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 tidings were frightful. Robert Leaven resumed-

   'Missis had been out of health herself for some time: she had got

very stout, but was not strong with it; and the loss of money and fear

of poverty were quite breaking her down. The information about Mr.

John's death and the manner of it came too suddenly: it brought on a

stroke. She was three days without speaking; but last Tuesday she

seemed rather better: she appeared as if she wanted to say

something, and kept making signs to my wife and mumbling. It was

only yesterday morning, however, that Bessie understood she was

pronouncing your name; and at last she made out the words, "Bring

Jane- fetch Jane Eyre: I want to speak to her." Bessie is not sure

whether she is in her right mind, or means anything by the words;

but she told Miss Reed and Miss Georgiana, and advised them to send

for you. The young ladies put it off at first; but their mother grew

so restless, and said, "Jane, Jane," so many times, that at last

they consented. I left Gateshead yesterday: and if you can get

ready, Miss, I should like to take you back with me early 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

school-room 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?'

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, etc., and, accompanied by her, I quitted the lodge for

the hall. It was also accompanied by her that I had, nearly nine years

ago, walked down the path I was now ascending. On a dark, misty, raw

morning in January, I had left a hostile roof with a desperate and

embittered heart- a sense of outlawry and almost of reprobation- to

seek the chilly harbourage of Lowood: that bourne so far away and

unexplored. The same hostile roof now again rose before me: my

prospects were doubtful yet; and I had yet an aching heart. I still

felt as a wanderer on the face of the earth; but I experienced

firmer trust in myself and my own powers, and less withering dread

of oppression. The gaping wound of my wrongs, too, was now quite

healed; and the flame of resentment extinguished.

   'You shall go into the breakfast-room first,' said Bessie, as she

preceded me through the hall; 'the young ladies will be there.'

   In another moment I was within that apartment. There was every

article of furniture looking just as it did on the morning I was first

introduced to Mr. Brocklehurst: the very rug he had stood upon still

covered the hearth. Glancing at the bookcases, I thought I could

distinguish the two volumes of Bewick's British Birds occupying

their old place on the third shelf, and Gulliver's Travels and the

Arabian Nights ranged just above. The inanimate objects were not

changed; but the living things had altered past recognition.

   Two young ladies appeared before me; one very tall, almost as

tall as Miss Ingram- very thin too, with a sallow face and severe

mien. There was something ascetic in her look, 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 arm-chair, 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, impassible,

and assiduously industrious.

   True, generous feeling is made small account of by some, but here

were two natures rendered, the one intolerably acrid, the other

despicably savourless for the want of it. Feeling without judgment

is a washy draught indeed; but judgment untempered by feeling is too

bitter and husky a morsel for human deglutition.

   It was a wet and windy afternoon: Georgiana had fallen asleep on

the sofa over the perusal of a novel; Eliza was gone to attend a

saint's-day service at the new church- for in matters of religion

she was a rigid formalist: no weather ever prevented the punctual

discharge of what she considered her devotional duties; fair or

foul, she went to church thrice every Sunday, and as often on

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

quite familiar to me: you are like- why, you are like Jane Eyre!'

   I said nothing: I was afraid of occasioning some shock by declaring

my identity.

   'Yet,' said she, 'I am afraid it is a mistake: my thoughts

deceive me. I wished to see Jane Eyre, and I fancy a likeness where

none exists: besides, in eight years she must be so changed.' I now

gently assured her that I was the person she supposed and desired me

to be: and seeing that I was understood, and that her senses were

quite collected, I explained how Bessie had sent her husband to

fetch me from Thornfield.

   'I am very ill, I know,' she said ere long. 'I was trying to turn

myself a few minutes since, and find I cannot move a limb. It is as

well I should ease my mind before I die: what we think little of in

health, burdens us at such an hour as the present is to me. Is the

nurse here? or is there no one in the room but you?'

   I assured her we were alone.

   'Well, I have twice done you a wrong which I regret now. One was in

breaking the promise which I gave my husband to bring you up as my own

child; the other-' she stopped. 'After all, it is of no great

importance, perhaps,' she murmured to herself: 'and then I may get

better; and to humble myself so to her is painful.'

   She made an effort to alter her position, but failed: her face

changed; she seemed to experience some inward sensation- the

precursor, perhaps, of the last pang.

   'Well, I must get it over. Eternity is before me: I had better tell

her.- Go to my dressing-case, open it, and take out a letter you

will see there.'

   I obeyed her directions. 'Read the letter,' she said.

   It was short, and thus conceived:-
 
 

   'MADAM,- Will you have the goodness to send me the address of my

niece, Jane Eyre, and to tell me how she is? It is my intention to

write shortly and desire her to come to me at Madeira. Providence

has blessed my endeavours to secure a competency; and as I am

unmarried and childless, I wish to adopt her during my life, and

bequeath her at my death whatever I may have to leave.- I am, Madam,

etc., etc.,

                                                'JOHN EYRE, Madeira.'
 
 

   It was dated three years back.

   'Why did I never hear of this?' I asked.

   'Because I disliked you too fixedly and thoroughly ever to lend a

hand in lifting you to prosperity. I could not forget your conduct

to me, Jane- the fury with which you once turned on me; the tone in

which you declared you abhorred me the worst of anybody in the

world; the unchildlike look and voice with which you affirmed that the

very thought of me made you sick, and asserted that I had treated

you with miserable cruelty. I could not forget my own sensations

when you thus started up and poured out the venom of your mind: I felt

fear as if an animal that I had struck or pushed had looked up at me

with human eyes and cursed me in a man's voice.- Bring me some

water! Oh, make haste!'

   'Dear Mrs. Reed,' said I, as I offered her the draught she

required, 'think no more of all this, let it pass away from your mind.

Forgive me for my passionate language: I was a child then; eight, nine

years have passed since that 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.