then?'
'Yes, sir; early.'
'Shall you come down to the drawing-room after dinner?'
'No, sir, I must prepare for the journey.'
'Then you and I must bid good-bye for a little while?'
'I suppose so, sir.'
'And how do people perform that ceremony of parting, Jane? Teach
me; I'm not quite up to it.'
'They say, Farewell, or any other form they prefer.'
'Then say it.'
'Farewell, Mr. Rochester, for the present.'
'What must I say?'
'The same, if you like, sir.'
'Farewell, Miss Eyre, for the present; is that all?'
'Yes.'
'It seems stingy, to my notions, and dry, and unfriendly. I
should like something else: a little addition to the rite. If one
shook hands, for instance; but no- that would not content me either.
So you'll do no more than say Farewell, Jane?'
'It is enough, sir: as much good-will may be conveyed in one hearty
word as in many.'
'Very likely; but it is blank and cool- "Farewell."'
'How long is he going to stand with his back against that door?'
I asked myself; 'I want to commence my packing.' The dinner-bell rang,
and suddenly away he bolted, without another syllable: I saw him no
more during the day, and was off before he had risen in the morning.
I reached the lodge at Gateshead about five o'clock in the
afternoon of the first of May: I stepped in there before going up to
the hall. It was very clean and neat: the ornamental windows were hung
with little white curtains; the floor was spotless; the grate and
fire-irons were burnished bright, and the fire burnt clear. Bessie sat
on the hearth, nursing her last-born, and Robert and his sister played
quietly in a corner.
'Bless you!- I knew you would come!' exclaimed Mrs. Leaven, as I
entered.
'Yes, Bessie,' said I, after I had kissed her; 'and I trust I am
not too late. How is Mrs. Reed?- Alive still, I hope.'
'Yes, she is alive; and more sensible and collected than she was.
The doctor says she may linger a week or two yet; but he hardly thinks
she will finally recover.'
'Has she mentioned me lately?'
'She was talking of you only this morning, and wishing you would
come: but she is sleeping now, or was ten minutes ago, when I was up
at the house. She generally lies in a kind of lethargy all the
afternoon, and wakes up about six or seven. Will you rest yourself
here an hour, Miss, and then I will go up with you?'
Robert here entered, and Bessie laid her sleeping child in the
cradle and went to welcome him: afterwards she insisted on my taking
off my bonnet and having some tea; for she said I looked pale and
tired. I was glad to accept her hospitality; and I submitted to be
relieved of my travelling garb just as passively as I used to let
her undress me when a child.
Old times crowded fast back on me as I watched her bustling
about- setting out the tea-tray with her best china, cutting bread and
butter, toasting a tea-cake, and, between whiles, giving little Robert
or Jane an occasional tap or push, just as she used to give me in
former days. Bessie had retained her quick temper as well as her light
foot and good looks.
Tea ready, I was going to approach the table; but she desired me to
sit still, quite in her old peremptory tones. I must be served at
the fireside, she said; and she placed before me a little round
stand with my cup and a plate of toast, absolutely as she used to
accommodate me with some privately purloined dainty on a nursery
chair: and I smiled and obeyed her as in bygone days.
She wanted to know if I was happy at Thornfield Hall, and what sort
of a person the mistress was; and when I told her there was only a
master, whether he was a nice gentleman, and if I liked him. I told
her he was rather an ugly man, but quite a gentleman; and that he
treated me kindly, and I was content. Then I went on to describe to
her the gay company that had lately been staying at the house; and
to these details Bessie listened with interest: they were precisely of
the kind she relished.
In such conversation an hour was soon gone: Bessie restored to me
my bonnet, etc., and, accompanied by her, I quitted the lodge for
the hall. It was also accompanied by her that I had, nearly nine years
ago, walked down the path I was now ascending. On a dark, misty, raw
morning in January, I had left a hostile roof with a desperate and
embittered heart- a sense of outlawry and almost of reprobation- to
seek the chilly harbourage of Lowood: that bourne so far away and
unexplored. The same hostile roof now again rose before me: my
prospects were doubtful yet; and I had yet an aching heart. I still
felt as a wanderer on the face of the earth; but I experienced
firmer trust in myself and my own powers, and less withering dread
of oppression. The gaping wound of my wrongs, too, was now quite
healed; and the flame of resentment extinguished.
'You shall go into the breakfast-room first,' said Bessie, as she
preceded me through the hall; 'the young ladies will be there.'
In another moment I was within that apartment. There was every
article of furniture looking just as it did on the morning I was first
introduced to Mr. Brocklehurst: the very rug he had stood upon still
covered the hearth. Glancing at the bookcases, I thought I could
distinguish the two volumes of Bewick's British Birds occupying
their old place on the third shelf, and Gulliver's Travels and the
Arabian Nights ranged just above. The inanimate objects were not
changed; but the living things had altered past recognition.
Two young ladies appeared before me; one very tall, almost as
tall as Miss Ingram- very thin too, with a sallow face and severe
mien. There was something ascetic in her look, was augmented by the
extreme plainness of a straight-skirted, black, stuff dress, a
starched linen collar, hair combed away from the temples, and the
nun-like ornament of a string of ebony beads and a crucifix. This I
felt sure was Eliza, though I could trace little resemblance to her
former self in that elongated and colourless visage.
The other was as certainly Georgiana: but not the Georgiana I
remembered- the slim and fairy-like girl of eleven. This was a
full-blown, very plump damsel, fair as waxwork, with handsome and
regular features, languishing blue eyes, and ringleted yellow hair.
The hue of her dress was black too; but its fashion was so different
from her sister's- so much more flowing and becoming- it looked as
stylish as the other's looked puritanical.
In each of the sisters there was one trait of the mother- and
only one; the thin and pallid elder daughter had her parent's
Cairngorm eye: the blooming and luxuriant younger girl had her contour
of jaw and chin- perhaps a little softened, but still imparting an
indescribable hardness to the countenance, otherwise so voluptuous and
buxom.
Both ladies, as I advanced, rose to welcome me, and both
addressed me by the name of 'Miss Eyre.' Eliza's greeting was
delivered in a short, abrupt voice, without a smile; and then she
sat down again, fixed her eyes on the fire, and seemed to forget me.
Georgiana added to her 'How d 'ye do?' several commonplaces about my
journey, the weather, and so on, uttered in rather a drawling tone:
and accompanied by sundry side-glances that measured me from head to
foot-now traversing the folds of my drab merino pelisse, and now
lingering on the plain trimming of my cottage bonnet. Young ladies
have a remarkable way of letting you know that they think you a 'quiz'
without actually saying the words. A certain superciliousness of look,
coolness of manner, nonchalance of tone, express fully their
sentiments on the point, without committing them by any positive
rudeness in word or deed.
A sneer, however, whether covert or open, had now no longer that
power over me it once possessed: as I sat between my cousins, I was
surprised to find how easy I felt under the total neglect of the one
and the semi-sarcastic attentions of the other- Eliza did not mortify,
nor Georgiana ruffle me. The fact was, I had other things to think
about; within the last few months feelings had been stirred in me so
much more potent than any they could raise- pains and pleasures so
much more acute and exquisite had been excited than any it was in
their power to inflict or bestow- that their airs gave me no concern
either for good or bad.
'How is Mrs. Reed?' I asked soon, looking calmly at Georgiana,
who thought fit to bridle at the direct address, as if it were an
unexpected liberty.
'Mrs. Reed? Ah, mama, you mean; she is extremely poorly: I doubt if
you can see her to-night.'
'If,' said I, 'you would just step upstairs and tell her I am come,
I should be much obliged to you.'
Georgiana almost started, and she opened her blue eyes wild and
wide. 'I know she had a particular wish to see me,' I added, 'and I
would not defer attending to her desire longer than is absolutely
necessary.'
'Mama dislikes being disturbed in an evening,' remarked Eliza. I
soon rose, quietly took off my bonnet and gloves, uninvited, and
said I would just step out to Bessie- who was, I dared say, in the
kitchen- and ask her to ascertain whether Mrs. Reed was disposed to
receive me or not to-night. I went, and having found Bessie and
despatched her on my errand, I proceeded to take further measures.
It had heretofore been my habit always to shrink from arrogance:
received as I had been to-day, I should, a year ago, have resolved
to quit Gateshead the very next morning; now, it was disclosed to me
all at once that that would be a foolish plan. I had taken a journey
of a hundred miles to see my aunt, and I must stay with her till she
was better- or dead: as to her daughters' pride or folly, I must put
it on one side, make myself independent of it. So I addressed the
housekeeper; asked her to show me a room, told her I should probably
be a visitor here for a week or two, had my trunk conveyed to my
chamber, and followed it thither myself: I met Bessie on the landing.
'Missis is awake,' said she; 'I have told her you are here: come
and let us see if she will know you.'
I did not need to be guided to the well-known room, to which I
had so often been summoned for chastisement or reprimand in former
days. I hastened before Bessie; I softly opened the door: a shaded
light stood on the table, for it was now getting dark. There was the
great four-post bed with amber hangings as of old; there the
toilet-table, the arm-chair, and the footstool, at which I had a
hundred times been sentenced to kneel, to ask pardon for offences by
me uncommitted. I looked into a certain corner near, half expecting to
see the slim outline of a once dreaded switch which used to lurk
there, waiting to leap out imp-like and lace my quivering palm or
shrinking neck. I approached the bed; I opened the curtains and
leant over the high-piled pillows.
Well did I remember Mrs. Reed's face, and I eagerly sought the
familiar image. It is a happy thing that time quells the longings of
vengeance and hushes the promptings of rage and aversion. I had left
this woman in bitterness and hate, and I came back to her now with
no other emotion than a sort of ruth for her great sufferings, and a
strong yearning to forget and forgive all injuries- to be reconciled
and clasp hands in amity.
The well-known face was there: stern, relentless as ever- there was
that peculiar eye which nothing could melt, and the somewhat raised,
imperious, despotic eyebrow. How often had it lowered on me menace and
hate! and how the recollection of childhood's terrors and sorrows
revived as I traced its harsh line now! And yet I stooped down and
kissed her: she looked at me.
'Is this Jane Eyre?' she said.
'Yes, Aunt Reed. How are you, dear aunt?'
I had once vowed that I would never call her aunt again: I
thought it no sin to forget and break that vow now. My fingers had
fastened on her hand which lay outside the sheet: had she pressed mine
kindly, I should at that moment have experienced true pleasure. But
unimpressionable natures are not so soon softened, nor are natural
antipathies so readily eradicated. Mrs. Reed took her hand away,
and, turning her face rather from me, she remarked that the night
was warm. Again she regarded me so icily, I felt at once that her
opinion of me- her feeling towards me- was unchanged and unchangeable.
I knew by her stony eye- opaque to tenderness, indissoluble to
tears- that she was resolved to consider me bad to the last; because
to believe me good would give her no generous pleasure: only a sense
of mortification.
I felt pain, and then I felt ire; and then I felt a determination
to subdue her- to be her mistress in spite both of her nature and
her will. My tears had risen, just as in childhood: I ordered them
back to their source. I brought a chair to the bed-head: I sat down
and leaned over the pillow.
'You sent for me,' I said, 'and I am here; and it is my intention
to stay till I see how you get on.'
'Oh, of course! You have seen my daughters?'
'Yes.'
'Well, you may tell them I wish you to stay till I can talk some
things over with you I have on my mind: to-night it is too late, and I
have a difficulty in recalling them. But there was something I
wished to say- let me see-'
The wandering look and changed utterance told what wreck had
