Chapter 5
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Five o’clock had hardly stru the m of the 19th of January, when Bessie brought a dle 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 perso risen; she had lit a fire in the nursery, where she now proceeded to make my breakfast. Few children eat wheed 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, ed up some biscuits in a paper and put them into my bag; then she helped me on with my pelisse and bo, and ing 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?”“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 m, or my cousiher; and she told me to remember that she had always been my best friend, and to speak of her and be grateful to her accly.”
“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 a out at the front door.
The moon was set, and it was very dark; Bessie carried a lantern, whose light glanced oeps and gravel road sodden by a ret thaw. Raw and chill was the winter m: 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 annouhe ing 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 an loudly urged haste; my trunk was hoisted up; I was taken from Bessie’s neck, to which I g 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 ahe 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 mysteriions.
I remember but little of the journey; I only know that the day seemed to me of a preternatural length, and that eared to travel over hundreds of miles of road. We passed through several towns, and in one, a very large ohe 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 ead, a delier pe 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 ing in and kidnapping me; for I believed in kidnappers, their exploits having frequently figured in Bessie’s fireside icles. At last the guard returned; once more I was stowed away in the coach, my proteounted his ow, sounded his hollow horn, and away we rattled over the “stony street” of L-.
The afternoon came o 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 try ged; great grey hills heaved up round the horizon: as twilight deepened, we desded 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 suddeion of motion awoke me; the coach- door en, and a person like a servant was standing at it: I saw her fad 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 coastantly 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; heless, I dimly dised a wall before me and a door open in it; through this door I passed with my new guide: she shut and locked it behihere 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, splashi, 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 dle, but the uain light from the hearth showed, by intervals, papered walls, carpet, curtains, shining mahogany furniture: it arlour, not so spacious or splendid as the drawing-room at Gateshead, but fortable enough. I uzzling 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 artly enveloped in a shawl, her tenance was grave, her beari.
“The child is very young to be sent alone,” said she, putting her dle down oable. She sidered 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, plag 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 e to sy little girl?”
I explaio 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: theouched 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-he one who went with me appeared some years youhe first impressed me by her voice, look, and air. Miss Miller was more ordinary; ruddy in plexion, though of a careworn tenance; hurried in gait and a, like one who had always a multiplicity of tasks on hand: she looked, indeed, what I afterwards found she really was, an ueacher. Led by her, I passed from partment to partment, 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 ead, on each of which burnt a pair of dles, aed all round on benches, a gregation of girls of every age, from nine or ten to twenty. Seen by the dim light of the dips, their o me appeared tless, though not iy exceediy; 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 ing over their to- morrow’s task, and the hum I had heard was the bined result of their whispered repetitions.
Miss Miller sigo me to sit on a benear 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 and—
“Monitors, fetch the supper-trays!”
The tall girls went out aurned presently, each bearing a tray, with portions of something, I knew not what, arrahereon, 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 on 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 intments.
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 gla the long rows of beds, each of which was quickly filled with two octs; in ten mihe single light was extinguished, and amidst silend plete 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 relutly; 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, oands down the middle of the room. Again the bell rang: all formed in file, two and two, and in that order desded the stairs aered 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 vat seat. A pause of some seds succeeded, filled up by the low, vague hum of numbers; Miss Miller walked from class to class, hushing this indefinite sound.
A distainkled: immediately three ladies ehe room, each walked to a table and took her seat. Miss Miller assumed the fourth vat chair, which was that he 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, theais 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 dawhe iigable 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 maion of distent when the fumes of the repast met the nostrils of those destio swallow it; from the van of the procession, the tall girls of the first class, rose the whispered words—
“Disgusting! The pe is burnt again!”
“Silence!” ejaculated a voiot 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 oable, 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, fn-looking, elderly lady, the French teacher, as I afterwards found, took the correspondi 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 pe is almost as bad as rotten potatoes; famiself soon sis 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 beiurned for what we had not got, and a sed hymn ted, the refectory was evacuated for the schoolroom. I was one of the last to go out, and in passing the tables, I saw oeacher take a basin of the pe and taste it; she looked at the others; all their tenances e></a>xpressed displeasure, and one of them, the stout one, whispered—
“Abomiuff! 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 versation ran on the breakfast, whie and all abused roundly. Poor things! it was the sole solation they had. Miss Miller was now the only teacher in the room: a group of great girls standing about her spoke with serious and sulleures. 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 cheek the general wrath; doubtless she shared in it.
A clo the schoolroom struine; Miss Miller left her circle, and standing in the middle of the room, cried—
“Sileo your seats!”
Discipline prevailed: in five mihe fused throng was resolved into order, and parative silence quelled the Babel clamour of tohe 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 a; a quaint assemblage they appeared, all with plain locks bed 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, aio serve the purpose of a work- bag: all, too, wearing woollen stogs and try-made shoes, fastened with brass buckles. Above twenty of those clad in this e 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 o a little fierce, the fner 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 on spring.
What was the matter? I had heard no iven: I uzzled. Ere I had gathered my wits, the classes were agaied: but as all eyes were now turo one point, mine followed the general dire, and entered 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 ead; she surveyed the two rows of girls silently and gravely. Miss Miller approag, 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 dire was being executed, the lady sulted moved slowly up the room. I suppose I have a siderable an of veion, for I retaihe 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, acc to the fashion of those times, wheher smooth bands nor llets 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 on then as now) sho her girdle. Let the reader add, to plete the picture, refined features; a plexion, if pale, clear; and a stately air and carriage, and he will have, at least, as clearly as words 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 superinte of Lowood (for such was this lady) having taken her seat before a pair of globes placed on one of the tables, summohe first class round her, and enced giving a lesson on geography; the lower classes were called by the teachers: repetitions in histrammar, &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 superinte 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 m a breakfast which you could ; 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 too them, and immediately afterwards left the room.
The bread and cheese resently 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 bo, 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 rou was an i day for outdoor exercise; not positively rainy, but darkened by a drizzling yellow fog; all under foot was still soaki with the floods of yesterday. The stronger among ..he 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 peed 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 ></a>to take notie; I stood lonely enough: but to that feeling of isolation I was aced; it did not oppress me much. I leant against a pillar of the verandah, drew my grey mantle close about me, and, trying tet the cold whiipped me without, and the unsatisfied hunger whiawed me within, delivered myself up to the employment of watg and thinking. My refles 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 distahe present was vague and strange, and of the future I could form no jecture. I looked round the vent-like garden, and then up at the house—a large building, half of which seemed grey and old, the other half quite he new part, taining the schoolroom and dormitory, was lit by mullioned and latticed windows, which gave it a church-like aspect; a stoablet over the door bore this inscription:—
“Lowood Institution.—This portion was rebuilt A.D.—, by Naomi Brocklehurst, of Brocklehurst Hall, in this ty.” “Let yht so shine before men, that they may see yood works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven.”— St. Matt. v. 16.
I read these words over and ain: I felt that an explanation beloo them, and was unable fully to pee their import. I was stil..l p the signification of “Institution,” and endeav to make out a e 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 benear; she was bent over a book, on the perusal of which she seemed i: from where I stood I could see the title—it was Rasselas; a hat struck me as strange, and sequently attractive. In turning a leaf she happeo look up, and I said to her directly—
“Is your book iing?” I had already formed the iion of askio lend it to me some day.
“I like it,” she answered, after a pause of a sed or two, during which she examined me.
“What is it about?” I tinued. I hardly know where I found the hardihood thus to open a versation with a strahe step was trary 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 prehend the serious or substantial.
“You may look at it,” replied the girl, me the book.
I did so; a brief examination vinced me that the tents were less taking thale: Rasselas looked dull to my trifling taste; I saw nothing about fairies, nothing about genii; nht variety seemed spread over the closely-printed pages. I retur to her; she received it quietly, and without saying anything she was about to relapse into her former studious mood: again I veo disturb her—
“ you tell me what the writing on that stone over the door means? What is Lowood Institution?”
“This house where you are e 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 her your father or your mother dead?”
“Both died before I remember.”
“Well, all the girls here have lost either one or both parents, and this is called an institution for edug 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 teag, and the deficy is supplied by subscription.”
“Who subscribes?”
“Different benevolent-minded ladies alemen 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 ao 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 oh 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 oh black hair is Miss Scatcherd; she teaches history and grammar, and hears the sed 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 es from Lisle, in France, and teaches French.”
“Do you like the teachers?”
“Well enough.”
“Do you like the little blae, and the Madame —?—I ot 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-ehe house. The odour whiow 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 sist of indifferent potatoes and strange shreds of rusty meat, mixed and cooked together. Of this preparation a tolerably abundant plateful ortioo each pupil. I ate what I could, and wondered within myself whether every day’s fare would be like this.
After dinner, we immediately adjouro the schoolroom: lessons reenced, and were tiill five o’clock.
The only marked event of the afternoon was, that I saw the girl with whom I had versed in the verandah dismissed in disgrace by Miss Scatcherd from a history class, ao 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 her wept nor blushed: posed, though grave, she stood, the tral mark of all eyes. “How 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 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, sisting 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.
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