CHAPTER IX

But 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 temperature 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 greenness 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. Flowers peeped out
amongst the leaves; snow-drops, crocuses, purple auriculas, and golden-eyed
pansies. On Thursday afternoons (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 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.
that
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 profusely 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, unwatched, 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 quickening 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 fortunate 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 malady 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 roses were in bloom; the borders of the little beds were gay with
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
handful of herbs and blossoms to put in a coffin.

But I, and the rest who continued well, enjoyed fully 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 Dispensary,
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 personage, whose society I took pleasure in, partly
because she was witty and original, and partly because she had a manner 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 pure society? Surely the Mary Ann Wilson I have mentioned was
inferior to my first acquaintance: she could only tell me amusing stories, and
reciprocate any racy and pungent gossip I chose to indulge in; while, if I have
spoken truth of Helen, she was qualified to give those who enjoyed the
privilege 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 cherish 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 circumstances, evinced for me a quiet
and faithful friendship, which ill-humour never soured, nor irritation never
troubled? But Helen was ill at present: for some weeks she had been removed
from my sight to I knew not what room upstairs. She was not, I was told, in the
hospital portion of the house with the fever patients; for her complaint was
consumption, not typhus: and by consumption I, in my ignorance, 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 distance 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, separated 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
morning. 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 enjoying
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 danger 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 comprehend 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 tottering, 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 instantly
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 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 entrance 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, entering here and
there at passage windows, enabled me to find it without difficulty. An odour of
camphor and burnt vinegar 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.
must
Having descended a staircase, traversed a portion of the house below, and
succeeded in opening and shutting, without 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. Coming 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 advanced; 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 mistaken: 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 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 removing 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 dying 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 arrives 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 misgiving. 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 received 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 away.”
dear
“Are you warm, darling?”

“Yes.”

“Good-night, Jane.”

“Good-night, Helen.”

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; people had
something else to think about; no explanation was afforded then to my many
questions; but a day or two afterwards 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

Hitherto I have recorded in detail the events of my insignificant 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 interest; 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 devastation 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 accommodations—all these
things were discovered, and the discovery produced a result mortifying to Mr.
Brocklehurst, but beneficial to the institution.

Several wealthy and benevolent individuals in the county 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
of the school were intrusted to the management of a committee. 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
institution. 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 advantages 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 continued 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 clergyman, 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
appeared 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 ceremony; 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 imagined 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 transforming process; that my mind had put off all it had
borrowed of Miss Temple—or rather that she had taken with her the serene
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 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 sensations 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 descending 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; neither 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 downstairs.

I was not free to resume the interrupted chain of my reflections 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 Welshwoman, 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 instantly revived.

“A new servitude! There is something in that,” I soliloquised (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:
delightful 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 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, shivered with cold, and again
crept to bed.

A kind fairy, in my absence, had surely dropped the required suggestion on my
pillow; for as I lay down, it came quietly and naturally to my mind:—“Those who
want situations 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-office 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 digested 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 written, 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
accomplishments, 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.

The succeeding week seemed long: it came to an end at last, however, like all
sublunary things, and once more, towards 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 measured 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; fortunately, however, the heavy supper she had eaten
produced a soporific effect: she was already snoring before I had finished
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 Thursday,
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-fashioned and rather
uncertain, like that of an 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 respectable, proper, en règle.
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,
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 complete 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 recreation,
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 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 guardian. 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 appeared 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 capacity, 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 fortnight 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 adequate 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, whither 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 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 feverishly 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 servant, 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 rapturously: “Bessie! Bessie!
Bessie!” that was all I said; whereat she half laughed, half cried, and we both
went into the parlour. 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 coachman; 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 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 her—he 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 off, 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 expressed 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 correct, 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 piano?”

“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 exultingly. “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 seven years ago, a Mr. Eyre came to Gateshead and wanted to see
you; Missis said you were at 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 gentleman, and I believe he was your father’s brother.”

“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: Missis 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 vehicle which was to bear me to new duties and a new life in the
unknown environs of Millcote.