Chapter 21

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    Preses are strahings! and so are sympathies; and so are signs; and the three bined make one mystery to which humanity has not yet found the key. I never laughed at preses in my life, because I have had strange ones of my own. Sympathies, I believe, exist (for instance, between far-distant, long-absent, wholly estranged relatives asserting, notwithstanding their alienation, the unity of the source to which each traces his in) whose ws baffle mortal prehension. And signs, fht we know, may be but the sympathies of Nature with man.

    When I was a little girl, only six years old, I one night heard Bessie Leaven say to Martha Abbot that she had been dreaming about a little child; and that to dream of children was a sure sign of trouble, either to one’s self or one’s kin. The saying might have worn out of my memory, had not a circumstance immediately followed which served indelibly to fix it there. The  day Bessie was sent for home to the deathbed of her little sister.

    Of late I had often recalled this saying and this i; for during the past week scarcely a night had gone over my couch that had nht with it a dream of an infant, which I sometimes hushed in my arms, sometimes dandled on my knee, sometimes watched playing with daisies on a lawn, ain, dabbling its hands in running water. It was a wailing child this night, and a laughing ohe : now it led close to me, and now it ran from me; but whatever mood the apparition evinced, whatever aspect it wore, it failed not for seven successive nights to meet me the moment I ehe land of slumber.

    I did not like this iteration of one idea—this strange recurrence of one image, and I grew nervous as bedtime approached and the hour of the vision drew near. It was from panionship with this baby- phantom I had been roused on that moonlight night when I heard the cry; and it was oernoon of the day following I was summoned downstairs by a message that some one wanted me in Mrs. Fairfax’s room. On repairing thither, I found a man waiting for me, having the appearance of a gentleman’s servant: he was dressed in deep m, and the hat he held in his hand was surrounded with a crape band.

    “I daresay you hardly remember me, Miss,” he said, rising as I entered; “but my name is Leaven: I lived an with Mrs. Reed when you were at Gateshead, eight or nine years since, and I live there still.”

    “Oh, Robert! how do you do? I remember you very well: you used to give me a ride sometimes on Miss Geiana’s bay pony. And how is Bessie? You are married to Bessie?”

    “Yes, Miss: my wife is very hearty, thank you; she brought me another little one about two months since—we have three now—and both mother and child are thriving.”

    “And are the family well at the house, Robert?”

    “I am sorry I ’t give you better news of them, Miss: they are very badly at present—irouble.”

    “I hope no one is dead,” I said<q>..</q>, glang at his black dress. He too looked down at the crape round his hat and replied—

    “Mr. John died yesterday was a week, at his chambers in London.”

    “Mr. John?”

    “Yes.”

    “And how does his mother bear it?”

    “Why, you see, Miss Eyre, it is not a ishap: his life has been very wild: these last three years he gave himself up te ways, and his death was shog.”

    “I heard from Bessie he was not doing well.”

    “Doing well! He could not do worse: he ruined his health and his estate amongst the worst men and the worst wome into debt and into jail: his mother helped him out twice, but as soon as he was free he returo his old panions and habits. His head was not strong: the knaves he lived amongst fooled him beyond anything I ever heard. He came down to Gateshead about three weeks ago and wanted missis to give up all to him. Missis refused: her means have long been much reduced by his extravagance; so he went back again, and the  news was that he was dead. How he died, God knows!—they say he killed himself.”

    I was silent: the things were frightful. Robert Leaven resumed—

    “Missis had been out of health herself for some time: she had got very stout, but was not strong with it; and the loss of money and fear of poverty were quite breaking her down. The information about Mr. John’s death and the manner of it came too suddenly: it brought on a stroke. She was three days without speaking; but last Tuesday she seemed rather better: she appeared as if she wao say something, a making signs to my wife and mumbling. It was only yesterday m, however, that Bessie uood she ronoung your name; and at last she made out the words, ‘Bring Jach Jane Eyre: I want to speak to her.’ Bessie is not sure whether she is in her right mind, or means anything by the words; but she told Miss Reed and Miss Geiana, and advised them to send for you. The young ladies put it off at first; but their mrew so restless, and said, ‘Jane, Jane,’ so many times, that at last they sented. I left Gateshead yesterday: and if you  get ready, Miss, I should like to take you back with me early to- morrow m.”

    “Yes, Robert, I shall be ready: it seems to me that I ought to go.”

    “I think so too, Miss. Bessie said she was sure you would not refuse: but I suppose you will have to ask leave before you  get off?”

    “Yes; and I will do it now;” and having directed him to the servants’ hall, and reended him to the care of John’s wife, and the attentions of John himself, I went in searr. Rochester.

    He was not in any of the lower rooms; he was not in the yard, the stables, or the grounds. I asked Mrs. Fairfax if she had seen him;—yes: she believed he laying billiards with Miss Ingram. To the billiard-room I hastehe click of balls and the hum of voices resouhence; Mr. Rochester, Miss Ingram, the two Misses Eshton, and their admirers, were all busied in the game. It required some ce to disturb so iing a party; my errand, however, was one I could not defer, so I approached the master where he stood at Miss Ingram’s side. She turned as I drew near, and looked at me haughtily: her eyes seemed to demand, “What  the creeping creature want now?” and when I said, in a low voice, “Mr. Rochester,” she made a movement as if tempted to order me away. I remember her appeara the moment—it was very graceful and very striking: she wore a m robe of sky-blue crape; a gauzy azure scarf was twisted in her hair. She had been all animation with the game, and irritated pride did not lower the expression of her haughty lis.

    “Does that person want you?” she inquired of Mr. Rochester; and Mr. Rochester turo see who the “person” was. He made a curious grimae of his strange and equivocal demonstrations—threw down his cue and followed me from the room.

    “Well, Jane?” he said, as he rested his back against the schoolroom door, which he had shut.

    “If you please, sir, I want leave of absence for a week or two.”

    “What to do?—where to go?”

    “To see a sick lady who has sent for me.”

    “What sick lady?—where does she live?”

    “At Gateshead; in—shire.”

    “-shire? That is a hundred miles off! Who may she be that sends for people to see her that distance?”

    “Her name is Reed, sir—Mrs. Reed.”

    “Reed of Gateshead? There was a Reed of Gateshead, a magistrate.”

    “It is his widow, sir.”

    “And what have you to do with her? How do you know her?”

    “Mr. Reed was my uncle—my mother’s brother.”

    “The deuce he was! You old me that before: you always said you had ions.”

    “hat would own me, sir. Mr. Reed is dead, and his wife cast me off.”

    “Why?”

    “Because I oor, and burdensome, and she disliked me.”

    “But Reed left children?—you must have cousins? Sir Gee Lynn was talking of a Reed of Gateshead yesterday, who, he said, was one of the veriest rascals on town; and Ingram was mentioning a Geiana Reed of the same place, who was much admired for her beauty a season or two ago in London.”

    “John Reed is dead, too, sir: he ruined himself and half-ruined his family, and is supposed to have itted suicide. The news so shocked his mother that it brought on an apoplectic attack.”

    “And what good  you do her? Nonsense, Jane! I would hink of running a hundred miles to see an old lady who will, perhaps, be dead before you reach her: besides, you say she cast you off.”

    “Yes, sir, but that is long ago; and when her circumstances were very different: I could not be easy to  her wishes now.”

    “How long will you stay?”

    “As short a time as possible, sir.”

    “Promise me only to stay a week—”

    “I had better not pass my word: I might be obliged to break it.”

    “At all events you will e back: you will not be induced under any pretext to take up a perma resideh her?”

    “Oh, no! I shall certainly return if all be well.”

    “And who goes with you? You don’t travel a hundred miles alone.”

    “No, sir, she has sent her an.”

    “A person to be trusted?”

    “Yes, sir, he has lived ten years in the family.”

    Mr. Rochester meditated. “When do you wish to go?”

    “Early to-morrow m, sir.”

    “Well, you must have some money; you ’t travel without money, and I daresay you have not much: I have given you no salary yet. How much have you in the world, Jane?” he asked, smiling.

    I drew out my purse; a meagre thing it was. “Five shillings, sir.” He took the purse, poured the hoard into his palm, and chuckled over it as if its stiness amused him. Soon he produced his pocket- book: “Here,” said he,  me a  was fifty pounds, and he owed me but fifteen. I told him I had no ge.

    “I don’t want ge; you know that. Take yes.”

    I deed accepting more than was my due. He scowled at first; then, as if recolleg something, he said—

    “Right, right! Better not give you all now: you would, perhaps, stay away three months if you had fifty pounds. There are ten; is it not plenty?”

    “Yes, sir, but now you owe me five.”

    “e back for it, then; I am your banker for forty pounds.”

    “Mr. Rochester, I may as well mention another matter of busio you while I have the opportunity.”

    “Matter of business? I am curious to hear it.”

    “You have as good as informed me, sir, that yoing shortly to be married?”

    “Yes; what then?”

    “In that case, sir, Adèle ought to go to school: I am sure you will perceive the y of it.”

    “To get her out of my bride’s way, who might otherwise walk over her rather too emphatically? There’s sense in the suggestion; not a doubt of it. Adèle, as you say, must go to school; and you, of course, must march straight to—the devil?”

    “I hope not, sir; but I must seek another situation somewhere.”

    “In course!” he exclaimed, with a twang of void a distortion of features equally fantastid ludicrous. He looked at me some minutes.

    “And old Madam Reed, or the Misses, her daughters, will be solicited by you to seek a place, I suppose?”

    “No, sir; I am not on such terms with my relatives as would justify me in asking favours of them—but I shall advertise.”

    “You shall walk up the pyramids of Egypt!” he growled. “At your peril you advertise! I wish I had only offered you a sn instead of ten pounds. Give me baine pounds, Jane; I’ve a use for it.”

    “And so have I, sir,” I returned, putting my hands and my purse behind me. “I could not spare the money on any at.”

    “Little niggard!” said he, “refusing me a peiary request! Give me five pounds, Jane.”

    “Not five shillings, sir; nor five pence.”

    “Just let me look at the cash.”

    “No, sir; you are not to be trusted.”

    “Jane!”

    “Sir?”

    “Promise me ohing.”

    “I’ll promise you anything, sir, that I think I am likely to perform.”

    “Not to advertise: and to trust this quest of a situation to me. I’ll find you one in time.”

    “I shall be glad so to do, sir, if you, in your turn, will promise that I and Adèle shall be both safe out of the house before your bride enters it.”

    “Very well! very well! I’ll pledge my word on it. You go to- morrow, then?”

    “Yes, sir; early.”

    “Shall you e down to the drawing-room after dinner?”

    “No, sir, I must prepare for the journey.”

    “Then you and I must bid good-bye for a little while?”

    “I suppose so, sir.”

    “And how do people perform that ceremony of parting, Jaeach me; I’m not quite up to it.”

    “They say, Farewell, or any other form they prefer.”

    “Then say it.”

    “Farewell, Mr. Rochester, for the present.”

    “What must I say?”

    “The same, if you like, sir.”

    “Farewell, Miss Eyre, for the present; is that all?”

    “Yes?”

    “It seems stingy, to my notions, and dry, and unfriendly. I should like something else: a little addition to the rite. If one shook hands, for instance; but no—that would not teher. So you’ll do no more than say Farewell, Jane?”

    “It is enough, sir: as much good-will may be veyed in oy word as in many.”

    “Very likely; but it is blank and cool—‘Farewell.’”

    “How long is he going to stand with his back against that door?” I asked myself; “I want to ence my pag.” The dinner-bell rang, and suddenly away he bolted, without another syllable: I saw him no more during the day, and was off before he had risen in the m.

    I reached the lodge at Gateshead about five o’clo the afternoon of the first of May: I stepped in there befoing up to the hall. It was very  a: the oral windows were hung with little white curtains; the floor otless; the grate and fire-irons were burnished bright, and the fire burnt clear. Bessie sat on the hearth, nursing her last-born, and Robert and his sister played quietly in a er.

    “Bless you!—I knew you would e!” exclaimed Mrs. Leaven, as I entered.

    “Yes, Bessie,” said I, after I had kissed her; “and I trust I am not too late. How is Mrs. Reed?—Alive still, I hope.”

    “Yes, she is alive; and more sensible and collected than she was. The doctor says she may linger a week or two yet; but he hardly thinks she will finally recover.”

    “Has she mentioned me lately?”

    “She was talking of you only this m, and wishing you would e, but she is sleeping now, or was ten minutes ago, when I  at the house. She generally lies in a kind of lethargy all the afternoon, and wakes up about six or seven. Will you rest yourself here an hour, Miss, and then I will go up with you?”

    Robert here entered, and Bessie laid her sleeping child in the cradle ao wele him: afterwards she insisted on my taking off my bo and having some tea; for she said I looked pale and tired. I was glad to accept her hospitality; and I submitted to be relieved of my travelling garb just as passively as I used to let her undress me when a child.

    Old times crowded fast bae as I watched her bustling about— setting out the tea-tray with her best a, cutting bread and butter, toasting a tea-cake, and, between whiles, giving little Robert or Jane an occasional tap or push, just as she used to give me in former days. Bessie had retained her quick temper as well as her light foot and good looks.

    Tea ready, I was going to approach the table; but she desired me to sit still, quite in her old peremptory tones. I must be served at the fireside, she said; and she placed before me a little round stand with my cup and a plate of toast, absolutely as she used to aodate me with some privately purloined dainty on a nursery chair: and I smiled and obeyed her as in bygone days.

    She wao know if I was happy at Thornfield Hall, and what sort of a person the mistress was; and when I told her there was only a master, whether he was a nice gentleman, and if I liked him. I told her he rather an ugly man, but quite a gentleman; and that he treated me kindly, and I was tent. Then I went on to describe to her the gay pany that had lately been staying at the house; and to these details Bessie listened with i: they were precisely of the kind she relished.

    In such versation an hour was soon gone: Bessie restored to me my bo, &amp;c., and, apanied by her, I quitted the lodge for the hall. It was also apanied by her that I had, nearly nine years ago, walked dowh I was now asding. On a dark, misty, raw m in January, I had left a hostile roof with a desperate atered heart—a sense of outlawry and almost of reprobation—to seek the chilly harbe of Lowood: that bourne so far away and unexplored. The same hostile roof now again rose before me: my prospects were doubtful yet; and I had yet an ag heart. I still felt as a wanderer on the face of the earth; but I experienced firmer trust in myself and my own powers, and less withering dread of oppression. The gaping wound of my wrongs, too, was now quite healed; and the flame of rese extinguished.

    “You shall go into the breakfast-room first,” said Bessie, as she preceded me through the hall; “the young ladies will be there.”

    In another moment I was within that apartment. There was every article of furniture looking just as it did on the m I was first introduced to Mr. Brocklehurst: the very rug he had stood upon still covered the hearth. Glang at the bookcases, I thought I could distinguish the two volumes of Bewick’s British Birds occupying their old pla the third shelf, and Gulliver’s Travels and the Arabian Nights ranged just above. The inanimate objects were not ged; but the living things had altered past reition.

    Two young ladies appeared before me; oall, almost as tall as Miss Ingram—very thin too, with a sallow fad severe mien. There was something asceti her look, which was augmented by the extreme plainness of a straight-skirted, black, stuff dress, a starched linen collar, hair bed away from the temples, and the nun-like or of a string of ebony beads and a crucifix. This I felt sure was Eliza, though I could trace little resemblao her former self in that elongated and colourless visage.

    The other was as certainly Geiana: but not the Geiana I remembered—the slim and fairy-like girl of eleven. This was a full-blown, very plump damsel, fair as waxwork, with handsome and regular features, languishing blue eyes, and ried yellow hair. The hue of her dress was black too; but its fashion was so different from her sister’s—so much more flowing and being—it looked as stylish as the other’s looked puritanical.

    In each of the sisters there was orait of the mother—and only ohe thin and pallid elder daughter had her parent’s gorm eye: the blooming and luxuriant younger girl had her tour of jaw and —perhaps a little softened, but still imparting an indescribable hardo the teherwise so voluptuous and buxom.

    Both ladies, as I advanced, rose to wele, and both addressed me by the name of “Miss Eyre.” Eliza’s greeting was delivered in a short, abrupt voice, without a smile; and the down again, fixed her eyes on the fire, and seemed tet me. Geiana added to her “How d’ye do?” several onplaces about my jourhe weather, and so on, uttered in rather a drawling tone: and apanied by sundry side-glahat measured me from head to foot—now traversing the folds of my drab merino pelisse, and now lingering on the plain trimming of my cottage bo. Young ladies have a remarkable way of letting you know that they think you a “quiz” without actually saying the words. A certain superciliousness of look, ess of manner, nonchalance of tone, express fully their ses on the point, without itting them by any positive rudeness in word or deed.

    A sneer, however, whether covert or open, had now no lohat power over me it once possessed: as I sat between my cousins, I was surprised to find how easy I felt uhe total  of the one and the semi-sarcastic attentions of the other—Eliza did not mortify, neiana ruffle me. The fact was, I had other things to think about; within the last few months feelings had been stirred in me so much more potent than any they could raise—pains and pleasures so much more acute and exquisite had beeed than any it was in their power to inflict or bestow—that their airs gave me no  either food or bad.

    “How is Mrs. Reed?” I asked soon, looking calmly at Geiana, who thought fit to bridle at the direct address, as if it were an ued liberty.

    “Mrs. Reed? Ah! mama, you mean; she is extremely poorly: I doubt if you  see her to-night.”

    “If,” said I, “you would just step upstairs and tell her I am e, I should be much obliged to you.”

    Geiana almost started, and she opened her blue eyes wild and wide. “I know she had a particular wish to see me,” I added, “and I would not defer attending to her desire lohan is absolutely necessary.”

    “Mama dislikes being disturbed in an evening,” remarked Eliza. I soon rose, quietly took off my bo and gloves, uninvited, and said I would just step out to Bessie—who was, I dared say, i—and ask her to ascertaiher Mrs. Reed was disposed to receive me or not to-night. I went, and having found Bessie ached her on my errand, I proceeded to take further measures. It had heretofore been my habit always to shrink france: re<var>?</var>ceived as I had been to-day, I should, a year ago, have resolved to quit Gateshead the very  m; now, it was disclosed to me all at ohat that would be a foolish plan. I had taken a journey of a hundred miles to see my aunt, and I must stay with her till she was better—or dead: as to her daughters’ pride or folly, I must put it on one side, make myself indepe of it. So I addressed the housekeeper; asked her to show me a room, told her I should probably be a visitor here for a week or two, had my trunk veyed to my chamber, and followed it thither myself: I met Bessie on the landing.

    “Missis is awake,” said she; “I have told her you are here: e a us see if she will know you.”

    I did not o be guided to the well-known room, to which I had so often been summoned for chastisement or reprimand in former days. I hastened before Bessie; I softly opehe door: a shaded light stood oable, for it was now getting dark. There was the great four-post bed with amber hangings as of old; there the toilet- table, the armchair, and the footstool, at which I had a huimes beeeo ko ask pardon for offences by me unitted. I looked into a certain er near, half-expeg to see the slim outline of a once dreaded switch which used to lurk there, waiting to leap out imp-like and lace my quivering palm or shrinking neck. I approached the bed; I opehe curtains a over the high-piled pillows.

    Well did I remember Mrs. Reed’s face, and I eagerly sought the familiar image. It is a happy thing that time quells the longings of vengeand hushes the promptings e and aversion. I had left this woman in bitterness and hate, and I came back to her now with no other emotion than a sort of ruth for her great sufferings, and a strong yearning tet and five all injuries—to be reciled and clasp hands in amity.

    The well-known face was there: sterless as ever—there was that peculiar eye whiothing could melt, and the somewhat raised, imperious, despotic eyebrow. How often had it lowered on me menad hate! and how the recolle of childhood’s terrors and sorrows revived as I traced its harsh line now! A I stooped down and kissed her: she looked at me.

    “Is this Jane Eyre?” she said.

    “Yes, Aunt Reed. How are you, dear aunt?”

    I had once vowed that I would never call her aunt again: I thought it no sin tet and break that vow now. My fingers had fastened on her hand which lay outside the sheet: had she pressed mine kindly, I should at that moment have experierue pleasure. But unimpressioures are not so soon softened, nor are natural antipathies so readily eradicated. Mrs. Reed took her hand away, and, turning her face rather from me, she remarked that the night was warm. Again she regarded me so icily, I felt at ohat her opinion of me—her feeling towards me—was unged and ungeable. I knew by her stony eye—opaque to tenderness, indissoluble to tears—that she was resolved to sider me bad to the last; because to believe me good would give her no generous pleasure: only a sense of mortification.

    I felt pain, and then I felt ire; and then I felt a determination to subdue her—to be her mistress in spite both of her nature and her will. My tears had risen, just as in childhood: I ordered them back to their source. I brought a chair to the bed-head: I sat down and leaned over the pillow.

    “You sent for me,” I said, “and I am here; and it is my iion to stay till I see how you get on.”

    “Oh, of course! You have seen my daughters?”

    “Yes.”

    “Well, you may tell them I wish you to stay till I  talk some things over with you I have on my mind: to-night it is too late, and I have a difficulty in recalling them. But there was something I wished to say—let me see—”

    The wandering look and ged utteraold what wreck had taken pla her once vigorous frame. Turnilessly, she drew the bedclothes round her; my elbow, resting on a er of the quilt, fixed it down: she was at once irritated.

    “Sit up!” said she; “don’t annoy me with holding the clothes fast. Are you Jane Eyre?”

    “I am Jane Eyre.”

    “I have had more trouble with that child than any one would believe. Such a burden to be left on my hands—and so munoyance as she caused me, daily and hourly, with her inprehensible disposition, and her sudden starts of temper, and her tinual, unnatural watgs of one’s movements! I declare she talked to me once like something mad, or like a fiend—no child ever spoke or looked as she did; I was glad to get her away from the house. What did they do with her at Lowood? The fever broke out there, and many of the pupils died. She, however, did not die: but I said she did—I wish she had died!”

    “A strange wish, Mrs. Reed; why do you hate her so?”

    “I had a dislike to her mother always; for she was my husband’s only sister, and a great favourite with him: he opposed the family’s disowning her when she made her low marriage; and when news came of her death, he wept like a simpleton. He would send for the baby; though I eed him rather to put it out to nurse and pay for its maintenance. I hated it the first time I set my eyes on it—a sickly, whining, pining thing! It would wail in its cradle all night long—not screamiily like any other child, but whimpering and moaning. Reed pitied it; and he used to  and notice it as if it had been his own: more, ihan he ever noticed his own at that age. He would try to make my children friendly to the little beggar: the darlings could not bear it, and he was angry with them when they showed their dislike. In his last illness, he had it brought tinually to his bedside; and but an hour before he died, he bound me by vow to keep the creature. I would as soon have been charged with a pauper brat out of a workhouse: but he was weak, naturally weak. John does not at all resemble his father, and I am glad of it: John is like me and like my brothers—he is quite a Gibson. Oh, I wish he would cease tormentih letters for money? I have no more moo give him: we are getting poor. I must send away half the servants and shut up part of the house; or let it off. I ever submit to do that—yet how are we to get on? Two-thirds of my ine goes in paying the i of mes. John gambles dreadfully, and always loses—poor boy! He is beset by sharpers: John is sunk and degraded—his look is frightful—I feel ashamed for him when I see him.”

    She was getting much excited. “I think I had better leave her now,” said I to Bessie, who stood oher side of the bed.

    “Perhaps you had, Miss: but she often talks in this way towards night—in the m she is calmer.”

    I rose. “Stop!” exclaimed Mrs. Reed, “there is ahing I wished to say. He threatens me—he tinually threateh his owh, or mine: and I dream sometimes that I see him laid out with a great wound in his throat, or with a swollen and blaed face. I am e to a strange pass: I have heavy troubles. What is to be done? How is the moo be had?”

    Bessie now endeavoured to persuade her to take a sedative draught: she succeeded with difficulty. Soon after, Mrs. Reed grew more posed, and sank into a dozing state. I the her.

    More than ten days elapsed before I had again any versation with her. She tinued either delirious or lethargid the doctor forbade everything which could painfully excite her. Meantime, I got on as well as I could with Geiana and Eliza. They were very cold, indeed, at first. Eliza would sit half the day sewing, reading, or writing, and scarcely utter a word either to me or her sister. Geiana would chatter nonseo her ary bird by the hour, and take no notie. But I was determined not to seem at a loss for occupation or amusement: I had brought my drawing materials with me, and they served me for both.

    Provided with a case of pencils, and some sheets of paper, I used to take a seat apart from them, he window, and busy myself ig fancy viges, representing any se that happened momentarily to shape itself in the ever-shifting kaleidoscope of imagination: a glimpse of sea between two rocks; the rising moon, and a ship crossing its disk; a group of reeds and water-flags, and a naiad’s head, ed with lotus-flowers, rising out of them; an elf sitting in a hedge-sparrow’s , under a wreath of hawthorn- bloom

    One m I fell to sketg a face: what sort of a face it was to be, I did not care or know. I took a soft black pencil, gave it a broad point, and worked away. Soon I had traced on the paper a broad and promi forehead and a square lower outline of visage: that tave me pleasure; my fingers proceeded actively to fill it with features. Strongly-marked horizontal eyebrows must be traced uhat brow; then followed, naturally, a well-defined nose, with a straight ridge and full nostrils; then a flexible- looking mouth, by no means narrow; then a firm , with a decided cleft down the middle of it: of course, some black whiskers were wanted, and some jetty hair, tufted oemples, and waved above the forehead. Now for the eyes: I had left them to the last, because they required the most careful w. I drew them large; I shaped them well: the eyelashes I traced long and sombre; the irids lustrous and large. “Good! but not quite the thing,” I thought, as I surveyed the effect: “they want more ford spirit;” and I wrought the shades blacker, that the lights might flash more brilliantly—a happy touch or two secured success. There, I had a friend’s fader my gaze; and what did it signify that those young ladies turheir bae? I looked at it; I smiled at the speaking likeness: I was absorbed and tent.

    “Is that a portrait of some one you know?” asked Eliza, who had approached me unnoticed. I respohat it was merely a fancy head, and hurried it beh the other sheets. Of course, I lied: it was, in fact, a very faithful representation of Mr. Rochester. But what was that to her, or to any o myself? Geiana also advao look. The other drawings pleased her much, but she called that “an ugly man.” They both seemed surprised at my skill. I offered to sketch their portraits; and each, in turn, sat for a pencil outlihen Geiana produced her album. I promised to tribute a water-colour drawing: this put her at oo good humour. She proposed a walk in the grounds. Before we had been out two hours, we were deep in a fidential versation: she had favoured me with a description of the brilliant winter she had spent in London two seasons ago—of the admiration she had there excited— the attention she had received; and I even got hints of the titled quest she had made. In the course of the afternoon and evening these hints were enlarged on: various soft versations were reported, aimental ses represented; and, in short, a volume of a novel of fashionable life was that day improvised by her for my be. The unications were renewed from day to day: they always ran on the same theme—herself, her loves, and woes. It was strange she never once adverted either to her mother’s illness, or her brother’s death, or the present gloomy state of the family prospects. Her mind seemed wholly taken up with reminisces of past gaiety, and aspirations after dissipations to e. She passed about five minutes each day in her mother’s si, and no more.

    Eliza still spoke little: she had evidently no time to talk. I never saw a busier person than she seemed to be; yet it was difficult to say what she did: or rather, to discover a of her diligence. She had an alarm to call her up early. I know not how she occupied herself before breakfast, but after that meal she divided her time intular portions, and each hour had its allotted task. Three times a day she studied a little book, which I found, on iion, was a on Prayer Book. I asked her once what was the great attra of that volume, and she said, “the Rubric.” Three hours she gave to stitg, with gold thread, the border of a square crimson cloth, almost large enough for a carpet. In ao my inquiries after the use of this article, she informed me it was a c for the altar of a new church lately erected near Gateshead. Two hours she devoted to her diary; two t by herself i-garden; and oo the regulation of her ats. She seemed to want no pany; no versation. I believe she was happy in her way: this routine sufficed for her; and nothing annoyed her so much as the occurrence of any i which forced her to vary its clockwularity.

    She told me one evening, when more disposed to be unicative than usual, that John’s duct, and the threatened ruin of the family, had been a source of profound affli to her: but she had now, she said, settled her mind, and formed her resolution. Her own fortune she had taken care to secure; and when her mother died—and it was wholly improbable, she tranquilly remarked, that she should either recover or linger long—she would execute a long-cherished project: seek a retirement where punctual habits would be permaly secured from disturbance, and place safe barriers between herself and a frivolous world. I asked if Geiana would apany her.

    “Of course not. Geiana and she had nothing in on: they never had had. She would not be burdened with her society for any sideration. Geiana should take her own course; and she, Eliza, would take hers.”

    Geiana, when not unburdening her heart to me, spent most of her time in lying on the sofa, fretting about the dulness of the house, and wishing over and ain that her aunt Gibson would send her an invitation up to town. “It would be so much better,” she said, “if she could only get out of the way for a month or two, till all was over.” I did not ask what she meant by “all being over,” but I suppose she referred to the expected decease of her mother and the gloomy sequel of funeral rites. Eliza generally took no more notice of her sister’s indolend plaints than if no such murmuring, lounging object had been before her. One day, however, as she put away her at-book and unfolded her embroidery, she suddenly took her up thus—

    “Geiana, a more vain and absurd animal than you was certainly never allowed to cumber the earth. You had nht to be born, for you make no use of life. Instead of living for, in, and with yourself, as a reasonable being ought, you seek only to fasten your feebleness on some other person’s strength: if no one  be found willing to burden her or himself with such a fat, uffy, useless thing, you cry out that you are ill-treated, ed, miserable. Then, too, existence for you must be a se of tinual ge aement, or else the world is a dungeon: you must be admired, you must be courted, you must be flattered—you must have music, dang, and society—or you languish, you die away. Have you no seo devise a system which will make you indepe of all efforts, and all wills, but your own? Take one day; share it into ses; to each se apportion its task: leave no stray unemployed quarters of an hour, ten minutes, five minutes—include all; do each piece of business in its turn with method, with rigid regularity. The day will close almost before you are aware it has begun; and you are ied to no one for helping you to get rid of one vat moment: you have had to seek no one’s pany, versation, sympathy, forbearance; you have lived, in short, as an indepe being ought to do. Take this advice: the first and last I shall offer you; then you will not want me or any one else, happen what may.  it—go on as heretofore, craving, whining, and idling—and suffer the results of your idiocy, however bad and insuperable they may be. I tell you this plainly; and listen: for though I shall no more repeat what I am now about to say, I shall steadily a it. After my mother’s death, I wash my hands of you: from the day her coffin is carried to the vault in Gateshead Church, you and I will be as separate as if we had never known each other. You need not think that because we ced to be born of the same parents, I shall suffer you to fasten me down by even the feeblest claim: I  tell you this—if the whole human race, ourselves excepted, were swept away, awo stood alone on the earth, I would leave you in the old world, aake myself to the new.”

    She closed her lips.

    “You might have spared yourself the trouble of delivering that tirade,” answered Geiana. “Everybody knows you are the most selfish, heartless creature ience: and I know your spiteful hatred towards me: I have had a spe of it before irick you played me about Lord Edwin Vere: you could not bear me to be raised above you, to have a title, to be received into ></dfn>ircles where you dare not show your face, and so you acted the spy and informer, and ruined my prospects for ever.” Geiana took out her handkerchief and blew her nose for an hour afterwards; Eliza sat cold, impassable, and assiduously industrious.

    True, generous feeling is made small at of by some, but here were two natures rehe oolerably acrid, the other despicably savourless for the want of it. Feeling without judgment is a washy draught indeed; but judgment untempered by feeling is too bitter and husky a morsel for humaition.

    It was a wet and windy afternoon: Geiana had fallen asleep on the sofa over the perusal of a novel; Eliza was goo attend a saint’s-day service at the new church—for in matters ion she was a rigid formalist: her ever prevehe punctual discharge of what she sidered her devotional duties; fair or foul, she went to church thrice every Sunday, and as often on week- days as there were prayers.

    I bethought myself to go upstairs and see how the dying ed, who lay there almost unheeded: the very servants paid her but a remittent attention: the hired nurse, being little looked after, would slip out of the room whenever she could. Bessie was faithful; but she had her own family to mind, and could only e occasionally to the hall. I found the si unwatched, as I had expected: no nurse was there; the patient lay still, and seemingly lethargic; her livid face sunk in the pillows: the fire was dying in the grate. I rehe fuel, re-arrahe bedclothes, gazed awhile on her who could not now gaze on me, and then I moved away to the window.

    The rai strongly against the pahe wind blew tempestuously: “One lies there,” I thought, “who will soon be beyond the war of earthly elements. Whither will that spirit—now struggling to quit its material te—flit when at length released?”

    In p the great mystery, I thought of Helen Burns, recalled her dying words—her faith—her doe of the equality of disembodied souls. I was still listening in thought to her well- remembered toill picturing her pale and spiritual aspect, her wasted fad sublime gaze, as she lay on her placid deathbed, and whispered her longing to be restored to her diviher’s bosom— when a feeble voice murmured from the couch behind: “Who is that?”

    I knew Mrs. Reed had not spoken for days: was she reviving? I went up to her.

    “It is I, Aunt Reed.”

    “Who—I?” was her answer. “Who are you?” looking at me with surprise and a sort of alarm, but still not wildly. “You are quite a strao me—where is Bessie?”

    “She is at the lodge, aunt.”

    “Aunt,” she repeated. “Who calls me aunt? You are not one of the Gibsons; a I know you—that face, and the eyes and forehead, are quiet familiar to me: you are like—why, you are like Jane Eyre!”

    I said nothing: I was afraid of occasioning some shock by declaring my identity.

    “Yet,” said she, “I am afraid it is a mistake: my thoughts deceive me. I wished to see Jane Eyre, and I fancy a likeness where nos: besides, i years she must be so ged.” I now gently assured her that I was the person she supposed and desired me to be: and seeing that I was uood, and that her senses were quite collected, I explained how Bessie had sent her husband to fetch me from Thornfield.

    “I am very ill, I know,” she said ere long. “I was trying to turn myself a few minutes since, and find I ove a limb. It is as well I should ease my mind before I die: what we think little of ih, burdens us at su hour as the present is to me. Is the nurse here? or is there no one in the room but you?”

    I assured her we were alone.

    “Well, I have twice done you a wrong which I regret now. One was in breaking the promise which I gave my husband t you up as my own child; the other—” she stopped. “After all, it is of no great importance, perhaps,” she murmured to herself: “and then I may get better; and to humble myself so to her is painful.”

    She made an effort to alter her position, but failed: her face ged; she seemed to experiene inward sensation—the precursor, perhaps, of the last pang.

    “Well, I must get it over. Eternity is before me: I had better tell her.—Go to my dressing-case, open it, and take out a letter you will see there.”

    I obeyed her dires. “Read the letter,” she said.

    It was short, and thus ceived:—

    “Madam,—Will you have the goodo sehe address of my niece, Jane Eyre, and to tell me how she is? It is my iion to write shortly and desire her to e to me at Madeira. Providence has blessed my endeavours to secure a petency; and as I am unmarried and childless, I wish to adopt her during my life, and bequeath her at my death whatever I may have to leave.—I am, Madam, etc., etc.,

    “John Eyre, Madeira.”

    It was dated three years back.

    “Why did I never hear of this?” I asked.

    “Because I disliked you too fixedly and thhly ever to lend a hand in lifting you to prosperity. I could not fet your due, Jahe fury with which you ourned ohe tone in which you declared you abhorred me the worst of anybody in the world; the unchildlike look and voice with which you affirmed that the very thought of me made you sick, and asserted that I had treated you with miserable cruelty. I could not fet my owions when you thus started up and poured out the venom of your mind: I felt fear as if an animal that I had struck or pushed had looked up at me with human eyes and cursed me in a man’s voice.— Bring me some water! Oh, make haste!”

    “Dear Mrs. Reed,” said I, as I offered her the draught she required, “think no more of all this, let it pass away from your mind. Five me for my passionate language: I was a child the, nine years have passed sihat day.”

    She heeded nothing of what I said; but when she had tasted the water and drawh, she went on thus—

    “I tell you I could not fet it; and I took my revenge: for you to be adopted by your uncle, and placed in a state of ease and fort, was what I could not endure. I wrote to him; I said I was sorry for his disappoi, but Jane Eyre was dead: she had died of typhus fever at Lowood. Now act as you please: write and tradict my assertion—expose my falsehood as soon as you like. You were born, I think, to be my torment: my last hour is racked by the recolle of a deed which, but for you, I should never have beeed to it.”

    “If you could but be persuaded to think no more of it, aunt, and tard me with kindness and fiveness”

    “You have a very bad disposition,” said she, “and oo this day I feel it impossible to uand: how for nine years you could be patient and quiest under any treatment, and ienth break out all fire and violence, I ever prehend.”

    “My disposition is not so bad as you think: I am passionate, but not vindictive. Many a time, as a little child, I should have been glad to love you if you would have let me; and I long early to be reciled to you now: kiss me, aunt.”

    I approached my cheek to her lips: she would not touch it. She said I oppressed her by leaning over the bed, and again demanded water. As I laid her down—for I raised her and supported her on my arm while she drank—I covered her ice-cold and clammy hand with mihe feeble fingers shrank from my touch—the glazing eyes shunned my gaze.

    “Love me, then, or hate me, as you will,” I said at last, “you have my full and free fiveness: ask now fod’s, a peace.”

    Poor, suffering woman! it was too late for her to make now the effort to ge her habitual frame of mind: living, she had ever hated me—dying, she must hate me still.

    The nurse ered, and Bessie followed. I yet lingered half-an- hour longer, hoping to see some sign of amity: but she gave none. She was fast relapsing into stupor; nor did her mind again rally: at twelve o’clock that night she died. I was not present to close her eyes, nor were either of her daughters. They came to tell us the  m that all was over. She was by that time laid out. Eliza and I went to look at her: Geiana, who had burst out into loud weeping, said she dared not go. There was stretched Sarah Reed’s once robust and active frame, rigid and still: her eye of flint was covered with its cold lid; her brow and strong traits wore yet the impress of her inexorable soul. A strange and solemn object was that corpse to me. I gazed on it with gloom and pain: nothing soft, nothing sweet, nothing pitying, or hopeful, or subduing did it inspire; only a grating anguish for her woes—not my loss—and a sombre tearless dismay at the fearfulness of death in such a form.

    Eliza surveyed her parent calmly.>藏书网</a> After a silence of some minutes she observed—

    “With her stitution she should have lived to a good old age: her life was shortened by trouble.” And then a spasm stricted her mouth for an instant: as it passed away she turned ahe room, and so did I. her of us had dropt a tear.

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