by Rigel, LK
After eight more girls recited a psalm, we lined up in two rows holding our bowls. My stomach alternated between growls of hunger and revolt against the smell. I sat down again amidst stifled moans of complaint from every table.
My stomach turned while my nose twitched. O, for yesterday’s eggs and cheese on the train! I hazarded a spoonful of the gruel, retched at the taste, and a chorus gave harmony to my retching.
“Silence!” From the head table, Miss Scatcherd gave us all the evil eye. Miss Miller was there, but I didn’t see Miss Temple.
Miss Miller left the dining hall just before the damn bell rang again to send us off to our first class. Yes. Already, I could spew swears to rival John Reed. We’d lined up to be let out when Miss Temple came in with Miss Miller following. Everyone went quiet as Miss Temple walked straight to the pot, picked up a spoon, and tasted the creamed rice.
“Ugh!” She grimaced. “Disgusting!”
In the teachers’ murmuring I heard the words Brocklehurst and bishop uttered in disapproving tones. Miss Temple frowned and shook her head at them, but she made no effort to check their general wrath. I was glad to know my disdain for the man was shared.
“Never mind.” Miss Temple addressed us all. “It’s a lovely morning. The girls may spend an hour in the garden. You may draw or sew or hear a story from Miss Miller. I’ll have bread and cheese sent in for you to take outside.
“Hurray!” A general cheer went up.
“Silence!” Miss Scatcherd said. “Keep to your lines!”
Discipline prevailed, and why not? Miss Temple had saved us.
Seen now in the light of day she was pretty, with a sweetness I could never maintain in her position. Her thick hair was again bound in a simple but elegant tight French braid. Her dark purple dress trimmed with a draping collar of black lace gave her an air of handsome competence.
My heart surged with fellow feeling. One day I wanted to be like Miss Temple.
We waited in our lines for the bread and cheese then each took her portion outside. I looked for Burns, but she had disappeared.
In the garden between the two large buildings, I ate my little share in small bites to make it last. I wandered from group to group, lighting on none, and moved on to several rows of miniature garden plots, each assigned to a girl for cultivation. Green seedlings were beginning to emerge from the earth, but it was too soon to tell if they were vegetables or flowers.
No one took notice of me. I felt lonely, but I’d been lonely all my life. It didn’t signify. I drew my grey mantle close about me and tried to ignore the cold and my lingering hunger. I turned a corner and found Burns on a stone bench near a cluster of rose bushes.
She was absorbed in a book by Samuel Johnson called Rasselas. She turned a page and, brushing another wayward curl out of her eyes, she happened to look up at me.
“I’m sorry I got you in trouble,” I said.
“It wasn’t your fault,” she said. “I spoke when I shouldn’t have.”
“But how could you bear it to be beaten? You should have shoved her away.”
“Then she would have beaten me harder,” she said. “And I would have deserved it. Miss Scatcherd only means to correct my faults. I don’t blame her.”
“Is your book interesting?” I had to change the subject or I’d surely say something wrong.
She looked at me half a minute before answering, “I like it.”
“What’s it about?”
She offered me the book to look at, a work of philosophy. There were no princes or princesses, witches or wizards. I handed it back and gave up the idea of borrowing it.
“Do you like the other teachers here?” I asked hastily, to stop her returning to her book. I’d starved for conversation with a kindred spirit far longer than I’d been hungry for food.
“I like Miss Temple,” she said. “If only she was truly in charge here, but she answers to Bishop Brocklehurst. He pays for all our food and our clothes. He won’t be happy about the bread and cheese.”
“Does he live here?” I dreaded the answer.
“No, miles away. His mother established Lowood, and he’s the administrator of her will.”
“Do you think he’s a good man?”
“He’s an Anointed Elder. Some say he does a great deal of good. He’s not often here.”
“I call that good,” I said.
She didn’t comment but she smiled, and for the second time this morning a sense of fellow-feeling raised my spirits. Perhaps Lowood’s virtues would balance its shortcomings.
“How long have you been here?” I said. “Do you go home on holidays?” I felt my face go red. I didn’t want to admit my aunt had sent me away, never to return.
“My father was a soldier on the border,” she said. “He died when I was young. Later my mother married another man, an Anointed Elder, who sent me here.”
“Was your father of low rank?” She’d said soldier, not officer.
“Yes, but that wasn’t it. My stepfather sees me as a living reminder that my mother once belonged to another man.”
Belonged to another man. I’d never thought of marriage in that way, perhaps because I didn’t really know any married people. The idea of belonging to a man was repellant, as if you were his property. As if he could do anything he wanted to you. Marriage was forever. What if you married someone who turned out to be like John Reed, someone who’d hit you…and do other things…while you were tied to a chair?
“Miss Scatcherd is hasty.” Burns rescued me from those dark thoughts. “Take care not to offend her.”
“Miss Temple is the best, I think.”
“Miss Temple is good and clever, above the rest in rank and education. She could easily find a more congenial place.”
“Are you happy here?” If Burns could be, it was possible I could be also.
“Now that is a question.” She looked at her book, as if it held the answer.
The infernal bell rang, calling us in from the garden. As we walked back I said, “Is your name really Burns?”
“Helen Burns,” she said.
All at once a cacophony of female chattering spilled into the garden behind us. I whirled around to see the source of the joyous and unexpected noise, but Helen grabbed my arm. “They’ve come out too soon. Don’t look!” She pulled me along. “Come!”
I let her lead me, but I twisted in the sound’s direction, nearly tripping over my own feet, and gasped.
Thirty girls at the very least poured out of the large building across from ours, ranging from my age to about twenty. They babbled and laughed gaily as if they were daughters of rank and privilege on holiday. Most wore flowered dresses, but two were in pants and sweaters. One girl wore a one-piece coverall like a farm hand. Their hair was loose, falling over their shoulders or held back by ribbons. A few had bobbed haircuts, curls barely touching their earlobes.
All were in various stages of pregnancy.
I closed my mouth and let Helen drag me into our building.
Mrs. Reed had employed a series of Licensed Private Instructors, and despite my indifference to scholarship my homeschooling set me well ahead of my age group at Lowood. The history lecture that day on the Great Secession offered nothing new, and I struggled to stay focused on Miss Scatcherd.
I’d learned about the Keystone Rupture, how in the turmoil our New Patriots broke free of the old heathen country and established the righteous society our founding fathers originally intended.
“New Judah started fresh with the Edicts, Decrees and Laws,” Miss Scatcherd said. “We didn’t have to tear out the permissive liberality that ruined the old country. We never gave it root. Our families have full support in the law. Divorce is illegal. Women are venerated. Fathers are their children’s guardians, sons until they’re eighteen and daughters until they marry or reach their majority at twenty-one.”
“Miss Scatcherd?” I stood respectfully to ask a question, as my governesses had taught me. The instructor seemed shocked by th
e interruption, and the other girls looked at their hands. But there I was, stuck in my error. My pride wouldn’t let me back down. “Why are girls adults at twenty-one but boys are at eighteen?”
None of my governesses ever had a satisfying answer, but Miss Scatcherd was more than a governess. She was a certified instructor. She must know.
“Insolent girl!” she cried. “Hold out your hands, Jane Eyre.”
I did as she asked, unsure what she was about. My fellow students hunched their shoulders and shrank in their seats, and Miss Scatcherd came at me like a hound after a fox. She raised the short crop she carried and brought it down hard on my fingers.
“Ah!” I cried out in pain.
“Silence!” Miss Scatcherd brought the crop down again, this time drawing blood. “Go to the wall, Jane Eyre. Face it and consider your faults.”
I was mortified. No one looked at me but Helen, and she frowned with disapproval. Confused and betrayed, I moved to the wall as ordered.
“Husbands are required to support their wives and children,” Miss Scatcherd resumed her lecture. “And the wives and children of their deceased brothers.”
I was the example of that. If my Uncle Reed had hated me, he was still bound to care for me in the absence of a more suitable guardian. His wife was not, however—hence the solemn vow he’d required of her. The EDLs had saved me from certain poverty.
“Orphans and the poor are cared for as God intended, through private acts of benevolent charity. Lowood Righteous Institution is a prime example of such charitable philanthropy.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Miss Scatcherd indicate a lady’s portrait on the wall at the front of the class. The same portrait hung in our dormitory and in the dining hall, and I’d seen it in Miss Temple’s parlor above the mantelpiece.
“Naomi Brocklehurst was one of the great ladies of Idaho. You poor girls may have lost one parent or both, but you are not friendless. In love and charity, you’ve been provided a home and an education. Lowood will render you fit for righteous work.”
The tableau vivant of the laughing girls danced into my mind. Where did they come from? Had they no guardians? If Lowood’s charges were the orphaned or unwanted daughters of men of rank, why were such fallen females allowed to walk among us? I didn’t for a moment believe those girls had husbands.
I couldn’t wait for the end of the day when I could get Helen aside and ask her about it.
“Stand up, Helen Burns!”
Miss Scatcherd’s shrill order jolted me from my thoughts. There was no telling what sin Helen had committed, but she now stood before Miss Scatcherd and the terrible crop. The whip came down across Helen’s back. She made no sound and didn’t grimace. It came down again. Helen nodded her head a little but stared ahead with a benign expression, as if she was looking into another world.
How could she bear it so quietly, and with such dignity?
We were kept busy with classes until dinner at five o’clock. After evening prayer we were set free for half an hour before bedtime. I found Helen in the music room. Two girls practiced a duet on the piano, some played backgammon, and some knitted or embroidered. I sat down on a sofa beside Helen and waited for her to look up from her book.
“I’m sorry Miss Scatcherd was so cruel to you today,” I said.
“Cruel? She only wants to correct my faults.”
“If she struck me with that rod, I’d take it from her and strike her back with it.”
“I doubt it. If you did, Bishop Brocklehurst would expel you. That would grieve your relatives. It’s better to endure something no one else feels than to be hasty and bring harm to those connected with you. Besides, the Bible tells us to love our enemies.”
More proof the Bible wasn’t perfect. “But to be hit like that in front of everyone—when she struck my hands I could hardly bear it.”
“It’s our duty to bear it. It’s silly to say you can’t bear what you must bear.”
I couldn’t understand her. Had she no pride? No self-respect? Endurance and forbearance were fine and good, but not in the face of injustice.
Still, I suspected she was right to return good for evil, and I was wrong to love justice more than forgiveness. But I could go no farther into that realm. My mind revolted. I retreated from philosophy and put the question off for another time when I’d be better equipped to defend my position.
I feared she would advise me to love Mrs. Reed and forgive John Reed—both obviously impossible!
Helen Burns wasn’t yet my example. She was a mystery.
« Chapter 8 »
To Hate Him More
The appearance of a thing isn’t the thing.
Weeks passed. The food got no better and my bed was no warmer. I grew used to my wrap-around uniform. The blisters on my feet became calluses, and I forgot my shoes fit so badly. Every morning the damn bell blared and the fluorescent lights blasted us out of bed. I was dressed, my face washed, teeth brushed, hair braided into submission and hands held out for inspection before I was ever fully awake.
Someone looking in randomly on the hunger, the lack of privacy, or the harsh discipline might call me perverse, but I truly preferred Lowood to my former home.
At Gateshead I was abused and tormented on purpose—because I was Jane Eyre, the unwanted poor relation. At Lowood I earned the whacks Miss Scatcherd applied to my hands or the back of my neck. I deserved the hours standing at the wall, contemplating my faults. My character flaws called discipline down on me, not the mere fact of my existence.
A kind of justice informed Lowood’s strict methods. And in justice lay security. For the first time in my life, I didn’t live on constant watch against irrational abuse.
I never did approach Helenic self-denial! But I scaled new heights in self-discipline.
One afternoon in history class my gaze wandered from the girl reciting her lesson to a shape passing by the window. My breath caught in my throat, for the shape was of a tall man wearing a broad round clergyman’s hat.
Bishop Brocklehurst entered followed by Miss Temple and Miss Miller. With them were two girls somewhat older than me and a young boy. I wondered if these were the bishop’s children and if this was the boy who loved to learn Psalms.
As Miss Scatcherd welcomed Bishop Brocklehurst, I quashed a smile and looked down at my hands. If those were the bishop’s children, apparently he required less self-denial of them than of other people. Their clothing was exquisite, well-tailored, fashionable, and of fine materials.
“Jane Eyre!”
Bishop Brocklehurst’s voice thundered over our heads. Against my will I looked at him. “Yes, sir?” What could he possibly have to say to me?
“Fetch that stool in the corner and place it here.” He indicated the spot beside him at the front of the classroom.
Crossing the silent classroom, I crossed my arms to stop myself from shaking. The anxiety of my days at Gateshead returned. Blood rushed in my ears and made me dizzy.
“Stand on the stool, Jane Eyre, and face your fellow students.”
I automatically raged against the order, but Helen caught my eye. She nodded encouragement. Be like Helen, I told myself. Endure. With a deep breath I stepped up.
Miss Scatcherd looked to the bishop, ready to take instruction. Miss Miller’s eyes were cast down. Miss Temple stared ahead at nothing. By now I understood her well enough to know she was seething inside, not for my sake but at the usurpation of her authority.
I call it progress that I noted these things. A month earlier, I would have been consumed by my agony, ready to cry out against the injustice before I knew what it was. I could do this. I would recede inside myself until Brocklehurst was gone. I would be serene.
“This girl is a wanton!” the bishop said. “A Jezebel. A harlot.”
I wasn’t serene. I nearly fell off the stool.
“Bishop!” Miss Temple said.
“A Salome. Who would think the Evil One could find a servant and agent in a girl so plain and u
nremarkable? Yet such is the case.”
Jezebel. My heart sank. John Reed had called me that. And Mrs. Reed too. Brocklehurst must have visited Gateshead recently. They hated me so much! Getting rid of me wasn’t enough. They had to send slander on my heels.
“Jane Eyre’s benefactor sent her to Lowood in good faith,” the bishop said. “That good woman knows nothing of what I’ve heard in strict confidence. This girl is a temptress, a seductress. She attempted to corrupt even her benefactor’s son.”
What did John tell him? I flashed back to the Red Room. John Reed’s skinny tongue—for all his girth—poking into my mouth, his hand groping me while I was tied to the chair. He was the unchaste one! He was the molester.
But I was doomed. Brocklehurst would never believe my side of the story.
“This is a sad matter. I will not publish what I know of this girl’s wickedness, for it would hurt a good and decent lady, but it’s my duty to warn you all.” He circled me as he spoke. “Jane Eyre is not one of God’s lambs. She’s a castaway. Exclude her from your company. Shun her!”
So unfair! Shame burned my face, and the stares of my classmates made me want to die.
“Teachers, watch her.” He placed his large hand squarely on my stomach. “Jane Eyre might better belong to Bethany House.”
“Don’t touch me!” I pushed him away, and a collective gasp went up.
Brocklehurst’s face darkened. He raised his hand to strike me, but a commotion among the girls stopped him.
“Miss Scatcherd, Miss Temple. Helen Burns has fainted!”
Everyone rushed to Helen, glad to break off from the subject of the wanton Jane Eyre.
“Helen!” I cried out from my perch. “Helen! What’s wrong? Someone tell me, is she ill?”
“Bring her forward,” Miss Temple said. “Give her room to breathe.”
As Miss Scatcherd and one of the older girls lifted Helen off the floor, she moaned and opened her eyes. “What happened?”
Someone brought out Miss Scatcherd’s chair and they put Helen down in it. She was so pale. Her scarf had fallen away, and her strawberry blond curls fell in a cascade around her face and shoulders. She was like an angel.
