JANE EYRE
PART 7
CHAPTER IX
But the
privations, or rather the hardships, of Lowood 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 verdure 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 “ing” and holm till they blended with the frozen
fog of the beck! That beck itself was then a torrent, turbid 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 vigour; Lowood 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 lustre. 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 site 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 Lowood lay, was the cradle of fog and fog-bred pestilence;
which, quickening with the quickening spring, crept into the Orphan Asylum,
breathed typhus through its crowded schoolroom and dormitory, and, ere May
arrived, transformed the seminary into an 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 license; 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.
While
disease had thus become an inhabitant of Lowood, 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 pastille striving
vainly to overcome the effluvia of mortality, that bright May shone unclouded
over the bold hills and beautiful woodland out of doors. Its garden, too,
glowed with flowers: hollyhocks had sprung up tall as 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 sweetbriars gave out, morning and
evening, their scent of spice and apples; and these fragrant treasures were all
useless for most of the inmates of Lowood, 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 gipsies, 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 Lowood now: household matters were
not scrutinised 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 often happened, 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 Mary Ann
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 rein 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 Mary Ann 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 a defective 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-humour 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 verandah.
One
evening, in the beginning of June, I had stayed out very late with Mary Ann 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
fed on the mast in the wood. When we got back, it was after moonrise: a
pony, which we knew to be the surgeon’s, was standing at the garden door.
Mary Ann remarked that she supposed some one 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 smelt 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 is
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
she’ll not be here long.”
This
phrase, uttered in my hearing yesterday, would have only conveyed the notion
that she was about to be removed to 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 wrapt 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 odour of camphor and burnt vinegar warned me when I came near the fever
room: and I passed its door quickly, fearful lest 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 the door
slightly ajar; probably to admit some fresh air into the close abode 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 eye
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
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 on to
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 are
you come here, Jane? It is past eleven o’clock: I heard it strike some
minutes 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—
“How
comfortable I am! That last fit 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 Burns’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 “Resurgam.”
CHAPTER X
Hitherto 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 her 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. Inquiry 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 pupils’ 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 intrusted to the management of a 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 sympathising 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 pupil, and two as teacher; and in both capacities I bear my testimony to its
value and importance.
During
these 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 in 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 Rev. Mr. Nasmyth, came between me and Miss Temple:
I saw her in her travelling dress step into a post-chaise, shortly after the
marriage ceremony; I watched the chaise 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 Lowood: my
experience had been of its rules and systems; now I remembered 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 Lowood; 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 heath 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 hill at
twilight; an age seemed to have elapsed since the day which brought me first to
Lowood, and I had never quitted it since. My vacations had all been 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,” I cried, 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 effusion 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 at the window, some inventive
suggestion would rise for my relief.
Miss Gryce
snored at last; she was a heavy Welshwoman, and till now her habitual nasal
strains had never been regarded by me in any other light than as a nuisance;
to-night I hailed the first deep notes with satisfaction; I was debarrassed of
interruption; my half-effaced thought instantly revived.
“A new
servitude! There is something in that,” I soliloquised (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. Any one 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
and 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 curtain, 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 ---shire Herald.”
“How?
I know nothing about advertising.”
Replies
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 Lowton; 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, Lowton, ---shire.”
This
document remained locked in my drawer all day: after tea, I asked leave of the
new superintendent to go to Lowton, 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 a relieved heart.
The
succeeding week seemed long: it came to an end at last, however, like all
sublunary things, and once more, towards the close of a pleasant autumn day, I
found myself afoot on the road to Lowton. 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 at the little burgh whither I was bound, than of the charms of lea
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 shoemaker’s to the post-office: it was
kept by an old dame, who wore horn 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 Gryce was still my companion: we had only a
short end of 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 ---shire Herald of last Thursday, possesses the
acquirements 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 Millcote, ---shire.”
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 into some scrape; and, above all things, I wished the
result of my endeavours to be respectable, proper, en règle. 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 in my efforts to conceive a
correct plan of the premises. Millcote, ---shire; I brushed up my
recollections of the map of England, yes, I saw it; both the shire and the
town. ---shire 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: Millcote 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 £15 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 that 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, after
what appeared to me most tedious delay, formal leave 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, and 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
sufficed 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 Lowton, whither I myself was to repair 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 too much 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-parlour or teachers’ sitting-room, the door of which was half
open, to go to the kitchen, when some one ran out—
“It’s her,
I am sure!—I could have told her anywhere!” cried 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 half recognised; “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; whereat she half laughed, half
cried, and we both went into the parlour. By the fire stood a 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 Leaven, the coachman; and I’ve 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 has left.”
“Well, and
how do they all get on? Tell me everything about them, Bessie: but sit
down first; and, Bobby, come and sit on 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.
Leaven. “I dare say 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 breadth.”
“Georgiana
is handsome, I suppose, Bessie?”
“Very.
She went up to London last winter with her mama, 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 mama 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 a 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 has such thick
lips.”
“And Mrs.
Reed?”
“Missis
looks stout and well enough in the face, but I think she’s not quite easy in
her mind: Mr. John’s conduct does not please her—he spends a 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 ever I expected of you: you were no 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 wish 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 Reed’s
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 and canvas?”
“I can.”
“Oh, you
are quite a lady, Miss Jane! I knew 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 Eyres?”
“Never in
my life.”
“Well, you
know Missis 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. Eyre came to Gateshead and wanted to see you; Missis
said you 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?”
“An island
thousands of miles off, where they make wine—the butler did tell me—”
“Madeira?”
I suggested.
“Yes, that
is it—that is the very word.”
“So he
went?”
“Yes; he
did not stay many minutes in the house: Missis was very high with him; she
called him afterwards a ‘sneaking tradesman.’ My Robert believes he was a
wine-merchant.”
“Very
likely,” I returned; “or perhaps clerk 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 her separate way; she set off for the brow of Lowood 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 Millcote.
To be
continued
