CHAPTER V

Five o’clock had hardly struck on the morning of the 19th of January, when
Bessie brought a candle into my closet and found me already up and nearly
dressed. I had risen half-an-hour before her entrance, and had washed my face,
and put on my clothes by the light of a half-moon just setting, whose rays
streamed through the narrow window near my crib. I was to leave Gateshead that
day by a coach which passed the lodge gates at six A.M. Bessie
was the only person yet risen; she had lit a fire in the nursery, where she now
proceeded to make my breakfast. Few children can eat when excited with the
thoughts of a journey; nor could I. Bessie, having pressed me in vain to take a
few spoonfuls of the boiled milk and bread she had prepared for me, wrapped up
some biscuits in a paper and put them into my bag; then she helped me on with
my pelisse and bonnet, and wrapping herself in a shawl, she and I left the
nursery. As we passed Mrs. Reed’s bedroom, she said, “Will you go in and bid
Missis good-bye?”
A.M.
“No, Bessie: she came to my crib last night when you were gone down to supper,
and said I need not disturb her in the morning, or my cousins either; and she
told me to remember that she had always been my best friend, and to speak of
her and be grateful to her accordingly.”

“What did you say, Miss?”

“Nothing: I covered my face with the bedclothes, and turned from her to the
wall.”

“That was wrong, Miss Jane.”

“It was quite right, Bessie. Your Missis has not been my friend: she has been
my foe.”

“O Miss Jane! don’t say so!”

“Good-bye to Gateshead!” cried I, as we passed through the hall and went out at
the front door.

The moon was set, and it was very dark; Bessie carried a lantern, whose light
glanced on wet steps and gravel road sodden by a recent thaw. Raw and chill was
the winter morning: my teeth chattered as I hastened down the drive. There was
a light in the porter’s lodge: when we reached it, we found the porter’s wife
just kindling her fire: my trunk, which had been carried down the evening
before, stood corded at the door. It wanted but a few minutes of six, and
shortly after that hour had struck, the distant roll of wheels announced the
coming coach; I went to the door and watched its lamps approach rapidly through
the gloom.

“Is she going by herself?” asked the porter’s wife.

“Yes.”

“And how far is it?”

“Fifty miles.”

“What a long way! I wonder Mrs. Reed is not afraid to trust her so far alone.”

The coach drew up; there it was at the gates with its four horses and its top
laden with passengers: the guard and coachman loudly urged haste; my trunk was
hoisted up; I was taken from Bessie’s neck, to which I clung with kisses.

“Be sure and take good care of her,” cried she to the guard, as he lifted me
into the inside.

“Ay, ay!” was the answer: the door was slapped to, a voice exclaimed “All
right,” and on we drove. Thus was I severed from Bessie and Gateshead; thus
whirled away to unknown, and, as I then deemed, remote and mysterious regions.

I remember but little of the journey; I only know that the day seemed to me of
a preternatural length, and that we appeared to travel over hundreds of miles
of road. We passed through several towns, and in one, a very large one, the
coach stopped; the horses were taken out, and the passengers alighted to dine.
I was carried into an inn, where the guard wanted me to have some dinner; but,
as I had no appetite, he left me in an immense room with a fireplace at each
end, a chandelier pendent from the ceiling, and a little red gallery high up
against the wall filled with musical instruments. Here I walked about for a
long time, feeling very strange, and mortally apprehensive of some one coming
in and kidnapping me; for I believed in kidnappers, their exploits having
frequently figured in Bessie’s fireside chronicles. At last the guard returned;
once more I was stowed away in the coach, my protector mounted his own seat,
sounded his hollow horn, and away we rattled over the “stony street” of L——.

The afternoon came on wet and somewhat misty: as it waned into dusk, I began to
feel that we were getting very far indeed from Gateshead: we ceased to pass
through towns; the country changed; great grey hills heaved up round the
horizon: as twilight deepened, we descended a valley, dark with wood, and long
after night had overclouded the prospect, I heard a wild wind rushing amongst
trees.

Lulled by the sound, I at last dropped asleep; I had not long slumbered when
the sudden cessation of motion awoke me; the coach-door was open, and a person
like a servant was standing at it: I saw her face and dress by the light of the
lamps.

“Is there a little girl called Jane Eyre here?” she asked. I answered “Yes,”
and was then lifted out; my trunk was handed down, and the coach instantly
drove away.

I was stiff with long sitting, and bewildered with the noise and motion of the
coach: gathering my faculties, I looked about me. Rain, wind, and darkness
filled the air; nevertheless, I dimly discerned a wall before me and a door
open in it; through this door I passed with my new guide: she shut and locked
it behind her. There was now visible a house or houses—for the building spread
far—with many windows, and lights burning in some; we went up a broad pebbly
path, splashing wet, and were admitted at a door; then the servant led me
through a passage into a room with a fire, where she left me alone.

I stood and warmed my numbed fingers over the blaze, then I looked round; there
was no candle, but the uncertain light from the hearth showed, by intervals,
papered walls, carpet, curtains, shining mahogany furniture: it was a parlour,
not so spacious or splendid as the drawing-room at Gateshead, but comfortable
enough. I was puzzling to make out the subject of a picture on the wall, when
the door opened, and an individual carrying a light entered; another followed
close behind.

The first was a tall lady with dark hair, dark eyes, and a pale and large
forehead; her figure was partly enveloped in a shawl, her countenance was
grave, her bearing erect.

“The child is very young to be sent alone,” said she, putting her candle down
on the table. She considered me attentively for a minute or two, then further
added—

“She had better be put to bed soon; she looks tired: are you tired?” she asked,
placing her hand on my shoulder.

“A little, ma’am.”

“And hungry too, no doubt: let her have some supper before she goes to bed,
Miss Miller. Is this the first time you have left your parents to come to
school, my little girl?”

I explained to her that I had no parents. She inquired how long they had been
dead: then how old I was, what was my name, whether I could read, write, and
sew a little: then she touched my cheek gently with her forefinger, and saying,
“She hoped I should be a good child,” dismissed me along with Miss Miller.

The lady I had left might be about twenty-nine; the one who went with me
appeared some years younger: the first impressed me by her voice, look, and
air. Miss Miller was more ordinary; ruddy in complexion, though of a careworn
countenance; hurried in gait and action, like one who had always a multiplicity
of tasks on hand: she looked, indeed, what I afterwards found she really was,
an under-teacher. Led by her, I passed from compartment to compartment, from
passage to passage, of a large and irregular building; till, emerging from the
total and somewhat dreary silence pervading that portion of the house we had
traversed, we came upon the hum of many voices, and presently entered a wide,
long room, with great deal tables, two at each end, on each of which burnt a
pair of candles, and seated all round on benches, a congregation of girls of
every age, from nine or ten to twenty. Seen by the dim light of the dips, their
number to me appeared countless, though not in reality exceeding eighty; they
were uniformly dressed in brown stuff frocks of quaint fashion, and long
holland pinafores. It was the hour of study; they were engaged in conning over
their to-morrow’s task, and the hum I had heard was the combined result of
their whispered repetitions.

Miss Miller signed to me to sit on a bench near the door, then walking up to
the top of the long room she cried out—

“Monitors, collect the lesson-books and put them away!”

Four tall girls arose from different tables, and going round, gathered the
books and removed them. Miss Miller again gave the word of command—

“Monitors, fetch the supper-trays!”

The tall girls went out and returned presently, each bearing a tray, with
portions of something, I knew not what, arranged thereon, and a pitcher of
water and mug in the middle of each tray. The portions were handed round; those
who liked took a draught of the water, the mug being common to all. When it
came to my turn, I drank, for I was thirsty, but did not touch the food,
excitement and fatigue rendering me incapable of eating: I now saw, however,
that it was a thin oaten cake shared into fragments.

The meal over, prayers were read by Miss Miller, and the classes filed off, two
and two, upstairs. Overpowered by this time with weariness, I scarcely noticed
what sort of a place the bedroom was, except that, like the schoolroom, I saw
it was very long. To-night I was to be Miss Miller’s bed-fellow; she helped me
to undress: when laid down I glanced at the long rows of beds, each of which
was quickly filled with two occupants; in ten minutes the single light was
extinguished, and amidst silence and complete darkness I fell asleep.

The night passed rapidly: I was too tired even to dream; I only once awoke to
hear the wind rave in furious gusts, and the rain fall in torrents, and to be
sensible that Miss Miller had taken her place by my side. When I again unclosed
my eyes, a loud bell was ringing; the girls were up and dressing; day had not
yet begun to dawn, and a rushlight or two burned in the room. I too rose
reluctantly; it was bitter cold, and I dressed as well as I could for
shivering, and washed when there was a basin at liberty, which did not occur
soon, as there was but one basin to six girls, on the stands down the middle of
the room. Again the bell rang: all formed in file, two and two, and in that
order descended the stairs and entered the cold and dimly lit schoolroom: here
prayers were read by Miss Miller; afterwards she called out—

“Form classes!”

A great tumult succeeded for some minutes, during which Miss Miller repeatedly
exclaimed, “Silence!” and “Order!” When it subsided, I saw them all drawn up in
four semicircles, before four chairs, placed at the four tables; all held books
in their hands, and a great book, like a Bible, lay on each table, before the
vacant seat. A pause of some seconds succeeded, filled up by the low, vague hum
of numbers; Miss Miller walked from class to class, hushing this indefinite
sound.

A distant bell tinkled: immediately three ladies entered the room, each walked
to a table and took her seat; Miss Miller assumed the fourth vacant chair,
which was that nearest the door, and around which the smallest of the children
were assembled: to this inferior class I was called, and placed at the bottom
of it.

Business now began: the day’s Collect was repeated, then certain texts of
Scripture were said, and to these succeeded a protracted reading of chapters in
the Bible, which lasted an hour. By the time that exercise was terminated, day
had fully dawned. The indefatigable bell now sounded for the fourth time: the
classes were marshalled and marched into another room to breakfast: how glad I
was to behold a prospect of getting something to eat! I was now nearly sick
from inanition, having taken so little the day before.

The refectory was a great, low-ceiled, gloomy room; on two long tables smoked
basins of something hot, which, however, to my dismay, sent forth an odour far
from inviting. I saw a universal manifestation of discontent when the fumes of
the repast met the nostrils of those destined to swallow it; from the van of
the procession, the tall girls of the first class, rose the whispered words—

“Disgusting! The porridge is burnt again!”

“Silence!” ejaculated a voice; not that of Miss Miller, but one of the upper
teachers, a little and dark personage, smartly dressed, but of somewhat morose
aspect, who installed herself at the top of one table, while a more buxom lady
presided at the other. I looked in vain for her I had first seen the night
before; she was not visible: Miss Miller occupied the foot of the table where I
sat, and a strange, foreign-looking, elderly lady, the French teacher, as I
afterwards found, took the corresponding seat at the other board. A long grace
was said and a hymn sung; then a servant brought in some tea for the teachers,
and the meal began.

Ravenous, and now very faint, I devoured a spoonful or two of my portion
without thinking of its taste; but the first edge of hunger blunted, I
perceived I had got in hand a nauseous mess; burnt porridge is almost as bad as
rotten potatoes; famine itself soon sickens over it. The spoons were moved
slowly: I saw each girl taste her food and try to swallow it; but in most cases
the effort was soon relinquished. Breakfast was over, and none had breakfasted.
Thanks being returned for what we had not got, and a second hymn chanted, the
refectory was evacuated for the schoolroom. I was one of the last to go out,
and in passing the tables, I saw one teacher take a basin of the porridge and
taste it; she looked at the others; all their countenances expressed
displeasure, and one of them, the stout one, whispered—

“Abominable stuff! How shameful!”

A quarter of an hour passed before lessons again began, during which the
schoolroom was in a glorious tumult; for that space of time it seemed to be
permitted to talk loud and more freely, and they used their privilege. The
whole conversation ran on the breakfast, which one and all abused roundly. Poor
things! it was the sole consolation they had. Miss Miller was now the only
teacher in the room: a group of great girls standing about her spoke with
serious and sullen gestures. I heard the name of Mr. Brocklehurst pronounced by
some lips; at which Miss Miller shook her head disapprovingly; but she made no
great effort to check the general wrath; doubtless she shared in it.

A clock in the schoolroom struck nine; Miss Miller left her circle, and
standing in the middle of the room, cried—

“Silence! To your seats!”

Discipline prevailed: in five minutes the confused throng was resolved into
order, and comparative silence quelled the Babel clamour of tongues. The upper
teachers now punctually resumed their posts: but still, all seemed to wait.
Ranged on benches down the sides of the room, the eighty girls sat motionless
and erect; a quaint assemblage they appeared, all with plain locks combed from
their faces, not a curl visible; in brown dresses, made high and surrounded by
a narrow tucker about the throat, with little pockets of holland (shaped
something like a Highlander’s purse) tied in front of their frocks, and
destined to serve the purpose of a work-bag: all, too, wearing woollen
stockings and country-made shoes, fastened with brass buckles. Above twenty of
those clad in this costume were full-grown girls, or rather young women; it
suited them ill, and gave an air of oddity even to the prettiest.

I was still looking at them, and also at intervals examining the teachers—none
of whom precisely pleased me; for the stout one was a little coarse, the dark
one not a little fierce, the foreigner harsh and grotesque, and Miss Miller,
poor thing! looked purple, weather-beaten, and over-worked—when, as my eye
wandered from face to face, the whole school rose simultaneously, as if moved
by a common spring.

What was the matter? I had heard no order given: I was puzzled. Ere I had
gathered my wits, the classes were again seated: but as all eyes were now
turned to one point, mine followed the general direction, and encountered the
personage who had received me last night. She stood at the bottom of the long
room, on the hearth; for there was a fire at each end; she surveyed the two
rows of girls silently and gravely. Miss Miller approaching, seemed to ask her
a question, and having received her answer, went back to her place, and said
aloud—

“Monitor of the first class, fetch the globes!”

While the direction was being executed, the lady consulted moved slowly up the
room. I suppose I have a considerable organ of veneration, for I retain yet the
sense of admiring awe with which my eyes traced her steps. Seen now, in broad
daylight, she looked tall, fair, and shapely; brown eyes with a benignant light
in their irids, and a fine pencilling of long lashes round, relieved the
whiteness of her large front; on each of her temples her hair, of a very dark
brown, was clustered in round curls, according to the fashion of those times,
when neither smooth bands nor long ringlets were in vogue; her dress, also in
the mode of the day, was of purple cloth, relieved by a sort of Spanish
trimming of black velvet; a gold watch (watches were not so common then as now)
shone at her girdle. Let the reader add, to complete the picture, refined
features; a complexion, if pale, clear; and a stately air and carriage, and he
will have, at least, as clearly as words can give it, a correct idea of the
exterior of Miss Temple—Maria Temple, as I afterwards saw the name written in a
prayer-book intrusted to me to carry to church.

The superintendent of Lowood (for such was this lady) having taken her seat
before a pair of globes placed on one of the tables, summoned the first class
round her, and commenced giving a lesson on geography; the lower classes were
called by the teachers: repetitions in history, grammar, &c., went on for
an hour; writing and arithmetic succeeded, and music lessons were given by Miss
Temple to some of the elder girls. The duration of each lesson was measured by
the clock, which at last struck twelve. The superintendent rose—

“I have a word to address to the pupils,” said she.

The tumult of cessation from lessons was already breaking forth, but it sank at
her voice. She went on—

“You had this morning a breakfast which you could not eat; you must be
hungry:—I have ordered that a lunch of bread and cheese shall be served to
all.”

The teachers looked at her with a sort of surprise.

“It is to be done on my responsibility,” she added, in an explanatory tone to
them, and immediately afterwards left the room.

The bread and cheese was presently brought in and distributed, to the high
delight and refreshment of the whole school. The order was now given “To the
garden!” Each put on a coarse straw bonnet, with strings of coloured calico,
and a cloak of grey frieze. I was similarly equipped, and, following the
stream, I made my way into the open air.

The garden was a wide inclosure, surrounded with walls so high as to exclude
every glimpse of prospect; a covered verandah ran down one side, and broad
walks bordered a middle space divided into scores of little beds: these beds
were assigned as gardens for the pupils to cultivate, and each bed had an
owner. When full of flowers they would doubtless look pretty; but now, at the
latter end of January, all was wintry blight and brown decay. I shuddered as I
stood and looked round me: it was an inclement day for outdoor exercise; not
positively rainy, but darkened by a drizzling yellow fog; all under foot was
still soaking wet with the floods of yesterday. The stronger among the girls
ran about and engaged in active games, but sundry pale and thin ones herded
together for shelter and warmth in the verandah; and amongst these, as the
dense mist penetrated to their shivering frames, I heard frequently the sound
of a hollow cough.

As yet I had spoken to no one, nor did anybody seem to take notice of me; I
stood lonely enough: but to that feeling of isolation I was accustomed; it did
not oppress me much. I leant against a pillar of the verandah, drew my grey
mantle close about me, and, trying to forget the cold which nipped me without,
and the unsatisfied hunger which gnawed me within, delivered myself up to the
employment of watching and thinking. My reflections were too undefined and
fragmentary to merit record: I hardly yet knew where I was; Gateshead and my
past life seemed floated away to an immeasurable distance; the present was
vague and strange, and of the future I could form no conjecture. I looked round
the convent-like garden, and then up at the house—a large building, half of
which seemed grey and old, the other half quite new. The new part, containing
the schoolroom and dormitory, was lit by mullioned and latticed windows, which
gave it a church-like aspect; a stone tablet over the door bore this
inscription:—

LOWOOD INSTITUTION.

This portion was rebuilt A.D. ——, by Naomi Brocklehurst,
of Brocklehurst Hall, in this county.

“Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and
glorify your Father which is in heaven.”—St. Matt. v. 16.

I read these words over and over again: I felt that an explanation belonged to
them, and was unable fully to penetrate their import. I was still pondering the
signification of “Institution,” and endeavouring to make out a connection
between the first words and the verse of Scripture, when the sound of a cough
close behind me made me turn my head. I saw a girl sitting on a stone bench
near; she was bent over a book, on the perusal of which she seemed intent: from
where I stood I could see the title—it was “Rasselas;” a name that struck me as
strange, and consequently attractive. In turning a leaf she happened to look
up, and I said to her directly—

“Is your book interesting?” I had already formed the intention of asking her to
lend it to me some day.

“I like it,” she answered, after a pause of a second or two, during which she
examined me.

“What is it about?” I continued. I hardly know where I found the hardihood thus
to open a conversation with a stranger; the step was contrary to my nature and
habits: but I think her occupation touched a chord of sympathy somewhere; for I
too liked reading, though of a frivolous and childish kind; I could not digest
or comprehend the serious or substantial.

“You may look at it,” replied the girl, offering me the book.

I did so; a brief examination convinced me that the contents were less taking
than the title: “Rasselas” looked dull to my trifling taste; I saw nothing
about fairies, nothing about genii; no bright variety seemed spread over the
closely-printed pages. I returned it to her; she received it quietly, and
without saying anything she was about to relapse into her former studious mood:
again I ventured to disturb her—

“Can you tell me what the writing on that stone over the door means? What is
Lowood Institution?”

“This house where you are come to live.”

“And why do they call it Institution? Is it in any way different from other
schools?”

“It is partly a charity-school: you and I, and all the rest of us, are
charity-children. I suppose you are an orphan: are not either your father or
your mother dead?”

“Both died before I can remember.”

“Well, all the girls here have lost either one or both parents, and this is
called an institution for educating orphans.”

“Do we pay no money? Do they keep us for nothing?”

“We pay, or our friends pay, fifteen pounds a year for each.”

“Then why do they call us charity-children?”

“Because fifteen pounds is not enough for board and teaching, and the
deficiency is supplied by subscription.”

“Who subscribes?”

“Different benevolent-minded ladies and gentlemen in this neighbourhood and in
London.”

“Who was Naomi Brocklehurst?”

“The lady who built the new part of this house as that tablet records, and
whose son overlooks and directs everything here.”

“Why?”

“Because he is treasurer and manager of the establishment.”

“Then this house does not belong to that tall lady who wears a watch, and who
said we were to have some bread and cheese?”

“To Miss Temple? Oh, no! I wish it did: she has to answer to Mr. Brocklehurst
for all she does. Mr. Brocklehurst buys all our food and all our clothes.”

“Does he live here?”

“No—two miles off, at a large hall.”

“Is he a good man?”

“He is a clergyman, and is said to do a great deal of good.”

“Did you say that tall lady was called Miss Temple?”

“Yes.”

“And what are the other teachers called?”

“The one with red cheeks is called Miss Smith; she attends to the work, and
cuts out—for we make our own clothes, our frocks, and pelisses, and everything;
the little one with black hair is Miss Scatcherd; she teaches history and
grammar, and hears the second class repetitions; and the one who wears a shawl,
and has a pocket-handkerchief tied to her side with a yellow ribband, is Madame
Pierrot: she comes from Lisle, in France, and teaches French.”

“Do you like the teachers?”

“Well enough.”

“Do you like the little black one, and the Madame ——?—I cannot pronounce her
name as you do.”

“Miss Scatcherd is hasty—you must take care not to offend her; Madame Pierrot
is not a bad sort of person.”

“But Miss Temple is the best—isn’t she?”

“Miss Temple is very good and very clever; she is above the rest, because she
knows far more than they do.”

“Have you been long here?”

“Two years.”

“Are you an orphan?”

“My mother is dead.”

“Are you happy here?”

“You ask rather too many questions. I have given you answers enough for the
present: now I want to read.”

But at that moment the summons sounded for dinner; all re-entered the house.
The odour which now filled the refectory was scarcely more appetising than that
which had regaled our nostrils at breakfast: the dinner was served in two huge
tin-plated vessels, whence rose a strong steam redolent of rancid fat. I found
the mess to consist of indifferent potatoes and strange shreds of rusty meat,
mixed and cooked together. Of this preparation a tolerably abundant plateful
was apportioned to each pupil. I ate what I could, and wondered within myself
whether every day’s fare would be like this.

After dinner, we immediately adjourned to the schoolroom: lessons recommenced,
and were continued till five o’clock.

The only marked event of the afternoon was, that I saw the girl with whom I had
conversed in the verandah dismissed in disgrace by Miss Scatcherd from a
history class, and sent to stand in the middle of the large schoolroom. The
punishment seemed to me in a high degree ignominious, especially for so great a
girl—she looked thirteen or upwards. I expected she would show signs of great
distress and shame; but to my surprise she neither wept nor blushed: composed,
though grave, she stood, the central mark of all eyes. “How can she bear it so
quietly—so firmly?” I asked of myself. “Were I in her place, it seems to me I
should wish the earth to open and swallow me up. She looks as if she were
thinking of something beyond her punishment—beyond her situation: of something
not round her nor before her. I have heard of day-dreams—is she in a day-dream
now? Her eyes are fixed on the floor, but I am sure they do not see it—her
sight seems turned in, gone down into her heart: she is looking at what she can
remember, I believe; not at what is really present. I wonder what sort of a
girl she is—whether good or naughty.”

Soon after five P.M. we had another meal, consisting of a small
mug of coffee, and half-a-slice of brown bread. I devoured my bread and drank
my coffee with relish; but I should have been glad of as much more—I was still
hungry. Half-an-hour’s recreation succeeded, then study; then the glass of
water and the piece of oat-cake, prayers, and bed. Such was my first day at
Lowood.
P.M.
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.”

I heard her with wonder: I could not comprehend this doctrine of endurance; and
still less could I understand or sympathise with the forbearance she expressed
for her chastiser. Still I felt that Helen Burns considered things by a light
invisible to my eyes. I suspected she might be right and I wrong; but I would
not ponder the matter deeply; like Felix, I put it off to a more convenient
season.

“You say you have faults, Helen: what are they? To me you seem very good.”

“Then learn from me, not to judge by appearances: I am, as Miss Scatcherd said,
slatternly; I seldom put, and never keep, things in order; I am careless; I
forget rules; I read when I should learn my lessons; I have no method; and
sometimes I say, like you, I cannot bear to be subjected to systematic
arrangements. This is all very provoking to Miss Scatcherd, who is naturally
neat, punctual, and particular.”

“And cross and cruel,” I added; but Helen Burns would not admit my addition:
she kept silence.

“Is Miss Temple as severe to you as Miss Scatcherd?”

At the utterance of Miss Temple’s name, a soft smile 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.”

“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.