Jane Eyre

Jane Eyre
By Charlotte Bronte
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Preface
A preface to the first edition of ‘Jane Eyre’ being unnec-

essary, I gave none: this second edition demands a few
words both of acknowledgment and miscellaneous remark.
My thanks are due in three quarters.
To the Public, for the indulgent ear it has inclined to a
plain tale with few pretensions.
To the Press, for the fair field its honest suffrage has
opened to an obscure aspirant.
To my Publishers, for the aid their tact, their energy,
their practical sense and frank liberality have afforded an
unknown and unrecommended Author.
The Press and the Public are but vague personifications
for me, and I must thank them in vague terms; but my Pub-
lishers are definite: so are certain generous critics who have
encouraged me as only large-hearted and high-minded men
know how to encourage a struggling stranger; to them, i.e.,
to my Publishers and the select Reviewers, I say cordially,
Gentlemen, I thank you from my heart.
Having thus acknowledged what I owe those who have
aided and approved me, I turn to another class; a small one,
so far as I know, but not, therefore, to be overlooked. I mean
the timorous or carping few who doubt the tendency of such
books as ‘Jane Eyre:’ in whose eyes whatever is unusual is
wrong; whose ears detect in each protest against bigotry—
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that parent of crime—an insult to piety, that regent of God
on earth. I would suggest to such doubters certain obvious
distinctions; I would remind them of certain simple truths.
Conventionality is not morality. Self-righteousness is
not religion. To attack the first is not to assail the last. To
pluck the mask from the face of the Pharisee, is not to lift an
impious hand to the Crown of Thorns.
These things and deeds are diametrically opposed: they
are as distinct as is vice from virtue. Men too often con-
found them: they should not be confounded: appearance
should not be mistaken for truth; narrow human doctrines,
that only tend to elate and magnify a few, should not be
substituted for the world-redeeming creed of Christ. There
is—I repeat it—a difference; and it is a good, and not a bad
action to mark broadly and clearly the line of separation
between them.
The world may not like to see these ideas dissevered, for
it has been accustomed to blend them; finding it convenient
to make external show pass for sterling worth—to let white-
washed walls vouch for clean shrines. It may hate him who
dares to scrutinise and expose—to rase the gilding, and
show base metal under it—to penetrate the sepulchre, and
reveal charnel relics: but hate as it will, it is indebted to
him.
Ahab did not like Micaiah, because he never prophesied
good concerning him, but evil; probably he liked the sy-
cophant son of Chenaannah better; yet might Ahab have
escaped a bloody death, had he but stopped his ears to flat-
tery, and opened them to faithful counsel.
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There is a man in our own days whose words are not
framed to tickle delicate ears: who, to my thinking, comes
before the great ones of society, much as the son of Imlah
came before the throned Kings of Judah and Israel; and
who speaks truth as deep, with a power as prophet-like and
as vital—a mien as dauntless and as daring. Is the satirist
of ‘Vanity Fair’ admired in high places? I cannot tell; but I
think if some of those amongst whom he hurls the Greek fire
of his sarcasm, and over whom he flashes the levin-brand of
his denunciation, were to take his warnings in time—they
or their seed might yet escape a fatal Rimoth-Gilead.
Why have I alluded to this man? I have alluded to him,
Reader, because I think I see in him an intellect profounder
and more unique than his contemporaries have yet recog-
nised; because I regard him as the first social regenerator
of the day—as the very master of that working corps who
would restore to rectitude the warped system of things; be-
cause I think no commentator on his writings has yet found
the comparison that suits him, the terms which rightly
characterise his talent. They say he is like Fielding: they talk
of his wit, humour, comic powers. He resembles Fielding as
an eagle does a vulture: Fielding could stoop on carrion, but
Thackeray never does. His wit is bright, his humour attrac-
tive, but both bear the same relation to his serious genius that
the mere lambent sheet-lightning playing under the edge of
the summer-cloud does to the electric death-spark hid in its
womb. Finally, I have alluded to Mr. Thackeray, because to
him—if he will accept the tribute of a total stranger—I have
dedicated this second edition of ‘JANE EYRE.’
Jane Eyre
CURRER BELL.
December 21st, 1847.
NOTE TO THE THIRD EDITION
I avail myself of the opportunity which a third edition
of ‘Jane Eyre’ affords me, of again addressing a word to the
Public, to explain that my claim to the title of novelist rests
on this one work alone. If, therefore, the authorship of oth-
er works of fiction has been attributed to me, an honour is
awarded where it is not merited; and consequently, denied
where it is justly due.
This explanation will serve to rectify mistakes which
may already have been made, and to prevent future errors.
CURRER BELL.
April 13th, 1848.

Chapter I
T here was no possibility of taking a walk that day. We

had been wandering, indeed, in the leafless shrubbery
an hour in the morning; but since dinner (Mrs. Reed, when
there was no company, dined early) the cold winter wind
had brought with it clouds so sombre, and a rain so pen-
etrating, that further out-door exercise was now out of the
question.
I was glad of it: I never liked long walks, especially on
chilly afternoons: dreadful to me was the coming home in
the raw twilight, with nipped fingers and toes, and a heart
saddened by the chidings of Bessie, the nurse, and hum-
bled by the consciousness of my physical inferiority to Eliza,
John, and Georgiana Reed.
The said Eliza, John, and Georgiana were now clustered
round their mama in the drawing-room: she lay reclined
on a sofa by the fireside, and with her darlings about her
(for the time neither quarrelling nor crying) looked per-
fectly happy. Me, she had dispensed from joining the
group; saying, ‘She regretted to be under the necessity of
keeping me at a distance; but that until she heard from Bes-
sie, and could discover by her own observation, that I was
endeavouring in good earnest to acquire a more sociable
and childlike disposition, a more attractive and sprightly
manner— something lighter, franker, more natural, as it
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were—she really must exclude me from privileges intended
only for contented, happy, little children.’
‘What does Bessie say I have done?’ I asked.
‘Jane, I don’t like cavillers or questioners; besides, there is
something truly forbidding in a child taking up her elders
in that manner. Be seated somewhere; and until you can
speak pleasantly, remain silent.’
A breakfast-room adjoined the drawing-room, I slipped
in there. It contained a bookcase: I soon possessed myself
of a volume, taking care that it should be one stored with
pictures. I mounted into the window-seat: gathering up my
feet, I sat cross-legged, like a Turk; and, having drawn the
red moreen curtain nearly close, I was shrined in double
retirement.
Folds of scarlet drapery shut in my view to the right
hand; to the left were the clear panes of glass, protecting,
but not separating me from the drear November day. At in-
tervals, while turning over the leaves of my book, I studied
the aspect of that winter afternoon. Afar, it offered a pale
blank of mist and cloud; near a scene of wet lawn and storm-
beat shrub, with ceaseless rain sweeping away wildly before
a long and lamentable blast.
I returned to my book—Bewick’s History of British Birds:
the letterpress thereof I cared little for, generally speaking;
and yet there were certain introductory pages that, child
as I was, I could not pass quite as a blank. They were those
which treat of the haunts of sea-fowl; of ‘the solitary rocks
and promontories’ by them only inhabited; of the coast of
Norway, studded with isles from its southern extremity, the

Lindeness, or Naze, to the North Cape—
‘Where the Northern Ocean, in vast whirls,

Boils round the naked, melancholy isles
Of farthest Thule; and the Atlantic surge
Pours in among the stormy Hebrides.’
Nor could I pass unnoticed the suggestion of the bleak

shores of Lapland, Siberia, Spitzbergen, Nova Zembla, Ice-
land, Greenland, with ‘the vast sweep of the Arctic Zone,
and those forlorn regions of dreary space,—that reservoir
of frost and snow, where firm fields of ice, the accumula-
tion of centuries of winters, glazed in Alpine heights above
heights, surround the pole, and concentre the multiplied
rigours of extreme cold.’ Of these death-white realms I
formed an idea of my own: shadowy, like all the half-com-
prehended notions that float dim through children’s brains,
but strangely impressive. The words in these introductory
pages connected themselves with the succeeding vignettes,
and gave significance to the rock standing up alone in a sea
of billow and spray; to the broken boat stranded on a deso-
late coast; to the cold and ghastly moon glancing through
bars of cloud at a wreck just sinking.
I cannot tell what sentiment haunted the quite solitary
churchyard, with its inscribed headstone; its gate, its two
trees, its low horizon, girdled by a broken wall, and its new-
ly-risen crescent, attesting the hour of eventide.
The two ships becalmed on a torpid sea, I believed to be
marine phantoms.
Jane Eyre
The fiend pinning down the thief’s pack behind him, I
passed over quickly: it was an object of terror.
So was the black horned thing seated aloof on a rock,
surveying a distant crowd surrounding a gallows.
Each picture told a story; mysterious often to my un-
developed understanding and imperfect feelings, yet ever
profoundly interesting: as interesting as the tales Bessie
sometimes narrated on winter evenings, when she chanced
to be in good humour; and when, having brought her iron-
ing-table to the nursery hearth, she allowed us to sit about
it, and while she got up Mrs. Reed’s lace frills, and crimped
her nightcap borders, fed our eager attention with passages
of love and adventure taken from old fairy tales and other
ballads; or (as at a later period I discovered) from the pages
of Pamela, and Henry, Earl of Moreland.
With Bewick on my knee, I was then happy: happy at
least in my way. I feared nothing but interruption, and that
came too soon. The breakfast-room door opened.
‘Boh! Madam Mope!’ cried the voice of John Reed; then
he paused: he found the room apparently empty.
‘Where the dickens is she!’ he continued. ‘Lizzy! Georgy!
(calling to his sisters) Joan is not here: tell mama she is run
out into the rain—bad animal!’
‘It is well I drew the curtain,’ thought I; and I wished fer-
vently he might not discover my hiding-place: nor would
John Reed have found it out himself; he was not quick either
of vision or conception; but Eliza just put her head in at the
door, and said at once—
‘She is in the window-seat, to be sure, Jack.’

And I came out immediately, for I trembled at the idea of
being dragged forth by the said Jack.
‘What do you want?’ I asked, with awkward diffidence.
‘Say, ‘What do you want, Master Reed?’’ was the answer.
‘I want you to come here;’ and seating himself in an arm-
chair, he intimated by a gesture that I was to approach and
stand before him.
John Reed was a schoolboy of fourteen years old; four
years older than I, for I was but ten: large and stout for his
age, with a dingy and unwholesome skin; thick lineaments
in a spacious visage, heavy limbs and large extremities. He
gorged himself habitually at table, which made him bilious,
and gave him a dim and bleared eye and flabby cheeks. He
ought now to have been at school; but his mama had taken
him home for a month or two, ‘on account of his delicate
health.’ Mr. Miles, the master, affirmed that he would do
very well if he had fewer cakes and sweetmeats sent him
from home; but the mother’s heart turned from an opinion
so harsh, and inclined rather to the more refined idea that
John’s sallowness was owing to over-application and, per-
haps, to pining after home.
John had not much affection for his mother and sisters,
and an antipathy to me. He bullied and punished me; not
two or three times in the week, nor once or twice in the
day, but continually: every nerve I had feared him, and ev-
ery morsel of flesh in my bones shrank when he came near.
There were moments when I was bewildered by the terror
he inspired, because I had no appeal whatever against ei-
ther his menaces or his inflictions; the servants did not like
10 Jane Eyre
to offend their young master by taking my part against him,
and Mrs. Reed was blind and deaf on the subject: she never
saw him strike or heard him abuse me, though he did both
now and then in her very presence, more frequently, how-
ever, behind her back.
Habitually obedient to John, I came up to his chair: he
spent some three minutes in thrusting out his tongue at me
as far as he could without damaging the roots: I knew he
would soon strike, and while dreading the blow, I mused
on the disgusting and ugly appearance of him who would
presently deal it. I wonder if he read that notion in my face;
for, all at once, without speaking, he struck suddenly and
strongly. I tottered, and on regaining my equilibrium re-
tired back a step or two from his chair.
‘That is for your impudence in answering mama awhile
since,’ said he, ‘and for your sneaking way of getting behind
curtains, and for the look you had in your eyes two minutes
since, you rat!’
Accustomed to John Reed’s abuse, I never had an idea of
replying to it; my care was how to endure the blow which
would certainly follow the insult.
‘What were you doing behind the curtain?’ he asked.
‘I was reading.’
‘Show the book.’
I returned to the window and fetched it thence.
‘You have no business to take our books; you are a de-
pendent, mama says; you have no money; your father left
you none; you ought to beg, and not to live here with gen-
tlemen’s children like us, and eat the same meals we do, and
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wear clothes at our mama’s expense. Now, I’ll teach you to
rummage my bookshelves: for they ARE mine; all the house
belongs to me, or will do in a few years. Go and stand by the
door, out of the way of the mirror and the windows.’
I did so, not at first aware what was his intention; but
when I saw him lift and poise the book and stand in act to
hurl it, I instinctively started aside with a cry of alarm: not
soon enough, however; the volume was flung, it hit me, and
I fell, striking my head against the door and cutting it. The
cut bled, the pain was sharp: my terror had passed its cli-
max; other feelings succeeded.
‘Wicked and cruel boy!’ I said. ‘You are like a murder-
er—you are like a slave-driver—you are like the Roman
emperors!’
I had read Goldsmith’s History of Rome, and had formed
my opinion of Nero, Caligula, &c. Also I had drawn paral-
lels in silence, which I never thought thus to have declared
aloud.
‘What! what!’ he cried. ‘Did she say that to me? Did you
hear her, Eliza and Georgiana? Won’t I tell mama? but
first—‘
He ran headlong at me: I felt him grasp my hair and my
shoulder: he had closed with a desperate thing. I really saw
in him a tyrant, a murderer. I felt a drop or two of blood
from my head trickle down my neck, and was sensible of
somewhat pungent suffering: these sensations for the time
predominated over fear, and I received him in frantic sort.
I don’t very well know what I did with my hands, but he
called me ‘Rat! Rat!’ and bellowed out aloud. Aid was near
12 Jane Eyre
him: Eliza and Georgiana had run for Mrs. Reed, who was
gone upstairs: she now came upon the scene, followed by
Bessie and her maid Abbot. We were parted: I heard the
words—
‘Dear! dear! What a fury to fly at Master John!’
‘Did ever anybody see such a picture of passion!’
Then Mrs. Reed subjoined—
‘Take her away to the red-room, and lock her in there.’
Four hands were immediately laid upon me, and I was
borne upstairs.

Chapter II
I resisted all the way: a new thing for me, and a circum-
stance which greatly strengthened the bad opinion Bessie
and Miss Abbot were disposed to entertain of me. The fact
is, I was a trifle beside myself; or rather OUT of myself, as
the French would say: I was conscious that a moment’s mu-
tiny had already rendered me liable to strange penalties,
and, like any other rebel slave, I felt resolved, in my desper-
ation, to go all lengths.
‘Hold her arms, Miss Abbot: she’s like a mad cat.’
‘For shame! for shame!’ cried the lady’s-maid. ‘What
shocking conduct, Miss Eyre, to strike a young gentleman,
your benefactress’s son! Your young master.’
‘Master! How is he my master? Am I a servant?’
‘No; you are less than a servant, for you do nothing for
your keep. There, sit down, and think over your wicked-
ness.’
They had got me by this time into the apartment indi-
cated by Mrs. Reed, and had thrust me upon a stool: my
impulse was to rise from it like a spring; their two pair of
hands arrested me instantly.
‘If you don’t sit still, you must be tied down,’ said Bessie.
‘Miss Abbot, lend me your garters; she would break mine
directly.’
Miss Abbot turned to divest a stout leg of the necessary
14 Jane Eyre
ligature. This preparation for bonds, and the additional ig-
nominy it inferred, took a little of the excitement out of me.
‘Don’t take them off,’ I cried; ‘I will not stir.’
In guarantee whereof, I attached myself to my seat by
my hands.
‘Mind you don’t,’ said Bessie; and when she had ascer-
tained that I was really subsiding, she loosened her hold of
me; then she and Miss Abbot stood with folded arms, look-
ing darkly and doubtfully on my face, as incredulous of my
sanity.
‘She never did so before,’ at last said Bessie, turning to
the Abigail.
‘But it was always in her,’ was the reply. ‘I’ve told Missis
often my opinion about the child, and Missis agreed with
me. She’s an underhand little thing: I never saw a girl of her
age with so much cover.’
Bessie answered not; but ere long, addressing me, she
said—‘You ought to be aware, Miss, that you are under ob-
ligations to Mrs. Reed: she keeps you: if she were to turn you
off, you would have to go to the poorhouse.’
I had nothing to say to these words: they were not new to
me: my very first recollections of existence included hints of
the same kind. This reproach of my dependence had become
a vague sing-song in my ear: very painful and crushing, but
only half intelligible. Miss Abbot joined in—
‘And you ought not to think yourself on an equality with
the Misses Reed and Master Reed, because Missis kindly al-
lows you to be brought up with them. They will have a great
deal of money, and you will have none: it is your place to be

humble, and to try to make yourself agreeable to them.’
‘What we tell you is for your good,’ added Bessie, in no
harsh voice, ‘you should try to be useful and pleasant, then,
perhaps, you would have a home here; but if you become
passionate and rude, Missis will send you away, I am sure.’
‘Besides,’ said Miss Abbot, ‘God will punish her: He
might strike her dead in the midst of her tantrums, and
then where would she go? Come, Bessie, we will leave her:
I wouldn’t have her heart for anything. Say your prayers,
Miss Eyre, when you are by yourself; for if you don’t re-
pent, something bad might be permitted to come down the
chimney and fetch you away.’
They went, shutting the door, and locking it behind
them.
The red-room was a square chamber, very seldom slept
in, I might say never, indeed, unless when a chance influx
of visitors at Gateshead Hall rendered it necessary to turn
to account all the accommodation it contained: yet it was
one of the largest and stateliest chambers in the mansion. A
bed supported on massive pillars of mahogany, hung with
curtains of deep red damask, stood out like a tabernacle in
the centre; the two large windows, with their blinds always
drawn down, were half shrouded in festoons and falls of
similar drapery; the carpet was red; the table at the foot of
the bed was covered with a crimson cloth; the walls were
a soft fawn colour with a blush of pink in it; the wardrobe,
the toilet-table, the chairs were of darkly polished old ma-
hogany. Out of these deep surrounding shades rose high,
and glared white, the piled-up mattresses and pillows of the
16 Jane Eyre
bed, spread with a snowy Marseilles counterpane. Scarcely
less prominent was an ample cushioned easy-chair near the
head of the bed, also white, with a footstool before it; and
looking, as I thought, like a pale throne.
This room was chill, because it seldom had a fire; it was
silent, because remote from the nursery and kitchen; sol-
emn, because it was known to be so seldom entered. The
house-maid alone came here on Saturdays, to wipe from
the mirrors and the furniture a week’s quiet dust: and Mrs.
Reed herself, at far intervals, visited it to review the con-
tents of a certain secret drawer in the wardrobe, where were
stored divers parchments, her jewel-casket, and a miniature
of her deceased husband; and in those last words lies the
secret of the red-room—the spell which kept it so lonely in
spite of its grandeur.
Mr. Reed had been dead nine years: it was in this cham-
ber he breathed his last; here he lay in state; hence his coffin
was borne by the undertaker’s men; and, since that day, a
sense of dreary consecration had guarded it from frequent
intrusion.
My seat, to which Bessie and the bitter Miss Abbot had
left me riveted, was a low ottoman near the marble chim-
ney-piece; the bed rose before me; to my right hand there
was the high, dark wardrobe, with subdued, broken re-
flections varying the gloss of its panels; to my left were the
muffled windows; a great looking-glass between them re-
peated the vacant majesty of the bed and room. I was not
quite sure whether they had locked the door; and when I
dared move, I got up and went to see. Alas! yes: no jail was

ever more secure. Returning, I had to cross before the look-
ing-glass; my fascinated glance involuntarily explored the
depth it revealed. All looked colder and darker in that vi-
sionary hollow than in reality: and the strange little figure
there gazing at me, with a white face and arms specking the
gloom, and glittering eyes of fear moving where all else was
still, had the effect of a real spirit: I thought it like one of the
tiny phantoms, half fairy, half imp, Bessie’s evening stories
represented as coming out of lone, ferny dells in moors, and
appearing before the eyes of belated travellers. I returned
to my stool.
Superstition was with me at that moment; but it was not
yet her hour for complete victory: my blood was still warm;
the mood of the revolted slave was still bracing me with its
bitter vigour; I had to stem a rapid rush of retrospective
thought before I quailed to the dismal present.
All John Reed’s violent tyrannies, all his sisters’ proud
indifference, all his mother’s aversion, all the servants’ par-
tiality, turned up in my disturbed mind like a dark deposit
in a turbid well. Why was I always suffering, always brow-
beaten, always accused, for ever condemned? Why could I
never please? Why was it useless to try to win any one’s fa-
vour? Eliza, who was headstrong and selfish, was respected.
Georgiana, who had a spoiled temper, a very acrid spite, a
captious and insolent carriage, was universally indulged.
Her beauty, her pink cheeks and golden curls, seemed to give
delight to all who looked at her, and to purchase indemnity
for every fault. John no one thwarted, much less punished;
though he twisted the necks of the pigeons, killed the little
18 Jane Eyre
pea-chicks, set the dogs at the sheep, stripped the hothouse
vines of their fruit, and broke the buds off the choicest
plants in the conservatory: he called his mother ‘old girl,’
too; sometimes reviled her for her dark skin, similar to his
own; bluntly disregarded her wishes; not unfrequently tore
and spoiled her silk attire; and he was still ‘her own darling.’
I dared commit no fault: I strove to fulfil every duty; and
I was termed naughty and tiresome, sullen and sneaking,
from morning to noon, and from noon to night.
My head still ached and bled with the blow and fall I had
received: no one had reproved John for wantonly striking
me; and because I had turned against him to avert farther
irrational violence, I was loaded with general opprobrium.
‘Unjust!—unjust!’ said my reason, forced by the agonis-
ing stimulus into precocious though transitory power: and
Resolve, equally wrought up, instigated some strange expe-
dient to achieve escape from insupportable oppression—as
running away, or, if that could not be effected, never eating
or drinking more, and letting myself die.
What a consternation of soul was mine that dreary after-
noon! How all my brain was in tumult, and all my heart in
insurrection! Yet in what darkness, what dense ignorance,
was the mental battle fought! I could not answer the cease-
less inward question—WHY I thus suffered; now, at the
distance of—I will not say how many years, I see it clearly.
I was a discord in Gateshead Hall: I was like nobody
there; I had nothing in harmony with Mrs. Reed or her chil-
dren, or her chosen vassalage. If they did not love me, in
fact, as little did I love them. They were not bound to regard

with affection a thing that could not sympathise with one
amongst them; a heterogeneous thing, opposed to them in
temperament, in capacity, in propensities; a useless thing,
incapable of serving their interest, or adding to their plea-
sure; a noxious thing, cherishing the germs of indignation
at their treatment, of contempt of their judgment. I know
that had I been a sanguine, brilliant, careless, exacting,
handsome, romping child—though equally dependent and
friendless—Mrs. Reed would have endured my presence
more complacently; her children would have entertained
for me more of the cordiality of fellow-feeling; the servants
would have been less prone to make me the scapegoat of the
nursery.
Daylight began to forsake the red-room; it was past four
o’clock, and the beclouded afternoon was tending to drear
twilight. I heard the rain still beating continuously on the
staircase window, and the wind howling in the grove be-
hind the hall; I grew by degrees cold as a stone, and then my
courage sank. My habitual mood of humiliation, self-doubt,
forlorn depression, fell damp on the embers of my decaying
ire. All said I was wicked, and perhaps I might be so; what
thought had I been but just conceiving of starving myself to
death? That certainly was a crime: and was I fit to die? Or
was the vault under the chancel of Gateshead Church an in-
viting bourne? In such vault I had been told did Mr. Reed
lie buried; and led by this thought to recall his idea, I dwelt
on it with gathering dread. I could not remember him; but
I knew that he was my own uncle—my mother’s brother—
that he had taken me when a parentless infant to his house;
20 Jane Eyre
and that in his last moments he had required a promise of
Mrs. Reed that she would rear and maintain me as one of
her own children. Mrs. Reed probably considered she had
kept this promise; and so she had, I dare say, as well as her
nature would permit her; but how could she really like an
interloper not of her race, and unconnected with her, after
her husband’s death, by any tie? It must have been most irk-
some to find herself bound by a hard-wrung pledge to stand
in the stead of a parent to a strange child she could not love,
and to see an uncongenial alien permanently intruded on
her own family group.
A singular notion dawned upon me. I doubted not—nev-
er doubted— that if Mr. Reed had been alive he would have
treated me kindly; and now, as I sat looking at the white
bed and overshadowed walls— occasionally also turning a
fascinated eye towards the dimly gleaning mirror—I began
to recall what I had heard of dead men, troubled in their
graves by the violation of their last wishes, revisiting the
earth to punish the perjured and avenge the oppressed; and
I thought Mr. Reed’s spirit, harassed by the wrongs of his
sister’s child, might quit its abode—whether in the church
vault or in the unknown world of the departed—and rise
before me in this chamber. I wiped my tears and hushed
my sobs, fearful lest any sign of violent grief might waken a
preternatural voice to comfort me, or elicit from the gloom
some haloed face, bending over me with strange pity. This
idea, consolatory in theory, I felt would be terrible if realised:
with all my might I endeavoured to stifle itI endeavoured to
be firm. Shaking my hair from my eyes, I lifted my head and

tried to look boldly round the dark room; at this moment
a light gleamed on the wall. Was it, I asked myself, a ray
from the moon penetrating some aperture in the blind? No;
moonlight was still, and this stirred; while I gazed, it glided
up to the ceiling and quivered over my head. I can now con-
jecture readily that this streak of light was, in all likelihood,
a gleam from a lantern carried by some one across the lawn:
but then, prepared as my mind was for horror, shaken as my
nerves were by agitation, I thought the swift darting beam
was a herald of some coming vision from another world. My
heart beat thick, my head grew hot; a sound filled my ears,
which I deemed the rushing of wings; something seemed
near me; I was oppressed, suffocated: endurance broke
down; I rushed to the door and shook the lock in desperate
effort. Steps came running along the outer passage; the key
turned, Bessie and Abbot entered.
‘Miss Eyre, are you ill?’ said Bessie.
‘What a dreadful noise! it went quite through me!’ ex-
claimed Abbot.
‘Take me out! Let me go into the nursery!’ was my cry.
‘What for? Are you hurt? Have you seen something?’
again demanded Bessie.
‘Oh! I saw a light, and I thought a ghost would come.’ I
had now got hold of Bessie’s hand, and she did not snatch
it from me.
‘She has screamed out on purpose,’ declared Abbot, in
some disgust. ‘And what a scream! If she had been in great
pain one would have excused it, but she only wanted to
bring us all here: I know her naughty tricks.’
22 Jane Eyre
‘What is all this?’ demanded another voice peremptorily;
and Mrs. Reed came along the corridor, her cap flying wide,
her gown rustling stormily. ‘Abbot and Bessie, I believe I
gave orders that Jane Eyre should be left in the red-room till
I came to her myself.’
‘Miss Jane screamed so loud, ma’am,’ pleaded Bessie.
‘Let her go,’ was the only answer. ‘Loose Bessie’s hand,
child: you cannot succeed in getting out by these means, be
assured. I abhor artifice, particularly in children; it is my
duty to show you that tricks will not answer: you will now
stay here an hour longer, and it is only on condition of per-
fect submission and stillness that I shall liberate you then.’
‘O aunt! have pity! Forgive me! I cannot endure it—let
me be punished some other way! I shall be killed if—‘
‘Silence! This violence is all most repulsive:’ and so, no
doubt, she felt it. I was a precocious actress in her eyes; she
sincerely looked on me as a compound of virulent passions,
mean spirit, and dangerous duplicity.
Bessie and Abbot having retreated, Mrs. Reed, impatient
of my now frantic anguish and wild sobs, abruptly thrust
me back and locked me in, without farther parley. I heard
her sweeping away; and soon after she was gone, I suppose I
had a species of fit: unconsciousness closed the scene.

Chapter III
T he next thing I remember is, waking up with a feeling as

if I had had a frightful nightmare, and seeing before me
a terrible red glare, crossed with thick black bars. I heard
voices, too, speaking with a hollow sound, and as if muf-
fled by a rush of wind or water: agitation, uncertainty, and
an all-predominating sense of terror confused my faculties.
Ere long, I became aware that some one was handling me;
lifting me up and supporting me in a sitting posture, and
that more tenderly than I had ever been raised or upheld
before. I rested my head against a pillow or an arm, and
felt easy.
In five minutes more the cloud of bewilderment dis-
solved: I knew quite well that I was in my own bed, and
that the red glare was the nursery fire. It was night: a candle
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.
I felt an inexpressible relief, a soothing conviction of pro-
tection and security, when I knew that there was a stranger
in the room, an individual not belonging to Gateshead., and
not related to Mrs. Reed. Turning from Bessie (though her
presence was far less obnoxious to me than that of Abbot,
for instance, would have been), I scrutinised the face of the
gentleman: I knew him; it was Mr. Lloyd, an apothecary,
24 Jane Eyre
sometimes called in by Mrs. Reed when the servants were
ailing: for herself and the children she employed a physi-
cian.
‘Well, who am I?’ he asked.
I pronounced his name, offering him at the same time
my hand: he took it, smiling and saying, ‘We shall do very
well by-and-by.’ Then he laid me down, and addressing Bes-
sie, charged her to be very careful that I was not disturbed
during the night. Having given some further directions,
and intimates that he should call again the next day, he de-
parted; to my grief: I felt so sheltered and befriended while
he sat in the chair near my pillow; and as he closed the door
after him, all the room darkened and my heart again sank:
inexpressible sadness weighed it down.
‘Do you feel as if you should sleep, Miss?’ asked Bessie,
rather softly.
Scarcely dared I answer her; for I feared the next sen-
tence might be rough. ‘I will try.’
‘Would you like to drink, or could you eat anything?’
‘No, thank you, Bessie.’
‘Then I think I shall go to bed, for it is past twelve o’clock;
but you may call me if you want anything in the night.’
Wonderful civility this! It emboldened me to ask a ques-
tion.
‘Bessie, what is the matter with me? Am I ill?’
‘You fell sick, I suppose, in the red-room with crying;
you’ll be better soon, no doubt.’
Bessie went 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 that poor child to-night: she might
die; it’s such a strange thing she should have that fit: I won-
der if she saw anything. Missis was rather too hard.’
Sarah came back with her; they both went to bed; they
were whispering together for half-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 dis-
cussed.
‘Something passed her, all dressed in white, and van-
ished’—‘A great black dog behind him’—‘Three loud raps
on the chamber door’—‘A light in the churchyard just over
his grave,’ &c. &c.
At last both slept: the fire and the candle went out. For
me, the watches of that long night passed in ghastly wake-
fulness; strained by dread: such dread as children only can
feel.
No severe or prolonged bodily illness followed this in-
cident of the red-room; it only 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 to forgive you, for you knew not what you did: while
rending my heart-strings, you thought you were only up-
rooting my bad propensities.
Next day, by noon, I was up and dressed, and sat wrapped
in a shawl by the nursery hearth. I felt physically weak and
broken down: but my worse ailment was an unutterable
wretchedness of mind: a wretchedness which kept draw-
ing from me silent tears; no sooner had I wiped one salt
26 Jane Eyre
drop from my cheek than another followed. Yet, I thought,
I ought to have been happy, for none of the Reeds were there,
they were all gone out in the carriage with their mama. Ab-
bot, too, was sewing in another room, and Bessie, as she
moved hither and thither, putting away toys and arrang-
ing drawers, addressed to me every now and then a word of
unwonted kindness. This state of things should have been
to me a paradise of peace, accustomed as I was to a life of
ceaseless reprimand and thankless fagging; but, in fact, my
racked nerves were now in such a state that no calm could
soothe, and no pleasure excite them agreeably.
Bessie had been down into the kitchen, and she brought
up with her a tart on a certain brightly painted china plate,
whose bird of paradise, nestling in a wreath of convolvuli
and rosebuds, had been wont to stir in me a most enthu-
siastic sense of admiration; and which plate I had often
petitioned to be allowed to take in my hand in order to ex-
amine it more closely, but had always hitherto been deemed
unworthy of such a privilege. This precious vessel was now
placed on my knee, and I was cordially invited to eat the
circlet of delicate pastry upon it. Vain favour! coming, like
most other favours long deferred and often wished for, too
late! I could not eat the tart; and the plumage of the bird,
the tints of the flowers, seemed strangely faded: I put both
plate and tart away. Bessie asked if I would have a book: the
word BOOK acted as a transient stimulus, and I begged her
to fetch Gulliver’s Travels from the library. This book I had
again and again perused with delight. I considered it a nar-
rative of facts, and discovered in it a vein of interest deeper

than what I found in fairy tales: for as to the elves, having
sought them in vain among foxglove leaves and bells, un-
der mushrooms and beneath the ground-ivy mantling old
wall-nooks, I had at length made up my mind to the sad
truth, that they were all gone out of England to some sav-
age country where the woods were wilder and thicker, and
the population more scant; whereas, Lilliput and Brobdig-
nag being, in my creed, solid parts of the earth’s surface, I
doubted not that I might 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 of the
one realm; and the corn-fields forest-high, the mighty mas-
tiffs, the monster cats, the tower-like men and women, of
the other. Yet, when this cherished volume was now placed
in my hand—when I turned over its leaves, and sought in its
marvellous pictures the charm I had, till now, never failed
to find—all was eerie and dreary; the giants were gaunt
goblins, the pigmies malevolent and fearful imps, Gulliver
a most desolate wanderer in most dread and dangerous re-
gions. I closed the book, which I dared no longer peruse,
and put it on the table, beside the untasted tart.
Bessie had now finished dusting and tidying the room,
and having washed her hands, she opened a certain little
drawer, full of splendid shreds of silk and satin, and began
making a new bonnet for Georgiana’s doll. Meantime she
sang: her song was—
‘In the days when we went gipsying, A long time ago.’
I had often heard the song before, and always with live-
ly delight; for Bessie had a sweet voice,—at least, I thought
28 Jane Eyre
so. But now, though her voice was still sweet, I found in its
melody an indescribable sadness. Sometimes, preoccupied
with her work, she sang the refrain very low, very linger-
ingly; ‘A long time ago’ came out like the saddest cadence of
a funeral hymn. She passed into 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 have said to the fire, ‘don’t burn!’ but how
could she divine the morbid suffering to which I was a prey?
In the course of the morning Mr. Lloyd came again.
‘What, already up!’ said he, as he entered the nursery.
‘Well, nurse, how is she?’
Bessie answered that I was doing very well.
‘Then she ought to look more cheerful. Come here, Miss
Jane: your name is Jane, is it not?’
‘Yes, sir, Jane Eyre.’
‘Well, you have been crying, Miss Jane Eyre; can you tell
me what about? Have you any pain?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Oh! I daresay she is crying because she could not go out
with Missis in the carriage,’ interposed Bessie.
‘Surely not! why, she is too old for such pettishness.’
I thought so too; and my self-esteem being wounded
by the false charge, I answered promptly, ‘I never cried for
such a thing in my life: I hate going out in the carriage. I cry
because I am miserable.’
‘Oh fie, Miss!’ said Bessie.
The good apothecary appeared a little puzzled. I was
standing before him; he fixed his 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
yet good-natured looking face. Having considered me at
30 Jane Eyre
leisure, he said—
‘What made you ill yesterday?’
‘She had 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 must be eight or nine years old.’
‘I was knocked down,’ was the blunt explanation, jerked
out of me by another pang of mortified pride; ‘but that did
not make me ill,’ I added; while Mr. Lloyd helped himself to
a pinch of snuff.
As he was returning the box to his waistcoat pocket, a
loud bell rang for the servants’ dinner; he knew what it was.
‘That’s for you, nurse,’ said he; ‘you can go down; I’ll give
Miss Jane a lecture till you come back.’
Bessie would rather have stayed, but she was obliged to
go, because punctuality at meals was rigidly enforced at
Gateshead Hall.
‘The fall did not make you ill; what did, then?’ pursued
Mr. Lloyd when Bessie was gone.
‘I was shut up in a room where there is a ghost till after
dark.’
I saw Mr. Lloyd smile and frown at the same time.
‘Ghost! What, you are a baby after all! You are afraid of
ghosts?’
‘Of Mr. Reed’s ghost I am: he died in that room, and was
laid out there. Neither Bessie nor any one else will go into
it at night, if they can help it; and it was cruel to shut me up
alone without a candle,—so cruel that I think I shall never
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.’
‘What other things? Can you tell me some of them?’
How much I wished to reply fully to this question! How
difficult it was to frame any answer! Children can feel, but
they cannot analyse their feelings; and if the analysis is par-
tially effected in thought, they know not how to express the
result of the process in words. Fearful, however, of losing
this first and only opportunity of relieving my grief by im-
parting it, I, after a disturbed pause, contrived to frame a
meagre, though, as far as it went, true response.
‘For one thing, I have no father or mother, brothers or
sisters.’
‘You have a kind aunt and cousins.’
Again I paused; then bunglingly enounced—
‘But John Reed knocked me down, and my aunt shut me
up in the red- room.’
Mr. Lloyd a second time produced his snuff-box.
‘Don’t you think Gateshead Hall a very beautiful house?’
asked he. ‘Are you not very thankful to have such a fine
place to live at?’
‘It is not my house, sir; and Abbot says I have less right to
be here than a servant.’
‘Pooh! you can’t be silly enough to wish to leave such a
splendid place?’
‘If I had anywhere else to go, I should be glad to leave it;
but I can never get away from Gateshead till I am a wom-
an.’
32 Jane Eyre
‘Perhaps you may—who knows? Have you any relations
besides Mrs. Reed?’
‘I think not, sir.’
‘None belonging to your father?’
‘I don’t know. I asked Aunt Reed once, and she said pos-
sibly I might have some poor, low relations called Eyre, but
she knew nothing about them.’
‘If you had such, would you like to go to them?’
I reflected. Poverty looks grim to grown people; still
more so to children: they have not much idea of industri-
ous, working, respectable poverty; they think of the word
only as connected with ragged clothes, scanty food, fireless
grates, rude manners, and debasing vices: poverty for me
was synonymous with degradation.
‘No; I should not like to belong to poor people,’ was my
reply.
‘Not even if they were kind to you?’
I shook my head: I could not see how poor people had
the means of being kind; and then to learn to speak like
them, to adopt their manners, to be uneducated, to grow up
like one of the poor women I saw sometimes nursing their
children or washing their clothes at the cottage doors of the
village of Gateshead: no, I was not heroic enough to pur-
chase liberty at the price of caste.
‘But are your relatives so very poor? Are they working
people?’
‘I cannot tell; Aunt. Reed says if I have any, they must be
a beggarly set: I should not like to go a begging.’
‘Would you like to go to school?’

Again I reflected: I scarcely knew what school was: Bes-
sie sometimes spoke of it as a place where young ladies sat
in the stocks, wore backboards, and were expected to be ex-
ceedingly genteel and precise: John Reed hated his school,
and abused his master; but John Reed’s tastes were no rule
for mine, and if Bessie’s accounts of school-discipline (gath-
ered from the young ladies of a family where she had lived
before coming to Gateshead) were somewhat appalling, her
details of certain accomplishments attained by these same
young ladies were, I thought, equally attractive. She boasted
of beautiful paintings of landscapes and flowers 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 spirit was moved to emulation as I listened.
Besides, school would be a complete change: it implied a
long journey, an entire separation from Gateshead, an en-
trance into a new life.
‘I should indeed like to go to school,’ was the audible con-
clusion of my musings.
‘Well, well! who knows what may happen?’ said Mr.
Lloyd, as he got up. ‘The child ought to have change of air
and scene,’ he added, speaking to himself; ‘nerves not in a
good state.’
Bessie now returned; at the same moment the carriage
was heard rolling up the gravel-walk.
‘Is that your mistress, nurse?’ asked Mr. Lloyd. ‘I should
like to speak to her before I go.’
Bessie invited him to walk into the breakfast-room, and
led the way out. In the interview which followed between
34 Jane Eyre
him and Mrs. Reed, I presume, from after-occurrences,
that the apothecary ventured to recommend my being sent
to school; and the recommendation was no doubt readily
enough adopted; for as Abbot said, in discussing the subject
with Bessie when both sat sewing in the nursery one night,
after I was in bed, and, as they thought, asleep, ‘Missis
was, she dared say, glad enough to get rid of such a tire-
some, ill- conditioned child, who always looked as if she
were watching everybody, and scheming plots underhand.’
Abbot, I think, gave me credit for being a sort of infantine
Guy Fawkes.
On that same occasion I learned, for the first time, from
Miss Abbot’s communications to Bessie, that my father had
been a poor clergyman; that my mother had married him
against the wishes of her friends, who considered the match
beneath her; that my grandfather Reed was so irritated at
her disobedience, he cut her off without a shilling; that after
my mother and father had been married a year, the latter
caught the typhus fever while visiting among the poor of
a large manufacturing town where his curacy was situated,
and where that disease was then prevalent: that my mother
took the infection from him, and both died within a month
of each other.
Bessie, when she heard this narrative, sighed and said,
‘Poor Miss Jane is to be pitied, too, Abbot.’
‘Yes,’ responded Abbot; ‘if she were a nice, pretty child,
one might compassionate her forlornness; but one really
cannot care for such a little toad as that.’
‘Not a great deal, to be sure,’ agreed Bessie: ‘at any rate, a

beauty like Miss Georgiana would be more moving in the
same condition.’
‘Yes, I doat on Miss Georgiana!’ cried the fervent Abbot.
‘Little darling!—with her long curls and her blue eyes, and
such a sweet colour as she has; just as if she were painted!—
Bessie, I could fancy a Welsh rabbit for supper.’
‘So could I—with a roast onion. Come, we’ll go down.’
They went.
36 Jane Eyre
Chapter IV
F rom my discourse with Mr. Lloyd, and from the above

reported conference between Bessie and Abbot, I gath-
ered enough of hope to suffice as a motive for wishing to get
well: a change seemed near,I desired and waited it in silence.
It tarried, however: days and weeks passed: I had regained
my normal state of health, but no new allusion was made to
the subject over which I brooded. Mrs. Reed surveyed me
at times with a severe eye, but seldom addressed me: since
my illness, she had drawn a more marked line of separation
than ever between me and her own children; appointing me
a small closet to sleep in by myself, condemning me to take
my meals alone, and pass all my time in the nursery, while
my cousins were constantly in the drawing-room. Not a
hint, however, did she drop about sending me to school: still
I felt an instinctive certainty that she would not long endure
me under the same roof with her; for her glance, now more
than ever, when turned on me, expressed an insuperable
and rooted aversion.
Eliza and Georgiana, evidently acting according to or-
ders, spoke to me as little as possible: John thrust his tongue
in his cheek whenever he saw me, and once attempted chas-
tisement; but as I instantly turned against him, roused by
the same sentiment of deep ire and desperate revolt which
had stirred my corruption before, he thought it better to

desist, and ran from me tittering execrations, and vowing
I had burst his nose. I had indeed levelled at that promi-
nent feature as hard a blow as my knuckles could inflict;
and when I saw that either that or my look daunted him, I
had the greatest inclination to follow up my advantage to
purpose; but he was already with his mama. I heard him
in a blubbering tone commence the tale of how ‘that nasty
Jane Eyre’ had flown at him like a mad cat: he was stopped
rather harshly—
‘Don’t talk to me about her, John: I told you not to go near
her; she is not worthy of notice; I do not choose that either
you or your sisters should associate with her.’
Here, leaning over the banister, I cried out suddenly, and
without at all deliberating on my words—
‘They are not fit to associate with me.’
Mrs. Reed was rather a stout woman; but, on hearing
this strange and audacious declaration, she ran nimbly up
the stair, swept me like a whirlwind into the nursery, and
crushing me down on the edge of my crib, dared me in an
emphatic voice to rise from that place, or utter one syllable
during the remainder of the day.
‘What would Uncle Reed say to you, if he were alive?’ was
my scarcely voluntary demand. I say scarcely voluntary, for
it seemed as if my tongue pronounced words without my
will consenting to their utterance: something spoke out of
me over which I had no control.
‘What?’ said Mrs. Reed under her breath: her usually
cold composed grey eye became troubled with a look like
fear; she took her hand from my arm, and gazed at me as if
38 Jane Eyre
she really did not know whether I were child or fiend. I was
now in for it.
‘My Uncle Reed is in heaven, and can see all you do and
think; and so can papa and mama: they know how you shut
me up all day long, and how you wish me dead.’
Mrs. Reed soon rallied her spirits: she shook me most
soundly, she boxed both my ears, and then left me without
a word. Bessie supplied the hiatus by a homily of an hour’s
length, in which she proved beyond a doubt that I was the
most wicked and abandoned child ever reared under a roof.
I half believed her; for I felt indeed only bad feelings surg-
ing in my breast.
November, December, and half of January passed
away. Christmas and the New Year had been celebrated at
Gateshead with the usual festive cheer; presents had been
interchanged, dinners and evening parties given. From ev-
ery enjoyment I was, of course, excluded: my share of the
gaiety consisted in witnessing the daily apparelling of Eliza
and Georgiana, and seeing them descend to the drawing-
room, dressed out in thin muslin frocks and scarlet sashes,
with hair elaborately ringletted; and afterwards, in listening
to the sound of the piano or the harp played below, to the
passing to and fro of the butler and footman, to the jingling
of glass and china as refreshments were handed, to the bro-
ken hum of conversation as the drawing-room door opened
and closed. When tired of this occupation, I would retire
from the stairhead to the solitary and silent nursery: there,
though somewhat sad, I was not miserable. To speak truth, I
had not the least wish to go into company, for in company I

was very rarely noticed; and if Bessie had but been kind and
companionable, I should have deemed it a treat to spend the
evenings quietly with her, instead of passing them under
the formidable eye of Mrs. Reed, in a room full of ladies and
gentlemen. But Bessie, as soon as she had dressed her young
ladies, used to take herself off to the lively regions of the
kitchen and housekeeper’s room, generally bearing the can-
dle along with her. I then sat with my doll on my knee till
the fire got low, glancing round occasionally to make sure
that nothing worse than myself haunted the shadowy room;
and when the embers sank to a dull red, I undressed hast-
ily, tugging at knots and strings as I best might, and sought
shelter from cold and darkness in my crib. To this crib I al-
ways took my doll; human beings must love something, and,
in the dearth of worthier objects of affection, I contrived to
find a pleasure in loving and cherishing a faded graven im-
age, shabby as a miniature scarecrow. It puzzles me now to
remember with what absurd sincerity I doated on this little
toy, half fancying it alive and capable of sensation. I could
not sleep unless it was folded in my night-gown; and when
it lay there safe and warm, I was comparatively happy, be-
lieving it to be happy likewise.
Long did the hours seem while I waited the departure
of the company, and listened for the sound of Bessie’s step
on the stairs: sometimes she would come up in the interval
to seek her thimble or her scissors, or perhaps to bring me
something by way of supper—a bun or a cheese-cake—then
she would sit on the bed while I ate it, and when I had fin-
ished, she would tuck the clothes round me, and twice she
40 Jane Eyre
kissed me, and said, ‘Good night, Miss Jane.’ When thus
gentle, Bessie seemed to me the best, prettiest, kindest being
in the world; and I wished most intensely that she would al-
ways be so pleasant and amiable, and never push me about,
or scold, or task me unreasonably, as she was too often wont
to do. Bessie Lee must, I think, have been a girl of good
natural capacity, for she was smart in all she did, and had a
remarkable knack of narrative; so, at least, I judge from the
impression made on me by her nursery tales. She was pretty
too, if my recollections of her face and person are correct.
I remember her as a slim young woman, with black hair,
dark eyes, very nice features, and good, clear complexion;
but she had a capricious and hasty temper, and indifferent
ideas of principle or justice: still, such as she was, I preferred
her to any one else at Gateshead Hall.
It was the fifteenth of January, about nine o’clock in the
morning: Bessie was gone down to breakfast; my cousins
had not yet been summoned to their mama; Eliza was put-
ting on her bonnet and warm garden-coat to go and feed
her poultry, an occupation of which she was fond: and not
less so of selling the eggs to the housekeeper and hoarding
up the money she thus obtained. She had a turn for traffic,
and a marked propensity for saving; shown not only in the
vending of eggs and chickens, but also in driving hard bar-
gains with the gardener about flower-roots, seeds, and slips
of plants; that functionary having orders from Mrs. Reed
to buy of his young lady all the products of her parterre she
wished to sell: and Eliza would have sold the hair off her
head if she could have made a handsome profit thereby. As

to her money, she first secreted it in odd corners, wrapped
in a rag or an old curl-paper; but some of these hoards hav-
ing been discovered by the housemaid, Eliza, fearful of one
day losing her valued treasure, consented to intrust it to
her mother, at a usurious rate of interest—fifty or sixty per
cent.; which interest she exacted every quarter, keeping her
accounts in a little book with anxious accuracy.
Georgiana sat on a high stool, dressing her hair at the
glass, and interweaving her curls with artificial flowers and
faded feathers, of which she had found a store in a drawer
in the attic. I was making my bed, having received strict or-
ders from Bessie to get it arranged before she returned (for
Bessie now frequently employed me as a sort of under-nurs-
erymaid, to tidy the room, dust the chairs, &c.). Having
spread the quilt and folded my night-dress, I went to the
window-seat to put in order some picture-books and doll’s
house furniture scattered there; an abrupt command from
Georgiana to let her playthings alone (for the tiny chairs
and mirrors, the fairy plates and cups, were her property)
stopped my proceedings; and then, for lack of other occupa-
tion, I fell to breathing on the frost-flowers with which the
window was fretted, and thus clearing a space in the glass
through which I might look out on the grounds, where all
was still and petrified under the influence of a hard frost.
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
42 Jane Eyre
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 liveli-
er 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 hav-
ing 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 morn-
ing?’ 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 mis-
chief: 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 de-
manded if Mrs. Reed was there; but Bessie was already gone,
and had closed the nursery-door upon me. I slowly descend-
ed. For nearly three months, I had never been called to Mrs.
Reed’s presence; restricted so long to the nursery, the break-
fast, 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 break-
fast-room door, and I stopped, intimidated and trembling.
What a miserable little poltroon had fear, engendered of un-
just 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 curt-
seying 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 intro-
duced 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
44 Jane Eyre
where I stood, and having examined me with the two in-
quisitive-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 an-
swered 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 per-
son 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, ‘es-
pecially 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 burn-
ing there for ever?’
‘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 excel-
lent benefactress.’
‘Benefactress! benefactress!’ said I inwardly: ‘they all call
Mrs. Reed my benefactress; if so, a benefactress is a dis-
agreeable thing.’
‘Do you say your prayers night and morning?’ continued
my interrogator.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Do you read your Bible?’
‘Sometimes.’
46 Jane Eyre
‘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 man-
ner 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 her-
self.
‘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 strenu-
ously I strove to please her, my efforts were still repulsed
and repaid by such sentences as the above. Now, uttered be-
fore 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 evi-
dences of my anguish.
‘Deceit is, indeed, a sad fault in a child,’ said Mr. Brock-
lehurst; ‘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 use-
ful, 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,
48 Jane Eyre
direct that especial care shall be bestowed on its cultiva-
tion 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 daugh-
ter, 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 be-
fore.’’
‘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 consis-
tency 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, unso-
phisticated 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. Brockle-

hurst; 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 no-
tice that she is to expect a new girl, so that there will he no
difficulty about receiving her. Good-bye.’
‘Good-bye, Mr. Brocklehurst; remember me to Mrs. and
Miss Brocklehurst, and to Augusta and Theodore, and Mas-
ter Broughton Brocklehurst.’
‘I will, madam. Little girl, here is a book entitled the
‘Child’s Guide,’ read it with prayer, especially that part con-
taining ‘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 car-
riage, 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 promi-
nent, 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
50 Jane Eyre
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 hand-
some 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 ap-
propriate warning. What had just passed; what Mrs. Reed
had said concerning me to Mr. Brocklehurst; the whole ten-
or of their conversation, was recent, raw, and stinging in my
mind; I had felt every word as acutely as I had heard it plain-
ly, 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 man-
date. My look or something else must have struck her as
offensive, for she spoke with extreme though suppressed ir-
ritation. 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 retalia-
tion 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 any-

body 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 any one 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.’
‘How dare you affirm that, Jane Eyre?’
‘How dare I, Mrs. Reed? How dare I? Because it is the
TRUTH. You think I have no feelings, and that I can do
without one bit of love or kindness; but I cannot live so:
and you have no pity. I shall remember how you thrust me
back—roughly and violently thrust me back—into the red-
room, and locked me up there, to my dying day; though
I was in agony; though I cried out, while suffocating with
distress, ‘Have mercy! Have mercy, Aunt Reed!’ And that
punishment you made me suffer because your wicked boy
struck me—knocked me down for nothing. I will tell any-
body who asks me questions, this exact tale. People think
52 Jane Eyre
you a good woman, but you are bad, hard- hearted. YOU
are deceitful!’
Ere I had finished this reply, my soul began to expand,
to exult, with the strangest sense of freedom, of triumph,
I ever felt. It seemed as if an invisible bond had burst, and
that I had struggled out into unhoped-for liberty. Not with-
out cause was this sentiment: Mrs. Reed looked frightened;
her work had slipped from her knee; she was lifting up her
hands, rocking herself to and fro, and even twisting her
face as if she would cry.
‘Jane, you are under a mistake: what is the matter with
you? Why do you tremble so violently? Would you like to
drink some water?’
‘No, Mrs. Reed.’
‘Is there anything else you wish for, Jane? I assure you, I
desire to be your friend.’
‘Not you. You told Mr. Brocklehurst I had a bad charac-
ter, a deceitful disposition; and I’ll let everybody at Lowood
know what you are, and what you have done.’
‘Jane, you don’t understand these things: children must
be corrected for their faults.’
‘Deceit is not my fault!’ I cried out in a savage, high
voice.
‘But you are passionate, Jane, that you must allow: and
now return to the nursery—there’s a dear—and lie down
a little.’
‘I am not your dear; I cannot lie down: send me to school
soon, Mrs. Reed, for I hate to live here.’
‘I will indeed send her to school soon,’ murmured Mrs.

Reed sotto voce; and gathering up her work, she abruptly
quitted the apartment.
I was left there alone—winner of the field. It was the
hardest battle I had fought, and the first victory I had
gained: I stood awhile on the rug, where Mr. Brocklehu-
rst had stood, and I enjoyed my conqueror’s solitude. First,
I smiled to myself and felt elate; but this fierce pleasure
subsided in me as fast as did the accelerated throb of my
pulses. A child cannot quarrel with its elders, as I had done;
cannot give its furious feelings uncontrolled play, as I had
given mine, without experiencing afterwards the pang of
remorse and the chill of reaction. A ridge of lighted heath,
alive, glancing, devouring, would have been a meet em-
blem of my mind when I accused and menaced Mrs. Reed:
the same ridge, black and blasted after the flames are dead,
would have represented as meetly my subsequent condition,
when half-an-hour’s silence and reflection had shown me
the madness of my conduct, and the dreariness of my hated
and hating position.
Something of vengeance I had tasted for the first time; as
aromatic wine it seemed, on swallowing, warm and racy: its
after-flavour, metallic and corroding, gave me a sensation
as if I had been poisoned. Willingly would I now have gone
and asked Mrs. Reed’s pardon; but I knew, partly from ex-
perience and partly from instinct, that was the way to make
her repulse me with double scorn, thereby re-exciting every
turbulent impulse of my nature.
I would fain exercise some better faculty than that of
fierce speaking; fain find nourishment for some less fiendish
54 Jane Eyre
feeling than that of sombre indignation. I took a book—
some Arabian tales; I sat down and endeavoured to read. I
could make no sense of the subject; my own thoughts swam
always between me and the page I had usually found fasci-
nating. I opened the glass-door in the breakfast-room: the
shrubbery was quite still: the black frost reigned, unbroken
by sun or breeze, through the grounds. I covered my head
and arms with the skirt of my frock, and went out to walk
in a part of the plantation which was quite sequestrated; but
I found no pleasure in the silent trees, the falling fir-cones,
the congealed relics of autumn, russet leaves, swept by past
winds in heaps, and now stiffened together. I leaned against
a gate, and looked into an empty field where no sheep were
feeding, where the short grass was nipped and blanched. It
was a very grey day; a most opaque sky, ‘onding on snaw,’
canopied all; thence flakes felt it intervals, which settled on
the hard path and on the hoary lea without melting. I stood,
a wretched child enough, whispering to myself over and
over again, ‘What shall I do?—what shall I do?’
All at once I heard a clear voice call, ‘Miss Jane! where
are you? Come to lunch!’
It was Bessie, I knew well enough; but I did not stir; her
light step came tripping down the path.
‘You naughty little thing!’ she said. ‘Why don’t you come
when you are called?’
Bessie’s presence, compared with the thoughts over
which I had been brooding, seemed cheerful; even though,
as usual, she was somewhat cross. The fact is, after my con-
flict with and victory over Mrs. Reed, I was not disposed to

care much for the nursemaid’s transitory anger; and I WAS
disposed to bask in her youthful lightness of heart. I just
put my two arms round her and said, ‘Come, Bessie! don’t
scold.’
The action was more frank and fearless than any I was
habituated to indulge in: somehow it pleased her.
‘You are a strange child, Miss Jane,’ she said, as she looked
down at me; ‘a little roving, solitary thing: and you are go-
ing to school, I suppose?’
I nodded.
‘And won’t you be sorry to leave poor Bessie?’
‘What does Bessie care for me? She is always scolding
me.’
‘Because you’re such a queer, frightened, shy little thing.
You should be bolder.’
‘What! to get more knocks?’
‘Nonsense! But you are rather put upon, that’s certain. My
mother said, when she came to see me last week, that she
would not like a little one of her own to be in your place.—
Now, come in, and I’ve some good news for you.’
‘I don’t think you have, Bessie.’
‘Child! what do you mean? What sorrowful eyes you fix
on me! Well, but Missis and the young ladies and Master
John are going out to tea this afternoon, and you shall have
tea with me. I’ll ask cook to bake you a little cake, and then
you shall help me to look over your drawers; for I am soon
to pack your trunk. Missis intends you to leave Gateshead
in a day or two, and you shall choose what toys you like to
take with you.’
56 Jane Eyre
‘Bessie, you must promise not to scold me any more till
I go.’
‘Well, I will; but mind you are a very good girl, and don’t
be afraid of me. Don’t start when I chance to speak rather
sharply; it’s so provoking.’
‘I don’t think I shall ever be afraid of you again, Bessie,
because I have got used to you, and I shall soon have an-
other set of people to dread.’
‘If you dread them they’ll dislike you.’
‘As you do, Bessie?’
‘I don’t dislike you, Miss; I believe I am fonder of you
than of all the others.’
‘You don’t show it.’
‘You little sharp thing! you’ve got quite a new way of talk-
ing. What makes you so venturesome and hardy?’
‘Why, I shall soon be away from you, and besides’—I was
going to say something about what had passed between me
and Mrs. Reed, but on second thoughts I considered it bet-
ter to remain silent on that head.
‘And so you’re glad to leave me?’
‘Not at all, Bessie; indeed, just now I’m rather sorry.’
‘Just now! and rather! How coolly my little lady says it! I
dare say now if I were to ask you for a kiss you wouldn’t give
it me: you’d say you’d RATHER not.’
‘I’ll kiss you and welcome: bend your head down.’ Bes-
sie stooped; we mutually embraced, and I followed her into
the house quite comforted. That afternoon lapsed in peace
and harmony; and in the evening Bessie told me some of her
most enchaining stories, and sang me some of her sweetest

songs. Even for me life had its gleams of sunshine.
58 Jane Eyre
Chapter V
F ive o’clock had hardly struck on the morning of the 19th

of January, when Bessie brought a candle into my closet
and found me already up and nearly dressed. I had risen
half-an-hour before her entrance, and had washed my face,
and put on my clothes by the light of a half-moon just set-
ting, whose rays streamed through the narrow window near
my crib. I was to leave Gateshead that day by a coach which
passed the lodge gates at six a.m. Bessie was the only per-
son yet risen; she had lit a fire in the nursery, where she
now proceeded to make my breakfast. Few children can
eat when excited with the thoughts of a journey; nor could
I. Bessie, having pressed me in vain to take a few spoon-
fuls of the boiled milk and bread she had prepared for me,
wrapped up some biscuits in a paper and put them into my
bag; then she helped me on with my pelisse and bonnet, and
wrapping herself in a shawl, she and I left the nursery. As we
passed Mrs. Reed’s bedroom, she said, ‘Will you go in and
bid Missis good-bye?’
‘No, Bessie: she came to my crib last night when you were
gone down to supper, and said I need not disturb her in the
morning, or my cousins either; and she told me to remem-
ber that she had always been my best friend, and to speak of
her and be grateful to her accordingly.’
‘What did you say, Miss?’

‘Nothing: I covered my face with the bedclothes, and
turned from her to the wall.’
‘That was wrong, Miss Jane.’
‘It was quite right, Bessie. Your Missis has not been my
friend: she has been my foe.’
‘O Miss Jane! don’t say so!’
‘Good-bye to Gateshead!’ cried I, as we passed through
the hall and went out at the front door.
The moon was set, and it was very dark; Bessie carried a
lantern, whose light glanced on wet steps and gravel road
sodden by a recent thaw. Raw and chill was the winter
morning: my teeth chattered as I hastened down the drive.
There was a light in the porter’s lodge: when we reached it,
we found the porter’s wife just kindling her fire: my trunk,
which had been carried down the evening before, stood
corded at the door. It wanted but a few minutes of six, and
shortly after that hour had struck, the distant roll of wheels
announced the coming coach; I went to the door and
watched its lamps approach rapidly through the gloom.
‘Is she going by herself?’ asked the porter’s wife.
‘Yes.’
‘And how far is it?’
‘Fifty miles.’
‘What a long way! I wonder Mrs. Reed is not afraid to
trust her so far alone.’
The coach drew up; there it was at the gates with its four
horses and its top laden with passengers: the guard and
coachman loudly urged haste; my trunk was hoisted up; I
was taken from Bessie’s neck, to which I clung with kisses.
60 Jane Eyre
‘Be sure and take good care of her,’ cried she to the guard,
as he lifted me into the inside.
‘Ay, ay!’ was the answer: the door was slapped to, a voice
exclaimed ‘All right,’ and on we drove. Thus was I severed
from Bessie and Gateshead; thus whirled away to unknown,
and, as I then deemed, remote and mysterious regions.
I remember but little of the journey; I only know that
the day seemed to me of a preternatural length, and that
we appeared to travel over hundreds of miles of road. We
passed through several towns, and in one, a very large one,
the coach stopped; the horses were taken out, and the pas-
sengers alighted to dine. I was carried into an inn, where
the guard wanted me to have some dinner; but, as I had no
appetite, he left me in an immense room with a fireplace
at each end, a chandelier pendent from the ceiling, and a
little red gallery high up against the wall filled with musical
instruments. Here I walked about for a long time, feeling
very strange, and mortally apprehensive of some one com-
ing in and kidnapping me; for I believed in kidnappers,
their exploits having frequently figured in Bessie’s fireside
chronicles. At last the guard returned; once more I was
stowed away in the coach, my protector mounted his own
seat, sounded his hollow horn, and away we rattled over the
‘stony street’ of L-.
The afternoon came on wet and somewhat misty: as it
waned into dusk, I began to feel that we were getting very far
indeed from Gateshead: we ceased to pass through towns;
the country changed; great grey hills heaved up round the
horizon: as twilight deepened, we descended a valley, dark

with wood, and long after night had overclouded the pros-
pect, I heard a wild wind rushing amongst trees.
Lulled by the sound, I at last dropped asleep; I had not
long slumbered when the sudden cessation of motion awoke
me; the coach- door was open, and a person like a servant
was standing at it: I saw her face and dress by the light of
the lamps.
‘Is there a little girl called Jane Eyre here?’ she asked. I
answered ‘Yes,’ and was then lifted out; my trunk was hand-
ed down, and the coach instantly drove away.
I was stiff with long sitting, and bewildered with the
noise and motion of the coach: Gathering my faculties, I
looked about me. Rain, wind, and darkness filled the air;
nevertheless, I dimly discerned a wall before me and a door
open in it; through this door I passed with my new guide:
she shut and locked it behind her. There was now visible a
house or houses—for the building spread far—with many
windows, and lights burning in some; we went up a broad
pebbly path, splashing wet, and were admitted at a door;
then the servant led me through a passage into a room with
a fire, where she left me alone.
I stood and warmed my numbed fingers over the blaze,
then I looked round; there was no candle, but the uncer-
tain light from the hearth showed, by intervals, papered
walls, carpet, curtains, shining mahogany furniture: it was
a parlour, not so spacious or splendid as the drawing-room
at Gateshead, but comfortable enough. I was puzzling to
make out the subject of a picture on the wall, when the door
opened, and an individual carrying a light entered; another
62 Jane Eyre
followed close behind.
The first was a tall lady with dark hair, dark eyes, and a
pale and large forehead; her figure was partly enveloped in a
shawl, her countenance was grave, her bearing erect.
‘The child is very young to be sent alone,’ said she, putting
her candle down on the table. She considered me attentively
for a minute or two, then further added—
‘She had better be put to bed soon; she looks tired: are
you tired?’ she asked, placing her hand on my shoulder.
‘A little, ma’am.’
‘And hungry too, no doubt: let her have some supper be-
fore she goes to bed, Miss Miller. Is this the first time you
have left your parents to come to school, my little girl?’
I explained to her that I had no parents. She inquired
how long they had been dead: then how old I was, what was
my name, whether I could read, write, and sew a little: then
she touched my cheek gently with her forefinger, and saying,
‘She hoped I should be a good child,’ dismissed me along
with Miss Miller.
The lady I had left might be about twenty-nine; the one
who went with me appeared some years younger: the first
impressed me by her voice, look, and air. Miss Miller was
more ordinary; ruddy in complexion, though of a careworn
countenance; hurried in gait and action, like one who had
always a multiplicity of tasks on hand: she looked, indeed,
what I afterwards found she really was, an under-teacher.
Led by her, I passed from compartment to compartment,
from passage to passage, of a large and irregular building;
till, emerging from the total and somewhat dreary silence

pervading that portion of the house we had traversed, we
came upon the hum of many voices, and presently entered a
wide, long room, with great deal tables, two at each end, on
each of which burnt a pair of candles, and seated all round
on benches, a congregation of girls of every age, from nine
or ten to twenty. Seen by the dim light of the dips, their
number to me appeared countless, though not in reality ex-
ceeding eighty; they were uniformly dressed in brown stuff
frocks of quaint fashion, and long holland pinafores. It was
the hour of study; they were engaged in conning over their
to- morrow’s task, and the hum I had heard was the com-
bined result of their whispered repetitions.
Miss Miller signed to me to sit on a bench near the door,
then walking up to the top of the long room she cried out—
‘Monitors, collect the lesson-books and put them away!
Four tall girls arose from different tables, and going round,
gathered the books and removed them. Miss Miller again
gave the word of command—
‘Monitors, fetch the supper-trays!’
The tall girls went out and returned presently, each bear-
ing a tray, with portions of something, I knew not what,
arranged thereon, and a pitcher of water and mug in the
middle of each tray. The portions were handed round; those
who liked took a draught of the water, the mug being com-
mon to all. When it came to my turn, I drank, for I was
thirsty, but did not touch the food, excitement and fatigue
rendering me incapable of eating: I now saw, however, that
it was a thin oaten cake shared into fragments.
The meal over, prayers were read by Miss Miller, and the
64 Jane Eyre
classes filed off, two and two, upstairs. Overpowered by this
time with weariness, I scarcely noticed what sort of a place
the bedroom was, except that, like the schoolroom, I saw it
was very long. To-night I was to be Miss Miller’s bed-fellow;
she helped me to undress: when laid down I glanced at the
long rows of beds, each of which was quickly filled with two
occupants; in ten minutes the single light was extinguished,
and amidst silence and complete darkness I fell asleep.
The night passed rapidly. I was too tired even to dream; I
only once awoke to hear the wind rave in furious gusts, and
the rain fall in torrents, and to be sensible that Miss Miller
had taken her place by my side. When I again unclosed my
eyes, a loud bell was ringing; the girls were up and dress-
ing; day had not yet begun to dawn, and a rushlight or two
burned in the room. I too rose reluctantly; it was bitter cold,
and I dressed as well as I could for shivering, and washed
when there was a basin at liberty, which did not occur soon,
as there was but one basin to six girls, on the stands down
the middle of the room. Again the bell rang: all formed in
file, two and two, and in that order descended the stairs and
entered the cold and dimly lit schoolroom: here prayers
were read by Miss Miller; afterwards she called out—
‘Form classes!’
A great tumult succeeded for some minutes, during
which Miss Miller repeatedly exclaimed, ‘Silence!’ and ‘Or-
der!’ When it subsided, I saw them all drawn up in four
semicircles, before four chairs, placed at the four tables; all
held books in their hands, and a great book, like a Bible,
lay on each table, before the vacant seat. A pause of some

seconds succeeded, filled up by the low, vague hum of num-
bers; Miss Miller walked from class to class, hushing this
indefinite sound.
A distant bell tinkled: immediately three ladies entered
the room, each walked to a table and took her seat. Miss
Miller assumed the fourth vacant chair, which was that
nearest the door, and around which the smallest of the chil-
dren were assembled: to this inferior class I was called, and
placed at the bottom of it.
Business now began, the day’s Collect was repeated, then
certain texts of Scripture were said, and to these succeeded
a protracted reading of chapters in the Bible, which lasted
an hour. By the time that exercise was terminated, day had
fully dawned. The indefatigable bell now sounded for the
fourth time: the classes were marshalled and marched into
another room to breakfast: how glad I was to behold a pros-
pect of getting something to eat! I was now nearly sick from
inanition, having taken so little the day before.
The refectory was a great, low-ceiled, gloomy room; on
two long tables smoked basins of something hot, which,
however, to my dismay, sent forth an odour far from invit-
ing. I saw a universal manifestation of discontent when the
fumes of the repast met the nostrils of those destined to
swallow it; from the van of the procession, the tall girls of
the first class, rose the whispered words—
‘Disgusting! The porridge is burnt again!’
‘Silence!’ ejaculated a voice; not that of Miss Miller, but
one of the upper teachers, a little and dark personage, smart-
ly dressed, but of somewhat morose aspect, who installed
66 Jane Eyre
herself at the top of one table, while a more buxom lady pre-
sided at the other. I looked in vain for her I had first seen the
night before; she was not visible: Miss Miller occupied the
foot of the table where I sat, and a strange, foreign-looking,
elderly lady, the French teacher, as I afterwards found, took
the corresponding seat at the other board. A long grace was
said and a hymn sung; then a servant brought in some tea
for the teachers, and the meal began.
Ravenous, and now very faint, I devoured a spoonful
or two of my portion without thinking of its taste; but the
first edge of hunger blunted, I perceived I had got in hand
a nauseous mess; burnt porridge is almost as bad as rotten
potatoes; famine itself soon sickens over it. The spoons were
moved slowly: I saw each girl taste her food and try to swal-
low it; but in most cases the effort was soon relinquished.
Breakfast was over, and none had breakfasted. Thanks be-
ing returned for what we had not got, and a second hymn
chanted, the refectory was evacuated for the schoolroom.
I was one of the last to go out, and in passing the tables, I
saw one teacher take a basin of the porridge and taste it;
she looked at the others; all their countenances expressed
displeasure, and one of them, the stout one, whispered—
‘Abominable stuff! How shameful!’
A quarter of an hour passed before lessons again began,
during which the schoolroom was in a glorious tumult; for
that space of time it seemed to be permitted to talk loud and
more freely, and they used their privilege. The whole con-
versation ran on the breakfast, which one and all abused
roundly. Poor things! it was the sole consolation they had.

Miss Miller was now the only teacher in the room: a group
of great girls standing about her spoke with serious and
sullen gestures. I heard the name of Mr. Brocklehurst pro-
nounced by some lips; at which Miss Miller shook her head
disapprovingly; but she made no great effort to cheek the
general wrath; doubtless she shared in it.
A clock in the schoolroom struck nine; Miss Miller left
her circle, and standing in the middle of the room, cried—
‘Silence! To your seats!’
Discipline prevailed: in five minutes the confused throng
was resolved into order, and comparative silence quelled
the Babel clamour of tongues. The upper teachers now
punctually resumed their posts: but still, all seemed to wait.
Ranged on benches down the sides of the room, the eighty
girls sat motionless and erect; a quaint assemblage they ap-
peared, all with plain locks combed from their faces, not a
curl visible; in brown dresses, made high and surrounded
by a narrow tucker about the throat, with little pockets of
holland (shaped something like a Highlander’s purse) tied
in front of their frocks, and destined to serve the purpose of
a work- bag: all, too, wearing woollen stockings and coun-
try-made shoes, fastened with brass buckles. Above twenty
of those clad in this costume were full-grown girls, or rath-
er young women; it suited them ill, and gave an air of oddity
even to the prettiest.
I was still looking at them, and also at intervals ex-
amining the teachers—none of whom precisely pleased
me; for the stout one was a little coarse, the dark one not
a little fierce, the foreigner harsh and grotesque, and Miss
68 Jane Eyre
Miller, poor thing! looked purple, weather- beaten, and
over-worked—when, as my eye wandered from face to face,
the whole school rose simultaneously, as if moved by a com-
mon spring.
What was the matter? I had heard no order given: I was
puzzled. Ere I had gathered my wits, the classes were again
seated: but as all eyes were now turned to one point, mine
followed the general direction, and encountered the person-
age who had received me last night. She stood at the bottom
of the long room, on the hearth; for there was a fire at each
end; she surveyed the two rows of girls silently and gravely.
Miss Miller approaching, seemed to ask her a question, and
having received her answer, went back to her place, and said
aloud—
‘Monitor of the first class, fetch the globes!’
While the direction was being executed, the lady con-
sulted moved slowly up the room. I suppose I have a
considerable organ of veneration, for I retain yet the sense
of admiring awe with which my eyes traced her steps. Seen
now, in broad daylight, she looked tall, fair, and shapely;
brown eyes with a benignant light in their irids, and a fine
pencilling of long lashes round, relieved the whiteness of
her large front; on each of her temples her hair, of a very
dark brown, was clustered in round curls, according to the
fashion of those times, when neither smooth bands nor
long ringlets were in vogue; her dress, also in the mode of
the day, was of purple cloth, relieved by a sort of Spanish
trimming of black velvet; a gold watch (watches were not
so common then as now) shone at her girdle. Let the reader

add, to complete the picture, refined features; a complex-
ion, if pale, clear; and a stately air and carriage, and he will
have, at least, as clearly as words can give it, a correct idea of
the exterior of Miss Temple—Maria Temple, as I afterwards
saw the name written in a prayer-book intrusted to me to
carry to church.
The superintendent of Lowood (for such was this lady)
having taken her seat before a pair of globes placed on one
of the tables, summoned the first class round her, and com-
menced giving a lesson on geography; the lower classes
were called by the teachers: repetitions in history, grammar,
&c., went on for an hour; writing and arithmetic succeeded,
and music lessons were given by Miss Temple to some of
the elder girls. The duration of each lesson was measured by
the clock, which at last struck twelve. The superintendent
rose—
‘I have a word to address to the pupils,’ said she.
The tumult of cessation from lessons was already
breaking forth, but it sank at her voice. She went on—
‘You had this morning a breakfast which you could not
eat; you must be hungry:—I have ordered that a lunch of
bread and cheese shall be served to all.’
The teachers looked at her with a sort of surprise.
‘It is to be done on my responsibility,’ she added, in an
explanatory tone to them, and immediately afterwards left
the room.
The bread and cheese was presently brought in and dis-
tributed, to the high delight and refreshment of the whole
school. The order was now given ‘To the garden!’ Each put
70 Jane Eyre
on a coarse straw bonnet, with strings of coloured calico,
and a cloak of grey frieze. I was similarly equipped, and,
following the stream, I made my way into the open air.
The garden was a wide inclosure, surrounded with walls
so high as to exclude every glimpse of prospect; a covered
verandah ran down one side, and broad walks bordered a
middle space divided into scores of little beds: these beds
were assigned as gardens for the pupils to cultivate, and
each bed had an owner. When full of flowers they would
doubtless look pretty; but now, at the latter end of Janu-
ary, all was wintry blight and brown decay. I shuddered
as I stood and looked round me: it was an inclement day
for outdoor exercise; not positively rainy, but darkened by
a drizzling yellow fog; all under foot was still soaking wet
with the floods of yesterday. The stronger among the girls
ran about and engaged in active games, but sundry pale and
thin ones herded together for shelter and warmth in the ve-
randah; and amongst these, as the dense mist penetrated
to their shivering frames, I heard frequently the sound of a
hollow cough.
As yet I had spoken to no one, nor did anybody seem to
take notice of me; I stood lonely enough: but to that feeling
of isolation I was accustomed; it did not oppress me much. I
leant against a pillar of the verandah, drew my grey mantle
close about me, and, trying to forget the cold which nipped
me without, and the unsatisfied hunger which gnawed me
within, delivered myself up to the employment of watch-
ing and thinking. My reflections were too undefined and
fragmentary to merit record: I hardly yet knew where I was;

Gateshead and my past life seemed floated away to an im-
measurable distance; the present was vague and strange,
and of the future I could form no conjecture. I looked
round the convent-like garden, and then up at the house—a
large building, half of which seemed grey and old, the other
half quite new. The new part, containing the schoolroom
and dormitory, was lit by mullioned and latticed windows,
which gave it a church-like aspect; a stone tablet over the
door bore this inscription:-
‘Lowood Institution.—This portion was rebuilt A.D.—,
by Naomi Brocklehurst, of Brocklehurst Hall, in this coun-
ty.’ ‘Let your light so shine before men, that they may see
your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heav-
en.’— St. Matt. v. 16.
I read these words over and over again: I felt that an
explanation belonged to them, and was unable fully to pen-
etrate their import. I was still pondering the signification
of ‘Institution,’ and endeavouring to make out a connection
between the first words and the verse of Scripture, when the
sound of a cough close behind me made me turn my head.
I saw a girl sitting on a stone bench near; she was bent over
a book, on the perusal of which she seemed intent: from
where I stood I could see the title—it was ‘Rasselas;’ a name
that struck me as strange, and consequently attractive. In
turning a leaf she happened to look up, and I said to her
directly—
‘Is your book interesting?’ I had already formed the in-
tention of asking her to lend it to me some day.
‘I like it,’ she answered, after a pause of a second or two,
72 Jane Eyre
during which she examined me.
‘What is it about?’ I continued. I hardly know where I
found the hardihood thus to open a conversation with a
stranger; the step was contrary to my nature and habits: but
I think her occupation touched a chord of sympathy some-
where; for I too liked reading, though of a frivolous and
childish kind; I could not digest or comprehend the serious
or substantial.
‘You may look at it,’ replied the girl, offering me the
book.
I did so; a brief examination convinced me that the
contents were less taking than the title: ‘Rasselas’ looked
dull to my trifling taste; I saw nothing about fairies, noth-
ing about genii; no bright variety seemed spread over the
closely-printed pages. I returned it to her; she received it
quietly, and without saying anything she was about to re-
lapse into her former studious mood: again I ventured to
disturb her—
‘Can you tell me what the writing on that stone over the
door means? What is Lowood Institution?’
‘This house where you are come to live.’
‘And why do they call it Institution? Is it in any way dif-
ferent from other schools?’
‘It is partly a charity-school: you and I, and all the rest of
us, are charity-children. I suppose you are an orphan: are
not either your father or your mother dead?’
‘Both died before I can remember.’
‘Well, all the girls here have lost either one or both parents,
and this is called an institution for educating orphans.’

‘Do we pay no money? Do they keep us for nothing?’
‘We pay, or our friends pay, fifteen pounds a year for
each.’
‘Then why do they call us charity-children?’
‘Because fifteen pounds is not enough for board and
teaching, and the deficiency is supplied by subscription.’
‘Who subscribes?’
‘Different benevolent-minded ladies and gentlemen in
this neighbourhood and in London.’
‘Who was Naomi Brocklehurst?’
‘The lady who built the new part of this house as that
tablet records, and whose son overlooks and directs every-
thing here.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he is treasurer and manager of the establish-
ment.’
‘Then this house does not belong to that tall lady who
wears a watch, and who said we were to have some bread
and cheese?’
‘To Miss Temple? Oh, no! I wish it did: she has to answer
to Mr. Brocklehurst for all she does. Mr. Brocklehurst buys
all our food and all our clothes.’
‘Does he live here?’
‘No—two miles off, at a large hall.’
‘Is he a good man?’
‘He is a clergyman, and is said to do a great deal of
good.’
‘Did you say that tall lady was called Miss Temple?’
‘Yes.’
74 Jane Eyre
‘And what are the other teachers called?’
‘The one with red cheeks is called Miss Smith; she at-
tends to the work, and cuts out—for we make our own
clothes, our frocks, and pelisses, and everything; the little
one with black hair is Miss Scatcherd; she teaches history
and grammar, and hears the second class repetitions; and
the one who wears a shawl, and has a pocket- handkerchief
tied to her side with a yellow ribband, is Madame Pierrot:
she comes from Lisle, in France, and teaches French.’
‘Do you like the teachers?’
‘Well enough.’
‘Do you like the little black one, and the Madame—?—I
cannot pronounce her name as you do.’
‘Miss Scatcherd is hasty—you must take care not to of-
fend her; Madame Pierrot is not a bad sort of person.’
‘But Miss Temple is the best—isn’t she?’
‘Miss Temple is very good and very clever; she is above
the rest, because she knows far more than they do.’
‘Have you been long here?’
‘Two years.’
‘Are you an orphan?’
‘My mother is dead.’
‘Are you happy here?’
‘You ask rather too many questions. I have given you an-
swers enough for the present: now I want to read.’
But at that moment the summons sounded for dinner;
all re-entered the house. The odour which now filled the
refectory was scarcely more appetising than that which had
regaled our nostrils at breakfast: the dinner was served in

two huge tin-plated vessels, whence rose a strong steam
redolent of rancid fat. I found the mess to consist of indif-
ferent potatoes and strange shreds of rusty meat, mixed and
cooked together. Of this preparation a tolerably abundant
plateful was apportioned to each pupil. I ate what I could,
and wondered within myself whether every day’s fare would
be like this.
After dinner, we immediately adjourned to the school-
room: lessons recommenced, and were continued till five
o’clock.
The only marked event of the afternoon was, that I saw
the girl with whom I had conversed in the verandah dis-
missed in disgrace by Miss Scatcherd from a history class,
and sent to stand in the middle of the large schoolroom.
The punishment seemed to me in a high degree ignomini-
ous, especially for so great a girl—she looked thirteen or
upwards. I expected she would show signs of great distress
and shame; but to my surprise she neither wept nor blushed:
composed, though grave, she stood, the central mark of all
eyes. ‘How can she bear it so quietly—so firmly?’ I asked of
myself. ‘Were I in her place, it seems to me I should wish the
earth to open and swallow me up. She looks as if she were
thinking of something beyond her punishment—beyond
her situation: of something not round her nor before her. I
have heard of day-dreams—is she in a day-dream now? Her
eyes are fixed on the floor, but I am sure they do not see it—
her sight seems turned in, gone down into her heart: she is
looking at what she can remember, I believe; not at what is
really present. I wonder what sort of a girl she is—whether
76 Jane Eyre
good or naughty.’
Soon after five p.m. we had another meal, consisting of
a small mug of coffee, and half-a-slice of brown bread. I
devoured my bread and drank my coffee with relish; but I
should have been glad of as much more—I was still hungry.
Half-an-hour’s recreation succeeded, then study; then the
glass of water and the piece of oat-cake, prayers, and bed.
Such was my first day at Lowood.

Chapter VI
T he next day commenced as before, getting up and dress-

ing by rushlight; 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 weath-
er 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-read-
ing was over, I felt ready to perish with cold. Breakfast-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: hitherto, 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 fre-
quent 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, &c., and sent me to sit in a
quiet corner of the schoolroom, with directions to hem the
78 Jane Eyre
same. At that hour most of the others were sewing likewise;
but one class still stood round Miss Scatcherd’s chair read-
ing, and as all was quiet, the subject of their lessons could
be heard, together with the manner in which each girl ac-
quitted herself, and the animadversions or commendations
of Miss Scatcherd on the performance. It was English his-
tory: among the readers I observed my acquaintance of the
verandah: at the commencement of the lesson, her place
had been at the top of the class, but for some error of pro-
nunciation, or some inattention to stops, she was suddenly
sent to the very bottom. Even in that obscure position, Miss
Scatcherd continued to make her an object of constant no-
tice: she was continually addressing to her such phrases as
the following:-
‘Burns’ (such it seems was her name: the girls here were
all called by their surnames, as boys are elsewhere), ‘Burns,
you are standing on the side of your shoe; turn your toes out
immediately.’ ‘Burns, you poke your chin most unpleasant-
ly; draw it in.’ ‘Burns, I insist on your holding your head up;
I will not have you before me in that attitude,’ &c. &c.
A chapter having been read through twice, the books
were closed and the girls examined. The lesson had com-
prised 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 Scatcherd 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 her 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,
&c.; till she dismissed me, I could not pursue my observa-
tions on Miss Scatcherd’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 inner room where the books were
kept, returned in half a minute, carrying in her hand a bun-
dle of twigs tied together at one end. This ominous tool she
presented to Miss Scatcherd with a respectful curtesy; then
she quietly, and without being told, unloosed her pinafore,
and the teacher instantly and sharply inflicted on her neck
a dozen strokes with the bunch of twigs. Not a tear rose to
Burns’ eye; and, while I paused from my sewing, because
my fingers quivered at this spectacle with a sentiment of un-
availing and impotent anger, not a feature of her pensive
face altered its ordinary expression.
‘Hardened girl!’ exclaimed Miss Scatcherd; ‘nothing can
correct you of your slatternly 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 hand-
80 Jane Eyre
kerchief 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 at 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 morn-
ing—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 lib-
erty.
On the evening of the day on which I had seen Miss
Scatcherd flog her pupil, Burns, I wandered as usual among
the forms and tables and laughing groups without a com-
panion, 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 par-
ents, this would have been the hour when I should most
keenly have 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 fire-places; 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 ‘Rasselas’?’ 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 edu-
cation; and it would be of no use going away until I have
attained that object.’
‘But that teacher, Miss Scatcherd, 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.’
‘Probably you would 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
82 Jane Eyre
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
are such a great girl: I am far younger than you, and I could
not bear it.’
‘Yet 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 faults, Helen: what are they? To me you
seem very good.’
‘Then learn from me, not to judge by appearances: I am,
as Miss Scatcherd said, slatternly; 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
sometimes I say, like you, I cannot BEAR to be subjected to
systematic arrangements. This is all very provoking to Miss
Scatcherd, 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 Scatcherd?’
At the utterance of Miss Temple’s name, a soft smile flit-
ted 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 meed liberally. One strong proof of
my wretchedly defective nature is, that even her expostula-
tions, so mild, so rational, have not influence 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 it is. I observed you in your
class this morning, and saw you were closely attentive:
your thoughts never seemed to wander while Miss Mill-
er explained the lesson and questioned you. Now, mine
continually rove away; when I should be listening to Miss
Scatcherd, and collecting all she says with assiduity, 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
84 Jane Eyre
wished to do right could act so unjustly and unwisely as
Charles the First 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, poor murdered king! Yes, his en-
emies 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 re-
flections; her language is singularly agreeable to me, and the
information she communicates is often just what I wished
to gain.’
‘Well, then, with Miss Temple you are good?’
‘Yes, in a passive way: I make no effort; I follow as incli-
nation 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 are cruel and unjust, the wicked peo-
ple 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 at without a reason, we

should strike back again very hard; I am sure we should—
so hard as to teach the person who struck us never to do it
again.’
‘You will change your mind, I hope, when you grow old-
er: as yet you are but a little untaught girl.’
‘But I feel this, Helen; I must dislike those who, what-
ever 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 pun-
ishment 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 violence that best overcomes hate—nor ven-
geance 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 con-
duct 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 pro-
ceeded forthwith to pour out, in my own way, the tale of my
sufferings and resentments. Bitter and truculent when ex-
cited, I spoke as I felt, without reserve or softening.
Helen heard me patiently to the end: I expected she
86 Jane Eyre
would then make a remark, but she said nothing.
‘Well,’ I asked impatiently, ‘is not Mrs. Reed a hard-heart-
ed, bad woman?’
‘She has been unkind to you, no doubt; because you see,
she dislikes your cast of character, as Miss Scatcherd does
mine; but how minutely 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 it excited? Life appears to me too short to be spent
in nursing animosity or registering wrongs. We are, and
must be, one and all, burdened with faults 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 cumbrous 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 Cre-
ator 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! Sure-
ly 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, and which I seldom
mention; but in which I delight, and to which I cling: for
it extends hope to all: it 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, degra-
dation 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 Scatcherd
to come and look at it!’
Helen sighed as her reverie fled, and getting up, obeyed
the monitor without reply as without delay.
88 Jane Eyre
Chapter VII
M y 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 un-
wonted 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 our 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 be-
came numbed and covered with chilblains, 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 fam-
ished 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 relinquish-
ing 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 pa-
tron officiated. We set out cold, we arrived at church colder:
during the morning service we became almost paralysed.
It was too far to return to dinner, and an allowance of cold
meat and bread, in the same penurious proportion ob-
served 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, blow-
ing over a range of snowy summits to the north, almost
flayed the skin from our faces.
I can remember Miss Temple walking lightly and rap-
idly along our drooping line, her plaid cloak, which the
frosty wind fluttered, gathered close about her, and encour-
aging 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, to the little ones at least, this was
denied: each hearth in the schoolroom was immediately
surrounded by a double row of great girls, and behind them
the younger children crouched in groups, wrapping their
90 Jane Eyre
starved arms in their pinafores.
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 heb-
domadal 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 in-
variably obliged to part with.
The Sunday evening was spent in repeating, by heart, the
Church Catechism, and the fifth, sixth, and seventh chap-
ters of St. Matthew; and in listening to a long sermon, read
by Miss Miller, whose irrepressible yawns attested her wea-
riness. 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 for-
ward into the centre of the schoolroom, and oblige 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 monitors’ high stools.
I have not yet alluded to the visits of Mr. Brocklehu-
rst; and indeed that gentleman was from home during the
greater part of the first month after my arrival; perhaps pro-
longing 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 min-
utes 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
herself had risen, stood the same black column which had
frowned on me so ominously from the hearthrug of Gates-
head. I now glanced sideways at this piece of architecture.
Yes, I was right: it was Mr. Brocklehurst, buttoned up in a
surtout, and looking longer, narrower, and more rigid than
ever.
I had my own reasons for being dismayed at this appa-
rition; too well I remembered the perfidious hints given by
Mrs. Reed about my disposition, &c.; the promise pledged
by Mr. Brocklehurst to apprise Miss Temple and the teach-
ers 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, expect-
ing 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 ap-
92 Jane Eyre
prehension.
‘I suppose, Miss Temple, the thread I bought at Lowton
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, O ma’am! I
wish the woollen 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
hose in 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 Tem-
ple.
‘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 Johnstone were invited to take tea with some
friends at Lowton 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 to let the cir-
cumstance 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 fort-
night. How is this? I looked over the regulations, and I find
no such meal as lunch mentioned. Who introduced this in-
novation? and by what authority?’
‘I must be responsible for the circumstance, sir,’ replied
Miss Temple: ‘the breakfast was so ill prepared that the pu-
pils 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 habits
of 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 un-
der or the over dressing 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 to the
spiritual edification of the pupils, by encouraging them to
evince fortitude under temporary privation. A brief address
on those occasions would not be mistimed, wherein a judi-
cious 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 proceedeth 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
94 Jane Eyre
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; es-
pecially her mouth, closed as if it would have required a
sculptor’s chisel to open it, and her 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 than 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 Julia Severn,’ replied Miss Temple, very quietly.
‘Julia Severn, 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 wear
her hair one mass of curls?’
‘Julia’s 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 Tem-
ple, 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 interfer-
ence 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-facedness and sobriety, not with
braided hair and costly apparel; and each of the young per-
sons before us has a string of hair twisted in plaits which
96 Jane Eyre
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 vis-
itors, 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
plumes, and from under the brim of this graceful head-
dress fell a profusion of light tresses, 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 Tem-
ple, as Mrs. and the Misses Brocklehurst, and conducted
to seats 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 up-
stairs, while he transacted business with the housekeeper,
questioned the laundress, and lectured the superintendent.
They now proceeded to address divers remarks and reproofs
to Miss Smith, who was charged with the care of the linen
and the inspection of the dormitories: but I had no time
to listen to what they said; other matters called off and en-
chanted my attention.
Hitherto, while gathering up the discourse of Mr. Brock-
lehurst and Miss Temple, I had not, at the same time,
neglected precautions to secure my personal safety; which
I thought would be effected, if I could only elude observa-
tion. 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 no-
tice, had not my treacherous slate somehow happened to
slip from my hand, and falling with an obtrusive crash, di-
rectly 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 ral-
lied 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 respect-
ing 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 para-
lysed: 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 will despise me for a hypocrite,’
thought I; and an impulse of fury against Reed, Brocklehu-
rst, and Co. 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
98 Jane Eyre
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 shot
orange and purple silk pelisses and a cloud of silvery plum-
age 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 burn-
ing- 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 has 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 be-
comes my duty to warn you, that this girl, who might be
one of God’s own lambs, is a little castaway: 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. Teach-
ers, 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,
for (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 kneels before Jugger-
naut—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 Brocklehursts produce their pocket-handker-
chiefs and apply them to their optics, while the elderly lady
swayed herself to and fro, and the two younger ones whis-
pered, ‘How shocking!’ Mr. Brocklehurst 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 gen-
erosity 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 here to be healed, even as the Jews of old sent their
diseased to the troubled pool of Bethesda; and, teachers,
superintendent, I beg of you not to allow the waters to stag-
nate round her.’
With this sublime conclusion, Mr. Brocklehurst adjusted
the top button of his surtout, muttered something to his
family, who rose, bowed to Miss Temple, and then all 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.’
100 Jane Eyre

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 view 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 in-
spired 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 as she again 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 lineaments,
her thin face, her sunken grey 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 Scatcherd 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 disc of the clearest planet; and eyes
like Miss Scatcherd’s can only see those minute defects, and
are blind to the full brightness of the orb.

Chapter VIII
E re 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 my-
self I abandoned myself, and my tears watered the boards.
I had meant to be so good, and to do so much at Lowood:
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 approbation; 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 mo-
lested 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 ap-
proached: I started up— again Helen Burns was near me;
the fading fires just showed her coming up the long, vacant
102 Jane Eyre

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 be-
lieves 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 an especial
favourite, you would have found enemies, declared or co-
vert, all around 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 con-
cealed in their hearts; and if you persevere in doing well,

these feelings will ere long appear so much the more evi-
dently 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 its hoof at
my chest—‘
‘Hush, Jane! you think too much of the love of human
beings; you are too impulsive, too vehement; the sover-
eign 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 tor-
tures, recognise 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.
104 Jane Eyre

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 hap-
piness— to glory?’
I was silent; Helen had calmed me; but in the tranquil-
lity 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 momen-
tarily 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 si-
lence. 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, shone full both on us and on the approach-
ing figure, which we at once recognised as Miss Temple.
‘I came on purpose to find you, Jane Eyre,’ said she; ‘I
want you in my room; and as Helen Burns is with you, she
may come too.’
We went; following the superintendent’s guidance, we
had to thread some intricate passages, and mount a stair-
case before we reached her apartment; it contained a good
fire, and looked cheerful. Miss Temple told Helen Burns to
be seated in a low arm-chair 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, ma’am,
and everybody else, will now think me wicked.’
‘We shall think 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, ma’am; she was sorry to have to do it: but my uncle,
as I have often heard the servants say, got her to promise be-
fore 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
moderatemost correct; and, having reflected 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,
106 Jane Eyre

my language was more subdued than it generally was when
it developed that sad theme; and mindful of Helen’s warn-
ings 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: for I never forgot the, 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 recollection the spasm of ag-
ony which clutched my heart when Mrs. Reed 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 shin-
ing 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, ma’am.’

‘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. Harden says she has sent up the usual
quantity.’
Mrs. Harden, be it observed, was the housekeeper: a
woman after Mr. Brocklehurst’s own heart, made up of
equal parts of whalebone and iron.
‘Oh, very well!’ returned Miss Temple; ‘we must make it
do, Barbara, I suppose.’ And as the girl withdrew she added,
smiling, ‘Fortunately, I have it in my power to supply defi-
ciencies for this once.’
108 Jane Eyre

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 tak-
ing 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 hostess regarded us, as we
satisfied our famished appetites on the delicate fare she lib-
erally supplied.
Tea over and the tray removed, she again summoned us
to the fire; we sat one on each side of her, and now a conver-
sation followed between her and Helen, which it was indeed
a privilege to be admitted to hear.
Miss Temple had always something of serenity in her air,
of state in her mien, 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 instructress, 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 pencilled 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 elo-
quence? Such was the characteristic of Helen’s discourse on
that, to me, memorable evening; her spirit seemed hasten-
ing 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 na-
tions 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 pos-
sessed! 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 admit-
ted; 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
110 Jane Eyre

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
Scatcherd: she was examining drawers; she had just pulled
out Helen Burns’s, and when we entered Helen was greet-
ed with a sharp reprimand, and told that to-morrow she
should have half-a-dozen of untidily folded articles pinned
to 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 Scatcherd wrote in conspicuous
characters on a piece of pasteboard the word ‘Slattern,’ and
bound it like a phylactery round Helen’s large, mild, intelli-
gent, and benign- looking forehead. She wore it till evening,
patient, unresentful, regarding it as a deserved punishment.
The moment Miss Scatcherd 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 nar-
rated, Miss Temple, who had written to Mr. Lloyd, received
his answer: it appeared that what he said went to corrobo-
rate 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 her 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 dif-
ficulty: 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 ETRE, and sketched my
first cottage (whose walls, by-the-bye, outrivalled in slope
those of the leaning tower of Pisa), on the same day. That
night, on going to bed, I forgot to prepare in imagination
the Barmecide supper of hot roast 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 draw-
ings, which I saw in the dark; all the work of my own hands:
freely pencilled houses and trees, picturesque rocks and
ruins, Cuyp-like groups of cattle, sweet paintings of butter-
flies hovering over unblown roses, of birds picking at ripe
cherries, of wren’s nests enclosing 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 Pierrot had that
day shown me; nor was that problem solved to my satisfac-
tion ere I fell sweetly asleep.
Well has Solomon said—‘Better is a dinner of herbs
where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred therewith.’
112 Jane Eyre

I would not now have exchanged Lowood with all its pri-
vations for Gateshead and its daily luxuries.

Chapter IX
B ut 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 tempera-
ture 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 green-
ness 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. Flow-
ers peeped out amongst the leaves; snow- drops, crocuses,
purple auriculas, and golden-eyed pansies. On Thursday af-
ternoons (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
114 Jane Eyre

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 pro-
fusely 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, un-
watched, 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 quick-
ening 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 for-
tunate 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 mal-
ady 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 ros-
es were in bloom; the borders of the little beds were gay with
116 Jane Eyre

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 hand-
ful of herbs and blossoms to put in a coffin.
But I, and the rest who continued well, enjoyed ful-
ly 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 Dispen-
sary, 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 per-
sonage, whose society I took pleasure in, partly because she
was witty and original, and partly because she had a man-

ner 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 pare
society? Surely the Mary Arm Wilson I have mentioned
was inferior to my first acquaintance: she could only tell me
amusing stories, and reciprocate any racy and pungent gos-
sip I chose to indulge in; while, if I have spoken truth of
Helen, she was qualified to give those who enjoyed the priv-
ilege 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 cher-
ish 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 cir-
cumstances, evinced for me a quiet and faithful friendship,
which ill-humour never soured, nor irritation never trou-
bled? But Helen was ill at present: for some weeks she had
been removed from my sight to I knew not what room up-
stairs. She was not, I was told, in the hospital portion of
the house with the fever patients; for her complaint was
118 Jane Eyre

consumption, not typhus: and by consumption I, in my ig-
norance, 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 dis-
tance 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, sep-
arated 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 morn-
ing. 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 en-
joying 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 dan-
ger 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 com-
prehend 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 totter-
ing, 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 instant-
ly 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
120 Jane Eyre

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 en-
trance 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, enter-
ing here and there at passage windows, enabled me to find
it without difficulty. An odour of camphor and burnt vin-
egar 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, with-
out 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. Com-
ing 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 ad-
vanced; 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 mistak-
en: 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
122 Jane Eyre

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 re-
moving 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 dy-
ing 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 ar-
rives 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 mis-
giving. 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 re-
ceived 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
way.’
‘Are you warm, darling?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good-night, Jane.’
‘Good-night, Helen.’
124 Jane Eyre

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; peo-
ple had something else to think about; no explanation was
afforded then to my many questions; but a day or two after-
wards 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
H itherto I have recorded in detail the events of my in-

significant 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 in-
terest; 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 dev-
astation 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 accommoda-
tions—all these things were discovered, and the discovery
produced a result mortifying to Mr. Brocklehurst, but ben-
eficial to the institution.
Several wealthy and benevolent individuals in the coun-
ty 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
126 Jane Eyre

of the school were intrusted to the management of a com-
mittee. 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 institu-
tion. 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 advan-
tages 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 contin-
ued 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 cler-
gyman, 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 ap-
peared 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 cer-
emony; 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 imag-
ined 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 transform-
ing process; that my mind had put off all it had borrowed of
Miss Temple—or rather that she had taken with her the se-
rene 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
128 Jane Eyre

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 sen-
sations 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 de-
scending 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; nei-
ther 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 down-
stairs.
I was not free to resume the interrupted chain of my re-
flections 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 Welshwom-
an, 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 in-
stantly revived.
‘A new servitude! There is something in that,’ I solilo-
quised (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: delight-
ful 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
130 Jane Eyre

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, shiv-
ered with cold, and again crept to bed.
A kind fairy, in my absence, had surely dropped the re-
quired suggestion on my pillow; for as I lay down, it came
quietly and naturally to my mind.—‘Those who want situa-
tions 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-of-
fice 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 di-
gested 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 writ-
ten, 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 accom-
plishments, 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.
132 Jane Eyre

The succeeding week seemed long: it came to an end at
last, however, like all sublunary things, and once more, to-
wards 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 mea-
sured 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; fortu-
nately, however, the heavy supper she had eaten produced
a soporific effect: she was already snoring before I had fin-
ished 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 Thurs-
day, 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-fash-
ioned and rather uncertain, like that of in 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 respect-
able, proper, en regle. 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,
134 Jane Eyre

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 com-
plete 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 rec-
reation, 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 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 guard-
ian. 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 ap-
peared 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 ca-
pacity, 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 fort-
night 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 ad-
equate 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, whether
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
136 Jane Eyre

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 fever-
ishly 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 ser-
vant, 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 rap-
turously: ‘Bessie! Bessie! Bessie!’ that was all I said; whereat
she half laughed, half cried, and we both went into the par-
lour. 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 coach-
man; 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
138 Jane Eyre

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 herhe 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 of, 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 ex-
pressed 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 cor-
rect, 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 pi-
ano?’
‘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 exult-
ingly. ‘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 sev-
en years ago, a Mr. Eyre came to Gateshead and wanted to
see you; Missis said you were it 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 gentle-
man, and I believe he was your father’s brother.’
140 Jane Eyre

‘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: Mis-
sis 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 ve-
hicle which was to bear me to new duties and a new life in
the unknown environs of Millcote.

Chapter XI
A new chapter in a novel is something like a new scene

in a play; and when I draw up the curtain this time,
reader, you must fancy you see a room in the George Inn at
Millcote, with such large figured papering on the walls as
inn rooms have; such a carpet, such furniture, such orna-
ments on the mantelpiece, such prints, including a portrait
of George the Third, and another of the Prince of Wales,
and a representation of the death of Wolfe. All this is visible
to you by the light of an oil lamp hanging from the ceiling,
and by that of an excellent fire, near which I sit in my cloak
and bonnet; my muff and umbrella lie on the table, and I
am warming away the numbness and chill contracted by
sixteen hours’ exposure to the rawness of an October day: I
left Lowton at four o’clock a.m., and the Millcote town clock
is now just striking eight.
Reader, though I look comfortably accommodated, I am
not very tranquil in my mind. I thought when the coach
stopped here there would be some one to meet me; I looked
anxiously round as I descended the wooden steps the ‘boots’
placed for my convenience, expecting to hear my name pro-
nounced, and to see some description of carriage waiting to
convey me to Thornfield. Nothing of the sort was visible;
and when I asked a waiter if any one had been to inquire
after a Miss Eyre, I was answered in the negative: so I had
142 Jane Eyre

no resource but to request to be shown into a private room:
and here I am waiting, while all sorts of doubts and fears
are troubling my thoughts.
It is a very strange sensation to inexperienced youth
to feel itself quite alone in the world, cut adrift from ev-
ery connection, uncertain whether the port to which it is
bound can be reached, and prevented by many impedi-
ments from returning to that it has quitted. The charm of
adventure sweetens that sensation, the glow of pride warms
it; but then the throb of fear disturbs it; and fear with me
became predominant when half-an-hour elapsed and still I
was alone. I bethought myself to ring the bell.
‘Is there a place in this neighbourhood called Thornfield?’
I asked of the waiter who answered the summons.
‘Thornfield? I don’t know, ma’am; I’ll inquire at the bar.’
He vanished, but reappeared instantly—
‘Is your name Eyre, Miss?’
‘Yes.’
‘Person here waiting for you.’
I jumped up, took my muff and umbrella, and hastened
into the inn- passage: a man was standing by the open door,
and in the lamp-lit street I dimly saw a one-horse convey-
ance.
‘This will be your luggage, I suppose?’ said the man rath-
er abruptly when he saw me, pointing to my trunk in the
passage.
‘Yes.’ He hoisted it on to the vehicle, which was a sort of
car, and then I got in; before he shut me up, I asked him how
far it was to Thornfield.

‘A matter of six miles.’
‘How long shall we be before we get there?’
‘Happen an hour and a half.’
He fastened the car door, climbed to his own seat out-
side, and we set off. Our progress was leisurely, and gave me
ample time to reflect; I was content to be at length so near
the end of my journey; and as I leaned back in the comfort-
able though not elegant conveyance, I meditated much at
my ease.
‘I suppose,’ thought I, ‘judging from the plainness of the
servant and carriage, Mrs. Fairfax is not a very dashing per-
son: so much the better; I never lived amongst fine people
but once, and I was very miserable with them. I wonder if
she lives alone except this little girl; if so, and if she is in
any degree amiable, I shall surely be able to get on with her;
I will do my best; it is a pity that doing one’s best does not
always answer. At Lowood, indeed, I took that resolution,
kept it, and succeeded in pleasing; but with Mrs. Reed, I re-
member my best was always spurned with scorn. I pray God
Mrs. Fairfax may not turn out a second Mrs. Reed; but if she
does, I am not bound to stay with her! let the worst come to
the worst, I can advertise again. How far are we on our road
now, I wonder?’
I let down the window and looked out; Millcote was be-
hind us; judging by the number of its lights, it seemed a
place of considerable magnitude, much larger than Lowton.
We were now, as far as I could see, on a sort of common; but
there were houses scattered all over the district; I felt we
were in a different region to Lowood, more populous, less
144 Jane Eyre

picturesque; more stirring, less romantic.
The roads were heavy, the night misty; my conductor let
his horse walk all the way, and the hour and a half extended,
I verify believe, to two hours; at last he turned in his seat
and said—
‘You’re noan so far fro’ Thornfield now.’
Again I looked out: we were passing a church; I saw its
low broad tower against the sky, and its bell was tolling a
quarter; I saw a narrow galaxy of lights too, on a hillside,
marking a village or hamlet. About ten minutes after, the
driver got down and opened a pair of gates: we passed
through, and they clashed to behind us. We now slowly as-
cended a drive, and came upon the long front of a house:
candlelight gleamed from one curtained bow-window; all
the rest were dark. The car stopped at the front door; it was
opened by a maid-servant; I alighted and went in.
‘Will you walk this way, ma’am?’ said the girl; and I fol-
lowed her across a square hall with high doors all round:
she ushered me into a room whose double illumination
of fire and candle at first dazzled me, contrasting as it did
with the darkness to which my eyes had been for two hours
inured; when I could see, however, a cosy and agreeable pic-
ture presented itself to my view.
A snug small room; a round table by a cheerful fire; an
arm-chair high-backed and old-fashioned, wherein sat the
neatest imaginable little elderly lady, in widow’s cap, black
silk gown, and snowy muslin apron; exactly like what I had
fancied Mrs. Fairfax, only less stately and milder looking.
She was occupied in knitting; a large cat sat demurely at

her feet; nothing in short was wanting to complete the beau-
ideal of domestic comfort. A more reassuring introduction
for a new governess could scarcely be conceived; there was
no grandeur to overwhelm, no stateliness to embarrass; and
then, as I entered, the old lady got up and promptly and
kindly came forward to meet me.
‘How do you do, my dear? I am afraid you have had a te-
dious ride; John drives so slowly; you must be cold, come
to the fire.’
‘Mrs. Fairfax, I suppose?’ said I.
‘Yes, you are right: do sit down.’
She conducted me to her own chair, and then began to
remove my shawl and untie my bonnet-strings; I begged she
would not give herself so much trouble.
‘Oh, it is no trouble; I dare say your own hands are almost
numbed with cold. Leah, make a little hot negus and cut a
sandwich or two: here are the keys of the storeroom.’
And she produced from her pocket a most housewifely
bunch of keys, and delivered them to the servant.
‘Now, then, draw nearer to the fire,’ she continued. ‘You’ve
brought your luggage with you, haven’t you, my dear?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘I’ll see it carried into your room,’ she said, and bustled
out.
‘She treats me like a visitor,’ thought I. ‘I little expected
such a reception; I anticipated only coldness and stiffness:
this is not like what I have heard of the treatment of govern-
esses; but I must not exult too soon.’
She returned; with her own hands cleared her knit-
146 Jane Eyre

ting apparatus and a book or two from the table, to make
room for the tray which Leah now brought, and then her-
self handed me the refreshments. I felt rather confused at
being the object of more attention than I had ever before re-
ceived, and, that too, shown by my employer and superior;
but as she did not herself seem to consider she was doing
anything out of her place, I thought it better to take her ci-
vilities quietly.
‘Shall I have the pleasure of seeing Miss Fairfax to-night?’
I asked, when I had partaken of what she offered me.
‘What did you say, my dear? I am a little deaf,’ returned
the good lady, approaching her ear to my mouth.
I repeated the question more distinctly.
‘Miss Fairfax? Oh, you mean Miss Varens! Varens is the
name of your future pupil.’
‘Indeed! Then she is not your daughter?’
‘No,—I have no family.’
I should have followed up my first inquiry, by asking in
what way Miss Varens was connected with her; but I recol-
lected it was not polite to ask too many questions: besides, I
was sure to hear in time.
‘I am so glad,’ she continued, as she sat down opposite to
me, and took the cat on her knee; ‘I am so glad you are come;
it will be quite pleasant living here now with a companion.
To be sure it is pleasant at any time; for Thornfield is a fine
old hall, rather neglected of late years perhaps, but still it is
a respectable place; yet you know in winter-time one feels
dreary quite alone in the best quarters. I say alone—Leah is
a nice girl to be sure, and John and his wife are very decent

people; but then you see they are only servants, and one
can’t converse with them on terms of equality: one must
keep them at due distance, for fear of losing one’s authority.
I’m sure last winter (it was a very severe one, if you recollect,
and when it did not snow, it rained and blew), not a crea-
ture but the butcher and postman came to the house, from
November till February; and I really got quite melancholy
with sitting night after night alone; I had Leah in to read to
me sometimes; but I don’t think the poor girl liked the task
much: she felt it confining. In spring and summer one got
on better: sunshine and long days make such a difference;
and then, just at the commencement of this autumn, little
Adela Varens came and her nurse: a child makes a house
alive all at once; and now you are here I shall be quite gay.’
My heart really warmed to the worthy lady as I heard
her talk; and I drew my chair a little nearer to her, and ex-
pressed my sincere wish that she might find my company as
agreeable as she anticipated.
‘But I’ll not keep you sitting up late to-night,’ said she; ‘it
is on the stroke of twelve now, and you have been travelling
all day: you must feel tired. If you have got your feet well
warmed, I’ll show you your bedroom. I’ve had the room next
to mine prepared for you; it is only a small apartment, but I
thought you would like it better than one of the large front
chambers: to be sure they have finer furniture, but they are
so dreary and solitary, I never sleep in them myself.’
I thanked her for her considerate choice, and as I really
felt fatigued with my long journey, expressed my readiness
to retire. She took her candle, and I followed her from the
148 Jane Eyre

room. First she went to see if the hall-door was fastened;
having taken the key from the lock, she led the way upstairs.
The steps and banisters were of oak; the staircase window
was high and latticed; both it and the long gallery into which
the bedroom doors opened looked as if they belonged to a
church rather than a house. A very chill and vault- like air
pervaded the stairs and gallery, suggesting cheerless ideas
of space and solitude; and I was glad, when finally ushered
into my chamber, to find it of small dimensions, and fur-
nished in ordinary, modern style.
When Mrs. Fairfax had bidden me a kind good-night,
and I had fastened my door, gazed leisurely round, and in
some measure effaced the eerie impression made by that
wide hall, that dark and spacious staircase, and that long,
cold gallery, by the livelier aspect of my little room, I re-
membered that, after a day of bodily fatigue and mental
anxiety, I was now at last in safe haven. The impulse of grat-
itude swelled my heart, and I knelt down at the bedside, and
offered up thanks where thanks were due; not forgetting,
ere I rose, to implore aid on my further path, and the power
of meriting the kindness which seemed so frankly offered
me before it was earned. My couch had no thorns in it that
night; my solitary room no fears. At once weary and con-
tent, I slept soon and soundly: when I awoke it was broad
day.
The chamber looked such a bright little place to me as the
sun shone in between the gay blue chintz window curtains,
showing papered walls and a carpeted floor, so unlike the
bare planks and stained plaster of Lowood, that my spirits

rose at the view. Externals have a great effect on the young:
I thought that a fairer era of life was beginning for me, one
that was to have its flowers and pleasures, as well as its thorns
and toils. My faculties, roused by the change of scene, the
new field offered to hope, seemed all astir. I cannot precisely
define what they expected, but it was something pleasant:
not perhaps that day or that month, but at an indefinite fu-
ture period.
I rose; I dressed myself with care: obliged to be plain—
for I had no article of attire that was not made with extreme
simplicity—I was still by nature solicitous to be neat. It was
not my habit to be disregardful of appearance or careless
of the impression I made: on the contrary, I ever wished to
look as well as I could, and to please as much as my want
of beauty would permit. I sometimes regretted that I was
not handsomer; I sometimes wished to have rosy cheeks, a
straight nose, and small cherry mouth; I desired to be tall,
stately, and finely developed in figure; I felt it a misfortune
that I was so little, so pale, and had features so irregular and
so marked. And why had I these aspirations and these re-
grets? It would be difficult to say: I could not then distinctly
say it to myself; yet I had a reason, and a logical, natural rea-
son too. However, when I had brushed my hair very smooth,
and put on my black frock—which, Quakerlike as it was,
at least had the merit of fitting to a nicety—and adjusted
my clean white tucker, I thought I should do respectably
enough to appear before Mrs. Fairfax, and that my new pu-
pil would not at least recoil from me with antipathy. Having
opened my chamber window, and seen that I left all things
150 Jane Eyre

straight and neat on the toilet table, I ventured forth.
Traversing the long and matted gallery, I descended the
slippery steps of oak; then I gained the hall: I halted there
a minute; I looked at some pictures on the walls (one, I re-
member, represented a grim man in a cuirass, and one a
lady with powdered hair and a pearl necklace), at a bronze
lamp pendent from the ceiling, at a great clock whose case
was of oak curiously carved, and ebon black with time and
rubbing. Everything appeared very stately and imposing to
me; but then I was so little accustomed to grandeur. The
hall-door, which was half of glass, stood open; I stepped
over the threshold. It was a fine autumn morning; the early
sun shone serenely on embrowned groves and still green
fields; advancing on to the lawn, I looked up and sur-
veyed the front of the mansion. It was three storeys high,
of proportions not vast, though considerable: a gentleman’s
manor-house, not a nobleman’s seat: battlements round the
top gave it a picturesque look. Its grey front stood out well
from the background of a rookery, whose cawing tenants
were now on the wing: they flew over the lawn and grounds
to alight in a great meadow, from which these were sepa-
rated by a sunk fence, and where an array of mighty old
thorn trees, strong, knotty, and broad as oaks, at once
explained the etymology of the mansion’s designation. Far-
ther off were hills: not so lofty as those round Lowood, nor
so craggy, nor so like barriers of separation from the living
world; but yet quiet and lonely hills enough, and seeming to
embrace Thornfield with a seclusion I had not expected to
find existent so near the stirring locality of Millcote. A little

hamlet, whose roofs were blent with trees, straggled up the
side of one of these hills; the church of the district stood
nearer Thornfield: its old tower-top looked over a knoll be-
tween the house and gates.
I was yet enjoying the calm prospect and pleasant fresh
air, yet listening with delight to the cawing of the rooks, yet
surveying the wide, hoary front of the hall, and thinking
what a great place it was for one lonely little dame like Mrs.
Fairfax to inhabit, when that lady appeared at the door.
‘What! out already?’ said she. ‘I see you are an early riser.’
I went up to her, and was received with an affable kiss and
shake of the hand.
‘How do you like Thornfield?’ she asked. I told her I liked
it very much.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘it is a pretty place; but I fear it will be get-
ting out of order, unless Mr. Rochester should take it into
his head to come and reside here permanently; or, at least,
visit it rather oftener: great houses and fine grounds require
the presence of the proprietor.’
‘Mr. Rochester!’ I exclaimed. ‘Who is he?’
‘The owner of Thornfield,’ she responded quietly. ‘Did
you not know he was called Rochester?’
Of course I did not—I had never heard of him before; but
the old lady seemed to regard his existence as a universally
understood fact, with which everybody must be acquainted
by instinct.
‘I thought,’ I continued, ‘Thornfield belonged to you.’
‘To me? Bless you, child; what an idea! To me! I am only
the housekeeper—the manager. To be sure I am distantly
152 Jane Eyre

related to the Rochesters by the mother’s side, or at least
my husband was; he was a clergyman, incumbent of Hay—
that little village yonder on the hill—and that church near
the gates was his. The present Mr. Rochester’s mother was
a Fairfax, and second cousin to my husband: but I never
presume on the connection—in fact, it is nothing to me; I
consider myself quite in the light of an ordinary housekeep-
er: my employer is always civil, and I expect nothing more.’
‘And the little girl—my pupil!’
‘She is Mr. Rochester’s ward; he commissioned me to
find a governess for her. He intended to have her brought
up in—shire, I believe. Here she comes, with her ‘bonne,’
as she calls her nurse.’ The enigma then was explained: this
affable and kind little widow was no great dame; but a de-
pendant like myself. I did not like her the worse for that;
on the contrary, I felt better pleased than ever. The equality
between her and me was real; not the mere result of conde-
scension on her part: so much the better—my position was
all the freer.
As I was meditating on this discovery, a little girl, fol-
lowed by her attendant, came running up the lawn. I looked
at my pupil, who did not at first appear to notice me: she
was quite a child, perhaps seven or eight years old, slightly
built, with a pale, small-featured face, and a redundancy of
hair falling in curls to her waist.
‘Good morning, Miss Adela,’ said Mrs. Fairfax. ‘Come
and speak to the lady who is to teach you, and to make you
a clever woman some day.’ She approached.
‘C’est le ma gouverante!’ said she, pointing to me, and

addressing her nurse; who answered—
‘Mais oui, certainement.’
‘Are they foreigners?’ I inquired, amazed at hearing the
French language.
‘The nurse is a foreigner, and Adela was born on the Con-
tinent; and, I believe, never left it till within six months
ago. When she first came here she could speak no English;
now she can make shift to talk it a little: I don’t understand
her, she mixes it so with French; but you will make out her
meaning very well, I dare say.’
Fortunately I had had the advantage of being taught
French by a French lady; and as I had always made a point
of conversing with Madame Pierrot as often as I could, and
had besides, during the last seven years, learnt a portion
of French by heart daily—applying myself to take pains
with my accent, and imitating as closely as possible the pro-
nunciation of my teacher, I had acquired a certain degree
of readiness and correctness in the language, and was not
likely to be much at a loss with Mademoiselle Adela. She
came and shook hand with me when she heard that I was
her governess; and as I led her in to breakfast, I addressed
some phrases to her in her own tongue: she replied briefly
at first, but after we were seated at the table, and she had ex-
amined me some ten minutes with her large hazel eyes, she
suddenly commenced chattering fluently.
‘Ah!’ cried she, in French, ‘you speak my language as well
as Mr. Rochester does: I can talk to you as I can to him, and
so can Sophie. She will be glad: nobody here understands
her: Madame Fairfax is all English. Sophie is my nurse; she
154 Jane Eyre

came with me over the sea in a great ship with a chimney
that smoked—how it did smoke!—and I was sick, and so
was Sophie, and so was Mr. Rochester. Mr. Rochester lay
down on a sofa in a pretty room called the salon, and So-
phie and I had little beds in another place. I nearly fell out of
mine; it was like a shelf. And Mademoiselle—what is your
name?’
‘Eyre—Jane Eyre.’
‘Aire? Bah! I cannot say it. Well, our ship stopped in the
morning, before it was quite daylight, at a great city—a huge
city, with very dark houses and all smoky; not at all like the
pretty clean town I came from; and Mr. Rochester carried
me in his arms over a plank to the land, and Sophie came
after, and we all got into a coach, which took us to a beau-
tiful large house, larger than this and finer, called an hotel.
We stayed there nearly a week: I and Sophie used to walk
every day in a great green place full of trees, called the Park;
and there were many children there besides me, and a pond
with beautiful birds in it, that I fed with crumbs.’
‘Can you understand her when she runs on so fast?’ asked
Mrs. Fairfax.
I understood her very well, for I had been accustomed to
the fluent tongue of Madame Pierrot.
‘I wish,’ continued the good lady, ‘you would ask her a
question or two about her parents: I wonder if she remem-
bers them?’
‘Adele,’ I inquired, ‘with whom did you live when you
were in that pretty clean town you spoke of?’
‘I lived long ago with mama; but she is gone to the Holy

Virgin. Mama used to teach me to dance and sing, and to
say verses. A great many gentlemen and ladies came to see
mama, and I used to dance before them, or to sit on their
knees and sing to them: I liked it. Shall I let you hear me
sing now?’
She had finished her breakfast, so I permitted her to give
a specimen of her accomplishments. Descending from her
chair, she came and placed herself on my knee; then, folding
her little hands demurely before her, shaking back her curls
and lifting her eyes to the ceiling, she commenced singing
a song from some opera. It was the strain of a forsaken lady,
who, after bewailing the perfidy of her lover, calls pride to
her aid; desires her attendant to deck her in her brightest
jewels and richest robes, and resolves to meet the false one
that night at a ball, and prove to him, by the gaiety of her
demeanour, how little his desertion has affected her.
The subject seemed strangely chosen for an infant singer;
but I suppose the point of the exhibition lay in hearing the
notes of love and jealousy warbled with the lisp of child-
hood; and in very bad taste that point was: at least I thought
so.
Adele sang the canzonette tunefully enough, and with
the naivete of her age. This achieved, she jumped from my
knee and said, ‘Now, Mademoiselle, I will repeat you some
poetry.’
Assuming an attitude, she began, ‘La Ligue des Rats: fa-
ble de La Fontaine.’ She then declaimed the little piece with
an attention to punctuation and emphasis, a flexibility of
voice and an appropriateness of gesture, very unusual in-
156 Jane Eyre

deed at her age, and which proved she had been carefully
trained.
‘Was it your mama who taught you that piece?’ I asked.
‘Yes, and she just used to say it in this way: ‘Qu’ avez vous
donc? lui dit un de ces rats; parlez!’ She made me lift my
hand—so—to remind me to raise my voice at the question.
Now shall I dance for you?’
‘No, that will do: but after your mama went to the Holy
Virgin, as you say, with whom did you live then?’
‘With Madame Frederic and her husband: she took care
of me, but she is nothing related to me. I think she is poor,
for she had not so fine a house as mama. I was not long there.
Mr. Rochester asked me if I would like to go and live with
him in England, and I said yes; for I knew Mr. Rochester
before I knew Madame Frederic, and he was always kind to
me and gave me pretty dresses and toys: but you see he has
not kept his word, for he has brought me to England, and
now he is gone back again himself, and I never see him.’
After breakfast, Adele and I withdrew to the library,
which room, it appears, Mr. Rochester had directed should
be used as the schoolroom. Most of the books were locked
up behind glass doors; but there was one bookcase left open
containing everything that could be needed in the way of
elementary works, and several volumes of light literature,
poetry, biography, travels, a few romances, &c. I suppose
he had considered that these were all the governess would
require for her private perusal; and, indeed, they contented
me amply for the present; compared with the scanty pick-
ings I had now and then been able to glean at Lowood, they

seemed to offer an abundant harvest of entertainment and
information. In this room, too, there was a cabinet piano,
quite new and of superior tone; also an easel for painting
and a pair of globes.
I found my pupil sufficiently docile, though disinclined
to apply: she had not been used to regular occupation of any
kind. I felt it would be injudicious to confine her too much
at first; so, when I had talked to her a great deal, and got
her to learn a little, and when the morning had advanced
to noon, I allowed her to return to her nurse. I then pro-
posed to occupy myself till dinner-time in drawing some
little sketches for her use.
As I was going upstairs to fetch my portfolio and pen-
cils, Mrs. Fairfax called to me: ‘Your morning school-hours
are over now, I suppose,’ said she. She was in a room the
folding-doors of which stood open: I went in when she ad-
dressed me. It was a large, stately apartment, with purple
chairs and curtains, a Turkey carpet, walnut-panelled walls,
one vast window rich in slanted glass, and a lofty ceiling,
nobly moulded. Mrs. Fairfax was dusting some vases of fine
purple spar, which stood on a sideboard.
‘What a beautiful room!’ I exclaimed, as I looked round;
for I had never before seen any half so imposing.
‘Yes; this is the dining-room. I have just opened the win-
dow, to let in a little air and sunshine; for everything gets so
damp in apartments that are seldom inhabited; the draw-
ing-room yonder feels like a vault.’
She pointed to a wide arch corresponding to the window,
and hung like it with a Tyrian-dyed curtain, now looped up.
158 Jane Eyre

Mounting to it by two broad steps, and looking through, I
thought I caught a glimpse of a fairy place, so bright to my
novice-eyes appeared the view beyond. Yet it was merely a
very pretty drawing-room, and within it a boudoir, both
spread with white carpets, on which seemed laid brilliant
garlands of flowers; both ceiled with snowy mouldings of
white grapes and vine-leaves, beneath which glowed in rich
contrast crimson couches and ottomans; while the orna-
ments on the pale Pariain mantelpiece were of sparkling
Bohemian glass, ruby red; and between the windows large
mirrors repeated the general blending of snow and fire.
‘In what order you keep these rooms, Mrs. Fairfax!’ said I.
‘No dust, no canvas coverings: except that the air feels chilly,
one would think they were inhabited daily.’
‘Why, Miss Eyre, though Mr. Rochester’s visits here are
rare, they are always sudden and unexpected; and as I ob-
served that it put him out to find everything swathed up,
and to have a bustle of arrangement on his arrival, I thought
it best to keep the rooms in readiness.’
‘Is Mr. Rochester an exacting, fastidious sort of man?’
‘Not particularly so; but he has a gentleman’s tastes and
habits, and he expects to have things managed in confor-
mity to them.’
‘Do you like him? Is he generally liked?’
‘Oh, yes; the family have always been respected here. Al-
most all the land in this neighbourhood, as far as you can
see, has belonged to the Rochesters time out of mind.’
‘Well, but, leaving his land out of the question, do you
like him? Is he liked for himself?’

‘I have no cause to do otherwise than like him; and I
believe he is considered a just and liberal landlord by his
tenants: but he has never lived much amongst them.’
‘But has he no peculiarities? What, in short, is his char-
acter?’
‘Oh! his character is unimpeachable, I suppose. He is
rather peculiar, perhaps: he has travelled a great deal, and
seen a great deal of the world, I should think. I dare say he is
clever, but I never had much conversation with him.’
‘In what way is he peculiar?’
‘I don’t know—it is not easy to describe—nothing strik-
ing, but you feel it when he speaks to you; you cannot be
always sure whether he is in jest or earnest, whether he is
pleased or the contrary; you don’t thoroughly understand
him, in short—at least, I don’t: but it is of no consequence,
he is a very good master.’
This was all the account I got from Mrs. Fairfax of her
employer and mine. There are people who seem to have no
notion of sketching a character, or observing and describ-
ing salient points, either in persons or things: the good lady
evidently belonged to this class; my queries puzzled, but did
not draw her out. Mr. Rochester was Mr. Rochester in her
eyes; a gentleman, a landed proprietor—nothing more: she
inquired and searched no further, and evidently wondered
at my wish to gain a more definite notion of his identity.
When we left the dining-room, she proposed to show me
over the rest of the house; and I followed her upstairs and
downstairs, admiring as I went; for all was well arranged
and handsome. The large front chambers I thought espe-
160 Jane Eyre

cially grand: and some of the third-storey rooms, though
dark and low, were interesting from their air of antiquity.
The furniture once appropriated to the lower apartments
had from time to time been removed here, as fashions
changed: and the imperfect light entering by their nar-
row casement showed bedsteads of a hundred years old;
chests in oak or walnut, looking, with their strange carv-
ings of palm branches and cherubs’ heads, like types of
the Hebrew ark; rows of venerable chairs, high-backed and
narrow; stools still more antiquated, on whose cushioned
tops were yet apparent traces of half-effaced embroideries,
wrought by fingers that for two generations had been coffin-
dust. All these relics gave to the third storey of Thornfield
Hall the aspect of a home of the past: a shrine of memory. I
liked the hush, the gloom, the quaintness of these retreats
in the day; but I by no means coveted a night’s repose on
one of those wide and heavy beds: shut in, some of them,
with doors of oak; shaded, others, with wrought old Eng-
lish hangings crusted with thick work, portraying effigies
of strange flowers, and stranger birds, and strangest human
beings,— all which would have looked strange, indeed, by
the pallid gleam of moonlight.
‘Do the servants sleep in these rooms?’ I asked.
‘No; they occupy a range of smaller apartments to the
back; no one ever sleeps here: one would almost say that,
if there were a ghost at Thornfield Hall, this would be its
haunt.’
‘So I think: you have no ghost, then?’
‘None that I ever heard of,’ returned Mrs. Fairfax, smil-

ing.
‘Nor any traditions of one? no legends or ghost stories?’
‘I believe not. And yet it is said the Rochesters have
been rather a violent than a quiet race in their time: per-
haps, though, that is the reason they rest tranquilly in their
graves now.’
‘Yes—‘after life’s fitful fever they sleep well,’’ I muttered.
‘Where are you going now, Mrs. Fairfax?’ for she was mov-
ing away.
‘On to the leads; will you come and see the view from
thence?’ I followed still, up a very narrow staircase to the at-
tics, and thence by a ladder and through a trap-door to the
roof of the hall. I was now on a level with the crow colony,
and could see into their nests. Leaning over the battlements
and looking far down, I surveyed the grounds laid out like
a map: the bright and velvet lawn closely girdling the grey
base of the mansion; the field, wide as a park, dotted with
its ancient timber; the wood, dun and sere, divided by a
path visibly overgrown, greener with moss than the trees
were with foliage; the church at the gates, the road, the tran-
quil hills, all reposing in the autumn day’s sun; the horizon
bounded by a propitious sky, azure, marbled with pearly
white. No feature in the scene was extraordinary, but all
was pleasing. When I turned from it and repassed the trap-
door, I could scarcely see my way down the ladder; the attic
seemed black as a vault compared with that arch of blue air
to which I had been looking up, and to that sunlit scene of
grove, pasture, and green hill, of which the hall was the cen-
tre, and over which I had been gazing with delight.
162 Jane Eyre

Mrs. Fairfax stayed behind a moment to fasten the trap-
door; I, by drift of groping, found the outlet from the attic,
and proceeded to descend the narrow garret staircase. I lin-
gered in the long passage to which this led, separating the
front and back rooms of the third storey: narrow, low, and
dim, with only one little window at the far end, and looking,
with its two rows of small black doors all shut, like a corri-
dor in some Bluebeard’s castle.
While I paced softly on, the last sound I expected to hear
in so still a region, a laugh, struck my ear. It was a curi-
ous laugh; distinct, formal, mirthless. I stopped: the sound
ceased, only for an instant; it began again, louder: for at first,
though distinct, it was very low. It passed off in a clamorous
peal that seemed to wake an echo in every lonely chamber;
though it originated but in one, and I could have pointed
out the door whence the accents issued.
‘Mrs. Fairfax!’ I called out: for I now heard her descend-
ing the great stairs. ‘Did you hear that loud laugh? Who is
it?’
‘Some of the servants, very likely,’ she answered: ‘perhaps
Grace Poole.’
‘Did you hear it?’ I again inquired.
‘Yes, plainly: I often hear her: she sews in one of these
rooms. Sometimes Leah is with her; they are frequently
noisy together.’
The laugh was repeated in its low, syllabic tone, and ter-
minated in an odd murmur.
‘Grace!’ exclaimed Mrs. Fairfax.
I really did not expect any Grace to answer; for the laugh

was as tragic, as preternatural a laugh as any I ever heard;
and, but that it was high noon, and that no circumstance
of ghostliness accompanied the curious cachinnation; but
that neither scene nor season favoured fear, I should have
been superstitiously afraid. However, the event showed me
I was a fool for entertaining a sense even of surprise.
The door nearest me opened, and a servant came out,—a
woman of between thirty and forty; a set, square-made fig-
ure, red-haired, and with a hard, plain face: any apparition
less romantic or less ghostly could scarcely be conceived.
‘Too much noise, Grace,’ said Mrs. Fairfax. ‘Remember
directions!’ Grace curtseyed silently and went in.
‘She is a person we have to sew and assist Leah in her
housemaid’s work,’ continued the widow; ‘not altogether
unobjectionable in some points, but she does well enough.
By-the-bye, how have you got on with your new pupil this
morning?’
The conversation, thus turned on Adele, continued till
we reached the light and cheerful region below. Adele came
running to meet us in the hall, exclaiming—
‘Mesdames, vous etes servies!’ adding, ‘J’ai bien faim,
moi!’
We found dinner ready, and waiting for us in Mrs. Fair-
fax’s room.
164 Jane Eyre

Chapter XII
T he promise of a smooth career, which my first calm in-

troduction to Thornfield Hall seemed to pledge, was not
belied on a longer acquaintance with the place and its in-
mates. Mrs. Fairfax turned out to be what she appeared, a
placid-tempered, kind-natured woman, of competent edu-
cation and average intelligence. My pupil was a lively child,
who had been spoilt and indulged, and therefore was some-
times wayward; but as she was committed entirely to my
care, and no injudicious interference from any quarter ever
thwarted my plans for her improvement, she soon forgot her
little freaks, and became obedient and teachable. She had
no great talents, no marked traits of character, no peculiar
development of feeling or taste which raised her one inch
above the ordinary level of childhood; but neither had she
any deficiency or vice which sunk her below it. She made
reasonable progress, entertained for me a vivacious, though
perhaps not very profound, affection; and by her simplic-
ity, gay prattle, and efforts to please, inspired me, in return,
with a degree of attachment sufficient to make us both con-
tent in each other’s society.
This, par parenthese, will be thought cool language by
persons who entertain solemn doctrines about the angelic
nature of children, and the duty of those charged with their
education to conceive for them an idolatrous devotion: but

I am not writing to flatter parental egotism, to echo cant, or
prop up humbug; I am merely telling the truth. I felt a con-
scientious solicitude for Adele’s welfare and progress, and
a quiet liking for her little self: just as I cherished towards
Mrs. Fairfax a thankfulness for her kindness, and a plea-
sure in her society proportionate to the tranquil regard she
had for me, and the moderation of her mind and character.
Anybody may blame me who likes, when I add fur-
ther, that, now and then, when I took a walk by myself in
the grounds; when I went down to the gates and looked
through them along the road; or when, while Adele played
with her nurse, and Mrs. Fairfax made jellies in the store-
room, I climbed the three staircases, raised the trap-door of
the attic, and having reached the leads, looked out afar over
sequestered field and hill, and along dim sky-line—that
then I longed for a power of vision which might overpass
that limit; which might reach the busy world, towns, re-
gions full of life I had heard of but never seen—that then I
desired more of practical experience than I possessed; more
of intercourse with my kind, of acquaintance with variety
of character, than was here within my reach. I valued what
was good in Mrs. Fairfax, and what was good in Adele; but
I believed in the existence of other and more vivid kinds of
goodness, and what I believed in I wished to behold.
Who blames me? Many, no doubt; and I shall be called
discontented. I could not help it: the restlessness was in my
nature; it agitated me to pain sometimes. Then my sole relief
was to walk along the corridor of the third storey, back-
wards and forwards, safe in the silence and solitude of the
166 Jane Eyre

spot, and allow my mind’s eye to dwell on whatever bright
visions rose before it—and, certainly, they were many and
glowing; to let my heart be heaved by the exultant move-
ment, which, while it swelled it in trouble, expanded it with
life; and, best of all, to open my inward ear to a tale that was
never ended—a tale my imagination created, and narrated
continuously; quickened with all of incident, life, fire, feel-
ing, that I desired and had not in my actual existence.
It is in vain to say human beings ought to be satisfied
with tranquillity: they must have action; and they will
make it if they cannot find it. Millions are condemned to
a stiller doom than mine, and millions are in silent revolt
against their lot. Nobody knows how many rebellions be-
sides political rebellions ferment in the masses of life which
people earth. Women are supposed to be very calm gener-
ally: but women feel just as men feel; they need exercise for
their faculties, and a field for their efforts, as much as their
brothers do; they suffer from too rigid a restraint, too ab-
solute a stagnation, precisely as men would suffer; and it is
narrow-minded in their more privileged fellow-creatures to
say that they ought to confine themselves to making pud-
dings and knitting stockings, to playing on the piano and
embroidering bags. It is thoughtless to condemn them, or
laugh at them, if they seek to do more or learn more than
custom has pronounced necessary for their sex.
When thus alone, I not unfrequently heard Grace Poole’s
laugh: the same peal, the same low, slow ha! ha! which,
when first heard, had thrilled me: I heard, too, her eccentric
murmurs; stranger than her laugh. There were days when

she was quite silent; but there were others when I could not
account for the sounds she made. Sometimes I saw her: she
would come out of her room with a basin, or a plate, or a
tray in her hand, go down to the kitchen and shortly re-
turn, generally (oh, romantic reader, forgive me for telling
the plain truth!) bearing a pot of porter. Her appearance
always acted as a damper to the curiosity raised by her oral
oddities: hard-featured and staid, she had no point to which
interest could attach. I made some attempts to draw her
into conversation, but she seemed a person of few words:
a monosyllabic reply usually cut short every effort of that
sort.
The other members of the household, viz., John and his
wife, Leah the housemaid, and Sophie the French nurse,
were decent people; but in no respect remarkable; with
Sophie I used to talk French, and sometimes I asked her
questions about her native country; but she was not of a de-
scriptive or narrative turn, and generally gave such vapid
and confused answers as were calculated rather to check
than encourage inquiry.
October, November, December passed away. One after-
noon in January, Mrs. Fairfax had begged a holiday for Adele,
because she had a cold; and, as Adele seconded the request
with an ardour that reminded me how precious occasional
holidays had been to me in my own childhood, I accorded it,
deeming that I did well in showing pliability on the point. It
was a fine, calm day, though very cold; I was tired of sitting
still in the library through a whole long morning: Mrs. Fair-
fax had just written a letter which was waiting to be posted,
168 Jane Eyre

so I put on my bonnet and cloak and volunteered to carry it
to Hay; the distance, two miles, would be a pleasant winter
afternoon walk. Having seen Adele comfortably seated in
her little chair by Mrs. Fairfax’s parlour fireside, and given
her her best wax doll (which I usually kept enveloped in
silver paper in a drawer) to play with, and a story-book for
change of amusement; and having replied to her ‘Revenez
bientot, ma bonne amie, ma chere Mdlle. Jeannette,’ with a
kiss I set out.
The ground was hard, the air was still, my road was lone-
ly; I walked fast till I got warm, and then I walked slowly to
enjoy and analyse the species of pleasure brooding for me
in the hour and situation. It was three o’clock; the church
bell tolled as I passed under the belfry: the charm of the
hour lay in its approaching dimness, in the low-gliding and
pale-beaming sun. I was a mile from Thornfield, in a lane
noted for wild roses in summer, for nuts and blackberries in
autumn, and even now possessing a few coral treasures in
hips and haws, but whose best winter delight lay in its utter
solitude and leafless repose. If a breath of air stirred, it made
no sound here; for there was not a holly, not an evergreen to
rustle, and the stripped hawthorn and hazel bushes were as
still as the white, worn stones which causewayed the mid-
dle of the path. Far and wide, on each side, there were only
fields, where no cattle now browsed; and the little brown
birds, which stirred occasionally in the hedge, looked like
single russet leaves that had forgotten to drop.
This lane inclined up-hill all the way to Hay; having
reached the middle, I sat down on a stile which led thence

into a field. Gathering my mantle about me, and sheltering
my hands in my muff, I did not feel the cold, though it froze
keenly; as was attested by a sheet of ice covering the cause-
way, where a little brooklet, now congealed, had overflowed
after a rapid thaw some days since. From my seat I could
look down on Thornfield: the grey and battlemented hall
was the principal object in the vale below me; its woods and
dark rookery rose against the west. I lingered till the sun
went down amongst the trees, and sank crimson and clear
behind them. I then turned eastward.
On the hill-top above me sat the rising moon; pale yet as
a cloud, but brightening momentarily, she looked over Hay,
which, half lost in trees, sent up a blue smoke from its few
chimneys: it was yet a mile distant, but in the absolute hush
I could hear plainly its thin murmurs of life. My ear, too,
felt the flow of currents; in what dales and depths I could
not tell: but there were many hills beyond Hay, and doubt-
less many becks threading their passes. That evening calm
betrayed alike the tinkle of the nearest streams, the sough
of the most remote.
A rude noise broke on these fine ripplings and whisper-
ings, at once so far away and so clear: a positive tramp, tramp,
a metallic clatter, which effaced the soft wave-wanderings;
as, in a picture, the solid mass of a crag, or the rough boles
of a great oak, drawn in dark and strong on the foreground,
efface the aerial distance of azure hill, sunny horizon, and
blended clouds where tint melts into tint.
The din was on the causeway: a horse was coming; the
windings of the lane yet hid it, but it approached. I was just
170 Jane Eyre

leaving the stile; yet, as the path was narrow, I sat still to let
it go by. In those days I was young, and all sorts of fancies
bright and dark tenanted my mind: the memories of nurs-
ery stories were there amongst other rubbish; and when
they recurred, maturing youth added to them a vigour and
vividness beyond what childhood could give. As this horse
approached, and as I watched for it to appear through the
dusk, I remembered certain of Bessie’s tales, wherein fig-
ured a North-of-England spirit called a ‘Gytrash,’ which, in
the form of horse, mule, or large dog, haunted solitary ways,
and sometimes came upon belated travellers, as this horse
was now coming upon me.
It was very near, but not yet in sight; when, in addition to
the tramp, tramp, I heard a rush under the hedge, and close
down by the hazel stems glided a great dog, whose black and
white colour made him a distinct object against the trees. It
was exactly one form of Bessie’s Gytrash—a lion-like crea-
ture with long hair and a huge head: it passed me, however,
quietly enough; not staying to look up, with strange preter-
canine eyes, in my face, as I half expected it would. The
horse followed,—a tall steed, and on its back a rider. The
man, the human being, broke the spell at once. Nothing
ever rode the Gytrash: it was always alone; and goblins, to
my notions, though they might tenant the dumb carcasses
of beasts, could scarce covet shelter in the commonplace
human form. No Gytrash was this,—only a traveller taking
the short cut to Millcote. He passed, and I went on; a few
steps, and I turned: a sliding sound and an exclamation of
‘What the deuce is to do now?’ and a clattering tumble, ar-

rested my attention. Man and horse were down; they had
slipped on the sheet of ice which glazed the causeway. The
dog came bounding back, and seeing his master in a predic-
ament, and hearing the horse groan, barked till the evening
hills echoed the sound, which was deep in proportion to his
magnitude. He snuffed round the prostrate group, and then
he ran up to me; it was all he could do,—there was no other
help at hand to summon. I obeyed him, and walked down
to the traveller, by this time struggling himself free of his
steed. His efforts were so vigorous, I thought he could not
be much hurt; but I asked him the question—
‘Are you injured, sir?’
I think he was swearing, but am not certain; however, he
was pronouncing some formula which prevented him from
replying to me directly.
‘Can I do anything?’ I asked again.
‘You must just stand on one side,’ he answered as he rose,
first to his knees, and then to his feet. I did; whereupon be-
gan a heaving, stamping, clattering process, accompanied
by a barking and baying which removed me effectually
some yards’ distance; but I would not be driven quite away
till I saw the event. This was finally fortunate; the horse
was re-established, and the dog was silenced with a ‘Down,
Pilot!’ The traveller now, stooping, felt his foot and leg, as
if trying whether they were sound; apparently something
ailed them, for he halted to the stile whence I had just risen,
and sat down.
I was in the mood for being useful, or at least officious, I
think, for I now drew near him again.
172 Jane Eyre

‘If you are hurt, and want help, sir, I can fetch some one
either from Thornfield Hall or from Hay.’
‘Thank you: I shall do: I have no broken bones,—only a
sprain;’ and again he stood up and tried his foot, but the re-
sult extorted an involuntary ‘Ugh!’
Something of daylight still lingered, and the moon was
waxing bright: I could see him plainly. His figure was en-
veloped in a riding cloak, fur collared and steel clasped; its
details were not apparent, but I traced the general points of
middle height and considerable breadth of chest. He had
a dark face, with stern features and a heavy brow; his eyes
and gathered eyebrows looked ireful and thwarted just now;
he was past youth, but had not reached middle-age; perhaps
he might be thirty-five. I felt no fear of him, and but little
shyness. Had he been a handsome, heroic-looking young
gentleman, I should not have dared to stand thus question-
ing him against his will, and offering my services unasked.
I had hardly ever seen a handsome youth; never in my life
spoken to one. I had a theoretical reverence and homage
for beauty, elegance, gallantry, fascination; but had I met
those qualities incarnate in masculine shape, I should have
known instinctively that they neither had nor could have
sympathy with anything in me, and should have shunned
them as one would fire, lightning, or anything else that is
bright but antipathetic.
If even this stranger had smiled and been good-hu-
moured to me when I addressed him; if he had put off my
offer of assistance gaily and with thanks, I should have
gone on my way and not felt any vocation to renew inqui-

ries: but the frown, the roughness of the traveller, set me at
my ease: I retained my station when he waved to me to go,
and announced—
‘I cannot think of leaving you, sir, at so late an hour, in
this solitary lane, till I see you are fit to mount your horse.’
He looked at me when I said this; he had hardly turned
his eyes in my direction before.
‘I should think you ought to be at home yourself,’ said he,
‘if you have a home in this neighbourhood: where do you
come from?’
‘From just below; and I am not at all afraid of being out
late when it is moonlight: I will run over to Hay for you with
pleasure, if you wish it: indeed, I am going there to post a
letter.’
‘You live just below—do you mean at that house with
the battlements?’ pointing to Thornfield Hall, on which the
moon cast a hoary gleam, bringing it out distinct and pale
from the woods that, by contrast with the western sky, now
seemed one mass of shadow.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Whose house is it?’
‘Mr. Rochester’s.’
‘Do you know Mr. Rochester?’
‘No, I have never seen him.’
‘He is not resident, then?’
‘No.’
‘Can you tell me where he is?’
‘I cannot.’
‘You are not a servant at the hall, of course. You are—‘
174 Jane Eyre

He stopped, ran his eye over my dress, which, as usual, was
quite simple: a black merino cloak, a black beaver bon-
net; neither of them half fine enough for a lady’s-maid. He
seemed puzzled to decide what I was; I helped him.
‘I am the governess.’
‘Ah, the governess!’ he repeated; ‘deuce take me, if I had
not forgotten! The governess!’ and again my raiment under-
went scrutiny. In two minutes he rose from the stile: his face
expressed pain when he tried to move.
‘I cannot commission you to fetch help,’ he said; ‘but you
may help me a little yourself, if you will be so kind.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You have not an umbrella that I can use as a stick?’
‘No.’
‘Try to get hold of my horse’s bridle and lead him to me:
you are not afraid?’
I should have been afraid to touch a horse when alone,
but when told to do it, I was disposed to obey. I put down
my muff on the stile, and went up to the tall steed; I endea-
voured to catch the bridle, but it was a spirited thing, and
would not let me come near its head; I made effort on effort,
though in vain: meantime, I was mortally afraid of its tram-
pling fore-feet. The traveller waited and watched for some
time, and at last he laughed.
‘I see,’ he said, ‘the mountain will never be brought to
Mahomet, so all you can do is to aid Mahomet to go to the
mountain; I must beg of you to come here.’
I came. ‘Excuse me,’ he continued: ‘necessity compels me
to make you useful.’ He laid a heavy hand on my shoulder,

and leaning on me with some stress, limped to his horse.
Having once caught the bridle, he mastered it directly and
sprang to his saddle; grimacing grimly as he made the ef-
fort, for it wrenched his sprain.
‘Now,’ said he, releasing his under lip from a hard bite,
‘just hand me my whip; it lies there under the hedge.’
I sought it and found it.
‘Thank you; now make haste with the letter to Hay, and
return as fast as you can.’
A touch of a spurred heel made his horse first start and
rear, and then bound away; the dog rushed in his traces; all
three vanished,
‘Like heath that, in the wilderness, The wild wind whirls
away.’
I took up my muff and walked on. The incident had
occurred and was gone for me: it WAS an incident of no
moment, no romance, no interest in a sense; yet it marked
with change one single hour of a monotonous life. My help
had been needed and claimed; I had given it: I was pleased
to have done something; trivial, transitory though the deed
was, it was yet an active thing, and I was weary of an exis-
tence all passive. The new face, too, was like a new picture
introduced to the gallery of memory; and it was dissimilar
to all the others hanging there: firstly, because it was mas-
culine; and, secondly, because it was dark, strong, and stern.
I had it still before me when I entered Hay, and slipped the
letter into the post- office; I saw it as I walked fast down-hill
all the way home. When I came to the stile, I stopped a min-
ute, looked round and listened, with an idea that a horse’s
176 Jane Eyre

hoofs might ring on the causeway again, and that a rider in
a cloak, and a Gytrash-like Newfoundland dog, might be
again apparent: I saw only the hedge and a pollard willow
before me, rising up still and straight to meet the moon-
beams; I heard only the faintest waft of wind roaming fitful
among the trees round Thornfield, a mile distant; and when
I glanced down in the direction of the murmur, my eye, tra-
versing the hall-front, caught a light kindling in a window:
it reminded me that I was late, and I hurried on.
I did not like re-entering Thornfield. To pass its thresh-
old was to return to stagnation; to cross the silent hall, to
ascend the darksome staircase, to seek my own lonely little
room, and then to meet tranquil Mrs. Fairfax, and spend
the long winter evening with her, and her only, was to quell
wholly the faint excitement wakened by my walk,—to slip
again over my faculties the viewless fetters of an uniform
and too still existence; of an existence whose very privileges
of security and ease I was becoming incapable of appreciat-
ing. What good it would have done me at that time to have
been tossed in the storms of an uncertain struggling life,
and to have been taught by rough and bitter experience to
long for the calm amidst which I now repined! Yes, just as
much good as it would do a man tired of sitting still in a
‘too easy chair’ to take a long walk: and just as natural was
the wish to stir, under my circumstances, as it would be un-
der his.
I lingered at the gates; I lingered on the lawn; I paced
backwards and forwards on the pavement; the shutters of
the glass door were closed; I could not see into the interior;

and both my eyes and spirit seemed drawn from the gloomy
house—from the grey-hollow filled with rayless cells, as it
appeared to me—to that sky expanded before me,—a blue
sea absolved from taint of cloud; the moon ascending it in
solemn march; her orb seeming to look up as she left the
hill-tops, from behind which she had come, far and farther
below her, and aspired to the zenith, midnight dark in its
fathomless depth and measureless distance; and for those
trembling stars that followed her course; they made my
heart tremble, my veins glow when I viewed them. Little
things recall us to earth; the clock struck in the hall; that
sufficed; I turned from moon and stars, opened a side-door,
and went in.
The hall was not dark, nor yet was it lit, only by the high-
hung bronze lamp; a warm glow suffused both it and the
lower steps of the oak staircase. This ruddy shine issued
from the great dining-room, whose two-leaved door stood
open, and showed a genial fire in the grate, glancing on
marble hearth and brass fire-irons, and revealing purple
draperies and polished furniture, in the most pleasant ra-
diance. It revealed, too, a group near the mantelpiece: I had
scarcely caught it, and scarcely become aware of a cheerful
mingling of voices, amongst which I seemed to distinguish
the tones of Adele, when the door closed.
I hastened to Mrs. Fairfax’s room; there was a fire there
too, but no candle, and no Mrs. Fairfax. Instead, all alone,
sitting upright on the rug, and gazing with gravity at the
blaze, I beheld a great black and white long-haired dog, just
like the Gytrash of the lane. It was so like it that I went for-
178 Jane Eyre

ward and said—‘Pilot’ and the thing got up and came to me
and snuffed me. I caressed him, and he wagged his great
tail; but he looked an eerie creature to be alone with, and
I could not tell whence he had come. I rang the bell, for I
wanted a candle; and I wanted, too, to get an account of this
visitant. Leah entered.
‘What dog is this?’
‘He came with master.’
‘With whom?’
‘With master—Mr. Rochester—he is just arrived.’
‘Indeed! and is Mrs. Fairfax with him?’
‘Yes, and Miss Adele; they are in the dining-room, and
John is gone for a surgeon; for master has had an accident;
his horse fell and his ankle is sprained.’
‘Did the horse fall in Hay Lane?’
‘Yes, coming down-hill; it slipped on some ice.’
‘Ah! Bring me a candle will you Leah?’
Leah brought it; she entered, followed by Mrs. Fairfax,
who repeated the news; adding that Mr. Carter the surgeon
was come, and was now with Mr. Rochester: then she hur-
ried out to give orders about tea, and I went upstairs to take
off my things.

Chapter XIII
M r. Rochester, it seems, by the surgeon’s orders, went to

bed early that night; nor did he rise soon next morn-
ing. When he did come down, it was to attend to business:
his agent and some of his tenants were arrived, and waiting
to speak with him.
Adele and I had now to vacate the library: it would be in
daily requisition as a reception-room for callers. A fire was
lit in an apartment upstairs, and there I carried our books,
and arranged it for the future schoolroom. I discerned in the
course of the morning that Thornfield Hall was a changed
place: no longer silent as a church, it echoed every hour or
two to a knock at the door, or a clang of the bell; steps, too,
often traversed the hall, and new voices spoke in different
keys below; a rill from the outer world was flowing through
it; it had a master: for my part, I liked it better.
Adele was not easy to teach that day; she could not apply:
she kept running to the door and looking over the banis-
ters to see if she could get a glimpse of Mr. Rochester; then
she coined pretexts to go downstairs, in order, as I shrewd-
ly suspected, to visit the library, where I knew she was not
wanted; then, when I got a little angry, and made her sit
still, she continued to talk incessantly of her ‘ami, Monsieur
Edouard Fairfax DE Rochester,’ as she dubbed him (I had
not before heard his prenomens), and to conjecture what
180 Jane Eyre

presents he had brought her: for it appears he had intimated
the night before, that when his luggage came from Millcote,
there would be found amongst it a little box in whose con-
tents she had an interest.
‘Et cela doit signifier,’ said she, ‘qu’il y aura le dedans un
cadeau pour moi, et peut-etre pour vous aussi, mademoi-
selle. Monsieur a parle de vous: il m’a demande le nom de
ma gouvernante, et si elle n’etait pas une petite personne,
assez mince et un peu pale. J’ai dit qu’oui: car c’est vrai, n’est-
ce pas, mademoiselle?’
I and my pupil dined as usual in Mrs. Fairfax’s parlour;
the afternoon was wild and snowy, and we passed it in the
schoolroom. At dark I allowed Adele to put away books
and work, and to run downstairs; for, from the compara-
tive silence below, and from the cessation of appeals to the
door-bell, I conjectured that Mr. Rochester was now at lib-
erty. Left alone, I walked to the window; but nothing was to
be seen thence: twilight and snowflakes together thickened
the air, and hid the very shrubs on the lawn. I let down the
curtain and went back to the fireside.
In the clear embers I was tracing a view, not unlike a pic-
ture I remembered to have seen of the castle of Heidelberg,
on the Rhine, when Mrs. Fairfax came in, breaking up by
her entrance the fiery mosaic I had been piercing together,
and scattering too some heavy unwelcome thoughts that
were beginning to throng on my solitude.
‘Mr. Rochester would be glad if you and your pupil would
take tea with him in the drawing-room this evening,’ said
she: ‘he has been so much engaged all day that he could not

ask to see you before.’
‘When is his tea-time?’ I inquired.
‘Oh, at six o’clock: he keeps early hours in the country.
You had better change your frock now; I will go with you
and fasten it. Here is a candle.’
‘Is it necessary to change my frock?’
‘Yes, you had better: I always dress for the evening when
Mr. Rochester is here.’
This additional ceremony seemed somewhat stately;
however, I repaired to my room, and, with Mrs. Fairfax’s
aid, replaced my black stuff dress by one of black silk; the
best and the only additional one I had, except one of light
grey, which, in my Lowood notions of the toilette, I thought
too fine to be worn, except on first-rate occasions.
‘You want a brooch,’ said Mrs. Fairfax. I had a single little
pearl ornament which Miss Temple gave me as a parting
keepsake: I put it on, and then we went downstairs. Unused
as I was to strangers, it was rather a trial to appear thus
formally summoned in Mr. Rochester’s presence. I let Mrs.
Fairfax precede me into the dining-room, and kept in her
shade as we crossed that apartment; and, passing the arch,
whose curtain was now dropped, entered the elegant recess
beyond.
Two wax candles stood lighted on the table, and two
on the mantelpiece; basking in the light and heat of a su-
perb fire, lay Pilot—Adele knelt near him. Half reclined on
a couch appeared Mr. Rochester, his foot supported by the
cushion; he was looking at Adele and the dog: the fire shone
full on his face. I knew my traveller with his broad and jetty
182 Jane Eyre

eyebrows; his square forehead, made squarer by the hori-
zontal sweep of his black hair. I recognised his decisive nose,
more remarkable for character than beauty; his full nostrils,
denoting, I thought, choler; his grim mouth, chin, and jaw—
yes, all three were very grim, and no mistake. His shape,
now divested of cloak, I perceived harmonised in square-
ness with his physiognomy: I suppose it was a good figure
in the athletic sense of the term—broad chested and thin
flanked, though neither tall nor graceful.
Mr. Rochester must have been aware of the entrance of
Mrs. Fairfax and myself; but it appeared he was not in the
mood to notice us, for he never lifted his head as we ap-
proached.
‘Here is Miss Eyre, sir,’ said Mrs. Fairfax, in her quiet way.
He bowed, still not taking his eyes from the group of the
dog and child.
‘Let Miss Eyre be seated,’ said he: and there was some-
thing in the forced stiff bow, in the impatient yet formal
tone, which seemed further to express, ‘What the deuce is it
to me whether Miss Eyre be there or not? At this moment I
am not disposed to accost her.’
I sat down quite disembarrassed. A reception of finished
politeness would probably have confused me: I could not
have returned or repaid it by answering grace and elegance
on my part; but harsh caprice laid me under no obligation;
on the contrary, a decent quiescence, under the freak of
manner, gave me the advantage. Besides, the eccentricity of
the proceeding was piquant: I felt interested to see how he
would go on.

He went on as a statue would, that is, he neither spoke nor
moved. Mrs. Fairfax seemed to think it necessary that some
one should be amiable, and she began to talk. Kindly, as
usual—and, as usual, rather trite—she condoled with him
on the pressure of business he had had all day; on the an-
noyance it must have been to him with that painful sprain:
then she commended his patience and perseverance in go-
ing through with it.
‘Madam, I should like some tea,’ was the sole rejoinder
she got. She hastened to ring the bell; and when the tray
came, she proceeded to arrange the cups, spoons, &c., with
assiduous celerity. I and Adele went to the table; but the
master did not leave his couch.
‘Will you hand Mr. Rochester’s cup?’ said Mrs. Fairfax to
me; ‘Adele might perhaps spill it.’
I did as requested. As he took the cup from my hand,
Adele, thinking the moment propitious for making a request
in my favour, cried out—
‘N’est-ce pas, monsieur, qu’il y a un cadeau pour Made-
moiselle Eyre dans votre petit coffre?’
‘Who talks of cadeaux?’ said he gruffly. ‘Did you expect
a present, Miss Eyre? Are you fond of presents?’ and he
searched my face with eyes that I saw were dark, irate, and
piercing.
‘I hardly know, sir; I have little experience of them: they
are generally thought pleasant things.’
‘Generally thought? But what do YOU think?’
‘I should be obliged to take time, sir, before I could give
you an answer worthy of your acceptance: a present has
184 Jane Eyre

many faces to it, has it not? and one should consider all, be-
fore pronouncing an opinion as to its nature.’
‘Miss Eyre, you are not so unsophisticated as Adele: she
demands a ‘cadeau,’ clamorously, the moment she sees me:
you beat about the bush.’
‘Because I have less confidence in my deserts than Adele
has: she can prefer the claim of old acquaintance, and the
right too of custom; for she says you have always been in
the habit of giving her playthings; but if I had to make out
a case I should be puzzled, since I am a stranger, and have
done nothing to entitle me to an acknowledgment.’
‘Oh, don’t fall back on over-modesty! I have examined
Adele, and find you have taken great pains with her: she is
not bright, she has no talents; yet in a short time she has
made much improvement.’
‘Sir, you have now given me my ‘cadeau;’ I am obliged to
you: it is the meed teachers most covet—praise of their pu-
pils’ progress.’
‘Humph!’ said Mr. Rochester, and he took his tea in si-
lence.
‘Come to the fire,’ said the master, when the tray was tak-
en away, and Mrs. Fairfax had settled into a corner with her
knitting; while Adele was leading me by the hand round
the room, showing me the beautiful books and ornaments
on the consoles and chiffonnieres. We obeyed, as in duty
bound; Adele wanted to take a seat on my knee, but she was
ordered to amuse herself with Pilot.
‘You have been resident in my house three months?’
‘Yes, sir.’

‘And you came from—?’
‘From Lowood school, in—shire.’
‘Ah! a charitable concern. How long were you there?’
‘Eight years.’
‘Eight years! you must be tenacious of life. I thought half
the time in such a place would have done up any constitu-
tion! No wonder you have rather the look of another world.
I marvelled where you had got that sort of face. When you
came on me in Hay Lane last night, I thought unaccount-
ably of fairy tales, and had half a mind to demand whether
you had bewitched my horse: I am not sure yet. Who are
your parents?’
‘I have none.’
‘Nor ever had, I suppose: do you remember them?’
‘No.’
‘I thought not. And so you were waiting for your people
when you sat on that stile?’
‘For whom, sir?’
‘For the men in green: it was a proper moonlight evening
for them. Did I break through one of your rings, that you
spread that damned ice on the causeway?’
I shook my head. ‘The men in green all forsook England
a hundred years ago,’ said I, speaking as seriously as he had
done. ‘And not even in Hay Lane, or the fields about it, could
you find a trace of them. I don’t think either summer or har-
vest, or winter moon, will ever shine on their revels more.’
Mrs. Fairfax had dropped her knitting, and, with raised
eyebrows, seemed wondering what sort of talk this was.
‘Well,’ resumed Mr. Rochester, ‘if you disown parents,
186 Jane Eyre

you must have some sort of kinsfolk: uncles and aunts?’
‘No; none that I ever saw.’
‘And your home?’
‘I have none.’
‘Where do your brothers and sisters live?’
‘I have no brothers or sisters.’
‘Who recommended you to come here?’
‘I advertised, and Mrs. Fairfax answered my advertise-
ment.’
‘Yes,’ said the good lady, who now knew what ground we
were upon, ‘and I am daily thankful for the choice Provi-
dence led me to make. Miss Eyre has been an invaluable
companion to me, and a kind and careful teacher to Adele.’
‘Don’t trouble yourself to give her a character,’ returned
Mr. Rochester: ‘eulogiums will not bias me; I shall judge for
myself. She began by felling my horse.’
‘Sir?’ said Mrs. Fairfax.
‘I have to thank her for this sprain.’
The widow looked bewildered.
‘Miss Eyre, have you ever lived in a town?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Have you seen much society?’
‘None but the pupils and teachers of Lowood, and now
the inmates of Thornfield.’
‘Have you read much?’
‘Only such books as came in my way; and they have not
been numerous or very learned.’
‘You have lived the life of a nun: no doubt you are well
drilled in religious forms;—Brocklehurst, who I under-

stand directs Lowood, is a parson, is he not?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And you girls probably worshipped him, as a convent
full of religieuses would worship their director.’
‘Oh, no.’
‘You are very cool! No! What! a novice not worship her
priest! That sounds blasphemous.’
‘I disliked Mr. Brocklehurst; and I was not alone in the
feeling. He is a harsh man; at once pompous and meddling;
he cut off our hair; and for economy’s sake bought us bad
needles and thread, with which we could hardly sew.’
‘That was very false economy,’ remarked Mrs. Fairfax,
who now again caught the drift of the dialogue.
‘And was that the head and front of his offending?’ de-
manded Mr. Rochester.
‘He starved us when he had the sole superintendence of
the provision department, before the committee was ap-
pointed; and he bored us with long lectures once a week,
and with evening readings from books of his own inditing,
about sudden deaths and judgments, which made us afraid
to go to bed.’
‘What age were you when you went to Lowood?’
‘About ten.’
‘And you stayed there eight years: you are now, then,
eighteen?’
I assented.
‘Arithmetic, you see, is useful; without its aid, I should
hardly have been able to guess your age. It is a point diffi-
cult to fix where the features and countenance are so much
188 Jane Eyre

at variance as in your case. And now what did you learn at
Lowood? Can you play?’
‘A little.’
‘Of course: that is the established answer. Go into the
library—I mean, if you please.—(Excuse my tone of com-
mand; I am used to say, ‘Do this,’ and it is done: I cannot
alter my customary habits for one new inmate.)—Go, then,
into the library; take a candle with you; leave the door open;
sit down to the piano, and play a tune.’
I departed, obeying his directions.
‘Enough!’ he called out in a few minutes. ‘You play A
LITTLE, I see; like any other English school-girl; perhaps
rather better than some, but not well.’
I closed the piano and returned. Mr. Rochester contin-
ued—‘Adele showed me some sketches this morning, which
she said were yours. I don’t know whether they were entire-
ly of your doing; probably a master aided you?’
‘No, indeed!’ I interjected.
‘Ah! that pricks pride. Well, fetch me your portfolio, if
you can vouch for its contents being original; but don’t pass
your word unless you are certain: I can recognise patch-
work.’
‘Then I will say nothing, and you shall judge for your-
self, sir.’
I brought the portfolio from the library.
‘Approach the table,’ said he; and I wheeled it to his couch.
Adele and Mrs. Fairfax drew near to see the pictures.
‘No crowding,’ said Mr. Rochester: ‘take the drawings
from my hand as I finish with them; but don’t push your

faces up to mine.’
He deliberately scrutinised each sketch and painting.
Three he laid aside; the others, when he had examined them,
he swept from him.
‘Take them off to the other table, Mrs. Fairfax,’ said he,
and look at them with Adele;—you’ (glancing at me) ‘re-
sume your seat, and answer my questions. I perceive those
pictures were done by one hand: was that hand yours?’
‘Yes.’
‘And when did you find time to do them? They have taken
much time, and some thought.’
‘I did them in the last two vacations I spent at Lowood,
when I had no other occupation.’
‘Where did you get your copies?’
‘Out of my head.’
‘That head I see now on your shoulders?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Has it other furniture of the same kind within?’
‘I should think it may have: I should hope—better.’
He spread the pictures before him, and again surveyed
them alternately.
While he is so occupied, I will tell you, reader, what they
are: and first, I must premise that they are nothing won-
derful. The subjects had, indeed, risen vividly on my mind.
As I saw them with the spiritual eye, before I attempted to
embody them, they were striking; but my hand would not
second my fancy, and in each case it had wrought out but a
pale portrait of the thing I had conceived.
These pictures were in water-colours. The first represent-
190 Jane Eyre

ed clouds low and livid, rolling over a swollen sea: all the
distance was in eclipse; so, too, was the foreground; or rath-
er, the nearest billows, for there was no land. One gleam
of light lifted into relief a half-submerged mast, on which
sat a cormorant, dark and large, with wings flecked with
foam; its beak held a gold bracelet set with gems, that I had
touched with as brilliant tints as my palette could yield, and
as glittering distinctness as my pencil could impart. Sink-
ing below the bird and mast, a drowned corpse glanced
through the green water; a fair arm was the only limb clear-
ly visible, whence the bracelet had been washed or torn.
The second picture contained for foreground only the
dim peak of a hill, with grass and some leaves slanting as
if by a breeze. Beyond and above spread an expanse of sky,
dark blue as at twilight: rising into the sky was a woman’s
shape to the bust, portrayed in tints as dusk and soft as I
could combine. The dim forehead was crowned with a star;
the lineaments below were seen as through the suffusion
of vapour; the eyes shone dark and wild; the hair streamed
shadowy, like a beamless cloud torn by storm or by elec-
tric travail. On the neck lay a pale reflection like moonlight;
the same faint lustre touched the train of thin clouds from
which rose and bowed this vision of the Evening Star.
The third showed the pinnacle of an iceberg piercing a
polar winter sky: a muster of northern lights reared their
dim lances, close serried, along the horizon. Throwing these
into distance, rose, in the foreground, a head,—a colossal
head, inclined towards the iceberg, and resting against it.
Two thin hands, joined under the forehead, and support-

ing it, drew up before the lower features a sable veil, a brow
quite bloodless, white as bone, and an eye hollow and fixed,
blank of meaning but for the glassiness of despair, alone
were visible. Above the temples, amidst wreathed turban
folds of black drapery, vague in its character and consis-
tency as cloud, gleamed a ring of white flame, gemmed with
sparkles of a more lurid tinge. This pale crescent was ‘the
likeness of a kingly crown;’ what it diademed was ‘the shape
which shape had none.’
‘Were you happy when you painted these pictures?’ asked
Mr. Rochester presently.
‘I was absorbed, sir: yes, and I was happy. To paint them,
in short, was to enjoy one of the keenest pleasures I have
ever known.’
‘That is not saying much. Your pleasures, by your own ac-
count, have been few; but I daresay you did exist in a kind
of artist’s dreamland while you blent and arranged these
strange tints. Did you sit at them long each day?’
‘I had nothing else to do, because it was the vacation, and
I sat at them from morning till noon, and from noon till
night: the length of the midsummer days favoured my in-
clination to apply.’
‘And you felt self-satisfied with the result of your ardent
labours?’
‘Far from it. I was tormented by the contrast between my
idea and my handiwork: in each case I had imagined some-
thing which I was quite powerless to realise.’
‘Not quite: you have secured the shadow of your thought;
but no more, probably. You had not enough of the artist’s
192 Jane Eyre

skill and science to give it full being: yet the drawings are,
for a school- girl, peculiar. As to the thoughts, they are elf-
ish. These eyes in the Evening Star you must have seen in
a dream. How could you make them look so clear, and yet
not at all brilliant? for the planet above quells their rays.
And what meaning is that in their solemn depth? And who
taught you to paint wind. There is a high gale in that sky,
and on this hill-top. Where did you see Latmos? For that is
Latmos. There! put the drawings away!’
I had scarce tied the strings of the portfolio, when,
looking at his watch, he said abruptly—
‘It is nine o’clock: what are you about, Miss Eyre, to let
Adele sit up so long? Take her to bed.’
Adele went to kiss him before quitting the room: he en-
dured the caress, but scarcely seemed to relish it more than
Pilot would have done, nor so much.
‘I wish you all good-night, now,’ said he, making a move-
ment of the hand towards the door, in token that he was
tired of our company, and wished to dismiss us. Mrs. Fair-
fax folded up her knitting: I took my portfolio: we curtseyed
to him, received a frigid bow in return, and so withdrew.
‘You said Mr. Rochester was not strikingly peculiar, Mrs.
Fairfax,’ I observed, when I rejoined her in her room, after
putting Adele to bed.
‘Well, is he?’
‘I think so: he is very changeful and abrupt.’
‘True: no doubt he may appear so to a stranger, but I am
so accustomed to his manner, I never think of it; and then, if
he has peculiarities of temper, allowance should be made.’

‘Why?’
‘Partly because it is his nature—and we can none of us
help our nature; and partly because he has painful thoughts,
no doubt, to harass him, and make his spirits unequal.’
‘What about?’
‘Family troubles, for one thing.’
‘But he has no family.’
‘Not now, but he has had—or, at least, relatives. He lost
his elder brother a few years since.’
‘His ELDER brother?’
‘Yes. The present Mr. Rochester has not been very long in
possession of the property; only about nine years.’
‘Nine years is a tolerable time. Was he so very fond of his
brother as to be still inconsolable for his loss?’
‘Why, no—perhaps not. I believe there were some mis-
understandings between them. Mr. Rowland Rochester was
not quite just to Mr. Edward; and perhaps he prejudiced his
father against him. The old gentleman was fond of mon-
ey, and anxious to keep the family estate together. He did
not like to diminish the property by division, and yet he
was anxious that Mr. Edward should have wealth, too, to
keep up the consequence of the name; and, soon after he
was of age, some steps were taken that were not quite fair,
and made a great deal of mischief. Old Mr. Rochester and
Mr. Rowland combined to bring Mr. Edward into what he
considered a painful position, for the sake of making his
fortune: what the precise nature of that position was I never
clearly knew, but his spirit could not brook what he had to
suffer in it. He is not very forgiving: he broke with his fam-
194 Jane Eyre

ily, and now for many years he has led an unsettled kind of
life. I don’t think he has ever been resident at Thornfield for
a fortnight together, since the death of his brother without
a will left him master of the estate; and, indeed, no wonder
he shuns the old place.’
‘Why should he shun it?’
‘Perhaps he thinks it gloomy.’
The answer was evasive. I should have liked something
clearer; but Mrs. Fairfax either could not, or would not, give
me more explicit information of the origin and nature of
Mr. Rochester’s trials. She averred they were a mystery to
herself, and that what she knew was chiefly from conjecture.
It was evident, indeed, that she wished me to drop the sub-
ject, which I did accordingly.

Chapter XIV
F or several subsequent days I saw little of Mr. Rochester.

In the mornings he seemed much engaged with busi-
ness, and, in the afternoon, gentlemen from Millcote or the
neighbourhood called, and sometimes stayed to dine with
him. When his sprain was well enough to admit of horse
exercise, he rode out a good deal; probably to return these
visits, as he generally did not come back till late at night.
During this interval, even Adele was seldom sent for to
his presence, and all my acquaintance with him was con-
fined to an occasional rencontre in the hall, on the stairs, or
in the gallery, when he would sometimes pass me haugh-
tily and coldly, just acknowledging my presence by a distant
nod or a cool glance, and sometimes bow and smile with
gentlemanlike affability. His changes of mood did not of-
fend me, because I saw that I had nothing to do with their
alternation; the ebb and flow depended on causes quite dis-
connected with me.
One day he had had company to dinner, and had sent for
my portfolio; in order, doubtless, to exhibit its contents: the
gentlemen went away early, to attend a public meeting at
Millcote, as Mrs. Fairfax informed me; but the night being
wet and inclement, Mr. Rochester did not accompany them.
Soon after they were gone he rang the bell: a message came
that I and Adele were to go downstairs. I brushed Adele’s
196 Jane Eyre

hair and made her neat, and having ascertained that I was
myself in my usual Quaker trim, where there was nothing
to retouch— all being too close and plain, braided locks in-
cluded, to admit of disarrangement—we descended, Adele
wondering whether the petit coffre was at length come; for,
owing to some mistake, its arrival had hitherto been de-
layed. She was gratified: there it stood, a little carton, on the
table when we entered the dining-room. She appeared to
know it by instinct.
‘Ma boite! ma boite!’ exclaimed she, running towards it.
‘Yes, there is your ‘boite’ at last: take it into a corner, you
genuine daughter of Paris, and amuse yourself with dis-
embowelling it,’ said the deep and rather sarcastic voice of
Mr. Rochester, proceeding from the depths of an immense
easy-chair at the fireside. ‘And mind,’ he continued, ‘don’t
bother me with any details of the anatomical process, or
any notice of the condition of the entrails: let your oper-
ation be conducted in silence: tiens-toi tranquille, enfant;
comprends-tu?’
Adele seemed scarcely to need the warning—she had
already retired to a sofa with her treasure, and was busy un-
tying the cord which secured the lid. Having removed this
impediment, and lifted certain silvery envelopes of tissue
paper, she merely exclaimed—
‘Oh ciel! Que c’est beau!’ and then remained absorbed in
ecstatic contemplation.
‘Is Miss Eyre there?’ now demanded the master, half ris-
ing from his seat to look round to the door, near which I
still stood.

‘Ah! well, come forward; be seated here.’ He drew a chair
near his own. ‘I am not fond of the prattle of children,’ he
continued; ‘for, old bachelor as I am, I have no pleasant
associations connected with their lisp. It would be intoler-
able to me to pass a whole evening tete-e-tete with a brat.
Don’t draw that chair farther off, Miss Eyre; sit down exact-
ly where I placed it—if you please, that is. Confound these
civilities! I continually forget them. Nor do I particularly
affect simple-minded old ladies. By- the-bye, I must have
mine in mind; it won’t do to neglect her; she is a Fairfax, or
wed to one; and blood is said to be thicker than water.’
He rang, and despatched an invitation to Mrs. Fairfax,
who soon arrived, knitting-basket in hand.
‘Good evening, madam; I sent to you for a charitable
purpose. I have forbidden Adele to talk to me about her
presents, and she is bursting with repletion: have the good-
ness to serve her as auditress and interlocutrice; it will be
one of the most benevolent acts you ever performed.’
Adele, indeed, no sooner saw Mrs. Fairfax, than she sum-
moned her to her sofa, and there quickly filled her lap with
the porcelain, the ivory, the waxen contents of her ‘boite;’
pouring out, meantime, explanations and raptures in such
broken English as she was mistress of.
‘Now I have performed the part of a good host,’ pursued
Mr. Rochester, ‘put my guests into the way of amusing each
other, I ought to be at liberty to attend to my own pleasure.
Miss Eyre, draw your chair still a little farther forward: you
are yet too far back; I cannot see you without disturbing my
position in this comfortable chair, which I have no mind
198 Jane Eyre

to do.’
I did as I was bid, though I would much rather have re-
mained somewhat in the shade; but Mr. Rochester had such
a direct way of giving orders, it seemed a matter of course
to obey him promptly.
We were, as I have said, in the dining-room: the lustre,
which had been lit for dinner, filled the room with a festal
breadth of light; the large fire was all red and clear; the pur-
ple curtains hung rich and ample before the lofty window
and loftier arch; everything was still, save the subdued chat
of Adele (she dared not speak loud), and, filling up each
pause, the beating of winter rain against the panes.
Mr. Rochester, as he sat in his damask-covered chair,
looked different to what I had seen him look before; not
quite so stern— much less gloomy. There was a smile on
his lips, and his eyes sparkled, whether with wine or not, I
am not sure; but I think it very probable. He was, in short,
in his after-dinner mood; more expanded and genial, and
also more self-indulgent than the frigid and rigid temper
of the morning; still he looked preciously grim, cushioning
his massive head against the swelling back of his chair, and
receiving the light of the fire on his granite-hewn features,
and in his great, dark eyes; for he had great, dark eyes, and
very fine eyes, too—not without a certain change in their
depths sometimes, which, if it was not softness, reminded
you, at least, of that feeling.
He had been looking two minutes at the fire, and I had
been looking the same length of time at him, when, turning
suddenly, he caught my gaze fastened on his physiognomy.

‘You examine me, Miss Eyre,’ said he: ‘do you think me
handsome?’
I should, if I had deliberated, have replied to this ques-
tion by something conventionally vague and polite; but
the answer somehow slipped from my tongue before I was
aware—‘No, sir.’
‘Ah! By my word! there is something singular about you,’
said he: ‘you have the air of a little nonnette; quaint, quiet,
grave, and simple, as you sit with your hands before you,
and your eyes generally bent on the carpet (except, by-the-
bye, when they are directed piercingly to my face; as just
now, for instance); and when one asks you a question, or
makes a remark to which you are obliged to reply, you rap
out a round rejoinder, which, if not blunt, is at least brusque.
What do you mean by it?’
‘Sir, I was too plain; I beg your pardon. I ought to have
replied that it was not easy to give an impromptu answer to
a question about appearances; that tastes mostly differ; and
that beauty is of little consequence, or something of that
sort.’
‘You ought to have replied no such thing. Beauty of little
consequence, indeed! And so, under pretence of softening
the previous outrage, of stroking and soothing me into pla-
cidity, you stick a sly penknife under my ear! Go on: what
fault do you find with me, pray? I suppose I have all my
limbs and all my features like any other man?’
‘Mr. Rochester, allow me to disown my first answer: I in-
tended no pointed repartee: it was only a blunder.’
‘Just so: I think so: and you shall be answerable for it.
200 Jane Eyre

Criticise me: does my forehead not please you?’
He lifted up the sable waves of hair which lay horizontally
over his brow, and showed a solid enough mass of intellec-
tual organs, but an abrupt deficiency where the suave sign
of benevolence should have risen.
‘Now, ma’am, am I a fool?’
‘Far from it, sir. You would, perhaps, think me rude if I
inquired in return whether you are a philanthropist?’
‘There again! Another stick of the penknife, when she
pretended to pat my head: and that is because I said I did
not like the society of children and old women (low be it
spoken!). No, young lady, I am not a general philanthropist;
but I bear a conscience;’ and he pointed to the prominences
which are said to indicate that faculty, and which, fortunate-
ly for him, were sufficiently conspicuous; giving, indeed, a
marked breadth to the upper part of his head: ‘and, besides,
I once had a kind of rude tenderness of heart. When I was as
old as you, I was a feeling fellow enough, partial to the un-
fledged, unfostered, and unlucky; but Fortune has knocked
me about since: she has even kneaded me with her knuckles,
and now I flatter myself I am hard and tough as an India-
rubber ball; pervious, though, through a chink or two still,
and with one sentient point in the middle of the lump. Yes:
does that leave hope for me?’
‘Hope of what, sir?’
‘Of my final re-transformation from India-rubber back
to flesh?’
‘Decidedly he has had too much wine,’ I thought; and I
did not know what answer to make to his queer question:

how could I tell whether he was capable of being re-trans-
formed?
‘You looked very much puzzled, Miss Eyre; and though
you are not pretty any more than I am handsome, yet a puz-
zled air becomes you; besides, it is convenient, for it keeps
those searching eyes of yours away from my physiognomy,
and busies them with the worsted flowers of the rug; so
puzzle on. Young lady, I am disposed to be gregarious and
communicative to-night.’
With this announcement he rose from his chair, and
stood, leaning his arm on the marble mantelpiece: in that
attitude his shape was seen plainly as well as his face; his
unusual breadth of chest, disproportionate almost to his
length of limb. I am sure most people would have thought
him an ugly man; yet there was so much unconscious pride
in his port; so much ease in his demeanour; such a look of
complete indifference to his own external appearance; so
haughty a reliance on the power of other qualities, intrinsic
or adventitious, to atone for the lack of mere personal at-
tractiveness, that, in looking at him, one inevitably shared
the indifference, and, even in a blind, imperfect sense, put
faith in the confidence.
‘I am disposed to be gregarious and communicative to-
night,’ he repeated, ‘and that is why I sent for you: the fire
and the chandelier were not sufficient company for me; nor
would Pilot have been, for none of these can talk. Adele is a
degree better, but still far below the mark; Mrs. Fairfax dit-
to; you, I am persuaded, can suit me if you will: you puzzled
me the first evening I invited you down here. I have almost
202 Jane Eyre

forgotten you since: other ideas have driven yours from my
head; but to-night I am resolved to be at ease; to dismiss
what importunes, and recall what pleases. It would please
me now to draw you out—to learn more of you—therefore
speak.’
Instead of speaking, I smiled; and not a very complacent
or submissive smile either.
‘Speak,’ he urged.
‘What about, sir?’
‘Whatever you like. I leave both the choice of subject and
the manner of treating it entirely to yourself.’
Accordingly I sat and said nothing: ‘If he expects me to
talk for the mere sake of talking and showing off, he will find
he has addressed himself to the wrong person,’ I thought.
‘You are dumb, Miss Eyre.’
I was dumb still. He bent his head a little towards me,
and with a single hasty glance seemed to dive into my eyes.
‘Stubborn?’ he said, ‘and annoyed. Ah! it is consistent. I
put my request in an absurd, almost insolent form. Miss
Eyre, I beg your pardon. The fact is, once for all, I don’t wish
to treat you like an inferior: that is’ (correcting himself),
‘I claim only such superiority as must result from twenty
years’ difference in age and a century’s advance in experi-
ence. This is legitimate, et j’y tiens, as Adele would say; and
it is by virtue of this superiority, and this alone, that I de-
sire you to have the goodness to talk to me a little now, and
divert my thoughts, which are galled with dwelling on one
point—cankering as a rusty nail.’
He had deigned an explanation, almost an apology, and

I did not feel insensible to his condescension, and would
not seem so.
‘I am willing to amuse you, if I can, sir—quite willing;
but I cannot introduce a topic, because how do I know what
will interest you? Ask me questions, and I will do my best
to answer them.’
‘Then, in the first place, do you agree with me that I have
a right to be a little masterful, abrupt, perhaps exacting,
sometimes, on the grounds I stated, namely, that I am old
enough to be your father, and that I have battled through
a varied experience with many men of many nations, and
roamed over half the globe, while you have lived quietly
with one set of people in one house?’
‘Do as you please, sir.’
‘That is no answer; or rather it is a very irritating, because
a very evasive one. Reply clearly.’
‘I don’t think, sir, you have a right to command me,
merely because you are older than I, or because you have
seen more of the world than I have; your claim to superi-
ority depends on the use you have made of your time and
experience.’
‘Humph! Promptly spoken. But I won’t allow that, seeing
that it would never suit my case, as I have made an indif-
ferent, not to say a bad, use of both advantages. Leaving
superiority out of the question, then, you must still agree
to receive my orders now and then, without being piqued or
hurt by the tone of command. Will you?’
I smiled: I thought to myself Mr. Rochester IS peculiar—
he seems to forget that he pays me 30 pounds per annum for
204 Jane Eyre

receiving his orders.
‘The smile is very well,’ said he, catching instantly the
passing expression; ‘but speak too.’
‘I was thinking, sir, that very few masters would trouble
themselves to inquire whether or not their paid subordi-
nates were piqued and hurt by their orders.’
‘Paid subordinates! What! you are my paid subordinate,
are you? Oh yes, I had forgotten the salary! Well then, on
that mercenary ground, will you agree to let me hector a
little?’
‘No, sir, not on that ground; but, on the ground that you
did forget it, and that you care whether or not a dependent
is comfortable in his dependency, I agree heartily.’
‘And will you consent to dispense with a great many con-
ventional forms and phrases, without thinking that the
omission arises from insolence?’
‘I am sure, sir, I should never mistake informality for in-
solence: one I rather like, the other nothing free-born would
submit to, even for a salary.’
‘Humbug! Most things free-born will submit to any-
thing for a salary; therefore, keep to yourself, and don’t
venture on generalities of which you are intensely igno-
rant. However, I mentally shake hands with you for your
answer, despite its inaccuracy; and as much for the manner
in which it was said, as for the substance of the speech; the
manner was frank and sincere; one does not often see such
a manner: no, on the contrary, affectation, or coldness, or
stupid, coarse-minded misapprehension of one’s meaning
are the usual rewards of candour. Not three in three thou-

sand raw school-girl-governesses would have answered me
as you have just done. But I don’t mean to flatter you: if you
are cast in a different mould to the majority, it is no merit of
yours: Nature did it. And then, after all, I go too fast in my
conclusions: for what I yet know, you may be no better than
the rest; you may have intolerable defects to counterbalance
your few good points.’
‘And so may you,’ I thought. My eye met his as the idea
crossed my mind: he seemed to read the glance, answering
as if its import had been spoken as well as imagined—
‘Yes, yes, you are right,’ said he; ‘I have plenty of faults
of my own: I know it, and I don’t wish to palliate them, I
assure you. God wot I need not be too severe about oth-
ers; I have a past existence, a series of deeds, a colour of
life to contemplate within my own breast, which might well
call my sneers and censures from my neighbours to myself.
I started, or rather (for like other defaulters, I like to lay
half the blame on ill fortune and adverse circumstances)
was thrust on to a wrong tack at the age of one-and- twen-
ty, and have never recovered the right course since: but I
might have been very different; I might have been as good
as you— wiser—almost as stainless. I envy you your peace
of mind, your clean conscience, your unpolluted memory.
Little girl, a memory without blot or contamination must
be an exquisite treasure—an inexhaustible source of pure
refreshment: is it not?’
‘How was your memory when you were eighteen, sir?’
‘All right then; limpid, salubrious: no gush of bilge water
had turned it to fetid puddle. I was your equal at eighteen—
206 Jane Eyre

quite your equal. Nature meant me to be, on the whole, a
good man, Miss Eyre; one of the better kind, and you see
I am not so. You would say you don’t see it; at least I flatter
myself I read as much in your eye (beware, by-the-bye, what
you express with that organ; I am quick at interpreting its
language). Then take my word for it,—I am not a villain:
you are not to suppose that—not to attribute to me any such
bad eminence; but, owing, I verily believe, rather to circum-
stances than to my natural bent, I am a trite commonplace
sinner, hackneyed in all the poor petty dissipations with
which the rich and worthless try to put on life. Do you won-
der that I avow this to you? Know, that in the course of your
future life you will often find yourself elected the involun-
tary confidant of your acquaintances’ secrets: people will
instinctively find out, as I have done, that it is not your forte
to tell of yourself, but to listen while others talk of them-
selves; they will feel, too, that you listen with no malevolent
scorn of their indiscretion, but with a kind of innate sym-
pathy; not the less comforting and encouraging because it
is very unobtrusive in its manifestations.’
‘How do you know?—how can you guess all this, sir?’
‘I know it well; therefore I proceed almost as freely as
if I were writing my thoughts in a diary. You would say, I
should have been superior to circumstances; so I should—
so I should; but you see I was not. When fate wronged me, I
had not the wisdom to remain cool: I turned desperate; then
I degenerated. Now, when any vicious simpleton excites my
disgust by his paltry ribaldry, I cannot flatter myself that I
am better than he: I am forced to confess that he and I are

on a level. I wish I had stood firm—God knows I do! Dread
remorse when you are tempted to err, Miss Eyre; remorse is
the poison of life.’
‘Repentance is said to be its cure, sir.’
‘It is not its cure. Reformation may be its cure; and I
could reform—I have strength yet for that—if—but where
is the use of thinking of it, hampered, burdened, cursed as
I am? Besides, since happiness is irrevocably denied me, I
have a right to get pleasure out of life: and I WILL get it,
cost what it may.’
‘Then you will degenerate still more, sir.’
‘Possibly: yet why should I, if I can get sweet, fresh plea-
sure? And I may get it as sweet and fresh as the wild honey
the bee gathers on the moor.’
‘It will sting—it will taste bitter, sir.’
‘How do you know?—you never tried it. How very seri-
ous—how very solemn you look: and you are as ignorant of
the matter as this cameo head’ (taking one from the man-
telpiece). ‘You have no right to preach to me, you neophyte,
that have not passed the porch of life, and are absolutely un-
acquainted with its mysteries.’
‘I only remind you of your own words, sir: you said error
brought remorse, and you pronounced remorse the poison
of existence.’
‘And who talks of error now? I scarcely think the notion
that flittered across my brain was an error. I believe it was
an inspiration rather than a temptation: it was very genial,
very soothing—I know that. Here it comes again! It is no
devil, I assure you; or if it be, it has put on the robes of an
208 Jane Eyre

angel of light. I think I must admit so fair a guest when it
asks entrance to my heart.’
‘Distrust it, sir; it is not a true angel.’
‘Once more, how do you know? By what instinct do you
pretend to distinguish between a fallen seraph of the abyss
and a messenger from the eternal throne—between a guide
and a seducer?’
‘I judged by your countenance, sir, which was troubled
when you said the suggestion had returned upon you. I feel
sure it will work you more misery if you listen to it.’
‘Not at all—it bears the most gracious message in the
world: for the rest, you are not my conscience-keeper, so
don’t make yourself uneasy. Here, come in, bonny wander-
er!’
He said this as if he spoke to a vision, viewless to any eye
but his own; then, folding his arms, which he had half ex-
tended, on his chest, he seemed to enclose in their embrace
the invisible being.
‘Now,’ he continued, again addressing me, ‘I have re-
ceived the pilgrim—a disguised deity, as I verify believe.
Already it has done me good: my heart was a sort of charnel;
it will now be a shrine.’
‘To speak truth, sir, I don’t understand you at all: I can-
not keep up the conversation, because it has got out of my
depth. Only one thing, I know: you said you were not as
good as you should like to be, and that you regretted your
own imperfection;—one thing I can comprehend: you inti-
mated that to have a sullied memory was a perpetual bane.
It seems to me, that if you tried hard, you would in time find

it possible to become what you yourself would approve; and
that if from this day you began with resolution to correct
your thoughts and actions, you would in a few years have
laid up a new and stainless store of recollections, to which
you might revert with pleasure.’
‘Justly thought; rightly said, Miss Eyre; and, at this mo-
ment, I am paving hell with energy.’
‘Sir?’
‘I am laying down good intentions, which I believe du-
rable as flint. Certainly, my associates and pursuits shall be
other than they have been.’
‘And better?’
‘And better—so much better as pure ore is than foul
dross. You seem to doubt me; I don’t doubt myself: I know
what my aim is, what my motives are; and at this moment
I pass a law, unalterable as that of the Medes and Persians,
that both are right.’
‘They cannot be, sir, if they require a new statute to le-
galise them.’
‘They are, Miss Eyre, though they absolutely require a
new statute: unheard-of combinations of circumstances de-
mand unheard-of rules.’
‘That sounds a dangerous maxim, sir; because one can
see at once that it is liable to abuse.’
‘Sententious sage! so it is: but I swear by my household
gods not to abuse it.’
‘You are human and fallible.’
‘I am: so are you—what then?’
‘The human and fallible should not arrogate a power with
210 Jane Eyre

which the divine and perfect alone can be safely intrusted.’
‘What power?’
‘That of saying of any strange, unsanctioned line of ac-
tion,—‘Let it be right.’’
‘Let it be right’—the very words: you have pronounced
them.’
‘MAY it be right then,’ I said, as I rose, deeming it useless
to continue a discourse which was all darkness to me; and,
besides, sensible that the character of my interlocutor was
beyond my penetration; at least, beyond its present reach;
and feeling the uncertainty, the vague sense of insecurity,
which accompanies a conviction of ignorance.
‘Where are you going?’
‘To put Adele to bed: it is past her bedtime.’
‘You are afraid of me, because I talk like a Sphynx.’
‘Your language is enigmatical, sir: but though I am be-
wildered, I am certainly not afraid.’
‘You ARE afraid—your self-love dreads a blunder.’
‘In that sense I do feel apprehensive—I have no wish to
talk nonsense.’
‘If you did, it would be in such a grave, quiet manner, I
should mistake it for sense. Do you never laugh, Miss Eyre?
Don’t trouble yourself to answer—I see you laugh rarely;
but you can laugh very merrily: believe me, you are not nat-
urally austere, any more than I am naturally vicious. The
Lowood constraint still clings to you somewhat; control-
ling your features, muffling your voice, and restricting your
limbs; and you fear in the presence of a man and a brother—
or father, or master, or what you will—to smile too gaily,

speak too freely, or move too quickly: but, in time, I think
you will learn to be natural with me, as I find it impossi-
ble to be conventional with you; and then your looks and
movements will have more vivacity and variety than they
dare offer now. I see at intervals the glance of a curious sort
of bird through the close-set bars of a cage: a vivid, restless,
resolute captive is there; were it but free, it would soar cloud-
high. You are still bent on going?’
‘It has struck nine, sir.’
‘Never mind,—wait a minute: Adele is not ready to go to
bed yet. My position, Miss Eyre, with my back to the fire,
and my face to the room, favours observation. While talk-
ing to you, I have also occasionally watched Adele (I have
my own reasons for thinking her a curious study,—reasons
that I may, nay, that I shall, impart to you some day). She
pulled out of her box, about ten minutes ago, a little pink
silk frock; rapture lit her face as she unfolded it; coquetry
runs in her blood, blends with her brains, and seasons the
marrow of her bones. ‘Il faut que je l’essaie!’ cried she, ‘et e
l’instant meme!’ and she rushed out of the room. She is now
with Sophie, undergoing a robing process: in a few minutes
she will re- enter; and I know what I shall see,—a miniature
of Celine Varens, as she used to appear on the boards at
the rising of— But never mind that. However, my tenderest
feelings are about to receive a shock: such is my presenti-
ment; stay now, to see whether it will be realised.’
Ere long, Adele’s little foot was heard tripping across the
hall. She entered, transformed as her guardian had predict-
ed. A dress of rose-coloured satin, very short, and as full in
212 Jane Eyre

the skirt as it could be gathered, replaced the brown frock
she had previously worn; a wreath of rosebuds circled her
forehead; her feet were dressed in silk stockings and small
white satin sandals.
‘Est-ce que ma robe va bien?’ cried she, bounding for-
wards; ‘et mes souliers? et mes bas? Tenez, je crois que je
vais danser!’
And spreading out her dress, she chasseed across the
room till, having reached Mr. Rochester, she wheeled light-
ly round before him on tip-toe, then dropped on one knee
at his feet, exclaiming—
‘Monsieur, je vous remercie mille fois de votre bonte;’
then rising, she added, ‘C’est comme cela que maman fai-
sait, n’est-ce pas, monsieur?’
‘Pre-cise-ly!’ was the answer; ‘and, ‘comme cela,’ she
charmed my English gold out of my British breeches’ pock-
et. I have been green, too, Miss Eyre,—ay, grass green: not a
more vernal tint freshens you now than once freshened me.
My Spring is gone, however, but it has left me that French
floweret on my hands, which, in some moods, I would fain
be rid of. Not valuing now the root whence it sprang; hav-
ing found that it was of a sort which nothing but gold dust
could manure, I have but half a liking to the blossom, es-
pecially when it looks so artificial as just now. I keep it and
rear it rather on the Roman Catholic principle of expiating
numerous sins, great or small, by one good work. I’ll ex-
plain all this some day. Good- night.’

Chapter XV
M r. Rochester did, on a future occasion, explain it. It

was one afternoon, when he chanced to meet me and
Adele in the grounds: and while she played with Pilot and
her shuttlecock, he asked me to walk up and down a long
beech avenue within sight of her.
He then said that she was the daughter of a French op-
era-dancer, Celine Varens, towards whom he had once
cherished what he called a ‘grande passion.’ This passion
Celine had professed to return with even superior ardour.
He thought himself her idol, ugly as he was: he believed, as
he said, that she preferred his ‘taille d’athlete’ to the ele-
gance of the Apollo Belvidere.
‘And, Miss Eyre, so much was I flattered by this preference
of the Gallic sylph for her British gnome, that I installed her
in an hotel; gave her a complete establishment of servants,
a carriage, cashmeres, diamonds, dentelles, &c. In short, I
began the process of ruining myself in the received style,
like any other spoony. I had not, it seems, the originality to
chalk out a new road to shame and destruction, but trode
the old track with stupid exactness not to deviate an inch
from the beaten centre. I had—as I deserved to have—the
fate of all other spoonies. Happening to call one evening
when Celine did not expect me, I found her out; but it was
a warm night, and I was tired with strolling through Par-
214 Jane Eyre

is, so I sat down in her boudoir; happy to breathe the air
consecrated so lately by her presence. No,—I exaggerate; I
never thought there was any consecrating virtue about her:
it was rather a sort of pastille perfume she had left; a scent
of musk and amber, than an odour of sanctity. I was just be-
ginning to stifle with the fumes of conservatory flowers and
sprinkled essences, when I bethought myself to open the
window and step out on to the balcony. It was moonlight
and gaslight besides, and very still and serene. The balcony
was furnished with a chair or two; I sat down, and took out
a cigar,—I will take one now, if you will excuse me.’
Here ensued a pause, filled up by the producing and
lighting of a cigar; having placed it to his lips and breathed
a trail of Havannah incense on the freezing and sunless air,
he went on—
‘I liked bonbons too in those days, Miss Eyre, and I was
croquant— (overlook the barbarism)—croquant chocolate
comfits, and smoking alternately, watching meantime the
equipages that rolled along the fashionable streets towards
the neighbouring opera-house, when in an elegant close
carriage drawn by a beautiful pair of English horses, and
distinctly seen in the brilliant city-night, I recognised the
‘voiture’ I had given Celine. She was returning: of course my
heart thumped with impatience against the iron rails I leant
upon. The carriage stopped, as I had expected, at the hotel
door; my flame (that is the very word for an opera inamo-
rata) alighted: though muffed in a cloak—an unnecessary
encumbrance, by-the-bye, on so warm a June evening—I
knew her instantly by her little foot, seen peeping from the

skirt of her dress, as she skipped from the carriage-step.
Bending over the balcony, I was about to murmur ‘Mon
ange’—in a tone, of course, which should be audible to the
ear of love alone—when a figure jumped from the carriage
after her; cloaked also; but that was a spurred heel which
had rung on the pavement, and that was a hatted head which
now passed under the arched porte cochere of the hotel.
‘You never felt jealousy, did you, Miss Eyre? Of course
not: I need not ask you; because you never felt love. You
have both sentiments yet to experience: your soul sleeps;
the shock is yet to be given which shall waken it. You think
all existence lapses in as quiet a flow as that in which your
youth has hitherto slid away. Floating on with closed eyes
and muffled ears, you neither see the rocks bristling not far
off in the bed of the flood, nor hear the breakers boil at their
base. But I tell you—and you may mark my words—you will
come some day to a craggy pass in the channel, where the
whole of life’s stream will be broken up into whirl and tu-
mult, foam and noise: either you will be dashed to atoms on
crag points, or lifted up and borne on by some master-wave
into a calmer currentas I am now.
‘I like this day; I like that sky of steel; I like the sternness
and stillness of the world under this frost. I like Thornfield,
its antiquity, its retirement, its old crow-trees and thorn-
trees, its grey facade, and lines of dark windows reflecting
that metal welkin: and yet how long have I abhorred the
very thought of it, shunned it like a great plague-house?
How I do still abhor—.’
He ground his teeth and was silent: he arrested his step
216 Jane Eyre

and struck his boot against the hard ground. Some hated
thought seemed to have him in its grip, and to hold him so
tightly that he could not advance.
We were ascending the avenue when he thus paused;
the hall was before us. Lifting his eye to its battlements, he
cast over them a glare such as I never saw before or since.
Pain, shame, ire, impatience, disgust, detestation, seemed
momentarily to hold a quivering conflict in the large pu-
pil dilating under his ebon eyebrow. Wild was the wrestle
which should be paramount; but another feeling rose and
triumphed: something hard and cynical: self-willed and
resolute: it settled his passion and petrified his countenance:
he went on—
‘During the moment I was silent, Miss Eyre, I was ar-
ranging a point with my destiny. She stood there, by that
beech-trunk—a hag like one of those who appeared to Mac-
beth on the heath of Forres. ‘You like Thornfield?’ she said,
lifting her finger; and then she wrote in the air a memento,
which ran in lurid hieroglyphics all along the house-front,
between the upper and lower row of windows, ‘Like it if you
can! Like it if you dare!’
‘I will like it,’ said I; ‘I dare like it;’ and’ (he subjoined
moodily) ‘I will keep my word; I will break obstacles to
happiness, to goodness—yes, goodness. I wish to be a better
man than I have been, than I am; as Job’s leviathan broke
the spear, the dart, and the habergeon, hindrances which
others count as iron and brass, I will esteem but straw and
rotten wood.’
Adele here ran before him with her shuttlecock. ‘Away!’

he cried harshly; ‘keep at a distance, child; or go in to So-
phie!’ Continuing then to pursue his walk in silence, I
ventured to recall him to the point whence he had abruptly
diverged—
‘Did you leave the balcony, sir,’ I asked, ‘when Mdlle. Va-
rens entered?’
I almost expected a rebuff for this hardly well-timed
question, but, on the contrary, waking out of his scowling
abstraction, he turned his eyes towards me, and the shade
seemed to clear off his brow. ‘Oh, I had forgotten Celine!
Well, to resume. When I saw my charmer thus come in ac-
companied by a cavalier, I seemed to hear a hiss, and the
green snake of jealousy, rising on undulating coils from
the moonlit balcony, glided within my waistcoat, and ate
its way in two minutes to my heart’s core. Strange!’ he ex-
claimed, suddenly starting again from the point. ‘Strange
that I should choose you for the confidant of all this, young
lady; passing strange that you should listen to me quietly, as
if it were the most usual thing in the world for a man like
me to tell stories of his opera-mistresses to a quaint, inex-
perienced girl like you! But the last singularity explains the
first, as I intimated once before: you, with your gravity, con-
siderateness, and caution were made to be the recipient of
secrets. Besides, I know what sort of a mind I have placed in
communication with my own: I know it is one not liable to
take infection: it is a peculiar mind: it is a unique one. Hap-
pily I do not mean to harm it: but, if I did, it would not take
harm from me. The more you and I converse, the better; for
while I cannot blight you, you may refresh me.’ After this
218 Jane Eyre

digression he proceeded—
‘I remained in the balcony. ‘They will come to her bou-
doir, no doubt,’ thought I: ‘let me prepare an ambush.’ So
putting my hand in through the open window, I drew the
curtain over it, leaving only an opening through which I
could take observations; then I closed the casement, all
but a chink just wide enough to furnish an outlet to lov-
ers’ whispered vows: then I stole back to my chair; and as I
resumed it the pair came in. My eye was quickly at the ap-
erture. Celine’s chamber-maid entered, lit a lamp, left it on
the table, and withdrew. The couple were thus revealed to
me clearly: both removed their cloaks, and there was ‘the
Varens,’ shining in satin and jewels,—my gifts of course,—
and there was her companion in an officer’s uniform; and
I knew him for a young roue of a vicomte—a brainless and
vicious youth whom I had sometimes met in society, and
had never thought of hating because I despised him so ab-
solutely. On recognising him, the fang of the snake Jealousy
was instantly broken; because at the same moment my love
for Celine sank under an extinguisher. A woman who could
betray me for such a rival was not worth contending for; she
deserved only scorn; less, however, than I, who had been
her dupe.
‘They began to talk; their conversation eased me com-
pletely: frivolous, mercenary, heartless, and senseless, it was
rather calculated to weary than enrage a listener. A card
of mine lay on the table; this being perceived, brought my
name under discussion. Neither of them possessed ener-
gy or wit to belabour me soundly, but they insulted me as

coarsely as they could in their little way: especially Celine,
who even waxed rather brilliant on my personal defects—
deformities she termed them. Now it had been her custom
to launch out into fervent admiration of what she called my
‘beaute male:’ wherein she differed diametrically from you,
who told me point-blank, at the second interview, that you
did not think me handsome. The contrast struck me at the
time and—‘
Adele here came running up again.
‘Monsieur, John has just been to say that your agent has
called and wishes to see you.’
‘Ah! in that case I must abridge. Opening the window,
I walked in upon them; liberated Celine from my protec-
tion; gave her notice to vacate her hotel; offered her a purse
for immediate exigencies; disregarded screams, hysterics,
prayers, protestations, convulsions; made an appointment
with the vicomte for a meeting at the Bois de Boulogne.
Next morning I had the pleasure of encountering him; left a
bullet in one of his poor etiolated arms, feeble as the wing of
a chicken in the pip, and then thought I had done with the
whole crew. But unluckily the Varens, six months before,
had given me this filette Adele, who, she affirmed, was my
daughter; and perhaps she may be, though I see no proofs
of such grim paternity written in her countenance: Pilot is
more like me than she. Some years after I had broken with
the mother, she abandoned her child, and ran away to It-
aly with a musician or singer. I acknowledged no natural
claim on Adele’s part to be supported by me, nor do I now
acknowledge any, for I am not her father; but hearing that
220 Jane Eyre

she was quite destitute, I e’en took the poor thing out of the
slime and mud of Paris, and transplanted it here, to grow
up clean in the wholesome soil of an English country gar-
den. Mrs. Fairfax found you to train it; but now you know
that it is the illegitimate offspring of a French opera- girl,
you will perhaps think differently of your post and prote-
gee: you will be coming to me some day with notice that you
have found another place—that you beg me to look out for a
new governess, &c.Eh?’
‘No: Adele is not answerable for either her mother’s faults
or yours: I have a regard for her; and now that I know she
is, in a sense, parentless—forsaken by her mother and dis-
owned by you, sir— I shall cling closer to her than before.
How could I possibly prefer the spoilt pet of a wealthy fam-
ily, who would hate her governess as a nuisance, to a lonely
little orphan, who leans towards her as a friend?’
‘Oh, that is the light in which you view it! Well, I must go
in now; and you too: it darkens.’
But I stayed out a few minutes longer with Adele and Pi-
lot—ran a race with her, and played a game of battledore
and shuttlecock. When we went in, and I had removed her
bonnet and coat, I took her on my knee; kept her there an
hour, allowing her to prattle as she liked: not rebuking even
some little freedoms and trivialities into which she was apt
to stray when much noticed, and which betrayed in her a
superficiality of character, inherited probably from her
mother, hardly congenial to an English mind. Still she had
her merits; and I was disposed to appreciate all that was
good in her to the utmost. I sought in her countenance and

features a likeness to Mr. Rochester, but found none: no
trait, no turn of expression announced relationship. It was
a pity: if she could but have been proved to resemble him, he
would have thought more of her.
It was not till after I had withdrawn to my own chamber
for the night, that I steadily reviewed the tale Mr. Rochester
had told me. As he had said, there was probably nothing at
all extraordinary in the substance of the narrative itself: a
wealthy Englishman’s passion for a French dancer, and her
treachery to him, were every- day matters enough, no doubt,
in society; but there was something decidedly strange in the
paroxysm of emotion which had suddenly seized him when
he was in the act of expressing the present contentment of
his mood, and his newly revived pleasure in the old hall and
its environs. I meditated wonderingly on this incident; but
gradually quitting it, as I found it for the present inexpli-
cable, I turned to the consideration of my master’s manner
to myself. The confidence he had thought fit to repose in me
seemed a tribute to my discretion: I regarded and accepted
it as such. His deportment had now for some weeks been
more uniform towards me than at the first. I never seemed
in his way; he did not take fits of chilling hauteur: when
he met me unexpectedly, the encounter seemed welcome;
he had always a word and sometimes a smile for me: when
summoned by formal invitation to his presence, I was hon-
oured by a cordiality of reception that made me feel I really
possessed the power to amuse him, and that these evening
conferences were sought as much for his pleasure as for my
benefit.
222 Jane Eyre

I, indeed, talked comparatively little, but I heard him
talk with relish. It was his nature to be communicative;
he liked to open to a mind unacquainted with the world
glimpses of its scenes and ways (I do not mean its corrupt
scenes and wicked ways, but such as derived their interest
from the great scale on which they were acted, the strange
novelty by which they were characterised); and I had a keen
delight in receiving the new ideas he offered, in imagin-
ing the new pictures he portrayed, and following him in
thought through the new regions he disclosed, never star-
tled or troubled by one noxious allusion.
The ease of his manner freed me from painful restraint:
the friendly frankness, as correct as cordial, with which he
treated me, drew me to him. I felt at times as if he were
my relation rather than my master: yet he was imperious
sometimes still; but I did not mind that; I saw it was his way.
So happy, so gratified did I become with this new interest
added to life, that I ceased to pine after kindred: my thin
crescent-destiny seemed to enlarge; the blanks of existence
were filled up; my bodily health improved; I gathered flesh
and strength.
And was Mr. Rochester now ugly in my eyes? No, reader:
gratitude, and many associations, all pleasurable and genial,
made his face the object I best liked to see; his presence in
a room was more cheering than the brightest fire. Yet I had
not forgotten his faults; indeed, I could not, for he brought
them frequently before me. He was proud, sardonic, harsh
to inferiority of every description: in my secret soul I knew
that his great kindness to me was balanced by unjust sever-

ity to many others. He was moody, too; unaccountably so;
I more than once, when sent for to read to him, found him
sitting in his library alone, with his head bent on his folded
arms; and, when he looked up, a morose, almost a malig-
nant, scowl blackened his features. But I believed that his
moodiness, his harshness, and his former faults of moral-
ity (I say FORMER, for now he seemed corrected of them)
had their source in some cruel cross of fate. I believed he
was naturally a man of better tendencies, higher principles,
and purer tastes than such as circumstances had developed,
education instilled, or destiny encouraged. I thought there
were excellent materials in him; though for the present they
hung together somewhat spoiled and tangled. I cannot deny
that I grieved for his grief, whatever that was, and would
have given much to assuage it.
Though I had now extinguished my candle and was laid
down in bed, I could not sleep for thinking of his look when
he paused in the avenue, and told how his destiny had risen
up before him, and dared him to be happy at Thornfield.
‘Why not?’ I asked myself. ‘What alienates him from the
house? Will he leave it again soon? Mrs. Fairfax said he sel-
dom stayed here longer than a fortnight at a time; and he
has now been resident eight weeks. If he does go, the change
will be doleful. Suppose he should be absent spring, sum-
mer, and autumn: how joyless sunshine and fine days will
seem!’
I hardly know whether I had slept or not after this musing;
at any rate, I started wide awake on hearing a vague mur-
mur, peculiar and lugubrious, which sounded, I thought,
224 Jane Eyre

just above me. I wished I had kept my candle burning: the
night was drearily dark; my spirits were depressed. I rose
and sat up in bed, listening. The sound was hushed.
I tried again to sleep; but my heart beat anxiously: my
inward tranquillity was broken. The clock, far down in the
hall, struck two. Just then it seemed my chamber-door was
touched; as if fingers had swept the panels in groping a way
along the dark gallery outside. I said, ‘Who is there?’ Noth-
ing answered. I was chilled with fear.
All at once I remembered that it might be Pilot, who,
when the kitchen-door chanced to be left open, not unfre-
quently found his way up to the threshold of Mr. Rochester’s
chamber: I had seen him lying there myself in the morn-
ings. The idea calmed me somewhat: I lay down. Silence
composes the nerves; and as an unbroken hush now reigned
again through the whole house, I began to feel the return of
slumber. But it was not fated that I should sleep that night.
A dream had scarcely approached my ear, when it fled af-
frighted, scared by a marrow-freezing incident enough.
This was a demoniac laugh—low, suppressed, and deep—
uttered, as it seemed, at the very keyhole of my chamber
door. The head of my bed was near the door, and I thought
at first the goblin-laugher stood at my bedside—or rather,
crouched by my pillow: but I rose, looked round, and could
see nothing; while, as I still gazed, the unnatural sound was
reiterated: and I knew it came from behind the panels. My
first impulse was to rise and fasten the bolt; my next, again
to cry out, ‘Who is there?’
Something gurgled and moaned. Ere long, steps retreat-

ed up the gallery towards the third-storey staircase: a door
had lately been made to shut in that staircase; I heard it
open and close, and all was still.
‘Was that Grace Poole? and is she possessed with a dev-
il?’ thought I. Impossible now to remain longer by myself: I
must go to Mrs. Fairfax. I hurried on my frock and a shawl;
I withdrew the bolt and opened the door with a trembling
hand. There was a candle burning just outside, and on the
matting in the gallery. I was surprised at this circumstance:
but still more was I amazed to perceive the air quite dim, as
if filled with smoke; and, while looking to the right hand
and left, to find whence these blue wreaths issued, I became
further aware of a strong smell of burning.
Something creaked: it was a door ajar; and that door
was Mr. Rochester’s, and the smoke rushed in a cloud from
thence. I thought no more of Mrs. Fairfax; I thought no
more of Grace Poole, or the laugh: in an instant, I was with-
in the chamber. Tongues of flame darted round the bed: the
curtains were on fire. In the midst of blaze and vapour, Mr.
Rochester lay stretched motionless, in deep sleep.
‘Wake! wake!’ I cried. I shook him, but he only mur-
mured and turned: the smoke had stupefied him. Not a
moment could be lost: the very sheets were kindling, I
rushed to his basin and ewer; fortunately, one was wide and
the other deep, and both were filled with water. I heaved
them up, deluged the bed and its occupant, flew back to my
own room, brought my own water-jug, baptized the couch
afresh, and, by God’s aid, succeeded in extinguishing the
flames which were devouring it.
226 Jane Eyre

The hiss of the quenched element, the breakage of a
pitcher which I flung from my hand when I had emptied it,
and, above all, the splash of the shower-bath I had liberally
bestowed, roused Mr. Rochester at last. Though it was now
dark, I knew he was awake; because I heard him fulminat-
ing strange anathemas at finding himself lying in a pool of
water.
‘Is there a flood?’ he cried.
‘No, sir,’ I answered; ‘but there has been a fire: get up, do;
you are quenched now; I will fetch you a candle.’
‘In the name of all the elves in Christendom, is that Jane
Eyre?’ he demanded. ‘What have you done with me, witch,
sorceress? Who is in the room besides you? Have you plot-
ted to drown me?’
‘I will fetch you a candle, sir; and, in Heaven’s name, get
up. Somebody has plotted something: you cannot too soon
find out who and what it is.’
‘There! I am up now; but at your peril you fetch a can-
dle yet: wait two minutes till I get into some dry garments,
if any dry there be—yes, here is my dressing-gown. Now
run!’
I did run; I brought the candle which still remained in the
gallery. He took it from my hand, held it up, and surveyed
the bed, all blackened and scorched, the sheets drenched,
the carpet round swimming in water.
‘What is it? and who did it?’ he asked. I briefly related
to him what had transpired: the strange laugh I had heard
in the gallery: the step ascending to the third storey; the
smoke,—the smell of fire which had conducted me to his

room; in what state I had found matters there, and how I
had deluged him with all the water I could lay hands on.
He listened very gravely; his face, as I went on, expressed
more concern than astonishment; he did not immediately
speak when I had concluded.
‘Shall I call Mrs. Fairfax?’ I asked.
‘Mrs. Fairfax? No; what the deuce would you call her for?
What can she do? Let her sleep unmolested.’
‘Then I will fetch Leah, and wake John and his wife.’
‘Not at all: just be still. You have a shawl on. If you are
not warm enough, you may take my cloak yonder; wrap it
about you, and sit down in the arm-chair: there,—I will put
it on. Now place your feet on the stool, to keep them out of
the wet. I am going to leave you a few minutes. I shall take
the candle. Remain where you are till I return; be as still as
a mouse. I must pay a visit to the second storey. Don’t move,
remember, or call any one.’
He went: I watched the light withdraw. He passed up the
gallery very softly, unclosed the staircase door with as little
noise as possible, shut it after him, and the last ray vanished.
I was left in total darkness. I listened for some noise, but
heard nothing. A very long time elapsed. I grew weary: it
was cold, in spite of the cloak; and then I did not see the
use of staying, as I was not to rouse the house. I was on the
point of risking Mr. Rochester’s displeasure by disobeying
his orders, when the light once more gleamed dimly on the
gallery wall, and I heard his unshod feet tread the matting.
‘I hope it is he,’ thought I, ‘and not something worse.’
He re-entered, pale and very gloomy. ‘I have found it all
228 Jane Eyre

out,’ said he, setting his candle down on the washstand; ‘it
is as I thought.’
‘How, sir?’
He made no reply, but stood with his arms folded, look-
ing on the ground. At the end of a few minutes he inquired
in rather a peculiar tone—
‘I forget whether you said you saw anything when you
opened your chamber door.’
‘No, sir, only the candlestick on the ground.’
‘But you heard an odd laugh? You have heard that laugh
before, I should think, or something like it?’
‘Yes, sir: there is a woman who sews here, called Grace
Poole,—she laughs in that way. She is a singular person.’
‘Just so. Grace Poole—you have guessed it. She is, as
you say, singular—very. Well, I shall reflect on the subject.
Meantime, I am glad that you are the only person, besides
myself, acquainted with the precise details of to-night’s in-
cident. You are no talking fool: say nothing about it. I will
account for this state of affairs’ (pointing to the bed): ‘and
now return to your own room. I shall do very well on the
sofa in the library for the rest of the night. It is near four:- in
two hours the servants will be up.’
‘Good-night, then, sir,’ said I, departing.
He seemed surprised—very inconsistently so, as he had
just told me to go.
‘What!’ he exclaimed, ‘are you quitting me already, and
in that way?’
‘You said I might go, sir.’
‘But not without taking leave; not without a word or two

of acknowledgment and good-will: not, in short, in that
brief, dry fashion. Why, you have saved my life!—snatched
me from a horrible and excruciating death! and you walk
past me as if we were mutual strangers! At least shake
hands.’
He held out his hand; I gave him mine: he took it first in
one, them in both his own.
‘You have saved my life: I have a pleasure in owing you so
immense a debt. I cannot say more. Nothing else that has
being would have been tolerable to me in the character of
creditor for such an obligation: but you: it is different;—I
feel your benefits no burden, Jane.’
He paused; gazed at me: words almost visible trembled
on his lips,but his voice was checked.
‘Good-night again, sir. There is no debt, benefit, burden,
obligation, in the case.’
‘I knew,’ he continued, ‘you would do me good in some
way, at some time;—I saw it in your eyes when I first be-
held you: their expression and smile did not’—(again he
stopped)—‘did not’ (he proceeded hastily) ‘strike delight to
my very inmost heart so for nothing. People talk of natu-
ral sympathies; I have heard of good genii: there are grains
of truth in the wildest fable. My cherished preserver, good-
night!’
Strange energy was in his voice, strange fire in his look.
‘I am glad I happened to be awake,’ I said: and then I was
going.
‘What! you WILL go?’
‘I am cold, sir.’
230 Jane Eyre

‘Cold? Yes,—and standing in a pool! Go, then, Jane; go!’
But he still retained my hand, and I could not free it. I be-
thought myself of an expedient.
‘I think I hear Mrs. Fairfax move, sir,’ said I.
‘Well, leave me:’ he relaxed his fingers, and I was gone.
I regained my couch, but never thought of sleep. Till
morning dawned I was tossed on a buoyant but unquiet sea,
where billows of trouble rolled under surges of joy. I thought
sometimes I saw beyond its wild waters a shore, sweet as the
hills of Beulah; and now and then a freshening gale, wak-
ened by hope, bore my spirit triumphantly towards the
bourne: but I could not reach it, even in fancy—a counter-
acting breeze blew off land, and continually drove me back.
Sense would resist delirium: judgment would warn passion.
Too feverish to rest, I rose as soon as day dawned.

Chapter XVI
I both wished and feared to see Mr. Rochester on the day

which followed this sleepless night: I wanted to hear his
voice again, yet feared to meet his eye. During the early part
of the morning, I momentarily expected his coming; he was
not in the frequent habit of entering the schoolroom, but he
did step in for a few minutes sometimes, and I had the im-
pression that he was sure to visit it that day.
But the morning passed just as usual: nothing happened
to interrupt the quiet course of Adele’s studies; only soon
after breakfast, I heard some bustle in the neighbourhood
of Mr. Rochester’s chamber, Mrs. Fairfax’s voice, and Le-
ah’s, and the cook’s—that is, John’s wife—and even John’s
own gruff tones. There were exclamations of ‘What a mercy
master was not burnt in his bed!’ ‘It is always dangerous to
keep a candle lit at night.’ ‘How providential that he had
presence of mind to think of the water-jug!’ ‘I wonder he
waked nobody!’ ‘It is to be hoped he will not take cold with
sleeping on the library sofa,’ &c.
To much confabulation succeeded a sound of scrubbing
and setting to rights; and when I passed the room, in go-
ing downstairs to dinner, I saw through the open door that
all was again restored to complete order; only the bed was
stripped of its hangings. Leah stood up in the window-seat,
rubbing the panes of glass dimmed with smoke. I was about
232 Jane Eyre

to address her, for I wished to know what account had been
given of the affair: but, on advancing, I saw a second person
in the chamber—a woman sitting on a chair by the bedside,
and sewing rings to new curtains. That woman was no oth-
er than Grace Poole.
There she sat, staid and taciturn-looking, as usual, in
her brown stuff gown, her check apron, white handkerchief,
and cap. She was intent on her work, in which her whole
thoughts seemed absorbed: on her hard forehead, and in
her commonplace features, was nothing either of the pale-
ness or desperation one would have expected to see marking
the countenance of a woman who had attempted murder,
and whose intended victim had followed her last night to
her lair, and (as I believed), charged her with the crime
she wished to perpetrate. I was amazed—confounded. She
looked up, while I still gazed at her: no start, no increase or
failure of colour betrayed emotion, consciousness of guilt,
or fear of detection. She said ‘Good morning, Miss,’ in her
usual phlegmatic and brief manner; and taking up another
ring and more tape, went on with her sewing.
‘I will put her to some test,’ thought I: ‘such absolute im-
penetrability is past comprehension.’
‘Good morning, Grace,’ I said. ‘Has anything happened
here? I thought I heard the servants all talking together a
while ago.’
‘Only master had been reading in his bed last night; he
fell asleep with his candle lit, and the curtains got on fire;
but, fortunately, he awoke before the bed-clothes or the
wood-work caught, and contrived to quench the flames

with the water in the ewer.
‘A strange affair!’ I said, in a low voice: then, looking at
her fixedly—‘Did Mr. Rochester wake nobody? Did no one
hear him move?’
She again raised her eyes to me, and this time there was
something of consciousness in their expression. She seemed
to examine me warily; then she answered—
‘The servants sleep so far off, you know, Miss, they would
not be likely to hear. Mrs. Fairfax’s room and yours are the
nearest to master’s; but Mrs. Fairfax said she heard nothing:
when people get elderly, they often sleep heavy.’ She paused,
and then added, with a sort of assumed indifference, but
still in a marked and significant tone—‘But you are young,
Miss; and I should say a light sleeper: perhaps you may have
heard a noise?’
‘I did,’ said I, dropping my voice, so that Leah, who was
still polishing the panes, could not hear me, ‘and at first I
thought it was Pilot: but Pilot cannot laugh; and I am cer-
tain I heard a laugh, and a strange one.’
She took a new needleful of thread, waxed it carefully,
threaded her needle with a steady hand, and then observed,
with perfect composure—
‘It is hardly likely master would laugh, I should think,
Miss, when he was in such danger: You must have been
dreaming.’
‘I was not dreaming,’ I said, with some warmth, for her
brazen coolness provoked me. Again she looked at me; and
with the same scrutinising and conscious eye.
‘Have you told master that you heard a laugh?’ she in-
234 Jane Eyre

quired.
‘I have not had the opportunity of speaking to him this
morning.’
‘You did not think of opening your door and looking out
into the gallery?’ she further asked.
She appeared to be cross-questioning me, attempting to
draw from me information unawares. The idea struck me
that if she discovered I knew or suspected her guilt, she
would be playing of some of her malignant pranks on me; I
thought it advisable to be on my guard.
‘On the contrary,’ said I, ‘I bolted my door.’
‘Then you are not in the habit of bolting your door every
night before you get into bed?’
‘Fiend! she wants to know my habits, that she may lay her
plans accordingly!’ Indignation again prevailed over pru-
dence: I replied sharply, ‘Hitherto I have often omitted to
fasten the bolt: I did not think it necessary. I was not aware
any danger or annoyance was to be dreaded at Thornfield
Hall: but in future’ (and I laid marked stress on the words)
‘I shall take good care to make all secure before I venture to
lie down.’
‘It will be wise so to do,’ was her answer: ‘this neigh-
bourhood is as quiet as any I know, and I never heard of
the hall being attempted by robbers since it was a house;
though there are hundreds of pounds’ worth of plate in the
plate-closet, as is well known. And you see, for such a large
house, there are very few servants, because master has never
lived here much; and when he does come, being a bachelor,
he needs little waiting on: but I always think it best to err

on the safe side; a door is soon fastened, and it is as well
to have a drawn bolt between one and any mischief that
may be about. A deal of people, Miss, are for trusting all to
Providence; but I say Providence will not dispense with the
means, though He often blesses them when they are used
discreetly.’ And here she closed her harangue: a long one for
her, and uttered with the demureness of a Quakeress.
I still stood absolutely dumfoundered at what appeared
to me her miraculous self-possession and most inscrutable
hypocrisy, when the cook entered.
‘Mrs. Poole,’ said she, addressing Grace, ‘the servants’
dinner will soon be ready: will you come down?’
‘No; just put my pint of porter and bit of pudding on a
tray, and I’ll carry it upstairs.’
‘You’ll have some meat?’
‘Just a morsel, and a taste of cheese, that’s all.’
‘And the sago?’
‘Never mind it at present: I shall be coming down before
teatime: I’ll make it myself.’
The cook here turned to me, saying that Mrs. Fairfax was
waiting for me: so I departed.
I hardly heard Mrs. Fairfax’s account of the curtain
conflagration during dinner, so much was I occupied in
puzzling my brains over the enigmatical character of Grace
Poole, and still more in pondering the problem of her po-
sition at Thornfield and questioning why she had not been
given into custody that morning, or, at the very least, dis-
missed from her master’s service. He had almost as much as
declared his conviction of her criminality last night: what
236 Jane Eyre

mysterious cause withheld him from accusing her? Why
had he enjoined me, too, to secrecy? It was strange: a bold,
vindictive, and haughty gentleman seemed somehow in the
power of one of the meanest of his dependants; so much in
her power, that even when she lifted her hand against his
life, he dared not openly charge her with the attempt, much
less punish her for it.
Had Grace been young and handsome, I should have
been tempted to think that tenderer feelings than prudence
or fear influenced Mr. Rochester in her behalf; but, hard-
favoured and matronly as she was, the idea could not be
admitted. ‘Yet,’ I reflected, ‘she has been young once; her
youth would be contemporary with her master’s: Mrs. Fair-
fax told me once, she had lived here many years. I don’t think
she can ever have been pretty; but, for aught I know, she
may possess originality and strength of character to com-
pensate for the want of personal advantages. Mr. Rochester
is an amateur of the decided and eccentric: Grace is eccen-
tric at least. What if a former caprice (a freak very possible
to a nature so sudden and headstrong as his) has delivered
him into her power, and she now exercises over his actions
a secret influence, the result of his own indiscretion, which
he cannot shake off, and dare not disregard?’ But, having
reached this point of conjecture, Mrs. Poole’s square, flat
figure, and uncomely, dry, even coarse face, recurred so dis-
tinctly to my mind’s eye, that I thought, ‘No; impossible!
my supposition cannot be correct. Yet,’ suggested the secret
voice which talks to us in our own hearts, ‘you are not beau-
tiful either, and perhaps Mr. Rochester approves you: at any

rate, you have often felt as if he did; and last night—remem-
ber his words; remember his look; remember his voice!’
I well remembered all; language, glance, and tone seemed
at the moment vividly renewed. I was now in the school-
room; Adele was drawing; I bent over her and directed her
pencil. She looked up with a sort of start.
‘Qu’ avez-vous, mademoiselle?’ said she. ‘Vos doigts
tremblent comme la feuille, et vos joues sont rouges: mais,
rouges comme des cerises!’
‘I am hot, Adele, with stooping!’ She went on sketching;
I went on thinking.
I hastened to drive from my mind the hateful notion I
had been conceiving respecting Grace Poole; it disgusted
me. I compared myself with her, and found we were differ-
ent. Bessie Leaven had said I was quite a lady; and she spoke
truth—I was a lady. And now I looked much better than I
did when Bessie saw me; I had more colour and more flesh,
more life, more vivacity, because I had brighter hopes and
keener enjoyments.
‘Evening approaches,’ said I, as I looked towards the win-
dow. ‘I have never heard Mr. Rochester’s voice or step in
the house to-day; but surely I shall see him before night: I
feared the meeting in the morning; now I desire it, because
expectation has been so long baffled that it is grown impa-
tient.’
When dusk actually closed, and when Adele left me to go
and play in the nursery with Sophie, I did most keenly de-
sire it. I listened for the bell to ring below; I listened for Leah
coming up with a message; I fancied sometimes I heard Mr.
238 Jane Eyre

Rochester’s own tread, and I turned to the door, expecting
it to open and admit him. The door remained shut; dark-
ness only came in through the window. Still it was not late;
he often sent for me at seven and eight o’clock, and it was
yet but six. Surely I should not be wholly disappointed to-
night, when I had so many things to say to him! I wanted
again to introduce the subject of Grace Poole, and to hear
what he would answer; I wanted to ask him plainly if he re-
ally believed it was she who had made last night’s hideous
attempt; and if so, why he kept her wickedness a secret. It lit-
tle mattered whether my curiosity irritated him; I knew the
pleasure of vexing and soothing him by turns; it was one I
chiefly delighted in, and a sure instinct always prevented me
from going too far; beyond the verge of provocation I never
ventured; on the extreme brink I liked well to try my skill.
Retaining every minute form of respect, every propriety of
my station, I could still meet him in argument without fear
or uneasy restraint; this suited both him and me.
A tread creaked on the stairs at last. Leah made her ap-
pearance; but it was only to intimate that tea was ready in
Mrs. Fairfax’s room. Thither I repaired, glad at least to go
downstairs; for that brought me, I imagined, nearer to Mr.
Rochester’s presence.
‘You must want your tea,’ said the good lady, as I joined
her; ‘you ate so little at dinner. I am afraid,’ she continued,
‘you are not well to-day: you look flushed and feverish.’
‘Oh, quite well! I never felt better.’
‘Then you must prove it by evincing a good appetite; will
you fill the teapot while I knit off this needle?’ Having com-

pleted her task, she rose to draw down the blind, which she
had hitherto kept up, by way, I suppose, of making the most
of daylight, though dusk was now fast deepening into total
obscurity.
‘It is fair to-night,’ said she, as she looked through the
panes, ‘though not starlight; Mr. Rochester has, on the
whole, had a favourable day for his journey.’
‘Journey!—Is Mr. Rochester gone anywhere? I did not
know he was out.’
‘Oh, he set of the moment he had breakfasted! He is gone
to the Leas, Mr. Eshton’s place, ten miles on the other side
Millcote. I believe there is quite a party assembled there;
Lord Ingram, Sir George Lynn, Colonel Dent, and others.’
‘Do you expect him back to-night?’
‘No—nor to-morrow either; I should think he is very
likely to stay a week or more: when these fine, fashionable
people get together, they are so surrounded by elegance and
gaiety, so well provided with all that can please and enter-
tain, they are in no hurry to separate. Gentlemen especially
are often in request on such occasions; and Mr. Rochester is
so talented and so lively in society, that I believe he is a gen-
eral favourite: the ladies are very fond of him; though you
would not think his appearance calculated to recommend
him particularly in their eyes: but I suppose his acquire-
ments and abilities, perhaps his wealth and good blood,
make amends for any little fault of look.’
‘Are there ladies at the Leas?’
‘There are Mrs. Eshton and her three daughters—very el-
egant young ladies indeed; and there are the Honourable
240 Jane Eyre

Blanche and Mary Ingram, most beautiful women, I sup-
pose: indeed I have seen Blanche, six or seven years since,
when she was a girl of eighteen. She came here to a Christ-
mas ball and party Mr. Rochester gave. You should have
seen the dining-room that day—how richly it was decorated,
how brilliantly lit up! I should think there were fifty ladies
and gentlemen present—all of the first county families; and
Miss Ingram was considered the belle of the evening.’
‘You saw her, you say, Mrs. Fairfax: what was she like?’
‘Yes, I saw her. The dining-room doors were thrown
open; and, as it was Christmas-time, the servants were al-
lowed to assemble in the hall, to hear some of the ladies sing
and play. Mr. Rochester would have me to come in, and I
sat down in a quiet corner and watched them. I never saw a
more splendid scene: the ladies were magnificently dressed;
most of them—at least most of the younger ones—looked
handsome; but Miss Ingram was certainly the queen.’
‘And what was she like?’
‘Tall, fine bust, sloping shoulders; long, graceful neck: ol-
ive complexion, dark and clear; noble features; eyes rather
like Mr. Rochester’s: large and black, and as brilliant as her
jewels. And then she had such a fine head of hair; raven-
black and so becomingly arranged: a crown of thick plaits
behind, and in front the longest, the glossiest curls I ever
saw. She was dressed in pure white; an amber-coloured
scarf was passed over her shoulder and across her breast,
tied at the side, and descending in long, fringed ends below
her knee. She wore an amber-coloured flower, too, in her
hair: it contrasted well with the jetty mass of her curls.’

‘She was greatly admired, of course?’
‘Yes, indeed: and not only for her beauty, but for her
accomplishments. She was one of the ladies who sang:
a gentleman accompanied her on the piano. She and Mr.
Rochester sang a duet.’
‘Mr. Rochester? I was not aware he could sing.’
‘Oh! he has a fine bass voice, and an excellent taste for
music.’
‘And Miss Ingram: what sort of a voice had she?’
‘A very rich and powerful one: she sang delightfully; it
was a treat to listen to her;—and she played afterwards. I am
no judge of music, but Mr. Rochester is; and I heard him say
her execution was remarkably good.’
‘And this beautiful and accomplished lady, she is not yet
married?’
‘It appears not: I fancy neither she nor her sister have very
large fortunes. Old Lord Ingram’s estates were chiefly en-
tailed, and the eldest son came in for everything almost.’
‘But I wonder no wealthy nobleman or gentleman has
taken a fancy to her: Mr. Rochester, for instance. He is rich,
is he not?’
‘Oh! yes. But you see there is a considerable difference in
age: Mr. Rochester is nearly forty; she is but twenty-five.’
‘What of that? More unequal matches are made every
day.’
‘True: yet I should scarcely fancy Mr. Rochester would
entertain an idea of the sort. But you eat nothing: you have
scarcely tasted since you began tea.’
‘No: I am too thirsty to eat. Will you let me have another
242 Jane Eyre

cup?’
I was about again to revert to the probability of a union
between Mr. Rochester and the beautiful Blanche; but
Adele came in, and the conversation was turned into an-
other channel.
When once more alone, I reviewed the information I had
got; looked into my heart, examined its thoughts and feel-
ings, and endeavoured to bring back with a strict hand such
as had been straying through imagination’s boundless and
trackless waste, into the safe fold of common sense.
Arraigned at my own bar, Memory having given her
evidence of the hopes, wishes, sentiments I had been cher-
ishing since last night—of the general state of mind in
which I had indulged for nearly a fortnight past; Reason
having come forward and told, in her own quiet way a plain,
unvarnished tale, showing how I had rejected the real, and
rabidly devoured the ideal;—I pronounced judgment to this
effect:-
That a greater fool than Jane Eyre had never breathed the
breath of life; that a more fantastic idiot had never surfeit-
ed herself on sweet lies, and swallowed poison as if it were
nectar.
‘YOU,’ I said, ‘a favourite with Mr. Rochester? YOU gift-
ed with the power of pleasing him? YOU of importance to
him in any way? Go! your folly sickens me. And you have
derived pleasure from occasional tokens of preference—
equivocal tokens shown by a gentleman of family and a
man of the world to a dependent and a novice. How dared
you? Poor stupid dupe!—Could not even self- interest make

you wiser? You repeated to yourself this morning the brief
scene of last night?—Cover your face and be ashamed! He
said something in praise of your eyes, did he? Blind pup-
py! Open their bleared lids and look on your own accursed
senselessness! It does good to no woman to be flattered by
her superior, who cannot possibly intend to marry her; and
it is madness in all women to let a secret love kindle within
them, which, if unreturned and unknown, must devour the
life that feeds it; and, if discovered and responded to, must
lead, ignis-fatus-like, into miry wilds whence there is no ex-
trication.
‘Listen, then, Jane Eyre, to your sentence: tomorrow,
place the glass before you, and draw in chalk your own pic-
ture, faithfully, without softening one defect; omit no harsh
line, smooth away no displeasing irregularity; write under
it, ‘Portrait of a Governess, disconnected, poor, and plain.’
‘Afterwards, take a piece of smooth ivory—you have one
prepared in your drawing-box: take your palette, mix your
freshest, finest, clearest tints; choose your most delicate
camel-hair pencils; delineate carefully the loveliest face you
can imagine; paint it in your softest shades and sweetest
lines, according to the description given by Mrs. Fairfax of
Blanche Ingram; remember the raven ringlets, the oriental
eye;—What! you revert to Mr. Rochester as a model! Order!
No snivel!—no sentiment!—no regret! I will endure only
sense and resolution. Recall the august yet harmonious
lineaments, the Grecian neck and bust; let the round and
dazzling arm be visible, and the delicate hand; omit neither
diamond ring nor gold bracelet; portray faithfully the attire,
244 Jane Eyre

aerial lace and glistening satin, graceful scarf and golden
rose; call it ‘Blanche, an accomplished lady of rank.’
‘Whenever, in future, you should chance to fancy Mr.
Rochester thinks well of you, take out these two pictures
and compare them: say, ‘Mr. Rochester might probably win
that noble lady’s love, if he chose to strive for it; is it likely
he would waste a serious thought on this indigent and in-
significant plebeian?’’
‘I’ll do it,’ I resolved: and having framed this determina-
tion, I grew calm, and fell asleep.
I kept my word. An hour or two sufficed to sketch my
own portrait in crayons; and in less than a fortnight I had
completed an ivory miniature of an imaginary Blanche In-
gram. It looked a lovely face enough, and when compared
with the real head in chalk, the contrast was as great as self-
control could desire. I derived benefit from the task: it had
kept my head and hands employed, and had given force and
fixedness to the new impressions I wished to stamp indel-
ibly on my heart.
Ere long, I had reason to congratulate myself on the
course of wholesome discipline to which I had thus forced
my feelings to submit. Thanks to it, I was able to meet sub-
sequent occurrences with a decent calm, which, had they
found me unprepared, I should probably have been unequal
to maintain, even externally.

Chapter XVII
A week passed, and no news arrived of Mr. Roches-

ter: ten days, and still he did not come. Mrs. Fairfax
said she should not be surprised if he were to go straight
from the Leas to London, and thence to the Continent, and
not show his face again at Thornfield for a year to come;
he had not unfrequently quitted it in a manner quite as
abrupt and unexpected. When I heard this, I was begin-
ning to feel a strange chill and failing at the heart. I was
actually permitting myself to experience a sickening sense
of disappointment; but rallying my wits, and recollecting
my principles, I at once called my sensations to order; and
it was wonderful how I got over the temporary blunder—
how I cleared up the mistake of supposing Mr. Rochester’s
movements a matter in which I had any cause to take a vital
interest. Not that I humbled myself by a slavish notion of
inferiority: on the contrary, I just said—
‘You have nothing to do with the master of Thornfield,
further than to receive the salary he gives you for teach-
ing his protegee, and to be grateful for such respectful and
kind treatment as, if you do your duty, you have a right to
expect at his hands. Be sure that is the only tie he seriously
acknowledges between you and him; so don’t make him the
object of your fine feelings, your raptures, agonies, and so
forth. He is not of your order: keep to your caste, and be too
246 Jane Eyre

self-respecting to lavish the love of the whole heart, soul,
and strength, where such a gift is not wanted and would be
despised.’
I went on with my day’s business tranquilly; but ever and
anon vague suggestions kept wandering across my brain of
reasons why I should quit Thornfield; and I kept involun-
tarily framing advertisements and pondering conjectures
about new situations: these thoughts I did not think check;
they might germinate and bear fruit if they could.
Mr. Rochester had been absent upwards of a fortnight,
when the post brought Mrs. Fairfax a letter.
‘It is from the master,’ said she, as she looked at the di-
rection. ‘Now I suppose we shall know whether we are to
expect his return or not.’
And while she broke the seal and perused the document,
I went on taking my coffee (we were at breakfast): it was hot,
and I attributed to that circumstance a fiery glow which
suddenly rose to my face. Why my hand shook, and why I
involuntarily spilt half the contents of my cup into my sau-
cer, I did not choose to consider.
‘Well, I sometimes think we are too quiet; but we run a
chance of being busy enough now: for a little while at least,’
said Mrs. Fairfax, still holding the note before her specta-
cles.
Ere I permitted myself to request an explanation, I tied
the string of Adele’s pinafore, which happened to be loose:
having helped her also to another bun and refilled her mug
with milk, I said, nonchalantly—
‘Mr. Rochester is not likely to return soon, I suppose?’

‘Indeed he is—in three days, he says: that will be next
Thursday; and not alone either. I don’t know how many of
the fine people at the Leas are coming with him: he sends
directions for all the best bedrooms to be prepared; and the
library and drawing-rooms are to be cleaned out; I am to
get more kitchen hands from the George Inn, at Millcote,
and from wherever else I can; and the ladies will bring their
maids and the gentlemen their valets: so we shall have a full
house of it.’ And Mrs. Fairfax swallowed her breakfast and
hastened away to commence operations.
The three days were, as she had foretold, busy enough. I
had thought all the rooms at Thornfield beautifully clean
and well arranged; but it appears I was mistaken. Three
women were got to help; and such scrubbing, such brushing,
such washing of paint and beating of carpets, such taking
down and putting up of pictures, such polishing of mirrors
and lustres, such lighting of fires in bedrooms, such airing
of sheets and feather-beds on hearths, I never beheld, ei-
ther before or since. Adele ran quite wild in the midst of
it: the preparations for company and the prospect of their
arrival, seemed to throw her into ecstasies. She would have
Sophie to look over all her ‘toilettes,’ as she called frocks; to
furbish up any that were ‘passees,’ and to air and arrange
the new. For herself, she did nothing but caper about in the
front chambers, jump on and off the bedsteads, and lie on
the mattresses and piled-up bolsters and pillows before the
enormous fires roaring in the chimneys. From school du-
ties she was exonerated: Mrs. Fairfax had pressed me into
her service, and I was all day in the storeroom, helping (or
248 Jane Eyre

hindering) her and the cook; learning to make custards and
cheese-cakes and French pastry, to truss game and garnish
desert-dishes.
The party were expected to arrive on Thursday afternoon,
in time for dinner at six. During the intervening period I
had no time to nurse chimeras; and I believe I was as active
and gay as anybody—Adele excepted. Still, now and then, I
received a damping check to my cheerfulness; and was, in
spite of myself, thrown back on the region of doubts and
portents, and dark conjectures. This was when I chanced
to see the third-storey staircase door (which of late had al-
ways been kept locked) open slowly, and give passage to the
form of Grace Poole, in prim cap, white apron, and hand-
kerchief; when I watched her glide along the gallery, her
quiet tread muffled in a list slipper; when I saw her look
into the bustling, topsy-turvy bedrooms,—just say a word,
perhaps, to the charwoman about the proper way to polish
a grate, or clean a marble mantelpiece, or take stains from
papered walls, and then pass on. She would thus descend
to the kitchen once a day, eat her dinner, smoke a moderate
pipe on the hearth, and go back, carrying her pot of porter
with her, for her private solace, in her own gloomy, upper
haunt. Only one hour in the twenty-four did she pass with
her fellow-servants below; all the rest of her time was spent
in some low-ceiled, oaken chamber of the second storey:
there she sat and sewed—and probably laughed drearily to
herself,—as companionless as a prisoner in his dungeon.
The strangest thing of all was, that not a soul in the house,
except me, noticed her habits, or seemed to marvel at them:

no one discussed her position or employment; no one pitied
her solitude or isolation. I once, indeed, overheard part of a
dialogue between Leah and one of the charwomen, of which
Grace formed the subject. Leah had been saying something
I had not caught, and the charwoman remarked—
‘She gets good wages, I guess?’
‘Yes,’ said Leah; ‘I wish I had as good; not that mine are
to complain of,—there’s no stinginess at Thornfield; but
they’re not one fifth of the sum Mrs. Poole receives. And she
is laying by: she goes every quarter to the bank at Millcote. I
should not wonder but she has saved enough to keep her in-
dependent if she liked to leave; but I suppose she’s got used
to the place; and then she’s not forty yet, and strong and
able for anything. It is too soon for her to give up business.’
‘She is a good hand, I daresay,’ said the charwoman.
‘Ah!—she understands what she has to do,—nobody bet-
ter,’ rejoined Leah significantly; ‘and it is not every one
could fill her shoes— not for all the money she gets.’
‘That it is not!’ was the reply. ‘I wonder whether the mas-
ter—‘
The charwoman was going on; but here Leah turned
and perceived me, and she instantly gave her companion
a nudge.
‘Doesn’t she know?’ I heard the woman whisper.
Leah shook her head, and the conversation was of course
dropped. All I had gathered from it amounted to this,—that
there was a mystery at Thornfield; and that from participa-
tion in that mystery I was purposely excluded.
Thursday came: all work had been completed the pre-
250 Jane Eyre

vious evening; carpets were laid down, bed-hangings
festooned, radiant white counterpanes spread, toilet ta-
bles arranged, furniture rubbed, flowers piled in vases:
both chambers and saloons looked as fresh and bright as
hands could make them. The hall, too, was scoured; and
the great carved clock, as well as the steps and banisters of
the staircase, were polished to the brightness of glass; in the
dining-room, the sideboard flashed resplendent with plate;
in the drawing-room and boudoir, vases of exotics bloomed
on all sides.
Afternoon arrived: Mrs. Fairfax assumed her best black
satin gown, her gloves, and her gold watch; for it was her
part to receive the company,—to conduct the ladies to their
rooms, &c. Adele, too, would be dressed: though I thought
she had little chance of being introduced to the party that
day at least. However, to please her, I allowed Sophie to ap-
parel her in one of her short, full muslin frocks. For myself,
I had no need to make any change; I should not be called
upon to quit my sanctum of the schoolroom; for a sanctum
it was now become to me,—‘a very pleasant refuge in time
of trouble.’
It had been a mild, serene spring day—one of those days
which, towards the end of March or the beginning of April,
rise shining over the earth as heralds of summer. It was
drawing to an end now; but the evening was even warm,
and I sat at work in the schoolroom with the window open.
‘It gets late,’ said Mrs. Fairfax, entering in rustling state.
‘I am glad I ordered dinner an hour after the time Mr. Roch-
ester mentioned; for it is past six now. I have sent John down

to the gates to see if there is anything on the road: one can
see a long way from thence in the direction of Millcote.’ She
went to the window. ‘Here he is!’ said she. ‘Well, John’ (lean-
ing out), ‘any news?’
‘They’re coming, ma’am,’ was the answer. ‘They’ll be here
in ten minutes.’
Adele flew to the window. I followed, taking care to stand
on one side, so that, screened by the curtain, I could see
without being seen.
The ten minutes John had given seemed very long, but
at last wheels were heard; four equestrians galloped up the
drive, and after them came two open carriages. Fluttering
veils and waving plumes filled the vehicles; two of the cava-
liers were young, dashing-looking gentlemen; the third was
Mr. Rochester, on his black horse, Mesrour, Pilot bound-
ing before him; at his side rode a lady, and he and she were
the first of the party. Her purple riding-habit almost swept
the ground, her veil streamed long on the breeze; mingling
with its transparent folds, and gleaming through them,
shone rich raven ringlets.
‘Miss Ingram!’ exclaimed Mrs. Fairfax, and away she
hurried to her post below.
The cavalcade, following the sweep of the drive, quickly
turned the angle of the house, and I lost sight of it. Adele
now petitioned to go down; but I took her on my knee, and
gave her to understand that she must not on any account
think of venturing in sight of the ladies, either now or at
any other time, unless expressly sent for: that Mr. Rochester
would be very angry, &c. ‘Some natural tears she shed’ on
252 Jane Eyre

being told this; but as I began to look very grave, she con-
sented at last to wipe them.
A joyous stir was now audible in the hall: gentlemen’s
deep tones and ladies’ silvery accents blent harmoniously
together, and distinguishable above all, though not loud,
was the sonorous voice of the master of Thornfield Hall, wel-
coming his fair and gallant guests under its roof. Then light
steps ascended the stairs; and there was a tripping through
the gallery, and soft cheerful laughs, and opening and clos-
ing doors, and, for a time, a hush.
‘Elles changent de toilettes,’ said Adele; who, listening at-
tentively, had followed every movement; and she sighed.
‘Chez maman,’ said she, ‘quand il y avait du monde, je le
suivais partout, au salon et e leurs chambres; souvent je re-
gardais les femmes de chambre coiffer et habiller les dames,
et c’etait si amusant: comme cela on apprend.’
‘Don’t you feel hungry, Adele?’
‘Mais oui, mademoiselle: voile cinq ou six heures que
nous n’avons pas mange.’
‘Well now, while the ladies are in their rooms, I will ven-
ture down and get you something to eat.’
And issuing from my asylum with precaution, I sought a
back-stairs which conducted directly to the kitchen. All in
that region was fire and commotion; the soup and fish were
in the last stage of projection, and the cook hung over her
crucibles in a frame of mind and body threatening sponta-
neous combustion. In the servants’ hall two coachmen and
three gentlemen’s gentlemen stood or sat round the fire;
the abigails, I suppose, were upstairs with their mistresses;

the new servants, that had been hired from Millcote, were
bustling about everywhere. Threading this chaos, I at last
reached the larder; there I took possession of a cold chicken,
a roll of bread, some tarts, a plate or two and a knife and
fork: with this booty I made a hasty retreat. I had regained
the gallery, and was just shutting the back-door behind me,
when an accelerated hum warned me that the ladies were
about to issue from their chambers. I could not proceed to
the schoolroom without passing some of their doors, and
running the risk of being surprised with my cargo of vict-
ualage; so I stood still at this end, which, being windowless,
was dark: quite dark now, for the sun was set and twilight
gathering.
Presently the chambers gave up their fair tenants one af-
ter another: each came out gaily and airily, with dress that
gleamed lustrous through the dusk. For a moment they
stood grouped together at the other extremity of the gallery,
conversing in a key of sweet subdued vivacity: they then de-
scended the staircase almost as noiselessly as a bright mist
rolls down a hill. Their collective appearance had left on me
an impression of high-born elegance, such as I had never
before received.
I found Adele peeping through the schoolroom door,
which she held ajar. ‘What beautiful ladies!’ cried she in
English. ‘Oh, I wish I might go to them! Do you think Mr.
Rochester will send for us by- and-bye, after dinner?’
‘No, indeed, I don’t; Mr. Rochester has something else to
think about. Never mind the ladies to-night; perhaps you
will see them to-morrow: here is your dinner.’
254 Jane Eyre

She was really hungry, so the chicken and tarts served to
divert her attention for a time. It was well I secured this for-
age, or both she, I, and Sophie, to whom I conveyed a share
of our repast, would have run a chance of getting no dinner
at all: every one downstairs was too much engaged to think
of us. The dessert was not carried out till after nine and at
ten footmen were still running to and fro with trays and
coffee-cups. I allowed Adele to sit up much later than usual;
for she declared she could not possibly go to sleep while the
doors kept opening and shutting below, and people bustling
about. Besides, she added, a message might possibly come
from Mr. Rochester when she was undressed; ‘et alors quel
dommage!’
I told her stories as long as she would listen to them;
and then for a change I took her out into the gallery. The
hall lamp was now lit, and it amused her to look over the
balustrade and watch the servants passing backwards and
forwards. When the evening was far advanced, a sound of
music issued from the drawing-room, whither the piano
had been removed; Adele and I sat down on the top step of
the stairs to listen. Presently a voice blent with the rich tones
of the instrument; it was a lady who sang, and very sweet
her notes were. The solo over, a duet followed, and then a
glee: a joyous conversational murmur filled up the inter-
vals. I listened long: suddenly I discovered that my ear was
wholly intent on analysing the mingled sounds, and trying
to discriminate amidst the confusion of accents those of Mr.
Rochester; and when it caught them, which it soon did, it
found a further task in framing the tones, rendered by dis-

tance inarticulate, into words.
The clock struck eleven. I looked at Adele, whose head
leant against my shoulder; her eyes were waxing heavy,
so I took her up in my arms and carried her off to bed. It
was near one before the gentlemen and ladies sought their
chambers.
The next day was as fine as its predecessor: it was devoted
by the party to an excursion to some site in the neighbour-
hood. They set out early in the forenoon, some on horseback,
the rest in carriages; I witnessed both the departure and the
return. Miss Ingram, as before, was the only lady equestri-
an; and, as before, Mr. Rochester galloped at her side; the
two rode a little apart from the rest. I pointed out this cir-
cumstance to Mrs. Fairfax, who was standing at the window
with me—
‘You said it was not likely they should think of being
married,’ said I, ‘but you see Mr. Rochester evidently pre-
fers her to any of the other ladies.’
‘Yes, I daresay: no doubt he admires her.’
‘And she him,’ I added; ‘look how she leans her head to-
wards him as if she were conversing confidentially; I wish I
could see her face; I have never had a glimpse of it yet.’
‘You will see her this evening,’ answered Mrs. Fairfax.
‘I happened to remark to Mr. Rochester how much Adele
wished to be introduced to the ladies, and he said: ‘Oh! let
her come into the drawing-room after dinner; and request
Miss Eyre to accompany her.’’
‘Yes; he said that from mere politeness: I need not go, I
am sure,’ I answered.
256 Jane Eyre

‘Well, I observed to him that as you were unused to com-
pany, I did not think you would like appearing before so
gay a party—all strangers; and he replied, in his quick way—
‘Nonsense! If she objects, tell her it is my particular wish;
and if she resists, say I shall come and fetch her in case of
contumacy.’’
‘I will not give him that trouble,’ I answered. ‘I will go, if
no better may be; but I don’t like it. Shall you be there, Mrs.
Fairfax?’
‘No; I pleaded off, and he admitted my plea. I’ll tell you
how to manage so as to avoid the embarrassment of mak-
ing a formal entrance, which is the most disagreeable part
of the business. You must go into the drawing-room while
it is empty, before the ladies leave the dinner-table; choose
your seat in any quiet nook you like; you need not stay long
after the gentlemen come in, unless you please: just let Mr.
Rochester see you are there and then slip away—nobody
will notice you.’
‘Will these people remain long, do you think?’
‘Perhaps two or three weeks, certainly not more. After
the Easter recess, Sir George Lynn, who was lately elected
member for Millcote, will have to go up to town and take
his seat; I daresay Mr. Rochester will accompany him: it
surprises me that he has already made so protracted a stay
at Thornfield.’
It was with some trepidation that I perceived the hour
approach when I was to repair with my charge to the draw-
ing-room. Adele had been in a state of ecstasy all day, after
hearing she was to be presented to the ladies in the eve-

ning; and it was not till Sophie commenced the operation of
dressing her that she sobered down. Then the importance
of the process quickly steadied her, and by the time she had
her curls arranged in well-smoothed, drooping clusters, her
pink satin frock put on, her long sash tied, and her lace mit-
tens adjusted, she looked as grave as any judge. No need to
warn her not to disarrange her attire: when she was dressed,
she sat demurely down in her little chair, taking care pre-
viously to lift up the satin skirt for fear she should crease it,
and assured me she would not stir thence till I was ready.
This I quickly was: my best dress (the silver-grey one, pur-
chased for Miss Temple’s wedding, and never worn since)
was soon put on; my hair was soon smoothed; my sole orna-
ment, the pearl brooch, soon assumed. We descended.
Fortunately there was another entrance to the draw-
ing-room than that through the saloon where they were all
seated at dinner. We found the apartment vacant; a large
fire burning silently on the marble hearth, and wax candles
shining in bright solitude, amid the exquisite flowers with
which the tables were adorned. The crimson curtain hung
before the arch: slight as was the separation this drapery
formed from the party in the adjoining saloon, they spoke
in so low a key that nothing of their conversation could be
distinguished beyond a soothing murmur.
Adele, who appeared to be still under the influence of a
most solemnising impression, sat down, without a word, on
the footstool I pointed out to her. I retired to a window-seat,
and taking a book from a table near, endeavoured to read.
Adele brought her stool to my feet; ere long she touched my
258 Jane Eyre

knee.
‘What is it, Adele?’
‘Est-ce que je ne puis pas prendrie une seule de ces fleurs
magnifiques, mademoiselle? Seulement pour completer ma
toilette.’
‘You think too much of your ‘toilette,’ Adele: but you may
have a flower.’ And I took a rose from a vase and fastened it
in her sash. She sighed a sigh of ineffable satisfaction, as if
her cup of happiness were now full. I turned my face away
to conceal a smile I could not suppress: there was some-
thing ludicrous as well as painful in the little Parisienne’s
earnest and innate devotion to matters of dress.
A soft sound of rising now became audible; the curtain
was swept back from the arch; through it appeared the din-
ing-room, with its lit lustre pouring down light on the silver
and glass of a magnificent dessert-service covering a long
table; a band of ladies stood in the opening; they entered,
and the curtain fell behind them.
There were but eight; yet, somehow, as they flocked in,
they gave the impression of a much larger number. Some
of them were very tall; many were dressed in white; and all
had a sweeping amplitude of array that seemed to magnify
their persons as a mist magnifies the moon. I rose and curt-
seyed to them: one or two bent their heads in return, the
others only stared at me.
They dispersed about the room, reminding me, by the
lightness and buoyancy of their movements, of a flock of
white plumy birds. Some of them threw themselves in half-
reclining positions on the sofas and ottomans: some bent

over the tables and examined the flowers and books: the
rest gathered in a group round the fire: all talked in a low
but clear tone which seemed habitual to them. I knew their
names afterwards, and may as well mention them now.
First, there was Mrs. Eshton and two of her daughters.
She had evidently been a handsome woman, and was well
preserved still. Of her daughters, the eldest, Amy, was rather
little: naive, and child-like in face and manner, and piquant
in form; her white muslin dress and blue sash became her
well. The second, Louisa, was taller and more elegant in fig-
ure; with a very pretty face, of that order the French term
minois chiffone: both sisters were fair as lilies.
Lady Lynn was a large and stout personage of about forty,
very erect, very haughty-looking, richly dressed in a satin
robe of changeful sheen: her dark hair shone glossily un-
der the shade of an azure plume, and within the circlet of a
band of gems.
Mrs. Colonel Dent was less showy; but, I thought, more
lady-like. She had a slight figure, a pale, gentle face, and fair
hair. Her black satin dress, her scarf of rich foreign lace, and
her pearl ornaments, pleased me better than the rainbow
radiance of the titled dame.
But the three most distinguished—partly, perhaps, be-
cause the tallest figures of the band—were the Dowager Lady
Ingram and her daughters, Blanche and Mary. They were all
three of the loftiest stature of women. The Dowager might
be between forty and fifty: her shape was still fine; her hair
(by candle-light at least) still black; her teeth, too, were still
apparently perfect. Most people would have termed her a
260 Jane Eyre

splendid woman of her age: and so she was, no doubt, physi-
cally speaking; but then there was an expression of almost
insupportable haughtiness in her bearing and countenance.
She had Roman features and a double chin, disappearing
into a throat like a pillar: these features appeared to me not
only inflated and darkened, but even furrowed with pride;
and the chin was sustained by the same principle, in a po-
sition of almost preternatural erectness. She had, likewise,
a fierce and a hard eye: it reminded me of Mrs. Reed’s; she
mouthed her words in speaking; her voice was deep, its in-
flections very pompous, very dogmatical,—very intolerable,
in short. A crimson velvet robe, and a shawl turban of some
gold-wrought Indian fabric, invested her (I suppose she
thought) with a truly imperial dignity.
Blanche and Mary were of equal stature,—straight and
tall as poplars. Mary was too slim for her height, but Blanche
was moulded like a Dian. I regarded her, of course, with spe-
cial interest. First, I wished to see whether her appearance
accorded with Mrs. Fairfax’s description; secondly, whether
it at all resembled the fancy miniature I had painted of her;
and thirdly—it will out!— whether it were such as I should
fancy likely to suit Mr. Rochester’s taste.
As far as person went, she answered point for point, both
to my picture and Mrs. Fairfax’s description. The noble bust,
the sloping shoulders, the graceful neck, the dark eyes and
black ringlets were all there;—but her face? Her face was
like her mother’s; a youthful unfurrowed likeness: the same
low brow, the same high features, the same pride. It was not,
however, so saturnine a pride! she laughed continually; her

laugh was satirical, and so was the habitual expression of
her arched and haughty lip.
Genius is said to be self-conscious. I cannot tell whether
Miss Ingram was a genius, but she was self-conscious—re-
markably self- conscious indeed. She entered into a discourse
on botany with the gentle Mrs. Dent. It seemed Mrs. Dent
had not studied that science: though, as she said, she liked
flowers, ‘especially wild ones;’ Miss Ingram had, and she
ran over its vocabulary with an air. I presently perceived
she was (what is vernacularly termed) TRAILING Mrs.
Dent; that is, playing on her ignorance—her TRAIL might
be clever, but it was decidedly not good-natured. She played:
her execution was brilliant; she sang: her voice was fine; she
talked French apart to her mamma; and she talked it well,
with fluency and with a good accent.
Mary had a milder and more open countenance than
Blanche; softer features too, and a skin some shades fair-
er (Miss Ingram was dark as a Spaniard)—but Mary was
deficient in life: her face lacked expression, her eye lustre;
she had nothing to say, and having once taken her seat, re-
mained fixed like a statue in its niche. The sisters were both
attired in spotless white.
And did I now think Miss Ingram such a choice as Mr.
Rochester would be likely to make? I could not tell—I did
not know his taste in female beauty. If he liked the majestic,
she was the very type of majesty: then she was accomplished,
sprightly. Most gentlemen would admire her, I thought; and
that he DID admire her, I already seemed to have obtained
proof: to remove the last shade of doubt, it remained but to
262 Jane Eyre

see them together.
You are not to suppose, reader, that Adele has all this
time been sitting motionless on the stool at my feet: no;
when the ladies entered, she rose, advanced to meet them,
made a stately reverence, and said with gravity—
‘Bon jour, mesdames.’
And Miss Ingram had looked down at her with a mock-
ing air, and exclaimed, ‘Oh, what a little puppet!’
Lady Lynn had remarked, ‘It is Mr. Rochester’s ward, I
suppose—the little French girl he was speaking of.’
Mrs. Dent had kindly taken her hand, and given her a
kiss.
Amy and Louisa Eshton had cried out simultaneously—
‘What a love of a child!’
And then they had called her to a sofa, where she now sat,
ensconced between them, chattering alternately in French
and broken English; absorbing not only the young ladies’
attention, but that of Mrs. Eshton and Lady Lynn, and get-
ting spoilt to her heart’s content.
At last coffee is brought in, and the gentlemen are sum-
moned. I sit in the shade—if any shade there be in this
brilliantly-lit apartment; the window-curtain half hides me.
Again the arch yawns; they come. The collective appearance
of the gentlemen, like that of the ladies, is very imposing:
they are all costumed in black; most of them are tall, some
young. Henry and Frederick Lynn are very dashing sparks
indeed; and Colonel Dent is a fine soldierly man. Mr. Esh-
ton, the magistrate of the district, is gentleman-like: his hair
is quite white, his eyebrows and whiskers still dark, which

gives him something of the appearance of a ‘pere noble de
theatre.’ Lord Ingram, like his sisters, is very tall; like them,
also, he is handsome; but he shares Mary’s apathetic and
listless look: he seems to have more length of limb than vi-
vacity of blood or vigour of brain.
And where is Mr. Rochester?
He comes in last: I am not looking at the arch, yet I see
him enter. I try to concentrate my attention on those net-
ting-needles, on the meshes of the purse I am forming—I
wish to think only of the work I have in my hands, to see
only the silver beads and silk threads that lie in my lap;
whereas, I distinctly behold his figure, and I inevitably re-
call the moment when I last saw it; just after I had rendered
him, what he deemed, an essential service, and he, hold-
ing my hand, and looking down on my face, surveyed me
with eyes that revealed a heart full and eager to overflow; in
whose emotions I had a part. How near had I approached
him at that moment! What had occurred since, calculated
to change his and my relative positions? Yet now, how dis-
tant, how far estranged we were! So far estranged, that I did
not expect him to come and speak to me. I did not wonder,
when, without looking at me, he took a seat at the other side
of the room, and began conversing with some of the ladies.
No sooner did I see that his attention was riveted on
them, and that I might gaze without being observed, than
my eyes were drawn involuntarily to his face; I could not
keep their lids under control: they would rise, and the irids
would fix on him. I looked, and had an acute pleasure in
looking,—a precious yet poignant pleasure; pure gold, with
264 Jane Eyre

a steely point of agony: a pleasure like what the thirst-per-
ishing man might feel who knows the well to which he has
crept is poisoned, yet stoops and drinks divine draughts
nevertheless.
Most true is it that ‘beauty is in the eye of the gazer.’ My
master’s colourless, olive face, square, massive brow, broad
and jetty eyebrows, deep eyes, strong features, firm, grim
mouth,—all energy, decision, will,—were not beautiful, ac-
cording to rule; but they were more than beautiful to me;
they were full of an interest, an influence that quite mas-
tered me,—that took my feelings from my own power and
fettered them in his. I had not intended to love him; the
reader knows I had wrought hard to extirpate from my soul
the germs of love there detected; and now, at the first re-
newed view of him, they spontaneously arrived, green and
strong! He made me love him without looking at me.
I compared him with his guests. What was the gallant
grace of the Lynns, the languid elegance of Lord Ingram,—
even the military distinction of Colonel Dent, contrasted
with his look of native pith and genuine power? I had no
sympathy in their appearance, their expression: yet I could
imagine that most observers would call them attractive,
handsome, imposing; while they would pronounce Mr.
Rochester at once harsh-featured and melancholy-looking.
I saw them smile, laugh—it was nothing; the light of the
candles had as much soul in it as their smile; the tinkle of
the bell as much significance as their laugh. I saw Mr. Roch-
ester smile:- his stern features softened; his eye grew both
brilliant and gentle, its ray both searching and sweet. He

was talking, at the moment, to Louisa and Amy Eshton. I
wondered to see them receive with calm that look which
seemed to me so penetrating: I expected their eyes to fall,
their colour to rise under it; yet I was glad when I found they
were in no sense moved. ‘He is not to them what he is to me,’
I thought: ‘he is not of their kind. I believe he is of mine;—I
am sure he is—I feel akin to him—I understand the lan-
guage of his countenance and movements: though rank and
wealth sever us widely, I have something in my brain and
heart, in my blood and nerves, that assimilates me mentally
to him. Did I say, a few days since, that I had nothing to do
with him but to receive my salary at his hands? Did I forbid
myself to think of him in any other light than as a paymas-
ter? Blasphemy against nature! Every good, true, vigorous
feeling I have gathers impulsively round him. I know I must
conceal my sentiments: I must smother hope; I must re-
member that he cannot care much for me. For when I say
that I am of his kind, I do not mean that I have his force to
influence, and his spell to attract; I mean only that I have
certain tastes and feelings in common with him. I must,
then, repeat continually that we are for ever sundered:- and
yet, while I breathe and think, I must love him.’
Coffee is handed. The ladies, since the gentlemen en-
tered, have become lively as larks; conversation waxes brisk
and merry. Colonel Dent and Mr. Eshton argue on politics;
their wives listen. The two proud dowagers, Lady Lynn and
Lady Ingram, confabulate together. Sir George—whom, by-
the-bye, I have forgotten to describe,—a very big, and very
fresh-looking country gentleman, stands before their sofa,
266 Jane Eyre

coffee-cup in hand, and occasionally puts in a word. Mr.
Frederick Lynn has taken a seat beside Mary Ingram, and is
showing her the engravings of a splendid volume: she looks,
smiles now and then, but apparently says little. The tall and
phlegmatic Lord Ingram leans with folded arms on the
chair-back of the little and lively Amy Eshton; she glanc-
es up at him, and chatters like a wren: she likes him better
than she does Mr. Rochester. Henry Lynn has taken posses-
sion of an ottoman at the feet of Louisa: Adele shares it with
him: he is trying to talk French with her, and Louisa laughs
at his blunders. With whom will Blanche Ingram pair? She
is standing alone at the table, bending gracefully over an al-
bum. She seems waiting to be sought; but she will not wait
too long: she herself selects a mate.
Mr. Rochester, having quitted the Eshtons, stands on the
hearth as solitary as she stands by the table: she confronts
him, taking her station on the opposite side of the mantel-
piece.
‘Mr. Rochester, I thought you were not fond of children?’
‘Nor am I.’
‘Then, what induced you to take charge of such a little
doll as that?’ (pointing to Adele). ‘Where did you pick her
up?’
‘I did not pick her up; she was left on my hands.’
‘You should have sent her to school.’
‘I could not afford it: schools are so dear.’
‘Why, I suppose you have a governess for her: I saw a
person with her just now—is she gone? Oh, no! there she is
still, behind the window-curtain. You pay her, of course; I

should think it quite as expensive,—more so; for you have
them both to keep in addition.’
I feared—or should I say, hoped?—the allusion to me
would make Mr. Rochester glance my way; and I involun-
tarily shrank farther into the shade: but he never turned
his eyes.
‘I have not considered the subject,’ said he indifferently,
looking straight before him.
‘No, you men never do consider economy and common
sense. You should hear mama on the chapter of governesses:
Mary and I have had, I should think, a dozen at least in our
day; half of them detestable and the rest ridiculous, and all
incubi—were they not, mama?’
‘Did you speak, my own?’
The young lady thus claimed as the dowager’s special
property, reiterated her question with an explanation.
‘My dearest, don’t mention governesses; the word makes
me nervous. I have suffered a martyrdom from their incom-
petency and caprice. I thank Heaven I have now done with
them!’
Mrs. Dent here bent over to the pious lady and whispered
something in her ear; I suppose, from the answer elicited,
it was a reminder that one of the anathematised race was
present.
‘Tant pis!’ said her Ladyship, ‘I hope it may do her good!’
Then, in a lower tone, but still loud enough for me to hear, ‘I
noticed her; I am a judge of physiognomy, and in hers I see
all the faults of her class.’
‘What are they, madam?’ inquired Mr. Rochester aloud.
268 Jane Eyre

‘I will tell you in your private ear,’ replied she, wagging
her turban three times with portentous significancy.
‘But my curiosity will be past its appetite; it craves food
now.’
‘Ask Blanche; she is nearer you than I.’
‘Oh, don’t refer him to me, mama! I have just one word
to say of the whole tribe; they are a nuisance. Not that I
ever suffered much from them; I took care to turn the ta-
bles. What tricks Theodore and I used to play on our Miss
Wilsons, and Mrs. Greys, and Madame Jouberts! Mary was
always too sleepy to join in a plot with spirit. The best fun
was with Madame Joubert: Miss Wilson was a poor sickly
thing, lachrymose and low-spirited, not worth the trouble
of vanquishing, in short; and Mrs. Grey was coarse and
insensible; no blow took effect on her. But poor Madame
Joubert! I see her yet in her raging passions, when we had
driven her to extremities—spilt our tea, crumbled our bread
and butter, tossed our books up to the ceiling, and played a
charivari with the ruler and desk, the fender and fire-irons.
Theodore, do you remember those merry days?’
‘Yaas, to be sure I do,’ drawled Lord Ingram; ‘and the
poor old stick used to cry out ‘Oh you villains childs!’—and
then we sermonised her on the presumption of attempting
to teach such clever blades as we were, when she was herself
so ignorant.’
‘We did; and, Tedo, you know, I helped you in prosecut-
ing (or persecuting) your tutor, whey-faced Mr. Vining—the
parson in the pip, as we used to call him. He and Miss Wil-
son took the liberty of falling in love with each other—at

least Tedo and I thought so; we surprised sundry tender
glances and sighs which we interpreted as tokens of ‘la belle
passion,’ and I promise you the public soon had the ben-
efit of our discovery; we employed it as a sort of lever to
hoist our dead-weights from the house. Dear mama, there,
as soon as she got an inkling of the business, found out that
it was of an immoral tendency. Did you not, my lady-moth-
er?’
‘Certainly, my best. And I was quite right: depend on
that: there are a thousand reasons why liaisons between
governesses and tutors should never be tolerated a moment
in any well-regulated house; firstly—‘
‘Oh, gracious, mama! Spare us the enumeration! Au reste,
we all know them: danger of bad example to innocence of
childhood; distractions and consequent neglect of duty on
the part of the attached—mutual alliance and reliance; con-
fidence thence resultinginsolence accompanying—mutiny
and general blow-up. Am I right, Baroness Ingram, of In-
gram Park?’
‘My lily-flower, you are right now, as always.’
‘Then no more need be said: change the subject.’
Amy Eshton, not hearing or not heeding this dictum,
joined in with her soft, infantine tone: ‘Louisa and I used
to quiz our governess too; but she was such a good creature,
she would bear anything: nothing put her out. She was nev-
er cross with us; was she, Louisa?’
‘No, never: we might do what we pleased; ransack her
desk and her workbox, and turn her drawers inside out; and
she was so good- natured, she would give as anything we
270 Jane Eyre

asked for.’
‘I suppose, now,’ said Miss Ingram, curling her lip sar-
castically, ‘we shall have an abstract of the memoirs of all
the governesses extant: in order to avert such a visitation, I
again move the introduction of a new topic. Mr. Rochester,
do you second my motion?’
‘Madam, I support you on this point, as on every other.’
‘Then on me be the onus of bringing it forward. Signior
Eduardo, are you in voice to-night?’
‘Donna Bianca, if you command it, I will be.’
‘Then, signior, I lay on you my sovereign behest to fur-
bish up your lungs and other vocal organs, as they will be
wanted on my royal service.’
‘Who would not be the Rizzio of so divine a Mary?’
‘A fig for Rizzio!’ cried she, tossing her head with all its
curls, as she moved to the piano. ‘It is my opinion the fid-
dler David must have been an insipid sort of fellow; I like
black Bothwell better: to my mind a man is nothing without
a spice of the devil in him; and history may say what it will
of James Hepburn, but I have a notion, he was just the sort
of wild, fierce, bandit hero whom I could have consented to
gift with my hand.’
‘Gentlemen, you hear! Now which of you most resembles
Bothwell?’ cried Mr. Rochester.
‘I should say the preference lies with you,’ responded Col-
onel Dent.
‘On my honour, I am much obliged to you,’ was the re-
ply.
Miss Ingram, who had now seated herself with proud

grace at the piano, spreading out her snowy robes in queenly
amplitude, commenced a brilliant prelude; talking mean-
time. She appeared to be on her high horse to-night; both
her words and her air seemed intended to excite not only
the admiration, but the amazement of her auditors: she was
evidently bent on striking them as something very dashing
and daring indeed.
‘Oh, I am so sick of the young men of the present day!’
exclaimed she, rattling away at the instrument. ‘Poor, puny
things, not fit to stir a step beyond papa’s park gates: nor
to go even so far without mama’s permission and guard-
ianship! Creatures so absorbed in care about their pretty
faces, and their white hands, and their small feet; as if a
man had anything to do with beauty! As if loveliness were
not the special prerogative of woman—her legitimate appa-
nage and heritage! I grant an ugly WOMAN is a blot on the
fair face of creation; but as to the GENTLEMEN, let them
be solicitous to possess only strength and valour: let their
motto be:- Hunt, shoot, and fight: the rest is not worth a fil-
lip. Such should be my device, were I a man.’
‘Whenever I marry,’ she continued after a pause which
none interrupted, ‘I am resolved my husband shall not be
a rival, but a foil to me. I will suffer no competitor near the
throne; I shall exact an undivided homage: his devotions
shall not be shared between me and the shape he sees in his
mirror. Mr. Rochester, now sing, and I will play for you.’
‘I am all obedience,’ was the response.
‘Here then is a Corsair-song. Know that I doat on Cor-
sairs; and for that reason, sing it con spirito.’
272 Jane Eyre

‘Commands from Miss Ingram’s lips would put spirit
into a mug of milk and water.’
‘Take care, then: if you don’t please me, I will shame you
by showing how such things SHOULD be done.’
‘That is offering a premium on incapacity: I shall now en-
deavour to fail.’
‘Gardez-vous en bien! If you err wilfully, I shall devise a
proportionate punishment.’
‘Miss Ingram ought to be clement, for she has it in her
power to inflict a chastisement beyond mortal endurance.’
‘Ha! explain!’ commanded the lady.
‘Pardon me, madam: no need of explanation; your own
fine sense must inform you that one of your frowns would
be a sufficient substitute for capital punishment.’
‘Sing!’ said she, and again touching the piano, she com-
menced an accompaniment in spirited style.
‘Now is my time to slip away,’ thought I: but the tones
that then severed the air arrested me. Mrs. Fairfax had
said Mr. Rochester possessed a fine voice: he did—a mel-
low, powerful bass, into which he threw his own feeling, his
own force; finding a way through the ear to the heart, and
there waking sensation strangely. I waited till the last deep
and full vibration had expired—till the tide of talk, checked
an instant, had resumed its flow; I then quitted my shel-
tered corner and made my exit by the side-door, which was
fortunately near. Thence a narrow passage led into the hall:
in crossing it, I perceived my sandal was loose; I stopped to
tie it, kneeling down for that purpose on the mat at the foot
of the staircase. I heard the dining-room door unclose; a

gentleman came out; rising hastily, I stood face to face with
him: it was Mr. Rochester.
‘How do you do?’ he asked.
‘I am very well, sir.’
‘Why did you not come and speak to me in the room?’
I thought I might have retorted the question on him who
put it: but I would not take that freedom. I answered—
‘I did not wish to disturb you, as you seemed engaged,
sir.’
‘What have you been doing during my absence?’
‘Nothing particular; teaching Adele as usual.’
‘And getting a good deal paler than you were—as I saw at
first sight. What is the matter?’
‘Nothing at all, sir.’
‘Did you take any cold that night you half drowned me?’
‘Not she least.’
‘Return to the drawing-room: you are deserting too ear-
ly.’
‘I am tired, sir.’
He looked at me for a minute.
‘And a little depressed,’ he said. ‘What about? Tell me.’
‘Nothing—nothing, sir. I am not depressed.’
‘But I affirm that you are: so much depressed that a few
more words would bring tears to your eyes—indeed, they
are there now, shining and swimming; and a bead has
slipped from the lash and fallen on to the flag. If I had
time, and was not in mortal dread of some prating prig of
a servant passing, I would know what all this means. Well,
to-night I excuse you; but understand that so long as my
274 Jane Eyre

visitors stay, I expect you to appear in the drawing-room ev-
ery evening; it is my wish; don’t neglect it. Now go, and send
Sophie for Adele. Good-night, my—‘ He stopped, bit his lip,
and abruptly left me.

Chapter XVIII
M erry days were these at Thornfield Hall; and busy

days too: how different from the first three months
of stillness, monotony, and solitude I had passed beneath
its roof! All sad feelings seemed now driven from the house,
all gloomy associations forgotten: there was life everywhere,
movement all day long. You could not now traverse the gal-
lery, once so hushed, nor enter the front chambers, once so
tenantless, without encountering a smart lady’s-maid or a
dandy valet.
The kitchen, the butler’s pantry, the servants’ hall, the
entrance hall, were equally alive; and the saloons were only
left void and still when the blue sky and halcyon sunshine
of the genial spring weather called their occupants out into
the grounds. Even when that weather was broken, and con-
tinuous rain set in for some days, no damp seemed cast over
enjoyment: indoor amusements only became more lively
and varied, in consequence of the stop put to outdoor gai-
ety.
I wondered what they were going to do the first evening a
change of entertainment was proposed: they spoke of ‘play-
ing charades,’ but in my ignorance I did not understand the
term. The servants were called in, the dining-room tables
wheeled away, the lights otherwise disposed, the chairs
placed in a semicircle opposite the arch. While Mr. Roches-
276 Jane Eyre

ter and the other gentlemen directed these alterations, the
ladies were running up and down stairs ringing for their
maids. Mrs. Fairfax was summoned to give information
respecting the resources of the house in shawls, dresses,
draperies of any kind; and certain wardrobes of the third
storey were ransacked, and their contents, in the shape
of brocaded and hooped petticoats, satin sacques, black
modes, lace lappets, &c., were brought down in armfuls by
the abigails; then a selection was made, and such things as
were chosen were carried to the boudoir within the draw-
ing-room.
Meantime, Mr. Rochester had again summoned the la-
dies round him, and was selecting certain of their number
to be of his party. ‘Miss Ingram is mine, of course,’ said he:
afterwards he named the two Misses Eshton, and Mrs. Dent.
He looked at me: I happened to be near him, as I had been
fastening the clasp of Mrs. Dent’s bracelet, which had got
loose.
‘Will you play?’ he asked. I shook my head. He did not
insist, which I rather feared he would have done; he allowed
me to return quietly to my usual seat.
He and his aids now withdrew behind the curtain: the
other party, which was headed by Colonel Dent, sat down
on the crescent of chairs. One of the gentlemen, Mr. Eshton,
observing me, seemed to propose that I should be asked to
join them; but Lady Ingram instantly negatived the notion.
‘No,’ I heard her say: ‘she looks too stupid for any game
of the sort.’
Ere long a bell tinkled, and the curtain drew up. Within

the arch, the bulky figure of Sir George Lynn, whom Mr.
Rochester had likewise chosen, was seen enveloped in a
white sheet: before him, on a table, lay open a large book;
and at his side stood Amy Eshton, draped in Mr. Roch-
ester’s cloak, and holding a book in her hand. Somebody,
unseen, rang the bell merrily; then Adele (who had insist-
ed on being one of her guardian’s party), bounded forward,
scattering round her the contents of a basket of flowers she
carried on her arm. Then appeared the magnificent fig-
ure of Miss Ingram, clad in white, a long veil on her head,
and a wreath of roses round her brow; by her side walked
Mr. Rochester, and together they drew near the table. They
knelt; while Mrs. Dent and Louisa Eshton, dressed also in
white, took up their stations behind them. A ceremony fol-
lowed, in dumb show, in which it was easy to recognise the
pantomime of a marriage. At its termination, Colonel Dent
and his party consulted in whispers for two minutes, then
the Colonel called out—
‘Bride!’ Mr. Rochester bowed, and the curtain fell.
A considerable interval elapsed before it again rose. Its
second rising displayed a more elaborately prepared scene
than the last. The drawing-room, as I have before observed,
was raised two steps above the dining-room, and on the top
of the upper step, placed a yard or two back within the room,
appeared a large marble basin— which I recognised as an
ornament of the conservatory—where it usually stood, sur-
rounded by exotics, and tenanted by gold fish—and whence
it must have been transported with some trouble, on ac-
count of its size and weight.
278 Jane Eyre

Seated on the carpet, by the side of this basin, was seen
Mr. Rochester, costumed in shawls, with a turban on his
head. His dark eyes and swarthy skin and Paynim features
suited the costume exactly: he looked the very model of an
Eastern emir, an agent or a victim of the bowstring. Pres-
ently advanced into view Miss Ingram. She, too, was attired
in oriental fashion: a crimson scarf tied sash-like round
the waist: an embroidered handkerchief knotted about her
temples; her beautifully-moulded arms bare, one of them
upraised in the act of supporting a pitcher, poised grace-
fully on her head. Both her cast of form and feature, her
complexion and her general air, suggested the idea of some
Israelitish princess of the patriarchal days; and such was
doubtless the character she intended to represent.
She approached the basin, and bent over it as if to fill her
pitcher; she again lifted it to her head. The personage on the
well-brink now seemed to accost her; to make some request:-
‘She hasted, let down her pitcher on her hand, and gave him
to drink.’ From the bosom of his robe he then produced
a casket, opened it and showed magnificent bracelets and
earrings; she acted astonishment and admiration; kneeling,
he laid the treasure at her feet; incredulity and delight were
expressed by her looks and gestures; the stranger fastened
the bracelets on her arms and the rings in her ears. It was
Eliezer and Rebecca: the camels only were wanting.
The divining party again laid their heads together: ap-
parently they could not agree about the word or syllable the
scene illustrated. Colonel Dent, their spokesman, demand-
ed ‘the tableau of the whole;’ whereupon the curtain again

descended.
On its third rising only a portion of the drawing-room
was disclosed; the rest being concealed by a screen, hung
with some sort of dark and coarse drapery. The marble
basin was removed; in its place, stood a deal table and a
kitchen chair: these objects were visible by a very dim light
proceeding from a horn lantern, the wax candles being all
extinguished.
Amidst this sordid scene, sat a man with his clenched
hands resting on his knees, and his eyes bent on the ground.
I knew Mr. Rochester; though the begrimed face, the dis-
ordered dress (his coat hanging loose from one arm, as
if it had been almost torn from his back in a scuffle), the
desperate and scowling countenance, the rough, bristling
hair might well have disguised him. As he moved, a chain
clanked; to his wrists were attached fetters.
‘Bridewell!’ exclaimed Colonel Dent, and the charade
was solved.
A sufficient interval having elapsed for the perform-
ers to resume their ordinary costume, they re-entered the
dining-room. Mr. Rochester led in Miss Ingram; she was
complimenting him on his acting.
‘Do you know,’ said she, ‘that, of the three characters, I
liked you in the last best? Oh, had you but lived a few years
earlier, what a gallant gentleman-highwayman you would
have made!’
‘Is all the soot washed from my face?’ he asked, turning
it towards her.
‘Alas! yes: the more’s the pity! Nothing could be more be-
280 Jane Eyre

coming to your complexion than that ruffian’s rouge.’
‘You would like a hero of the road then?’
‘An English hero of the road would be the next best thing
to an Italian bandit; and that could only be surpassed by a
Levantine pirate.’
‘Well, whatever I am, remember you are my wife; we
were married an hour since, in the presence of all these wit-
nesses.’ She giggled, and her colour rose.
‘Now, Dent,’ continued Mr. Rochester, ‘it is your turn.’
And as the other party withdrew, he and his band took the
vacated seats. Miss Ingram placed herself at her leader’s
right hand; the other diviners filled the chairs on each side
of him and her. I did not now watch the actors; I no lon-
ger waited with interest for the curtain to rise; my attention
was absorbed by the spectators; my eyes, erewhile fixed on
the arch, were now irresistibly attracted to the semicircle
of chairs. What charade Colonel Dent and his party played,
what word they chose, how they acquitted themselves, I no
longer remember; but I still see the consultation which fol-
lowed each scene: I see Mr. Rochester turn to Miss Ingram,
and Miss Ingram to him; I see her incline her head towards
him, till the jetty curls almost touch his shoulder and wave
against his cheek; I hear their mutual whisperings; I re-
call their interchanged glances; and something even of the
feeling roused by the spectacle returns in memory at this
moment.
I have told you, reader, that I had learnt to love Mr. Roch-
ester: I could not unlove him now, merely because I found
that he had ceased to notice me—because I might pass hours

in his presence, and he would never once turn his eyes in
my direction—because I saw all his attentions appropriated
by a great lady, who scorned to touch me with the hem of
her robes as she passed; who, if ever her dark and imperi-
ous eye fell on me by chance, would withdraw it instantly as
from an object too mean to merit observation. I could not
unlove him, because I felt sure he would soon marry this
very lady—because I read daily in her a proud security in
his intentions respecting her—because I witnessed hourly
in him a style of courtship which, if careless and choosing
rather to be sought than to seek, was yet, in its very careless-
ness, captivating, and in its very pride, irresistible.
There was nothing to cool or banish love in these cir-
cumstances, though much to create despair. Much too, you
will think, reader, to engender jealousy: if a woman, in my
position, could presume to be jealous of a woman in Miss
Ingram’s. But I was not jealous: or very rarely;—the na-
ture of the pain I suffered could not be explained by that
word. Miss Ingram was a mark beneath jealousy: she was
too inferior to excite the feeling. Pardon the seeming para-
dox; I mean what I say. She was very showy, but she was
not genuine: she had a fine person, many brilliant attain-
ments; but her mind was poor, her heart barren by nature:
nothing bloomed spontaneously on that soil; no unforced
natural fruit delighted by its freshness. She was not good;
she was not original: she used to repeat sounding phras-
es from books: she never offered, nor had, an opinion of
her own. She advocated a high tone of sentiment; but she
did not know the sensations of sympathy and pity; tender-
282 Jane Eyre

ness and truth were not in her. Too often she betrayed this,
by the undue vent she gave to a spiteful antipathy she had
conceived against little Adele: pushing her away with some
contumelious epithet if she happened to approach her;
sometimes ordering her from the room, and always treating
her with coldness and acrimony. Other eyes besides mine
watched these manifestations of character—watched them
closely, keenly, shrewdly. Yes; the future bridegroom, Mr.
Rochester himself, exercised over his intended a ceaseless
surveillance; and it was from this sagacity—this guard-
edness of his—this perfect, clear consciousness of his fair
one’s defects— this obvious absence of passion in his senti-
ments towards her, that my ever-torturing pain arose.
I saw he was going to marry her, for family, perhaps po-
litical reasons, because her rank and connections suited
him; I felt he had not given her his love, and that her qual-
ifications were ill adapted to win from him that treasure.
This was the point—this was where the nerve was touched
and teased—this was where the fever was sustained and fed:
SHE COULD NOT CHARM HIM.
If she had managed the victory at once, and he had yielded
and sincerely laid his heart at her feet, I should have covered
my face, turned to the wall, and (figuratively) have died to
them. If Miss Ingram had been a good and noble woman,
endowed with force, fervour, kindness, sense, I should have
had one vital struggle with two tigers—jealousy and de-
spair: then, my heart torn out and devoured, I should have
admired her—acknowledged her excellence, and been quiet
for the rest of my days: and the more absolute her superior-

ity, the deeper would have been my admiration—the more
truly tranquil my quiescence. But as matters really stood,
to watch Miss Ingram’s efforts at fascinating Mr. Roches-
ter, to witness their repeated failure—herself unconscious
that they did fail; vainly fancying that each shaft launched
hit the mark, and infatuatedly pluming herself on success,
when her pride and self-complacency repelled further and
further what she wished to allure—to witness THIS, was to
be at once under ceaseless excitation and ruthless restraint.
Because, when she failed, I saw how she might have
succeeded. Arrows that continually glanced off from Mr.
Rochester’s breast and fell harmless at his feet, might, I
knew, if shot by a surer hand, have quivered keen in his
proud heart—have called love into his stern eye, and soft-
ness into his sardonic face; or, better still, without weapons
a silent conquest might have been won.
‘Why can she not influence him more, when she is privi-
leged to draw so near to him?’ I asked myself. ‘Surely she
cannot truly like him, or not like him with true affection!
If she did, she need not coin her smiles so lavishly, flash
her glances so unremittingly, manufacture airs so elaborate,
graces so multitudinous. It seems to me that she might, by
merely sitting quietly at his side, saying little and looking
less, get nigher his heart. I have seen in his face a far differ-
ent expression from that which hardens it now while she is
so vivaciously accosting him; but then it came of itself: it was
not elicited by meretricious arts and calculated manoeu-
vres; and one had but to accept it—to answer what he asked
without pretension, to address him when needful without
284 Jane Eyre

grimace—and it increased and grew kinder and more ge-
nial, and warmed one like a fostering sunbeam. How will
she manage to please him when they are married? I do not
think she will manage it; and yet it might be managed; and
his wife might, I verily believe, be the very happiest woman
the sun shines on.’
I have not yet said anything condemnatory of Mr. Roch-
ester’s project of marrying for interest and connections. It
surprised me when I first discovered that such was his in-
tention: I had thought him a man unlikely to be influenced
by motives so commonplace in his choice of a wife; but the
longer I considered the position, education, &c., of the par-
ties, the less I felt justified in judging and blaming either
him or Miss Ingram for acting in conformity to ideas and
principles instilled into them, doubtless, from their child-
hood. All their class held these principles: I supposed, then,
they had reasons for holding them such as I could not fath-
om. It seemed to me that, were I a gentleman like him, I
would take to my bosom only such a wife as I could love;
but the very obviousness of the advantages to the husband’s
own happiness offered by this plan convinced me that there
must be arguments against its general adoption of which I
was quite ignorant: otherwise I felt sure all the world would
act as I wished to act.
But in other points, as well as this, I was growing very le-
nient to my master: I was forgetting all his faults, for which
I had once kept a sharp look-out. It had formerly been my
endeavour to study all sides of his character: to take the bad
with the good; and from the just weighing of both, to form

an equitable judgment. Now I saw no bad. The sarcasm that
had repelled, the harshness that had startled me once, were
only like keen condiments in a choice dish: their presence
was pungent, but their absence would be felt as compara-
tively insipid. And as for the vague something—was it a
sinister or a sorrowful, a designing or a desponding expres-
sion?— that opened upon a careful observer, now and then,
in his eye, and closed again before one could fathom the
strange depth partially disclosed; that something which
used to make me fear and shrink, as if I had been wander-
ing amongst volcanic-looking hills, and had suddenly felt
the ground quiver and seen it gape: that something, I, at in-
tervals, beheld still; and with throbbing heart, but not with
palsied nerves. Instead of wishing to shun, I longed only to
dare—to divine it; and I thought Miss Ingram happy, be-
cause one day she might look into the abyss at her leisure,
explore its secrets and analyse their nature.
Meantime, while I thought only of my master and his fu-
ture bride— saw only them, heard only their discourse, and
considered only their movements of importance—the rest
of the party were occupied with their own separate inter-
ests and pleasures. The Ladies Lynn and Ingram continued
to consort in solemn conferences, where they nodded their
two turbans at each other, and held up their four hands in
confronting gestures of surprise, or mystery, or horror, ac-
cording to the theme on which their gossip ran, like a pair
of magnified puppets. Mild Mrs. Dent talked with good-
natured Mrs. Eshton; and the two sometimes bestowed a
courteous word or smile on me. Sir George Lynn, Colonel
286 Jane Eyre

Dent, and Mr. Eshton discussed politics, or county affairs,
or justice business. Lord Ingram flirted with Amy Eshton;
Louisa played and sang to and with one of the Messrs. Lynn;
and Mary Ingram listened languidly to the gallant speeches
of the other. Sometimes all, as with one consent, suspended
their by-play to observe and listen to the principal actors:
for, after all, Mr. Rochester and—because closely connected
with him—Miss Ingram were the life and soul of the party.
If he was absent from the room an hour, a perceptible dul-
ness seemed to steal over the spirits of his guests; and his
re-entrance was sure to give a fresh impulse to the vivacity
of conversation.
The want of his animating influence appeared to be pe-
culiarly felt one day that he had been summoned to Millcote
on business, and was not likely to return till late. The after-
noon was wet: a walk the party had proposed to take to see
a gipsy camp, lately pitched on a common beyond Hay, was
consequently deferred. Some of the gentlemen were gone
to the stables: the younger ones, together with the young-
er ladies, were playing billiards in the billiard-room. The
dowagers Ingram and Lynn sought solace in a quiet game
at cards. Blanche Ingram, after having repelled, by supercil-
ious taciturnity, some efforts of Mrs. Dent and Mrs. Eshton
to draw her into conversation, had first murmured over
some sentimental tunes and airs on the piano, and then,
having fetched a novel from the library, had flung herself in
haughty listlessness on a sofa, and prepared to beguile, by
the spell of fiction, the tedious hours of absence. The room
and the house were silent: only now and then the merri-

ment of the billiard-players was heard from above.
It was verging on dusk, and the clock had already giv-
en warning of the hour to dress for dinner, when little
Adele, who knelt by me in the drawing-room window-seat,
suddenly exclaimed—
‘Voile, Monsieur Rochester, qui revient!’
I turned, and Miss Ingram darted forwards from her
sofa: the others, too, looked up from their several occu-
pations; for at the same time a crunching of wheels and a
splashing tramp of horse-hoofs became audible on the wet
gravel. A post-chaise was approaching.
‘What can possess him to come home in that style?’ said
Miss Ingram. ‘He rode Mesrour (the black horse), did he
not, when he went out? and Pilot was with him:- what has
he done with the animals?’
As she said this, she approached her tall person and am-
ple garments so near the window, that I was obliged to bend
back almost to the breaking of my spine: in her eagerness
she did not observe me at first, but when she did, she curled
her lip and moved to another casement. The post-chaise
stopped; the driver rang the door-bell, and a gentleman
alighted attired in travelling garb; but it was not Mr. Roch-
ester; it was a tall, fashionable-looking man, a stranger.
‘How provoking!’ exclaimed Miss Ingram: ‘you tiresome
monkey!’ (apostrophising Adele), ‘who perched you up in
the window to give false intelligence?’ and she cast on me
an angry glance, as if I were in fault.
Some parleying was audible in the hall, and soon the
new-comer entered. He bowed to Lady Ingram, as deeming
288 Jane Eyre

her the eldest lady present.
‘It appears I come at an inopportune time, madam,’ said
he, ‘when my friend, Mr. Rochester, is from home; but I ar-
rive from a very long journey, and I think I may presume
so far on old and intimate acquaintance as to instal myself
here till he returns.’
His manner was polite; his accent, in speaking, struck
me as being somewhat unusual,—not precisely foreign,
but still not altogether English: his age might be about Mr.
Rochester’s,—between thirty and forty; his complexion was
singularly sallow: otherwise he was a fine-looking man, at
first sight especially. On closer examination, you detected
something in his face that displeased, or rather that failed
to please. His features were regular, but too relaxed: his eye
was large and well cut, but the life looking out of it was a
tame, vacant life—at least so I thought.
The sound of the dressing-bell dispersed the party. It was
not till after dinner that I saw him again: he then seemed
quite at his ease. But I liked his physiognomy even less than
before: it struck me as being at the same time unsettled
and inanimate. His eye wandered, and had no meaning in
its wandering: this gave him an odd look, such as I nev-
er remembered to have seen. For a handsome and not an
unamiable-looking man, he repelled me exceedingly: there
was no power in that smooth-skinned face of a full oval
shape: no firmness in that aquiline nose and small cherry
mouth; there was no thought on the low, even forehead; no
command in that blank, brown eye.
As I sat in my usual nook, and looked at him with the

light of the girandoles on the mantelpiece beaming full over
him—for he occupied an arm-chair drawn close to the fire,
and kept shrinking still nearer, as if he were cold, I com-
pared him with Mr. Rochester. I think (with deference be it
spoken) the contrast could not be much greater between a
sleek gander and a fierce falcon: between a meek sheep and
the rough-coated keen-eyed dog, its guardian.
He had spoken of Mr. Rochester as an old friend. A curi-
ous friendship theirs must have been: a pointed illustration,
indeed, of the old adage that ‘extremes meet.’
Two or three of the gentlemen sat near him, and I caught
at times scraps of their conversation across the room. At
first I could not make much sense of what I heard; for the
discourse of Louisa Eshton and Mary Ingram, who sat near-
er to me, confused the fragmentary sentences that reached
me at intervals. These last were discussing the stranger; they
both called him ‘a beautiful man.’ Louisa said he was ‘a love
of a creature,’ and she ‘adored him;’ and Mary instanced
his ‘pretty little mouth, and nice nose,’ as her ideal of the
charming.
‘And what a sweet-tempered forehead he has!’ cried Lou-
isa,—‘so smooth—none of those frowning irregularities I
dislike so much; and such a placid eye and smile!’
And then, to my great relief, Mr. Henry Lynn summoned
them to the other side of the room, to settle some point
about the deferred excursion to Hay Common.
I was now able to concentrate my attention on the group
by the fire, and I presently gathered that the new-comer
was called Mr. Mason; then I learned that he was but just
290 Jane Eyre

arrived in England, and that he came from some hot coun-
try: which was the reason, doubtless, his face was so sallow,
and that he sat so near the hearth, and wore a surtout in
the house. Presently the words Jamaica, Kingston, Span-
ish Town, indicated the West Indies as his residence; and
it was with no little surprise I gathered, ere long, that he
had there first seen and become acquainted with Mr. Roch-
ester. He spoke of his friend’s dislike of the burning heats,
the hurricanes, and rainy seasons of that region. I knew Mr.
Rochester had been a traveller: Mrs. Fairfax had said so; but
I thought the continent of Europe had bounded his wander-
ings; till now I had never heard a hint given of visits to more
distant shores.
I was pondering these things, when an incident, and a
somewhat unexpected one, broke the thread of my mus-
ings. Mr. Mason, shivering as some one chanced to open
the door, asked for more coal to be put on the fire, which
had burnt out its flame, though its mass of cinder still shone
hot and red. The footman who brought the coal, in going
out, stopped near Mr. Eshton’s chair, and said something
to him in a low voice, of which I heard only the words, ‘old
woman,’—‘quite troublesome.’
‘Tell her she shall be put in the stocks if she does not take
herself off,’ replied the magistrate.
‘No—stop!’ interrupted Colonel Dent. ‘Don’t send her
away, Eshton; we might turn the thing to account; better
consult the ladies.’ And speaking aloud, he continued—‘La-
dies, you talked of going to Hay Common to visit the gipsy
camp; Sam here says that one of the old Mother Bunches is

in the servants’ hall at this moment, and insists upon being
brought in before ‘the quality,’ to tell them their fortunes.
Would you like to see her?’
‘Surely, colonel,’ cried Lady Ingram, ‘you would not en-
courage such a low impostor? Dismiss her, by all means, at
once!’
‘But I cannot persuade her to go away, my lady,’ said the
footman; ‘nor can any of the servants: Mrs. Fairfax is with
her just now, entreating her to be gone; but she has taken a
chair in the chimney- comer, and says nothing shall stir her
from it till she gets leave to come in here.’
‘What does she want?’ asked Mrs. Eshton.
‘To tell the gentry their fortunes,’ she says, ma’am; and
she swears she must and will do it.’
‘What is she like?’ inquired the Misses Eshton, in a
breath.
‘A shockingly ugly old creature, miss; almost as black as
a crock.’
‘Why, she’s a real sorceress!’ cried Frederick Lynn. ‘Let us
have her in, of course.’
‘To be sure,’ rejoined his brother; ‘it would be a thousand
pities to throw away such a chance of fun.’
‘My dear boys, what are you thinking about?’ exclaimed
Mrs. Lynn.
‘I cannot possibly countenance any such inconsistent
proceeding,’ chimed in the Dowager Ingram.
‘Indeed, mama, but you can—and will,’ pronounced
the haughty voice of Blanche, as she turned round on the
piano-stool; where till now she had sat silent, apparently ex-
292 Jane Eyre

amining sundry sheets of music. ‘I have a curiosity to hear
my fortune told: therefore, Sam, order the beldame for-
ward.’
‘My darling Blanche! recollect—‘
‘I do—I recollect all you can suggest; and I must have my
will— quick, Sam!’
‘Yes—yes—yes!’ cried all the juveniles, both ladies and
gentlemen. ‘Let her come—it will be excellent sport!’
The footman still lingered. ‘She looks such a rough one,’
said he.
‘Go!’ ejaculated Miss Ingram, and the man went.
Excitement instantly seized the whole party: a running
fire of raillery and jests was proceeding when Sam re-
turned.
‘She won’t come now,’ said he. ‘She says it’s not her mis-
sion to appear before the ‘vulgar herd’ (them’s her words). I
must show her into a room by herself, and then those who
wish to consult her must go to her one by one.’
‘You see now, my queenly Blanche,’ began Lady Ingram,
‘she encroaches. Be advised, my angel girl—and—‘
‘Show her into the library, of course,’ cut in the ‘angel
girl.’ ‘It is not my mission to listen to her before the vulgar
herd either: I mean to have her all to myself. Is there a fire
in the library?’
‘Yes, ma’am—but she looks such a tinkler.’
‘Cease that chatter, blockhead! and do my bidding.’
Again Sam vanished; and mystery, animation, expecta-
tion rose to full flow once more.
‘She’s ready now,’ said the footman, as he reappeared.

‘She wishes to know who will be her first visitor.’
‘I think I had better just look in upon her before any of
the ladies go,’ said Colonel Dent.
‘Tell her, Sam, a gentleman is coming.’
Sam went and returned.
‘She says, sir, that she’ll have no gentlemen; they need not
trouble themselves to come near her; nor,’ he added, with
difficulty suppressing a titter, ‘any ladies either, except the
young, and single.’
‘By Jove, she has taste!’ exclaimed Henry Lynn.
Miss Ingram rose solemnly: ‘I go first,’ she said, in a
tone which might have befitted the leader of a forlorn hope,
mounting a breach in the van of his men.
‘Oh, my best! oh, my dearest! pause—reflect!’ was her
mama’s cry; but she swept past her in stately silence, passed
through the door which Colonel Dent held open, and we
heard her enter the library.
A comparative silence ensued. Lady Ingram thought it
‘le cas’ to wring her hands: which she did accordingly. Miss
Mary declared she felt, for her part, she never dared ven-
ture. Amy and Louisa Eshton tittered under their breath,
and looked a little frightened.
The minutes passed very slowly: fifteen were counted be-
fore the library-door again opened. Miss Ingram returned
to us through the arch.
Would she laugh? Would she take it as a joke? All eyes
met her with a glance of eager curiosity, and she met all eyes
with one of rebuff and coldness; she looked neither flurried
nor merry: she walked stiffly to her seat, and took it in si-
294 Jane Eyre

lence.
‘Well, Blanche?’ said Lord Ingram.
‘What did she say, sister?’ asked Mary.
‘What did you think? How do you feel?—Is she a real for-
tune- teller?’ demanded the Misses Eshton.
‘Now, now, good people,’ returned Miss Ingram, ‘don’t
press upon me. Really your organs of wonder and credu-
lity are easily excited: you seem, by the importance of you
all—my good mama included—ascribe to this matter, abso-
lutely to believe we have a genuine witch in the house, who
is in close alliance with the old gentleman. I have seen a
gipsy vagabond; she has practised in hackneyed fashion the
science of palmistry and told me what such people usually
tell. My whim is gratified; and now I think Mr. Eshton will
do well to put the hag in the stocks to-morrow morning, as
he threatened.’
Miss Ingram took a book, leant back in her chair, and
so declined further conversation. I watched her for nearly
half-an-hour: during all that time she never turned a page,
and her face grew momently darker, more dissatisfied, and
more sourly expressive of disappointment. She had obvi-
ously not heard anything to her advantage: and it seemed
to me, from her prolonged fit of gloom and taciturnity, that
she herself, notwithstanding her professed indifference, at-
tached undue importance to whatever revelations had been
made her.
Meantime, Mary Ingram, Amy and Louisa Eshton, de-
clared they dared not go alone; and yet they all wished to
go. A negotiation was opened through the medium of the

ambassador, Sam; and after much pacing to and fro, till, I
think, the said Sam’s calves must have ached with the exer-
cise, permission was at last, with great difficulty, extorted
from the rigorous Sibyl, for the three to wait upon her in a
body.
Their visit was not so still as Miss Ingram’s had been: we
heard hysterical giggling and little shrieks proceeding from
the library; and at the end of about twenty minutes they
burst the door open, and came running across the hall, as if
they were half-scared out of their wits.
‘I am sure she is something not right!’ they cried, one and
all. ‘She told us such things! She knows all about us!’ and
they sank breathless into the various seats the gentlemen
hastened to bring them.
Pressed for further explanation, they declared she had
told them of things they had said and done when they were
mere children; described books and ornaments they had in
their boudoirs at home: keepsakes that different relations
had presented to them. They affirmed that she had even di-
vined their thoughts, and had whispered in the ear of each
the name of the person she liked best in the world, and in-
formed them of what they most wished for.
Here the gentlemen interposed with earnest petitions to
be further enlightened on these two last-named points; but
they got only blushes, ejaculations, tremors, and titters, in
return for their importunity. The matrons, meantime, of-
fered vinaigrettes and wielded fans; and again and again
reiterated the expression of their concern that their warn-
ing had not been taken in time; and the elder gentlemen
296 Jane Eyre

laughed, and the younger urged their services on the agi-
tated fair ones.
In the midst of the tumult, and while my eyes and ears
were fully engaged in the scene before me, I heard a hem
close at my elbow: I turned, and saw Sam.
‘If you please, miss, the gipsy declares that there is an-
other young single lady in the room who has not been to
her yet, and she swears she will not go till she has seen all.
I thought it must be you: there is no one else for it. What
shall I tell her?’
‘Oh, I will go by all means,’ I answered: and I was glad
of the unexpected opportunity to gratify my much-excit-
ed curiosity. I slipped out of the room, unobserved by any
eye—for the company were gathered in one mass about the
trembling trio just returned—and I closed the door quietly
behind me.
‘If you like, miss,’ said Sam, ‘I’ll wait in the hall for you;
and if she frightens you, just call and I’ll come in.’
‘No, Sam, return to the kitchen: I am not in the least
afraid.’ Nor was I; but I was a good deal interested and ex-
cited.

Chapter XIX
T he library looked tranquil enough as I entered it, and

the Sibyl— if Sibyl she were—was seated snugly enough
in an easy-chair at the chimney-corner. She had on a red
cloak and a black bonnet: or rather, a broad-brimmed gipsy
hat, tied down with a striped handkerchief under her chin.
An extinguished candle stood on the table; she was bending
over the fire, and seemed reading in a little black book, like
a prayer-book, by the light of the blaze: she muttered the
words to herself, as most old women do, while she read; she
did not desist immediately on my entrance: it appeared she
wished to finish a paragraph.
I stood on the rug and warmed my hands, which were
rather cold with sitting at a distance from the drawing-room
fire. I felt now as composed as ever I did in my life: there was
nothing indeed in the gipsy’s appearance to trouble one’s
calm. She shut her book and slowly looked up; her hat-brim
partially shaded her face, yet I could see, as she raised it,
that it was a strange one. It looked all brown and black: elf-
locks bristled out from beneath a white band which passed
under her chin, and came half over her cheeks, or rather
jaws: her eye confronted me at once, with a bold and direct
gaze.
‘Well, and you want your fortune told?’ she said, in a
voice as decided as her glance, as harsh as her features.
298 Jane Eyre

‘I don’t care about it, mother; you may please yourself:
but I ought to warn you, I have no faith.’
‘It’s like your impudence to say so: I expected it of you; I
heard it in your step as you crossed the threshold.’
‘Did you? You’ve a quick ear.’
‘I have; and a quick eye and a quick brain.’
‘You need them all in your trade.’
‘I do; especially when I’ve customers like you to deal with.
Why don’t you tremble?’
‘I’m not cold.’
‘Why don’t you turn pale?’
‘I am not sick.’
‘Why don’t you consult my art?’
‘I’m not silly.’
The old crone ‘nichered’ a laugh under her bonnet and
bandage; she then drew out a short black pipe, and lighting
it began to smoke. Having indulged a while in this sedative,
she raised her bent body, took the pipe from her lips, and
while gazing steadily at the fire, said very deliberately—‘You
are cold; you are sick; and you are silly.’
‘Prove it,’ I rejoined.
‘I will, in few words. You are cold, because you are alone:
no contact strikes the fire from you that is in you. You are
sick; because the best of feelings, the highest and the sweet-
est given to man, keeps far away from you. You are silly,
because, suffer as you may, you will not beckon it to ap-
proach, nor will you stir one step to meet it where it waits
you.’
She again put her short black pipe to her lips, and re-

newed her smoking with vigour.
‘You might say all that to almost any one who you knew
lived as a solitary dependent in a great house.’
‘I might say it to almost any one: but would it be true of
almost any one?’
‘In my circumstances.’
‘Yes; just so, in YOUR circumstances: but find me anoth-
er precisely placed as you are.’
‘It would be easy to find you thousands.’
‘You could scarcely find me one. If you knew it, you are
peculiarly situated: very near happiness; yes, within reach of
it. The materials are all prepared; there only wants a move-
ment to combine them. Chance laid them somewhat apart;
let them be once approached and bliss results.’
‘I don’t understand enigmas. I never could guess a riddle
in my life.’
‘If you wish me to speak more plainly, show me your
palm.’
‘And I must cross it with silver, I suppose?’
‘To be sure.’
I gave her a shilling: she put it into an old stocking-foot
which she took out of her pocket, and having tied it round
and returned it, she told me to hold out my hand. I did. She
ached her face to the palm, and pored over it without touch-
ing it.
‘It is too fine,’ said she. ‘I can make nothing of such a
hand as that; almost without lines: besides, what is in a
palm? Destiny is not written there.’
‘I believe you,’ said I.
300 Jane Eyre

‘No,’ she continued, ‘it is in the face: on the forehead,
about the eyes, in the lines of the mouth. Kneel, and lift up
your head.’
‘Ah! now you are coming to reality,’ I said, as I obeyed her.
‘I shall begin to put some faith in you presently.’
I knelt within half a yard of her. She stirred the fire, so
that a ripple of light broke from the disturbed coal: the glare,
however, as she sat, only threw her face into deeper shadow:
mine, it illumined.
‘I wonder with what feelings you came to me to-night,’
she said, when she had examined me a while. ‘I wonder
what thoughts are busy in your heart during all the hours
you sit in yonder room with the fine people flitting before
you like shapes in a magic-lantern: just as little sympathetic
communion passing between you and them as if they were
really mere shadows of human forms, and not the actual
substance.’
‘I feel tired often, sleepy sometimes, but seldom sad.’
‘Then you have some secret hope to buoy you up and
please you with whispers of the future?’
‘Not I. The utmost I hope is, to save money enough out
of my earnings to set up a school some day in a little house
rented by myself.’
‘A mean nutriment for the spirit to exist on: and sitting in
that window-seat (you see I know your habits )—‘
‘You have learned them from the servants.’
‘Ah! you think yourself sharp. Well, perhaps I have: to
speak truth, I have an acquaintance with one of them, Mrs.
Poole—‘

I started to my feet when I heard the name.
‘You have—have you?’ thought I; ‘there is diablerie in the
business after all, then!’
‘Don’t be alarmed,’ continued the strange being; ‘she’s a
safe hand is Mrs. Poole: close and quiet; any one may repose
confidence in her. But, as I was saying: sitting in that win-
dow-seat, do you think of nothing but your future school?
Have you no present interest in any of the company who oc-
cupy the sofas and chairs before you? Is there not one face
you study? one figure whose movements you follow with at
least curiosity?’
‘I like to observe all the faces and all the figures.’
‘But do you never single one from the rest—or it may be,
two?’
‘I do frequently; when the gestures or looks of a pair seem
telling a tale: it amuses me to watch them.’
‘What tale do you like best to hear?’
‘Oh, I have not much choice! They generally run on the
same theme— courtship; and promise to end in the same
catastrophe—marriage.’
‘And do you like that monotonous theme?’
‘Positively, I don’t care about it: it is nothing to me.’
‘Nothing to you? When a lady, young and full of life and
health, charming with beauty and endowed with the gifts
of rank and fortune, sits and smiles in the eyes of a gentle-
man you—‘
‘I what?’
‘You know—and perhaps think well of.’
‘I don’t know the gentlemen here. I have scarcely inter-
302 Jane Eyre

changed a syllable with one of them; and as to thinking well
of them, I consider some respectable, and stately, and mid-
dle-aged, and others young, dashing, handsome, and lively:
but certainly they are all at liberty to be the recipients of
whose smiles they please, without my feeling disposed to
consider the transaction of any moment to me.’
‘You don’t know the gentlemen here? You have not ex-
changed a syllable with one of them? Will you say that of
the master of the house!’
‘He is not at home.’
‘A profound remark! A most ingenious quibble! He went
to Millcote this morning, and will be back here to-night or
to-morrow: does that circumstance exclude him from the
list of your acquaintance— blot him, as it were, out of ex-
istence?’
‘No; but I can scarcely see what Mr. Rochester has to do
with the theme you had introduced.’
‘I was talking of ladies smiling in the eyes of gentlemen;
and of late so many smiles have been shed into Mr. Roch-
ester’s eyes that they overflow like two cups filled above the
brim: have you never remarked that?’
‘Mr. Rochester has a right to enjoy the society of his
guests.’
‘No question about his right: but have you never observed
that, of all the tales told here about matrimony, Mr. Roch-
ester has been favoured with the most lively and the most
continuous?’
‘The eagerness of a listener quickens the tongue of a nar-
rator.’ I said this rather to myself than to the gipsy, whose

strange talk, voice, manner, had by this time wrapped me in
a kind of dream. One unexpected sentence came from her
lips after another, till I got involved in a web of mystifica-
tion; and wondered what unseen spirit had been sitting for
weeks by my heart watching its workings and taking record
of every pulse.
‘Eagerness of a listener!’ repeated she: ‘yes; Mr. Rochester
has sat by the hour, his ear inclined to the fascinating lips
that took such delight in their task of communicating; and
Mr. Rochester was so willing to receive and looked so grate-
ful for the pastime given him; you have noticed this?’
‘Grateful! I cannot remember detecting gratitude in his
face.’
‘Detecting! You have analysed, then. And what did you
detect, if not gratitude?’
I said nothing.
‘You have seen love: have you not?—and, looking forward,
you have seen him married, and beheld his bride happy?’
‘Humph! Not exactly. Your witch’s skill is rather at fault
sometimes.’
‘What the devil have you seen, then?’
‘Never mind: I came here to inquire, not to confess. Is it
known that Mr. Rochester is to be married?’
‘Yes; and to the beautiful Miss Ingram.’
‘Shortly?’
‘Appearances would warrant that conclusion: and, no
doubt (though, with an audacity that wants chastising out
of you, you seem to question it), they will be a superlatively
happy pair. He must love such a handsome, noble, witty, ac-
304 Jane Eyre

complished lady; and probably she loves him, or, if not his
person, at least his purse. I know she considers the Roch-
ester estate eligible to the last degree; though (God pardon
me!) I told her something on that point about an hour ago
which made her look wondrous grave: the corners of her
mouth fell half an inch. I would advise her blackaviced suit-
or to look out: if another comes, with a longer or clearer
rent-roll,—he’s dished—‘
‘But, mother, I did not come to hear Mr. Rochester’s for-
tune: I came to hear my own; and you have told me nothing
of it.’
‘Your fortune is yet doubtful: when I examined your face,
one trait contradicted another. Chance has meted you a
measure of happiness: that I know. I knew it before I came
here this evening. She has laid it carefully on one side for
you. I saw her do it. It depends on yourself to stretch out
your hand, and take it up: but whether you will do so, is the
problem I study. Kneel again on the rug.’
‘Don’t keep me long; the fire scorches me.’
I knelt. She did not stoop towards me, but only gazed,
leaning back in her chair. She began muttering,—
‘The flame flickers in the eye; the eye shines like dew; it
looks soft and full of feeling; it smiles at my jargon: it is
susceptible; impression follows impression through its clear
sphere; where it ceases to smile, it is sad; an unconscious las-
situde weighs on the lid: that signifies melancholy resulting
from loneliness. It turns from me; it will not suffer further
scrutiny; it seems to deny, by a mocking glance, the truth of
the discoveries I have already made,—to disown the charge

both of sensibility and chagrin: its pride and reserve only
confirm me in my opinion. The eye is favourable.
‘As to the mouth, it delights at times in laughter; it is
disposed to impart all that the brain conceives; though I
daresay it would be silent on much the heart experiences.
Mobile and flexible, it was never intended to be compressed
in the eternal silence of solitude: it is a mouth which should
speak much and smile often, and have human affection for
its interlocutor. That feature too is propitious.
‘I see no enemy to a fortunate issue but in the brow; and
that brow professes to say,—‘I can live alone, if self-respect,
and circumstances require me so to do. I need not sell my
soul to buy bliss. I have an inward treasure born with me,
which can keep me alive if all extraneous delights should be
withheld, or offered only at a price I cannot afford to give.’
The forehead declares, ‘Reason sits firm and holds the reins,
and she will not let the feelings burst away and hurry her
to wild chasms. The passions may rage furiously, like true
heathens, as they are; and the desires may imagine all sorts
of vain things: but judgment shall still have the last word
in every argument, and the casting vote in every decision.
Strong wind, earthquake-shock, and fire may pass by: but I
shall follow the guiding of that still small voice which inter-
prets the dictates of conscience.’
‘Well said, forehead; your declaration shall be respected.
I have formed my plans—right plans I deem them—and in
them I have attended to the claims of conscience, the coun-
sels of reason. I know how soon youth would fade and bloom
perish, if, in the cup of bliss offered, but one dreg of shame,
306 Jane Eyre

or one flavour of remorse were detected; and I do not want
sacrifice, sorrow, dissolution—such is not my taste. I wish
to foster, not to blight—to earn gratitude, not to wring tears
of blood—no, nor of brine: my harvest must be in smiles,
in endearments, in sweet— That will do. I think I rave in
a kind of exquisite delirium. I should wish now to protract
this moment ad infinitum; but I dare not. So far I have gov-
erned myself thoroughly. I have acted as I inwardly swore
I would act; but further might try me beyond my strength.
Rise, Miss Eyre: leave me; the play is played out’.’
Where was I? Did I wake or sleep? Had I been dreaming?
Did I dream still? The old woman’s voice had changed: her
accent, her gesture, and all were familiar to me as my own
face in a glass—as the speech of my own tongue. I got up,
but did not go. I looked; I stirred the fire, and I looked again:
but she drew her bonnet and her bandage closer about her
face, and again beckoned me to depart. The flame illumi-
nated her hand stretched out: roused now, and on the alert
for discoveries, I at once noticed that hand. It was no more
the withered limb of eld than my own; it was a rounded sup-
ple member, with smooth fingers, symmetrically turned; a
broad ring flashed on the little finger, and stooping forward,
I looked at it, and saw a gem I had seen a hundred times be-
fore. Again I looked at the face; which was no longer turned
from me—on the contrary, the bonnet was doffed, the ban-
dage displaced, the head advanced.
‘Well, Jane, do you know me?’ asked the familiar voice.
‘Only take off the red cloak, sir, and then—‘
‘But the string is in a knot—help me.’

‘Break it, sir.’
‘There, then—‘Off, ye lendings!’’ And Mr. Rochester
stepped out of his disguise.
‘Now, sir, what a strange idea!’
‘But well carried out, eh? Don’t you think so?’
‘With the ladies you must have managed well.’
‘But not with you?’
‘You did not act the character of a gipsy with me.’
‘What character did I act? My own?’
‘No; some unaccountable one. In short, I believe you have
been trying to draw me out—or in; you have been talking
nonsense to make me talk nonsense. It is scarcely fair, sir.’
‘Do you forgive me, Jane?’
‘I cannot tell till I have thought it all over. If, on reflection,
I find I have fallen into no great absurdity, I shall try to for-
give you; but it was not right.’
‘Oh, you have been very correct—very careful, very sen-
sible.’
I reflected, and thought, on the whole, I had. It was a
comfort; but, indeed, I had been on my guard almost from
the beginning of the interview. Something of masquerade
I suspected. I knew gipsies and fortune-tellers did not ex-
press themselves as this seeming old woman had expressed
herself; besides I had noted her feigned voice, her anxiety
to conceal her features. But my mind had been running on
Grace Poole—that living enigma, that mystery of mysteries,
as I considered her. I had never thought of Mr. Rochester.
‘Well,’ said he, ‘what are you musing about? What does
that grave smile signify?’
308 Jane Eyre

‘Wonder and self-congratulation, sir. I have your permis-
sion to retire now, I suppose?’
‘No; stay a moment; and tell me what the people in the
drawing-room yonder are doing.’
‘Discussing the gipsy, I daresay.’
‘Sit down!—Let me hear what they said about me.’
‘I had better not stay long, sir; it must be near eleven
o’clock. Oh, are you aware, Mr. Rochester, that a stranger
has arrived here since you left this morning?’
‘A stranger!—no; who can it be? I expected no one; is he
gone?’
‘No; he said he had known you long, and that he could
take the liberty of installing himself here till you returned.’
‘The devil he did! Did he give his name?’
‘His name is Mason, sir; and he comes from the West In-
dies; from Spanish Town, in Jamaica, I think.’
Mr. Rochester was standing near me; he had taken my
hand, as if to lead me to a chair. As I spoke he gave my wrist
a convulsive grip; the smile on his lips froze: apparently a
spasm caught his breath.
‘Mason!—the West Indies!’ he said, in the tone one might
fancy a speaking automaton to enounce its single words;
‘Mason!—the West Indies!’ he reiterated; and he went over
the syllables three times, growing, in the intervals of speak-
ing, whiter than ashes: he hardly seemed to know what he
was doing.
‘Do you feel ill, sir?’ I inquired.
‘Jane, I’ve got a blow; I’ve got a blow, Jane!’ He staggered.
‘Oh, lean on me, sir.’

‘Jane, you offered me your shoulder once before; let me
have it now.’
‘Yes, sir, yes; and my arm.’
He sat down, and made me sit beside him. Holding my
hand in both his own, he chafed it; gazing on me, at the
same time, with the most troubled and dreary look.
‘My little friend!’ said he, ‘I wish I were in a quiet island
with only you; and trouble, and danger, and hideous recol-
lections removed from me.’
‘Can I help you, sir?—I’d give my life to serve you.’
‘Jane, if aid is wanted, I’ll seek it at your hands; I prom-
ise you that.’
‘Thank you, sir. Tell me what to do,—I’ll try, at least, to
do it.’
‘Fetch me now, Jane, a glass of wine from the dining-
room: they will be at supper there; and tell me if Mason is
with them, and what he is doing.’
I went. I found all the party in the dining-room at sup-
per, as Mr. Rochester had said; they were not seated at
table,—the supper was arranged on the sideboard; each had
taken what he chose, and they stood about here and there
in groups, their plates and glasses in their hands. Every one
seemed in high glee; laughter and conversation were gen-
eral and animated. Mr. Mason stood near the fire, talking
to Colonel and Mrs. Dent, and appeared as merry as any
of them. I filled a wine-glass (I saw Miss Ingram watch me
frowningly as I did so: she thought I was taking a liberty, I
daresay), and I returned to the library.
Mr. Rochester’s extreme pallor had disappeared, and he
310 Jane Eyre

looked once more firm and stern. He took the glass from
my hand.
‘Here is to your health, ministrant spirit!’ he said. He
swallowed the contents and returned it to me. ‘What are
they doing, Jane?’
‘Laughing and talking, sir.’
‘They don’t look grave and mysterious, as if they had
heard something strange?’
‘Not at all: they are full of jests and gaiety.’
‘And Mason?’
‘He was laughing too.’
‘If all these people came in a body and spat at me, what
would you do, Jane?’
‘Turn them out of the room, sir, if I could.’
He half smiled. ‘But if I were to go to them, and they only
looked at me coldly, and whispered sneeringly amongst
each other, and then dropped off and left me one by one,
what then? Would you go with them?’
‘I rather think not, sir: I should have more pleasure in
staying with you.’
‘To comfort me?’
‘Yes, sir, to comfort you, as well as I could.’
‘And if they laid you under a ban for adhering to me?’
‘I, probably, should know nothing about their ban; and if
I did, I should care nothing about it.’
‘Then, you could dare censure for my sake?’
‘I could dare it for the sake of any friend who deserved
my adherence; as you, I am sure, do.’
‘Go back now into the room; step quietly up to Mason,

and whisper in his ear that Mr. Rochester is come and wish-
es to see him: show him in here and then leave me.’
‘Yes, sir.’
I did his behest. The company all stared at me as I passed
straight among them. I sought Mr. Mason, delivered the
message, and preceded him from the room: I ushered him
into the library, and then I went upstairs.
At a late hour, after I had been in bed some time, I heard
the visitors repair to their chambers: I distinguished Mr.
Rochester’s voice, and heard him say, ‘This way, Mason; this
is your room.’
He spoke cheerfully: the gay tones set my heart at ease. I
was soon asleep.
CHAPTER XX
I had forgotten to draw my curtain, which I usually did,
and also to let down my window-blind. The consequence
was, that when the moon, which was full and bright (for the
night was fine), came in her course to that space in the sky
opposite my casement, and looked in at me through the un-
veiled panes, her glorious gaze roused me. Awaking in the
dead of night, I opened my eyes on her disk—silver- white
and crystal clear. It was beautiful, but too solemn; I half
rose, and stretched my arm to draw the curtain.
Good God! What a cry!
The night—its silence—its rest, was rent in twain by a
savage, a sharp, a shrilly sound that ran from end to end of
Thornfield Hall.
My pulse stopped: my heart stood still; my stretched
arm was paralysed. The cry died, and was not renewed. In-
312 Jane Eyre

deed, whatever being uttered that fearful shriek could not
soon repeat it: not the widest-winged condor on the Andes
could, twice in succession, send out such a yell from the
cloud shrouding his eyrie. The thing delivering such utter-
ance must rest ere it could repeat the effort.
It came out of the third storey; for it passed overhead.
And overhead—yes, in the room just above my chamber-
ceiling—I now heard a struggle: a deadly one it seemed
from the noise; and a half-smothered voice shouted—
‘Help! help! help!’ three times rapidly.
‘Will no one come?’ it cried; and then, while the stagger-
ing and stamping went on wildly, I distinguished through
plank and plaster:-
‘Rochester! Rochester! for God’s sake, come!’
A chamber-door opened: some one ran, or rushed, along
the gallery. Another step stamped on the flooring above
and something fell; and there was silence.
I had put on some clothes, though horror shook all my
limbs; I issued from my apartment. The sleepers were all
aroused: ejaculations, terrified murmurs sounded in every
room; door after door unclosed; one looked out and an-
other looked out; the gallery filled. Gentlemen and ladies
alike had quitted their beds; and ‘Oh! what is it?’—‘Who is
hurt?’—‘What has happened?’—‘Fetch a light!’—‘Is it fire?’—
‘Are there robbers?’—‘Where shall we run?’ was demanded
confusedly on all hands. But for the moonlight they would
have been in complete darkness. They ran to and fro; they
crowded together: some sobbed, some stumbled: the confu-
sion was inextricable.

‘Where the devil is Rochester?’ cried Colonel Dent. ‘I
cannot find him in his bed.’
‘Here! here!’ was shouted in return. ‘Be composed, all of
you: I’m coming.’
And the door at the end of the gallery opened, and Mr.
Rochester advanced with a candle: he had just descended
from the upper storey. One of the ladies ran to him directly;
she seized his arm: it was Miss Ingram.
‘What awful event has taken place?’ said she. ‘Speak! let
us know the worst at once!’
‘But don’t pull me down or strangle me,’ he replied: for
the Misses Eshton were clinging about him now; and the
two dowagers, in vast white wrappers, were bearing down
on him like ships in full sail.
‘All’s right!—all’s right!’ he cried. ‘It’s a mere rehearsal of
Much Ado about Nothing. Ladies, keep off, or I shall wax
dangerous.’
And dangerous he looked: his black eyes darted sparks.
Calming himself by an effort, he added—
‘A servant has had the nightmare; that is all. She’s an ex-
citable, nervous person: she construed her dream into an
apparition, or something of that sort, no doubt; and has
taken a fit with fright. Now, then, I must see you all back
into your rooms; for, till the house is settled, she cannot be
looked after. Gentlemen, have the goodness to set the ladies
the example. Miss Ingram, I am sure you will not fail in
evincing superiority to idle terrors. Amy and Louisa, return
to your nests like a pair of doves, as you are. Mesdames’ (to
the dowagers), ‘you will take cold to a dead certainty, if you
314 Jane Eyre

stay in this chill gallery any longer.’
And so, by dint of alternate coaxing and commanding,
he contrived to get them all once more enclosed in their
separate dormitories. I did not wait to be ordered back to
mine, but retreated unnoticed, as unnoticed I had left it.
Not, however, to go to bed: on the contrary, I began and
dressed myself carefully. The sounds I had heard after the
scream, and the words that had been uttered, had proba-
bly been heard only by me; for they had proceeded from
the room above mine: but they assured me that it was not
a servant’s dream which had thus struck horror through
the house; and that the explanation Mr. Rochester had giv-
en was merely an invention framed to pacify his guests. I
dressed, then, to be ready for emergencies. When dressed,
I sat a long time by the window looking out over the silent
grounds and silvered fields and waiting for I knew not what.
It seemed to me that some event must follow the strange cry,
struggle, and call.
No: stillness returned: each murmur and movement
ceased gradually, and in about an hour Thornfield Hall was
again as hushed as a desert. It seemed that sleep and night
had resumed their empire. Meantime the moon declined:
she was about to set. Not liking to sit in the cold and dark-
ness, I thought I would lie down on my bed, dressed as I was.
I left the window, and moved with little noise across the
carpet; as I stooped to take off my shoes, a cautious hand
tapped low at the door.
‘Am I wanted?’ I asked.
‘Are you up?’ asked the voice I expected to hear, viz., my

master’s.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And dressed?’
‘Yes.’
‘Come out, then, quietly.’
I obeyed. Mr. Rochester stood in the gallery holding a
light.
‘I want you,’ he said: ‘come this way: take your time, and
make no noise.’
My slippers were thin: I could walk the matted floor as
softly as a cat. He glided up the gallery and up the stairs,
and stopped in the dark, low corridor of the fateful third
storey: I had followed and stood at his side.
‘Have you a sponge in your room?’ he asked in a whis-
per.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Have you any salts—volatile salts? Yes.’
‘Go back and fetch both.’
I returned, sought the sponge on the washstand, the salts
in my drawer, and once more retraced my steps. He still
waited; he held a key in his hand: approaching one of the
small, black doors, he put it in the lock; he paused, and ad-
dressed me again.
‘You don’t turn sick at the sight of blood?’
‘I think I shall not: I have never been tried yet.’
I felt a thrill while I answered him; but no coldness, and
no faintness.
‘Just give me your hand,’ he said: ‘it will not do to risk a
fainting fit.’
316 Jane Eyre

I put my fingers into his. ‘Warm and steady,’ was his re-
mark: he turned the key and opened the door.
I saw a room I remembered to have seen before, the day
Mrs. Fairfax showed me over the house: it was hung with
tapestry; but the tapestry was now looped up in one part,
and there was a door apparent, which had then been con-
cealed. This door was open; a light shone out of the room
within: I heard thence a snarling, snatching sound, almost
like a dog quarrelling. Mr. Rochester, putting down his can-
dle, said to me, ‘Wait a minute,’ and he went forward to the
inner apartment. A shout of laughter greeted his entrance;
noisy at first, and terminating in Grace Poole’s own goblin
ha! ha! SHE then was there. He made some sort of arrange-
ment without speaking, though I heard a low voice address
him: he came out and closed the door behind him.
‘Here, Jane!’ he said; and I walked round to the other side
of a large bed, which with its drawn curtains concealed a
considerable portion of the chamber. An easy-chair was
near the bed-head: a man sat in it, dressed with the excep-
tion of his coat; he was still; his head leant back; his eyes
were closed. Mr. Rochester held the candle over him; I
recognised in his pale and seemingly lifeless face—the
stranger, Mason: I saw too that his linen on one side, and
one arm, was almost soaked in blood.
‘Hold the candle,’ said Mr. Rochester, and I took it: he
fetched a basin of water from the washstand: ‘Hold that,’ said
he. I obeyed. He took the sponge, dipped it in, and moist-
ened the corpse-like face; he asked for my smelling-bottle,
and applied it to the nostrils. Mr. Mason shortly unclosed

his eyes; he groaned. Mr. Rochester opened the shirt of the
wounded man, whose arm and shoulder were bandaged: he
sponged away blood, trickling fast down.
‘Is there immediate danger?’ murmured Mr. Mason.
‘Pooh! No—a mere scratch. Don’t be so overcome, man:
bear up! I’ll fetch a surgeon for you now, myself: you’ll be
able to be removed by morning, I hope. Jane,’ he continued.
‘Sir?’
‘I shall have to leave you in this room with this gentle-
man, for an hour, or perhaps two hours: you will sponge the
blood as I do when it returns: if he feels faint, you will put
the glass of water on that stand to his lips, and your salts to
his nose. You will not speak to him on any pretext—and—
Richard, it will be at the peril of your life if you speak to her:
open your lips—agitate yourselfand I’ll not answer for the
consequences.’
Again the poor man groaned; he looked as if he dared
not move; fear, either of death or of something else, ap-
peared almost to paralyse him. Mr. Rochester put the now
bloody sponge into my hand, and I proceeded to use it as
he had done. He watched me a second, then saying, ‘Re-
member!—No conversation,’ he left the room. I experienced
a strange feeling as the key grated in the lock, and the sound
of his retreating step ceased to be heard.
Here then I was in the third storey, fastened into one of
its mystic cells; night around me; a pale and bloody specta-
cle under my eyes and hands; a murderess hardly separated
from me by a single door: yes—that was appalling—the rest
I could bear; but I shuddered at the thought of Grace Poole
318 Jane Eyre

bursting out upon me.
I must keep to my post, however. I must watch this
ghastly countenance—these blue, still lips forbidden to
unclose—these eyes now shut, now opening, now wander-
ing through the room, now fixing on me, and ever glazed
with the dulness of horror. I must dip my hand again and
again in the basin of blood and water, and wipe away the
trickling gore. I must see the light of the unsnuffed can-
dle wane on my employment; the shadows darken on the
wrought, antique tapestry round me, and grow black under
the hangings of the vast old bed, and quiver strangely over
the doors of a great cabinet opposite—whose front, divided
into twelve panels, bore, in grim design, the heads of the
twelve apostles, each enclosed in its separate panel as in a
frame; while above them at the top rose an ebon crucifix
and a dying Christ.
According as the shifting obscurity and flickering gleam
hovered here or glanced there, it was now the bearded phy-
sician, Luke, that bent his brow; now St. John’s long hair
that waved; and anon the devilish face of Judas, that grew
out of the panel, and seemed gathering life and threaten-
ing a revelation of the arch-traitor—of Satan himself—in
his subordinate’s form.
Amidst all this, I had to listen as well as watch: to listen
for the movements of the wild beast or the fiend in yonder
side den. But since Mr. Rochester’s visit it seemed spell-
bound: all the night I heard but three sounds at three long
intervals,—a step creak, a momentary renewal of the snarl-
ing, canine noise, and a deep human groan.

Then my own thoughts worried me. What crime was this
that lived incarnate in this sequestered mansion, and could
neither be expelled nor subdued by the owner?—what mys-
tery, that broke out now in fire and now in blood, at the
deadest hours of night? What creature was it, that, masked
in an ordinary woman’s face and shape, uttered the voice,
now of a mocking demon, and anon of a carrion-seeking
bird of prey?
And this man I bent over—this commonplace, quiet
stranger—how had he become involved in the web of hor-
ror? and why had the Fury flown at him? What made him
seek this quarter of the house at an untimely season, when
he should have been asleep in bed? I had heard Mr. Roch-
ester assign him an apartment below—what brought him
here! And why, now, was he so tame under the violence
or treachery done him? Why did he so quietly submit to
the concealment Mr. Rochester enforced? Why DID Mr.
Rochester enforce this concealment? His guest had been
outraged, his own life on a former occasion had been hid-
eously plotted against; and both attempts he smothered in
secrecy and sank in oblivion! Lastly, I saw Mr. Mason was
submissive to Mr. Rochester; that the impetuous will of the
latter held complete sway over the inertness of the former:
the few words which had passed between them assured me
of this. It was evident that in their former intercourse, the
passive disposition of the one had been habitually influ-
enced by the active energy of the other: whence then had
arisen Mr. Rochester’s dismay when he heard of Mr. Ma-
son’s arrival? Why had the mere name of this unresisting
320 Jane Eyre

individual—whom his word now sufficed to control like a
child—fallen on him, a few hours since, as a thunderbolt
might fall on an oak?
Oh! I could not forget his look and his paleness when he
whispered: ‘Jane, I have got a blow—I have got a blow, Jane.’
I could not forget how the arm had trembled which he rest-
ed on my shoulder: and it was no light matter which could
thus bow the resolute spirit and thrill the vigorous frame of
Fairfax Rochester.
‘When will he come? When will he come?’ I cried in-
wardly, as the night lingered and lingered—as my bleeding
patient drooped, moaned, sickened: and neither day nor aid
arrived. I had, again and again, held the water to Mason’s
white lips; again and again offered him the stimulating
salts: my efforts seemed ineffectual: either bodily or men-
tal suffering, or loss of blood, or all three combined, were
fast prostrating his strength. He moaned so, and looked so
weak, wild, and lost, I feared he was dying; ant I might not
even speak to him.
The candle, wasted at last, went out; as it expired, I per-
ceived streaks of grey light edging the window curtains:
dawn was then approaching. Presently I heard Pilot bark
far below, out of his distant kennel in the courtyard: hope
revived. Nor was it unwarranted: in five minutes more the
grating key, the yielding lock, warned me my watch was re-
lieved. It could not have lasted more than two hours: many
a week has seemed shorter.
Mr. Rochester entered, and with him the surgeon he had
been to fetch.

‘Now, Carter, be on the alert,’ he said to this last: ‘I give
you but half-an-hour for dressing the wound, fastening the
bandages, getting the patient downstairs and all.’
‘But is he fit to move, sir?’
‘No doubt of it; it is nothing serious; he is nervous, his
spirits must be kept up. Come, set to work.’
Mr. Rochester drew back the thick curtain, drew up the
holland blind, let in all the daylight he could; and I was sur-
prised and cheered to see how far dawn was advanced: what
rosy streaks were beginning to brighten the east. Then he
approached Mason, whom the surgeon was already han-
dling.
‘Now, my good fellow, how are you?’ he asked.
‘She’s done for me, I fear,’ was the faint reply.
‘Not a whit!—courage! This day fortnight you’ll hardly
be a pin the worse of it: you’ve lost a little blood; that’s all
Carter, assure him there’s no danger.’
‘I can do that conscientiously,’ said Carter, who had now
undone the bandages; ‘only I wish I could have got here
sooner: he would not have bled so much—but how is this?
The flesh on the shoulder is torn as well as cut. This wound
was not done with a knife: there have been teeth here!’
‘She bit me,’ he murmured. ‘She worried me like a tigress,
when Rochester got the knife from her.’
‘You should not have yielded: you should have grappled
with her at once,’ said Mr. Rochester.
‘But under such circumstances, what could one do?’ re-
turned Mason. ‘Oh, it was frightful!’ he added, shuddering.
‘And I did not expect it: she looked so quiet at first.’
322 Jane Eyre

‘I warned you,’ was his friend’s answer; ‘I said—be on
your guard when you go near her. Besides, you might have
waited till to- morrow, and had me with you: it was mere
folly to attempt the interview to-night, and alone.’
‘I thought I could have done some good.’
‘You thought! you thought! Yes, it makes me impatient to
hear you: but, however, you have suffered, and are likely to
suffer enough for not taking my advice; so I’ll say no more.
Carter—hurry!—hurry! The sun will soon rise, and I must
have him off.’
‘Directly, sir; the shoulder is just bandaged. I must look
to this other wound in the arm: she has had her teeth here
too, I think.’
‘She sucked the blood: she said she’d drain my heart,’
said Mason.
I saw Mr. Rochester shudder: a singularly marked ex-
pression of disgust, horror, hatred, warped his countenance
almost to distortion; but he only said—
‘Come, be silent, Richard, and never mind her gibberish:
don’t repeat it.’
‘I wish I could forget it,’ was the answer.
‘You will when you are out of the country: when you get
back to Spanish Town, you may think of her as dead and
buried—or rather, you need not think of her at all.’
‘Impossible to forget this night!’
‘It is not impossible: have some energy, man. You thought
you were as dead as a herring two hours since, and you are
all alive and talking now. There!—Carter has done with you
or nearly so; I’ll make you decent in a trice. Jane’ (he turned

to me for the first time since his re-entrance), ‘take this key:
go down into my bedroom, and walk straight forward into
my dressing-room: open the top drawer of the wardrobe
and take out a clean shirt and neck- handkerchief: bring
them here; and be nimble.’
I went; sought the repository he had mentioned, found
the articles named, and returned with them.
‘Now,’ said he, ‘go to the other side of the bed while I or-
der his toilet; but don’t leave the room: you may be wanted
again.’
I retired as directed.
‘Was anybody stirring below when you went down, Jane?’
inquired Mr. Rochester presently.
‘No, sir; all was very still.’
‘We shall get you off cannily, Dick: and it will be bet-
ter, both for your sake, and for that of the poor creature in
yonder. I have striven long to avoid exposure, and I should
not like it to come at last. Here, Carter, help him on with
his waist-coat. Where did you leave your furred cloak? You
can’t travel a mile without that, I know, in this damned cold
climate. In your room?—Jane, run down to Mr. Mason’s
room,—the one next mine,—and fetch a cloak you will see
there.’
Again I ran, and again returned, bearing an immense
mantle lined and edged with fur.
‘Now, I’ve another errand for you,’ said my untiring mas-
ter; ‘you must away to my room again. What a mercy you
are shod with velvet, Jane!—a clod-hopping messenger
would never do at this juncture. You must open the middle
324 Jane Eyre

drawer of my toilet-table and take out a little phial and a
little glass you will find there,—quick!’
I flew thither and back, bringing the desired vessels.
‘That’s well! Now, doctor, I shall take the liberty of ad-
ministering a dose myself, on my own responsibility. I got
this cordial at Rome, of an Italian charlatan—a fellow you
would have kicked, Carter. It is not a thing to be used in-
discriminately, but it is good upon occasion: as now, for
instance. Jane, a little water.’
He held out the tiny glass, and I half filled it from the wa-
ter- bottle on the washstand.
‘That will do;—now wet the lip of the phial.’
I did so; he measured twelve drops of a crimson liquid,
and presented it to Mason.
‘Drink, Richard: it will give you the heart you lack, for
an hour or so.’
‘But will it hurt me?—is it inflammatory?’
‘Drink! drink! drink!’
Mr. Mason obeyed, because it was evidently useless to
resist. He was dressed now: he still looked pale, but he was
no longer gory and sullied. Mr. Rochester let him sit three
minutes after he had swallowed the liquid; he then took his
arm—
‘Now I am sure you can get on your feet,’ he said—‘try.’
The patient rose.
‘Carter, take him under the other shoulder. Be of good
cheer, Richard; step out—that’s it!’
‘I do feel better,’ remarked Mr. Mason.
‘I am sure you do. Now, Jane, trip on before us away to

the backstairs; unbolt the side-passage door, and tell the
driver of the post-chaise you will see in the yard—or just
outside, for I told him not to drive his rattling wheels over
the pavement—to be ready; we are coming: and, Jane, if any
one is about, come to the foot of the stairs and hem.’
It was by this time half-past five, and the sun was on the
point of rising; but I found the kitchen still dark and silent.
The side- passage door was fastened; I opened it with as little
noise as possible: all the yard was quiet; but the gates stood
wide open, and there was a post-chaise, with horses ready
harnessed, and driver seated on the box, stationed outside.
I approached him, and said the gentlemen were coming; he
nodded: then I looked carefully round and listened. The
stillness of early morning slumbered everywhere; the cur-
tains were yet drawn over the servants’ chamber windows;
little birds were just twittering in the blossom-blanched or-
chard trees, whose boughs drooped like white garlands over
the wall enclosing one side of the yard; the carriage horses
stamped from time to time in their closed stables: all else
was still.
The gentlemen now appeared. Mason, supported by Mr.
Rochester and the surgeon, seemed to walk with tolerable
ease: they assisted him into the chaise; Carter followed.
‘Take care of him,’ said Mr. Rochester to the latter, ‘and
keep him at your house till he is quite well: I shall ride over
in a day or two to see how he gets on. Richard, how is it with
you?’
‘The fresh air revives me, Fairfax.’
‘Leave the window open on his side, Carter; there is no
326 Jane Eyre

wind—good- bye, Dick.’
‘Fairfax—‘
‘Well what is it?’
‘Let her be taken care of; let her be treated as tenderly as
may be: let her—‘ he stopped and burst into tears.
‘I do my best; and have done it, and will do it,’ was the
answer: he shut up the chaise door, and the vehicle drove
away.
‘Yet would to God there was an end of all this!’ added Mr.
Rochester, as he closed and barred the heavy yard-gates.
This done, he moved with slow step and abstracted air
towards a door in the wall bordering the orchard. I, suppos-
ing he had done with me, prepared to return to the house;
again, however, I heard him call ‘Jane!’ He had opened feel
portal and stood at it, waiting for me.
‘Come where there is some freshness, for a few moments,’
he said; ‘that house is a mere dungeon: don’t you feel it so?’
‘It seems to me a splendid mansion, sir.’
‘The glamour of inexperience is over your eyes,’ he an-
swered; ‘and you see it through a charmed medium: you
cannot discern that the gilding is slime and the silk draper-
ies cobwebs; that the marble is sordid slate, and the polished
woods mere refuse chips and scaly bark. Now HERE’ (he
pointed to the leafy enclosure we had entered) ‘all is real,
sweet, and pure.’
He strayed down a walk edged with box, with apple trees,
pear trees, and cherry trees on one side, and a border on the
other full of all sorts of old-fashioned flowers, stocks, sweet-
williams, primroses, pansies, mingled with southernwood,

sweet-briar, and various fragrant herbs. They were fresh
now as a succession of April showers and gleams, followed
by a lovely spring morning, could make them: the sun was
just entering the dappled east, and his light illumined the
wreathed and dewy orchard trees and shone down the quiet
walks under them.
‘Jane, will you have a flower?’
He gathered a half-blown rose, the first on the bush, and
offered it to me.
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Do you like this sunrise, Jane? That sky with its high and
light clouds which are sure to melt away as the day waxes
warm—this placid and balmly atmosphere?’
‘I do, very much.’
‘You have passed a strange night, Jane.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And it has made you look pale—were you afraid when I
left you alone with Mason?’
‘I was afraid of some one coming out of the inner room.’
‘But I had fastened the door—I had the key in my pocket:
I should have been a careless shepherd if I had left a lamb—
my pet lamb—so near a wolf’s den, unguarded: you were
safe.’
‘Will Grace Poole live here still, sir?’
‘Oh yes! don’t trouble your head about her—put the thing
out of your thoughts.’
‘Yet it seems to me your life is hardly secure while she
stays.’
‘Never fear—I will take care of myself.’
328 Jane Eyre

‘Is the danger you apprehended last night gone by now,
sir?’
‘I cannot vouch for that till Mason is out of England: nor
even then. To live, for me, Jane, is to stand on a crater-crust
which may crack and spue fire any day.’
‘But Mr. Mason seems a man easily led. Your influence,
sir, is evidently potent with him: he will never set you at de-
fiance or wilfully injure you.’
‘Oh, no! Mason will not defy me; nor, knowing it, will he
hurt me— but, unintentionally, he might in a moment, by
one careless word, deprive me, if not of life, yet for ever of
happiness.’
‘Tell him to be cautious, sir: let him know what you fear,
and show him how to avert the danger.’
He laughed sardonically, hastily took my hand, and as
hastily threw it from him.
‘If I could do that, simpleton, where would the danger
be? Annihilated in a moment. Ever since I have known Ma-
son, I have only had to say to him ‘Do that,’ and the thing
has been done. But I cannot give him orders in this case: I
cannot say ‘Beware of harming me, Richard;’ for it is im-
perative that I should keep him ignorant that harm to me is
possible. Now you look puzzled; and I will puzzle you fur-
ther. You are my little friend, are you not?’
‘I like to serve you, sir, and to obey you in all that is
right.’
‘Precisely: I see you do. I see genuine contentment in your
gait and mien, your eye and face, when you are helping me
and pleasing me—working for me, and with me, in, as you

characteristically say, ‘ALL THAT IS RIGHT:’ for if I bid
you do what you thought wrong, there would be no light-
footed running, no neat-handed alacrity, no lively glance
and animated complexion. My friend would then turn to
me, quiet and pale, and would say, ‘No, sir; that is impos-
sible: I cannot do it, because it is wrong;’ and would become
immutable as a fixed star. Well, you too have power over
me, and may injure me: yet I dare not show you where I am
vulnerable, lest, faithful and friendly as you are, you should
transfix me at once.’
‘If you have no more to fear from Mr. Mason than you
have from me, sir, you are very safe.’
‘God grant it may be so! Here, Jane, is an arbour; sit
down.’
The arbour was an arch in the wall, lined with ivy; it con-
tained a rustic seat. Mr. Rochester took it, leaving room,
however, for me: but I stood before him.
‘Sit,’ he said; ‘the bench is long enough for two. You don’t
hesitate to take a place at my side, do you? Is that wrong,
Jane?’
I answered him by assuming it: to refuse would, I felt,
have been unwise.
‘Now, my little friend, while the sun drinks the dew—
while all the flowers in this old garden awake and expand,
and the birds fetch their young ones’ breakfast out of the
Thornfield, and the early bees do their first spell of work—
I’ll put a case to you, which you must endeavour to suppose
your own: but first, look at me, and tell me you are at ease,
and not fearing that I err in detaining you, or that you err
330 Jane Eyre

in staying.’
‘No, sir; I am content.’
‘Well then, Jane, call to aid your fancy:- suppose you were
no longer a girl well reared and disciplined, but a wild boy
indulged from childhood upwards; imagine yourself in a re-
mote foreign land; conceive that you there commit a capital
error, no matter of what nature or from what motives, but
one whose consequences must follow you through life and
taint all your existence. Mind, I don’t say a CRIME; I am
not speaking of shedding of blood or any other guilty act,
which might make the perpetrator amenable to the law: my
word is ERROR. The results of what you have done become
in time to you utterly insupportable; you take measures to
obtain relief: unusual measures, but neither unlawful nor
culpable. Still you are miserable; for hope has quitted you
on the very confines of life: your sun at noon darkens in an
eclipse, which you feel will not leave it till the time of set-
ting. Bitter and base associations have become the sole food
of your memory: you wander here and there, seeking rest in
exile: happiness in pleasure—I mean in heartless, sensual
pleasure—such as dulls intellect and blights feeling. Heart-
weary and soul-withered, you come home after years of
voluntary banishment: you make a new acquaintance—how
or where no matter: you find in this stranger much of the
good and bright qualities which you have sought for twenty
years, and never before encountered; and they are all fresh,
healthy, without soil and without taint. Such society revives,
regenerates: you feel better days come back—higher wishes,
purer feelings; you desire to recommence your life, and to

spend what remains to you of days in a way more worthy
of an immortal being. To attain this end, are you justified
in overleaping an obstacle of custom—a mere conventional
impediment which neither your conscience sanctifies nor
your judgment approves?’
He paused for an answer: and what was I to say? Oh, for
some good spirit to suggest a judicious and satisfactory re-
sponse! Vain aspiration! The west wind whispered in the
ivy round me; but no gentle Ariel borrowed its breath as a
medium of speech: the birds sang in the tree-tops; but their
song, however sweet, was inarticulate.
Again Mr. Rochester propounded his query:
‘Is the wandering and sinful, but now rest-seeking and
repentant, man justified in daring the world’s opinion, in
order to attach to him for ever this gentle, gracious, genial
stranger, thereby securing his own peace of mind and re-
generation of life?’
‘Sir,’ I answered, ‘a wanderer’s repose or a sinner’s refor-
mation should never depend on a fellow-creature. Men and
women die; philosophers falter in wisdom, and Christians
in goodness: if any one you know has suffered and erred, let
him look higher than his equals for strength to amend and
solace to heal.’
‘But the instrument—the instrument! God, who does the
work, ordains the instrument. I have myself—I tell it you
without parable—been a worldly, dissipated, restless man;
and I believe I have found the instrument for my cure in—‘
He paused: the birds went on carolling, the leaves lightly
rustling. I almost wondered they did not check their songs
332 Jane Eyre

and whispers to catch the suspended revelation; but they
would have had to wait many minutes—so long was the si-
lence protracted. At last I looked up at the tardy speaker: he
was looking eagerly at me.
‘Little friend,’ said he, in quite a changed tone—while his
face changed too, losing all its softness and gravity, and be-
coming harsh and sarcastic—‘you have noticed my tender
penchant for Miss Ingram: don’t you think if I married her
she would regenerate me with a vengeance?’
He got up instantly, went quite to the other end of the
walk, and when he came back he was humming a tune.
‘Jane, Jane,’ said he, stopping before me, ‘you are quite
pale with your vigils: don’t you curse me for disturbing your
rest?’
‘Curse you? No, sir.’
‘Shake hands in confirmation of the word. What cold fin-
gers! They were warmer last night when I touched them at
the door of the mysterious chamber. Jane, when will you
watch with me again?’
‘Whenever I can be useful, sir.’
‘For instance, the night before I am married! I am sure I
shall not be able to sleep. Will you promise to sit up with me
to bear me company? To you I can talk of my lovely one: for
now you have seen her and know her.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘She’s a rare one, is she not, Jane?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘A strapper—a real strapper, Jane: big, brown, and bux-
om; with hair just such as the ladies of Carthage must have

had. Bless me! there’s Dent and Lynn in the stables! Go in
by the shrubbery, through that wicket.’
As I went one way, he went another, and I heard him in
the yard, saying cheerfully—
‘Mason got the start of you all this morning; he was gone
before sunrise: I rose at four to see him off.’
334 Jane Eyre

Chapter XXI
P resentiments are strange things! and so are sympathies;

and so are signs; and the three combined make one
mystery to which humanity has not yet found the key. I nev-
er laughed at presentiments in my life, because I have had
strange ones of my own. Sympathies, I believe, exist (for in-
stance, between far-distant, long-absent, wholly estranged
relatives asserting, notwithstanding their alienation, the
unity of the source to which each traces his origin) whose
workings baffle mortal comprehension. And signs, for aught
we know, may be but the sympathies of Nature with man.
When I was a little girl, only six years old, I one night
heard Bessie Leaven say to Martha Abbot that she had been
dreaming about a little child; and that to dream of children
was a sure sign of trouble, either to one’s self or one’s kin.
The saying might have worn out of my memory, had not a
circumstance immediately followed which served indelibly
to fix it there. The next day Bessie was sent for home to the
deathbed of her little sister.
Of late I had often recalled this saying and this incident;
for during the past week scarcely a night had gone over my
couch that had not brought with it a dream of an infant,
which I sometimes hushed in my arms, sometimes dandled
on my knee, sometimes watched playing with daisies on a
lawn, or again, dabbling its hands in running water. It was

a wailing child this night, and a laughing one the next: now
it nestled close to me, and now it ran from me; but what-
ever mood the apparition evinced, whatever aspect it wore,
it failed not for seven successive nights to meet me the mo-
ment I entered the land of slumber.
I did not like this iteration of one idea—this strange
recurrence of one image, and I grew nervous as bedtime
approached and the hour of the vision drew near. It was
from companionship with this baby- phantom I had been
roused on that moonlight night when I heard the cry; and it
was on the afternoon of the day following I was summoned
downstairs by a message that some one wanted me in Mrs.
Fairfax’s room. On repairing thither, I found a man waiting
for me, having the appearance of a gentleman’s servant: he
was dressed in deep mourning, and the hat he held in his
hand was surrounded with a crape band.
‘I daresay you hardly remember me, Miss,’ he said, rising
as I entered; ‘but my name is Leaven: I lived coachman with
Mrs. Reed when you were at Gateshead, eight or nine years
since, and I live there still.’
‘Oh, Robert! how do you do? I remember you very well:
you used to give me a ride sometimes on Miss Georgiana’s
bay pony. And how is Bessie? You are married to Bessie?’
‘Yes, Miss: my wife is very hearty, thank you; she brought
me another little one about two months since—we have
three now—and both mother and child are thriving.’
‘And are the family well at the house, Robert?’
‘I am sorry I can’t give you better news of them, Miss:
they are very badly at present—in great trouble.’
336 Jane Eyre

‘I hope no one is dead,’ I said, glancing at his black
dress. He too looked down at the crape round his hat and
replied—
‘Mr. John died yesterday was a week, at his chambers in
London.’
‘Mr. John?’
‘Yes.’
‘And how does his mother bear it?’
‘Why, you see, Miss Eyre, it is not a common mishap: his
life has been very wild: these last three years he gave himself
up to strange ways, and his death was shocking.’
‘I heard from Bessie he was not doing well.’
‘Doing well! He could not do worse: he ruined his health
and his estate amongst the worst men and the worst women.
He got into debt and into jail: his mother helped him out
twice, but as soon as he was free he returned to his old com-
panions and habits. His head was not strong: the knaves he
lived amongst fooled him beyond anything I ever heard. He
came down to Gateshead about three weeks ago and want-
ed missis to give up all to him. Missis refused: her means
have long been much reduced by his extravagance; so he
went back again, and the next news was that he was dead.
How he died, God knows!—they say he killed himself.’
I was silent: the things were frightful. Robert Leaven
resumed—
‘Missis had been out of health herself for some time: she
had got very stout, but was not strong with it; and the loss
of money and fear of poverty were quite breaking her down.
The information about Mr. John’s death and the manner of

it came too suddenly: it brought on a stroke. She was three
days without speaking; but last Tuesday she seemed rather
better: she appeared as if she wanted to say something, and
kept making signs to my wife and mumbling. It was only
yesterday morning, however, that Bessie understood she
was pronouncing your name; and at last she made out the
words, ‘Bring Jane—fetch Jane Eyre: I want to speak to her.’
Bessie is not sure whether she is in her right mind, or means
anything by the words; but she told Miss Reed and Miss
Georgiana, and advised them to send for you. The young
ladies put it off at first; but their mother grew so restless,
and said, ‘Jane, Jane,’ so many times, that at last they con-
sented. I left Gateshead yesterday: and if you can get ready,
Miss, I should like to take you back with me early to- mor-
row morning.’
‘Yes, Robert, I shall be ready: it seems to me that I ought
to go.’
‘I think so too, Miss. Bessie said she was sure you would
not refuse: but I suppose you will have to ask leave before
you can get off?’
‘Yes; and I will do it now;’ and having directed him to the
servants’ hall, and recommended him to the care of John’s
wife, and the attentions of John himself, I went in search of
Mr. Rochester.
He was not in any of the lower rooms; he was not in the
yard, the stables, or the grounds. I asked Mrs. Fairfax if she
had seen him;yes: she believed he was playing billiards with
Miss Ingram. To the billiard-room I hastened: the click of
balls and the hum of voices resounded thence; Mr. Roches-
338 Jane Eyre

ter, Miss Ingram, the two Misses Eshton, and their admirers,
were all busied in the game. It required some courage to dis-
turb so interesting a party; my errand, however, was one I
could not defer, so I approached the master where he stood
at Miss Ingram’s side. She turned as I drew near, and looked
at me haughtily: her eyes seemed to demand, ‘What can the
creeping creature want now?’ and when I said, in a low voice,
‘Mr. Rochester,’ she made a movement as if tempted to or-
der me away. I remember her appearance at the moment—it
was very graceful and very striking: she wore a morning
robe of sky-blue crape; a gauzy azure scarf was twisted in
her hair. She had been all animation with the game, and
irritated pride did not lower the expression of her haughty
lineaments.
‘Does that person want you?’ she inquired of Mr. Roch-
ester; and Mr. Rochester turned to see who the ‘person’ was.
He made a curious grimace—one of his strange and equivo-
cal demonstrations—threw down his cue and followed me
from the room.
‘Well, Jane?’ he said, as he rested his back against the
schoolroom door, which he had shut.
‘If you please, sir, I want leave of absence for a week or
two.’
‘What to do?—where to go?’
‘To see a sick lady who has sent for me.’
‘What sick lady?—where does she live?’
‘At Gateshead; in—shire.’
‘-shire? That is a hundred miles off! Who may she be that
sends for people to see her that distance?’

‘Her name is Reed, sir—Mrs. Reed.’
‘Reed of Gateshead? There was a Reed of Gateshead, a
magistrate.’
‘It is his widow, sir.’
‘And what have you to do with her? How do you know
her?’
‘Mr. Reed was my uncle—my mother’s brother.’
‘The deuce he was! You never told me that before: you al-
ways said you had no relations.’
‘None that would own me, sir. Mr. Reed is dead, and his
wife cast me off.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I was poor, and burdensome, and she disliked
me.’
‘But Reed left children?—you must have cousins? Sir
George Lynn was talking of a Reed of Gateshead yesterday,
who, he said, was one of the veriest rascals on town; and In-
gram was mentioning a Georgiana Reed of the same place,
who was much admired for her beauty a season or two ago
in London.’
‘John Reed is dead, too, sir: he ruined himself and half-
ruined his family, and is supposed to have committed
suicide. The news so shocked his mother that it brought on
an apoplectic attack.’
‘And what good can you do her? Nonsense, Jane! I would
never think of running a hundred miles to see an old lady
who will, perhaps, be dead before you reach her: besides,
you say she cast you off.’
‘Yes, sir, but that is long ago; and when her circumstances
340 Jane Eyre

were very different: I could not be easy to neglect her wishes
now.’
‘How long will you stay?’
‘As short a time as possible, sir.’
‘Promise me only to stay a week—‘
‘I had better not pass my word: I might be obliged to
break it.’
‘At all events you WILL come back: you will not be in-
duced under any pretext to take up a permanent residence
with her?’
‘Oh, no! I shall certainly return if all be well.’
‘And who goes with you? You don’t travel a hundred
miles alone.’
‘No, sir, she has sent her coachman.’
‘A person to be trusted?’
‘Yes, sir, he has lived ten years in the family.’
Mr. Rochester meditated. ‘When do you wish to go?’
‘Early to-morrow morning, sir.’
‘Well, you must have some money; you can’t travel with-
out money, and I daresay you have not much: I have given
you no salary yet. How much have you in the world, Jane?’
he asked, smiling.
I drew out my purse; a meagre thing it was. ‘Five shil-
lings, sir.’ He took the purse, poured the hoard into his
palm, and chuckled over it as if its scantiness amused him.
Soon he produced his pocket- book: ‘Here,’ said he, offering
me a note; it was fifty pounds, and he owed me but fifteen. I
told him I had no change.
‘I don’t want change; you know that. Take your wages.’

I declined accepting more than was my due. He scowled
at first; then, as if recollecting something, he said—
‘Right, right! Better not give you all now: you would, per-
haps, stay away three months if you had fifty pounds. There
are ten; is it not plenty?’
‘Yes, sir, but now you owe me five.’
‘Come back for it, then; I am your banker for forty
pounds.’
‘Mr. Rochester, I may as well mention another matter of
business to you while I have the opportunity.’
‘Matter of business? I am curious to hear it.’
‘You have as good as informed me, sir, that you are going
shortly to be married?’
‘Yes; what then?’
‘In that case, sir, Adele ought to go to school: I am sure
you will perceive the necessity of it.’
‘To get her out of my bride’s way, who might otherwise
walk over her rather too emphatically? There’s sense in the
suggestion; not a doubt of it. Adele, as you say, must go to
school; and you, of course, must march straight to—the
devil?’
‘I hope not, sir; but I must seek another situation some-
where.’
‘In course!’ he exclaimed, with a twang of voice and a
distortion of features equally fantastic and ludicrous. He
looked at me some minutes.
‘And old Madam Reed, or the Misses, her daughters, will
be solicited by you to seek a place, I suppose?’
‘No, sir; I am not on such terms with my relatives as
342 Jane Eyre

would justify me in asking favours of them—but I shall ad-
vertise.’
‘You shall walk up the pyramids of Egypt!’ he growled.
‘At your peril you advertise! I wish I had only offered you a
sovereign instead of ten pounds. Give me back nine pounds,
Jane; I’ve a use for it.’
‘And so have I, sir,’ I returned, putting my hands and my
purse behind me. ‘I could not spare the money on any ac-
count.’
‘Little niggard!’ said he, ‘refusing me a pecuniary request!
Give me five pounds, Jane.’
‘Not five shillings, sir; nor five pence.’
‘Just let me look at the cash.’
‘No, sir; you are not to be trusted.’
‘Jane!’
‘Sir?’
‘Promise me one thing.’
‘I’ll promise you anything, sir, that I think I am likely to
perform.’
‘Not to advertise: and to trust this quest of a situation to
me. I’ll find you one in time.’
‘I shall be glad so to do, sir, if you, in your turn, will
promise that I and Adele shall be both safe out of the house
before your bride enters it.’
‘Very well! very well! I’ll pledge my word on it. You go
to- morrow, then?’
‘Yes, sir; early.’
‘Shall you come down to the drawing-room after din-
ner?’

‘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
344 Jane Eyre

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 min-
utes 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 in-
sisted 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 bus-
tling 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 de-
sired me to sit still, quite in her old peremptory tones. I
must be served at the fireside, she said; and she placed be-
fore me a little round stand with my cup and a plate of toast,
absolutely as she used to accommodate me with some pri-
vately 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 gentle-
man, and if I liked him. I told her he 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 com-
pany 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 re-
stored to me my bonnet, &c., 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 Janu-
ary, I had left a hostile roof with a desperate and embittered
heart—a sense of outlawry and almost of reprobationto
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
346 Jane Eyre

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. Glanc-
ing 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, al-
most as tall as Miss Ingram—very thin too, with a sallow
face and severe mien. There was something ascetic in her
look, which 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 or-
nament 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 Geor-
giana 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 moth-
er—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 lit-
tle 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 sun-
dry side-glances that measured me from head to foot—now
traversing the folds of my drab merino pelisse, and now lin-
gering 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, non-
chalance 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 be-
tween my cousins, I was surprised to find how easy I felt
under the total neglect of the one and the semi-sarcastic at-
348 Jane Eyre

tentions 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 excit-
ed 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 Geor-
giana, 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 poor-
ly: 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 lon-
ger 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 re-
solved 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 soft-
ly 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
armchair, 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-ex-
pecting 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 prompt-
ings of rage and aversion. I had left this woman in bitterness
and hate, and I came back to her now with no other emo-
350 Jane Eyre

tion 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 of-
ten 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 na-
tures 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 determina-
tion 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 in-
tention 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 taken place in her once vigorous frame. Turn-
ing restlessly, she drew the bedclothes round her; my elbow,
resting on a corner of the quilt, fixed it down: she was at
once irritated.
‘Sit up!’ said she; ‘don’t annoy me with holding the clothes
fast. Are you Jane Eyre?’
‘I am Jane Eyre.’
‘I have had more trouble with that child than any one
would believe. Such a burden to be left on my hands—and
so much annoyance as she caused me, daily and hourly,
with her incomprehensible disposition, and her sudden
starts of temper, and her continual, unnatural watchings of
one’s movements! I declare she talked to me once like some-
thing mad, or like a fiend—no child ever spoke or looked as
she did; I was glad to get her away from the house. What did
they do with her at Lowood? The fever broke out there, and
many of the pupils died. She, however, did not die: but I said
352 Jane Eyre

she did—I wish she had died!’
‘A strange wish, Mrs. Reed; why do you hate her so?’
‘I had a dislike to her mother always; for she was my
husband’s only sister, and a great favourite with him: he op-
posed the family’s disowning her when she made her low
marriage; and when news came of her death, he wept like a
simpleton. He would send for the baby; though I entreated
him rather to put it out to nurse and pay for its maintenance.
I hated it the first time I set my eyes on it—a sickly, whining,
pining thing! It would wail in its cradle all night long—not
screaming heartily like any other child, but whimpering
and moaning. Reed pitied it; and he used to nurse it and
notice it as if it had been his own: more, indeed, than he
ever noticed his own at that age. He would try to make my
children friendly to the little beggar: the darlings could not
bear it, and he was angry with them when they showed their
dislike. In his last illness, he had it brought continually to
his bedside; and but an hour before he died, he bound me by
vow to keep the creature. I would as soon have been charged
with a pauper brat out of a workhouse: but he was weak,
naturally weak. John does not at all resemble his father, and
I am glad of it: John is like me and like my brothers—he
is quite a Gibson. Oh, I wish he would cease tormenting
me with letters for money? I have no more money to give
him: we are getting poor. I must send away half the ser-
vants and shut up part of the house; or let it off. I can never
submit to do that—yet how are we to get on? Two-thirds of
my income goes in paying the interest of mortgages. John
gambles dreadfully, and always loses—poor boy! He is beset

by sharpers: John is sunk and degraded—his look is fright-
ful—I feel ashamed for him when I see him.’
She was getting much excited. ‘I think I had better leave
her now,’ said I to Bessie, who stood on the other side of the
bed.
‘Perhaps you had, Miss: but she often talks in this way to-
wards night—in the morning she is calmer.’
I rose. ‘Stop!’ exclaimed Mrs. Reed, ‘there is another thing
I wished to say. He threatens me—he continually threatens
me with his own death, or mine: and I dream sometimes
that I see him laid out with a great wound in his throat, or
with a swollen and blackened face. I am come to a strange
pass: I have heavy troubles. What is to be done? How is the
money to be had?’
Bessie now endeavoured to persuade her to take a seda-
tive draught: she succeeded with difficulty. Soon after, Mrs.
Reed grew more composed, and sank into a dozing state. I
then left her.
More than ten days elapsed before I had again any
conversation with her. She continued either delirious or
lethargic; and the doctor forbade everything which could
painfully excite her. Meantime, I got on as well as I could
with Georgiana and Eliza. They were very cold, indeed, at
first. Eliza would sit half the day sewing, reading, or writing,
and scarcely utter a word either to me or her sister. Georgi-
ana would chatter nonsense to her canary bird by the hour,
and take no notice of me. But I was determined not to seem
at a loss for occupation or amusement: I had brought my
drawing materials with me, and they served me for both.
354 Jane Eyre

Provided with a case of pencils, and some sheets of pa-
per, I used to take a seat apart from them, near the window,
and busy myself in sketching fancy vignettes, represent-
ing any scene that happened momentarily to shape itself in
the ever-shifting kaleidoscope of imagination: a glimpse of
sea between two rocks; the rising moon, and a ship cross-
ing its disk; a group of reeds and water-flags, and a naiad’s
head, crowned with lotus-flowers, rising out of them; an elf
sitting in a hedge-sparrow’s nest, under a wreath of haw-
thorn- bloom
One morning I fell to sketching a face: what sort of a
face it was to be, I did not care or know. I took a soft black
pencil, gave it a broad point, and worked away. Soon I had
traced on the paper a broad and prominent forehead and a
square lower outline of visage: that contour gave me plea-
sure; my fingers proceeded actively to fill it with features.
Strongly-marked horizontal eyebrows must be traced un-
der that brow; then followed, naturally, a well-defined nose,
with a straight ridge and full nostrils; then a flexible- look-
ing mouth, by no means narrow; then a firm chin, with a
decided cleft down the middle of it: of course, some black
whiskers were wanted, and some jetty hair, tufted on the
temples, and waved above the forehead. Now for the eyes:
I had left them to the last, because they required the most
careful working. I drew them large; I shaped them well: the
eyelashes I traced long and sombre; the irids lustrous and
large. ‘Good! but not quite the thing,’ I thought, as I sur-
veyed the effect: ‘they want more force and spirit;’ and I
wrought the shades blacker, that the lights might flash more

brilliantly—a happy touch or two secured success. There, I
had a friend’s face under my gaze; and what did it signify
that those young ladies turned their backs on me? I looked
at it; I smiled at the speaking likeness: I was absorbed and
content.
‘Is that a portrait of some one you know?’ asked Eliza,
who had approached me unnoticed. I responded that it was
merely a fancy head, and hurried it beneath the other sheets.
Of course, I lied: it was, in fact, a very faithful representa-
tion of Mr. Rochester. But what was that to her, or to any
one but myself? Georgiana also advanced to look. The oth-
er drawings pleased her much, but she called that ‘an ugly
man.’ They both seemed surprised at my skill. I offered to
sketch their portraits; and each, in turn, sat for a pencil out-
line. Then Georgiana produced her album. I promised to
contribute a water-colour drawing: this put her at once into
good humour. She proposed a walk in the grounds. Before
we had been out two hours, we were deep in a confiden-
tial conversation: she had favoured me with a description
of the brilliant winter she had spent in London two sea-
sons ago—of the admiration she had there excited— the
attention she had received; and I even got hints of the titled
conquest she had made. In the course of the afternoon and
evening these hints were enlarged on: various soft conver-
sations were reported, and sentimental scenes represented;
and, in short, a volume of a novel of fashionable life was
that day improvised by her for my benefit. The communica-
tions were renewed from day to day: they always ran on the
same theme—herself, her loves, and woes. It was strange
356 Jane Eyre

she never once adverted either to her mother’s illness, or her
brother’s death, or the present gloomy state of the family
prospects. Her mind seemed wholly taken up with reminis-
cences of past gaiety, and aspirations after dissipations to
come. She passed about five minutes each day in her moth-
er’s sick-room, and no more.
Eliza still spoke little: she had evidently no time to talk. I
never saw a busier person than she seemed to be; yet it was
difficult to say what she did: or rather, to discover any re-
sult of her diligence. She had an alarm to call her up early.
I know not how she occupied herself before breakfast, but
after that meal she divided her time into regular portions,
and each hour had its allotted task. Three times a day she
studied a little book, which I found, on inspection, was a
Common Prayer Book. I asked her once what was the great
attraction of that volume, and she said, ‘the Rubric.’ Three
hours she gave to stitching, with gold thread, the border of
a square crimson cloth, almost large enough for a carpet.
In answer to my inquiries after the use of this article, she
informed me it was a covering for the altar of a new church
lately erected near Gateshead. Two hours she devoted to her
diary; two to working by herself in the kitchen-garden; and
one to the regulation of her accounts. She seemed to want
no company; no conversation. I believe she was happy in
her way: this routine sufficed for her; and nothing annoyed
her so much as the occurrence of any incident which forced
her to vary its clockwork regularity.
She told me one evening, when more disposed to be
communicative than usual, that John’s conduct, and the

threatened ruin of the family, had been a source of pro-
found affliction to her: but she had now, she said, settled
her mind, and formed her resolution. Her own fortune she
had taken care to secure; and when her mother died—and
it was wholly improbable, she tranquilly remarked, that she
should either recover or linger long—she would execute a
long-cherished project: seek a retirement where punctual
habits would be permanently secured from disturbance,
and place safe barriers between herself and a frivolous
world. I asked if Georgiana would accompany her.
‘Of course not. Georgiana and she had nothing in com-
mon: they never had had. She would not be burdened with
her society for any consideration. Georgiana should take
her own course; and she, Eliza, would take hers.’
Georgiana, when not unburdening her heart to me,
spent most of her time in lying on the sofa, fretting about
the dulness of the house, and wishing over and over again
that her aunt Gibson would send her an invitation up to
town. ‘It would be so much better,’ she said, ‘if she could
only get out of the way for a month or two, till all was over.’
I did not ask what she meant by ‘all being over,’ but I sup-
pose she referred to the expected decease of her mother and
the gloomy sequel of funeral rites. Eliza generally took no
more notice of her sister’s indolence and complaints than if
no such murmuring, lounging object had been before her.
One day, however, as she put away her account-book and
unfolded her embroidery, she suddenly took her up thus—
‘Georgiana, a more vain and absurd animal than you was
certainly never allowed to cumber the earth. You had no
358 Jane Eyre

right to be born, for you make no use of life. Instead of liv-
ing for, in, and with yourself, as a reasonable being ought,
you seek only to fasten your feebleness on some other per-
son’s strength: if no one can be found willing to burden her
or himself with such a fat, weak, puffy, useless thing, you
cry out that you are ill-treated, neglected, miserable. Then,
too, existence for you must be a scene of continual change
and excitement, or else the world is a dungeon: you must be
admired, you must be courted, you must be flattered—you
must have music, dancing, and society—or you languish,
you die away. Have you no sense to devise a system which
will make you independent of all efforts, and all wills, but
your own? Take one day; share it into sections; to each sec-
tion apportion its task: leave no stray unemployed quarters
of an hour, ten minutes, five minutes—include all; do each
piece of business in its turn with method, with rigid reg-
ularity. The day will close almost before you are aware it
has begun; and you are indebted to no one for helping you
to get rid of one vacant moment: you have had to seek no
one’s company, conversation, sympathy, forbearance; you
have lived, in short, as an independent being ought to do.
Take this advice: the first and last I shall offer you; then you
will not want me or any one else, happen what may. Neglect
it—go on as heretofore, craving, whining, and idling—and
suffer the results of your idiocy, however bad and insu-
perable they may be. I tell you this plainly; and listen: for
though I shall no more repeat what I am now about to say,
I shall steadily act on it. After my mother’s death, I wash
my hands of you: from the day her coffin is carried to the

vault in Gateshead Church, you and I will be as separate as
if we had never known each other. You need not think that
because we chanced to be born of the same parents, I shall
suffer you to fasten me down by even the feeblest claim: I
can tell you this—if the whole human race, ourselves ex-
cepted, were swept away, and we two stood alone on the
earth, I would leave you in the old world, and betake myself
to the new.’
She closed her lips.
‘You might have spared yourself the trouble of deliver-
ing that tirade,’ answered Georgiana. ‘Everybody knows
you are the most selfish, heartless creature in existence:
and I know your spiteful hatred towards me: I have had a
specimen of it before in the trick you played me about Lord
Edwin Vere: you could not bear me to be raised above you,
to have a title, to be received into circles where you dare
not show your face, and so you acted the spy and informer,
and ruined my prospects for ever.’ Georgiana took out her
handkerchief and blew her nose for an hour afterwards; Eli-
za sat cold, impassable, and assiduously industrious.
True, generous feeling is made small account of by some,
but here were two natures rendered, the one intolerably ac-
rid, the other despicably savourless for the want of it. Feeling
without judgment is a washy draught indeed; but judgment
untempered by feeling is too bitter and husky a morsel for
human deglutition.
It was a wet and windy afternoon: Georgiana had fall-
en asleep on the sofa over the perusal of a novel; Eliza was
gone to attend a saint’s-day service at the new church—for
360 Jane Eyre

in matters of religion she was a rigid formalist: no weather
ever prevented the punctual discharge of what she consid-
ered her devotional duties; fair or foul, she went to church
thrice every Sunday, and as often on week- days as there
were prayers.
I bethought myself to go upstairs and see how the dy-
ing woman sped, who lay there almost unheeded: the very
servants paid her but a remittent attention: the hired nurse,
being little looked after, would slip out of the room when-
ever she could. Bessie was faithful; but she had her own
family to mind, and could only come occasionally to the
hall. I found the sick-room unwatched, as I had expected:
no nurse was there; the patient lay still, and seemingly le-
thargic; her livid face sunk in the pillows: the fire was dying
in the grate. I renewed the fuel, re-arranged the bedclothes,
gazed awhile on her who could not now gaze on me, and
then I moved away to the window.
The rain beat strongly against the panes, the wind blew
tempestuously: ‘One lies there,’ I thought, ‘who will soon be
beyond the war of earthly elements. Whither will that spir-
it—now struggling to quit its material tenement—flit when
at length released?’
In pondering the great mystery, I thought of Helen
Burns, recalled her dying words—her faith—her doctrine
of the equality of disembodied souls. I was still listening
in thought to her well- remembered tones—still picturing
her pale and spiritual aspect, her wasted face and sublime
gaze, as she lay on her placid deathbed, and whispered her
longing to be restored to her divine Father’s bosom— when

a feeble voice murmured from the couch behind: ‘Who is
that?’
I knew Mrs. Reed had not spoken for days: was she reviv-
ing? I went up to her.
‘It is I, Aunt Reed.’
‘Who—I?’ was her answer. ‘Who are you?’ looking at me
with surprise and a sort of alarm, but still not wildly. ‘You
are quite a stranger to me—where is Bessie?’
‘She is at the lodge, aunt.’
‘Aunt,’ she repeated. ‘Who calls me aunt? You are not one
of the Gibsons; and yet I know you—that face, and the eyes
and forehead, are quiet familiar to me: you are like—why,
you are like Jane Eyre!’
I said nothing: I was afraid of occasioning some shock by
declaring my identity.
‘Yet,’ said she, ‘I am afraid it is a mistake: my thoughts
deceive me. I wished to see Jane Eyre, and I fancy a like-
ness where none exists: besides, in eight years she must be
so changed.’ I now gently assured her that I was the person
she supposed and desired me to be: and seeing that I was
understood, and that her senses were quite collected, I ex-
plained how Bessie had sent her husband to fetch me from
Thornfield.
‘I am very ill, I know,’ she said ere long. ‘I was trying to
turn myself a few minutes since, and find I cannot move a
limb. It is as well I should ease my mind before I die: what
we think little of in health, burdens us at such an hour as
the present is to me. Is the nurse here? or is there no one in
the room but you?’
362 Jane Eyre

I assured her we were alone.
‘Well, I have twice done you a wrong which I regret now.
One was in breaking the promise which I gave my husband
to bring you up as my own child; the other—‘ she stopped.
‘After all, it is of no great importance, perhaps,’ she mur-
mured to herself: ‘and then I may get better; and to humble
myself so to her is painful.’
She made an effort to alter her position, but failed: her
face changed; she seemed to experience some inward sensa-
tion—the precursor, perhaps, of the last pang.
‘Well, I must get it over. Eternity is before me: I had bet-
ter tell her.—Go to my dressing-case, open it, and take out a
letter you will see there.’
I obeyed her directions. ‘Read the letter,’ she said.
It was short, and thus conceived:-
‘Madam,—Will you have the goodness to send me the
address of my niece, Jane Eyre, and to tell me how she is?
It is my intention to write shortly and desire her to come
to me at Madeira. Providence has blessed my endeavours
to secure a competency; and as I am unmarried and child-
less, I wish to adopt her during my life, and bequeath her
at my death whatever I may have to leave.—I am, Madam,
&c., &c.,
‘JOHN EYRE, Madeira.’
It was dated three years back.
‘Why did I never hear of this?’ I asked.
‘Because I disliked you too fixedly and thoroughly ever
to lend a hand in lifting you to prosperity. I could not forget
your conduct to me, Jane—the fury with which you once

turned on me; the tone in which you declared you abhorred
me the worst of anybody in the world; the unchildlike look
and voice with which you affirmed that the very thought of
me made you sick, and asserted that I had treated you with
miserable cruelty. I could not forget my own sensations
when you thus started up and poured out the venom of your
mind: I felt fear as if an animal that I had struck or pushed
had looked up at me with human eyes and cursed me in a
man’s voice.— Bring me some water! Oh, make haste!’
‘Dear Mrs. Reed,’ said I, as I offered her the draught she
required, ‘think no more of all this, let it pass away from
your mind. Forgive me for my passionate language: I was a
child then; eight, nine years have passed since that day.’
She heeded nothing of what I said; but when she had
tasted the water and drawn breath, she went on thus—
‘I tell you I could not forget it; and I took my revenge: for
you to be adopted by your uncle, and placed in a state of
ease and comfort, was what I could not endure. I wrote to
him; I said I was sorry for his disappointment, but Jane Eyre
was dead: she had died of typhus fever at Lowood. Now act
as you please: write and contradict my assertion—expose
my falsehood as soon as you like. You were born, I think, to
be my torment: my last hour is racked by the recollection of
a deed which, but for you, I should never have been tempted
to commit.’
‘If you could but be persuaded to think no more of it,
aunt, and to regard me with kindness and forgiveness.’
‘You have a very bad disposition,’ said she, ‘and one to
this day I feel it impossible to understand: how for nine
364 Jane Eyre

years you could be patient and quiescent under any treat-
ment, and in the tenth break out all fire and violence, I can
never comprehend.’
‘My disposition is not so bad as you think: I am passion-
ate, but not vindictive. Many a time, as a little child, I should
have been glad to love you if you would have let me; and I
long earnestly to be reconciled to you now: kiss me, aunt.’
I approached my cheek to her lips: she would not touch
it. She said I oppressed her by leaning over the bed, and
again demanded water. As I laid her down—for I raised her
and supported her on my arm while she drank—I covered
her ice-cold and clammy hand with mine: the feeble fingers
shrank from my touch—the glazing eyes shunned my gaze.
‘Love me, then, or hate me, as you will,’ I said at last, ‘you
have my full and free forgiveness: ask now for God’s, and
be at peace.’
Poor, suffering woman! it was too late for her to make
now the effort to change her habitual frame of mind: living,
she had ever hated me—dying, she must hate me still.
The nurse now entered, and Bessie followed. I yet lin-
gered half-an- hour longer, hoping to see some sign of
amity: but she gave none. She was fast relapsing into stupor;
nor did her mind again rally: at twelve o’clock that night
she died. I was not present to close her eyes, nor were ei-
ther of her daughters. They came to tell us the next morning
that all was over. She was by that time laid out. Eliza and I
went to look at her: Georgiana, who had burst out into loud
weeping, said she dared not go. There was stretched Sarah
Reed’s once robust and active frame, rigid and still: her eye

of flint was covered with its cold lid; her brow and strong
traits wore yet the impress of her inexorable soul. A strange
and solemn object was that corpse to me. I gazed on it with
gloom and pain: nothing soft, nothing sweet, nothing pity-
ing, or hopeful, or subduing did it inspire; only a grating
anguish for HER woes—not MY loss—and a sombre tear-
less dismay at the fearfulness of death in such a form.
Eliza surveyed her parent calmly. After a silence of some
minutes she observed—
‘With her constitution she should have lived to a good old
age: her life was shortened by trouble.’ And then a spasm
constricted her mouth for an instant: as it passed away she
turned and left the room, and so did I. Neither of us had
dropt a tear.
366 Jane Eyre

Chapter XXII
M r. Rochester had given me but one week’s leave of ab-

sence: yet a month elapsed before I quitted Gateshead.
I wished to leave immediately after the funeral, but Geor-
giana entreated me to stay till she could get off to London,
whither she was now at last invited by her uncle, Mr. Gib-
son, who had come down to direct his sister’s interment and
settle the family affairs. Georgiana said she dreaded being
left alone with Eliza; from her she got neither sympathy in
her dejection, support in her fears, nor aid in her prepara-
tions; so I bore with her feeble-minded wailings and selfish
lamentations as well as I could, and did my best in sew-
ing for her and packing her dresses. It is true, that while I
worked, she would idle; and I thought to myself, ‘If you and
I were destined to live always together, cousin, we would
commence matters on a different footing. I should not set-
tle tamely down into being the forbearing party; I should
assign you your share of labour, and compel you to accom-
plish it, or else it should be left undone: I should insist, also,
on your keeping some of those drawling, half-insincere
complaints hushed in your own breast. It is only because
our connection happens to be very transitory, and comes at
a peculiarly mournful season, that I consent thus to render
it so patient and compliant on my part.’
At last I saw Georgiana off; but now it was Eliza’s turn

to request me to stay another week. Her plans required all
her time and attention, she said; she was about to depart for
some unknown bourne; and all day long she stayed in her
own room, her door bolted within, filling trunks, emptying
drawers, burning papers, and holding no communication
with any one. She wished me to look after the house, to see
callers, and answer notes of condolence.
One morning she told me I was at liberty. ‘And,’ she
added, ‘I am obliged to you for your valuable services and
discreet conduct! There is some difference between living
with such an one as you and with Georgiana: you perform
your own part in life and burden no one. To-morrow,’ she
continued, ‘I set out for the Continent. I shall take up my
abode in a religious house near Lisle—a nunnery you would
call it; there I shall be quiet and unmolested. I shall devote
myself for a time to the examination of the Roman Catho-
lic dogmas, and to a careful study of the workings of their
system: if I find it to be, as I half suspect it is, the one best
calculated to ensure the doing of all things decently and in
order, I shall embrace the tenets of Rome and probably take
the veil.’
I neither expressed surprise at this resolution nor at-
tempted to dissuade her from it. ‘The vocation will fit you
to a hair,’ I thought: ‘much good may it do you!’
When we parted, she said: ‘Good-bye, cousin Jane Eyre;
I wish you well: you have some sense.’
I then returned: ‘You are not without sense, cousin Eliza;
but what you have, I suppose, in another year will be walled
up alive in a French convent. However, it is not my business,
368 Jane Eyre

and so it suits you, I don’t much care.’
‘You are in the right,’ said she; and with these words we
each went our separate way. As I shall not have occasion to
refer either to her or her sister again, I may as well mention
here, that Georgiana made an advantageous match with a
wealthy worn-out man of fashion, and that Eliza actual-
ly took the veil, and is at this day superior of the convent
where she passed the period of her novitiate, and which she
endowed with her fortune.
How people feel when they are returning home from an
absence, long or short, I did not know: I had never experi-
enced the sensation. I had known what it was to come back
to Gateshead when a child after a long walk, to be scolded
for looking cold or gloomy; and later, what it was to come
back from church to Lowood, to long for a plenteous meal
and a good fire, and to be unable to get either. Neither of
these returnings was very pleasant or desirable: no magnet
drew me to a given point, increasing in its strength of at-
traction the nearer I came. The return to Thornfield was yet
to be tried.
My journey seemed tedious—very tedious: fifty miles
one day, a night spent at an inn; fifty miles the next day.
During the first twelve hours I thought of Mrs. Reed in her
last moments; I saw her disfigured and discoloured face,
and heard her strangely altered voice. I mused on the fu-
neral day, the coffin, the hearse, the black train of tenants
and servants—few was the number of relatives—the gaping
vault, the silent church, the solemn service. Then I thought
of Eliza and Georgiana; I beheld one the cynosure of a ball-

room, the other the inmate of a convent cell; and I dwelt
on and analysed their separate peculiarities of person and
character. The evening arrival at the great town of—scat-
tered these thoughts; night gave them quite another turn:
laid down on my traveller’s bed, I left reminiscence for an-
ticipation.
I was going back to Thornfield: but how long was I to
stay there? Not long; of that I was sure. I had heard from
Mrs. Fairfax in the interim of my absence: the party at the
hall was dispersed; Mr. Rochester had left for London three
weeks ago, but he was then expected to return in a fortnight.
Mrs. Fairfax surmised that he was gone to make arrange-
ments for his wedding, as he had talked of purchasing a
new carriage: she said the idea of his marrying Miss Ingram
still seemed strange to her; but from what everybody said,
and from what she had herself seen, she could no longer
doubt that the event would shortly take place. ‘You would
be strangely incredulous if you did doubt it,’ was my mental
comment. ‘I don’t doubt it.’
The question followed, ‘Where was I to go?’ I dreamt of
Miss Ingram all the night: in a vivid morning dream I saw
her closing the gates of Thornfield against me and pointing
me out another road; and Mr. Rochester looked on with his
arms folded—smiling sardonically, as it seemed, at both her
and me.
I had not notified to Mrs. Fairfax the exact day of my
return; for I did not wish either car or carriage to meet me
at Millcote. I proposed to walk the distance quietly by my-
self; and very quietly, after leaving my box in the ostler’s
370 Jane Eyre

care, did I slip away from the George Inn, about six o’clock
of a June evening, and take the old road to Thornfield: a
road which lay chiefly through fields, and was now little fre-
quented.
It was not a bright or splendid summer evening, though
fair and soft: the haymakers were at work all along the
road; and the sky, though far from cloudless, was such as
promised well for the future: its blue—where blue was vis-
ible—was mild and settled, and its cloud strata high and
thin. The west, too, was warm: no watery gleam chilled it—
it seemed as if there was a fire lit, an altar burning behind
its screen of marbled vapour, and out of apertures shone a
golden redness.
I felt glad as the road shortened before me: so glad that I
stopped once to ask myself what that joy meant: and to re-
mind reason that it was not to my home I was going, or to
a permanent resting-place, or to a place where fond friends
looked out for me and waited my arrival. ‘Mrs. Fairfax
will smile you a calm welcome, to be sure,’ said I; ‘and lit-
tle Adele will clap her hands and jump to see you: but you
know very well you are thinking of another than they, and
that he is not thinking of you.’
But what is so headstrong as youth? What so blind as
inexperience? These affirmed that it was pleasure enough
to have the privilege of again looking on Mr. Rochester,
whether he looked on me or not; and they added—‘Hasten!
hasten! be with him while you may: but a few more days
or weeks, at most, and you are parted from him for ever!’
And then I strangled a new-born agony—a deformed thing

which I could not persuade myself to own and rear—and
ran on.
They are making hay, too, in Thornfield meadows: or
rather, the labourers are just quitting their work, and re-
turning home with their rakes on their shoulders, now, at
the hour I arrive. I have but a field or two to traverse, and
then I shall cross the road and reach the gates. How full the
hedges are of roses! But I have no time to gather any; I want
to be at the house. I passed a tall briar, shooting leafy and
flowery branches across the path; I see the narrow stile with
stone steps; and I see—Mr. Rochester sitting there, a book
and a pencil in his hand; he is writing.
Well, he is not a ghost; yet every nerve I have is unstrung:
for a moment I am beyond my own mastery. What does it
mean? I did not think I should tremble in this way when I
saw him, or lose my voice or the power of motion in his pres-
ence. I will go back as soon as I can stir: I need not make an
absolute fool of myself. I know another way to the house. It
does not signify if I knew twenty ways; for he has seen me.
‘Hillo!’ he cries; and he puts up his book and his pencil.
‘There you are! Come on, if you please.’
I suppose I do come on; though in what fashion I know
not; being scarcely cognisant of my movements, and so-
licitous only to appear calm; and, above all, to control the
working muscles of my face— which I feel rebel insolently
against my will, and struggle to express what I had resolved
to conceal. But I have a veil—it is down: I may make shift yet
to behave with decent composure.
‘And this is Jane Eyre? Are you coming from Millcote,
372 Jane Eyre

and on foot? Yes—just one of your tricks: not to send for
a carriage, and come clattering over street and road like
a common mortal, but to steal into the vicinage of your
home along with twilight, just as if you were a dream or a
shade. What the deuce have you done with yourself this last
month?’
‘I have been with my aunt, sir, who is dead.’
‘A true Janian reply! Good angels be my guard! She
comes from the other world—from the abode of people who
are dead; and tells me so when she meets me alone here in
the gloaming! If I dared, I’d touch you, to see if you are sub-
stance or shadow, you elf!—but I’d as soon offer to take hold
of a blue ignis fatuus light in a marsh. Truant! truant!’ he
added, when he had paused an instant. ‘Absent from me a
whole month, and forgetting me quite, I’ll be sworn!’
I knew there would be pleasure in meeting my master
again, even though broken by the fear that he was so soon
to cease to be my master, and by the knowledge that I was
nothing to him: but there was ever in Mr. Rochester (so at
least I thought) such a wealth of the power of communicat-
ing happiness, that to taste but of the crumbs he scattered
to stray and stranger birds like me, was to feast genially. His
last words were balm: they seemed to imply that it import-
ed something to him whether I forgot him or not. And he
had spoken of Thornfield as my home—would that it were
my home!
He did not leave the stile, and I hardly liked to ask to go
by. I inquired soon if he had not been to London.
‘Yes; I suppose you found that out by second-sight.’

‘Mrs. Fairfax told me in a letter.’
‘And did she inform you what I went to do?’
‘Oh, yes, sir! Everybody knew your errand.’
‘You must see the carriage, Jane, and tell me if you don’t
think it will suit Mrs. Rochester exactly; and whether she
won’t look like Queen Boadicea, leaning back against those
purple cushions. I wish, Jane, I were a trifle better adapted
to match with her externally. Tell me now, fairy as you are—
can’t you give me a charm, or a philter, or something of that
sort, to make me a handsome man?’
‘It would be past the power of magic, sir;’ and, in thought,
I added, ‘A loving eye is all the charm needed: to such you
are handsome enough; or rather your sternness has a power
beyond beauty.’
Mr. Rochester had sometimes read my unspoken
thoughts with an acumen to me incomprehensible: in the
present instance he took no notice of my abrupt vocal re-
sponse; but he smiled at me with a certain smile he had
of his own, and which he used but on rare occasions. He
seemed to think it too good for common purposes: it was
the real sunshine of feeling—he shed it over me now.
‘Pass, Janet,’ said he, making room for me to cross the
stile: ‘go up home, and stay your weary little wandering feet
at a friend’s threshold.’
All I had now to do was to obey him in silence: no need
for me to colloquise further. I got over the stile without a
word, and meant to leave him calmly. An impulse held me
fast—a force turned me round. I said—or something in me
said for me, and in spite of me—
374 Jane Eyre

‘Thank you, Mr. Rochester, for your great kindness. I am
strangely glad to get back again to you: and wherever you
are is my home—my only home.’
I walked on so fast that even he could hardly have over-
taken me had he tried. Little Adele was half wild with
delight when she saw me. Mrs. Fairfax received me with her
usual plain friendliness. Leah smiled, and even Sophie bid
me ‘bon soir’ with glee. This was very pleasant; there is no
happiness like that of being loved by your fellow-creatures,
and feeling that your presence is an addition to their com-
fort.
I that evening shut my eyes resolutely against the future:
I stopped my cars against the voice that kept warning me of
near separation and coming grief. When tea was over and
Mrs. Fairfax had taken her knitting, and I had assumed a
low seat near her, and Adele, kneeling on the carpet, had
nestled close up to me, and a sense of mutual affection
seemed to surround us with a ring of golden peace, I uttered
a silent prayer that we might not be parted far or soon; but
when, as we thus sat, Mr. Rochester entered, unannounced,
and looking at us, seemed to take pleasure in the spectacle
of a group so amicable—when he said he supposed the old
lady was all right now that she had got her adopted daugh-
ter back again, and added that he saw Adele was ‘prete e
croquer sa petite maman Anglaise’—I half ventured to
hope that he would, even after his marriage, keep us togeth-
er somewhere under the shelter of his protection, and not
quite exiled from the sunshine of his presence.
A fortnight of dubious calm succeeded my return to

Thornfield Hall. Nothing was said of the master’s marriage,
and I saw no preparation going on for such an event. Almost
every day I asked Mrs. Fairfax if she had yet heard anything
decided: her answer was always in the negative. Once she
said she had actually put the question to Mr. Rochester as
to when he was going to bring his bride home; but he had
answered her only by a joke and one of his queer looks, and
she could not tell what to make of him.
One thing specially surprised me, and that was, there
were no journeyings backward and forward, no visits to
Ingram Park: to be sure it was twenty miles off, on the bor-
ders of another county; but what was that distance to an
ardent lover? To so practised and indefatigable a horseman
as Mr. Rochester, it would be but a morning’s ride. I began
to cherish hopes I had no right to conceive: that the match
was broken off; that rumour had been mistaken; that one or
both parties had changed their minds. I used to look at my
master’s face to see if it were sad or fierce; but I could not
remember the time when it had been so uniformly clear of
clouds or evil feelings. If, in the moments I and my pupil
spent with him, I lacked spirits and sank into inevitable de-
jection, he became even gay. Never had he called me more
frequently to his presence; never been kinder to me when
there—and, alas! never had I loved him so well.
376 Jane Eyre

Chapter XXIII
A splendid Midsummer shone over England: skies so

pure, suns so radiant as were then seen in long suc-
cession, seldom favour even singly, our wave-girt land. It
was as if a band of Italian days had come from the South,
like a flock of glorious passenger birds, and lighted to rest
them on the cliffs of Albion. The hay was all got in; the fields
round Thornfield were green and shorn; the roads white
and baked; the trees were in their dark prime; hedge and
wood, full-leaved and deeply tinted, contrasted well with
the sunny hue of the cleared meadows between.
On Midsummer-eve, Adele, weary with gathering wild
strawberries in Hay Lane half the day, had gone to bed with
the sun. I watched her drop asleep, and when I left her, I
sought the garden.
It was now the sweetest hour of the twenty-four:- ‘Day
its fervid fires had wasted,’ and dew fell cool on panting
plain and scorched summit. Where the sun had gone down
in simple state—pure of the pomp of clouds—spread a sol-
emn purple, burning with the light of red jewel and furnace
flame at one point, on one hill-peak, and extending high
and wide, soft and still softer, over half heaven. The east had
its own charm or fine deep blue, and its own modest gem, a
casino and solitary star: soon it would boast the moon; but
she was yet beneath the horizon.

I walked a while on the pavement; but a subtle, well-
known scent— that of a cigar—stole from some window;
I saw the library casement open a handbreadth; I knew I
might be watched thence; so I went apart into the orchard.
No nook in the grounds more sheltered and more Eden-
like; it was full of trees, it bloomed with flowers: a very high
wall shut it out from the court, on one side; on the other, a
beech avenue screened it from the lawn. At the bottom was
a sunk fence; its sole separation from lonely fields: a wind-
ing walk, bordered with laurels and terminating in a giant
horse- chestnut, circled at the base by a seat, led down to the
fence. Here one could wander unseen. While such honey-
dew fell, such silence reigned, such gloaming gathered, I felt
as if I could haunt such shade for ever; but in threading the
flower and fruit parterres at the upper part of the enclosure,
enticed there by the light the now rising moon cast on this
more open quarter, my step is stayed— not by sound, not by
sight, but once more by a warning fragrance.
Sweet-briar and southernwood, jasmine, pink, and rose
have long been yielding their evening sacrifice of incense:
this new scent is neither of shrub nor flower; it is—I know it
well—it is Mr. Rochester’s cigar. I look round and I listen. I
see trees laden with ripening fruit. I hear a nightingale war-
bling in a wood half a mile off; no moving form is visible, no
coming step audible; but that perfume increases: I must flee.
I make for the wicket leading to the shrubbery, and I see Mr.
Rochester entering. I step aside into the ivy recess; he will
not stay long: he will soon return whence he came, and if I
sit still he will never see me.
378 Jane Eyre

But no—eventide is as pleasant to him as to me, and this
antique garden as attractive; and he strolls on, now lifting
the gooseberry- tree branches to look at the fruit, large as
plums, with which they are laden; now taking a ripe cherry
from the wall; now stooping towards a knot of flowers, ei-
ther to inhale their fragrance or to admire the dew-beads on
their petals. A great moth goes humming by me; it alights
on a plant at Mr. Rochester’s foot: he sees it, and bends to
examine it.
‘Now, he has his back towards me,’ thought I, ‘and he is
occupied too; perhaps, if I walk softly, I can slip away un-
noticed.’
I trode on an edging of turf that the crackle of the peb-
bly gravel might not betray me: he was standing among the
beds at a yard or two distant from where I had to pass; the
moth apparently engaged him. ‘I shall get by very well,’ I
meditated. As I crossed his shadow, thrown long over the
garden by the moon, not yet risen high, he said quietly,
without turning—
‘Jane, come and look at this fellow.’
I had made no noise: he had not eyes behind—could his
shadow feel? I started at first, and then I approached him.
‘Look at his wings,’ said he, ‘he reminds me rather of a
West Indian insect; one does not often see so large and gay
a night-rover in England; there! he is flown.’
The moth roamed away. I was sheepishly retreating also;
but Mr. Rochester followed me, and when we reached the
wicket, he said—
‘Turn back: on so lovely a night it is a shame to sit in the

house; and surely no one can wish to go to bed while sunset
is thus at meeting with moonrise.’
It is one of my faults, that though my tongue is some-
times prompt enough at an answer, there are times when it
sadly fails me in framing an excuse; and always the lapse oc-
curs at some crisis, when a facile word or plausible pretext is
specially wanted to get me out of painful embarrassment. I
did not like to walk at this hour alone with Mr. Rochester in
the shadowy orchard; but I could not find a reason to allege
for leaving him. I followed with lagging step, and thoughts
busily bent on discovering a means of extrication; but he
himself looked so composed and so grave also, I became
ashamed of feeling any confusion: the evil—if evil existent
or prospective there was—seemed to lie with me only; his
mind was unconscious and quiet.
‘Jane,’ he recommenced, as we entered the laurel walk,
and slowly strayed down in the direction of the sunk fence
and the horse- chestnut, ‘Thornfield is a pleasant place in
summer, is it not?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You must have become in some degree attached to the
house,—you, who have an eye for natural beauties, and a
good deal of the organ of Adhesiveness?’
‘I am attached to it, indeed.’
‘And though I don’t comprehend how it is, I perceive you
have acquired a degree of regard for that foolish little child
Adele, too; and even for simple dame Fairfax?’
‘Yes, sir; in different ways, I have an affection for both.’
‘And would be sorry to part with them?’
380 Jane Eyre

‘Yes.’
‘Pity!’ he said, and sighed and paused. ‘It is always the
way of events in this life,’ he continued presently: ‘no sooner
have you got settled in a pleasant resting-place, than a voice
calls out to you to rise and move on, for the hour of repose
is expired.’
‘Must I move on, sir?’ I asked. ‘Must I leave Thornfield?’
‘I believe you must, Jane. I am sorry, Janet, but I believe
indeed you must.’
This was a blow: but I did not let it prostrate me.
‘Well, sir, I shall be ready when the order to march
comes.’
‘It is come now—I must give it to-night.’
‘Then you ARE going to be married, sir?’
‘Ex-act-ly—pre-cise-ly: with your usual acuteness, you
have hit the nail straight on the head.’
‘Soon, sir?’
‘Very soon, my—that is, Miss Eyre: and you’ll remem-
ber, Jane, the first time I, or Rumour, plainly intimated to
you that it was my intention to put my old bachelor’s neck
into the sacred noose, to enter into the holy estate of mat-
rimony—to take Miss Ingram to my bosom, in short (she’s
an extensive armful: but that’s not to the point—one can’t
have too much of such a very excellent thing as my beauti-
ful Blanche): well, as I was saying—listen to me, Jane! You’re
not turning your head to look after more moths, are you?
That was only a lady-clock, child, ‘flying away home.’ I wish
to remind you that it was you who first said to me, with that
discretion I respect in you—with that foresight, prudence,

and humility which befit your responsible and dependent
position—that in case I married Miss Ingram, both you and
little Adele had better trot forthwith. I pass over the sort of
slur conveyed in this suggestion on the character of my be-
loved; indeed, when you are far away, Janet, I’ll try to forget
it: I shall notice only its wisdom; which is such that I have
made it my law of action. Adele must go to school; and you,
Miss Eyre, must get a new situation.’
‘Yes, sir, I will advertise immediately: and meantime, I
suppose—‘ I was going to say, ‘I suppose I may stay here,
till I find another shelter to betake myself to:’ but I stopped,
feeling it would not do to risk a long sentence, for my voice
was not quite under command.
‘In about a month I hope to be a bridegroom,’ continued
Mr. Rochester; ‘and in the interim, I shall myself look out
for employment and an asylum for you.’
‘Thank you, sir; I am sorry to give—‘
‘Oh, no need to apologise! I consider that when a depen-
dent does her duty as well as you have done yours, she has a
sort of claim upon her employer for any little assistance he
can conveniently render her; indeed I have already, through
my future mother-in-law, heard of a place that I think will
suit: it is to undertake the education of the five daughters of
Mrs. Dionysius O’Gall of Bitternutt Lodge, Connaught, Ire-
land. You’ll like Ireland, I think: they’re such warm-hearted
people there, they say.’
‘It is a long way off, sir.’
‘No matter—a girl of your sense will not object to the
voyage or the distance.’
382 Jane Eyre

‘Not the voyage, but the distance: and then the sea is a
barrier—‘
‘From what, Jane?’
‘From England and from Thornfield: and—‘
‘Well?’
‘From YOU, sir.’
I said this almost involuntarily, and, with as little sanc-
tion of free will, my tears gushed out. I did not cry so as to
be heard, however; I avoided sobbing. The thought of Mrs.
O’Gall and Bitternutt Lodge struck cold to my heart; and
colder the thought of all the brine and foam, destined, as it
seemed, to rush between me and the master at whose side
I now walked, and coldest the remembrance of the wider
ocean—wealth, caste, custom intervened between me and
what I naturally and inevitably loved.
‘It is a long way,’ I again said.
‘It is, to be sure; and when you get to Bitternutt Lodge,
Connaught, Ireland, I shall never see you again, Jane: that’s
morally certain. I never go over to Ireland, not having my-
self much of a fancy for the country. We have been good
friends, Jane; have we not?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And when friends are on the eve of separation, they like
to spend the little time that remains to them close to each
other. Come! we’ll talk over the voyage and the parting
quietly half-an-hour or so, while the stars enter into their
shining life up in heaven yonder: here is the chestnut tree:
here is the bench at its old roots. Come, we will sit there in
peace to-night, though we should never more be destined to

sit there together.’ He seated me and himself.
‘It is a long way to Ireland, Janet, and I am sorry to send
my little friend on such weary travels: but if I can’t do bet-
ter, how is it to be helped? Are you anything akin to me, do
you think, Jane?’
I could risk no sort of answer by this time: my heart was
still.
‘Because,’ he said, ‘I sometimes have a queer feeling with
regard to you—especially when you are near me, as now: it
is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly
and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the
corresponding quarter of your little frame. And if that bois-
terous Channel, and two hundred miles or so of land come
broad between us, I am afraid that cord of communion will
be snapt; and then I’ve a nervous notion I should take to
bleeding inwardly. As for you,—you’d forget me.’
‘That I NEVER should, sir: you know—‘ Impossible to
proceed.
‘Jane, do you hear that nightingale singing in the wood?
Listen!’
In listening, I sobbed convulsively; for I could repress
what I endured no longer; I was obliged to yield, and I was
shaken from head to foot with acute distress. When I did
speak, it was only to express an impetuous wish that I had
never been born, or never come to Thornfield.
‘Because you are sorry to leave it?’
The vehemence of emotion, stirred by grief and love
within me, was claiming mastery, and struggling for full
sway, and asserting a right to predominate, to overcome, to
384 Jane Eyre

live, rise, and reign at last: yes,—and to speak.
‘I grieve to leave Thornfield: I love Thornfield:- I love it,
because I have lived in it a full and delightful life,—momen-
tarily at least. I have not been trampled on. I have not been
petrified. I have not been buried with inferior minds, and
excluded from every glimpse of communion with what is
bright and energetic and high. I have talked, face to face,
with what I reverence, with what I delight in,—with an orig-
inal, a vigorous, an expanded mind. I have known you, Mr.
Rochester; and it strikes me with terror and anguish to feel
I absolutely must be torn from you for ever. I see the neces-
sity of departure; and it is like looking on the necessity of
death.’
‘Where do you see the necessity?’ he asked suddenly.
‘Where? You, sir, have placed it before me.’
‘In what shape?’
‘In the shape of Miss Ingram; a noble and beautiful wom-
an,—your bride.’
‘My bride! What bride? I have no bride!’
‘But you will have.’
‘Yes;—I will!—I will!’ He set his teeth.
‘Then I must go:- you have said it yourself.’
‘No: you must stay! I swear it—and the oath shall be
kept.’
‘I tell you I must go!’ I retorted, roused to something like
passion. ‘Do you think I can stay to become nothing to you?
Do you think I am an automaton?—a machine without feel-
ings? and can bear to have my morsel of bread snatched
from my lips, and my drop of living water dashed from

my cup? Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain,
and little, I am soulless and heartless? You think wrong!—I
have as much soul as you,—and full as much heart! And if
God had gifted me with some beauty and much wealth, I
should have made it as hard for you to leave me, as it is now
for me to leave you. I am not talking to you now through
the medium of custom, conventionalities, nor even of mor-
tal flesh;—it is my spirit that addresses your spirit; just as if
both had passed through the grave, and we stood at God’s
feet, equal,—as we are!’
‘As we are!’ repeated Mr. Rochester—‘so,’ he added, en-
closing me in his arms. Gathering me to his breast, pressing
his lips on my lips: ‘so, Jane!’
‘Yes, so, sir,’ I rejoined: ‘and yet not so; for you are a mar-
ried man—or as good as a married man, and wed to one
inferior to you—to one with whom you have no sympathy—
whom I do not believe you truly love; for I have seen and
heard you sneer at her. I would scorn such a union: there-
fore I am better than you—let me go!’
‘Where, Jane? To Ireland?’
‘Yes—to Ireland. I have spoken my mind, and can go
anywhere now.’
‘Jane, be still; don’t struggle so, like a wild frantic bird
that is rending its own plumage in its desperation.’
‘I am no bird; and no net ensnares me; I am a free hu-
man being with an independent will, which I now exert to
leave you.’
Another effort set me at liberty, and I stood erect before
him.
386 Jane Eyre

‘And your will shall decide your destiny,’ he said: ‘I offer
you my hand, my heart, and a share of all my possessions.’
‘You play a farce, which I merely laugh at.’
‘I ask you to pass through life at my side—to be my sec-
ond self, and best earthly companion.’
‘For that fate you have already made your choice, and
must abide by it.’
‘Jane, be still a few moments: you are over-excited: I will
be still too.’
A waft of wind came sweeping down the laurel-walk,
and trembled through the boughs of the chestnut: it wan-
dered away—away—to an indefinite distance—it died. The
nightingale’s song was then the only voice of the hour: in
listening to it, I again wept. Mr. Rochester sat quiet, look-
ing at me gently and seriously. Some time passed before he
spoke; he at last said—
‘Come to my side, Jane, and let us explain and under-
stand one another.’
‘I will never again come to your side: I am torn away now,
and cannot return.’
‘But, Jane, I summon you as my wife: it is you only I in-
tend to marry.’
I was silent: I thought he mocked me.
‘Come, Jane—come hither.’
‘Your bride stands between us.’
He rose, and with a stride reached me.
‘My bride is here,’ he said, again drawing me to him,
‘because my equal is here, and my likeness. Jane, will you
marry me?’

Still I did not answer, and still I writhed myself from his
grasp: for I was still incredulous.
‘Do you doubt me, Jane?’
‘Entirely.’
‘You have no faith in me?’
‘Not a whit.’
‘Am I a liar in your eyes?’ he asked passionately. ‘Little
sceptic, you SHALL be convinced. What love have I for
Miss Ingram? None: and that you know. What love has she
for me? None: as I have taken pains to prove: I caused a ru-
mour to reach her that my fortune was not a third of what
was supposed, and after that I presented myself to see the re-
sult; it was coldness both from her and her mother. I would
not—I could not—marry Miss Ingram. You— you strange,
you almost unearthly thing!—I love as my own flesh. You—
poor and obscure, and small and plain as you are—I entreat
to accept me as a husband.’
‘What, me!’ I ejaculated, beginning in his earnestness—
and especially in his incivility—to credit his sincerity: ‘me
who have not a friend in the world but you- if you are my
friend: not a shilling but what you have given me?’
‘You, Jane, I must have you for my own—entirely my
own. Will you be mine? Say yes, quickly.’
‘Mr. Rochester, let me look at your face: turn to the
moonlight.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I want to read your countenance—turn!’
‘There! you will find it scarcely more legible than a crum-
pled, scratched page. Read on: only make haste, for I suffer.’
388 Jane Eyre

His face was very much agitated and very much flushed,
and there were strong workings in the features, and strange
gleams in the eyes
‘Oh, Jane, you torture me!’ he exclaimed. ‘With that
searching and yet faithful and generous look, you torture
me!’
‘How can I do that? If you are true, and your offer real,
my only feelings to you must be gratitude and devotion—
they cannot torture.’
‘Gratitude!’ he ejaculated; and added wildly—‘Jane accept
me quickly. Say, Edward—give me my name—Edward—I
will marry you.’
‘Are you in earnest? Do you truly love me? Do you sin-
cerely wish me to be your wife?’
‘I do; and if an oath is necessary to satisfy you, I swear
it.’
‘Then, sir, I will marry you.’
‘Edward—my little wife!’
‘Dear Edward!’
‘Come to me—come to me entirely now,’ said he; and
added, in his deepest tone, speaking in my ear as his cheek
was laid on mine, ‘Make my happiness—I will make yours.’
‘God pardon me!’ he subjoined ere long; ‘and man med-
dle not with me: I have her, and will hold her.’
‘There is no one to meddle, sir. I have no kindred to in-
terfere.’
‘No—that is the best of it,’ he said. And if I had loved him
less I should have thought his accent and look of exultation
savage; but, sitting by him, roused from the nightmare of

parting—called to the paradise of union—I thought only
of the bliss given me to drink in so abundant a flow. Again
and again he said, ‘Are you happy, Jane?’ And again and
again I answered, ‘Yes.’ After which he murmured, ‘It will
atone—it will atone. Have I not found her friendless, and
cold, and comfortless? Will I not guard, and cherish, and
solace her? Is there not love in my heart, and constancy in
my resolves? It will expiate at God’s tribunal. I know my
Maker sanctions what I do. For the world’s judgment—I
wash my hands thereof. For man’s opinion—I defy it.’
But what had befallen the night? The moon was not yet
set, and we were all in shadow: I could scarcely see my mas-
ter’s face, near as I was. And what ailed the chestnut tree? it
writhed and groaned; while wind roared in the laurel walk,
and came sweeping over us.
‘We must go in,’ said Mr. Rochester: ‘the weather chang-
es. I could have sat with thee till morning, Jane.’
‘And so,’ thought I, ‘could I with you.’ I should have said
so, perhaps, but a livid, vivid spark leapt out of a cloud at
which I was looking, and there was a crack, a crash, and a
close rattling peal; and I thought only of hiding my dazzled
eyes against Mr. Rochester’s shoulder.
The rain rushed down. He hurried me up the walk,
through the grounds, and into the house; but we were quite
wet before we could pass the threshold. He was taking off
my shawl in the hall, and shaking the water out of my loos-
ened hair, when Mrs. Fairfax emerged from her room. I did
not observe her at first, nor did Mr. Rochester. The lamp
was lit. The clock was on the stroke of twelve.
390 Jane Eyre

‘Hasten to take off your wet things,’ said he; ‘and before
you go, good-night—good-night, my darling!’
He kissed me repeatedly. When I looked up, on leaving
his arms, there stood the widow, pale, grave, and amazed. I
only smiled at her, and ran upstairs. ‘Explanation will do
for another time,’ thought I. Still, when I reached my cham-
ber, I felt a pang at the idea she should even temporarily
misconstrue what she had seen. But joy soon effaced every
other feeling; and loud as the wind blew, near and deep as
the thunder crashed, fierce and frequent as the lightning
gleamed, cataract-like as the rain fell during a storm of two
hours’ duration, I experienced no fear and little awe. Mr.
Rochester came thrice to my door in the course of it, to ask
if I was safe and tranquil: and that was comfort, that was
strength for anything.
Before I left my bed in the morning, little Adele came
running in to tell me that the great horse-chestnut at the
bottom of the orchard had been struck by lightning in the
night, and half of it split away.

Chapter XXIV
A s I rose and dressed, I thought over what had happened,

and wondered if it were a dream. I could not be certain
of the reality till I had seen Mr. Rochester again, and heard
him renew his words of love and promise.
While arranging my hair, I looked at my face in the glass,
and felt it was no longer plain: there was hope in its aspect
and life in its colour; and my eyes seemed as if they had be-
held the fount of fruition, and borrowed beams from the
lustrous ripple. I had often been unwilling to look at my
master, because I feared he could not be pleased at my look;
but I was sure I might lift my face to his now, and not cool
his affection by its expression. I took a plain but clean and
light summer dress from my drawer and put it on: it seemed
no attire had ever so well become me, because none had I
ever worn in so blissful a mood.
I was not surprised, when I ran down into the hall, to see
that a brilliant June morning had succeeded to the tempest
of the night; and to feel, through the open glass door, the
breathing of a fresh and fragrant breeze. Nature must be
gladsome when I was so happy. A beggar-woman and her
little boy—pale, ragged objects both—were coming up the
walk, and I ran down and gave them all the money I hap-
pened to have in my purse—some three or four shillings:
good or bad, they must partake of my jubilee. The rooks
392 Jane Eyre

cawed, and blither birds sang; but nothing was so merry or
so musical as my own rejoicing heart.
Mrs. Fairfax surprised me by looking out of the window
with a sad countenance, and saying gravely—‘Miss Eyre,
will you come to breakfast?’ During the meal she was quiet
and cool: but I could not undeceive her then. I must wait for
my master to give explanations; and so must she. I ate what
I could, and then I hastened upstairs. I met Adele leaving
the schoolroom.
‘Where are you going? It is time for lessons.’
‘Mr. Rochester has sent me away to the nursery.’
‘Where is he?’
‘In there,’ pointing to the apartment she had left; and I
went in, and there he stood.
‘Come and bid me good-morning,’ said he. I gladly ad-
vanced; and it was not merely a cold word now, or even a
shake of the hand that I received, but an embrace and a kiss.
It seemed natural: it seemed genial to be so well loved, so
caressed by him.
‘Jane, you look blooming, and smiling, and pretty,’ said
he: ‘truly pretty this morning. Is this my pale, little elf? Is
this my mustard-seed? This little sunny-faced girl with the
dimpled cheek and rosy lips; the satin-smooth hazel hair,
and the radiant hazel eyes?’ (I had green eyes, reader; but
you must excuse the mistake: for him they were new-dyed,
I suppose.)
‘It is Jane Eyre, sir.’
‘Soon to be Jane Rochester,’ he added: ‘in four weeks, Ja-
net; not a day more. Do you hear that?’

I did, and I could not quite comprehend it: it made me
giddy. The feeling, the announcement sent through me, was
something stronger than was consistent with joy—some-
thing that smote and stunned. It was, I think almost fear.
‘You blushed, and now you are white, Jane: what is that
for?’
‘Because you gave me a new name—Jane Rochester; and
it seems so strange.’
‘Yes, Mrs. Rochester,’ said he; ‘young Mrs. Rochester—
Fairfax Rochester’s girl-bride.’
‘It can never be, sir; it does not sound likely. Human be-
ings never enjoy complete happiness in this world. I was
not born for a different destiny to the rest of my species:
to imagine such a lot befalling me is a fairy tale—a day-
dream.’
‘Which I can and will realise. I shall begin to-day. This
morning I wrote to my banker in London to send me cer-
tain jewels he has in his keeping,—heirlooms for the ladies
of Thornfield. In a day or two I hope to pour them into your
lap: for every privilege, every attention shall be yours that I
would accord a peer’s daughter, if about to marry her.’
‘Oh, sir!—never rain jewels! I don’t like to hear them spo-
ken of. Jewels for Jane Eyre sounds unnatural and strange: I
would rather not have them.’
‘I will myself put the diamond chain round your neck,
and the circlet on your forehead,—which it will become: for
nature, at least, has stamped her patent of nobility on this
brow, Jane; and I will clasp the bracelets on these fine wrists,
and load these fairy- like fingers with rings.’
394 Jane Eyre

‘No, no, sir! think of other subjects, and speak of other
things, and in another strain. Don’t address me as if I were
a beauty; I am your plain, Quakerish governess.’
‘You are a beauty in my eyes, and a beauty just after the
desire of my heart,—delicate and aerial.’
‘Puny and insignificant, you mean. You are dreaming,
sir,—or you are sneering. For God’s sake don’t be ironical!’
‘I will make the world acknowledge you a beauty, too,’
he went on, while I really became uneasy at the strain he
had adopted, because I felt he was either deluding himself
or trying to delude me. ‘I will attire my Jane in satin and
lace, and she shall have roses in her hair; and I will cover
the head I love best with a priceless veil.’
‘And then you won’t know me, sir; and I shall not be
your Jane Eyre any longer, but an ape in a harlequin’s jack-
et—a jay in borrowed plumes. I would as soon see you, Mr.
Rochester, tricked out in stage-trappings, as myself clad
in a court-lady’s robe; and I don’t call you handsome, sir,
though I love you most dearly: far too dearly to flatter you.
Don’t flatter me.’
He pursued his theme, however, without noticing my
deprecation. ‘This very day I shall take you in the carriage
to Millcote, and you must choose some dresses for yourself.
I told you we shall be married in four weeks. The wedding is
to take place quietly, in the church down below yonder; and
then I shall waft you away at once to town. After a brief stay
there, I shall bear my treasure to regions nearer the sun: to
French vineyards and Italian plains; and she shall see what-
ever is famous in old story and in modern record: she shall

taste, too, of the life of cities; and she shall learn to value
herself by just comparison with others.’
‘Shall I travel?—and with you, sir?’
‘You shall sojourn at Paris, Rome, and Naples: at Flor-
ence, Venice, and Vienna: all the ground I have wandered
over shall be re-trodden by you: wherever I stamped my
hoof, your sylph’s foot shall step also. Ten years since, I flew
through Europe half mad; with disgust, hate, and rage as
my companions: now I shall revisit it healed and cleansed,
with a very angel as my comforter.’
I laughed at him as he said this. ‘I am not an angel,’ I as-
serted; ‘and I will not be one till I die: I will be myself. Mr.
Rochester, you must neither expect nor exact anything ce-
lestial of me—for you will not get it, any more than I shall
get it of you: which I do not at all anticipate.’
‘What do you anticipate of me?’
‘For a little while you will perhaps be as you are now,—a
very little while; and then you will turn cool; and then you
will be capricious; and then you will be stern, and I shall
have much ado to please you: but when you get well used
to me, you will perhaps like me again,—LIKE me, I say, not
LOVE me. I suppose your love will effervesce in six months,
or less. I have observed in books written by men, that pe-
riod assigned as the farthest to which a husband’s ardour
extends. Yet, after all, as a friend and companion, I hope
never to become quite distasteful to my dear master.’
‘Distasteful! and like you again! I think I shall like you
again, and yet again: and I will make you confess I do not
only LIKE, but LOVE you—with truth, fervour, constancy.’
396 Jane Eyre

‘Yet are you not capricious, sir?’
‘To women who please me only by their faces, I am
the very devil when I find out they have neither souls nor
hearts—when they open to me a perspective of flatness,
triviality, and perhaps imbecility, coarseness, and ill-tem-
per: but to the clear eye and eloquent tongue, to the soul
made of fire, and the character that bends but does not
break—at once supple and stable, tractable and consistentI
am ever tender and true.’
‘Had you ever experience of such a character, sir? Did
you ever love such an one?’
‘I love it now.’
‘But before me: if I, indeed, in any respect come up to
your difficult standard?’
‘I never met your likeness. Jane, you please me, and you
master meyou seem to submit, and I like the sense of plian-
cy you impart; and while I am twining the soft, silken skein
round my finger, it sends a thrill up my arm to my heart.
I am influenced—conquered; and the influence is sweeter
than I can express; and the conquest I undergo has a witch-
ery beyond any triumph I can win. Why do you smile, Jane?
What does that inexplicable, that uncanny turn of counte-
nance mean?’
‘I was thinking, sir (you will excuse the idea; it was invol-
untary), I was thinking of Hercules and Samson with their
charmers—‘
‘You were, you little elfish—‘
‘Hush, sir! You don’t talk very wisely just now; any more
than those gentlemen acted very wisely. However, had they

been married, they would no doubt by their severity as hus-
bands have made up for their softness as suitors; and so will
you, I fear. I wonder how you will answer me a year hence,
should I ask a favour it does not suit your convenience or
pleasure to grant.’
‘Ask me something now, Jane,—the least thing: I desire
to be entreated—‘
‘Indeed I will, sir; I have my petition all ready.’
‘Speak! But if you look up and smile with that counte-
nance, I shall swear concession before I know to what, and
that will make a fool of me.’
‘Not at all, sir; I ask only this: don’t send for the jewels,
and don’t crown me with roses: you might as well put a bor-
der of gold lace round that plain pocket handkerchief you
have there.’
‘I might as well ‘gild refined gold.’ I know it: you request
is granted then—for the time. I will remand the order I
despatched to my banker. But you have not yet asked for
anything; you have prayed a gift to be withdrawn: try
again.’
‘Well then, sir, have the goodness to gratify my curiosity,
which is much piqued on one point.’
He looked disturbed. ‘What? what?’ he said hastily. ‘Cu-
riosity is a dangerous petition: it is well I have not taken a
vow to accord every request—‘
‘But there can be no danger in complying with this, sir.’
‘Utter it, Jane: but I wish that instead of a mere inquiry
into, perhaps, a secret, it was a wish for half my estate.’
‘Now, King Ahasuerus! What do I want with half your
398 Jane Eyre

estate? Do you think I am a Jew-usurer, seeking good invest-
ment in land? I would much rather have all your confidence.
You will not exclude me from your confidence if you admit
me to your heart?’
‘You are welcome to all my confidence that is worth hav-
ing, Jane; but for God’s sake, don’t desire a useless burden!
Don’t long for poison—don’t turn out a downright Eve on
my hands!’
‘Why not, sir? You have just been telling me how much
you liked to be conquered, and how pleasant over-persua-
sion is to you. Don’t you think I had better take advantage
of the confession, and begin and coax and entreat—even
cry and be sulky if necessary—for the sake of a mere essay
of my power?’
‘I dare you to any such experiment. Encroach, presume,
and the game is up.’
‘Is it, sir? You soon give in. How stern you look now! Your
eyebrows have become as thick as my finger, and your fore-
head resembles what, in some very astonishing poetry, I
once saw styled, ‘a blue-piled thunderloft.’ That will be your
married look, sir, I suppose?’
‘If that will be YOUR married look, I, as a Christian, will
soon give up the notion of consorting with a mere sprite or
salamander. But what had you to ask, thing,—out with it?’
‘There, you are less than civil now; and I like rudeness
a great deal better than flattery. I had rather be a THING
than an angel. This is what I have to ask,—Why did you
take such pains to make me believe you wished to marry
Miss Ingram?’

‘Is that all? Thank God it is no worse!’ And now he un-
knit his black brows; looked down, smiling at me, and
stroked my hair, as if well pleased at seeing a danger avert-
ed. ‘I think I may confess,’ he continued, ‘even although I
should make you a little indignant, Jane—and I have seen
what a fire-spirit you can be when you are indignant. You
glowed in the cool moonlight last night, when you mutinied
against fate, and claimed your rank as my equal. Janet, by-
the-bye, it was you who made me the offer.’
‘Of course I did. But to the point if you please, sir—Miss
Ingram?’
‘Well, I feigned courtship of Miss Ingram, because I
wished to render you as madly in love with me as I was with
you; and I knew jealousy would be the best ally I could call
in for the furtherance of that end.’
‘Excellent! Now you are small—not one whit bigger than
the end of my little finger. It was a burning shame and a
scandalous disgrace to act in that way. Did you think noth-
ing of Miss Ingram’s feelings, sir?’
‘Her feelings are concentrated in one—pride; and that
needs humbling. Were you jealous, Jane?’
‘Never mind, Mr. Rochester: it is in no way interesting
to you to know that. Answer me truly once more. Do you
think Miss Ingram will not suffer from your dishonest co-
quetry? Won’t she feel forsaken and deserted?’
‘Impossible!—when I told you how she, on the contrary,
deserted me: the idea of my insolvency cooled, or rather ex-
tinguished, her flame in a moment.’
‘You have a curious, designing mind, Mr. Rochester. I am
400 Jane Eyre

afraid your principles on some points are eccentric.’
‘My principles were never trained, Jane: they may have
grown a little awry for want of attention.’
‘Once again, seriously; may I enjoy the great good that
has been vouchsafed to me, without fearing that any one
else is suffering the bitter pain I myself felt a while ago?’
‘That you may, my good little girl: there is not another
being in the world has the same pure love for me as your-
self—for I lay that pleasant unction to my soul, Jane, a belief
in your affection.’
I turned my lips to the hand that lay on my shoulder. I
loved him very much—more than I could trust myself to
say—more than words had power to express.
‘Ask something more,’ he said presently; ‘it is my delight
to be entreated, and to yield.’
I was again ready with my request. ‘Communicate your
intentions to Mrs. Fairfax, sir: she saw me with you last
night in the hall, and she was shocked. Give her some ex-
planation before I see her again. It pains me to be misjudged
by so good a woman.’
‘Go to your room, and put on your bonnet,’ he replied. ‘I
mean you to accompany me to Millcote this morning; and
while you prepare for the drive, I will enlighten the old la-
dy’s understanding. Did she think, Janet, you had given the
world for love, and considered it well lost?’
‘I believe she thought I had forgotten my station, and
yours, sir.’
‘Station! station!—your station is in my heart, and on the
necks of those who would insult you, now or hereafter.—

Go.’
I was soon dressed; and when I heard Mr. Rochester quit
Mrs. Fairfax’s parlour, I hurried down to it. The old lady,
had been reading her morning portion of Scripture—the
Lesson for the day; her Bible lay open before her, and her
spectacles were upon it. Her occupation, suspended by Mr.
Rochester’s announcement, seemed now forgotten: her
eyes, fixed on the blank wall opposite, expressed the sur-
prise of a quiet mind stirred by unwonted tidings. Seeing
me, she roused herself: she made a sort of effort to smile,
and framed a few words of congratulation; but the smile
expired, and the sentence was abandoned unfinished. She
put up her spectacles, shut the Bible, and pushed her chair
back from the table.
‘I feel so astonished,’ she began, ‘I hardly know what to
say to you, Miss Eyre. I have surely not been dreaming, have
I? Sometimes I half fall asleep when I am sitting alone and
fancy things that have never happened. It has seemed to me
more than once when I have been in a doze, that my dear
husband, who died fifteen years since, has come in and sat
down beside me; and that I have even heard him call me
by my name, Alice, as he used to do. Now, can you tell me
whether it is actually true that Mr. Rochester has asked you
to marry him? Don’t laugh at me. But I really thought he
came in here five minutes ago, and said that in a month you
would be his wife.’
‘He has said the same thing to me,’ I replied.
‘He has! Do you believe him? Have you accepted him?’
‘Yes.’
402 Jane Eyre

She looked at me bewildered. ‘I could never have thought
it. He is a proud man: all the Rochesters were proud: and his
father, at least, liked money. He, too, has always been called
careful. He means to marry you?’
‘He tells me so.’
She surveyed my whole person: in her eyes I read that
they had there found no charm powerful enough to solve
the enigma.
‘It passes me!’ she continued; ‘but no doubt, it is true
since you say so. How it will answer, I cannot tell: I really
don’t know. Equality of position and fortune is often advis-
able in such cases; and there are twenty years of difference
in your ages. He might almost be your father.’
‘No, indeed, Mrs. Fairfax!’ exclaimed I, nettled; ‘he is
nothing like my father! No one, who saw us together, would
suppose it for an instant. Mr. Rochester looks as young, and
is as young, as some men at five-and-twenty.’
‘Is it really for love he is going to marry you?’ she asked.
I was so hurt by her coldness and scepticism, that the
tears rose to my eyes.
‘I am sorry to grieve you,’ pursued the widow; ‘but you
are so young, and so little acquainted with men, I wished to
put you on your guard. It is an old saying that ‘all is not gold
that glitters;’ and in this case I do fear there will be some-
thing found to be different to what either you or I expect.’
‘Why?—am I a monster?’ I said: ‘is it impossible that Mr.
Rochester should have a sincere affection for me?’
‘No: you are very well; and much improved of late; and
Mr. Rochester, I daresay, is fond of you. I have always no-

ticed that you were a sort of pet of his. There are times when,
for your sake, I have been a little uneasy at his marked pref-
erence, and have wished to put you on your guard: but I
did not like to suggest even the possibility of wrong. I knew
such an idea would shock, perhaps offend you; and you
were so discreet, and so thoroughly modest and sensible, I
hoped you might be trusted to protect yourself. Last night
I cannot tell you what I suffered when I sought all over the
house, and could find you nowhere, nor the master either;
and then, at twelve o’clock, saw you come in with him.’
‘Well, never mind that now,’ I interrupted impatiently; ‘it
is enough that all was right.’
‘I hope all will be right in the end,’ she said: ‘but believe
me, you cannot be too careful. Try and keep Mr. Rochester
at a distance: distrust yourself as well as him. Gentlemen in
his station are not accustomed to marry their governesses.’
I was growing truly irritated: happily, Adele ran in.
‘Let me go,—let me go to Millcote too!’ she cried. ‘Mr.
Rochester won’t: though there is so much room in the new
carriage. Beg him to let me go mademoiselle.’
‘That I will, Adele;’ and I hastened away with her, glad
to quit my gloomy monitress. The carriage was ready: they
were bringing it round to the front, and my master was the
pavement, Pilot following him backwards and forwards.
‘Adele may accompany us, may she not, sir?’
‘I told her no. I’ll have no brats!—I’ll have only you.’
‘Do let her go, Mr. Rochester, if you please: it would be
better.’
‘Not it: she will be a restraint.’
404 Jane Eyre

He was quite peremptory, both in look and voice. The
chill of Mrs. Fairfax’s warnings, and the damp of her doubts
were upon me: something of unsubstantiality and uncer-
tainty had beset my hopes. I half lost the sense of power
over him. I was about mechanically to obey him, without
further remonstrance; but as he helped me into the carriage,
he looked at my face.
‘What is the matter?’ he asked; ‘all the sunshine is gone.
Do you really wish the bairn to go? Will it annoy you if she
is left behind?’
‘I would far rather she went, sir.’
‘Then off for your bonnet, and back like a flash of light-
ning!’ cried he to Adele.
She obeyed him with what speed she might.
‘After all, a single morning’s interruption will not mat-
ter much,’ said he, ‘when I mean shortly to claim you—your
thoughts, conversation, and company—for life.’
Adele, when lifted in, commenced kissing me, by way of
expressing her gratitude for my intercession: she was in-
stantly stowed away into a corner on the other side of him.
She then peeped round to where I sat; so stern a neighbour
was too restrictive to him, in his present fractious mood,
she dared whisper no observations, nor ask of him any in-
formation.
‘Let her come to me,’ I entreated: ‘she will, perhaps, trou-
ble you, sir: there is plenty of room on this side.’
He handed her over as if she had been a lapdog. ‘I’ll send
her to school yet,’ he said, but now he was smiling.
Adele heard him, and asked if she was to go to school

‘sans mademoiselle?’
‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘absolutely sans mademoiselle; for I am
to take mademoiselle to the moon, and there I shall seek
a cave in one of the white valleys among the volcano-tops,
and mademoiselle shall live with me there, and only me.’
‘She will have nothing to eat: you will starve her,’ ob-
served Adele.
‘I shall gather manna for her morning and night: the
plains and hillsides in the moon are bleached with manna,
Adele.’
‘She will want to warm herself: what will she do for a
fire?’
‘Fire rises out of the lunar mountains: when she is cold,
I’ll carry her up to a peak, and lay her down on the edge of
a crater.’
‘Oh, qu’ elle y sera mal—peu comfortable! And her
clothes, they will wear out: how can she get new ones?’
Mr. Rochester professed to be puzzled. ‘Hem!’ said he.
‘What would you do, Adele? Cudgel your brains for an expe-
dient. How would a white or a pink cloud answer for a gown,
do you think? And one could cut a pretty enough scarf out
of a rainbow.’
‘She is far better as she is,’ concluded Adele, after musing
some time: ‘besides, she would get tired of living with only
you in the moon. If I were mademoiselle, I would never con-
sent to go with you.’
‘She has consented: she has pledged her word.’
‘But you can’t get her there; there is no road to the moon:
it is all air; and neither you nor she can fly.’
406 Jane Eyre

‘Adele, look at that field.’ We were now outside Thornfield
gates, and bowling lightly along the smooth road to Mill-
cote, where the dust was well laid by the thunderstorm, and,
where the low hedges and lofty timber trees on each side
glistened green and rain- refreshed.
‘In that field, Adele, I was walking late one evening about
a fortnight since—the evening of the day you helped me to
make hay in the orchard meadows; and, as I was tired with
raking swaths, I sat down to rest me on a stile; and there I
took out a little book and a pencil, and began to write about
a misfortune that befell me long ago, and a wish I had for
happy days to come: I was writing away very fast, though
daylight was fading from the leaf, when something came
up the path and stopped two yards off me. I looked at it. It
was a little thing with a veil of gossamer on its head. I beck-
oned it to come near me; it stood soon at my knee. I never
spoke to it, and it never spoke to me, in words; but I read its
eyes, and it read mine; and our speechless colloquy was to
this effect—
‘It was a fairy, and come from Elf-land, it said; and its
errand was to make me happy: I must go with it out of the
common world to a lonely place—such as the moon, for in-
stance—and it nodded its head towards her horn, rising
over Hay-hill: it told me of the alabaster cave and silver vale
where we might live. I said I should like to go; but reminded
it, as you did me, that I had no wings to fly.
‘Oh,’ returned the fairy, ‘that does not signify! Here is
a talisman will remove all difficulties;’ and she held out a
pretty gold ring. ‘Put it,’ she said, ‘on the fourth finger of my

left hand, and I am yours, and you are mine; and we shall
leave earth, and make our own heaven yonder.’ She nodded
again at the moon. The ring, Adele, is in my breeches-pock-
et, under the disguise of a sovereign: but I mean soon to
change it to a ring again.’
‘But what has mademoiselle to do with it? I don’t care for
the fairy: you said it was mademoiselle you would take to
the moon?’
‘Mademoiselle is a fairy,’ he said, whispering mysterious-
ly. Whereupon I told her not to mind his badinage; and she,
on her part, evinced a fund of genuine French scepticism:
denominating Mr. Rochester ‘un vrai menteur,’ and assur-
ing him that she made no account whatever of his ‘contes
de fee,’ and that ‘du reste, il n’y avait pas de fees, et quand
meme il y en avait:’ she was sure they would never appear
to him, nor ever give him rings, or offer to live with him in
the moon.
The hour spent at Millcote was a somewhat harassing one
to me. Mr. Rochester obliged me to go to a certain silk ware-
house: there I was ordered to choose half-a-dozen dresses. I
hated the business, I begged leave to defer it: no—it should
be gone through with now. By dint of entreaties expressed
in energetic whispers, I reduced the half-dozen to two: these
however, he vowed he would select himself. With anxiety I
watched his eye rove over the gay stores: he fixed on a rich
silk of the most brilliant amethyst dye, and a superb pink
satin. I told him in a new series of whispers, that he might
as well buy me a gold gown and a silver bonnet at once: I
should certainly never venture to wear his choice. With in-
408 Jane Eyre

finite difficulty, for he was stubborn as a stone, I persuaded
him to make an exchange in favour of a sober black satin
and pearl-grey silk. ‘It might pass for the present,’ he said;
‘but he would yet see me glittering like a parterre.’
Glad was I to get him out of the silk warehouse, and then
out of a jewellers shop: the more he bought me, the more
my cheek burned with a sense of annoyance and degrada-
tion. As we re-entered the carriage, and I sat back feverish
and fagged, I remembered what, in the hurry of events, dark
and bright, I had wholly forgotten—the letter of my uncle,
John Eyre, to Mrs. Reed: his intention to adopt me and
make me his legatee. ‘It would, indeed, be a relief,’ I thought,
‘if I had ever so small an independency; I never can bear
being dressed like a doll by Mr. Rochester, or sitting like a
second Danae with the golden shower falling daily round
me. I will write to Madeira the moment I get home, and tell
my uncle John I am going to be married, and to whom: if I
had but a prospect of one day bringing Mr. Rochester an ac-
cession of fortune, I could better endure to be kept by him
now.’ And somewhat relieved by this idea (which I failed
not to execute that day), I ventured once more to meet my
master’s and lover’s eye, which most pertinaciously sought
mine, though I averted both face and gaze. He smiled; and
I thought his smile was such as a sultan might, in a blissful
and fond moment, bestow on a slave his gold and gems had
enriched: I crushed his hand, which was ever hunting mine,
vigorously, and thrust it back to him red with the passion-
ate pressure.
‘You need not look in that way,’ I said; ‘if you do, I’ll wear

nothing but my old Lowood frocks to the end of the chap-
ter. I’ll be married in this lilac gingham: you may make a
dressing-gown for yourself out of the pearl-grey silk, and an
infinite series of waistcoats out of the black satin.’
He chuckled; he rubbed his hands. ‘Oh, it is rich to see
and hear her?’ he exclaimed. ‘Is she original? Is she pi-
quant? I would not exchange this one little English girl for
the Grand Turk’s whole seraglio, gazelle-eyes, houri forms,
and all!’
The Eastern allusion bit me again. ‘I’ll not stand you an
inch in the stead of a seraglio,’ I said; ‘so don’t consider me
an equivalent for one. If you have a fancy for anything in
that line, away with you, sir, to the bazaars of Stamboul
without delay, and lay out in extensive slave-purchases
some of that spare cash you seem at a loss to spend satis-
factorily here.’
‘And what will you do, Janet, while I am bargaining for so
many tons of flesh and such an assortment of black eyes?’
‘I’ll be preparing myself to go out as a missionary to
preach liberty to them that are enslaved—your harem in-
mates amongst the rest. I’ll get admitted there, and I’ll stir
up mutiny; and you, three-tailed bashaw as you are, sir, shall
in a trice find yourself fettered amongst our hands: nor will
I, for one, consent to cut your bonds till you have signed a
charter, the most liberal that despot ever yet conferred.’
‘I would consent to be at your mercy, Jane.’
‘I would have no mercy, Mr. Rochester, if you supplicated
for it with an eye like that. While you looked so, I should
be certain that whatever charter you might grant under co-
410 Jane Eyre

ercion, your first act, when released, would be to violate its
conditions.’
‘Why, Jane, what would you have? I fear you will compel
me to go through a private marriage ceremony, besides that
performed at the altar. You will stipulate, I see, for peculiar
terms—what will they be?’
‘I only want an easy mind, sir; not crushed by crowded
obligations. Do you remember what you said of Celine Va-
rens?—of the diamonds, the cashmeres you gave her? I will
not be your English Celine Varens. I shall continue to act as
Adele’s governess; by that I shall earn my board and lodg-
ing, and thirty pounds a year besides. I’ll furnish my own
wardrobe out of that money, and you shall give me nothing
but—‘
‘Well, but what?’
‘Your regard; and if I give you mine in return, that debt
will be quit.’
‘Well, for cool native impudence and pure innate pride,
you haven’t your equal,’ said he. We were now approaching
Thornfield. ‘Will it please you to dine with me to-day?’ he
asked, as we re-entered the gates.
‘No, thank you, sir.’
‘And what for, ‘no, thank you?’ if one may inquire.’
‘I never have dined with you, sir: and I see no reason why
I should now: till—‘
‘Till what? You delight in half-phrases.’
‘Till I can’t help it.’
‘Do you suppose I eat like an ogre or a ghoul, that you
dread being the companion of my repast?’

‘I have formed no supposition on the subject, sir; but I
want to go on as usual for another month.’
‘You will give up your governessing slavery at once.’
‘Indeed, begging your pardon, sir, I shall not. I shall just
go on with it as usual. I shall keep out of your way all day, as
I have been accustomed to do: you may send for me in the
evening, when you feel disposed to see me, and I’ll come
then; but at no other time.’
‘I want a smoke, Jane, or a pinch of snuff, to comfort me
under all this, ‘pour me donner une contenance,’ as Adele
would say; and unfortunately I have neither my cigar-case,
nor my snuff-box. But listen—whisper. It is your time now,
little tyrant, but it will be mine presently; and when once I
have fairly seized you, to have and to hold, I’ll just—figura-
tively speaking—attach you to a chain like this’ (touching
his watch-guard). ‘Yes, bonny wee thing, I’ll wear you in my
bosom, lest my jewel I should tyne.’
He said this as he helped me to alight from the carriage,
and while he afterwards lifted out Adele, I entered the house,
and made good my retreat upstairs.
He duly summoned me to his presence in the evening. I
had prepared an occupation for him; for I was determined
not to spend the whole time in a tete-e-tete conversation. I
remembered his fine voice; I knew he liked to sing—good
singers generally do. I was no vocalist myself, and, in his
fastidious judgment, no musician, either; but I delighted in
listening when the performance was good. No sooner had
twilight, that hour of romance, began to lower her blue and
starry banner over the lattice, than I rose, opened the piano,
412 Jane Eyre

and entreated him, for the love of heaven, to give me a song.
He said I was a capricious witch, and that he would rather
sing another time; but I averred that no time was like the
present.
‘Did I like his voice?’ he asked.
‘Very much.’ I was not fond of pampering that susceptible
vanity of his; but for once, and from motives of expediency,
I would e’en soothe and stimulate it.
‘Then, Jane, you must play the accompaniment.’
‘Very well, sir, I will try.’
I did try, but was presently swept off the stool and
denominated ‘a little bungler.’ Being pushed unceremoni-
ously to one side—which was precisely what I wished—he
usurped my place, and proceeded to accompany himself:
for he could play as well as sing. I hied me to the window-
recess. And while I sat there and looked out on the still trees
and dim lawn, to a sweet air was sung in mellow tones the
following strain:-
‘The truest love that ever heart

Felt at its kindled core,
Did through each vein, in quickened start,
The tide of being pour.
Her coming was my hope each day,

Her parting was my pain;
The chance that did her steps delay
Was ice in every vein.

I dreamed it would be nameless bliss,
As I loved, loved to be;
And to this object did I press
As blind as eagerly.
But wide as pathless was the space

That lay our lives between,
And dangerous as the foamy race
Of ocean-surges green.
And haunted as a robber-path

Through wilderness or wood;
For Might and Right, and Woe and Wrath,
Between our spirits stood.
I dangers dared; I hindrance scorned;

I omens did defy:
Whatever menaced, harassed, warned,
I passed impetuous by.
On sped my rainbow, fast as light;

I flew as in a dream;
For glorious rose upon my sight
That child of Shower and Gleam.
Still bright on clouds of suffering dim

Shines that soft, solemn joy;
Nor care I now, how dense and grim
Disasters gather nigh.
414 Jane Eyre

I care not in this moment sweet,
Though all I have rushed o’er
Should come on pinion, strong and fleet,
Proclaiming vengeance sore:
Though haughty Hate should strike me down,

Right, bar approach to me,
And grinding Might, with furious frown,
Swear endless enmity.
My love has placed her little hand

With noble faith in mine,
And vowed that wedlock’s sacred band
Our nature shall entwine.
My love has sworn, with sealing kiss,

With me to live—to die;
I have at last my nameless bliss.
As I love—loved am I!’
He rose and came towards me, and I saw his face all kin-
dled, and his full falcon-eye flashing, and tenderness and
passion in every lineament. I quailed momentarily—then I
rallied. Soft scene, daring demonstration, I would not have;
and I stood in peril of both: a weapon of defence must be
prepared—I whetted my tongue: as he reached me, I asked
with asperity, ‘whom he was going to marry now?’
‘That was a strange question to be put by his darling
Jane.’

‘Indeed! I considered it a very natural and necessary one:
he had talked of his future wife dying with him. What did
he mean by such a pagan idea? I had no intention of dying
with him—he might depend on that.’
‘Oh, all he longed, all he prayed for, was that I might live
with him! Death was not for such as I.’
‘Indeed it was: I had as good a right to die when my time
came as he had: but I should bide that time, and not be hur-
ried away in a suttee.’
‘Would I forgive him for the selfish idea, and prove my
pardon by a reconciling kiss?’
‘No: I would rather be excused.’
Here I heard myself apostrophised as a ‘hard little thing;’
and it was added, ‘any other woman would have been melted
to marrow at hearing such stanzas crooned in her praise.’
I assured him I was naturally hard—very flinty, and that
he would often find me so; and that, moreover, I was deter-
mined to show him divers rugged points in my character
before the ensuing four weeks elapsed: he should know ful-
ly what sort of a bargain he had made, while there was yet
time to rescind it.
‘Would I be quiet and talk rationally?’
‘I would be quiet if he liked, and as to talking rationally, I
flattered myself I was doing that now.’
He fretted, pished, and pshawed. ‘Very good,’ I thought;
‘you may fume and fidget as you please: but this is the best
plan to pursue with you, I am certain. I like you more than
I can say; but I’ll not sink into a bathos of sentiment: and
with this needle of repartee I’ll keep you from the edge of
416 Jane Eyre

the gulf too; and, moreover, maintain by its pungent aid
that distance between you and myself most conducive to
our real mutual advantage.’
From less to more, I worked him up to considerable ir-
ritation; then, after he had retired, in dudgeon, quite to the
other end of the room, I got up, and saying, ‘I wish you
good-night, sir,’ in my natural and wonted respectful man-
ner, I slipped out by the side-door and got away.
The system thus entered on, I pursued during the whole
season of probation; and with the best success. He was kept,
to be sure, rather cross and crusty; but on the whole I could
see he was excellently entertained, and that a lamb-like
submission and turtle- dove sensibility, while fostering his
despotism more, would have pleased his judgment, satisfied
his common-sense, and even suited his taste less.
In other people’s presence I was, as formerly, deferential
and quiet; any other line of conduct being uncalled for: it
was only in the evening conferences I thus thwarted and
afflicted him. He continued to send for me punctually the
moment the clock struck seven; though when I appeared
before him now, he had no such honeyed terms as ‘love’ and
‘darling’ on his lips: the best words at my service were ‘pro-
voking puppet,’ ‘malicious elf,’ ‘sprite,’ ‘changeling,’ &c. For
caresses, too, I now got grimaces; for a pressure of the hand,
a pinch on the arm; for a kiss on the cheek, a severe tweak
of the ear. It was all right: at present I decidedly preferred
these fierce favours to anything more tender. Mrs. Fairfax,
I saw, approved me: her anxiety on my account vanished;
therefore I was certain I did well. Meantime, Mr. Rochester

affirmed I was wearing him to skin and bone, and threat-
ened awful vengeance for my present conduct at some
period fast coming. I laughed in my sleeve at his menaces.
‘I can keep you in reasonable check now,’ I reflected; ‘and
I don’t doubt to be able to do it hereafter: if one expedient
loses its virtue, another must be devised.’
Yet after all my task was not an easy one; often I would
rather have pleased than teased him. My future husband
was becoming to me my whole world; and more than the
world: almost my hope of heaven. He stood between me and
every thought of religion, as an eclipse intervenes between
man and the broad sun. I could not, in those days, see God
for His creature: of whom I had made an idol.
418 Jane Eyre

Chapter XXV
T he month of courtship had wasted: its very last hours

were being numbered. There was no putting off the day
that advanced—the bridal day; and all preparations for its
arrival were complete. I, at least, had nothing more to do:
there were my trunks, packed, locked, corded, ranged in
a row along the wall of my little chamber; to-morrow, at
this time, they would be far on their road to London: and
so should I (D.V.),—or rather, not I, but one Jane Roches-
ter, a person whom as yet I knew not. The cards of address
alone remained to nail on: they lay, four little squares, in
the drawer. Mr. Rochester had himself written the direc-
tion, ‘Mrs. Rochester,— Hotel, London,’ on each: I could
not persuade myself to affix them, or to have them affixed.
Mrs. Rochester! She did not exist: she would not be born till
to-morrow, some time after eight o’clock a.m.; and I would
wait to be assured she had come into the world alive before
I assigned to her all that property. It was enough that in
yonder closet, opposite my dressing-table, garments said to
be hers had already displaced my black stuff Lowood frock
and straw bonnet: for not to me appertained that suit of
wedding raiment; the pearl-coloured robe, the vapoury veil
pendent from the usurped portmanteau. I shut the closet to
conceal the strange, wraith-like apparel it contained; which,
at this evening hour—nine o’clock— gave out certainly a

most ghostly shimmer through the shadow of my apart-
ment. ‘I will leave you by yourself, white dream,’ I said. ‘I
am feverish: I hear the wind blowing: I will go out of doors
and feel it.’
It was not only the hurry of preparation that made me
feverish; not only the anticipation of the great change—the
new life which was to commence to-morrow: both these
circumstances had their share, doubtless, in producing that
restless, excited mood which hurried me forth at this late
hour into the darkening grounds: but a third cause influ-
enced my mind more than they.
I had at heart a strange and anxious thought. Something
had happened which I could not comprehend; no one knew
of or had seen the event but myself: it had taken place the
preceding night. Mr. Rochester that night was absent from
home; nor was he yet returned: business had called him
to a small estate of two or three farms he possessed thirty
miles off—business it was requisite he should settle in per-
son, previous to his meditated departure from England. I
waited now his return; eager to disburthen my mind, and
to seek of him the solution of the enigma that perplexed me.
Stay till he comes, reader; and, when I disclose my secret to
him, you shall share the confidence.
I sought the orchard, driven to its shelter by the wind,
which all day had blown strong and full from the south,
without, however, bringing a speck of rain. Instead of sub-
siding as night drew on, it seemed to augment its rush and
deepen its roar: the trees blew steadfastly one way, never
writhing round, and scarcely tossing back their boughs
420 Jane Eyre

once in an hour; so continuous was the strain bending their
branchy heads northward—the clouds drifted from pole to
pole, fast following, mass on mass: no glimpse of blue sky
had been visible that July day.
It was not without a certain wild pleasure I ran before
the wind, delivering my trouble of mind to the measure-
less air-torrent thundering through space. Descending the
laurel walk, I faced the wreck of the chestnut-tree; it stood
up black and riven: the trunk, split down the centre, gasped
ghastly. The cloven halves were not broken from each other,
for the firm base and strong roots kept them unsundered
below; though community of vitality was destroyed—the
sap could flow no more: their great boughs on each side
were dead, and next winter’s tempests would be sure to fell
one or both to earth: as yet, however, they might be said to
form one tree—a ruin, but an entire ruin.
‘You did right to hold fast to each other,’ I said: as if the
monster-splinters were living things, and could hear me. ‘I
think, scathed as you look, and charred and scorched, there
must be a little sense of life in you yet, rising out of that
adhesion at the faithful, honest roots: you will never have
green leaves more— never more see birds making nests and
singing idyls in your boughs; the time of pleasure and love
is over with you: but you are not desolate: each of you has a
comrade to sympathise with him in his decay.’ As I looked
up at them, the moon appeared momentarily in that part
of the sky which filled their fissure; her disk was blood- red
and half overcast; she seemed to throw on me one bewil-
dered, dreary glance, and buried herself again instantly in

the deep drift of cloud. The wind fell, for a second, round
Thornfield; but far away over wood and water, poured a wild,
melancholy wail: it was sad to listen to, and I ran off again.
Here and there I strayed through the orchard, gathered
up the apples with which the grass round the tree roots
was thickly strewn; then I employed myself in dividing the
ripe from the unripe; I carried them into the house and put
them away in the store-room. Then I repaired to the library
to ascertain whether the fire was lit, for, though summer, I
knew on such a gloomy evening Mr. Rochester would like
to see a cheerful hearth when he came in: yes, the fire had
been kindled some time, and burnt well. I placed his arm-
chair by the chimney-corner: I wheeled the table near it: I
let down the curtain, and had the candles brought in ready
for lighting. More restless than ever, when I had completed
these arrangements I could not sit still, nor even remain in
the house: a little time-piece in the room and the old clock
in the hall simultaneously struck ten.
‘How late it grows!’ I said. ‘I will run down to the gates: it
is moonlight at intervals; I can see a good way on the road.
He may be coming now, and to meet him will save some
minutes of suspense.’
The wind roared high in the great trees which embow-
ered the gates; but the road as far as I could see, to the right
hand and the left, was all still and solitary: save for the shad-
ows of clouds crossing it at intervals as the moon looked out,
it was but a long pale line, unvaried by one moving speck.
A puerile tear dimmed my eye while I looked—a tear of
disappointment and impatience; ashamed of it, I wiped it
422 Jane Eyre

away. I lingered; the moon shut herself wholly within her
chamber, and drew close her curtain of dense cloud: the
night grew dark; rain came driving fast on the gale.
‘I wish he would come! I wish he would come!’ I exclaimed,
seized with hypochondriac foreboding. I had expected his
arrival before tea; now it was dark: what could keep him?
Had an accident happened? The event of last night again
recurred to me. I interpreted it as a warning of disaster. I
feared my hopes were too bright to be realised; and I had
enjoyed so much bliss lately that I imagined my fortune had
passed its meridian, and must now decline.
‘Well, I cannot return to the house,’ I thought; ‘I cannot
sit by the fireside, while he is abroad in inclement weather:
better tire my limbs than strain my heart; I will go forward
and meet him.’
I set out; I walked fast, but not far: ere I had measured a
quarter of a mile, I heard the tramp of hoofs; a horseman
came on, full gallop; a dog ran by his side. Away with evil
presentiment! It was he: here he was, mounted on Mesrour,
followed by Pilot. He saw me; for the moon had opened a
blue field in the sky, and rode in it watery bright: he took
his hat off, and waved it round his head. I now ran to meet
him.
‘There!’ he exclaimed, as he stretched out his hand and
bent from the saddle: ‘You can’t do without me, that is evi-
dent. Step on my boot-toe; give me both hands: mount!’
I obeyed: joy made me agile: I sprang up before him. A
hearty kissing I got for a welcome, and some boastful tri-
umph, which I swallowed as well as I could. He checked

himself in his exultation to demand, ‘But is there anything
the matter, Janet, that you come to meet me at such an hour?
Is there anything wrong?’
‘No, but I thought you would never come. I could not
bear to wait in the house for you, especially with this rain
and wind.’
‘Rain and wind, indeed! Yes, you are dripping like a mer-
maid; pull my cloak round you: but I think you are feverish,
Jane: both your cheek and hand are burning hot. I ask again,
is there anything the matter?
‘Nothing now; I am neither afraid nor unhappy.’
‘Then you have been both?’
‘Rather: but I’ll tell you all about it by-and-bye, sir; and I
daresay you will only laugh at me for my pains.’
‘I’ll laugh at you heartily when to-morrow is past; till then
I dare not: my prize is not certain. This is you, who have
been as slippery as an eel this last month, and as thorny
as a briar-rose? I could not lay a finger anywhere but I was
pricked; and now I seem to have gathered up a stray lamb in
my arms. You wandered out of the fold to seek your shep-
herd, did you, Jane?’
‘I wanted you: but don’t boast. Here we are at Thornfield:
now let me get down.’
He landed me on the pavement. As John took his horse,
and he followed me into the hall, he told me to make haste
and put something dry on, and then return to him in the
library; and he stopped me, as I made for the staircase, to
extort a promise that I would not be long: nor was I long; in
five minutes I rejoined him. I found him at supper.
424 Jane Eyre

‘Take a seat and bear me company, Jane: please God, it
is the last meal but one you will eat at Thornfield Hall for a
long time.’
I sat down near him, but told him I could not eat. ‘Is it
because you have the prospect of a journey before you, Jane?
Is it the thoughts of going to London that takes away your
appetite?’
‘I cannot see my prospects clearly to-night, sir; and I
hardly know what thoughts I have in my head. Everything
in life seems unreal.’
‘Except me: I am substantial enough—touch me.’
‘You, sir, are the most phantom-like of all: you are a mere
dream.’
He held out his hand, laughing. ‘Is that a dream?’ said
he, placing it close to my eyes. He had a rounded, muscular,
and vigorous hand, as well as a long, strong arm.
‘Yes; though I touch it, it is a dream,’ said I, as I put it
down from before my face. ‘Sir, have you finished supper?’
‘Yes, Jane.’
I rang the bell and ordered away the tray. When we were
again alone, I stirred the fire, and then took a low seat at my
master’s knee.
‘It is near midnight,’ I said.
‘Yes: but remember, Jane, you promised to wake with me
the night before my wedding.’
‘I did; and I will keep my promise, for an hour or two at
least: I have no wish to go to bed.’
‘Are all your arrangements complete?’
‘All, sir.’

‘And on my part likewise,’ he returned, ‘I have settled ev-
erything; and we shall leave Thornfield to-morrow, within
half-an-hour after our return from church.’
‘Very well, sir.’
‘With what an extraordinary smile you uttered that
word—‘very well,’ Jane! What a bright spot of colour you
have on each cheek! and how strangely your eyes glitter!
Are you well?’
‘I believe I am.’
‘Believe! What is the matter? Tell me what you feel.’
‘I could not, sir: no words could tell you what I feel. I wish
this present hour would never end: who knows with what
fate the next may come charged?’
‘This is hypochondria, Jane. You have been over-excited,
or over- fatigued.’
‘Do you, sir, feel calm and happy?’
‘Calm?—no: but happy—to the heart’s core.’
I looked up at him to read the signs of bliss in his face: it
was ardent and flushed.
‘Give me your confidence, Jane,’ he said: ‘relieve your
mind of any weight that oppresses it, by imparting it to me.
What do you fear?that I shall not prove a good husband?’
‘It is the idea farthest from my thoughts.’
‘Are you apprehensive of the new sphere you are about to
enter?—of the new life into which you are passing?’
‘No.’
‘You puzzle me, Jane: your look and tone of sorrowful au-
dacity perplex and pain me. I want an explanation.’
‘Then, sir, listen. You were from home last night?’
426 Jane Eyre

‘I was: I know that; and you hinted a while ago at some-
thing which had happened in my absence:- nothing,
probably, of consequence; but, in short, it has disturbed you.
Let me hear it. Mrs. Fairfax has said something, perhaps? or
you have overheard the servants talk?— your sensitive self-
respect has been wounded?’
‘No, sir.’ It struck twelve—I waited till the time-piece had
concluded its silver chime, and the clock its hoarse, vibrit-
ting stroke, and then I proceeded.
‘All day yesterday I was very busy, and very happy in my
ceaseless bustle; for I am not, as you seem to think, trou-
bled by any haunting fears about the new sphere, et cetera: I
think it a glorious thing to have the hope of living with you,
because I love you. No, sir, don’t caress me now—let me talk
undisturbed. Yesterday I trusted well in Providence, and
believed that events were working together for your good
and mine: it was a fine day, if you recollect—the calmness
of the air and sky forbade apprehensions respecting your
safety or comfort on your journey. I walked a little while on
the pavement after tea, thinking of you; and I beheld you
in imagination so near me, I scarcely missed your actual
presence. I thought of the life that lay before me—YOUR
life, sir—an existence more expansive and stirring than my
own: as much more so as the depths of the sea to which the
brook runs are than the shallows of its own strait channel.
I wondered why moralists call this world a dreary wilder-
ness: for me it blossomed like a rose. Just at sunset, the air
turned cold and the sky cloudy: I went in, Sophie called me
upstairs to look at my wedding-dress, which they had just

brought; and under it in the box I found your present—the
veil which, in your princely extravagance, you sent for from
London: resolved, I suppose, since I would not have jewels,
to cheat me into accepting something as costly. I smiled as
I unfolded it, and devised how I would tease you about your
aristocratic tastes, and your efforts to masque your plebeian
bride in the attributes of a peeress. I though how I would
carry down to you the square of unembroidered blond I had
myself prepared as a covering for my low-born head, and
ask if that was not good enough for a woman who could
bring her husband neither fortune, beauty, nor connections.
I saw plainly how you would look; and heard your impetu-
ous republican answers, and your haughty disavowal of any
necessity on your part to augment your wealth, or elevate
your standing, by marrying either a purse or a coronet.’
‘How well you read me, you witch!’ interposed Mr.
Rochester: ‘but what did you find in the veil besides its em-
broidery? Did you find poison, or a dagger, that you look so
mournful now?’
‘No, no, sir; besides the delicacy and richness of the fab-
ric, I found nothing save Fairfax Rochester’s pride; and that
did not scare me, because I am used to the sight of the de-
mon. But, sir, as it grew dark, the wind rose: it blew yesterday
evening, not as it blows now—wild and high—but ‘with a
sullen, moaning sound’ far more eerie. I wished you were
at home. I came into this room, and the sight of the empty
chair and fireless hearth chilled me. For some time after I
went to bed, I could not sleep—a sense of anxious excite-
ment distressed me. The gale still rising, seemed to my ear
428 Jane Eyre

to muffle a mournful under-sound; whether in the house
or abroad I could not at first tell, but it recurred, doubtful
yet doleful at every lull; at last I made out it must be some
dog howling at a distance. I was glad when it ceased. On
sleeping, I continued in dreams the idea of a dark and gusty
night. I continued also the wish to be with you, and expe-
rienced a strange, regretful consciousness of some barrier
dividing us. During all my first sleep, I was following the
windings of an unknown road; total obscurity environed
me; rain pelted me; I was burdened with the charge of a
little child: a very small creature, too young and feeble to
walk, and which shivered in my cold arms, and wailed pite-
ously in my ear. I thought, sir, that you were on the road a
long way before me; and I strained every nerve to overtake
you, and made effort on effort to utter your name and en-
treat you to stop— but my movements were fettered, and
my voice still died away inarticulate; while you, I felt, with-
drew farther and farther every moment.’
‘And these dreams weigh on your spirits now, Jane, when
I am close to you? Little nervous subject! Forget visionary
woe, and think only of real happiness! You say you love me,
Janet: yes—I will not forget that; and you cannot deny it.
THOSE words did not die inarticulate on your lips. I heard
them clear and soft: a thought too solemn perhaps, but
sweet as music—‘I think it is a glorious thing to have the
hope of living with you, Edward, because I love you.’ Do
you love me, Jane?—repeat it.’
‘I do, sir—I do, with my whole heart.’
‘Well,’ he said, after some minutes’ silence, ‘it is strange;

but that sentence has penetrated by breast painfully. Why?
I think because you said it with such an earnest, religious
energy, and because your upward gaze at me now is the very
sublime of faith, truth, and devotion: it is too much as if
some spirit were near me. Look wicked, Jane: as you know
well how to look: coin one of your wild, shy, provoking
smiles; tell me you hate me—tease me, vex me; do anything
but move me: I would rather be incensed than saddened.’
‘I will tease you and vex you to your heart’s content, when
I have finished my tale: but hear me to the end.’
‘I thought, Jane, you had told me all. I thought I had
found the source of your melancholy in a dream.’
I shook my head. ‘What! is there more? But I will not be-
lieve it to be anything important. I warn you of incredulity
beforehand. Go on.’
The disquietude of his air, the somewhat apprehensive
impatience of his manner, surprised me: but I proceeded.
‘I dreamt another dream, sir: that Thornfield Hall was a
dreary ruin, the retreat of bats and owls. I thought that of
all the stately front nothing remained but a shell-like wall,
very high and very fragile-looking. I wandered, on a moon-
light night, through the grass-grown enclosure within: here
I stumbled over a marble hearth, and there over a fallen
fragment of cornice. Wrapped up in a shawl, I still carried
the unknown little child: I might not lay it down anywhere,
however tired were my arms—however much its weight im-
peded my progress, I must retain it. I heard the gallop of a
horse at a distance on the road; I was sure it was you; and
you were departing for many years and for a distant coun-
430 Jane Eyre

try. I climbed the thin wall with frantic perilous haste, eager
to catch one glimpse of you from the top: the stones rolled
from under my feet, the ivy branches I grasped gave way,
the child clung round my neck in terror, and almost stran-
gled me; at last I gained the summit. I saw you like a speck
on a white track, lessening every moment. The blast blew so
strong I could not stand. I sat down on the narrow ledge; I
hushed the scared infant in my lap: you turned an angle of
the road: I bent forward to take a last look; the wall crum-
bled; I was shaken; the child rolled from my knee, I lost my
balance, fell, and woke.’
‘Now, Jane, that is all.’
‘All the preface, sir; the tale is yet to come. On waking, a
gleam dazzled my eyes; I thought—Oh, it is daylight! But I
was mistaken; it was only candlelight. Sophie, I supposed,
had come in. There was a light in the dressing-table, and the
door of the closet, where, before going to bed, I had hung
my wedding-dress and veil, stood open; I heard a rustling
there. I asked, ‘Sophie, what are you doing?’ No one an-
swered; but a form emerged from the closet; it took the light,
held it aloft, and surveyed the garments pendent from the
portmanteau. ‘Sophie! Sophie!’ I again cried: and still it was
silent. I had risen up in bed, I bent forward: first surprise,
then bewilderment, came over me; and then my blood crept
cold through my veins. Mr. Rochester, this was not Sophie,
it was not Leah, it was not Mrs. Fairfax: it was not—no, I
was sure of it, and am still—it was not even that strange
woman, Grace Poole.’
‘It must have been one of them,’ interrupted my master.

‘No, sir, I solemnly assure you to the contrary. The shape
standing before me had never crossed my eyes within the
precincts of Thornfield Hall before; the height, the contour
were new to me.’
‘Describe it, Jane.’
‘It seemed, sir, a woman, tall and large, with thick and
dark hair hanging long down her back. I know not what
dress she had on: it was white and straight; but whether
gown, sheet, or shroud, I cannot tell.’
‘Did you see her face?’
‘Not at first. But presently she took my veil from its place;
she held it up, gazed at it long, and then she threw it over her
own head, and turned to the mirror. At that moment I saw
the reflection of the visage and features quite distinctly in
the dark oblong glass.’
‘And how were they?’
‘Fearful and ghastly to me—oh, sir, I never saw a face like
it! It was a discoloured face—it was a savage face. I wish I
could forget the roll of the red eyes and the fearful black-
ened inflation of the lineaments!’
‘Ghosts are usually pale, Jane.’
‘This, sir, was purple: the lips were swelled and dark; the
brow furrowed: the black eyebrows widely raised over the
bloodshot eyes. Shall I tell you of what it reminded me?’
‘You may.’
‘Of the foul German spectre—the Vampyre.’
‘Ah!—what did it do?’
‘Sir, it removed my veil from its gaunt head, rent it in two
parts, and flinging both on the floor, trampled on them.’
432 Jane Eyre

‘Afterwards?’
‘It drew aside the window-curtain and looked out; per-
haps it saw dawn approaching, for, taking the candle, it
retreated to the door. Just at my bedside, the figure stopped:
the fiery eyes glared upon me—she thrust up her candle
close to my face, and extinguished it under my eyes. I was
aware her lurid visage flamed over mine, and I lost con-
sciousness: for the second time in my life—only the second
time—I became insensible from terror.’
‘Who was with you when you revived?’
‘No one, sir, but the broad day. I rose, bathed my head
and face in water, drank a long draught; felt that though en-
feebled I was not ill, and determined that to none but you
would I impart this vision. Now, sir, tell me who and what
that woman was?’
‘The creature of an over-stimulated brain; that is certain.
I must be careful of you, my treasure: nerves like yours were
not made for rough handling.’
‘Sir, depend on it, my nerves were not in fault; the thing
was real: the transaction actually took place.’
‘And your previous dreams, were they real too? Is Thorn-
field Hall a ruin? Am I severed from you by insuperable
obstacles? Am I leaving you without a tear—without a kiss—
without a word?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Am I about to do it? Why, the day is already commenced
which is to bind us indissolubly; and when we are once unit-
ed, there shall be no recurrence of these mental terrors: I
guarantee that.’

‘Mental terrors, sir! I wish I could believe them to be only
such: I wish it more now than ever; since even you cannot
explain to me the mystery of that awful visitant.’
‘And since I cannot do it, Jane, it must have been unreal.’
‘But, sir, when I said so to myself on rising this morn-
ing, and when I looked round the room to gather courage
and comfort from the cheerful aspect of each familiar ob-
ject in full daylight, there—on the carpet—I saw what gave
the distinct lie to my hypothesis,—the veil, torn from top to
bottom in two halves!’
I felt Mr. Rochester start and shudder; he hastily flung
his arms round me. ‘Thank God!’ he exclaimed, ‘that if any-
thing malignant did come near you last night, it was only
the veil that was harmed. Oh, to think what might have
happened!’
He drew his breath short, and strained me so close to
him, I could scarcely pant. After some minutes’ silence, he
continued, cheerily—
‘Now, Janet, I’ll explain to you all about it. It was half
dream, half reality. A woman did, I doubt not, enter your
room: and that woman was—must have been—Grace Poole.
You call her a strange being yourself: from all you know, you
have reason so to call her— what did she do to me? what to
Mason? In a state between sleeping and waking, you noticed
her entrance and her actions; but feverish, almost delirious
as you were, you ascribed to her a goblin appearance dif-
ferent from her own: the long dishevelled hair, the swelled
black face, the exaggerated stature, were figments of imagi-
nation; results of nightmare: the spiteful tearing of the veil
434 Jane Eyre

was real: and it is like her. I see you would ask why I keep
such a woman in my house: when we have been married a
year and a day, I will tell you; but not now. Are you satisfied,
Jane? Do you accept my solution of the mystery?’
I reflected, and in truth it appeared to me the only possi-
ble one: satisfied I was not, but to please him I endeavoured
to appear so— relieved, I certainly did feel; so I answered
him with a contented smile. And now, as it was long past
one, I prepared to leave him.
‘Does not Sophie sleep with Adele in the nursery?’ he
asked, as I lit my candle.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And there is room enough in Adele’s little bed for you.
You must share it with her to-night, Jane: it is no wonder
that the incident you have related should make you nervous,
and I would rather you did not sleep alone: promise me to
go to the nursery.’
‘I shall be very glad to do so, sir.’
‘And fasten the door securely on the inside. Wake Sophie
when you go upstairs, under pretence of requesting her to
rouse you in good time to-morrow; for you must be dressed
and have finished breakfast before eight. And now, no more
sombre thoughts: chase dull care away, Janet. Don’t you
hear to what soft whispers the wind has fallen? and there
is no more beating of rain against the window- panes: look
here’ (he lifted up the curtain)—‘it is a lovely night!’
It was. Half heaven was pure and stainless: the clouds,
now trooping before the wind, which had shifted to the
west, were filing off eastward in long, silvered columns. The

moon shone peacefully.
‘Well,’ said Mr. Rochester, gazing inquiringly into my
eyes, ‘how is my Janet now?’
‘The night is serene, sir; and so am I.’
‘And you will not dream of separation and sorrow to-
night; but of happy love and blissful union.’
This prediction was but half fulfilled: I did not indeed
dream of sorrow, but as little did I dream of joy; for I nev-
er slept at all. With little Adele in my arms, I watched the
slumber of childhood—so tranquil, so passionless, so inno-
cent—and waited for the coming day: all my life was awake
and astir in my frame: and as soon as the sun rose I rose
too. I remember Adele clung to me as I left her: I remember
I kissed her as I loosened her little hands from my neck; and
I cried over her with strange emotion, and quitted her be-
cause I feared my sobs would break her still sound repose.
She seemed the emblem of my past life; and he I was now
to array myself to meet, the dread, but adored, type of my
unknown future day.
436 Jane Eyre

Chapter XXVI
S ophie came at seven to dress me: she was very long

indeed in accomplishing her task; so long that Mr. Roch-
ester, grown, I suppose, impatient of my delay, sent up to ask
why I did not come. She was just fastening my veil (the plain
square of blond after all) to my hair with a brooch; I hurried
from under her hands as soon as I could.
‘Stop!’ she cried in French. ‘Look at yourself in the mir-
ror: you have not taken one peep.’
So I turned at the door: I saw a robed and veiled figure,
so unlike my usual self that it seemed almost the image of a
stranger. ‘Jane!’ called a voice, and I hastened down. I was
received at the foot of the stairs by Mr. Rochester.
‘Lingerer!’ he said, ‘my brain is on fire with impatience,
and you tarry so long!’
He took me into the dining-room, surveyed me keenly
all over, pronounced me ‘fair as a lily, and not only the pride
of his life, but the desire of his eyes,’ and then telling me he
would give me but ten minutes to eat some breakfast, he
rang the bell. One of his lately hired servants, a footman,
answered it.
‘Is John getting the carriage ready?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Is the luggage brought down?’
‘They are bringing it down, sir.’

‘Go you to the church: see if Mr. Wood (the clergyman)
and the clerk are there: return and tell me.’
The church, as the reader knows, was but just beyond the
gates; the footman soon returned.
‘Mr. Wood is in the vestry, sir, putting on his surplice.’
‘And the carriage?’
‘The horses are harnessing.’
‘We shall not want it to go to church; but it must be ready
the moment we return: all the boxes and luggage arranged
and strapped on, and the coachman in his seat.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Jane, are you ready?’
I rose. There were no groomsmen, no bridesmaids, no
relatives to wait for or marshal: none but Mr. Rochester and
I. Mrs. Fairfax stood in the hall as we passed. I would fain
have spoken to her, but my hand was held by a grasp of iron:
I was hurried along by a stride I could hardly follow; and
to look at Mr. Rochester’s face was to feel that not a second
of delay would be tolerated for any purpose. I wonder what
other bridegroom ever looked as he did—so bent up to a
purpose, so grimly resolute: or who, under such steadfast
brows, ever revealed such flaming and flashing eyes.
I know not whether the day was fair or foul; in descend-
ing the drive, I gazed neither on sky nor earth: my heart was
with my eyes; and both seemed migrated into Mr. Roches-
ter’s frame. I wanted to see the invisible thing on which, as
we went along, he appeared to fasten a glance fierce and fell.
I wanted to feel the thoughts whose force he seemed breast-
ing and resisting.
438 Jane Eyre

At the churchyard wicket he stopped: he discovered I was
quite out of breath. ‘Am I cruel in my love?’ he said. ‘Delay
an instant: lean on me, Jane.’
And now I can recall the picture of the grey old house
of God rising calm before me, of a rook wheeling round
the steeple, of a ruddy morning sky beyond. I remember
something, too, of the green grave- mounds; and I have not
forgotten, either, two figures of strangers straying amongst
the low hillocks and reading the mementoes graven on the
few mossy head-stones. I noticed them, because, as they
saw us, they passed round to the back of the church; and I
doubted not they were going to enter by the side-aisle door
and witness the ceremony. By Mr. Rochester they were not
observed; he was earnestly looking at my face from which
the blood had, I daresay, momentarily fled: for I felt my
forehead dewy, and my cheeks and lips cold. When I rallied,
which I soon did, he walked gently with me up the path to
the porch.
We entered the quiet and humble temple; the priest wait-
ed in his white surplice at the lowly altar, the clerk beside
him. All was still: two shadows only moved in a remote
corner. My conjecture had been correct: the strangers had
slipped in before us, and they now stood by the vault of the
Rochesters, their backs towards us, viewing through the
rails the old time-stained marble tomb, where a kneeling
angel guarded the remains of Damer de Rochester, slain at
Marston Moor in the time of the civil wars, and of Eliza-
beth, his wife.
Our place was taken at the communion rails. Hearing a

cautious step behind me, I glanced over my shoulder: one
of the strangers—a gentleman, evidently—was advancing
up the chancel. The service began. The explanation of the
intent of matrimony was gone through; and then the cler-
gyman came a step further forward, and, bending slightly
towards Mr. Rochester, went on.
‘I require and charge you both (as ye will answer at the
dreadful day of judgment, when the secrets of all hearts shall
be disclosed), that if either of you know any impediment
why ye may not lawfully be joined together in matrimony,
ye do now confess it; for be ye well assured that so many
as are coupled together otherwise than God’s Word doth
allow, are not joined together by God, neither is their mat-
rimony lawful.’
He paused, as the custom is. When is the pause after that
sentence ever broken by reply? Not, perhaps, once in a hun-
dred years. And the clergyman, who had not lifted his eyes
from his book, and had held his breath but for a moment,
was proceeding: his hand was already stretched towards Mr.
Rochester, as his lips unclosed to ask, ‘Wilt thou have this
woman for thy wedded wife?’—when a distinct and near
voice said—
‘The marriage cannot go on: I declare the existence of an
impediment.’
The clergyman looked up at the speaker and stood mute;
the clerk did the same; Mr. Rochester moved slightly, as if an
earthquake had rolled under his feet: taking a firmer foot-
ing, and not turning his head or eyes, he said, ‘Proceed.’
Profound silence fell when he had uttered that word,
440 Jane Eyre

with deep but low intonation. Presently Mr. Wood said—
‘I cannot proceed without some investigation into what
has been asserted, and evidence of its truth or falsehood.’
‘The ceremony is quite broken off,’ subjoined the voice
behind us. ‘I am in a condition to prove my allegation: an
insuperable impediment to this marriage exists.’
Mr. Rochester heard, but heeded not: he stood stubborn
and rigid, making no movement but to possess himself of
my hand. What a hot and strong grasp he had! and how
like quarried marble was his pale, firm, massive front at this
moment! How his eye shone, still watchful, and yet wild be-
neath!
Mr. Wood seemed at a loss. ‘What is the nature of the
impediment?’ he asked. ‘Perhaps it may be got over—ex-
plained away?’
‘Hardly,’ was the answer. ‘I have called it insuperable, and
I speak advisedly.’
The speaker came forward and leaned on the rails. He
continued, uttering each word distinctly, calmly, steadily,
but not loudly—
‘It simply consists in the existence of a previous marriage.
Mr. Rochester has a wife now living.’
My nerves vibrated to those low-spoken words as they
had never vibrated to thunder—my blood felt their subtle
violence as it had never felt frost or fire; but I was collected,
and in no danger of swooning. I looked at Mr. Rochester: I
made him look at me. His whole face was colourless rock:
his eye was both spark and flint. He disavowed nothing:
he seemed as if he would defy all things. Without speak-

ing, without smiling, without seeming to recognise in me
a human being, he only twined my waist with his arm and
riveted me to his side.
‘Who are you?’ he asked of the intruder.
‘My name is Briggs, a solicitor of—Street, London.’
‘And you would thrust on me a wife?’
‘I would remind you of your lady’s existence, sir, which
the law recognises, if you do not.’
‘Favour me with an account of her—with her name, her
parentage, her place of abode.’
‘Certainly.’ Mr. Briggs calmly took a paper from his
pocket, and read out in a sort of official, nasal voice:-
‘I affirm and can prove that on the 20th of October A.D.—
(a date of fifteen years back), Edward Fairfax Rochester, of
Thornfield Hall, in the county of—, and of Ferndean Manor,
in—shire, England, was married to my sister, Bertha An-
toinetta Mason, daughter of Jonas Mason, merchant, and
of Antoinetta his wife, a Creole, at—church, Spanish Town,
Jamaica. The record of the marriage will be found in the
register of that church—a copy of it is now in my possession.
Signed, Richard Mason.’’
‘That—if a genuine document—may prove I have been
married, but it does not prove that the woman mentioned
therein as my wife is still living.’
‘She was living three months ago,’ returned the lawyer.
‘How do you know?’
‘I have a witness to the fact, whose testimony even you,
sir, will scarcely controvert.’
‘Produce him—or go to hell.’
442 Jane Eyre

‘I will produce him first—he is on the spot. Mr. Mason,
have the goodness to step forward.’
Mr. Rochester, on hearing the name, set his teeth; he ex-
perienced, too, a sort of strong convulsive quiver; near to
him as I was, I felt the spasmodic movement of fury or de-
spair run through his frame. The second stranger, who had
hitherto lingered in the background, now drew near; a pale
face looked over the solicitor’s shoulder—yes, it was Mason
himself. Mr. Rochester turned and glared at him. His eye, as
I have often said, was a black eye: it had now a tawny, nay, a
bloody light in its gloom; and his face flushed—olive cheek
and hueless forehead received a glow as from spreading, as-
cending heart-fire: and he stirred, lifted his strong arm—he
could have struck Mason, dashed him on the church-floor,
shocked by ruthless blow the breath from his body—but
Mason shrank away, and cried faintly, ‘Good God!’ Con-
tempt fell cool on Mr. Rochester—his passion died as if a
blight had shrivelled it up: he only asked—‘What have YOU
to say?’
An inaudible reply escaped Mason’s white lips.
‘The devil is in it if you cannot answer distinctly. I again
demand, what have you to say?’
‘Sir—sir,’ interrupted the clergyman, ‘do not forget you
are in a sacred place.’ Then addressing Mason, he inquired
gently, ‘Are you aware, sir, whether or not this gentleman’s
wife is still living?’
‘Courage,’ urged the lawyer,—‘speak out.’
‘She is now living at Thornfield Hall,’ said Mason, in
more articulate tones: ‘I saw her there last April. I am her

brother.’
‘At Thornfield Hall!’ ejaculated the clergyman. ‘Impos-
sible! I am an old resident in this neighbourhood, sir, and I
never heard of a Mrs. Rochester at Thornfield Hall.’
I saw a grim smile contort Mr. Rochester’s lips, and he
muttered—
‘No, by God! I took care that none should hear of it—
or of her under that name.’ He mused—for ten minutes
he held counsel with himself: he formed his resolve, and
announced it—
‘Enough! all shall bolt out at once, like the bullet from
the barrel. Wood, close your book and take off your sur-
plice; John Green (to the clerk), leave the church: there will
be no wedding to-day.’ The man obeyed.
Mr. Rochester continued, hardily and recklessly: ‘Biga-
my is an ugly word!—I meant, however, to be a bigamist; but
fate has out- manoeuvred me, or Providence has checked
me,—perhaps the last. I am little better than a devil at this
moment; and, as my pastor there would tell me, deserve no
doubt the sternest judgments of God, even to the quench-
less fire and deathless worm. Gentlemen, my plan is broken
up:- what this lawyer and his client say is true: I have been
married, and the woman to whom I was married lives! You
say you never heard of a Mrs. Rochester at the house up
yonder, Wood; but I daresay you have many a time inclined
your ear to gossip about the mysterious lunatic kept there
under watch and ward. Some have whispered to you that
she is my bastard half-sister: some, my cast- off mistress. I
now inform you that she is my wife, whom I married fif-
444 Jane Eyre

teen years ago,—Bertha Mason by name; sister of this
resolute personage, who is now, with his quivering limbs
and white cheeks, showing you what a stout heart men may
bear. Cheer up, Dick!—never fear me!—I’d almost as soon
strike a woman as you. Bertha Mason is mad; and she came
of a mad family; idiots and maniacs through three genera-
tions? Her mother, the Creole, was both a madwoman and a
drunkard!—as I found out after I had wed the daughter: for
they were silent on family secrets before. Bertha, like a duti-
ful child, copied her parent in both points. I had a charming
partner—pure, wise, modest: you can fancy I was a happy
man. I went through rich scenes! Oh! my experience has
been heavenly, if you only knew it! But I owe you no fur-
ther explanation. Briggs, Wood, Mason, I invite you all to
come up to the house and visit Mrs. Poole’s patient, and MY
WIFE! You shall see what sort of a being I was cheated into
espousing, and judge whether or not I had a right to break
the compact, and seek sympathy with something at least
human. This girl,’ he continued, looking at me, ‘knew no
more than you, Wood, of the disgusting secret: she thought
all was fair and legal and never dreamt she was going to
be entrapped into a feigned union with a defrauded wretch,
already bound to a bad, mad, and embruted partner! Come
all of you—follow!’
Still holding me fast, he left the church: the three gentle-
men came after. At the front door of the hall we found the
carriage.
‘Take it back to the coach-house, John,’ said Mr. Roches-
ter coolly; ‘it will not be wanted to-day.’

At our entrance, Mrs. Fairfax, Adele, Sophie, Leah, ad-
vanced to meet and greet us.
‘To the right-about—every soul!’ cried the master; ‘away
with your congratulations! Who wants them? Not I!—they
are fifteen years too late!’
He passed on and ascended the stairs, still holding my
hand, and still beckoning the gentlemen to follow him,
which they did. We mounted the first staircase, passed up
the gallery, proceeded to the third storey: the low, black
door, opened by Mr. Rochester’s master-key, admitted us
to the tapestried room, with its great bed and its pictorial
cabinet.
‘You know this place, Mason,’ said our guide; ‘she bit and
stabbed you here.’
He lifted the hangings from the wall, uncovering the sec-
ond door: this, too, he opened. In a room without a window,
there burnt a fire guarded by a high and strong fender, and
a lamp suspended from the ceiling by a chain. Grace Poole
bent over the fire, apparently cooking something in a sauce-
pan. In the deep shade, at the farther end of the room, a
figure ran backwards and forwards. What it was, whether
beast or human being, one could not, at first sight, tell: it
grovelled, seemingly, on all fours; it snatched and growled
like some strange wild animal: but it was covered with
clothing, and a quantity of dark, grizzled hair, wild as a
mane, hid its head and face.
‘Good-morrow, Mrs. Poole!’ said Mr. Rochester. ‘How
are you? and how is your charge to-day?’
‘We’re tolerable, sir, I thank you,’ replied Grace, lifting
446 Jane Eyre

the boiling mess carefully on to the hob: ‘rather snappish,
but not ‘rageous.’
A fierce cry seemed to give the lie to her favourable report:
the clothed hyena rose up, and stood tall on its hind-feet.
‘Ah! sir, she sees you!’ exclaimed Grace: ‘you’d better not
stay.’
‘Only a few moments, Grace: you must allow me a few
moments.’
‘Take care then, sir!—for God’s sake, take care!’
The maniac bellowed: she parted her shaggy locks from
her visage, and gazed wildly at her visitors. I recognised
well that purple face,—those bloated features. Mrs. Poole
advanced.
‘Keep out of the way,’ said Mr. Rochester, thrusting her
aside: ‘she has no knife now, I suppose, and I’m on my
guard.’
‘One never knows what she has, sir: she is so cunning: it
is not in mortal discretion to fathom her craft.’
‘We had better leave her,’ whispered Mason.
‘Go to the devil!’ was his brother-in-law’s recommenda-
tion.
‘Ware!’ cried Grace. The three gentlemen retreated simul-
taneously. Mr. Rochester flung me behind him: the lunatic
sprang and grappled his throat viciously, and laid her teeth
to his cheek: they struggled. She was a big woman, in stat-
ure almost equalling her husband, and corpulent besides:
she showed virile force in the contest—more than once she
almost throttled him, athletic as he was. He could have set-
tled her with a well-planted blow; but he would not strike:

he would only wrestle. At last he mastered her arms; Grace
Poole gave him a cord, and he pinioned them behind her:
with more rope, which was at hand, he bound her to a chair.
The operation was performed amidst the fiercest yells and
the most convulsive plunges. Mr. Rochester then turned to
the spectators: he looked at them with a smile both acrid
and desolate.
‘That is MY WIFE,’ said he. ‘Such is the sole conjugal em-
brace I am ever to know—such are the endearments which
are to solace my leisure hours! And THIS is what I wished
to have’ (laying his hand on my shoulder): ‘this young girl,
who stands so grave and quiet at the mouth of hell, looking
collectedly at the gambols of a demon, I wanted her just as
a change after that fierce ragout. Wood and Briggs, look at
the difference! Compare these clear eyes with the red balls
yonder—this face with that mask—this form with that bulk;
then judge me, priest of the gospel and man of the law, and
remember with what judgment ye judge ye shall be judged!
Off with you now. I must shut up my prize.’
We all withdrew. Mr. Rochester stayed a moment behind
us, to give some further order to Grace Poole. The solicitor
addressed me as he descended the stair.
‘You, madam,’ said he, ‘are cleared from all blame: your
uncle will be glad to hear it—if, indeed, he should be still
living—when Mr. Mason returns to Madeira.’
‘My uncle! What of him? Do you know him?’
‘Mr. Mason does. Mr. Eyre has been the Funchal cor-
respondent of his house for some years. When your uncle
received your letter intimating the contemplated union be-
448 Jane Eyre

tween yourself and Mr. Rochester, Mr. Mason, who was
staying at Madeira to recruit his health, on his way back to
Jamaica, happened to be with him. Mr. Eyre mentioned the
intelligence; for he knew that my client here was acquainted
with a gentleman of the name of Rochester. Mr. Mason, as-
tonished and distressed as you may suppose, revealed the
real state of matters. Your uncle, I am sorry to say, is now
on a sick bed; from which, considering the nature of his dis-
ease—decline—and the stage it has reached, it is unlikely he
will ever rise. He could not then hasten to England himself,
to extricate you from the snare into which you had fallen,
but he implored Mr. Mason to lose no time in taking steps
to prevent the false marriage. He referred him to me for as-
sistance. I used all despatch, and am thankful I was not too
late: as you, doubtless, must be also. Were I not morally cer-
tain that your uncle will be dead ere you reach Madeira, I
would advise you to accompany Mr. Mason back; but as it is,
I think you had better remain in England till you can hear
further, either from or of Mr. Eyre. Have we anything else
to stay for?’ he inquired of Mr. Mason.
‘No, no—let us be gone,’ was the anxious reply; and with-
out waiting to take leave of Mr. Rochester, they made their
exit at the hall door. The clergyman stayed to exchange a
few sentences, either of admonition or reproof, with his
haughty parishioner; this duty done, he too departed.
I heard him go as I stood at the half-open door of my own
room, to which I had now withdrawn. The house cleared, I
shut myself in, fastened the bolt that none might intrude,
and proceeded—not to weep, not to mourn, I was yet too

calm for that, but—mechanically to take off the wedding
dress, and replace it by the stuff gown I had worn yester-
day, as I thought, for the last time. I then sat down: I felt
weak and tired. I leaned my arms on a table, and my head
dropped on them. And now I thought: till now I had only
heard, seen, moved—followed up and down where I was led
or draggedwatched event rush on event, disclosure open
beyond disclosure: but NOW, I THOUGHT.
The morning had been a quiet morning enough—all
except the brief scene with the lunatic: the transaction in
the church had not been noisy; there was no explosion of
passion, no loud altercation, no dispute, no defiance or
challenge, no tears, no sobs: a few words had been spoken, a
calmly pronounced objection to the marriage made; some
stern, short questions put by Mr. Rochester; answers, expla-
nations given, evidence adduced; an open admission of the
truth had been uttered by my master; then the living proof
had been seen; the intruders were gone, and all was over.
I was in my own room as usual—just myself, without ob-
vious change: nothing had smitten me, or scathed me, or
maimed me. And yet where was the Jane Eyre of yester-
day?—where was her life?—where were her prospects?
Jane Eyre, who had been an ardent, expectant wom-
an—almost a bride, was a cold, solitary girl again: her life
was pale; her prospects were desolate. A Christmas frost
had come at midsummer; a white December storm had
whirled over June; ice glazed the ripe apples, drifts crushed
the blowing roses; on hayfield and cornfield lay a frozen
shroud: lanes which last night blushed full of flowers, to-
450 Jane Eyre

day were pathless with untrodden snow; and the woods,
which twelve hours since waved leafy and flagrant as groves
between the tropics, now spread, waste, wild, and white as
pine-forests in wintry Norway. My hopes were all dead—
struck with a subtle doom, such as, in one night, fell on all
the first-born in the land of Egypt. I looked on my cher-
ished wishes, yesterday so blooming and glowing; they lay
stark, chill, livid corpses that could never revive. I looked
at my love: that feeling which was my master’s—which he
had created; it shivered in my heart, like a suffering child
in a cold cradle; sickness and anguish had seized it; it could
not seek Mr. Rochester’s arms—it could not derive warmth
from his breast. Oh, never more could it turn to him; for
faith was blighted—confidence destroyed! Mr. Roches-
ter was not to me what he had been; for he was not what I
had thought him. I would not ascribe vice to him; I would
not say he had betrayed me; but the attribute of stainless
truth was gone from his idea, and from his presence I must
go: THAT I perceived well. When—how—whither, I could
not yet discern; but he himself, I doubted not, would hurry
me from Thornfield. Real affection, it seemed, he could not
have for me; it had been only fitful passion: that was balked;
he would want me no more. I should fear even to cross his
path now: my view must be hateful to him. Oh, how blind
had been my eyes! How weak my conduct!
My eyes were covered and closed: eddying darkness
seemed to swim round me, and reflection came in as black
and confused a flow. Self-abandoned, relaxed, and effort-
less, I seemed to have laid me down in the dried-up bed of

a great river; I heard a flood loosened in remote mountains,
and felt the torrent come: to rise I had no will, to flee I had
no strength. I lay faint, longing to be dead. One idea only
still throbbed life-like within me—a remembrance of God:
it begot an unuttered prayer: these words went wandering
up and down in my rayless mind, as something that should
be whispered, but no energy was found to express them—
‘Be not far from me, for trouble is near: there is none to
help.’
It was near: and as I had lifted no petition to Heaven to
avert itas I had neither joined my hands, nor bent my knees,
nor moved my lips—it came: in full heavy swing the torrent
poured over me. The whole consciousness of my life lorn,
my love lost, my hope quenched, my faith death-struck,
swayed full and mighty above me in one sullen mass. That
bitter hour cannot be described: in truth, ‘the waters came
into my soul; I sank in deep mire: I felt no standing; I came
into deep waters; the floods overflowed me.’
452 Jane Eyre

Chapter XXVII
S ome time in the afternoon I raised my head, and looking

round and seeing the western sun gilding the sign of its
decline on the wall, I asked, ‘What am I to do?’
But the answer my mind gave—‘Leave Thornfield at
once’—was so prompt, so dread, that I stopped my ears. I
said I could not bear such words now. ‘That I am not Ed-
ward Rochester’s bride is the least part of my woe,’ I alleged:
‘that I have wakened out of most glorious dreams, and found
them all void and vain, is a horror I could bear and master;
but that I must leave him decidedly, instantly, entirely, is in-
tolerable. I cannot do it.’
But, then, a voice within me averred that I could do it
and foretold that I should do it. I wrestled with my own
resolution: I wanted to be weak that I might avoid the aw-
ful passage of further suffering I saw laid out for me; and
Conscience, turned tyrant, held Passion by the throat, told
her tauntingly, she had yet but dipped her dainty foot in
the slough, and swore that with that arm of iron he would
thrust her down to unsounded depths of agony.
‘Let me be torn away,’ then I cried. ‘Let another help me!’
‘No; you shall tear yourself away, none shall help you:
you shall yourself pluck out your right eye; yourself cut off
your right hand: your heart shall be the victim, and you the
priest to transfix it.’

I rose up suddenly, terror-struck at the solitude which
so ruthless a judge haunted,—at the silence which so awful
a voice filled. My head swam as I stood erect. I perceived
that I was sickening from excitement and inanition; neither
meat nor drink had passed my lips that day, for I had taken
no breakfast. And, with a strange pang, I now reflected that,
long as I had been shut up here, no message had been sent
to ask how I was, or to invite me to come down: not even lit-
tle Adele had tapped at the door; not even Mrs. Fairfax had
sought me. ‘Friends always forget those whom fortune for-
sakes,’ I murmured, as I undrew the bolt and passed out. I
stumbled over an obstacle: my head was still dizzy, my sight
was dim, and my limbs were feeble. I could not soon recover
myself. I fell, but not on to the ground: an outstretched arm
caught me. I looked up—I was supported by Mr. Rochester,
who sat in a chair across my chamber threshold.
‘You come out at last,’ he said. ‘Well, I have been wait-
ing for you long, and listening: yet not one movement have
I heard, nor one sob: five minutes more of that death-like
hush, and I should have forced the lock like a burglar. So
you shun me?—you shut yourself up and grieve alone! I
would rather you had come and upbraided me with vehe-
mence. You are passionate. I expected a scene of some kind.
I was prepared for the hot rain of tears; only I wanted them
to be shed on my breast: now a senseless floor has received
them, or your drenched handkerchief. But I err: you have
not wept at all! I see a white cheek and a faded eye, but no
trace of tears. I suppose, then, your heart has been weeping
blood?’
454 Jane Eyre

‘Well, Jane! not a word of reproach? Nothing bitter—
nothing poignant? Nothing to cut a feeling or sting a
passion? You sit quietly where I have placed you, and regard
me with a weary, passive look.’
‘Jane, I never meant to wound you thus. If the man who
had but one little ewe lamb that was dear to him as a daugh-
ter, that ate of his bread and drank of his cup, and lay in his
bosom, had by some mistake slaughtered it at the shambles,
he would not have rued his bloody blunder more than I now
rue mine. Will you ever forgive me?’
Reader, I forgave him at the moment and on the spot.
There was such deep remorse in his eye, such true pity in his
tone, such manly energy in his manner; and besides, there
was such unchanged love in his whole look and mien—I
forgave him all: yet not in words, not outwardly; only at my
heart’s core.
‘You know I am a scoundrel, Jane?’ ere long he inquired
wistfully— wondering, I suppose, at my continued silence
and tameness, the result rather of weakness than of will.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then tell me so roundly and sharply—don’t spare me.’
‘I cannot: I am tired and sick. I want some water.’ He
heaved a sort of shuddering sigh, and taking me in his arms,
carried me downstairs. At first I did not know to what room
he had borne me; all was cloudy to my glazed sight: present-
ly I felt the reviving warmth of a fire; for, summer as it was,
I had become icy cold in my chamber. He put wine to my
lips; I tasted it and revived; then I ate something he offered
me, and was soon myself. I was in the library—sitting in his

chair—he was quite near. ‘If I could go out of life now, with-
out too sharp a pang, it would be well for me,’ I thought;
‘then I should not have to make the effort of cracking my
heart-strings in rending them from among Mr. Rochester’s.
I must leave him, it appears. I do not want to leave him—I
cannot leave him.’
‘How are you now, Jane?’
‘Much better, sir; I shall be well soon.’
‘Taste the wine again, Jane.’
I obeyed him; then he put the glass on the table, stood
before me, and looked at me attentively. Suddenly he turned
away, with an inarticulate exclamation, full of passionate
emotion of some kind; he walked fast through the room
and came back; he stooped towards me as if to kiss me; but I
remembered caresses were now forbidden. I turned my face
away and put his aside.
‘What!—How is this?’ he exclaimed hastily. ‘Oh, I know!
you won’t kiss the husband of Bertha Mason? You consider
my arms filled and my embraces appropriated?’
‘At any rate, there is neither room nor claim for me, sir.’
‘Why, Jane? I will spare you the trouble of much talking;
I will answer for you—Because I have a wife already, you
would reply.—I guess rightly?’
‘Yes.’
‘If you think so, you must have a strange opinion of me;
you must regard me as a plotting profligate—a base and low
rake who has been simulating disinterested love in order to
draw you into a snare deliberately laid, and strip you of hon-
our and rob you of self- respect. What do you say to that?
456 Jane Eyre

I see you can say nothing in the first place, you are faint
still, and have enough to do to draw your breath; in the sec-
ond place, you cannot yet accustom yourself to accuse and
revile me, and besides, the flood-gates of tears are opened,
and they would rush out if you spoke much; and you have
no desire to expostulate, to upbraid, to make a scene: you
are thinking how TO ACT—TALKING you consider is of
no use. I know youI am on my guard.’
‘Sir, I do not wish to act against you,’ I said; and my un-
steady voice warned me to curtail my sentence.
‘Not in your sense of the word, but in mine you are
scheming to destroy me. You have as good as said that I
am a married man—as a married man you will shun me,
keep out of my way: just now you have refused to kiss me.
You intend to make yourself a complete stranger to me: to
live under this roof only as Adele’s governess; if ever I say a
friendly word to you, if ever a friendly feeling inclines you
again to me, you will say,—‘That man had nearly made me
his mistress: I must be ice and rock to him;’ and ice and rock
you will accordingly become.’
I cleared and steadied my voice to reply: ‘All is changed
about me, sir; I must change too—there is no doubt of that;
and to avoid fluctuations of feeling, and continual combats
with recollections and associations, there is only one way—
Adele must have a new governess, sir.’
‘Oh, Adele will go to school—I have settled that already;
nor do I mean to torment you with the hideous associa-
tions and recollections of Thornfield Hall—this accursed
place—this tent of Achan—this insolent vault, offering the

ghastliness of living death to the light of the open sky—this
narrow stone hell, with its one real fiend, worse than a le-
gion of such as we imagine. Jane, you shall not stay here,
nor will I. I was wrong ever to bring you to Thornfield Hall,
knowing as I did how it was haunted. I charged them to
conceal from you, before I ever saw you, all knowledge of
the curse of the place; merely because I feared Adele never
would have a governess to stay if she knew with what in-
mate she was housed, and my plans would not permit me
to remove the maniac elsewhere—though I possess an old
house, Ferndean Manor, even more retired and hidden
than this, where I could have lodged her safely enough, had
not a scruple about the unhealthiness of the situation, in
the heart of a wood, made my conscience recoil from the
arrangement. Probably those damp walls would soon have
eased me of her charge: but to each villain his own vice;
and mine is not a tendency to indirect assassination, even
of what I most hate.
‘Concealing the mad-woman’s neighbourhood from you,
however, was something like covering a child with a cloak
and laying it down near a upas-tree: that demon’s vicinage
is poisoned, and always was. But I’ll shut up Thornfield Hall:
I’ll nail up the front door and board the lower windows: I’ll
give Mrs. Poole two hundred a year to live here with MY
WIFE, as you term that fearful hag: Grace will do much for
money, and she shall have her son, the keeper at Grimsby
Retreat, to bear her company and be at hand to give her aid
in the paroxysms, when MY WIFE is prompted by her fa-
miliar to burn people in their beds at night, to stab them, to
458 Jane Eyre

bite their flesh from their bones, and so on—‘
‘Sir,’ I interrupted him, ‘you are inexorable for that un-
fortunate lady: you speak of her with hate—with vindictive
antipathy. It is cruel—she cannot help being mad.’
‘Jane, my little darling (so I will call you, for so you are),
you don’t know what you are talking about; you misjudge
me again: it is not because she is mad I hate her. If you were
mad, do you think I should hate you?’
‘I do indeed, sir.’
‘Then you are mistaken, and you know nothing about
me, and nothing about the sort of love of which I am ca-
pable. Every atom of your flesh is as dear to me as my own:
in pain and sickness it would still be dear. Your mind is my
treasure, and if it were broken, it would be my treasure still:
if you raved, my arms should confine you, and not a strait
waistcoat—your grasp, even in fury, would have a charm for
me: if you flew at me as wildly as that woman did this morn-
ing, I should receive you in an embrace, at least as fond as it
would be restrictive. I should not shrink from you with dis-
gust as I did from her: in your quiet moments you should
have no watcher and no nurse but me; and I could hang over
you with untiring tenderness, though you gave me no smile
in return; and never weary of gazing into your eyes, though
they had no longer a ray of recognition for me.—But why do
I follow that train of ideas? I was talking of removing you
from Thornfield. All, you know, is prepared for prompt de-
parture: to-morrow you shall go. I only ask you to endure
one more night under this roof, Jane; and then, farewell to
its miseries and terrors for ever! I have a place to repair to,

which will be a secure sanctuary from hateful reminiscenc-
es, from unwelcome intrusion—even from falsehood and
slander.’
‘And take Adele with you, sir,’ I interrupted; ‘she will be
a companion for you.’
‘What do you mean, Jane? I told you I would send Adele
to school; and what do I want with a child for a companion,
and not my own child,—a French dancer’s bastard? Why do
you importune me about her! I say, why do you assign Adele
to me for a companion?’
‘You spoke of a retirement, sir; and retirement and soli-
tude are dull: too dull for you.’
‘Solitude! solitude!’ he reiterated with irritation. ‘I see I
must come to an explanation. I don’t know what sphynx-
like expression is forming in your countenance. You are to
share my solitude. Do you understand?’
I shook my head: it required a degree of courage, excited
as he was becoming, even to risk that mute sign of dissent.
He had been walking fast about the room, and he stopped,
as if suddenly rooted to one spot. He looked at me long and
hard: I turned my eyes from him, fixed them on the fire,
and tried to assume and maintain a quiet, collected aspect.
‘Now for the hitch in Jane’s character,’ he said at last,
speaking more calmly than from his look I had expected
him to speak. ‘The reel of silk has run smoothly enough
so far; but I always knew there would come a knot and a
puzzle: here it is. Now for vexation, and exasperation, and
endless trouble! By God! I long to exert a fraction of Sam-
son’s strength, and break the entanglement like tow!’
460 Jane Eyre

He recommenced his walk, but soon again stopped, and
this time just before me.
‘Jane! will you hear reason?’ (he stooped and approached
his lips to my ear); ‘because, if you won’t, I’ll try violence.’
His voice was hoarse; his look that of a man who is just
about to burst an insufferable bond and plunge headlong
into wild license. I saw that in another moment, and with
one impetus of frenzy more, I should be able to do nothing
with him. The present—the passing second of time—was all
I had in which to control and restrain him—a movement
of repulsion, flight, fear would have sealed my doom,—and
his. But I was not afraid: not in the least. I felt an inward
power; a sense of influence, which supported me. The crisis
was perilous; but not without its charm: such as the Indi-
an, perhaps, feels when he slips over the rapid in his canoe.
I took hold of his clenched hand, loosened the contorted
fingers, and said to him, soothingly—
‘Sit down; I’ll talk to you as long as you like, and hear all
you have to say, whether reasonable or unreasonable.’
He sat down: but he did not get leave to speak directly. I
had been struggling with tears for some time: I had taken
great pains to repress them, because I knew he would not
like to see me weep. Now, however, I considered it well to
let them flow as freely and as long as they liked. If the flood
annoyed him, so much the better. So I gave way and cried
heartily.
Soon I heard him earnestly entreating me to be com-
posed. I said I could not while he was in such a passion.
‘But I am not angry, Jane: I only love you too well; and

you had steeled your little pale face with such a resolute, fro-
zen look, I could not endure it. Hush, now, and wipe your
eyes.’
His softened voice announced that he was subdued; so
I, in my turn, became calm. Now he made an effort to rest
his head on my shoulder, but I would not permit it. Then he
would draw me to him: no.
‘Jane! Jane!’ he said, in such an accent of bitter sadness it
thrilled along every nerve I had; ‘you don’t love me, then? It
was only my station, and the rank of my wife, that you val-
ued? Now that you think me disqualified to become your
husband, you recoil from my touch as if I were some toad
or ape.’
These words cut me: yet what could I do or I say? I ought
probably to have done or said nothing; but I was so tortured
by a sense of remorse at thus hurting his feelings, I could
not control the wish to drop balm where I had wounded.
‘I DO love you,’ I said, ‘more than ever: but I must not
show or indulge the feeling: and this is the last time I must
express it.’
‘The last time, Jane! What! do you think you can live with
me, and see me daily, and yet, if you still love me, be always
cold and distant?’
‘No, sir; that I am certain I could not; and therefore I see
there is but one way: but you will be furious if I mention it.’
‘Oh, mention it! If I storm, you have the art of weeping.’
‘Mr. Rochester, I must leave you.’
‘For how long, Jane? For a few minutes, while you smooth
your hairwhich is somewhat dishevelled; and bathe your
462 Jane Eyre

face—which looks feverish?’
‘I must leave Adele and Thornfield. I must part with
you for my whole life: I must begin a new existence among
strange faces and strange scenes.’
‘Of course: I told you you should. I pass over the mad-
ness about parting from me. You mean you must become a
part of me. As to the new existence, it is all right: you shall
yet be my wife: I am not married. You shall be Mrs. Roches-
ter—both virtually and nominally. I shall keep only to you
so long as you and I live. You shall go to a place I have in the
south of France: a whitewashed villa on the shores of the
Mediterranean. There you shall live a happy, and guarded,
and most innocent life. Never fear that I wish to lure you
into error—to make you my mistress. Why did you shake
your head? Jane, you must be reasonable, or in truth I shall
again become frantic.’
His voice and hand quivered: his large nostrils dilated;
his eye blazed: still I dared to speak.
‘Sir, your wife is living: that is a fact acknowledged this
morning by yourself. If I lived with you as you desire, I
should then be your mistress: to say otherwise is sophisti-
cal—is false.’
‘Jane, I am not a gentle-tempered man—you forget that: I
am not long-enduring; I am not cool and dispassionate. Out
of pity to me and yourself, put your finger on my pulse, feel
how it throbs, and— beware!’
He bared his wrist, and offered it to me: the blood was
forsaking his cheek and lips, they were growing livid; I was
distressed on all hands. To agitate him thus deeply, by a re-

sistance he so abhorred, was cruel: to yield was out of the
question. I did what human beings do instinctively when
they are driven to utter extremity— looked for aid to one
higher than man: the words ‘God help me!’ burst involun-
tarily from my lips.
‘I am a fool!’ cried Mr. Rochester suddenly. ‘I keep tell-
ing her I am not married, and do not explain to her why. I
forget she knows nothing of the character of that woman, or
of the circumstances attending my infernal union with her.
Oh, I am certain Jane will agree with me in opinion, when
she knows all that I know! Just put your hand in mine, Ja-
net—that I may have the evidence of touch as well as sight,
to prove you are near me—and I will in a few words show
you the real state of the case. Can you listen to me
‘Yes, sir; for hours if you will.’
‘I ask only minutes. Jane, did you ever hear or know at I
was not the eldest son of my house: that I had once a brother
older than I?’
‘I remember Mrs. Fairfax told me so once.’
‘And did you ever hear that my father was an avaricious,
grasping man?’
‘I have understood something to that effect.’
‘Well, Jane, being so, it was his resolution to keep the
property together; he could not bear the idea of dividing his
estate and leaving me a fair portion: all, he resolved, should
go to my brother, Rowland. Yet as little could he endure that
a son of his should be a poor man. I must be provided for
by a wealthy marriage. He sought me a partner betimes. Mr.
Mason, a West India planter and merchant, was his old ac-
464 Jane Eyre

quaintance. He was certain his possessions were real and
vast: he made inquiries. Mr. Mason, he found, had a son
and daughter; and he learned from him that he could and
would give the latter a fortune of thirty thousand pounds:
that sufficed. When I left college, I was sent out to Jamai-
ca, to espouse a bride already courted for me. My father
said nothing about her money; but he told me Miss Mason
was the boast of Spanish Town for her beauty: and this was
no lie. I found her a fine woman, in the style of Blanche
Ingram: tall, dark, and majestic. Her family wished to se-
cure me because I was of a good race; and so did she. They
showed her to me in parties, splendidly dressed. I seldom
saw her alone, and had very little private conversation with
her. She flattered me, and lavishly displayed for my pleasure
her charms and accomplishments. All the men in her circle
seemed to admire her and envy me. I was dazzled, stimu-
lated: my senses were excited; and being ignorant, raw, and
inexperienced, I thought I loved her. There is no folly so be-
sotted that the idiotic rivalries of society, the prurience, the
rashness, the blindness of youth, will not hurry a man to
its commission. Her relatives encouraged me; competitors
piqued me; she allured me: a marriage was achieved almost
before I knew where I was. Oh, I have no respect for my-
self when I think of that act!—an agony of inward contempt
masters me. I never loved, I never esteemed, I did not even
know her. I was not sure of the existence of one virtue in
her nature: I had marked neither modesty, nor benevolence,
nor candour, nor refinement in her mind or manners—and,
I married her:- gross, grovelling, mole-eyed blockhead that

I was! With less sin I might have—But let me remember to
whom I am speaking.’
‘My bride’s mother I had never seen: I understood she
was dead. The honeymoon over, I learned my mistake; she
was only mad, and shut up in a lunatic asylum. There was
a younger brother, too—a complete dumb idiot. The elder
one, whom you have seen (and whom I cannot hate, whilst
I abhor all his kindred, because he has some grains of affec-
tion in his feeble mind, shown in the continued interest he
takes in his wretched sister, and also in a dog-like attach-
ment he once bore me), will probably be in the same state
one day. My father and my brother Rowland knew all this;
but they thought only of the thirty thousand pounds, and
joined in the plot against me.’
‘These were vile discoveries; but except for the treachery
of concealment, I should have made them no subject of re-
proach to my wife, even when I found her nature wholly
alien to mine, her tastes obnoxious to me, her cast of mind
common, low, narrow, and singularly incapable of being led
to anything higher, expanded to anything larger—when I
found that I could not pass a single evening, nor even a single
hour of the day with her in comfort; that kindly conversa-
tion could not be sustained between us, because whatever
topic I started, immediately received from her a turn at
once coarse and trite, perverse and imbecile—when I per-
ceived that I should never have a quiet or settled household,
because no servant would bear the continued outbreaks
of her violent and unreasonable temper, or the vexations
of her absurd, contradictory, exacting orders—even then
466 Jane Eyre

I restrained myself: I eschewed upbraiding, I curtailed re-
monstrance; I tried to devour my repentance and disgust in
secret; I repressed the deep antipathy I felt.
‘Jane, I will not trouble you with abominable details:
some strong words shall express what I have to say. I lived
with that woman upstairs four years, and before that time
she had tried me indeed: her character ripened and devel-
oped with frightful rapidity; her vices sprang up fast and
rank: they were so strong, only cruelty could check them,
and I would not use cruelty. What a pigmy intellect she had,
and what giant propensities! How fearful were the curses
those propensities entailed on me! Bertha Mason, the true
daughter of an infamous mother, dragged me through all
the hideous and degrading agonies which must attend a
man bound to a wife at once intemperate and unchaste.
‘My brother in the interval was dead, and at the end of the
four years my father died too. I was rich enough now—yet
poor to hideous indigence: a nature the most gross, impure,
depraved I ever saw, was associated with mine, and called
by the law and by society a part of me. And I could not rid
myself of it by any legal proceedings: for the doctors now
discovered that MY WIFE was mad— her excesses had pre-
maturely developed the germs of insanity. Jane, you don’t
like my narrative; you look almost sick—shall I defer the
rest to another day?’
‘No, sir, finish it now; I pity you—I do earnestly pity
you.’
‘Pity, Jane, from some people is a noxious and insulting
sort of tribute, which one is justified in hurling back in the

teeth of those who offer it; but that is the sort of pity native
to callous, selfish hearts; it is a hybrid, egotistical pain at
hearing of woes, crossed with ignorant contempt for those
who have endured them. But that is not your pity, Jane; it
is not the feeling of which your whole face is full at this
moment—with which your eyes are now almost overflow-
ing—with which your heart is heaving—with which your
hand is trembling in mine. Your pity, my darling, is the suf-
fering mother of love: its anguish is the very natal pang of
the divine passion. I accept it, Jane; let the daughter have
free advent—my arms wait to receive her.’
‘Now, sir, proceed; what did you do when you found she
was mad?’
‘Jane, I approached the verge of despair; a remnant of self-
respect was all that intervened between me and the gulf. In
the eyes of the world, I was doubtless covered with grimy
dishonour; but I resolved to be clean in my own sight—and
to the last I repudiated the contamination of her crimes, and
wrenched myself from connection with her mental defects.
Still, society associated my name and person with hers; I
yet saw her and heard her daily: something of her breath
(faugh!) mixed with the air I breathed; and besides, I re-
membered I had once been her husband—that recollection
was then, and is now, inexpressibly odious to me; moreover,
I knew that while she lived I could never be the husband of
another and better wife; and, though five years my senior
(her family and her father had lied to me even in the par-
ticular of her age), she was likely to live as long as I, being as
robust in frame as she was infirm in mind. Thus, at the age
468 Jane Eyre

of twenty-six, I was hopeless.
‘One night I had been awakened by her yells—(since the
medical men had pronounced her mad, she had, of course,
been shut up)—it was a fiery West Indian night; one of the
description that frequently precede the hurricanes of those
climates. Being unable to sleep in bed, I got up and opened
the window. The air was like sulphur- steams—I could find
no refreshment anywhere. Mosquitoes came buzzing in and
hummed sullenly round the room; the sea, which I could
hear from thence, rumbled dull like an earthquake—black
clouds were casting up over it; the moon was setting in the
waves, broad and red, like a hot cannon-ball—she threw her
last bloody glance over a world quivering with the ferment
of tempest. I was physically influenced by the atmosphere
and scene, and my ears were filled with the curses the ma-
niac still shrieked out; wherein she momentarily mingled
my name with such a tone of demon-hate, with such lan-
guage!—no professed harlot ever had a fouler vocabulary
than she: though two rooms off, I heard every word—the
thin partitions of the West India house opposing but slight
obstruction to her wolfish cries.
‘This life,’ said I at last, ‘is hell: this is the air—those are
the sounds of the bottomless pit! I have a right to deliver my-
self from it if I can. The sufferings of this mortal state will
leave me with the heavy flesh that now cumbers my soul. Of
the fanatic’s burning eternity I have no fear: there is not a
future state worse than this present one—let me break away,
and go home to God!’
‘I said this whilst I knelt down at, and unlocked a trunk

which contained a brace of loaded pistols: I mean to shoot
myself. I only entertained the intention for a moment; for,
not being insane, the crisis of exquisite and unalloyed
despair, which had originated the wish and design of self-
destruction, was past in a second.
‘A wind fresh from Europe blew over the ocean and
rushed through the open casement: the storm broke,
streamed, thundered, blazed, and the air grew pure. I then
framed and fixed a resolution. While I walked under the
dripping orange-trees of my wet garden, and amongst its
drenched pomegranates and pine-apples, and while the re-
fulgent dawn of the tropics kindled round me—I reasoned
thus, Jane—and now listen; for it was true Wisdom that
consoled me in that hour, and showed me the right path to
follow.
‘The sweet wind from Europe was still whispering in the
refreshed leaves, and the Atlantic was thundering in glori-
ous liberty; my heart, dried up and scorched for a long time,
swelled to the tone, and filled with living blood—my be-
ing longed for renewal—my soul thirsted for a pure draught.
I saw hope revive—and felt regeneration possible. From a
flowery arch at the bottom of my garden I gazed over the
sea—bluer than the sky: the old world was beyond; clear
prospects opened thus:-
‘Go,’ said Hope, ‘and live again in Europe: there it is not
known what a sullied name you bear, nor what a filthy bur-
den is bound to you. You may take the maniac with you to
England; confine her with due attendance and precautions
at Thornfield: then travel yourself to what clime you will,
470 Jane Eyre

and form what new tie you like. That woman, who has so
abused your long-suffering, so sullied your name, so out-
raged your honour, so blighted your youth, is not your wife,
nor are you her husband. See that she is cared for as her
condition demands, and you have done all that God and
humanity require of you. Let her identity, her connection
with yourself, be buried in oblivion: you are bound to im-
part them to no living being. Place her in safety and comfort:
shelter her degradation with secrecy, and leave her.’
‘I acted precisely on this suggestion. My father and broth-
er had not made my marriage known to their acquaintance;
because, in the very first letter I wrote to apprise them of
the union—having already begun to experience extreme
disgust of its consequences, and, from the family character
and constitution, seeing a hideous future opening to me—I
added an urgent charge to keep it secret: and very soon the
infamous conduct of the wife my father had selected for me
was such as to make him blush to own her as his daugh-
ter-in-law. Far from desiring to publish the connection, he
became as anxious to conceal it as myself.
‘To England, then, I conveyed her; a fearful voyage I
had with such a monster in the vessel. Glad was I when I
at last got her to Thornfield, and saw her safely lodged in
that third-storey room, of whose secret inner cabinet she
has now for ten years made a wild beast’s den—a goblin’s
cell. I had some trouble in finding an attendant for her, as
it was necessary to select one on whose fidelity dependence
could be placed; for her ravings would inevitably betray
my secret: besides, she had lucid intervals of days—some-

times weeks—which she filled up with abuse of me. At last
I hired Grace Poole from the Grimbsy Retreat. She and the
surgeon, Carter (who dressed Mason’s wounds that night
he was stabbed and worried), are the only two I have ever
admitted to my confidence. Mrs. Fairfax may indeed have
suspected something, but she could have gained no pre-
cise knowledge as to facts. Grace has, on the whole, proved
a good keeper; though, owing partly to a fault of her own,
of which it appears nothing can cure her, and which is in-
cident to her harassing profession, her vigilance has been
more than once lulled and baffled. The lunatic is both cun-
ning and malignant; she has never failed to take advantage
of her guardian’s temporary lapses; once to secrete the knife
with which she stabbed her brother, and twice to possess
herself of the key of her cell, and issue therefrom in the
night-time. On the first of these occasions, she perpetrated
the attempt to burn me in my bed; on the second, she paid
that ghastly visit to you. I thank Providence, who watched
over you, that she then spent her fury on your wedding ap-
parel, which perhaps brought back vague reminiscences of
her own bridal days: but on what might have happened, I
cannot endure to reflect. When I think of the thing which
flew at my throat this morning, hanging its black and scar-
let visage over the nest of my dove, my blood curdles
‘And what, sir,’ I asked, while he paused, ‘did you do
when you had settled her here? Where did you go?’
‘What did I do, Jane? I transformed myself into a will-o’-
the-wisp. Where did I go? I pursued wanderings as wild as
those of the March- spirit. I sought the Continent, and went
472 Jane Eyre

devious through all its lands. My fixed desire was to seek
and find a good and intelligent woman, whom I could love:
a contrast to the fury I left at Thornfield—‘
‘But you could not marry, sir.’
‘I had determined and was convinced that I could and
ought. It was not my original intention to deceive, as I have
deceived you. I meant to tell my tale plainly, and make my
proposals openly: and it appeared to me so absolutely ra-
tional that I should be considered free to love and be loved,
I never doubted some woman might be found willing and
able to understand my case and accept me, in spite of the
curse with which I was burdened.’
‘Well, sir?’
‘When you are inquisitive, Jane, you always make me
smile. You open your eyes like an eager bird, and make
every now and then a restless movement, as if answers in
speech did not flow fast enough for you, and you wanted
to read the tablet of one’s heart. But before I go on, tell me
what you mean by your ‘Well, sir?’ It is a small phrase very
frequent with you; and which many a time has drawn me on
and on through interminable talk: I don’t very well know
why.’
‘I mean,—What next? How did you proceed? What came
of such an event?’
‘Precisely! and what do you wish to know now?’
‘Whether you found any one you liked: whether you
asked her to marry you; and what she said.’
‘I can tell you whether I found any one I liked, and
whether I asked her to marry me: but what she said is yet to

be recorded in the book of Fate. For ten long years I roved
about, living first in one capital, then another: sometimes in
St. Petersburg; oftener in Paris; occasionally in Rome, Na-
ples, and Florence. Provided with plenty of money and the
passport of an old name, I could choose my own society: no
circles were closed against me. I sought my ideal of a woman
amongst English ladies, French countesses, Italian signoras,
and German grafinnen. I could not find her. Sometimes,
for a fleeting moment, I thought I caught a glance, heard
a tone, beheld a form, which announced the realisation of
my dream: but I was presently undeserved. You are not to
suppose that I desired perfection, either of mind or person.
I longed only for what suited me—for the antipodes of the
Creole: and I longed vainly. Amongst them all I found not
one whom, had I been ever so free, I—warned as I was of the
risks, the horrors, the loathings of incongruous unions—
would have asked to marry me. Disappointment made me
reckless. I tried dissipation—never debauchery: that I hated,
and hate. That was my Indian Messalina’s attribute: rooted
disgust at it and her restrained me much, even in pleasure.
Any enjoyment that bordered on riot seemed to approach
me to her and her vices, and I eschewed it.
‘Yet I could not live alone; so I tried the companionship
of mistresses. The first I chose was Celine Varens—anoth-
er of those steps which make a man spurn himself when
he recalls them. You already know what she was, and how
my liaison with her terminated. She had two successors: an
Italian, Giacinta, and a German, Clara; both considered
singularly handsome. What was their beauty to me in a few
474 Jane Eyre

weeks? Giacinta was unprincipled and violent: I tired of
her in three months. Clara was honest and quiet; but heavy,
mindless, and unimpressible: not one whit to my taste. I was
glad to give her a sufficient sum to set her up in a good line
of business, and so get decently rid of her. But, Jane, I see by
your face you are not forming a very favourable opinion of
me just now. You think me an unfeeling, loose-principled
rake: don’t you?’
‘I don’t like you so well as I have done sometimes, indeed,
sir. Did it not seem to you in the least wrong to live in that
way, first with one mistress and then another? You talk of it
as a mere matter of course.’
‘It was with me; and I did not like it. It was a grovelling
fashion of existence: I should never like to return to it. Hir-
ing a mistress is the next worse thing to buying a slave: both
are often by nature, and always by position, inferior: and to
live familiarly with inferiors is degrading. I now hate the
recollection of the time I passed with Celine, Giacinta, and
Clara.’
I felt the truth of these words; and I drew from them the
certain inference, that if I were so far to forget myself and
all the teaching that had ever been instilled into me, as—
under any pretext—with any justification—through any
temptation—to become the successor of these poor girls, he
would one day regard me with the same feeling which now
in his mind desecrated their memory. I did not give utter-
ance to this conviction: it was enough to feel it. I impressed
it on my heart, that it might remain there to serve me as aid
in the time of trial.

‘Now, Jane, why don’t you say ‘Well, sir?’ I have not done.
You are looking grave. You disapprove of me still, I see. But
let me come to the point. Last January, rid of all mistress-
es—in a harsh, bitter frame of mind, the result of a useless,
roving, lonely life— corroded with disappointment, sourly
disposed against all men, and especially against all wom-
ankind (for I began to regard the notion of an intellectual,
faithful, loving woman as a mere dream), recalled by busi-
ness, I came back to England.
‘On a frosty winter afternoon, I rode in sight of Thorn-
field Hall. Abhorred spot! I expected no peace—no pleasure
there. On a stile in Hay Lane I saw a quiet little figure sitting
by itself. I passed it as negligently as I did the pollard wil-
low opposite to it: I had no presentiment of what it would be
to me; no inward warning that the arbitress of my life—my
genius for good or evil—waited there in humble guise. I did
not know it, even when, on the occasion of Mesrour’s acci-
dent, it came up and gravely offered me help. Childish and
slender creature! It seemed as if a linnet had hopped to my
foot and proposed to bear me on its tiny wing. I was surly;
but the thing would not go: it stood by me with strange per-
severance, and looked and spoke with a sort of authority. I
must be aided, and by that hand: and aided I was.
‘When once I had pressed the frail shoulder, something
new—a fresh sap and sense—stole into my frame. It was
well I had learnt that this elf must return to me—that it be-
longed to my house down belowor I could not have felt it
pass away from under my hand, and seen it vanish behind
the dim hedge, without singular regret. I heard you come
476 Jane Eyre

home that night, Jane, though probably you were not aware
that I thought of you or watched for you. The next day I
observed you—myself unseen—for half-an-hour, while you
played with Adele in the gallery. It was a snowy day, I recol-
lect, and you could not go out of doors. I was in my room;
the door was ajar: I could both listen and watch. Adele
claimed your outward attention for a while; yet I fancied
your thoughts were elsewhere: but you were very patient
with her, my little Jane; you talked to her and amused her a
long time. When at last she left you, you lapsed at once into
deep reverie: you betook yourself slowly to pace the gallery.
Now and then, in passing a casement, you glanced out at the
thick-falling snow; you listened to the sobbing wind, and
again you paced gently on and dreamed. I think those day
visions were not dark: there was a pleasurable illumination
in your eye occasionally, a soft excitement in your aspect,
which told of no bitter, bilious, hypochondriac brooding:
your look revealed rather the sweet musings of youth when
its spirit follows on willing wings the flight of Hope up and
on to an ideal heaven. The voice of Mrs. Fairfax, speaking to
a servant in the hall, wakened you: and how curiously you
smiled to and at yourself, Janet! There was much sense in
your smile: it was very shrewd, and seemed to make light of
your own abstraction. It seemed to say—‘My fine visions are
all very well, but I must not forget they are absolutely un-
real. I have a rosy sky and a green flowery Eden in my brain;
but without, I am perfectly aware, lies at my feet a rough
tract to travel, and around me gather black tempests to en-
counter.’ You ran downstairs and demanded of Mrs. Fairfax

some occupation: the weekly house accounts to make up, or
something of that sort, I think it was. I was vexed with you
for getting out of my sight.
‘Impatiently I waited for evening, when I might sum-
mon you to my presence. An unusual—to me—a perfectly
new character I suspected was yours: I desired to search
it deeper and know it better. You entered the room with a
look and air at once shy and independent: you were quaintly
dressed—much as you are now. I made you talk: ere long
I found you full of strange contrasts. Your garb and man-
ner were restricted by rule; your air was often diffident, and
altogether that of one refined by nature, but absolutely un-
used to society, and a good deal afraid of making herself
disadvantageously conspicuous by some solecism or blun-
der; yet when addressed, you lifted a keen, a daring, and a
glowing eye to your interlocutor’s face: there was penetra-
tion and power in each glance you gave; when plied by close
questions, you found ready and round answers. Very soon
you seemed to get used to me: I believe you felt the existence
of sympathy between you and your grim and cross mas-
ter, Jane; for it was astonishing to see how quickly a certain
pleasant ease tranquillised your manner: snarl as I would,
you showed no surprise, fear, annoyance, or displeasure at
my moroseness; you watched me, and now and then smiled
at me with a simple yet sagacious grace I cannot describe. I
was at once content and stimulated with what I saw: I liked
what I had seen, and wished to see more. Yet, for a long time,
I treated you distantly, and sought your company rarely. I
was an intellectual epicure, and wished to prolong the grat-
478 Jane Eyre

ification of making this novel and piquant acquaintance:
besides, I was for a while troubled with a haunting fear that
if I handled the flower freely its bloom would fade—the
sweet charm of freshness would leave it. I did not then know
that it was no transitory blossom, but rather the radiant re-
semblance of one, cut in an indestructible gem. Moreover, I
wished to see whether you would seek me if I shunned you—
but you did not; you kept in the schoolroom as still as your
own desk and easel; if by chance I met you, you passed me
as soon, and with as little token of recognition, as was con-
sistent with respect. Your habitual expression in those days,
Jane, was a thoughtful look; not despondent, for you were
not sickly; but not buoyant, for you had little hope, and no
actual pleasure. I wondered what you thought of me, or if
you ever thought of me, and resolved to find this out.
‘I resumed my notice of you. There was something glad in
your glance, and genial in your manner, when you conversed:
I saw you had a social heart; it was the silent schoolroom—
it was the tedium of your life—that made you mournful. I
permitted myself the delight of being kind to you; kindness
stirred emotion soon: your face became soft in expression,
your tones gentle; I liked my name pronounced by your lips
in a grateful happy accent. I used to enjoy a chance meeting
with you, Jane, at this time: there was a curious hesitation
in your manner: you glanced at me with a slight troublea
hovering doubt: you did not know what my caprice might
be— whether I was going to play the master and be stern,
or the friend and be benignant. I was now too fond of you
often to simulate the first whim; and, when I stretched my

hand out cordially, such bloom and light and bliss rose to
your young, wistful features, I had much ado often to avoid
straining you then and there to my heart.’
‘Don’t talk any more of those days, sir,’ I interrupted,
furtively dashing away some tears from my eyes; his lan-
guage was torture to me; for I knew what I must do—and do
soon—and all these reminiscences, and these revelations of
his feelings only made my work more difficult.
‘No, Jane,’ he returned: ‘what necessity is there to dwell
on the Past, when the Present is so much surer—the Future
so much brighter?’
I shuddered to hear the infatuated assertion.
‘You see now how the case stands—do you not?’ he
continued. ‘After a youth and manhood passed half in un-
utterable misery and half in dreary solitude, I have for the
first time found what I can truly love—I have found you.
You are my sympathy—my better self—my good angel. I am
bound to you with a strong attachment. I think you good,
gifted, lovely: a fervent, a solemn passion is conceived in my
heart; it leans to you, draws you to my centre and spring of
life, wraps my existence about you, and, kindling in pure,
powerful flame, fuses you and me in one.
‘It was because I felt and knew this, that I resolved to mar-
ry you. To tell me that I had already a wife is empty mockery:
you know now that I had but a hideous demon. I was wrong
to attempt to deceive you; but I feared a stubbornness that
exists in your character. I feared early instilled prejudice: I
wanted to have you safe before hazarding confidences. This
was cowardly: I should have appealed to your nobleness and
480 Jane Eyre

magnanimity at first, as I do now—opened to you plainly
my life of agony—described to you my hunger and thirst
after a higher and worthier existence—shown to you, not
my RESOLUTION (that word is weak), but my resistless
BENT to love faithfully and well, where I am faithfully and
well loved in return. Then I should have asked you to ac-
cept my pledge of fidelity and to give me yours. Jane—give
it me now.’
A pause.
‘Why are you silent, Jane?’
I was experiencing an ordeal: a hand of fiery iron grasped
my vitals. Terrible moment: full of struggle, blackness,
burning! Not a human being that ever lived could wish to
be loved better than I was loved; and him who thus loved
me I absolutely worshipped: and I must renounce love and
idol. One drear word comprised my intolerable duty—‘De-
part!’
‘Jane, you understand what I want of you? Just this prom-
ise—‘I will be yours, Mr. Rochester.’’
‘Mr. Rochester, I will NOT be yours.’
Another long silence.
‘Jane!’ recommenced he, with a gentleness that broke me
down with grief, and turned me stone-cold with ominous
terror—for this still voice was the pant of a lion rising—
‘Jane, do you mean to go one way in the world, and to let me
go another?’
‘I do.’
‘Jane’ (bending towards and embracing me), ‘do you
mean it now?’

‘I do.’
‘And now?’ softly kissing my forehead and cheek.
‘I do,’ extricating myself from restraint rapidly and com-
pletely.
‘Oh, Jane, this is bitter! This—this is wicked. It would not
be wicked to love me.’
‘It would to obey you.’
A wild look raised his brows—crossed his features: he
rose; but he forebore yet. I laid my hand on the back of a
chair for support: I shook, I feared—but I resolved.
‘One instant, Jane. Give one glance to my horrible life
when you are gone. All happiness will be torn away with
you. What then is left? For a wife I have but the maniac up-
stairs: as well might you refer me to some corpse in yonder
churchyard. What shall I do, Jane? Where turn for a com-
panion and for some hope?’
‘Do as I do: trust in God and yourself. Believe in heaven.
Hope to meet again there.’
‘Then you will not yield?’
‘No.’
‘Then you condemn me to live wretched and to die ac-
cursed?’ His voice rose.
‘I advise you to live sinless, and I wish you to die tran-
quil.’
‘Then you snatch love and innocence from me? You fling
me back on lust for a passion—vice for an occupation?’
‘Mr. Rochester, I no more assign this fate to you than I
grasp at it for myself. We were born to strive and endure—
you as well as I: do so. You will forget me before I forget
482 Jane Eyre

you.’
‘You make me a liar by such language: you sully my hon-
our. I declared I could not change: you tell me to my face I
shall change soon. And what a distortion in your judgment,
what a perversity in your ideas, is proved by your con-
duct! Is it better to drive a fellow-creature to despair than
to transgress a mere human law, no man being injured by
the breach? for you have neither relatives nor acquaintances
whom you need fear to offend by living with me?’
This was true: and while he spoke my very conscience
and reason turned traitors against me, and charged me
with crime in resisting him. They spoke almost as loud as
Feeling: and that clamoured wildly. ‘Oh, comply!’ it said.
‘Think of his misery; think of his danger—look at his state
when left alone; remember his headlong nature; consider
the recklessness following on despair—soothe him; save
him; love him; tell him you love him and will be his. Who
in the world cares for YOU? or who will be injured by what
you do?’
Still indomitable was the reply—‘I care for myself. The
more solitary, the more friendless, the more unsustained I
am, the more I will respect myself. I will keep the law given
by God; sanctioned by man. I will hold to the principles re-
ceived by me when I was sane, and not mad—as I am now.
Laws and principles are not for the times when there is no
temptation: they are for such moments as this, when body
and soul rise in mutiny against their rigour; stringent are
they; inviolate they shall be. If at my individual convenience
I might break them, what would be their worth? They have a

worth—so I have always believed; and if I cannot believe it
now, it is because I am insane—quite insane: with my veins
running fire, and my heart beating faster than I can count
its throbs. Preconceived opinions, foregone determinations,
are all I have at this hour to stand by: there I plant my foot.’
I did. Mr. Rochester, reading my countenance, saw I had
done so. His fury was wrought to the highest: he must yield
to it for a moment, whatever followed; he crossed the floor
and seized my arm and grasped my waist. He seemed to
devour me with his flaming glance: physically, I felt, at the
moment, powerless as stubble exposed to the draught and
glow of a furnace: mentally, I still possessed my soul, and
with it the certainty of ultimate safety. The soul, fortunately,
has an interpreter—often an unconscious, but still a truth-
ful interpreter—in the eye. My eye rose to his; and while I
looked in his fierce face I gave an involuntary sigh; his gripe
was painful, and my over-taxed strength almost exhausted.
‘Never,’ said he, as he ground his teeth, ‘never was any-
thing at once so frail and so indomitable. A mere reed she
feels in my hand!’ (And he shook me with the force of his
hold.) ‘I could bend her with my finger and thumb: and what
good would it do if I bent, if I uptore, if I crushed her? Con-
sider that eye: consider the resolute, wild, free thing looking
out of it, defying me, with more than courage—with a stern
triumph. Whatever I do with its cage, I cannot get at it—
the savage, beautiful creature! If I tear, if I rend the slight
prison, my outrage will only let the captive loose. Conquer-
or I might be of the house; but the inmate would escape
to heaven before I could call myself possessor of its clay
484 Jane Eyre

dwelling- place. And it is you, spirit—with will and energy,
and virtue and purity—that I want: not alone your brittle
frame. Of yourself you could come with soft flight and nes-
tle against my heart, if you would: seized against your will,
you will elude the grasp like an essence—you will vanish
ere I inhale your fragrance. Oh! come, Jane, come!’
As he said this, he released me from his clutch, and only
looked at me. The look was far worse to resist than the fran-
tic strain: only an idiot, however, would have succumbed
now. I had dared and baffled his fury; I must elude his sor-
row: I retired to the door.
‘You are going, Jane?’
‘I am going, sir.’
‘You are leaving me?’
‘Yes.’
‘You will not come? You will not be my comforter, my
rescuer? My deep love, my wild woe, my frantic prayer, are
all nothing to you?’
What unutterable pathos was in his voice! How hard it
was to reiterate firmly, ‘I am going.’
‘Jane!’
‘Mr. Rochester!’
‘Withdraw, then,—I consent; but remember, you leave
me here in anguish. Go up to your own room; think over all
I have said, and, Jane, cast a glance on my sufferings—think
of me.’
He turned away; he threw himself on his face on the sofa.
‘Oh, Jane! my hope—my love—my life!’ broke in anguish
from his lips. Then came a deep, strong sob.

I had already gained the door; but, reader, I walked
back—walked back as determinedly as I had retreated. I
knelt down by him; I turned his face from the cushion to
me; I kissed his cheek; I smoothed his hair with my hand.
‘God bless you, my dear master!’ I said. ‘God keep you
from harm and wrong—direct you, solace you—reward
you well for your past kindness to me.’
‘Little Jane’s love would have been my best reward,’ he
answered; ‘without it, my heart is broken. But Jane will give
me her love: yes—nobly, generously.’
Up the blood rushed to his face; forth flashed the fire
from his eyes; erect he sprang; he held his arms out; but I
evaded the embrace, and at once quitted the room.
‘Farewell!’ was the cry of my heart as I left him. Despair
added, ‘Farewell for ever!’
That night I never thought to sleep; but a slumber fell
on me as soon as I lay down in bed. I was transported in
thought to the scenes of childhood: I dreamt I lay in the red-
room at Gateshead; that the night was dark, and my mind
impressed with strange fears. The light that long ago had
struck me into syncope, recalled in this vision, seemed glid-
ingly to mount the wall, and tremblingly to pause in the
centre of the obscured ceiling. I lifted up my head to look:
the roof resolved to clouds, high and dim; the gleam was
such as the moon imparts to vapours she is about to sever.
I watched her come— watched with the strangest anticipa-
tion; as though some word of doom were to be written on her
disk. She broke forth as never moon yet burst from cloud: a
hand first penetrated the sable folds and waved them away;
486 Jane Eyre

then, not a moon, but a white human form shone in the
azure, inclining a glorious brow earthward. It gazed and
gazed on me. It spoke to my spirit: immeasurably distant
was the tone, yet so near, it whispered in my heart—
‘My daughter, flee temptation.’
‘Mother, I will.’
So I answered after I had waked from the trance-like
dream. It was yet night, but July nights are short: soon after
midnight, dawn comes. ‘It cannot be too early to commence
the task I have to fulfil,’ thought I. I rose: I was dressed;
for I had taken off nothing but my shoes. I knew where to
find in my drawers some linen, a locket, a ring. In seeking
these articles, I encountered the beads of a pearl necklace
Mr. Rochester had forced me to accept a few days ago. I left
that; it was not mine: it was the visionary bride’s who had
melted in air. The other articles I made up in a parcel; my
purse, containing twenty shillings (it was all I had), I put
in my pocket: I tied on my straw bonnet, pinned my shawl,
took the parcel and my slippers, which I would not put on
yet, and stole from my room.
‘Farewell, kind Mrs. Fairfax!’ I whispered, as I glided past
her door. ‘Farewell, my darling Adele!’ I said, as I glanced
towards the nursery. No thought could be admitted of en-
tering to embrace her. I had to deceive a fine ear: for aught I
knew it might now be listening.
I would have got past Mr. Rochester’s chamber without
a pause; but my heart momentarily stopping its beat at that
threshold, my foot was forced to stop also. No sleep was
there: the inmate was walking restlessly from wall to wall;

and again and again he sighed while I listened. There was
a heaven—a temporary heaven—in this room for me, if I
chose: I had but to go in and to say—
‘Mr. Rochester, I will love you and live with you through
life till death,’ and a fount of rapture would spring to my
lips. I thought of this.
That kind master, who could not sleep now, was waiting
with impatience for day. He would send for me in the morn-
ing; I should be gone. He would have me sought for: vainly.
He would feel himself forsaken; his love rejected: he would
suffer; perhaps grow desperate. I thought of this too. My
hand moved towards the lock: I caught it back, and glided
on.
Drearily I wound my way downstairs: I knew what I
had to do, and I did it mechanically. I sought the key of the
side-door in the kitchen; I sought, too, a phial of oil and a
feather; I oiled the key and the lock. I got some water, I got
some bread: for perhaps I should have to walk far; and my
strength, sorely shaken of late, must not break down. All
this I did without one sound. I opened the door, passed out,
shut it softly. Dim dawn glimmered in the yard. The great
gates were closed and locked; but a wicket in one of them
was only latched. Through that I departed: it, too, I shut;
and now I was out of Thornfield.
A mile off, beyond the fields, lay a road which stretched in
the contrary direction to Millcote; a road I had never trav-
elled, but often noticed, and wondered where it led: thither
I bent my steps. No reflection was to be allowed now: not
one glance was to be cast back; not even one forward. Not
488 Jane Eyre

one thought was to be given either to the past or the future.
The first was a page so heavenly sweet— so deadly sad—that
to read one line of it would dissolve my courage and break
down my energy. The last was an awful blank: something
like the world when the deluge was gone by.
I skirted fields, and hedges, and lanes till after sunrise. I
believe it was a lovely summer morning: I know my shoes,
which I had put on when I left the house, were soon wet
with dew. But I looked neither to rising sun, nor smiling sky,
nor wakening nature. He who is taken out to pass through
a fair scene to the scaffold, thinks not of the flowers that
smile on his road, but of the block and axe-edge; of the
disseverment of bone and vein; of the grave gaping at the
end: and I thought of drear flight and homeless wander-
ing—and oh! with agony I thought of what I left. I could
not help it. I thought of him now—in his room—watching
the sunrise; hoping I should soon come to say I would stay
with him and be his. I longed to be his; I panted to return:
it was not too late; I could yet spare him the bitter pang of
bereavement. As yet my flight, I was sure, was undiscov-
ered. I could go back and be his comforter—his pride; his
redeemer from misery, perhaps from ruin. Oh, that fear of
his self-abandonment—far worse than my abandonment—
how it goaded me! It was a barbed arrow-head in my breast;
it tore me when I tried to extract it; it sickened me when
remembrance thrust it farther in. Birds began singing in
brake and copse: birds were faithful to their mates; birds
were emblems of love. What was I? In the midst of my pain
of heart and frantic effort of principle, I abhorred myself. I

had no solace from self- approbation: none even from self-
respect. I had injured—wounded— left my master. I was
hateful in my own eyes. Still I could not turn, nor retrace
one step. God must have led me on. As to my own will or
conscience, impassioned grief had trampled one and stifled
the other. I was weeping wildly as I walked along my soli-
tary way: fast, fast I went like one delirious. A weakness,
beginning inwardly, extending to the limbs, seized me, and
I fell: I lay on the ground some minutes, pressing my face to
the wet turf. I had some fear—or hope—that here I should
die: but I was soon up; crawling forwards on my hands and
knees, and then again raised to my feet—as eager and as de-
termined as ever to reach the road.
When I got there, I was forced to sit to rest me under
the hedge; and while I sat, I heard wheels, and saw a coach
come on. I stood up and lifted my hand; it stopped. I asked
where it was going: the driver named a place a long way off,
and where I was sure Mr. Rochester had no connections. I
asked for what sum he would take me there; he said thirty
shillings; I answered I had but twenty; well, he would try to
make it do. He further gave me leave to get into the inside,
as the vehicle was empty: I entered, was shut in, and it rolled
on its way.
Gentle reader, may you never feel what I then felt! May
your eyes never shed such stormy, scalding, heart-wrung
tears as poured from mine. May you never appeal to Heav-
en in prayers so hopeless and so agonised as in that hour left
my lips; for never may you, like me, dread to be the instru-
ment of evil to what you wholly love.
490 Jane Eyre

Chapter XXVIII
T wo days are passed. It is a summer evening; the coach-

man has set me down at a place called Whitcross; he
could take me no farther for the sum I had given, and I was
not possessed of another shilling in the world. The coach
is a mile off by this time; I am alone. At this moment I dis-
cover that I forgot to take my parcel out of the pocket of
the coach, where I had placed it for safety; there it remains,
there it must remain; and now, I am absolutely destitute.
Whitcross is no town, nor even a hamlet; it is but a stone
pillar set up where four roads meet: whitewashed, I suppose,
to be more obvious at a distance and in darkness. Four arms
spring from its summit: the nearest town to which these
point is, according to the inscription, distant ten miles;
the farthest, above twenty. From the well-known names of
these towns I learn in what county I have lighted; a north-
midland shire, dusk with moorland, ridged with mountain:
this I see. There are great moors behind and on each hand
of me; there are waves of mountains far beyond that deep
valley at my feet. The population here must be thin, and I
see no passengers on these roads: they stretch out east, west,
north, and south—white, broad, lonely; they are all cut in
the moor, and the heather grows deep and wild to their very
verge. Yet a chance traveller might pass by; and I wish no
eye to see me now: strangers would wonder what I am do-

ing, lingering here at the sign-post, evidently objectless and
lost. I might be questioned: I could give no answer but what
would sound incredible and excite suspicion. Not a tie holds
me to human society at this moment—not a charm or hope
calls me where my fellow-creatures are—none that saw me
would have a kind thought or a good wish for me. I have
no relative but the universal mother, Nature: I will seek her
breast and ask repose.
I struck straight into the heath; I held on to a hollow I saw
deeply furrowing the brown moorside; I waded knee-deep
in its dark growth; I turned with its turnings, and finding a
moss-blackened granite crag in a hidden angle, I sat down
under it. High banks of moor were about me; the crag pro-
tected my head: the sky was over that.
Some time passed before I felt tranquil even here: I had
a vague dread that wild cattle might be near, or that some
sportsman or poacher might discover me. If a gust of wind
swept the waste, I looked up, fearing it was the rush of a bull;
if a plover whistled, I imagined it a man. Finding my ap-
prehensions unfounded, however, and calmed by the deep
silence that reigned as evening declined at nightfall, I took
confidence. As yet I had not thought; I had only listened,
watched, dreaded; now I regained the faculty of reflection.
What was I to do? Where to go? Oh, intolerable questions,
when I could do nothing and go nowhere!—when a long way
must yet be measured by my weary, trembling limbs before
I could reach human habitation—when cold charity must
be entreated before I could get a lodging: reluctant sympa-
thy importuned, almost certain repulse incurred, before
492 Jane Eyre

my tale could be listened to, or one of my wants relieved!
I touched the heath, it was dry, and yet warm with the
beat of the summer day. I looked at the sky; it was pure: a
kindly star twinkled just above the chasm ridge. The dew
fell, but with propitious softness; no breeze whispered. Na-
ture seemed to me benign and good; I thought she loved
me, outcast as I was; and I, who from man could anticipate
only mistrust, rejection, insult, clung to her with filial fond-
ness. To-night, at least, I would be her guest, as I was her
child: my mother would lodge me without money and with-
out price. I had one morsel of bread yet: the remnant of a
roll I had bought in a town we passed through at noon with
a stray penny—my last coin. I saw ripe bilberries gleam-
ing here and there, like jet beads in the heath: I gathered
a handful and ate them with the bread. My hunger, sharp
before, was, if not satisfied, appeased by this hermit’s meal.
I said my evening prayers at its conclusion, and then chose
my couch.
Beside the crag the heath was very deep: when I lay down
my feet were buried in it; rising high on each side, it left only
a narrow space for the night-air to invade. I folded my shawl
double, and spread it over me for a coverlet; a low, mossy
swell was my pillow. Thus lodged, I was not, at least—at the
commencement of the night, cold.
My rest might have been blissful enough, only a sad heart
broke it. It plained of its gaping wounds, its inward bleed-
ing, its riven chords. It trembled for Mr. Rochester and his
doom; it bemoaned him with bitter pity; it demanded him
with ceaseless longing; and, impotent as a bird with both

wings broken, it still quivered its shattered pinions in vain
attempts to seek him.
Worn out with this torture of thought, I rose to my knees.
Night was come, and her planets were risen: a safe, still
night: too serene for the companionship of fear. We know
that God is everywhere; but certainly we feel His presence
most when His works are on the grandest scale spread be-
fore us; and it is in the unclouded night-sky, where His
worlds wheel their silent course, that we read clearest His
infinitude, His omnipotence, His omnipresence. I had risen
to my knees to pray for Mr. Rochester. Looking up, I, with
tear-dimmed eyes, saw the mighty Milky-way. Remember-
ing what it was—what countless systems there swept space
like a soft trace of light—I felt the might and strength of
God. Sure was I of His efficiency to save what He had made:
convinced I grew that neither earth should perish, nor one
of the souls it treasured. I turned my prayer to thanksgiv-
ing: the Source of Life was also the Saviour of spirits. Mr.
Rochester was safe; he was God’s, and by God would he be
guarded. I again nestled to the breast of the hill; and ere
long in sleep forgot sorrow.
But next day, Want came to me pale and bare. Long after
the little birds had left their nests; long after bees had come
in the sweet prime of day to gather the heath honey before
the dew was dried— when the long morning shadows were
curtailed, and the sun filled earth and sky—I got up, and I
looked round me.
What a still, hot, perfect day! What a golden desert this
spreading moor! Everywhere sunshine. I wished I could live
494 Jane Eyre

in it and on it. I saw a lizard run over the crag; I saw a bee
busy among the sweet bilberries. I would fain at the moment
have become bee or lizard, that I might have found fitting
nutriment, permanent shelter here. But I was a human be-
ing, and had a human being’s wants: I must not linger where
there was nothing to supply them. I rose; I looked back at
the bed I had left. Hopeless of the future, I wished but this—
that my Maker had that night thought good to require my
soul of me while I slept; and that this weary frame, absolved
by death from further conflict with fate, had now but to
decay quietly, and mingle in peace with the soil of this wil-
derness. Life, however, was yet in my possession, with all its
requirements, and pains, and responsibilities. The burden
must be carried; the want provided for; the suffering en-
dured; the responsibility fulfilled. I set out.
Whitcross regained, I followed a road which led from the
sun, now fervent and high. By no other circumstance had I
will to decide my choice. I walked a long time, and when I
thought I had nearly done enough, and might conscientious-
ly yield to the fatigue that almost overpowered me—might
relax this forced action, and, sitting down on a stone I saw
near, submit resistlessly to the apathy that clogged heart
and limb—I heard a bell chime—a church bell.
I turned in the direction of the sound, and there,
amongst the romantic hills, whose changes and aspect I had
ceased to note an hour ago, I saw a hamlet and a spire. All
the valley at my right hand was full of pasture-fields, and
cornfields, and wood; and a glittering stream ran zig-zag
through the varied shades of green, the mellowing grain,

the sombre woodland, the clear and sunny lea. Recalled by
the rumbling of wheels to the road before me, I saw a heav-
ily-laden waggon labouring up the hill, and not far beyond
were two cows and their drover. Human life and human la-
bour were near. I must struggle on: strive to live and bend
to toil like the rest.
About two o’clock p.m. I entered the village. At the bot-
tom of its one street there was a little shop with some cakes
of bread in the window. I coveted a cake of bread. With
that refreshment I could perhaps regain a degree of energy:
without it, it would be difficult to proceed. The wish to have
some strength and some vigour returned to me as soon as
I was amongst my fellow-beings. I felt it would be degrad-
ing to faint with hunger on the causeway of a hamlet. Had I
nothing about me I could offer in exchange for one of these
rolls? I considered. I had a small silk handkerchief tied
round my throat; I had my gloves. I could hardly tell how
men and women in extremities of destitution proceeded. I
did not know whether either of these articles would be ac-
cepted: probably they would not; but I must try.
I entered the shop: a woman was there. Seeing a respect-
ably- dressed person, a lady as she supposed, she came
forward with civility. How could she serve me? I was seized
with shame: my tongue would not utter the request I had
prepared. I dared not offer her the half-worn gloves, the
creased handkerchief: besides, I felt it would be absurd. I
only begged permission to sit down a moment, as I was
tired. Disappointed in the expectation of a customer, she
coolly acceded to my request. She pointed to a seat; I sank
496 Jane Eyre

into it. I felt sorely urged to weep; but conscious how unsea-
sonable such a manifestation would be, I restrained it. Soon
I asked her ‘if there were any dressmaker or plain-work-
woman in the village?’
‘Yes; two or three. Quite as many as there was employ-
ment for.’
I reflected. I was driven to the point now. I was brought
face to face with Necessity. I stood in the position of one
without a resource, without a friend, without a coin. I must
do something. What? I must apply somewhere. Where?
‘Did she know of any place in the neighbourhood where
a servant was wanted?’
‘Nay; she couldn’t say.’
‘What was the chief trade in this place? What did most
of the people do?’
‘Some were farm labourers; a good deal worked at Mr.
Oliver’s needle-factory, and at the foundry.’
‘Did Mr. Oliver employ women?’
‘Nay; it was men’s work.’
‘And what do the women do?’
‘I knawn’t,’ was the answer. ‘Some does one thing, and
some another. Poor folk mun get on as they can.’
She seemed to be tired of my questions: and, indeed,
what claim had I to importune her? A neighbour or two
came in; my chair was evidently wanted. I took leave.
I passed up the street, looking as I went at all the houses
to the right hand and to the left; but I could discover no pre-
text, nor see an inducement to enter any. I rambled round
the hamlet, going sometimes to a little distance and re-

turning again, for an hour or more. Much exhausted, and
suffering greatly now for want of food, I turned aside into
a lane and sat down under the hedge. Ere many minutes
had elapsed, I was again on my feet, however, and again
searching something—a resource, or at least an informant.
A pretty little house stood at the top of the lane, with a gar-
den before it, exquisitely neat and brilliantly blooming. I
stopped at it. What business had I to approach the white
door or touch the glittering knocker? In what way could it
possibly be the interest of the inhabitants of that dwelling
to serve me? Yet I drew near and knocked. A mild-looking,
cleanly-attired young woman opened the door. In such a
voice as might be expected from a hopeless heart and faint-
ing frame—a voice wretchedly low and faltering—I asked if
a servant was wanted here?
‘No,’ said she; ‘we do not keep a servant.’
‘Can you tell me where I could get employment of any
kind?’ I continued. ‘I am a stranger, without acquaintance
in this place. I want some work: no matter what.’
But it was not her business to think for me, or to seek a
place for me: besides, in her eyes, how doubtful must have
appeared my character, position, tale. She shook her head,
she ‘was sorry she could give me no information,’ and the
white door closed, quite gently and civilly: but it shut me
out. If she had held it open a little longer, I believe I should
have begged a piece of bread; for I was now brought low.
I could not bear to return to the sordid village, where,
besides, no prospect of aid was visible. I should have longed
rather to deviate to a wood I saw not far off, which appeared
498 Jane Eyre

in its thick shade to offer inviting shelter; but I was so sick,
so weak, so gnawed with nature’s cravings, instinct kept me
roaming round abodes where there was a chance of food.
Solitude would be no solitude—rest no rest— while the vul-
ture, hunger, thus sank beak and talons in my side.
I drew near houses; I left them, and came back again, and
again I wandered away: always repelled by the consciousness
of having no claim to ask—no right to expect interest in my
isolated lot. Meantime, the afternoon advanced, while I thus
wandered about like a lost and starving dog. In crossing a
field, I saw the church spire before me: I hastened towards it.
Near the churchyard, and in the middle of a garden, stood
a well-built though small house, which I had no doubt was
the parsonage. I remembered that strangers who arrive at
a place where they have no friends, and who want employ-
ment, sometimes apply to the clergyman for introduction
and aid. It is the clergyman’s function to help—at least with
advice— those who wished to help themselves. I seemed to
have something like a right to seek counsel here. Renew-
ing then my courage, and gathering my feeble remains of
strength, I pushed on. I reached the house, and knocked at
the kitchen-door. An old woman opened: I asked was this
the parsonage?
‘Yes.’
‘Was the clergyman in?’
‘No.’
‘Would he be in soon?’
‘No, he was gone from home.’
‘To a distance?’

‘Not so far—happen three mile. He had been called away
by the sudden death of his father: he was at Marsh End now,
and would very likely stay there a fortnight longer.’
‘Was there any lady of the house?’
‘Nay, there was naught but her, and she was housekeep-
er;’ and of her, reader, I could not bear to ask the relief for
want of which I was sinking; I could not yet beg; and again
I crawled away.
Once more I took off my handkerchief—once more I
thought of the cakes of bread in the little shop. Oh, for but
a crust! for but one mouthful to allay the pang of famine!
Instinctively I turned my face again to the village; I found
the shop again, and I went in; and though others were there
besides the woman I ventured the request—‘Would she give
me a roll for this handkerchief?’
She looked at me with evident suspicion: ‘Nay, she never
sold stuff i’ that way.’
Almost desperate, I asked for half a cake; she again
refused. ‘How could she tell where I had got the handker-
chief?’ she said.
‘Would she take my gloves?’
‘No! what could she do with them?’
Reader, it is not pleasant to dwell on these details. Some
say there is enjoyment in looking back to painful experi-
ence past; but at this day I can scarcely bear to review the
times to which I allude: the moral degradation, blent with
the physical suffering, form too distressing a recollection
ever to be willingly dwelt on. I blamed none of those who
repulsed me. I felt it was what was to be expected, and what
500 Jane Eyre

could not be helped: an ordinary beggar is frequently an
object of suspicion; a well-dressed beggar inevitably so. To
be sure, what I begged was employment; but whose busi-
ness was it to provide me with employment? Not, certainly,
that of persons who saw me then for the first time, and who
knew nothing about my character. And as to the woman
who would not take my handkerchief in exchange for her
bread, why, she was right, if the offer appeared to her sin-
ister or the exchange unprofitable. Let me condense now. I
am sick of the subject.
A little before dark I passed a farm-house, at the open
door of which the farmer was sitting, eating his supper of
bread and cheese. I stopped and said—
‘Will you give me a piece of bread? for I am very hungry.’
He cast on me a glance of surprise; but without answering,
he cut a thick slice from his loaf, and gave it to me. I imag-
ine he did not think I was a beggar, but only an eccentric
sort of lady, who had taken a fancy to his brown loaf. As
soon as I was out of sight of his house, I sat down and ate it.
I could not hope to get a lodging under a roof, and
sought it in the wood I have before alluded to. But my night
was wretched, my rest broken: the ground was damp, the
air cold: besides, intruders passed near me more than once,
and I had again and again to change my quarters; no sense
of safety or tranquillity befriended me. Towards morning it
rained; the whole of the following day was wet. Do not ask
me, reader, to give a minute account of that day; as before, I
sought work; as before, I was repulsed; as before, I starved;
but once did food pass my lips. At the door of a cottage I saw

a little girl about to throw a mess of cold porridge into a pig
trough. ‘Will you give me that?’ I asked.
She stared at me. ‘Mother!’ she exclaimed, ‘there is a
woman wants me to give her these porridge.’
‘Well lass,’ replied a voice within, ‘give it her if she’s a
beggar. T pig doesn’t want it.’
The girl emptied the stiffened mould into my hand, and I
devoured it ravenously.
As the wet twilight deepened, I stopped in a solitary bri-
dle-path, which I had been pursuing an hour or more.
‘My strength is quite failing me,’ I said in a soliloquy. ‘I
feel I cannot go much farther. Shall I be an outcast again
this night? While the rain descends so, must I lay my head
on the cold, drenched ground? I fear I cannot do otherwise:
for who will receive me? But it will be very dreadful, with
this feeling of hunger, faintness, chill, and this sense of des-
olation—this total prostration of hope. In all likelihood,
though, I should die before morning. And why cannot I rec-
oncile myself to the prospect of death? Why do I struggle to
retain a valueless life? Because I know, or believe, Mr. Roch-
ester is living: and then, to die of want and cold is a fate to
which nature cannot submit passively. Oh, Providence! sus-
tain me a little longer! Aid!—direct me!’
My glazed eye wandered over the dim and misty land-
scape. I saw I had strayed far from the village: it was quite
out of sight. The very cultivation surrounding it had dis-
appeared. I had, by cross- ways and by-paths, once more
drawn near the tract of moorland; and now, only a few
fields, almost as wild and unproductive as the heath from
502 Jane Eyre

which they were scarcely reclaimed, lay between me and the
dusky hill.
‘Well, I would rather die yonder than in a street or on a
frequented road,’ I reflected. ‘And far better that crows and
ravens—if any ravens there be in these regions—should pick
my flesh from my bones, than that they should be prisoned
in a workhouse coffin and moulder in a pauper’s grave.’
To the hill, then, I turned. I reached it. It remained now
only to find a hollow where I could lie down, and feel at
least hidden, if not secure. But all the surface of the waste
looked level. It showed no variation but of tint: green, where
rush and moss overgrew the marshes; black, where the dry
soil bore only heath. Dark as it was getting, I could still see
these changes, though but as mere alternations of light and
shade; for colour had faded with the daylight.
My eye still roved over the sullen swell and along the
moor-edge, vanishing amidst the wildest scenery, when
at one dim point, far in among the marshes and the ridg-
es, a light sprang up. ‘That is an ignis fatuus,’ was my first
thought; and I expected it would soon vanish. It burnt on,
however, quite steadily, neither receding nor advancing. ‘Is
it, then, a bonfire just kindled?’ I questioned. I watched to
see whether it would spread: but no; as it did not diminish,
so it did not enlarge. ‘It may be a candle in a house,’ I then
conjectured; ‘but if so, I can never reach it. It is much too far
away: and were it within a yard of me, what would it avail? I
should but knock at the door to have it shut in my face.’
And I sank down where I stood, and hid my face against
the ground. I lay still a while: the night-wind swept over

the hill and over me, and died moaning in the distance;
the rain fell fast, wetting me afresh to the skin. Could I but
have stiffened to the still frost— the friendly numbness of
death—it might have pelted on; I should not have felt it; but
my yet living flesh shuddered at its chilling influence. I rose
ere long.
The light was yet there, shining dim but constant through
the rain. I tried to walk again: I dragged my exhausted limbs
slowly towards it. It led me aslant over the hill, through a
wide bog, which would have been impassable in winter, and
was splashy and shaking even now, in the height of summer.
Here I fell twice; but as often I rose and rallied my faculties.
This light was my forlorn hope: I must gain it.
Having crossed the marsh, I saw a trace of white over
the moor. I approached it; it was a road or a track: it led
straight up to the light, which now beamed from a sort of
knoll, amidst a clump of trees—firs, apparently, from what I
could distinguish of the character of their forms and foliage
through the gloom. My star vanished as I drew near: some
obstacle had intervened between me and it. I put out my
hand to feel the dark mass before me: I discriminated the
rough stones of a low wall—above it, something like pali-
sades, and within, a high and prickly hedge. I groped on.
Again a whitish object gleamed before me: it was a gate—a
wicket; it moved on its hinges as I touched it. On each side
stood a sable bush-holly or yew.
Entering the gate and passing the shrubs, the silhouette
of a house rose to view, black, low, and rather long; but the
guiding light shone nowhere. All was obscurity. Were the
504 Jane Eyre

inmates retired to rest? I feared it must be so. In seeking the
door, I turned an angle: there shot out the friendly gleam
again, from the lozenged panes of a very small latticed win-
dow, within a foot of the ground, made still smaller by the
growth of ivy or some other creeping plant, whose leaves
clustered thick over the portion of the house wall in which
it was set. The aperture was so screened and narrow, that
curtain or shutter had been deemed unnecessary; and when
I stooped down and put aside the spray of foliage shooting
over it, I could see all within. I could see clearly a room
with a sanded floor, clean scoured; a dresser of walnut, with
pewter plates ranged in rows, reflecting the redness and ra-
diance of a glowing peat-fire. I could see a clock, a white
deal table, some chairs. The candle, whose ray had been my
beacon, burnt on the table; and by its light an elderly wom-
an, somewhat rough-looking, but scrupulously clean, like
all about her, was knitting a stocking.
I noticed these objects cursorily only—in them there was
nothing extraordinary. A group of more interest appeared
near the hearth, sitting still amidst the rosy peace and
warmth suffusing it. Two young, graceful women—ladies
in every point—sat, one in a low rocking-chair, the other on
a lower stool; both wore deep mourning of crape and bom-
bazeen, which sombre garb singularly set off very fair necks
and faces: a large old pointer dog rested its massive head on
the knee of one girl—in the lap of the other was cushioned
a black cat.
A strange place was this humble kitchen for such occu-
pants! Who were they? They could not be the daughters of

the elderly person at the table; for she looked like a rustic,
and they were all delicacy and cultivation. I had nowhere
seen such faces as theirs: and yet, as I gazed on them, I
seemed intimate with every lineament. I cannot call them
handsome—they were too pale and grave for the word:
as they each bent over a book, they looked thoughtful al-
most to severity. A stand between them supported a second
candle and two great volumes, to which they frequently re-
ferred, comparing them, seemingly, with the smaller books
they held in their hands, like people consulting a diction-
ary to aid them in the task of translation. This scene was as
silent as if all the figures had been shadows and the firelit
apartment a picture: so hushed was it, I could hear the cin-
ders fall from the grate, the clock tick in its obscure corner;
and I even fancied I could distinguish the click- click of the
woman’s knitting-needles. When, therefore, a voice broke
the strange stillness at last, it was audible enough to me.
‘Listen, Diana,’ said one of the absorbed students; ‘Franz
and old Daniel are together in the night-time, and Franz is
telling a dream from which he has awakened in terror—lis-
ten!’ And in a low voice she read something, of which not
one word was intelligible to me; for it was in an unknown
tongue—neither French nor Latin. Whether it were Greek
or German I could not tell.
‘That is strong,’ she said, when she had finished: ‘I relish
it.’ The other girl, who had lifted her head to listen to her
sister, repeated, while she gazed at the fire, a line of what
had been read. At a later day, I knew the language and the
book; therefore, I will here quote the line: though, when I
506 Jane Eyre

first heard it, it was only like a stroke on sounding brass to
me—conveying no meaning:-
‘Da trat hervor Einer, anzusehen wie die Sternen Nacht.’
Good! good!’ she exclaimed, while her dark and deep eye
sparkled. ‘There you have a dim and mighty archangel fitly
set before you! The line is worth a hundred pages of fustian.
‘Ich wage die Gedanken in der Schale meines Zornes und
die Werke mit dem Gewichte meines Grimms.’ I like it!’
Both were again silent.
‘Is there ony country where they talk i’ that way?’ asked
the old woman, looking up from her knitting.
‘Yes, Hannah—a far larger country than England, where
they talk in no other way.’
‘Well, for sure case, I knawn’t how they can understand t’
one t’other: and if either o’ ye went there, ye could tell what
they said, I guess?’
‘We could probably tell something of what they said, but
not all— for we are not as clever as you think us, Hannah.
We don’t speak German, and we cannot read it without a
dictionary to help us.’
‘And what good does it do you?’
‘We mean to teach it some time—or at least the elements,
as they say; and then we shall get more money than we do
now.’
‘Varry like: but give ower studying; ye’ve done enough
for to- night.’
‘I think we have: at least I’m tired. Mary, are you?’
‘Mortally: after all, it’s tough work fagging away at a lan-
guage with no master but a lexicon.’

‘It is, especially such a language as this crabbed but glori-
ous Deutsch. I wonder when St. John will come home.’
‘Surely he will not be long now: it is just ten (looking at
a little gold watch she drew from her girdle). It rains fast,
Hannah: will you have the goodness to look at the fire in
the parlour?’
The woman rose: she opened a door, through which I
dimly saw a passage: soon I heard her stir a fire in an inner
room; she presently came back.
‘Ah, childer!’ said she, ‘it fair troubles me to go into yond’
room now: it looks so lonesome wi’ the chair empty and set
back in a corner.’
She wiped her eyes with her apron: the two girls, grave
before, looked sad now.
‘But he is in a better place,’ continued Hannah: ‘we
shouldn’t wish him here again. And then, nobody need to
have a quieter death nor he had.’
‘You say he never mentioned us?’ inquired one of the la-
dies.
‘He hadn’t time, bairn: he was gone in a minute, was
your father. He had been a bit ailing like the day before, but
naught to signify; and when Mr. St. John asked if he would
like either o’ ye to be sent for, he fair laughed at him. He
began again with a bit of a heaviness in his head the next
day—that is, a fortnight sin’—and he went to sleep and niv-
er wakened: he wor a’most stark when your brother went
into t’ chamber and fand him. Ah, childer! that’s t’ last o’ t’
old stock—for ye and Mr. St. John is like of different soart
to them ‘at’s gone; for all your mother wor mich i’ your way,
508 Jane Eyre

and a’most as book-learned. She wor the pictur’ o’ ye, Mary:
Diana is more like your father.’
I thought them so similar I could not tell where the old
servant (for such I now concluded her to be) saw the dif-
ference. Both were fair complexioned and slenderly made;
both possessed faces full of distinction and intelligence.
One, to be sure, had hair a shade darker than the other, and
there was a difference in their style of wearing it; Mary’s
pale brown locks were parted and braided smooth: Diana’s
duskier tresses covered her neck with thick curls. The clock
struck ten.
‘Ye’ll want your supper, I am sure,’ observed Hannah;
‘and so will Mr. St. John when he comes in.’
And she proceeded to prepare the meal. The ladies rose;
they seemed about to withdraw to the parlour. Till this
moment, I had been so intent on watching them, their ap-
pearance and conversation had excited in me so keen an
interest, I had half-forgotten my own wretched position:
now it recurred to me. More desolate, more desperate than
ever, it seemed from contrast. And how impossible did it ap-
pear to touch the inmates of this house with concern on my
behalf; to make them believe in the truth of my wants and
woes—to induce them to vouchsafe a rest for my wander-
ings! As I groped out the door, and knocked at it hesitatingly,
I felt that last idea to be a mere chimera. Hannah opened.
‘What do you want?’ she inquired, in a voice of surprise,
as she surveyed me by the light of the candle she held.
‘May I speak to your mistresses?’ I said.
‘You had better tell me what you have to say to them.

Where do you come from?’
‘I am a stranger.’
‘What is your business here at this hour?’
‘I want a night’s shelter in an out-house or anywhere, and
a morsel of bread to eat.’
Distrust, the very feeling I dreaded, appeared in Han-
nah’s face. ‘I’ll give you a piece of bread,’ she said, after a
pause; ‘but we can’t take in a vagrant to lodge. It isn’t like-
ly.’
‘Do let me speak to your mistresses.’
‘No, not I. What can they do for you? You should not be
roving about now; it looks very ill.’
‘But where shall I go if you drive me away? What shall I
do?’
‘Oh, I’ll warrant you know where to go and what to do.
Mind you don’t do wrong, that’s all. Here is a penny; now
go—‘
‘A penny cannot feed me, and I have no strength to go
farther. Don’t shut the door:- oh, don’t, for God’s sake!’
‘I must; the rain is driving in—‘
‘Tell the young ladies. Let me see them- ‘
‘Indeed, I will not. You are not what you ought to be, or
you wouldn’t make such a noise. Move off.’
‘But I must die if I am turned away.’
‘Not you. I’m fear’d you have some ill plans agate, that
bring you about folk’s houses at this time o’ night. If you’ve
any followershousebreakers or such like—anywhere near,
you may tell them we are not by ourselves in the house; we
have a gentleman, and dogs, and guns.’ Here the honest but
510 Jane Eyre

inflexible servant clapped the door to and bolted it within.
This was the climax. A pang of exquisite suffering—a
throe of true despair—rent and heaved my heart. Worn out,
indeed, I was; not another step could I stir. I sank on the
wet doorstep: I groaned— I wrung my hands—I wept in ut-
ter anguish. Oh, this spectre of death! Oh, this last hour,
approaching in such horror! Alas, this isolation—this ban-
ishment from my kind! Not only the anchor of hope, but the
footing of fortitude was gone—at least for a moment; but
the last I soon endeavoured to regain.
‘I can but die,’ I said, ‘and I believe in God. Let me try to
wait His will in silence.’
These words I not only thought, but uttered; and thrust-
ing back all my misery into my heart, I made an effort to
compel it to remain there—dumb and still.
‘All men must die,’ said a voice quite close at hand; ‘but
all are not condemned to meet a lingering and premature
doom, such as yours would be if you perished here of want.’
‘Who or what speaks?’ I asked, terrified at the unexpected
sound, and incapable now of deriving from any occurrence
a hope of aid. A form was near—what form, the pitch-dark
night and my enfeebled vision prevented me from distin-
guishing. With a loud long knock, the new-comer appealed
to the door.
‘Is it you, Mr. St. John?’ cried Hannah.
‘Yes—yes; open quickly.’
‘Well, how wet and cold you must be, such a wild night as
it is! Come in—your sisters are quite uneasy about you, and
I believe there are bad folks about. There has been a beg-

gar-woman—I declare she is not gone yet!—laid down there.
Get up! for shame! Move off, I say!’
‘Hush, Hannah! I have a word to say to the woman. You
have done your duty in excluding, now let me do mine in
admitting her. I was near, and listened to both you and her.
I think this is a peculiar case—I must at least examine into
it. Young woman, rise, and pass before me into the house.’
With difficulty I obeyed him. Presently I stood within
that clean, bright kitchen—on the very hearth—trembling,
sickening; conscious of an aspect in the last degree ghastly,
wild, and weather-beaten. The two ladies, their brother, Mr.
St. John, the old servant, were all gazing at me.
‘St. John, who is it?’ I heard one ask.
‘I cannot tell: I found her at the door,’ was the reply.
‘She does look white,’ said Hannah.
‘As white as clay or death,’ was responded. ‘She will fall:
let her sit.’
And indeed my head swam: I dropped, but a chair re-
ceived me. I still possessed my senses, though just now I
could not speak.
‘Perhaps a little water would restore her. Hannah, fetch
some. But she is worn to nothing. How very thin, and how
very bloodless!’
‘A mere spectre!’
‘Is she ill, or only famished?’
‘Famished, I think. Hannah, is that milk? Give it me, and
a piece of bread.’
Diana (I knew her by the long curls which I saw droop-
ing between me and the fire as she bent over me) broke some
512 Jane Eyre

bread, dipped it in milk, and put it to my lips. Her face was
near mine: I saw there was pity in it, and I felt sympathy in
her hurried breathing. In her simple words, too, the same
balm-like emotion spoke: ‘Try to eat.’
‘Yes—try,’ repeated Mary gently; and Mary’s hand re-
moved my sodden bonnet and lifted my head. I tasted what
they offered me: feebly at first, eagerly soon.
‘Not too much at first—restrain her,’ said the brother;
‘she has had enough.’ And he withdrew the cup of milk and
the plate of bread.
‘A little more, St. John—look at the avidity in her eyes.’
‘No more at present, sister. Try if she can speak now—ask
her her name.’
I felt I could speak, and I answered—‘My name is Jane
Elliott.’ Anxious as ever to avoid discovery, I had before re-
solved to assume an ALIAS.
‘And where do you live? Where are your friends?’
I was silent.
‘Can we send for any one you know?’
I shook my head.
‘What account can you give of yourself?’
Somehow, now that I had once crossed the threshold of
this house, and once was brought face to face with its own-
ers, I felt no longer outcast, vagrant, and disowned by the
wide world. I dared to put off the mendicant—to resume my
natural manner and character. I began once more to know
myself; and when Mr. St. John demanded an account—
which at present I was far too weak to render—I said after
a brief pause—

‘Sir, I can give you no details to-night.’
‘But what, then,’ said he, ‘do you expect me to do for
you?’
‘Nothing,’ I replied. My strength sufficed for but short
answers. Diana took the word—
‘Do you mean,’ she asked, ‘that we have now given you
what aid you require? and that we may dismiss you to the
moor and the rainy night?’
I looked at her. She had, I thought, a remarkable counte-
nance, instinct both with power and goodness. I took sudden
courage. Answering her compassionate gate with a smile, I
said—‘I will trust you. If I were a masterless and stray dog,
I know that you would not turn me from your hearth to-
night: as it is, I really have no fear. Do with me and for me as
you like; but excuse me from much discourse—my breath is
short—I feel a spasm when I speak.’ All three surveyed me,
and all three were silent.
‘Hannah,’ said Mr. St. John, at last, ‘let her sit there at
present, and ask her no questions; in ten minutes more, give
her the remainder of that milk and bread. Mary and Diana,
let us go into the parlour and talk the matter over.’
They withdrew. Very soon one of the ladies returned—I
could not tell which. A kind of pleasant stupor was stealing
over me as I sat by the genial fire. In an undertone she gave
some directions to Hannah. Ere long, with the servant’s aid,
I contrived to mount a staircase; my dripping clothes were
removed; soon a warm, dry bed received me. I thanked
God—experienced amidst unutterable exhaustion a glow
of grateful joy—and slept.
514 Jane Eyre

Chapter XXIX
T he recollection of about three days and nights suc-

ceeding this is very dim in my mind. I can recall some
sensations felt in that interval; but few thoughts framed,
and no actions performed. I knew I was in a small room
and in a narrow bed. To that bed I seemed to have grown;
I lay on it motionless as a stone; and to have torn me from
it would have been almost to kill me. I took no note of the
lapse of time—of the change from morning to noon, from
noon to evening. I observed when any one entered or left
the apartment: I could even tell who they were; I could un-
derstand what was said when the speaker stood near to me;
but I could not answer; to open my lips or move my limbs
was equally impossible. Hannah, the servant, was my most
frequent visitor. Her coming disturbed me. I had a feeling
that she wished me away: that she did not understand me or
my circumstances; that she was prejudiced against me. Di-
ana and Mary appeared in the chamber once or twice a day.
They would whisper sentences of this sort at my bedside—
‘It is very well we took her in.’
‘Yes; she would certainly have been found dead at the
door in the morning had she been left out all night. I won-
der what she has gone through?’
‘Strange hardships, I imagine—poor, emaciated, pallid
wanderer?’

‘She is not an uneducated person, I should think, by her
manner of speaking; her accent was quite pure; and the
clothes she took off, though splashed and wet, were little
worn and fine.’
‘She has a peculiar face; fleshless and haggard as it is, I
rather like it; and when in good health and animated, I can
fancy her physiognomy would be agreeable.’
Never once in their dialogues did I hear a syllable of
regret at the hospitality they had extended to me, or of sus-
picion of, or aversion to, myself. I was comforted.
Mr. St. John came but once: he looked at me, and said my
state of lethargy was the result of reaction from excessive
and protracted fatigue. He pronounced it needless to send
for a doctor: nature, he was sure, would manage best, left to
herself. He said every nerve had been overstrained in some
way, and the whole system must sleep torpid a while. There
was no disease. He imagined my recovery would be rapid
enough when once commenced. These opinions he deliv-
ered in a few words, in a quiet, low voice; and added, after a
pause, in the tone of a man little accustomed to expansive
comment, ‘Rather an unusual physiognomy; certainly, not
indicative of vulgarity or degradation.’
‘Far otherwise,’ responded Diana. ‘To speak truth, St.
John, my heart rather warms to the poor little soul. I wish
we may be able to benefit her permanently.’
‘That is hardly likely,’ was the reply. ‘You will find she
is some young lady who has had a misunderstanding with
her friends, and has probably injudiciously left them. We
may, perhaps, succeed in restoring her to them, if she is not
516 Jane Eyre

obstinate: but I trace lines of force in her face which make
me sceptical of her tractability.’ He stood considering me
some minutes; then added, ‘She looks sensible, but not at
all handsome.’
‘She is so ill, St. John.’
‘Ill or well, she would always be plain. The grace and har-
mony of beauty are quite wanting in those features.’
On the third day I was better; on the fourth, I could
speak, move, rise in bed, and turn. Hannah had brought me
some gruel and dry toast, about, as I supposed, the dinner-
hour. I had eaten with relish: the food was good—void of
the feverish flavour which had hitherto poisoned what I had
swallowed. When she left me, I felt comparatively strong
and revived: ere long satiety of repose and desire for action
stirred me. I wished to rise; but what could I put on? Only
my damp and bemired apparel; in which I had slept on the
ground and fallen in the marsh. I felt ashamed to appear be-
fore my benefactors so clad. I was spared the humiliation.
On a chair by the bedside were all my own things, clean
and dry. My black silk frock hung against the wall. The trac-
es of the bog were removed from it; the creases left by the
wet smoothed out: it was quite decent. My very shoes and
stockings were purified and rendered presentable. There
were the means of washing in the room, and a comb and
brush to smooth my hair. After a weary process, and rest-
ing every five minutes, I succeeded in dressing myself. My
clothes hung loose on me; for I was much wasted, but I cov-
ered deficiencies with a shawl, and once more, clean and
respectable looking—no speck of the dirt, no trace of the

disorder I so hated, and which seemed so to degrade me,
left—I crept down a stone staircase with the aid of the ban-
isters, to a narrow low passage, and found my way presently
to the kitchen.
It was full of the fragrance of new bread and the warmth
of a generous fire. Hannah was baking. Prejudices, it is well
known, are most difficult to eradicate from the heart whose
soil has never been loosened or fertilised by education: they
grow there, firm as weeds among stones. Hannah had been
cold and stiff, indeed, at the first: latterly she had begun to
relent a little; and when she saw me come in tidy and well-
dressed, she even smiled.
‘What, you have got up!’ she said. ‘You are better, then.
You may sit you down in my chair on the hearthstone, if
you will.’
She pointed to the rocking-chair: I took it. She bustled
about, examining me every now and then with the corner
of her eye. Turning to me, as she took some loaves from the
oven, she asked bluntly—
‘Did you ever go a-begging afore you came here?’
I was indignant for a moment; but remembering that an-
ger was out of the question, and that I had indeed appeared
as a beggar to her, I answered quietly, but still not without a
certain marked firmness—
‘You are mistaken in supposing me a beggar. I am no
beggar; any more than yourself or your young ladies.’
After a pause she said, ‘I dunnut understand that: you’ve
like no house, nor no brass, I guess?’
‘The want of house or brass (by which I suppose you
518 Jane Eyre

mean money) does not make a beggar in your sense of the
word.’
‘Are you book-learned?’ she inquired presently.
‘Yes, very.’
‘But you’ve never been to a boarding-school?’
‘I was at a boarding-school eight years.’
She opened her eyes wide. ‘Whatever cannot ye keep
yourself for, then?’
‘I have kept myself; and, I trust, shall keep myself again.
What are you going to do with these gooseberries?’ I in-
quired, as she brought out a basket of the fruit.
‘Mak’ ‘em into pies.’
‘Give them to me and I’ll pick them.’
‘Nay; I dunnut want ye to do nought.’
‘But I must do something. Let me have them.’
She consented; and she even brought me a clean towel to
spread over my dress, ‘lest,’ as she said, ‘I should mucky it.’
‘Ye’ve not been used to sarvant’s wark, I see by your
hands,’ she remarked. ‘Happen ye’ve been a dressmaker?’
‘No, you are wrong. And now, never mind what I have
been: don’t trouble your head further about me; but tell me
the name of the house where we are.’
‘Some calls it Marsh End, and some calls it Moor House.’
‘And the gentleman who lives here is called Mr. St.
John?’
‘Nay; he doesn’t live here: he is only staying a while. When
he is at home, he is in his own parish at Morton.’
‘That village a few miles off?
‘Aye.’

‘And what is he?’
‘He is a parson.’
I remembered the answer of the old housekeeper at the
parsonage, when I had asked to see the clergyman. ‘This,
then, was his father’s residence?’
‘Aye; old Mr. Rivers lived here, and his father, and grand-
father, and gurt (great) grandfather afore him.’
‘The name, then, of that gentleman, is Mr. St. John Riv-
ers?’
‘Aye; St. John is like his kirstened name.’
‘And his sisters are called Diana and Mary Rivers?’
‘Yes.’
‘Their father is dead?’
‘Dead three weeks sin’ of a stroke.’
‘They have no mother?’
‘The mistress has been dead this mony a year.’
‘Have you lived with the family long?’
‘I’ve lived here thirty year. I nursed them all three.’
‘That proves you must have been an honest and faithful
servant. I will say so much for you, though you have had the
incivility to call me a beggar.’
She again regarded me with a surprised stare. ‘I believe,’
she said, ‘I was quite mista’en in my thoughts of you: but
there is so mony cheats goes about, you mun forgie me.’
‘And though,’ I continued, rather severely, ‘you wished
to turn me from the door, on a night when you should not
have shut out a dog.’
‘Well, it was hard: but what can a body do? I thought more
o’ th’ childer nor of mysel: poor things! They’ve like nobody
520 Jane Eyre

to tak’ care on ‘em but me. I’m like to look sharpish.’
I maintained a grave silence for some minutes.
‘You munnut think too hardly of me,’ she again re-
marked.
‘But I do think hardly of you,’ I said; ‘and I’ll tell you
why—not so much because you refused to give me shelter,
or regarded me as an impostor, as because you just now
made it a species of reproach that I had no ‘brass’ and no
house. Some of the best people that ever lived have been as
destitute as I am; and if you are a Christian, you ought not
to consider poverty a crime.’
‘No more I ought,’ said she: ‘Mr. St. John tells me so too;
and I see I wor wrang—but I’ve clear a different notion on
you now to what I had. You look a raight down dacent little
crater.’
‘That will do—I forgive you now. Shake hands.’
She put her floury and horny hand into mine; another
and heartier smile illumined her rough face, and from that
moment we were friends.
Hannah was evidently fond of talking. While I picked
the fruit, and she made the paste for the pies, she proceeded
to give me sundry details about her deceased master and
mistress, and ‘the childer,’ as she called the young people.
Old Mr. Rivers, she said, was a plain man enough, but
a gentleman, and of as ancient a family as could be found.
Marsh End had belonged to the Rivers ever since it was a
house: and it was, she affirmed, ‘aboon two hundred year
old—for all it looked but a small, humble place, naught to
compare wi’ Mr. Oliver’s grand hall down i’ Morton Vale.

But she could remember Bill Oliver’s father a journeyman
needlemaker; and th’ Rivers wor gentry i’ th’ owd days o’
th’ Henrys, as onybody might see by looking into th’ reg-
isters i’ Morton Church vestry.’ Still, she allowed, ‘the owd
maister was like other folk—naught mich out o’ t’ common
way: stark mad o’ shooting, and farming, and sich like.’ The
mistress was different. She was a great reader, and studied a
deal; and the ‘bairns’ had taken after her. There was nothing
like them in these parts, nor ever had been; they had liked
learning, all three, almost from the time they could speak;
and they had always been ‘of a mak’ of their own.’ Mr. St.
John, when he grew up, would go to college and be a parson;
and the girls, as soon as they left school, would seek places
as governesses: for they had told her their father had some
years ago lost a great deal of money by a man he had trusted
turning bankrupt; and as he was now not rich enough to
give them fortunes, they must provide for themselves. They
had lived very little at home for a long while, and were only
come now to stay a few weeks on account of their father’s
death; but they did so like Marsh End and Morton, and all
these moors and hills about. They had been in London, and
many other grand towns; but they always said there was no
place like home; and then they were so agreeable with each
othernever fell out nor ‘threaped.’ She did not know where
there was such a family for being united.
Having finished my task of gooseberry picking, I asked
where the two ladies and their brother were now.
‘Gone over to Morton for a walk; but they would be back
in half-an- hour to tea.’
522 Jane Eyre

They returned within the time Hannah had allotted
them: they entered by the kitchen door. Mr. St. John, when
he saw me, merely bowed and passed through; the two
ladies stopped: Mary, in a few words, kindly and calmly ex-
pressed the pleasure she felt in seeing me well enough to
be able to come down; Diana took my hand: she shook her
head at me.
‘You should have waited for my leave to descend,’ she
said. ‘You still look very pale—and so thin! Poor child!—
poor girl!’
Diana had a voice toned, to my ear, like the cooing of
a dove. She possessed eyes whose gaze I delighted to en-
counter. Her whole face seemed to me fill of charm. Mary’s
countenance was equally intelligent—her features equally
pretty; but her expression was more reserved, and her man-
ners, though gentle, more distant. Diana looked and spoke
with a certain authority: she had a will, evidently. It was my
nature to feel pleasure in yielding to an authority supported
like hers, and to bend, where my conscience and self-re-
spect permitted, to an active will.
‘And what business have you here?’ she continued. ‘It is
not your place. Mary and I sit in the kitchen sometimes, be-
cause at home we like to be free, even to license—but you
are a visitor, and must go into the parlour.’
‘I am very well here.’
‘Not at all, with Hannah bustling about and covering you
with flour.’
‘Besides, the fire is too hot for you,’ interposed Mary.
‘To be sure,’ added her sister. ‘Come, you must be obedi-

ent.’ And still holding my hand she made me rise, and led
me into the inner room.
‘Sit there,’ she said, placing me on the sofa, ‘while we take
our things off and get the tea ready; it is another privilege
we exercise in our little moorland home—to prepare our
own meals when we are so inclined, or when Hannah is
baking, brewing, washing, or ironing.’
She closed the door, leaving me solus with Mr. St. John,
who sat opposite, a book or newspaper in his hand. I exam-
ined first, the parlour, and then its occupant.
The parlour was rather a small room, very plainly
furnished, yet comfortable, because clean and neat. The old-
fashioned chairs were very bright, and the walnut-wood
table was like a looking-glass. A few strange, antique por-
traits of the men and women of other days decorated the
stained walls; a cupboard with glass doors contained some
books and an ancient set of china. There was no superfluous
ornament in the room—not one modern piece of furniture,
save a brace of workboxes and a lady’s desk in rosewood,
which stood on a side-table: everything—including the car-
pet and curtains—looked at once well worn and well saved.
Mr. St. John—sitting as still as one of the dusty pictures
on the walls, keeping his eyes fixed on the page he perused,
and his lips mutely sealed—was easy enough to examine.
Had he been a statue instead of a man, he could not have
been easier. He was young— perhaps from twenty-eight
to thirty—tall, slender; his face riveted the eye; it was like
a Greek face, very pure in outline: quite a straight, classic
nose; quite an Athenian mouth and chin. It is seldom, in-
524 Jane Eyre

deed, an English face comes so near the antique models as
did his. He might well be a little shocked at the irregularity
of my lineaments, his own being so harmonious. His eyes
were large and blue, with brown lashes; his high forehead,
colourless as ivory, was partially streaked over by careless
locks of fair hair.
This is a gentle delineation, is it not, reader? Yet he whom
it describes scarcely impressed one with the idea of a gentle,
a yielding, an impressible, or even of a placid nature. Qui-
escent as he now sat, there was something about his nostril,
his mouth, his brow, which, to my perceptions, indicated
elements within either restless, or hard, or eager. He did not
speak to me one word, nor even direct to me one glance, till
his sisters returned. Diana, as she passed in and out, in the
course of preparing tea, brought me a little cake, baked on
the top of the oven.
‘Eat that now,’ she said: ‘you must be hungry. Hannah
says you have had nothing but some gruel since breakfast.’
I did not refuse it, for my appetite was awakened and
keen. Mr. Rivers now closed his book, approached the ta-
ble, and, as he took a seat, fixed his blue pictorial-looking
eyes full on me. There was an unceremonious directness,
a searching, decided steadfastness in his gaze now, which
told that intention, and not diffidence, had hitherto kept it
averted from the stranger.
‘You are very hungry,’ he said.
‘I am, sir.’ It is my way—it always was my way, by in-
stinct—ever to meet the brief with brevity, the direct with
plainness.

‘It is well for you that a low fever has forced you to ab-
stain for the last three days: there would have been danger
in yielding to the cravings of your appetite at first. Now you
may eat, though still not immoderately.’
‘I trust I shall not eat long at your expense, sir,’ was my
very clumsily-contrived, unpolished answer.
‘No,’ he said coolly: ‘when you have indicated to us the
residence of your friends, we can write to them, and you
may be restored to home.’
‘That, I must plainly tell you, is out of my power to do; be-
ing absolutely without home and friends.’
The three looked at me, but not distrustfully; I felt there
was no suspicion in their glances: there was more of curios-
ity. I speak particularly of the young ladies. St. John’s eyes,
though clear enough in a literal sense, in a figurative one
were difficult to fathom. He seemed to use them rather as in-
struments to search other people’s thoughts, than as agents
to reveal his own: the which combination of keenness and
reserve was considerably more calculated to embarrass
than to encourage.
‘Do you mean to say,’ he asked, ‘that you are completely
isolated from every connection?’
‘I do. Not a tie links me to any living thing: not a claim do
I possess to admittance under any roof in England.’
‘A most singular position at your age!’
Here I saw his glance directed to my hands, which were
folded on the table before me. I wondered what he sought
there: his words soon explained the quest.
‘You have never been married? You are a spinster?’
526 Jane Eyre

Diana laughed. ‘Why, she can’t he above seventeen or
eighteen years old, St. John,’ said she.
‘I am near nineteen: but I am not married. No.’
I felt a burning glow mount to my face; for bitter and
agitating recollections were awakened by the allusion to
marriage. They all saw the embarrassment and the emo-
tion. Diana and Mary relieved me by turning their eyes
elsewhere than to my crimsoned visage; but the colder and
sterner brother continued to gaze, till the trouble he had ex-
cited forced out tears as well as colour.
‘Where did you last reside?’ he now asked.
‘You are too inquisitive, St. John,’ murmured Mary in a
low voice; but he leaned over the table and required an an-
swer by a second firm and piercing look.
‘The name of the place where, and of the person with
whom I lived, is my secret,’ I replied concisely.
‘Which, if you like, you have, in my opinion, a right to
keep, both from St. John and every other questioner,’ re-
marked Diana.
‘Yet if I know nothing about you or your history, I cannot
help you,’ he said. ‘And you need help, do you not?’
‘I need it, and I seek it so far, sir, that some true philan-
thropist will put me in the way of getting work which I can
do, and the remuneration for which will keep me, if but in
the barest necessaries of life.’
‘I know not whether I am a true philanthropist; yet I am
willing to aid you to the utmost of my power in a purpose so
honest. First, then, tell me what you have been accustomed
to do, and what you CAN do.’

I had now swallowed my tea. I was mightily refreshed by
the beverage; as much so as a giant with wine: it gave new
tone to my unstrung nerves, and enabled me to address this
penetrating young judge steadily.
‘Mr. Rivers,’ I said, turning to him, and looking at him,
as he looked at me, openly and without diffidence, ‘you and
your sisters have done me a great service—the greatest man
can do his fellow- being; you have rescued me, by your no-
ble hospitality, from death. This benefit conferred gives you
an unlimited claim on my gratitude, and a claim, to a cer-
tain extent, on my confidence. I will tell you as much of the
history of the wanderer you have harboured, as I can tell
without compromising my own peace of mind—my own
security, moral and physical, and that of others.
‘I am an orphan, the daughter of a clergyman. My par-
ents died before I could know them. I was brought up a
dependant; educated in a charitable institution. I will even
tell you the name of the establishment, where I passed six
years as a pupil, and two as a teacher—Lowood Orphan
Asylum,—shire: you will have heard of it, Mr. Rivers?—the
Rev. Robert Brocklehurst is the treasurer.’
‘I have heard of Mr. Brocklehurst, and I have seen the
school.’
‘I left Lowood nearly a year since to become a private
governess. I obtained a good situation, and was happy. This
place I was obliged to leave four days before I came here. The
reason of my departure I cannot and ought not to explain:
it would be useless, dangerous, and would sound incred-
ible. No blame attached to me: I am as free from culpability
528 Jane Eyre

as any one of you three. Miserable I am, and must be for a
time; for the catastrophe which drove me from a house I
had found a paradise was of a strange and direful nature. I
observed but two points in planning my departure—speed,
secrecy: to secure these, I had to leave behind me every-
thing I possessed except a small parcel; which, in my hurry
and trouble of mind, I forgot to take out of the coach that
brought me to Whitcross. To this neighbourhood, then, I
came, quite destitute. I slept two nights in the open air, and
wandered about two days without crossing a threshold: but
twice in that space of time did I taste food; and it was when
brought by hunger, exhaustion, and despair almost to the
last gasp, that you, Mr. Rivers, forbade me to perish of want
at your door, and took me under the shelter of your roof. I
know all your sisters have done for me since—for I have
not been insensible during my seeming torpor—and I owe
to their spontaneous, genuine, genial compassion as large a
debt as to your evangelical charity.’
‘Don’t make her talk any more now, St. John,’ said Diana,
as I paused; ‘she is evidently not yet fit for excitement. Come
to the sofa and sit down now, Miss Elliott.’
I gave an involuntary half start at hearing the alias: I had
forgotten my new name. Mr. Rivers, whom nothing seemed
to escape, noticed it at once.
‘You said your name was Jane Elliott?’ he observed.
‘I did say so; and it is the name by which I think it expe-
dient to be called at present, but it is not my real name, and
when I hear it, it sounds strange to me.’
‘Your real name you will not give?’

‘No: I fear discovery above all things; and whatever dis-
closure would lead to it, I avoid.’
‘You are quite right, I am sure,’ said Diana. ‘Now do,
brother, let her be at peace a while.’
But when St. John had mused a few moments he recom-
menced as imperturbably and with as much acumen as
ever.
‘You would not like to be long dependent on our hospi-
tality—you would wish, I see, to dispense as soon as may be
with my sisters’ compassion, and, above all, with my CHAR-
ITY (I am quite sensible of the distinction drawn, nor do I
resent it—it is just): you desire to be independent of us?’
‘I do: I have already said so. Show me how to work, or
how to seek work: that is all I now ask; then let me go, if
it be but to the meanest cottage; but till then, allow me to
stay here: I dread another essay of the horrors of homeless
destitution.’
‘Indeed you SHALL stay here,’ said Diana, putting her
white hand on my head. ‘You SHALL,’ repeated Mary, in
the tone of undemonstrative sincerity which seemed natu-
ral to her.
‘My sisters, you see, have a pleasure in keeping you,’ said
Mr. St. John, ‘as they would have a pleasure in keeping and
cherishing a half-frozen bird, some wintry wind might have
driven through their casement. I feel more inclination to
put you in the way of keeping yourself, and shall endeav-
our to do so; but observe, my sphere is narrow. I am but the
incumbent of a poor country parish: my aid must be of the
humblest sort. And if you are inclined to despise the day of
530 Jane Eyre

small things, seek some more efficient succour than such as
I can offer.’
‘She has already said that she is willing to do anything
honest she can do,’ answered Diana for me; ‘and you know,
St. John, she has no choice of helpers: she is forced to put up
with such crusty people as you.’
‘I will be a dressmaker; I will be a plain-workwoman; I
will be a servant, a nurse-girl, if I can be no better,’ I an-
swered.
‘Right,’ said Mr. St. John, quite coolly. ‘If such is your
spirit, I promise to aid you, in my own time and way.’
He now resumed the book with which he had been oc-
cupied before tea. I soon withdrew, for I had talked as much,
and sat up as long, as my present strength would permit.

Chapter XXX
T he more I knew of the inmates of Moor House, the bet-

ter I liked them. In a few days I had so far recovered my
health that I could sit up all day, and walk out sometimes.
I could join with Diana and Mary in all their occupations;
converse with them as much as they wished, and aid them
when and where they would allow me. There was a reviving
pleasure in this intercourse, of a kind now tasted by me for
the first time-the pleasure arising from perfect congeniality
of tastes, sentiments, and principles.
I liked to read what they liked to read: what they en-
joyed, delighted me; what they approved, I reverenced. They
loved their sequestered home. I, too, in the grey, small, an-
tique structure, with its low roof, its latticed casements, its
mouldering walls, its avenue of aged firs—all grown aslant
under the stress of mountain winds; its garden, dark with
yew and holly—and where no flowers but of the hardiest
species would bloom—found a charm both potent and
permanent. They clung to the purple moors behind and
around their dwelling—to the hollow vale into which the
pebbly bridle-path leading from their gate descended, and
which wound between fern- banks first, and then amongst
a few of the wildest little pasture- fields that ever bordered
a wilderness of heath, or gave sustenance to a flock of grey
moorland sheep, with their little mossy-faced lambs:- they
532 Jane Eyre

clung to this scene, I say, with a perfect enthusiasm of at-
tachment. I could comprehend the feeling, and share both
its strength and truth. I saw the fascination of the local-
ity. I felt the consecration of its loneliness: my eye feasted
on the outline of swell and sweep—on the wild colouring
communicated to ridge and dell by moss, by heath-bell,
by flower-sprinkled turf, by brilliant bracken, and mellow
granite crag. These details were just to me what they were
to them—so many pure and sweet sources of pleasure. The
strong blast and the soft breeze; the rough and the halcyon
day; the hours of sunrise and sunset; the moonlight and the
clouded night, developed for me, in these regions, the same
attraction as for them—wound round my faculties the same
spell that entranced theirs.
Indoors we agreed equally well. They were both more ac-
complished and better read than I was; but with eagerness
I followed in the path of knowledge they had trodden be-
fore me. I devoured the books they lent me: then it was full
satisfaction to discuss with them in the evening what I had
perused during the day. Thought fitted thought; opinion
met opinion: we coincided, in short, perfectly.
If in our trio there was a superior and a leader, it was
Diana. Physically, she far excelled me: she was handsome;
she was vigorous. In her animal spirits there was an afflu-
ence of life and certainty of flow, such as excited my wonder,
while it baffled my comprehension. I could talk a while
when the evening commenced, but the first gush of vivac-
ity and fluency gone, I was fain to sit on a stool at Diana’s
feet, to rest my head on her knee, and listen alternately to

her and Mary, while they sounded thoroughly the topic on
which I had but touched. Diana offered to teach me Ger-
man. I liked to learn of her: I saw the part of instructress
pleased and suited her; that of scholar pleased and suited
me no less. Our natures dovetailed: mutual affection—of
the strongest kind—was the result. They discovered I could
draw: their pencils and colour-boxes were immediately at
my service. My skill, greater in this one point than theirs,
surprised and charmed them. Mary would sit and watch
me by the hour together: then she would take lessons; and
a docile, intelligent, assiduous pupil she made. Thus occu-
pied, and mutually entertained, days passed like hours, and
weeks like days.
As to Mr. St John, the intimacy which had arisen so natu-
rally and rapidly between me and his sisters did not extend
to him. One reason of the distance yet observed between
us was, that he was comparatively seldom at home: a large
proportion of his time appeared devoted to visiting the sick
and poor among the scattered population of his parish.
No weather seemed to hinder him in these pastoral ex-
cursions: rain or fair, he would, when his hours of morning
study were over, take his hat, and, followed by his father’s
old pointer, Carlo, go out on his mission of love or duty—
I scarcely know in which light he regarded it. Sometimes,
when the day was very unfavourable, his sisters would ex-
postulate. He would then say, with a peculiar smile, more
solemn than cheerful—
‘And if I let a gust of wind or a sprinkling of rain turn me
aside from these easy tasks, what preparation would such
534 Jane Eyre

sloth be for the future I propose to myself?’
Diana and Mary’s general answer to this question was
a sigh, and some minutes of apparently mournful medita-
tion.
But besides his frequent absences, there was another
barrier to friendship with him: he seemed of a reserved,
an abstracted, and even of a brooding nature. Zealous in
his ministerial labours, blameless in his life and habits, he
yet did not appear to enjoy that mental serenity, that in-
ward content, which should bet he reward of every sincere
Christian and practical philanthropist. Often, of an eve-
ning, when he sat at the window, his desk and papers before
him, he would cease reading or writing, rest his chin on his
hand, and deliver himself up to I know not what course of
thought; but that it was perturbed and exciting might be
seen in the frequent flash and changeful dilation of his eye.
I think, moreover, that Nature was not to him that trea-
sury of delight it was to his sisters. He expressed once, and
but once in my hearing, a strong sense of the rugged charm
of the hills, and an inborn affection for the dark roof and
hoary walls he called his home; but there was more of
gloom than pleasure in the tone and words in which the
sentiment was manifested; and never did he seem to roam
the moors for the sake of their soothing silence—never
seek out or dwell upon the thousand peaceful delights they
could yield.
Incommunicative as he was, some time elapsed before I
had an opportunity of gauging his mind. I first got an idea
of its calibre when I heard him preach in his own church at

Morton. I wish I could describe that sermon: but it is past
my power. I cannot even render faithfully the effect it pro-
duced on me.
It began calm—and indeed, as far as delivery and pitch
of voice went, it was calm to the end: an earnestly felt, yet
strictly restrained zeal breathed soon in the distinct accents,
and prompted the nervous language. This grew to force—
compressed, condensed, controlled. The heart was thrilled,
the mind astonished, by the power of the preacher: neither
were softened. Throughout there was a strange bitterness;
an absence of consolatory gentleness; stern allusions to
Calvinistic doctrines—election, predestination, reproba-
tion—were frequent; and each reference to these points
sounded like a sentence pronounced for doom. When he
had done, instead of feeling better, calmer, more enlightened
by his discourse, I experienced an inexpressible sadness; for
it seemed to me—I know not whether equally so to others—
that the eloquence to which I had been listening had sprung
from a depth where lay turbid dregs of disappointment—
where moved troubling impulses of insatiate yearnings and
disquieting aspirations. I was sure St. John Rivers— pure-
lived, conscientious, zealous as he was—had not yet found
that peace of God which passeth all understanding: he had
no more found it, I thought, than had I with my concealed
and racking regrets for my broken idol and lost elysium—
regrets to which I have latterly avoided referring, but which
possessed me and tyrannised over me ruthlessly.
Meantime a month was gone. Diana and Mary were
soon to leave Moor House, and return to the far different
536 Jane Eyre

life and scene which awaited them, as governesses in a large,
fashionable, south-of-England city, where each held a situ-
ation in families by whose wealthy and haughty members
they were regarded only as humble dependants, and who
neither knew nor sought out their innate excellences, and
appreciated only their acquired accomplishments as they
appreciated the skill of their cook or the taste of their wait-
ing-woman. Mr. St. John had said nothing to me yet about
the employment he had promised to obtain for me; yet it
became urgent that I should have a vocation of some kind.
One morning, being left alone with him a few minutes in the
parlour, I ventured to approach the window-recess— which
his table, chair, and desk consecrated as a kind of study—
and I was going to speak, though not very well knowing in
what words to frame my inquiry—for it is at all times dif-
ficult to break the ice of reserve glassing over such natures
as his—when he saved me the trouble by being the first to
commence a dialogue.
Looking up as I drew near—‘You have a question to ask
of me?’ he said.
‘Yes; I wish to know whether you have heard of any ser-
vice I can offer myself to undertake?’
‘I found or devised something for you three weeks ago;
but as you seemed both useful and happy here—as my sis-
ters had evidently become attached to you, and your society
gave them unusual pleasureI deemed it inexpedient to break
in on your mutual comfort till their approaching departure
from Marsh End should render yours necessary.’
‘And they will go in three days now?’ I said.

‘Yes; and when they go, I shall return to the parsonage
at Morton: Hannah will accompany me; and this old house
will be shut up.’
I waited a few moments, expecting he would go on with
the subject first broached: but he seemed to have entered
another train of reflection: his look denoted abstraction
from me and my business. I was obliged to recall him to a
theme which was of necessity one of close and anxious in-
terest to me.
‘What is the employment you had in view, Mr. Rivers? I
hope this delay will not have increased the difficulty of se-
curing it.’
‘Oh, no; since it is in employment which depends only on
me to give, and you to accept.’
He again paused: there seemed a reluctance to continue.
I grew impatient: a restless movement or two, and an eager
and exacting glance fastened on his face, conveyed the feel-
ing to him as effectually as words could have done, and with
less trouble.
‘You need be in no hurry to hear,’ he said: ‘let me frankly
tell you, I have nothing eligible or profitable to suggest. Be-
fore I explain, recall, if you please, my notice, clearly given,
that if I helped you, it must be as the blind man would help
the lame. I am poor; for I find that, when I have paid my fa-
ther’s debts, all the patrimony remaining to me will be this
crumbling grange, the row of scathed firs behind, and the
patch of moorish soil, with the yew- trees and holly-bushes
in front. I am obscure: Rivers is an old name; but of the
three sole descendants of the race, two earn the dependant’s
538 Jane Eyre

crust among strangers, and the third considers himself an
alien from his native country—not only for life, but in death.
Yes, and deems, and is bound to deem, himself honoured by
the lot, and aspires but after the day when the cross of sepa-
ration from fleshly ties shall be laid on his shoulders, and
when the Head of that church-militant of whose humblest
members he is one, shall give the word, ‘Rise, follow Me!’’
St. John said these words as he pronounced his sermons,
with a quiet, deep voice; with an unflushed cheek, and a
coruscating radiance of glance. He resumed—
‘And since I am myself poor and obscure, I can offer you
but a service of poverty and obscurity. YOU may even think
it degrading— for I see now your habits have been what the
world calls refined: your tastes lean to the ideal, and your
society has at least been amongst the educated; but I con-
sider that no service degrades which can better our race. I
hold that the more arid and unreclaimed the soil where the
Christian labourer’s task of tillage is appointed him—the
scantier the meed his toil brings—the higher the honour.
His, under such circumstances, is the destiny of the pioneer;
and the first pioneers of the Gospel were the Apostles—their
captain was Jesus, the Redeemer, Himself.’
‘Well?’ I said, as he again paused—‘proceed.’
He looked at me before he proceeded: indeed, he seemed
leisurely to read my face, as if its features and lines were
characters on a page. The conclusions drawn from this scru-
tiny he partially expressed in his succeeding observations.
‘I believe you will accept the post I offer you,’ said he, ‘and
hold it for a while: not permanently, though: any more than

I could permanently keep the narrow and narrowing—the
tranquil, hidden office of English country incumbent; for in
your nature is an alloy as detrimental to repose as that in
mine, though of a different kind.’
‘Do explain,’ I urged, when he halted once more.
‘I will; and you shall hear how poor the proposal is,—how
trivial— how cramping. I shall not stay long at Morton, now
that my father is dead, and that I am my own master. I shall
leave the place probably in the course of a twelve-month;
but while I do stay, I will exert myself to the utmost for its
improvement. Morton, when I came to it two years ago, had
no school: the children of the poor were excluded from ev-
ery hope of progress. I established one for boys: I mean now
to open a second school for girls. I have hired a building
for the purpose, with a cottage of two rooms attached to it
for the mistress’s house. Her salary will be thirty pounds a
year: her house is already furnished, very simply, but suf-
ficiently, by the kindness of a lady, Miss Oliver; the only
daughter of the sole rich man in my parish—Mr. Oliver, the
proprietor of a needle- factory and iron-foundry in the val-
ley. The same lady pays for the education and clothing of an
orphan from the workhouse, on condition that she shall aid
the mistress in such menial offices connected with her own
house and the school as her occupation of teaching will pre-
vent her having time to discharge in person. Will you be
this mistress?’
He put the question rather hurriedly; he seemed half to
expect an indignant, or at least a disdainful rejection of the
offer: not knowing all my thoughts and feelings, though
540 Jane Eyre

guessing some, he could not tell in what light the lot would
appear to me. In truth it was humble—but then it was shel-
tered, and I wanted a safe asylum: it was plodding—but
then, compared with that of a governess in a rich house, it
was independent; and the fear of servitude with strangers
entered my soul like iron: it was not ignoble—not unwor-
thy—not mentally degrading, I made my decision.
‘I thank you for the proposal, Mr. Rivers, and I accept it
with all my heart.’
‘But you comprehend me?’ he said. ‘It is a village school:
your scholars will be only poor girls—cottagers’ children—
at the best, farmers’ daughters. Knitting, sewing, reading,
writing, ciphering, will be all you will have to teach. What
will you do with your accomplishments? What, with the
largest portion of your mind— sentiments—tastes?’
‘Save them till they are wanted. They will keep.’
‘You know what you undertake, then?’
‘I do.’
He now smiled: and not a bitter or a sad smile, but one
well pleased and deeply gratified.
‘And when will you commence the exercise of your func-
tion?’
‘I will go to my house to-morrow, and open the school, if
you like, next week.’
‘Very well: so be it.’
He rose and walked through the room. Standing still, he
again looked at me. He shook his head.
‘What do you disapprove of, Mr. Rivers?’ I asked.
‘You will not stay at Morton long: no, no!’

‘Why? What is your reason for saying so?’
‘I read it in your eye; it is not of that description which
promises the maintenance of an even tenor in life.’
‘I am not ambitious.’
He started at the word ‘ambitious.’ He repeated, ‘No.
What made you think of ambition? Who is ambitious? I
know I am: but how did you find it out?’
‘I was speaking of myself.’
‘Well, if you are not ambitious, you are—‘ He paused.
‘What?’
‘I was going to say, impassioned: but perhaps you would
have misunderstood the word, and been displeased. I mean,
that human affections and sympathies have a most powerful
hold on you. I am sure you cannot long be content to pass
your leisure in solitude, and to devote your working hours
to a monotonous labour wholly void of stimulus: any more
than I can be content,’ he added, with emphasis, ‘to live here
buried in morass, pent in with mountains—my nature, that
God gave me, contravened; my faculties, heaven- bestowed,
paralysed—made useless. You hear now how I contradict
myself. I, who preached contentment with a humble lot, and
justified the vocation even of hewers of wood and drawers
of water in God’s service—I, His ordained minister, almost
rave in my restlessness. Well, propensities and principles
must be reconciled by some means.’
He left the room. In this brief hour I had learnt more of
him than in the whole previous month: yet still he puzzled
me.
Diana and Mary Rivers became more sad and silent as
542 Jane Eyre

the day approached for leaving their brother and their home.
They both tried to appear as usual; bat the sorrow they had
to struggle against was one that could not be entirely con-
quered or concealed. Diana intimated that this would be
a different parting from any they had ever yet known. It
would probably, as far as St. John was concerned, be a part-
ing for years: it might be a parting for life.
‘He will sacrifice all to his long-framed resolves,’ she
said: ‘natural affection and feelings more potent still. St.
John looks quiet, Jane; but he hides a fever in his vitals. You
would think him gentle, yet in some things he is inexorable
as death; and the worst of it is, my conscience will hardly
permit me to dissuade him from his severe decision: cer-
tainly, I cannot for a moment blame him for it. It is right,
noble, Christian: yet it breaks my heart!’ And the tears
gushed to her fine eyes. Mary bent her head low over her
work.
‘We are now without father: we shall soon be without
home and brother,’ she murmured,
At that moment a little accident supervened, which
seemed decreed by fate purposely to prove the truth of the
adage, that ‘misfortunes never come singly,’ and to add to
their distresses the vexing one of the slip between the cup
and the lip. St. John passed the window reading a letter. He
entered.
‘Our uncle John is dead,’ said he.
Both the sisters seemed struck: not shocked or appalled;
the tidings appeared in their eyes rather momentous than
afflicting.

‘Dead?’ repeated Diana.
‘Yes.’
She riveted a searching gaze on her brother’s face. ‘And
what then?’ she demanded, in a low voice.
‘What then, Die?’ he replied, maintaining a marble im-
mobility of feature. ‘What then? Why—nothing. Read.’
He threw the letter into her lap. She glanced over it, and
handed it to Mary. Mary perused it in silence, and returned
it to her brother. All three looked at each other, and all three
smiled—a dreary, pensive smile enough.
‘Amen! We can yet live,’ said Diana at last.
‘At any rate, it makes us no worse off than we were before,’
remarked Mary.
‘Only it forces rather strongly on the mind the picture of
what MIGHT HAVE BEEN,’ said Mr. Rivers, ‘and contrasts
it somewhat too vividly with what IS.’
He folded the letter, locked it in his desk, and again went
out.
For some minutes no one spoke. Diana then turned to
me.
‘Jane, you will wonder at us and our mysteries,’ she said,
‘and think us hard-hearted beings not to be more moved at
the death of so near a relation as an uncle; but we have never
seen him or known him. He was my mother’s brother. My
father and he quarrelled long ago. It was by his advice that
my father risked most of his property in the speculation
that ruined him. Mutual recrimination passed between
them: they parted in anger, and were never reconciled. My
uncle engaged afterwards in more prosperous undertak-
544 Jane Eyre

ings: it appears he realised a fortune of twenty thousand
pounds. He was never married, and had no near kindred
but ourselves and one other person, not more closely related
than we. My father always cherished the idea that he would
atone for his error by leaving his possessions to us; that let-
ter informs us that he has bequeathed every penny to the
other relation, with the exception of thirty guineas, to be
divided between St. John, Diana, and Mary Rivers, for the
purchase of three mourning rings. He had a right, of course,
to do as he pleased: and yet a momentary damp is cast on
the spirits by the receipt of such news. Mary and I would
have esteemed ourselves rich with a thousand pounds each;
and to St. John such a sum would have been valuable, for
the good it would have enabled him to do.’
This explanation given, the subject was dropped, and no
further reference made to it by either Mr. Rivers or his sis-
ters. The next day I left Marsh End for Morton. The day after,
Diana and Mary quitted it for distant B-. In a week, Mr. Riv-
ers and Hannah repaired to the parsonage: and so the old
grange was abandoned.

Chapter XXXI
M y home, then, when I at last find a home,—is a cot-

tage; a little room with whitewashed walls and a
sanded floor, containing four painted chairs and a table, a
clock, a cupboard, with two or three plates and dishes, and
a set of tea-things in delf. Above, a chamber of the same
dimensions as the kitchen, with a deal bedstead and chest
of drawers; small, yet too large to be filled with my scanty
wardrobe: though the kindness of my gentle and generous
friends has increased that, by a modest stock of such things
as are necessary.
It is evening. I have dismissed, with the fee of an orange,
the little orphan who serves me as a handmaid. I am sit-
ting alone on the hearth. This morning, the village school
opened. I had twenty scholars. But three of the number can
read: none write or cipher. Several knit, and a few sew a lit-
tle. They speak with the broadest accent of the district. At
present, they and I have a difficulty in understanding each
other’s language. Some of them are unmannered, rough, in-
tractable, as well as ignorant; but others are docile, have a
wish to learn, and evince a disposition that pleases me. I
must not forget that these coarsely-clad little peasants are of
flesh and blood as good as the scions of gentlest genealogy;
and that the germs of native excellence, refinement, intel-
ligence, kind feeling, are as likely to exist in their hearts as
546 Jane Eyre

in those of the best-born. My duty will be to develop these
germs: surely I shall find some happiness in discharging
that office. Much enjoyment I do not expect in the life open-
ing before me: yet it will, doubtless, if I regulate my mind,
and exert my powers as I ought, yield me enough to live on
from day to day.
Was I very gleeful, settled, content, during the hours I
passed in yonder bare, humble schoolroom this morning
and afternoon? Not to deceive myself, I must reply—No: I
felt desolate to a degree. I felt—yes, idiot that I am—I felt
degraded. I doubted I had taken a step which sank instead
of raising me in the scale of social existence. I was weakly
dismayed at the ignorance, the poverty, the coarseness of
all I heard and saw round me. But let me not hate and de-
spise myself too much for these feelings; I know them to be
wrongthat is a great step gained; I shall strive to overcome
them. To- morrow, I trust, I shall get the better of them
partially; and in a few weeks, perhaps, they will be quite
subdued. In a few months, it is possible, the happiness of
seeing progress, and a change for the better in my scholars
may substitute gratification for disgust.
Meantime, let me ask myself one question—Which is
better?—To have surrendered to temptation; listened to
passion; made no painful effort—no struggle;—but to have
sunk down in the silken snare; fallen asleep on the flowers
covering it; wakened in a southern clime, amongst the lux-
uries of a pleasure villa: to have been now living in France,
Mr. Rochester’s mistress; delirious with his love half my
time—for he would—oh, yes, he would have loved me well

for a while. He DID love me—no one will ever love me so
again. I shall never more know the sweet homage given to
beauty, youth, and grace—for never to any one else shall I
seem to possess these charms. He was fond and proud of
me—it is what no man besides will ever be.—But where am
I wandering, and what am I saying, and above all, feeling?
Whether is it better, I ask, to be a slave in a fool’s paradise
at Marseilles—fevered with delusive bliss one hoursuffocat-
ing with the bitterest tears of remorse and shame the nextor
to be a village-schoolmistress, free and honest, in a breezy
mountain nook in the healthy heart of England?
Yes; I feel now that I was right when I adhered to principle
and law, and scorned and crushed the insane promptings of
a frenzied moment. God directed me to a correct choice: I
thank His providence for the guidance!
Having brought my eventide musings to this point, I
rose, went to my door, and looked at the sunset of the har-
vest-day, and at the quiet fields before my cottage, which,
with the school, was distant half a mile from the village. The
birds were singing their last strains—
‘The air was mild, the dew was balm.’
While I looked, I thought myself happy, and was sur-
prised to find myself ere long weeping—and why? For the
doom which had reft me from adhesion to my master: for
him I was no more to see; for the desperate grief and fatal
fury—consequences of my departure—which might now,
perhaps, be dragging him from the path of right, too far to
leave hope of ultimate restoration thither. At this thought,
I turned my face aside from the lovely sky of eve and lonely
548 Jane Eyre

vale of Morton—I say LONELY, for in that bend of it visible
to me there was no building apparent save the church and
the parsonage, half-hid in trees, and, quite at the extrem-
ity, the roof of Vale Hall, where the rich Mr. Oliver and his
daughter lived. I hid my eyes, and leant my head against
the stone frame of my door; but soon a slight noise near
the wicket which shut in my tiny garden from the meadow
beyond it made me look up. A dog—old Carlo, Mr. Riv-
ers’ pointer, as I saw in a moment—was pushing the gate
with his nose, and St. John himself leant upon it with folded
arms; his brow knit, his gaze, grave almost to displeasure,
fixed on me. I asked him to come in.
‘No, I cannot stay; I have only brought you a little parcel
my sisters left for you. I think it contains a colour-box, pen-
cils, and paper.’
I approached to take it: a welcome gift it was. He exam-
ined my face, I thought, with austerity, as I came near: the
traces of tears were doubtless very visible upon it.
‘Have you found your first day’s work harder than you
expected?’ he asked.
‘Oh, no! On the contrary, I think in time I shall get on
with my scholars very well.’
‘But perhaps your accommodations—your cottage—your
furniture—have disappointed your expectations? They are,
in truth, scanty enough; but—‘ I interrupted—
‘My cottage is clean and weather-proof; my furniture suf-
ficient and commodious. All I see has made me thankful,
not despondent. I am not absolutely such a fool and sensu-
alist as to regret the absence of a carpet, a sofa, and silver

plate; besides, five weeks ago I had nothing—I was an out-
cast, a beggar, a vagrant; now I have acquaintance, a home,
a business. I wonder at the goodness of God; the generosity
of my friends; the bounty of my lot. I do not repine.’
‘But you feel solitude an oppression? The little house
there behind you is dark and empty.’
‘I have hardly had time yet to enjoy a sense of tranquillity,
much less to grow impatient under one of loneliness.’
‘Very well; I hope you feel the content you express: at any
rate, your good sense will tell you that it is too soon yet to
yield to the vacillating fears of Lot’s wife. What you had left
before I saw you, of course I do not know; but I counsel you
to resist firmly every temptation which would incline you
to look back: pursue your present career steadily, for some
months at least.’
‘It is what I mean to do,’ I answered. St. John
continued—
‘It is hard work to control the workings of inclination and
turn the bent of nature; but that it may be done, I know
from experience. God has given us, in a measure, the power
to make our own fate; and when our energies seem to de-
mand a sustenance they cannot get—when our will strains
after a path we may not follow—we need neither starve from
inanition, nor stand still in despair: we have but to seek an-
other nourishment for the mind, as strong as the forbidden
food it longed to taste—and perhaps purer; and to hew out
for the adventurous foot a road as direct and broad as the
one Fortune has blocked up against us, if rougher than it.
‘A year ago I was myself intensely miserable, because I
550 Jane Eyre

thought I had made a mistake in entering the ministry: its
uniform duties wearied me to death. I burnt for the more
active life of the worldfor the more exciting toils of a lit-
erary career—for the destiny of an artist, author, orator;
anything rather than that of a priest: yes, the heart of a poli-
tician, of a soldier, of a votary of glory, a lover of renown, a
luster after power, beat under my curate’s surplice. I consid-
ered; my life was so wretched, it must be changed, or I must
die. After a season of darkness and struggling, light broke
and relief fell: my cramped existence all at once spread out
to a plain without bounds—my powers heard a call from
heaven to rise, gather their full strength, spread their wings,
and mount beyond ken. God had an errand for me; to bear
which afar, to deliver it well, skill and strength, courage and
eloquence, the best qualifications of soldier, statesman, and
orator, were all needed: for these all centre in the good mis-
sionary.
‘A missionary I resolved to be. From that moment my
state of mind changed; the fetters dissolved and dropped
from every faculty, leaving nothing of bondage but its gall-
ing soreness—which time only can heal. My father, indeed,
imposed the determination, but since his death, I have not
a legitimate obstacle to contend with; some affairs settled, a
successor for Morton provided, an entanglement or two of
the feelings broken through or cut asunder—a last conflict
with human weakness, in which I know I shall overcome,
because I have vowed that I WILL overcome—and I leave
Europe for the East.’
He said this, in his peculiar, subdued, yet emphatic voice;

looking, when he had ceased speaking, not at me, but at the
setting sun, at which I looked too. Both he and I had our
backs towards the path leading up the field to the wicket.
We had heard no step on that grass-grown track; the water
running in the vale was the one lulling sound of the hour
and scene; we might well then start when a gay voice, sweet
as a silver bell, exclaimed—
‘Good evening, Mr. Rivers. And good evening, old Carlo.
Your dog is quicker to recognise his friends than you are,
sir; he pricked his ears and wagged his tail when I was at
the bottom of the field, and you have your back towards
me now.’
It was true. Though Mr. Rivers had started at the first of
those musical accents, as if a thunderbolt had split a cloud
over his head, he stood yet, at the close of the sentence, in the
same attitude in which the speaker had surprised him—his
arm resting on the gate, his face directed towards the west.
He turned at last, with measured deliberation. A vision, as
it seemed to me, had risen at his side. There appeared, with-
in three feet of him, a form clad in pure white—a youthful,
graceful form: full, yet fine in contour; and when, after
bending to caress Carlo, it lifted up its head, and threw back
a long veil, there bloomed under his glance a face of perfect
beauty. Perfect beauty is a strong expression; but I do not
retrace or qualify it: as sweet features as ever the temper-
ate clime of Albion moulded; as pure hues of rose and lily
as ever her humid gales and vapoury skies generated and
screened, justified, in this instance, the term. No charm
was wanting, no defect was perceptible; the young girl had
552 Jane Eyre

regular and delicate lineaments; eyes shaped and coloured
as we see them in lovely pictures, large, and dark, and full;
the long and shadowy eyelash which encircles a fine eye
with so soft a fascination; the pencilled brow which gives
such clearness; the white smooth forehead, which adds such
repose to the livelier beauties of tint and ray; the cheek oval,
fresh, and smooth; the lips, fresh too, ruddy, healthy, sweetly
formed; the even and gleaming teeth without flaw; the small
dimpled chin; the ornament of rich, plenteous tresses—all
advantages, in short, which, combined, realise the ideal of
beauty, were fully hers. I wondered, as I looked at this fair
creature: I admired her with my whole heart. Nature had
surely formed her in a partial mood; and, forgetting her
usual stinted step-mother dole of gifts, had endowed this,
her darling, with a grand-dame’s bounty.
What did St. John Rivers think of this earthly angel? I
naturally asked myself that question as I saw him turn to
her and look at her; and, as naturally, I sought the answer to
the inquiry in his countenance. He had already withdrawn
his eye from the Peri, and was looking at a humble tuft of
daisies which grew by the wicket.
‘A lovely evening, but late for you to be out alone,’ he said,
as he crushed the snowy heads of the closed flowers with
his foot.
‘Oh, I only came home from S-’ (she mentioned the name
of a large town some twenty miles distant) ‘this afternoon.
Papa told me you had opened your school, and that the new
mistress was come; and so I put on my bonnet after tea, and
ran up the valley to see her: this is she?’ pointing to me.

‘It is,’ said St. John.
‘Do you think you shall like Morton?’ she asked of me,
with a direct and naive simplicity of tone and manner,
pleasing, if child-like.
‘I hope I shall. I have many inducements to do so.’
‘Did you find your scholars as attentive as you expected?’
‘Quite.’
‘Do you like your house?’
‘Very much.’
‘Have I furnished it nicely?’
‘Very nicely, indeed.’
‘And made a good choice of an attendant for you in Al-
ice Wood?’
‘You have indeed. She is teachable and handy.’ (This then,
I thought, is Miss Oliver, the heiress; favoured, it seems,
in the gifts of fortune, as well as in those of nature! What
happy combination of the planets presided over her birth, I
wonder?)
‘I shall come up and help you to teach sometimes,’ she
added. ‘It will be a change for me to visit you now and then;
and I like a change. Mr. Rivers, I have been SO gay during
my stay at S-. Last night, or rather this morning, I was danc-
ing till two o’clock. The—th regiment are stationed there
since the riots; and the officers are the most agreeable men
in the world: they put all our young knife-grinders and scis-
sor merchants to shame.’
It seemed to me that Mr. St. John’s under lip protrud-
ed, and his upper lip curled a moment. His mouth certainly
looked a good deal compressed, and the lower part of his
554 Jane Eyre

face unusually stern and square, as the laughing girl gave
him this information. He lifted his gaze, too, from the dai-
sies, and turned it on her. An unsmiling, a searching, a
meaning gaze it was. She answered it with a second laugh,
and laughter well became her youth, her roses, her dimples,
her bright eyes.
As he stood, mute and grave, she again fell to caressing
Carlo. ‘Poor Carlo loves me,’ said she. ‘HE is not stern and
distant to his friends; and if he could speak, he would not
be silent.’
As she patted the dog’s head, bending with native grace
before his young and austere master, I saw a glow rise to
that master’s face. I saw his solemn eye melt with sudden
fire, and flicker with resistless emotion. Flushed and kin-
dled thus, he looked nearly as beautiful for a man as she for
a woman. His chest heaved once, as if his large heart, wea-
ry of despotic constriction, had expanded, despite the will,
and made a vigorous bound for the attainment of liberty.
But he curbed it, I think, as a resolute rider would curb a
rearing steed. He responded neither by word nor movement
to the gentle advances made him.
‘Papa says you never come to see us now,’ continued Miss
Oliver, looking up. ‘You are quite a stranger at Vale Hall. He
is alone this evening, and not very well: will you return with
me and visit him?’
‘It is not a seasonable hour to intrude on Mr. Oliver,’ an-
swered St. John.
‘Not a seasonable hour! But I declare it is. It is just the
hour when papa most wants company: when the works are

closed and he has no business to occupy him. Now, Mr. Riv-
ers, DO come. Why are you so very shy, and so very sombre?’
She filled up the hiatus his silence left by a reply of her own.
‘I forgot!’ she exclaimed, shaking her beautiful curled
head, as if shocked at herself. ‘I am so giddy and thought-
less! DO excuse me. It had slipped my memory that you
have good reasons to be indisposed for joining in my chat-
ter. Diana and Mary have left you, and Moor House is shut
up, and you are so lonely. I am sure I pity you. Do come and
see papa.’
‘Not to-night, Miss Rosamond, not to-night.’
Mr. St. John spoke almost like an automaton: himself
only knew the effort it cost him thus to refuse.
‘Well, if you are so obstinate, I will leave you; for I dare
not stay any longer: the dew begins to fall. Good evening!’
She held out her hand. He just touched it. ‘Good eve-
ning!’ he repeated, in a voice low and hollow as an echo. She
turned, but in a moment returned.
‘Are you well?’ she asked. Well might she put the ques-
tion: his face was blanched as her gown.
‘Quite well,’ he enunciated; and, with a bow, he left the
gate. She went one way; he another. She turned twice to
gaze after him as she tripped fairy-like down the field; he,
as he strode firmly across, never turned at all.
This spectacle of another’s suffering and sacrifice rapt
my thoughts from exclusive meditation on my own. Diana
Rivers had designated her brother ‘inexorable as death.’ She
had not exaggerated.
556 Jane Eyre

Chapter XXXII
I continued the labours of the village-school as actively and

faithfully as I could. It was truly hard work at first. Some
time elapsed before, with all my efforts, I could compre-
hend my scholars and their nature. Wholly untaught, with
faculties quite torpid, they seemed to me hopelessly dull;
and, at first sight, all dull alike: but I soon found I was mis-
taken. There was a difference amongst them as amongst the
educated; and when I got to know them, and they me, this
difference rapidly developed itself. Their amazement at me,
my language, my rules, and ways, once subsided, I found
some of these heavy-looking, gaping rustics wake up into
sharp-witted girls enough. Many showed themselves oblig-
ing, and amiable too; and I discovered amongst them not a
few examples of natural politeness, and innate self-respect,
as well as of excellent capacity, that won both my goodwill
and my admiration. These soon took a pleasure in doing
their work well, in keeping their persons neat, in learning
their tasks regularly, in acquiring quiet and orderly man-
ners. The rapidity of their progress, in some instances, was
even surprising; and an honest and happy pride I took
in it: besides, I began personally to like some of the best
girls; and they liked me. I had amongst my scholars sever-
al farmers’ daughters: young women grown, almost. These
could already read, write, and sew; and to them I taught

the elements of grammar, geography, history, and the finer
kinds of needlework. I found estimable characters amongst
them—characters desirous of information and disposed
for improvement—with whom I passed many a pleasant
evening hour in their own homes. Their parents then (the
farmer and his wife) loaded me with attentions. There was
an enjoyment in accepting their simple kindness, and in re-
paying it by a consideration—a scrupulous regard to their
feelings—to which they were not, perhaps, at all times ac-
customed, and which both charmed and benefited them;
because, while it elevated them in their own eyes, it made
them emulous to merit the deferential treatment they re-
ceived.
I felt I became a favourite in the neighbourhood. When-
ever I went out, I heard on all sides cordial salutations, and
was welcomed with friendly smiles. To live amidst general
regard, though it be but the regard of working people, is like
‘sitting in sunshine, calm and sweet;’ serene inward feelings
bud and bloom under the ray. At this period of my life, my
heart far oftener swelled with thankfulness than sank with
dejection: and yet, reader, to tell you all, in the midst of this
calm, this useful existence—after a day passed in honour-
able exertion amongst my scholars, an evening spent in
drawing or reading contentedly alone—I used to rush into
strange dreams at night: dreams many-coloured, agitated,
full of the ideal, the stirring, the stormy—dreams where,
amidst unusual scenes, charged with adventure, with agi-
tating risk and romantic chance, I still again and again met
Mr. Rochester, always at some exciting crisis; and then the
558 Jane Eyre

sense of being in his arms, hearing his voice, meeting his
eye, touching his hand and cheek, loving him, being loved
by him—the hope of passing a lifetime at his side, would be
renewed, with all its first force and fire. Then I awoke. Then
I recalled where I was, and how situated. Then I rose up on
my curtainless bed, trembling and quivering; and then the
still, dark night witnessed the convulsion of despair, and
heard the burst of passion. By nine o’clock the next morn-
ing I was punctually opening the school; tranquil, settled,
prepared for the steady duties of the day.
Rosamond Oliver kept her word in coming to visit me.
Her call at the school was generally made in the course of
her morning ride. She would canter up to the door on her
pony, followed by a mounted livery servant. Anything more
exquisite than her appearance, in her purple habit, with her
Amazon’s cap of black velvet placed gracefully above the
long curls that kissed her cheek and floated to her shoul-
ders, can scarcely be imagined: and it was thus she would
enter the rustic building, and glide through the dazzled
ranks of the village children. She generally came at the hour
when Mr. Rivers was engaged in giving his daily catechis-
ing lesson. Keenly, I fear, did the eye of the visitress pierce
the young pastor’s heart. A sort of instinct seemed to warn
him of her entrance, even when he did not see it; and when
he was looking quite away from the door, if she appeared at
it, his cheek would glow, and his marble- seeming features,
though they refused to relax, changed indescribably, and in
their very quiescence became expressive of a repressed fer-
vour, stronger than working muscle or darting glance could

indicate.
Of course, she knew her power: indeed, he did not,
because he could not, conceal it from her. In spite of his
Christian stoicism, when she went up and addressed him,
and smiled gaily, encouragingly, even fondly in his face, his
hand would tremble and his eye burn. He seemed to say,
with his sad and resolute look, if he did not say it with his
lips, ‘I love you, and I know you prefer me. It is not despair
of success that keeps me dumb. If I offered my heart, I be-
lieve you would accept it. But that heart is already laid on a
sacred altar: the fire is arranged round it. It will soon be no
more than a sacrifice consumed.’
And then she would pout like a disappointed child; a
pensive cloud would soften her radiant vivacity; she would
withdraw her hand hastily from his, and turn in transient
petulance from his aspect, at once so heroic and so mar-
tyr-like. St. John, no doubt, would have given the world
to follow, recall, retain her, when she thus left him; but he
would not give one chance of heaven, nor relinquish, for the
elysium of her love, one hope of the true, eternal Paradise.
Besides, he could not bind all that he had in his nature—the
rover, the aspirant, the poet, the priest—in the limits of a
single passion. He could not—he would not—renounce his
wild field of mission warfare for the parlours and the peace
of Vale Hall. I learnt so much from himself in an inroad
I once, despite his reserve, had the daring to make on his
confidence.
Miss Oliver already honoured me with frequent visits
to my cottage. I had learnt her whole character, which was
560 Jane Eyre

without mystery or disguise: she was coquettish but not
heartless; exacting, but not worthlessly selfish. She had been
indulged from her birth, but was not absolutely spoilt. She
was hasty, but good-humoured; vain (she could not help it,
when every glance in the glass showed her such a flush of
loveliness), but not affected; liberal-handed; innocent of the
pride of wealth; ingenuous; sufficiently intelligent; gay, live-
ly, and unthinking: she was very charming, in short, even
to a cool observer of her own sex like me; but she was not
profoundly interesting or thoroughly impressive. A very
different sort of mind was hers from that, for instance, of
the sisters of St. John. Still, I liked her almost as I liked my
pupil Adele; except that, for a child whom we have watched
over and taught, a closer affection is engendered than we
can give an equally attractive adult acquaintance.
She had taken an amiable caprice to me. She said I was
like Mr. Rivers, only, certainly, she allowed, ‘not one-tenth
so handsome, though I was a nice neat little soul enough,
but he was an angel.’ I was, however, good, clever, composed,
and firm, like him. I was a lusus naturae, she affirmed, as a
village schoolmistress: she was sure my previous history, if
known, would make a delightful romance.
One evening, while, with her usual child-like activity,
and thoughtless yet not offensive inquisitiveness, she was
rummaging the cupboard and the table-drawer of my little
kitchen, she discovered first two French books, a volume
of Schiller, a German grammar and dictionary, and then
my drawing-materials and some sketches, including a pen-
cil-head of a pretty little cherub-like girl, one of my scholars,

and sundry views from nature, taken in the Vale of Mor-
ton and on the surrounding moors. She was first transfixed
with surprise, and then electrified with delight.
‘Had I done these pictures? Did I know French and Ger-
man? What a love—what a miracle I was! I drew better than
her master in the first school in S-. Would I sketch a portrait
of her, to show to papa?’
‘With pleasure,’ I replied; and I felt a thrill of artist—de-
light at the idea of copying from so perfect and radiant a
model. She had then on a dark-blue silk dress; her arms and
her neck were bare; her only ornament was her chestnut
tresses, which waved over her shoulders with all the wild
grace of natural curls. I took a sheet of fine card-board, and
drew a careful outline. I promised myself the pleasure of co-
louring it; and, as it was getting late then, I told her she must
come and sit another day.
She made such a report of me to her father, that Mr.
Oliver himself accompanied her next evening—a tall, mas-
sive-featured, middle-aged, and grey-headed man, at whose
side his lovely daughter looked like a bright flower near a
hoary turret. He appeared a taciturn, and perhaps a proud
personage; but he was very kind to me. The sketch of Rosa-
mond’s portrait pleased him highly: he said I must make a
finished picture of it. He insisted, too, on my coming the
next day to spend the evening at Vale Hall.
I went. I found it a large, handsome residence, showing
abundant evidences of wealth in the proprietor. Rosamond
was full of glee and pleasure all the time I stayed. Her father
was affable; and when he entered into conversation with me
562 Jane Eyre

after tea, he expressed in strong terms his approbation of
what I had done in Morton school, and said he only feared,
from what he saw and heard, I was too good for the place,
and would soon quit it for one more suitable.
‘Indeed,’ cried Rosamond, ‘she is clever enough to be a
governess in a high family, papa.’
I thought I would far rather be where I am than in any
high family in the land. Mr. Oliver spoke of Mr. Rivers—
of the Rivers family— with great respect. He said it was a
very old name in that neighbourhood; that the ancestors of
the house were wealthy; that all Morton had once belonged
to them; that even now he considered the representative of
that house might, if he liked, make an alliance with the best.
He accounted it a pity that so fine and talented a young man
should have formed the design of going out as a mission-
ary; it was quite throwing a valuable life away. It appeared,
then, that her father would throw no obstacle in the way of
Rosamond’s union with St. John. Mr. Oliver evidently re-
garded the young clergyman’s good birth, old name, and
sacred profession as sufficient compensation for the want
of fortune.
It was the 5th of November, and a holiday. My little ser-
vant, after helping me to clean my house, was gone, well
satisfied with the fee of a penny for her aid. All about me
was spotless and bright— scoured floor, polished grate, and
well-rubbed chairs. I had also made myself neat, and had
now the afternoon before me to spend as I would.
The translation of a few pages of German occupied an
hour; then I got my palette and pencils, and fell to the more

soothing, because easier occupation, of completing Rosa-
mond Oliver’s miniature. The head was finished already:
there was but the background to tint and the drapery to
shade off; a touch of carmine, too, to add to the ripe lips—a
soft curl here and there to the tresses—a deeper tinge to the
shadow of the lash under the azured eyelid. I was absorbed
in the execution of these nice details, when, after one rapid
tap, my door unclosed, admitting St. John Rivers.
‘I am come to see how you are spending your holiday,’ he
said. ‘Not, I hope, in thought? No, that is well: while you
draw you will not feel lonely. You see, I mistrust you still,
though you have borne up wonderfully so far. I have brought
you a book for evening solace,’ and he laid on the table a new
publication—a poem: one of those genuine productions so
often vouchsafed to the fortunate public of those days—the
golden age of modern literature. Alas! the readers of our era
are less favoured. But courage! I will not pause either to ac-
cuse or repine. I know poetry is not dead, nor genius lost;
nor has Mammon gained power over either, to bind or slay:
they will both assert their existence, their presence, their
liberty and strength again one day. Powerful angels, safe in
heaven! they smile when sordid souls triumph, and feeble
ones weep over their destruction. Poetry destroyed? Genius
banished? No! Mediocrity, no: do not let envy prompt you
to the thought. No; they not only live, but reign and redeem:
and without their divine influence spread everywhere, you
would be in hell—the hell of your own meanness.
While I was eagerly glancing at the bright pages of
‘Marmion’ (for ‘Marmion’ it was), St. John stooped to ex-
564 Jane Eyre

amine my drawing. His tall figure sprang erect again with
a start: he said nothing. I looked up at him: he shunned
my eye. I knew his thoughts well, and could read his heart
plainly; at the moment I felt calmer and cooler than he: I
had then temporarily the advantage of him, and I conceived
an inclination to do him some good, if I could.
‘With all his firmness and self-control,’ thought I, ‘he
tasks himself too far: locks every feeling and pang within—
expresses, confesses, imparts nothing. I am sure it would
benefit him to talk a little about this sweet Rosamond, whom
he thinks he ought not to marry: I will make him talk.’
I said first, ‘Take a chair, Mr. Rivers.’ But he answered, as
he always did, that he could not stay. ‘Very well,’ I respond-
ed, mentally, ‘stand if you like; but you shall not go just yet,
I am determined: solitude is at least as bad for you as it is for
me. I’ll try if I cannot discover the secret spring of your con-
fidence, and find an aperture in that marble breast through
which I can shed one drop of the balm of sympathy.’
‘Is this portrait like?’ I asked bluntly.
‘Like! Like whom? I did not observe it closely.’
‘You did, Mr. Rivers.’
He almost started at my sudden and strange abruptness:
he looked at me astonished. ‘Oh, that is nothing yet,’ I mut-
tered within. ‘I don’t mean to be baffled by a little stiffness
on your part; I’m prepared to go to considerable lengths.’
I continued, ‘You observed it closely and distinctly; but I
have no objection to your looking at it again,’ and I rose and
placed it in his hand.
‘A well-executed picture,’ he said; ‘very soft, clear colour-

ing; very graceful and correct drawing.’
‘Yes, yes; I know all that. But what of the resemblance?
Who is it like?’
Mastering some hesitation, he answered, ‘Miss Oliver, I
presume.’
‘Of course. And now, sir, to reward you for the accurate
guess, I will promise to paint you a careful and faithful du-
plicate of this very picture, provided you admit that the gift
would be acceptable to you. I don’t wish to throw away my
time and trouble on an offering you would deem worth-
less.’
He continued to gaze at the picture: the longer he looked,
the firmer he held it, the more he seemed to covet it. ‘It is
like!’ he murmured; ‘the eye is well managed: the colour,
light, expression, are perfect. It smiles!’
‘Would it comfort, or would it wound you to have a simi-
lar painting? Tell me that. When you are at Madagascar, or
at the Cape, or in India, would it be a consolation to have
that memento in your possession? or would the sight of it
bring recollections calculated to enervate and distress?’
He now furtively raised his eyes: he glanced at me, ir-
resolute, disturbed: he again surveyed the picture.
‘That I should like to have it is certain: whether it would
be judicious or wise is another question.’
Since I had ascertained that Rosamond really preferred
him, and that her father was not likely to oppose the match,
I—less exalted in my views than St. John—had been strong-
ly disposed in my own heart to advocate their union. It
seemed to me that, should he become the possessor of Mr.
566 Jane Eyre

Oliver’s large fortune, he might do as much good with it as
if he went and laid his genius out to wither, and his strength
to waste, under a tropical sun. With this persuasion I now
answered—
‘As far as I can see, it would be wiser and more judicious
if you were to take to yourself the original at once.’
By this time he had sat down: he had laid the picture on
the table before him, and with his brow supported on both
hands, hung fondly over it. I discerned he was now neither
angry nor shocked at my audacity. I saw even that to be thus
frankly addressed on a subject he had deemed unapproach-
able—to hear it thus freely handled—was beginning to be
felt by him as a new pleasure—an unhoped-for relief. Re-
served people often really need the frank discussion of their
sentiments and griefs more than the expansive. The stern-
est- seeming stoic is human after all; and to ‘burst’ with
boldness and good-will into ‘the silent sea’ of their souls is
often to confer on them the first of obligations.
‘She likes you, I am sure,’ said I, as I stood behind his
chair, ‘and her father respects you. Moreover, she is a sweet
girl—rather thoughtless; but you would have sufficient
thought for both yourself and her. You ought to marry her.’
‘DOES she like me?’ he asked.
‘Certainly; better than she likes any one else. She talks of
you continually: there is no subject she enjoys so much or
touches upon so often.’
‘It is very pleasant to hear this,’ he said—‘very: go on for
another quarter of an hour.’ And he actually took out his
watch and laid it upon the table to measure the time.

‘But where is the use of going on,’ I asked, ‘when you are
probably preparing some iron blow of contradiction, or
forging a fresh chain to fetter your heart?’
‘Don’t imagine such hard things. Fancy me yielding and
melting, as I am doing: human love rising like a freshly
opened fountain in my mind and overflowing with sweet
inundation all the field I have so carefully and with such la-
bour prepared—so assiduously sown with the seeds of good
intentions, of self-denying plans. And now it is deluged
with a nectarous flood—the young germs swamped—deli-
cious poison cankering them: now I see myself stretched on
an ottoman in the drawing-room at Vale Hall at my bride
Rosamond Oliver’s feet: she is talking to me with her sweet
voice—gazing down on me with those eyes your skilful
hand has copied so well—smiling at me with these coral
lips. She is mine—I am hers—this present life and passing
world suffice to me. Hush! say nothing—my heart is full of
delight—my senses are entranced—let the time I marked
pass in peace.’
I humoured him: the watch ticked on: he breathed fast
and low: I stood silent. Amidst this hush the quartet sped;
he replaced the watch, laid the picture down, rose, and
stood on the hearth.
‘Now,’ said he, ‘that little space was given to delirium and
delusion. I rested my temples on the breast of temptation,
and put my neck voluntarily under her yoke of flowers. I
tasted her cup. The pillow was burning: there is an asp in
the garland: the wine has a bitter taste: her promises are
hollow—her offers false: I see and know all this.’
568 Jane Eyre

I gazed at him in wonder.
‘It is strange,’ pursued he, ‘that while I love Rosamond
Oliver so wildly—with all the intensity, indeed, of a first
passion, the object of which is exquisitely beautiful, grace-
ful, fascinating—I experience at the same time a calm,
unwarped consciousness that she would not make me a
good wife; that she is not the partner suited to me; that I
should discover this within a year after marriage; and that
to twelve months’ rapture would succeed a lifetime of re-
gret. This I know.’
‘Strange indeed!’ I could not help ejaculating.
‘While something in me,’ he went on, ‘is acutely sensi-
ble to her charms, something else is as deeply impressed
with her defects: they are such that she could sympathise in
nothing I aspired to—co- operate in nothing I undertook.
Rosamond a sufferer, a labourer, a female apostle? Rosa-
mond a missionary’s wife? No!’
‘But you need not be a missionary. You might relinquish
that scheme.’
‘Relinquish! What! my vocation? My great work? My
foundation laid on earth for a mansion in heaven? My
hopes of being numbered in the band who have merged all
ambitions in the glorious one of bettering their race—of
carrying knowledge into the realms of ignorance—of sub-
stituting peace for war—freedom for bondage—religion for
superstition—the hope of heaven for the fear of hell? Must I
relinquish that? It is dearer than the blood in my veins. It is
what I have to look forward to, and to live for.’
After a considerable pause, I said—‘And Miss Oliver? Are

her disappointment and sorrow of no interest to you?’
‘Miss Oliver is ever surrounded by suitors and flatterers:
in less than a month, my image will be effaced from her
heart. She will forget me; and will marry, probably, some
one who will make her far happier than I should do.’
‘You speak coolly enough; but you suffer in the conflict.
You are wasting away.’
‘No. If I get a little thin, it is with anxiety about my
prospects, yet unsettled—my departure, continually pro-
crastinated. Only this morning, I received intelligence that
the successor, whose arrival I have been so long expecting,
cannot be ready to replace me for three months to come yet;
and perhaps the three months may extend to six.’
‘You tremble and become flushed whenever Miss Oliver
enters the schoolroom.’
Again the surprised expression crossed his face. He had
not imagined that a woman would dare to speak so to a
man. For me, I felt at home in this sort of discourse. I could
never rest in communication with strong, discreet, and re-
fined minds, whether male or female, till I had passed the
outworks of conventional reserve, and crossed the thresh-
old of confidence, and won a place by their heart’s very
hearthstone.
‘You are original,’ said he, ‘and not timid. There is some-
thing brave in your spirit, as well as penetrating in your eye;
but allow me to assure you that you partially misinterpret
my emotions. You think them more profound and potent
than they are. You give me a larger allowance of sympathy
than I have a just claim to. When I colour, and when I shade
570 Jane Eyre

before Miss Oliver, I do not pity myself. I scorn the weak-
ness. I know it is ignoble: a mere fever of the flesh: not, I
declare, the convulsion of the soul. THAT is just as fixed as
a rock, firm set in the depths of a restless sea. Know me to
be what I am—a cold hard man.’
I smiled incredulously.
‘You have taken my confidence by storm,’ he continued,
‘and now it is much at your service. I am simply, in my origi-
nal state— stripped of that blood-bleached robe with which
Christianity covers human deformity—a cold, hard, ambi-
tious man. Natural affection only, of all the sentiments, has
permanent power over me. Reason, and not feeling, is my
guide; my ambition is unlimited: my desire to rise higher, to
do more than others, insatiable. I honour endurance, per-
severance, industry, talent; because these are the means by
which men achieve great ends and mount to lofty eminence.
I watch your career with interest, because I consider you a
specimen of a diligent, orderly, energetic woman: not be-
cause I deeply compassionate what you have gone through,
or what you still suffer.’
‘You would describe yourself as a mere pagan philoso-
pher,’ I said.
‘No. There is this difference between me and deistic phi-
losophers: I believe; and I believe the Gospel. You missed
your epithet. I am not a pagan, but a Christian philoso-
pher—a follower of the sect of Jesus. As His disciple I adopt
His pure, His merciful, His benignant doctrines. I advocate
them: I am sworn to spread them. Won in youth to religion,
she has cultivated my original qualities thus:- From the

minute germ, natural affection, she has developed the over-
shadowing tree, philanthropy. From the wild stringy root
of human uprightness, she has reared a due sense of the Di-
vine justice. Of the ambition to win power and renown for
my wretched self, she has formed the ambition to spread
my Master’s kingdom; to achieve victories for the standard
of the cross. So much has religion done for me; turning the
original materials to the best account; pruning and train-
ing nature. But she could not eradicate nature: nor will it be
eradicated ‘till this mortal shall put on immortality.’’
Having said this, he took his hat, which lay on the table
beside my palette. Once more he looked at the portrait.
‘She IS lovely,’ he murmured. ‘She is well named the Rose
of the World, indeed!’
‘And may I not paint one like it for you?’
‘CUI BONO? No.’
He drew over the picture the sheet of thin paper on which
I was accustomed to rest my hand in painting, to prevent
the cardboard from being sullied. What he suddenly saw on
this blank paper, it was impossible for me to tell; but some-
thing had caught his eye. He took it up with a snatch; he
looked at the edge; then shot a glance at me, inexpressibly
peculiar, and quite incomprehensible: a glance that seemed
to take and make note of every point in my shape, face, and
dress; for it traversed all, quick, keen as lightning. His lips
parted, as if to speak: but he checked the coming sentence,
whatever it was.
‘What is the matter?’ I asked.
‘Nothing in the world,’ was the reply; and, replacing the
572 Jane Eyre

paper, I saw him dexterously tear a narrow slip from the
margin. It disappeared in his glove; and, with one hasty nod
and ‘good- afternoon,’ he vanished.
‘Well!’ I exclaimed, using an expression of the district,
‘that caps the globe, however!’
I, in my turn, scrutinised the paper; but saw nothing on
it save a few dingy stains of paint where I had tried the tint
in my pencil. I pondered the mystery a minute or two; but
finding it insolvable, and being certain it could not be of
much moment, I dismissed, and soon forgot it.

Chapter XXXIII
W hen Mr. St. John went, it was beginning to snow; the

whirling storm continued all night. The next day a
keen wind brought fresh and blinding falls; by twilight the
valley was drifted up and almost impassable. I had closed
my shutter, laid a mat to the door to prevent the snow from
blowing in under it, trimmed my fire, and after sitting
nearly an hour on the hearth listening to the muffled fury
of the tempest, I lit a candle, took down ‘Marmion,’ and
beginning—
‘Day set on Norham’s castled steep,

And Tweed’s fair river broad and deep,
And Cheviot’s mountains lone;
The massive towers, the donjon keep,
The flanking walls that round them sweep,
In yellow lustre shone’—
I soon forgot storm in music.

I heard a noise: the wind, I thought, shook the door. No;
it was St. John Rivers, who, lifting the latch, came in out
of the frozen hurricane—the howling darkness—and stood
before me: the cloak that covered his tall figure all white as
a glacier. I was almost in consternation, so little had I ex-
pected any guest from the blocked-up vale that night.
574 Jane Eyre

‘Any ill news?’ I demanded. ‘Has anything happened?’
‘No. How very easily alarmed you are?’ he answered, re-
moving his cloak and hanging it up against the door, towards
which he again coolly pushed the mat which his entrance
had deranged. He stamped the snow from his boots.
‘I shall sully the purity of your floor,’ said he, ‘but you
must excuse me for once.’ Then he approached the fire. ‘I
have had hard work to get here, I assure you,’ he observed,
as he warmed his hands over the flame. ‘One drift took me
up to the waist; happily the snow is quite soft yet.’
‘But why are you come?’ I could not forbear saying.
‘Rather an inhospitable question to put to a visitor; but
since you ask it, I answer simply to have a little talk with
you; I got tired of my mute books and empty rooms. Besides,
since yesterday I have experienced the excitement of a per-
son to whom a tale has been half- told, and who is impatient
to hear the sequel.’
He sat down. I recalled his singular conduct of yesterday,
and really I began to fear his wits were touched. If he were
insane, however, his was a very cool and collected insanity:
I had never seen that handsome-featured face of his look
more like chiselled marble than it did just now, as he put
aside his snow-wet hair from his forehead and let the fire-
light shine free on his pale brow and cheek as pale, where
it grieved me to discover the hollow trace of care or sor-
row now so plainly graved. I waited, expecting he would
say something I could at least comprehend; but his hand
was now at his chin, his finger on his lip: he was thinking. It
struck me that his hand looked wasted like his face. A per-

haps uncalled-for gush of pity came over my heart: I was
moved to say—
‘I wish Diana or Mary would come and live with you: it
is too bad that you should be quite alone; and you are reck-
lessly rash about your own health.’
‘Not at all,’ said he: ‘I care for myself when necessary. I
am well now. What do you see amiss in me?’
This was said with a careless, abstracted indifference,
which showed that my solicitude was, at least in his opinion,
wholly superfluous. I was silenced.
He still slowly moved his finger over his upper lip, and
still his eye dwelt dreamily on the glowing grate; thinking it
urgent to say something, I asked him presently if he felt any
cold draught from the door, which was behind him.
‘No, no!’ he responded shortly and somewhat testily.
‘Well,’ I reflected, ‘if you won’t talk, you may be still; I’ll
let you alone now, and return to my book.’
So I snuffed the candle and resumed the perusal of
‘Marmion.’ He soon stirred; my eye was instantly drawn to
his movements; he only took out a morocco pocket-book,
thence produced a letter, which he read in silence, folded it,
put it back, relapsed into meditation. It was vain to try to
read with such an inscrutable fixture before me; nor could
I, in impatience, consent to be dumb; he might rebuff me if
my he liked, but talk I would.
‘Have you heard from Diana and Mary lately?’
‘Not since the letter I showed you a week ago.’
‘There has not been any change made about your own ar-
rangements? You will not be summoned to leave England
576 Jane Eyre

sooner than you expected?’
‘I fear not, indeed: such chance is too good to befall me.’
Baffled so far, I changed my ground. I bethought myself to
talk about the school and my scholars.
‘Mary Garrett’s mother is better, and Mary came back
to the school this morning, and I shall have four new girls
next week from the Foundry Close—they would have come
to-day but for the snow.’
‘Indeed!’
‘Mr. Oliver pays for two.’
‘Does he?’
‘He means to give the whole school a treat at Christmas.’
‘I know.’
‘Was it your suggestion?’
‘No.’
‘Whose, then?’
‘His daughter’s, I think.’
‘It is like her: she is so good-natured.’
‘Yes.’
Again came the blank of a pause: the clock struck eight
strokes. It aroused him; he uncrossed his legs, sat erect,
turned to me.
‘Leave your book a moment, and come a little nearer the
fire,’ he said.
Wondering, and of my wonder finding no end, I com-
plied.
‘Half-an-hour ago,’ he pursued, ‘I spoke of my impatience
to hear the sequel of a tale: on reflection, I find the matter
will be better managed by my assuming the narrator’s part,

and converting you into a listener. Before commencing, it
is but fair to warn you that the story will sound somewhat
hackneyed in your ears; but stale details often regain a de-
gree of freshness when they pass through new lips. For the
rest, whether trite or novel, it is short.
‘Twenty years ago, a poor curate—never mind his name
at this moment—fell in love with a rich man’s daughter; she
fell in love with him, and married him, against the advice
of all her friends, who consequently disowned her imme-
diately after the wedding. Before two years passed, the rash
pair were both dead, and laid quietly side by side under one
slab. (I have seen their grave; it formed part of the pavement
of a huge churchyard surrounding the grim, soot-black old
cathedral of an overgrown manufacturing town in— shire.)
They left a daughter, which, at its very birth, Charity re-
ceived in her lap—cold as that of the snow-drift I almost
stuck fast in to-night. Charity carried the friendless thing
to the house of its rich maternal relations; it was reared by
an aunt-in-law, called (I come to names now) Mrs. Reed
of Gateshead. You start—did you hear a noise? I daresay
it is only a rat scrambling along the rafters of the adjoin-
ing schoolroom: it was a barn before I had it repaired and
altered, and barns are generally haunted by rats.—To pro-
ceed. Mrs. Reed kept the orphan ten years: whether it was
happy or not with her, I cannot say, never having been told;
but at the end of that time she transferred it to a place you
know—being no other than Lowood School, where you so
long resided yourself. It seems her career there was very
honourable: from a pupil, she became a teacher, like your-
578 Jane Eyre

self—really it strikes me there are parallel points in her
history and yours—she left it to be a governess: there, again,
your fates were analogous; she undertook the education of
the ward of a certain Mr. Rochester.’
‘Mr. Rivers!’ I interrupted.
‘I can guess your feelings,’ he said, ‘but restrain them for
a while: I have nearly finished; hear me to the end. Of Mr.
Rochester’s character I know nothing, but the one fact that
he professed to offer honourable marriage to this young girl,
and that at the very altar she discovered he had a wife yet
alive, though a lunatic. What his subsequent conduct and
proposals were is a matter of pure conjecture; but when an
event transpired which rendered inquiry after the govern-
ess necessary, it was discovered she was gone—no one could
tell when, where, or how. She had left Thornfield Hall in the
night; every research after her course had been vain: the
country had been scoured far and wide; no vestige of infor-
mation could be gathered respecting her. Yet that she should
be found is become a matter of serious urgency: advertise-
ments have been put in all the papers; I myself have received
a letter from one Mr. Briggs, a solicitor, communicating the
details I have just imparted. Is it not an odd tale?’
‘Just tell me this,’ said I, ‘and since you know so much,
you surely can tell it me—what of Mr. Rochester? How and
where is he? What is he doing? Is he well?’
‘I am ignorant of all concerning Mr. Rochester: the let-
ter never mentions him but to narrate the fraudulent and
illegal attempt I have adverted to. You should rather ask the
name of the governess— the nature of the event which re-

quires her appearance.’
‘Did no one go to Thornfield Hall, then? Did no one see
Mr. Rochester?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘But they wrote to him?’
‘Of course.’
‘And what did he say? Who has his letters?’
‘Mr. Briggs intimates that the answer to his application
was not from Mr. Rochester, but from a lady: it is signed
‘Alice Fairfax.’’
I felt cold and dismayed: my worst fears then were prob-
ably true: he had in all probability left England and rushed
in reckless desperation to some former haunt on the Conti-
nent. And what opiate for his severe sufferings—what object
for his strong passions—had he sought there? I dared not
answer the question. Oh, my poor master—once almost my
husband—whom I had often called ‘my dear Edward!’
‘He must have been a bad man,’ observed Mr. Rivers.
‘You don’t know him—don’t pronounce an opinion upon
him,’ I said, with warmth.
‘Very well,’ he answered quietly: ‘and indeed my head is
otherwise occupied than with him: I have my tale to fin-
ish. Since you won’t ask the governess’s name, I must tell
it of my own accord. Stay! I have it here—it is always more
satisfactory to see important points written down, fairly
committed to black and white.’
And the pocket-book was again deliberately produced,
opened, sought through; from one of its compartments was
extracted a shabby slip of paper, hastily torn off: I recognised
580 Jane Eyre

in its texture and its stains of ultra-marine, and lake, and
vermillion, the ravished margin of the portrait-cover. He
got up, held it close to my eyes: and I read, traced in Indian
ink, in my own handwriting, the words ‘JANE EYRE’—the
work doubtless of some moment of abstraction.
‘Briggs wrote to me of a Jane Eyre:’ he said, ‘the adver-
tisements demanded a Jane Eyre: I knew a Jane Elliott.—I
confess I had my suspicions, but it was only yesterday after-
noon they were at once resolved into certainty. You own the
name and renounce the alias?’
‘Yes—yes; but where is Mr. Briggs? He perhaps knows
more of Mr. Rochester than you do.’
‘Briggs is in London. I should doubt his knowing any-
thing at all about Mr. Rochester; it is not in Mr. Rochester
he is interested. Meantime, you forget essential points in
pursuing trifles: you do not inquire why Mr. Briggs sought
after you—what he wanted with you.’
‘Well, what did he want?’
‘Merely to tell you that your uncle, Mr. Eyre of Madeira,
is dead; that he has left you all his property, and that you are
now rich— merely that—nothing more.’
‘I!—rich?’
‘Yes, you, rich—quite an heiress.’
Silence succeeded.
‘You must prove your identity of course,’ resumed St.
John presently: ‘a step which will offer no difficulties; you
can then enter on immediate possession. Your fortune is
vested in the English funds; Briggs has the will and the nec-
essary documents.’

Here was a new card turned up! It is a fine thing, reader,
to be lifted in a moment from indigence to wealth—a very
fine thing; but not a matter one can comprehend, or conse-
quently enjoy, all at once. And then there are other chances
in life far more thrilling and rapture-giving: THIS is solid,
an affair of the actual world, nothing ideal about it: all its
associations are solid and sober, and its manifestations are
the same. One does not jump, and spring, and shout hur-
rah! at hearing one has got a fortune; one begins to consider
responsibilities, and to ponder business; on a base of steady
satisfaction rise certain grave cares, and we contain our-
selves, and blood over our bliss with a solemn brow.
Besides, the words Legacy, Bequest, go side by side
with the words, Death, Funeral. My uncle I had heard was
dead—my only relative; ever since being made aware of his
existence, I had cherished the hope of one day seeing him:
now, I never should. And then this money came only to me:
not to me and a rejoicing family, but to my isolated self. It
was a grand boon doubtless; and independence would be
glorious—yes, I felt that—that thought swelled my heart.
‘You unbend your forehead at last,’ said Mr. Rivers. ‘I
thought Medusa had looked at you, and that you were turn-
ing to stone. Perhaps now you will ask how much you are
worth?’
‘How much am I worth?’
‘Oh, a trifle! Nothing of course to speak of—twenty thou-
sand pounds, I think they say—but what is that?’
‘Twenty thousand pounds?’
Here was a new stunner—I had been calculating on four
582 Jane Eyre

or five thousand. This news actually took my breath for a
moment: Mr. St. John, whom I had never heard laugh be-
fore, laughed now.
‘Well,’ said he, ‘if you had committed a murder, and I had
told you your crime was discovered, you could scarcely look
more aghast.’
‘It is a large sum—don’t you think there is a mistake?’
‘No mistake at all.’
‘Perhaps you have read the figures wrong—it may be two
thousand!’
‘It is written in letters, not figures,—twenty thousand.’
I again felt rather like an individual of but average gas-
tronomical powers sitting down to feast alone at a table
spread with provisions for a hundred. Mr. Rivers rose now
and put his cloak on.
‘If it were not such a very wild night,’ he said, ‘I would
send Hannah down to keep you company: you look too
desperately miserable to be left alone. But Hannah, poor
woman! could not stride the drifts so well as I: her legs are
not quite so long: so I must e’en leave you to your sorrows.
Good-night.’
He was lifting the latch: a sudden thought occurred to
me. ‘Stop one minute!’ I cried.
‘Well?’
‘It puzzles me to know why Mr. Briggs wrote to you about
me; or how he knew you, or could fancy that you, living in
such an out-of-the- way place, had the power to aid in my
discovery.’
‘Oh! I am a clergyman,’ he said; ‘and the clergy are often

appealed to about odd matters.’ Again the latch rattled.
‘No; that does not satisfy me!’ I exclaimed: and indeed
there was something in the hasty and unexplanatory reply
which, instead of allaying, piqued my curiosity more than
ever.
‘It is a very strange piece of business,’ I added; ‘I must
know more about it.’
‘Another time.’
‘No; to-night!—to-night!’ and as he turned from the door,
I placed myself between it and him. He looked rather em-
barrassed.
‘You certainly shall not go till you have told me all,’ I
said.
‘I would rather not just now.’
‘You shall!—you must!’
‘I would rather Diana or Mary informed you.’
Of course these objections wrought my eagerness to a
climax: gratified it must be, and that without delay; and I
told him so.
‘But I apprised you that I was a hard man,’ said he, ‘dif-
ficult to persuade.’
‘And I am a hard woman,—impossible to put off.’
‘And then,’ he pursued, ‘I am cold: no fervour infects
me.’
‘Whereas I am hot, and fire dissolves ice. The blaze there
has thawed all the snow from your cloak; by the same token,
it has streamed on to my floor, and made it like a trampled
street. As you hope ever to be forgiven, Mr. Rivers, the high
crime and misdemeanour of spoiling a sanded kitchen, tell
584 Jane Eyre

me what I wish to know.’
‘Well, then,’ he said, ‘I yield; if not to your earnestness,
to your perseverance: as stone is worn by continual drop-
ping. Besides, you must know some day,—as well now as
later. Your name is Jane Eyre?’
‘Of course: that was all settled before.’
‘You are not, perhaps, aware that I am your namesake?—
that I was christened St. John Eyre Rivers?’
‘No, indeed! I remember now seeing the letter E. com-
prised in your initials written in books you have at different
times lent me; but I never asked for what name it stood. But
what then? Surely—‘
I stopped: I could not trust myself to entertain, much
less to express, the thought that rushed upon me—that
embodied itself,— that, in a second, stood out a strong,
solid probability. Circumstances knit themselves, fitted
themselves, shot into order: the chain that had been lying
hitherto a formless lump of links was drawn out straight,—
every ring was perfect, the connection complete. I knew, by
instinct, how the matter stood, before St. John had said an-
other word; but I cannot expect the reader to have the same
intuitive perception, so I must repeat his explanation.
‘My mother’s name was Eyre; she had two brothers; one
a clergyman, who married Miss Jane Reed, of Gateshead;
the other, John Eyre, Esq., merchant, late of Funchal, Ma-
deira. Mr. Briggs, being Mr. Eyre’s solicitor, wrote to us last
August to inform us of our uncle’s death, and to say that he
had left his property to his brother the clergyman’s orphan
daughter, overlooking us, in consequence of a quarrel, nev-

er forgiven, between him and my father. He wrote again a
few weeks since, to intimate that the heiress was lost, and
asking if we knew anything of her. A name casually written
on a slip of paper has enabled me to find her out. You know
the rest.’ Again he was going, but I set my back against the
door.
‘Do let me speak,’ I said; ‘let me have one moment to
draw breath and reflect.’ I paused—he stood before me, hat
in hand, looking composed enough. I resumed—
‘Your mother was my father’s sister?’
‘Yes.’
‘My aunt, consequently?’
He bowed.
‘My uncle John was your uncle John? You, Diana, and
Mary are his sister’s children, as I am his brother’s child?’
‘Undeniably.’
‘You three, then, are my cousins; half our blood on each
side flows from the same source?’
‘We are cousins; yes.’
I surveyed him. It seemed I had found a brother: one I
could be proud of,—one I could love; and two sisters, whose
qualities were such, that, when I knew them but as mere
strangers, they had inspired me with genuine affection and
admiration. The two girls, on whom, kneeling down on the
wet ground, and looking through the low, latticed window
of Moor House kitchen, I had gazed with so bitter a mix-
ture of interest and despair, were my near kinswomen; and
the young and stately gentleman who had found me almost
dying at his threshold was my blood relation. Glorious dis-
586 Jane Eyre

covery to a lonely wretch! This was wealth indeed!—wealth
to the heart!—a mine of pure, genial affections. This was a
blessing, bright, vivid, and exhilarating;—not like the pon-
derous gift of gold: rich and welcome enough in its way, but
sobering from its weight. I now clapped my hands in sud-
den joy—my pulse bounded, my veins thrilled.
‘Oh, I am glad!—I am glad!’ I exclaimed.
St. John smiled. ‘Did I not say you neglected essential
points to pursue trifles?’ he asked. ‘You were serious when I
told you you had got a fortune; and now, for a matter of no
moment, you are excited.’
‘What can you mean? It may be of no moment to you; you
have sisters and don’t care for a cousin; but I had nobody;
and now three relations,—or two, if you don’t choose to be
counted,—are born into my world full-grown. I say again, I
am glad!’
I walked fast through the room: I stopped, half suffo-
cated with the thoughts that rose faster than I could receive,
comprehend, settle them:- thoughts of what might, could,
would, and should be, and that ere long. I looked at the
blank wall: it seemed a sky thick with ascending stars,—ev-
ery one lit me to a purpose or delight. Those who had saved
my life, whom, till this hour, I had loved barrenly, I could
now benefit. They were under a yoke,—I could free them:
they were scattered,—I could reunite them: the indepen-
dence, the affluence which was mine, might be theirs too.
Were we not four? Twenty thousand pounds shared equally
would be five thousand each, justice—enough and to spare:
justice would be done,—mutual happiness secured. Now

the wealth did not weigh on me: now it was not a mere be-
quest of coin,—it was a legacy of life, hope, enjoyment.
How I looked while these ideas were taking my spirit by
storm, I cannot tell; but I perceived soon that Mr. Rivers
had placed a chair behind me, and was gently attempting to
make me sit down on it. He also advised me to be composed;
I scorned the insinuation of helplessness and distraction,
shook off his hand, and began to walk about again.
‘Write to Diana and Mary to-morrow,’ I said, ‘and tell
them to come home directly. Diana said they would both
consider themselves rich with a thousand pounds, so with
five thousand they will do very well.’
‘Tell me where I can get you a glass of water,’ said St.
John; ‘you must really make an effort to tranquillise your
feelings.’
‘Nonsense! and what sort of an effect will the bequest
have on you? Will it keep you in England, induce you to
marry Miss Oliver, and settle down like an ordinary mor-
tal?’
‘You wander: your head becomes confused. I have been
too abrupt in communicating the news; it has excited you
beyond your strength.’
‘Mr. Rivers! you quite put me out of patience: I am ra-
tional enough; it is you who misunderstand, or rather who
affect to misunderstand.’
‘Perhaps, if you explained yourself a little more fully, I
should comprehend better.’
‘Explain! What is there to explain? You cannot fail to see
that twenty thousand pounds, the sum in question, divided
588 Jane Eyre

equally between the nephew and three nieces of our uncle,
will give five thousand to each? What I want is, that you
should write to your sisters and tell them of the fortune that
has accrued to them.’
‘To you, you mean.’
‘I have intimated my view of the case: I am incapable of
taking any other. I am not brutally selfish, blindly unjust, or
fiendishly ungrateful. Besides, I am resolved I will have a
home and connections. I like Moor House, and I will live at
Moor House; I like Diana and Mary, and I will attach my-
self for life to Diana and Mary. It would please and benefit
me to have five thousand pounds; it would torment and op-
press me to have twenty thousand; which, moreover, could
never be mine in justice, though it might in law. I abandon
to you, then, what is absolutely superfluous to me. Let there
be no opposition, and no discussion about it; let us agree
amongst each other, and decide the point at once.’
‘This is acting on first impulses; you must take days to
consider such a matter, ere your word can be regarded as
valid.’
‘Oh! if all you doubt is my sincerity, I am easy: you see
the justice of the case?’
‘I DO see a certain justice; but it is contrary to all custom.
Besides, the entire fortune is your right: my uncle gained it
by his own efforts; he was free to leave it to whom he would:
he left it to you. After all, justice permits you to keep it: you
may, with a clear conscience, consider it absolutely your
own.’
‘With me,’ said I, ‘it is fully as much a matter of feeling as

of conscience: I must indulge my feelings; I so seldom have
had an opportunity of doing so. Were you to argue, object,
and annoy me for a year, I could not forego the delicious
pleasure of which I have caught a glimpse—that of repaying,
in part, a mighty obligation, and winning to myself lifelong
friends.’
‘You think so now,’ rejoined St. John, ‘because you do
not know what it is to possess, nor consequently to enjoy
wealth: you cannot form a notion of the importance twenty
thousand pounds would give you; of the place it would en-
able you to take in society; of the prospects it would open to
you: you cannot—‘
‘And you,’ I interrupted, ‘cannot at all imagine the crav-
ing I have for fraternal and sisterly love. I never had a home,
I never had brothers or sisters; I must and will have them
now: you are not reluctant to admit me and own me, are
you?’
‘Jane, I will be your brother—my sisters will be your
sisters— without stipulating for this sacrifice of your just
rights.’
‘Brother? Yes; at the distance of a thousand leagues! Sis-
ters? Yes; slaving amongst strangers! I, wealthy—gorged
with gold I never earned and do not merit! You, penniless!
Famous equality and fraternisation! Close union! Intimate
attachment!’
‘But, Jane, your aspirations after family ties and domestic
happiness may be realised otherwise than by the means you
contemplate: you may marry.’
‘Nonsense, again! Marry! I don’t want to marry, and nev-
590 Jane Eyre

er shall marry.’
‘That is saying too much: such hazardous affirmations
are a proof of the excitement under which you labour.’
‘It is not saying too much: I know what I feel, and how
averse are my inclinations to the bare thought of marriage.
No one would take me for love; and I will not be regarded in
the light of a mere money speculation. And I do not want a
stranger—unsympathising, alien, different from me; I want
my kindred: those with whom I have full fellow-feeling. Say
again you will be my brother: when you uttered the words
I was satisfied, happy; repeat them, if you can, repeat them
sincerely.’
‘I think I can. I know I have always loved my own sisters;
and I know on what my affection for them is grounded,—
respect for their worth and admiration of their talents. You
too have principle and mind: your tastes and habits resem-
ble Diana’s and Mary’s; your presence is always agreeable to
me; in your conversation I have already for some time found
a salutary solace. I feel I can easily and naturally make room
in my heart for you, as my third and youngest sister.’
‘Thank you: that contents me for to-night. Now you had
better go; for if you stay longer, you will perhaps irritate me
afresh by some mistrustful scruple.’
‘And the school, Miss Eyre? It must now be shut up, I sup-
pose?’
‘No. I will retain my post of mistress till you get a sub-
stitute.’
He smiled approbation: we shook hands, and he took
leave.

I need not narrate in detail the further struggles I had,
and arguments I used, to get matters regarding the legacy
settled as I wished. My task was a very hard one; but, as I
was absolutely resolved—as my cousins saw at length that
my mind was really and immutably fixed on making a just
division of the property—as they must in their own hearts
have felt the equity of the intention; and must, besides, have
been innately conscious that in my place they would have
done precisely what I wished to do—they yielded at length
so far as to consent to put the affair to arbitration. The
judges chosen were Mr. Oliver and an able lawyer: both co-
incided in my opinion: I carried my point. The instruments
of transfer were drawn out: St. John, Diana, Mary, and I,
each became possessed of a competency.
592 Jane Eyre

Chapter XXXIV
I t was near Christmas by the time all was settled: the sea-
son of general holiday approached. I now closed Morton
school, taking care that the parting should not be barren on
my side. Good fortune opens the hand as well as the heart
wonderfully; and to give somewhat when we have largely
received, is but to afford a vent to the unusual ebullition
of the sensations. I had long felt with pleasure that many
of my rustic scholars liked me, and when we parted, that
consciousness was confirmed: they manifested their affec-
tion plainly and strongly. Deep was my gratification to find
I had really a place in their unsophisticated hearts: I prom-
ised them that never a week should pass in future that I did
not visit them, and give them an hour’s teaching in their
school.
Mr. Rivers came up as, having seen the classes, now
numbering sixty girls, file out before me, and locked the
door, I stood with the key in my hand, exchanging a few
words of special farewell with some half-dozen of my best
scholars: as decent, respectable, modest, and well-informed
young women as could be found in the ranks of the Brit-
ish peasantry. And that is saying a great deal; for after all,
the British peasantry are the best taught, best mannered,
most self- respecting of any in Europe: since those days I
have seen paysannes and Bauerinnen; and the best of them

seemed to me ignorant, coarse, and besotted, compared
with my Morton girls.
‘Do you consider you have got your reward for a season
of exertion?’ asked Mr. Rivers, when they were gone. ‘Does
not the consciousness of having done some real good in
your day and generation give pleasure?’
‘Doubtless.’
‘And you have only toiled a few months! Would not a life
devoted to the task of regenerating your race be well spent?’
‘Yes,’ I said; ‘but I could not go on for ever so: I want to
enjoy my own faculties as well as to cultivate those of other
people. I must enjoy them now; don’t recall either my mind
or body to the school; I am out of it and disposed for full
holiday.’
He looked grave. ‘What now? What sudden eagerness is
this you evince? What are you going to do?’
‘To be active: as active as I can. And first I must beg you
to set Hannah at liberty, and get somebody else to wait on
you.’
‘Do you want her?’
‘Yes, to go with me to Moor House. Diana and Mary will
be at home in a week, and I want to have everything in order
against their arrival.’
‘I understand. I thought you were for flying off on some
excursion. It is better so: Hannah shall go with you.’
‘Tell her to be ready by to-morrow then; and here is the
schoolroom key: I will give you the key of my cottage in the
morning.’
He took it. ‘You give it up very gleefully,’ said he; ‘I don’t
594 Jane Eyre

quite understand your light-heartedness, because I cannot
tell what employment you propose to yourself as a sub-
stitute for the one you are relinquishing. What aim, what
purpose, what ambition in life have you now?’
‘My first aim will be to CLEAN DOWN (do you compre-
hend the full force of the expression?)—to CLEAN DOWN
Moor House from chamber to cellar; my next to rub it up
with bees-wax, oil, and an indefinite number of cloths, till
it glitters again; my third, to arrange every chair, table, bed,
carpet, with mathematical precision; afterwards I shall go
near to ruin you in coals and peat to keep up good fires
in every room; and lastly, the two days preceding that on
which your sisters are expected will be devoted by Hannah
and me to such a beating of eggs, sorting of currants, grat-
ing of spices, compounding of Christmas cakes, chopping
up of materials for mince-pies, and solemnising of other cu-
linary rites, as words can convey but an inadequate notion
of to the uninitiated like you. My purpose, in short, is to
have all things in an absolutely perfect state of readiness for
Diana and Mary before next Thursday; and my ambition is
to give them a beau-ideal of a welcome when they come.’
St. John smiled slightly: still he was dissatisfied.
‘It is all very well for the present,’ said he; ‘but seriously,
I trust that when the first flush of vivacity is over, you will
look a little higher than domestic endearments and house-
hold joys.’
‘The best things the world has!’ I interrupted.
‘No, Jane, no: this world is not the scene of fruition; do
not attempt to make it so: nor of rest; do not turn slothful.’

‘I mean, on the contrary, to be busy.’
‘Jane, I excuse you for the present: two months’ grace I
allow you for the full enjoyment of your new position, and
for pleasing yourself with this late-found charm of relation-
ship; but THEN, I hope you will begin to look beyond Moor
House and Morton, and sisterly society, and the selfish calm
and sensual comfort of civilised affluence. I hope your ener-
gies will then once more trouble you with their strength.’
I looked at him with surprise. ‘St. John,’ I said, ‘I think
you are almost wicked to talk so. I am disposed to be as con-
tent as a queen, and you try to stir me up to restlessness! To
what end?’
‘To the end of turning to profit the talents which God
has committed to your keeping; and of which He will surely
one day demand a strict account. Jane, I shall watch you
closely and anxiously—I warn you of that. And try to re-
strain the disproportionate fervour with which you throw
yourself into commonplace home pleasures. Don’t cling so
tenaciously to ties of the flesh; save your constancy and ar-
dour for an adequate cause; forbear to waste them on trite
transient objects. Do you hear, Jane?’
‘Yes; just as if you were speaking Greek. I feel I have ad-
equate cause to be happy, and I WILL be happy. Goodbye!’
Happy at Moor House I was, and hard I worked; and
so did Hannah: she was charmed to see how jovial I could
be amidst the bustle of a house turned topsy-turvy—how I
could brush, and dust, and clean, and cook. And really, after
a day or two of confusion worse confounded, it was delight-
ful by degrees to invoke order from the chaos ourselves had
596 Jane Eyre

made. I had previously taken a journey to S- to purchase
some new furniture: my cousins having given me CARTE
BLANCHE TO effect what alterations I pleased, and a sum
having been set aside for that purpose. The ordinary sitting-
room and bedrooms I left much as they were: for I knew
Diana and Mary would derive more pleasure from seeing
again the old homely tables, and chairs, and beds, than
from the spectacle of the smartest innovations. Still some
novelty was necessary, to give to their return the piquan-
cy with which I wished it to be invested. Dark handsome
new carpets and curtains, an arrangement of some care-
fully selected antique ornaments in porcelain and bronze,
new coverings, and mirrors, and dressing-cases, for the
toilet tables, answered the end: they looked fresh without
being glaring. A spare parlour and bedroom I refurnished
entirely, with old mahogany and crimson upholstery: I laid
canvas on the passage, and carpets on the stairs. When all
was finished, I thought Moor House as complete a model of
bright modest snugness within, as it was, at this season, a
specimen of wintry waste and desert dreariness without.
The eventful Thursday at length came. They were expect-
ed about dark, and ere dusk fires were lit upstairs and below;
the kitchen was in perfect trim; Hannah and I were dressed,
and all was in readiness.
St. John arrived first. I had entreated him to keep quite
clear of the house till everything was arranged: and, indeed,
the bare idea of the commotion, at once sordid and trivial,
going on within its walls sufficed to scare him to estrange-
ment. He found me in the kitchen, watching the progress of

certain cakes for tea, then baking. Approaching the hearth,
he asked, ‘If I was at last satisfied with housemaid’s work?’
I answered by inviting him to accompany me on a general
inspection of the result of my labours. With some difficulty,
I got him to make the tour of the house. He just looked in
at the doors I opened; and when he had wandered upstairs
and downstairs, he said I must have gone through a great
deal of fatigue and trouble to have effected such consider-
able changes in so short a time: but not a syllable did he utter
indicating pleasure in the improved aspect of his abode.
This silence damped me. I thought perhaps the altera-
tions had disturbed some old associations he valued. I
inquired whether this was the case: no doubt in a somewhat
crest-fallen tone.
‘Not at all; he had, on the contrary, remarked that I had
scrupulously respected every association: he feared, indeed,
I must have bestowed more thought on the matter than it
was worth. How many minutes, for instance, had I devoted
to studying the arrangement of this very room?—By-the-
bye, could I tell him where such a book was?’
I showed him the volume on the shelf: he took it down,
and withdrawing to his accustomed window recess, he be-
gan to read it.
Now, I did not like this, reader. St. John was a good man;
but I began to feel he had spoken truth of himself when he
said he was hard and cold. The humanities and amenities
of life had no attraction for him—its peaceful enjoyments
no charm. Literally, he lived only to aspire—after what was
good and great, certainly; but still he would never rest, nor
598 Jane Eyre

approve of others resting round him. As I looked at his lofty
forehead, still and pale as a white stone— at his fine linea-
ments fixed in study—I comprehended all at once that he
would hardly make a good husband: that it would be a try-
ing thing to be his wife. I understood, as by inspiration, the
nature of his love for Miss Oliver; I agreed with him that it
was but a love of the senses. I comprehended how he should
despise himself for the feverish influence it exercised over
him; how he should wish to stifle and destroy it; how he
should mistrust its ever conducting permanently to his
happiness or hers. I saw he was of the material from which
nature hews her heroes—Christian and Pagan—her lawgiv-
ers, her statesmen, her conquerors: a steadfast bulwark for
great interests to rest upon; but, at the fireside, too often a
cold cumbrous column, gloomy and out of place.
‘This parlour is not his sphere,’ I reflected: ‘the Himala-
yan ridge or Caffre bush, even the plague-cursed Guinea
Coast swamp would suit him better. Well may he eschew
the calm of domestic life; it is not his element: there his
faculties stagnate—they cannot develop or appear to ad-
vantage. It is in scenes of strife and danger—where courage
is proved, and energy exercised, and fortitude tasked—that
he will speak and move, the leader and superior. A merry
child would have the advantage of him on this hearth. He is
right to choose a missionary’s career—I see it now.’
‘They are coming! they are coming!’ cried Hannah,
throwing open the parlour door. At the same moment old
Carlo barked joyfully. Out I ran. It was now dark; but a
rumbling of wheels was audible. Hannah soon had a lan-

tern lit. The vehicle had stopped at the wicket; the driver
opened the door: first one well-known form, then another,
stepped out. In a minute I had my face under their bonnets,
in contact first with Mary’s soft cheek, then with Diana’s
flowing curls. They laughed—kissed me—then Hannah:
patted Carlo, who was half wild with delight; asked eagerly
if all was well; and being assured in the affirmative, has-
tened into the house.
They were stiff with their long and jolting drive from
Whitcross, and chilled with the frosty night air; but their
pleasant countenances expanded to the cheerful firelight.
While the driver and Hannah brought in the boxes, they
demanded St. John. At this moment he advanced from the
parlour. They both threw their arms round his neck at once.
He gave each one quiet kiss, said in a low tone a few words
of welcome, stood a while to be talked to, and then, inti-
mating that he supposed they would soon rejoin him in the
parlour, withdrew there as to a place of refuge.
I had lit their candles to go upstairs, but Diana had first
to give hospitable orders respecting the driver; this done,
both followed me. They were delighted with the renovation
and decorations of their rooms; with the new drapery, and
fresh carpets, and rich tinted china vases: they expressed
their gratification ungrudgingly. I had the pleasure of feel-
ing that my arrangements met their wishes exactly, and that
what I had done added a vivid charm to their joyous return
home.
Sweet was that evening. My cousins, full of exhilaration,
were so eloquent in narrative and comment, that their flu-
600 Jane Eyre

ency covered St. John’s taciturnity: he was sincerely glad to
see his sisters; but in their glow of fervour and flow of joy
he could not sympathise. The event of the day—that is, the
return of Diana and Mary—pleased him; but the accompa-
niments of that event, the glad tumult, the garrulous glee
of reception irked him: I saw he wished the calmer morrow
was come. In the very meridian of the night’s enjoyment,
about an hour after tea, a rap was heard at the door. Han-
nah entered with the intimation that ‘a poor lad was come,
at that unlikely time, to fetch Mr. Rivers to see his mother,
who was drawing away.’
‘Where does she live, Hannah?’
‘Clear up at Whitcross Brow, almost four miles off, and
moor and moss all the way.’
‘Tell him I will go.’
‘I’m sure, sir, you had better not. It’s the worst road to
travel after dark that can be: there’s no track at all over the
bog. And then it is such a bitter night—the keenest wind
you ever felt. You had better send word, sir, that you will be
there in the morning.’
But he was already in the passage, putting on his cloak;
and without one objection, one murmur, he departed. It was
then nine o’clock: he did not return till midnight. Starved
and tired enough he was: but he looked happier than when
he set out. He had performed an act of duty; made an exer-
tion; felt his own strength to do and deny, and was on better
terms with himself.
I am afraid the whole of the ensuing week tried his
patience. It was Christmas week: we took to no settled

employment, but spent it in a sort of merry domestic dis-
sipation. The air of the moors, the freedom of home, the
dawn of prosperity, acted on Diana and Mary’s spirits like
some life-giving elixir: they were gay from morning till
noon, and from noon till night. They could always talk; and
their discourse, witty, pithy, original, had such charms for
me, that I preferred listening to, and sharing in it, to doing
anything else. St. John did not rebuke our vivacity; but he
escaped from it: he was seldom in the house; his parish was
large, the population scattered, and he found daily business
in visiting the sick and poor in its different districts.
One morning at breakfast, Diana, after looking a little
pensive for some minutes, asked him, ‘If his plans were yet
unchanged.’
‘Unchanged and unchangeable,’ was the reply. And he
proceeded to inform us that his departure from England
was now definitively fixed for the ensuing year.
‘And Rosamond Oliver?’ suggested Mary, the words
seeming to escape her lips involuntarily: for no sooner had
she uttered them, than she made a gesture as if wishing to
recall them. St. John had a book in his hand—it was his un-
social custom to read at meals—he closed it, and looked up,
‘Rosamond Oliver,’ said he, ‘is about to be married to Mr.
Granby, one of the best connected and most estimable resi-
dents in S-, grandson and heir to Sir Frederic Granby: I had
the intelligence from her father yesterday.’
His sisters looked at each other and at me; we all three
looked at him: he was serene as glass.
‘The match must have been got up hastily,’ said Diana:
602 Jane Eyre

‘they cannot have known each other long.’
‘But two months: they met in October at the county ball
at S-. But where there are no obstacles to a union, as in the
present case, where the connection is in every point desir-
able, delays are unnecessary: they will be married as soon
as S- Place, which Sir Frederic gives up to them, can he refit-
ted for their reception.’
The first time I found St. John alone after this communi-
cation, I felt tempted to inquire if the event distressed him:
but he seemed so little to need sympathy, that, so far from
venturing to offer him more, I experienced some shame at
the recollection of what I had already hazarded. Besides, I
was out of practice in talking to him: his reserve was again
frozen over, and my frankness was congealed beneath it.
He had not kept his promise of treating me like his sisters;
he continually made little chilling differences between us,
which did not at all tend to the development of cordiality:
in short, now that I was acknowledged his kinswoman, and
lived under the same roof with him, I felt the distance be-
tween us to be far greater than when he had known me only
as the village schoolmistress. When I remembered how far
I had once been admitted to his confidence, I could hardly
comprehend his present frigidity.
Such being the case, I felt not a little surprised when he
raised his head suddenly from the desk over which he was
stooping, and said—
‘You see, Jane, the battle is fought and the victory won.’
Startled at being thus addressed, I did not immediately
reply: after a moment’s hesitation I answered—

‘But are you sure you are not in the position of those con-
querors whose triumphs have cost them too dear? Would
not such another ruin you?’
‘I think not; and if I were, it does not much signify; I shall
never be called upon to contend for such another. The event
of the conflict is decisive: my way is now clear; I thank God
for it!’ So saying, he returned to his papers and his silence.
As our mutual happiness (i.e., Diana’s, Mary’s, and mine)
settled into a quieter character, and we resumed our usual
habits and regular studies, St. John stayed more at home: he
sat with us in the same room, sometimes for hours together.
While Mary drew, Diana pursued a course of encyclopaedic
reading she had (to my awe and amazement) undertaken,
and I fagged away at German, he pondered a mystic lore
of his own: that of some Eastern tongue, the acquisition of
which he thought necessary to his plans.
Thus engaged, he appeared, sitting in his own recess,
quiet and absorbed enough; but that blue eye of his had
a habit of leaving the outlandish-looking grammar, and
wandering over, and sometimes fixing upon us, his fellow-
students, with a curious intensity of observation: if caught,
it would be instantly withdrawn; yet ever and anon, it re-
turned searchingly to our table. I wondered what it meant:
I wondered, too, at the punctual satisfaction he never failed
to exhibit on an occasion that seemed to me of small mo-
ment, namely, my weekly visit to Morton school; and still
more was I puzzled when, if the day was unfavourable, if
there was snow, or rain, or high wind, and his sisters urged
me not to go, he would invariably make light of their so-
604 Jane Eyre

licitude, and encourage me to accomplish the task without
regard to the elements.
‘Jane is not such a weakling as you would make her,’ he
would say: ‘she can bear a mountain blast, or a shower, or a
few flakes of snow, as well as any of us. Her constitution is
both sound and elastic;—better calculated to endure varia-
tions of climate than many more robust.’
And when I returned, sometimes a good deal tired, and
not a little weather-beaten, I never dared complain, because
I saw that to murmur would be to vex him: on all occasions
fortitude pleased him; the reverse was a special annoyance.
One afternoon, however, I got leave to stay at home, be-
cause I really had a cold. His sisters were gone to Morton in
my stead: I sat reading Schiller; he, deciphering his crabbed
Oriental scrolls. As I exchanged a translation for an exer-
cise, I happened to look his way: there I found myself under
the influence of the ever-watchful blue eye. How long it had
been searching me through and through, and over and over,
I cannot tell: so keen was it, and yet so cold, I felt for the
moment superstitious—as if I were sitting in the room with
something uncanny.
‘Jane, what are you doing?’
‘Learning German.’
‘I want you to give up German and learn Hindostanee.’
‘You are not in earnest?’
‘In such earnest that I must have it so: and I will tell you
why.’
He then went on to explain that Hindostanee was the
language he was himself at present studying; that, as he

advanced, he was apt to forget the commencement; that it
would assist him greatly to have a pupil with whom he might
again and again go over the elements, and so fix them thor-
oughly in his mind; that his choice had hovered for some
time between me and his sisters; but that he had fixed on me
because he saw I could sit at a task the longest of the three.
Would I do him this favour? I should not, perhaps, have
to make the sacrifice long, as it wanted now barely three
months to his departure.
St. John was not a man to be lightly refused: you felt that
every impression made on him, either for pain or pleasure,
was deep-graved and permanent. I consented. When Diana
and Mary returned, the former found her scholar trans-
ferred from her to her brother: she laughed, and both she
and Mary agreed that St. John should never have persuaded
them to such a step. He answered quietly—
‘I know it.’
I found him a very patient, very forbearing, and yet an
exacting master: he expected me to do a great deal; and
when I fulfilled his expectations, he, in his own way, fully
testified his approbation. By degrees, he acquired a certain
influence over me that took away my liberty of mind: his
praise and notice were more restraining than his indiffer-
ence. I could no longer talk or laugh freely when he was
by, because a tiresomely importunate instinct reminded me
that vivacity (at least in me) was distasteful to him. I was so
fully aware that only serious moods and occupations were
acceptable, that in his presence every effort to sustain or
follow any other became vain: I fell under a freezing spell.
606 Jane Eyre

When he said ‘go,’ I went; ‘come,’ I came; ‘do this,’ I did it.
But I did not love my servitude: I wished, many a time, he
had continued to neglect me.
One evening when, at bedtime, his sisters and I stood
round him, bidding him good-night, he kissed each of them,
as was his custom; and, as was equally his custom, he gave
me his hand. Diana, who chanced to be in a frolicsome hu-
mour (SHE was not painfully controlled by his will; for hers,
in another way, was as strong), exclaimed—
‘St. John! you used to call Jane your third sister, but you
don’t treat her as such: you should kiss her too.’
She pushed me towards him. I thought Diana very pro-
voking, and felt uncomfortably confused; and while I was
thus thinking and feeling, St. John bent his head; his Greek
face was brought to a level with mine, his eyes questioned
my eyes piercingly—he kissed me. There are no such things
as marble kisses or ice kisses, or I should say my ecclesi-
astical cousin’s salute belonged to one of these classes; but
there may be experiment kisses, and his was an experiment
kiss. When given, he viewed me to learn the result; it was
not striking: I am sure I did not blush; perhaps I might have
turned a little pale, for I felt as if this kiss were a seal affixed
to my fetters. He never omitted the ceremony afterwards,
and the gravity and quiescence with which I underwent it,
seemed to invest it for him with a certain charm.
As for me, I daily wished more to please him; but to do
so, I felt daily more and more that I must disown half my
nature, stifle half my faculties, wrest my tastes from their
original bent, force myself to the adoption of pursuits for

which I had no natural vocation. He wanted to train me to
an elevation I could never reach; it racked me hourly to as-
pire to the standard he uplifted. The thing was as impossible
as to mould my irregular features to his correct and classic
pattern, to give to my changeable green eyes the sea-blue
tint and solemn lustre of his own.
Not his ascendancy alone, however, held me in thrall at
present. Of late it had been easy enough for me to look sad:
a cankering evil sat at my heart and drained my happiness
at its source—the evil of suspense.
Perhaps you think I had forgotten Mr. Rochester, reader,
amidst these changes of place and fortune. Not for a mo-
ment. His idea was still with me, because it was not a vapour
sunshine could disperse, nor a sand-traced effigy storms
could wash away; it was a name graven on a tablet, fated to
last as long as the marble it inscribed. The craving to know
what had become of him followed me everywhere; when I
was at Morton, I re-entered my cottage every evening to
think of that; and now at Moor House, I sought my bed-
room each night to brood over it.
In the course of my necessary correspondence with Mr.
Briggs about the will, I had inquired if he knew anything of
Mr. Rochester’s present residence and state of health; but,
as St. John had conjectured, he was quite ignorant of all
concerning him. I then wrote to Mrs. Fairfax, entreating
information on the subject. I had calculated with certain-
ty on this step answering my end: I felt sure it would elicit
an early answer. I was astonished when a fortnight passed
without reply; but when two months wore away, and day af-
608 Jane Eyre

ter day the post arrived and brought nothing for me, I fell a
prey to the keenest anxiety.
I wrote again: there was a chance of my first letter hav-
ing missed. Renewed hope followed renewed effort: it shone
like the former for some weeks, then, like it, it faded, flick-
ered: not a line, not a word reached me. When half a year
wasted in vain expectancy, my hope died out, and then I felt
dark indeed.
A fine spring shone round me, which I could not enjoy.
Summer approached; Diana tried to cheer me: she said I
looked ill, and wished to accompany me to the sea-side.
This St. John opposed; he said I did not want dissipation, I
wanted employment; my present life was too purposeless, I
required an aim; and, I suppose, by way of supplying deficien-
cies, he prolonged still further my lessons in Hindostanee,
and grew more urgent in requiring their accomplishment:
and I, like a fool, never thought of resisting him—I could
not resist him.
One day I had come to my studies in lower spirits than
usual; the ebb was occasioned by a poignantly felt disap-
pointment. Hannah had told me in the morning there was
a letter for me, and when I went down to take it, almost cer-
tain that the long-looked for tidings were vouchsafed me at
last, I found only an unimportant note from Mr. Briggs on
business. The bitter check had wrung from me some tears;
and now, as I sat poring over the crabbed characters and
flourishing tropes of an Indian scribe, my eyes filled again.
St. John called me to his side to read; in attempting to
do this my voice failed me: words were lost in sobs. He

and I were the only occupants of the parlour: Diana was
practising her music in the drawing-room, Mary was gar-
dening—it was a very fine May day, clear, sunny, and breezy.
My companion expressed no surprise at this emotion, nor
did he question me as to its cause; he only said—
‘We will wait a few minutes, Jane, till you are more com-
posed.’ And while I smothered the paroxysm with all haste,
he sat calm and patient, leaning on his desk, and looking
like a physician watching with the eye of science an expect-
ed and fully understood crisis in a patient’s malady. Having
stifled my sobs, wiped my eyes, and muttered something
about not being very well that morning, I resumed my task,
and succeeded in completing it. St. John put away my books
and his, locked his desk, and said—
‘Now, Jane, you shall take a walk; and with me.’
‘I will call Diana and Mary.’
‘No; I want only one companion this morning, and that
must be you. Put on your things; go out by the kitchen-
door: take the road towards the head of Marsh Glen: I will
join you in a moment.’
I know no medium: I never in my life have known any
medium in my dealings with positive, hard characters, an-
tagonistic to my own, between absolute submission and
determined revolt. I have always faithfully observed the
one, up to the very moment of bursting, sometimes with
volcanic vehemence, into the other; and as neither present
circumstances warranted, nor my present mood inclined
me to mutiny, I observed careful obedience to St. John’s di-
rections; and in ten minutes I was treading the wild track of
610 Jane Eyre

the glen, side by side with him.
The breeze was from the west: it came over the hills,
sweet with scents of heath and rush; the sky was of stain-
less blue; the stream descending the ravine, swelled with
past spring rains, poured along plentiful and clear, catch-
ing golden gleams from the sun, and sapphire tints from
the firmament. As we advanced and left the track, we trod
a soft turf, mossy fine and emerald green, minutely enam-
elled with a tiny white flower, and spangled with a star-like
yellow blossom: the hills, meantime, shut us quite in; for the
glen, towards its head, wound to their very core.
‘Let us rest here,’ said St. John, as we reached the first
stragglers of a battalion of rocks, guarding a sort of pass,
beyond which the beck rushed down a waterfall; and where,
still a little farther, the mountain shook off turf and flower,
had only heath for raiment and crag for gem—where it ex-
aggerated the wild to the savage, and exchanged the fresh
for the frowning—where it guarded the forlorn hope of soli-
tude, and a last refuge for silence.
I took a seat: St. John stood near me. He looked up the
pass and down the hollow; his glance wandered away with
the stream, and returned to traverse the unclouded heaven
which coloured it: he removed his hat, let the breeze stir his
hair and kiss his brow. He seemed in communion with the
genius of the haunt: with his eye he bade farewell to some-
thing.
‘And I shall see it again,’ he said aloud, ‘in dreams when
I sleep by the Ganges: and again in a more remote hour—
when another slumber overcomes me—on the shore of a

darker stream!’
Strange words of a strange love! An austere patriot’s pas-
sion for his fatherland! He sat down; for half-an-hour we
never spoke; neither he to me nor I to him: that interval
past, he recommenced—
‘Jane, I go in six weeks; I have taken my berth in an East
Indiaman which sails on the 20th of June.’
‘God will protect you; for you have undertaken His work,’
I answered.
‘Yes,’ said he, ‘there is my glory and joy. I am the servant
of an infallible Master. I am not going out under human
guidance, subject to the defective laws and erring control of
my feeble fellow-worms: my king, my lawgiver, my captain,
is the All-perfect. It seems strange to me that all round me
do not burn to enlist under the same banner,—to join in the
same enterprise.’
‘All have not your powers, and it would be folly for the
feeble to wish to march with the strong.’
‘I do not speak to the feeble, or think of them: I address
only such as are worthy of the work, and competent to ac-
complish it.’
‘Those are few in number, and difficult to discover.’
‘You say truly; but when found, it is right to stir them
up—to urge and exhort them to the effort—to show them
what their gifts are, and why they were given—to speak
Heaven’s message in their ear,—to offer them, direct from
God, a place in the ranks of His chosen.’
‘If they are really qualified for the task, will not their own
hearts be the first to inform them of it?’
612 Jane Eyre

I felt as if an awful charm was framing round and gath-
ering over me: I trembled to hear some fatal word spoken
which would at once declare and rivet the spell.
‘And what does YOUR heart say?’ demanded St. John.
‘My heart is mute,—my heart is mute,’ I answered, struck
and thrilled.
‘Then I must speak for it,’ continued the deep, relentless
voice. ‘Jane, come with me to India: come as my helpmeet
and fellow- labourer.’
The glen and sky spun round: the hills heaved! It was as
if I had heard a summons from Heaven—as if a visionary
messenger, like him of Macedonia, had enounced, ‘Come
over and help us!’ But I was no apostle,—I could not behold
the herald,—I could not receive his call.
‘Oh, St. John!’ I cried, ‘have some mercy!’
I appealed to one who, in the discharge of what he be-
lieved his duty, knew neither mercy nor remorse. He
continued—
‘God and nature intended you for a missionary’s wife. It
is not personal, but mental endowments they have given
you: you are formed for labour, not for love. A missionary’s
wife you must—shall be. You shall be mine: I claim you—
not for my pleasure, but for my Sovereign’s service.’
‘I am not fit for it: I have no vocation,’ I said.
He had calculated on these first objections: he was not
irritated by them. Indeed, as he leaned back against the
crag behind him, folded his arms on his chest, and fixed
his countenance, I saw he was prepared for a long and try-
ing opposition, and had taken in a stock of patience to last

him to its close—resolved, however, that that close should
be conquest for him.
‘Humility, Jane,’ said he, ‘is the groundwork of Christian
virtues: you say right that you are not fit for the work. Who
is fit for it? Or who, that ever was truly called, believed him-
self worthy of the summons? I, for instance, am but dust
and ashes. With St. Paul, I acknowledge myself the chiefest
of sinners; but I do not suffer this sense of my personal vile-
ness to daunt me. I know my Leader: that He is just as well
as mighty; and while He has chosen a feeble instrument to
perform a great task, He will, from the boundless stores of
His providence, supply the inadequacy of the means to the
end. Think like me, Jane—trust like me. It is the Rock of
Ages I ask you to lean on: do not doubt but it will bear the
weight of your human weakness.’
‘I do not understand a missionary life: I have never stud-
ied missionary labours.’
‘There I, humble as I am, can give you the aid you want:
I can set you your task from hour to hour; stand by you al-
ways; help you from moment to moment. This I could do
in the beginning: soon (for I know your powers) you would
be as strong and apt as myself, and would not require my
help.’
‘But my powers—where are they for this undertaking? I
do not feel them. Nothing speaks or stirs in me while you
talk. I am sensible of no light kindling—no life quicken-
ing—no voice counselling or cheering. Oh, I wish I could
make you see how much my mind is at this moment like
a rayless dungeon, with one shrinking fear fettered in its
614 Jane Eyre

depths—the fear of being persuaded by you to attempt what
I cannot accomplish!’
‘I have an answer for you—hear it. I have watched you
ever since we first met: I have made you my study for ten
months. I have proved you in that time by sundry tests: and
what have I seen and elicited? In the village school I found
you could perform well, punctually, uprightly, labour un-
congenial to your habits and inclinations; I saw you could
perform it with capacity and tact: you could win while
you controlled. In the calm with which you learnt you had
become suddenly rich, I read a mind clear of the vice of De-
mas:- lucre had no undue power over you. In the resolute
readiness with which you cut your wealth into four shares,
keeping but one to yourself, and relinquishing the three
others to the claim of abstract justice, I recognised a soul
that revelled in the flame and excitement of sacrifice. In the
tractability with which, at my wish, you forsook a study in
which you were interested, and adopted another because
it interested me; in the untiring assiduity with which you
have since persevered in it—in the unflagging energy and
unshaken temper with which you have met its difficulties—
I acknowledge the complement of the qualities I seek. Jane,
you are docile, diligent, disinterested, faithful, constant, and
courageous; very gentle, and very heroic: cease to mistrust
yourself—I can trust you unreservedly. As a conductress of
Indian schools, and a helper amongst Indian women, your
assistance will be to me invaluable.’
My iron shroud contracted round me; persuasion ad-
vanced with slow sure step. Shut my eyes as I would, these

last words of his succeeded in making the way, which had
seemed blocked up, comparatively clear. My work, which
had appeared so vague, so hopelessly diffuse, condensed it-
self as he proceeded, and assumed a definite form under his
shaping hand. He waited for an answer. I demanded a quar-
ter of an hour to think, before I again hazarded a reply.
‘Very willingly,’ he rejoined; and rising, he strode a lit-
tle distance up the pass, threw himself down on a swell of
heath, and there lay still.
‘I CAN do what he wants me to do: I am forced to see and
acknowledge that,’ I meditated,—‘that is, if life be spared
me. But I feel mine is not the existence to be long protract-
ed under an Indian sun. What then? He does not care for
that: when my time came to die, he would resign me, in all
serenity and sanctity, to the God who gave me. The case is
very plain before me. In leaving England, I should leave a
loved but empty land—Mr. Rochester is not there; and if he
were, what is, what can that ever be to me? My business is
to live without him now: nothing so absurd, so weak as to
drag on from day to day, as if I were waiting some impos-
sible change in circumstances, which might reunite me to
him. Of course (as St. John once said) I must seek another
interest in life to replace the one lost: is not the occupation
he now offers me truly the most glorious man can adopt or
God assign? Is it not, by its noble cares and sublime results,
the one best calculated to fill the void left by uptorn affec-
tions and demolished hopes? I believe I must say, Yes—and
yet I shudder. Alas! If I join St. John, I abandon half myself:
if I go to India, I go to premature death. And how will the
616 Jane Eyre

interval between leaving England for India, and India for
the grave, be filled? Oh, I know well! That, too, is very clear
to my vision. By straining to satisfy St. John till my sinews
ache, I SHALL satisfy him—to the finest central point and
farthest outward circle of his expectations. If I DO go with
him— if I DO make the sacrifice he urges, I will make it
absolutely: I will throw all on the altar—heart, vitals, the
entire victim. He will never love me; but he shall approve
me; I will show him energies he has not yet seen, resources
he has never suspected. Yes, I can work as hard as he can,
and with as little grudging.
‘Consent, then, to his demand is possible: but for one
item—one dreadful item. It is—that he asks me to be his
wife, and has no more of a husband’s heart for me than that
frowning giant of a rock, down which the stream is foam-
ing in yonder gorge. He prizes me as a soldier would a good
weapon; and that is all. Unmarried to him, this would never
grieve me; but can I let him complete his calculations—
coolly put into practice his plans—go through the wedding
ceremony? Can I receive from him the bridal ring, endure
all the forms of love (which I doubt not he would scrupu-
lously observe) and know that the spirit was quite absent?
Can I bear the consciousness that every endearment he
bestows is a sacrifice made on principle? No: such a mar-
tyrdom would be monstrous. I will never undergo it. As his
sister, I might accompany him—not as his wife: I will tell
him so.’
I looked towards the knoll: there he lay, still as a prostrate
column; his face turned to me: his eye beaming watchful

and keen. He started to his feet and approached me.
‘I am ready to go to India, if I may go free.’
‘Your answer requires a commentary,’ he said; ‘it is not
clear.’
‘You have hitherto been my adopted brother—I, your ad-
opted sister: let us continue as such: you and I had better
not marry.’
He shook his head. ‘Adopted fraternity will not do in
this case. If you were my real sister it would be different:
I should take you, and seek no wife. But as it is, either our
union must be consecrated and sealed by marriage, or it
cannot exist: practical obstacles oppose themselves to any
other plan. Do you not see it, Jane? Consider a moment—
your strong sense will guide you.’
I did consider; and still my sense, such as it was, direct-
ed me only to the fact that we did not love each other as
man and wife should: and therefore it inferred we ought not
to marry. I said so. ‘St. John,’ I returned, ‘I regard you as a
brother—you, me as a sister: so let us continue.’
‘We cannot—we cannot,’ he answered, with short, sharp
determination: ‘it would not do. You have said you will go
with me to India: remember—you have said that.’
‘Conditionally.’
‘Well—well. To the main point—the departure with me
from England, the co-operation with me in my future la-
bours—you do not object. You have already as good as put
your hand to the plough: you are too consistent to withdraw
it. You have but one end to keep in view—how the work
you have undertaken can best be done. Simplify your com-
618 Jane Eyre

plicated interests, feelings, thoughts, wishes, aims; merge
all considerations in one purpose: that of fulfilling with ef-
fect— with power—the mission of your great Master. To
do so, you must have a coadjutor: not a brother—that is a
loose tie—but a husband. I, too, do not want a sister: a sis-
ter might any day be taken from me. I want a wife: the sole
helpmeet I can influence efficiently in life, and retain abso-
lutely till death.’
I shuddered as he spoke: I felt his influence in my mar-
row—his hold on my limbs.
‘Seek one elsewhere than in me, St. John: seek one fitted
to you.’
‘One fitted to my purpose, you mean—fitted to my vo-
cation. Again I tell you it is not the insignificant private
individual—the mere man, with the man’s selfish senses—I
wish to mate: it is the missionary.’
‘And I will give the missionary my energies—it is all he
wants—but not myself: that would be only adding the husk
and shell to the kernel. For them he has no use: I retain
them.’
‘You cannot—you ought not. Do you think God will be
satisfied with half an oblation? Will He accept a mutilated
sacrifice? It is the cause of God I advocate: it is under His
standard I enlist you. I cannot accept on His behalf a divid-
ed allegiance: it must be entire.’
‘Oh! I will give my heart to God,’ I said. ‘YOU do not
want it.’
I will not swear, reader, that there was not something of
repressed sarcasm both in the tone in which I uttered this

sentence, and in the feeling that accompanied it. I had si-
lently feared St. John till now, because I had not understood
him. He had held me in awe, because he had held me in
doubt. How much of him was saint, how much mortal, I
could not heretofore tell: but revelations were being made in
this conference: the analysis of his nature was proceeding
before my eyes. I saw his fallibilities: I comprehended them.
I understood that, sitting there where I did, on the bank of
heath, and with that handsome form before me, I sat at the
feet of a man, caring as I. The veil fell from his hardness and
despotism. Having felt in him the presence of these quali-
ties, I felt his imperfection and took courage. I was with an
equal—one with whom I might argue—one whom, if I saw
good, I might resist.
He was silent after I had uttered the last sentence, and I
presently risked an upward glance at his countenance.
His eye, bent on me, expressed at once stern surprise
and keen inquiry. ‘Is she sarcastic, and sarcastic to ME!’ it
seemed to say. ‘What does this signify?’
‘Do not let us forget that this is a solemn matter,’ he said
ere long; ‘one of which we may neither think nor talk light-
ly without sin. I trust, Jane, you are in earnest when you
say you will serve your heart to God: it is all I want. Once
wrench your heart from man, and fix it on your Maker, the
advancement of that Maker’s spiritual kingdom on earth
will be your chief delight and endeavour; you will be ready
to do at once whatever furthers that end. You will see what
impetus would be given to your efforts and mine by our
physical and mental union in marriage: the only union that
620 Jane Eyre

gives a character of permanent conformity to the destinies
and designs of human beings; and, passing over all minor
caprices—all trivial difficulties and delicacies of feeling—
all scruple about the degree, kind, strength or tenderness
of mere personal inclination— you will hasten to enter into
that union at once.’
‘Shall I?’ I said briefly; and I looked at his features, beau-
tiful in their harmony, but strangely formidable in their still
severity; at his brow, commanding but not open; at his eyes,
bright and deep and searching, but never soft; at his tall im-
posing figure; and fancied myself in idea HIS WIFE. Oh! it
would never do! As his curate, his comrade, all would be
right: I would cross oceans with him in that capacity; toil
under Eastern suns, in Asian deserts with him in that office;
admire and emulate his courage and devotion and vigour;
accommodate quietly to his masterhood; smile undisturbed
at his ineradicable ambition; discriminate the Christian
from the man: profoundly esteem the one, and freely for-
give the other. I should suffer often, no doubt, attached to
him only in this capacity: my body would be under rather
a stringent yoke, but my heart and mind would be free. I
should still have my unblighted self to turn to: my natural
unenslaved feelings with which to communicate in mo-
ments of loneliness. There would be recesses in my mind
which would be only mine, to which he never came, and
sentiments growing there fresh and sheltered which his aus-
terity could never blight, nor his measured warrior-march
trample down: but as his wife—at his side always, and al-
ways restrained, and always checked—forced to keep the

fire of my nature continually low, to compel it to burn in-
wardly and never utter a cry, though the imprisoned flame
consumed vital after vital—THIS would be unendurable.
‘St. John!’ I exclaimed, when I had got so far in my medi-
tation.
‘Well?’ he answered icily.
‘I repeat I freely consent to go with you as your fellow-
missionary, but not as your wife; I cannot marry you and
become part of you.’
‘A part of me you must become,’ he answered steadi-
ly; ‘otherwise the whole bargain is void. How can I, a man
not yet thirty, take out with me to India a girl of nineteen,
unless she be married to me? How can we be for ever to-
gether—sometimes in solitudes, sometimes amidst savage
tribes—and unwed?’
‘Very well,’ I said shortly; ‘under the circumstances, quite
as well as if I were either your real sister, or a man and a
clergyman like yourself.’
‘It is known that you are not my sister; I cannot intro-
duce you as such: to attempt it would be to fasten injurious
suspicions on us both. And for the rest, though you have
a man’s vigorous brain, you have a woman’s heart and—it
would not do.’
‘It would do,’ I affirmed with some disdain, ‘perfectly well.
I have a woman’s heart, but not where you are concerned;
for you I have only a comrade’s constancy; a fellow-sol-
dier’s frankness, fidelity, fraternity, if you like; a neophyte’s
respect and submission to his hierophant: nothing more—
don’t fear.’
622 Jane Eyre

‘It is what I want,’ he said, speaking to himself; ‘it is just
what I want. And there are obstacles in the way: they must
be hewn down. Jane, you would not repent marrying me—
be certain of that; we MUST be married. I repeat it: there is
no other way; and undoubtedly enough of love would fol-
low upon marriage to render the union right even in your
eyes.’
‘I scorn your idea of love,’ I could not help saying, as I
rose up and stood before him, leaning my back against the
rock. ‘I scorn the counterfeit sentiment you offer: yes, St.
John, and I scorn you when you offer it.’
He looked at me fixedly, compressing his well-cut lips
while he did so. Whether he was incensed or surprised, or
what, it was not easy to tell: he could command his counte-
nance thoroughly.
‘I scarcely expected to hear that expression from you,’ he
said: ‘I think I have done and uttered nothing to deserve
scorn.’
I was touched by his gentle tone, and overawed by his
high, calm mien.
‘Forgive me the words, St. John; but it is your own fault
that I have been roused to speak so unguardedly. You have
introduced a topic on which our natures are at variance—
a topic we should never discuss: the very name of love is
an apple of discord between us. If the reality were required,
what should we do? How should we feel? My dear cousin,
abandon your scheme of marriage—forget it.’
‘No,’ said he; ‘it is a long-cherished scheme, and the only
one which can secure my great end: but I shall urge you

no further at present. To-morrow, I leave home for Cam-
bridge: I have many friends there to whom I should wish to
say farewell. I shall be absent a fortnight—take that space
of time to consider my offer: and do not forget that if you
reject it, it is not me you deny, but God. Through my means,
He opens to you a noble career; as my wife only can you en-
ter upon it. Refuse to be my wife, and you limit yourself for
ever to a track of selfish ease and barren obscurity. Tremble
lest in that case you should be numbered with those who
have denied the faith, and are worse than infidels!’
He had done. Turning from me, he once more
‘Looked to river, looked to hill.’
But this time his feelings were all pent in his heart: I was
not worthy to hear them uttered. As I walked by his side
homeward, I read well in his iron silence all he felt towards
me: the disappointment of an austere and despotic nature,
which has met resistance where it expected submission—
the disapprobation of a cool, inflexible judgment, which
has detected in another feelings and views in which it has
no power to sympathise: in short, as a man, he would have
wished to coerce me into obedience: it was only as a sincere
Christian he bore so patiently with my perversity, and al-
lowed so long a space for reflection and repentance.
That night, after he had kissed his sisters, he thought
proper to forget even to shake hands with me, but left the
room in silence. I—who, though I had no love, had much
friendship for him—was hurt by the marked omission: so
much hurt that tears started to my eyes.
‘I see you and St. John have been quarrelling, Jane,’ said
624 Jane Eyre

Diana, ‘during your walk on the moor. But go after him;
he is now lingering in the passage expecting you—he will
make it up.’
I have not much pride under such circumstances: I would
always rather be happy than dignified; and I ran after him—
he stood at the foot of the stairs.
‘Good-night, St. John,’ said I.
‘Good-night, Jane,’ he replied calmly.
‘Then shake hands,’ I added.
What a cold, loose touch, he impressed on my fingers!
He was deeply displeased by what had occurred that day;
cordiality would not warm, nor tears move him. No happy
reconciliation was to be had with himno cheering smile or
generous word: but still the Christian was patient and plac-
id; and when I asked him if he forgave me, he answered that
he was not in the habit of cherishing the remembrance of
vexation; that he had nothing to forgive, not having been
offended.
And with that answer he left me. I would much rather he
had knocked me down.

Chapter XXXV
H e did not leave for Cambridge the next day, as he had

said he would. He deferred his departure a whole week,
and during that time he made me feel what severe punish-
ment a good yet stern, a conscientious yet implacable man
can inflict on one who has offended him. Without one
overt act of hostility, one upbraiding word, he contrived to
impress me momently with the conviction that I was put
beyond the pale of his favour.
Not that St. John harboured a spirit of unchristian vin-
dictiveness— not that he would have injured a hair of my
head, if it had been fully in his power to do so. Both by
nature and principle, he was superior to the mean gratifica-
tion of vengeance: he had forgiven me for saying I scorned
him and his love, but he had not forgotten the words; and as
long as he and I lived he never would forget them. I saw by
his look, when he turned to me, that they were always writ-
ten on the air between me and him; whenever I spoke, they
sounded in my voice to his ear, and their echo toned every
answer he gave me.
He did not abstain from conversing with me: he even
called me as usual each morning to join him at his desk; and
I fear the corrupt man within him had a pleasure unimpart-
ed to, and unshared by, the pure Christian, in evincing with
what skill he could, while acting and speaking apparently
626 Jane Eyre

just as usual, extract from every deed and every phrase the
spirit of interest and approval which had formerly commu-
nicated a certain austere charm to his language and manner.
To me, he was in reality become no longer flesh, but marble;
his eye was a cold, bright, blue gem; his tongue a speaking
instrument— nothing more.
All this was torture to me—refined, lingering torture. It
kept up a slow fire of indignation and a trembling trouble
of grief, which harassed and crushed me altogether. I felt
how—if I were his wife, this good man, pure as the deep
sunless source, could soon kill me, without drawing from
my veins a single drop of blood, or receiving on his own
crystal conscience the faintest stain of crime. Especially
I felt this when I made any attempt to propitiate him. No
ruth met my ruth. HE experienced no suffering from es-
trangementno yearning after reconciliation; and though,
more than once, my fast falling tears blistered the page over
which we both bent, they produced no more effect on him
than if his heart had been really a matter of stone or met-
al. To his sisters, meantime, he was somewhat kinder than
usual: as if afraid that mere coldness would not sufficiently
convince me how completely I was banished and banned,
he added the force of contrast; and this I am sure he did not
by force, but on principle.
The night before he left home, happening to see him
walking in the garden about sunset, and remembering, as I
looked at him, that this man, alienated as he now was, had
once saved my life, and that we were near relations, I was
moved to make a last attempt to regain his friendship. I

went out and approached him as he stood leaning over the
little gate; I spoke to the point at once.
‘St. John, I am unhappy because you are still angry with
me. Let us be friends.’
‘I hope we are friends,’ was the unmoved reply; while
he still watched the rising of the moon, which he had been
contemplating as I approached.
‘No, St. John, we are not friends as we were. You know
that.’
‘Are we not? That is wrong. For my part, I wish you no ill
and all good.’
‘I believe you, St. John; for I am sure you are incapable of
wishing any one ill; but, as I am your kinswoman, I should
desire somewhat more of affection than that sort of general
philanthropy you extend to mere strangers.’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Your wish is reasonable, and I am far
from regarding you as a stranger.’
This, spoken in a cool, tranquil tone, was mortifying and
baffling enough. Had I attended to the suggestions of pride
and ire, I should immediately have left him; but something
worked within me more strongly than those feelings could.
I deeply venerated my cousin’s talent and principle. His
friendship was of value to me: to lose it tried me severely. I
would not so soon relinquish the attempt to reconquer it.
‘Must we part in this way, St. John? And when you go to
India, will you leave me so, without a kinder word than you
have yet spoken?’
He now turned quite from the moon and faced me.
‘When I go to India, Jane, will I leave you! What! do you
628 Jane Eyre

not go to India?’
‘You said I could not unless I married you.’
‘And you will not marry me! You adhere to that resolu-
tion?’
Reader, do you know, as I do, what terror those cold peo-
ple can put into the ice of their questions? How much of the
fall of the avalanche is in their anger? of the breaking up of
the frozen sea in their displeasure?
‘No. St. John, I will not marry you. I adhere to my reso-
lution.’
The avalanche had shaken and slid a little forward, but it
did not yet crash down.
‘Once more, why this refusal?’ he asked.
‘Formerly,’ I answered, ‘because you did not love me; now,
I reply, because you almost hate me. If I were to marry you,
you would kill me. You are killing me now.’
His lips and cheeks turned white—quite white.
‘I SHOULD KILL YOU—I AM KILLING YOU? Your
words are such as ought not to be used: violent, unfeminine,
and untrue. They betray an unfortunate state of mind: they
merit severe reproof: they would seem inexcusable, but that
it is the duty of man to forgive his fellow even until seventy-
and-seven times.’
I had finished the business now. While earnestly wishing
to erase from his mind the trace of my former offence, I had
stamped on that tenacious surface another and far deeper
impression, I had burnt it in.
‘Now you will indeed hate me,’ I said. ‘It is useless to at-
tempt to conciliate you: I see I have made an eternal enemy

of you.’
A fresh wrong did these words inflict: the worse, because
they touched on the truth. That bloodless lip quivered to a
temporary spasm. I knew the steely ire I had whetted. I was
heart-wrung.
‘You utterly misinterpret my words,’ I said, at once seizing
his hand: ‘I have no intention to grieve or pain you—indeed,
I have not.’
Most bitterly he smiled—most decidedly he withdrew
his hand from mine. ‘And now you recall your promise, and
will not go to India at all, I presume?’ said he, after a con-
siderable pause.
‘Yes, I will, as your assistant,’ I answered.
A very long silence succeeded. What struggle there was
in him between Nature and Grace in this interval, I can-
not tell: only singular gleams scintillated in his eyes, and
strange shadows passed over his face. He spoke at last.
‘I before proved to you the absurdity of a single woman
of your age proposing to accompany abroad a single man
of mine. I proved it to you in such terms as, I should have
thought, would have prevented your ever again alluding to
the plan. That you have done so, I regret—for your sake.’
I interrupted him. Anything like a tangible reproach
gave me courage at once. ‘Keep to common sense, St. John:
you are verging on nonsense. You pretend to be shocked by
what I have said. You are not really shocked: for, with your
superior mind, you cannot be either so dull or so conceited
as to misunderstand my meaning. I say again, I will be your
curate, if you like, but never your wife.’
630 Jane Eyre

Again he turned lividly pale; but, as before, controlled his
passion perfectly. He answered emphatically but calmly—
‘A female curate, who is not my wife, would never suit
me. With me, then, it seems, you cannot go: but if you are
sincere in your offer, I will, while in town, speak to a mar-
ried missionary, whose wife needs a coadjutor. Your own
fortune will make you independent of the Society’s aid; and
thus you may still be spared the dishonour of breaking your
promise and deserting the band you engaged to join.’
Now I never had, as the reader knows, either given any
formal promise or entered into any engagement; and this
language was all much too hard and much too despotic for
the occasion. I replied—
‘There is no dishonour, no breach of promise, no deser-
tion in the case. I am not under the slightest obligation to go
to India, especially with strangers. With you I would have
ventured much, because I admire, confide in, and, as a sis-
ter, I love you; but I am convinced that, go when and with
whom I would, I should not live long in that climate.’
‘Ah! you are afraid of yourself,’ he said, curling his lip.
‘I am. God did not give me my life to throw away; and
to do as you wish me would, I begin to think, be almost
equivalent to committing suicide. Moreover, before I defin-
itively resolve on quitting England, I will know for certain
whether I cannot be of greater use by remaining in it than
by leaving it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It would be fruitless to attempt to explain; but there is
a point on which I have long endured painful doubt, and I

can go nowhere till by some means that doubt is removed.’
‘I know where your heart turns and to what it clings. The
interest you cherish is lawless and unconsecrated. Long
since you ought to have crushed it: now you should blush to
allude to it. You think of Mr. Rochester?’
It was true. I confessed it by silence.
‘Are you going to seek Mr. Rochester?’
‘I must find out what is become of him.’
‘It remains for me, then,’ he said, ‘to remember you in
my prayers, and to entreat God for you, in all earnestness,
that you may not indeed become a castaway. I had thought
I recognised in you one of the chosen. But God sees not as
man sees: HIS will be done—‘
He opened the gate, passed through it, and strayed away
down the glen. He was soon out of sight.
On re-entering the parlour, I found Diana standing at
the window, looking very thoughtful. Diana was a great
deal taller than I: she put her hand on my shoulder, and,
stooping, examined my face.
‘Jane,’ she said, ‘you are always agitated and pale now. I
am sure there is something the matter. Tell me what busi-
ness St. John and you have on hands. I have watched you
this half hour from the window; you must forgive my being
such a spy, but for a long time I have fancied I hardly know
what. St. John is a strange being—‘
She paused—I did not speak: soon she resumed—
‘That brother of mine cherishes peculiar views of some
sort respecting you, I am sure: he has long distinguished
you by a notice and interest he never showed to any one
632 Jane Eyre

else—to what end? I wish he loved you—does he, Jane?’
I put her cool hand to my hot forehead; ‘No, Die, not one
whit.’
‘Then why does he follow you so with his eyes, and get
you so frequently alone with him, and keep you so continu-
ally at his side? Mary and I had both concluded he wished
you to marry him.’
‘He does—he has asked me to be his wife.’
Diana clapped her hands. ‘That is just what we hoped
and thought! And you will marry him, Jane, won’t you?
And then he will stay in England.’
‘Far from that, Diana; his sole idea in proposing to me is
to procure a fitting fellow-labourer in his Indian toils.’
‘What! He wishes you to go to India?’
‘Yes.’
‘Madness!’ she exclaimed. ‘You would not live three
months there, I am certain. You never shall go: you have
not consented, have you, Jane?’
‘I have refused to marry him—‘
‘And have consequently displeased him?’ she suggested.
‘Deeply: he will never forgive me, I fear: yet I offered to
accompany him as his sister.’
‘It was frantic folly to do so, Jane. Think of the task you
undertook—one of incessant fatigue, where fatigue kills
even the strong, and you are weak. St. John—you know
him—would urge you to impossibilities: with him there
would be no permission to rest during the hot hours; and
unfortunately, I have noticed, whatever he exacts, you force
yourself to perform. I am astonished you found courage to

refuse his hand. You do not love him then, Jane?’
‘Not as a husband.’
‘Yet he is a handsome fellow.’
‘And I am so plain, you see, Die. We should never suit.’
‘Plain! You? Not at all. You are much too pretty, as well
as too good, to be grilled alive in Calcutta.’ And again she
earnestly conjured me to give up all thoughts of going out
with her brother.
‘I must indeed,’ I said; ‘for when just now I repeated the
offer of serving him for a deacon, he expressed himself
shocked at my want of decency. He seemed to think I had
committed an impropriety in proposing to accompany him
unmarried: as if I had not from the first hoped to find in
him a brother, and habitually regarded him as such.’
‘What makes you say he does not love you, Jane?’
‘You should hear himself on the subject. He has again
and again explained that it is not himself, but his office he
wishes to mate. He has told me I am formed for labour—not
for love: which is true, no doubt. But, in my opinion, if I am
not formed for love, it follows that I am not formed for mar-
riage. Would it not be strange, Die, to be chained for life to
a man who regarded one but as a useful tool?’
‘Insupportable—unnatural—out of the question!’
‘And then,’ I continued, ‘though I have only sisterly affec-
tion for him now, yet, if forced to be his wife, I can imagine
the possibility of conceiving an inevitable, strange, tortur-
ing kind of love for him, because he is so talented; and there
is often a certain heroic grandeur in his look, manner, and
conversation. In that case, my lot would become unspeak-
634 Jane Eyre

ably wretched. He would not want me to love him; and if I
showed the feeling, he would make me sensible that it was a
superfluity, unrequired by him, unbecoming in me. I know
he would.’
‘And yet St. John is a good man,’ said Diana.
‘He is a good and a great man; but he forgets, pitilessly,
the feelings and claims of little people, in pursuing his own
large views. It is better, therefore, for the insignificant to
keep out of his way, lest, in his progress, he should trample
them down. Here he comes! I will leave you, Diana.’ And I
hastened upstairs as I saw him entering the garden.
But I was forced to meet him again at supper. During
that meal he appeared just as composed as usual. I had
thought he would hardly speak to me, and I was certain he
had given up the pursuit of his matrimonial scheme: the se-
quel showed I was mistaken on both points. He addressed
me precisely in his ordinary manner, or what had, of late,
been his ordinary manner—one scrupulously polite. No
doubt he had invoked the help of the Holy Spirit to subdue
the anger I had roused in him, and now believed he had for-
given me once more.
For the evening reading before prayers, he selected the
twenty-first chapter of Revelation. It was at all times pleas-
ant to listen while from his lips fell the words of the Bible:
never did his fine voice sound at once so sweet and full—
never did his manner become so impressive in its noble
simplicity, as when he delivered the oracles of God: and
to-night that voice took a more solemn tone—that man-
ner a more thrilling meaning—as he sat in the midst of his

household circle (the May moon shining in through the un-
curtained window, and rendering almost unnecessary the
light of the candle on the table): as he sat there, bending
over the great old Bible, and described from its page the vi-
sion of the new heaven and the new earth—told how God
would come to dwell with men, how He would wipe away
all tears from their eyes, and promised that there should
be no more death, neither sorrow nor crying, nor any more
pain, because the former things were passed away.
The succeeding words thrilled me strangely as he spoke
them: especially as I felt, by the slight, indescribable altera-
tion in sound, that in uttering them, his eye had turned on
me.
‘He that overcometh shall inherit all things; and I will be
his God, and he shall be my son. But,’ was slowly, distinctly
read, ‘the fearful, the unbelieving, &c., shall have their part
in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone, which is
the second death.’
Henceforward, I knew what fate St. John feared for me.
A calm, subdued triumph, blent with a longing earnest-
ness, marked his enunciation of the last glorious verses
of that chapter. The reader believed his name was already
written in the Lamb’s book of life, and he yearned after the
hour which should admit him to the city to which the kings
of the earth bring their glory and honour; which has no
need of sun or moon to shine in it, because the glory of God
lightens it, and the Lamb is the light thereof.
In the prayer following the chapter, all his energy gath-
ered—all his stern zeal woke: he was in deep earnest,
636 Jane Eyre

wrestling with God, and resolved on a conquest. He suppli-
cated strength for the weak- hearted; guidance for wanderers
from the fold: a return, even at the eleventh hour, for those
whom the temptations of the world and the flesh were lur-
ing from the narrow path. He asked, he urged, he claimed
the boon of a brand snatched from the burning. Earnest-
ness is ever deeply solemn: first, as I listened to that prayer,
I wondered at his; then, when it continued and rose, I was
touched by it, and at last awed. He felt the greatness and
goodness of his purpose so sincerely: others who heard him
plead for it, could not but feel it too.
The prayer over, we took leave of him: he was to go at
a very early hour in the morning. Diana and Mary having
kissed him, left the room—in compliance, I think, with a
whispered hint from him: I tendered my hand, and wished
him a pleasant journey.
‘Thank you, Jane. As I said, I shall return from Cambridge
in a fortnight: that space, then, is yet left you for reflection.
If I listened to human pride, I should say no more to you of
marriage with me; but I listen to my duty, and keep steadily
in view my first aim—to do all things to the glory of God.
My Master was long- suffering: so will I be. I cannot give
you up to perdition as a vessel of wrath: repent—resolve,
while there is yet time. Remember, we are bid to work while
it is day—warned that ‘the night cometh when no man shall
work.’ Remember the fate of Dives, who had his good things
in this life. God give you strength to choose that better part
which shall not be taken from you!’
He laid his hand on my head as he uttered the last words.

He had spoken earnestly, mildly: his look was not, indeed,
that of a lover beholding his mistress, but it was that of a
pastor recalling his wandering sheep—or better, of a guard-
ian angel watching the soul for which he is responsible. All
men of talent, whether they be men of feeling or not; wheth-
er they be zealots, or aspirants, or despots—provided only
they be sincere—have their sublime moments, when they
subdue and rule. I felt veneration for St. John— veneration
so strong that its impetus thrust me at once to the point
I had so long shunned. I was tempted to cease struggling
with him— to rush down the torrent of his will into the
gulf of his existence, and there lose my own. I was almost as
hard beset by him now as I had been once before, in a differ-
ent way, by another. I was a fool both times. To have yielded
then would have been an error of principle; to have yielded
now would have been an error of judgment. So I think at
this hour, when I look back to the crisis through the quiet
medium of time: I was unconscious of folly at the instant.
I stood motionless under my hierophant’s touch. My
refusals were forgotten—my fears overcome—my wres-
tlings paralysed. The Impossible—I.E., my marriage with
St. John—was fast becoming the Possible. All was chang-
ing utterly with a sudden sweep. Religion called—Angels
beckoned—God commanded—life rolled together like a
scroll—death’s gates opening, showed eternity beyond: it
seemed, that for safety and bliss there, all here might be
sacrificed in a second. The dim room was full of visions.
‘Could you decide now?’ asked the missionary. The in-
quiry was put in gentle tones: he drew me to him as gently.
638 Jane Eyre

Oh, that gentleness! how far more potent is it than force!
I could resist St. John’s wrath: I grew pliant as a reed un-
der his kindness. Yet I knew all the time, if I yielded now, I
should not the less be made to repent, some day, of my for-
mer rebellion. His nature was not changed by one hour of
solemn prayer: it was only elevated.
‘I could decide if I were but certain,’ I answered: ‘were
I but convinced that it is God’s will I should marry you, I
could vow to marry you here and now—come afterwards
what would!’
‘My I prayers are heard!’ ejaculated St. John. He pressed
his hand firmer on my head, as if he claimed me: he sur-
rounded me with his arm, ALMOST as if he loved me (I
say ALMOST—I knew the difference— for I had felt what it
was to be loved; but, like him, I had now put love out of the
question, and thought only of duty). I contended with my
inward dimness of vision, before which clouds yet rolled. I
sincerely, deeply, fervently longed to do what was right; and
only that. ‘Show me, show me the path!’ I entreated of Heav-
en. I was excited more than I had ever been; and whether
what followed was the effect of excitement the reader shall
judge.
All the house was still; for I believe all, except St. John
and myself, were now retired to rest. The one candle was
dying out: the room was full of moonlight. My heart beat
fast and thick: I heard its throb. Suddenly it stood still to an
inexpressible feeling that thrilled it through, and passed at
once to my head and extremities. The feeling was not like
an electric shock, but it was quite as sharp, as strange, as

startling: it acted on my senses as if their utmost activity
hitherto had been but torpor, from which they were now
summoned and forced to wake. They rose expectant: eye
and ear waited while the flesh quivered on my bones.
‘What have you heard? What do you see?’ asked St. John.
I saw nothing, but I heard a voice somewhere cry—
‘Jane! Jane! Jane!’—nothing more.
‘O God! what is it?’ I gasped.
I might have said, ‘Where is it?’ for it did not seem in
the room— nor in the house—nor in the garden; it did not
come out of the airnor from under the earth—nor from
overhead. I had heard it— where, or whence, for ever im-
possible to know! And it was the voice of a human being—a
known, loved, well-remembered voice—that of Edward
Fairfax Rochester; and it spoke in pain and woe, wildly, ee-
rily, urgently.
‘I am coming!’ I cried. ‘Wait for me! Oh, I will come!’ I
flew to the door and looked into the passage: it was dark. I
ran out into the garden: it was void.
‘Where are you?’ I exclaimed.
The hills beyond Marsh Glen sent the answer faintly
back—‘Where are you?’ I listened. The wind sighed low in
the firs: all was moorland loneliness and midnight hush.
‘Down superstition!’ I commented, as that spectre rose
up black by the black yew at the gate. ‘This is not thy decep-
tion, nor thy witchcraft: it is the work of nature. She was
roused, and did—no miracle—but her best.’
I broke from St. John, who had followed, and would have
detained me. It was MY time to assume ascendency. MY
640 Jane Eyre

powers were in play and in force. I told him to forbear ques-
tion or remark; I desired him to leave me: I must and would
be alone. He obeyed at once. Where there is energy to com-
mand well enough, obedience never fails. I mounted to my
chamber; locked myself in; fell on my knees; and prayed in
my way—a different way to St. John’s, but effective in its own
fashion. I seemed to penetrate very near a Mighty Spirit;
and my soul rushed out in gratitude at His feet. I rose from
the thanksgiving—took a resolve—and lay down, unscared,
enlightened— eager but for the daylight.

Chapter XXXVI
T he daylight came. I rose at dawn. I busied myself for an

hour or two with arranging my things in my chamber,
drawers, and wardrobe, in the order wherein I should wish
to leave them during a brief absence. Meantime, I heard
St. John quit his room. He stopped at my door: I feared he
would knock—no, but a slip of paper was passed under the
door. I took it up. It bore these words—
‘You left me too suddenly last night. Had you stayed but
a little longer, you would have laid your hand on the Chris-
tian’s cross and the angel’s crown. I shall expect your clear
decision when I return this day fortnight. Meantime, watch
and pray that you enter not into temptation: the spirit, I
trust, is willing, but the flesh, I see, is weak. I shall pray for
you hourly.—Yours, ST. JOHN.’
‘My spirit,’ I answered mentally, ‘is willing to do what is
right; and my flesh, I hope, is strong enough to accomplish
the will of Heaven, when once that will is distinctly known
to me. At any rate, it shall be strong enough to search—in-
quire—to grope an outlet from this cloud of doubt, and find
the open day of certainty.’
It was the first of June; yet the morning was overcast and
chilly: rain beat fast on my casement. I heard the front-door
open, and St. John pass out. Looking through the window,
I saw him traverse the garden. He took the way over the
642 Jane Eyre

misty moors in the direction of Whitcross—there he would
meet the coach.
‘In a few more hours I shall succeed you in that track,
cousin,’ thought I: ‘I too have a coach to meet at Whitcross.
I too have some to see and ask after in England, before I de-
part for ever.’
It wanted yet two hours of breakfast-time. I filled the in-
terval in walking softly about my room, and pondering the
visitation which had given my plans their present bent. I re-
called that inward sensation I had experienced: for I could
recall it, with all its unspeakable strangeness. I recalled
the voice I had heard; again I questioned whence it came,
as vainly as before: it seemed in ME—not in the external
world. I asked was it a mere nervous impression—a delu-
sion? I could not conceive or believe: it was more like an
inspiration. The wondrous shock of feeling had come like
the earthquake which shook the foundations of Paul and
Silas’s prison; it had opened the doors of the soul’s cell and
loosed its bands—it had wakened it out of its sleep, whence
it sprang trembling, listening, aghast; then vibrated thrice
a cry on my startled ear, and in my quaking heart and
through my spirit, which neither feared nor shook, but ex-
ulted as if in joy over the success of one effort it had been
privileged to make, independent of the cumbrous body.
‘Ere many days,’ I said, as I terminated my musings, ‘I
will know something of him whose voice seemed last night
to summon me. Letters have proved of no avail—personal
inquiry shall replace them.’
At breakfast I announced to Diana and Mary that I was

going a journey, and should be absent at least four days.
‘Alone, Jane?’ they asked.
‘Yes; it was to see or hear news of a friend about whom I
had for some time been uneasy.’
They might have said, as I have no doubt they thought,
that they had believed me to be without any friends save
them: for, indeed, I had often said so; but, with their true
natural delicacy, they abstained from comment, except that
Diana asked me if I was sure I was well enough to travel. I
looked very pale, she observed. I replied, that nothing ailed
me save anxiety of mind, which I hoped soon to alleviate.
It was easy to make my further arrangements; for I was
troubled with no inquiries—no surmises. Having once ex-
plained to them that I could not now be explicit about my
plans, they kindly and wisely acquiesced in the silence with
which I pursued them, according to me the privilege of free
action I should under similar circumstances have accorded
them.
I left Moor House at three o’clock p.m., and soon after
four I stood at the foot of the sign-post of Whitcross, wait-
ing the arrival of the coach which was to take me to distant
Thornfield. Amidst the silence of those solitary roads and
desert hills, I heard it approach from a great distance. It was
the same vehicle whence, a year ago, I had alighted one sum-
mer evening on this very spot—how desolate, and hopeless,
and objectless! It stopped as I beckoned. I entered—not now
obliged to part with my whole fortune as the price of its ac-
commodation. Once more on the road to Thornfield, I felt
like the messenger-pigeon flying home.
644 Jane Eyre

It was a journey of six-and-thirty hours. I had set out
from Whitcross on a Tuesday afternoon, and early on the
succeeding Thursday morning the coach stopped to water
the horses at a wayside inn, situated in the midst of scenery
whose green hedges and large fields and low pastoral hills
(how mild of feature and verdant of hue compared with the
stern North-Midland moors of Morton!) met my eye like
the lineaments of a once familiar face. Yes, I knew the char-
acter of this landscape: I was sure we were near my bourne.
‘How far is Thornfield Hall from here?’ I asked of the os-
tler.
‘Just two miles, ma’am, across the fields.’
‘My journey is closed,’ I thought to myself. I got out of
the coach, gave a box I had into the ostler’s charge, to be
kept till I called for it; paid my fare; satisfied the coachman,
and was going: the brightening day gleamed on the sign of
the inn, and I read in gilt letters, ‘The Rochester Arms.’ My
heart leapt up: I was already on my master’s very lands. It
fell again: the thought struck it:-
‘Your master himself may be beyond the British Chan-
nel, for aught you know: and then, if he is at Thornfield Hall,
towards which you hasten, who besides him is there? His
lunatic wife: and you have nothing to do with him: you dare
not speak to him or seek his presence. You have lost your
labour—you had better go no farther,’ urged the monitor.
‘Ask information of the people at the inn; they can give you
all you seek: they can solve your doubts at once. Go up to
that man, and inquire if Mr. Rochester be at home.’
The suggestion was sensible, and yet I could not force

myself to act on it. I so dreaded a reply that would crush me
with despair. To prolong doubt was to prolong hope. I might
yet once more see the Hall under the ray of her star. There
was the stile before me—the very fields through which I
had hurried, blind, deaf, distracted with a revengeful fury
tracking and scourging me, on the morning I fled from
Thornfield: ere I well knew what course I had resolved to
take, I was in the midst of them. How fast I walked! How I
ran sometimes! How I looked forward to catch the first view
of the well-known woods! With what feelings I welcomed
single trees I knew, and familiar glimpses of meadow and
hill between them!
At last the woods rose; the rookery clustered dark; a loud
cawing broke the morning stillness. Strange delight inspired
me: on I hastened. Another field crossed—a lane threaded—
and there were the courtyard walls—the back offices: the
house itself, the rookery still hid. ‘My first view of it shall
be in front,’ I determined, ‘where its bold battlements will
strike the eye nobly at once, and where I can single out my
master’s very window: perhaps he will be standing at it—he
rises early: perhaps he is now walking in the orchard, or
on the pavement in front. Could I but see him!—but a mo-
ment! Surely, in that case, I should not be so mad as to run
to him? I cannot tell—I am not certain. And if I did—what
then? God bless him! What then? Who would be hurt by
my once more tasting the life his glance can give me? I rave:
perhaps at this moment he is watching the sun rise over the
Pyrenees, or on the tideless sea of the south.’
I had coasted along the lower wall of the orchard—turned
646 Jane Eyre

its angle: there was a gate just there, opening into the mead-
ow, between two stone pillars crowned by stone balls. From
behind one pillar I could peep round quietly at the full front
of the mansion. I advanced my head with precaution, de-
sirous to ascertain if any bedroom window-blinds were yet
drawn up: battlements, windows, long front—all from this
sheltered station were at my command.
The crows sailing overhead perhaps watched me while
I took this survey. I wonder what they thought. They must
have considered I was very careful and timid at first, and
that gradually I grew very bold and reckless. A peep, and
then a long stare; and then a departure from my niche and
a straying out into the meadow; and a sudden stop full in
front of the great mansion, and a protracted, hardy gaze to-
wards it. ‘What affectation of diffidence was this at first?’
they might have demanded; ‘what stupid regardlessness
now?’
Hear an illustration, reader.
A lover finds his mistress asleep on a mossy bank; he
wishes to catch a glimpse of her fair face without wak-
ing her. He steals softly over the grass, careful to make no
sound; he pauses—fancying she has stirred: he withdraws:
not for worlds would he be seen. All is still: he again ad-
vances: he bends above her; a light veil rests on her features:
he lifts it, bends lower; now his eyes anticipate the vision of
beauty—warm, and blooming, and lovely, in rest. How hur-
ried was their first glance! But how they fix! How he starts!
How he suddenly and vehemently clasps in both arms the
form he dared not, a moment since, touch with his finger!

How he calls aloud a name, and drops his burden, and gazes
on it wildly! He thus grasps and cries, and gazes, because he
no longer fears to waken by any sound he can utter—by any
movement he can make. He thought his love slept sweetly:
he finds she is stone dead.
I looked with timorous joy towards a stately house: I saw
a blackened ruin.
No need to cower behind a gate-post, indeed!—to peep
up at chamber lattices, fearing life was astir behind them!
No need to listen for doors opening—to fancy steps on the
pavement or the gravel-walk! The lawn, the grounds were
trodden and waste: the portal yawned void. The front was,
as I had once seen it in a dream, but a well- like wall, very
high and very fragile-looking, perforated with paneless
windows: no roof, no battlements, no chimneys—all had
crashed in.
And there was the silence of death about it: the solitude
of a lonesome wild. No wonder that letters addressed to
people here had never received an answer: as well despatch
epistles to a vault in a church aisle. The grim blackness of
the stones told by what fate the Hall had fallen—by con-
flagration: but how kindled? What story belonged to this
disaster? What loss, besides mortar and marble and wood-
work had followed upon it? Had life been wrecked as well as
property? If so, whose? Dreadful question: there was no one
here to answer it—not even dumb sign, mute token.
In wandering round the shattered walls and through the
devastated interior, I gathered evidence that the calamity
was not of late occurrence. Winter snows, I thought, had
648 Jane Eyre

drifted through that void arch, winter rains beaten in at
those hollow casements; for, amidst the drenched piles of
rubbish, spring had cherished vegetation: grass and weed
grew here and there between the stones and fallen rafters.
And oh! where meantime was the hapless owner of this
wreck? In what land? Under what auspices? My eye invol-
untarily wandered to the grey church tower near the gates,
and I asked, ‘Is he with Damer de Rochester, sharing the
shelter of his narrow marble house?’
Some answer must be had to these questions. I could
find it nowhere but at the inn, and thither, ere long, I re-
turned. The host himself brought my breakfast into the
parlour. I requested him to shut the door and sit down: I
had some questions to ask him. But when he complied, I
scarcely knew how to begin; such horror had I of the pos-
sible answers. And yet the spectacle of desolation I had just
left prepared me in a measure for a tale of misery. The host
was a respectable-looking, middle-aged man.
‘You know Thornfield Hall, of course?’ I managed to say
at last.
‘Yes, ma’am; I lived there once.’
‘Did you?’ Not in my time, I thought: you are a stranger
to me.
‘I was the late Mr. Rochester’s butler,’ he added.
The late! I seem to have received, with full force, the blow
I had been trying to evade.
‘The late!’ gasped. ‘Is he dead?’
‘I mean the present gentleman, Mr. Edward’s father,’ he
explained. I breathed again: my blood resumed its flow. Fully

assured by these words that Mr. Edward—MY Mr. Roches-
ter (God bless him, wherever he was!)—was at least alive:
was, in short, ‘the present gentleman.’ Gladdening words!
It seemed I could hear all that was to come—whatever the
disclosures might be—with comparative tranquillity. Since
he was not in the grave, I could bear, I thought, to learn that
he was at the Antipodes.
‘Is Mr. Rochester living at Thornfield Hall now?’ I asked,
knowing, of course, what the answer would be, but yet de-
sirous of deferring the direct question as to where he really
was.
‘No, ma’am—oh, no! No one is living there. I suppose
you are a stranger in these parts, or you would have heard
what happened last autumn,—Thornfield Hall is quite a
ruin: it was burnt down just about harvest-time. A dreadful
calamity! such an immense quantity of valuable property
destroyed: hardly any of the furniture could be saved. The
fire broke out at dead of night, and before the engines ar-
rived from Millcote, the building was one mass of flame. It
was a terrible spectacle: I witnessed it myself.’
‘At dead of night!’ I muttered. Yes, that was ever the hour
of fatality at Thornfield. ‘Was it known how it originated?’
I demanded.
‘They guessed, ma’am: they guessed. Indeed, I should
say it was ascertained beyond a doubt. You are not perhaps
aware,’ he continued, edging his chair a little nearer the ta-
ble, and speaking low, ‘that there was a lady—a—a lunatic,
kept in the house?’
‘I have heard something of it.’
650 Jane Eyre

‘She was kept in very close confinement, ma’am: people
even for some years was not absolutely certain of her exis-
tence. No one saw her: they only knew by rumour that such
a person was at the Hall; and who or what she was it was
difficult to conjecture. They said Mr. Edward had brought
her from abroad, and some believed she had been his mis-
tress. But a queer thing happened a year since—a very queer
thing.’
I feared now to hear my own story. I endeavoured to re-
call him to the main fact.
‘And this lady?’
‘This lady, ma’am,’ he answered, ‘turned out to be Mr.
Rochester’s wife! The discovery was brought about in the
strangest way. There was a young lady, a governess at the
Hall, that Mr. Rochester fell in—‘
‘But the fire,’ I suggested.
‘I’m coming to that, ma’am—that Mr. Edward fell in love
with. The servants say they never saw anybody so much
in love as he was: he was after her continually. They used
to watch him—servants will, you know, ma’am—and he
set store on her past everything: for all, nobody but him
thought her so very handsome. She was a little small thing,
they say, almost like a child. I never saw her myself; but I’ve
heard Leah, the house-maid, tell of her. Leah liked her well
enough. Mr. Rochester was about forty, and this governess
not twenty; and you see, when gentlemen of his age fall in
love with girls, they are often like as if they were bewitched.
Well, he would marry her.’
‘You shall tell me this part of the story another time,’ I

said; ‘but now I have a particular reason for wishing to hear
all about the fire. Was it suspected that this lunatic, Mrs.
Rochester, had any hand in it?’
‘You’ve hit it, ma’am: it’s quite certain that it was her, and
nobody but her, that set it going. She had a woman to take
care of her called Mrs. Poole—an able woman in her line,
and very trustworthy, but for one fault—a fault common to
a deal of them nurses and matrons—she KEPT A PRIVATE
BOTTLE OF GIN BY HER, and now and then took a drop
over-much. It is excusable, for she had a hard life of it: but
still it was dangerous; for when Mrs. Poole was fast asleep
after the gin and water, the mad lady, who was as cunning
as a witch, would take the keys out of her pocket, let herself
out of her chamber, and go roaming about the house, doing
any wild mischief that came into her head. They say she had
nearly burnt her husband in his bed once: but I don’t know
about that. However, on this night, she set fire first to the
hangings of the room next her own, and then she got down
to a lower storey, and made her way to the chamber that had
been the governess’s—(she was like as if she knew somehow
how matters had gone on, and had a spite at her)—and she
kindled the bed there; but there was nobody sleeping in it,
fortunately. The governess had run away two months be-
fore; and for all Mr. Rochester sought her as if she had been
the most precious thing he had in the world, he never could
hear a word of her; and he grew savage—quite savage on his
disappointment: he never was a wild man, but he got dan-
gerous after he lost her. He would be alone, too. He sent Mrs.
Fairfax, the housekeeper, away to her friends at a distance;
652 Jane Eyre

but he did it handsomely, for he settled an annuity on her
for life: and she deserved it—she was a very good woman.
Miss Adele, a ward he had, was put to school. He broke off
acquaintance with all the gentry, and shut himself up like a
hermit at the Hall.’
‘What! did he not leave England?’
‘Leave England? Bless you, no! He would not cross the
door-stones of the house, except at night, when he walked
just like a ghost about the grounds and in the orchard as if
he had lost his senses— which it is my opinion he had; for
a more spirited, bolder, keener gentleman than he was be-
fore that midge of a governess crossed him, you never saw,
ma’am. He was not a man given to wine, or cards, or racing,
as some are, and he was not so very handsome; but he had a
courage and a will of his own, if ever man had. I knew him
from a boy, you see: and for my part, I have often wished
that Miss Eyre had been sunk in the sea before she came to
Thornfield Hall.’
‘Then Mr. Rochester was at home when the fire broke
out?’
‘Yes, indeed was he; and he went up to the attics when all
was burning above and below, and got the servants out of
their beds and helped them down himself, and went back to
get his mad wife out of her cell. And then they called out to
him that she was on the roof, where she was standing, wav-
ing her arms, above the battlements, and shouting out till
they could hear her a mile off: I saw her and heard her with
my own eyes. She was a big woman, and had long black hair:
we could see it streaming against the flames as she stood. I

witnessed, and several more witnessed, Mr. Rochester as-
cend through the sky-light on to the roof; we heard him
call ‘Bertha!’ We saw him approach her; and then, ma’am,
she yelled and gave a spring, and the next minute she lay
smashed on the pavement.’
‘Dead?’
‘Dead! Ay, dead as the stones on which her brains and
blood were scattered.’
‘Good God!’
‘You may well say so, ma’am: it was frightful!’
He shuddered.
‘And afterwards?’ I urged.
‘Well, ma’am, afterwards the house was burnt to the
ground: there are only some bits of walls standing now.’
‘Were any other lives lost?’
‘No—perhaps it would have been better if there had.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Poor Mr. Edward!’ he ejaculated, ‘I little thought ever to
have seen it! Some say it was a just judgment on him for
keeping his first marriage secret, and wanting to take an-
other wife while he had one living: but I pity him, for my
part.’
‘You said he was alive?’ I exclaimed.
‘Yes, yes: he is alive; but many think he had better he
dead.’
‘Why? How?’ My blood was again running cold. ‘Where
is he?’ I demanded. ‘Is he in England?’
‘Ay—ay—he’s in England; he can’t get out of England, I
fancy—he’s a fixture now.’
654 Jane Eyre

What agony was this! And the man seemed resolved to
protract it.
‘He is stone-blind,’ he said at last. ‘Yes, he is stone-blind,
is Mr. Edward.’
I had dreaded worse. I had dreaded he was mad. I sum-
moned strength to ask what had caused this calamity.
‘It was all his own courage, and a body may say, his kind-
ness, in a way, ma’am: he wouldn’t leave the house till every
one else was out before him. As he came down the great
staircase at last, after Mrs. Rochester had flung herself from
the battlements, there was a great crash—all fell. He was
taken out from under the ruins, alive, but sadly hurt: a
beam had fallen in such a way as to protect him partly; but
one eye was knocked out, and one hand so crushed that Mr.
Carter, the surgeon, had to amputate it directly. The other
eye inflamed: he lost the sight of that also. He is now help-
less, indeed—blind and a cripple.’
‘Where is he? Where does he now live?’
‘At Ferndean, a manor-house on a farm he has, about
thirty miles off: quite a desolate spot.’
‘Who is with him?’
‘Old John and his wife: he would have none else. He is
quite broken down, they say.’
‘Have you any sort of conveyance?’
‘We have a chaise, ma’am, a very handsome chaise.’
‘Let it be got ready instantly; and if your post-boy can
drive me to Ferndean before dark this day, I’ll pay both you
and him twice the hire you usually demand.’

Chapter XXXVII
T he manor-house of Ferndean was a building of consid-

erable antiquity, moderate size, and no architectural
pretensions, deep buried in a wood. I had heard of it before.
Mr. Rochester often spoke of it, and sometimes went there.
His father had purchased the estate for the sake of the game
covers. He would have let the house, but could find no ten-
ant, in consequence of its ineligible and insalubrious site.
Ferndean then remained uninhabited and unfurnished,
with the exception of some two or three rooms fitted up for
the accommodation of the squire when he went there in the
season to shoot.
To this house I came just ere dark on an evening marked
by the characteristics of sad sky, cold gale, and continued
small penetrating rain. The last mile I performed on foot,
having dismissed the chaise and driver with the double re-
muneration I had promised. Even when within a very short
distance of the manor- house, you could see nothing of it, so
thick and dark grew the timber of the gloomy wood about
it. Iron gates between granite pillars showed me where to
enter, and passing through them, I found myself at once in
the twilight of close-ranked trees. There was a grass-grown
track descending the forest aisle between hoar and knotty
shafts and under branched arches. I followed it, expecting
soon to reach the dwelling; but it stretched on and on, it
656 Jane Eyre

would far and farther: no sign of habitation or grounds was
visible.
I thought I had taken a wrong direction and lost my way.
The darkness of natural as well as of sylvan dusk gathered
over me. I looked round in search of another road. There
was none: all was interwoven stem, columnar trunk, dense
summer foliage—no opening anywhere.
I proceeded: at last my way opened, the trees thinned a
little; presently I beheld a railing, then the house—scarce,
by this dim light, distinguishable from the trees; so dank
and green were its decaying walls. Entering a portal, fas-
tened only by a latch, I stood amidst a space of enclosed
ground, from which the wood swept away in a semicircle.
There were no flowers, no garden-beds; only a broad gravel-
walk girdling a grass-plat, and this set in the heavy frame
of the forest. The house presented two pointed gables in its
front; the windows were latticed and narrow: the front door
was narrow too, one step led up to it. The whole looked, as
the host of the Rochester Arms had said, ‘quite a desolate
spot.’ It was as still as a church on a week-day: the patter-
ing rain on the forest leaves was the only sound audible in
its vicinage.
‘Can there be life here?’ I asked.
Yes, life of some kind there was; for I heard a movement—
that narrow front-door was unclosing, and some shape was
about to issue from the grange.
It opened slowly: a figure came out into the twilight and
stood on the step; a man without a hat: he stretched forth
his hand as if to feel whether it rained. Dusk as it was, I had

recognised him—it was my master, Edward Fairfax Roch-
ester, and no other.
I stayed my step, almost my breath, and stood to watch
him—to examine him, myself unseen, and alas! to him in-
visible. It was a sudden meeting, and one in which rapture
was kept well in check by pain. I had no difficulty in re-
straining my voice from exclamation, my step from hasty
advance.
His form was of the same strong and stalwart contour as
ever: his port was still erect, his heir was still raven black;
nor were his features altered or sunk: not in one year’s space,
by any sorrow, could his athletic strength be quelled or his
vigorous prime blighted. But in his countenance I saw a
change: that looked desperate and brooding—that remind-
ed me of some wronged and fettered wild beast or bird,
dangerous to approach in his sullen woe. The caged eagle,
whose gold-ringed eyes cruelty has extinguished, might
look as looked that sightless Samson.
And, reader, do you think I feared him in his blind feroc-
ity?—if you do, you little know me. A soft hope blest with
my sorrow that soon I should dare to drop a kiss on that
brow of rock, and on those lips so sternly sealed beneath it:
but not yet. I would not accost him yet.
He descended the one step, and advanced slowly and
gropingly towards the grass-plat. Where was his daring
stride now? Then he paused, as if he knew not which way
to turn. He lifted his hand and opened his eyelids; gazed
blank, and with a straining effort, on the sky, and toward
the amphitheatre of trees: one saw that all to him was void
658 Jane Eyre

darkness. He stretched his right hand (the left arm, the mu-
tilated one, he kept hidden in his bosom); he seemed to wish
by touch to gain an idea of what lay around him: he met
but vacancy still; for the trees were some yards off where he
stood. He relinquished the endeavour, folded his arms, and
stood quiet and mute in the rain, now falling fast on his un-
covered head. At this moment John approached him from
some quarter.
‘Will you take my arm, sir?’ he said; ‘there is a heavy
shower coming on: had you not better go in?’
‘Let me alone,’ was the answer.
John withdrew without having observed me. Mr. Roch-
ester now tried to walk about: vainly,—all was too uncertain.
He groped his way back to the house, and, re-entering it,
closed the door.
I now drew near and knocked: John’s wife opened for me.
‘Mary,’ I said, ‘how are you?’
She started as if she had seen a ghost: I calmed her. To
her hurried ‘Is it really you, miss, come at this late hour to
this lonely place?’ I answered by taking her hand; and then I
followed her into the kitchen, where John now sat by a good
fire. I explained to them, in few words, that I had heard
all which had happened since I left Thornfield, and that I
was come to see Mr. Rochester. I asked John to go down
to the turn-pike-house, where I had dismissed the chaise,
and bring my trunk, which I had left there: and then, while
I removed my bonnet and shawl, I questioned Mary as to
whether I could be accommodated at the Manor House
for the night; and finding that arrangements to that effect,

though difficult, would not be impossible, I informed her I
should stay. Just at this moment the parlour-bell rang.
‘When you go in,’ said I, ‘tell your master that a person
wishes to speak to him, but do not give my name.’
‘I don’t think he will see you,’ she answered; ‘he refuses
everybody.’
When she returned, I inquired what he had said. ‘You are
to send in your name and your business,’ she replied. She
then proceeded to fill a glass with water, and place it on a
tray, together with candles.
‘Is that what he rang for?’ I asked.
‘Yes: he always has candles brought in at dark, though
he is blind.’
‘Give the tray to me; I will carry it in.’
I took it from her hand: she pointed me out the parlour
door. The tray shook as I held it; the water spilt from the
glass; my heart struck my ribs loud and fast. Mary opened
the door for me, and shut it behind me.
This parlour looked gloomy: a neglected handful of fire
burnt low in the grate; and, leaning over it, with his head
supported against the high, old-fashioned mantelpiece, ap-
peared the blind tenant of the room. His old dog, Pilot, lay
on one side, removed out of the way, and coiled up as if
afraid of being inadvertently trodden upon. Pilot pricked
up his ears when I came in: then he jumped up with a yelp
and a whine, and bounded towards me: he almost knocked
the tray from my hands. I set it on the table; then patted
him, and said softly, ‘Lie down!’ Mr. Rochester turned me-
chanically to SEE what the commotion was: but as he SAW
660 Jane Eyre

nothing, he returned and sighed.
‘Give me the water, Mary,’ he said.
I approached him with the now only half-filled glass; Pi-
lot followed me, still excited.
‘What is the matter?’ he inquired.
‘Down, Pilot!’ I again said. He checked the water on its
way to his lips, and seemed to listen: he drank, and put the
glass down. ‘This is you, Mary, is it not?’
‘Mary is in the kitchen,’ I answered.
He put out his hand with a quick gesture, but not seeing
where I stood, he did not touch me. ‘Who is this? Who is
this?’ he demanded, trying, as it seemed, to SEE with those
sightless eyes— unavailing and distressing attempt! ‘An-
swer me—speak again!’ he ordered, imperiously and aloud.
‘Will you have a little more water, sir? I spilt half of what
was in the glass,’ I said.
‘WHO is it? WHAT is it? Who speaks?’
‘Pilot knows me, and John and Mary know I am here. I
came only this evening,’ I answered.
‘Great God!—what delusion has come over me? What
sweet madness has seized me?’
‘No delusion—no madness: your mind, sir, is too strong
for delusion, your health too sound for frenzy.’
‘And where is the speaker? Is it only a voice? Oh! I CAN-
NOT see, but I must feel, or my heart will stop and my brain
burst. Whatever—whoever you are—be perceptible to the
touch or I cannot live!’
He groped; I arrested his wandering hand, and prisoned
it in both mine.

‘Her very fingers!’ he cried; ‘her small, slight fingers! If so
there must be more of her.’
The muscular hand broke from my custody; my arm was
seized, my shoulder—neck—waist—I was entwined and
gathered to him.
‘Is it Jane? WHAT is it? This is her shape—this is her
size—‘
‘And this her voice,’ I added. ‘She is all here: her heart,
too. God bless you, sir! I am glad to be so near you again.’
‘Jane Eyre!—Jane Eyre,’ was all he said.
‘My dear master,’ I answered, ‘I am Jane Eyre: I have
found you out—I am come back to you.’
‘In truth?—in the flesh? My living Jane?’
‘You touch me, sir,—you hold me, and fast enough: I am
not cold like a corpse, nor vacant like air, am I?’
‘My living darling! These are certainly her limbs, and
these her features; but I cannot be so blest, after all my mis-
ery. It is a dream; such dreams as I have had at night when
I have clasped her once more to my heart, as I do now; and
kissed her, as thus—and felt that she loved me, and trusted
that she would not leave me.’
‘Which I never will, sir, from this day.’
‘Never will, says the vision? But I always woke and
found it an empty mockery; and I was desolate and aban-
doned—my life dark, lonely, hopeless—my soul athirst and
forbidden to drink—my heart famished and never to be fed.
Gentle, soft dream, nestling in my arms now, you will fly,
too, as your sisters have all fled before you: but kiss me be-
fore you go—embrace me, Jane.’
662 Jane Eyre

‘There, sir—and there!‘
I pressed my lips to his once brilliant and now rayless
eyes—I swept his hair from his brow, and kissed that too.
He suddenly seemed to arouse himself: the conviction of
the reality of all this seized him.
‘It is you—is it, Jane? You are come back to me then?’
‘I am.’
‘And you do not lie dead in some ditch under some
stream? And you are not a pining outcast amongst strang-
ers?’
‘No, sir! I am an independent woman now.’
‘Independent! What do you mean, Jane?’
‘My uncle in Madeira is dead, and he left me five thou-
sand pounds.’
‘Ah! this is practical—this is real!’ he cried: ‘I should
never dream that. Besides, there is that peculiar voice of
hers, so animating and piquant, as well as soft: it cheers my
withered heart; it puts life into it.—What, Janet! Are you an
independent woman? A rich woman?’
‘If you won’t let me live with you, I can build a house of
my own close up to your door, and you may come and sit in
my parlour when you want company of an evening.’
‘But as you are rich, Jane, you have now, no doubt, friends
who will look after you, and not suffer you to devote your-
self to a blind lameter like me?’
‘I told you I am independent, sir, as well as rich: I am my
own mistress.’
‘And you will stay with me?’
‘Certainly—unless you object. I will be your neighbour,

your nurse, your housekeeper. I find you lonely: I will be
your companion—to read to you, to walk with you, to sit
with you, to wait on you, to be eyes and hands to you. Cease
to look so melancholy, my dear master; you shall not be left
desolate, so long as I live.’
He replied not: he seemed serious—abstracted; he
sighed; he half- opened his lips as if to speak: he closed them
again. I felt a little embarrassed. Perhaps I had too rashly
over-leaped conventionalities; and he, like St. John, saw im-
propriety in my inconsiderateness. I had indeed made my
proposal from the idea that he wished and would ask me
to be his wife: an expectation, not the less certain because
unexpressed, had buoyed me up, that he would claim me
at once as his own. But no hint to that effect escaping him
and his countenance becoming more overcast, I sudden-
ly remembered that I might have been all wrong, and was
perhaps playing the fool unwittingly; and I began gently to
withdraw myself from his arms—but he eagerly snatched
me closer.
‘No—no—Jane; you must not go. No—I have touched
you, heard you, felt the comfort of your presence—the
sweetness of your consolation: I cannot give up these joys.
I have little left in myself—I must have you. The world may
laugh—may call me absurd, selfish—but it does not signify.
My very soul demands you: it will be satisfied, or it will take
deadly vengeance on its frame.’
‘Well, sir, I will stay with you: I have said so.’
‘Yes—but you understand one thing by staying with me;
and I understand another. You, perhaps, could make up
664 Jane Eyre

your mind to be about my hand and chair—to wait on me
as a kind little nurse (for you have an affectionate heart and
a generous spirit, which prompt you to make sacrifices for
those you pity), and that ought to suffice for me no doubt. I
suppose I should now entertain none but fatherly feelings
for you: do you think so? Come—tell me.’
‘I will think what you like, sir: I am content to be only
your nurse, if you think it better.’
‘But you cannot always be my nurse, Janet: you are
young—you must marry one day.’
‘I don’t care about being married.’
‘You should care, Janet: if I were what I once was, I would
try to make you care—but—a sightless block!’
He relapsed again into gloom. I, on the contrary, became
more cheerful, and took fresh courage: these last words gave
me an insight as to where the difficulty lay; and as it was no
difficulty with me, I felt quite relieved from my previous
embarrassment. I resumed a livelier vein of conversation.
‘It is time some one undertook to rehumanise you,’ said
I, parting his thick and long uncut locks; ‘for I see you are
being metamorphosed into a lion, or something of that sort.
You have a ‘faux air’ of Nebuchadnezzar in the fields about
you, that is certain: your hair reminds me of eagles’ feath-
ers; whether your nails are grown like birds’ claws or not, I
have not yet noticed.’
‘On this arm, I have neither hand nor nails,’ he said,
drawing the mutilated limb from his breast, and showing it
to me. ‘It is a mere stump—a ghastly sight! Don’t you think
so, Jane?’

‘It is a pity to see it; and a pity to see your eyes—and the
scar of fire on your forehead: and the worst of it is, one is in
danger of loving you too well for all this; and making too
much of you.’
‘I thought you would be revolted, Jane, when you saw my
arm, and my cicatrised visage.’
‘Did you? Don’t tell me so—lest I should say something
disparaging to your judgment. Now, let me leave you an in-
stant, to make a better fire, and have the hearth swept up.
Can you tell when there is a good fire?’
‘Yes; with the right eye I see a glow—a ruddy haze.’
‘And you see the candles?’
‘Very dimly—each is a luminous cloud.’
‘Can you see me?’
‘No, my fairy: but I am only too thankful to hear and
feel you.’
‘When do you take supper?’
‘I never take supper.’
‘But you shall have some to-night. I am hungry: so are
you, I daresay, only you forget.’
Summoning Mary, I soon had the room in more cheer-
ful order: I prepared him, likewise, a comfortable repast.
My spirits were excited, and with pleasure and ease I talked
to him during supper, and for a long time after. There was
no harassing restraint, no repressing of glee and vivacity
with him; for with him I was at perfect ease, because I knew
I suited him; all I said or did seemed either to console or
revive him. Delightful consciousness! It brought to life and
light my whole nature: in his presence I thoroughly lived;
666 Jane Eyre

and he lived in mine. Blind as he was, smiles played over
his face, joy dawned on his forehead: his lineaments soft-
ened and warmed.
After supper, he began to ask me many questions, of
where I had been, what I had been doing, how I had found
him out; but I gave him only very partial replies: it was too
late to enter into particulars that night. Besides, I wished
to touch no deep- thrilling chord—to open no fresh well
of emotion in his heart: my sole present aim was to cheer
him. Cheered, as I have said, he was: and yet but by fits. If
a moment’s silence broke the conversation, he would turn
restless, touch me, then say, ‘Jane.’
‘You are altogether a human being, Jane? You are certain
of that?’
‘I conscientiously believe so, Mr. Rochester.’
‘Yet how, on this dark and doleful evening, could you so
suddenly rise on my lone hearth? I stretched my hand to
take a glass of water from a hireling, and it was given me by
you: I asked a question, expecting John’s wife to answer me,
and your voice spoke at my ear.’
‘Because I had come in, in Mary’s stead, with the tray.’
‘And there is enchantment in the very hour I am now
spending with you. Who can tell what a dark, dreary, hope-
less life I have dragged on for months past? Doing nothing,
expecting nothing; merging night in day; feeling but the
sensation of cold when I let the fire go out, of hunger when
I forgot to eat: and then a ceaseless sorrow, and, at times, a
very delirium of desire to behold my Jane again. Yes: for her
restoration I longed, far more than for that of my lost sight.

How can it be that Jane is with me, and says she loves me?
Will she not depart as suddenly as she came? To-morrow, I
fear I shall find her no more.’
A commonplace, practical reply, out of the train of his
own disturbed ideas, was, I was sure, the best and most re-
assuring for him in this frame of mind. I passed my finger
over his eyebrows, and remarked that they were scorched,
and that I would apply something which would make them
grow as broad and black as ever.
‘Where is the use of doing me good in any way, beneficent
spirit, when, at some fatal moment, you will again desert
me—passing like a shadow, whither and how to me un-
known, and for me remaining afterwards undiscoverable?
‘Have you a pocket-comb about you, sir?’
‘What for, Jane?’
‘Just to comb out this shaggy black mane. I find you rath-
er alarming, when I examine you close at hand: you talk of
my being a fairy, but I am sure, you are more like a brown-
ie.’
‘Am I hideous, Jane?’
‘Very, sir: you always were, you know.’
‘Humph! The wickedness has not been taken out of you,
wherever you have sojourned.’
‘Yet I have been with good people; far better than you: a
hundred times better people; possessed of ideas and views
you never entertained in your life: quite more refined and
exalted.’
‘Who the deuce have you been with?’
‘If you twist in that way you will make me pull the hair
668 Jane Eyre

out of your head; and then I think you will cease to enter-
tain doubts of my substantiality.’
‘Who have you been with, Jane?’
‘You shall not get it out of me to-night, sir; you must wait
till to-morrow; to leave my tale half told, will, you know,
be a sort of security that I shall appear at your breakfast
table to finish it. By the bye, I must mind not to rise on your
hearth with only a glass of water then: I must bring an egg
at the least, to say nothing of fried ham.’
‘You mocking changeling—fairy-born and human-bred!
You make me feel as I have not felt these twelve months. If
Saul could have had you for his David, the evil spirit would
have been exorcised without the aid of the harp.’
‘There, sir, you are redd up and made decent. Now I’ll
leave you: I have been travelling these last three days, and I
believe I am tired. Good night.’
‘Just one word, Jane: were there only ladies in the house
where you have been?’
I laughed and made my escape, still laughing as I ran
upstairs. ‘A good idea!’ I thought with glee. ‘I see I have the
means of fretting him out of his melancholy for some time
to come.’
Very early the next morning I heard him up and astir,
wandering from one room to another. As soon as Mary
came down I heard the question: ‘Is Miss Eyre here?’ Then:
‘Which room did you put her into? Was it dry? Is she up?
Go and ask if she wants anything; and when she will come
down.’
I came down as soon as I thought there was a prospect

of breakfast. Entering the room very softly, I had a view of
him before he discovered my presence. It was mournful, in-
deed, to witness the subjugation of that vigorous spirit to
a corporeal infirmity. He sat in his chair—still, but not at
rest: expectant evidently; the lines of now habitual sadness
marking his strong features. His countenance reminded
one of a lamp quenched, waiting to be re-lit— and alas! it
was not himself that could now kindle the lustre of animat-
ed expression: he was dependent on another for that office!
I had meant to be gay and careless, but the powerlessness
of the strong man touched my heart to the quick: still I ac-
costed him with what vivacity I could.
‘It is a bright, sunny morning, sir,’ I said. ‘The rain is over
and gone, and there is a tender shining after it: you shall
have a walk soon.’
I had wakened the glow: his features beamed.
‘Oh, you are indeed there, my skylark! Come to me. You
are not gone: not vanished? I heard one of your kind an
hour ago, singing high over the wood: but its song had no
music for me, any more than the rising sun had rays. All the
melody on earth is concentrated in my Jane’s tongue to my
ear (I am glad it is not naturally a silent one): all the sun-
shine I can feel is in her presence.’
The water stood in my eyes to hear this avowal of his de-
pendence; just as if a royal eagle, chained to a perch, should
be forced to entreat a sparrow to become its purveyor. But
I would not be lachrymose: I dashed off the salt drops, and
busied myself with preparing breakfast.
Most of the morning was spent in the open air. I led him
670 Jane Eyre

out of the wet and wild wood into some cheerful fields: I
described to him how brilliantly green they were; how the
flowers and hedges looked refreshed; how sparklingly blue
was the sky. I sought a seat for him in a hidden and lovely
spot, a dry stump of a tree; nor did I refuse to let him, when
seated, place me on his knee. Why should I, when both he
and I were happier near than apart? Pilot lay beside us: all
was quiet. He broke out suddenly while clasping me in his
arms—
‘Cruel, cruel deserter! Oh, Jane, what did I feel when I
discovered you had fled from Thornfield, and when I could
nowhere find you; and, after examining your apartment, as-
certained that you had taken no money, nor anything which
could serve as an equivalent! A pearl necklace I had given
you lay untouched in its little casket; your trunks were left
corded and locked as they had been prepared for the bridal
tour. What could my darling do, I asked, left destitute and
penniless? And what did she do? Let me hear now.’
Thus urged, I began the narrative of my experience for
the last year. I softened considerably what related to the
three days of wandering and starvation, because to have
told him all would have been to inflict unnecessary pain:
the little I did say lacerated his faithful heart deeper than
I wished.
I should not have left him thus, he said, without any
means of making my way: I should have told him my inten-
tion. I should have confided in him: he would never have
forced me to be his mistress. Violent as he had seemed in
his despair, he, in truth, loved me far too well and too ten-

derly to constitute himself my tyrant: he would have given
me half his fortune, without demanding so much as a kiss
in return, rather than I should have flung myself friend-
less on the wide world. I had endured, he was certain, more
than I had confessed to him.
‘Well, whatever my sufferings had been, they were very
short,’ I answered: and then I proceeded to tell him how I
had been received at Moor House; how I had obtained the
office of schoolmistress, &c. The accession of fortune, the
discovery of my relations, followed in due order. Of course,
St. John Rivers’ name came in frequently in the progress
of my tale. When I had done, that name was immediately
taken up.
‘This St. John, then, is your cousin?’
‘Yes.’
‘You have spoken of him often: do you like him?’
‘He was a very good man, sir; I could not help liking
him.’
‘A good man. Does that mean a respectable well-con-
ducted man of fifty? Or what does it mean?’
‘St John was only twenty-nine, sir.’
‘Jeune encore,’ as the French say. Is he a person of low
stature, phlegmatic, and plain. A person whose goodness
consists rather in his guiltlessness of vice, than in his prow-
ess in virtue.’
‘He is untiringly active. Great and exalted deeds are what
he lives to perform.’
‘But his brain? That is probably rather soft? He means
well: but you shrug your shoulders to hear him talk?’
672 Jane Eyre

‘He talks little, sir: what he does say is ever to the point.
His brain is first-rate, I should think not impressible, but
vigorous.’
‘Is he an able man, then?’
‘Truly able.’
‘A thoroughly educated man?’
‘St. John is an accomplished and profound scholar.’
‘His manners, I think, you said are not to your taste?—
priggish and parsonic?’
‘I never mentioned his manners; but, unless I had a very
bad taste, they must suit it; they are polished, calm, and
gentlemanlike.’
‘His appearance,—I forget what description you gave of
his appearance;—a sort of raw curate, half strangled with
his white neckcloth, and stilted up on his thick-soled high-
lows, eh?’
‘St. John dresses well. He is a handsome man: tall, fair,
with blue eyes, and a Grecian profile.’
(Aside.) ‘Damn him!’—(To me.) ‘Did you like him,
Jane?’
‘Yes, Mr. Rochester, I liked him: but you asked me that
before.’
I perceived, of course, the drift of my interlocutor. Jeal-
ousy had got hold of him: she stung him; but the sting was
salutary: it gave him respite from the gnawing fang of mel-
ancholy. I would not, therefore, immediately charm the
snake.
‘Perhaps you would rather not sit any longer on my knee,
Miss Eyre?’ was the next somewhat unexpected observa-

tion.
‘Why not, Mr. Rochester?’
‘The picture you have just drawn is suggestive of a rath-
er too overwhelming contrast. Your words have delineated
very prettily a graceful Apollo: he is present to your imag-
ination,—tall, fair, blue-eyed, and with a Grecian profile.
Your eyes dwell on a Vulcan,—a real blacksmith, brown,
broad-shouldered: and blind and lame into the bargain.’
‘I never thought of it, before; but you certainly are rather
like Vulcan, sir.’
‘Well, you can leave me, ma’am: but before you go’ (and
he retained me by a firmer grasp than ever), ‘you will be
pleased just to answer me a question or two.’ He paused.
‘What questions, Mr. Rochester?’
Then followed this cross-examination.
‘St. John made you schoolmistress of Morton before he
knew you were his cousin?’
‘Yes.’
‘You would often see him? He would visit the school
sometimes?’
‘Daily.’
‘He would approve of your plans, Jane? I know they
would be clever, for you are a talented creature!’
‘He approved of them—yes.’
‘He would discover many things in you he could not have
expected to find? Some of your accomplishments are not
ordinary.’
‘I don’t know about that.’
‘You had a little cottage near the school, you say: did he
674 Jane Eyre

ever come there to see you?’
‘Now and then?’
‘Of an evening?’
‘Once or twice.’
A pause.
‘How long did you reside with him and his sisters after
the cousinship was discovered?’
‘Five months.’
‘Did Rivers spend much time with the ladies of his fam-
ily?’
‘Yes; the back parlour was both his study and ours: he sat
near the window, and we by the table.’
‘Did he study much?’
‘A good deal.’
‘What?’
‘Hindostanee.’
‘And what did you do meantime?’
‘I learnt German, at first.’
‘Did he teach you?’
‘He did not understand German.’
‘Did he teach you nothing?’
‘A little Hindostanee.’
‘Rivers taught you Hindostanee?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And his sisters also?’
‘No.’
‘Only you?’
‘Only me.’
‘Did you ask to learn?’

‘No.’
‘He wished to teach you?’
‘Yes.’
A second pause.
‘Why did he wish it? Of what use could Hindostanee be
to you?’
‘He intended me to go with him to India.’
‘Ah! here I reach the root of the matter. He wanted you
to marry him?’
‘He asked me to marry him.’
‘That is a fiction—an impudent invention to vex me.’
‘I beg your pardon, it is the literal truth: he asked me
more than once, and was as stiff about urging his point as
ever you could be.’
‘Miss Eyre, I repeat it, you can leave me. How often am I
to say the same thing? Why do you remain pertinaciously
perched on my knee, when I have given you notice to quit?’
‘Because I am comfortable there.’
‘No, Jane, you are not comfortable there, because your
heart is not with me: it is with this cousin—this St. John.
Oh, till this moment, I thought my little Jane was all mine! I
had a belief she loved me even when she left me: that was an
atom of sweet in much bitter. Long as we have been parted,
hot tears as I have wept over our separation, I never thought
that while I was mourning her, she was loving another! But
it is useless grieving. Jane, leave me: go and marry Rivers.’
‘Shake me off, then, sir,—push me away, for I’ll not leave
you of my own accord.’
‘Jane, I ever like your tone of voice: it still renews hope,
676 Jane Eyre

it sounds so truthful. When I hear it, it carries me back a
year. I forget that you have formed a new tie. But I am not
a fool—go—‘
‘Where must I go, sir?’
‘Your own way—with the husband you have chosen.’
‘Who is that?’
‘You know—this St. John Rivers.’
‘He is not my husband, nor ever will be. He does not love
me: I do not love him. He loves (as he CAN love, and that
is not as you love) a beautiful young lady called Rosamond.
He wanted to marry me only because he thought I should
make a suitable missionary’s wife, which she would not
have done. He is good and great, but severe; and, for me,
cold as an iceberg. He is not like you, sir: I am not happy at
his side, nor near him, nor with him. He has no indulgence
for me—no fondness. He sees nothing attractive in me; not
even youth—only a few useful mental points.—Then I must
leave you, sir, to go to him?’
I shuddered involuntarily, and clung instinctively closer
to my blind but beloved master. He smiled.
‘What, Jane! Is this true? Is such really the state of mat-
ters between you and Rivers?’
‘Absolutely, sir! Oh, you need not be jealous! I wanted
to tease you a little to make you less sad: I thought anger
would be better than grief. But if you wish me to love you,
could you but see how much I DO love you, you would be
proud and content. All my heart is yours, sir: it belongs to
you; and with you it would remain, were fate to exile the rest
of me from your presence for ever.’

Again, as he kissed me, painful thoughts darkened his
aspect. ‘My scared vision! My crippled strength!’ he mur-
mured regretfully.
I caressed, in order to soothe him. I knew of what he was
thinking, and wanted to speak for him, but dared not. As
he turned aside his face a minute, I saw a tear slide from
under the sealed eyelid, and trickle down the manly cheek.
My heart swelled.
‘I am no better than the old lightning-struck chestnut-
tree in Thornfield orchard,’ he remarked ere long. ‘And what
right would that ruin have to bid a budding woodbine cover
its decay with freshness?’
‘You are no ruin, sir—no lightning-struck tree: you are
green and vigorous. Plants will grow about your roots,
whether you ask them or not, because they take delight
in your bountiful shadow; and as they grow they will lean
towards you, and wind round you, because your strength
offers them so safe a prop.’
Again he smiled: I gave him comfort.
‘You speak of friends, Jane?’ he asked.
‘Yes, of friends,’ I answered rather hesitatingly: for I knew
I meant more than friends, but could not tell what other
word to employ. He helped me.
‘Ah! Jane. But I want a wife.’
‘Do you, sir?’
‘Yes: is it news to you?’
‘Of course: you said nothing about it before.’
‘Is it unwelcome news?’
‘That depends on circumstances, sir—on your choice.’
678 Jane Eyre

‘Which you shall make for me, Jane. I will abide by your
decision.’
‘Choose then, sir—HER WHO LOVES YOU BEST.’
‘I will at least choose—HER I LOVE BEST. Jane, will you
marry me?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘A poor blind man, whom you will have to lead about by
the hand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘A crippled man, twenty years older than you, whom you
will have to wait on?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Truly, Jane?’
‘Most truly, sir.’
‘Oh! my darling! God bless you and reward you!’
‘Mr. Rochester, if ever I did a good deed in my life—if
ever I thought a good thought—if ever I prayed a sincere
and blameless prayer—if ever I wished a righteous wish,—I
am rewarded now. To be your wife is, for me, to be as happy
as I can be on earth.’
‘Because you delight in sacrifice.’
‘Sacrifice! What do I sacrifice? Famine for food, expec-
tation for content. To be privileged to put my arms round
what I value—to press my lips to what I love—to repose on
what I trust: is that to make a sacrifice? If so, then certainly
I delight in sacrifice.’
‘And to bear with my infirmities, Jane: to overlook my
deficiencies.’
‘Which are none, sir, to me. I love you better now, when I

can really be useful to you, than I did in your state of proud
independence, when you disdained every part but that of
the giver and protector.’
‘Hitherto I have hated to be helped—to be led: hence-
forth, I feel I shall hate it no more. I did not like to put my
hand into a hireling’s, but it is pleasant to feel it circled by
Jane’s little fingers. I preferred utter loneliness to the con-
stant attendance of servants; but Jane’s soft ministry will be
a perpetual joy. Jane suits me: do I suit her?’
‘To the finest fibre of my nature, sir.’
‘The case being so, we have nothing in the world to wait
for: we must be married instantly.’
He looked and spoke with eagerness: his old impetuos-
ity was rising.
‘We must become one flesh without any delay, Jane: there
is but the licence to get—then we marry.’
‘Mr. Rochester, I have just discovered the sun is far de-
clined from its meridian, and Pilot is actually gone home to
his dinner. Let me look at your watch.’
‘Fasten it into your girdle, Janet, and keep it hencefor-
ward: I have no use for it.’
‘It is nearly four o’clock in the afternoon, sir. Don’t you
feel hungry?’
‘The third day from this must be our wedding-day, Jane.
Never mind fine clothes and jewels, now: all that is not
worth a fillip.’
‘The sun has dried up all the rain-drops, sir. The breeze
is still: it is quite hot.’
‘Do you know, Jane, I have your little pearl necklace at
680 Jane Eyre

this moment fastened round my bronze scrag under my
cravat? I have worn it since the day I lost my only treasure,
as a memento of her.’
‘We will go home through the wood: that will be the
shadiest way.’
He pursued his own thoughts without heeding me.
‘Jane! you think me, I daresay, an irreligious dog: but my
heart swells with gratitude to the beneficent God of this
earth just now. He sees not as man sees, but far clearer:
judges not as man judges, but far more wisely. I did wrong:
I would have sullied my innocent flower—breathed guilt on
its purity: the Omnipotent snatched it from me. I, in my stiff-
necked rebellion, almost cursed the dispensation: instead
of bending to the decree, I defied it. Divine justice pursued
its course; disasters came thick on me: I was forced to pass
through the valley of the shadow of death. HIS chastise-
ments are mighty; and one smote me which has humbled
me for ever. You know I was proud of my strength: but what
is it now, when I must give it over to foreign guidance, as a
child does its weakness? Of late, Jane—only—only of late—I
began to see and acknowledge the hand of God in my doom.
I began to experience remorse, repentance; the wish for rec-
oncilement to my Maker. I began sometimes to pray: very
brief prayers they were, but very sincere.
‘Some days since: nay, I can number them—four; it was
last Monday night, a singular mood came over me: one in
which grief replaced frenzy—sorrow, sullenness. I had long
had the impression that since I could nowhere find you, you
must be dead. Late that night— perhaps it might be between

eleven and twelve o’clock—ere I retired to my dreary rest, I
supplicated God, that, if it seemed good to Him, I might
soon be taken from this life, and admitted to that world to
come, where there was still hope of rejoining Jane.
‘I was in my own room, and sitting by the window, which
was open: it soothed me to feel the balmy night-air; though
I could see no stars and only by a vague, luminous haze,
knew the presence of a moon. I longed for thee, Janet! Oh, I
longed for thee both with soul and flesh! I asked of God, at
once in anguish and humility, if I had not been long enough
desolate, afflicted, tormented; and might not soon taste bliss
and peace once more. That I merited all I endured, I ac-
knowledged—that I could scarcely endure more, I pleaded;
and the alpha and omega of my heart’s wishes broke invol-
untarily from my lips in the words—‘Jane! Jane! Jane!’’
‘Did you speak these words aloud?’
‘I did, Jane. If any listener had heard me, he would have
thought me mad: I pronounced them with such frantic en-
ergy.’
‘And it was last Monday night, somewhere near mid-
night?’
‘Yes; but the time is of no consequence: what followed is
the strange point. You will think me superstitious,—some
superstition I have in my blood, and always had: neverthe-
less, this is true— true at least it is that I heard what I now
relate.
‘As I exclaimed ‘Jane! Jane! Jane!’ a voice—I cannot tell
whence the voice came, but I know whose voice it was—re-
plied, ‘I am coming: wait for me;’ and a moment after, went
682 Jane Eyre

whispering on the wind the words—‘Where are you?’
‘I’ll tell you, if I can, the idea, the picture these words
opened to my mind: yet it is difficult to express what I want
to express. Ferndean is buried, as you see, in a heavy wood,
where sound falls dull, and dies unreverberating. ‘Where
are you?’ seemed spoken amongst mountains; for I heard
a hill-sent echo repeat the words. Cooler and fresher at the
moment the gale seemed to visit my brow: I could have
deemed that in some wild, lone scene, I and Jane were meet-
ing. In spirit, I believe we must have met. You no doubt were,
at that hour, in unconscious sleep, Jane: perhaps your soul
wandered from its cell to comfort mine; for those were your
accentsas certain as I live—they were yours!’
Reader, it was on Monday night—near midnight—that I
too had received the mysterious summons: those were the
very words by which I replied to it. I listened to Mr. Roch-
ester’s narrative, but made no disclosure in return. The
coincidence struck me as too awful and inexplicable to be
communicated or discussed. If I told anything, my tale
would be such as must necessarily make a profound impres-
sion on the mind of my hearer: and that mind, yet from its
sufferings too prone to gloom, needed not the deeper shade
of the supernatural. I kept these things then, and pondered
them in my heart.
‘You cannot now wonder,’ continued my master, ‘that
when you rose upon me so unexpectedly last night, I had
difficulty in believing you any other than a mere voice and
vision, something that would melt to silence and annihi-
lation, as the midnight whisper and mountain echo had

melted before. Now, I thank God! I know it to be otherwise.
Yes, I thank God!’
He put me off his knee, rose, and reverently lifting his hat
from his brow, and bending his sightless eyes to the earth,
he stood in mute devotion. Only the last words of the wor-
ship were audible.
‘I thank my Maker, that, in the midst of judgment, he
has remembered mercy. I humbly entreat my Redeemer to
give me strength to lead henceforth a purer life than I have
done hitherto!’
Then he stretched his hand out to be led. I took that dear
hand, held it a moment to my lips, then let it pass round my
shoulder: being so much lower of stature than he, I served
both for his prop and guide. We entered the wood, and
wended homeward.
684 Jane Eyre

CHAPTER XXXVIII—
CONCLUSION
R eader, I married him. A quiet wedding we had: he and

I, the parson and clerk, were alone present. When we
got back from church, I went into the kitchen of the man-
or-house, where Mary was cooking the dinner and John
cleaning the knives, and I said—
‘Mary, I have been married to Mr. Rochester this morn-
ing.’ The housekeeper and her husband were both of that
decent phlegmatic order of people, to whom one may at
any time safely communicate a remarkable piece of news
without incurring the danger of having one’s ears pierced
by some shrill ejaculation, and subsequently stunned by a
torrent of wordy wonderment. Mary did look up, and she
did stare at me: the ladle with which she was basting a pair
of chickens roasting at the fire, did for some three minutes
hang suspended in air; and for the same space of time John’s
knives also had rest from the polishing process: but Mary,
bending again over the roast, said only—
‘Have you, Miss? Well, for sure!’
A short time after she pursued—‘I seed you go out with
the master, but I didn’t know you were gone to church to be
wed;’ and she basted away. John, when I turned to him, was
grinning from ear to ear.

‘I telled Mary how it would be,’ he said: ‘I knew what Mr.
Edward’ (John was an old servant, and had known his mas-
ter when he was the cadet of the house, therefore, he often
gave him his Christian name)—‘I knew what Mr. Edward
would do; and I was certain he would not wait long neither:
and he’s done right, for aught I know. I wish you joy, Miss!’
and he politely pulled his forelock.
‘Thank you, John. Mr. Rochester told me to give you and
Mary this.’ I put into his hand a five-pound note. Without
waiting to hear more, I left the kitchen. In passing the door
of that sanctum some time after, I caught the words—
‘She’ll happen do better for him nor ony o’t’ grand ladies.’
And again, ‘If she ben’t one o’ th’ handsomest, she’s noan
faal and varry good-natured; and i’ his een she’s fair beauti-
ful, onybody may see that.’
I wrote to Moor House and to Cambridge immediately,
to say what I had done: fully explaining also why I had thus
acted. Diana and Mary approved the step unreservedly. Di-
ana announced that she would just give me time to get over
the honeymoon, and then she would come and see me.
‘She had better not wait till then, Jane,’ said Mr. Roches-
ter, when I read her letter to him; ‘if she does, she will be too
late, for our honeymoon will shine our life long: its beams
will only fade over your grave or mine.’
How St. John received the news, I don’t know: he nev-
er answered the letter in which I communicated it: yet six
months after he wrote to me, without, however, mention-
ing Mr. Rochester’s name or alluding to my marriage. His
letter was then calm, and, though very serious, kind. He
686 Jane Eyre

has maintained a regular, though not frequent, correspon-
dence ever since: he hopes I am happy, and trusts I am not
of those who live without God in the world, and only mind
earthly things.
You have not quite forgotten little Adele, have you,
reader? I had not; I soon asked and obtained leave of Mr.
Rochester, to go and see her at the school where he had
placed her. Her frantic joy at beholding me again moved me
much. She looked pale and thin: she said she was not happy.
I found the rules of the establishment were too strict, its
course of study too severe for a child of her age: I took her
home with me. I meant to become her governess once more,
but I soon found this impracticable; my time and cares were
now required by another—my husband needed them all. So
I sought out a school conducted on a more indulgent sys-
tem, and near enough to permit of my visiting her often,
and bringing her home sometimes. I took care she should
never want for anything that could contribute to her com-
fort: she soon settled in her new abode, became very happy
there, and made fair progress in her studies. As she grew
up, a sound English education corrected in a great measure
her French defects; and when she left school, I found in her
a pleasing and obliging companion: docile, good-tempered,
and well-principled. By her grateful attention to me and
mine, she has long since well repaid any little kindness I
ever had it in my power to offer her.
My tale draws to its close: one word respecting my expe-
rience of married life, and one brief glance at the fortunes
of those whose names have most frequently recurred in this

narrative, and I have done.
I have now been married ten years. I know what it is to
live entirely for and with what I love best on earth. I hold
myself supremely blest—blest beyond what language can
express; because I am my husband’s life as fully is he is
mine. No woman was ever nearer to her mate than I am:
ever more absolutely bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh. I
know no weariness of my Edward’s society: he knows none
of mine, any more than we each do of the pulsation of the
heart that beats in our separate bosoms; consequently, we
are ever together. To be together is for us to be at once as
free as in solitude, as gay as in company. We talk, I believe,
all day long: to talk to each other is but a more animated
and an audible thinking. All my confidence is bestowed on
him, all his confidence is devoted to me; we are precisely
suited in character—perfect concord is the result.
Mr. Rochester continued blind the first two years of our
union; perhaps it was that circumstance that drew us so
very near—that knit us so very close: for I was then his vi-
sion, as I am still his right hand. Literally, I was (what he
often called me) the apple of his eye. He saw nature—he
saw books through me; and never did I weary of gazing for
his behalf, and of putting into words the effect of field, tree,
town, river, cloud, sunbeam—of the landscape before us; of
the weather round us—and impressing by sound on his ear
what light could no longer stamp on his eye. Never did I
weary of reading to him; never did I weary of conducting
him where he wished to go: of doing for him what he wished
to be done. And there was a pleasure in my services, most
688 Jane Eyre

full, most exquisite, even though sadbecause he claimed
these services without painful shame or damping humili-
ation. He loved me so truly, that he knew no reluctance in
profiting by my attendance: he felt I loved him so fondly,
that to yield that attendance was to indulge my sweetest
wishes.
One morning at the end of the two years, as I was writ-
ing a letter to his dictation, he came and bent over me, and
said—‘Jane, have you a glittering ornament round your
neck?’
I had a gold watch-chain: I answered ‘Yes.’
‘And have you a pale blue dress on?’
I had. He informed me then, that for some time he had
fancied the obscurity clouding one eye was becoming less
dense; and that now he was sure of it.
He and I went up to London. He had the advice of an em-
inent oculist; and he eventually recovered the sight of that
one eye. He cannot now see very distinctly: he cannot read
or write much; but he can find his way without being led by
the hand: the sky is no longer a blank to him—the earth no
longer a void. When his first- born was put into his arms, he
could see that the boy had inherited his own eyes, as they
once were—large, brilliant, and black. On that occasion, he
again, with a full heart, acknowledged that God had tem-
pered judgment with mercy.
My Edward and I, then, are happy: and the more so, be-
cause those we most love are happy likewise. Diana and
Mary Rivers are both married: alternately, once every year,
they come to see us, and we go to see them. Diana’s husband

is a captain in the navy, a gallant officer and a good man.
Mary’s is a clergyman, a college friend of her brother’s, and,
from his attainments and principles, worthy of the connec-
tion. Both Captain Fitzjames and Mr. Wharton love their
wives, and are loved by them.
As to St. John Rivers, he left England: he went to India.
He entered on the path he had marked for himself; he pur-
sues it still. A more resolute, indefatigable pioneer never
wrought amidst rocks and dangers. Firm, faithful, and de-
voted, full of energy, and zeal, and truth, he labours for his
race; he clears their painful way to improvement; he hews
down like a giant the prejudices of creed and caste that en-
cumber it. He may be stern; he may be exacting; he may be
ambitious yet; but his is the sternness of the warrior Great-
heart, who guards his pilgrim convoy from the onslaught of
Apollyon. His is the exaction of the apostle, who speaks but
for Christ, when he says—‘Whosoever will come after me,
let him deny himself, and take up his cross and follow me.’
His is the ambition of the high master-spirit, which aims
to fill a place in the first rank of those who are redeemed
from the earth—who stand without fault before the throne
of God, who share the last mighty victories of the Lamb,
who are called, and chosen, and faithful.
St. John is unmarried: he never will marry now. Himself
has hitherto sufficed to the toil, and the toil draws near its
close: his glorious sun hastens to its setting. The last let-
ter I received from him drew from my eves human tears,
and yet filled my heart with divine joy: he anticipated his
sure reward, his incorruptible crown. I know that a strang-
690 Jane Eyre

er’s hand will write to me next, to say that the good and
faithful servant has been called at length into the joy of his
Lord. And why weep for this? No fear of death will darken
St. John’s last hour: his mind will be unclouded, his heart
will be undaunted, his hope will be sure, his faith steadfast.
His own words are a pledge of this’
‘My Master,’ he says, ‘has forewarned me. Daily He an-
nounces more distinctly,—‘Surely I come quickly!’ and
hourly I more eagerly respond,—‘Amen; even so come, Lord
Jesus!’’

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Jane Eyre

Download free eBooks of classic literature, books and

A preface to the first edition of ‘Jane Eyre’ being unnec-

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T here was no possibility of taking a walk that day. We

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‘Where the Northern Ocean, in vast whirls,

Nor could I pass unnoticed the suggestion of the bleak

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T he next thing I remember is, waking up with a feeling as

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Why did they send me so far and so lonely,

Yet distant and soft the night breeze is blowing,

Ev’n should I fall o’er the broken bridge passing,

There is a thought that for strength should avail me,

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‘Come, Miss Jane, don’t cry,’ said Bessie as she finished.

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F rom my discourse with Mr. Lloyd, and from the above

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F ive o’clock had hardly struck on the morning of the 19th

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T he next day commenced as before, getting up and dress-

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M y first quarter at Lowood seemed an age; and not the

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