain, because the former things 
were passed away.
The succeeding words thrilled me strangely as he spoke them: especially as 
I felt, by the slight, indescribable alteration in sound, that in uttering 
them, his eye had turned on me.
"He that overcometh shall inherit all things; and I will be his God, and he 
shall be my son. But," was slowly, distinctly read, "the fearful, the 
unbelieving, etc., shall have their part in the lake which burneth with 
fire and brimstone, which is the second death."
Henceforward, I knew what fate St. John feared for me.
A calm, subdued triumph, blent with a longing earnestness, marked his 
enunciation of the last glorious verses of that chapter. The reader 
believed his name was already written in the Lamb's book of life, and he 
yearned after the hour which should admit him to the city to which the 
kings of the earth bring their glory and honour; which has no need of sun 
or moon to shine in it, because the glory of God lightens it, and the Lamb 
is the light thereof.
In the prayer following the chapter, all his energy gathered - all his 
stern zeal woke: he was in deep earnest, wrestling with God, and resolved 
on a conquest. He supplicated strength for the weak-hearted; guidance for 
wanderers from the fold: a return, even at the eleventh hour, for those 
whom the temptations of the world and the flesh were luring from the narrow 
path. He asked, he urged, he claimed the boon of a brand snatched from the 
burning. Earnestness is ever deeply solemn: first, as I listened to that 
prayer, I wondered at his; then, when it continued and rose, I was touched 
by it, and at last awed. He felt the greatness and goodness of his purpose 
so sincerely: others who heard him plead for it, could not but feel it too.
The prayer over, we took leave of him: he was to go at a very early hour in 
the morning. Diana and Mary having kissed him, left the room - in 
compliance, I think, with a whispered hint from him: I tendered my hand, 
and wished him a pleasant journey.
"Thank you, Jane. As I said, I shall return from Cambridge in a fortnight: 
that space, then, is yet left you for reflection. If I listened to human 
pride, I should say no more to you of marriage with me; but I listen to my 
duty, and keep steadily in view my first aim - to do all things to the 
glory of God. My Master was long-suffering: so will I be. I cannot give you 
up to perdition as a vessel of wrath: repent - resolve, while there is yet 
time. Remember, we are bid to work while it is day - warned that 'the night 
cometh when no man shall work.' Remember the fate of Dives, who had his 
good things in this life. God give you strength to choose that better part 
which shall not be taken from you!"
He laid his hand on my head as he uttered the last words. He had spoken 
earnestly, mildly: his look was not, indeed, that of a lover beholding his 
mistress, but it was that of a pastor recalling his wandering sheep - or 
better, of a guardian angel watching the soul for which he is responsible. 
All men of talent, whether they be men of feeling or not; whether they be 
zealots, or aspirants, or despots - provided only they be sincere - have 
their sublime moments, when they subdue and rule. I felt veneration for St. 
John - veneration so strong that its impetus thrust me at once to the point 
I had so long shunned. I was tempted to cease struggling with him - to rush 
down the torrent of his will into the gulf of his existence, and there lose 
my own. I was almost as hard beset by him now as I had been once before, in 
a different way, by another. I was a fool both times. To have yielded then 
would have been an error of principle; to have yielded now would have been 
an error of judgment. So I think at this hour, when I look back to the 
crisis through the quiet medium of time: I was unconscious of folly at the 
instant.
I stood motionless under my hierophant's touch. My refusals were forgotten -
 my fears overcome - my wrestlings paralysed. The Impossible - i.e., my 
marriage with St. John - was fast becoming the Possible. All was changing 
utterly with a sudden sweep. Religion called - Angels beckoned - God 
commanded - life rolled together like a scroll - death's gates opening, 
showed eternity beyond: it seemed, that for safety and bliss there, all 
here might be sacrificed in a second. The dim room was full of visions.
"Could you decide now?" asked the missionary. The inquiry was put in gentle 
tones: he drew me to him as gently. Oh, that gentleness! how far more 
potent is it than force! I could resist St. John's wrath: I grew pliant as 
a reed under his kindness. Yet I knew all the time, if I yielded now, I 
should not the less be made to repent, some day, of my former rebellion. 
His nature was not changed by one hour of solemn prayer: it was only 
elevated.
"I could decide if I were but certain," I answered: "were I but convinced 
that it is God's will I should marry you, I could vow to marry you here and 
now - come afterwards what would!"
"My prayers are heard!" ejaculated St. John. He pressed his hand firmer on 
my head, as if he claimed me: he surrounded me with his arm, almost as if 
he loved me (I say almost - I knew the difference - for I had felt what it 
was to be loved; but, like him, I had now put love out of the question, and 
thought only of duty). I contended with my inward dimness of vision, before 
which clouds yet rolled. I sincerely, deeply, fervently longed to do what 
was right; and only that. "Show me, show me the path!" I entreated of 
Heaven. I was excited more than I had ever been; and whether what followed 
was the effect of excitement the reader shall judge.
All the house was still; for I believe all, except St. John and myself, 
were now retired to rest. The one candle was dying out: the room was full 
of moonlight. My heart beat fast and thick: I heard its throb. Suddenly it 
stood still to an inexpressible feeling that thrilled it through, and 
passed at once to my head and extremities. The feeling was not like an 
electric shock, but it was quite as sharp, as strange, as startling: it 
acted on my senses as if their utmost activity hitherto had been but 
torpor, from which they were now summoned and forced to wake. They rose 
expectant: eye and ear waited while the flesh quivered on my bones.
"What have you heard? What do you see?" asked St. John. I saw nothing, but 
I heard a voice somewhere cry -
"Jane! Jane! Jane!" - nothing more.
"O God! what is it?" I gasped.
I might have said, "Where is it?" for it did not seem in the room - nor in 
the house - nor in the garden; it did not come out of the air - nor from 
under the earth - nor from overhead. I had heard it - where, or whence, for 
ever impossible to know! And it was the voice of a human being - a known, 
loved, well-remembered voice - that of Edward Fairfax Rochester; and it 
spoke in pain and woe, wildly, eerily, urgently.
"I am coming!" I cried. "Wait for me! Oh, I will come!" I flew to the door 
and looked into the passage: it was dark. I ran out into the garden: it was 
void.
"Where are you?" I exclaimed.
The hills beyond Marsh Glen sent the answer faintly back - "Where are you?" 
I listened. The wind sighed low in the firs: all was moorland loneliness 
and midnight hush.
"Down superstition!" I commented, as that spectre rose up black by the 
black yew at the gate. "This is not thy deception, nor thy witchcraft: it 
is the work of nature. She was roused, and did - no miracle - but her 
best."
I broke from St. John, who had followed, and would have detained me. It was 
my time to assume ascendency. My powers were in play and in force. I told 
him to forbear question or remark; I desired him to leave me: I must and 
would be alone. He obeyed at once. Where there is energy to command well 
enough, obedience never fails. I mounted to my chamber; locked myself in; 
fell on my knees; and prayed in my way - a different way to St. John's, but 
effective in its own fashion. I seemed to penetrate very near a Mighty 
Spirit; and my soul rushed out in gratitude at His feet. I rose from the 
thanksgiving - took a resolve - and lay down, unscared, enlightened - eager 
but for the daylight.



Chapter 36

The daylight came. I rose at dawn. I busied myself for an hour or two with 
arranging my things in my chamber, drawers, and wardrobe, in the order 
wherein I should wish to leave them during a brief absence. Meantime, I 
heard St. John quit his room. He stopped at my door: I feared he would 
knock - no, but a slip of paper was passed under the door. I took it up. It 
bore these words -
"You left me too suddenly last night. Had you stayed but a little longer, 
you would have laid your hand on the Christian's cross and the angel's 
crown. I shall expect your clear decision when I return this day fortnight. 
Meantime, watch and pray that you enter not into temptation: the spirit, I 
trust, is willing, but the flesh, I see, is weak. I shall pray for you 
hourly. - Yours, ST. JOHN."
"My spirit," I answered mentally, "is willing to do what is right; and my 
flesh, I hope, is strong enough to accomplish the will of Heaven, when once 
that will is distinctly known to me. At any rate, it shall be strong enough 
to search - inquire - to grope an outlet from this cloud of doubt, and find 
the open day of certainty."
It was the first of June; yet the morning was overcast and chilly: rain 
beat fast on my casement. I heard the front-door open, and St. John pass 
out. Looking through the window, I saw him traverse the garden. He took the 
way over the misty moors in the direction of Whitcross - there he would 
meet the coach.
"In a few more hours I shall succeed you in that track, cousin," thought I: 
"I too have a coach to meet at Whitcross. I too have some to see and ask 
after in England, before I depart for ever."
It wanted yet two hours of breakfast-time. I filled the interval in walking 
softly about my room, and pondering the visitation which had given my plans 
their present bent. I recalled that inward sensation I had experienced: for 
I could recall it, with all its unspeakable strangeness. I recalled the 
voice I had heard; again I questioned whence it came, as vainly as before: 
it seemed in me - not in the external world. I asked was it a mere nervous 
impression - a delusion? I could not conceive or believe: it was more like 
an inspiration. The wondrous shock of feeling had come like the earthquake 
which shook the foundations of Paul and Silas's prison; it had opened the 
doors of the soul's cell and loosed its bands - it had wakened it out of 
its sleep, whence it sprang trembling, listening, aghast; then vibrated 
thrice a cry on my startled ear, and in my quaking heart and through my 
spirit, which neither feared nor shook but exulted as if in joy over the 
success of one effort it had been privileged to make, independent of the 
cumbrous body.
"Ere many days," I said, as I terminated my musings, "I will know something 
of him whose voice seemed last night to summon me. Letters have proved of 
no avail - personal inquiry shall replace them."
At breakfast I announced to Diana and Mary that I was going a journey, and 
should be absent at least four days.
"Alone, Jane?" they asked.
"Yes; it was to see or hear news of a friend about whom I had for some time 
been uneasy."
They might have said, as I have no doubt they thought, that they had 
believed me to be without any friends save them: for, indeed, I had often 
said so; but, with their true natural delicacy, they abstained from 
comment, except that Diana asked me if I was sure I was well enough to 
travel. I looked very pale, she observed. I replied, that nothing ailed me 
save anxiety of mind, which I hoped soon to alleviate.
It was easy to make my further arrangements; for I was troubled with no 
inquiries - no surmises. Having once explained to them that I could not now 
be explicit about my plans, they kindly and wisely acquiesced in the 
silence with which I pursued them, according to me the privilege of free 
action I should under similar circumstances have accorded them.
I left Moor House at three o'clock P.M., and soon after four I stood at the 
foot of the sign-post of Whitcross, waiting the arrival of the coach which 
was to take me to distant Thornfield. Amidst the silence of those solitary 
roads and desert hills, I heard it approach from a great distance. It was 
the same vehicle whence, a year ago, I had alighted one summer evening on 
this very spot - how desolate, and hopeless, and objectless! It stopped as 
I beckoned. I entered - not now obliged to part with my whole fortune as 
the price of its accommodation. Once more on the road to Thornfield, I felt 
like the messenger-pigeon flying home.
It was a journey of six-and-thirty hours. I had set out from Whitcross on a 
Tuesday afternoon, and early on the succeeding Thursday morning the coach 
stopped to water the horses at a wayside inn, situated in the midst of 
scenery whose green hedges and large fields and low pastoral hills (how 
mild of feature and verdant of hue compared with the stern North-Midland 
moors of Morton!) met my eye like the lineaments of a once familiar face. 
Yes, I knew the character of this landscape: I was sure we were near my 
bourne.
"How far is Thornfield Hall from here?" I asked of the ostler.
"Just two miles, ma'am, across the fields."
"My journey is closed," I thought to myself. I got out of the coach, gave a 
box I had into the ostler's charge, to be kept till I called for it; paid 
my fare; satisfied the coachman, and was going: the brightening day gleamed 
on the sign of the inn, and I read in gilt letters, "The Rochester Arms." 
My heart leapt up: I was already on my master's very lands. It fell again: 
the thought struck it: -
"Your master himself may be beyond the British Channel, for aught you know: 
and then, if he is at Thornfield Hall, towards which you hasten, who 
besides him is there? His lunatic wife: and you have nothing to do with 
him: you dare not speak to him or seek his presence. You have lost your 
labour - you had better go no farther," urged the monitor. "Ask information 
of the people at the inn; they can give you all you seek: they can solve 
your doubts at once. Go up to that man, and inquire if Mr Rochester be at 
home."
The suggestion was sensible, and yet I could not force self to act on it. I 
so dreaded a reply that would crush me with despair. To prolong doubt was 
to prolong hope. I might yet once more see the Hall under the ray of her 
star. There was the stile before me - the very fields through which I had 
hurried, blind, deaf, distracted with a revengeful fury tracking and 
scourging me, on the morning I fled from Thornfield: ere I well knew what 
course I had resolved to take, I was in the midst of them. How fast I 
walked! How I ran sometimes? How I looked forward to catch the first view 
of the well-known woods! With what feelings I welcomed single trees I knew, 
and familiar glimpses of meadow and hill between them!
At last the woods rose; the rookery clustered dark; a loud cawing broke the 
morning stillness. Strange delight inspired me: on I hastened. Another 
field crossed - a lane threaded - and there were the courtyard walls - the 
back offices: the house itself, the rookery still hid. "My first view of it 
shall be in front," I determined, "where its bold battlements will strike 
the eye nobly at once, and where I can single out my master's very window: 
perhaps he will be standing at it - he rises early: perhaps he is now 
walking in the orchard, or on the pavement in front. Could I but see him! - 
but a moment? Surely, in that case, I should not be so mad as to run to 
him? I cannot tell - I am not certain. And if I did - what then? God bless 
him! What then? Who would be hurt by my once more tasting the life his 
glance can give me? I rave: perhaps at this moment he is watching the sun 
rise over the Pyrenees, or on the tideless sea of the south."
I had coasted along the lower wall of the orchard - turned its angle: there 
was a gate just there, opening into the meadow, between two stone pillars 
crowned by stone balls. From behind one pillar I could peep round quietly 
at the full front of the mansion. I advanced my head with precaution, 
desirous to ascertain if any bedroom window-blinds were yet drawn up: 
battlements, windows, long front - all from this sheltered station were at 
my command.
The crows sailing overhead perhaps watched me while I took this survey. I 
wonder what they thought. They must have considered I was very careful and 
timid at first, and that gradually I grew very bold and reckless. A peep, 
and then a long stare; and then a departure from my niche and a straying 
out into the meadow; and a sudden stop full in front of the great mansion, 
and a protracted, hardy gaze towards it. "What affectation of diffidence 
was this at first?" they might have demanded; "what stupid regardlessness 
now?"
Hear an illustration, reader.
A lover finds his mistress asleep on a mossy bank; he wishes to catch a 
glimpse of her fair face without waking her. He steals softly over the 
grass, careful to make no sound; he pauses - fancying she has stirred: he 
withdraws; not for worlds would he be seen. All is still: he again 
advances: he bends above her; a light veil rests on her features: he lifts 
it, bends lower; now his eyes anticipate the vision of beauty - warm, and 
blooming, and lovely, in rest. How hurried was their first glance! But how 
they fix! How he starts! How he suddenly and vehemently clasps in both arms 
the form he dared not, a moment since, touch with his finger! How he calls 
aloud a name, and drops his burden, and gazes on it wildly! He thus grasps 
and cries, and gazes, because he no longer fears to waken by any sound he 
can utter - by any movement he can make. He thought his love slept sweetly: 
he finds she is stone dead.
I looked with timorous joy towards a stately house: I saw a blackened ruin.
No need to cower behind a gate-post, indeed! - to peep up at chamber 
lattices, fearing life was astir behind them! No need to listen for doors 
opening - to fancy steps on the pavement or the gravel-walk! The lawn, the 
grounds were trodden and waste: the portal yawned void. The front was, as I 
had once seen it in a dream, but a shell-like wall, very high and very 
fragile-looking, perforated with paneless windows: no roof, no battlements, 
no chimneys - all had crashed in.
And there was the silence of death about it: the solitude of a lonesome 
wild. No wonder that letters addressed to people here had never received an 
answer: as well despatch epistles to a vault in a church aisle. The grim 
blackness of the stones told by what fate the Hall had fallen - by 
conflagration: but how kindled? What story belonged to this disaster? What 
loss, besides mortar and marble and woodwork had followed upon it? Had life 
been wrecked as well as property? If so, whose? Dreadful question: there 
was no one here to answer it - not even dumb sign, mute token.
In wandering round the shattered walls and through the devastated interior, 
I gathered evidence that the calamity was not of late occurrence. Winter 
snows, I thought, had drifted through that void arch, winter rains beaten 
in at those hollow casements; for, amidst the drenched piles of rubbish, 
spring had cherished vegetation: grass and weed grew here and there between 
the stones and fallen rafters. And oh! where meantime was the hapless owner 
of this wreck? In what land? Under what auspices? My eye involuntarily 
wandered to the grey church tower near the gates, and I asked, "Is he with 
Damer de Rochester, sharing the shelter of his narrow marble house?"
Some answer must be had to these questions. I could find it nowhere but at 
the inn, and thither, ere long, I returned. The host himself brought my 
breakfast into the parlour. I requested him to shut the door and sit down: 
I had some questions to ask him. But when he complied, I scarcely knew how 
to begin; such horror had I of the possible answers. And yet the spectacle 
of desolation I had just left prepared me in a measure for a tale of 
misery. The host was a respectable-looking, middle-aged man.
"You know Thornfield Hall, of course?" I managed to say at last.
"Yes, ma'am; I lived there once."
"Did you?" Not in my time, I thought: you are a stranger to me.
"I was the late Mr Rochester's butler," he added.
The late! I seem to have received, with full force, the blow I had been 
trying to evade.
"The late!" I gasped. "Is he dead?"
"I mean the present gentleman, Mr Edward's father," he explained. I 
breathed again: my blood resumed its flow. Fully assured by these words 
that Mr Edward - my Mr Rochester (God bless him, wherever he was!) - was at 
least alive: was, in short, "the present gentleman." Gladdening words! It 
seemed I could hear all that was to come - whatever the disclosures might 
be - with comparative tranquillity. Since he was not in the grave, I could 
bear, I thought, to learn that he was at the Antipodes.
"Is Mr Rochester living at Thornfield Hall now?" I asked, knowing, of 
course, what the answer would be, but yet desirous of deferring the direct 
question as to where he really was.
"No, ma'am - oh, no! No one is living there. I suppose you are a stranger 
in these parts, or you would have heard what happened last autumn, - 
Thornfield Hall is quite a ruin: it was burnt down just about harvest-time. 
A dreadful calamity! such an immense quantity of valuable property 
destroyed: hardly any of the furniture could be saved. The fire broke out 
at dead of night, and before the engines arrived from Millcote, the 
building was one mass of flame. It was a terrible spectacle: I witnessed it 
myself."
"At dead of night!" I muttered. Yes, that was ever the hour of fatality at 
Thornfield. "Was it known how it originated?" I demanded.
"They guessed, ma'am: they guessed. Indeed, I should say it was ascertained 
beyond a doubt. You are not perhaps aware," he continued, edging his chair 
a little nearer the table, and speaking low, "that there was a lady - a - a 
lunatic, kept in the house?"
"I have heard something of it."
"She was kept in very close confinement, ma'am; people even for some years 
was not absolutely certain of her existence. No one saw her: they only knew 
by rumour that such a person was at the Hall; and who or what she was it 
was difficult to conjecture. They said Mr Edward had brought her from 
abroad, and some believed she had been his mistress. But a queer thing 
happened a year since - a very queer thing."
I feared now to hear my own story. I endeavoured to recall him to the main 
fact.
"And this lady?"
"This lady, ma'am," he answered, "turned out to be Mr Rochester's wife! The 
discovery was brought about in the strangest way. There was a young lady, a 
governess at the Hall, that Mr Rochester fell in -"
"But the fire," I suggested.
"I'm coming to that, ma'am - that Mr Edward fell in love with. The servants 
say they never saw anybody so much in love as he was: he was after her 
continually. They used to watch him - servants will, you know, ma'am - and 
he set store on her past everything: for all, nobody but him thought her so 
very handsome. She was a little small thing, they say, almost like a child. 
I never saw her myself; but I've heard Leah, the housemaid, tell of her. 
Leah liked her well enough. Mr Rochester was about forty, and this 
governess not twenty; and you see, when gentlemen of his age fall in love 
with girls, they are often like as if they were bewitched. Well, he would 
marry her."
"You shall tell me this part of the story another time," I said; "but now I 
have a particular reason for wishing to hear all about the fire. Was it 
suspected that this lunatic, Mrs Rochester, had any hand in it?"
"You've hit it, ma'am: it's quite certain that it was her, and nobody but 
her, that set it going. She had a woman to take care of her called Mrs 
Poole - an able woman in her line, and very trustworthy, but for one fault -
 a fault common to a deal of them nurses and matrons - she kept a private 
bottle of gin by her, and now and then took a drop over-much. It is 
excusable, for she had a hard life of it: but still it was dangerous; for 
when Mrs Poole was fast asleep after the gin and water, the mad lady, who 
was as cunning as a witch, would take the keys out of her pocket, let 
herself out of her chamber, and go roaming about the house, doing any wild 
mischief that came into her head. They say she had nearly burnt her husband 
in his bed once: but I don't know about that. However, on this night, she 
set fire first to the hangings of the room next her own, and then she got 
down to a lower Storey, and made her way to the chamber that had been the 
governess's - (she was like as if she knew somehow how matters had gone on, 
and had a spite at her) - and she kindled the bed there; but there was 
nobody sleeping in it, fortunately. The governess had run away two months 
before; and for all Mr Rochester sought her as if she had been the most 
precious thing he had in the world, he never could hear a word of her; and 
he grew savage - quite savage on his disappointment: he never was a wild 
man, but he got dangerous after he lost her. He would be alone, too. He 
sent Mrs Fairfax, the housekeeper, away to her friends at a distance; but 
he did it handsomely, for he settled an annuity on her for life: and she 
deserved it - she was a very good woman. Miss Adele, a ward he had, was put 
to school. He broke off acquaintance with all the gentry, and shut himself 
up like a hermit at the Hall."
"What! did he not leave England?"
"Leave England? Bless you, no! He would not cross the door-stones of the 
house, except at night, when he walked just like a ghost about the grounds 
and in the orchard as if he had lost his senses - which it is my opinion he 
had; for a more spirited, bolder, keener gentleman than he was before that 
midge of a governess crossed him, you never saw, ma'am. He was not a man 
given to wine, or cards, or racing, as some are, and he was not so very 
handsome; but he had a courage and a will of his own, if ever man had. I 
knew him from a boy, you see: and for my part, I have often wished that 
Miss Eyre had been sunk in the sea before she came to Thornfield Hall."
"Then Mr Rochester was at home when the fire broke out?"
"Yes, indeed was he; and he went up to the attics when all was burning 
above and below, and got the servants out of their beds and helped them 
down himself, and went back to get his mad wife out of her cell. And then 
they called out to him that she was on the roof, where she was standing, 
waving her arms, above the battlements, and shouting out till they could 
hear her a mile off: I saw her and heard her with my own eyes. She was a 
big woman, and had long black hair: we could see it streaming against the 
flames as she stood. I witnessed, and several more witnessed, Mr Rochester 
ascend through the skylight on to the roof; we heard him call 'Bertha!' We 
saw him approach her; and then, ma'am, she yelled and gave a spring, and 
the next minute she lay smashed on the pavement."
"Dead?"
"Dead! Ay, dead as the stones on which her brains and blood were 
scattered."
"Good God!"
"You may well say so, ma'am: it was frightful!"
He shuddered.
"And afterwards?" I urged.
"Well, ma'am, afterwards the house was burnt to the ground: there are only 
some bits of walls standing now."
"Were any other lives lost?"
"No - perhaps it would have been better if there had."
"What do you mean?"
"Poor Mr Edward!" he ejaculated, "I little thought ever to have seen it? 
Some say it was a just judgment on him for keeping his first marriage 
secret, and wanting to take another wife while he had one living: but I 
pity him, for my part."
"You said he was alive?" I exclaimed.
"Yes, yes: he is alive; but many think he had better be dead."
"Why? How?" My blood was again running cold. "Where is he?" I demanded. "Is 
he in England?"
"Ay - ay - he's in England; he can't get out of England, I fancy - he's a 
fixture now."
What agony was this! And the man seemed resolved to protract it.
"He is stone-blind," he said at last. "Yes, he is stone-blind, is Mr 
Edward."
I had dreaded worse. I had dreaded he was mad. I summoned strength to ask 
what had caused this calamity.
"It was all his own courage, and a body may say, his kindness, in a way, 
ma'am: he wouldn't leave the house till every one else was out before him. 
As he came down the great staircase at last, after Mrs Rochester had flung 
herself from the battlements, there was a great crash - all fell. He was 
taken out from under the ruins, alive, but sadly hurt: a beam had fallen in 
such a way as to protect him partly; but one eye was knocked out, and one 
hand so crushed that Mr Carter, the surgeon, had to amputate it directly. 
The other eye inflamed: he lost the sight of that also. He is now helpless, 
indeed - blind and a cripple."
"Where is he? Where does he now live?"
"At Ferndean, a manor-house on a farm he has, about thirty miles off: quite 
a desolate spot."
"Who is with him?"
"Old John and his wife: he would have none else. He is quite broken down, 
they say."
"Have you any sort of conveyance?"
"We have a chaise, ma'am, a very handsome chaise."
"Let it be got ready instantly; and if your post-boy can drive me to 
Ferndean before dark this day, I'll pay both you and him twice the hire you 
usually demand."



Chapter 37

The manor-house of Ferndean was a building of considerable antiquity, 
moderate size, and no architectural pretensions, deep buried in a wood. I 
had heard of it before. Mr Rochester often spoke of it, and sometimes went 
there. His father had purchased the estate for the sake of the game covers. 
He would have let the house, but could find no tenant, in consequence of 
its ineligible and insalubrious site. Ferndean then remained uninhabited 
and unfurnished, with the exception of some two or three rooms fitted up 
for the accommodation of the squire when he went there in the season to 
shoot.
To this house I came just ere dark on an evening marked by the 
characteristics of sad sky, cold gale, and continued small penetrating 
rain. The last mile I performed on foot, having dismissed the chaise and 
driver with the double remuneration I had promised. Even when within a very 
short distance of the manor-house, you could see nothing of it, so thick 
and dark grew the timber of the gloomy wood about it. Iron gates between 
granite pillars showed me where to enter, and passing through them, I found 
myself at once in the twilight of close-ranked trees. There was a grass-
grown track descending the forest aisle between hoar and knotty shafts and 
under branched arches. I followed it, expecting soon to reach the dwelling; 
but it stretched on and on, it wound far and farther: no sign of habitation 
or grounds was visible.
I thought I had taken a wrong direction and lost my way. The darkness of 
natural as well as of sylvan dusk gathered over me. I looked round in 
search of another road. There was none: all was interwoven stem, columnar 
trunk, dense summer foliage - no opening anywhere.
I proceeded: at last my way opened, the trees thinned a little; presently I 
beheld a railing, then the house - scarce, by this dim light, 
distinguishable from the trees, so dank and green were its decaying walls. 
Entering a portal, fastened only by a latch, I stood amidst a space of 
enclosed ground, from which the wood swept away in a semicircle. There were 
no flowers, no garden-beds; only a broad gravel-walk girdling a grass-plat, 
and this set in the heavy frame of the forest. The house presented two 
pointed gables in its front; the windows were latticed and narrow: the 
front door was narrow too, one step led up to it. The whole looked, as the 
host of the Rochester Arms had said, "quite a desolate spot." It was as 
still as a church on a week-day: the pattering rain on the forest leaves 
was the only sound audible in its vicinage.
"Can there be life here?" I asked.
Yes, life of some kind there was; for I heard a movement - that narrow 
front-door was unclosing, and some shape was about to issue from the 
grange.
It opened slowly: a figure came out into the twilight and stood on the 
step; a man without a hat: he stretched forth his hand as if to feel 
whether it rained. Dusk as it was, I had recognised him - it was my master, 
Edward Fairfax Rochester, and no other.
I stayed my step, almost my breath, and stood to watch him - to examine 
him, myself unseen, and alas! to him invisible. It was a sudden meeting, 
and one in which rapture was kept well in check by pain. I had no 
difficulty in restraining my voice from exclamation, my step from hasty 
advance.
His form was of the same strong and stalwart contour as ever: his port was 
still erect, his hair was still raven black; nor were his features altered 
or sunk: not in one year's space, by any sorrow, could his athletic 
strength be quelled or his vigorous prime blighted. But in his countenance 
I saw a change: that looked desperate and brooding - that reminded me of 
some wronged and fettered wild beast or bird, dangerous to approach in his 
sullen woe. The caged eagle, whose gold-ringed eyes cruelty has 
extinguished, might look as looked that sightless Samson.
And, reader, do you think I feared him in his blind ferocity? - if you do, 
you little know me. A soft hope blent with my sorrow that soon I should 
dare to drop a kiss on that brow of rock, and on those lips so sternly 
sealed beneath it: but not yet. I would not accost him yet.
He descended the one step, and advanced slowly and gropingly towards the 
grass-plat. Where was his daring stride now? Then he paused, as if he knew 
not which way to turn. He lifted his hand and opened his eyelids; gazed 
blank, and with a straining effort, on the sky, and toward the amphitheatre 
of trees: one saw that all to him was void darkness. He stretched his right 
hand (the left arm, the mutilated one, he kept hidden in his bosom); he 
seemed to wish by touch to gain an idea of what lay around him: he met but 
vacancy still; for the trees were some yards off where he stood. He 
relinquished the endeavour, folded his arms, and stood quiet and mute in 
the rain, now falling fast on his uncovered head. At this moment John 
approached him from some quarter.
"Will you take my arm, sir?" he said; "there is a heavy shower coming on: 
had you not better go in?"
"Let me alone," was the answer.
John withdrew without having observed me. Mr Rochester now tried to walk 
about: vainly, - all was too uncertain. He groped his way back to the 
house, and, re-entering it, closed the door.
I now drew near and knocked: John's wife opened for me. "Mary," I said, 
"how are you?"
She started as if she had seen a ghost: I calmed her. To her hurried "Is it 
really you, miss, come at this late hour to this lonely place?" I answered 
by taking her hand; and then I followed her into the kitchen, where John 
now sat by a good fire. I explained to them, in a few words, that I had 
heard all which had happened since I left Thornfield, and that I was come 
to see Mr Rochester. I asked John to go down to the turnpike-house, where I 
had dismissed the chaise, and bring my trunk, which I had left there: and 
then, while I removed my bonnet and shawl, I questioned Mary as to whether 
I could be accommodated at the Manor House for the night; and finding that 
arrangements to that effect, though difficult, would not be impossible, I 
informed her I should stay. just at this moment the parlour-bell rang.
"When you go in," said I, "tell your master that a person wishes to speak 
to him, but do not give my name."
"I don't think he will see you," she answered; "he refuses everybody."
When she returned, I inquired what he had said.
"You are to send in your name and your business," she replied. She then 
proceeded to fill a glass with water, and place it on a tray, together with 
candles.
"Is that what he rang for?" I asked.
"Yes: he always has candles brought in at dark, though he is blind."
"Give the tray to me; I will carry it in."
I took it from her hand: she pointed me out the parlour door. The tray 
shook as I held it; the water spilt from the glass; my heart struck my ribs 
loud and fast. Mary opened the door for me, and shut it behind me.
This parlour looked gloomy: a neglected handful of fire burnt low in the 
grate; and, leaning over it, with his head supported against the high, old-
fashioned mantelpiece, appeared the blind tenant of the room. His old dog, 
Pilot, lay on one side, removed out of the way, and coiled up as if afraid 
of being inadvertently trodden upon. Pilot pricked up his ears when I came 
in: then he jumped up with a yelp and a whine, and bounded towards me: he 
almost knocked the tray from my hands. I set it on the table; then patted 
him, and said softly, "Lie down!" Mr Rochester turned mechanically to see 
what the commotion was: but as he saw nothing, he returned and sighed.
"Give me the water, Mary," he said.
I approached him with the now only half-filled glass; Pilot followed me, 
still excited.
"What is the matter?" he inquired.
"Down, Pilot!" I again said. He checked the water on its way to his lips, 
and seemed to listen: he drank, and put the glass down. "This is you, Mary, 
is it not?"
"Mary is in the kitchen," I answered.
He put out his hand with a quick gesture, but not seeing where I stood, he 
did not touch me. "Who is this? Who is this?" he demanded, trying, as it 
seemed, to see with those sightless eyes - unavailing and distressing 
attempt! "Answer me - speak again!" he ordered, imperiously and aloud.
"Will you have a little more water, sir? I spilt half of what was in the 
glass," I said.
"Who is it? What is it? Who speaks?"
"Pilot knows me, and John and Mary know I am here. I came only this 
evening," I answered.
"Great God! - what delusion has come over me? What sweet madness has seized 
me?"
"No delusion - no madness: your mind, sir, is too strong for delusion, your 
health too sound for frenzy."
"And where is the speaker? Is it only a voice? Oh! I cannot see, but I must 
feel, or my heart will stop and my brain burst. Whatever - whoever you are -
 be perceptible to the touch or I cannot live!"
He groped; I arrested his wandering hand, and prisoned it in both mine.
"Her very fingers!" he cried; "her small, slight fingers! If so there must 
be more of her."
The muscular hand broke from my custody; my arm was seized, my shoulder - 
neck - waist - I was entwined and gathered to him.
"Is it Jane? What is it? This is her shape - this is her size -"
"And this her voice," I added. "She is all here: her heart, too. God bless 
you, sir! I am glad to be so near you again."
"Jane Eyre! - Jane Eyre," was all he said.
"My dear master," I answered, "I am Jane Eyre: I have found you out - I am 
come back to you."
"In truth? - in the flesh? My living Jane?"
"You touch me, sir, - you hold me, and fast enough: I am not cold like a 
corpse, nor vacant like air, am I?"
"My living darling! These are certainly her limbs, and these her features; 
but I cannot be so blest, after all my misery. It is a dream; such dreams 
as I have had at night when I have clasped her once more to my heart, as I 
do now; and kissed her, as thus - and felt that she loved me, and trusted 
that she would not leave me."
"Which I never will, sir, from this day."
"Never will, says the vision? But I always woke and found it an empty 
mockery; and I was desolate and abandoned - my life dark, lonely, hopeless -
 my soul athirst and forbidden to drink - my heart famished and never to be 
fed. Gentle, soft dream, nestling in my arms now, you will fly, too, as 
your sisters have all fled before you: but kiss me before you go - embrace 
me, Jane."
"There, sir - and there!"
I pressed my lips to his once brilliant and now rayless eyes - I swept his 
hair from his brow, and kissed that too. He suddenly seemed to arouse 
himself: the conviction of the reality of all this seized him.
"It is you - is it, Jane? You are come back to me then?"
"I am."
"And you do not lie dead in some ditch under some stream? And you are not a 
pining outcast amongst strangers?"
"No, sir! I am an independent woman now."
"Independent! What do you mean, Jane?"
"My uncle in Madeira is dead, and he left me five thousand pounds."
"Ah! this is practical - this is real!" he cried: "I should never dream 
that. Besides, there is that peculiar voice of hers, so animating and 
piquant, as well as soft: it cheers my withered heart; it puts life into 
it. - What, Janet! Are you an independent woman? A rich woman?"
"Quite rich, sir. If you won't let me live with you, I can build a house of 
my own close up to your door, and you may come and sit in my parlour when 
you want company of an evening."
"But as you are rich, Jane, you have now, no doubt, friends who will look 
after you, and not suffer you to devote yourself to a blind lameter like 
me?"
"I told you I am independent, sir, as well as rich: I am my own mistress."
"And you will stay with me?"
"Certainly - unless you object. I will be your neighbour, your nurse, your 
housekeeper. I find you lonely: I will be your companion - to read to you, 
to walk with you, to sit with you, to wait on you, to be eyes and hands to 
you. Cease to look so melancholy, my dear master; you shall not be left 
desolate, so long as I live."
He replied not: he seemed serious - abstracted; he sighed; he half-opened 
his lips as if to speak: he closed them again. I felt a little embarrassed. 
Perhaps I had too rashly overleaped conventionalities; and he, like St. 
John, saw impropriety in my inconsiderateness. I had indeed made my 
proposal from the idea that he wished and would ask me to be his wife: an 
expectation, not the less certain because unexpressed, had buoyed me up, 
that he would claim me at once as his own. But no hint to that effect 
escaping him and his countenance becoming more overcast, I suddenly 
remembered that I might have been all wrong, and was perhaps playing the 
fool unwittingly; and I began gently to withdraw myself from his arms - but 
he eagerly snatched me closer.
"No - no - Jane; you must not go. No - I have touched you, heard you, felt 
the comfort of your presence - the sweetness of your consolation: I cannot 
give up these joys. I have little left in myself - I must have you. The 
world may laugh - may call me absurd, selfish - but it does not signify. My 
very soul demands you: it will be satisfied, or it will take deadly 
vengeance on its frame."
"Well, sir, I will stay with you: I have said so."
"Yes - but you understand one thing by staying with me; and I understand 
another. You, perhaps, could make up your mind to be about my hand and 
chair - to wait on me as a kind little nurse (for you have an affectionate 
heart and a generous spirit, which prompt you to make sacrifices for those 
you pity), and that ought to suffice for me no doubt. I suppose I should 
now entertain none but fatherly feelings for you: do you think so? Come - 
tell me."
"I will think what you like, sir: I am content to be only your nurse, if 
you think it better."
"But you cannot always be my nurse, Janet: you are young - you must marry 
one day."
"I don't care about being married."
"You should care, Janet: if I were what I once was, I would try to make you 
care - but - a sightless block!"
He relapsed again into gloom. I, on the contrary, became more cheerful, and 
took fresh courage: these last words gave me an insight as to where the 
difficulty lay; and as it was no difficulty with me, I felt quite relieved 
from my previous embarrassment. I resumed a livelier vein of conversation.
"It is time some one undertook to rehumanise you," said I, parting his 
thick and long uncut locks; "for I see you are being metamorphosed into a 
lion, or something of that sort. You have a 'faux air' of Nebuchadnezzar in 
the fields about you, that is certain: your hair reminds me of eagles' 
feathers; whether your nails are grown like birds' claws or not, I have not 
yet noticed."
"On this arm, I have neither hand nor nails," he said, drawing the 
mutilated limb from his breast, and showing it to me. "It is a mere stump - 
a ghastly sight! Don't you think so, Jane?"
"It is a pity to see it; and a pity to see your eyes - and the scar of fire 
on your forehead: and the worst of it is, one is in danger of loving you 
too well for all this; and making too much of you."
"I thought you would be revolted, Jane, when you saw my arm, and my 
cicatrised visage."
"Did you? Don't tell me so - lest I should say something disparaging to 
your judgment. Now, let me leave you an instant, to make a better fire, and 
have the hearth swept up. Can you tell when there is a good fire?"
"Yes; with the right eye I see a glow - a ruddy haze."
"And you see the candles?"
"Very dimly - each is a luminous cloud."
"Can you see me?"
"No, my fairy: but I am only too thankful to hear and feel you."
"When do you take supper?"
"I never take supper."
"But you shall have some tonight. I am hungry: so are you, I daresay, only 
you forget."
Summoning Mary, I soon had the room in more cheerful order: I prepared him, 
likewise, a comfortable repast. My spirits were excited, and with pleasure 
and ease I talked to him during supper, and for a long time after. There 
was no harassing restraint, no repressing of glee and vivacity with him; 
for with him I was at perfect ease, because I knew I suited him; all I said 
or did seemed either to console or revive him. Delightful consciousness! It 
brought to life and light my whole nature: in his presence I thoroughly 
lived; and he lived in mine. Blind as he was, smiles played over his face, 
joy dawned on his forehead: his lineaments softened and warmed.
After supper, he began to ask me many questions, of where I had been, what 
I had been doing, how I had found him out; but I gave him only very partial 
replies: it was too late to enter into particulars that night. Besides, I 
wished to touch no deep-thrilling chord - to open no fresh well of emotion 
in his heart: my sole present aim was to cheer him. Cheered, as I have 
said, he was: and yet but by fits. If a moment's silence broke the 
conversation, he would turn restless, touch me, then say, "Jane."
"You are altogether a human being, Janet? You are certain of that?"
"I conscientiously believe so, Mr Rochester."
"Yet how, on this dark and doleful evening, could you so suddenly rise on 
my lone hearth? I stretched my hand to take a glass of water from a 
hireling, and it was given me by you: I asked a question, expecting John's 
wife to answer me, and your voice spoke at my ear."
"Because I had come in, in Mary's stead, with the tray."
"And there is enchantment in the very hour I am now spending with you. Who 
can tell what a dark, dreary, hopeless life I have dragged on for months 
past? Doing nothing, expecting nothing; merging night in day; feeling but 
the sensation of cold when I let the fire go out, of hunger when I forgot 
to eat: and then a ceaseless sorrow, and, at times, a very delirium of 
desire to behold my Jane again. Yes: for her restoration I longed, far more 
than for that of my lost sight. How can it be that Jane is with me, and 
says she loves me? Will she not depart as suddenly as she came? Tomorrow, I 
fear I shall find her no more."
A commonplace, practical reply, out of the train of his own disturbed 
ideas, was, I was sure, the best and most reassuring for him in this frame 
of mind. I passed my finger over his eyebrows, and remarked that they were 
scorched, and that I would apply something which would make them grow as 
broad and black as ever.
"Where is the use of doing me good in any way, beneficent spirit, when, at 
some fatal moment, you will again desert me - passing like a shadow, 
whither and how to me unknown, and for me remaining afterwards 
undiscoverable?"
"Have you a pocket-comb about you, sir?"
"What for, Jane?"
"Just to comb out this shaggy black mane. I find you rather alarming, when 
I examine you close at hand: you talk of my being a fairy, but I am sure, 
you are more like a brownie."
"Am I hideous, Jane?"
"Very, sir: you always were, you know."
"Humph! The wickedness has not been taken out of you, wherever you have 
sojourned."
"Yet I have been with good people; far better than you: a hundred times 
better people; possessed of ideas and views you never entertained in your 
life: quite more refined and exalted."
"Who the deuce have you been with?"
"If you twist in that way you will make me pull the hair out of your head; 
and then I think you will cease to entertain doubts of my substantiality."
"Who have you been with, Jane?"
"You shall not get it out of me tonight, sir; you must wait till tomorrow; 
to leave my tale half told, will, you know, be a sort of security that I 
shall appear at your breakfast table to finish it. By the bye, I must mind 
not to rise on your hearth with only a glass of water then: I must bring an 
egg at the least, to say nothing of fried ham."
"You mocking changeling - fairy-born and human-bred! You make me feel as I 
have not felt these twelve months. If Saul could have had you for his 
David, the evil spirit would have been exorcised without the aid of the 
harp."
"There, sir, you are redd up and made decent. Now I'll leave you: I have 
been travelling these last three days, and I believe I am tired. Good 
night."
"Just one word, Jane: were there only ladies in the house where you have 
been?"
I laughed and made my escape, still laughing as I ran upstairs. "A good 
idea!" I thought with glee. "I see I have the means of fretting him out of 
his melancholy for some time to come."
Very early the next morning I heard him up and astir, wandering from one 
room to another. As soon as Mary came down I heard the question: "Is Miss 
Eyre here?" Then: "Which room did you put her into? Was it dry? Is she up? 
Go and ask if she wants anything; and when she will come down."
I came down as soon as I thought there was a prospect of breakfast. 
Entering the room very softly, I had a view of him before he discovered my 
presence. It was mournful, indeed, to witness the subjugation of that 
vigorous spirit to a corporeal infirmity. He sat in his chair - still, but 
not at rest: expectant evidently; the lines of now habitual sadness marking 
his strong features. His countenance reminded one of a lamp quenched, 
waiting to be re-lit - and alas! it was not himself that could now kindle 
the lustre of animated expression: he was dependent on another for that 
office! I had meant to be gay and careless, but the powerlessness of the 
strong man touched my heart to the quick: still I accosted him with what 
vivacity I could.
"It is a bright, sunny morning, sir," I said. "The rain is over and gone, 
and there is a tender shining after it: you shall have a walk soon."
I had wakened the glow: his features beamed.
"Oh, you are indeed there, my skylark! Come to me. You are not gone: not 
vanished? I heard one of your kind an hour ago, singing high over the wood: 
but its song had no music for me, any more than the rising sun had rays. 
All the melody on earth is concentrated in my Jane's tongue to my ear (I am 
glad it is not naturally a silent one): all the sunshine I can feel is in 
her presence."
The water stood in my eyes to hear this avowal of his dependence; just as 
if a royal eagle, chained to a perch, should be forced to entreat a sparrow 
to become its purveyor. But I would not be lachrymose: I dashed off the 
salt drops, and busied myself with preparing breakfast.
Most of the morning was spent in the open air. I led him out of the wet and 
wild wood into some cheerful fields: I described to him how brilliantly 
green they were; how the flowers and hedges looked refreshed; how 
sparklingly blue was the sky. I sought a seat for him in a hidden and 
lovely spot, a dry stump of a tree; nor did I refuse to let him, when 
seated, place me on his knee. Why should I, when both he and I were happier 
near than apart? Pilot lay beside us: all was quiet. He broke out suddenly 
while clasping me in his arms -
"Cruel, cruel deserter! Oh, Jane, what did I feel when I discovered you had 
fled from Thornfield, and when I could nowhere find you; and, after 
examining your apartment, ascertained that you had taken no money, nor 
anything which could serve as an equivalent! A pearl necklace I had given 
you lay untouched in its little casket; your trunks were left corded and 
locked as they had been prepared for the bridal tour. What could my darling 
do, I asked, left destitute and penniless? And what did she do? Let me hear 
now."
Thus urged, I began the narrative of my experience for the last year. I 
softened considerably what related to the three days of wandering and 
starvation, because to have told him all would have been to inflict 
unnecessary pain: the little I did say lacerated his faithful heart deeper 
than I wished.
I should not have left him thus, he said, without any means of making my 
way: I should have told him my intention. I should have confided in him: he 
would never have forced me to be his mistress. Violent as he had seemed in 
his despair, he, in truth, loved me far too well and too tenderly to 
constitute himself my tyrant: he would have given me half his fortune, 
without demanding so much as a kiss in return, rather than I should have 
flung myself friendless on the wide world. I had endured, he was certain, 
more than I had confessed to him.
"Well, whatever my sufferings had been, they were very short," I answered: 
and then I proceeded to tell him how I had been received at Moor House; how 
I had obtained the office of schoolmistress, etc. The accession of fortune, 
the discovery of my relations, followed in due order. Of course, St. John 
Rivers' name came in frequently in the progress of my tale. When I had 
done, that name was immediately taken up.
"This St. John, then, is your cousin?"
"Yes."
"You have spoken of him often: do you like him?"
"He was a very good man, sir; I could not help liking him."
"A good man. Does that mean a respectable well-conducted man of fifty? Or 
what does it mean?"
"St. John was only twenty-nine, sir."
"'Jeune encore,' as the French say. Is he a person of low stature, 
phlegmatic, and plain? A person whose goodness consists rather in his 
guiltlessness of vice, than in his prowess in virtue?"
"He is untiringly active. Great and exalted deeds are what he lives to 
perform."
"But his brain? That is probably rather soft? He means well: but you shrug 
your shoulders to hear him talk?"
"He talks little, sir: what he does say is ever to the point. His brain is 
first-rate, I should think not impressible, but vigorous."
"Is he an able man, then?"
"Truly able."
"A thoroughly educated man?"
"St. John is an accomplished and profound scholar."
"His manners, I think, you said are not to your taste? - priggish and 
parsonic?"
"I never mentioned his manners; but, unless I had a very bad taste, they 
must suit it; they are polished, calm, and gentlemanlike."
"His appearance, - I forget what description you gave of his appearance; - 
a sort of raw curate, half strangled with his white neckcloth, and stilted 
up on his thick-soled high-lows, eh?"
"St. John dresses well. He is a handsome man: tall, fair, with blue eyes, 
and a Grecian profile."
(Aside.) "Damn him!" - (To me.) "Did you like him, Jane?"
"Yes, Mr Rochester, I liked him: but you asked me that before."
I perceived, of course, the drift of my interlocutor. Jealousy had got hold 
of him: she stung him; but the sting was salutary: it gave him respite from 
the gnawing fang of melancholy. I would not, therefore, immediately charm 
the snake.
"Perhaps you would rather not sit any longer on my knee, Miss Eyre?" was 
the next somewhat unexpected observation.
"Why not, Mr Rochester?"
"The picture you have just drawn is suggestive of a rather too overwhelming 
contrast. Your words have delineated very prettily a graceful Apollo: he is 
present to your imagination, - tall, fair, blue-eyed, and with a Grecian 
profile. Your eyes dwell on a Vulcan, - a real blacksmith, brown, broad-
shouldered: and blind and lame into the bargain."
"I never thought of it, before; but you certainly are rather like Vulcan, 
sir."
Well, you can leave me, ma'am: but before you go" (and he retained me by a 
firmer grasp than ever), "you will be pleased just to answer me a question 
or two." He paused.
"What questions, Mr Rochester?"
Then followed this cross-examination.
"St. John made you schoolmistress of Morton before he knew you were his 
cousin?"
"Yes."
"You would often see him? He would visit the school sometimes?"
"Daily."
"He would approve of your plans, Jane? I know they would be clever, for you 
are a talented creature!"
"He approved of them - yes."
"He would discover many things in you he could not have expected to find? 
Some of your accomplishments are not ordinary."
"I don't know about that."
"You had a little cottage near the school, you say: did he ever come there 
to see you?"
"Now and then."
"Of an evening?"
"Once or twice."
A pause.
"How long did you reside with him and his sisters after the cousinship was 
discovered?"
"Five months."
"Did Rivers spend much time with the ladies of his family?"
"Yes; the back parlour was both his study and ours: he sat near the window, 
and we by the table."
"Did he study much?"
"A good deal."
"What?"
"Hindostanee."
"And what did you do meantime?"
"I learnt German, at first."
"Did he teach you?"
"He did not understand German."
"Did he teach you nothing?"
"A little Hindostanee."
"Rivers taught you Hindostanee?"
"Yes, sir."
"And his sisters also?"
"No."
"Only you?"
"Only me."
"Did you ask to learn?"
"No."
"He wished to teach you?"
"Yes."
A second pause.
"Why did he wish it? Of what use could Hindostanee be to you?"
"He intended me to go with him to India."
"Ah! here I reach the root of the matter. He wanted you to marry him?"
"He asked me to marry him."
"That is a fiction - an impudent invention to vex me."
"I beg your pardon, it is the literal truth: he asked me more than once, 
and was as stiff about urging his point as ever you could be."
"Miss Eyre, I repeat it, you can leave me. How often am I to say the same 
thing? Why do you remain pertinaciously perched on my knee, when I have 
given you notice to quit?"
"Because I am comfortable there."
"No, Jane, you are not comfortable there, because your heart is not with 
me: it is with this cousin - this St. John. Oh, till this moment, I thought 
my little Jane was all mine! I had a belief she loved me even when she left 
me: that was an atom of sweet in much bitter. Long as we have been parted, 
hot tears as I have wept over our separation, I never thought that while I 
was mourning her, she was loving another! But it is useless grieving. Jane, 
leave me: go and marry Rivers."
"Shake me off, then, sir, - push me away, for I'll not leave you of my own 
accord."
"Jane, I ever like your tone of voice: it still renews hope, it sounds so 
truthful. When I hear it, it carries me back a year. I forget that you have 
formed a new tie. But I am not a fool -"
"Where must I go, sir?"
"Your own way - with the husband you have chosen."
"Who is that?"
"You know - this St. John Rivers."
"He is not my husband, nor ever will be. He does not love me: I do not love 
him. He loves (as he can love, and that is not as you love) a beautiful 
young lady called Rosamond. He wanted to marry me only because he thought I 
should make a suitable missionary's wife, which she would not have done. He 
is good and great, but severe; and, for me, cold as an iceberg. He is not 
like you, sir: I am not happy at his side, nor near him, nor with him. He 
has no indulgence for me - no fondness. He sees nothing attractive in me; 
not even youth - only a few useful mental points - Then I must leave you, 
sir, to go to him?"
I shuddered involuntarily, and clung instinctively closer to my blind but 
beloved master. He smiled.
"What, Jane! Is this true? Is such really the state of matters between you 
and Rivers?"
"Absolutely, sir! Oh, you need not be jealous! I wanted to tease you a 
little to make you less sad: I thought anger would be better than grief. 
But if you wish me to love you, could you but see how much I do love you, 
you would be proud and content. All my heart is yours, sir: it belongs to 
you; and with you it would remain, were fate to exile the rest of me from 
your presence for ever."
Again, as he kissed me, painful thoughts darkened his aspect.
"My seared vision! My crippled strength!" he murmured regretfully.
I caressed, in order to soothe him. I knew of what he was thinking, and 
wanted to speak for him, but dared not. As he turned aside his face a 
minute, I saw a tear slide from under the sealed eyelid, and trickle down 
the manly cheek. My heart swelled.
"I am no better than the old lightning-struck chestnut-tree in Thornfield 
orchard," he remarked ere long. "And what right would that ruin have to bid 
a budding woodbine cover its decay with freshness?"
"You are no ruin, sir - no lightning-struck tree: you are green and 
vigorous. Plants will grow about your roots, whether you ask them or not, 
because they take delight in your bountiful shadow; and as they grow they 
will lean towards you, and wind round you, because your strength offers 
them so safe a prop."
Again he smiled: I gave him comfort.
"You speak of friends, Jane?" he asked.
"Yes, of friends," I answered rather hesitatingly: for I knew I meant more 
than friends, but could not tell what other word to employ. He helped me.
"Ah! Jane. But I want a wife."
"Do you, sir?"
"Yes: is it news to you?"
"Of course: you said nothing about it before."
"Is it unwelcome news?"
"That depends on circumstances, sir - on your choice."
"Which you shall make for me, Jane. I will abide by your decision."
"Choose then, sir - her who loves you best."
"I will at least choose - her I love best. Jane, will you marry me?"
"Yes, sir."
"A poor blind man, whom you will have to lead about by the hand?"
"Yes, sir."
"A crippled man, twenty years older than you, whom you will have to wait 
on?"
"Yes, sir."
"Truly, Jane?"
"Most truly, sir."
"Oh! my darling! God bless you and reward you!"
"Mr Rochester, if ever I did a good deed in my life - if ever I thought a 
good thought - if ever I prayed a sincere and blameless prayer - if ever I 
wished a righteous wish, - I am rewarded now. To be your wife is, for me, 
to be as happy as I can be on earth."
"Because you delight in sacrifice."
"Sacrifice! What do I sacrifice? Famine for food, expectation for content. 
To be privileged to put my arms round what I value - to press my lips to 
what I love - to repose on what I trust: is that to make a sacrifice? If 
so, then certainly I delight in sacrifice."
"And to bear with my infirmities, Jane: to overlook my deficiencies."
"Which are none, sir, to me. I love you better now, when I can really be 
useful to you, than I did in your state of proud independence, when you 
disdained every part but that of the giver and protector."
"Hitherto I have hated to be helped - to be led: henceforth, I feel I shall 
hate it no more. I did not like to put my hand into a hireling's, but it is 
pleasant to feel it circled by Jane's little fingers. I preferred utter 
loneliness to the constant attendance of servants; but Jane's soft ministry 
will be a perpetual joy. Jane suits me: do I suit her?"
"To the finest fibre of my nature, sir."
"The case being so, we have nothing in the world to wait for: we must be 
married instantly."
He looked and spoke with eagerness: his old impetuosity was rising.
"We must become one flesh without any delay, Jane: there is but the licence 
to get - then we marry."
"Mr Rochester, I have just discovered the sun is far declined from its 
meridian, and Pilot is actually gone home to his dinner. Let me look at 
your watch."
"Fasten it into your girdle, Janet, and keep it henceforward: I have no use 
for it."
"It is nearly four o'clock in the afternoon, sir. Don't you feel hungry?"
"The third day from this must be our wedding-day, Jane. Never mind fine 
clothes and jewels, now: all that is not worth a fillip."
"The sun has dried up all the rain-drops, sir. The breeze is still: it is 
quite hot."
"Do you know, Jane, I have your little pearl necklace at this moment 
fastened round my bronze scrag under my cravat? I have worn it since the 
day I lost my only treasure, as a memento of her."
"We will go home through the wood: that will be the shadiest way."
He pursued his own thoughts without heeding me.
"Jane! you think me, I daresay, an irreligious dog: but my heart swells 
with gratitude to the beneficent God of this earth just now. He sees not as 
man sees, but far clearer: judges not as man judges, but far more wisely. I 
did wrong: I would have sullied my innocent flower - breathed guilt on its 
purity: the Omnipotent snatched it from me. I, in my stiff-necked 
rebellion, almost cursed the dispensation: instead of bending to the 
decree, I defied it. Divine justice pursued its course; disasters came 
thick on me: I was forced to pass through the valley of the shadow of 
death. His chastisements are mighty; and one smote me which has humbled me 
for ever. You know I was proud of my strength: but what is it now, when I 
must give it over to foreign guidance, as a child does its weakness? Of 
late, Jane - only - only of late - I began to see and acknowledge the hand 
of God in my doom. I began to experience remorse, repentance; the wish for 
reconcilement to my Maker. I began sometimes to pray: very brief prayers 
they were, but very sincere.
"Some days since: nay, I can number them - four; it was last Monday night, 
a singular mood came over me: one in which grief replaced frenzy - sorrow, 
sullenness. I had long had the impression that since I could nowhere find 
you, you must be dead. Late that night - perhaps it might be between eleven 
and twelve o'clock - ere I retired to my dreary rest, I supplicated God, 
that, if it seemed good to Him, I might soon be taken from this life, and 
admitted to that world to come, where there was still hope of rejoining 
Jane.
"I was in my own room, and sitting by the window, which was open: it 
soothed me to feel the balmy night-air; though I could see no stars, and 
only by a vague, luminous haze, knew the presence of a moon. I longed for 
thee, Janet! Oh, I longed for thee both with soul and flesh! I asked of 
God, at once in anguish and humility, if I had not been long enough 
desolate, afflicted, tormented; and might not soon taste bliss and peace 
once more. That I merited all I endured, I acknowledged - that I could 
scarcely endure more, I pleaded; and the alpha and omega of my heart's 
wishes broke involuntarily from my lips in the words - 'Jane! Jane! Jane!'"
"Did you speak these words aloud?"
"I did, Jane. If any listener had heard me, he would have thought me mad: I 
pronounced them with such frantic energy."
"And it was last Monday night, somewhere near midnight?"
"Yes; but the time is of no consequence: what followed is the strange 
point. You will think me superstitious - some superstition I have in my 
blood, and always had: nevertheless, this is true - true at least it is 
that I heard what I now relate.
"As I exclaimed 'Jane! Jane! Jane!' a voice - I cannot tell whence the 
voice came, but I know whose voice it was - replied, 'I am coming: wait for 
me;' and a moment after, went whispering on the wind the words - 'Where are 
you?'
"I'll tell you, if I can, the idea, the picture these words opened to my 
mind: yet it is difficult to express what I want to express. Ferndean is 
buried, as you see, in a heavy wood, where sound falls dull, and dies 
unreverberating. 'Where are you?' seemed spoken amongst mountains; for I 
heard a hill-sent echo repeat the words. Cooler and fresher at the moment 
the gale seemed to visit my brow: I could have deemed that in some wild, 
lone scene, I and Jane were meeting. In spirit, I believe we must have met. 
You no doubt were, at that hour, in unconscious sleep, Jane: perhaps your 
soul wandered from its cell to comfort mine; for those were your accents - 
as certain as I live - they were yours!"
Reader, it was on Monday night - near midnight - that I too had received 
the mysterious summons: those were the very words by which I replied to it. 
I listened to Mr Rochester's narrative, but made no disclosure in return. 
The coincidence struck me as too awful and inexplicable to be communicated 
or discussed. If I told anything, my tale would be such as must necessarily 
make a profound impression on the mind of my hearer: and that mind, yet 
from its sufferings too prone to gloom, needed not the deeper shade of the 
supernatural. I kept these things then, and pondered them in my heart.
"You cannot now wonder," continued my master, "that when you rose upon me 
so unexpectedly last night, I had difficulty in believing you any other 
than a mere voice and vision, something that would melt to silence and 
annihilation, as the midnight whisper and mountain echo had melted before. 
Now, I thank God! I know it to be otherwise. Yes, I thank God!"
He put me off his knee, rose, and reverently lifting his hat from his brow, 
and bending his sightless eyes to the earth, he stood in mute devotion. 
Only the last words of the worship were audible.
"I thank my Maker, that, in the midst of judgment, he has remembered mercy. 
I humbly entreat my Redeemer to give me strength to lead henceforth a purer 
life than I have done hitherto!"
Then he stretched his hand out to be led. I took that dear hand, held it a 
moment to my lips, then let it pass round my shoulder: being so much lower 
of stature than he, I served both for his prop and guide. We entered the 
wood, and wended homeward.


Chapter 38: Conclusion

Reader, I married him. A quiet wedding we had: he and I, the parson and 
clerk, were alone present. When we got back from church, I went into the 
kitchen of the manor-house, where Mary was cooking the dinner, and John 
cleaning the knives, and I said: -
"Mary, I have been married to Mr Rochester this morning." The housekeeper 
and her husband were both of that decent phlegmatic order of people, to 
whom one may at any time safely communicate a remarkable piece of news 
without incurring the danger of having one's ears pierced by some shrill 
ejaculation, and subsequently stunned by a torrent of wordy wonderment. 
Mary did look up, and she did stare at me: the ladle with which she was 
basting a pair of chickens roasting at the fire, did for some three minutes 
hang suspended in air; and for the same space of time John's knives also 
had rest from the polishing process: but Mary, bending again over the 
roast, said only -
"Have you, Miss? Well, for sure!"
A short time after she pursued: "I seed you go out with the master, but I 
didn't know you were gone to church to be wed;" and she basted away. John, 
when I turned to him, was grinning from ear to ear.
"I telled Mary how it would be," he said: "I knew what Mr Edward" (John was 
an old servant, and had known his master when he was the cadet of the 
house, therefore, he often gave him his christian name) - "I knew what Mr 
Edward would do; and I was certain he would not wait long neither: and he's 
done right, for aught I know. I wish you joy, Miss !" and he politely 
pulled his forelock.
"Thank you, John. Mr Rochester told me to give you and Mary this." I put 
into his hand a five-pound note. Without waiting to hear more, I left the 
kitchen. In passing the door of that sanctum some time after, I caught the 
words, -
"She'll happen do better for him nor ony o' t' grand ladies." And again, 
"If she ben't one o' th' handsomest, she's noan faal and varry good-
natured; and i' his een she's fair beautiful, onybody may see that."
I wrote to Moor-House and to Cambridge immediately, to say what I had done: 
fully explaining also why I had thus acted. Diana and Mary approved the 
step unreservedly. Diana announced that she would just give me time to get 
over the honeymoon, and then she would come and see me.
"She had better not wait till then, Jane," said Mr Rochester, when I read 
her letter to him; "if she does, she will be too late, for our honeymoon 
will shine our lifelong: its beams will only fade over your grave or mine."
How St John received the news, I don't know; he never answered the letter 
in which I communicated it: yet six months after he wrote to me; without, 
however, mentioning Mr Rochester's name, or alluding to my marriage. His 
letter was then calm; and, though very serious, kind. He has maintained a 
regular, though not frequent correspondence ever since: he hopes I am 
happy, and trusts I am not of those who live without God in the world, and 
only mind earthly things.
You have not quite forgotten little Adele, have you, reader? I had not; I 
soon asked and obtained leave of Mr Rochester, to go and see her at the 
school where he had placed her. Her frantic joy at beholding me again moved 
me much. She looked pale and thin: she said she was not happy. I found the 
rules of the establishment were too strict, its course of study too severe, 
for a child of her age: I took her home with me. I meant to become her 
governess once more; but I soon found this impracticable; my time and cares 
were now required by another - my husband needed them all. So I sought out 
a school conducted on a more indulgent system; and near enough to permit of 
my visiting her often, and bringing her home sometimes. I took care she 
should never want for anything that could contribute to her comfort: she 
soon settled in her new abode, became very happy there, and made fair 
progress in her studies. As she grew up, a sound English education 
corrected in a great measure her French defects; and when she left school, 
I found in her a pleasing and obliging companion: docile, good-tempered, 
and well-principled. By her grateful attention to me and mine, she has long 
since well repaid any little kindness I ever had it in my power to offer 
her.
My tale draws to its close: one word respecting my experience of married 
life, and one brief glance at the fortunes of those whose names have most 
frequently recurred in this narrative, and I have done.
I have now been married ten years. I know what it is to live entirely for 
and with what I love best on earth. I hold myself supremely blest - blest 
beyond what language can express; because I am my husband's life as fully 
as he is mine. No woman was ever nearer to her mate than I am: ever more 
absolutely bone of his bone, and flesh of his flesh. I know no weariness of 
my Edward's society: he knows none of mine, any more than we each do of the 
pulsation of the heart that beats in our separate bosoms; consequently, we 
are ever together. To be together is for us to be at once as free as in 
solitude, as gay as in company. We talk, I believe, all day long: to talk 
to each other is but a more animated and an audible thinking. All my 
confidence is bestowed on him, all his confidence is devoted to me; we are 
precisely suited in character - perfect concord is the result.
Mr Rochester continued blind the first two years of our union: perhaps it 
was that circumstance that drew us so very near - that knit us so very 
close! for I was then his vision, as I am still his right hand. Literally, 
I was (what he often called me) the apple of his eye. He saw nature - he 
saw books through me; and never did I weary of gazing for his behalf, and 
of putting into words the effect of held, tree, town, river, cloud, sunbeam 
- of the landscape before us; of the weather round us - and impressing by 
sound on his ear what light could no longer stamp on his eye. Never did I 
weary of reading to him; never did I weary of conducting him where he 
wished to go: of doing for him what he wished to be done. And there was a 
pleasure in my services, most full, most exquisite, even though sad - 
because he claimed these services without painful shame or damping 
humiliation. He loved me so truly, that he knew no reluctance in profiting 
by my attendance: he felt I loved him so fondly, that to yield that 
attendance was to indulge my sweetest wishes.
One morning at the end of the two years, as I was writing a letter to his 
dictation, he came and bent over me, and said -
"Jane, have you a glittering ornament round your neck?"
I had a gold watch-chain: I answered "Yes."
"And have you a pale blue dress on?"
I had. He informed me then, that for some time he had fancied the obscurity 
clouding one eye was becoming less dense; and that now he was sure of it.
He and I went up to London. He had the advice of an eminent oculist; and he 
eventually recovered the sight of that one eye. He cannot now see very 
distinctly: he cannot read or write much; but he can find his way without 
being led by the hand: the sky is no longer a blank to him - the earth no 
longer a void. When his first-born was put into his arms, he could see that 
the boy had inherited his own eyes, as they once were - large, brilliant, 
and black. On that occasion, he again, with a full heart, acknowledged that 
God had tempered judgment with mercy.
My Edward and I, then, are happy: and the more so, because those we most 
love are happy likewise. Diana and Mary Rivers are both married: 
alternately, once every year, they come to see us, and we go to see them. 
Diana's husband is a captain in the navy; a gallant officer, and a good 
man. Mary's is a clergyman: a college friend of her brother's; and, from 
his attainments and principles, worthy of the connection. Both Captain 
Fitzjames and Mr Wharton love their wives, and are loved by them.
As to St John Rivers, he left England: he went to India. He entered on the 
path he had marked for himself; he pursues it still. A more resolute, 
indefatigable pioneer never wrought amidst rocks and dangers. Firm, 
faithful, and devoted; full of energy, and zeal, and truth, he labours for 
his race: he clears their painful way to improvement; he hews down like a 
giant the prejudices of creed and caste that encumber it. He may be stern; 
he may be exacting; he may be ambitious yet; but his is the sternness of 
the warrior Greatheart, who guards his pilgrim - convoy from the onslaught 
of Apollyon. His is the exaction of the apostle, who speaks but for Christ, 
when he says - "Whosoever will come after me, let him deny himself, and 
take up his cross and follow me." His is the ambition of the high master 
spirit, which aims to fill a place in the first rank of those who are 
redeemed from the earth - who stand without fault before the throne of God; 
who share the last mighty victories of the Lamb; who are called, and 
chosen, and faithful.
St John is unmarried: he never will marry now. Himself has hitherto 
sufficed to the toil; and the toil draws near its close: his glorious sun 
hastens to its setting. The last letter I received from him drew from my 
eyes human tears, and yet filled my heart with Divine joy: he anticipated 
his sure reward, his incorruptible crown. I know that a stranger's hand 
will write to me next, to say that the good and faithful servant has been 
called at length into the joy of his Lord. And why weep for this? No fear 
of death will darken St John's last hour: his mind will be unclouded; his 
heart will be undaunted; his hope will be sure; his faith steadfast. His 
own words are a pledge of this: -
"My Master," he says, "has forewarned me. Daily he announces more 
distinctly, - 'Surely I come quickly!' and hourly I more eagerly respond, - 
'Amen; even so come, Lord Jesus!' "

FINIS