 6 The next day commenced as before, getting up and dressing by rush-light. But this morning we were obliged to dispense with the ceremony of washing. The water in the pitchers was frozen. A change had taken place in the weather the preceding evening, and a keen north-east wind, whistling through the crevices of our bedroom windows all night long, had made us shiver in our beds, and turned the contents of the ewers to ice. Before the long hour and a half of prayers and Bible reading was over, I felt ready to perish with cold. Next time came at last, and this morning the porridge was not burnt. The quality was eatable, the quantity small. How small my portion seemed! I wished it had been doubled. In the course of the day I was enrolled a member of the fourth class, and regular tasks and occupations were assigned me. Here the two I had only been a spectator of the proceedings at Lowood. I was now to become an actor therein. At first, being little accustomed to learn by heart, the lessons appeared to me both long and difficult. The frequent change from task to task too bewildered me, and I was glad when about three o'clock in the afternoon Miss Smith put into my hands a border of muslin two yards long, together with needle thimble, etc., and sent me to sit in a quiet corner of the schoolroom, with directions to hem the same. At that hour most of the others were sewing likewise, but one class still stood round Miss Scatchard's chair, reading, and as all was quiet, the subject of their lessons could be heard, together with the manner in which each girl acquitted herself, and the animate versions or commendations of Miss Scatchard on the performance. It was English history. Among the readers I observed my acquaintance of the veranda. At the commencement of the lesson, her place had been at the top of the class, but for some error of pronunciation, or some inattention to stops, she was suddenly sent to the very bottom. Even in that obscure position, Miss Scatchard continued to make her an object of constant notice. She was continually addressing to her such phrases as the following. "'Bernes!' such it seems was her name. The girls here were all called by their surnames, as boys are elsewhere. "'Bernes, you are standing on the side of your shoe. Turn your toes out immediately. "'Bernes, you poke your chin most unpleasantly. Draw it in.' "'Bernes, I insist on your holding your head up. I will not have you before me in that attitude.' Etc. Etc. A chapter having been read through twice, the books were closed, and the girls examined. The lesson had comprised part of the reign of Charles I, and there were sundry questions about tonnage and poundage and ship-money, which most of them appeared unable to answer. Still, every little difficulty was solved instantly when it reached Burns. Her memory seemed to have retained the substance of the whole lesson, and she was ready with answers on every point. I kept expecting that Miss Scatchard would praise her attention, but instead of that she suddenly cried out, "'You dirty, disagreeable girl! You have never cleaned your nails this morning!' Burns made no answer. I wondered at a silence. "'Why,' thought I, does she not explain that she could neither clean her nails nor wash her face, as the water was frozen. My attention was now called off by Miss Smith, desiring me to hold a skein of thread while she was winding it. She talked to me from time to time, asking whether I had ever been at school before—whether I could mark, stitch, knit, etc. Till she dismissed me, I could not pursue my observations on Miss Scatchard's movements. When I returned to my seat, that lady was just delivering an order of which I did not catch the import, but Burns immediately left the class, and going into the small in a room where the books were kept, returned in half a minute, carrying in her hand a bundle of twigs tied together at one end. This ominous tool she presented to Miss Scatchard with a respectful curtsy, then she quietly and without being told, unloosed her pinnacle, and the teacher instantly and sharply inflicted on her neck a dozen strokes with a bunch of twigs. Not a tear rose to Burns's eye, and while I paused from my sewing, because my fingers quivered at this spectacle with a sentiment of unavailing and impotent anger, not a feature of her pensive face altered its ordinary expression. Hardened girl! exclaimed Miss Scatchard. Nothing can correct you of your slattenly habits. Carry the rod away. Burns obeyed. I looked at her narrowly as she emerged from the book-closet. She was just putting back her handkerchief into her pocket, and the trace of a tear glistened on her thin cheek. The play-hour in the evening I thought the pleasantest fraction of the day at Lowood. The bit of bread, the draught of coffee, swallowed it five o'clock, had revived vitality, if it had not satisfied hunger. The long restraint of the day was slackened. The schoolroom felt warmer than in the morning, its fires being allowed to burn a little more brightly, to supply in some measure the place of candles not yet introduced. The ruddy gloaming, the licensed uproar, the confusion of many voices gave one a welcome sense of liberty. On the evening of the day on which I had seen Miss Scatchard flog her pupil, Burns, I wandered as usual among the forms and tables and laughing groups without a companion, yet not feeling lonely. When I passed the windows, I now and then lifted a blind and looked out. It snowed fast. A drift was already forming against the lower panes. Putting my ear close to the window, I could distinguish from the gleeful tumult within, the disconsolate moan of the wind outside. Probably, if I had lately left a good home and kind parents, this would have been the hour when I should have most keenly regretted the separation. That wind would then have saddened my heart. This obscure chaos would have disturbed my peace. As it was, I derived from both a strange excitement, and reckless and feverish I wished the wind to howl more wildly, the gloom to deepen to darkness, and the confusion to rise to clamour. Jumping over forms and creeping under tables, I made my way to one of the fireplaces. There, kneeling by the high wire fender, I found Burns, absorbed silent, abstracted from all round her by the companionship of a book, which she read by the dim glare of the embers. "'Is it still rasseless?' I asked, coming behind her. "'Yes,' she said, and I have just finished it.' And in five minutes more she shut it up. I was glad of this. Now, thought I, I can perhaps get her to talk. I sat down by her on the floor. "'What is your name besides Burns?' Helen, do you come a long way from here? I come from a place farther north, quite on the borders of Scotland. Will you ever go back? I hope so, but nobody can be sure of the future. You must wish to leave Lowood. No, why should I? I was sent to Lowood to get an education, and it would be of no use going away until I have attained that object. But that teacher, Miss Scatcher, is so cruel to you. Cruel? Not at all. She is severe. She dislikes my faults. And if I were in your place, I should dislike her. I should resist her. If she struck me with that rod, I should get it from her hand. I should break it under her nose. And probably you do nothing of the sort. But if you did, Mr. Brocklehurst would expel you from the school. That would be a great grief to your relations. It is far better to endure patiently a smart which nobody feels but yourself, than to commit a hasty action whose evil consequences will extend to all connected with you. And besides, the Bible bids us return good for evil. But then it seems disgraceful to be flogged, and to be sent to stand in the middle of a room full of people. And you were such a great girl. I am far younger than you, and I could not bear it. Yes, it would be your duty to bear it if you could not avoid it. It is weak and silly to say you cannot bear what it is your fate to be required to bear. I heard her with wonder. I could not comprehend this doctrine of endurance. And still less could I understand or sympathise with the forbearance she expressed for her chastiser. Still I felt that Helen Burns considered things by a light invisible to my eyes. I suspected she might be right and I wrong, but I would not ponder the matter deeply. Like Felix, I put it off to a more convenient season. You say you have false, Helen, what are they? To me you seem very good. Then learn from me not to judge by appearances. I am, as Miss Scatchard said, slattily. I seldom put and never keep things in order. I am careless. I forget rules. I read when I should learn my lessons. I have no method, and I sometimes say, like you, I cannot bear to be subjected to systematic arrangements. This is all very provoking to Miss Scatchard, who is naturally neat, punctual and particular. And cross and cruel! I added, but Helen Burns would not admit my addition. She kept silence. Is Miss Temple as severe to you as Miss Scatchard? At the utterance of Miss Temple's name a soft smile flitted over her grave face. Miss Temple is full of goodness. It pains her to be severe to any one, even the worst in the school. She sees my errors and tells me of them gently, and if I do anything worthy of praise, she gives me my mead liberally. One strong proof of my wretchily defective nature is that even her expostulations, so mild, so rational, have not influenced to cure me of my faults, and even her praise, though I value it most highly, cannot stimulate me to continued care and foresight. That is curious, said I. It is so easy to be careful. For you, I have no doubt at his. I observed you in your class this morning, and so you were closely attentive. Your thoughts never seemed to wander while Miss Miller explained the lesson and questioned you. Now mine continually drove away. When I should be listening to Miss Scatchard and collecting all she says with aciduity, often I lose the very sound of her voice. I fall into a sort of dream. Sometimes I think I am in Northumberland, and that the noises I hear round me are the bubbling of a little brook which runs through deepden near our house. Then, when it comes to my turn to reply, I have to be awakened, and having heard nothing of what was read for listening to the visionary brook, I have no answer ready. Yet how well you replied this afternoon! It was mere chance. The subject on which we had been reading had interested me. This afternoon, instead of dreaming of deepden, I was wondering how a man who wished to do right could act so unjustly and unwisely as Charles I sometimes did. And I thought what a pity it was that, with his integrity and conscientiousness, he could see no farther than the prerogatives of the crown, if he had but been able to look to a distance and see how what they call the spirit of the age was tending. Still, I like Charles. I respect him. I pity him. Paul murdered King. Yes, his enemies were the worst. They shed blood. They had no right to shed. How dared they kill him! Helen was talking to herself now. She had forgotten I could not very well understand her, that I was ignorant, or nearly so, of the subject she discussed. I recalled her to my level. And when Miss Temple teaches you, do your thoughts wander then? No, certainly not often. Because Miss Temple has generally something to say which is newer than my own reflections, her language is singularly agreeable to me, and the information she communicates is often just what I wish to gain. Well, then, with Miss Temple you are good. Yes, in a passive way I make no effort. I follow as inclination guides me. There is no merit in such goodness. A great deal. You are good to those who are good to you. It is all I ever desire to be. If people were always kind and obedient to those who were cruel and unjust, the wicked people would have it all their own way. They would never feel afraid, and so they would never alter, but would grow worse and worse. When we are struck out without a reason, we should strike back again very hard. I am sure we should. So hard is to teach the person who struck us never to do it again. You will change your mind, I hope, when you grow older. As yet you are but a little untaught girl. But I feel this, Helen. I must dislike those who, whatever I do to please them, persist in disliking me. I must resist those who punish me unjustly. It is as natural as that I should love those who show me affection, or submit to punishment when I feel it is deserved. Heathens and savage tribes hold that doctrine, but Christians and civilised nations disown it. How? I don't understand. It is not a violence that best overcomes hate, nor vengeance that most certainly heals injury. What, then? Read the New Testament, and observe what Christ says, and how he acts. Make his word your rule, and his conduct your example. What does he say? Love your enemies. Bless them that curse you. Do good to them that hate you, and despitefully use you. Then I should love Mrs. Reed, which I cannot do. I should bless her son John, which is impossible. In her turn Helen Burns asked me to explain, and I proceeded forthwith to pour out in my own way the tale of my sufferings and resentments. Bitter and truculent when excited, I spoke as I felt, without reserve or softening. Helen heard me patiently to the end. I expected she would then make a remark, but she said nothing. Well, I asked impatiently, is not Mrs. Reed a hard-hearted, bad woman? She has been unkind to you, no doubt. Because you see she dislikes your cast of character, as Miss Scatcher does mine. But how I knew that you remember all she has done and said to you? What a singularly deep impression her injustice seems to have made on your heart! No ill usage so brands its record on my feelings. Would you not be happier if you tried to forget her severity, together with the passionate emotions that excited? Life appears to me too short to be sent in nursing animosity or registering wrongs. We are, and must be, one and all, burdened with thoughts in this world. But the time will soon come, when, I trust, we shall put them off in putting off our corruptible bodies. When debasement and sin will fall from us with this cumbersome frame of flesh, and only the spark of the spirit will remain. The impalpable principle of light and thought, pure as when it left the Creator to inspire the creature, whence it came it will return. Perhaps again to be communicated to some being higher than man, perhaps to pass through gradations of glory, from the pale human soul to brighten to the seraph. Surely it will never, on the contrary, be suffered to degenerate from man to fiend. No. I cannot believe that. I hold another creed, which no one ever taught me in which I seldom mention, but in which I delight, and to which I cling. For it extends hope to all, that makes eternity a rest, a mighty home, not a terror and an abyss. Besides, with this creed, I can so clearly distinguish between the criminal and his crime, I can so sincerely forgive the first while I abhor the last. With this creed revenge never worries my heart, degradation never too deeply disgusts me, injustice never crushes me too low. I live in calm, looking to the end. Helen's head, always drooping, sank a little lower as she finished this sentence. I saw by her look she wished no longer to talk to me, but rather to converse with her own thoughts. She was not allowed much time for meditation. A monitor, a great, rough girl, presently came up, exclaiming in a strong cumberland accent. Helen burns, if you don't go and put your drawer in order and fold up your work this minute, I'll tell Miss Scattered to come and look at it. Helen sighed as her reverie fled, and, getting up, obeyed the monitor without reply as without delay. End of chapter 6 My first quarter at Lowood seemed an age, and not the golden age, either. It comprised an irksome struggle with difficulties in habituating myself to new rules and unwonted tasks. The fear of failure in these points harassed me worse than the physical hardships of my lot, though these were no trifles. During January, February, and part of March, the deep snows, and after their melting the almost impassable roads, prevented us stirring beyond the garden walls, except to go to church. But within these limits we had to pass an hour every day in the open air. Our clothing was insufficient to protect us from the severe cold. We had no boots. The snow got into our shoes and melted there. Our ungloved hands became numbed and covered with chill-blanes, as were our feet. I remember well the distracting irritation I endured from this cause every evening, when my feet inflamed, and the torture of thrusting the swelled, raw and stiff toes into my shoes in the morning. Then the scanty supply of food was distressing. With the keen appetites of growing children, we had scarcely sufficient to keep alive a delicate invalid. From this deficiency of nourishment resulted an abuse, which pressed hardly on the younger pupils. Whenever the famished great girls had an opportunity, they would coax or menace the little ones out of their portion. Many a time I have shared between two claimants the precious morsel of brown bread distributed at tea-time, and after relinquishing to a third half the contents of my mug of coffee, I have swallowed the remainder with an accompaniment of secret tears, forced from me by the exigency of hunger. Sundays were dreary days in that wintry season. We had to walk two miles to Brocklebridge Church, where our patron officiated. We set out cold, we arrived at Church colder, during the morning service we became almost paralyzed. It was too far to return to dinner, and an allowance of cold meat and bread, in the same penurious proportion observed in our ordinary meals, was served round between the services. At the close of the afternoon service we returned by an exposed and hilly road, where the bitter winter wind, blowing over a range of snowy summits to the north, almost flayed the skin from our faces. I can remember Miss Temple walking lightly and rapidly along our drooping line, her plaid cloak, which the frosty wind fluttered, gathered close about her, and encouraging us by precept and example to keep up our spirits and march forward, as she said, like stalwart soldiers. The other teachers' poor things were generally themselves too much dejected to attempt the task of cheering others. How we longed for the light and heat of a blazing fire when we got back! But the little ones at least this was denied. Each hearth and the schoolroom was immediately surrounded by a double row of great girls, and behind them the younger children crouched in groups, wrapping their starved arms in their pinnifalls. A little solace came at tea-time in the shape of a double ration of bread, a whole instead of a half slice, with the delicious addition of a thin scrape of butter. It was the hebdomidal treat to which we all looked forward from Sabbath to Sabbath. I generally contrived to reserve a moiety of this bounteous repast for myself, but the remainder I was invariably obliged to part with. The Sunday evening was spent in repeating by heart the church catechism, and the fifth, sixth, and seventh chapters of St. Matthew, and in listening to a long sermon read by Miss Miller, whose irrepressible yawns attested her weariness. A frequent interlude of these performances was the enactment of the part of Eutychus by some half-dozen of little girls, who overpowered with sleep would fall down, if not out of the third loft, yet off the fourth form, and be taken up half-dead. The remedy was to thrust them forward into the centre of the schoolroom, and obliged them to stand there till the sermon was finished. Sometimes their feet failed them, and they sank together in a heap. They were then propped up with the monitor's high stools. I have not yet alluded to the visits of Mr. Brockelhurst, and indeed that gentleman was from home during the great part of the first month after my arrival, perhaps prolonging his stay with his friend, the Archdeacon. His absence was a relief to me. I need not say that I had my own reasons for dreading his coming, but come he did at last. One afternoon—I had then been three weeks at Lowood, as I was sitting with a slate in my hand, puzzling over a sum in long division. My eyes, raised in abstraction to the window, caught sight of a figure just passing. I recognised almost instinctively that gaunt outline, and when, two minutes after, all the school teachers included, rose en masse, it was not necessary for me to look up in order to ascertain whose entrance they thus greeted. A long stride measured the schoolroom, and presently beside Miss Temple, who had herself risen, stood the same black column which had frowned on me so ominously from the hearth-rug of Gateshead. I now glanced sideways at this piece of architecture. Yes, I was right. It was Mr. Brockelhurst, buttoned up in a sur-2, and looking longer, narrower, and more rigid than ever. I had my own reasons for being dismayed at this apparition. Too well I remembered the perfidious hints given by Mrs. Reed about my disposition, et cetera. The promise pledged by Mr. Brockelhurst to apprise Miss Temple and the teachers of my vicious nature. All along I had been dreading the fulfilment of this promise. I had been looking out daily for the coming man, whose information respecting my past life and conversation was to brand me as a bad child for ever. Now there he was. He stood at Miss Temple's side. He was speaking low in her ear. I did not doubt he was making disclosures of my villainy, and I watched her eye with painful anxiety, expecting every moment to see its dark orb turn on me a glance of repugnance and contempt. I listened too, and as I happened to be seated quite at the top of the room, I caught most of what he said. Its import relieved me from immediate apprehension. I suppose, Miss Temple, the thread I bought at Lothan will do. It struck me that it would be just of the quality for the Calico chemises, and I sorted the needles to match. You may tell Miss Smith that I forgot to make a memorandum of the darning needles, but she shall have some papers sent in next week, and she is not on any account to give out more than one at a time to each pupil. If they have more, they are apt to be careless and lose them. And oh, ma'am, I wish the woolen stockings were better looked to. When I was here last, I went into the kitchen, garden, and examined the clothes drying on the line. There was a quantity of black hoes and a very bad state of repair. From the size of the holes in them, I was sure they had not been well-mended from time to time." He paused. Your directions shall be attended to, sir," said Miss Temple. And, ma'am," he continued, The laundress tells me some of the girls have two clean tuckers in the week. It is too much. The rules limit them to one. I think I can explain that circumstance, sir. Agnes and Catherine Johnston were invited to take tea with some friends at Loton last Thursday, and I gave them leave to put on clean tuckers for the occasion. Mr. Brocklehurst nodded. Well, for once it may pass. But please not let the circumstance occur too often. And there is another thing which surprised me. I find, in settling accounts with the housekeeper, that a lunch consisting of bread and cheese has twice been served out to the girls during the past fortnight. How is this? I looked over the regulations, and I find no such meal as lunch mentioned. Who introduced this innovation? And by what authority? I must be responsible for the circumstance, sir," replied Miss Temple. The breakfast was so ill-prepared that the pupils could not possibly eat it, and I dared not allow them to remain fasting till dinner time. Madam, allow me an instant. You are aware that my plan in bringing up these girls is not to accustom them to have it some luxury and indulgence, but to render them hardy, patient, self-denying. Should any little accidental disappointment of the appetite occur, such as the spoiling of a meal, the under- or the overdressing of a dish, the incident ought not to be neutralised by replacing with something more delicate the comfort lost, thus pampering the body and obviating the aim of this institution. It ought to be improved the spiritual edification of the pupils, by encouraging them to evince fortitude under temporary probation. A brief address on those occasions would not be mistimed, wherein a judicious instructor would take the opportunity of referring to the sufferings of the primitive Christians, to the torments of martyrs, to the exhortations of our blessed Lord himself, calling upon his disciples to take up their cross and follow him, to his warnings that man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that preceded out of the mouth of God, to his divine consolations. If ye suffer hunger or thirst, for my sake, happy are ye. Oh, madam, when you put bread and cheese instead of burnt porridge into these children's mouths, you may indeed feed their vile bodies, but you little think how you starve their immortal souls. Mr. Brocklehurst again paused, perhaps overcome by his feelings. Miss Temple had looked down when he first began to speak to her, but she now gazed straight before her, and her face, naturally pale as marble, appeared to be assuming also the coldness and fixity of that material, especially her mouth, closed as if it would have required a sculptor's chisel to open it, and a brow settled gradually into petrified severity. Meantime Mr. Brocklehurst, standing on the hearth with his hands behind his back, majestically surveyed the whole school. Suddenly his eye gave a blink, as if it had met something that either dazzled or shocked its pupil. Turning, he said in more rapid accents that he had hitherto used. Miss Temple, Miss Temple, what—what is that girl with curled hair? Red hair, ma'am, curled, curled all over! And extending his cane, he pointed to the awful object, his hand shaking as he did so. It is Julius VII—replied Miss Temple very quietly—Julius VII, ma'am, and why has she or any other curled hair? Why, in defiance of every precept and principle of this house, does she conform to the world so openly, here, in an evangelical charitable establishment, as to where her hair won mass of curls? Julius' hair curls naturally. Returned Miss Temple, still more quietly. Naturally! Yes, but we are not to conform to nature. I wish these girls to be the children of grace, and why that abundance? I have again and again intimated that I desire the hair to be arranged closely, modestly, plainly. Miss Temple, that girl's hair must be cut off entirely. I will send a barber to-morrow. And I see others who have far too much of the excrescence. That tall girl! Tell her to turn round! Tell all the first form to rise up and direct their faces to the wall! Miss Temple passed her handkerchief over her lips, as if to smooth away the involuntary smile that curled them. She gave the order, however, and when the first class could take in what was required of them, they obeyed. Leaning a little back on my bench, I could see the looks and grimaces with which they commented on this manoeuvre. It was a pity Mr. Brocklehurst could not see them too. He would perhaps have felt that, whatever he might do with the outside of the cup and platter, the inside was further beyond his interference than he imagined. He scrutinised the reverse of these living medals some five minutes, then pronounced sentence. These words fell like the knell of doom. All those top knots must be cut off! Miss Temple seemed to remonstrate. Madam! he pursued. I have a master to serve, whose kingdom is not of this world. My mission is to mortify in these girls the lusts of the flesh, to teach them to clothe themselves with shame, facetness and sobriety, not with braided hair and costly apparel, and each of the young persons before us has a string of hair twisted in plates, which vanity itself might have woven. These, I repeat, must be cut off. Think of the time wasted of— Mr. Brocklehurst was here interrupted. Three other visitors, ladies, now entered the room. They ought to have come a little sooner to have heard his lecture on dress, for they were splendidly attired in velvet silk and furs. The two younger of the trio—fine girls of sixteen and seventeen—had grey beaver hats, then in fashion, shaded with ostrich-blooms, and from under the brim of this graceful head-dress fell a profusion of light tressers, elaborately curled. The elder lady was enveloped in a costly velvet shawl, trimmed with ermine, and she wore a false front of French curls. These ladies were deferentially received by Miss Temple, as Mrs. and the Mrs. Brocklehurst, and conducted deceits of honour at the top of the room. It seems they had come in the carriage with their reverend relative, and had been conducting a rummaging scrutiny of the room's upstairs, while he transacted business with the housekeeper, questioned the launderess, and lectured the superintendent. They now proceeded to address diverse remarks and reproofs to Miss Smith, who was charged with the care of the linen inspection of the dormitories, but I had no time to listen to what they said. Other matters called off, and enchanted my attention. Here the two, while gathering up the discourse of Mr. Brocklehurst and Miss Temple, I had not at the same time neglected precautions to secure my personal safety, which I thought would be affected if I could only allude observation. To this end I had sat well back on the form, and while seeming to be busy with my sum, had held my slate in such a manner as to conceal my face. I might have escaped notice, had not my treacherous slate somehow happened to slip from my hand, and falling with an obtrusive crash, directly drawn every eye upon me. I knew it was all over now, and as I stooped to pick up the two fragments of slate, I rallied my forces for the worst. It came. A careless girl, said Mr. Brocklehurst, and immediately after. It is the new pupil I perceive. And before I could draw breath, I must not forget I have a word to say respecting her. Then aloud, how loud it seemed to me! Let the child who broke her slate come forward! Of my own accord I could not have stirred. I was paralysed, but the two great girls who sit on each side of me set me on my legs and pushed me towards the dread judge, and then Miss Temple gently assisted me to his very feet, and I caught her whispered counsel. Don't be afraid, Jane. I saw it was an accident. You shall not be punished." The kind whisper went to my heart like a dagger. Another minute, and she would despise me for a hypocrite, thought I, and an impulse of fury against Reed, Brocklehurst and Company, bounded in my pulses at the conviction. I was no Helen Burns. Fetch that stool! said Mr. Brocklehurst, pointing to a very high one from which a monitor had just risen. It was brought. Place the child upon it! And I was placed there, by whom I don't know. I was in no condition to note particulars. I was only aware that they had hoisted me up to the height of Mr. Brocklehurst's nose. That he was within a yard of me, and that a spread of short orange and purple silk-polices, and a cloud of silvery plumage, extended and waved below me. Mr. Brocklehurst hemmed. Ladies! said he, turning to his family. Miss Temple, teachers and children, you all see this girl. Of course they did, for I felt their eyes directed like burning glasses against my scorched skin. You see she is yet young. You observe she possesses the ordinary form of childhood. God has graciously given her the shape that he is given to all of us. No signal deformity points her out as a marked character. Who would think that the evil one had already found a servant and agent in her? Yet such I grieve to say is the case. A pause, in which I began to steady the palsy of my nerves, and to feel that the Rubicon was passed, and that the trial no longer to be shirked must be firmly sustained. My dear children! pursued the black marble clergyman with pathos. This is a sad, a melancholy occasion, for it becomes my duty to warn you that this girl, who might be one of God's own lambs, is a little cast away, not a member of the true flock, but evidently an interloper and an alien. You must be on your guard against her. You must shun her example. If necessary, avoid her company. Exclude her from your sports, and shut her out from your converse. Teachers, you must watch her. Keep your eyes on her movements. Weigh well her words. Scrutinise her actions. Punish her body to save her soul. If indeed such salvation be possible. Before—my tongue falters while I tell it—this girl, this child, the native of a Christian land, worse than many a little heathen who says its prayers to Brahma and Niels before Juggernaut, this girl is a liar. Now came a pause of ten minutes, during which I, by this time in perfect possession of my wits, observed all the female brockelhursts produce their pocket handkerchiefs, and apply them to their optics, while the elderly lady swayed herself to and fro, and the two younger ones whispered, How shocking! Mr. Brockelhurst resumed. This I learned from her benefactress, from the pious and charitable lady who adopted her in her orphan state, reared her as her own daughter, and whose kindness, whose generosity the unhappy girl repaid by an ingratitude so bad, so dreadful, that at last her excellent patroness was obliged to separate her from her own young ones, fearful lest her vicious example should contaminate their purity. She has sent her hair to be healed, even as the Jews of old sent their disease to the troubled pool of Bethesda. And teachers, superintendent, I beg of you, not to allow the waters to stagnate round her. With this sublime conclusion, Mr. Brockelhurst adjusted the top button of his so too, muttered something to his family, who rose, bowed to Miss Temple, and then all of the great people sailed in state from the room. Turning at the door, my judge said, Let her stand half an hour longer on that stool, and let no one speak to her during the remainder of the day. There was I, then, mounted aloft. I, who had said I could not bear the shame of standing on my natural feet in the middle of the room, was now exposed to general review on a pedestal of infamy. What my sensations were, no language can describe, but just as they all rose, stifling my breath and constricting my throat, a girl came up and passed me. In passing she lifted her eyes. What a strange light inspired them! What an extraordinary sensation that ray sent through me! How the new feeling bore me up! It was as if a martyr, a hero, had passed a slave or victim, and imparted strength in the transit. I mastered the rising hysteria, lifted up my head, and took a firm stand on the stool. Helen Burns asked some slight question about her work of Miss Smith, was chidden for the triviality of the inquiry, returned to her place, and smiled at me again as she went by. What a smile! I remember it now, and I know that it was the effluence of fine intellect, of true courage. It lit up her marked liniments, her thin face, her sunken gray eye, like a reflection from the aspect of an angel. Yet at that moment Helen Burns wore on her arm the untidy badge. Scarcely an hour ago I had heard her condemned by Miss Scatchard to a dinner of bread and water on the morrow, because she had blotted an exercise in copying it out. Such is the imperfect nature of man. Such spots are there on the disk of the clearest planet, and eyes like Miss Scatchard's can only see those minute defects, and are blind to the full brightness of the orb. CHAPTER VIII ere the half hour ended, five o'clock struck. School was dismissed, and all were gone into the refectory to tea. I now ventured to descend. It was deep dusk. I retired into a corner, and sat down on the floor. The spell by which I had been so far supported began to dissolve. Reaction took place, and soon so overwhelming was the grief that seized me, I sank prostrate with my face to the ground. Now I wept. Helen Burns was not here. Nothing sustained me. Left to myself, I abandoned myself, and my tears watered the boards. I had meant to be so good, and do so much at low wood—to make so many friends, to earn respect, and win affection. Already I had made visible progress. That very morning I had reached the head of my class. Miss Miller had praised me warmly, Miss Temple had smiled at probation. She had promised to teach me drawing, and to let me learn French, if I continued to make similar improvement two months longer. And then I was well received by my fellow pupils, treated as an equal by those of my own age, and not molested by any. Now, here I lay again, crushed and trodden on, and could I ever rise more? Never, I thought, and ardently I wished to die. While sobbing out this wish in broken accents, some one approached. I started up. Again Helen Burns was near me. The fading fires just showed her coming up the long vacant room. She brought my coffee and bread. Come, eat something," she said. But I put both away from me, feeling as if a drop or a crumb would have choked me in my present condition. Helen regarded me, probably with surprise, I could not now abate my agitation, though I tried hard. I continued to weep aloud. She sat down on the ground near me, embraced her knees with her arms, and rested her head upon them. In that attitude she remained silent as an Indian. I was the first who spoke. Helen, why do you stay with a girl whom everybody believes to be a liar? Everybody, Jane? Why, there are only eighty people who have heard you called so, and the world contains hundreds of millions. But what have I to do with millions? The eighty I know despise me. Jane, you are mistaken. Probably not one in the school either despises or dislikes you. Many I am sure pity you much. How can they pity me after what Mr. Brocklehurst has said? Mr. Brocklehurst is not a god, nor is he even a great and admired man. He is little liked here. He never took steps to make himself liked. Had he treated you as a special favourite, you would have found enemies declared or covert all round you. As it is, the greater number would offer you sympathy if they dared. Teachers and pupils may look coldly on you for a day or two, but friendly feelings are concealed in their hearts, and if you persevere in doing well, these feelings will air long appear so much the more evidently for their temporary suppression. Besides, Jane," she paused. Well, Helen," said I, putting my hand into hers, she chafed my fingers gently to warm them and went on. If all the world hated you and believed you wicked, while your own conscience approved you and absolved you from guilt, you would not be without friends. No. I know I should think well of myself, but that is not enough. If others don't love me, I would rather die than live. I cannot bear to be solitary and hated, Helen. Look here! To gain some real affection from you, or Miss Temple, or any other whom I truly love, I would willingly submit to have the bone of my arm broken, or to let a bull toss me, or to stand behind a kicking horse, and let it dash at hoof at my chest. Hush, Jane! You think too much of the love of human beings. You are too impulsive, too vehement. The sovereign hand that created your frame and put life into it has provided you with other resources than your feeble self, or than creatures feeble as you. Besides this earth, and besides the race of men, there is an invisible world and a kingdom of spirits. That world is round us, for it is everywhere. And those spirits watch us, for they are commissioned to guard us. And if we were dying in pain and shame, if scorn smote us on all sides, and hatred crushed us, angels see our tortures, recognize our innocence. If innocent we be, as I know you are of this charge, which Mr. Brocklehurst has weakly and pompously repeated at second hand from Mrs. Reed, for I read a sincere nature in your ardent eyes and on your clear front. And God waits only the separation of spirit from flesh to crown us with a full reward. Why, then, should we ever sink overwhelmed with distress, when life is so soon over, and death is so certain an entrance to happiness, to glory? I was silent. Helen had calmed me, but in the tranquillity she imparted there was an alloy of inexpressible sadness. I felt the impression of woe as she spoke, but I could not tell whence it came. And when, having done speaking, she breathed a little fast, and coughed a short cough, I momentarily forgot my own sorrows to yield to a vague concern for her. Resting my head on Helen's shoulder, I put my arms round her waist. She drew me to her, and we reposed in silence. We had not sat long thus when another person came in. Some heavy clouds swept from the sky by a rising wind, had left the moon bare, and her light streaming in through a window near, shown full both on us and on the approaching figure, which we had once recognized as Miss Temple. I came on purpose to find you, Jane Eyre, said she. I want you in my room, and as Helen burns us with you, she may come too. We went, following the superintendent's guidance, we had to thread some intricate passages, and mount a staircase before we reached her apartment. It contained a good fire and looked cheerful. Miss Temple told Helen Burns to be seated in a low armchair on one side of the hearth, and herself taking another. She called me to her side. Is it all over? she asked, looking down at my face. Have you cried your grief away? I am afraid I never shall do that. Why? Because I have been wrongly accused, and you, Mum, and everybody else will now think me wicked. We shall thank you, what you prove yourself to be, my child. Continue to act as a good girl, and you will satisfy us. Shall I, Miss Temple? You will, said she, passing her arm round me. And now tell me, who is the lady whom Mr. Brocklehurst called your benefactress? Mrs. Reed, my uncle's wife. My uncle is dead, and he left me to her care. Did she not then adopt you of her own accord? No, Mum. She was sorry to have to do it, but my uncle, as I have often heard the servants say, got it a promise before he died that she would always keep me. Well now, Jane, you know, or at least I will tell you, that when a criminal is accused, he is always allowed to speak in his own defence. You have been charged with falsehood. Defend yourself to me as well as you can. Say whatever your memory suggests is true, but add nothing, and exaggerate nothing. I resolved, in the depth of my heart, that I would be most moderate, most correct, and having a few minutes in order to arrange coherently what I had to say, I told her all the story of my sad childhood. Exhausted by emotion, my language was more subdued than it generally was when it developed that sad theme, and mindful of Helen's warnings against the indulgence of resentment, I infused into the narrative far less of gall and wormwood than ordinary. Thus restrained and simplified, it sounded more credible. I felt as I went on that Miss Temple fully believed me. In the course of the tale I had mentioned Mr. Lloyd as having come to see me after the fit, I never forgot, though, to me, frightful episode of the Red Room, in detailing which my excitement was sure in some degree to break bounds, for nothing could soften in my reflection the spasm of agony which clutched my heart when Mrs. Reed's spurned my wild supplication for pardon, and locked me a second time in the dark and haunted chamber. I had finished. Miss Temple regarded me a few minutes in silence. She then said, I know something of Mr. Lloyd. I shall write to him. If his reply agrees with your statement, you shall be publicly cleared from every imputation. To me, Jane, you are clear now. She kissed me, and still keeping me at her side, where I was well contented to stand, for I derived a child's pleasure from the contemplation of her face, her dress, her one or two ornaments, her white forehead, her clustered and shining curls and beaming dark eyes. She proceeded to address Helen Burns. How are you to-night, Helen? Have you coughed much to-day? Not quite so much, I think, Mum. And the pain in your chest? It is a little better. Miss Temple got up, took her hand, and examined her pulse. Then she returned to her own seat. As she resumed it, I heard her sigh low. She was pensive a few minutes, then rousing herself, she said cheerfully. But you two are my visitors to-night. I must treat you as such." She rang her bell. Barbara, she said to the servant who answered it, I have not yet had tea. Bring the tray, and place cups for these two young ladies. And a tray was soon brought. How pretty, to my eyes, did the china cups and bright teapot look, placed on the little round table near the fire! How fragrant was the steam of the beverage and the scent of the toast! Of which, however, I, to my dismay, for I was beginning to be hungry, discerned only a very small portion. Miss Temple discerned it too. Barbara, said she, can you not bring a little more bread and butter? There is not enough for three. Barbara went out. She returned soon. Madam, Mrs. Arden said she sent up the usual quantity. Mrs. Arden, be it observed, was a housekeeper, a woman after Mr. Brocklehurst's own heart, made up of equal parts of whale bone and iron. Oh, very well! returned Miss Temple. We must make it do, Barbara, I suppose. As the girl withdrew, she added, smiling. Fortunately, I have it in my power to supply deficiencies for this once. Having invited Helen and me to approach the table, and placed before each of us a cup of tea with one delicious but thin morsel of toast, she got up, unlocked a drawer, and, taking from it a parcel wrapped in paper, disclosed presently to our eyes a good-sized seed-cake. I meant to give each of you some of this to take with you," said she, but as there is so little toast, you must have it now. And she proceeded to cut slices with a generous hand. We feasted that evening as on nectar and ambrosia, and not the least delight of the entertainment was the smile of gratification with which our host disregarded us, as we satisfied our famished appetites on the delicate fare she liberally supplied. Tea over in the tray removed. She again summoned us to the fire. We sat one on each side of her, and now a conversation followed between her and Helen, which was indeed a privilege to be admitted to here. Miss Temple had always something of serenity in her air, of state in her mean, of refined propriety in her language, which precluded deviation into the ardent, the excited, the eager—something which chastened the pleasure of those who looked on her and listened to her, by a controlling sense of awe. And such was my feeling now. But as to Helen burns, I was struck with wonder. The refreshing meal, the brilliant fire, the presence and kindness of her beloved instructorice, or perhaps more than all these, something in her own unique mind, had roused her powers within her. They woke. They kindled. First they glowed in the bright tint of her cheek, which till this hour I had never seen but pale and bloodless. Then they shone in the liquid lustre of her eyes, which had suddenly acquired a beauty more singular than that of Miss Temple's, a beauty neither of fine colour nor long eyelash, nor penciled brow, but of meaning, of movement, of radiance. Then her soul sat on her lips and language flowed from what source I cannot tell. Has a girl of fourteen a heart large enough, vigorous enough, to hold the swelling spring of pure, full, fervid eloquence? Such was the characteristic of Helen's discourse on that to me memorable evening. Her spirit seemed hastening to live within a very brief span as much as many live during a protracted existence. They conversed of things I had never heard of—of nations and times past, of countries far away, of secrets of nature discovered or guessed at. They spoke of books. How many they had read? What stores of knowledge they possessed? Then they seemed so familiar with French names and French authors, but my amazement reached its climax when Miss Temple asked Helen, if she sometimes snatched a moment, to recall the Latin her father had taught her, and taking a book from a shelf, bade her read and construe a page of Virgil, and Helen obeyed, my organ of veneration expanding at every sounding line. She had scarcely finished ere the bell announced bedtime. No delay could be admitted. Miss Temple embraced us both, saying as she drew us to her heart. God bless you, my children. Helen! she held a little longer than me. She let her go more reluctantly. It was Helen her eye followed to the door. It was for her she a second time breathed a sad sigh. For her she wiped a tear from her cheek. On reaching the bedroom, we heard the voice of Miss Scatchard. She was examining drawers. She had just pulled out Helen Burns, and when we entered Helen was greeted with a sharp reprimand, and told that to-morrow she should have half a dozen of untidily folded articles pinned her shoulder. My things were indeed in shameful disorder! murmured Helen to me in a low voice. I intended to have arranged them, but I forgot. Next morning Miss Scatchard wrote in conspicuous characters on a piece of pasteboard the word slatten, and bound it like a phylactery around Helen's large, mild, intelligent, and benign looking for it. She wore it till evening, patient, unresentful, regarding it as deserved punishment. The moment Miss Scatchard withdrew after afternoon school, I ran to Helen, tore it off, and thrust it into the fire, the fury of which she was incapable had been burning in my soul all day, and tears, hot and large, had continually been scalding my cheek, for the spectacle of her sad resignation gave me an intolerable pain at the heart. About a week subsequently to the incidents above narrated, Miss Temple, who had written to Mr. Lloyd, received his answer. It appeared that what he said went to corroborate my account. Miss Temple, having assembled the whole school, announced that inquiry had been made into the charges alleged against Jane Eyre, and that she was most happy to be able to pronounce a completely cleared from every imputation. The teachers then shook hands with me and kissed me, and a murmur of pleasure ran through the ranks of my companions. Thus relieved of a grievous load, I from that hour set to work afresh, resolved to pioneer my way through every difficulty. I toiled hard, and my success was proportionate to my efforts. My memory, not naturally tenacious, improved with practice. Exercise sharpened my wits. In a few weeks I was promoted to a higher class. In less than two months I was allowed to commence French and drawing. I learned the first two tenses of the verb Être, and sketched my first cottage, whose walls, by the by, outrivaled and sloped those of the leaning tower of Pisa, on the same day. That night, on going to bed, I forgot to prepare an imagination the barmaside supper of hot roasts, potatoes, or white bread and new milk, with which I was wont to amuse my inward cravings. I feasted instead on the spectacle of ideal drawings which I saw in the dark, all the work of my own hands, freely penciled houses and trees, picturesque rocks and ruins, kipe-like groups of cattle, sweet paintings of butterflies hovering over unblown roses, of birds picking at ripe cherries, of wrens, nests and closing pearl-like eggs, wreathed about with young ivy sprays. I examined, too, in thought, the possibility of my ever being able to translate, currently, a certain little French story which Madame Pirot had that day shown me, nor was that problem solved by satisfaction ere I fell sweetly asleep. Well, as Solomon said, better is a dinner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred therewith. I would not now have exchanged low wood with all its privations, for Gateshead and its daily luxuries. But the privations, or rather the hardships of low wood, lessened. Spring drew on. She was indeed already come. The frosts of winter had ceased. Its snows were melted. Its cutting winds ameliorated. My wretched feet, flayed and swollen to lameness by the sharp air of January, began to heal and subside under the gentler breathings of April. The nights and mornings no longer by their Canadian temperature froze the very blood in our veins. We could now endure the play-hour passed in the garden. Sometimes on a sunny day it began even to be pleasant and genial, and a greenness grew over those brown beds, which, freshening daily, suggested the thought that hope traversed them at night, and left each morning brighter traces of her steps. Flowers peeped out amongst the leaves, snow-drops, crocuses, purple auriculas, and golden-eyed pansies. On Thursday afternoons, half-holidays, we now took walks, and found still sweeter flowers opening by the wayside, under the hedges. I discovered, too, that a great pleasure—an enjoyment which the horizon only bounded—lay all outside the high and spike-guarded walls of our garden. This pleasure consisted in prospect of noble summits girdling a great hill-hollow, rich in verger and shadow, in a bright beck, full of dark stones and sparkling eddies. How different had this scene looked when I viewed it laid out beneath the iron sky of winter, stiffened in frost, shrouded with snow! When mists as chill as death wandered to the impulse of east winds along those purple peaks, and rolled down in the snow-drops, it was as if it were the first time I saw it. Stiffened in frost, shrouded with snow! When mists as chill as death wandered to the impulse of east winds along those purple peaks, and rolled down in-home until they blended with the frozen fog of the beck. The beck itself was then a torrent, turban, and curbless. It tore asunder the wood, and sent a raving sound through the air, often thickened with wild rain or whirling sleet. And, for the forest on its banks, that showed only ranks of skeletons. April advanced to May. A bright serene May it was. Days of blue sky, placid sunshine, and soft western or southern gales filled up its duration. And now vegetation matured with figure. Low wood shook loose its tresses. It became all green, all flowery. Its great elm, ash, and oak skeletons were restored to majestic life. Woodland plants sprang up profusely in its recesses. Unnumbered varieties of moss filled its hollows, and it made a strange ground sunshine out of the wealth of its wild primrose plants. I have seen their pale gold gleam in overshadowed spots, like scatterings of the sweetest luster. All this I enjoyed often and fully, free, unwatched, and almost alone. For this unwonted liberty and pleasure there was a cause, to which it now becomes my task to advert. Have I not described a pleasant sight for a dwelling, when I speak of it as bosomed in hill and wood, and rising from the verge of a stream? Assuredly pleasant enough, but whether healthy or not is another question. That forest dell, where low wood lay, was the cradle of fog, and fog-bread pestilence, which quickening with the quickening spring crept into the orphan asylum, breathed typhus through its crowded schoolroom and dormitory, and air may arrived transformed the seminary into a hospital. Semi-starvation and neglected colds had predisposed most of the pupils to receive infection. Forty-five out of the eighty girls lay ill at one time. Classes were broken up, rules relaxed. The few who continued well were allowed almost unlimited licence, because the medical attendant insisted on the necessity of frequent exercise to keep them in health, and had it been otherwise, no one had leisure to watch or restrain them. Miss Temple's whole attention was absorbed by the patients. She lived in the sick-room, never quitting it except to snatch a few hours' rest at night. The teachers were fully occupied with packing up and making other necessary preparations, for the departure of those girls who were fortunate enough to have friends and relations, able and willing to remove them from the seat of contagion. Many, already smitten, went home only to die. Some died at the school, and were buried quietly and quickly, the nature of the malady forbidding delay. Wild disease had thus become an inhabitant of low wood, and death its frequent visitor. While there was gloom and fear within its walls, while its rooms and passages steamed with hospital smells, the drug and the pastel striving vainly to overcome the effluvia of mortality, that bright maze shown unclouded over the bold hills and beautiful woodland out of doors, its garden too glowed with flowers. Holly-hawks had sprung up tallest trees, lilies had opened, tulips and roses were in bloom, the borders of the little beds were gay with pink thrift and crimson double daisies, the sweet-bries gave out morning and evening their scent of spice and apples, and these fragrant treasures were all useless for most of the inmates of low wood, except to furnish now and then a handful of herbs and blossoms to put in a coffin. But I, and the rest, who continued well, enjoyed fully the beauties of the scene and season. They let us ramble in the wood, like gypsies from morning till night. We did what we liked, went where we liked. We lived better, too. Mr. Brocklehurst and his family never came near low wood now. Household matters were not scrutinized into. The cross-housekeeper was gone, driven away by the fear of infection. Her successor, who had been matron at the Lowton dispensary, unused to the ways of her new abode, provided with comparative liberality. Besides, there were fewer to feed. The sick could eat little. Our breakfast basins were better filled. When there was no time to prepare a regular dinner, which happened often, she would give us a large piece of cold pie, or a thick slice of bread and cheese, and this we carried away with us to the wood, where we each chose the spot we liked best, and dined sumptuously. My favourite seat was a smooth and broad stone, rising white and dry from the very middle of the beck, and only to be got at by wading through the water, a feat I accomplished barefoot. The stone was just broad enough to accommodate, comfortably, another girl and me. At that time my chosen comrade, one Marianne Wilson, a shrewd, observant personage, whose society I took pleasure in—partly because she was witty and original, and partly because she had a manner which set me at my ease. Some years older than I, she knew more of the world, and could tell me many things I liked to hear. With her my curiosity found gratification. To my faults also she gave ample indulgence, never imposing curb or rain on anything I said. She had a turn for narrative, I for analysis. She liked to inform, I to question. So we got on swimmingly together, deriving much entertainment, if not much improvement, from our mutual intercourse. And where, meantime, was Helen Burns? Why did I not spend these sweet days of liberty with her? Had I forgotten her? Or was I so worthless as to have grown tired of her pure society? Surely the Marianne Wilson I have mentioned was inferior to my first acquaintance. She could only tell me amusing stories, and reciprocate any racy and pungent gossip I chose to indulge in. While, if I have spoken truth of Helen, she was qualified to give those who enjoyed the privilege of her converse a taste of far higher things. True, reader, and I knew and felt this, and though I am an effective being, with many faults and few redeeming points, yet I never tired of Helen Burns, nor ever ceased to cherish for her a sentiment of attachment, as strong, tender and respectful as any that ever animated my heart. How could it be otherwise, when Helen, at all times and under all circumstances, evinced for me a quiet and faithful friendship, which ill-human never soured, nor irritation never troubled? But Helen was ill at present! For some weeks she had been removed from my sight, to I knew not what room upstairs. She was not, I was told, in the hospital portion of the house with the fever patients, for her complaint was consumption, not typhus, and by consumption I, in my ignorance, understood something mild, which time and care would be sure to alleviate. I was confirmed in this idea by the fact of her once or twice coming downstairs on very warm sunny afternoons, and being taken by Miss Temple into the garden. But on these occasions I was not allowed to go and speak to her. I only saw her from the schoolroom window, and then, not distinctly, for she was much wrapped up, and sat at a distance under the veranda. One evening, in the beginning of June, I had stayed out very late with Marianne in the wood. We had, as usual, separated ourselves from the others, and had wandered far, so far that we lost our way, and had to ask it at a lonely cottage, where a man and woman lived who looked after a herd of half-wild swine that fared on the mast in the wood. When we got back, it was after moon-rise. A pony, which we knew to be the surgeons, was standing at the garden door. Marianne remarked that she supposed someone must be very ill, as Mr. Bates had been sent for at that time of the evening. She went into the house. I stayed behind a few minutes to plant in my garden a handful of roots I had dug up in the forest, and which I feared would wither if I left them till the morning. This done, I lingered yet a little longer. The flowers smelled so sweet as the dew fell. It was such a pleasant evening, so serene, so warm. The still glowing west promised so fairly another fine day on the morrow. The moon rose with such majesty in the grave-east. I was noting these things and enjoying them as a child might, when it entered my mind as it had never done before. How sad to be lying now on a sick bed, and to be in danger of dying! This world is pleasant. It would be dreary to be called from it, and to have to go who knows where. And then my mind made its first earnest effort to comprehend what had been infused into it concerning heaven and hell, and for the first time it recoiled, baffled, and for the first time glancing behind on each side and before it, it saw all round an unfathomed gulf. It felt the one point where it stood, the present. All the rest was formless cloud and vacant depth, and it shuddered at the thought of tottering and plunging amid that chaos. While pondering this new idea, I heard the front door open. Mr. Bates came out, and with him was a nurse. After she had seen him mount his horse and depart, she was about to close the door, but I ran up to her. How was Helen Burns? Very poorly, was the answer. Is it her Mr. Bates has been to see? Yes. And what does he say about her? He says, shall not be here long. This phrase uttered in my hearing yesterday would have only conveyed the notion that she was about to be removed in Northumberland to her own home. I should not have suspected that it meant she was dying, but I knew instantly now. It opened clear on my comprehension that Helen Burns was numbering her last days in this world, and that she was going to be taken to the region of spirits, if such region there were. I experienced a shock of horror, then a strong thrill of grief, then a desire, a necessity to see her, and I asked in what room she lay. She is in Miss Temple's room, said the nurse. May I go up and speak to her? Oh, no, child, it is not likely, and now it is time for you to come in. You'll catch the fever if you stop out when the dew is falling. The nurse closed the front door. I went in by the side entrance which led to the schoolroom. I was just in time. It was nine o'clock, and Miss Miller was calling the pupils to go to bed. It might be two hours later, probably near eleven, when I, not having been able to fall asleep, and deeming from the perfect silence of the dormitory that my companions were all wrapped in profound repose, rose softly, put on my frock over my night-dress, and without shoes crept from the apartment, and set off in quest of Miss Temple's room. It was quite at the other end of the house, but I knew my way, and the light of the unclouded summer moon, entering here and there at passage windows, enabled me to find it without difficulty. An odor of camphor and burnt vinegar warned me when I came near the fever-room, and I passed its door quickly. Fair for less the nurse who sat up all night should hear me. I dreaded being discovered and sent back, for I must see Helen, I must embrace her before she died, I must give her one last kiss, exchange with her one last word. Having descended a staircase, traversed a portion of the house below, and succeeded in opening and shutting without noise, two doors, I reached another flight of steps. These I mounted, and then, just opposite to me, was Miss Temple's room. A light shone through the keyhole, and from under the door, a profound stillness pervaded the vicinity. Coming near, I found at the door slightly ajar, probably to admit some fresh air into the closer bode of sickness. Indisposed to hesitate, and full of impatient impulses, soul and senses quivering with keen throes, I put it back and looked in. My eyes sought Helen, and feared to find death. Close by Miss Temple's bed, and half covered with its white curtains, there stood a little crib. I saw the outline of a form under the clothes, but the face was hid by the hangings. The nurse I had spoken to in the garden sat in an easy chair asleep, an unsnuffed candle burnt dimly on the table. Miss Temple was not to be seen. I knew afterwards that she had been called to a delirious patient in the fever room. I advanced, then paused by the crib's side. My hand was on the curtain, but I preferred speaking before I withdrew it. I still recoiled at the dread of seeing a corpse. Helen! I whispered softly, are you awake? She stirred herself, put back the curtain, and I saw her face, pale, wasted, but quite composed. She looked so little changed that my fear was instantly dissipated. Can it be you, Jane? she asked, in her own gentle voice. Oh! I thought she is not going to die! They are mistaken! She could not speak and look so calmly if she were. I got under her crib and kissed her. Her forehead was cold, and her cheek both cold and thin, and so were her hand and wrist. But she smiled as of old. Why you come here, Jane? It is past eleven o'clock. I heard it strikes a minute since. I came to see you, Helen. I heard you were very ill, and I could not sleep till I had spoken to you. You came to bid me good-bye, then. You are just in time, probably. Are you going somewhere, Helen? Are you going home? Yes. To my long home. My last home. No! No, Helen! I stopped, distressed. While I tried to devour my tears, a fit of coughing seized Helen. It did not, however, wake the nurse. When it was over, she lay some minutes exhausted. Then she whispered, Jane, your little feet are bare. Lie down and cover yourself with my quilt. I did so. She put her arm over me, and I nestled close to her. After a long silence, she resumed, still whispering, I am very happy, Jane, and when you hear that I am dead, you must be sure and not grieve. There is nothing to grieve about. We all must die one day, and the illness which is removing me is not painful. It is gentle and gradual. My mind is at rest. I leave no one to regret me much. I have only a father, and he is lately married, and will not miss me. By dying young I shall escape great sufferings. I had not qualities or talents to make my way very well in the world. I should have been continually at fault. But where are you going to, Helen? Can you see? Do you know? I believe. I have faith. I am going to God. Where is God? What is God? My Maker and yours, who will never destroy what he created, I rely implicitly on his power, and confide wholly in his goodness. I count the hours till that eventful one arrives, which shall restore me to him, reveal him to me. You are sure, then, Helen, that there is such a place as heaven, and that our souls can get to it when we die? I am sure there is a future state. I believe God is good. I can resign my immortal part to him without any misgiving. God is my father. God is my friend. I love him. I believe he loves me. And shall I see you again, Helen, when I die? You will come to the same region of happiness. Be received by the same mighty universal parent. No doubt, dear Jane. Again I questioned, but this time only in thought. Where is that region? Does it exist? And I clasped my arms closer round, Helen. She seemed dearer to me than ever. I felt as if I could not let her go. I lay with my face hidden on her neck. Presently she said in the sweetest tone, Jane, how comfortable I am. The last bit of coughing has tired me a little. I feel as if I could sleep. But don't leave me, Jane. I like to have you near me. I'll stay with you, dear Helen. No one shall take me away. Are you warm, darling? Yes. Good night, Jane. Good night, Helen. She kissed me, and I her, and we both soon slumbered. When I awoke it was day, an unusual movement roused me. I looked up. I was in somebody's arms. The nurse held me. She was carrying me through the passage back to the dormitory. I was not reprimanded for leaving my bed. People had something else to think about. No explanation was afforded then to my many questions. But a day or two afterwards I learned that Miss Temple, on returning to her own room at dawn, had found me laid in the little crib, my face against Helen Byrne's shoulder, my arms round her neck. I was asleep, and Helen was dead. Her grave is in Brocklebridge Churchyard. For fifteen years after her death it was only covered by a grassy mound. But now a grey marble tablet marks the spot, inscribed with her name, and the word, resurgent. CHAPTER X Here the two I have recorded in detail the events of my insignificant existence. To the first ten years of my life I have given almost as many chapters. But this is not to be a regular autobiography. I am only bound to invoke memory where I know who responses will possess some degree of interest. Therefore I now pass a space of eight years almost in silence—a few lines only are necessary to keep up the links of connection. When the typhus fever had fulfilled its mission of devastation at Lowood, it gradually disappeared from thence, but not till its virulence and the number of its victims had drawn public attention on the school. In quarry was made into the origin of the scourge, and by degrees various facts came out which excited public indignation in a high degree. The unhealthy nature of the site, the quantity and quality of the children's food, the brackish, fetid water used in its preparation, the pupil's wretched clothing and accommodations—all these things were discovered, and the discovery produced a result mortifying to Mr. Brocklehurst, but beneficial to the institution. Several wealthy and benevolent individuals in the county subscribed largely for the erection of a more convenient building in a better situation. New regulations were made, improvements in diet and clothing introduced, the funds of the school were entrusted to the management of committee. Mr. Brocklehurst, who from his wealth and family connections could not be overlooked, still retained the post of treasurer, but he was aided in the discharge of his duties by gentlemen of rather more enlarged and sympathizing minds. His office of inspector, too, was shared by those who knew how to combine reason with strictness, comfort with economy, compassion with uprightness. The school, thus improved, became in time a truly useful and noble institution. I remained an inmate of its walls, after its regeneration, for eight years, six as a pupil, and two as a teacher, and in both capacities I bear my testimony to its value and importance. During those eight years my life was uniform, but not unhappy, because it was not inactive. I had the means of an excellent education placed within my reach, a fondness for some of my studies, and a desire to excel in all, together with a great delight in pleasing my teachers. Especially such as I loved, urged me on. I availed myself fully of the advantages offered me. In time I rose to be the first girl of the first class. Then I was invested with the office of teacher, which I discharged with zeal for two years. But at the end of that time I altered. Miss Temple, through all changes, had thus far continued superintendent of the seminary. To her instruction I owed the best part of my acquirements. Her friendship and society had been my continual solace. She had stood me in the stead of mother, governess, and latterly companion. At this period she married, removed with her husband, a clergyman, an excellent man, almost worthy of such a wife, to a distant county, and consequently was lost to me. From the day she left I was no longer the same. With her was gone every settled feeling, every association that had made Lowood in some degree a home to me. I had imbibed from her something of her nature and much of her habits. More harmonious thoughts, what seemed better regulated feelings, had become the inmates of my mind. I had given an allegiance to duty and order. I was quiet. I believed I was content. To the eyes of others, usually even to my own, I appeared a disciplined and subdued character. But destiny, in the shape of the reverend Mr. Nasmith, came between me and Miss Temple. I saw her in her travelling dress step into a post-shares, shortly after the marriage ceremony. I watched the shares mount the hill and disappear beyond its brow, and then retired to my own room, and there spent in solitude the greatest part of the half-holiday granted in honour of the occasion. I walked about the chamber most of the time. I imagined myself only to be regretting my loss, and thinking how to repair it. But when my reflections were concluded, and I looked up and found that the afternoon was gone, and evening far advanced, another discovery dawned on me. Namely, that in the interval I had undergone a transforming process, that my mind had put off all it had borrowed of Miss Temple, or rather that she had taken with her the serene atmosphere I had been breathing in her vicinity, and that now I was left in my natural element, and beginning to feel the stirring of old emotions. It did not seem as if a prop were withdrawn, but rather as if a motive were gone. It was not the power to be tranquil which had failed me, but the reason for tranquillity was no more. My world had for some years been in low wood. My experience had been of its rules and systems. Now I remember that the real world was wide, and that a varied field of hopes and fears, of sensations and excitements awaited those who had courage to go forth into its expanse to seek real knowledge of life amidst its perils. I went to my window, opened it, and looked out. There were the two wings of the building. There was the garden. There were the skirts of low wood. There was the hilly horizon. My eye passed all other objects to rest on those most remote, the blue peaks. It was those I longed to surmount. All within their boundary of rock and teeth seemed prison-ground, exile-limits. I traced the white road, winding round the base of one mountain, and vanishing in a gorge between two. How I longed to follow it farther. I recalled the time when I had travelled that very road in a coach. I remembered descending that tale at twilight. An age seemed to have elapsed since the day which brought me first to low wood, and I had never quitted it since. My vacations had been all spent at school. Mrs. Reed had never sent for me to Gateshead. Neither she nor any of her family had ever been to visit me. I had had no communication by letter or message with the outer world. School rules, school duties, school habits and notions, and voices and faces and phrases and costumes, and preferences and antipathies. Such was what I knew of existence. And now I felt that it was not enough. I tired of the routine of eight years in one afternoon. I desired liberty. For liberty I gasped. For liberty I uttered a prayer. It seemed scattered on the wind, then faintly blowing. I abandoned it and framed a humbler supplication. For change, stimulus. That petition, too, seemed swept off into vague space. Then, cried I, half desperate, grant me at least a new servitude. Here a bell ringing the hour of supper called me downstairs. I was not free to resume the interrupted chain of my reflections till bedtime. Even then a teacher who occupied the same room with me kept me from the subject to which I longed to recur, by a prolonged diffusion of small talk. How I wished sleep would silence her. It seemed as if, could I but go back to the idea which had last entered my mind as I stood by the window, some inventive suggestion would rise to my relief. Miss Grice snored at last. She was a heavy Welsh woman, until now her habitual nasal strains had never been regarded by me in any other light than as a nuisance. Tonight I hailed the first deep notes with satisfaction. I was debarrassed of interruption. My half-evaced thought instantly revived. A new servitude. There is something in that. I soliloquized. Mentally, be it understood, I did not talk aloud. I know there is, because it does not sound too sweet. It is not like such words as liberty, excitement, enjoyment, delightful sounds, truly, but no more than sounds, for me, and so hollow and fleeting that it is mere waste of time to listen to them. But servitude! That must be matter of fact. Anyone may serve. I have served here eight years. Now all I want is to serve elsewhere. Can I not get so much of my own will? Is not the thing feasible? Yes. Yes, the end is not so difficult, if I had only a brain active enough to ferret out the means of attaining it. I sat up in bed by way of arousing this said brain. It was a chilly night. I covered my shoulders with a shawl, and then I proceeded to think again with all my might. What do I want? A new place, in a new house. Amongst new faces, under new circumstances. I want this, because it is of no use wanting anything better. How do people do to get a new place? They apply to friends, I suppose. I have no friends. There are many others who have no friends, who must look about for themselves and be their own helpers. And what is their resource? I could not tell. Nothing answered me. I then ordered my brain to find a response, and quickly. It worked and worked faster. I felt the pulses throb in my head into temples, but for nearly an hour it worked in chaos, and no result came of its efforts. Feverish with vain labour, I got up and took a turn in the room, undrew the curtains, noted a star or two, shivered with cold, and again crept to bed. A kind fairy in my absence had surely dropped the required suggestion on my pillow, for as I lay down it came quietly and naturally to my mind. Those who want situations advertise. You must advertise in the—blank—sheer herald. How! I know nothing about advertising. Proplies rose smooth and prompt now. You must enclose the advertisement and the money to pay for it under a cover directed to the editor of the herald. You must put it, the first opportunity you have, into the post at Lothan. Answers must be addressed to J. E. at the post office there. You can go and inquire in about a week after you send your letter, if any are come, and act accordingly. This scheme I went over twice, thrice. It was then digested in my mind. I had it in a clear, practical form. I felt satisfied, and fell asleep. With earliest day I was up. I had my advertisement written, enclosed, and directed before the bell rang to rouse the school. It ran thus. A young lady accustomed to tuition—had I not been a teacher two years—is desirous of meeting with a situation in a private family where the children are under fourteen. I thought, that as I was barely eighteen, it would not do to undertake the guidance of pupils nearer my own age. She is qualified to teach the usual branches of a good English education, together with French, drawing, and music. In those days, reader, this now narrow catalogue of accomplishments would have been held tolerably comprehensive. Address J. E. Post Office, Loten, Blankshire This document remained locked in my drawer all day. After tea, I asked Gleeve of the new superintendent to go to Loten, in order to perform some small commissions for myself and one or two of my fellow teachers. Permission was readily granted. I went. It was a walk of two miles, and the evening was wet, but the days were still long. I visited a shop or two, slipped the letter into the Post Office, and came back through heavy rain with streaming garments, but with relieved heart. The succeeding week seemed long. It came to an end at last, however, like all sublulery things, and once more towards the close of a pleasant autumn day, I found myself a foot on the road to Loten. A picturesque track it was, by the way, lying along the side of the beck, and through the sweetest curves of the dale. But that day I thought more of the letters, that might or might not be awaiting me the little burg where the wire was bound, than of the charms of Glee and water. My ostensible errand on this occasion was to get measured for a pair of shoes, so I discharged that business first, and when it was done, I stepped across the clean and quiet little street from the shoemakers to the Post Office. It was kept by an old dame, who wore horned spectacles on her nose, and black mittens on her hands. Are there any letters for J. E., I asked. She peered at me over her spectacles, and then she opened a drawer and fumbled among its contents for a long time, so long that my hopes began to falter. At last, having held a document before her glasses for nearly five minutes, she presented it across the counter, accompanying the act by another inquisitive and mistrustful glance. It was for J. E. Is there only one? I demanded. There are no more, said she, and I put it in my pocket and turned my face homeward. I could not open it then. Rules obliged me to be back by eight, and it was already half-past seven. Various duties awaited me on my arrival. I had to sit with the girls during their hour of study, then it was my turn to read prayers, to see them to bed. Afterwards I supped with the other teachers. Even when we finally retired for the night, the inevitable Miss Grice was still my companion. We had only a short end of a candle in our candlestick, and I dreaded lest she should talk till it was all burnt out. Fortunately, however, the heavy supper she had eaten produced a soporific effect. She was already snoring before I had finished undressing. There still remained an inch of candle. I now took out my letter. The seal was an initial F. I broke it. The contents were brief. If J. E., who advertised in the Blankshire Herald of last Thursday, possesses the requirements mentioned, and if she is in a position to give satisfactory references as to character and competency, a situation can be offered her where there is but one pupil, a little girl, under ten years of age, and where the salary is thirty pounds per annum. J. E. is requested to send references, name, address, and all particulars to the direction Mrs. Fairfax, Thornfield, near Milcott, Blankshire. I examined the document long. The writing was old-fashioned, and rather uncertain, like that of an elderly lady. This circumstance was satisfactory. A private fear had haunted me, that in thus acting for myself and by my own guidance, I ran the risk of getting it to some scrape. And above all things, I wished the result of my endeavours to be respectable, proper, or regular. I now felt that an elderly lady was no bad ingredient in the business I had on hand. Mrs. Fairfax! I saw her in a black gown and widow's cap, frigid perhaps, but not uncivil, a model of elderly English respectability. Thornfield. That doubtless was the name of her house—a neat orderly spot, I was sure, though I failed my efforts to conceive a correct plan of the premises. Milcott, Blankshire. I brushed up my recollections of the map of England. Yes, I saw it, both the Shire and the town. Blankshire was seventy miles nearer London than the remote county where I now resided. That was a recommendation to me. I longed to go where there was life and movement. Milcott was a large manufacturing town on the banks of the A. A busy place enough, doubtless, so much the better, it would be a complete change at least. Not that my fancy was much captivated by the idea of long chimneys and clouds of smoke, but, I argued, Thornfield will probably be a good way from the town. Here the socket of the candle dropped, and the wick went out. Next day new steps were to be taken. My plans could no longer be confined to my own breast. I must impart them in order to achieve their success. Having sought and obtained an audience of the superintendent during the noontide recreation, I told her I had a prospect of getting a new situation, where the salary would be double what I now received. For at Lowood I only got fifteen pounds per annum, and requested she would break the matter for me to Mr. Brocklehurst, or some of the committee, and ascertain whether they would permit me to mention them as references. She obligingly consented to act as mediatrix in the matter. The next day she laid the affair before Mr. Brocklehurst, who said that Mrs. Reed must be written to, as she was my natural guardian. A note was accordingly addressed to the lady, who returned for answer that, I might do as I pleased, she had long relinquished all interference in my affairs. This note went the round of the committee, and at last, afterward appeared to me most tedious delay, formally was given me to better my condition if I could, and an assurance added, that as I had always conducted myself well, both as teacher and pupil at Lowood, a testimonial of character and capacity, signed by the inspectors of that institution, should forthwith be furnished me. This testimonial I accordingly received in about a month forwarded a copy of it to Mrs. Fairfax, got that lady's reply, stating that she was satisfied, and fixing that day fortnight as the period for my assuming the post of governess in her house. I now busied myself in preparations, the fortnight passed rapidly. I had not a very large wardrobe, though it was adequate to my wants, and the last day suffice to pack my trunk, the same I had brought with me eight years ago from Gateshead. The box was corded, the card nailed on. In half an hour the carrier was to call for it to take it to Lothan, whither I myself was to repair it at an early hour the next morning to meet the coach. I had brushed my black stuff travelling-dress, prepared my bonnet, gloves, and muff, sought in all my drawers to see that no article was left behind, and now having nothing more to do, I sat down and tried to rest. I could not. Though I had been on foot all day, I could not now repose an instant, I was much too excited. A phase of my life was closing to-night, a new one opening to-morrow. Impossible to slumber in the interval, I must watch feverishly while the change was being accomplished. Miss! said a servant who met me in the lobby, where I was wandering like a troubled spirit. A person below wishes to see you. The carrier, no doubt, I thought, and ran downstairs without inquiry. I was passing the back parlor or teacher's sitting-room, the door of which was half-open, to go to the kitchen, when some one ran out. It's her, I'm sure! I could have told her anywhere!" quiet the individual who stopped my progress and took my hand. I looked. I saw a woman attired like a well-dressed servant, matronly, yet still young, very good-looking, with black hair and eyes and lively complexion. Well, who is it? she asked, in a voice, and with a smile I have recognized. You've not quite forgotten me, I think, Miss Jane. In another second I was embracing and kissing her rapturously. Bessie! Bessie! Bessie! That was all I said. We're actually half laughed, half cried, and we both went into the parlor, by the fiest of little fellow of three years old, in plaid frock and trousers. That is my little boy, said Bessie directly. Then you are married, Bessie? Yes, nearly five years since to Robert Levin, the coachman, and I have a little girl besides Bobby there, that I've christened Jane. And you don't live at Gateshead? I live at the lodge. The old porter is left. Well, and how do they all get on? Tell me everything about them, Bessie. But sit down first, and Bobby comes at my knee, will you? But Bobby preferred sidling over to his mother. You're not grown so very tall, Miss Jane, nor so very stout—continued Mrs. Levin. I daresay they've not kept you too well at school. Miss Reed is the head and shoulders taller than you are, and Miss Georgiana would make two of you in breath. Georgiana is handsome, I suppose, Bessie. Very. She went up to London last winter with her mamma, and there everybody admired her, and a young lord fell in love with her. But his relations were against the match, and what do you think? He and Miss Georgiana made it up to run away, but they were found out and stopped. It was Miss Reed that found them out. I believe she was envious, and now she and her sister lead a cat and dog life together. They are always quarrelling. Well, and what of John Reed? Oh, he is not doing so well as his mother could wish. He went to college, and he got—plucked, I think they call it—and then his uncles wanted him to be a barrister and study the law, but he is such dissipated young man they will never make much of him, I think. What does he look like? He is very tall. Some people call him a fine-looking young man, but he is such thick lips. And Mrs. Reed. Mrs. looks stout and well enough in the face, but I think she is not quite easy in her mind. Mr. John's conduct does not please her. He spends a great deal of money. Did she send you here, Bessie? No, indeed. But I have long wanted to see you, and when I heard that there had been a letter from you and that you were going to another part of the country, I thought I'd just set off and get a look at you before you were quite out of my reach. I am afraid you are disappointed in me, Bessie. I said this, laughing. I perceived that Bessie's glance, though it expressed regard, did in no shape denote admiration. No, Miss Jane, not exactly. You are genteel enough, you look like a lady, and it is as much as I ever expected of you. You know beauty as a child." I smiled at Bessie's frank answer. I felt that it was correct, but I confess I was not quite indifferent to its import. At eighteen most people wished to please, and the conviction that they have not an exterior likely to second that desire brings anything but gratification. I dare say you are clever, though, continued Bessie, by way of solace. What can you do? Can you play on the piano? A little. There was one in the room. Bessie went and opened it, and then asked me to sit down and give her a tune. I played a waltz or two, and she was charmed. The Miss Reeds could not play as well, said she exultingly. I always said you would surpass them in learning, and can you draw? That is one of my paintings over the chimney-piece. It was a landscape in water-colours, of which I had made a present to the superintendent, in acknowledgment of her obliging mediation with the committee on my behalf, and which she had framed and glazed. Well, that is beautiful, Miss Jane. It is as fine a picture as any Miss Reeds drawing Master could paint, let alone the young ladies themselves, who could not come near it. And have you learnt French? Yes, Bessie, I can both read it and speak it. And you can work on muslin in canvas? I can. Oh, you are quite a lady, Miss Jane. I know you would be. You will get on whether your relations notice you or not. There was something I wanted to ask you. Have you ever heard anything from your father's kinsfolk, the heirs? Never in my life. Well, you know Mrs. always said they were poor and quite despicable. And they may be poor, but I believe they are as much gentry as the Reeds are. For one day, nearly seven years ago, a Mr. Heir came to Gateshead and wanted to see you. Mrs. said she were at school fifty miles off. He seemed so much disappointed, for he could not stay. He was going on a voyage to a foreign country, and the ship was to sail from London in a day or two. He looked quite a gentleman, and I believe he was your father's brother. What foreign country was he going to, Bessie? And Ireland, thousands of miles off, for they make wine. The butler did tell me. Madeira? I suggested. Yes, that is it, the very word. So he went. Yes, he did not stay many minutes in the house. Mrs. was very high with him. She called him afterwards a sneaking tradesman. My Robert believes he was a wine-merchant. Very likely, I have returned, or perhaps Clark or Agent to a wine-merchant. Bessie and I conversed about old times an hour longer, and then she was obliged to leave me. I saw her again for a few minutes the next morning at Lowton, while I was waiting for the coach. We parted finally at the door of the Brocklehurst arms there. Each went a separate way. She set off for the brow of Lowwood fell to meet the conveyance, which was to take her back to Gateshead. I mounted the vehicle which was to bear me to new duties, and a new life, in the unknown environs of Milkit.