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  • CHAPTER Four of Jane Eyre This is a Librivox recording.

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  • Recording by Elizabeth Klett Jane Eyre by Charlotte BRONTË Chapter Four

  • From my discourse with Mr. Lloyd, and from the above reported conference

  • between Bessie and Abbot, I gathered enough of hope to suffice as a

  • motive 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

  • regained my normal state of health, but no new allusion 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 drawn a more marked line of separation than ever between

  • me and her own children; appointing me a small closet to sleep in by

  • myself, condemning 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

  • instinctive certainty that she would not long endure me under the same

  • roof with her; for her glance, now more than ever, when turned on

  • me, expressed an insuperable and rooted aversion.

  • Eliza and Georgiana, evidently acting according to orders, spoke to me as

  • little as possible: John thrust his tongue in his cheek whenever he saw

  • me, and once attempted chastisement; but as I instantly turned against

  • him, roused by the same sentiment of deep ire and desperate revolt which

  • had stirred my corruption before, he thought it better to desist, and ran

  • from me tittering execrations, and vowing I had burst his nose.

  • I had indeed levelled at that prominent feature

  • as hard a blow as my knuckles could inflict; and when I saw that either

  • that or my look daunted him, I had the greatest inclination 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 worthy 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 stout 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 emphatic voice to rise from that place, or utter one

  • syllable 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 utterance:

  • something spoke 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 celebrated at Gateshead

  • with the usual festive cheer; presents had been interchanged, dinners and

  • evening parties given.

  • From every enjoyment I was, of course, excluded:

  • my share of the gaiety consisted in witnessing the daily apparelling

  • of Eliza and Georgiana, and seeing them descend to the drawing-room, dressed

  • out in thin muslin frocks and scarlet sashes, with hair elaborately

  • ringletted; and afterwards, in listening to the sound of the

  • piano or the harp played below, to the passing to and fro of the butler

  • and footman, to the jingling of glass and china as refreshments

  • 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 stairhead to the solitary and silent nursery: there, though

  • somewhat sad, I was not miserable.

  • 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 housekeeper'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 contrived

  • 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 sincerity 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.

  • 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 interval 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 amiable, and never push me about, or scold, or task me unreasonably,

  • as she was too often wont 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 remarkable knack of

  • narrative; 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 complexion; 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 bonnet and warm garden-coat to go

  • and feed her poultry, an occupation of which she was fond: and not less

  • so of selling the eggs to the housekeeper and hoarding up the money she

  • thus obtained.

  • She had a turn for traffic, and a marked propensity for

  • saving; shown not only in the vending of eggs and chickens, but also in

  • driving hard bargains with the gardener about flower-roots, seeds, and

  • slips of plants; that functionary 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 thereby.

  • As to her money, she first secreted it in odd

  • corners, wrapped in a rag or an old curl-paper; but some of these hoards

  • 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, dressing 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 attic.

  • 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,

  • &c.).

  • 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 scattered there; an abrupt command from Georgiana to let her playthings

  • alone (for the tiny chairs and mirrors, the fairy plates and cups,

  • were her property) stopped my proceedings; and then, for lack of other

  • occupation, I fell to breathing on the frost-flowers with which

  • the window was fretted, and thus clearing a space in the glass through

  • which I might look out on the grounds, where all was still and petrified

  • under the influence of a hard frost.

  • From this window were visible the porter's lodge and the carriage-road,

  • and just as I had dissolved so much of the silver-white foliage veiling

  • the panes as left room to look out, I saw the gates thrown open and a

  • carriage roll through.

  • I watched it ascending the drive with indifference; 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 robin, which

  • came and chirruped on the twigs of the leafless cherry-tree nailed against

  • the wall near the casement.

  • The remains of my breakfast of bread and milk stood on the table, and

  • having crumbled a morsel of roll, I was tugging at the sash to put out

  • the crumbs 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 tug 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 bough, 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 had been about some mischief:

  • what were you opening the window for?"

  • 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,

  • inflicted 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, denuded 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 descended.

  • 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 intrude.

  • I now stood in the empty hall; before me was the breakfast-room door, and

  • I stopped, intimidated and trembling.

  • What a miserable little poltroon had fear, engendered 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 agitated hesitation;

  • the vehement ringing of the breakfast-room bell decided 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

  • standing erect on the rug: the grim face at the top was like a carved

  • mask, placed above the shaft 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 stony stranger

  • with the words: "This is the little girl respecting whom I applied 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 bass voice,

  • "Her size is small: what is her age?"

  • "Ten years."

  • "So much?"

  • was the doubtful answer; and he prolonged his scrutiny 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 prim.

  • "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 expressive 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 perpendicular, 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 repent of ever having

  • been the occasion of discomfort 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 interrogator.

  • "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 Exodus, and some parts of Kings and Chronicles, and Job

  • and Jonah."

  • "And the Psalms?

  • 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 Psalm 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

  • piety."

  • "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 propound a question, touching 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 disposition I could wish: should you admit her into Lowood school, I

  • should be glad if the superintendent 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 dread, 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 strenuously I strove to please her, my efforts were

  • still repulsed and repaid by such sentences as the above.

  • Now, uttered before a stranger, the accusation cut me to

  • the heart; I dimly perceived that she was already obliterating hope from

  • the new phase of existence which she destined 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, noxious child, and what could I do

  • to remedy the injury?

  • "Nothing, indeed," thought I, as I struggled to repress a sob, and

  • hastily wiped away some tears, the impotent evidences of my anguish.

  • "Deceit is, indeed, a sad fault in a child," said Mr. Brocklehurst; "it

  • is akin to falsehood, and all liars 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 prospects,"

  • continued my benefactress; "to be made useful, to be kept humble: as for

  • the vacations, she will, with your permission, spend them always at

  • Lowood."

  • "Your decisions are perfectly judicious, madam," returned Mr.

  • Brocklehurst.

  • "Humility is a Christian grace, and one peculiarly appropriate to the pupils of Lowood; I, therefore,

  • direct that especial care shall be bestowed on its cultivation

  • amongst them.

  • I have studied how best to mortify in them the worldly sentiment

  • of pride; 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.

  • Consistency, 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 attire, unsophisticated accommodations, hardy and

  • active habits; such is the order of the day in the house and its

  • inhabitants."

  • "Quite right, sir.

  • I may then depend upon this child being received as a

  • pupil at Lowood, and there being trained in conformity 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 account

  • of the awfully sudden death of Martha G---, a naughty child addicted 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 robust

  • frame, square-shouldered and strong-limbed, not tall, and, though stout,

  • not obese: she had a somewhat large face, the under jaw being much developed

  • and very solid; her brow was low, her chin large and prominent, mouth

  • and nose sufficiently regular; under her light eyebrows glimmered

  • an eye devoid of ruth; her skin was dark and opaque, 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 thoroughly

  • 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 perused her features.

  • In my hand I held the tract containing the sudden death of the Liar, to which narrative

  • my attention had been pointed as to an appropriate warning.

  • What had just passed; what Mrs. Reed had said concerning me to Mr. Brocklehurst;

  • the whole tenor 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 resentment fomented 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 mandate.

  • My look or something else must have struck her as offensive,

  • for she spoke with extreme though suppressed irritation.

  • 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 severely, and _must_ turn: but how?

  • What strength had I to dart retaliation at my antagonist?

  • 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 antipathy 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

  • as 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 suffocating with

  • distress, 'Have mercy!

  • Have mercy, Aunt Reed!'

  • And that punishment you made me suffer because your

  • wicked boy struck me--knocked me down for nothing.

  • 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!"

  • {How dare I, Mrs. Ried?

  • How dare I?

  • Because it is the truth: p30.jpg}

  • Ere I had finished this reply, my soul began to expand, to exult, 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 savage, high voice.

  • "But you are passionate, 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 gathering up her work, she abruptly 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 solitude.

  • First, I smiled to myself and felt elate; but this fierce

  • pleasure subsided in me as fast as did the accelerated throb 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 pang of remorse and the chill of reaction.

  • A ridge of lighted heath, alive, glancing, devouring,

  • would have been a meet emblem 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 dreariness of my hated and hating position.

  • Something of vengeance I had tasted for the first time; as aromatic wine

  • it seemed, on swallowing, warm and racy: its after-flavour, metallic and

  • corroding, 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 repulse me with double scorn, thereby re-exciting

  • every turbulent impulse of my nature.

  • I would fain exercise some better faculty than that of fierce speaking;

  • fain find nourishment 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 reigned, 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 plantation which was quite sequestrated; but I found no pleasure

  • in the silent trees, the falling fir-cones, the congealed relics of

  • autumn, russet leaves, swept by past winds in heaps, and now stiffened

  • together.

  • I leaned against a gate, and looked into an empty field where

  • no sheep were feeding, where the short grass was nipped and blanched.

  • It was a very grey day; a most opaque sky, "onding on snaw," canopied all;

  • thence flakes felt it intervals, which settled on the hard path

  • and on the hoary 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 bask in her youthful lightness of heart.

  • I just put my two arms round her and said, "Come, Bessie!

  • don't scold."

  • 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 dare say 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 lapsed in peace and harmony; and in the evening Bessie

  • told me some of her most enchanting stories, and sang me some of her

  • sweetest songs.

  • Even for me life had its gleams of sunshine.

  • End of Chapter Four

CHAPTER Four of Jane Eyre This is a Librivox recording.

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Jane Eyre by Charlotte BRONTË Chapter 04

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    林宜悉 發佈於 2023 年 07 月 18 日
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