Presentiments are strange tery to found t presentiments in my life, because I range ones of my o (for instance, betant, long-absent, ives asserting, notanding tion, ty of to ture h man.
tle girl, only six years old, I one nigo Mart t s a little c to dream of crouble, eito one’s self or one’s kin. t of my memory, a circumstance immediately follo t day Bessie for o ttle sister.
Of late I en recalled t; for during t , imes cs er. It nestled close to me, and no ran from me; but ion evinced, it failed not for seven successive nigo meet me t I entered the land of slumber.
I did not like teration of one idea—trange recurrence of one image, and I greime approac ernoon of tairs by a message t some one ed me in Mrs. Fairfax’s room. On repairing ting for me, leman’s servant: h a crape band.
“I daresay you ered; “but my name is Leaven: I lived coac Gates or nine years since, and I live till.”
“O! o give me a ride sometimes on Miss Georgiana’s bay pony. And o Bessie?”
“Yes, Miss: my me anottle one about thriving.”
“And are t t?”
“I am sorry I can’t give you better ne present—in great trouble.”
“I oo looked do t and replied—
“Mr. Joerday his chambers in London.”
“Mr. John?”
“Yes.”
“And ?”
“ is not a common mis to strange ways, and h was shocking.”
“I doing well.”
“Doing e amongst t men and t o debt and into jail: t as soon as urned to s. strong: t fooled o Gates ted missis to give up all to ravagance; so back again, and t ne hey say he killed himself.”
I : tful. Robert Leaven resumed—
“Missis of ime: s very stout, but strong ; and ty e breaking ion about Mr. Jo came too suddenly: it brougroke. S speaking; but last tuesday ster: sed to say somet making signs to my erday morning, Bessie understood s last s tc to speak to sure sold Miss Reed and Miss Georgiana, and advised to send for you. t it off at first; but tless, and said, ‘Jane, Jane,’ so many times, t at last ted. I left Gateserday: and if you can get ready, Miss, I so take you back o- morrow morning.”
“Yes, Robert, I s seems to me t I ougo go.”
“I too, Miss. Bessie said s refuse: but I suppose you off?”
“Yes; and I nos’ o ttentions of Jo in searcer.
in any of t in tables, or to tened: ter, Miss Ingram, to disturb so interesting a party; my errand, defer, so I approacer Miss Ingram’s side. Surned as I dre me ily: o demand, “ can ture noempted to order me a—it riking: sed in ion ated pride did not loy lineaments.
“Does t person you?” ser; and Mr. Rocer turned to see rations—the room.
“ell, Jane?” ed t.
“If you please, sir, I leave of absence for a wo.”
“ to do?—wo go?”
“to see a sick lady w for me.”
“ sick lady?—where does she live?”
“At Gateshead; in—shire.”
“-s is a sends for people to see distance?”
“her name is Reed, sir—Mrs. Reed.”
“Reed of Gatesesrate.”
“It is his widow, sir.”
“And h her? how do you know her?”
“Mr. Reed her.”
“told me t before: you always said you ions.”
“None t would own me, sir. Mr. Reed is dead, and me off.”
“hy?”
“Because I was poor, and burdensome, and she disliked me.”
“But Reed left c alking of a Reed of Gateserday, oioning a Georgiana Reed of ty a season or two ago in London.”
“Jooo, sir: o ted suicide. t it brougic attack.”
“And w good can you do o see an old lady w you off.”
“Yes, sir, but t is long ago; and : I could not be easy to neglect her wishes now.”
“ay?”
“As s a time as possible, sir.”
“Promise me only to stay a week—”
“I ter not pass my .”
“At all events you be induced under any pretext to take up a permanent residence h her?”
“Oainly return if all be well.”
“And ravel a hundred miles alone.”
“No, sir, s her coachman.”
“A person to be trusted?”
“Yes, sir, en years in the family.”
Mr. Rocer meditated. “o go?”
“Early to-morrow morning, sir.”
“ell, you must travel money, and I daresay you muc. he world, Jane?” he asked, smiling.
I dre my purse; a meagre t o as if its scantiness amused - book: “e; it y pounds, and fifteen. I told him I had no change.
“I don’t c. take your wages.”
I declined accepting more t first; ting something, he said—
“Rig! Better not give you all noy pounds. ten; is it not plenty?”
“Yes, sir, but now you owe me five.”
“Come back for it, ty pounds.”
“Mr. Rocer, I may as ion anotter of business to you y.”
“Matter of business? I am curious to .”
“You you are going sly to be married?”
“Yes; hen?”
“In t case, sir, Adèle ougo go to scy of it.”
“to get of my bride’s oo empically? tion; not a doubt of it. Adèle, as you say, must go to sc marcraigo—the devil?”
“I , sir; but I must seek anotuation somewhere.”
“In course!” ortion of features equally fantastic and ludicrous. me some minutes.
“And old Madam Reed, or ters, ed by you to seek a place, I suppose?”
“No, sir; I am not on sucerms ives as ify me in asking favours of t I sise.”
“You s!” your peril you advertise! I en pounds. Give me back nine pounds, Jane; I’ve a use for it.”
“And so urned, putting my spare t.”
“Little niggard!” said ! Give me five pounds, Jane.”
“Not five shillings, sir; nor five pence.”
“Just let me look at the cash.”
“No, sir; you are not to be trusted.”
“Jane!”
“Sir?”
“Promise me one thing.”
“I’ll promise you anyt I to perform.”
“Not to advertise: and to trust t of a situation to me. I’ll find you one in time.”
“I so do, sir, if you, in your turn, I and Adèle s of ters it.”
“Very . You go to- morrohen?”
“Yes, sir; early.”
“So ter dinner?”
“No, sir, I must prepare for the journey.”
“t bid good-bye for a little while?”
“I suppose so, sir.”
“And ceremony of parting, Jane? teac quite up to it.”
“they prefer.”
“t.”
“Fare.”
“ must I say?”
“the same, if you like, sir.”
“Fare; is t all?”
“Yes?”
“It seems stingy, to my notions, and dry, and unfriendly. I stle addition to te. If one sance; but no—t content me eithan say Farewell, Jane?”
“It is enougy word as in many.”
“Very likely; but it is blank and cool—‘Farewell.’”
“o stand t door?” I asked myself; “I to commence my packing.” ted, anothe morning.
I reac Gates five o’clock in ternoon of t of May: I stepped in to t : tal le ains; tless; te and fire-irons clear. Bessie sat on t-born, and Robert and er played quietly in a corner.
“Bless you!—I kneered.
“Yes, Bessie,” said I, after I rust I am not too late. ill, I hope.”
“Yes, sed tor says s; but hinks she will finally recover.”
“ioned me lately?”
“Salking of you only t sen minutes ago, ernoon, and six or seven. ill you rest yourself h you?”
Robert ered, and Bessie laid to aking off my bonnet and ea; for sired. I o accept ality; and I submitted to be relieved of my travelling garb just as passively as I used to let her undress me when a child.
Old times cro back on me as I cling about— setting out tea-tray cting bread and butter, toasting a tea-cake, and, betle Robert or Jane an occasional tap or pus as so give me in former days. Bessie ained emper as and good looks.
tea ready, I o approacable; but so sit still, quite in ory tones. I must be served at ttle round stand e of toast, absolutely as so accommodate me ely purloined dainty on a nursery chair: and I smiled and obeyed her as in bygone days.
Sed to kno sort of a person tress e a gentleman; and t reated me kindly, and I ent. t on to describe to ely been staying at to tails Bessie listened erest: the kind she relished.
In sucion an ored to me my bonnet, amp;c., and, accompanied by ted t e and embittered —a sense of outla of reprobation—to seek t bourne so far aile roof nos ful yet; and I an ac. I still felt as a I experienced firmer trust in myself and my ooo, e ment extinguished.
“You so t-room first,” said Bessie, as shere.”
In anot I apartment. ticle of furniture looking just as it did on t introduced to Mr. Brockle: tood upon still covered t t I could distinguisisravels and ts ranged just above. te objects c tered past recognition.
tall, almost as tall as Miss Ingram—very too, ic in ed by treme plainness of a straiged, black, stuff dress, a starcemples, and t of a string of ebony beads and a crucifix. t sure race little resemblance to elongated and colourless visage.
tainly Georgiana: but not tures, languised yello its fas from er’s—so muc looked as stylisanical.
In eacers trait of ter ’s Cairngorm eye: t younger girl our of jale softened, but still imparting an indescribable o tenance otuous and buxom.
Boto ing voice, a smile; and t do me. Georgiana added to my journey, ttered in ratone: and accompanied by sundry side-glances t measured me from o foot—noraversing trimming of my cottage bonnet. Young ladies ting you kno t actually saying tain superciliousness of look, coolness of manner, noncone, express fully timents on t, committing tive rudeness in word or deed.
A sneer, or open, po once possessed: as I sat beto find under total neglect of tic attentions of t mortify, nor Georgiana ruffle me. t ; feirred in me so mucent te and exquisite ed t o inflict or besto ther for good or bad.
“ Georgiana, to bridle at t address, as if it ed liberty.
“Mrs. Reed? Aremely poorly: I doubt if you can see o-night.”
“If,” said I, “you step upstairs and tell o you.”
Georgiana almost started, and sicular defer attending to ely necessary.”
“Mama dislikes being disturbed in an evening,” remarked Eliza. I soon rose, quietly took off my bonnet and gloves, uninvited, and said I step out to Bessie—ain to-nig, and co take furt ofore been my alo so-day, I so quit Gates morning; no o me all at once t t , and I must stay ill ster—or dead: as to ers’ pride or folly, I must put it on one side, make myself independent of it. So I addressed to sold or o my c t Bessie on the landing.
“Missis is awake,” said sold us see if she will know you.”
I did not need to be guided to to or reprimand in former days. I ened before Bessie; I softly opened t stood on table, for it ting dark. t four-post bed oilet- table, tstool, at enced to kneel, to ask pardon for offences by me uncommitted. I looked into a certain corner near, ing to see tline of a once dreaded sco lurk ting to leap out imp-like and lace my quivering palm or sains and leant over the high-piled pillows.
ell did I remember Mrs. Reed’s face, and I eagerly soug is a time quells tings of rage and aversion. I tterness and e, and I came back to ion t of rut sufferings, and a strong yearning to forget and forgive all injuries—to be reconciled and clasp y.
tern, relentless as ever—t peculiar eye raised, imperious, despotic eyebroraced its I stooped down and kissed me.
“Is this Jane Eyre?” she said.
“Yes, Aunt Reed. ?”
I I it no sin to forget and break t vo: t moment rue pleasure. But unimpressionable natures are not so soon softened, nor are natural antipated. Mrs. Reed took urning t once t oo tenderness, indissoluble to tears—t so consider me bad to t; because to believe me good ion.
I felt pain, and t ire; and t a determination to subdue o be ress in spite boture and ears as in co t a co t dohe pillow.
“You sent for me,” I said, “and I am is my intention to stay till I see on.”
“Oers?”
“Yes.”
“ell, you may tell to stay till I can talk some to-nig is too late, and I y in recalling t to say—let me see—”
tterance told lessly, sing on a corner of t, fixed it doated.
“Sit up!” said s annoy me . Are you Jane Eyre?”
“I am Jane Eyre.”
“I rouble co be left on my ion, and arts of temper, and inual, unnatural cs! I declare salked to me once like someto get did t Lo t die: but I said she did—I wish she had died!”
“A strange wise her so?”
“I o er, and a great favourite like a simpleton. reated o put it out to nurse and pay for its maintenance. I ed it t time I set my eyes on it—a sickly, s cradle all nig screaming ily like any ot ; and o nurse it and notice it as if it iced t age. ry to make my co ttle beggar: t bear it, and illness, brouginually to an o keep ture. I of a all resemble : Joe a Gibson. Oormenting me ters for money? I o give ting poor. I must send a of t it off. I can never submit to do t—yet o get on? terest of mortgages. Jo by sful—I feel ashamed for him when I see him.”
Sting muced. “I tter leave o Bessie, he bed.
“Per sen talks in towards nighe morning she is calmer.”
I rose. “Stop!” exclaimed Mrs. Reed, “to say. ens me—inually tens me imes t I see o a strange pass: I roubles. is to be done? o be had?”
Bessie noo persuade o take a sedative draugy. Soon after, Mrs. Reed greo a dozing state. I t her.
More ten days elapsed before I ion inued eitor forbade everyte ime, I got on as first. Eliza ing, and scarcely utter a o me or er. Georgiana er nonsense to ake no notice of me. But I ermined not to seem at a loss for occupation or amusement: I my draerials h.
Provided s of paper, I used to take a seat apart from tctes, representing any scene t arily to sself in ting kaleidoscope of imagination: a glimpse of sea bets disk; a group of reeds and er-flags, and a naiad’s us-flo of tting in a , under a horn- bloom
One morning I fell to sketc sort of a face it o be, I did not care or knoook a soft black pencil, gave it a broad point, and foreline of visage: t contour gave me pleasure; my fingers proceeded actively to fill it ures. Strongly-marked al eyebro be traced under t brourally, a raigrils; t do: of course, some black ty ufted on temples, and to t, because t careful raced long and sombre; trous and large. “Good! but not quite t, as I surveyed t: “t more force and spirit;” and I s migly—a ouc did it signify t turned t it; I smiled at tent.
“Is t a portrait of some one you kno it s. Of course, I lied: it , a very faitation of Mr. Rocer. But to o any one but myself? Georgiana also advanced to look. t s “an ugly man.” t my skill. I offered to sketcraits; and eacurn, sat for a pencil outline. to contribute a er-colour dra once into good tion: sion of t er s in London tion sed— ttention s s of titled conquest sernoon and evening ts conversations ed, and sentimental scenes represented; and, in s, a volume of a novel of fas day improvised by . tions o day: t range sed eito gloomy state of ts. aken up gaiety, and aspirations after dissipations to come. S five minutes eacher’s sick-room, and no more.
Eliza still spoke little: sly no time to talk. I never sao be; yet it to say of o call , but after t meal sime into regular portions, and eacs allotted task. times a day sudied a little book, attraction of t volume, and so stitc large enoug. In anso my inquiries after ticle, s ar of a need near Gateso o ion of s. So no company; no conversation. I believe sine sufficed for s clocky.
Sold me one evening, ive t Jo, and tened ruin of tion to stled ion. une saken care to secure; and se a long-c: seek a retirement ly secured from disturbance, and place safe barriers between herself and a frivolous world. I asked if Georgiana would accompany her.
“Of course not. Georgiana and s be burdened y for any consideration. Georgiana sake ake hers.”
Georgiana, o me, spent most of ime in lying on tting about t Gibson ion up to to er,” s out of till all ask I suppose so ted decease of es. Eliza generally took no more notice of er’s indolence and complaints t away -book and unfolded ook hus—
“Georgiana, a more vain and absurd animal tainly never alloo cumber t to be born, for you make no use of life. Instead of living for, in, and , you seek only to fasten your feebleness on some otrengto burden , t you are ill-treated, neglected, miserable. too, existence for you must be a scene of continual cement, or else t be admired, you must be courted, you must be flattered—you must y—or you languiso devise a system s, and all your oake one day; s into sections; to eacion apportion its task: leave no stray unemployed quarters of an en minutes, five minutes—include all; do eacs turn y. t before you are a ed to no one for o get rid of one vacant moment: you o seek no one’s company, conversation, sympat, as an independent being ougo do. take t and last I s me or any one else, may. Neglect it—go on as ofore, craving, en: for t to say, I seadily act on it. After my moto t in Gatese as if because s, I so fasten me do claim: I can tell you ted, aood alone on take myself to the new.”
She closed her lips.
“You migrouble of delivering t tirade,” ans selfisless creature in existence: and I knoeful red torick you played me about Lord Ed bear me to be raised above you, to itle, to be received into circles s for ever.” Georgiana took out er cold, impassable, and assiduously industrious.
true, generous feeling is made small account of by some, but ures rendered, tolerably acrid, t of it. Feeling judgment is a judgment untempered by feeling is too bitter and ition.
It and ernoon: Georgiana o attend a saint’s-day service at tters of religion s: no ed tual disc sional duties; fair or foul, s to cen on here were prayers.
I bet myself to go upstairs and see uns paid a remittent attention: ttle looked after, of t so mind, and could only come occasionally to tced: no nurse ient lay still, and seemingly lete. I rene noo the window.
t strongly against tempestuously: “One lies t, “—noruggling to quit its material tenement—flit h released?”
In pondering t mystery, I t of rine of ty of disembodied souls. I ill listening in t to ones—still picturing ual aspect, ed face and sublime gaze, as so be restored to ?”
I kneo her.
“It is I, Aunt Reed.”
“ me of alarm, but still not e a stranger to me—where is Bessie?”
“S t.”
“Aunt,” sed. “? You are not one of t I kno face, and t familiar to me: you are like—why, you are like Jane Eyre!”
I said notity.
“Yet,” said s is a mistake: my ts deceive me. I o be: and seeing t I ood, and t e collected, I explained o fetchornfield.
“I am very ill, I knoo turn myself a fees since, and find I cannot move a limb. It is as tle of in suc is to me. Is t you?”
I assured her we were alone.
“ell, I o bring you up as my oer all, it is of no great importance, pero better; and to o her is painful.”
S to alter ion, but failed: o experience some inion—t pang.
“ell, I must get it over. Eternity is before me: I ter tell o my dressing-case, open it, and take out a letter you here.”
I obeyed ions. “Read tter,” she said.
It hus conceived:—
“Madam,—ill you o send me to tell me is my intention to e sly and desire o come to me at Madeira. Providence o secure a competency; and as I am unmarried and co adopt my deatever I may o leave.—I am, Madam, etc., etc.,
“John Eyre, Madeira.”
It ed three years back.
“his?” I asked.
“Because I disliked you too fixedly and to lend a ing you to prosperity. I could not forget your conduct to me, Jane—turned on me; tone in t of me made you sick, and asserted t I reated you y. I could not forget my oions ed up and poured out t fear as if an animal t I ruck or pus me er! Oe!”
“Dear Mrs. Reed,” said I, as I offered s it pass ae language: I was a c, nine years day.”
S I said; but ed ter and dra on thus—
“I tell you I could not forget it; and I took my revenge: for you to be adopted by your uncle, and placed in a state of ease and comfort, endure. I e to ment, but Jane Eyre as you please: e and contradict my assertion—expose my falseo be my torment: my last ion of a deed ed to commit.”
“If you could but be persuaded to t, aunt, and to regard me h kindness and forgiveness”
“You ion,” said so t impossible to understand: ient and quiescent under any treatment, and in tent all fire and violence, I can never comprehend.”
“My disposition is not so bad as you te, but not vindictive. Many a time, as a little co love you if you ly to be reconciled to you no.”
I approaco touc. Ser. As I laid ed ouche glazing eyes shunned my gaze.
“Love me, te me, as you last, “you peace.”
Poor, suffering oo late for o make no to cual frame of mind: living, sed me—dying, s e me still.
tered, and Bessie follo lingered o see some sign of amity: but s relapsing into stupor; nor did t nig present to close ers. to tell us t morning t all ime laid out. Eliza and I to look at out into loud retc and active frame, rigid and still: s cold lid; rong traits trange and solemn object corpse to me. I gazed on it , not, notying, or inspire; only a grating anguis my loss—and a sombre tearless dismay at th in such a form.
Eliza surveyed calmly. After a silence of some minutes she observed—
“ititution so a good old age: ened by trouble.” And tricted ant: as it passed a t a tear.