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CHAPTER XXI
Presentiments are strange things! and so are sympathies; and so are signs; and the
three combined make one mystery to which humanity has not yet found the key.
I never laughed at presentiments in my life, because I have had strange ones of my
own.
Sympathies, I believe, exist (for instance, between far-distant, long-absent, wholly
estranged relatives asserting, notwithstanding their alienation, the unity
of the source to which each traces his
origin) whose workings baffle mortal comprehension.
And signs, for aught we know, may be but the sympathies of Nature with man.
When I was a little girl, only six years old, I one night heard Bessie Leaven say to
Martha Abbot that she had been dreaming about a little child; and that to dream of
children was a sure sign of trouble, either to one's self or one's kin.
The saying might have worn out of my memory, had not a circumstance immediately
followed which served indelibly to fix it there.
The next day Bessie was sent for home to the deathbed of her little sister.
Of late I had often recalled this saying and this incident; for during the past week
scarcely a night had gone over my couch that had not brought with it a dream of an
infant, which I sometimes hushed in my
arms, sometimes dandled on my knee, sometimes watched playing with daisies on a
lawn, or again, dabbling its hands in running water.
It was a wailing child this night, and a laughing one the next: now it nestled close
to me, and now it ran from me; but whatever mood the apparition evinced, whatever
aspect it wore, it failed not for seven
successive nights to meet me the moment I entered the land of slumber.
I did not like this iteration of one idea-- this strange recurrence of one image, and I
grew nervous as bedtime approached and the hour of the vision drew near.
It was from companionship with this baby- phantom I had been roused on that moonlight
night when I heard the cry; and it was on the afternoon of the day following I was
summoned downstairs by a message that some one wanted me in Mrs. Fairfax's room.
On repairing thither, I found a man waiting for me, having the appearance of a
gentleman's servant: he was dressed in deep mourning, and the hat he held in his hand
was surrounded with a crape band.
"I daresay you hardly remember me, Miss," he said, rising as I entered; "but my name
is Leaven: I lived coachman with Mrs. Reed when you were at Gateshead, eight or nine
years since, and I live there still."
"Oh, Robert! how do you do? I remember you very well: you used to give
me a ride sometimes on Miss Georgiana's bay pony.
And how is Bessie?
You are married to Bessie?" "Yes, Miss: my wife is very hearty, thank
you; she brought me another little one about two months since--we have three now--
and both mother and child are thriving."
"And are the family well at the house, Robert?"
"I am sorry I can't give you better news of them, Miss: they are very badly at present-
-in great trouble."
"I hope no one is dead," I said, glancing at his black dress.
He too looked down at the crape round his hat and replied--
"Mr. John died yesterday was a week, at his chambers in London."
"Mr. John?" "Yes."
"And how does his mother bear it?"
"Why, you see, Miss Eyre, it is not a common mishap: his life has been very wild:
these last three years he gave himself up to strange ways, and his death was
shocking."
"I heard from Bessie he was not doing well."
"Doing well!
He could not do worse: he ruined his health and his estate amongst the worst men and
the worst women.
He got into debt and into jail: his mother helped him out twice, but as soon as he was
free he returned to his old companions and habits.
His head was not strong: the knaves he lived amongst fooled him beyond anything I
ever heard.
He came down to Gateshead about three weeks ago and wanted missis to give up all to
him.
Missis refused: her means have long been much reduced by his extravagance; so he
went back again, and the next news was that he was dead.
How he died, God knows!--they say he killed himself."
I was silent: the things were frightful. Robert Leaven resumed--
"Missis had been out of health herself for some time: she had got very stout, but was
not strong with it; and the loss of money and fear of poverty were quite breaking her
down.
The information about Mr. John's death and the manner of it came too suddenly: it
brought on a stroke.
She was three days without speaking; but last Tuesday she seemed rather better: she
appeared as if she wanted to say something, and kept making signs to my wife and
mumbling.
It was only yesterday morning, however, that Bessie understood she was pronouncing
your name; and at last she made out the words, 'Bring Jane--fetch Jane Eyre: I want
to speak to her.'
Bessie is not sure whether she is in her right mind, or means anything by the words;
but she told Miss Reed and Miss Georgiana, and advised them to send for you.
The young ladies put it off at first; but their mother grew so restless, and said,
'Jane, Jane,' so many times, that at last they consented.
I left Gateshead yesterday: and if you can get ready, Miss, I should like to take you
back with me early to-morrow morning." "Yes, Robert, I shall be ready: it seems to
me that I ought to go."
"I think so too, Miss. Bessie said she was sure you would not
refuse: but I suppose you will have to ask leave before you can get off?"
"Yes; and I will do it now;" and having directed him to the servants' hall, and
recommended him to the care of John's wife, and the attentions of John himself, I went
in search of Mr. Rochester.
He was not in any of the lower rooms; he was not in the yard, the stables, or the
grounds.
I asked Mrs. Fairfax if she had seen him;-- yes: she believed he was playing billiards
with Miss Ingram.
To the billiard- room I hastened: the click of balls and the hum of voices resounded
thence; Mr. Rochester, Miss Ingram, the two Misses Eshton, and their admirers, were all
busied in the game.
It required some courage to disturb so interesting a party; my errand, however,
was one I could not defer, so I approached the master where he stood at Miss Ingram's
side.
She turned as I drew near, and looked at me haughtily: her eyes seemed to demand, "What
can the creeping creature want now?" and when I said, in a low voice, "Mr.
Rochester," she made a movement as if tempted to order me away.
I remember her appearance at the moment--it was very graceful and very striking: she
wore a morning robe of sky-blue crape; a gauzy azure scarf was twisted in her hair.
She had been all animation with the game, and irritated pride did not lower the
expression of her haughty lineaments.
"Does that person want you?" she inquired of Mr. Rochester; and Mr. Rochester turned
to see who the "person" was.
He made a curious grimace--one of his strange and equivocal demonstrations--threw
down his cue and followed me from the room.
"Well, Jane?" he said, as he rested his back against the schoolroom door, which he
had shut. "If you please, sir, I want leave of
absence for a week or two."
"What to do?--where to go?" "To see a sick lady who has sent for me."
"What sick lady?--where does she live?" "At Gateshead; in ---shire."
"-shire?
That is a hundred miles off! Who may she be that sends for people to see
her that distance?" "Her name is Reed, sir--Mrs. Reed."
"Reed of Gateshead?
There was a Reed of Gateshead, a magistrate."
"It is his widow, sir." "And what have you to do with her?
How do you know her?"
"Mr. Reed was my uncle--my mother's brother."
"The deuce he was! You never told me that before: you always
said you had no relations."
"None that would own me, sir. Mr. Reed is dead, and his wife cast me
off." "Why?"
"Because I was poor, and burdensome, and she disliked me."
"But Reed left children?--you must have cousins?
Sir George Lynn was talking of a Reed of Gateshead yesterday, who, he said, was one
of the veriest rascals on town; and Ingram was mentioning a Georgiana Reed of the same
place, who was much admired for her beauty a season or two ago in London."
"John Reed is dead, too, sir: he ruined himself and half-ruined his family, and is
supposed to have committed suicide.
The news so shocked his mother that it brought on an apoplectic attack."
"And what good can you do her? Nonsense, Jane!
I would never think of running a hundred miles to see an old lady who will, perhaps,
be dead before you reach her: besides, you say she cast you off."
"Yes, sir, but that is long ago; and when her circumstances were very different: I
could not be easy to neglect her wishes now."
"How long will you stay?"
"As short a time as possible, sir." "Promise me only to stay a week--"
"I had better not pass my word: I might be obliged to break it."
"At all events you will come back: you will not be induced under any pretext to
take up a permanent residence with her?" "Oh, no!
I shall certainly return if all be well."
"And who goes with you? You don't travel a hundred miles alone."
"No, sir, she has sent her coachman." "A person to be trusted?"
"Yes, sir, he has lived ten years in the family."
Mr. Rochester meditated. "When do you wish to go?"
"Early to-morrow morning, sir."
"Well, you must have some money; you can't travel without money, and I daresay you
have not much: I have given you no salary yet.
How much have you in the world, Jane?" he asked, smiling.
I drew out my purse; a meagre thing it was. "Five shillings, sir."
He took the purse, poured the hoard into his palm, and chuckled over it as if its
scantiness amused him.
Soon he produced his pocket-book: "Here," said he, offering me a note; it was fifty
pounds, and he owed me but fifteen. I told him I had no change.
"I don't want change; you know that.
Take your wages." I declined accepting more than was my due.
He scowled at first; then, as if recollecting something, he said--
"Right, right!
Better not give you all now: you would, perhaps, stay away three months if you had
fifty pounds. There are ten; is it not plenty?"
"Yes, sir, but now you owe me five."
"Come back for it, then; I am your banker for forty pounds."
"Mr. Rochester, I may as well mention another matter of business to you while I
have the opportunity."
"Matter of business? I am curious to hear it."
"You have as good as informed me, sir, that you are going shortly to be married?"
"Yes; what then?"
"In that case, sir, Adele ought to go to school: I am sure you will perceive the
necessity of it."
"To get her out of my bride's way, who might otherwise walk over her rather too
emphatically? There's sense in the suggestion; not a
doubt of it.
Adele, as you say, must go to school; and you, of course, must march straight to--the
devil?" "I hope not, sir; but I must seek another
situation somewhere."
"In course!" he exclaimed, with a twang of voice and a distortion of features equally
fantastic and ludicrous. He looked at me some minutes.
"And old Madam Reed, or the Misses, her daughters, will be solicited by you to seek
a place, I suppose?"
"No, sir; I am not on such terms with my relatives as would justify me in asking
favours of them--but I shall advertise." "You shall walk up the pyramids of Egypt!"
he growled.
"At your peril you advertise! I wish I had only offered you a sovereign
instead of ten pounds. Give me back nine pounds, Jane; I've a use
for it."
"And so have I, sir," I returned, putting my hands and my purse behind me.
"I could not spare the money on any account."
"Little niggard!" said he, "refusing me a pecuniary request!
Give me five pounds, Jane." "Not five shillings, sir; nor five pence."
"Just let me look at the cash."
"No, sir; you are not to be trusted." "Jane!"
"Sir?" "Promise me one thing."
"I'll promise you anything, sir, that I think I am likely to perform."
"Not to advertise: and to trust this quest of a situation to me.
I'll find you one in time."
"I shall be glad so to do, sir, if you, in your turn, will promise that I and Adele
shall be both safe out of the house before your bride enters it."
"Very well! very well!
I'll pledge my word on it. You go to-morrow, then?"
"Yes, sir; early." "Shall you come down to the drawing-room
after dinner?"
"No, sir, I must prepare for the journey." "Then you and I must bid good-bye for a
little while?" "I suppose so, sir."
"And how do people perform that ceremony of parting, Jane?
Teach me; I'm not quite up to it." "They say, Farewell, or any other form they
prefer."
"Then say it." "Farewell, Mr. Rochester, for the present."
"What must I say?" "The same, if you like, sir."
"Farewell, Miss Eyre, for the present; is that all?"
"Yes?" "It seems stingy, to my notions, and dry,
and unfriendly.
I should like something else: a little addition to the rite.
If one shook hands, for instance; but no-- that would not content me either.
So you'll do no more than say Farewell, Jane?"
"It is enough, sir: as much good-will may be conveyed in one hearty word as in many."
"Very likely; but it is blank and cool-- 'Farewell.'"
"How long is he going to stand with his back against that door?"
I asked myself; "I want to commence my packing."
The dinner-bell rang, and suddenly away he bolted, without another syllable: I saw him
no more during the day, and was off before he had risen in the morning.
I reached the lodge at Gateshead about five o'clock in the afternoon of the first of
May: I stepped in there before going up to the hall.
It was very clean and neat: the ornamental windows were hung with little white
curtains; the floor was spotless; the grate and fire-irons were burnished bright, and
the fire burnt clear.
Bessie sat on the hearth, nursing her last- born, and Robert and his sister played
quietly in a corner. "Bless you!--I knew you would come!"
exclaimed Mrs. Leaven, as I entered.
"Yes, Bessie," said I, after I had kissed her; "and I trust I am not too late.
How is Mrs. Reed?--Alive still, I hope." "Yes, she is alive; and more sensible and
collected than she was.
The doctor says she may linger a week or two yet; but he hardly thinks she will
finally recover." "Has she mentioned me lately?"
"She was talking of you only this morning, and wishing you would come, but she is
sleeping now, or was ten minutes ago, when I was up at the house.
She generally lies in a kind of lethargy all the afternoon, and wakes up about six
or seven. Will you rest yourself here an hour, Miss,
and then I will go up with you?"
Robert here entered, and Bessie laid her sleeping child in the cradle and went to
welcome him: afterwards she insisted on my taking off my bonnet and having some tea;
for she said I looked pale and tired.
I was glad to accept her hospitality; and I submitted to be relieved of my travelling
garb just as passively as I used to let her undress me when a child.
Old times crowded fast back on me as I watched her bustling about--setting out the
tea-tray with her best china, cutting bread and butter, toasting a tea-cake, and,
between whiles, giving little Robert or
Jane an occasional tap or push, just as she used to give me in former days.
Bessie had retained her quick temper as well as her light foot and good looks.
Tea ready, I was going to approach the table; but she desired me to sit still,
quite in her old peremptory tones.
I must be served at the fireside, she said; and she placed before me a little round
stand with my cup and a plate of toast, absolutely as she used to accommodate me
with some privately purloined dainty on a
nursery chair: and I smiled and obeyed her as in bygone days.
She wanted to know if I was happy at Thornfield Hall, and what sort of a person
the mistress was; and when I told her there was only a master, whether he was a nice
gentleman, and if I liked him.
I told her he 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 insuperable they may be.
I tell you this plainly; and listen: for though I shall no more repeat what I am now
about to say, I shall steadily act on it.
After my mother's death, I wash my hands of you: from the day her coffin is carried to
the vault in Gateshead Church, you and I will be as separate as if we had never
known each other.
You need not think that because we chanced to be born of the same parents, I shall
suffer you to fasten me down by even the feeblest claim: I can tell you this--if the
whole human race, ourselves excepted, were
swept away, and we two stood alone on the earth, I would leave you in the old world,
and betake myself to the new." She closed her lips.
"You might have spared yourself the trouble of delivering that tirade," answered
Georgiana.
"Everybody knows you are the most selfish, heartless creature in existence: and I
know your spiteful hatred towards me: I have had a specimen of it before in the
trick you played me about Lord Edwin Vere:
you could not bear me to be raised above you, to have a title, to be received into
circles where you dare not show your face, and so you acted the spy and informer, and
ruined my prospects for ever."
Georgiana took out her handkerchief and blew her nose for an hour afterwards; Eliza
sat cold, impassable, and assiduously industrious.
True, generous feeling is made small account of by some, but here were two
natures rendered, the one intolerably acrid, the other despicably savourless for
the want of it.
Feeling without judgment is a washy draught indeed; but judgment untempered by feeling
is too bitter and husky a morsel for human deglutition.
It was a wet and windy afternoon: Georgiana had fallen asleep on the sofa over the
perusal of a novel; Eliza was gone to attend a saint's-day service at the new
church--for in matters of religion she was
a rigid formalist: no weather ever prevented the punctual discharge of what
she considered her devotional duties; fair or foul, she went to church thrice every
Sunday, and as often on week-days as there were prayers.
I bethought myself to go upstairs and see how the dying woman sped, who lay there
almost unheeded: the very servants paid her but a remittent attention: the hired nurse,
being little looked after, would slip out of the room whenever she could.
Bessie was faithful; but she had her own family to mind, and could only come
occasionally to the hall.
I found the sick-room unwatched, as I had expected: no nurse was there; the patient
lay still, and seemingly lethargic; her livid face sunk in the pillows: the fire
was dying in the grate.
I renewed the fuel, re-arranged the bedclothes, gazed awhile on her who could
not now gaze on me, and then I moved away to the window.
The rain beat strongly against the panes, the wind blew tempestuously: "One lies
there," I thought, "who will soon be beyond the war of earthly elements.
Whither will that spirit--now struggling to quit its material tenement--flit when at
length released?"
In pondering the great mystery, I thought of Helen Burns, recalled her dying words--
her faith--her doctrine of the equality of disembodied souls.
I was still listening in thought to her well-remembered tones--still picturing her
pale and spiritual aspect, her wasted face and sublime gaze, as she lay on her placid
deathbed, and whispered her longing to be
restored to her divine Father's bosom--when a feeble voice murmured from the couch
behind: "Who is that?" I knew Mrs. Reed had not spoken for days:
was she reviving?
I went up to her. "It is I, Aunt Reed."
"Who--I?" was her answer. "Who are you?" looking at me with surprise
and a sort of alarm, but still not wildly.
"You are quite a stranger to me--where is Bessie?"
"She is at the lodge, aunt." "Aunt," she repeated.
"Who calls me aunt?
You are not one of the Gibsons; and yet I know you--that face, and the eyes and
forehead, are quiet familiar to me: you are like--why, you are like Jane Eyre!"
I said nothing: I was afraid of occasioning some shock by declaring my identity.
"Yet," said she, "I am afraid it is a mistake: my thoughts deceive me.
I wished to see Jane Eyre, and I fancy a likeness where none exists: besides, in
eight years she must be so changed."
I now gently assured her that I was the person she supposed and desired me to be:
and seeing that I was understood, and that her senses were quite collected, I
explained how Bessie had sent her husband to fetch me from Thornfield.
"I am very ill, I know," she said ere long. "I was trying to turn myself a few minutes
since, and find I cannot move a limb.
It is as well I should ease my mind before I die: what we think little of in health,
burdens us at such an hour as the present is to me.
Is the nurse here? or is there no one in the room but you?"
I assured her we were alone. "Well, I have twice done you a wrong which
I regret now.
One was in breaking the promise which I gave my husband to bring you up as my own
child; the other--" she stopped.
"After all, it is of no great importance, perhaps," she murmured to herself: "and
then I may get better; and to humble myself so to her is painful."
She made an effort to alter her position, but failed: her face changed; she seemed to
experience some inward sensation--the precursor, perhaps, of the last pang.
"Well, I must get it over.
Eternity is before me: I had better tell her.--Go to my dressing-case, open it, and
take out a letter you will see there." I obeyed her directions.
"Read the letter," she said.
It was short, and thus conceived:-- "Madam,--Will you have the goodness to send
me the address of my niece, Jane Eyre, and to tell me how she is?
It is my intention to write shortly and desire her to come to me at Madeira.
Providence has blessed my endeavours to secure a competency; and as I am unmarried
and childless, I wish to adopt her during my life, and bequeath her at my death
whatever I may have to leave.--I am, Madam, &c., &c.,
"JOHN EYRE, Madeira." It was dated three years back.
"Why did I never hear of this?"
I asked. "Because I disliked you too fixedly and
thoroughly ever to lend a hand in lifting you to prosperity.
I could not forget your conduct to me, Jane--the fury with which you once turned
on me; the tone in which you declared you abhorred me the worst of anybody in the
world; the unchildlike look and voice with
which you affirmed that the very thought of me made you sick, and asserted that I had
treated you with miserable cruelty.
I could not forget my own sensations when you thus started up and poured out the
venom of your mind: I felt fear as if an animal that I had struck or pushed had
looked up at me with human eyes and cursed me in a man's voice.--Bring me some water!
Oh, make haste!"
"Dear Mrs. Reed," said I, as I offered her the draught she required, "think no more of
all this, let it pass away from your mind.
Forgive me for my passionate language: I was a child then; eight, nine years have
passed since that day."
She heeded nothing of what I said; but when she had tasted the water and drawn breath,
she went on thus--
"I tell you I could not forget it; and I took my revenge: for you to be adopted by
your uncle, and placed in a state of ease and comfort, was what I could not endure.
I wrote to him; I said I was sorry for his disappointment, but Jane Eyre was dead: she
had died of typhus fever at Lowood.
Now act as you please: write and contradict my assertion--expose my falsehood as soon
as you like.
You were born, I think, to be my torment: my last hour is racked by the recollection
of a deed which, but for you, I should never have been tempted to commit."
"If you could but be persuaded to think no more of it, aunt, and to regard me with
kindness and forgiveness"
"You have a very bad disposition," said she, "and one to this day I feel it
impossible to understand: how for nine years you could be patient and quiescent
under any treatment, and in the tenth break
out all fire and violence, I can never comprehend."
"My disposition is not so bad as you think: I am passionate, but not vindictive.
Many a time, as a little child, I should have been glad to love you if you would
have let me; and I long earnestly to be reconciled to you now: kiss me, aunt."
I approached my cheek to her lips: she would not touch it.
She said I oppressed her by leaning over the bed, and again demanded water.
As I laid her down--for I raised her and supported her on my arm while she drank--I
covered her ice-cold and clammy hand with mine: the feeble fingers shrank from my
touch--the glazing eyes shunned my gaze.
"Love me, then, or hate me, as you will," I said at last, "you have my full and free
forgiveness: ask now for God's, and be at peace."
Poor, suffering woman! it was too late for her to make now the effort to change her
habitual frame of mind: living, she had ever hated me--dying, she must hate me
still.
The nurse now entered, and Bessie followed. I yet lingered half-an-hour longer, hoping
to see some sign of amity: but she gave none.
She was fast relapsing into stupor; nor did her mind again rally: at twelve o'clock
that night she died. I was not present to close her eyes, nor
were either of her daughters.
They came to tell us the next morning that all was over.
She was by that time laid out.
Eliza and I went to look at her: Georgiana, who had burst out into loud weeping, said
she dared not go.
There was stretched Sarah Reed's once robust and active frame, rigid and still:
her eye of flint was covered with its cold lid; her brow and strong traits wore yet
the impress of her inexorable soul.
A strange and solemn object was that corpse to me.
I gazed on it with gloom and pain: nothing soft, nothing sweet, nothing pitying, or
hopeful, or subduing did it inspire; only a grating anguish for her woes--not my
loss--and a sombre tearless dismay at the fearfulness of death in such a form.
Eliza surveyed her parent calmly. After a silence of some minutes she
observed--
"With her constitution she should have lived to a good old age: her life was
shortened by trouble."
And then a spasm constricted her mouth for an instant: as it passed away she turned
and left the room, and so did I. Neither of us had dropt a tear.
>
CHAPTER XXII
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 wailings 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 an one as you and with Georgiana:
you perform your own part in life and burden no one.
To-morrow," 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 worn-out
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 was 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 ball-room, the
other the inmate of a convent cell; and I dwelt on and analysed 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 from 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