had had a frightful nightmare, and seeing before me a terrible red

glare, crossed with thick black bars. I heard voices, too, speaking

with a hollow sound, and as if muffled by a rush of wind or water:

agitation, uncertainty, and an all-predominating sense of terror

confused my faculties. Ere long, I became aware that some one was

handling me; lifting me up and supporting me in a sitting posture, and

that more tenderly than I had ever been raised or upheld before. I

rested my head against a pillow or an arm, and felt easy.

   In five minutes more the cloud of bewilderment dissolved: I knew

quite well that I was in my own bed, and that the red glare was the

nursery fire. It was night: a candle burnt on the table; Bessie

stood at the bed-foot with a basin in her hand, and a gentleman sat in

a chair near my pillow, leaning over me.

   I felt an inexpressible relief, a soothing conviction of protection

and security, when I knew that there was a stranger in the room, an

individual not belonging to Gateshead, and not related to Mrs. Reed.

Turning from Bessie (though her presence was far less obnoxious to

me than that of Abbot, for instance, would have been), I scrutinised

the face of the gentleman: I knew him; it was Mr. Lloyd, an

apothecary, sometimes called in by Mrs. Reed when the servants were

ailing: for herself and the children she employed a physician.

   'Well, who am I?' he asked.

   I pronounced his name, offering him at the same time my hand: he

took it, smiling and saying, 'We shall do very well by and by.' Then

he laid me down, and addressing Bessie, charged her to be very careful

that I was not disturbed during the night. Having given some further

directions, and intimated that he should call again the next day, he

departed; to my grief: I felt so sheltered and befriended while he sat

in the chair near my pillow; and as he closed the door after him,

all the room darkened and my heart again sank: inexpressible sadness

weighed it down.

   'Do you feel as if you should sleep, Miss?' asked Bessie, rather

softly.

   Scarcely dared I answer her; for I feared the next sentence might

be rough. 'I will try.'

   'Would you like to drink, or could you eat anything?'

   'No, thank you, Bessie.'

   'Then I think I shall go to bed, for it is past twelve o'clock; but

you may call me if you want anything in the night.'

   Wonderful civility this! It emboldened me to ask a question.

   'Bessie, what is the matter with me? Am I ill?'

   'You fell sick, I suppose, in the red-room with crying; you'll be

better soon, no doubt.'

   Bessie went into the housemaid's apartment, which was near. I heard

her say-

   'Sarah, come and sleep with me in the nursery; I daren't for my

life be alone with that poor child tonight: she might die; it's such a

strange thing she should have that fit: I wonder if she saw

anything. Missis was rather too hard.'

   Sarah came back with her; they both went to bed; they were

whispering together for half an hour before they fell asleep. I caught

scraps of their conversation, from which I was able only too

distinctly to infer the main subject discussed.

   'Something passed her, all dressed in white, and vanished'- 'A

great black dog behind him'- 'Three loud raps on the chamber door'-

'A light in the churchyard just over his grave,' etc., etc.

   At last both slept: the fire and the candle went out. For me, the

watches of that long night passed in ghastly wakefulness; ear, eye,

and mind were alike strained by dread: such dread as children only can

feel.

   No severe or prolonged bodily illness followed this incident of the

red-room; it only gave my nerves a shock of which I feel the

reverberation to this day. Yes, Mrs. Reed, to you I owe some fearful

pangs of mental suffering, but I ought to forgive you, for you knew

not what you did: while rending my heart-strings, you thought you were

only uprooting my bad propensities.

   Next day, by noon, I was up and dressed, and sat wrapped in a shawl

by the nursery hearth. I felt physically weak and broken down: but

my worse ailment was an unutterable wretchedness of mind: a

wretchedness which kept drawing from me silent tears; no sooner had

I wiped one salt drop from my cheek than another followed. Yet, I

thought, I ought to have been happy, for none of the Reeds were there,

they were all gone out in the carriage with their mama. Abbot, too,

was sewing in another room, and Bessie, as she moved hither and

thither, putting away toys and arranging drawers, addressed to me

every now and then a word of unwonted kindness. This state of things

should have been to me a paradise of peace, accustomed as I was to a

life of ceaseless reprimand and thankless fagging; but, in fact, my

racked nerves were now in such a state that no calm could soothe,

and no pleasure excite them agreeably.

   Bessie had been down into the kitchen, and she brought up with

her a tart on a certain brightly painted china plate, whose bird of

paradise, nestling in a wreath of convolvuli and rosebuds, had been

wont to stir in me a most enthusiastic sense of admiration; and

which plate I had often petitioned to be allowed to take in my hand in

order to examine it more closely, but had always hitherto been

deemed unworthy of such a privilege. This precious vessel was now

placed on my knee, and I was cordially invited to eat the circlet of

delicate pastry upon it. Vain favour! coming, like most other

favours long deferred and often wished for, too late! I could not

eat the tart; and the plumage of the bird, the tints of the flowers,

seemed strangely faded: I put both plate and tart away. Bessie asked

if I would have a book: the word book acted as a transient stimulus,

and I begged her to fetch Gulliver's Travels from the library. This

book I had again and again perused with delight. I considered it a

narrative of facts, and discovered in it a vein of interest deeper

than what I found in fairy tales: for as to the elves, having sought

them in vain among fox-glove leaves and bells, under mushrooms and

beneath the ground-ivy mantling old wall-nooks, I had at length made

up my mind to the sad truth, that they were all gone out of England to

some savage country where the woods were wilder and thicker, and the

population more scant; whereas, Lilliput and Brobdingnag being, in

my creed, solid parts of the earth's surface, I doubted not that I

might one day, by taking a long voyage, see with my own eyes the

little fields, houses, and trees, the diminutive people, the tiny

cows, sheep, and birds of the one realm; and the corn-fields,

forest-high, the mighty mastiffs, the monster cats, the tower-like men

and women, of the other. Yet, when this cherished volume was now

placed in my hand- when I turned over its leaves, and sought in its

marvellous pictures the charm I had, till now, never failed to find-

all was eerie and dreary; the giants were gaunt goblins, the pigmies

malevolent and fearful imps, Gulliver a most desolate wanderer in most

dread and dangerous regions. I closed the book, which I dared no

longer peruse, and put it on the table, beside the untasted tart.

   Bessie had now finished dusting and tidying the room, and having

washed her hands, she opened a certain little drawer, full of splendid

shreds of silk and satin, and began making a new bonnet for

Georgiana's doll. Meantime she sang: her song was-
 
 

                 'In the days when we were gipsying,

                        A long time ago.'
 
 

   I had often heard the song before, and always with lively

delight; for Bessie had a sweet voice,- at least, I thought so. But

now, though her voice was still sweet, I found in its melody an

indescribable sadness. Sometimes, preoccupied with her work, she

sang the refrain very low, very lingeringly; 'A long time ago' came

out like the saddest cadence of a funeral hymn. She passed into

another ballad, this time a really doleful one.
 
 

   'My feet they are sore, and my limbs they are weary;

     Long is the way, and the mountains are wild;

   Soon will the twilight close moonless and dreary

     Over the path of the poor orphan child.
 
 

   Why did they send me so far and so lonely,

     Up where the moors spread and grey rocks are piled?

   Men are hard-hearted, and kind angels only

     Watch o'er the steps of a poor orphan child.
 
 

   Yet distant and soft the night breeze is blowing,

     Clouds there are none, and clear stars beam mild,

   God, in His mercy, protection is showing,

     Comfort and hope to the poor orphan child.
 
 

   Ev'n should I fall o'er the broken bridge passing,

     Or stray in the marshes, by false lights beguiled,

   Still will my Father, with promise and blessing,

     Take to His bosom the poor orphan child.
 
 

   There is a thought that for strength should avail me,

     Though both of shelter and kindred despoiled;

   Heaven is a home, and a rest will not fail me;

     God is a friend to the poor orphan child.'
 
 

   'Come, Miss Jane, don't cry,' said Bessie as she finished. She

might as well have said to the fire, 'don't burn!' but how could she

divine the morbid suffering to which I was a prey? In the course of

the morning Mr. Lloyd came again.

   'What, already up!' said he, as he entered the nursery. 'Well,

nurse, how is she?'

   Bessie answered that I was doing very well.

   'Then she ought to look more cheerful. Come here, Mis Jane: your

name is Jane, is it not?'

   'Yes, sir, Jane Eyre.'

   'Well, you have been crying, Miss Jane Eyre; can you tell me what

about? Have you any pain?'

   'No, sir.'

   'Oh! I daresay she is crying because she could not go out with

Missis in the carriage,' interposed Bessie.

   'Surely not! why, she is too old for such pettishness.'

   I thought so too; and my self-esteem being wounded by the false

charge, I answered promptly, 'I never cried for such a thing in my

life: I hate going out in the carriage. I cry because I am miserable.'

   'Oh fie, Miss!' said Bessie.

   The good apothecary appeared a little puzzled. I was standing

before him; he fixed his eyes on me very steadily: his eyes were small

and grey; not very bright, but I daresay I should think them shrewd

now: he had a hard-featured yet good-natured looking face. Having

considered me at leisure, he said-

   'What made you ill yesterday?'

   'She had a fall,' said Bessie, again putting in her word.

   'Fall! why, that is like a baby again! Can't she manage to walk

at her age? She must be eight or nine years old.'

   'I was knocked down,' was the blunt explanation, jerked out of me

by another pang of mortified pride; 'but that did not make me ill,'

I added; while Mr. Lloyd helped himself to a pinch of snuff.

   As he was returning the box to his waistcoat pocket, a loud bell

rang for the servants' dinner; he knew what it was. 'That's for you,

nurse,' said he; 'you can go down; I'll give Miss Jane a lecture

till you come back.'

   Bessie would rather have stayed, but she was obliged to go, because

punctuality at meals was rigidly enforced at Gates-head Hall.

   'The fall did not make you ill; what did, then?' pursued Mr.

Lloyd when Bessie was gone.

   'I was shut up in a room where there is a ghost till after dark.'

   I saw Mr. Lloyd smile and frown at the same time. 'Ghost! What, you

are a baby after all! You are afraid of ghosts?'

   'Of Mr. Reed's ghost I am: he died in that room, and was laid out

there. Neither Bessie nor any one else will go into it at night, if

they can help it; and it was cruel to shut me up alone without a

candle,- so cruel that I think I shall never forget it.'

   'Nonsense! And is it that makes you so miserable? Are you afraid

now in daylight?'

   'No: but night will come again before long: and besides,- I am

unhappy,- very unhappy, for other things.'

   'What other things? Can you tell me some of them?'

   How much I wished to reply fully to this question! How difficult it

was to frame any answer! Children can feel, but they cannot analyse

their feelings; and if the analysis is partially effected in

thought, they know not how to express the result of the process in

words. Fearful, however, of losing this first and only opportunity

of relieving my grief by imparting it, I, after a disturbed pause,

contrived to frame a meagre, though, as far as it went, true response.

   'For one thing, I have no father or mother, brothers or sisters.'

   'You have a kind aunt and cousins.'

   Again I paused; then bunglingly enounced-

   'But John Reed knocked me down, and my aunt shut me up in the

red-room.'

   Mr. Lloyd a second time produced his snuff-box.

   'Don't you think Gateshead Hall a very beautiful house?' asked

he. 'Are you not very thankful to have such a fine place to live at?'

   'It is not my house, sir; and Abbot says I have less right to be

here than a servant.'

   'Pooh! you can't be silly enough to wish to leave such a splendid

place?'

   'If I had anywhere else to go, I should be glad to leave it; but

I can never get away from Gateshead till I am a woman.'

   'Perhaps you may- who knows? Have you any relations besides Mrs.

Reed?'

   'I think not, sir.'

   'None belonging to your father?'

   'I don't know: I asked Aunt Reed once, and she said possibly I

might have some poor, low relations called Eyre, but she knew

nothing about them.'

   'If you had such, would you like to go to them?'

   I reflected. Poverty looks grim to grown people; still more so to

children: they have not much idea of industrious, working, respectable

poverty; they think of the word only as connected with ragged clothes,

scanty food, fireless grates, rude manners, and debasing vices:

poverty for me was synonymous with degradation.

   'No; I should not like to belong to poor people,' was my reply.

   'Not even if they were kind to you?'

   I shook my head: I could not see how poor people had the means of

being kind; and then to learn to speak like them, to adopt their

manners, to be uneducated, to grow up like one of the poor women I saw

sometimes nursing their children or washing their clothes at the

cottage doors of the village of Gateshead: no, I was not heroic enough

to purchase liberty at the price of caste.

   'But are your relatives so very poor? Are they working people?'

   'I cannot tell; Aunt Reed says if I have any, they must be a

beggarly set: I should not like to go a-begging.'

   'Would you like to go to school?'

   Again I reflected: I scarcely knew what school was: Bessie

sometimes spoke of it as a place where young ladies sat in the stocks,

wore backboards, and were expected to be exceedingly genteel and

precise: John Reed hated his school, and abused his master; but John

Reed's tastes were no rule for mine, and if Bessie's accounts of

school-discipline (gathered from the young ladies of a family where

she had lived before coming to Gateshead) were somewhat appalling, her

details of certain accomplishments attained by these same young ladies

were, I thought, equally attractive. She boasted of beautiful

paintings of landscapes and flowers by them executed; of songs they

could sing and pieces they could play, of purses they could net, of

French books they could translate; till my spirit was moved to

emulation as I listened. Besides, school would be a complete change:

it implied a long journey, an entire separation from Gateshead, an

entrance into a new life.

   'I should indeed like to go to school,' was the audible

conclusion of my musings.

   'Well, well! who knows what may happen?' said Mr. Lloyd, as he

got up. 'The child ought to have change of air and scene,' he added,

speaking to himself; 'nerves not in a good state.'

   Bessie now returned; at the same moment the carriage was heard

rolling up the gravel-walk.

   'Is that your mistress, nurse?' asked Mr. Lloyd. 'I should like

to speak to her before I go.'

   Bessie invited him to walk into the breakfast-room, and led the way

out. In the interview which followed between him and Mrs. Reed, I

presume, from after-occurrences, that the apothecary ventured to

recommend my being sent to school; and the recommendation was no doubt

readily enough adopted; for as Abbot said, in discussing the subject

with Bessie when both sat sewing in the nursery one night, after I was

in bed, and, as they thought, asleep, 'Missis was, she dared say, glad

enough to get rid of such a tiresome, ill-conditioned child, who

always looked as if she were watching everybody, and scheming plots

underhand.' Abbot, I think, gave me credit for being a sort of

infantine Guy Fawkes.

   On that same occasion I learned, for the first time, from Miss

Abbot's communications to Bessie, that my father had been a poor

clergyman; that my mother had married him against the wishes of her

friends, who considered the match beneath her; that my grandfather

Reed was so irritated at her disobedience, he cut her off without a

shilling; that after my mother and father had been married a year, the

latter caught the typhus fever while visiting among the poor of a

large manufacturing town where his curacy was situated, and where that

disease was then prevalent: that my mother took the infection from

him, and both died within a month of each other.

   Bessie, when she heard this narrative, sighed and said, 'Poor

Miss Jane is to be pitied too, Abbot.'

   'Yes,' responded Abbot; 'if she were a nice, pretty child, one

might compassionate her forlornness; but one really cannot care for

such a little toad as that.'

   'Not a great deal, to be sure,' agreed Bessie: 'at any rate, a

beauty like Miss Georgiana would be more moving in the same

condition.'

   'Yes, I doat on Miss Georgiana!' cried the fervent Abbot. 'Little

darling!- with her long curls and her blue eyes, and such a sweet

colour as she has; just as if she were painted!- Bessie, I could fancy

a Welsh rabbit for supper.'

   'So could I- with a roast onion. Come, we'll go down.' They went.