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CHAPTER XXI
Presentiments are strange things! and so are sympathies; and so are signs; and the
three combined make one mystery to which humanity has not yet found the key.
I never laughed at presentiments 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
origin) whose workings baffle mortal comprehension.
And signs, for aught 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 next day Bessie was sent for home to the deathbed of her little sister.
Of late I had often recalled this saying and this incident; for during the past week
scarcely a night had gone over my couch that had not brought 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, or again, dabbling its hands in running water.
It was a wailing child this night, and a laughing one the next: now it nestled 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 entered the 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 companionship with this baby- phantom I had been roused on that moonlight
night when I heard the cry; and it was on the afternoon 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 mourning, 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 coachman 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 Georgiana'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 can't give you better news of them, Miss: they are very badly at present-
-in great trouble."
"I hope no one is dead," I said, glancing 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 common mishap: his life has been very wild:
these last three years he gave himself up to strange ways, and his death was
shocking."
"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 women.
He got into debt and into jail: his mother helped him out twice, but as soon as he was
free he returned to his old companions 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 next 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 wanted to say something, and kept making signs to my wife and
mumbling.
It was only yesterday morning, however, that Bessie understood she was pronouncing
your name; and at last she made out the words, 'Bring Jane--fetch 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 Georgiana, and advised them to send for you.
The young ladies put it off at first; but their mother grew so restless, and said,
'Jane, Jane,' so many times, that at last they consented.
I left Gateshead yesterday: and if you can get ready, Miss, I should like to take you
back with me early to-morrow morning." "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 can get off?"
"Yes; and I will do it now;" and having directed him to the servants' hall, and
recommended him to the care of John's wife, and the attentions of John himself, I went
in search of Mr. 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 was playing billiards
with Miss Ingram.
To the billiard- room I hastened: the click of balls and the hum of voices resounded
thence; Mr. Rochester, Miss Ingram, the two Misses Eshton, and their admirers, were all
busied in the game.
It required some courage to disturb so interesting 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
can 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 appearance at the moment--it was very graceful and very striking: she
wore a morning 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 lineaments.
"Does that person want you?" she inquired of Mr. Rochester; and Mr. Rochester turned
to see who the "person" was.
He made a curious grimace--one 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 never told me that before: you always
said you had no relations."
"None that would own me, sir. Mr. Reed is dead, and his wife cast me
off." "Why?"
"Because I was poor, and burdensome, and she disliked me."
"But Reed left children?--you must have cousins?
Sir George 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 Georgiana 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 committed suicide.
The news so shocked his mother that it brought on an apoplectic attack."
"And what good can you do her? Nonsense, Jane!
I would never think 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 neglect 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 come back: you will not be induced under any pretext to
take up a permanent residence with 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 coachman." "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 morning, sir."
"Well, you must have some money; you can'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
scantiness amused him.
Soon he produced his pocket-book: "Here," said he, offering me a note; it was fifty
pounds, and he owed me but fifteen. I told him I had no change.
"I don't want change; you know that.
Take your wages." I declined accepting more than was my due.