Jane Eyre: An Autobiography
moderate—most correct; and, having reflected a few minutes in order to
arrange coherently what I had to say, I told her all the story of my
sad childhood. Exhausted by emotion, my language was more subdued than
it generally was when it developed that sad theme; and mindful of
Helen’s warnings against the indulgence of resentment, I infused into
the narrative far less of gall and wormwood than ordinary. Thus
restrained and simplified, it sounded more credible: I felt as I went
on that Miss Temple fully believed me.
In the course of the tale I had mentioned Mr. Lloyd as having come to
see me after the fit: for I never forgot the, to me, frightful episode
of the red-room: in detailing which, my excitement was sure, in some
degree, to break bounds; for nothing could soften in my recollection
the spasm of agony which clutched my heart when Mrs. Reed spurned my
wild supplication for pardon, and locked me a second time in the dark
and haunted chamber.
I had finished: Miss Temple regarded me a few minutes in silence; she
then said—
“I know something of Mr. Lloyd; I shall write to him; if his reply
agrees with your statement, you shall be publicly cleared from every
imputation; to me, Jane, you are clear now.”
She kissed me, and still keeping me at her side (where I was well
contented to stand, for I derived a child’s pleasure from the
contemplation of her face, her dress, her one or two ornaments, her
white forehead, her clustered and shining curls, and beaming dark
eyes), she proceeded to address Helen Burns.
“How are you to-night, Helen? Have you coughed much to-day?”
“Not quite so much, I think, ma’am.”
“And the pain in your chest?”
“It is a little better.”
Miss Temple got up, took her hand and examined her pulse; then she
returned to her own seat: as she resumed it, I heard her sigh low. She
was pensive a few minutes, then rousing herself, she said cheerfully—
“But you two are my visitors to-night; I must treat you as such.” She
rang her bell.
“Barbara,” she said to the servant who answered it, “I have not yet had
tea; bring the tray and place cups for these two young ladies.”
And a tray was soon brought. How pretty, to my eyes, did the china cups
and bright teapot look, placed on the little round table near the fire!
How fragrant was the steam of the beverage, and the scent of the toast!
of which, however, I, to my dismay (for I was beginning to be hungry)
discerned only a very small portion: Miss Temple discerned it too.
“Barbara,” said she, “can you not bring a little more bread and butter?
There is not enough for three.”
Barbara went out: she returned soon—
“Madam, Mrs. Harden says she has sent up the usual quantity.”
Mrs. Harden, be it observed, was the housekeeper: a woman after Mr.
Brocklehurst’s own heart, made up of equal parts of whalebone and iron.
“Oh, very well!” returned Miss Temple; “we must make it do, Barbara, I
suppose.” And as the girl withdrew she added, smiling, “Fortunately, I
have it in my power to supply deficiencies for this once.”
Having invited Helen and me to approach the table, and placed before
each of us a cup of tea with one delicious but thin morsel of toast,
she got up, unlocked a drawer, and taking from it a parcel wrapped in
paper, disclosed presently to our eyes a good-sized seed-cake.
“I meant to give each of you some of this to take with you,” said she,
“but as there is so little toast, you must have it now,” and she
proceeded to cut slices with a generous hand.
We feasted that evening as on nectar and ambrosia; and not the least
delight of the entertainment was the smile of gratification with which
our hostess regarded us, as we satisfied our famished appetites on the
delicate fare she liberally supplied.
Tea over and the tray removed, she again summoned us to the fire; we
sat one on each side of her, and now a conversation followed between
her and Helen, which it was indeed a privilege to be admitted to hear.
Miss Temple had always something of serenity in her air, of state in
her mien, of refined propriety in her language, which precluded
deviation into the ardent, the excited, the eager: something which
chastened the pleasure of those who looked on her and listened to her,
by a controlling sense of awe; and such was my feeling now: but as to
Helen Burns, I was struck with wonder.
The refreshing meal, the brilliant fire, the presence and kindness of
her beloved instructress, or, perhaps, more than all these, something
in her own unique mind, had roused her powers within her. They woke,
they kindled: first, they glowed in the bright tint of her cheek, which
till this hour I had never seen but pale and bloodless; then they shone
in the liquid lustre of her eyes, which had suddenly acquired a beauty
more singular than that of Miss Temple’s—a beauty neither of fine
colour nor long eyelash, nor pencilled brow, but of meaning, of
movement, of radiance. Then her soul sat on her lips, and language
flowed, from what source I cannot tell. Has a girl of fourteen a heart
large enough, vigorous enough, to hold the swelling spring of pure,
full, fervid eloquence? Such was the characteristic of Helen’s
discourse on that, to me, memorable evening; her spirit seemed
hastening to live within a very brief span as much as many live during
a protracted existence.
They conversed of things I had never heard of; of nations and times
past; of countries far away; of secrets of nature discovered or guessed
at: they spoke of books: how many they had read! What stores of
knowledge they possessed! Then they seemed so familiar with French
names and French authors: but my amazement reached its climax when Miss
Temple asked Helen if she sometimes snatched a moment to recall the
Latin her father had taught her, and taking a book from a shelf, bade
her read and construe a page of Virgil; and Helen obeyed, my organ of
veneration expanding at every sounding line. She had scarcely finished
ere the bell announced bedtime! no delay could be admitted; Miss Temple
embraced us both, saying, as she drew us to her heart—
“God bless you, my children!”
Helen she held a little longer than me: she let her go more
reluctantly; it was Helen her eye followed to the door; it was for her
she a second time breathed a sad sigh; for her she wiped a tear from
her cheek.
On reaching the bedroom, we heard the voice of Miss Scatcherd: she was
examining drawers; she had just pulled out Helen Burns’s, and when we
entered Helen was greeted with a sharp reprimand, and told that
to-morrow she should have half-a-dozen of untidily folded articles
pinned to her shoulder.
“My things were indeed in shameful disorder,” murmured Helen to me, in
a low voice: “I intended to have arranged them, but I forgot.”
Next morning, Miss Scatcherd wrote in conspicuous characters on a piece
of pasteboard the word “Slattern,” and bound it like a phylactery round
Helen’s large, mild, intelligent, and benign-looking forehead. She wore
it till evening, patient, unresentful, regarding it as a deserved
punishment. The moment Miss Scatcherd withdrew after afternoon school,
I ran to Helen, tore it off, and thrust it into the fire: the fury of
which she was incapable had been burning in my soul all day, and tears,
hot and large, had continually been scalding my cheek; for the
spectacle of her sad resignation gave me an intolerable pain at the
heart.
About a week subsequently to the incidents above narrated, Miss Temple,
who had written to Mr. Lloyd, received his answer: it appeared that
what he said went to corroborate my account. Miss Temple, having
assembled the whole school, announced that inquiry had been made into
the charges alleged against Jane Eyre, and that she was most happy to
be able to pronounce her completely cleared from every imputation. The
teachers then shook hands with me and kissed me, and a murmur of
pleasure ran through the ranks of my companions.
Thus relieved of a grievous load, I from that hour set to work afresh,
resolved to pioneer my way through every difficulty: I toiled hard, and
my success was proportionate to my efforts; my memory, not naturally
tenacious, improved with practice; exercise sharpened my wits; in a few
weeks I was promoted to a higher class; in less than two months I was
allowed to commence French and drawing. I learned the first two tenses
of the verb _Etre_, and sketched my first cottage (whose walls,
by-the-bye, outrivalled in slope those of the leaning tower of Pisa),
on the same day. That night, on going to bed, I forgot to prepare in
imagination the Barmecide supper of hot roast potatoes, or white bread
and new milk, with which I was wont to amuse my inward cravings: I
feasted instead on the spectacle of ideal drawings, which I saw in the
dark; all the work of my own hands: freely pencilled houses and trees,
picturesque rocks and ruins, Cuyp-like groups of cattle, sweet
paintings of butterflies hovering over unblown roses, of birds picking
at ripe cherries, of wren’s nests enclosing pearl-like eggs, wreathed
about with young ivy sprays. I examined, too, in thought, the
possibility of my ever being able to translate currently a certain
little French story which Madame Pierrot had that day shown me; nor was
that problem solved to my satisfaction ere I fell sweetly asleep.
Well has Solomon said—“Better is a dinner of herbs where love is, than
a stalled ox and hatred therewith.”
I would not now have exchanged Lowood with all its privations for
Gateshead and its daily luxuries.
CHAPTER IX
But the privations, or rather the hardships, of Lowood lessened. Spring
drew on: she was indeed already come; the frosts of winter had ceased;
its snows were melted, its cutting winds ameliorated. My wretched feet,
flayed and swollen to lameness by the sharp air of January, began to
heal and subside under the gentler breathings of April; the nights and
mornings no longer by their Canadian temperature froze the very blood
in our veins; we could now endure the play-hour passed in the garden:
sometimes on a sunny day it began even to be pleasant and genial, and a
greenness grew over those brown beds, which, freshening daily,
suggested the thought that Hope traversed them at night, and left each
morning brighter traces of her steps. Flowers peeped out amongst the
leaves; snow-drops, crocuses, purple auriculas, and golden-eyed
pansies. On Thursday afternoons (half-holidays) we now took walks, and
found still sweeter flowers opening by the wayside, under the hedges.
I discovered, too, that a great pleasure, an enjoyment which the
horizon only bounded, lay all outside the high and spike-guarded walls
of our garden: this pleasure consisted in prospect of noble summits
girdling a great hill-hollow, rich in verdure and shadow; in a bright
beck, full of dark stones and sparkling eddies. How different had this
scene looked when I viewed it laid out beneath the iron sky of winter,
stiffened in frost, shrouded with snow!—when mists as chill as death
wandered to the impulse of east winds along those purple peaks, and
rolled down “ing” and holm till they blended with the frozen fog of the
beck! That beck itself was then a torrent, turbid and curbless: it tore
asunder the wood, and sent a raving sound through the air, often
thickened with wild rain or whirling sleet; and for the forest on its
banks, _that_ showed only ranks of skeletons.
April advanced to May: a bright serene May it was; days of blue sky,
placid sunshine, and soft western or southern gales filled up its
duration. And now vegetation matured with vigour; Lowood shook loose
its tresses; it became all green, all flowery; its great elm, ash, and
oak skeletons were restored to majestic life; woodland plants sprang up
profusely in its recesses; unnumbered varieties of moss filled its