Advanced_Jane Eyre_3

CHAPTER III

Thenext thing I remember is, waking up with a feeling as if I had had a frightfulnightmare, and seeing before me a terrible red glare, crossed with thick blackbars. I heard voices, too, speaking with a hollow sound, and as if muffled by arush of wind or water: agitation, uncertainty, and an all-predominating senseof terror confused my faculties. Ere long, I became aware that some one washandling me; lifting me up and supporting me in a sitting posture, and thatmore tenderly than I had ever been raised or upheld before. I rested my headagainst a pillow or an arm, and felt easy.

Infive minutes more the cloud of bewilderment dissolved: I knew quite well that Iwas in my own bed, and that the red glare was the nursery fire. It was night: acandle burnt on the table; Bessie stood at the bed-foot with a basin in her hand,and a gentleman sat in a chair near my pillow, leaning over me.

Ifelt an inexpressible relief, a soothing conviction of protection and security,when I knew that there was a stranger in the room, an individual not belongingto Gateshead, and not related to Mrs. Reed. Turning from Bessie (though herpresence was far less obnoxious to me than that of Abbot, for instance, wouldhave been), I scrutinised the face of the gentleman: I knew him; it was Mr.Lloyd, an apothecary, sometimes called in by Mrs. Reed when the servants wereailing: for herself and the children she employed a physician.

"Well,who am I?" he asked.

Ipronounced his name, offering him at the same time my hand: he took it, smilingand saying, "We shall do very well by-and-by." Then he laid me down,and addressing Bessie, charged her to be very careful that I was not disturbedduring the night. Having given some further directions, and intimates that heshould call again the next day, he departed; to my grief: I felt so shelteredand befriended while he sat in the chair near my pillow; and as he closed thedoor after him, all the room darkened and my heart again sank: inexpressiblesadness weighed it down.

"Doyou feel as if you should sleep, Miss?" asked Bessie, rather softly.

Scarcelydared I answer her; for I feared the next sentence might be rough. "I willtry."

"Wouldyou like to drink, or could you eat anything?"

"No,thank you, Bessie."

"ThenI think I shall go to bed, for it is past twelve o'clock; but you may call meif you want anything in the night."

Wonderfulcivility this! It emboldened me to ask a question.

"Bessie,what is the matter with me? Am I ill?"

"Youfell sick, I suppose, in the red-room with crying; you'll be better soon, nodoubt."

Bessiewent into the housemaid's apartment, which was near. I heard her say—

"Sarah,come and sleep with me in the nursery; I daren't for my life be alone with thatpoor child to-night: she might die; it's such a strange thing she should havethat fit: I wonder if she saw anything. Missis was rather too hard."

Sarahcame back with her; they both went to bed; they were whispering together forhalf-an-hour before they fell asleep. I caught scraps of their conversation,from which I was able only too distinctly to infer the main subject discussed.

"Somethingpassed her, all dressed in white, and vanished"—"A great black dogbehind him"—"Three loud raps on the chamber door"—"A lightin the churchyard just over his grave," &c. &c.

Atlast both slept: the fire and the candle went out. For me, the watches of thatlong night passed in ghastly wakefulness; strained by dread: such dread aschildren only can feel.

Nosevere or prolonged bodily illness followed this incident of the red-room; itonly gave my nerves a shock of which I feel the reverberation to this day. Yes,Mrs. Reed, to you I owe some fearful pangs of mental suffering, but I ought toforgive you, for you knew not what you did: while rending my heart-strings, youthought you were only uprooting my bad propensities.

Nextday, by noon, I was up and dressed, and sat wrapped in a shawl by the nurseryhearth. I felt physically weak and broken down: but my worse ailment was anunutterable wretchedness of mind: a wretchedness which kept drawing from mesilent tears; no sooner had I wiped one salt drop from my cheek than anotherfollowed. Yet, I thought, I ought to have been happy, for none of the Reedswere there, they were all gone out in the carriage with their mama. Abbot, too,was sewing in another room, and Bessie, as she moved hither and thither,putting away toys and arranging drawers, addressed to me every now and then aword of unwonted kindness. This state of things should have been to me aparadise of peace, accustomed as I was to a life of ceaseless reprimand andthankless fagging; but, in fact, my racked nerves were now in such a state thatno calm could soothe, and no pleasure excite them agreeably.

Bessiehad been down into the kitchen, and she brought up with her a tart on a certainbrightly painted china plate, whose bird of paradise, nestling in a wreath ofconvolvuli and rosebuds, had been wont to stir in me a most enthusiastic senseof admiration; and which plate I had often petitioned to be allowed to take inmy hand in order to examine it more closely, but had always hitherto beendeemed unworthy of such a privilege. This precious vessel was now placed on myknee, and I was cordially invited to eat the circlet of delicate pastry uponit. Vain favour! coming, like most other favours long deferred and often wishedfor, too late! I could not eat the tart; and the plumage of the bird, the tintsof the flowers, seemed strangely faded: I put both plate and tart away. Bessieasked if I would have a book: the word book acted as atransient stimulus, and I begged her to fetch Gulliver's Travels from thelibrary. This book I had again and again perused with delight. I considered ita narrative of facts, and discovered in it a vein of interest deeper than whatI found in fairy tales: for as to the elves, having sought them in vain amongfoxglove leaves and bells, under mushrooms and beneath the ground-ivy mantlingold wall-nooks, I had at length made up my mind to the sad truth, that theywere all gone out of England to some savage country where the woods were wilderand thicker, and the population more scant; whereas, Lilliput and Brobdingnagbeing, in my creed, solid parts of the earth's surface, I doubted not that Imight one day, by taking a long voyage, see with my own eyes the little fields,houses, and trees, the diminutive people, the tiny cows, sheep, and birds ofthe one realm; and the corn-fields forest-high, the mighty mastiffs, themonster cats, the tower-like men and women, of the other. Yet, when thischerished volume was now placed in my hand—when I turned over its leaves, andsought in its marvellous pictures the charm I had, till now, never failed tofind—all was eerie and dreary; the giants were gaunt goblins, the pigmiesmalevolent and fearful imps, Gulliver a most desolate wanderer in most dreadand dangerous regions. I closed the book, which I dared no longer peruse, andput it on the table, beside the untasted tart.

Bessiehad now finished dusting and tidying the room, and having washed her hands, sheopened a certain little drawer, full of splendid shreds of silk and satin, andbegan making a new bonnet for Georgiana's doll. Meantime she sang: her songwas—

"In the days when we went gipsying,
A long time ago."

Ihad often heard the song before, and always with lively delight; for Bessie hada sweet voice,—at least, I thought so. But now, though her voice was stillsweet, I found in its melody an indescribable sadness. Sometimes, preoccupiedwith her work, she sang the refrain very low, very lingeringly; "A longtime ago" came out like the saddest cadence of a funeral hymn. She passedinto another ballad, this time a really doleful one.

"My feet they are sore, and my limbs they are weary;
Long is the way, and the mountains are wild;
Soon will the twilight close moonless and dreary
Over the path of the poor orphan child.

Why did they send me so far and so lonely,
Up where the moors spread and grey rocks are piled?
Men are hard-hearted, and kind angels only
Watch o'er the steps of a poor orphan child.

Yet distant and soft the night breeze is blowing,
Clouds there are none, and clear stars beam mild,
God, in His mercy, protection is showing,
Comfort and hope to the poor orphan child.

Ev'n should I fall o'er the broken bridge passing,
Or stray in the marshes, by false lights beguiled,
Still will my Father, with promise and blessing,
Take to His bosom the poor orphan child.

There is a thought that for strength should avail me,
Though both of shelter and kindred despoiled;
Heaven is a home, and a rest will not fail me;
God is a friend to the poor orphan child."

"Come,Miss Jane, don't cry," said Bessie as she finished. She might as well havesaid to the fire, "don't burn!" but how could she divine the morbidsuffering to which I was a prey? In the course of the morning Mr. Lloyd cameagain.

"What,already up!" said he, as he entered the nursery. "Well, nurse, how isshe?"

Bessieanswered that I was doing very well.

"Thenshe ought to look more cheerful. Come here, Miss Jane: your name is Jane, is itnot?"

"Yes,sir, Jane Eyre."

"Well,you have been crying, Miss Jane Eyre; can you tell me what about? Have you anypain?"

"No,sir."

"Oh!I daresay she is crying because she could not go out with Missis in thecarriage," interposed Bessie.

"Surelynot! why, she is too old for such pettishness."

Ithought so too; and my self-esteem being wounded by the false charge, Ianswered promptly, "I never cried for such a thing in my life: I hategoing out in the carriage. I cry because I am miserable."

"Ohfie, Miss!" said Bessie.

Thegood apothecary appeared a little puzzled. I was standing before him; he fixedhis eyes on me very steadily: his eyes were small and grey; not very bright,but I dare say I should think them shrewd now: he had a hard-featured yetgood-natured looking face. Having considered me at leisure, he said—

"Whatmade you ill yesterday?"

"Shehad a fall," said Bessie, again putting in her word.

"Fall!why, that is like a baby again! Can't she manage to walk at her age? She mustbe eight or nine years old."

"Iwas knocked down," was the blunt explanation, jerked out of me by anotherpang of mortified pride; "but that did not make me ill," I added;while Mr. Lloyd helped himself to a pinch of snuff.

Ashe was returning the box to his waistcoat pocket, a loud bell rang for theservants' dinner; he knew what it was. "That's for you, nurse," saidhe; "you can go down; I'll give Miss Jane a lecture till you comeback."

Bessiewould rather have stayed, but she was obliged to go, because punctuality atmeals was rigidly enforced at Gateshead Hall.

"Thefall did not make you ill; what did, then?" pursued Mr. Lloyd when Bessiewas gone.

"Iwas shut up in a room where there is a ghost till after dark."

Isaw Mr. Lloyd smile and frown at the same time.

"Ghost!What, you are a baby after all! You are afraid of ghosts?"

"OfMr. Reed's ghost I am: he died in that room, and was laid out there. NeitherBessie nor any one else will go into it at night, if they can help it; and itwas cruel to shut me up alone without a candle,—so cruel that I think I shallnever forget it."

"Nonsense!And is it that makes you so miserable? Are you afraid now in daylight?"

"No:but night will come again before long: and besides,—I am unhappy,—very unhappy,for other things."

"Whatother things? Can you tell me some of them?"

Howmuch I wished to reply fully to this question! How difficult it was to frameany answer! Children can feel, but they cannot analyse their feelings; and ifthe analysis is partially effected in thought, they know not how to express theresult of the process in words. Fearful, however, of losing this first and onlyopportunity of relieving my grief by imparting it, I, after a disturbed pause,contrived to frame a meagre, though, as far as it went, true response.

"Forone thing, I have no father or mother, brothers or sisters."

"Youhave a kind aunt and cousins."

AgainI paused; then bunglingly enounced—

"ButJohn Reed knocked me down, and my aunt shut me up in the red-room."

Mr.Lloyd a second time produced his snuff-box.

"Don'tyou think Gateshead Hall a very beautiful house?" asked he. "Are younot very thankful to have such a fine place to live at?"

"Itis not my house, sir; and Abbot says I have less right to be here than aservant."

"Pooh!you can't be silly enough to wish to leave such a splendid place?"

"IfI had anywhere else to go, I should be glad to leave it; but I can never getaway from Gateshead till I am a woman."

"Perhapsyou may—who knows? Have you any relations besides Mrs. Reed?"

"Ithink not, sir."

"Nonebelonging to your father?"

"Idon't know. I asked Aunt Reed once, and she said possibly I might have somepoor, low relations called Eyre, but she knew nothing about them."

"Ifyou had such, would you like to go to them?"

Ireflected. Poverty looks grim to grown people; still more so to children: theyhave not much idea of industrious, working, respectable poverty; they think ofthe word only as connected with ragged clothes, scanty food, fireless grates,rude manners, and debasing vices: poverty for me was synonymous withdegradation.

"No;I should not like to belong to poor people," was my reply.

"Noteven if they were kind to you?"

Ishook my head: I could not see how poor people had the means of being kind; andthen to learn to speak like them, to adopt their manners, to be uneducated, togrow up like one of the poor women I saw sometimes nursing their children orwashing their clothes at the cottage doors of the village of Gateshead: no, Iwas not heroic enough to purchase liberty at the price of caste.

"Butare your relatives so very poor? Are they working people?"

"Icannot tell; Aunt Reed says if I have any, they must be a beggarly set: Ishould not like to go a begging."

"Wouldyou like to go to school?"

AgainI reflected: I scarcely knew what school was: Bessie sometimes spoke of it as aplace where young ladies sat in the stocks, wore backboards, and were expectedto be exceedingly genteel and precise: John Reed hated his school, and abusedhis master; but John Reed's tastes were no rule for mine, and if Bessie'saccounts of school-discipline (gathered from the young ladies of a family whereshe had lived before coming to Gateshead) were somewhat appalling, her detailsof certain accomplishments attained by these same young ladies were, I thought,equally attractive. She boasted of beautiful paintings of landscapes andflowers by them executed; of songs they could sing and pieces they could play,of purses they could net, of French books they could translate; till my spiritwas moved to emulation as I listened. Besides, school would be a completechange: it implied a long journey, an entire separation from Gateshead, anentrance into a new life.

"Ishould indeed like to go to school," was the audible conclusion of mymusings.

"Well,well! who knows what may happen?" said Mr. Lloyd, as he got up. "Thechild ought to have change of air and scene," he added, speaking tohimself; "nerves not in a good state."

Bessienow returned; at the same moment the carriage was heard rolling up thegravel-walk.

"Isthat your mistress, nurse?" asked Mr. Lloyd. "I should like to speakto her before I go."

Bessieinvited him to walk into the breakfast-room, and led the way out. In theinterview which followed between him and Mrs. Reed, I presume, fromafter-occurrences, that the apothecary ventured to recommend my being sent toschool; and the recommendation was no doubt readily enough adopted; for as Abbotsaid, in discussing the subject with Bessie when both sat sewing in the nurseryone night, after I was in bed, and, as they thought, asleep, "Missis was,she dared say, glad enough to get rid of such a tiresome, ill-conditionedchild, who always looked as if she were watching everybody, and scheming plotsunderhand." Abbot, I think, gave me credit for being a sort of infantineGuy Fawkes.

Onthat same occasion I learned, for the first time, from Miss Abbot'scommunications to Bessie, that my father had been a poor clergyman; that mymother had married him against the wishes of her friends, who considered thematch beneath her; that my grandfather Reed was so irritated at herdisobedience, he cut her off without a shilling; that after my mother and fatherhad been married a year, the latter caught the typhus fever while visitingamong the poor of a large manufacturing town where his curacy was situated, andwhere that disease was then prevalent: that my mother took the infection fromhim, and both died within a month of each other.

Bessie,when she heard this narrative, sighed and said, "Poor Miss Jane is to bepitied, too, Abbot."

"Yes,"responded Abbot; "if she were a nice, pretty child, one mightcompassionate her forlornness; but one really cannot care for such a littletoad as that."

"Nota great deal, to be sure," agreed Bessie: "at any rate, a beauty likeMiss Georgiana would be more moving in the same condition."

"Yes,I doat on Miss Georgiana!" cried the fervent Abbot. "Littledarling!—with her long curls and her blue eyes, and such a sweet colour as shehas; just as if she were painted!—Bessie, I could fancy a Welsh rabbit forsupper."

"Socould I—with a roast onion. Come, we'll go down." They went.