FROM my discourse¹ with Mr. Lloyd, and from the above reported conference between Bessie and Abbot, I gathered enough of hope to suffice as a motive² for wishing to get well: a change seemed near,- I desired and waited it in silence. It tarried, however: days and weeks passed: I had regained³ my normal state of health, but no new allusion⁴ was made to the subject over which I brooded. Mrs. Reed surveyed me at times with a severe eye, but seldom addressed me: since my illness, she had drawn⁵ a more marked line of separation than ever between me and her own children; appointing me a small closet to sleep in by myself, condemning⁶ me to take my meals alone, and pass all my time in the nursery, while my cousins were constantly in the drawing-room. Not a hint, however, did she drop about sending me to school: still I felt an instinctive⁷ certainty that she would not long endure me under the same roof w with my doll on my knee till the fire got low, glancing round occasionally to make sure that nothing worse than myself haunted the shadowy room; and when the embers sank to a dull red, I undressed hastily, tugging⁹ at knots and strings¹⁰ as I best might, and sought shelter from cold and darkness in my crib. To this crib I always took my doll; human beings must love something, and, in the dearth¹¹ of worthier¹² objects of affection, v?粥which had stirred my corruption¹³ before, he thought it better to desist, and ran from me uttering execrations, and vowing¹⁴ I had burst his nose. I had indeed levelled at that prominent feature as hard a blow as my knuckles¹⁵ could inflict¹⁶; and when I saw that either that or my look daunted¹⁷ him, I had the greatest inclination¹⁸ to follow up my advantage to purpose; but he was already with his mama. I heard him in a blubbering tone commence the tale of how 'that nasty Jane Eyre' had flown at him like a mad cat: he was stopped rather harshly- 'Don't talk to me about her, John: I told you not to go near her; she is not worthy¹⁹ of notice; I do not choose that either you or your sisters should associate with her.'

 

Here, leaning over the banister, I cried out suddenly, and without at all deliberating on my words-'They are not fit to associate with me.'

 

Mrs. Reed was rather a stout²⁰ woman; but, on hearing this strange and audacious declaration, she ran nimbly up the stair, swept me like a whirlwind into the nursery, and crushing me down on the edge of my crib, dared me in an emphatic²¹ voice to rise from that place, or utter one syllable²² during the remainder of the day.

 

'What would Uncle Reed say to you, if he were alive?' was my scarcely voluntary demand. I say scarcely voluntary, for it seemed as if my tongue pronounced words, without my will consenting to their utterance²³: something spoke²⁴ out of me over which I had no control.

 

'What?' said Mrs. Reed under her breath: her usually cold composed grey eye became troubled with a look like fear; she took her hand from my arm, and gazed at me as if she really did not know whether I were child or fiend. I was now in for it.

 

'My Uncle Reed is in heaven, and can see all you do and think; and so can papa and mama: they know how you shut me up all day long, and how you wish me dead.'Mrs. Reed soon rallied her spirits: she shook me most soundly, she boxed both my ears, and then left me without a word. Bessie supplied the hiatus by a homily of an hour's length, in which she proved beyond a doubt that I was the most wicked and abandoned child ever reared under a roof. I half believed her; for I felt indeed only bad feelings surging in my breast.

 

November, December, and half of January passed away. Christmas and the New Year had been celebrated²⁵ at Gateshead with the usual festive²⁶ cheer; presents had been interchanged, dinners and evening parties given. From every enjoyment²⁷ I was, of course, excluded: my share of the gaiety consisted in witnessing the daily apparelling of Eliza and Georgiana, and seeing them descend²⁸ to the drawing-room, dressed out in thin muslin frocks and scarlet²⁹ sashes, with hair elaborately ringleted; and afterwards, in listening to the sound of the piano or the harp³⁰ played below, to the passing to and fro of the butler and footman, to the jingling³¹ of glass and china as refreshments³² were handed, to the broken hum of conversation as the drawing-room door opened and closed. When tired of this occupation, I would retire from the stair-head to the solitary³³ and silent nursery:there, though somewhat sad, I was not miserable³⁴. To speak truth, I had not the least wish to go into company, for in company I was very rarely noticed; and if Bessie had but been kind and companionable, I should have deemed it a treat to spend the evenings quietly with her, instead of passing them under the formidable eye of Mrs.

 

Reed, in a room full of ladies and gentlemen. But Bessie, as soon as she had dressed her young ladies, used to take herself off to the lively regions of the kitchen and housekeeper³⁵'s room, generally bearing the candle along with her. I then sat with my doll on my knee till the fire got low, glancing round occasionally to make sure that nothing worse than myself haunted the shadowy room; and when the embers sank to a dull red, I undressed hastily, tugging at knots and strings as I best might, and sought shelter from cold and darkness in my crib. To this crib I always took my doll; human beings must love something, and, in the dearth of worthier objects of affection, I contrived³⁶ to find a pleasure in loving and cherishing a faded graven image, shabby as a miniature scarecrow. It puzzles me now to remember with what absurd sincerity³⁷ I doated on this little toy, half fancying it alive and capable of sensation. I could not sleep unless it was folded in my night-gown; and when it lay there safe and warm, I was comparatively happy, believing it to be happy likewise.#p#分页标题#e#

 

Long did the hours seem while I waited the departure of the company, and listened for the sound of Bessie's step on the stairs: sometimes she would come up in the interval³⁸ to seek her thimble or her scissors, or perhaps to bring me something by way of supper- a bun or a cheese-cake- then she would sit on the bed while I ate it, and when I had finished, she would tuck the clothes round me, and twice she kissed me, and said, 'Good night, Miss Jane.' When thus gentle, Bessie seemed to me the best, prettiest, kindest being in the world; and I wished most intensely that she would always be so pleasant and amiable³⁹, and never push me about, or scold, or task me unreasonably⁴⁰, as she was too often wont⁴¹ to do. Bessie, Lee must, I think, have been a girl of good natural capacity, for she was smart in all she did, and had a remarkable⁴² knack⁴³ of narrative⁴⁴; so, at least, I judge from the impression made on me by her nursery tales. She was pretty too, if my recollections of her face and person are correct. I remember her as a slim young woman, with black hair, dark eyes, very nice features, and good, clear complexion⁴⁵; but she had a capricious and hasty temper, and indifferent ideas of principle or justice:

 

still, such as she was, I preferred her to any one else at Gateshead Hall.

 

It was the fifteenth of January, about nine o'clock in the morning:

 

Bessie was gone down to breakfast; my cousins had not yet been summoned to their mama; Eliza was putting on her bonnet⁴⁶ and warm garden-coat to go and feed her poultry⁴⁷, an occupation of which she was fond: and not less so of selling the eggs to the housekeeper and hoarding⁴⁸ up the money she thus obtained. She had a turn for traffic, and a marked propensity⁴⁹ for saving; shown not only in the vending⁵⁰ of eggs and chickens, but also in driving hard bargains with the gardener about flower-roots, seeds, and slips of plants; that functionary⁵¹ having orders from Mrs. Reed to buy of his young lady all the products of her parterre she wished to sell: and Eliza would have sold the hair off her head if she could have made a handsome profit thereby⁵². As to her money, she first secreted⁵³ it in odd corners, wrapped in a rag or an old curl-paper; but some of these hoards⁵⁴ having been discovered by the housemaid, Eliza, fearful of one day losing her valued treasure, consented to intrust it to her mother, at a usurious rate of interest- fifty or sixty per cent.; which interest she exacted every quarter, keeping her accounts in a little book with anxious accuracy.

 

Georgiana sat on a high stool, dressing⁵⁵ her hair at the glass, and interweaving her curls with artificial flowers and faded feathers, of which she had found a store in a drawer in the attic⁵⁶. I was making my bed, having received strict orders from Bessie to get it arranged before she returned, (for Bessie now frequently employed me as a sort of under-nurserymaid, to tidy the room, dust the chairs, etc.). Having spread the quilt and folded my night-dress, I went to the window-seat to put in order some picture-books and doll's house furniture scattered⁵⁸ there; an abrupt⁵⁹ command from Georgiana to let her playthings alone (for the tiny chairs and mirrors, the fairy plates and cups, were her property) stopped my proceedings⁶⁰; and then, for lack of other occupation, I fell to breathing on the frost-flowers with which the window was fretted⁶¹, and thus clearing a space in the glass through which I might look out on the grounds, where all was still and petrified⁶² under the influence of a hard frost.

 

From this window were visible the porter's lodge⁶³ and the carriage-road, and just as I had dissolved so much of the silver-white foliage⁶⁴ veiling the panes⁶⁵ as left room to look out, I saw the gates thrown open and a carriage roll through. I watched it ascending⁶⁶ the drive with indifference⁶⁷; carriages often came to Gateshead, but none ever brought visitors in whom I was interested; it stopped in front of the house, the door-bell rang loudly, the new-comer was admitted.

 

All this being nothing to me, my vacant attention soon found livelier attraction in the spectacle of a little hungry robin⁶⁹, which came and chirruped on the twigs⁷⁰ of the leafless cherry-tree nailed against the wall near the casement⁷¹. The remains⁷² of my breakfast of bread and milk stood on the table, and having crumbled⁷³ a morsel⁷⁴ of roll, I was tugging at the sash to put out the crumbs⁷⁵ on the window-sill, when Bessie came running upstairs into the nursery.

 

'Miss Jane, take off your pinafore; what are you doing there? Have you washed your hands and face this morning?' I gave another tug⁸ before I answered, for I wanted the bird to be secure of its bread: the sash yielded; I scattered the crumbs, some on the stone sill, some on the cherry-tree bough⁷⁶, then, closing the window, I replied-'No, Bessie; I have only just finished dusting.'

 

'Troublesome, careless child! and what are you doing now? You look quite red, as if you have been about some mischief⁷⁷: what were you opening the window for?'#p#分页标题#e#

 

I was spared the trouble of answering, for Bessie seemed in too great a hurry to listen to explanations; she hauled me to the washstand, inflicted⁷⁸ a merciless, but happily brief  scrub on my face and hands with soap, water, and a coarse towel; disciplined my head with a bristly brush, denuded⁷⁹ me of my pinafore, and then hurrying me to the top of the stairs, bid me go down directly, as I was wanted in the breakfast-room.

 

I would have asked who wanted me: I would have demanded if Mrs. Reed was there; but Bessie was already gone, and had closed the nursery-door upon me. I slowly descended⁸⁰. For nearly three months, I had never been called to Mrs. Reed's presence; restricted so long to the nursery, the breakfast, dining, and drawing-rooms were become for me awful regions, on which it dismayed me to intrude⁸¹.

 

I now stood in the empty hall; before me was the breakfast-room door, and I stopped, intimidated⁸² and trembling. What a miserable little poltroon⁸³ had fear, engendered⁸⁴ of unjust punishment, made of me in those days! I feared to return to the nursery, and feared to go forward to the parlour; ten minutes I stood in agitated⁸⁵ hesitation⁸⁶; the vehement⁸⁷ ringing of the breakfast-room bell decided⁸⁸ me; I must enter.

 

'Who could want me?' I asked inwardly, as with both hands I turned the stiff door-handle, which, for a second or two, resisted my efforts. 'What should I see besides Aunt Reed in the apartment?- a man or a woman?' The handle turned, the door unclosed, and passing through and curtseying low, I looked up at- a black pillar!- such, at least, appeared to me, at first sight, the straight, narrow, sable-clad shape standing⁸⁹ erect⁹⁰ on the rug: the grim face at the top was like a carved mask, placed above the shaft⁹¹ by way of capital.

 

Mrs. Reed occupied her usual seat by the fireside; she made a signal to me to approach; I did so, and she introduced me to the stony⁹² stranger with the words: 'This is the little girl respecting whom I applied⁹³ to you.'

 

He, for it was a man, turned his head slowly towards where I stood, and having examined me with the two inquisitive-looking grey eyes which twinkled under a pair of bushy brows, said solemnly, and in a bass⁹⁴ voice, 'Her size is small: what is her age?'

 

'Ten years.'

 

'So much?' was the doubtful answer; and he prolonged his scrutiny⁹⁵ for some minutes. Presently he addressed me- 'Your name, little girl?'

 

'Jane Eyre, sir.'

 

In uttering these words I looked up: he seemed to me a tall gentleman; but then I was very little; his features were large, and they and all the lines of his frame were equally harsh and prim⁹⁶.

 

'Well, Jane Eyre, and are you a good child?'

 

Impossible to reply to this in the affirmative: my little world held a contrary opinion: I was silent. Mrs. Reed answered for me by an expressive⁹⁷ shake of the head, adding soon, 'Perhaps the less said on that subject the better, Mr. Brocklehurst.'

 

'Sorry indeed to hear it! she and I must have some talk;' and bending from the perpendicular⁹⁸, he installed his person in the arm-chair opposite Mrs. Reed's. 'Come here,' he said.

 

I stepped across the rug; he placed me square and straight before him. What a face he had, now that it was almost on a level with mine! what a great nose! and what a mouth! and what large prominent teeth!

 

'No sight so sad as that of a naughty child,' he began, 'especially a naughty little girl. Do you know where the wicked go after death?'

 

'They go to hell,' was my ready and orthodox answer.

 

'And what is hell? Can you tell me that?'

 

'A pit full of fire.'

 

'And should you like to fall into that pit, and to be burning there for ever?'

 

'No, sir.'

 

'What must you do to avoid it?'

 

I deliberated a moment; my answer, when it did come, was objectionable: 'I must keep in good health, and not die.'

 

'How can you keep in good health? Children younger than you die daily. I buried a little child of five years old only a day or two since,- a good little child, whose soul is now in heaven. It is to be feared the same could not be said of you were you to be called hence.'

 

Not being in a condition to remove his doubt, I only cast my eyes down on the two large feet planted on the rug, and sighed, wishing myself far enough away.

 

'I hope that sigh is from the heart, and that you repent⁹⁹ of ever having been the occasion of discomfort¹⁰⁰ to your excellent benefactress.'

 

'Benefactress! benefactress!' said I inwardly: 'they all call  Mrs. Reed my benefactress; if so, a benefactress is a disagreeable thing.'

 

'Do you say your prayers night and morning?' continued my interrogator¹⁰¹.

 

'Yes, sir.'

 

'Do you read your Bible?'

 

'Sometimes.'

 

'With pleasure? Are you fond of it?'

 

'I like Revelations, and the book of Daniel, and Genesis and Samuel, and a little bit of Exodus¹⁰², and some parts of Kings and Chronicles, and Job and Jonah.'

 

'And the Psalms¹⁰⁴? I hope you like them?'

 

'No, sir.'

 

'No? oh, shocking! I have a little boy, younger than you, who knows six Psalms by heart: and when you ask him which he would rather have, a gingerbread-nut to eat or a verse of a Psalm¹⁰³ to learn, he says: "Oh! the verse of a Psalm! angels sing Psalms;" says he, "I wish to be a little angel here below;" he then gets two nuts in recompense for his infant piety¹⁰⁵.'

 

'Psalms are not interesting,' I remarked.

 

'That proves you have a wicked heart; and you must pray to God to change it: to give you a new and clean one: to take away your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh.'

 

I was about to propound¹⁰⁶ a question, touching¹⁰⁷ the manner in which that operation of changing my heart was to be performed, when Mrs. Reed interposed, telling me to sit down; she then proceeded to carry on the conversation herself.

 

'Mr. Brocklehurst, I believe I intimated in the letter which I wrote to you three weeks ago, that this little girl has not quite the character and disposition¹⁰⁸ I could wish: should you admit her into Lowood school, I should be glad if the superintendent¹⁰⁹ and teachers were requested to keep a strict eye on her, and, above all, to guard against her worst fault, a tendency to deceit. I mention this in your hearing, Jane, that you may not attempt to impose on Mr. Brocklehurst.'

 

Well might I dread¹¹⁰, well might I dislike Mrs. Reed; for it was her nature to wound me cruelly; never was I happy in her presence; however carefully I obeyed, however strenuously¹¹¹ I strove to please her, my efforts were still repulsed¹¹³ and repaid by such sentences as the above. Now, uttered before a stranger, the accusation¹¹⁴ cut me to the heart; I dimly perceived that she was already obliterating¹¹⁵ hope from the new phase of existence which she destined¹¹⁶ me to enter; I felt, though I could not have expressed the feeling, that she was sowing aversion and unkindness along my future path; I saw myself transformed under Mr. Brocklehurst's eye into an artful, noxious¹¹⁷ child, and what could I do to remedy the injury?

 

'Nothing, indeed,' thought I, as I struggled to repress a sob¹¹⁸, and hastily wiped away some tears, the impotent evidences of my anguish¹¹⁹.

 

'Deceit is, indeed, a sad fault in a child,' said Mr. Brocklehurst; 'it is akin⁵⁷ to falsehood, and all liars¹²¹ will have their portion in the lake burning with fire and

 

brimstone; she shall, however, be watched, Mrs. Reed. I will speak to Miss Temple and the teachers.'

 

'I should wish her to be brought up in a manner suiting her prospects¹²²,' continued my benefactress; 'to be made useful, to be kept humble¹²³: as for the vacations, she will, with your permission, spend them always at Lowood.'

 

'Your decisions are perfectly¹²⁴ judicious¹²⁵, madam,' returned Mr. Brocklehurst. 'Humility¹²⁶ is a Christian¹²⁷ grace, and one peculiarly appropriate toonhmine, her fingers at the same time suspended their nimble movements.

 

'Go out of the room; return to the nursery,' was her marride; and, only the other day, I had a pleasing proof of my success. My second daughter, Augusta, went with her mama to visit the school, and on her return she exclaimed: "Oh, dear papa, how quiet and plain all the girls at Lowood look, with their hair combed behind their ears, and their long pinafores, and those little holland pockets outside their frocks- they are almost like poor people's children! and," said she, "they looked at my dress and mama's, as if they had never seen a silk gown before."'

 

'This is the state of things I quite approve,' returned Mrs. Reed; 'had I sought all England over, I could scarcely have found a system more exactly fitting a child like Jane Eyre. Consistency¹²⁸, my dear Mr. Brocklehurst; I advocate consistency in all things.'

 

'Consistency, madam, is the first of Christian duties; and it has been observed in every arrangement connected with the establishment of Lowood: plain fare, simple attire¹²⁹, unsophisticated accommodations, hardy¹³⁰ and active habits; such is the order of the day in the house and its inhabitants.'#p#分页标题#e#

 

'Quite right, sir. I may then depend upon this child being received as a pupil at Lowood, and there being trained in conformity¹³¹ to her position and prospects?'

 

'Madam, you may: she shall be placed in that nursery of chosen plants, and I trust she will show herself grateful for the inestimable privilege of her election.'

 

'I will send her, then, as soon as possible, Mr. Brocklehurst; for, I assure you, I feel anxious to be relieved of a responsibility that was becoming too irksome.'

 

'No doubt, no doubt, madam; and now I wish you good morning. I shall return to Brocklehurst Hall in the course of a week or two: my good friend, the Archdeacon, will not permit me to leave him sooner. I shall send Miss Temple notice that she is to expect a new girl, so that there will be no difficulty about receiving her. Good-bye.'

 

'Good-bye, Mr. Brocklehurst; remember me to Mrs. and Miss Brocklehurst, and to Augusta and Theodore, and Master Broughton Brocklehurst.'

 

'I will, madam. Little girl, here is a book entitled the Child's Guide; read it with prayer, especially that part containing "An addicted¹³² to falsehood and deceit."'

 

With these words Mr. Brocklehurst put into my hand a thin pamphlet sewn in a cover, and having rung for his carriage, he departed.

 

Mrs. Reed and I were left alone: some minutes passed in silence; she was sewing, I was watching her. Mrs. Reed might be at that time some six or seven and thirty; she was a woman of robust¹³³ frame, square-shouldered and strong-limbed, not tall, and, though stout, not obese¹³⁴: she had a somewhat large face, the under jaw¹³⁵ being much developed and very solid; her brow was low, her chin large and prominent, mouth and nose sufficiently¹³⁶ regular; under her light eyebrows¹³⁷ glimmered¹³⁸ an eye devoid¹³⁹ of ruth; her skin was dark and opaque¹⁴⁰, her hair nearly flaxen; her constitution was sound as a bell- illness never came near her; she was an exact, clever manager; her household and tenantry were thoroughly¹⁴¹ under her control; her children only at times defied her authority and laughed it to scorn; she dressed well, and had a presence and port calculated to set off handsome attire.

 

Sitting on a low stool, a few yards from her arm-chair, I examined her figure; I perused¹⁴² her features. In my hand I held the tract⁶⁸ containing the sudden death of the Liar¹²⁰, to which narrative my attention had been pointed¹⁴³ as to an appropriate warning. What had just passed; what Mrs. Reed had said concerning me to Mr. Brocklehurst; the whole tenor¹⁴⁴ of their conversation, was recent, raw, and stinging in my mind; I had felt every word as acutely as I had heard it plainly, and a passion of resentment¹⁴⁵ fomented¹⁴⁶ now within me.

 

Mrs. Reed looked up from her work; her eye settled on mine, her fingers at the same time suspended their nimble movements.

 

'Go out of the room; return to the nursery,' was her mandate¹⁴⁷. My look or something else must have struck her as offensive, for she spoke with extreme though suppressed irritation¹⁴⁸. I got up, I went to the door; I came back again; I walked to the window, across the room, then close up to her.

 

Speak I must: I had been trodden on severely¹⁴⁹, and must turn: but how? What strength had I to dart¹⁵⁰ retaliation¹⁵¹ at my antagonist¹⁵²? I gathered my energies and launched them in this blunt sentence- 'I am not deceitful: if I were, I should say I loved you; but I declare I do not love you: I dislike you the worst of anybody in the world except John Reed; and this book about the liar, you may give to your girl, Georgiana, for it is she who tells lies, and not I.'

 

Mrs. Reed's hands still lay on her work inactive: her eye of ice continued to dwell freezingly on mine.

 

'What more have you to say?' she asked, rather in the tone in which a person might address an opponent of adult age than such as is ordinarily used to a child.

 

That eye of hers, that voice stirred every antipathy¹⁵³ I had. Shaking from head to foot, thrilled with ungovernable excitement, I continued- 'I am glad you are no relation of mine: I will never call you aunt again so long as I live. I will never come to see you when I am grown up; and if any one asks me how I liked you, and how you treated me, I will say the very thought of you makes me sick, and that you treated me with miserable cruelty.'

 

'How dare you affirm that, Jane Eyre?'

 

'How dare I, Mrs. Reed? How dare I? Because it is the truth. You think I have no feelings, and that I can do without one bit of love or kindness; but I cannot live so: and you have no pity. I shall remember how you thrust me back- roughly and violently thrust me back- into the red-room, and locked me up there, to my dying day; though I was in agony; though I cried out, while suffocating¹⁵⁴ with distress¹⁵⁵, "Have mercy! Have mercy, Aunt Reed!" And that punishment you made me suffer because your wicked boy struck me- knocked me down for nothing.#p#分页标题#e#

 

I will tell anybody who asks me questions, this exact tale. People think you a good woman, but you are bad, hard-hearted. You are deceitful!'

 

Ere I had finished this reply, my soul began to expand, to exult¹⁵⁶, with the strangest sense of freedom, of triumph, I ever felt. It seemed as if an invisible bond had burst, and that I had struggled out into unhoped-for liberty. Not without cause was this sentiment: Mrs. Reed looked frightened; her work had slipped from her knee; she was lifting up her hands, rocking herself to and fro, and even twisting her face as if she would cry.

 

'Jane, you are under a mistake: what is the matter with you? Why do you tremble so violently? Would you like to drink some water?'

 

'No, Mrs. Reed.'

 

'Is there anything else you wish for, Jane? I assure you, I desire to be your friend.'

 

'Not you. You told Mr. Brocklehurst I had a bad character, a deceitful disposition; and I'll let everybody at Lowood know what you are, and what you have done.'

 

'Jane, you don't understand these things: children must be corrected for their faults.'

 

'Deceit is not my fault!' I cried out in a savage¹⁵⁷, high voice.

 

'But you are passionate¹⁵⁸, Jane, that you must allow: and now return to the nursery- there's a dear- and lie down a little.'

 

'I am not your dear; I cannot lie down: send me to school soon, Mrs. Reed, for I hate to live here.'

 

'I will indeed send her to school soon,' murmured Mrs. Reed sotto voce; and gathering¹⁵⁹ up her work, she abruptly¹⁶⁰ quitted the apartment.

 

I was left there alone- winner of the field. It was the hardest battle I had fought, and the first victory I had gained: I stood awhile on the rug, where Mr.

 

Brocklehurst had stood, and I enjoyed my conqueror's solitude¹⁶¹. First, I smiled to myself and felt elate; but this fierce pleasure subsided¹⁶² in me as fast as did the accelerated throb¹⁶³ of my pulses. A child cannot quarrel with its elders, as I had done; cannot give its furious feelings uncontrolled play, as I had given mine, without experiencing afterwards the pang¹⁶⁴ of remorse¹⁶⁵ and the chill of reaction. A ridge¹⁶⁶ of lighted heath, alive, glancing, devouring¹⁶⁷, would have been a meet emblem¹⁶⁸ of my mind when I accused and menaced Mrs. Reed: the same ridge, black and blasted after the flames are dead, would have represented as meetly my subsequent condition, when half an hour's silence and reflection had shown me the madness of my conduct, and the dreariness¹⁶⁹ of my hated and hating position.

 

Something of vengeance¹⁷⁰ I had tasted for the first time; as aromatic¹⁷¹ wine it seemed, on swallowing, warm and racy: its after-flavour, metallic¹⁷² and corroding¹⁷³, gave me a sensation as if I had been poisoned.

 

Willingly would I now have gone and asked Mrs. Reed's pardon; but I knew, partly from experience and partly from instinct, that was the way to make her repulse¹¹² me with double scorn, thereby re-exciting every turbulent impulse of my nature.

 

I would fain exercise some better faculty¹⁷⁴ than that of fierce speaking; fain find nourishment¹⁷⁵ for some less fiendish feeling than that of sombre indignation. I took a book- some Arabian tales; I sat down and endeavoured to read. I could make no sense of the subject; my own thoughts swam always between me and the page I had usually found fascinating. I opened the glass-door in the breakfast-room: the shrubbery was quite still: the black frost reigned¹⁷⁶, unbroken by sun or breeze, through the grounds. I covered my head and arms with the skirt of my frock, and went out to walk in a part of the plantation¹⁷⁷ which was quite sequestered¹⁷⁸; but I found no pleasure in the silent trees, the falling fir-cones, the congealed¹⁷⁹ relics¹⁸⁰ of autumn, russet leaves, swept by past winds in heaps, and now stiffened¹⁸¹ together. I leaned against a gate, and looked into an empty field where no sheep were feeding, where the short grass was nipped and blanched¹⁸². It was a very grey day; a most opaque sky, 'onding on snaw,' canopied¹⁸³ all; thence flakes¹⁸⁴ fell at intervals¹⁸⁵, which settled on the hard path and on the hoary¹⁸⁶ lea without melting. I stood, a wretched child enough, whispering to myself over and over again, 'What shall I do?- what shall I do?'

 

All at once I heard a clear voice call, 'Miss Jane! where are you? Come to lunch!'

 

It was Bessie, I knew well enough; but I did not stir; her light step came tripping down the path.

 

'You naughty little thing!' she said. 'Why don't you come when you are called?'

 

Bessie's presence, compared with the thoughts over which I had been brooding, seemed cheerful; even though, as usual, she was somewhat cross. The fact is, after my conflict with and victory over Mrs. Reed, I was not disposed to care much for the nursemaid's transitory anger; and I was disposed to bask¹⁸⁷ in her youthful lightness of heart. I just put my two arms round her and said, 'Come, Bessie! don't scold.'#p#分页标题#e#

 

The action was more frank and fearless than any I was habituated to indulge in: somehow it pleased her.

 

'You are a strange child, Miss Jane,' she said, as she looked down at me; 'a little roving, solitary thing: and you are going to school, I suppose?'

 

I nodded.

 

'And won't you be sorry to leave poor Bessie?'

 

'What does Bessie care for me? She is always scolding me.'

 

'Because you're such a queer, frightened, shy little thing. You should be bolder.'

 

'What! to get more knocks?'

 

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

 

'I don't think you have, Bessie.'

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

'If you dread them they'll dislike you.'

 

'As you do, Bessie?'

 

'I don't dislike you, Miss: I believe I am fonder of you than of all the others.'

 

'You don't show it.'

 

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

 

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

 

'And so you're glad to leave me?'

 

'Not at all, Bessie; indeed, just now I'm rather sorry.'

 

'Just now! and rather! How coolly my little lady says it! I daresay now if I were to ask you for a kiss you wouldn't give it me: you'd say you'd rather not.'

 

'I'll kiss you and welcome: bend your head down.' Bessie stooped;

 

we mutually embraced, and I followed her into the house quite comforted. That afternoon lapsed¹⁸⁸ in peace and harmony; and in the evening Bessie told me some of her most enchaining stories, and sang me some of her sweetest songs. Even for me life had its gleams of sunshine.

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