CHAPTER VI

The next day commenced as before, getting up and dressing 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 weather 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-reading 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 frequent 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 same. At that hour most of the others were sewing
likewise; but one class still stood round Miss Scatcherd’s chair reading, and
as all was quiet, the subject of their lessons could be heard, together with
the manner in which each girl acquitted herself, and the animadversions or
commendations of Miss Scatcherd on the performance. It was English history:
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 pronunciation, 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 notice: 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
unpleasantly; 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 comprised 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 observations 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 bundle 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
unavailing 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 handkerchief 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 morning—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 liberty.

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 companion, 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 parents, 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 education; 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 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.”
cannot 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.”
bear
“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 flitted 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 expostulations, 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 Miller 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.”
you
“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 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 enemies 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 reflections; 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 inclination 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 people 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 older: as yet you are but a
little untaught girl.”

“But I feel this, Helen; I must dislike those who, whatever 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
punishment 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 vengeance 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 conduct 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 proceeded forthwith to pour
out, in my own way, the tale of my sufferings and resentments. Bitter and
truculent when excited, I spoke as I felt, without reserve or softening.

Helen heard me patiently to the end: I expected she would then make a remark,
but she said nothing.

“Well,” I asked impatiently, “is not Mrs. Reed a hard-hearted, 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 Creator 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! Surely 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, degradation 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.

CHAPTER VII

My 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 unwonted 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 became 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 famished 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
relinquishing 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 patron 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 observed 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, blowing over a range of snowy summits to the
north, almost flayed the skin from our faces.

I can remember Miss Temple walking lightly and rapidly along our drooping line,
her plaid cloak, which the frosty wind fluttered, gathered close about her, and
encouraging 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 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 hebdomadal 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 invariably obliged to part with.

The Sunday evening was spent in repeating, by heart, the Church Catechism, and
the fifth, sixth, and seventh chapters of St. Matthew; and in listening to a
long sermon, read by Miss Miller, whose irrepressible yawns attested her
weariness. 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 forward 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. Brocklehurst; and indeed that
gentleman was from home during the greater part of the first month after my
arrival; perhaps prolonging 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 minutes 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 Gateshead. 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 apparition; 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
teachers 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, expecting 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 apprehension.

“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 Temple.

“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 circumstance 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 fortnight. How is this?
I looked over the regulations, and I find no such meal as lunch mentioned. Who
introduced this innovation? and by what authority?”

“I must be responsible for the circumstance, sir,” replied Miss Temple: “the
breakfast was so ill prepared that the pupils 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 under
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 the temporary privation. A brief address on those occasions would not be
mistimed, wherein a judicious 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 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; especially 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 Temple,
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 interference 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 persons before us has a string
of hair twisted in plaits which 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 visitors, 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 Temple, 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 upstairs, 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 enchanted my attention.

Hitherto, while gathering up the discourse of Mr. Brocklehurst 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 observation.
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 notice, had not my treacherous slate somehow happened to slip from my
hand, and falling with an obtrusive crash, directly 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 rallied 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 respecting 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 paralysed: but the two great
girls who sat 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, Brocklehurst, 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 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 plumage 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 burning-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 becomes 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. Teachers,
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 Juggernaut—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-handkerchiefs and apply them to their optics, while the elderly lady
swayed herself to and fro, and the two younger ones whispered, “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 generosity 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 stagnate 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.”

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 inspired 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.