CHAPTER III

The next thing I remember is, waking up with a feeling as if I had hadrna frightful nightmare, and seeing before me a terrible red glare,rncrossed with thick black bars. I heard voices, too, speaking with arnhollow sound, and as if muffled by a rush of wind or water: agitation,rnuncertainty, and an all-predominating sense of terror confused myrnfaculties. Ere long, I became aware that some one was handling me;rnlifting me up and supporting me in a sitting posture, and that morerntenderly than I had ever been raised or upheld before. I rested my headrnagainst a pillow or an arm, and felt easy.rnrnIn five minutes more the cloud of bewilderment dissolved: I knew quiternwell that I was in my own bed, and that the red glare was the nurseryrnfire. It was night: a candle burnt on the table; Bessie stood at thernbed-foot with a basin in her hand, and a gentleman sat in a chair nearrnmy pillow, leaning over me.rnrnI felt an inexpressible relief, a soothing conviction of protection andrnsecurity, when I knew that there was a stranger in the room, anrnindividual not belonging to Gateshead, and not related to Mrs. Reed.rnTurning from Bessie (though her presence was far less obnoxious to mernthan that of Abbot, for instance, would have been), I scrutinised thernface of the gentleman: I knew him; it was Mr. Lloyd, an apothecary,rnsometimes called in by Mrs. Reed when the servants were ailing: forrnherself and the children she employed a physician.rnrn“Well, who am I?” he asked.rnrnI pronounced his name, offering him at the same time my hand: he tookrnit, smiling and saying, “We shall do very well by-and-by.” Then he laidrnme down, and addressing Bessie, charged her to be very careful that Irnwas not disturbed during the night. Having given some furtherrndirections, and intimated that he should call again the next day, herndeparted; to my grief: I felt so sheltered and befriended while he satrnin the chair near my pillow; and as he closed the door after him, allrnthe room darkened and my heart again sank: inexpressible sadnessrnweighed it down.rnrn“Do you feel as if you should sleep, Miss?” asked Bessie, ratherrnsoftly.rnrnScarcely dared I answer her; for I feared the next sentence might bernrough. “I will try.”rnrn“Would you like to drink, or could you eat anything?”rnrn“No, thank you, Bessie.”rnrn“Then I think I shall go to bed, for it is past twelve o’clock; but yournmay call me if you want anything in the night.”rnrnWonderful civility this! It emboldened me to ask a question.rnrn“Bessie, what is the matter with me? Am I ill?”rnrn“You fell sick, I suppose, in the red-room with crying; you’ll bernbetter soon, no doubt.”rnrnBessie went into the housemaid’s apartment, which was near. I heard herrnsay—rnrn“Sarah, come and sleep with me in the nursery; I daren’t for my life bernalone with that poor child to-night: she might die; it’s such a strangernthing she should have that fit: I wonder if she saw anything. Missisrnwas rather too hard.”rnrnSarah came back with her; they both went to bed; they were whisperingrntogether for half-an-hour before they fell asleep. I caught scraps ofrntheir conversation, from which I was able only too distinctly to inferrnthe main subject discussed.rnrn“Something passed her, all dressed in white, and vanished”—“A greatrnblack dog behind him”—“Three loud raps on the chamber door”—“A light inrnthe churchyard just over his grave,” &c., &c.rnrnAt last both slept: the fire and the candle went out. For me, thernwatches of that long night passed in ghastly wakefulness; ear, eye, andrnmind were alike strained by dread: such dread as children only canrnfeel.rnrnNo severe or prolonged bodily illness followed this incident of thernred-room; it only gave my nerves a shock of which I feel thernreverberation to this day. Yes, Mrs. Reed, to you I owe some fearfulrnpangs of mental suffering, but I ought to forgive you, for you knew notrnwhat you did: while rending my heart-strings, you thought you were onlyrnuprooting my bad propensities.rnrnNext day, by noon, I was up and dressed, and sat wrapped in a shawl byrnthe nursery hearth. I felt physically weak and broken down: but myrnworse ailment was an unutterable wretchedness of mind: a wretchednessrnwhich kept drawing from me silent tears; no sooner had I wiped one saltrndrop from my cheek than another followed. Yet, I thought, I ought tornhave been happy, for none of the Reeds were there, they were all gonernout in the carriage with their mama. Abbot, too, was sewing in anotherrnroom, and Bessie, as she moved hither and thither, putting away toysrnand arranging drawers, addressed to me every now and then a word ofrnunwonted kindness. This state of things should have been to me arnparadise of peace, accustomed as I was to a life of ceaseless reprimandrnand thankless fagging; but, in fact, my racked nerves were now in suchrna state that no calm could soothe, and no pleasure excite themrnagreeably.rnrnBessie had been down into the kitchen, and she brought up with her arntart on a certain brightly painted china plate, whose bird of paradise,rnnestling in a wreath of convolvuli and rosebuds, had been wont to stirrnin me a most enthusiastic sense of admiration; and which plate I hadrnoften petitioned to be allowed to take in my hand in order to examinernit more closely, but had always hitherto been deemed unworthy of such arnprivilege. This precious vessel was now placed on my knee, and I wasrncordially invited to eat the circlet of delicate pastry upon it. Vainrnfavour! coming, like most other favours long deferred and often wishedrnfor, too late! I could not eat the tart; and the plumage of the bird,rnthe tints of the flowers, seemed strangely faded: I put both plate andrntart away. Bessie asked if I would have a book: the word _book_ actedrnas a transient stimulus, and I begged her to fetch Gulliver’s Travelsrnfrom the library. This book I had again and again perused with delight.rnI considered it a narrative of facts, and discovered in it a vein ofrninterest deeper than what I found in fairy tales: for as to the elves,rnhaving sought them in vain among foxglove leaves and bells, underrnmushrooms and beneath the ground-ivy mantling old wall-nooks, I had atrnlength made up my mind to the sad truth, that they were all gone out ofrnEngland to some savage country where the woods were wilder and thicker,rnand the population more scant; whereas, Lilliput and Brobdignag being,rnin my creed, solid parts of the earth’s surface, I doubted not that Irnmight one day, by taking a long voyage, see with my own eyes the littlernfields, houses, and trees, the diminutive people, the tiny cows, sheep,rnand birds of the one realm; and the corn-fields forest-high, the mightyrnmastiffs, the monster cats, the tower-like men and women, of the other.rnYet, when this cherished volume was now placed in my hand—when I turnedrnover its leaves, and sought in its marvellous pictures the charm I had,rntill now, never failed to find—all was eerie and dreary; the giantsrnwere gaunt goblins, the pigmies malevolent and fearful imps, Gulliver arnmost desolate wanderer in most dread and dangerous regions. I closedrnthe book, which I dared no longer peruse, and put it on the table,rnbeside the untasted tart.rnrnBessie had now finished dusting and tidying the room, and having washedrnher hands, she opened a certain little drawer, full of splendid shredsrnof silk and satin, and began making a new bonnet for Georgiana’s doll.rnMeantime she sang: her song was—rnrn“In the days when we went gipsying, A long time ago.”rnrnrnI had often heard the song before, and always with lively delight; forrnBessie had a sweet voice,—at least, I thought so. But now, though herrnvoice was still sweet, I found in its melody an indescribable sadness.rnSometimes, preoccupied with her work, she sang the refrain very low,rnvery lingeringly; “A long time ago” came out like the saddest cadencernof a funeral hymn. She passed into another ballad, this time a reallyrndoleful one.rnrn“My feet they are sore, and my limbs they are weary; Long is the way, and the mountains are wild;rnSoon will the twilight close moonless and drearyrn Over the path of the poor orphan child.rnrnWhy did they send me so far and so lonely, Up where the moors spread and grey rocks are piled?rnMen are hard-hearted, and kind angels onlyrn Watch o’er the steps of a poor orphan child.rnrnYet distant and soft the night breeze is blowing, Clouds there are none, and clear stars beam mild,rnGod, in His mercy, protection is showing, Comfort and hope to the poor orphan child.rnrnEv’n should I fall o’er the broken bridge passing, Or stray in the marshes, by false lights beguiled,rnStill will my Father, with promise and blessing, Take to His bosom the poor orphan child.rnrnThere is a thought that for strength should avail me, Though both of shelter and kindred despoiled;rnHeaven is a home, and a rest will not fail me; God is a friend to the poor orphan child.”rnrnrn“Come, Miss Jane, don’t cry,” said Bessie as she finished. She might asrnwell have said to the fire, “don’t burn!” but how could she divine thernmorbid suffering to which I was a prey? In the course of the morningrnMr. Lloyd came again.rnrn“What, already up!” said he, as he entered the nursery. “Well, nurse,rnhow is she?”rnrnBessie answered that I was doing very well.rnrn“Then she ought to look more cheerful. Come here, Miss Jane: your namernis Jane, is it not?”rnrn“Yes, sir, Jane Eyre.”rnrn“Well, you have been crying, Miss Jane Eyre; can you tell me whatrnabout? Have you any pain?”rnrn“No, sir.”rnrn“Oh! I daresay she is crying because she could not go out with Missisrnin the carriage,” interposed Bessie.rnrn“Surely not! why, she is too old for such pettishness.”rnrnI thought so too; and my self-esteem being wounded by the false charge,rnI answered promptly, “I never cried for such a thing in my life: I haterngoing out in the carriage. I cry because I am miserable.”rnrn“Oh fie, Miss!” said Bessie.rnrnThe good apothecary appeared a little puzzled. I was standing beforernhim; he fixed his eyes on me very steadily: his eyes were small andrngrey; not very bright, but I dare say I should think them shrewd now:rnhe had a hard-featured yet good-natured looking face. Having consideredrnme at leisure, he said—rnrn“What made you ill yesterday?”rnrn“She had a fall,” said Bessie, again putting in her word.rnrn“Fall! why, that is like a baby again! Can’t she manage to walk at herrnage? She must be eight or nine years old.”rnrn“I was knocked down,” was the blunt explanation, jerked out of me byrnanother pang of mortified pride; “but that did not make me ill,” Irnadded; while Mr. Lloyd helped himself to a pinch of snuff.rnrnAs he was returning the box to his waistcoat pocket, a loud bell rangrnfor the servants’ dinner; he knew what it was. “That’s for you, nurse,”rnsaid he; “you can go down; I’ll give Miss Jane a lecture till you comernback.”rnrnBessie would rather have stayed, but she was obliged to go, becausernpunctuality at meals was rigidly enforced at Gateshead Hall.rnrn“The fall did not make you ill; what did, then?” pursued Mr. Lloyd whenrnBessie was gone.rnrn“I was shut up in a room where there is a ghost till after dark.”rnrnI saw Mr. Lloyd smile and frown at the same time.rnrn“Ghost! What, you are a baby after all! You are afraid of ghosts?”rnrn“Of Mr. Reed’s ghost I am: he died in that room, and was laid outrnthere. Neither Bessie nor any one else will go into it at night, ifrnthey can help it; and it was cruel to shut me up alone without arncandle,—so cruel that I think I shall never forget it.”rnrn“Nonsense! And is it that makes you so miserable? Are you afraid now inrndaylight?”rnrn“No: but night will come again before long: and besides,—I amrnunhappy,—very unhappy, for other things.”rnrn“What other things? Can you tell me some of them?”rnrnHow much I wished to reply fully to this question! How difficult it wasrnto frame any answer! Children can feel, but they cannot analyse theirrnfeelings; and if the analysis is partially effected in thought, theyrnknow not how to express the result of the process in words. Fearful,rnhowever, of losing this first and only opportunity of relieving myrngrief by imparting it, I, after a disturbed pause, contrived to frame arnmeagre, though, as far as it went, true response.rnrn“For one thing, I have no father or mother, brothers or sisters.”rnrn“You have a kind aunt and cousins.”rnrnAgain I paused; then bunglingly enounced—rnrn“But John Reed knocked me down, and my aunt shut me up in thernred-room.”rnrnMr. Lloyd a second time produced his snuff-box.rnrn“Don’t you think Gateshead Hall a very beautiful house?” asked he. “Arernyou not very thankful to have such a fine place to live at?”rnrn“It is not my house, sir; and Abbot says I have less right to be herernthan a servant.”rnrn“Pooh! you can’t be silly enough to wish to leave such a splendidrnplace?”rnrn“If I had anywhere else to go, I should be glad to leave it; but I canrnnever get away from Gateshead till I am a woman.”rnrn“Perhaps you may—who knows? Have you any relations besides Mrs. Reed?”rnrn“I think not, sir.”rnrn“None belonging to your father?”rnrn“I don’t know: I asked Aunt Reed once, and she said possibly I mightrnhave some poor, low relations called Eyre, but she knew nothing aboutrnthem.”rnrn“If you had such, would you like to go to them?”rnrnI reflected. Poverty looks grim to grown people; still more so tornchildren: they have not much idea of industrious, working, respectablernpoverty; they think of the word only as connected with ragged clothes,rnscanty food, fireless grates, rude manners, and debasing vices: povertyrnfor me was synonymous with degradation.rnrn“No; I should not like to belong to poor people,” was my reply.rnrn“Not even if they were kind to you?”rnrnI shook my head: I could not see how poor people had the means of beingrnkind; and then to learn to speak like them, to adopt their manners, tornbe uneducated, to grow up like one of the poor women I saw sometimesrnnursing their children or washing their clothes at the cottage doors ofrnthe village of Gateshead: no, I was not heroic enough to purchasernliberty at the price of caste.rnrn“But are your relatives so very poor? Are they working people?”rnrn“I cannot tell; Aunt Reed says if I have any, they must be a beggarlyrnset: I should not like to go a begging.”rnrn“Would you like to go to school?”rnrnAgain I reflected: I scarcely knew what school was: Bessie sometimesrnspoke of it as a place where young ladies sat in the stocks, worernbackboards, and were expected to be exceedingly genteel and precise:rnJohn Reed hated his school, and abused his master; but John Reed’srntastes were no rule for mine, and if Bessie’s accounts ofrnschool-discipline (gathered from the young ladies of a family where shernhad lived before coming to Gateshead) were somewhat appalling, herrndetails of certain accomplishments attained by these same young ladiesrnwere, I thought, equally attractive. She boasted of beautiful paintingsrnof landscapes and flowers by them executed; of songs they could singrnand pieces they could play, of purses they could net, of French booksrnthey could translate; till my spirit was moved to emulation as Irnlistened. Besides, school would be a complete change: it implied a longrnjourney, an entire separation from Gateshead, an entrance into a newrnlife.rnrn“I should indeed like to go to school,” was the audible conclusion ofrnmy musings.rnrn“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, speakingrnto himself; “nerves not in a good state.”rnrnBessie now returned; at the same moment the carriage was heard rollingrnup the gravel-walk.rnrn“Is that your mistress, nurse?” asked Mr. Lloyd. “I should like tornspeak to her before I go.”rnrnBessie invited him to walk into the breakfast-room, and led the wayrnout. In the interview which followed between him and Mrs. Reed, Irnpresume, from after-occurrences, that the apothecary ventured tornrecommend my being sent to school; and the recommendation was no doubtrnreadily enough adopted; for as Abbot said, in discussing the subjectrnwith Bessie when both sat sewing in the nursery one night, after I wasrnin bed, and, as they thought, asleep, “Missis was, she dared say, gladrnenough to get rid of such a tiresome, ill-conditioned child, who alwaysrnlooked as if she were watching everybody, and scheming plotsrnunderhand.” Abbot, I think, gave me credit for being a sort ofrninfantine Guy Fawkes.rnrnOn that same occasion I learned, for the first time, from Miss Abbot’srncommunications to Bessie, that my father had been a poor clergyman;rnthat my mother had married him against the wishes of her friends, whornconsidered the match beneath her; that my grandfather Reed was sornirritated at her disobedience, he cut her off without a shilling; thatrnafter my mother and father had been married a year, the latter caughtrnthe typhus fever while visiting among the poor of a large manufacturingrntown where his curacy was situated, and where that disease was thenrnprevalent: that my mother took the infection from him, and both diedrnwithin a month of each other.rnrnBessie, when she heard this narrative, sighed and said, “Poor Miss Janernis to be pitied, too, Abbot.”rnrn“Yes,” responded Abbot; “if she were a nice, pretty child, one mightrncompassionate her forlornness; but one really cannot care for such arnlittle toad as that.”rnrn“Not a great deal, to be sure,” agreed Bessie: “at any rate, a beautyrnlike Miss Georgiana would be more moving in the same condition.”rnrn“Yes, I doat on Miss Georgiana!” cried the fervent Abbot. “Littlerndarling!—with her long curls and her blue eyes, and such a sweet colourrnas she has; just as if she were painted!—Bessie, I could fancy a Welshrnrabbit for supper.”rnrn“So could I—with a roast onion. Come, we’ll go down.” They went.