CHAPTER I

There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. We had beenrnwandering, indeed, in the leafless shrubbery an hour in the morning;rnbut since dinner (Mrs. Reed, when there was no company, dined early)rnthe cold winter wind had brought with it clouds so sombre, and a rainrnso penetrating, that further outdoor exercise was now out of thernquestion.rnrnI was glad of it: I never liked long walks, especially on chillyrnafternoons: dreadful to me was the coming home in the raw twilight,rnwith nipped fingers and toes, and a heart saddened by the chidings ofrnBessie, the nurse, and humbled by the consciousness of my physicalrninferiority to Eliza, John, and Georgiana Reed.rnrnThe said Eliza, John, and Georgiana were now clustered round their mamarnin the drawing-room: she lay reclined on a sofa by the fireside, andrnwith her darlings about her (for the time neither quarrelling norrncrying) looked perfectly happy. Me, she had dispensed from joining therngroup; saying, “She regretted to be under the necessity of keeping mernat a distance; but that until she heard from Bessie, and could discoverrnby her own observation, that I was endeavouring in good earnest tornacquire a more sociable and childlike disposition, a more attractivernand sprightly manner—something lighter, franker, more natural, as itrnwere—she really must exclude me from privileges intended only forrncontented, happy, little children.”rnrn“What does Bessie say I have done?” I asked.rnrn“Jane, I don’t like cavillers or questioners; besides, there isrnsomething truly forbidding in a child taking up her elders in thatrnmanner. Be seated somewhere; and until you can speak pleasantly, remainrnsilent.”rnrnA breakfast-room adjoined the drawing-room, I slipped in there. Itrncontained a bookcase: I soon possessed myself of a volume, taking carernthat it should be one stored with pictures. I mounted into thernwindow-seat: gathering up my feet, I sat cross-legged, like a Turk;rnand, having drawn the red moreen curtain nearly close, I was shrined inrndouble retirement.rnrnFolds of scarlet drapery shut in my view to the right hand; to the leftrnwere the clear panes of glass, protecting, but not separating me fromrnthe drear November day. At intervals, while turning over the leaves ofrnmy book, I studied the aspect of that winter afternoon. Afar, itrnoffered a pale blank of mist and cloud; near a scene of wet lawn andrnstorm-beat shrub, with ceaseless rain sweeping away wildly before arnlong and lamentable blast.rnrnI returned to my book—Bewick’s History of British Birds: thernletterpress thereof I cared little for, generally speaking; and yetrnthere were certain introductory pages that, child as I was, I could notrnpass quite as a blank. They were those which treat of the haunts ofrnsea-fowl; of “the solitary rocks and promontories” by them onlyrninhabited; of the coast of Norway, studded with isles from its southernrnextremity, the Lindeness, or Naze, to the North Cape—rnrn“Where the Northern Ocean, in vast whirls,rnBoils round the naked, melancholy islesrnOf farthest Thule; and the Atlantic surgernPours in among the stormy Hebrides.”rnrnrnNor could I pass unnoticed the suggestion of the bleak shores ofrnLapland, Siberia, Spitzbergen, Nova Zembla, Iceland, Greenland, withrn“the vast sweep of the Arctic Zone, and those forlorn regions of drearyrnspace,—that reservoir of frost and snow, where firm fields of ice, thernaccumulation of centuries of winters, glazed in Alpine heights abovernheights, surround the pole, and concentre the multiplied rigours ofrnextreme cold.” Of these death-white realms I formed an idea of my own:rnshadowy, like all the half-comprehended notions that float dim throughrnchildren’s brains, but strangely impressive. The words in thesernintroductory pages connected themselves with the succeeding vignettes,rnand gave significance to the rock standing up alone in a sea of billowrnand spray; to the broken boat stranded on a desolate coast; to the coldrnand ghastly moon glancing through bars of cloud at a wreck justrnsinking.rnrnI cannot tell what sentiment haunted the quite solitary churchyard,rnwith its inscribed headstone; its gate, its two trees, its low horizon,rngirdled by a broken wall, and its newly-risen crescent, attesting thernhour of eventide.rnrnThe two ships becalmed on a torpid sea, I believed to be marinernphantoms.rnrnThe fiend pinning down the thief’s pack behind him, I passed overrnquickly: it was an object of terror.rnrnSo was the black horned thing seated aloof on a rock, surveying arndistant crowd surrounding a gallows.rnrnEach picture told a story; mysterious often to my undevelopedrnunderstanding and imperfect feelings, yet ever profoundly interesting:rnas interesting as the tales Bessie sometimes narrated on winterrnevenings, when she chanced to be in good humour; and when, havingrnbrought her ironing-table to the nursery hearth, she allowed us to sitrnabout it, and while she got up Mrs. Reed’s lace frills, and crimped herrnnightcap borders, fed our eager attention with passages of love andrnadventure taken from old fairy tales and other ballads; or (as at arnlater period I discovered) from the pages of Pamela, and Henry, Earl ofrnMoreland.rnrnWith Bewick on my knee, I was then happy: happy at least in my way. Irnfeared nothing but interruption, and that came too soon. Thernbreakfast-room door opened.rnrn“Boh! Madam Mope!” cried the voice of John Reed; then he paused: hernfound the room apparently empty.rnrn“Where the dickens is she!” he continued. “Lizzy! Georgy! (calling tornhis sisters) Joan is not here: tell mama she is run out into thernrain—bad animal!”rnrn“It is well I drew the curtain,” thought I; and I wished fervently hernmight not discover my hiding-place: nor would John Reed have found itrnout himself; he was not quick either of vision or conception; but Elizarnjust put her head in at the door, and said at once—rnrn“She is in the window-seat, to be sure, Jack.”rnrnAnd I came out immediately, for I trembled at the idea of being draggedrnforth by the said Jack.rnrn“What do you want?” I asked, with awkward diffidence.rnrn“Say, ‘What do you want, Master Reed?’” was the answer. “I want you torncome here;” and seating himself in an arm-chair, he intimated by arngesture that I was to approach and stand before him.rnrnJohn Reed was a schoolboy of fourteen years old; four years older thanrnI, for I was but ten: large and stout for his age, with a dingy andrnunwholesome skin; thick lineaments in a spacious visage, heavy limbsrnand large extremities. He gorged himself habitually at table, whichrnmade him bilious, and gave him a dim and bleared eye and flabby cheeks.rnHe ought now to have been at school; but his mama had taken him homernfor a month or two, “on account of his delicate health.” Mr. Miles, thernmaster, affirmed that he would do very well if he had fewer cakes andrnsweetmeats sent him from home; but the mother’s heart turned from anrnopinion so harsh, and inclined rather to the more refined idea thatrnJohn’s sallowness was owing to over-application and, perhaps, to piningrnafter home.rnrnJohn had not much affection for his mother and sisters, and anrnantipathy to me. He bullied and punished me; not two or three times inrnthe week, nor once or twice in the day, but continually: every nerve Irnhad feared him, and every morsel of flesh in my bones shrank when herncame near. There were moments when I was bewildered by the terror herninspired, because I had no appeal whatever against either his menacesrnor his inflictions; the servants did not like to offend their youngrnmaster by taking my part against him, and Mrs. Reed was blind and deafrnon the subject: she never saw him strike or heard him abuse me, thoughrnhe did both now and then in her very presence, more frequently,rnhowever, behind her back.rnrnHabitually obedient to John, I came up to his chair: he spent somernthree minutes in thrusting out his tongue at me as far as he couldrnwithout damaging the roots: I knew he would soon strike, and whilerndreading the blow, I mused on the disgusting and ugly appearance of himrnwho would presently deal it. I wonder if he read that notion in myrnface; for, all at once, without speaking, he struck suddenly andrnstrongly. I tottered, and on regaining my equilibrium retired back arnstep or two from his chair.rnrn“That is for your impudence in answering mama awhile since,” said he,“and for your sneaking way of getting behind curtains, and for the lookrnyou had in your eyes two minutes since, you rat!”rnrnAccustomed to John Reed’s abuse, I never had an idea of replying to it;rnmy care was how to endure the blow which would certainly follow therninsult.rnrn“What were you doing behind the curtain?” he asked.rnrn“I was reading.”rnrn“Show the book.”rnrnI returned to the window and fetched it thence.rnrn“You have no business to take our books; you are a dependent, mamarnsays; you have no money; your father left you none; you ought to beg,rnand not to live here with gentlemen’s children like us, and eat thernsame meals we do, and wear clothes at our mama’s expense. Now, I’llrnteach you to rummage my bookshelves: for they _are_ mine; all the housernbelongs to me, or will do in a few years. Go and stand by the door, outrnof the way of the mirror and the windows.”rnrnI did so, not at first aware what was his intention; but when I saw himrnlift and poise the book and stand in act to hurl it, I instinctivelyrnstarted aside with a cry of alarm: not soon enough, however; the volumernwas flung, it hit me, and I fell, striking my head against the door andrncutting it. The cut bled, the pain was sharp: my terror had passed itsrnclimax; other feelings succeeded.rnrn“Wicked and cruel boy!” I said. “You are like a murderer—you are like arnslave-driver—you are like the Roman emperors!”rnrnI had read Goldsmith’s History of Rome, and had formed my opinion ofrnNero, Caligula, &c. Also I had drawn parallels in silence, which Irnnever thought thus to have declared aloud.rnrn“What! what!” he cried. “Did she say that to me? Did you hear her,rnEliza and Georgiana? Won’t I tell mama? but first—”rnrnHe ran headlong at me: I felt him grasp my hair and my shoulder: he hadrnclosed with a desperate thing. I really saw in him a tyrant, arnmurderer. I felt a drop or two of blood from my head trickle down myrnneck, and was sensible of somewhat pungent suffering: these sensationsrnfor the time predominated over fear, and I received him in franticrnsort. I don’t very well know what I did with my hands, but he called mern“Rat! Rat!” and bellowed out aloud. Aid was near him: Eliza andrnGeorgiana had run for Mrs. Reed, who was gone upstairs: she now camernupon the scene, followed by Bessie and her maid Abbot. We were parted:rnI heard the words—rnrn“Dear! dear! What a fury to fly at Master John!”rnrn“Did ever anybody see such a picture of passion!”rnrnThen Mrs. Reed subjoined—rnrn“Take her away to the red-room, and lock her in there.” Four hands werernimmediately laid upon me, and I was borne upstairs.