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
me at times with a severe eye,
but seldom addressed me: since
my illness, she had drawn a more
marked line of separation than
ever between me and her own children;
appointing me a small closet
to sleep in by myself, condemning
me to take my meals alone, and
pass all my time in the nursery,
while my cousins were constantly
in the drawing-room. Not a hint,
however, did she drop about sending
me to school: still I felt an
instinctive certainty that she
would not long endure me under
the same roof with her; for her
glance, now more than ever, when
turned on me, expressed an insuperable
and rooted aversion.
Eliza
and Georgiana,
evidently acting
according to
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 tittering
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 door opened
and closed. When tired of this
occupation, I would retire from
the stairhead to the solitary
and silent nursery: there, though
somewhat sad, I was not miserable.
To speak truth, I had not the
least wish to go into company,
for in company I 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 doated on this little
toy, half fancying it alive and
capable of sensation. I could
not sleep unless it was folded
in my night-gown; and when it
lay there safe and warm, I was
comparatively happy, 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-nurserymaid,
to tidy the room, dust the chairs, &c.).
Having spread the quilt and folded
my night-dress, I went to the
window-seat to put in order some
picture-books and doll's house
furniture scattered there; an
abrupt command from Georgiana
to let her playthings alone (for
the tiny chairs and mirrors,
the fairy plates and cups, were
her property) stopped my proceedings;
and then, for lack of other 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 upstairs 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, and feared
to go forward to the parlour;
ten minutes I stood in agitated
hesitation; the vehement ringing
of the breakfast-room bell decided
me; I MUST enter.
"Who could want me?" I asked
inwardly, as with both hands
I turned the stiff door-handle,
which, for a second or two, resisted
my efforts. "What should I see
besides Aunt Reed in the apartment?--a
man or a woman?" The handle turned,
the door unclosed, and passing
through and 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
arm- chair opposite Mrs. Reed's. "Come
here," he said.
I stepped across the rug; he
placed me square and straight
before him. What a face he had,
now that it was almost on a level
with mine! what a great nose!
and what a mouth! and what large
prominent teeth!
"No sight so sad as that of
a naughty child," he began, "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 fall
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 excellent
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 a new
and clean one: to take away your
heart of stone and give you a
heart of flesh."
I was about to propound a question,
touching the 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. Consistency,
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
he no difficulty about receiving
her. Good-bye."
"Good-bye,
Mr. Brocklehurst;
remember me to Mrs. and Miss
Brocklehurst, and to Augusta
and Theodore, and 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 ruth; her skin was
dark and opaque, her hair nearly
flaxen; her constitution was
sound as a bell--illness never
came near her; she was 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 arm-chair, I examined
her figure; I perused her features.
In my hand I held the tract containing
the sudden death of the Liar,
to which narrative my attention
had been pointed as to an 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 sequestrated;
but I found no pleasure in the
silent trees, the falling fir-cones,
the congealed relics of autumn,
russet leaves, swept by past
winds in heaps, and now stiffened
together. I leaned against a
gate, and looked into an empty
field where no sheep were feeding,
where the short grass was nipped
and blanched. It was a very grey
day; a most opaque sky, "onding
on snaw," canopied all; thence
flakes felt it intervals, which
settled on the hard path and
on the hoary lea without melting.
I stood, a wretched child enough,
whispering to myself over and
over again, "What shall I do?--what
shall I do?"
All
at once I heard
a clear voice
call, "Miss
Jane! where
are you? Come to lunch!"
It was Bessie, I knew well
enough; but I did not stir; her
light step came tripping down
the path.
"You naughty little thing!" she
said. "Why don't you come when
you are called?"
Bessie's
presence, compared
with the thoughts over which
I had been brooding, seemed cheerful;
even though, as usual, she was
somewhat cross. The fact is,
after my 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'm rather
sorry."
"Just
now! and rather!
How coolly
my little lady
says it!
I dare say now if I were to ask
you for a kiss you wouldn't give
it me: you'd say you'd RATHER
not."
"I'll kiss you and welcome:
bend your head down." 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.
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