Jane Eyre (5 page)

From this window were visible the porter’s lodge and the carriage-road, and just as I had dissolved so much of the silver-white foliage veiling the panes as left room to look out, I saw the gates thrown open and a carriage roll through. I watched it ascending the drive with indifference. Carriages often came to Gateshead, but none ever brought visitors in whom I was interested. It stopped in front of the house, the door-bell rang loudly, the new-comer was admitted. All this being nothing to me, my vacant attention soon found livelier attraction in the spectacle of a little hungry robin, which came and chirruped on the twigs of the leafless cherry tree nailed against the wall near the casement. The remains of my breakfast of bread and milk stood on the table, and having crumbled a morsel of roll, I was tugging at the sash to put out the crumbs on the window sill, when Bessie came running upstairs into the nursery.

“Miss Jane, take off your pinafore, what are you doing there? Have you washed your hands and face this morning?” I gave another tug before I answered, for I wanted the bird to be secure of its bread, the sash yielded. I scattered the crumbs, some on the stone sill, some on the cherry tree bough, then, closing the window, I replied, “No, Bessie. I have only just finished dusting.”

“Troublesome, careless child! And what are you doing now? You look quite red, as if you had been about some mischief, what were you opening the window for?”

I was spared the trouble of answering, for Bessie seemed in too great a hurry to listen to explanations. She hauled me to the washstand, inflicted a merciless, but happily brief scrub on my face and hands with soap, water, and a coarse towel, disciplined my head with a bristly brush, denuded me of my pinafore, and then hurrying me to the top of the stairs, bid me go down directly, as I was wanted in the breakfast room.

I would have asked who wanted me. I would have demanded if Mrs Reed was there; but Bessie was already gone, and had closed the nursery door upon me. I slowly descended. For nearly three months, I had never been called to Mrs Reed’s presence, restricted so long to the nursery, the breakfast, dining, and drawing rooms were become for me awful regions, on which it dismayed me to intrude.

I now stood in the empty hall—before me was the breakfast room door, and I stopped, intimidated and trembling. What a miserable little poltroon had fear, engendered of unjust punishment, made of me in those days! I feared to return to the nursery, and feared to go forward to the parlour. Ten minutes I stood in agitated hesitation, the vehement ringing of the breakfast room bell decided me. I
must
enter.

“Who could want me?” I asked inwardly, as with both hands I turned the stiff door-handle, which, for a second or two, resisted my efforts. “What should I see besides Aunt Reed in the apartment?—a man or a woman?” The handle turned, the door unclosed, and passing through and curtseying low, I looked up at—a black pillar!—such, at least, appeared to me, at first sight, the straight, narrow, sable-clad shape standing erect on the rug. The grim face at the top was like a carved mask, placed above the shaft by way of capital.

Mrs Reed occupied her usual seat by the fireside. She made a signal to me to approach. I did so, and she introduced me to the stony stranger with the words, “This is the little girl respecting whom I applied to you.”

He
, for it was a man, turned his head slowly towards where I stood, and having examined me with the two inquisitive-looking grey eyes which twinkled under a pair of bushy brows, said solemnly, and in a bass voice, “Her size is small, what is her age?”

“Ten years.”

“So much?” was the doubtful answer and he prolonged his scrutiny for some minutes. Presently he addressed me,“Your name, little girl?”

“Jane Eyre, sir.”

In uttering these words I looked up. He seemed to me a tall gentleman, but then I was very little. His features were large, and they and all the lines of his frame were equally harsh and prim.

“Well, Jane Eyre, and are you a good child?”

Impossible to reply to this in the affirmative, my little world held a contrary opinion. I was silent. Mrs Reed answered for me by an expressive shake of the head, adding soon, “Perhaps the less said on that subject the better, Mr Brocklehurst.”

“Sorry indeed to hear it! She and I must have some talk,” and bending from the perpendicular, he installed his person in the arm chair opposite Mrs Reed’s. “Come here,” he said.

I stepped across the rug. He placed me square and straight before him. What a face he had, now that it was almost on a level with mine! What a great nose! And what a mouth! And what large prominent teeth!

“No sight so sad as that of a naughty child,” he began, “especially a naughty little girl. Do you know where the wicked go after death?”

“They go to hell,” was my ready and orthodox answer.

“And what is hell? Can you tell me that?”

“A pit full of fire.”

“And should you like to fall into that pit, and to be burning there forever?”

“No, sir.”

“What must you do to avoid it?”

I deliberated a moment. My answer, when it did come, was objectionable, “I must keep in good health, and not die.”

“How can you keep in good health? Children younger than you die daily. I buried a little child of five years old only a day or two since—a good little child, whose soul is now in heaven. It is to be feared the same could not be said of you were you to be called hence.”

Not being in a condition to remove his doubt, I only cast my eyes down on the two large feet planted on the rug, and sighed, wishing myself far enough away.

“I hope that sigh is from the heart, and that you repent of ever having been the occasion of discomfort to your excellent benefactress.”

Benefactress! benefactress!
said I inwardly,
they all call Mrs Reed my benefactress; if so, a benefactress is a disagreeable thing.

“Do you say your prayers night and morning?” continued my interrogator.

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you read your Bible?”

“Sometimes.”

“With pleasure? Are you fond of it?”

“I like Revelations, and the book of Daniel, and Genesis and Samuel, and a little bit of Exodus, and some parts of Kings and Chronicles, and Job and Jonah.”

“And the Psalms? I hope you like them?”

“No, sir.”

“No? Oh, shocking! I have a little boy, younger than you, who knows six Psalms by heart, and when you ask him which he would rather have, a gingerbread-nut to eat or a verse of a Psalm to learn, he says, ‘Oh! The verse of a Psalm! Angels sing Psalms,’ says he, ‘I wish to be a little angel here below,’ he then gets two nuts in recompense for his infant piety.”

“Psalms are not interesting,” I remarked.

“That proves you have a wicked heart and you must pray to God to change it, to give you a new and clean one, to take away your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh.”

I was about to propound a question, touching the manner in which that operation of changing my heart was to be performed, when Mrs Reed interposed, telling me to sit down. She then proceeded to carry on the conversation herself.

“Mr Brocklehurst, I believe I intimated in the letter which I wrote to you three weeks ago, that this little girl has not quite the character and disposition I could wish. Should you admit her into Lowood school, I should be glad if the superintendent and teachers were requested to keep a strict eye on her, and, above all, to guard against her worst fault, a tendency to deceit. I mention this in your hearing, Jane, that you may not attempt to impose on Mr Brocklehurst.”

Well might I dread, well might I dislike Mrs Reed, for it was her nature to wound me cruelly. Never was I happy in her presence, however carefully I obeyed, however strenuously I strove to please her, my efforts were still repulsed and repaid by such sentences as the above. Now, uttered before a stranger, the accusation cut me to the heart. I dimly perceived that she was already obliterating hope from the new phase of existence which she destined me to enter. I felt, though I could not have expressed the feeling, that she was sowing aversion and unkindness along my future path. I saw myself transformed under Mr Brocklehurst’s eye into an artful, noxious child, and what could I do to remedy the injury?

Nothing, indeed
, thought I, as I struggled to repress a sob, and hastily wiped away some tears, the impotent evidences of my anguish.

“Deceit is, indeed, a sad fault in a child,” said Mr Brocklehurst, “it is akin to falsehood, and all liars will have their portion in the lake burning with fire and brimstone. She shall, however, be watched, Mrs Reed. I will speak to Miss Temple and the teachers.”

“I should wish her to be brought up in a manner suiting her prospects,” continued my benefactress, “to be made useful, to be kept humble, as for the vacations, she will, with your permission, spend them always at Lowood.”

“Your decisions are perfectly judicious, madam,” returned Mr Brocklehurst. “Humility is a Christian grace, and one peculiarly appropriate to the pupils of Lowood. I, therefore, direct that especial care shall be bestowed on its cultivation amongst them. I have studied how best to mortify in them the worldly sentiment of pride, and only the other day, I had a pleasing proof of my success. My second daughter, Augusta, went with her mama to visit the school, and on her return she exclaimed, ‘Oh, dear papa, how quiet and plain all the girls at Lowood look, with their hair combed behind their ears, and their long pinafores, and those little holland pockets outside their frocks—they are almost like poor people’s children! And,’ said she, ‘they looked at my dress and Mama’s, as if they had never seen a silk gown before.’”

“This is the state of things I quite approve,” returned Mrs Reed, “had I sought all England over, I could scarcely have found a system more exactly fitting a child like Jane Eyre. Consistency, my dear Mr Brocklehurst. I advocate consistency in all things.”

“Consistency, madam, is the first of Christian duties and it has been observed in every arrangement connected with the establishment of Lowood, plain fare, simple attire, unsophisticated accommodations, hardy and active habits. Such is the order of the day in the house and its inhabitants.”

“Quite right, sir. I may then depend upon this child being received as a pupil at Lowood, and there being trained in conformity to her position and prospects?”

“Madam, you may. She shall be placed in that nursery of chosen plants, and I trust she will show herself grateful for the inestimable privilege of her election.”

“I will send her, then, as soon as possible, Mr Brocklehurst, for, I assure you, I feel anxious to be relieved of a responsibility that was becoming too irksome.”

“No doubt, no doubt, madam; and now I wish you good morning. I shall return to Brocklehurst Hall in the course of a week or two, my good friend, the Archdeacon, will not permit me to leave him sooner. I shall send Miss Temple notice that she is to expect a new girl, so that there will be no difficulty about receiving her. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye, Mr Brocklehurst, remember me to Mrs and Miss Brocklehurst, and to Augusta and Theodore, and Master Broughton Brocklehurst.”

“I will, madam. Little girl, here is a book entitled the ‘Child’s Guide’, read it with prayer, especially that part containing ‘An account of the awfully sudden death of Martha G, a naughty child addicted to falsehood and deceit.’”

With these words Mr Brocklehurst put into my hand a thin pamphlet sewn in a cover, and having rung for his carriage, he departed.

Mrs Reed and I were left alone. Some minutes passed in silence—she was sewing, I was watching her. Mrs Reed might be at that time some six or seven and thirty. She was a woman of robust frame, square-shouldered and strong limbed, not tall, and, though stout, not obese. She had a somewhat large face, the under jaw being much developed and very solid. Her brow was low, her chin large and prominent, mouth and nose sufficiently regular. Under her light eyebrows glimmered an eye devoid of ruth. Her skin was dark and opaque, her hair nearly flaxen, her constitution was sound as a bell—illness never came near her. She was an exact, clever manager, her household and tenantry were thoroughly under her control, her children only at times defied her authority and laughed it to scorn. She dressed well, and had a presence and port calculated to set off handsome attire.

Sitting on a low stool, a few yards from her arm chair, I examined her figure. I perused her features. In my hand I held the tract containing the sudden death of the liar, to which narrative my attention had been pointed as to an appropriate warning. What had just passed—what Mrs Reed had said concerning me to Mr Brocklehurst—the whole tenor of their conversation, was recent, raw, and stinging in my mind. I had felt every word as acutely as I had heard it plainly, and a passion of resentment fomented now within me.

Mrs Reed looked up from her work, her eye settled on mine, her fingers at the same time suspended their nimble movements.

“Go out of the room, return to the nursery,” was her mandate. My look or something else must have struck her as offensive, for she spoke with extreme though suppressed irritation. I got up, I went to the door. I came back again. I walked to the window, across the room, then close up to her.

Speak
I must. I had been trodden on severely, and
must
turn, but how? What strength had I to dart retaliation at my antagonist? I gathered my energies and launched them in this blunt sentence, “I am not deceitful, if I were, I should say I loved you. But I declare I do not love you, I dislike you the worst of anybody in the world except John Reed; and this book about the liar, you may give to your girl, Georgiana, for it is she who tells lies, and not I.”

Mrs Reed’s hands still lay on her work inactive, her eye of ice continued to dwell freezingly on mine.

“What more have you to say?” she asked, rather in the tone in which a person might address an opponent of adult age than such as is ordinarily used to a child.

That eye of hers, that voice stirred every antipathy I had. Shaking from head to foot, thrilled with ungovernable excitement, I continued, “I am glad you are no relation of mine. I will never call you aunt again as long as I live. I will never come to see you when I am grown up and if anyone asks me how I liked you, and how you treated me, I will say the very thought of you makes me sick, and that you treated me with miserable cruelty.”