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 tomorrow, 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 sit 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 repa
id 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 enquiry, 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.
Chapter Eight
Ere the half-hour ended, five o’clock struck school was dismissed, and all were gone into the refectory to tea. I now ventured to descend. It was deep dusk. I retired into a corner and sat down on the floor. The spell by which I had been so far supported began to dissolve, reaction took place, and soon, so overwhelming was the grief that seized me, I sank prostrate with my face to the ground. Now I wept, Helen Burns was not here, nothing sustained me, left to myself I abandoned myself, and my tears watered the boards. I had meant to be so good, and to do so much at Lowood, to make so many friends, to earn respect and win affection. Already I had made visible progress, that very morning I had reached the head of my class. Miss Miller had praised me warmly. Miss Temple had smiled approbation, she had promised to teach me drawing, and to let me learn French. If I continued to make similar improvement two months longer, and then I was well received by my fellow-pupils, treated as an equal by those of my own age, and not molested by any. Now, here I lay again crushed and trodden on and could I ever rise more?
Never, I thought and ardently I wished to die. While sobbing out this wish in broken accents, some one approached, I started up—again Helen Burns was near me, the fading fires just showed her coming up the long, vacant room. She brought my coffee and bread.
“Come, eat something,” she said, but I put both away from me, feeling as if a drop or a crumb would have choked me in my present condition. Helen regarded me, probably with surprise. I could not now abate my agitation, though I tried hard. I continued to weep aloud. She sat down on the ground near me, embraced her knees with her arms, and rested her head upon them. In that attitude she remained silent as an Indian. I was the first who spoke, “Helen, why do you stay with a girl whom everybody believes to be a liar?”
“Everybody, Jane? Why, there are only eighty people who have heard you called so, and the world contains hundreds of millions.”
“But what have I to do with millions? The eighty, I know, despise me.”
“Jane, you are mistaken. Probably not one in the school either despises or dislikes you, many, I am sure, pity you much.”
“How can they pity me after what Mr Brocklehurst has said?”
“Mr Brocklehurst is not a god, nor is he even a great and admired man, he is little liked here; he never took steps to make himself liked. Had he treated you as an especial favourite, you would have found enemies, declared or covert, all around you. As it is, the greater number would offer you sympathy if they dared. Teachers and pupils may look coldly on you for a day or two, but friendly feelings are concealed in their hearts and if you persevere in doing well, these feelings will ere long appear so much the more evidently for their temporary suppression. Besides, Jane—” she paused.
“Well, Helen?” said I, putting my hand into hers. She chafed my fingers gently to warm them, and went on, “If all the world hated you, and believed you wicked, while your own conscience approved you, and absolved you from guilt, you would not be without friends.”
“No, I know I should think well of myself, but that is not enough. If others don’t love me I would rather die than live—I cannot bear to be solitary and hated, Helen. Look here, to gain some real affection from you, or Miss Temple, or any other whom I truly love, I would willingly submit to have the bone of my arm broken, or to let a bull toss me, or to stand behind a kicking horse, and let it dash its hoof at my chest—”
“Hush, Jane! You think too much of the love of human beings; you are too impulsive, too vehement; the sovereign hand that created your frame, and put life into it, has provided you with other resources than your feeble self, or than creatures feeble as you. Besides this earth, and besides the race of men, there is an invisible world and a kingdom of spirits. That world is round us, for it is everywhere and those spirits watch us, for they are commissioned to guard us and if we were dying in pain and shame, if scorn smote us on all sides, and hatred crushed us, angels see our tortures, recognise our innocence. If innocent we be, as I know you are of this charge which Mr Brocklehurst has weakly and pompously repeated at second-hand from Mrs Reed, for I read a sincere nature in your ardent eyes and on your clear front—and God waits only the separation of spirit from flesh to crown us with a full reward. Why, then, should we ever sink overwhelmed with distress, when life is so soon over, and death is so certain an entrance to happiness—to glory?”
I was silent. Helen had calmed me, but in the tranquillity she imparted there was an alloy of inexpressible sadness. I felt the impression of woe as she spoke, but I could not tell whence it came and when, having done speaking, she breathed a little fast and coughed a short cough, I momentarily forgot my own sorrows to yield to a vague concern for her.
Resting my head on Helen’s shoulder, I put my arms round her waist. She drew me to her, and we reposed in silence. We had not sat long thus, when another person came in. Some heavy clouds, swept from the sky by a rising wind, had left the moon bare and her light, streaming in through a window near, shone full both on us and on the approaching figure, which we at once recognised as Miss Temple.
“I came on purpose to find you, Jane Eyre,” said she. “I want you in my room and as Helen Burns is with you, she may come too.”
We went, following the superintendent’s guidance, we had to thread some intricate passages, and mount a staircase before we reached her apartment. It contained a good fire, and looked cheerful. Miss Temple told Helen Burns to be seated in a low arm chair on one side of the hearth, and herself taking another, she called me to her side.
“Is it all over?” she asked, looking down at my face. “Have you cried your grief away?”
“I am afraid I never shall do that.”
“Why?”
“Because I have been wrongly accused and you, ma’am, and everybody else, will now think me wicked.”
“We shall think you what you prove yourself to be, my child. Continue to act
as a good girl, and you will satisfy us.”
“Shall I, Miss Temple?”
“You will,” said she, passing her arm round me. “And now tell me who is the lady whom Mr Brocklehurst called your benefactress?”
“Mrs Reed, my uncle’s wife. My uncle is dead, and he left me to her care.”
“Did she not, then, adopt you of her own accord?”
“No, ma’am; she was sorry to have to do it, but my uncle, as I have often heard the servants say, got her to promise before he died that she would always keep me.”
“Well now, Jane, you know, or at least I will tell you, that when a criminal is accused, he is always allowed to speak in his own defence. You have been charged with falsehood; defend yourself to me as well as you can. Say whatever your memory suggests is true, but add nothing and exaggerate nothing.”
I resolved, in the depth of my heart, that I would be most moderate—most correct and, having reflected a few minutes in order to arrange coherently what I had to say, I told her all the story of my sad childhood. Exhausted by emotion, my language was more subdued than it generally was when it developed that sad theme and mindful of Helen’s warnings against the indulgence of resentment, I infused into the narrative far less of gall and wormwood than ordinary. Thus restrained and simplified, it sounded more credible. I felt as I went on that Miss Temple fully believed me.
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