Jane Eyre. Charlotte Bronte

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 to-night; 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 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 heartstrings, you thought you were only up-rooting 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 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 foxglove 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 went 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, pre-occupied 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’d 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