Jane Eyre (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Charlotte Bronte

  “What! to get more knocks?”

  “Nonsense! But you are rather put upon, that’s certain. My mother said, when she came to see me last week, that she would not like a little one of her own to be in your place. Now come in, and I’ve some good news for you.”

  “I don’t think you have, Bessie.”

  “Child! What do you mean? What sorrowful eyes you fix on me! Well! but missis and the young ladies and Master John are going out to tea this afternoon, and you shall have tea with me. I’ll ask the cook to bake you a little cake, and then you shall help me to look over your drawers; for I am soon to pack your trunk. Missis intends you to leave Gateshead in a day or two, and you shall choose what toys you like to take with you.”

  “Bessie, you must promise not to scold me any more till I go.”

  “Well, I will; but mind you are a very good girl, and don’t be afraid of me. Don’t start when I chance to speak rather sharply; it’s so provoking.”

  “I don’t think I shall ever be afraid of you again, Bessie, because I’ve got used to you; and I shall soon have another set of people to dread.”

  “If you dread them they’ll dislike you.”

  “As you do, Bessie?”

  “I don’t dislike you, miss; I believe I am fonder of you than all the others.”

  “You don’t show it.”

  “You little sharp thing! you’ve got quite a new way of talking. What makes you so venturesome and hardy?”

  “Why, I shall soon be away from you, and besides—.” I was going to say something about what had passed between me and Mrs. Reed; but on second thoughts I considered it better to remain silent on that head.

  “And so you are glad to leave me?”

  “Not at all, Bessie; indeed, just now I am rather sorry.”

  “Just now! and rather! How coolly my little lady says it! I dare say now, if I were to ask you for a kiss you wouldn’t give it me; you’d say you would rather not.”

  “I’ll kiss you and welcome; bend your head down.” Bessie stooped; we mutually embraced, and I followed her into the house quite comforted. That afternoon lapsed in peace and harmony; and in the evening Bessie told me some of her most en-chaining stories, and sung me some of her sweetest songs. Even for me life had its gleams of sunshine.

  Chapter V

  Five o‘clock had hardly struck on the morning of the 19th 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 ray streamed through the narrow window of my little 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 lighted 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 pelisseab 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-by?”

  “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 bed-clothes, 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.”

  “Oh, Miss Jane! don’t say so!”

  “Good-by 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 clapped 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 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—.14

  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 gray 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 among 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 thrown 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 parlor, 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 enter
ed; 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 fore-finger, 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 afterward 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 burned 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 stuffac 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, up stairs. Overpowered by this time with weariness, I scarcely noticed what sort of a place the bed room was, except that, like the school-room, 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; amid 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 rush-light 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 rung; all formed in file, two and two, and in that order descended the stairs and entered the cold and dimly-lighted school-room; here prayers were read by Miss Miller; afterward 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 the 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 assuming 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 collectad 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,ae 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 odor 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 burned again!”

  “Silence!” ejaculated a voice—not that of Miss Miller, but of 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 afterward 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. Burned 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 school-room. 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 begun, during which the school-room 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 not 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 cl
ock in the school-room 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 clamor 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 tuckeraf about the throat, with little pocketsag 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 overworked—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,15 for I retain yet the sense of admiring awe with which my eyes tracked her steps. Seen now, in broad daylight, she looked tall, fair, and shapely; brown eyes, with a benignant light in their irids,ah and a fine penciling of long lashes round, relieved the whiteness of her large front;ai 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.