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, &c., and,accompanied by her, I quitted the lodge for the hall. It was also accompanied by her that I had,nearly nine years ago, walked down the path I was now ascending. On a dark, misty,raw morning in January, I had left a hostile roof with a desperate and embittered heart—a sense of outlawry and almost of reprobation—to seek the chilly harbourage of Lowood: that bourne so far away and unexplored. The same hostile roof now again rose before me: my prospects were doubtful yet; and I had yet an aching heart. I still felt as a wanderer on the face of the earth; but I experienced firmer trust in myself and my own powers, and less withering dread of oppression. The gaping wound of my wrongs, too, was now quite healed; and the flame of resentment extinguished.
“You shall go into the breakfast-room first,” said Bessie, as she preceded me through the hall; “the young ladies will be there.”
In another moment I was within that apartment.There was every article of furniture looking just as it did on the morning I was first introduced to Mr.Brocklehurst: the very rug he had stood upon still covered the hearth. Glancing at the bookcases,I thought I could distinguish the two volumes of Bewick’s British Birds occupying their old place on the third shelf,and Gulliver’s Travels and the Arabian Nights ranged just above.The inanimate objects were not changed; but the living things had altered past recognition.
Two young ladies appeared before me; one very tall, almost as tall as Miss Ingram—very thin too,with a sallow face and severe mien. There was something ascetic in her look,which was augmented by the extreme plainness of a straight-skirted, black, stuff dress,a starched linen collar, hair combed away from the temples,and the nun-like ornament of a string of ebony beads and a crucifix. This I felt sure was Eliza,though I could trace little resemblance to her former self in that elongated and colourless visage.
The other was as certainly Georgiana: but not the Georgiana I remembered—the slim and fairy-like girl of eleven.This was a full-blown, very plump damsel, fair as waxwork, with handsome and regular features,languishing blue eyes, and ringleted yellow hair. The hue of her dress was black too;but its fashion was so different from her sister’s—so much more flowing and becoming—it looked as stylish as the other’s looked puritanical.
In each of the sisters there was one trait of the mother—and only one;the thin and pallid elder daughter had her parent’s Cairngorm eye:the blooming and luxuriant younger girl had her contour of jaw and chin—perhaps a little softened,but still imparting an indescribable hardness to the countenance otherwise so voluptuous and buxom.
Both ladies, as I advanced, rose to welcome me, and both addressed me by the name of “Miss Eyre.” Eliza’s greeting was delivered in a short, abrupt voice, without a smile;and then she sat down again, fixed her eyes on the fire, and seemed to forget me. Georgiana added to her “How d’ye do?” several commonplaces about my journey, the weather, and so on, uttered in rather a drawling tone:and accompanied by sundry side-glances that measured me from head to foot—now traversing the folds of my drab merino pelisse,and now lingering on the plain trimming of my cottage bonnet.Young ladies have a remarkable way of letting you know that they think you a “quiz” without actually saying the words.A certain superciliousness of look, coolness of manner, nonchalance of tone,express fully their sentiments on the point,without committing them by any positive rudeness in word or deed.
A sneer, however, whether covert or open, had now no longer that power over me it once possessed:as I sat between my cousins, I was surprised to find how easy I felt under the total neglect of the one and the semi-sarcastic attentions of the other—Eliza did not mortify, nor Georgiana ruffle me. The fact was, I had other things to think about; within the last few months feelings had been stirred in me so much more potent than any they could raise—pains and pleasures so much more acute and exquisite had been excited than any it was in their power to inflict or bestow—that their airs gave me no concern either for good or bad.
“How is Mrs. Reed?” I asked soon, looking calmly at Georgiana, who thought fit to bridle at the direct address, as if it were an unexpected liberty.
“Mrs. Reed?Ah!mama, you mean; she is extremely poorly: I doubt if you can see her to-night.”
“If,” said I, “you would just step upstairs and tell her I am come, I should be much obliged to you. ”
Georgiana almost started, and she opened her blue eyes wild and wide.“I know she had a particular wish to see me,” I added,“and I would not defer attending to her desire longer than is absolutely necessary.”
“Mama dislikes being disturbed in an evening,” remarked Eliza. I soon rose,quietly took off my bonnet and gloves, uninvited, and said I would just step out to Bessie—who was,I dared say, in the kitchen—and ask her to ascertain whether Mrs.Reed was disposed to receive me or not to-night. I went,and having found Bessie and despatched her on my errand, I proceeded to take further measures.It had heretofore been my habit always to shrink from arrogance: received as I had been to-day,I should, a year ago, have resolved to quit Gateshead the very next morning; now,it was disclosed to me all at once that that would be a foolish plan.I had taken a journey of a hundred miles to see my aunt,and I must stay with her till she was better—or dead: as to her daughters’ pride or folly,I must put it on one side, make myself independent of it. So I addressed the housekeeper;asked her to show me a room, told her I should probably be a visitor here for a week or two,had my trunk conveyed to my chamber, and followed it thither myself: I met Bessie on the landing.
“Missis is awake,” said she; “I have told her you are here:come and let us see if she will know you.”
I did not need to be guided to the well-known room,to which I had so often been summoned for chastisement or reprimand in former days.I hastened before Bessie; I softly opened the door: a shaded light stood on the table,for it was now getting dark. There was the great four-post bed with amber hangings as of old;there the toilet-table, the armchair, and the footstool,at which I had a hundred times been sentenced to kneel,to ask pardon for offences by me uncommitted. I looked into a certain corner near,half-expecting to see the slim outline of a once dreaded switch which used to lurk there,waiting to leap out imp-like and lace my quivering palm or shrinking neck. I approached the bed;I opened the curtains and leant over the high-piled pillows.
Well did I remember Mrs. Reed’s face, and I eagerly sought the familiar image.It is a happy thing that time quells the longings of vengeance and hushes the promptings of rage and aversion.I had left this woman in bitterness and hate,and I came back to her now with no other emotion than a sort of ruth for her great sufferings,and a strong yearning to forget and forgive all injuries—to be reconciled and clasp hands in amity.
The well-known face was there: stern, relentless as ever—there was that peculiar eye which nothing could melt,and the somewhat raised, imperious, despotic eyebrow.How often had it lowered on me menace and hate!and how the recollection of childhood’s terrors and sorrows revived as I traced its harsh line now!And yet I stooped down and kissed her: she looked at me.
“Is this Jane Eyre?” she said.
“Yes, Aunt Reed. How are you, dear aunt?”
I had once vowed that I would never call her aunt again:I thought it no sin to forget and break that vow now.My fingers had fastened on her hand which lay outside the sheet: had she pressed mine kindly,I should at that moment have experienced true pleasure.But unimpressionable natures are not so soon softened,nor are natural antipathies so readily eradicated. Mrs. Reed took her hand away, and,turning her face rather from me, she remarked that the night was warm.Again she regarded me so icily, I felt at once that her opinion of me—her feeling towards me—was unchanged and unchangeable.I knew by her stony eye—opaque to tenderness,indissoluble to tears—that she was resolved to consider me bad to the last;because to believe me good would give her no generous pleasure: only a sense of mortification.
I felt pain, and then I felt ire; and then I felt a determination to subdue her—to be her mistress in spite both of her nature and her will.My tears had risen, just as in childhood: I ordered them back to their source.I brought a chair to the bed-head: I sat down and leaned over the pillow.
“You sent for me,” I said, “and I am here; and it is my intention to stay till I see how you get on. ”
“Oh, of course!You have seen my daughters?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you may tell them I wish you to stay till I can talk some things over with you I have on my mind:to-night it is too late, and I have a difficulty in recalling them.But there was something I wished to say—let me see—”
The wandering look and changed utterance told what wreck had taken place in her once vigorous frame.Turning restlessly, she drew the bedclothes round her; my elbow, resting on a corner of the quilt,fixed it down: she was at once irritated.
“Sit up!” said she; “don’t annoy me with holding the clothes fast. Are you Jane Eyre?”
“I am Jane Eyre.”
“I have had more trouble with that child than any one would believe.Such a burden to be left on my hands—and so much annoyance as she caused me, daily and hourly,with her incomprehensible disposition, and her sudden starts of temper, and her continual, unnatural watchings of one’s movements!I declare she talked to me once like something mad,or like a fiend—no child ever spoke or looked as she did;I was glad to get her away from the house. What did they do with her at Lowood?The fever broke out there, and many of the pupils died. She, however, did not die: but I said she did—I wish she had died!”
“A strange wish, Mrs. Reed; why do you hate her so?”
“I had a dislike to her mother always; for she was my husband’s only sister,and a great favourite with him: he opposed the family’s disowning her when she made her low marriage;and when news came of her death, he wept like a simpleton. He would send for the baby;though I entreated him rather to put it out to nurse and pay for its maintenance.I hated it the first time I set my eyes on it—a sickly, whining, pining thing!It would wail in its cradle all night long—not screaming heartily like any other child,but whimpering and moaning. Reed pitied it;and he used to nurse it and notice it as if it had been his own: more, indeed,than he ever noticed his own at that age.He would try to make my children friendly to the little beggar: the darlings could not bear it,and he was angry with them when they showed their dislike. In his last illness,he had it brought continually to his bedside; and but an hour before he died,he bound me by vow to keep the creature.I would as soon have been charged with a pauper brat out of a workhouse: but he was weak,naturally weak. John does not at all resemble his father, and I am glad of it:John is like me and like my brothers—he is quite a Gibson. Oh,I wish he would cease tormenting me with letters for money!I have no more money to give him: we are getting poor.I must send away half the servants and shut up part of the house; or let it off.I can never submit to do that—yet how are we to get on?Two-thirds of my income goes in paying the interest of mortgages. John gambles dreadfully, and always loses—poor boy!He is beset by sharpers: John is sunk and degraded—his look is frightful—I feel ashamed for him when I see him. ”
She was getting much excited. “I think I had better leave her now,” said I to Bessie, who stood on the other side of the bed.
“Perhaps you had, Miss: but she often talks in this way towards night—in the morning she is calmer.”
I rose. “Stop!” exclaimed Mrs. Reed, “there is another thing I wished to say.He threatens me—he continually threatens me with his own death, or mine:and I dream sometimes that I see him laid out with a great wound in his throat,or with a swollen and blackened face. I am come to a strange pass: I have heavy troubles. What is to be done?How is the money to be had?”
Bessie now endeavoured to persuade her to take a sedative draught: she succeeded with difficulty.Soon after, Mrs. Reed grew more composed, and sank into a dozing state. I then left her.
More than ten days elapsed before I had again any conversation with her.She continued either delirious or lethargic;and the doctor forbade everything which could painfully excite her. Meantime,I got on as well as I could with Georgiana and Eliza. They were very cold, indeed, at first.Eliza would sit half the day sewing, reading, or writing,and scarcely utter a word either to me or her sister.Georgiana would chatter nonsense to her canary bird by the hour, and take no notice of me.But I was determined not to seem at a loss for occupation or amusement:I had brought my drawing materials with me, and they served me for both.
Provided with a case of pencils, and some sheets of paper, I used to take a seat apart from them,near the window, and busy myself in sketching fancy vignettes,representing any scene that happened momentarily to shape itself in the ever-shifting kaleidoscope of imagination:a glimpse of sea between two rocks; the rising moon, and a ship crossing its disk;a group of reeds and water-flags, and a naiad’s head, crowned with lotus-flowers,rising out of them; an elf sitting in a hedge-sparrow’s nest, under a wreath of hawthorn-bloom.
One morning I fell to sketching a face: what sort of a face it was to be, I did not care or know.I took a soft black pencil, gave it a broad point, and worked away.Soon I had traced on the paper a broad and prominent forehead and a square lower outline of visage:that contour gave me pleasure; my fingers proceeded actively to fill it with features.Strongly-marked horizontal eyebrows must be traced under that brow; then followed, naturally,a well-defined nose, with a straight ridge and full nostrils; then a flexible-looking mouth,by no means narrow; then a firm chin, with a decided cleft down the middle of it: of course,some black whiskers were wanted, and some jetty hair, tufted on the temples,and waved above the forehead. Now for the eyes: I had left them to the last,because they required the most careful working. I drew them large; I shaped them well:the eyelashes I traced long and sombre; the irids lustrous and large. “Good!but not quite the thing,” I thought, as I surveyed the effect: “they want more force and spirit;” and I wrought the shades blacker, that the lights might flash more brilliantly—a happy touch or two secured success.There, I had a friend’s face under my gaze;and what did it signify that those young ladies turned their backs on me?I looked at it; I smiled at the speaking likeness: I was absorbed and content.
“Is that a portrait of some one you know?” asked Eliza, who had approached me unnoticed. I responded that it was merely a fancy head,and hurried it beneath the other sheets. Of course, I lied: it was, in fact,a very faithful representation of Mr. Rochester. But what was that to her, or to any one but myself?Georgiana also advanced to look. The other drawings pleased her much,but she called that “an ugly man.” They both seemed surprised at my skill.I offered to sketch their portraits; and each, in turn, sat for a pencil outline.Then Georgiana produced her album. I promised to contribute a water-colour drawing:this put her at once into good humour. She proposed a walk in the grounds.Before we had been out two hours, we were deep in a confidential conversation:she had favoured me with a description of the brilliant winter she had spent in London two seasons ago—of the admiration she had there excited—the attention she had received; and I even got hints of the titled conquest she had made. In the course of the afternoon and evening these hints were enlarged on: various soft conversations were reported, and sentimental scenes represented; and, in short, a volume of a novel of fashionable life was that day improvised by her for my benefit. The communications were renewed from day to day: they always ran on the same theme—herself, her loves, and woes. It was strange she never once adverted either to her mother’s illness, or her brother’s death, or the present gloomy state of the family prospects. Her mind seemed wholly taken up with reminiscences of past gaiety, and aspirations after dissipations to come. She passed about five minutes each day in her mother’s sick-room, and no more.
Eliza still spoke little: she had evidently no time to talk.I never saw a busier person than she seemed to be; yet it was difficult to say what she did:or rather, to discover any result of her diligence. She had an alarm to call her up early.I know not how she occupied herself before breakfast,but after that meal she divided her time into regular portions,and each hour had its allotted task. Three times a day she studied a little book, which I found,on inspection, was a Common Prayer Book.I asked her once what was the great attraction of that volume, and she said, “the Rubric.” Three hours she gave to stitching, with gold thread, the border of a square crimson cloth,almost large enough for a carpet. In answer to my inquiries after the use of this article,she informed me it was a covering for the altar of a new church lately erected near Gateshead.Two hours she devoted to her diary; two to working by herself in the kitchen-garden;and one to the regulation of her accounts. She seemed to want no company; no conversation.I believe she was happy in her way: this routine sufficed for her;and nothing annoyed her so much as the occurrence of any incident which forced her to vary its clockwork regularity.
She told me one evening, when more disposed to be communicative than usual, that John’s conduct,and the threatened ruin of the family, had been a source of profound affliction to her:but she had now, she said, settled her mind, and formed her resolution.Her own fortune she had taken care to secure;and when her mother died—and it was wholly improbable, she tranquilly remarked,that she should either recover or linger long—she would execute a long-cherished project:seek a retirement where punctual habits would be permanently secured from disturbance,and place safe barriers between herself and a frivolous world.I asked if Georgiana would accompany her.
“Of course not. Georgiana and she had nothing in common: they never had had.She would not be burdened with her society for any consideration.Georgiana should take her own course; and she, Eliza, would take hers.”
Georgiana, when not unburdening her heart to me, spent most of her time in lying on the sofa,fretting about the dulness of the house,and wishing over and over again that her aunt Gibson would send her an invitation up to town.“It would be so much better,” she said, “if she could only get out of the way for a month or two,till all was over.” I did not ask what she meant by “all being over,” but I suppose she referred to the expected decease of her mother and the gloomy sequel of funeral rites.Eliza generally took no more notice of her sister’s indolence and complaints than if no such murmuring,lounging object had been before her. One day, however,as she put away her account-book and unfolded her embroidery, she suddenly took her up thus—
“Georgiana, a more vain and absurd animal than you was certainly never allowed to cumber the earth.You had no right to be born, for you make no use of life. Instead of living for, in,and with yourself, as a reasonable being ought,you seek only to fasten your feebleness on some other person’s strength:if no one can be found willing to burden her or himself with such a fat, weak, puffy,useless thing, you cry out that you are ill-treated, neglected, miserable. Then, too,existence for you must be a scene of continual change and excitement,or else the world is a dungeon: you must be admired, you must be courted,you must be flattered—you must have music, dancing, and society—or you languish, you die away.Have you no sense to devise a system which will make you independent of all efforts, and all wills, but your own?Take one day; share it into sections; to each section apportion its task:leave no stray unemployed quarters of an hour, ten minutes, five minutes—include all;do each piece of business in its turn with method, with rigid regularity.The day will close almost before you are aware it has begun;and you are indebted to no one for helping you to get rid of one vacant moment:you have had to seek no one’s company, conversation, sympathy, forbearance; you have lived,in short, as an independent being ought to do. Take this advice:the first and last I shall offer you; then you will not want me or any one else, happen what may.Neglect it—go on as heretofore, craving, whining, and idling—and suffer the results of your idiocy,however bad and 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,impassable, and assiduously industrious.
True, generous feeling is made small account of by some, but here were two natures rendered,the one intolerably acrid, the other despicably savourless for the want of it.Feeling without judgment is a washy draught indeed;but judgment untempered by feeling is too bitter and husky a morsel for human deglutition.
It was a wet and windy afternoon: Georgiana had fallen asleep on the sofa over the perusal of a novel;Eliza was gone to attend a saint’s-day service at the new church—for in matters of religion she was a rigid formalist:no weather ever prevented the punctual discharge of what she considered her devotional duties;fair or foul, she went to church thrice every Sunday,and as often on week-days as there were prayers.
I bethought myself to go upstairs and see how the dying woman sped, who lay there almost unheeded:the very servants paid her but a remittent attention: the hired nurse, being little looked after,would slip out of the room whenever she could. Bessie was faithful;but she had her own family to mind, and could only come occasionally to the hall.I found the sick-room unwatched, as I had expected: no nurse was there; the patient lay still,and seemingly lethargic; her livid face sunk in the pillows: the fire was dying in the grate.I renewed the fuel, re-arranged the bedclothes, gazed awhile on her who could not now gaze on me, and then I moved away to the window.
The rain beat strongly against the panes, the wind blew tempestuously: “One lies there,” I thought,“who will soon be beyond the war of earthly elements.Whither will that spirit—now struggling to quit its material tenement—flit when at length released?”
In pondering the great mystery, I thought of Helen Burns,recalled her dying words—her faith—her doctrine of the equality of disembodied souls.I was still listening in thought to her well-remembered tones—still picturing her pale and spiritual aspect,her wasted face and sublime gaze, as she lay on her placid deathbed,and whispered her longing to be restored to her divine Father’s bosom—when a feeble voice murmured from the couch behind: “Who is that?”
I knew Mrs. Reed had not spoken for days: was she reviving?I went up to her.
“It is I, Aunt Reed.”
“Who—I?” was her answer. “Who are you?” looking at me with surprise and a sort of alarm, but still not wildly.“You are quite a stranger to me—where is Bessie?”
“She is at the lodge, aunt.”
“Aunt,” she repeated. “Who calls me aunt?You are not one of the Gibsons; and yet I know you—that face, and the eyes and forehead,are quiet familiar to me: you are like—why, you are like Jane Eyre!”
I said nothing: I was afraid of occasioning some shock by declaring my identity.
“Yet,” said she, “I am afraid it is a mistake: my thoughts deceive me. I wished to see Jane Eyre,and I fancy a likeness where none exists: besides, in eight years she must be so changed.” I now gently assured her that I was the person she supposed and desired me to be:and seeing that I was understood, and that her senses were quite collected,I explained how Bessie had sent her husband to fetch me from Thornfield.
“I am very ill, I know,” she said ere long. “I was trying to turn myself a few minutes since,and find I cannot move a limb. It is as well I should ease my mind before I die:what we think little of in health, burdens us at such an hour as the present is to me. Is the nurse here?or is there no one in the room but you?”
I assured her we were alone.
“Well, I have twice done you a wrong which I regret now.One was in breaking the promise which I gave my husband to bring you up as my own child;the other—” she stopped. “After all, it is of no great importance, perhaps,” she murmured to herself: “and then I may get better; and to humble myself so to her is painful.”
She made an effort to alter her position, but failed: her face changed;she seemed to experience some inward sensation—the precursor, perhaps, of the last pang.
“Well, I must get it over. Eternity is before me: I had better tell her.—Go to my dressing-case,open it, and take out a letter you will see there.”
I obeyed her directions. “Read the letter,” she said.
It was short, and thus conceived:—
“MADAM,—“Will you have the goodness to send me the address of my niece, Jane Eyre, and to tell me how she is?It is my intention to write shortly and desire her to come to me at Madeira.Providence has blessed my endeavours to secure a competency; and as I am unmarried and childless,I wish to adopt her during my life, and bequeath her at my death whatever I may have to leave.
I am, Madam, &c., &c., “JOHN EYRE, Madeira.”
It was dated three years back.
“Why did I never hear of this?” I asked.
“Because I disliked you too fixedly and thoroughly ever to lend a hand in lifting you to prosperity.I could not forget your conduct to me, Jane—the fury with which you once turned on me;the tone in which you declared you abhorred me the worst of anybody in the world;the unchildlike look and voice with which you affirmed that the very thought of me made you sick,and asserted that I had treated you with miserable cruelty.I could not forget my own sensations when you thus started up and poured out the venom of your mind:I felt fear as if an animal that I had struck or pushed had looked up at me with human eyes and cursed me in a man’s voice.—Bring me some water!Oh, make haste!”
“Dear Mrs. Reed,” said I, as I offered her the draught she required, “think no more of all this,let it pass away from your mind. Forgive me for my passionate language: I was a child then; eight, nine years have passed since that day.”
She heeded nothing of what I said; but when she had tasted the water and drawn breath, she went on thus—