Адаптация текста О. Н. Прокофьевой

Составление комментария и словаря Д. Л. Абрагина

«Джейн Эйр» с момента выхода в свет (1847) – один из самых известных и читаемых романов на английском языке. Его автору, Шарлотте Бронте, суждено было стать чрезвычайно популярной писательницей. Однако свой роман ей пришлось выпустить под мужским псевдонимом Каррер Белл, так как женщин-литераторов редко принимали всерьез, несмотря на успех таких известных писательниц более раннего времени, как, например, Джейн Остин. Подписавшись мужским именем, Шарлотта Бронте рассчитывала обеспечить своему произведению более доброжелательный прием у читателей.

Когда роман «Джейн Эйр» вышел из печати, Шарлотте был 31 год, но в действительности писала она всю жизнь. Шарлотта, ее брат Бренуэлл и сестры Эмили и Анна в детстве забавлялись тем, что много фантазировали и записывали истории созданных воображением миров в крошечные книжки, некоторые из которых сохранились до наших дней. Так, Шарлотта и Бренуэлл придумали африканское королевство Ангрию, а Эмили и Анна создали свое королевство, Гондал. Когда девочки Бронте выросли, перед ними встал вопрос, чем же заняться – писательством или учительством (выбор был небольшой). Шарлотта, Эмили и Анна стали писательницами.

Хотя Бронте были очень дружными, на их долю выпала тяжелая жизнь. Они были детьми местного викария и проживали в Хауорте, городке на вересковых пустошах Йоркшира (на севере Англии). Семья приехала сюда в 1820 г., но в 1821 г., когда Шарлотте было всего пять лет, ее мать умерла от рака. Тетя Элизабет Бренуэлл приехала к ним, чтобы ухаживать за детьми.

Затем последовали новые несчастья. В 1824 г. четыре старшие дочери: Элизабет, Мария, Шарлотта и Эмили были отправлены в Коуэн-Бридж, закрытую школу-приют для дочерей духовенства. А на следующий год, когда в школе разразилась эпидемия туберкулеза, Элизабет и Мария заболели. Их отправили домой, но обе девочки умерли. Шарлотта и Эмили также вернулись домой, и с тех пор Шарлотта стала старшей дочерью в семье.

Патрик Бронте, отец Шарлотты, происходил из бедной ирландской семьи, но ум и трудолюбие помогли ему получить образование в Кембриджском университете. Он свято верил в благо учения как для мальчиков, так и для девочек. Его дом был полон книг, среди которых находились произведения, написанные им самим. Всем своим детям он привил любовь к чтению.

Однако именно это пристрастие к чтению затрудняло детям Бронте общение с местными детьми, чьи родители в большинстве своем были простыми фермерами и рабочими. Шарлотта нередко чувствовала, что окружающие люди не в состоянии ее понять, не обладая столь же развитым умом. Это ощущение присутствует и на страницах романа «Джейн Эйр».

Как и в других романах писательницы, в «Джейн Эйр» много деталей и ситуаций, взятых из ее собственной жизни. Ловуд, суровая и немилосердная школа-приют, в которой учится Джейн, имеет много общего и с Коуэн-Бриджем, где некоторое время жила сама Шарлотта, а образ Элен Бернс, подруги Джейн, возможно, основан на воспоминаниях о старших сестрах. В 19 лет Шарлотта стала учительницей в школе Роухед, а затем нашла себе место гувернантки. И это событие также отражено в романе. Чтобы найти себе мужа, Шарлотта, как и ее героиня, Джейн, не могла рассчитывать на свою внешность, полагая, что она слишком маленькая, худая и непривлекательная. Когда же наконец к ней пришла любовь, страстная и безрассудная, предметом ее стал женатый мужчина, и чувства ее оставались безответными.

Вместе с сестрами Эмили и Анной Шарлотта намеревалась открыть собственную школу в Хауорте. Но сначала Шарлотта и Эмили отправились в Брюссель, чтобы, преподавая там английский, усовершенствовать свои знания иностранных языков. Именно там Шарлотта полюбила женатого профессора, которого звали господин Эже. После смерти тети Эмили вернулась домой, чтобы заботиться об отце, а Шарлотта провела в Брюсселе целых два года. Одержимая страстью к господину Эже, она пронесла свою любовь через всю жизнь, хотя и не находила у него ответного чувства. Большинство героинь писательницы – одинокие и застенчивые женщины, которые влюбляются в мужчин старшего возраста. Хотя в своих книгах она, конечно, была вольна давать любые повороты любовным историям.

Сестрам Бронте не удалось добиться успеха в создании школы, и тогда они полностью посвятили себя писательству. Все три сестры, уже давно сочинявшие стихи, выпустили в 1846 г. книгу под псевдонимами Керрер, Эллис и Эктон Белл. Она не пользовалась успехом у читателей, но сестры не сдавались. В следующем году были приняты к публикации роман Эллиса Белла (Эмили Бронте) «Грозовой Перевал» и роман Эктона Белла (Анна Бронте) «Агнес Грей». Несколько издателей отвергли первый роман Шарлотты «Учитель», но второй ее роман, «Джейн Эйр», был сразу же принят к печати. К концу 1847 г. все три романа были напечатаны, и братья Белл стали сенсацией национального масштаба.

С самого начала читающая публика недоумевала, не зная, кто же скрывается под псевдонимами Белл. Некоторые все же осмеливались предположить, что на самом деле это, возможно, женщины. Вскоре сестрам пришлось открыться. Роман «Джейн Эйр» значительно превосходил по популярности два других романа, и когда Анна Бронте написала роман «Арендатор Уайльдфелл-Холла», издатель предложил напечатать его под именем Керрера, а не Эктона Белла. Шарлотта и Анна поехали в Лондон на переговоры к издателям и только тут впервые назвали свои настоящие имена.

Шарлотта решила сделать писательство своим основным занятием, но вскоре на нее снова обрушились несчастья. Летом 1848 г. ее брат, Бренуэлл Бронте, который страдал пристрастием к алкоголю и опиуму, тяжело заболел, а в сентябре того же года умер. К середине осени стало ясно, что Эмили тоже больна, возможно, туберкулезом. Однако Эмили, женщина с сильной волей, продолжала вести хозяйство и отказывалась обратиться к врачу. В декабре 1848 г. она тоже умерла, не дожив до своего 30-летия.

К ужасу Шарлотты, у Анны, единственной оставшейся в живых сестры, тоже обнаружили туберкулез. Испробовав все способы лечения, в мае 1849 г. Шарлотта с сестрой отправились в приморский город Скарборо, где климат был более благоприятным для преодоления недуга. Здесь Анна и умерла, оставив еще одну рану в сердце Шарлотты.

В течение нескольких последующих лет Шарлотта сосредоточилась на писательской работе и опубликовала еще два романа: «Шерли» (1849) и «Виллетт» (1853). Последний роман некоторые критики считают ее лучшим произведением. Несколько раз она приезжала в Лондон, где познакомилась с другими известными писателями, такими, как Элизабет Гаскелл и Уильям Теккерей. В Лондоне был написан ее портрет. Известность писательницы росла.

В 1852 г. преподобный Артур Белл Николс, скромный священник, работавший в приходе отца Шарлотты в Хауорте, сделал ей предложение. Сначала она отказала ему, но в 1854 г. все же вышла за него замуж.

Хотя она не испытывала к мужу настоящей любви, брак принес ей некоторое умиротворение и покой. Но ее продолжала угнетать память о столь ранней смерти сестер и брата. На следующий год, когда Шарлотта заболела пневмонией, она не нашла в себе сил бороться за жизнь, хотя болезнь не была неизлечимой. В марте 1855 г., ожидая своего первого ребенка, она умерла в возрасте 38 лет.

Уже после смерти автора свет увидел первый роман Шарлотты «Учитель». Писательница-романистка Элизабет Гаскелл написала биографию Ш. Бронте. Именно благодаря этому жизнь сестер Бронте, как и их романы, оказались столь широко известны публике. С тех пор творчество сестер Бронте и их судьба неизменно завоевывают сердца читателей.

It was impossible to take a walk that day. Since dinner the cold winter wind had brought with it clouds so sombre, and a rain so penetrating, that further out-door exercise was out of the question. Instead, we had to amuse ourselves indoors.[1] I was glad of it: I never liked long walks, especially on chilly afternoons. My cousins, Eliza, John and Georgiana Reed were sitting round their mama in the drawing-room by the fire-side, but I was not allowed to join the group.

“You, Jane, are excluded from our company until I hear from Bessie that you can behave like a proper, sweet little girl,” announced Mrs. Reed.

“What does Bessie say I have done?” I asked.

“Jane, I don’t like questioners; don’t answer me back.[2] Be seated somewhere; and until you can speak pleasantly, remain silent.”

I went into another room, with a bookcase in it. I took one of the books, Bewick’s History of British Birds, and climbed into the window seat. I drew the curtain, gathered up my feet, and sat cross-legged, like a Turk. Then I immersed myself into another world. I was now discovering the shores of Lapland, Siberia, Spitzbergen, Nova Zembla, Iceland, Greenland, with ‘the vast sweep of the Arctic Zone, and that reservoir of frost and snow. Of these death white realms I formed an idea of my own: shadowy, like all the half-comprehended notions that float dim through children’s brains, but strangely impressive.

The book contained pictures, and each picture told a story. These stories were as interesting as the tales Bessie sometimes narrated on winter evenings when she was in good humour and fed our attention with passages of love and adventure from old fairy tales and other ballads.

With Bewick on my knee, I was then happy: happy at least in my way. I feared nothing but interruption, and that came too soon. The breakfast-room door opened.

“Boh!” cried the voice of John Reed. Then he paused as he thought the room was empty. “Where is she? Lizzy! Georgy! Tell Mama! Jane’s run out into the rain!”

“She’s in the window seat,” Eliza said at once.

I came out immediately before John could drag me out.

“What do you want?” I asked.

John Reed was a fourteen-year-old schoolboy, four years older than I. He was large and stout for his age, and he bullied me continually. I hated and feared him, I could do nothing against his menaces. The servants did not like to offend their young master, and Mrs. Reed was blind and deaf on the subject.

All at once, without speaking, John struck suddenly and strongly

“That is for your rude answer to mama, for hiding behind curtains and for the look you had in your eyes, you rat,” he said.

“What were you doing behind that curtain?”

“I was reading.”

“Show me the book.”

I gave him the book.

“You have no right to take our books. You have no money, your father left you none, you should beg, and not live with us. Now, I’ll teach you a lesson. Go and stand by the door.”

I did so, then waited, flinching. He hurled the heavy book at me. It hit me and I fell, striking my head against the door and cutting it. The cut bled, the pain was sharp: suddenly my terror was gone, and I was full of anger.

“Wicked and cruel boy! You are like a murderer!”

“Did she say that to me? Did you hear her, Eliza and Georgiana? Won’t I tell mama? but first —“

He grasped my hair and my shoulder. I don’t very well know what I did with my hands, but he called me ‘Rat! Rat!’, Eliza, and Georgiana ran for Mrs. Reed.

We were parted, and Mrs. Reed was standing over me.

“Dear, dear,” said Abbott, shaking her head. “What a fury, to fly at master John!”

“Take her away to the red-room,” said Mrs. Reed, “and lock her in there.”

The red-room was the biggest bedroom in Gateshead Hall, with a red carpet, red damask drapery, red velvet curtains, and a dark mahogany bed in it. Nobody slept there. Nobody wanted to. It was here, nine years before, in that very bed that Mr. Reed had died. Ever since I had often heard the servants whispering that it was haunted.

I resisted all the way. Bessie and Abbott had to force me through the door. I only stopped struggling when they threatened to tie me to a chair.

“What shocking conduct, Miss Eyre, to strike a young gentleman! Your young master.”

“Master! How is he my master? Am I a servant?”

“No; you are less than a servant, for you do nothing for your keep,” said Miss Abbot.

“Miss Eyre, you should be grateful to Mrs. Reed for keeping you,” said Bessie, in a kinder voice. “If you don’t behave, she might send you away,[3] and then where would you be?”

“You’d better say your prayers, Miss, and ask for forgiveness,” said Abbott.

They left and locked the door behind them.

Left alone, holding furiously onto the chair I had been pushed into, I turned the afternoon’s events over and over in my mind.[4] Why did everyone adore selfish, rude John, Georgiana and Eliza, and hate me, even though I tried to be good? Why could I never please? Was it because they were pretty, with their golden curls and silk dresses, and I was poor and plain? “Unjust! – unjust!” said a voice in my head.

The room was silent as it was far from the nursery and kitchen. It was getting dark as the daylight faded and I had no candle. It was cold too as there was no fire. I thought about Mr. Reed. He had been my uncle – my mother’s brother. When my parents had died, I was a baby, and my uncle Reed had brought me to live at Gateshead Hall. Bessie had told me that Mrs. Reed only continued to look after me because, just before his death, Mr. Reed had made her promise that she would.

He had always been kind to me. Perhaps now his spirit was watching,[5] and was angry about the way they treated me. Perhaps – I gripped the chair more tightly, and felt frightened – perhaps his ghost really lived in this room.

The thought of seeing a ghost, even kind Mr. Reed’s ghost, filled me with terror. I was not quite sure whether Abbott and Bessie had locked the door; I got up and went to see. Alas! yes. I stared into the darkness in panic, convinced a phantom was about to appear.

At this moment a light gleamed on the wall and began to glide slowly across the ceiling towards me.

Looking back, I know it was probably nothing more than a footman carrying a lantern across the lawn.[6] But, in my terrified state of mind, I believed it was the ghost. My head grew hot, something seemed near me. I rushed to the door and shook the lock in desperate effort screaming.

I heard footsteps, the key turned, Bessie and Abbot entered.

“Take me out! Let me go into the nursery!” I cried.

“What for? Are you hurt? Have you seen something?” demanded Bessie.

“I saw a light, and I thought it was a ghost…”

“What is all this?” It was Mrs. Reed. “Bessie, I told you to leave Jane alone.”

“Miss Jane screamed so loudly, ma’am…”

“You cannot get out by these means, child,” Mrs. Reed said. “It is my duty to show you that tricks will not work. You will now stay here an hour longer.”

“O aunt! have pity! Forgive me!”

But I was only an actress in her eyes. Bessie and Abbot left first, Mrs. Reed pushed me back into the room and locked me in.

Left alone once more, I fell unconscious, as that was the last thing I remembered.

When I woke up, I was somewhere warm and soft. There was a red glow and muffled voices around me. Someone lifted me, and then I rested my head against a pillow or an arm, and felt easy.

When I opened my eyes, I saw that I was in my own bed. The glow came from the fire. It was night. Bessie stood beside me, looking anxious, and a gentleman sat in a chair near my pillow. I knew him. It was Mr. Lloyd, an apothecary. Mrs. Reed called him sometimes when the servants were ill.

“Who am I, Jane?” he asked.

“Mr. Lloyd,” I said, offering him at the same time my hand. He took it and smiled.

“I think she’ll be alright. I’ll come back tomorrow.”

He departed, to my grief. I felt so sheltered when he sat in the chair, and then all the room darkened.

“Would you like to sleep, Miss Eyre?” asked Bessie, rather softly.

“I’ll try.”

“Would you like something to eat or drink?”

“No thank you,” I said, puzzled.[7] Why was she so nice to me?

“Then I’ll go to bed myself – it’s after midnight,” she said. “But you can call me if you want anything.”

“Bessie, what is going on?” I asked. “Am I ill?”

“You fainted crying in the red-room. You’ll be better soon.”

Next day I sat wrapped in a shawl by the fire. I felt weak and broken down. None of the Reeds were home, and I could be happy. Instead, my nerves were in such a state that no calm could soothe, and no pleasure excite them. Even when Bessie came in with a tart for me, I put it away. As Bessie finished dusting and tidying the room, she began making a new bonnet for Georgiana’s doll and sing. Her voice was sweet but I found its melody sad.

“Miss Jane, don’t cry,’ said Bessie as she finished the ballad. She might as well have said to the fire, ‘don’t burn!’

At midday, Mr. Lloyd returned, as he had promised, and asked Bessie how I was. Bessie answered that I was doing very well.

“Then she should look more cheerful. Come here, Jane. Well, you cried, didn’t you? Why?”

“She couldn’t go out with the others in the carriage,” said Bessie.

“No. I hate going out in the carriage. I cry because I am miserable.”

The good apothecary seemed puzzled. “And what made you ill yesterday?”

“She had a fall,” said Bessie.

“I doubt that. She is no child,” said Mr. Lloyd.

Just then the bell rang, calling the servants to their lunch. Bessie wanted to stay but the rules were strict and she could not be late.

“Now then,” said Mr. Lloyd, when she had gone. “The fall did not make you ill; what did, then?”

“I was locked in a room where there was a ghost.”

“Ghost! You are a baby after all! Are you afraid of ghosts?”

“Mr. Reed died in that room. Nobody goes there at night. It was cruel to shut me up alone without a candle.”

“Nonsense!”

“And I am unhappy for other things.”

“What other things?”

I wanted to reply fully to the question but children can feel, but they cannot analyse their feelings.

“For one thing, I have no mother or father…”

“But you have a kind aunt and cousins.”

“John Reed hit me and Mrs. Reed shut me up in the red-room.”

“Don’t you think Gateshead Hall a very beautiful house?”

“It is not my house, sir, and I have less right to be here than a servant.”

“I can’t believe you want to leave such a splendid place.”

“If I had anywhere else to go, I would leave this second.”

Now I could see that Mr. Lloyd believed me.

“Would you like to go to school?”

I hardly knew what school was. John Reed hated his school. Bessie sometimes spoke of it as a place where young ladies wore backboards, and were taught to be exceedingly genteel and precise. There girls could paint and sew, sing and play the piano, and read books in French. If I went to school, I would be allowed to read all kinds of books. And it would mean leaving Gateshead Hall behind at last.[8]

“I would love to go to school.”

“Well then,” he said. “I will speak to Mrs. Reed.”

After that day a change seemed near, I desired and waited it in silence. Mrs. Reed dropped no hint about sending me to school but I felt she would no longer endure me under the same roof. I ate my meals alone, and Mrs. Reed told John, Eliza and Georgiana not to speak to me. I spent more time with the servants than with the Reeds. Sometimes Bessie let me dust and tidy the rooms to keep me busy.

November, December, and half of January passed away. During all Christmas and New Year parties I waited in my room, listening to the sound of the piano, the clink of glasses and the hum of conversation below. Once or twice Bessie brought me a cake from the feast.

It was the fifteenth of January, about nine o’clock in the morning. Bessie came running into the nursery. “Miss Jane! What are you doing there?” she said. “Have you washed your hands and face this morning?” She hurried me up to the washstand, scrubbed my face and quickly brushed my hair. I was wanted downstairs.

I slowly descended and stopped in front of the breakfast-room door trembling. I feared to return to the nursery, and feared to go forward. Ten minutes I stood in hesitation till I finally decided: I MUST enter.

Mrs. Reed was in her usual seat be the fireside, she made a signal to me to approach and introduced me to a tall grey-eyed gentleman with the words: “This is the little girl I wrote to you about.”

“She is so small. What is her age?” he said in a bass voice.

“Ten years.”

“So much? What is your name, little girl?”

“Jane Eyre, sir.”

“Well, Jane Eyre, are you a good child?”

It was impossible to answer. I thought I was good, but I knew no one else in the house would say so. I was silent. Mrs. Reed answered for me by shaking her head and adding: “The less said about that, the better.’’

“Sorry indeed to hear! She and I must talk. Come here.”

I came up to him. He placed me straight before him. What a face he had! What a great nose! And what a mouth!

“No sight so sad as that of a naughty child. Do you know where wicked people go, Jane, after they die?”

“They go to hell,” was my ready answer.

“Is that what you want to happen to you?”

“No, sir,” I said.

“What must you do to avoid it?”

I was at a loss. I knew I couldn’t try any harder to be good. “I must take care not to die, sir.”

“Do you say your prayers night and morning?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you read your Bible?” continued my interrogator.

“Sometimes.”

“Are you fond of it?”

“I like Revelations,[9] and the book of Daniel.”

“And the Psalms?”

“I don’t like them.”

“Oh, shocking! I know a little boy, younger than you, who knows six Psalms by heart. When asked what he would prefer, a nut or a Psalm to learn, he says, ‘Oh, the verse of a Psalm, please. Angels sing Psalms. I wish to be like a little angel.’ He then gets two nuts as a reward for his goodness.”

“Psalms are not interesting.”

“You must pray to God to change your wicked heart and give you a new and clean one.”

I wanted to ask him how when Mrs. Reed broke the silence.

“Mr. Brocklehurst,” she said. “If you admit her into Lowood schoold, I want the superintendent and teachers keep a strict eye on her. Deceit is, indeed, a sad fault in a child.” Uttered before a stranger, the accusation cut me to the heart.

“Deceit is, indeed, a sad fault in a child. She will be watched, Mrs. Reed. I will speak to Miss Temple and the teachers,” said Mr. Brocklehurst.

“I wish her to be made useful and humble. She will, with your permission, spend all vacations at Lowood.”

“I approve of your decisions, madam.”

“I will send her, then, as soon as possible, Mr. Brocklehurst.”

“I will send Miss Temple notice about a new girl, so that there will be no difficulty about receiving her. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye, Mr. Brocklehurst.”

Mrs. Reed and I were left alone: some minutes passed in silence; she was sewing, I was watching her with rage in my eyes. Mrs. Reed looked up from her work

“Return to the nursery,” she ordered with irritation. But first I wanted to talk with her.

“I am not deceitful,” I said. “If I were, I would lie and say I love you, and I declare I do not love you. I dislike you, and your son, and the girls. They tell lies, not me.”

“Have you anything more to add?” she asked coldly, as if she were speaking to an adult, not a child.[10] Her tone made me even more furious. Shaking from head to foot, I continued: “I am glad you are no relation of mine. I will never call you aunt again as long as I live. People think you a good woman, but you are bad, hard-hearted. YOU are deceitful!”

“‘Jane, you are under a mistake: what is the matter with you? I assure you, I desire to be your friend.”

“Not you. You told Mr. Brocklehurst I had a bad and deceitful character; and I’ll let everybody at Lowood know what you are, and what you have done. Send me to school soon, Mrs. Reed, for I hate to live here.”

“I will indeed send her to school soon,” murmured Mrs. Reed and left the room. I won.

“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 move. She came and her presence seemed cheerful. I put my two arms round her.

“You are going to school, I suppose?” she asked.

I nodded.

“And won’t you be sorry to leave poor Bessie?”

“Not at all, Bessie; indeed, I’m rather sorry.”

She laughed at my words and we embraced.

At five o’clock in the morning Bessie came into my room to find me already up and dressed. She prepared breakfast for me, but few children can eat when excited with the thoughts of journey.

As we passed Mrs. Reed’s bedroom, she said, “Will you go in and bid Missis goodbye?” I just shook my head.

“Good-bye to Gateshead!” cried I, as we passed through the hall and went out at the front door.

The winter morning was raw and chill. At the lodge house, the porter’s wife was up; I could already hear the sound of the public coach coming towards us in the distance.

“Is she going by herself?” asked the porter’s wife.

“Yes, fifty miles, all on her own,” said Bessie.

The coach came into view, and the horses stopped. My trunk was taken from me and put up onto the roof. I embraced Bessie, and she kissed me on the cheek.

“Be sure to take good care of her!” said she, as I was put in the carriage and the wheels began to move. I was carried away to my new life.

I remember little of the journey. The day seemed too long took all day, we stopped at the inn once but I had no appetite. I was feeling very strange. We were getting very far from Gateshead, to a remote and mysterious place. The wind started to rush amongst trees; and lulled by the sound, I at last fell asleep.

I woke up when the carriage stopped. The door was opened, and I saw a servant standing in the rain.

“Is there a little girl called Jane Eyre here?” she asked. I said “yes”. The guard lifted me out, my trunk was put down, and seconds later the coach drove away.

I was exhausted after a long journey and chilled to the bone as rain, wind, and darkness filled the air. I could see a house or houses with many windows, and lights burning in some. The servant led me inside it and left me in a silent room by the fire.

As I looked round warming my fingers and trying to make out what was there in the room, two ladies came in. The first one was a tall lady with dark hair, dark eyes, a pale and large forehead, and a figure partly enveloped in a shawl.[11] She was about twenty-nine and looked a little older than the second lady who was, however, shorter, more ordinary, and hurried in gait and action.

“The child looks tired,” said the first lady. “She should be put to bed soon, Miss Miller. And she must be hungry. Let her have supper.” Then she addressed me, “Is this the first time you have left your parents to come to school, my little girl?”

“I have no parents.”

I told her my age, my name and whether I could read, write, and sew. She seemed pleased. She touched my cheek gently and dismissed me with Miss Miller.

Led by her, I passed from passage to passage till we entered a wide, long room, with great tables, two at each end, and girls of every age, from nine up to eighteen, sitting around them on benches. Countless and similar figures, they were whispering repetitions for tomorrow’s classes and their whispers grew into a hum of voices.

I was told to sit on a bench near the door, and Miss Miller walked up to the top of the long room.

“Monitors, collect the books and put them away! Then fetch the supper-trays!” Immediately four older girls, one from each table, got up, gathered the books, went out and returned, each carrying a tray with a pitcher of water, a mug and portions on them. The portions were handed round. Those who liked took the mug and poured water. I was thirsty, but did not touch the food as I was still too excited and tired to eat.

When the meal was over, Miss Miller read prayers, and the classes went upstairs, two by two. By now I was so exhausted, I hardly noticed what the bedroom was like, I only saw it was very long. I was helped to undress and put into bed. In ten minutes the light was switched off, and amidst complete silence and darkness I fell asleep.

The night passed rapidly. When I opened my eyes, a loud bell was ringing and girls were up and dressing all around me. I too rose reluctantly. It was still dark and freezing cold in the bedroom. I dressed shivering and waited for my turn at the basin. But I had hardly begun to wash my face when the bell rang again. All formed in file, two and two, we descended the stairs and entered the cold and dimly lit schoolroom. After prayers Miss Miller told us to form classes.

There were four classes, and Miss Miller put me in the one with the smallest of the children. We said prayers and read from the Bible for an hour. As I had not eaten since my departure from Gateshead, I was now very hungry and looked forward to our breakfast.

At the sound of the breakfast bell, we formed into pairs again to go to the refectory, a gloomy room, furnished with two long tables. Basins of something steaming hot stood on every table though the odour was far from inviting. The tall girls at the front murmured that the porridge had been burnt again.

“Silence,” snapped one of the teachers, a short woman with a sour face. We took our places. A long grace was said and a hymn sung; then a servant brought in some tea for the teachers, and the meal began. I was so hungry that I swallowed several mouthfuls before the revolting, gluey taste of the burned porridge made me stop. I saw each girl taste her food and try in vain to swallow. Breakfast was over, and none had breakfasted. I was one of the last to go out, and in passing the tables, I saw one teacher take a basin of the porridge, taste it and call it ‘disgusting’.

We spent a quarter of an hour in a schoolroom, where mostly all conversations were held on the subject of the breakfast. A clock in the schoolroom struck nine. “Silence!” cried Miss Miller, and the conversations ceased. Ranged on benches down the sides of the room, the eighty girls sat motionless and erect, all in brown dresses and all with plain locks combed from their faces, not a curl visible. Miss Miller ordered the monitors to fetch the globes for a geography lesson. But before we started, the dark-haired lady, who had been so kind to me the previous day, entered the room.

She walked up and down the benches inspecting us. I stared at her in awe admiring how tall, beautiful and graceful she was.

As she came to the middle of the room, and stood before us to make an announcement. “You had a breakfast this morning which you could not eat,” she said. “You must be hungry. I have ordered a lunch of bread and cheese to be served to all.”

The teachers looked at her with surprise.

“I will take full responsibility,” she added. And so the delicious fresh bread and cheese was brought in to the high delight of the whole school.

The order was now given ‘To the garden!’ In straw bonnets and grey cloaks we were sent outside.

Outdoors there was a wide square garden surrounded by high walls. A verandah ran along it framed by broad walks. There were also cultivation beds, where in the summer we would grow flowers and vegetables. But at the end of January they were brown and bare. There was a drizzling yellow fog and most pupils huddled in groups to stay warm, only few stronger girls engaged in active games. I saw how pale the children were and heard many of them cough.

I stood lonely, as I had not spoken to anyone. No one took notice of me, and I was accustomed to isolation. I hardly yet knew where I was; Gateshead and my past life seemed long forgotten. I looked round the garden, and then up at the house – a large building, half of which seemed grey and old, the other half quite new. I saw that it had an inscription above the door: “‘Lowood Institution. – ‘Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven.’ – St. Matt. v. 16.”

I read these words over and over again: there must be an explanation. I was still thinking about the inscription when the sound of a cough close behind me made me turn my head. A girl a few years older than me was sitting on a stone bench, reading a book. I saw that it was called – Rasselas. It sounded exotic and exciting, as if it might be about genies and dragons. I wished I had a book to read myself, and I wondered if the girl might lend it to me one day.

As she turned the page, she looked up and I took my chance to speak.

“Is your book interesting?”

“I like it,” she said.

“What is it about?”

She handed me the book to look at. ‘Rasselas’ looked boring. There were no pictures, and I saw nothing about fairies, nothing about genii. I returned it, and asked instead:

“Have you seen the inscription? What is Lowood Institution?”

“This house where you are now.”

“Why isn’t it called a school?”

“It’s partly a charity-school for orphans.”

“Do we pay no money?”

“We pay, or our friends pay, fifteen pounds a year for each. But fifteen pounds is not enough for board and teaching, and we are also funded by kind-hearted ladies and gentlemen from the neighbourhood and London. And Mr. Brocklehurst overlooks and directs everything here.”

“Then this house does not belong to that tall lady who said we were to have some bread and cheese?”

“Miss Temple? I wish it did! But she has to answer to Mr. Brocklehurst.”

“It is that cruel man who visited Mrs. Reed at Gateshead Hall,” I thought.

“Does he live here?” I asked.

“Oh no, he lives in a big house two miles away, with his family. He’s the village clergyman.[12]”

I asked her about the teachers. They were all nice and she liked them, but Miss Temple was the best. She was very clever and knew far more than the others did.

“Are you an orphan too?” I asked finally.

“My mother is dead.”

“Are you happy here?”

“You ask too many questions,” but at that moment the bell rang to call us back inside. We had dinner and more classes followed it.

The only marked event of the afternoon was that I saw Miss Scatcherd from a history class scolding my new friend. I could not see what she had done wrong, but she was sent to stand in the middle of the schoolroom, where everyone could stare at her.

If this had happened to me, I knew I would have been overwhelmed with rage and indignation.[13] The punishment seemed to me unfair, and I was amazed to see her standing there quietly, looking at the floor without a hint of distress and shame. I did not understand her though I wanted to.

The school day ended with brown bread and coffee, half-an-hour’s recreation, then study, then the glass of water and the piece of oatcake, prayers, and bed.

Such was my first day at Lowood.

The next day began as before, except that we could not wash as the water in the pitchers was frozen solid. It was now even colder, and a freezing wind blew right into the dormitory through the ill-fitting windows. We shivered through our early morning prayers until the breakfast bell. Today, the porridge was not burned, but there still was not enough of it and I stayed hungry again.

Until now I had only watched the lessons; today I was allowed to take part in the fourth class. If I had to struggle with learning things by heart, now I was given a pleasant task to sew, which I could do easily, and I could sit quietly in the corner and spy on the class next to ours.

It was an English history lesson. We were sitting so quietly that we could hear every word – Miss Scatcherd’s questions, and each girl’s response. I could see the girl I had talked to on the verandah: in fact, Miss Scatcherd seemed to be angry with her constantly.

“Burns,” (the girls here were all called by their surnames). “Burns, I insist on your holding your head up; Or: “Burns, you are standing on the side of your shoe; stop it now!”

The class read the chapter twice and closed the books. Now the girls had to answer the questions, which appeared to be impossible to answer. No one but Burns could remember the details well enough to answer. Miss Scatcherd could have praised my friend but instead she suddenly cried: “You dirty, disagreeable girl! you have never cleaned your nails this morning!”

“Why doesn’t she tell her that the water was frozen and nobody could do it?” I thought. But Burns was silent.

Just then, Miss Smith came up to me. She asked me how much whether I could knit, or darn, or stitch and whether I had been to school before. Till she dismissed me, I could not watch the history class.

When I looked back at last, Burns was given an order I could not hear and immediately left the class. She returned with a bundle of long twigs tied together at one end, which she handed to Miss Scatcherd with respectful curtsy. I paused from my sewing. Without being told, she unloosed her pinafore, and the teacher unhesitatingly gave her twelve sharp lashes on the side of her neck. I was overwhelmed by anger, but Burns kept her ordinary expression, which did not escape Miss Scatcherd’s attention. “Nothing can correct you!” she exclaimed.

Burns obeyed when she was told to take the rod away. When she returned, she had her handkerchief in hand, and I could see that she had cried a little.

That evening, after our bread and milk, I wandered around the tables. I had decided that this was the best part of the day: we were free to do anything we wanted for a whole hour. I decided to look for Burns and talk to her once again.

I found her sitting by the fireside finishing the same book. I sat down beside her on the floor and, when she had closed the book, I asked: “What is your name besides Burns?”

“Helen.”

“Do you come a long way from here?”

“I come from a place farther north, quite on the borders of Scotland.”

“You must wish you leave Lowood?”

“No! Why should I? I was sent here to get an education, so I should do it before I go.”

“But Miss Scatcherd is so cruel to you.”

“Not at all! She just dislikes my faults.”

“If she struck me with that rod, I would get it from her hand; I would break it under her nose!”

“You probably would not. If you did, Mr. Brocklehurst would expel you from the school. It’s better to endure patiently pain yourself, than to cause problems for all connected with you. The Bible tells us to return good for evil.”

“But she humiliated you! I am far younger than you, and I could not bear it! You say you have faults, Helen: what are they? To me you seem very good.”

“I seldom put, and never keep, things, in order; I am careless; I forget rules; I read when I should learn my lessons. This is all very provoking to Miss Scatcherd, who is naturally neat, punctual, and particular.”

“And cross and cruel,” I added but Helen paid no attention to it.

“Is Miss Temple as severe to you as Miss Scatcherd?” I asked.

A soft smile appeared on Helen’s face.

“Miss Temple is full of goodness: she sees my errors, and tells me of them gently, and praises me when I do anything worthy of praise.”

“And how well you replied this afternoon.”

“It was mere chance. But every time when I listen to Miss Scatcherd, I lose the very sound of her voice, I fall into a sort of dream.”

“But Helen; isn’t it right to dislike those who, whatever I do to please them, persist in disliking me, to resist those who punish me unjustly, and love those who show kindness to me?”

“No. Love your enemies, do good to those who hate and use you.”

“Then I should love Mrs. Reed?”

Helen Burns asked me to explain and I told her everything about this woman with excitement and anger in my voice.

“She has been unkind to you, no doubt,” was the answer to my story. “But how clearly you remember all she has done and said to you! Life is too short to be spent in nursing hatred or rage. We are all full of faults. That is why I choose to forgive and live in calm.”

Just then, one of the monitors came up to us.

“Helen Burns, if you don’t put your drawer in order this minute, I’ll tell Miss Scatcherd about it!” Helen sighed and obeyed the monitor without reply.

My first three months seemed an age. I tried hard to get accustomed to new rules and tasks. The freezing weather stayed during January, February, and part of March. The roads were almost impassable because of deep snow, later because it started to melt.

Sundays were the worst days in that wintry season. We had to walk two miles to Brocklebridge Church. We set out cold, we arrived at church colder. During the morning service we became almost paralysed. We longed for the light and heat of the fireside, but the bigger girls always went to the front, and the little ones were left behind them, pulling our pinafores around our skinny arms.

I was always hungry. The portions were very small, and some of the bigger girls also bullied the little ones and took their bread. I had to share with them and left practically nothing for myself.

In my first weeks at Lowood, Mr. Brocklehurst was away on business. But in February he visited us. One afternoon I looked up from my lesson to see a tall figure passing the window. When Mr. Brocklehurst, for it was him, strode into the schoolroom two minutes later, everyone stood to attention. I was afraid of seeing him, because I remembered Mrs. Reed lying to him about me, and I did not want him to scold me in front of the girls.

He began by taking Miss Temple aside, and complaining to her about the woollen stockings on the washing line. “They are full of holes, ma’am!” I heard him say. “See that they are properly mended. And furthermore, Miss Temple, on looking over the accounts with the housekeeper, I saw that that a lunch, consisting of bread and cheese, has twice been served out to the girls during the past two weeks. How is this? and by what authority?”

“I am responsible for the circumstance, sir,” said Miss Temple. “The breakfast was so ill prepared that the pupils could not possibly eat it, and I orded to bring bread and butter.

Mr. Brocklehurst was not impressed. “You are aware that my plan in bringing up these girls is, not to accustom them to habits of luxury, but to make them patient, self-denying. They should be able to withstand the occasional spoiling of a meal. Indeed, instead of rewarding them with a delicate treat, you should have lectured them upon the suffering of our Lord, and fed their immortal souls instead of their bodies.”

Miss Temple did not reply. Meantime, Mr. Brocklehurst, standing on the hearth with his hands behind his back, majestically surveyed the whole school.[14]

“Miss Temple!” he suddenly exclaimed. “Red hair, ma’am, curled – curled all over?”

“It’s Julia Severn, sir,” replied Miss Temple quietly. “Her hair curls naturally.”

“Naturally! Yes, but we are not to conform to nature. I desire the hair to be arranged closely, modestly, plainly. Miss Temple, that girl’s hair must be cut off entirely; I will send a barber tomorrow.”

Mr. Brocklehurst was here interrupted: three other visitors, ladies, now entered the room. All three were splendidly attired, the fine girls of sixteen and seventeen had grey beaver hats, then in fashion, and curled hair under them, and the elder lady enveloped in a costly velvet shawl had a false front of French curls.

The three ladies were politely received by Miss Temple, and I heard that the elder lady’s name was Mrs. Brocklehurst. I now understood they were Mr. Brocklehurst’s wife and daughters. Meanwhile, Miss Temple had to listen to their complaints about the housekeeping.

As for me, I made all precautions to hide. I pretended I was busy with my sum and held my slate to conceal my face. It would have worked, if my slate had not slipped from my hand and fallen on the floor with a dreadful crash.

“A careless girl!” cried Mr. Brocklehurst. “Let the child who broke her slate come forward!” Miss Temple gently assisted me to his very feet. “Don’t be afraid, Jane, I saw it was an accident; you will not be punished.” But Mr. Brocklehurst had another opinion.

“Fetch that stool and place the child upon it!”

“Ladies,’ said he, turning to his family, ‘Miss Temple, teachers, and children, you all see this girl? You see she is yet young; you observe she possesses the ordinary form of childhood; but the Evil One had already found a servant and agent in her. You must be on your guard against her; if necessary, avoid her company. Teachers, you must watch her: keep your eyes on her movements, weigh well her words, punish her body to save her soul: if, indeed, such salvation is possible at all as this girl is a LIAR! This I learned from her benefactress; from the charitable lady who adopted her in her orphan state and brought her up as her own daughter.”

He finished his speech, bowed to Miss Temple and the others, and added, “Let her stand half an hour longer like that, and let no one speak to her till tomorrow.”

I could not bear the shame of standing on my natural feet in the middle of the room but could do nothing about it. But just as everyone rose, Helen came up and passed me lifting up her eyes to look at me. She looked at me as if I were a true martyr or a hero. I mastered the rising hysteria, lifted up my head, and took a firm stand on the stool. Helen smiled at me as she passed me again, and I knew I could now endure anything.[15]

When my half an hour punishment ended, five o’clock struck. School was dismissed, and all were gone into the refectory to tea. I descended from the stool and felt suddenly lonely and miserable. Helen Burns was not here, nothing sustained me, I sank with my face to the ground and felt my tears fill my eyes.

I had tried so hard. I had meant to be so good. I had reached the top of my class. Miss Miller had praised me warmly. Miss Temple had promised to teach me drawing, and to let me learn French, if I continued to make similar improvement two months longer. I was well received by my fellow-pupils; treated as an equal by those of my own age, and not bullied by any. Now everything was ruined.

I heard someone approach – again Helen Burns was near me. She brought my coffee and bread.

“Come, eat something,” she said kindly, and sat down next to me, but I put both away from me.

“Helen, why do you stay with a girl whom everybody believes to be a liar?”

“Everybody, Jane? Why, there are only eighty people who have heard it, and the world contains hundreds of millions.”

“I do not care about millions. The eighty I know now despise me.”

“You are wrong, probably not one in the school either despises or dislikes you. Many though pity you.”

“How can they pity me after what Mr. Brocklehurst’s words?”

“Mr. Brocklehurst is not a god. He is little liked here. If he had treated you as an especial favourite, you would have found enemies. As it is, you might find people look at you coldly for a day or two, but they sympathise with you in their hearts. Besides…”

“Well, Helen?” I said putting my hand into hers.

“If all the world hated you, you would not be without friends.”

“I cannot bear to be hated.”

“You think too much of the love of human beings. Remember, our life is very short, and we should not sink into distress. Besides this earth, and besides the race of men, there is an invisible world of spirits: that world is round us, for it is everywhere; and those spirits watch us and guard us. They always recognise innocence.”

I was silent; Helen had calmed me. There was sadness in her voice I could still not understand, she breathed a little fast and coughed a little. I momentarily forgot my sorrows feeling concern about her. Resting my head on Helen’s shoulder, I put my arms round her waist. That was how Miss Temple found us.

“I came on purpose to find you, Jane Eyre. I want you in my room; and as Helen Burns is with you, I want her to come too.”

We followed her away from the schoolroom along passages I had never seen and up a staircase before we reached her apartment. It contained a good fire, cozy low armchairs around and looked cheerful.

We sat down, and Miss Temple asked: “Is it all over, Jane? Have you cried your sorrows away?”

“I am afraid I will never do that,” I said. “I have been wrongly accused, and now everyone will think I am wicked.”

“We will consider you to be what you prove yourself to be, my child. Continue to act as a good girl, and we will never think you are wicked.”

I could hardly believe her kindness.

“And now tell me about this benefactress of yours. Why did she call you a liar? Defend yourself to me as well as you can, but add nothing and exaggerate nothing.”

I told her all about Mrs. Reed, and John Reed, and the red-room, and all the things that happened at Gateshead Hall. I tried to restrain myself, the story turned out to be less emotional than usual but more credible.

When I finished, Miss Temple regarded me a few minutes in silence, and then said, “I know Mr. Lloyd, and I will write to him. If his reply agrees with your story, I will know you are not a liar, and I will clear your name, and tell the whole school you are innocent. But I believe you already.”

She kissed me, and then addressed Helen Burns, “How are you tonight, Helen? Have you coughed much?”

“Not quite so much, I think, ma’am.”

“And the pain in your chest?”

“It is a little better.”

Miss Temple checked Helen’s pulse and sighed. But then she smiled cheerfully and said, “But you two are my guests tonight, I must treat you as such.”

She called her servant and ordered tea, bread and butter. But the servant came back only with plates and teacups for three but only one toast. She explained the cook would not provide more bread and butter. She was too afraid that Mr. Brocklehurst would find out.

As soon as we were left alone, Miss Temple invited Helen and me to approach the table and gave each of us a cup of tea with one delicious but thin morsel of toast.[16] Then she got up, opened a cupboard, and took out a whole fruitcake with nuts on top, wrapped in wax paper.

“I wanted to give each of you some of this to take with you,” she said, “but as there is so little toast, you will have cake now.”

What an earthly heaven I was in that night!

The china teacups looked so pretty in the firelight, with their patterns of tiny flowers. The steam from the teapot, the aroma of hot toast, and the sight of the thick slices of cake on the plates filled me with joy. As we feasted, and I listened to Helen talking to Miss Temple about French books and faraway places, I couldn’t think of a time when I had been happier. Not only was I eating well for the first time in weeks, but I was with beautiful, kind, wise Miss Temple, and I felt safe and warm.

Just a week later, Miss Temple stood before the school to make an announcement. She had made inquiries, she told us, and she had discovered, from a reliable source, that the allegations made against Miss Jane Eyre were false. Everyone applauded, and all the teachers hugged me. My name was cleared.

From that day onward, I resolved to work harder than ever. Soon I was put up to the next class, and, as I had been promised, started to learn French and drawing. I would not now have exchanged Lowood with all its hardships for Gateshead with its daily luxuries.

But the hardships of Lowood lessened. Spring came. The snows of winter melted. The nights and mornings were not so freezing cold any longer. First flowers started to appear amongst leaves. On Thursday afternoons we now took walks, and I realized that in spring the countryside around Lowood was beautiful. There was a clear stream nearby, and the school stood in the middle of a pretty wooded valley surrounded by high hills, purple with heather.

May followed April and brought days of blue skies and sunshine with it. All this beauty I enjoyed often and fully, free, unwatched, and almost alone. For this liberty and pleasure there was, however, an unpleasant cause.

Even though Lowood had a beautiful setting, it was not a healthy one. The nearby forest was full of for that crept into the school and breathed typhus through its crowded schoolroom and dormitory. Ere May arrived, our school was transformed into a hospital.

If we had all been strong and well-fed,[17] it wouldn’t have mattered so much. But, semi-starvation and neglected colds made forty-five girls ill at one time. Classes were broken up, rules relaxed. The teachers spent every moment looking after the ill or packing things of those who were fortunate enough to have friends and relatives and could leave Lowood at once. Many went home to die, some died at school and were buried quietly and quickly.

While the disease had become an inhabitant of Lowood, and death its frequent visitor, gardens glowed with flowers: lilies, roses and tulips were in bloom. Some of these lovely flowers ended up as a humble decoration for the coffins.

But I, and the rest who continued well, enjoyed the beauties of the scene and season. We walked in the wood from morning till night, we did what we liked, went where we liked: we lived better too.

Mr. Brocklehurst and his family never came near Lowood now driven away by the fear of infection. The servants and teachers were kinder to us. They gave us slices of pie, apples and parcels of bread and cheese to take out on our explorations.

I usually found a large, flat stone in the middle of the stream, where I had a picnic every day with my chosen friend Mary Ann. She was witty and original, and had a manner which set me at my ease. Some years older than I, she knew more of the world, and could tell me many things I liked to hear. She could tell stories well, I could analyse; she liked to inform, I liked to question, and we spent hours talking.

And where, meantime, was Helen Burns? Why did I not spend these sweet days of liberty with her? Had I forgotten her?

No doubt she was far better than Mary Ann, as the latter could only tell funny stories. But Helen was gravely ill. She was kept separately and Miss Temple took care of her personally. She had been taken to a room upstairs, and I saw her once in the garden with Miss Temple but was not allowed to speak with her. She did not have typhus, but an even more serious disease – consumption. How serious the disease was I learnt only later.

One evening, in the beginning of June, I had stayed out very late with Mary Ann in the wood. We had wandered so far that lost our way and it was only thanks to a man and woman, whose cottage we accidentally found that we found our way back. When we returned, we saw the doctor’s pony at the gate. Mary Ann went inside, and I stayed behind a few minutes to plant in my garden a handful of roots I had dug up in the forest. It was such a pleasant evening that I felt sorry for the sick who were lying in their beds now.

I was still there when the doctor came out, accompanied by a servant. He climbed onto his pony and left, and I ran over to the servant to ask about Helen.

“Is it Helen Burns Mr. Bates has been to see?”

“Yes,” was the reply.

“What does he say about her?”

“She is doing very poorly. He says she’ll not be here long.”

I knew instantly what this meant. It did not mean that Helen was going to her own home. She was going to be taken to the region of spirits. She was about to die. I felt a desire – a necessity to see her, I asked in what room she lay.

“She’s in Miss Temple’s room,” said the nurse.

“May I go up and speak to her?”

“Oh, no, child! And now it’s time for you to come inside.” The nurse closed the front door.

I went in by the side entrance which led to the schoolroom and was just in time to hear Miss Miller call the pupils to go to bed.

I could not fall asleep. I was thinking about Helen all the time. At last, after lying in bed for a while I made up my mind and got up quietly. Everybody was fast asleep and I crept away to Miss Temple’s room unnoticed. “I must embrace her before she dies,” I thought. “I must exchange with her one last word.”

A light shone through the keyhole of Miss Temple’s room. I opened the door gently without knocking, and went in. Miss Temple was not there – she was usually up all night, taking care of the sick. The servant I had spoken to earlier was asleep in one of the armchairs. My eye sought Helen, and feared to find death.

I felt slight relief as I saw Helen, heavily breathing and pale but alive and awake. She was calm as usual, and recognized me at once.

“Can it be you, Jane?” she asked, in her own gentle voice.

“Perhaps she won’t die,” I suddenly hoped. “They must be mistaken.”

“Why are you here, Jane? It is past eleven o’clock.”

“I came to see you, Helen: I heard you were very ill, and I could not sleep till I had spoken to you.”

“You came to bid me good-bye, then: you are just in time probably.”

“No, no, Helen!” I tried to stop my tears.

Helen started to cough. It did not, however, wake the nurse. When the cough was over, Helen lay some minutes exhausted. Then she whispered, “Your feet are bare. Lie down and cover yourself.”

I did so. She put her arm over me and continued, “I am very happy, Jane; and when you hear that I am dead, you must be sure and not grieve: there is nothing to grieve about. We all must die one day. My illness is gentle, I am in no pain, my mind is at rest. I have only a father; and he has lately married, and will not miss me. I am happy to die young; I will avoid so many sufferings.”

I felt so comfortable by her side, and did not want to leave her. I stayed with her that night and we both soon fell asleep.

When I woke up, it was day. I was in somebody’s arms; the nurse held me; she was carrying me through the passage back to the dormitory.

A day or two afterwards I learned that Miss Temple, on returning to her own room at dawn, had found on Helen’s bed; my face against Helen Burns’s shoulder, my arms round her neck. I was asleep, and Helen was – dead.

She was buried in Brocklebridge churchyard with no headstone. Now a grey marble tablet marks the spot, inscribed with her name, and the word ‘Resurgam’ meaning “I will rise again.”

When the typhus fever had fulfilled its mission at Lowood, it gradually disappeared. But news of the disease spread, its victims had drawn public attention on the school. An inquiry was held into how the disease could have broken out,[18] and soon the public found out about the unhealthy nature of the site, our poor diet and clothing, about our cold overcrowded dormitories. Everything was discovered and the discovery brought changes to our institution and shame to Mr. Brocklehurst.

He had been spending only a small part of the school’s funds on the students. Some said he spent the rest on himself and his family; but it could not be proved.

Because of his wealth and family connections, Mr. Brocklehurst retained the post of treasurer, but now he had to answer to a committee of new governors. The committee decided to move the school to a new building on the hillside, where there was no fog. We were given bigger helpings, good clothes and proper boots, and more space and time to ourselves. And so Lowood was transformed from a miserable, cruel institution, hardly better than a poorhouse, into a flourishing school with happy, healthy pupils.

I stayed there for eight years. My life was uniform: but not unhappy. My teachers supported me. In time I rose to be the first girl of the first class. Since sixteen I became an assistant teacher to the younger girls.

Through all changes Miss Temple stayed at Lowood. For me, she was a mother, governess, and, latterly, companion. When I grew up, she became a dear friend. Looking at her, I turned calm and quiet and started to appear disciplined even to myself.

But at this period she married, removed with her husband (a clergyman, an excellent man) to a distant county, and was lost to me. Destiny, in the shape of the Rev. Mr. Nasmyth, came between me and Miss Temple. I watched her leave in a carriage and with her was gone every feeling, every association that had made Lowood in some degree a home to me.

With her all calmness I had acquired previously was gone, too. Now I was left in my natural element, and beginning to feel old emotions.

My world had for some years been in Lowood: my experience had been of its rules and systems; now I remembered that the real world was wide, and that a field of hopes and fears, of sensations and excitements, awaited those who had courage to go forth.

I went to the window, opened it, and looked out. My eye passed all other objects to rest on those most remote. I traced the white road going round the base of one mountain, and vanishing in a gorge between two. How I longed to follow it farther! I recalled the time when I had travelled that very road when I was brought to Lowood. I had never quitted it since. My vacations had all been spent at school. Moreover, I had had no communication by letter or message with the outer world. I knew nothing but school-rules, school-duties, school-habits and the voices, faces, phrases, costumes, and preferences of the Lowood people.

And now I felt that it was not enough. I got tired of the routine of eight years in one afternoon. I desired liberty.

Here a bell for supper called me downstairs, and I descended planning to return to my thoughts at bedtime.

Unfortunately, I shared my room with another young teacher, Miss Gryce. She could talk endlessly about trivial matters I hardly cared about, and I often forced myself to look interested. Tonight she insisted on chattering and gossiping as usual. And I felt a great amount of relief when she snored at last.

I sat up in bed. It was a chilly night; I covered my shoulders with a shawl, and then I proceeded TO THINK again with all my might.

“What do I want? A new place, in a new house, amongst new faces, under new circumstances. How do people do to get a new place? I have no friends. But many people have no friends. What is their resource?”

I could not tell. I got up and took a turn in the room, then again crept to bed. As I lay down the suggestion came to me all of a sudden. “Advertisement! You must advertise in the paper! You will need money, you will go to the post in Lowton and ask to be addressed as J.E. The letters could come to the post-office there. A week after you could go and collect the replies.”

As the plan was ready, I felt satisfied and fell asleep.

In the morning I wrote my advertisement. Here is what I put in it:

“A young lady with experience of teaching desires to work in a private family where the children are under fourteen (I thought that as I was barely eighteen, it would not do to undertake the guidance of pupils nearer my own age). She is qualified to teach the usual branches of a good English education, together with French, Drawing, and Music.”

I kept the document locked in my drawer.

I asked the new superintendent[19] to go to Lowton, in order to perform some small commissions for myself and one or two of my fellow-teachers. Permission was given, and I went. It was a walk of two miles, the evening was wet, but the days were still long. I visited a shop or two, brought the letter to the post-office, and came back through heavy rain with a relieved heart.

The next week seemed unbearably long. I counted days and was excited when it was time to go. So, I took another evening walk to the Lowton thinking whether any letters were awaiting me in the post-office.

The old postmistress looked at me suspiciously when I asked if there were any letters for J.E. She looked through a drawer full of envelopes for so long that my hopes began to fade.

Finally, she handed me an envelope.

“Is there only one?” I asked.

“There are no more,” she said, and putting it into my pocket I hurried back to Lowood. I had to be back by eight, and it was half-past seven already. I decided to open the letter in my own room.

When I got back, there were things to do. I had to sit with the girls during their hour of study; then it was my turn to read prayers; to see them to bed. At last, I had supper with the other teachers. Then I had to wait again until my inevitable companion Miss Gryce fell asleep, hoping she would do it before our candle burned down to nothing. There still remained an inch of candle when I heard her snoring. I now took out my letter; the seal was an initial F.; I broke it; the contents were brief.

“If J.E. possesses the acquirements mentioned, and if she possesses a satisfactory character, a situation can be offered her, where there is one pupil, a little girl, under ten years, and where the salary is thirty pounds per year. J.E. is requested to send references, name, address, and all particulars to the direction: Mrs. Fairfax, Thornfield, near Millcote, – shire.”

I read it again and again. The handwriting was old-fashioned and uncertain, like that of elderly women. Mrs. Fairfax! I saw her in a black gown and widow’s cap, a model of elderly English respectability. Thornfield! that, doubtless, was the name of her house: a neat orderly spot. – shire was seventy miles nearer London than the remote county where I now resided. I longed to go where there was life and movement. It would be a complete change at least.

Here the candle went out.

My plans could no longer wait. Having sought and obtained an audience of the superintendent during the recreation, I told her I had a chance to get a new situation where the salary would be double what I now received (for at Lowood I only got 15 pounds per year), and I needed references from Mr. Brocklehurst, or some of the committee. She was glad to help me. The next day she spoke with Mr. Brocklehurst, who said that Mrs. Reed must be written to, as she was my guardian. Mrs. Reed’s reply was brief, I could do as I pleased as she had no desire to interfere in any of my affairs. Right after that, formal leave was given me to better my condition if I could. I also got an assurance, that as I had always conducted myself well, both as teacher and pupil, at Lowood, which was signed by the inspectors of the institution.

I sent all the references to Mrs. Fairfax, and got that lady’s reply, stating that she was satisfied, and fixing that day fortnight as the period for my assuming the post of governess in her house. I busied myself with preparation immediately.

On my way to Thornfield I was thinking that a phase of my life was closing tonight, a new one opening tomorrow.

It had been a long day. The road took sixteen hours, then I waited for two more hours in the George Inn at Millcote, feeling anxious and distressed as there was no one to meet me. I asked the waiter about Thornfield but he did not know the place. But some time later he returned and called me by my name. “Person here waiting for you,” he added.

I jumped up, a man was standing by the open door, and in the lamp-lit street I dimly saw a one-horse carriage. He hardly spoke, he put my luggage on the roof and helped me in. As I asked him how far Thornfield was, he answered that the road usually took about an hour and a half.

I was again alone with my thoughts. I concluded that Mrs. Fairfax was not very rich and felt better as I had never lived amongst fine people but once, and I had been very miserable with them. I wondered if she lived alone except this little girl. If so, I was sure I would get along with her. At least, I resolved to do my best. At Lowood, I had taken the same resolution and I had kept it.

The roads were heavy, the night misty. About two hours later the driver got down and opened a pair of gates. We continued up a long drive and stopped in front of the house. Candlelight glowed from one window at the front; the rest were dark. I climbed out of the buggy with my suitcase, and went to the front door, where a maid was waiting.

“Will you walk this way, ma’am?” she said, and I followed her across the large, square hallway with high doors all round.

She opened a door and showed me through. I couldn’t have hoped for a happier scene. The room was small, lit by candles and warmed by a crackling fire. In an armchair sat a plump old lady in a black dress, a cap and a shawl. She was knitting, and at her feet, close to the hearth, curled a contented-looking cat. It was Mrs. Fairfax, just as I had imagined her – except that she looked much friendlier than I had hoped.

“How do you do, my dear?” she said. “I’m afraid you’ve had a long journey – John drives so slowly – and you must be freezing. Come to the fireside.”

“Mrs. Fairfax?”

“Yes, that’s me,” she said. She got up and conducted me to her own chair, where she helped me with my shawl and bonnet strings.

“Please, you do not have to…”

“Oh, it’s no trouble! Your hands are almost numbed with cold. Leah, bring Miss Eyre something hot to drink, and a sandwich or two. Here are the keys of the storeroom.”

She was so kind and welcoming, it was as if I were a visiting lady, not the new governess. And I anticipated only coldness and stiffness. I felt rather confused at being the object of more attention than I had ever before received.

“Will I have the pleasure of seeing Miss Fairfax tonight?” I asked.

“Miss Fairfax? Oh, you mean Miss Varens! Varens is the name of your future pupil.”

“Then she is not your daughter?”

“No, no – I have no family,” said Mrs. Fairfax.

I wanted to know how Miss Varens was connected with her, but I remembered it was not polite to ask too many questions.

“I am so glad you have come; it will be quite pleasant living here now with a companion. It’s lovely here anyway, of course – this is a fine old house, and very respectable – but it can get dreary in the wintertime, especially when one is alone. Leah’s a nice girl, and John and Mary are good people, but they’re servants and keep to themselves. One needs someone intelligent to talk to! You know, all last winter, I swear not a soul came to the house but the butcher and the postman with their deliveries. I felt quite cut off. The spring and summer were more pleasant, of course, and then, just recently, Adèle arrived with her nurse. A child always livens up a house. And now you are here too, I’m sure I’ll be quite content!”

My heart warmed as I listened to her talking of friendship and conversation. I wished with all my heart that I could be as good a friend as she hoped.

“But I’ll not keep you up any longer,” she said. “It’s midnight, and I’m sure you’re quite exhausted. I’ll show you to your room. I’ve given you one near to mine, at the back of the house.[20] It’s quite small, but I think you’ll like it better than the big rooms at the front.”

I agreed I was very tired, and we went upstairs. Mrs. Fairfax opened the door to my room, which was small, but welcoming. After a long journey I was now at last in safe haven. I was too tired to stay awake any longer. I quickly unpacked my things, and within minutes I was in a deep sleep.

When I woke up, I thought that a brighter era of life was beginning for me, one that was to have its flowers and pleasures, as well as its thorns and toils. I dressed myself with care. But I didn’t have any fine clothes. I wished, as I often had before, that I wasn’t so small and plain. I wished I were taller and prettier. Meanwhile, I was pale, little and had irregular features.

I left my room tidy and went downstairs. There was no one around, I walked through the hall, taking in the paintings, the bronze lamps and the clock. The front door stood half-open, so I stepped outside and across the dewy lawn into the sunshine, and looked up at the house. Now I looked respectable enough to appear in front of Mrs. Fairfax and my new pupil, who would at least not run from me with antipathy.

I descended the slippery steps, then I reached the hall. I looked at some pictures on the walls and at a great clock whose case was of oak curiously carved. Everything seemed so luxurious to me though I was so little accustomed to luxury. I looked out of the open window. A row of old thorn trees divided the grounds from the meadows all around – they must have given the house its name.[21] In the distance there were moors, and on a nearby hilltop I could see a little village with a church.

I was yet enjoying the calm prospect and pleasant fresh air and thinking what a great place it was for one lonely little dame like Mrs. Fairfax to inhabit, when that lady appeared at the door.

“What! out already?” she said. “I see you’re an early riser! So, how do you like Thornfield?”

“I like it very much.”

“It is a pretty place,” she said. “But I fear it will get out of order, unless Mr. Rochester resides here permanently.”

“Mr. Rochester!” I exclaimed. “Who is he?”

“The owner of Thornfield,” she said. “Did not you know he was called Rochester?”

“No. I thought Thornfield belonged to you.”

“To me? Bless you, child!” she laughed. “No, I’m just the housekeeper, the manager! I am distantly related to the Rochesters by the mother’s side, or at least my husband was. But this connection is nothing to me. I consider myself an ordinary housekeeper and him my employer.”

I felt better pleased than ever. The equality between her and me was real.

“And the little girl – my pupil?”

“She is Mr. Rochester’s ward. He asked me to find a teacher for her. He wants her to be brought up here, in – shire.”

As I was thinking about this discovery, a little girl, followed by her nurse, came running up the lawn. My pupil was quite a child, perhaps seven or eight years old, with a pale, small-featured face, and curls to her waist.

“Good morning, Miss Adèle,” said Mrs. Fairfax. “Come and speak to the lady who is to teach you, and to make you a clever woman some day.”

“Bonjour,” said Adèle, and turned to her nurse, talking excitedly in French. She came and shook hand with me when she heard, that I was her governess.

“Are they foreigners?” I inquired, amazed at hearing the French language.

“The nurse is a foreigner, and Adèle was born in France. I believe, she had never left it till within six months ago. When she first came here, she could speak no English. She can shift between the languages now but I don’t understand her, she mixes it so with French. But it will be no problem to you, won’t it?”

Fortunately I had been taught French by a French lady, and I had talked with Madame Pierrot as often as I could. Now I could easily communicate with my pupil. When Adèle heard I could speak French, she replied briefly but then started to speak fluently and complimented my skills. “You speak my language as well as Mr. Rochester does: I can talk to you as I can to him, and so can Sophie. She will be glad: nobody here understands her: Madame Fairfax is all English,” she said.

I led her in to breakfast.

“Sophie is my nurse; she came with me over the sea in a great ship with a chimney that smoked – how it did smoke! – and I was sick, and so was Sophie, and so was Mr. Rochester,” the girl continued. Then she suddenly asked, “And what is your name, Mademoiselle?”

“Eyre – Jane Eyre.”

She repeated it with a French accent and got upset that she could not pronounce it correctly.

After breakfast, Adèle and I withdrew to the library, the room Mr. Rochester had ordered to be used as the schoolroom. There was a bookcase containing everything that could be needed in the way of elementary works, a piano, a pair of globes and an easel for painting.

Adèle was docile and eager to study but she was not accustomed to any kind of discipline. I felt it would be cruel to keep her all day the first time, and I allowed her to return to her nurse at noon.

I decided to draw some little sketches for her use and was on my way upstairs to fetch my pencils when Mrs. Fairfax called me, “Your school hours are over now, I suppose,” she said. “Would you like to see the house?”

I followed her into every room, gazing in wonder at the beautiful furniture, the rich deep carpets, and the grand empty bedrooms with their velvet drapes. Mrs. Fairfax dusted here and there as she showed me around.

“In what order you keep these rooms, Mrs. Fairfax!” I said. “Except that the air feels chilly, one would think they were inhabited daily.”

“Why, Miss Eyre, though Mr. Rochester’s visits here are rare, they are always sudden and unexpected. So, I thought it would be best to keep the rooms in readiness.”

“What is Mr. Rochester like? Do you like him? Is he generally liked?” I asked

“Oh, yes; the family have always been respected here. And I have no cause to do otherwise than like him. He has always been just and noble. But he is rather peculiar, I suppose.”

“In what way is he peculiar?” I asked.

“I don’t know – it is not easy to describe – nothing striking, but you feel it when he speaks to you; you cannot be always sure whether he is pleased or the contrary; you don’t thoroughly understand him, in short – at least, I don’t: but he is a very good master.”

We were already upstairs; now I followed her through a doorway and up a narrow staircase to the attic. We went along a gloomy passageway, then up a ladder and through a trapdoor onto the roof.

We were as high up as the rooks in the trees behind the house, and I could look right into their nests. Walking around the battlements, I saw the grounds laid out like a map, with the meadows, the village and the hills beyond all lying peacefully in the warm autumn sun.

By now it was almost time for lunch. While Mrs. Fairfax stayed to fasten the trapdoor, I climbed down the ladder. My eyes had grown used to the bright sunshine, and now the attic passageway seemed pitch-black. I had to feel my way along the walls in the silence.

As I was nearing the top of the attic stairs, I heard a very strange sound. It was a kind of laugh, but not a happy one. It sounded loud, hollow and inhuman – almost like a bark. If I had been alone, and if it hadn’t been the middle of the day, I would have feared it was a ghost. I hurried down the staircase and through the door into the upstairs hallway.

“Mrs. Fairfax,” I called. She emerged a few moments later.

“Did you hear that loud laugh? Who is it?” I asked.

“Some of the servants, very likely,” she answered: “perhaps Grace Poole. I often hear her: she sews in one of these rooms.”

The laugh was repeated in a low tone and ended with a murmur.

“Grace!” exclaimed Mrs. Fairfax.

I really did not expect any Grace to answer; but the door nearest me opened, and a servant came out, – a woman of between thirty and forty; a red-haired figure with a hard, plain face. If she were an apparition, there were no apparition less ghostly.

“Too much noise, Grace,” said Mrs. Fairfax.

As we went on, my companion asked me about, and the conversation about the girl continued till we reached the light and cheerful region downstairs.

Adle met us there, and we found dinner ready, and waiting for us in Mrs. Fairfax’s room.

The promise of a smooth career was coming true. Never before had I been granted such a pleasant existence.[22] Mrs. Fairfax turned out to be what she appeared, a calm woman of average intelligence. My pupil was a lively child, spoilt but teachable and obedient. She made progress, and her efforts to please me inspired me, thus, we were both content in each other’s society.

Yet now and then, when I was left alone and took a walk by myself in the grounds or climbed up to the attic to admire the view, I longed for the busy world, towns, regions full of life. I desired more of practical experience than I possessed and more people around me to talk to. Then my only relief was to walk along the corridor of the third storey, backwards and forwards, safe in the silence and solitude, and to open my inward ear to a tale that was never ended – a tale my imagination created, a tale full of incident, life, fire, feeling, that I desired and had not in my actual life.

When I was near the attic, I often heard Grace Poole’s laugh – the same low, slow ha! ha! which was followed by her eccentric murmurs. Sometimes I saw her, and I could not believe that woman, who had no point to which interest could attach, could produce such sounds.

October, November and December passed away. One afternoon in January, Mrs. Fairfax asked for a holiday for Adèle, because she had a cold, and I agreed.

It was a fine, calm day, though very cold. I was tired of sitting still in the library through a whole long morning and, as Mrs. Fairfax had just written a letter, I volunteered to carry it to Hay and post it. The distance of two miles could become a pleasant winter afternoon walk.

I walked fast till I got warm. Then I walked slowly, and as my road was all uphill, after a mile or so I stopped to rest. A sheet of ice lay across the track where a stream had run over it and frozen solid. From where I was, I could see Thornfield, with its dark battlements and woods. Looking the other way, I saw chimney smoke rising from the houses at the top of the hill. Behind them, the moon was rising. I stayed there in absolute peace, listening to the faint sound of the rivers in the valley.

Just as I was about to set off again, I heard the metallic clatter of horses’ hooves approaching. I couldn’t see anything, as the lane was narrow and winding, but someone was certainly coming. I stood back to let them pass.

When the noise was close, but there was still no one in sight, I was startled to see a huge dog sniffing right next to me. It was brown and white, with a long coat, and such a large, hairy head that it reminded me of a lion. I shrank back, but the dog ran past without even looking at me. Almost at once the rider galloped past too – a man on a tall, sturdy horse – and I continued my journey.

Then I heard a scraping sound, and the man cursing. I turned back to see that both horse and rider were on the ground: they had slipped on the ice I had been looking at.[23] The dog sniffed around them, then came up to me, barking. I followed him back down the track.

“Are you injured, sir?” I asked. “Can I do anything?”

“You must just stand on one side,” he answered as he rose, first to his knees, and then to his feet. The he helped the horse. Meanwhile, the dog was barking and leaping around, and was at last silenced with a ‘Down, Pilot!’.

Luckily, the horse was unharmed. But the rider felt his foot and leg and limped.

“If you are hurt, and want help, sir, I can fetch someone either from Thornfield Hall or from Hay.”

“Thank you, but have no broken bones, – only a sprain,” he said. As he stood up and tried his foot, he gave an involuntary ‘Ugh!’

The sun had no set yet, and I could see him clearly. His figure was enveloped in a riding cloak, but I traced middle height and a considerable breadth of chest. He had a dark face, with stern features, he was past youth, but had not reached middle-age, and I concluded he was about thirty-five. I felt no fear of him, probably just little shyness. He was not a handsome, heroic-looking young gentleman, he had not smiled and been good-humoured to me. If he had, I would have long been gone. But now when he waved to me to go, I announced, “I cannot think of leaving you, sir, at so late an hour till I see you are fit to mount your horse.”

He looked at me when I said this; he had hardly turned his eyes in my direction before.

“I should think you ought to be at home yourself [20],” he said. “If you have a home in this neighbourhood, where do you come from?’”

“From just below. And I will run over to Hay for you with pleasure, if you wish it. Indeed, I am going there to post a letter.”

“You live just below – do you mean at that house?” he pointed to Thornfield Hall.

“Yes, sir.”

“Whose house is it?”

“Mr. Rochester’s.”

“Do you know Mr. Rochester?”

“No, I have never seen him.”

“Can you tell me where he is?”

“I cannot.”

“You are not a servant at the hall, of course. You are —“

He stopped, looked at my plain dress, puzzled to decide what I was. I helped him.

“I am the governess.”

“Ah, the governess!”

In two minutes he rose, and his face expressed pain when he tried to move.

“I will not ask you to fetch help, but you may help me a little yourself, if you are so kind.”

I went over to him, and he leaned on my shoulder. With much grimacing, we reached his horse, and he hauled himself into the saddle. “Thank you; now hurry with the letter to Hay, and return as fast as you can.’” He spurred the horse on, the dog followed, and they all disappeared.

I went on my way to Hay. The incident was over – there was no need to think about it. Yet as I walked into the village, as I posted the letters, as I tramped down the hill in the dark, I couldn’t help thinking about the man. His face hung in the air before me, so stern and strong, unlike the face of anyone else I knew. When I was on my way back, I stopped and wondered for a moment if I might meet him again. But there was no one there. I could see yellow light shining from the windows of Thornfield Hall, reminding me that I was late, and I hurried on.

When I got in, the hallway was dark, but there was a warm glow coming from the dining room, as the door was half-open. I heard voices inside, including ’s, as I walked past. I went into Mrs. Fairfax’s little office. There was a fire burning in the grate, but Mrs. Fairfax was not there. Instead, I was amazed to see a large, hairy dog sitting on the hearth rug, exactly like the one I had seen a few hours before. It was so similar that I called out “Pilot!”, and the thing got up and came to me and snuffed me. I caressed him, and he wagged his great tail.

I rang the bell as I wanted a candle, and I wanted, too, to ask Leah a few questions about the dog.

“What dog is this?”

“He came with master.”

“With whom?”

“With master – Mr. Rochester – he is just arrived.”

“Oh! and is Mrs. Fairfax with him?”

“Yes, and Miss Adèle. They are in the dining-room. But the master has had an accident. His horse fell and his ankle is sprained.”

“Did the horse fall on the road to Hay?”

“Yes, it slipped on some ice.”

“Ah! Bring me a candle, will you Leah?”

Leah brought it. When she returned, Mrs. Fairfax entered the room with her and repeated the news. The surgeon had arrived and was now with Mr. Rochester. Then she hurried out to give orders about tea, and I went upstairs to take off my things.

Mr. Rochester, it seems, by the surgeon’s orders, went to bed early that night. did he rise soon next morning. Adèle and I had now to vacate the library. Mr. Rochester needed it as a reception-room for visitors.

Adèle was not easy to teach that day. The doorbell rang constantly all day as various visitors arrived. My pupil kept running to the top of the bannisters to see if she could get a glimpse of Mr. Rochester. She invented pretexts to go downstairs in order to, as I guessed, to visit the library, where she was not wanted. Even when I got a little angry and made her sit still, she continued to talk of her dear friend Mr. Rochester and the presents he must have brought for her. “And yesterday he asked me a lot about you, Mademoiselle,” she added in French: “He must have a present for you, too.”

At dark I allowed Adele to put away books and work, and to run downstairs. It had been silent downstairs and I thought that Mr. Rochester was no longer busy.

Mrs. Fairfax came in. “Mr. Rochester would like you and your pupil to take tea with him in the drawing-room this evening,” she said: “he has been so busy all day that he could not ask to see you before.”

“When does he expect us?”

“Oh, at six o’clock. You had better change your frock now.”

“Is it necessary to change my frock?”

“Yes, you had better: I always dress for the evening when Mr. Rochester is here.”

She came with me to my room and helped me to put on my black silk dress.

“You want a brooch,” said Mrs. Fairfax. I had a little pearl ornament, which Miss Temple gave me as a parting keepsake. I put it on, and then we went downstairs.

Mr. Rochester was resting on a sofa, with his bad foot raised up on a cushion, while played with Pilot by the fire.

“Here is Miss Eyre, sir,” said Mrs. Fairfax, in her quiet way. He bowed, still not taking his eyes from the group of the dog and child. While Mrs. Fairfax fetched the tea, I sat down, feeling just as I had before – that his lack of courtesy made things easier for me. It meant that I felt no obligation to be polite.

“Did you bring Miss Eyre a present?” Adèle asked suddenly, running over to Mr. Rochester.

Mr. Rochester raised his eyebrows, and turned to me. “Did you expect a present, Miss Eyre? Are you fond of presents?” he asked searching my face with eyes that I saw were dark and piercing.

“I hardly know, sir. I have little experience of them. They are generally thought pleasant things.”

“But what do YOU think?”

“A present has many faces to it, has it not? and one should consider all, before pronouncing an opinion.”

“Miss Eyre, you are not so unsophisticated as Adèle. The moment she sees me, she demands presents.”

“That’s not true at all,” he replied. “I can see what good work you have done with Adèle. By the way, I have examined Adèle, and think you have taken great pains with her. She is not bright, she has no talents; yet in a short time she has made much progress.”

“Sir, you have now given me my present, as this praise is the best present you could ever give a teacher,” I said.

Mr. Rochester grunted, and took his cup of tea from Mrs. Fairfax.

“You have been here how long?”

“Three months, sir.”

“And you came from —?”

“From Lowood school, in – shire.”

“How long were you there?”

“Eight years.”

“Eight years! No wonder you have rather the look of another world. When I saw you last night, I thought of fairy tales. I decided you had bewitched my horse. I am not sure yet. Who are your parents?”

“I have none.”

“So when you standing there, you were waiting for your real family, the elves and the fairies.”

I shook my head. “The men in green all left England a hundred years ago,” said I, speaking as seriously as he had done.

Mrs. Fairfax had dropped her knitting, and, with raised eyebrows, tried to understand what sort of talk this was.

“Who recommended you to come here?”

“I advertised, and Mrs. Fairfax answered my advertisement.”

“Yes,” said the good lady, who now knew we were talking about, “and I am daily thankful for the choice Providence let me make. Miss Eyre has been an invaluable companion to me, and a kind teacher to Adele.”

“I will judge for myself. First of all, I have to thank her for this sprain.”

Mrs. Fairfax wanted to object, but Mr. Rochester did not let her do it. He interrogated me about Lowood and things I had been taught there. He asked me to go to the piano in the library and play a tune there. “You play rather better than some school-girls but not well,” was his judgement. “ showed me some sketches this morning, which she said were yours. Has any master helped you?”

“No, indeed!”

“Ah! that pricks pride.” He wanted to see more works. I brought the portfolio from the library. He deliberately scrutinised each sketch and painting.

“Were you happy when you painted these pictures?”

“To paint them was to enjoy one of the few pleasures I have ever known.”

“You had not enough of the artist’s skill and science to give it full being. Yet the drawings are, for a school-girl, peculiar.”

Then looking at his watch, he said abruptly, “It is nine o’clock: Miss Eyre, you should not let Adèle sit up so long. Take her to bed. I wish you all good-night, now.”

I took my portfolio. We curtseyed to him, received a frigid bow in return, and left the room.

“You said he was not strikingly peculiar,” I told Mrs. Fairfax after putting the girl to bed. “I think he is very changeful.”

“I am so accustomed to his manner, I never think of it,” she said. “He has had a few family troubles. He lost his elder brother nine years ago.”

“Was he so very fond of his brother?”

“Why, no – perhaps not. I believe there were some misunderstandings between them. He is not very forgiving: he broke with his family, and now for many years he has led an unsettled kind of life. I don’t think he has ever stayed at Thornfield for a fortnight, since the death of his brother without a will left him master of the mansion. Indeed, no wonder he shuns the place.”

“Why should he shun it?”

“Perhaps he thinks it gloomy.”

The answer was evasive. It was evident that Mrs. Fairfax wished me to drop the subject.

For the next few days I hardly saw Mr. Rochester. In the mornings he was busy with visitors and, since his sprain was better, he often went out riding. He generally did not come back till late at night. I occasionally bumped into him on the stairs or in the hall. Sometimes he would bow and smile; other times he seemed irritated, and barely glanced at me.

One day after a dinner party with some friends, he asked Mrs. Fairfax to bring and me to the drawing room. His things had at last arrived from Millcote, and he gave her box of presents. While she sat on the sofa ecstatically examining her treasure, Mr. Rochester asked me to come and seat in a chair near his own.

“I am really not fond of children. Don’t draw that chair farther off, Miss Eyre; sit down exactly where I placed it – if you please, that is.”

He then proceeded to stare into the fire in silence. He had placed my chair so close to him, I could do nothing but sit and look at him. Mr. Rochester looked different to what I had seen him look before; not quite so stern – much less gloomy. There was a smile on his lips, and his eyes sparkled. He had great, dark eyes, and very fine eyes, too – not without a certain change in their depths sometimes, which, if it was not softness, reminded you, at least, of that feeling.

Suddenly he turned and caught me looking at him.

“You examine me, Miss Eyre,” he said. “Do you think I am handsome?”

I should have replied to this question by something polite and vague but instead I answered with ‘No, sir’.

Ah! There is something special about you! You are so quiet, grave, and simple, but when one asks you a question, or makes a remark to which you are obliged to reply, you are blunt and straight-forward.”

Yet he seemed to like this honesty in me; he was intrigued by it. He told me that I was unlike anyone else he had met, especially of so young an age, and that since I was so honest with him, he could not help but be honest with me.

“It would please me now to draw you out – to learn more of you – therefore speak.”

Instead of speaking, I smiled. “What about, sir?”

“Whatever you like.”

I said nothing.

“Stubborn?” he said, “and annoyed. Ah! I put my request in an absurd form. I am sorry. I did not mean to make you feel inferior to me, I just wanted you to talk to me a little and divert my thoughts.”

“I would love to help, but I cannot introduce a topic. How do I know what will interest you?”

“Do you agree I have a right to be a little masterful with you?”

“I don’t think, sir, you have a right to command me.”

We talked more. Once he said something strange – that he had many regrets, but that he now intended to become a good person. I did not understand, though I wanted to. As if he felt that I was not indifferent to his sorrows, he promised:

“I’ll explain all this some day. Goodnight.”

Mr. Rochester explained later everything. At least, he told me a little about his past. It was one afternoon when he met me and in the grounds. While the girl played with Pilot, he asked me to walk within sight of her.

He said that she was the daughter of a French opera-dancer, Celine Varens, whom he had loved passionately once. She called him her Apollo Belvidere and he thought he was her idol, though he was ugly. “I gave her a complete establishment of servants, a carriage, diamonds,” he continued. “I was blind with love. But one night, when I came unexpectedly, I found her out. The carriage stopped, as I had expected, at the hotel door. I recognised her at once and was about to call her by name when I saw another figure jump from the carriage after her.”

Some time later, Celine ran away to Italy with her new lover. But she left her daughter behind in Paris, claiming that Rochester should look after her.

“I am not her father,” Mr. Rochester explained. “And I don’t know who is. But she had no one, and I could not leave her like that.”

“How strange that I am telling you all this,” he added, “and how odd that you listen so calmly – you are not shocked for a moment. But there is something about you – something that makes me want to confide in you.” I did not reply. “And so here she is, a little French flower, transplanted to an English country garden here at Thornfield,” he continued. “And because she is here, you are here too. Mrs. Fairfax found you to train her; but now you know that it is an illegitimate offspring of a French opera-girl, you will perhaps think differently of your post and pupil. Some day you will tell me that you have found another place and beg me to look out for a new governess.”

“No: Adèle is not to blame for her mother’s faults or yours. Now that I know that she is, in a sense, parentless – abandoned by her mother and disowned by you, sir – I’ll cling closer to her than before. How should I possibly prefer the spoilt pet of a wealthy family, who would hate her governess, to a lonely little orphan, who treats her as a friend?”

“Oh, that is the light in which you view it!”

He looked up at the house. “I like this house,” he said, thoughtfully. “I like its worn stone, and the old thorn trees. And yet, how I’ve struggled to stay away, how I’ve hated the thought of…” He fell silent, staring up at Thornfield’s windows. As I watched, I saw a range of feelings pass across his face: first a kind of impatience, then disgust and hatred, followed by guilt and pain. Finally, he hardened his features into stony determination, and said, “It’s time to go in.”

After a while Mr. Rochester, who had previously been nothing but an employer to me, became my friend. As time went on, he became less moody, and was always pleased to see me. He often wanted to talk, he trusted me and treated me as his equal, even though I was still a governess paid thirty pounds a year.

I had called him plain and even ugly, but his was the face I now most wanted to see. Thanks to him I forgot about my loneliness. Now I had all the intelligent conversation I had longed for, and I enjoyed it as much as I could. I laughed more, and my complexion looked brighter and healthier. I guess, I could say I was really happy then.

As all other people in the world Mr. Rochester had his faults. He could be rude and harsh, moody and sarcastic. But he was good at heart. And whatever sorrows and troubles tormented him, I wanted desperately to help him.

Late that night, I lay in bed wide awake thinking about Mr. Rochester. I thought about the way he had looked up at the house, seeming to suffer such agony. Eight weeks had passed since he arrived; but Mrs. Fairfax had told me he hardly ever came to Thornfield for more than a fortnight. Was he leaving soon? Spring was nearly here, and summer and autumn lay ahead. How lonely they would be for me if he went away! What was it, I wondered, that made it so hard for him to be here?

I blew out my candle, but just as I was drifting off, I heard something that made me start awake again – a low, murmuring noise, very close by. I sat up suddenly, alert and listening. After a while, I heard the clock in the hallway strike two. Just then, it seemed that someone, or something, walked past the door of my room.

“Who is there?” I asked. Then I remembered Pilot. Perhaps the kitchen door had been left open, and he had come upstairs to look for his master. This calmed me down, and I turned over again to sleep.

And there it was again! The dreadful low laugh I had heard so many times in the attic passageway! Now it seemed to be right outside my door, almost as if it came in through the keyhole. In a panic I got up, ran up to the door and drew the bolt across. Trembling, I repeated: “Who is there?”

There was a murmur followed by footsteps moving along the hall and up the attic stairs. “Was that Grace Poole? Is she possessed with a devil?” Had she started wandering the house by night? I decided to wake Mrs. Fairfax, to tell her about the laugh and steps.

Still shaking all over with fear,[24] I put on a dress and a shawl, and unbolted my door. There was a candle burning just outside. I was also amazed to find the air quite dim, as if filled with smoke. Then I was more aware of the strong smell of burning.

As I soon saw, the smoke was coming from Mr. Rochester’s room. The door was ajar, and I ran in. I thought no more of Mrs. Fairfax. I thought no more of Grace Poole.

Through the smoke I saw flames on the curtains of the bed, and Mr. Rochester lying motionless, in deep sleep.

“Wake up!” I shook him, but he only murmured and turned – the smoke had dulled his senses. I rushed to his basin, where I found a water jug as well. Both were full of water and I lifted them up in turn, carried them over to the bed and drenched the curtains and blankets. I flew back to my own room, brought my own water jug and extinguished the fire.

The hiss of the dying fire and the splash of water woke Mr. Rochester at last.

“Is there a flood?” he cried.

“No, sir,’ I answered, ‘but there has been a fire. Get up. You are wet now. I will fetch you a candle.”

“Is that Jane Eyre?” he demanded. “What have you done with me, witch? Have you plotted to drown me?”

I fetched the candle from outside my door. When I returned, Mr. Rochester was wearing his dressing gown. He took the candle from me and inspected the blackened wet bed.

“What happened?” he asked. “Who did this?”

I told him everything – how I had heard the murmur and the strange laugh, which I knew from before, and footsteps going up to the attic, and how the candle had been left outside my room.

“Should I fetch Mrs. Fairfax?” I asked.

“No – no, don’t fetch anyone,” he said. “Stay here in this chair, and wait for me. I am going upstairs for a minute, and I will be back soon. Don’t move.”

I waited there in the darkness for what seemed like hours. I was thinking about disobeying him and going back to my room when I heard him returning. He came in, looking gloomy.

“I have sorted it all out,” he said. He stared at me. “I forget whether you said you saw anything when you opened your chamber door.”

“No, sir, only the candlestick on the ground.”

“But you heard an odd laugh? You have heard that laugh before, I think, or something like it?”

“Yes, sir: there is a woman who sews here, called Grace

Poole, – she laughs in that way.”

“Grace Poole – you have guessed it. She’s – well, she’s a little eccentric. Meantime, I am glad that you are the only person, besides myself, acquainted with the precise details of tonight’s incident. You are no talking fool. Say nothing about it. I will take care of it myself.”

“Good-night then, sir.”

He seemed surprised. “What!” he exclaimed, “are you quitting me already, and in that way?”

“You just said I should go back to my room, sir.”

“Yes, but not in that brief, dry fashion. Why, you have saved my life! Let us at least shake hands.”

He held out his hand. I gave him mine. He took it first in one, them in both his own.

“You have saved my life: I have a pleasure in owing you so immense a debt. I cannot say more.”

“Good-night again, sir. There is no debt, sir,” I said. “I am glad I happened to be awake, and was able to help.[25]”

But he would not let go of my hand.

“I knew…” he said, “I knew as soon as I saw you, that you would do me good in some way.” He stared at me intensely.

“I think I hear Mrs. Fairfax stirring, sir,” I said.

“Well, then you must go,” he said, releasing me.

Back in my bed, I could not sleep for a second. My brain turned over and over the strange and dramatic events of the night, until I was exhausted. Feelings of terror, when I thought of what might have happened, constantly changed places with joy, when I thought of the touch of his hand, and the look I had seen in his eyes. Too excited to rest, I rose as soon as day dawned.

I both wished and feared to see Mr. Rochester on the day, which followed this sleepless night. I wanted to hear his voice again, yet feared to meet his eye. But the morning passed just as usual. Nothing interrupted the studies. Later I heard Mrs. Fairfax and the servants talking about the fire as if it had been nothing but an accident, which Mr. Rochester himself had dealt with.

“What a blessing he was not burnt in his bed!” they exclaimed. “It is always dangerous to keep a candle lit at night.” “It’s a mercy he thought of using the water jug.”

When I walked past Mr. Rochester’s room, I saw that everything had been cleaned up. The curtains were gone from the bed, and Leah was busy scrubbing the smoke-stained window panes.

I was about to go in and speak to her, when I saw someone else sitting in the room. It was Grace Poole. She was sewing new bed curtains, and looked as plain and poker-faced as ever. How could she still be here, after what she had done last night? I was sure she would have been dismissed immediately. I stepped into the room.

“Good morning, Grace,” I said. “Has anything happened here? I thought I heard the servants all talking together a while ago…”

“Only master had been reading in his bed last night. He fell asleep with his candle lit, and the curtains got on fire, but he woke up just in time to put out the fire.”

There was not a hint of guilt in her face.

“It’s a wonder no one heard anything,” I said. “Didn’t he wake anyone?”

“The servants sleep so far off,” said Grace, concentrating on her sewing. “Only you and Mrs. Fairfax sleep near this room, and she is an old lady and sleeps soundly. Why, did you hear something, Miss?” With this she looked up at me, and at last I thought I could see awareness behind her eyes.

“I did,” I said, “but I thought it was just Pilot. But then… Pilot does not laugh, does he? [23] I heard a laugh.”

Grace took another piece of thread and threaded her needle purposefully. “I hardly think the master would laugh, Miss, when he was in such danger,” she remarked. “Perhaps you were dreaming.”

“I was not dreaming.”

“Have you told master that you heard a laugh?”

“I have not had the opportunity of speaking to him this morning.”

“You did not think of opening your door and looking out into the gallery?” she further asked.

She seemed to interrogate me in return trying to find out how much I knew.

“On the contrary,” said I, “I bolted my door.”

“Don’t you bolt it every night?”

“No.”

“It will be wise so to do.”

She looked down and our conversation was over.

For the rest of the day I puzzled over this mystery. What strange hold did Grace Poole have over Mr. Rochester? She had tried to murder him – he had told me as much last night – yet he had chosen to cover up her crime, and seemed to have no intention of getting rid of her.

I longed to see him, so I could ask him what was going on. We knew each other well enough by now, and I was sure I could raise the matter without offending him. [9] But there was no sign of him. When I asked Mrs. Fairfax where he was, she was surprised I did not know that he was not in Thornfield.

“Mr. Rochester has gone to visit friends on the other side of Millcote,” she said. “They are having quite a party.”

“Is he expected back tonight?”

“No, nor tomorrow either – I should think he will stay a week or more. He’s very popular among his friends, you know – especially the ladies.”

I felt a chill around my heart, but I pulled myself together while Mrs. Fairfax continued on: “One might not think him the best-looking of gentlemen, I suppose, but perhaps it is his wealth and his accomplishments that make the ladies like him.”

“Are there ladies at this party?” I asked.

“Oh, of course – Mrs. Eshton, and her three daughters, and Maria and Blanche Ingram – Blanche is the most beautiful of them all. I saw her when she came to a Christmas ball here, some years ago – the room fairly lit up when she walked in.”

“What is she like?”

“Tall and shapely, with lovely olive skin, and dark eyes, so sparkling they are, like jewels, and the thickest, glossiest black hair you ever saw, all in curls. On that night, she was wearing a white gown – how perfect she looked! She and Mr. Rochester sang a duet, I remember.”

“Mr. Rochester can sing?” I asked, trying to sound as calm as I could.

“Yes, he has a fine voice, like Miss Blanche.”

“How nice,” I smiled.

Alone in my room that night, I hated myself for ever thinking Mr. Rochester could like me. A few kind words, a look in his eye in a dark room filled with smoke – and I had dared to imagine he had feelings for me. Well, he did not. Why should he, when there were women like Blanche Ingram in his world – beautiful, accomplished, and of his own class? He would never choose me over someone like her. I had to stop dreaming.

I forced myself to look in the mirror at my plain little face, my thin lips, sallow skin and flat brown hair. I resolved to paint two pictures – one of myself, just as I was, and one of Blanche Ingram, beautiful and glowing, just as Mrs. Fairfax had described her. I kept my word. An hour or two sufficed to sketch my own portrait in crayons; and in less than a fortnight I completed a miniature of an imaginary Blanche Ingram. Then, whenever I thought about Mr. Rochester, I looked at the pictures, and the contrast was as great as self-control could only desire.

A week passed, and there was no news of Mrs. Rochester. I worked hard with, and busied myself with my painting and sewing. Mrs. Fairfax said she would not be surprised if he went straight from his friends’ place to London, and then to the Continent, and not show his face again at Thornfield for a whole year. After hearing that I told myself, “You have nothing to do with the master of Thornfield.”

Yet when, two weeks after Mr. Rochester’s departure Mrs. Fairfax received a letter from him, and my calmness and self-control faded once again.

“Well, I sometimes think we are too quiet; but we will be busy enough now: for a little while at least,” she said. “The master’s coming back in three days, and not alone either,” she said. “I don’t know how many of the fine people are coming with him, but he wants all the bedrooms prepared. I need to bring in extra kitchen staff. The ladies will bring their maids and the gentlemen their valets: so we will have a full house of it.”

The next three days were, as promised, busy enough. Beds were aired, carpets were beaten, fireplaces were swept, and vases were filled with flowers. Extra servants were employed from the village, and I had to help too, so was excused from her lessons. She ran around the house in a frenzy of excitement, bouncing on the beds and chattering as we dusted, scrubbed and polished.

One afternoon, in the midst of all this activity, I heard Leah talking to one of the extra servants about Grace Poole, and I stopped to eavesdrop.

“She’s paid well, I suppose?” said the girl.

“Oh, yes,” said Leah. “I wish I were paid that much; not that my wages are to complain of.”

I did not see what was so challenging about sewing curtains and tablecloths, which seemed to be Grace Poole’s main task.

“I wonder whether the master —”

“Shhh,” said Leah. She had spotted me nearby.

“Doesn’t she know?” the girl whispered. Leah shook her head, and the conversation was over.

Thursday came. Everything was in order. In the afternoon Mrs. Fairfax dressed in her best satin gown and took her gloves and gold watch. Adèle too put on her best dress. I thought she had little chance of being introduced to the guests that day at least, but to please her, I allowed Sophie to dress her in one of her short muslin frocks.

“It gets late. I am glad I ordered dinner an hour after the time Mr. Rochester mentioned. They were supposed to be here at six,” said Mrs. Fairfax nervously, coming into the upstairs schoolroom where Adèle and I were sitting and reading. “I have sent John down to the gates to see if there is anything on the road!” She went to the window. “Here he is! Well, John, any news?”

“They’re coming,” was the answer. “They’ll be here in ten minutes!”

Adèle flew to the window. I followed, taking care to stand on one side as I wanted to see without being seen.

Adèle jumped and danced on the spot, full of anticipation, until at last we heard horses’ hooves. Four riders galloped up the drive, followed by two open carriages filled with gentlemen and ladies. Two of those on horseback were handsome young men. In front of them rode Mr. Rochester, with Pilot bounding along behind; and beside him rode a stunningly beautiful lady. Her long purple riding cloak almost swept the ground, and she had thick, glossy, raven-black curls.

“Miss Ingram!” exclaimed Mr. Fairfax, and she hurried away to greet the guests downstairs.

Adèle longed to meet the visitors, but that evening she couldn’t do it. I found a cold chicken and some bread, which Adèle, Sophie and I shared for our supper. Meanwhile, the guests enjoyed a long and lavish dinner in the dining room. It was past one in the morning when they went to bed, and Adèle had long since fallen asleep.

The next day, Mrs. Fairfax and I again watched from the window as the party returned from riding. Again, Mr. Rochester and Blanche rode together, and I remarked that they seemed close.

“Yes, I’m sure he admires her,” Mrs. Fairfax said.

“She is very beautiful,” I agreed.

“Well, you’ll meet her tonight,” she said. “I told Mr. Rochester how excited Adèle was, and he said you must bring her to the drawing room this evening.”

My heart felt heavy as I put on my dull dress and my tiny brooch, and tried to smooth down my hair. We waited in the drawing room while the guests ate, and passed the time by choosing a flower from one of the many vases around the room and fixing it to Adèle’s frock.

At last, the door from the dining room opened, and the ladies came in. There were only eight of them, but with their bright dresses and waving feather plumes, they seemed to fill the room. I curtsied politely but only one or two of them nodded; the rest pretended not to notice me.

Adèle wasted no time. She introduced herself in French; and soon she was surrounded by half of the ladies who cooed around her, admired her dress and repeated how pretty she was.

Meanwhile, I found the shadowiest corner I could find, hoping to get a good look at Blanche without her seeing me. I wondered whether she was that beautiful and perfect as Mrs. Fairfax had described her to me. I also wanted to watch Mr. Rochester and try to understand whether he like her or not.

Blanche was without doubt the most beautiful woman in the party. She was tall and straight, her neck and shoulders were slender, and her large dark eyes glinted brightly in the candlelight. However, there was something unpleasant about her. She had a proud look, and a sarcastic sneer on her cherry-red lips.[26]

Coffee was served, and the gentlemen entered the room. Now I could see Mr. Rochester and Blanche together, and find out what had tormented me for weeks.

As I saw Mr. Rochester, I could not help staring at him. Seeing him again made me think of the last time we had met – of that night in his room, when he had held me by the hand. The handsome gentlemen around him seemed boring to me. I cared only for Mr. Rochester’s rough features, and his intelligent glance.

I never meant to love him. I had tried to stop, but it was useless. I decided I would no doubt hide my true feelings, but I could no longer lie to myself I had none.

Now the coffee was handed around, and everyone sat down. Only Mr. Rochester still stood, leaning on the fireplace, and soon Blanche went over to join him. I was close enough to hear what they said.

“I thought you didn’t care for children,” she teased.

“I don’t, not really,” he replied.

“Then why do you keep that little girl?” she said rudely, pointing at Adèle.

“She was left for me to look after.”

“You could have sent her away to school,” Blanche said. “Then you wouldn’t need a governess and wouldn’t have to house and feed them both.”

“I hadn’t thought about it,” said Mr. Rochester.

“No – you men never do,” she laughed. “But, the truth is, governesses are generally a nuisance – at least, Maria and I never had a nice one. Did we, Mama?”

At this, Blanche’s mother, Lady Ingram, exclaimed, “Heavens, don’t talk to me about governesses! Thank goodness I no longer have to employ them, now my girls are grown.”

Another, kinder-looking lady leaned over and said something quietly to Lady Ingram. Perhaps she was reminding her that a governess was in the room.

“Who cares?” the older woman snorted. And so the conversation continued, with several of the guests joining in to make rude remarks about governesses they had employed in the past, until Blanche decided it was time for some music.

“Edward, I hope you are in fine voice tonight,” she called flirtatiously, as she made her way to the piano.

“If you wish it, I will be,” smiled Mr. Rochester.

“Well, then, I do,” giggled Blanche, and she sat down and began to play – very well, I had to admit.

I decided that this was a good time to make my getaway. I was just about to slip unnoticed out of a side door, when Mr. Rochester began to sing. His voice was beautiful – a deep, pleasant bass – and he sang with great emotion. I stayed to listen until the end of the song, soaking up the warmth and feeling of every note. Then, just as the chattering began again, I left.

I noticed my sandal was loose, and stopped in the hall to retie it. As I was kneeling down, I heard footsteps. Someone had followed me. I turned round. Now I stood face to face with him: it was Mr. Rochester.

“How do you do?” he said.

“I am very well, sir.”

“Why did you not come and speak to me in the room?”

I might as well have asked him the same question.

“I did not wish to disturb you, as you seemed engaged, sir.”

“What have you been doing during my absence?”

“Teaching Adele as usual.”

“Did you take any cold that night you half drowned me?”

“No.”

“Return to the drawing-room: you are leaving too early.”

“I am tired, sir.”

He looked at me for a minute.

“And a little depressed,” he said. “What about? Tell me.”

“Nothing – nothing, sir. I am not depressed.”

“But I affirm that you are: so much depressed that a few more words would bring tears to your eyes. Indeed, they are there now. If I had time, I would find out what all this means. Tonight I excuse you; but understand that so long as my visitors stay, I want you to appear in the drawing-room every evening. It is my wish; don’t ignore it. Now go, and send Sophie for Adele. Good-night, my —“

He stopped, bit his lip, and left me in a hurry.

Merry days were these at Thornfield Hall; and busy days too. How different Thornfield was from the first three months of solitude and monotony!

The house was full of life and activity. You could not enter a room or climb the stairs without bumping into a lady’s maid or gentleman’s valet. The guests spent their time walking in the garden, having picnics on the lawn, or talking and laughing in the drawing-room. In the evenings, they played charades. They hung a curtain over a doorway, and turned it into a miniature stage, on which words and phrases were acted out.

And all the time I had to endure the sight of Miss Ingram flirting with Mr. Rochester. In one charade, they even enacted a wedding scene, with her as the bride and him as the groom.

I knew already that I loved Mr. Rochester, and unfortunately, I could not stop loving him, because there was another woman by his side. I knew they would probably marry soon. Perhaps, if Blanche had been worthy of him, I would have accepted that.

But she was not. She might have been beautiful but she was also empty-headed and had nothing to say. I heard her make hurtful remarks, and repeat witty phrases, which I knew were from books. She lacked tenderness or sympathy as well. I saw her being impatient with Adèle. She despised the little girl and flinched every time attention to herself.

I was convinced Mr. Rochester saw all this too, for he watched her as carefully as I did. It was clear he didn’t love her. They were not really close; I was sure he didn’t confide in her, as he had in me.

I tried to persuade myself that if he meant to marry her, it was for family connections. I could not blame rich people for their wedding traditions. Moreover, I reminded myself that he was free to make his own choice, even if I did not agree with it.

One day, Mr. Rochester was called to Millcote on business. It was a rainy day, and the guests settled down to read or play cards in the drawing room.

When a carriage pulled up outside, everyone thought it was the master coming home. But it was a tall, anxious-looking stranger who was shown into the hall. He introduced himself as Mr. Mason, an old friend of Mr. Rochester’s.

“I’m sorry to arrive when Mr. Rochester is away,” I heard him tell Mrs. Fairfax, “but I have had a long journey, and I must wait here until he returns.”

Mr. Mason joined us in the drawing room, where he talked to some of the gentlemen. Listening to them, I gathered that he lived abroad, in the West Indies, and that he had met Mr. Rochester there.

Just as I was wondering why Mr. Rochester might have gone to such a faraway place, a footman came in. He said that an old gypsy woman had come to the house. She was refusing to leave.

“Dismiss her, by all means, at once!” cried Lady Ingram.

“But I cannot persuade her to go away, my lady,” said the footman, “Mrs. Fairfax is with her just now but she says nothing will make her leave.”

“What does she want?”

“To tell the ladies their fortunes. She swears she must do it.”

“It would be a thousand pities to throw away such a chance of fun,” remarked one of the gentlemen.

The others agreed, and after some arguing, they agreed to let the gypsy wait in the library, where they could consult her one by one.

Blanche went in first, followed by her sister Maria, and Amy and Louisa Eshton. Blanche was the first. “What did you think? How do you feel? Is she a real fortune-teller?” everyone asked her as she came back. She smiled and proved that that was a real witch and she told her that her future would be bright. Though then Miss Ingram took a book, leant back in her chair, and so declined further conversation. I watched her for nearly half-an-hour: during all that time she never turned a page, and her face grew darker, more dissatisfied, and more disappointed.

The other girls couldn’t stop giggling about the gypsy’s strange appearance, and the things she had said. She seemed to know everything about them and their families, their hopes and fears.

Then the footman returned, and said that although she had been well paid, the gypsy woman still would not go.

“She says there is another unmarried young lady here, whom she wishes to speak to,” he said. He looked at me. “Miss Eyre, she must mean you.”

By now I was intrigued by what the others had said, and I was glad of the unexpected opportunity to gratify my curiosity. I slipped out of the room, unobserved by any eye, and closed the door behind me. I was a good deal interested and excited.

It was silent in the library, where the gypsy was sitting in an armchair in the corner. She had on a red cloak, a black bonnet, and a handkerchief that was tied under her chin. I could not see much of her face, but when she glanced up at me, I could see that she was indeed very ugly. She had thick, heavy features, and hair on her cheeks.

“Well, and do you want your fortune told?” she asked, in a harsh voice.

“I don’t care about it, mother; you may please yourself, but I should warn you, I have no faith.”

“I expected such an answer of you,” she croaked. “You pretend you don’t care about things, but you do. You have secret desires and hopes. Don’t you, my dear?”

I smiled. “Perhaps.”

“Of course you do. And you can have the happiness you seek – it’s waiting for you – but you must reach for it, you must take it for yourself.”

“Since you can see the future,” I said, “perhaps you can answer me this. Is Mr. Rochester to be married?”

“Ah yes,” she said excitedly, “to the beautiful Miss Ingram. But he doesn’t have as much money as she thought. I told her that half an hour since, and her face fell. If she finds a richer man, she’ll drop him.”

“And what about me?” I said. “What does my future hold?”

“Let me look at your face, and I will read it,” she said, more gently, and I knelt down on the rug before her. She looked at me closely.

“There’s much to read here,” she said, turning my cheek in her rough hand. “An eye that flickers with fire, and sees clearly. A mouth that speaks what the brain conceives, but hides what the heart feels. It should smile more often. And a forehead, firm and calm, that speaks of reason and common sense. Whatever passions may burn within you, good judgement shall always have the last word.”

She was silent for a moment. “And that is how it shall be,” she said at last. “I must ignore passion, and stick to my plans. You do think I am doing the right thing, don’t you, Jane, in getting married?”

I stared at the gypsy in amazement. The voice had changed – it was much deeper and more relaxed.

Then Mr. Rochester reached up and pulled the hat and hankerchief from his face. I stared in shock.

“Can you forgive me, Jane?” he asked. He held out his hand again – how could I not have recognized it before? I saw, now, the ring he wore on his little finger – a ring I had seen a hundred times.

I got up and stepped away. “I don’t know,” I said.

I was racking my brains, wondering if I had embarrassed myself by anything I had said.

“Please, Jane,” he pleaded. “It was wrong of me. You have nothing to be ashamed of.” It was as if he really could read my mind. “I just wanted to know what… what did the others think? What did they say?”

But I was still in a state of shock. “I had better go,” I said hastily. “Dinner will be ready.” Then I suddenly remembered Mr. Mason. “Oh, are you aware, Mr. Rochester, that a stranger has arrived here since you left this morning?”

“A stranger! – no; who can it be? I expected no one; is he gone?”

“No; he said he had known you long and decided to wait until you returned.”

“Did he give his name?”

“His name is Mason, sir; and he comes from the West Indies; from Spanish Town, in Jamaica, I think.”

“Mason! – the West Indies!” The smile on Mr. Rochester’s lips froze. Apparently a spasm caught his breath.

“Sir?” I said, coming back to him. “Are you well? Can I do anything to help?”

“Jane, you offered me your shoulder once before; let me have it now.”

“Yes, sir, and my arm.”

He sat down, and made me sit beside him.

“Fetch me now, Jane, a glass of wine from the dining-room: they will be at supper there; and tell me if Mason is with them, and what he is doing.”

All guests, including Mason, were laughing and talking. I returned to Mr. Rochester and informed him about it. He drank wine, thanked me and went to join the party.

At a late hour I heard Mr. Rochester say, “This way, Mason; this is your room.”

The gay tones of his voice set my heart at ease. I was soon asleep.

I had forgotten to draw my curtain, which I usually did, and when the moon, which was full that night, came around to the back of the house, it shone right into my room and woke me up. I climbed out of bed and went to the window, pausing for a moment in the still silence to admire the moon’s perfect, pale face in the sky.

Suddenly, a terrible, savage scream ripped the night apart. Good God! What a cry! It echoed the length of Thornfield Hall, then died away, leaving me fixed to the spot, my arm half-raised and trembling.

The scream had come from the attic room and the sounds of a struggle followed it.

A muffled man’s voice shouted: “Help! Help! Help!” There was a scuffling noise, and the man cried, “Rochester! Rochester! for God’s sake, come!”

Someone ran, or rushed, along the gallery. Upstairs something fell; and there was silence.

I had put on some clothes, though horror shook me. I left my room. I was not alone. The hallway was filling up with confused guests in night-gowns, all talking at once: “What has happened?”; “Fetch a candle!”; “Where the devil is Rochester?”

“I’m here.” Mr. Rochester came from the attic staircase, a candle in his hand. “Don’t panic, all of you: I’m coming. A servant has had a nightmare, that is all. She is an excitable, nervous person. Please, go to bed now.”

I went back into my room, but not to sleep. I waited, fully dressed, by my window, looking out over the silvery moonlit fields and trees. What I was waiting for, I did not know. But, soon enough, the call came.

A hand tapped gently at my door, and Mr. Rochester’s voice whispered: “Are you up?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And dressed?”

“Yes.”

“Come out, then, quietly.”

I obeyed.

“Follow me, try to make no noise.”

My slippers were thin: I could walk in them as softly as a cat. He led me up the attic stairs, along the dark passageway and through a door. Inside, I saw a large bed, its curtains pulled shut. A tapestry on the wall had been drawn back to reveal another, smaller door, which was open. From beyond it, I heard, at close hand, that gurgling, snarling laugh, ending in the long, low “Ha!” that had so often terrified me before.

So Grace Poole was there. This must be where she slept.

Mr. Rochester went into the second room, and I heard him speaking in a low voice. He returned, closing the door firmly. Then he led me around the bed, and pulled the curtain aside to reveal Mr. Mason, fully dressed and lying back awkwardly, his face pale and in pain. One of his shirt sleeves, and the bedlinen around it, was soaked in blood.

“Don’t worry, Richard, the wound is not serious,” Rochester told Mr. Mason. “I will fetch a surgeon, and Jane here will look after you while I am gone. Jane, I want you to sponge the blood, and give Mr. Mason water if he feels faint. But you are not to speak to him – and Richard, you are not to speak to her. I will be back soon.”

The night seemed endless! Hour after hour I mopped the blood and wrung out the sponge, and cooled the poor man’s brow, all the time in a state of terror that Grace Poole, that mysterious murderess, would break out of her little room and attack me. We both obeyed Mr. Rochester and spoke not a word to each other; but when at last he came back, with the doctor at his side, their conversation told me more about what had happened.

“This is not just a knife wound,” said the doctor. “There are tooth marks here.”

“She bit me,” Mason gasped. “When Rochester got the knife off her, she attacked me like a tigress…”

“I did warn you,” said Mr. Rochester. “Now, man, hurry up with that bandaging,” he told the doctor. He sent me to fetch Mr. Mason a clean shirt, and within half an hour, the doctor was gone, and the visitor had been bundled into a carriage and whisked away, before the sun or the servants rose.

After helping Mason into his carriage, Mr. Rochester and I stood alone in front of the house.

“Come and walk with me, Jane,” he said. We wandered along a walkway in the garden, bordered with flowers. He picked a rose and gave it to me.

“Again, I must say thank you, Jane,” he said. “You have had a difficult night. Were you afraid?”

“I was afraid Grace Poole would get out and attack me, sir,” I admitted. “It seems to me it is not safe while she is here. I do not understand why you don’t send her away.”

“Don’t worry about her,” he said. “I can take care of the situation. Jane…” he said, and took my hand again, squeezing it tightly. “What cold fingers. Jane, when will we be together like this again?”

“I will come whenever you need me, sir.”

“For instance, the night before I am married! I am sure I shall not be able to sleep. Will you promise to sit up with me to bear me company? To you I can talk of my lovely one: for now you have seen her and know her.”

“Yes, sir.”

“She’s a rare one, is she not, Jane?”

“Yes, sir.”

Suddenly he saw two of the visitors, and we were forced to part.

That same afternoon, I had a visitor. He was dressed in black, with a black band around his hat – the sign of mourning.

“‘I might hardly remember me, Miss,” he said, rising as I entered; “but my name is Leaven: I was a coachman when you were at Gateshead. I still live there.”

“Oh, Robert! how do you do? I remember you very well! And how is Bessie? You are married to Bessie?’”

“Yes, Miss: my wife is very well, thank you – she brought me another child about two months ago. We have three now.”

“And are the family well at the house?”

“I am sorry to say it, but they are in great trouble now. John Reed died, just a week since, at his offices in London. He was leading a wild life, Miss – drinking, and gambling, and using up all his mother’s money. He ruined his health and his estate. How he died, God knows! – they say he killed himself.”

“And how does his mother bear it?”

“The information about Mr. John’s death and the manner of it came too suddenly: it brought on a stroke. She didn’t speak for three days, but when she could, she called for you.”

“It seems to me I must go,” I said.

I found Mr. Rochester in the billiard room, playing a game with Blanche. I did not care, I did not have time for that.

“Mr. Rochester,” I said. “I must speak to you.”

He followed me outside.

“I must beg leave for a week or two, sir,” I said.

“What to do? – where to go?”

“To see a sick lady who has sent for me. Her name is Reed, sir – Mrs. Reed.”

“And what have you to do with her? How do you know her?”

“Mr. Reed was my uncle – my mother’s brother.”

“You never told me that before: you always said you had no relations.”

“Mr. Reed is dead, and his wife cast me off. But that is long ago; and when her circumstances were very different: I cannot neglect her wishes now.”

“Promise me only to stay a week —“

“Thank you, sir. And Mr. Rochester, I would love to mention another matter of business to you while I have the opportunity. You said you were going to get married.”

“Yes; what then?”

“In that case, sir, ought to go to school, so she does not get in the new Mrs. Rochester’s way. And that means I will not have a job. I mean to advertise soon.”

He looked horrified.

“Promise me one thing,” he then said. “Not to advertise. I’ll find you a job myself.”

“Only if I and Adèle are both safe out of the house before your bride enters it.”

“Very well! I swear.”

“Farewell, Mr. Rochester, for the present.”

After a two-day journey, we arrived at the lodge of Gateshead Hall on a warm spring afternoon.

“Bless you, Jane! I knew you would come! Oh, you’ve grown into quite a lady!” Bessie was in the doorway, with a baby in her arms. Behind her, two more children played by the hearth. “This is young Robert, and my little girl Jane,” she said.

As I watched her setting out the tea things and cutting slices of bread, old memories crowded my mind. Bessie was still only in her twenties, and as sweet and pretty as ever. But what would it be like seeing Mrs. Reed?

“I hope I’m not too late,” I said. “Is Mrs. Reed still alive?”

“She was a little better today, and still asking for you. We’ll go and see her after tea.”

As we walked up the drive from the lodge to the house, I remembered the last time I had been here. Then I had been angry and full of hatred.

I went into the breakfast room first, and there, sitting at the table, were Georgiana and Eliza Reed.

I hardly recognized them. Eliza was tall and thin, with combed back hair, a crucifix around her neck, and a severe expression on her face. Georgiana, by contrast, had become very plump, though she still had her pretty blue eyes. They both were in black.

They rose and greeted me politely as “Miss Eyre”, but I could see the distrust in their eyes.

I asked to see Mrs. Reed, but they did not want me to go to her room. However, these two could no longer give me any orders, and I did not want to have made this journey in vain. I went to the housekeeper, and told her I would stay for several days. Then I found Bessie and asked her to take me to Mrs. Reed.

When I saw Mrs. Reed, I felt only pity for her. She was lying in her bed, her round stern face was pale. Her eyes, watery and confused, looked up at us.

“You are Jane Eyre,” she said quietly.

“Yes, aunt,” I took her hand, but she pulled it away. “Jane Eyre,” she said again, more angrily. “No child has ever been so evil!”

“Why did you hate her so much?” I asked.

“I disliked her mother! She was my husband’s only sister, and he loved her immensely! When we heard she was dead, he sent for the baby. I hated it the first time I saw it. Reed pitied it; and he used to nurse it and notice it as if it had been his own: more, indeed, than he ever noticed his own children at that age. Then he made me vow to care for the little thing when he died! He was a weak man, Reed – not like my son John. Oh, John! I dreamt about him…”

“We had better leave now,” said Bessie.

Several days later Mrs. Reed recovered. Meanwhile, I spent my time drawing, Eliza read or wrote letters, and Georgiana sighed with boredom, as she dreamt about returning to London. They both seemed to long to their mother’s death and found each other’s company unbearable.

When Mrs. Reed got better, I had another conversation with her.

“Aunt Reed?” I called, pushing open her door.

“It is Jane Eyre, is it not?” she asked weakly.

“Yes, aunt. You wanted to talk to me.”

She stared at me for a while. Then she said: “I am very ill, I know. And I confess to you about some things before I die. Are we alone?”

I assured her we were.

“Jane Eyre, I have done you two wrongs. I broke my promise to my husband. I could never bring you up as my own child. And… Jane, go to my dressing table, open the drawer, and take out the letter you see there. Read it.”

“Madam, – Would you kindly send me the address of my niece, Jane Eyre, and tell me how she is? I intend to write shortly and ask her to come to me at Madeira. Providence has blessed me with a good fortune and, as I am unmarried and childless, and Miss Eyre is my closest relative, I wish to adopt her during my life and bequeath her at my death whatever I may have to leave.

John Eyre, Madeira.”

It was dated three years back.

“Why have I never heard of this?” I asked.

“Because I hated you. I could not forget your conduct to me, Jane – the fury with

“Forgive my rudeness – for I was just a child – and I will forgive you.” I leaned down to kiss her. But she turned away.

“You may write to him now,” she groaned. “You may tell him the truth. Now leave me.”

“Love me, then, or hate me, as you wish. You have my full and free forgiveness.”

She died that night.

Mr. Rochester had given me but one week’s leave, yet a month passed before I quitted Gateshead. The funeral was held a week later. After that, the sisters begged me to stay a little longer, because, I suppose, they could hardly bear to be alone together.

My journey back to Thornfield seemed tedious, but I had a feeling I was going home. I had obtained home, but for how long? Mrs. Fairfax had written to me at Gateshead to tell me that the visitors were gone, and that Mr. Rochester was arranging his wedding. He would be married very soon. And what would I go?

When I reached Millcote, I left my suitcase at the inn to be delivered, and walked the last few miles to Thornfield. It was a hot June day, and the haymakers were at work. As I neared the house I began to feel happy, because I knew I would soon see Mr. Rochester again. Though I was about to be parted from him, I resolved to treasure our time together – even if it was just a few days.

I walked past the rose hedges and the tall briar bush. Then I saw Mr. Rochester.

“Hello!” he called. “There you are! Where have you been all this time?”

“With my aunt, sir.”

“Absent from home a whole month – and I told you to stay no more than a week! I’ll swear you’ve quite forgotten me!”

“No sir, of course not,” I said, blushing. Inside, my heart swelled with joy, that he should care whether I forgot him or not. I decided to change the subject.

“Mrs. Fairfax tells me you have a new carriage.”

“I do, Jane! You must come and see it soon, and tell me if you think it will suit my bride.” Then he let me pass. “Now go home, and rest.”

I meant to go back to the house without another word. But suddenly a strange courage took hold of me, and I turned to face him.

“Thank you, sir,” I said, “for your kindness. I am so glad to see you again. I feel as if wherever you are is my true home.”

Then I ran up to the house as fast as I could.

That night was midsummer’s eve, and I went walking in the orchard at dusk. The air was warm, and the scent of flowers and the sweet song of the nightingale surrounded me. I felt I could wander there forever.

As I came around a corner, I saw Mr. Rochester. He was leaning over, peering closely at something. I thought he hadn’t seen me, but he called: “Look at this moth, Jane. It’s so big, it reminds me of the insects I used to see in the West Indies.”

I joined him, and we walked down to the great old chestnut tree at the bottom of the orchard.

“Will you miss Thornfield, Jane?” he asked.

“Of course,” I said quietly. “Must I leave soon?”

“I’m afraid so,” he said. “It is all arranged. I hope to be a bridegroom within a month, and I have found a job for you – with a Mrs. O’Gall, in Ireland.”

“Ireland? That is a long way away, sir!”

“From what?”

“From Thornfield… from England…” I could feel myself starting to cry. “From you, sir.”

“If you go to Ireland, Jane, you know we will never meet again.”

At this, I could hold in my grief no longer. I burst into tears, and sobbed helplessly.

“Indeed,” he said, “perhaps you should not go…” He was silent for a moment. Then he said: “Because I have a strange feeling about you, Jane – as if your heart is tied to mine, under our ribs, with an invisible string. And if you went to Ireland, I’m afraid the string would break, and my heart would bleed, and you would forget about me.”

I looked up at him, no longer trying to hide my tearstained face. “I would never forget you,” I said. “My life here has had everything I could ever wish for – comfort, kindness and, in you, a true companion. When I think about leaving, it is like thinking about dying.”

“Then don’t leave,” he said.

“I have to leave,” I sobbed. “I cannot bear to, but nor can I bear to stay here, to become nothing to you. Do you think I can tolerate seeing you with a wife you do not love? Do you think I have no feelings? Do you think, because I am poor and plain, that I have no soul? You are wrong!” I shouted. But before I could go on, he grabbed my arm, pulled me towards him, and kissed my face. I pulled away.

“I must go!” I cried. “I cannot watch you marry her.”

“It is not her I love. I love you. And I offer you my hand, my heart, and a share of all my possessions.”

“You play a farce, which I merely laugh at.”

“I ask you to pass through life at my side.”

“Your bride stands between us.”

“My bride is here. It is you only I intend to marry,” he gasped. “Jane, will you marry me?”

“Mr. Rochester, let me look at your face: turn to the moonlight.”

“I want to look into your face, and see that you are not lying.”

“Read on: only hurry, for I suffer.”

His face was very much agitated and very much flushed.

“Do you truly love me?”

“‘I do; and if an oath is necessary to satisfy you, I swear it.”

“Then, sir, I will marry you.”

“Edward – my little wife!”

“Dear Edward!”

We embraced tightly and kissed, as the first drops of a rainstorm began to fall around us.

We went inside, arm in arm, and Mr. Rochester kissed me again to bid me goodnight before I went up to my room. I saw Mrs. Fairfax staring at us in amazement, but I decided I would explain later.

When I awoke the next morning, before I got up, Adèle burst into my room to tell me that the great chestnut in the orchard had been struck by lightning, and had split in two.

As I dressed, I thought over what had happened, and wondered if it were a dream. I could not be certain of the reality till I saw Mr. Rochester again and he repeated his oath.

I looked at my face in the glass, and felt it was no longer plain. There was hope and life in it. I felt beautiful.

I ran downstairs and out into the garden. The storm had disappeared, giving way to a fine midsummer morning, with the promise of a hot day.

Mrs. Fairfax came out to call me to breakfast, and I was surprised at how grave and gloomy she looked. I wanted to wait until I had seen Mr. Rochester before telling her the news, so I said nothing. We ate in silence, and it was clear Mrs. Fairfax was not in a good mood.

After breakfast, I went straight to the schoolroom to begin Adèle’s lessons. But before I could go in, Adèle came running gleefully out of the room to tell me that Mr. Rochester had given her a day off.

I went in, and saw him standing there.

“Jane.” he beamed. “You look truly pretty today.” He hugged and kissed me, and I knew it was true.

“Just a month from today,” he said into my ear, “You will become Mrs. Jane Rochester. This very morning I have written to my bank in London, asking them to send the Rochester family jewels from their vault – diamonds and gold for me to hang around your neck. And I will buy you beautiful dresses of satin and lace —”

“Stop,” I interrupted him. “Please, stop talking like this. It isn’t right. If you dress me up like that, I will not be myself. I am not a society lady, sir, you know that. I am just a governess.”

But he hushed me, and went on: “Today, Jane, we will go in the new carriage to Millcote; and you will choose some new clothes. We will be married in just four weeks, at eight in the morning, and you must have a wedding dress. And, as soon as we are married, we will set off for London, and go from there to France and Italy, for our honeymoon. You will need clothes and other things for the journey.”

“I am to travel?” I asked, amazed. “To France, and Italy?”

“Of course, my love,” he said. “I will show you the world, and take you to see all the sights.”

At last, I said: “I am grateful for everything you offer me. But please, do not send for the jewels, not yet. These things mean so little to me – they mean nothing, compared to what really matters.”

“What’s that?” he asked, smiling at my strangeness.

“That I can trust you, and talk to you, and that you will always be kind, and always honest with me.”

For a moment, I thought a troubled look passed across his face. Then he said: “Of course. Ask me anything, Jane. What would make you happy?”

“Well,” I said, “I want you to tell Mrs. Fairfax what is going on.”

“My beloved, if it pleases you, I will go and talk to her now, while you prepare for our shopping trip.”

I went upstairs to fetch my things, and when I came down, I saw Mr. Rochester coming out of Mrs. Fairfax’s little office. I went in to see her.

She was sitting in her chair, and when she saw me she tried to smile, but soon looked worried again. I sat down opposite her. After looking at me for a while, she finally said: “Well, I am so astonished, I think perhaps I’ve been dreaming. Has Mr. Rochester really asked you to be his wife?”

“Yes,” I said, “and I have accepted.”

“Really,” she said, “is this a good idea? You are not of the same class, and you are certainly not the same age. Mr. Rochester is old enough to be your father.”

“He is nothing like a father to me,” I objected. “He is more youthful than many a man of twenty-five!”

“And he is really marrying you for love, is he?”

This hurt me so much, my eyes filled with tears.

“I’m sorry to upset you, dear, but I must warn you to be careful. Things are not always what they seem.”

At that moment, Adèle ran in, begging to be allowed to come to Millcote with us. I persuaded Mr. Rochester to let her, and the three of us set off together.

I found shopping hard work. I was not used to spending hours choosing from bright silks and satins, ribbons, trims and bonnets, and it embarrassed me. In the end I chose only two new dresses, instead of the six Mr. Rochester wanted me to have, and even then, I was glad to climb back into the carriage.

As I sat there, hot and tired, I suddenly recalled my uncle’s letter. The incredible events of the last day had banished it from my mind. I must write to him as soon as I could. He was a relative, and should be told of my marriage. Furthermore, the thought of perhaps inheriting some money one day made me feel better about being showered with gifts by Mr. Rochester. If I was an independent woman, with my own wealth, I would feel more his equal.

As soon as we were back home, I sent a long letter to my uncle, explaining everything. Then I went to Mr. Rochester, and told him that I wanted to go on teaching Adèle and earning my living. I was not born to be a lady of leisure. I was not a doll, to be dressed up. I was not Celine Varens. I was Jane Eyre, a plain, hardworking governess, and I would not change.

My future husband was becoming to me my whole world, and more than the world: almost my hope of heaven. He was now my idol, and still I resolved to be as true to myself as I possibly could in the month before the wedding, so that Mr. Rochester would have no illusions about who he was marrying. Then, if he wanted to change his mind, he could.

Mr. Rochester did not change his mind after a month of courtship.

The night before my wedding day I was in my room, all packed and ready for my honeymoon. Mr. Rochester had given me little cards to attach to my cases, with “Mrs. Rochester” written on them, and the name of a hotel in London – but I could bring myself to tie them on until tomorrow. Mrs. Rochester did not yet exist: she would not be born till tomorrow, some time after eight o’clock a.m. I decided to wait to be assured she had come into the world alive before I assigned to her all that property.

Hanging in my open closet was my wedding dress – a pearl-white gown. Beside it was a beautifully embroidered veil. But looking at it didn’t make me happy. It made me feel afraid and upset, because of something that had happened the night before.

Mr. Rochester had been away on business for the night, and that evening my dress had arrived. All the servants gathered to watch me open the box. Underneath the dress itself, I found the beautiful veil – a surprise from Mr. Rochester. I knew he had ordered it because I had said no to the jewels. He still wanted me to have something special and expensive to wear on my wedding day.

I hung the outfit in my closet, and went to dinner. As the evening wore on, it grew dark, rainy and windy, not like summer at all. I went to bed, and as the storm battered my window, I fell into a strange and frightening dream. I dreamed that I came to Thornfield on my own, and found it was a ruin, a hollow, empty shell. I wandered through the rooms, all overgrown with weeds. Nothing of their beauty remained but old fragments of marble and plaster.

I woke up with a start. Someone had left a lighted candle standing on my dresser. It must be Sophie or Leah; but why?

Then I heard a noise from the closet, and saw a tall female figure walk out of it. She picked up the candle, and stood staring at my wedding gown.

My blood ran cold with horror as I realized it was not Sophie, or Leah, or Mrs. Fairfax. It was not even Grace Poole, nor anyone else I knew. This woman was tall and strong, and wore a ragged white nightdress. Long, dark, matted hair hung down her back.

I saw her put the candle down, then she reached up, took down the veil, and put it on her own head. Then she turned to the mirror, and that was when I saw, reflected back at me, her face – a terrifying face such as I had never seen before. I shrank back against my pillow as I stared at her insane, rolling eyes, scowling features, and purplish lips, twisted into a dreadful grimace. Then, as I watched, she took the veil off, lifted it up, and tore it into two pieces.

Lastly, taking up the candle again, she turned and headed for the door, which brought her right past my bed. She stopped, leaned over me, and looked at me closely, her face close to mine. I was so overcome with fright that, for only the second time in my life, I fell unconscious from fear.

When I awoke, daylight had come, and my door was firmly closed. When I remembered what I had seen in the night, I was sure it had been another dream. But when I looked on the floor, I saw the veil there. It had been ripped in half.

What I had seen seemed so strange and bizarre that I was afraid to tell Mrs. Fairfax or Leah about it. I longed for Mr. Rochester to come home. I waited all day for him to return, as the wind blew stronger and the rain hammered on the roof.

When at last he came back, I opened my heart to him, and told him everything I had seen. He listened carefully, asking questions about the creature’s appearance and behaviour.

Finally, he said: “Jane, this is to be expected. You are anxious about your wedding, and having bad dreams. This was just another of them.”

“No,” I insisted. “The veil was really torn.” “Then,” he answered gravely, “I am afraid the only explanation can be that it really was Grace Poole, but in your half-asleep state, you saw her differently, and imagined she was a demon.”

He hugged me tightly. “What a blessing she only tore the veil,” he said, “and did not harm you, my love. Yes, you are still wondering why I keep her here, and one day I will tell you – but not now. Tomorrow is our wedding day, and we must think of that.”

I could not believe his words were true. I had seen the woman so vividly, so closely, and she was nothing like Grace Poole. But there was no better explanation, so I told him he must be right.

“There is enough room in Adele’s little bed for you. You must share it with her to-night, Jane. I would not like you to sleep alone. Promise me to go to the nursery.”

I agreed.

“And you will not dream of separation and sorrow tonight; but of happy love and union.”

This prediction was but half fulfilled. When I climbed into Adèle’s bed and watched her in her deep sleep, I did not indeed dream of sorrow, but I did not dream of joy either. I never slept at all.

Sophie came at seven to dress me. It took her so long that I was nearly late, but she made me look in the mirror before I set out. I saw a robed and veiled figure, so unlike my usual self that it seemed almost the image of a stranger.

“Jane!” called Mr. Rochester’s voice, and I hastened down.

I saw the servants taking all our cases outside to load them into the carriage.

“Are you ready?” my groom said, taking me by the hand, and leading me across the hall. Mrs. Fairfax was standing there, but I had no time to speak to her as we passed. Mr. Rochester seemed to be in a great hurry, and very determined, as if he could not relax until we were married.

It was to be a simple wedding. There were no relatives or bridesmaids – just us two, the vicar, and a clerk and his wife as witnesses. The church was close to Thornfield, but by the time Mr. Rochester had marched me there I was almost out of breath.

As we entered the churchyard, I noticed two figures wandering among the gravestones. They disappeared around the back of the church before Mr. Rochester could see them.

We walked into the dark, cool stone building and up to the little altar, where the vicar, Mr. Wood, waited for us, the witnesses beside him. The service began. The vicar announced that we were here to be married, then asked us if we knew of any reason why we should not be.

There was a pause, as there always is at that part of the ceremony. When is that pause ever broken? So, after a while, Mr. Wood reached out a hand to Mr. Rochester, opened his mouth and took a breath to continue with the declarations.

At that moment, a voice at the back of the church said: “The marriage cannot take place – I declare an impediment.”

For a moment Mr. Rochester swayed, as if he had been struck by a blow. Then he steadied himself, looked at the vicar, and said firmly: “Proceed.”

“I cannot proceed,” said the vicar, “until we find out what the impediment is, and if it can be proved.”

“Oh, I can prove it,” said the voice.

“What is the nature of the problem?” said the vicar impatiently, peering at the shadows. “Let us sort it out at once and get on with the wedding.”

“That won’t be possible,” said the speaker, who now stepped forward. He was a middle-aged man with a small white moustache.

“Mr. Rochester is already married,” he said.

His words sliced through me like a knife.

I managed to stay still and calm, but I felt as if my blood had frozen solid. I looked up at Mr. Rochester, and saw that same look of fixed determination on his face. Then he took my hand and pulled me closer to his side.

“Who are you?” he asked the stranger.

“I am Mr. Briggs, a solicitor from London.”

“And you say I have a wife, do you?”

By way of an answer, Mr. Briggs took a folded piece of paper from his pocket, and read aloud from it the details of the marriage of Mr. Edward Fairfax Rochester to Miss Bertha Antoinette Mason, fifteen years previously, in Jamaica.

“So I was married,” Mr. Rochester snarled. “That does not mean my wife is still alive.”

“She was still living three months ago,” said the solicitor. “I have a witness who saw her.”

Now the second figure came out of the shadows at the back of the church. It was Mr. Mason.

Mr. Rochester was still holding my hand, and I felt a wave of fury go through him. He stepped forward as if to strike Mason.

“Remember where you are,” said the vicar sternly. Then he asked Mason: “Does he really have a wife?”

“He does,” said Mason. “She lives at Thornfield Hall, and I saw her there in April. I am her brother.”

“What nonsense,” said the vicar angrily. “I have lived in this area for many years, and I have never heard of any Mrs. Rochester at Thornfield Hall.”

Mr. Rochester was staring hard at the ground. After a long silence, he said: “You have never heard of her, because I kept her hidden. It is all true. I admit I was planning to marry again, because I wanted happiness for myself.”

He looked up at them, but he could hardly bear to look at me. Then he began to speak again.

“I know that I have done a terrible thing. There will be no wedding today. For I do have a wife already – if you can call her that. A wife my father forced me to marry fifteen years ago. A wife who – although they concealed it from me – is a madwoman, a wild, drunken monster. If you don’t believe me, you can come and see her. Come on,” he said, “we’re going up to the house to visit her now, and you can see for yourselves why I wanted to be with this lovely girl, to be adored and treated kindly, and married to someone I would be proud to call a wife. Come on!”

Still dragging me by the hand, he strode hurriedly out of the church, with the vicar, Mr. Briggs and Mr. Mason following close behind. Outside Thornfield, Mrs. Fairfax, Leah, Sophie and were waiting to greet us, but he brushed them aside impatiently. We went into the house, up the stairs and along the hall, up the attic staircase, along the dark passageway, and finally into the room where I had nursed Mr. Mason’s wounded arm. Mr. Rochester drew aside the tapestry to reveal the hidden door, opened it, and summoned us inside.

A fire burned in the grate, and over it leaned the familiar shape of Grace Poole, stirring something in a saucepan.

Beyond her, a strange creature moved to and fro, crouching and crawling on all fours. It wore a long white gown, and a tangle of matted hair hid its face.

“Hello, Mrs. Poole!” cried Mr. Rochester in a loud, cheery voice, although he was still gripping my hand, and I could feel that he was shaking. “And how is the patient today?”

“A little snappish, sir,” said Grace, “but not too bad.”

At this, the creature in the corner drew itself up to its full height, and began to groan and gurgle.

“She sees you,” said Grace Poole. “Take care, sir.”

Now the creature pulled the hair away from its face, and I knew for certain it was the strange woman who had come into my room the night before last. She gave that now familiar loud, monstrous laugh, then suddenly leaped forward, and seized Mr. Rochester around the neck, shrieking in a high-pitched wail. He could have beaten her off, but he would not strike her; instead he wrestled her into a chair, and Grace Poole quickly tied her down.

Mr. Rochester turned to us, his face hot and red.

“Meet my wife, Bertha,” he said. “This is her. This is all I have for a life’s companion – and these roars and attacks are all I can expect. And this,” he added, coming over to me, “this is what I wanted – this sweet, kind young lady to be my own. Look at her, and blame me if you can. Now, leave me, while I sort out matters here.”

In silence, the vicar, the two gentlemen and I left the room and descended the attic stairs. In the lower hallway, Mr. Briggs said: “You are not to blame for any of this, Miss Eyre. I can see you knew nothing of the marriage. And your uncle will be glad to hear it.”

“My uncle?” I was confused. “But – how do you know about him?”

“Your uncle is a friend of Mr. Mason. When he received your letter, he told Mr. Mason about the wedding. They realized what was going on, and Mason came to intervene. We arrived just in time.”

“My uncle did not write to me,” I said faintly.

“I am sure he will,” said Mr. Briggs. “But he himself is very sick, and may not recover. You must wait for news about his state of health.”

Then they all left, and I found myself standing in the hallway, alone. I went into my room and bolted the door.

I was in too much shock to cry. Instead, I calmly took off my white gown, and put on the plain dress I had been wearing the day before. Then I sat down, laid my head on my arms and thought hard about what had happened.

I knew I was the same person I had been an hour ago; but my future was gone. My life was changed forever. There was still love for Mr. Rochester in my heart, but it was like a sick child, or a cold, trembling animal that could not be revived. I could no longer trust him, and I must go away from him – that much I was sure of. How, where, what I would do I did not know, but I could not stay here. I was, as I had always really been, alone. And there was no one to help me.

At last, my sorrow swept over me in a huge wave, and I wept and sobbed for my lost love, my destroyed dreams, and my poor, ruined hopes.

I stayed locked away in my room until the afternoon, when I began to wonder why no one had knocked at my door, or come to comfort me. I wiped my face, unbolted my door, and opened it.

Mr. Rochester was sitting outside, on a chair he had placed in the hallway. He jumped up.

“Jane – I have been waiting for you all this time,” he said. “Why did you not scream and shout at me?”

I said nothing. I couldn’t speak.

“I never meant to hurt you, Jane; I love you. I hoped I could have happiness with you – I was a fool. I am so sorry, Jane. Can you forgive me?”

I looked up into his eyes. They were so full of sadness and remorse, I couldn’t help but forgive him at once. But I did not tell him so.

“I would like a drink of water,” I said.

He took me to the library to sit down, and brought me something to eat and drink. It made me feel stronger, but when I looked at him I was overcome with grief. I knew I had to go, but I loved him so much.

He tried to kiss me, but I turned away. “Don’t you still love me, Jane?”

“Of course I do,” I whispered, tears filling my eyes. “But I cannot stay here now.”

“I understand,” he said. “Nor can I. I will leave Grace Poole in charge of Thornfield, and go. I have another house, called Ferndean, to live in.”

“Then take Adèle with you when you go,” I said, sobbing. “You’ll need the company.”

“But you will come with me, Jane, won’t you? We’ll live there together.”

“No, I will not. I love you, but I cannot live with you while you have a wife. I will not be a mistress.”

“We will be just like a real husband and wife. We belong together far more than she and I ever did. Please, Jane!” he cried, kneeling on the library floor.

“No.”

Over and over he begged me to stay with him, to comfort him, to be with him forever – and I longed to say yes. But I could not. My trust in him had been ruined. I stood up.

“Farewell,” I said quietly, and went to my room.

When I was in my own room, there seemed to be no changes. And yet where was the Jane Eyre of yesterday? – where was her life? – where were her prospects? Jane Eyre, almost a bride, was a cold, solitary girl again. Mr. Rochester was not to me what he had been. He was not what I had thought him.

My eyes closed: endless darkness seemed to swim round me.

I was awake long before anyone else. I put on a simple dress, a straw bonnet and a shawl, and taking my purse and a small bag of possessions, I crept downstairs. “Farewell, kind Mrs. Fairfax!” I whispered, as I glided past her door. “Farewell, my darling Adele!” I said, as I glanced towards the nursery. Then I left the mansion. I ran across the fields, heading for the road that lead in the opposite direction from Millcote, the direction I knew nothing about.

I stopped a coach and asked the driver to carry me as far as I could go for 20 shillings (I had no more money in my purse). I climbed in and felt my eyes fill with tears. I was leaving my home and the man I still loved passionately.

The coach drove all day. The driver let me out at a place called Whitcross. It was not a town or a village. It was just a set of crossroads, with a white-painted signpost. The nearest town was ten miles away.

All around me were moors with mountains in the distance. I was completely alone on this road, which I knew I finish before sunset. As there was no other soul around, nature was to be my host that night.

I came to a craggy rock and sat down beneath it. The heather and the mossy grass were dry and still warm from the heat of the afternoon.

I had eaten nothing all day except a slice of bread from the kitchen. But there were bilberry bushes close by, and I gathered two handfuls of berries to eat and drank water from the stream.

Then I lay down next to the rock, on the heather, with a grass for a pillow, and spread my shawl over me, folded in two. In this bed I was comfortable enough to sleep.

As I closed my eyes, I could not keep thoughts of Mr. Rochester away. I saw his face in front of me, begging and pleading, and I shook with grief and longing. How could everything be so different now, from the way it had appeared just a few days ago? I opened my eyes and stared up into the dark sky.

The Milky Way, vast and silent, remembered me, I was not really alone. I asked God to help me in my troubles, and to comfort Mr. Rochester in his. Only then I could fall asleep.

Long after the sun had risen, and the birds had started to sing, I stirred, awoke, and remembered where I was. It was a still, hot, perfect morning. I heard a bee buzzing among the bilberry bushes, and saw a little brown lizard sitting on the rock next to me. I wished I could be one of them, so that this moor could give me everything I needed to survive, and I could stay here forever. Then, for a moment, I wished that God had seen fit to take my soul in the night, so that this could have been my resting place, and I would have to suffer no longer.

But I was alive, and I had to find myself work of some kind. So I stood up, put on my shawl and bonnet, and tramped back to the road. I did not look at the signpost again. Instead, I simply chose the road that led away from the sun, so that it would not shine into my eyes, and walked and walked.

After several miles, I had seen no houses or people, and the sun was high overhead, so I sat down on a stone to rest. Just as I was thinking I was too hot and tired to go on, and would have to find a place to sleep nearby, I heard a church bell.

I turned and saw a pale spire among the moorland hills, where I had noticed nothing before. I set off over the moors towards it, and soon came across a little village.

As I walked down the main street, I knew I looked like a respectable lady, with my nice dress, bonnet and shawl. But hunger gnawed away at my insides, and I had not a penny to my name. In truth, I was no more than a poor vagrant. If I wanted food, I would have to beg for it.

Or, I thought suddenly, perhaps I could exchange one of my few possessions for something to eat. I had a silk handkerchief, and a pair of good leather gloves, though they were hardly valuable.

I stopped outside a baker’s shop, with a row of bread cakes in the window. I wanted one of them so desperately that I pushed open the door and went in. The smell of new-baked bread made me want to cry.

“Good afternoon, Miss,” said the woman behind the counter cheerily. She, of course, saw me as a customer with money to spend, and all of a sudden I felt ridiculous. I could not possibly offer her my used handkerchief, my worn gloves, in place of payment.

“I–I was feeling hot, and wondered if I might sit down in here for a moment,” I stammered.

“I suppose so,” said the woman, sounding slightly put out, and I sat down in a chair near the door.

After a while, I plucked up the courage to ask: “Do you know, by any chance, if anyone in this village is looking for domestic help, or a governess?”

“I couldn’t say, Miss.”

“Is there any other work in the village?”

“There’s Oliver’s needle factory, and farm handing. But that’s men’s work,” she added, with a distrustful look.

Soon another woman came in and started chatting to the shopkeeper. I felt like a nuisance, so I left.

I wandered around the village. At the end of the main street I saw a large, pretty house, and asked if I they needed a servant. “We don’t have any servants,” said the young woman who came to the door. I came back past the church again, and when I saw the vicarage, I thought of asking the vicar for advice. Surely, I reasoned, that was part of a vicar’s job – to help those who were lost and in need? But when I knocked, there was no answer.

I set off again, feeling more and more desperate and tearful. When would someone be kind and friendly to me? As the evening wore on, and the shops began to close, I headed out of the village and up a lane leading to the moors, thinking I would have to sleep there again.

After a while, I came past a little farmhouse, and saw a man sitting outside the door, having his supper. Next to him on a little table were half a loaf of bread and a block of cheese.

By now, I was so hungry I could not stop myself. I leaned over the wall and called: “Please will you give me a piece of your bread, sir? I’m very hungry.”

The man looked surprised for a moment, but he took up his knife, cut a thick slice of bread, and a little cheese to go with it, and brought it over to me. I don’t believe he thought I was a beggar at all. He probably thought I was just an eccentric lady out for a walk, who suddenly felt like a snack. So, hoping to retain my dignity, I thanked him kindly, and walked on at a measured pace. But, as soon as I was out of sight, I devoured that bread and cheese as if I were a starved animal.

As I finished it, I felt the first few drops of a summer rainstorm. The sky was dark, and now that the sun was going down, I began to feel cold. In bad weather, it would not be nearly so easy to spend a night outdoors. I had no idea what to do.

I continued to walk. It grew dark, and it started to rain heavier. My clothes were wet, and I knew that if I found no shelter soon, I would catch cold. I started to look for some kind of bush or rock at least.

It was at that moment that I saw a glowing light ahead. At first, I thought my mind was playing tricks on me; or that it was one of the ghostly lights that appear on the moors when marsh gases catch fire. But it stayed steady, so I headed toward it.

It was pitch-dark by now, and I could barely see my way. I splashed across a bog, and twice I fell down in the mud. I felt my way up a steep slope, past bushes and rocks, until at last, I saw that the light came from a little window, and against the black sky I could just make out the even blacker shape of a long, low cottage. Reaching out my hands, I found a rough garden wall, and moved along it until I came to the gate. I went up to the window, and looked in.

Inside I saw a little kitchen, clean and bright, with a sanded floor and a polished dresser. In front of the window was a table with a candle on it. An old woman sat there, knitting a stocking, and beyond her I saw a fireplace with a bright fire burning. Sitting beside it were two younger ladies, both dressed in black, with a dog at their feet.

I saw them talking and heard their voices, though I could not hear what they said. Then the older woman got up and started to prepare supper. That reminded me of my own reduced state, and I realized that if I was going to ask them for help, I had better do it now, before they all went to bed.

I knocked at the door. The old woman answered.

“May I speak to the two young ladies?” I asked.

“You can speak to me. What do you want?”

“Please, ma’am, I need shelter, and a morsel to eat.”

“I’ll give you a penny,” she said, taking one from her pocket and handing it over, “but you can’t stay here.” She looked me up and down suspiciously. “And if you’ve some fellows with you, hiding in the bushes, who are planning to rob us, you can tell them not to bother. The master of the house will be back soon, and we’ve a dog, you know, and a gun.”

Then she slammed and bolted the door.

“No!” I cried, falling to my knees on the wet paving stones. “Please! I will die if I stay out here!”

“We will all die anyhow, in the end,” said a voice behind me. “But to die so soon would be a shame.”

I turned and saw, through the dark and rain, a tall man coming up the path. He helped me to my feet, knocked on the door and called: “It is I! St. John!”

The old woman opened the door again. “Hannah, thank you for guarding us against attack, but I believe this young lady is in true need,” he told her, and led me into the house.

Soon I was sitting before that warm hearth myself, surrounded by all four strangers. I knew I must look shocking to them. I was weak and exhausted, my face was tearstained, and my dress was soaked and smeared with mud. But although they all looked amazed, they were not unkind.

“I am Diana Rivers,” she said. “This is my brother St. John, and my sister Mary. What is your name?”

“It is Jane,” I said. “Jane Elliot.”

“Are you lost? Can we send for your family or friends?” asked St. John.

“There is no one.”

“How did you come here?” asked Mary, taking my hand gently. But I could speak no more.

“Hannah,” said Mr. St. John, at last, “let her sit there and ask her no questions; in ten minutes more, give her the remainder of that milk and bread.”

I sat by the genial fire. Then my dripping clothes were removed; soon a warm, dry bed received me. I thanked God and slept.

The recollection of about three days and nights that followed are dim in my memory. I had caught a fever, and I spent all this time in bed, barely conscious. The two sisters often came in to sit at my bedside.

“Poor little thing,” said one of them. “I wonder what happened to her, and how she ended up here?”

“It is very well we took her in,” said the other.

“She is not an uneducated person, I think. Her accent was pure, and the clothes she took off, though dirty and wet, were little worn and fine.”

“And she has a peculiar face, I rather like it.”

They didn’t know I could hear them, but no one ever regretted they had helped me.

On the fourth day, I was well enough to eat some porridge and, the day after that, I woke up in the morning feeling much better. My dress was hanging on the back of a chair, freshly washed. When I put it on, it was too big for me, as I had eaten hardly anything for a week. But I found a comb and smoothed my hair, and went downstairs.

The house was filled with the smell of baking, and I found Hannah in the kitchen, hard at work. Although our first meeting had not gone well, she smiled at me now. After she had sat me down by the fire, she started asking me questions.

“Had you been begging before you came here?”

“I’m not a beggar – not really.”

“Are you book learned, then?” she asked.

“Yes, very. I was at boarding school eight years.”

“Really! Why cannot you keep yourself? ”

“I have kept myself, and I will again,” I said.

“Well then,” she said, “I’m right sorry I doubted you. It’s just there’s so many rogues and liars about, I took you for a vagabond.”

She gave me her hand to shake, and from that moment on we were friends.

Then she told me that old Mr. Rivers, the father of Diana, Mary and St. John, had recently died, which explained their mourning clothes. Their mother had died many years ago, and Hannah had been their nurse since they were little. St. John was to take his father’s place as vicar of Morton, the nearby village, and would soon move into the very vicarage I had called at. Diana and Mary were both governesses, and were usually away, but had come home for their father’s funeral.

At that moment St. John and his sisters came in from walking. They made a great fuss of me and said that, as a guest, I must not sit in the kitchen. Diana took me into the drawing room, and left me there with St. John while she went to make some tea.

St. John was reading, and I was able to study him closely. He was about twenty-eight, tall and slim, with a face like a Greek statue. He had pale eyes, a long, straight nose, and a broad forehead surrounded by fair curls. But although he was handsome, there was something cold and hard about him.

Diana came in with tea and cakes, and Mary soon joined us. Before we ate, I thanked them all heartily for their kindness, and said I hoped I would not have to impose on them for too much longer.

“As soon as you are ready,” said St. John, “you can tell us where you live, and we’ll take you home.”

“I’m afraid I cannot,” I said, “for I have no home.”

“None at all?” he asked. “Are you a spinster?”

“Why, St. John, she’s hardly old enough to be married!” Diana said, laughing at his seriousness.

“I’m not married,” I said, but the thought of this made tears come to my eyes.

“Don’t question poor Miss Elliot so,” said Mary.

“I will tell you more,” I said, quietly. “I was at Lowood School, and worked there as a teacher. Then I went to be a governess, and I found a good position. But, four days ago, I had to leave. I cannot tell you why. I did no wrong – I am not a criminal. But it is not possible for me to look to the past. I must find work, and make my own living again.”

“‘Indeed you will stay here,” said Diana, putting her white hand on my head.

“You SHALL,” repeated Mary.

“My sisters, you see, have a pleasure in keeping you,” said Mr. John. “I would rather put you in the way of keeping yourself.”

“She has already said that she is willing to do anything honest she can do,” answered Diana for me; “and you know, St. John, she has no choice of helpers.”

Now St. John was looking at me with a new interest. “You’re a governess, aren’t you?” he asked. “A teacher?”

“Oh, St. John!” said Diana excitedly. “Do you think she might work at the new school?”

“Miss Elliot,” St. John continued, “when my father came to Morton, some years ago, it had no school, but he managed to establish one – a church school, for the boys of the town. It is paid for by Miss Oliver, whose father owns a needle factory.”

“Oliver’s needle factory!” I said. “I’ve heard of it.”

He looked surprised, but went on: “Following my father’s death, Miss Oliver has offered to provide the funds for a second school – a school for girls. It is to be opened in a month’s time, and I have not yet found a teacher for it. The pay will be thirty pounds a year, and there is a cottage for the schoolmistress to live in. Could you be this schoolmistress?”

“Oh, Mr. Rivers,” I cried, my heart filling with relief. “I must thank you from the bottom of my heart for this offer. And I accept!”

The more I knew of the inmates of Moor House, the better I liked them. In a few days I had so far recovered my health that I could sit up all day, and walk out sometimes. I shared so much with Diana and Mary. I liked to read what they liked to read; what they enjoyed, delighted me. They admired my painting and drawing. We found it easy to sit and talk for hours together every evening and walk till late in the evening in the moors.

St. John, though, spent most of his time in the vicarage or visiting his parishioners. When he was in, he was often gloomy and serious. His mind always seemed to be working on a higher level; his large, cold eyes concentrated on other thoughts.

The weeks passed by quickly, and Diana and Mary grew sad at the thought of having to leave. They told me that this parting from St. John would be harder than any they had undergone before.

“You see, it will not be very long before he goes abroad,” Diana explained. “He plans to be a missionary, in India. Who knows when we will see each other again?”

Just then, St. John came in, looking even more serious than usual. He had a letter in his hand.

“What is it, brother?” Diana asked.

“Uncle John is dead,” he said, bluntly.

Diana and Mary looked taken aback, although not at all upset. “And…?” asked Mary.

“And nothing,” said St. John firmly. “He has left his whole fortune to another relation.”

Then Diana said to me, “Jane, you will think us heartless not to mourn our uncle. But you see, we never knew him. He was our mother’s brother, and after she died, he argued with our father and went abroad. Our father hoped that our uncle would eventually leave us some of his money. And if he had, we would all be able to relax a little, for we are far from wealthy. So you see, we are disappointed.”

“Well, he leaves us nothing,” said St. John again. “And that is that.”

A few weeks later, I was settled into my new life as Miss Elliot, village schoolmistress at Morton. My students were simple village girls and farmer’s daughters, and when they came to me, hardly any of them could read a word – but they tried hard. They loved to knit and sew and sing, and my little school buzzed with activity from morning to night. Rosamund Oliver, the school’s patron, often visited us, and St. John came every day to teach an hour of scripture. The villagers always greeted me politely in the street and doffed their caps to me. I had money to live on, and I was warm, safe and happy – or at least, as happy as I thought I would ever be.

Of course, not a moment went by when I did not think of Mr. Rochester. I dreamed about him by day and by night, and his face never faded from my mind. How I missed him! I often wondered what my life might be like if I had chosen differently, and gone to live with him as his mistress. But a part of me always knew that I had made the right choice.

And so the months passed by, and summer turned to autumn, and autumn to winter. November the fifth was a holiday and, after doing some cleaning and baking, I sat down at my table to finish a miniature of Miss Oliver. I had drawn her from life a week previously, and now I was adding paint to the sketch, which I planned to give her as a present.

I was filling in the dark blue of her silk dress when there was a quick tap at the door. Before I could get up to answer it, St. John Rivers stepped in.

“I have come to see how you are spending your holiday,” he said. “At your painting, as I expected.”

“It is a picture of Rosamund Oliver,” I said, turning it to show him, “but I’m afraid I haven’t quite captured her. Don’t you think she’s beautiful?”

“Hmmm,” St. John mumbled. I suspected that he and Miss Oliver liked each other, and wondered if they would get married. I did not dare drop any more hints, but St. John had guessed at my meaning.

“Miss Elliot,” he said, and I looked up. “You know, or at least I imagine my sisters have told you, that I plan to travel to India to be a missionary. If I marry at all, it must be to someone who is used to hardship. I’m afraid Miss Oliver would not do, lovely as she is. But enough of that. I’m here for another reason.”

“What is that?”

“To see your artworks. I have been meaning for some time to ask you if I could look at them.”

I was surprised. He had never shown the slightest interest in my pictures before. But I got up and fetched a folder full of drawings, and gave it to him.

St. John remained standing as he leafed through them. “Very good,” he murmured.

I was again absorbed in my work when I heard a little tearing sound, and looked up. St. John, holding up a small sketch, had torn off a corner of the paper. He seemed alive with excitement. It was quite unlike any expression I had seen on his face before.

“I knew you would sign your work, like any good artist,” he said. “But it is not signed ‘Jane Elliot’, is it?”

I blushed deeply, and felt my heart thumping. “St. John, I’m so sorry to have deceived you,” I said. “You see I–I simply didn’t want someone… I mean anyone, to find me here. I can explain.”

“No need, Miss Eyre, I am sure you had your reasons. It is not your falsehood I am interested in, but the truth. You are Miss Jane Eyre, formerly of Gateshead Hall, and Thornfield Hall?”

“How do you know?!” I gasped.

“It is all in my late uncle’s will,” he said. “My uncle John Eyre, of Madeira.”

“What?” I felt unsteady; the room seemed to spin.

“Our uncle on our mother’s side, and yours on your father’s side,” he said. “And you, Jane, are the poor orphan to whom he left his fortune. All of it.”

“How did you guess?” I asked, my voice a whisper.

“I thought I glimpsed the name on your drawings, and I decided to come and find out for certain.”

“And you, Diana, and Mary – you are my cousins?”

“It would seem so,” St. John said, allowing himself a smile. “But you have more than cousins, Jane. You have twenty thousand pounds. You are a rich lady.”

The sum of twenty thousand pounds was more money than I could possibly imagine. Yet it was more important to me that I had a real family, that my dear Diana and Mary and St. John were my own blood relatives.

And now, I realized, I could truly thank them for saving my life, and for the unending kindness and hospitality they had shown me. What did I want with twenty thousand pounds? It was far more than anybody needed. I resolved to split the inheritance between us all, so that John Eyre’s four relatives would have five thousand pounds each. It would be enough to keep us for the rest of our lives.

I told St. John of my plan at once, and asked him to write to Diana and Mary to tell them that, if they wished, they could stop working and come home. At first he protested, saying that our uncle had left the money to me, and so it was mine.

“Don’t you realize what twenty thousand pounds could do for you?” he asked. “You could buy a fine house, and become a lady of standing in society.”

“But I don’t want to be a lady of standing in society,” I said. “I would rather live at Moor House with my cousins, and stay the way I am.”

“Will you still be the schoolmistress?”

I reflected. I knew I wanted to study, and travel one day, and have time for myself. So I said: “I will stay at the school until Christmas, to give you time to find another teacher.”

And so a lawyer was sent for; he wrote to uncle Eyre’s solicitors and, within a few weeks, St. John, Diana, Mary and I had five thousand pounds each to our names.

In early December, I shut up the school. Another teacher had been found to start in the new year, and I said farewell to my students. I eased my conscience by giving the school a gift of money, left my cottage tidy, and returned to Moor House.

My plan was to clean the house from top to bottom, and prepare it beautifully for Diana and Mary’s return. They had given up their posts, and were to arrive home a week before Christmas. I spent a little of my unexpected wealth on new carpets and furniture. Then I put on an apron and scrubbed and polished every inch of the house until it sparkled. With two days to spare, I sent for Hannah from the vicarage, and we spent every moment baking Christmas cakes, pies and puddings, building fires in every grate, hanging up decorations and setting out candles.

When at last the evening of their arrival came, Hannah, St. John and I waited outside to greet their carriage. How happy I was when it finally drew up outside the door and Mary and Diana climbed out, kissing me and their brother and welcoming me as their long-lost cousin. It was the happiest Christmas I had ever known.

St. John, of course, did not join in with the celebrations quite so cheerfully as his sisters. No amount of money would dissuade him from his ambition to be a missionary, and his mind was mostly occupied with his plans. He meant to set off some time in the coming year.

Through the spring, Mary, Diana and I lived at Moor House, while St. John and Hannah returned to the vicarage, although they visited us often. I did not plan to spend my whole life as a lady of leisure, but what a relief it was, just for those few months, to spend my time as I pleased. I drew, and painted, and walked on the moors, and enjoyed my cousins’ company every day. And, helped by Diana, I began to learn German, which I was sure would be useful when I was ready to see a little more of the world.

One evening, as Diana, Mary and I studied in the drawing room, St. John came in and asked me how my knowledge of German was proceeding.

“She is doing very well,” said Diana. “She has a natural aptitude for languages.”

“Well then, Jane,” St. John declared, “I would like you to stop learning German, and start learning Hindustani.”

“Hindustani? Me?” I said. “Why?”

“What can you mean by it, brother?” asked Mary.

“My plans are settled,” he replied, “and I will leave for India soon. I am learning Hindustani myself, but I need some help with it. I need a study partner. I have considered asking each of you, but I think Jane is best suited to the task.”

Diana laughed. “Well, it’s just as well you didn’t ask me,” she said. “I wouldn’t be persuaded to learn Hindustani for a moment – it’s far too hard!”

“Of course it is,” said Mary. “Don’t let him bully you into such a thing, Jane!”

But something about St. John’s cold eyes, and the stern way he spoke, made me feel I had to obey him. I didn’t know how to refuse.

And so we began studying Hindustani together. Several times a week, when he was not busy with his parish work, he would come up to Moor House with his books, and oblige me to join him for a lesson. I was good at languages, and I had enjoyed German, but now I felt challenged beyond my abilities. Yet St. John was so strict I didn’t dare to say no.

Did spending so much time with St. John Rivers make me forget Mr. Rochester? Oh no.

Since my fortunes had changed, I thought of him more and more. Although I knew I must not visit him, I longed to know if he was well, if he was happy. And so I had decided to write to Mrs. Fairfax, in confidence, to ask how things were at Thornfield.

A month had passed with no answer. This alarmed me, as I knew Mrs. Fairfax loved writing letters. I had been sure she would reply at once.

I thought perhaps she hadn’t received my letter, so I wrote again. Again, I heard nothing. As the weeks went by, I became more and more anxious. My fears filled my heart even when I was with St. John, day after day, and battled with my Hindustani verbs.

Diana and Mary noticed that something was troubling me, and asked what it was, but I couldn’t say. Then, one late spring morning, as St. John and I studied together, I found myself thinking about Thornfield and suddenly began to cry.

When he saw my tears, my cousin was as calm and cool as ever. “We shall put away the books, Jane,” he said. “Let us take a walk upon the moor instead.”

“I’ll fetch Diana and Mary,” I sniffed, getting up and wiping my eyes.

“No,” he said. “It will be just you and me.” The sun was shining as we set out, but the heather was damp and dewy, and there was a strong breeze. I was glad I had brought my cloak.

We left the path and walked up a hillside meadow where tiny white and yellow flowers dotted the ground, until we came to a clear stream. I sat down on a rock to rest, while St. John remained standing. He slowly turned around, surveying the countryside that he would soon be leaving behind – perhaps forever.

“I set sail in six weeks, Jane,” he said, over the noise of the stream.

“And I wish you good luck, cousin,” I replied. “Few people are fit for such an adventure.”

“Well,” he said, with a rare smile, “I cannot afford to dwell on those who are too weak to travel to India. I am thinking only of those who are strong enough for it.”

I was not sure what he meant, but I had an idea what it might be, and my heart sank.

“Surely if someone is suited to such work, their hearts will tell them so,” I said.

“And what does your heart say, Jane?”

So I was right. “Nothing at all,” I answered. “My heart has nothing to say on the matter.”

“Then I must speak for it,” he said, coming around and standing before me. “Jane, you must come with me to India, to be my companion and my assistant – to be my wife. I want you to marry me.”

“No!” I responded at once, a little too hastily. I tried to explain. “I cannot, St. John; I do not want to go to India,” I went on, although I felt his cold eyes on me, and found it very hard to tell him no.

“But you are brave, hardworking and honest – I feel you were born to be a missionary’s wife.”

“No,” I said again, but I could not look at him. He had more to say, though. “Jane, it is not for my own pleasure that I ask you this – it is for the service of God. It is because you are so well suited to the position…”

This was even worse. I saw that St. John was prepared to marry me, even though he felt no passion for me, simply because he wanted help with his holy work.

I shook my head again and again, but he had more arguments ready. Had I not said I wished to travel? Now that I had money, and did not need to work, should I not use my life to do some good in the world? And were not he and I similar, in our interests, and our natures?

I did not think so at all. I closed my eyes against his reasons, and inside my head I thought of Mr. Rochester, and how he had loved me with a true heart full of feeling, so unlike St. John’s cold, logical reasoning. And I still loved him back. But I could see that, as long as I did so, I would be in danger. I would have to resist the temptation of returning, and suffer the agony of longing to hear about him.

If I were married, and gone to India, I could never be tempted to go back to him. And wasn’t St. John right, that it would be a noble and useful way to spend my life? Even though I didn’t love St. John – not as anything more than a cousin? Even though the thought of being married to him was –

“You will be my wife, Jane,” I heard him say, very close to me now. My eyes were still closed, but I felt him lay a hand on top of my head, and rest it there. It felt almost as if he were hypnotizing me – as if some strange power of control flowed from his hand, and I began to feel forced to obey him…

“Jane! Jane! Jane!”

Mr. Rochester’s voice rang through my head so clearly that for a second I could have sworn he was there on the moor with us. I opened my eyes and stood up at once, shaking St. John’s hand away from me; and my eyes darted around and scanned the horizon. There no one was in sight.

Had the voice been inside my head? I wasn’t sure, but I was certain I had heard him calling me, calling me with such longing and desperation that I suddenly knew I had to go to him, now, whatever the cost, whatever was right or wrong.

I pulled my shawl tightly around me and, ignoring St. John’s shouts of protest, I ran away across the moor, down the hillside and back to the house.

That night, when I had calmed down, I told my cousins I had to visit a friend, and would be gone a few days. I knew they might think this strange, since I had said I didn’t have any friends, but they didn’t remark on it. Diana just asked: “Are you sure you are fit to travel? You look pale.” I assured her that I was. And so I rose early in the morning, and packed my bag. As I left my room, I found a note slipped under my door. It read:

“Jane,

I will wait to hear your final decision when you return. In the meantime, I will pray for you.

Yours ever,

St. John Rivers”

I folded the note into my pocket, left the house, and set out across the moors in the dawn light. An hour later, I had reached the signpost at Whitcross.

I realized it was almost a year since I had first arrived at that same spot, desolate and lonely, with no idea what might become of me. Who could have guessed things would turn out as they had, and that I would now be so much happier?

And yet, as the coach drew up, and I climbed in, and the wheels began to turn to carry me in the direction of Millcote, I felt as if I was going home.

By late afternoon, I saw familiar landscapes around me. When the coach stopped at a wayside inn I knew, I climbed out, saying I would walk from there. Thornfield was less than a mile away.

I am nearly there, I thought to myself, as I set off across the fields. I will see him soon.

But then other thoughts crowded into my head. What makes you think he will be there? I scolded myself. Mr. Rochester could be abroad – he could be away visiting friends. The voice you heard was only in your head – of course, he could not really have called you. Your silly hopes are built on a dream – on nothing.

For a moment I stopped. I was stupid to have come back, after I had fled so suddenly, and vowed never to see Mr. Rochester again. What was I doing? If I wanted to know how he was, any local person could tell me. There was no need for anyone at Thornfield to see me at all. I must turn back.

But I couldn’t turn back. Something was pulling me on, and I grew desperate to reach the house. I longed to see the orchard, the rookery, the thorn trees, and the high battlements. I kept walking.

As I came nearer, I came across individual stones and trees that I remembered from before, and they filled me with such emotion that I started to run. I hurried along behind the orchard wall, hearing the rooks cawing. I knew that when I turned at the end of the wall, I would see the house. I could not help but think I might see Mr. Rochester too, standing in his window, or walking on the lawn.

I reached the end of the orchard, and ran around the corner onto the path that led up to the house. Then I stumbled to a halt, and stood there helplessly on the path, gazing in horror at what I saw.

Thornfield Hall was an empty, blackened ruin.

The front of the house still rose up, high and grand, but its windows were empty of glass, and its broken stonework was dark with soot and covered with weeds. Behind the gaping doorway lay heaps of rubble, overgrown with moss, where the roof and the chimneys had fallen down.

I began to walk forward again, disbelieving. I crossed the lawn, staring up at the shell of the house. Silence surrounded me, broken only by the cries of the rooks as they circled around the deserted building.

Thornfield had clearly been destroyed by a great fire. But now I could hardly bear the thought that came into my head: had the fire taken lives as well as property? I had to know what had happened. I turned and ran all the way back to the inn, and asked the owner if he could answer some questions I had.

“Of course, Miss – how can I help?”

“Do you know Thornfield Hall?” I asked.

“I used to work there.”

“Did you? Why, so did I – many years ago now,” he said. “I was the late Mr. Rochester’s butler.”

“The late Mr. Rochester?” I gasped, feeling every bone in my body turn cold.

“Ah, you misunderstand me. I mean old Mr. Rochester, the present Mr. Rochester’s father.”

I breathed again. Mr. Rochester was alive after all.

“So… is the present Mr. Rochester still living at Thornfield?” I asked. Of course, I knew he could not be, but I wanted to hear the whole story.

“Oh no – no one’s living there. Have you not heard about the fire?”

“I’ve been away for some time.”

“Oh, Miss, I’m afraid the house has been burned to the ground! It was last autumn, about harvest time. A fire started in the night, and before they could bring the fire engines from Millcote it was all ablaze. I saw it myself. Such a shame – nothing could be saved. All that fine furniture, burned to a crisp!”

“How did the fire start?”

“Well, it was a shady business, Miss. I don’t know if you ever heard any gossip that Mr. Rochester kept a strange lady in secret at the house – a lunatic?”

“I… I did hear something about that.”

“Yes, well it was talked of for years, though no one knew who she was. But, just a year ago, there was a scandal, for it turned out she was his wife! He’d fallen for another lady – his governess, they said – I never saw her myself, but the servants said they’d never seen him so in love. He wanted to marry her, you see, and he never told her he had a wife. Well, they got as far as the church, but then it all came out, and the wedding was called off.”

“But the fire,” I interrupted. “Did Mr. Rochester’s wife have something to do with it?”

“You’ve got it in one, Miss – it was her that started it. You see, they had a servant to watch her – Grace Poole, her name was – and a good job she did too, except for one thing: she liked a drink. She usually fell asleep after drinking late at night, and the madwoman stole the keys from her pocket, and wandered through the house, causing mischief.

“Well, after all the fuss, the governess ran off, and Mr. Rochester almost went insane looking for her, but he couldn’t find her. So he sent the little girl to school, and shut himself up in Thornfield. And then the fire happened. Mrs. Rochester got out again, took a candle, and set light to one of the beds – I heard it was the one in the governess’s room, as if she were taking her revenge. But of course the girl was long gone by then.”

“So Rochester was at home when the fire started?”

“Oh yes, and they say he was as brave as a lion – he pulled all the servants from their beds and carried them outside, and then he went back in for his wife. But she had run up on the roof – we could see her dancing in the flames – and he tried to catch her to bring her back safe, but she leaped from the top, and fell down and died. It was dreadful, Miss.”

“How awful,” I said. “And… did anyone else die?”

“No, but it might have been as well if they had.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean Mr. Rochester, Miss – for he suffered cruelly. Well, he had to escape, but as he was coming down the staircase, it gave way, and he fell in the fire. His face was burned, and he’s blind as a bat to this day. Some say it’s his punishment for keeping that wife of his a secret [25], but I say, if it is, it’s a harsh one. He tried to do his best for her.”

“And what happened to him? Where did he go?”

“Why, he is gone to live at Ferndean, his other house, twenty miles off. And they say he lives a life of misery, now he has lost his sight, and his wife, and his lady-love too. He only has old John and Mary to care for him, for he sent all the other servants away.”

“Do you have a carriage for hire?” I asked.

“Of course, Miss, it’s outside.”

“I know it’s late,” I said, “but I will pay you double if you can find someone to drive me to Ferndean now, and take me there before sunset.”

I had heard of the house of Ferndean before. Mr. Rochester often spoke about it, and sometimes went there. Ferndean was in a forest, and after the coachman left me at the gates, I walked up a grassy track for half a mile before I saw the house. It was smaller than Thornfield, and plain and simple. It looked empty.

There were no flowers, no garden-beds, only a broad gravel walk. The house was as still as a church on a week-day.

“Can there be life here?” I asked.

Yes, there was, for I heard a movement. The door opened and a figure came out. It was dusk but I recognised him – it was my master, Edward Fairfax Rochester. I stood there to watch him, myself invisible to him. He lifted his hand and opened his eyelids, but one saw that all was darkness to him. At this moment John approached him and offered help. “Leave me alone,” was the answer. Mr. Rochester tried to walk about vainly, all was too uncertain.

I came up to the house and knocked. John’s wife Mary opened the door. She started as if she had seen a ghost.

“Miss Eyre! Is it really you?”

I explained that I had heard about the fire, and come to visit Mr. Rochester.

“When you go in, tell your master that a person wishes to speak to him, but do not give my name,” I continued.

“I don’t think he will see you, he refuses everyone.”

When Mary returned she said: “You are to send in your name and business.” She then filled a glass with water and placed it on a tray together with candles.

“Is that what he asked for?” I asked.

“Yes, he always asks for candles at dark, though he is blind.”

“Give the tray to me. I will carry it in.”

Mr. Rochester was sitting in an armchair, facing away from me. Straight away, Pilot got up from the hearth and came to me, wagging his tail.

“Down, Pilot – what is it?” My heart melted to hear his voice again, as rich and deep as ever.

He turned around – an automatic gesture, for he could not see. But I could see him. His face was scarred, his eyes half-closed. My heart leapt in my chest, and my hands shook as I put the tray down.

“That is you, isn’t it, Mary?”

“Mary is in the kitchen,” I said.

He jumped. “Who is that? What is it? Who speaks?”

“Well, Pilot knows who I am,” I said, smiling, “and John and Mary know I’m here. I’ve brought your candles and water, sir.”

“It cannot be – it is a delusion,” he said, stretching out his hands. I reached out and touched them.

“It is her hand!” he said, and pulled me closer. “This is her shape! Jane… is it you? Am I dreaming?”

“And this her voice,” I added. “She is all here: her heart too.”

“Jane Eyre!…” was all he said.

“I am Jane Eyre. I have come back to you.”

My eyes were full of tears, and now they fell, splashing onto his hands and face. “I never will run away again,” I sobbed. “I will never leave you.”

And so we were reunited. He hugged me tightly and, kissing his face and his poor eyes, I told him where I had been, and how I had found my family, and become an independent lady. I told him I had thought I heard him calling, and come back to find him, and that I knew all about the fire.

“I have longed for you Jane,” he said. “And now I can marry you, if you will have me. But how could you want me, when I am so hideous, and you are a wealthy lady, who can have whatever she pleases?”

“It is you I want,” I said. “You are what pleases me. And anyway, you were not handsome before. I told you that once, remember?”

He laughed. “Then, Jane, will you marry me?”

Reader, I married him.

My tale draws to its close. I have now been married ten years. No woman was ever nearer to her mate than I am. We talk, I believe, all day long. We are precisely suited in character, and live in perfect concord at Ferndean. John and Mary live with us, Adèle is at school nearby, and we have two children of our own.

Mr. Rochester continued blind the first two years of our union, and I was then his vision. But one morning at the end of the two years, as I was writing a letter to his dictation, he came and bent over me, and said, “Jane, have you a glittering ornament round your neck?” I had a gold watch-chain. “‘And have you a pale blue dress on?” I had.

He and I went up to London. He had the advice of an oculist; and he eventually recovered the sight of one eye. He cannot read or write much; but he can find his way without being led by the hand. The sky is no longer a blank to him – the earth no longer a void. When his firstborn was put into his arms, he could see that the boy had inherited his own eyes, as they once were – large, brilliant, and black.

My Edward and I, then, are happy: and the more so, because those we most love are happy as well. Diana and Mary Rivers are both married. Once every year they come to see us. Diana’s husband is a captain in the navy, Mary’s is a clergyman, her brother’s friend.

And as for St. John, he left England: he went to India. He followed the path he had marked for himself. Firm, faithful, and devoted, full of energy, he worked for his race. He is unmarried, and he never will marry now. I thought that we did not need to weep for his death, as I believe even in his last hour his mind was unclouded and his hope was sure.

abide терпеть, выносить

ablaze горящий, сверкающий; пылающий

absorbed поглощенный, увлеченный

accomplished с хорошими манерам

accomplishments хорошие манеры

accused обвиненный

adjust приспособиться

admit допускать

ado шум, суета

affection любовь, расположение

allegation обвинение

amber янтарного цвета

amble зд. пробежать

anguished испытывающий муки

announcement объявление

anxious тревожный

apothecary аптекарь

aptitude способность, одаренность

astonished удивленный, изумленный

at a loss в растерянности

attach прикреплять

avoid избегать

aware осознающий

awareness осведомленность

awkward неловкий, неуклюжий

babble журчать

banish выгонять, изгнать

banisters перила

barber парикмахер

batter бить, колотить

battlements зубчатые стены

bead украшать бусами

belching выбрасывающий дым

bellow рычать, орать

benefactress благодетельница

berate бранить, упрекать

bewitch околдовывать; заколдовать

bilberry черника

bizarre невероятный

black-clad в черных одеяниях

bleed кровоточить, обливаться кровью

blink прищуриться, зажмуриться

bloodcurdling чудовищный, душераздирающий

blunt резкий, прямолинейный

blush вспыхнуть, покраснеть

bog трясина, болото

bold смелый, дерзновенный

bolt засов; закрыть на засов

bonnet шляпа без полей

book-learned ученый

boulder валун

boundary граница

bound over зд. подбежать

bow поклониться

brat отродье, сопляк

briar терн

bride невеста

bridesmaid подружка невесты

brim наполнить, переполнить

brush past прошмыгнуть

bulky грузный

bully грубо обращаться, запугивать

bump into натолкнуться (на кого-л.)

bundle связка

burials похороны

bustle торопить, подгонять

bustle about суетиться

butler слуга, лакей

call on заглянуть, навестить

cancel отменять

capture уловить, запечатлеть

carve вырезать

caw каркать

celebration празднование

charade спектакль, сценка

charity school школа для бедных детей, благотворительная школа

charred обугленный

cheat жулик, мошенник

chest грудь, грудная клетка

chilblains обморожение, обмороженное место

chore рутинная работа по дому

claim утверждать, заявлять

clatter стук

clergyman священнослужитель

clink звон (стекла)

closet стенной шкаф

clutch вцепиться, зажать

coffin гроб

compelled принужденный

complexion цвет лица

confess признать, сознаться

confide in smb. доверять кому-л.

confine приковывать

consumption чахотка, туберкулез

coo ворковать

cosset баловать

craggy крутой, отвесный

crevice трещина, щель

croak проворчать, проскрипеть

crouch сгибаться

crucifix крест; распятье

cue кий

сurl up свернуться в клубок

curtsy реверанс

cushion диванная подушка

daffodil желтый нарцисс

damp сырой, влажный

dare осмеливаться

daresay осмелюсь сказать

darn штопать

darting скачущий, мечущийся

dashing бравый, удалой

dazzle слепить

decent порядочный, достойный

defeated побежденный, поверженный

defend защищать

defy не поддаваться, не повиноваться

delivery доставка, посылка

delusion иллюзия, обман

demanding требовательный

deny отрицать

deserted опустевший

deserve заслуживать

desolate несчастный, покинутый

determined решительный

devour жадно поглощать

dewy росистый

dignity достоинство

dim тусклый

disguise переодеться; изменить внешность

dismiss уволить

dissuade отговаривать, разубеждать

distraught обезумевший от горя

doff снимать шляпу (в знак приветствия)

doorframe дверной проем

dormitory общая спальня

douse окунуть, погрузиться в воду

drag smb out вытащить кого-л. откуда-л.

drag on тянуться (о времени)

draughty продуваемый насквозь

dreary скучный, тоскливый

drench смочить, промочить

dresser туалетный столик

drift off засыпать, погружаться в сон

driveway проезжая часть

early riser «жаворонок», человек, который рано просыпается

easel мольберт

emanate исходить

embarrassed смущенный; в смятении

embarrassment смущение, смятение

embroidered вышитый

endearment ласка, нежность

endure терпеть, выносить

eavesdrop подслушивать

evaporate испариться

evil зло

eventually со временем

exclaim воскликнуть

exclude исключить

exhausted утомленный, измученный

expect ожидать

expel исключать

explore исследовать

falling-out размолвка, ссора

falter дрогнуть; колебаться

fate судьба, участь

feel faint чувствовать слабость/дурноту

fervent пылкий, страстный

fetch принести; привести, сходить за

fiend чудовище, дьявол

fire увольнять

firebrand смутьян, подстрекатель

flabby обрюзглый

flail бить, молотить

flinch уклоняться; вздрагивать

float плыть; парить

folded сложенный

footman лакей, слуга

flourishing процветающий

folder папка

fortune богатство, состояние

fragrant ароматный

frenzy безумие, неистовство

fringed отделанный бахромой

frippery мишура, безделушки

frock платье

fur-trimmed отороченный мехом

gasp ахнуть, открыть рот от изумления; задыхаться, дышать с трудом

gaunt изможденный, изнуренный

gaze пристально смотреть

germ микроб, бактерия

ghastly жуткий

giggle хихикать

glance мельком взглянуть

gleefully радостно, весело

glimpse мельком взглянуть

glint сверкать

gloom мрачность, тьма

gloomy мрачный

gluey вязкий

gnarled скрюченный; с наростами

go insane сойти с ума

goodness добродетель

gossamer-fine veil воздушная вуаль

grate решетка печи; камин

grateful благодарный

gravel гравий, щебень

gravestone надгробие

grief горе, печаль

grim-faced с мрачным лицом

grin усмешка, ухмылка

gruffness резкость, грубость

gruffly резко, грубо

grunt ворчание

gurgling булькающий

gypsy цыган(ка)

hardiness стойкость, выносливость

harsh грубый, жесткий, неприятный

hastily поспешно

headlong стремглав

hoist поднимать

hallway вестибюль

hamlet маленькая деревушка

hardship невзгоды, лишения

hawthorn боярышник

hearth камин, очаг

heather вереск

heathland вересковая пустошь

hideous омерзительный, отвратительный

Hindustani индустани (язык)

honeymoon медовый месяц

horn-rimmed в роговой оправе

horse chestnut tree конский каштан

hospitality гостеприимство

hover кружить, нависать

huddle ежиться, ютиться

hug обнять

hearth очаг, камин

hem шов, обшивка, кант

hermit отшельник

hooves копыта

hum шум, гул

humiliate унижать

humility смиренность

hunk ломоть

hurl швырнуть

hush заставить замолчать

immerse oneself погрузиться

impediment препятствие к браку

indignantly возмущенно

indignation негодование, возмущение

inherit наследовать

inheritance наследие, наследство

inky чернильный

innocent невинный, невиновный

instill прививать, вселять

institution учреждение

interrupt прерывать

intervene вмешаться

intricate затейливый

irritated раздраженный

journey поездка, путешествие

judge судить, осуждать

keep up не отставать

lace кружево

larder кладовка

late покойный

lawyer юрист, адвокат

ledge выступ, риф

leisure праздная жизнь

limp хромать

liven up оживлять

lock запереть

long скучать, тосковать

loom into view появиться, промелькнуть

looming мелькающий, неясно вырисовывающийся

low-bred неотесанный, невоспитанный

lunatic безумный, псих

lunge ринуться, устремиться

maid служанка

marsh gases болотные газы

match соответствовать

matted спутанный

meanness низость, подлость

meek кроткий, смиренный

meekly смиренно

mellow сочный, густой

mischievous вредный, непослушный

miserable бедствующий; жалкий

misery бедствие; нищета

missionary миссионер

mistress любовница

misty туманный

monitor ученик, помогающий учителю, староста

moody в дурном настроении

moor заболоченное место

mop вытирать

morsel кусочек

mortified зд. в оцепенении от ужаса

mossy мшистый

moth ночная бабочка

mourning траур

muffled приглушенный

muffler муфта

mumble мямлить

murmur бормотать

muslin муслин (легкая ткань)

nag ворчать, придираться

nightgown ночная сорочка

nod кивнуть

nursery детская комната

oatcake овсяная лепешка

object возражать

orchard фруктовый сад

orphan сирота

outraged разгневанный

overtaxed перенапряженный

owe быть обязанным

owner владелец

pansy фиалка

parish церковный приход

parishioner прихожанин, прихожанка

pastry кондитерское изделие

patch кусочек, участок

patterned узорчатый

pebbly покрытый галькой

peer поглядывать; вглядываться

petal лепесток

petrified в оцепенении

pick oneself up собраться

pin приколоть

pinched худой, истощенный

pinafore передник

pitch-black в кромешной темноте

plague чума

plainly просто, скромно

plead умолять

plume плюмаж

poker-faced бесстрастный, с ничего не выражающим лицом

pomposity напыщенность

poplar tree тополь

porter’s lodge сторожка у ворот, помещение для привратника

possibility возможность

pound биться, колотиться

praise хвалить

preacher проповедник

pull on натягивать

punishment наказание

quench тушить

range ряд

rasping дребезжащий

ravenous изголодавшийся

relief облегчение

reassure успокаивать, подбадривать

rebellion протест, возмущение

refectory трапезная

reflect размышлять

regret сожаление

reign правление

relation родственник; родственница

reliable надежный

relief облегчение

remorse отчаяние, угрызения совести

resentful обидчивый, злопамятный

resolve принять решение

restless тревожный, неспокойный

restriction ограничение

retain сохранить

retort резко возразить

reveal раскрыть, показать

revenge месть

revolting отвратительный

rib ребро

ringlet завиток

rip разорвать

ridiculous смешной, смехотворный

rivulet ручеек

roam бродить

roar рев

rogue мошенник

roll down скатиться

rook грач

rotten неприятный, испортившийся

rough грубый, резкий

routine заведенный порядок

ruffled гофрированный

rumble бредить, говорить бессвязно

rummage рассматривать

run one’s errands выполнять поручения, заниматься делами

run over натолкнуться

rush ринуться, броситься

saddle седло

sail отправиться в плавание

sallow бледный, землистого цвета

satin атлас

scarred покрытый шрамами

scatter разбрасывать, раскидывать

scent аромат

scold бранить

scrap зд. кусочек

scratch царапать

scripture Священное писание

scowl хмуриться, сердито смотреть

scowling хмурый, сердитый

scuffling глухой, шаркающий

sensible разумный, здравомыслящий

set off отправиться, пуститься в путь

sew шить

shatter разрушить, разбить

shroud зд. саван

shy застенчивый

sink садиться, опускаться (о солнце)

sketch набросок, эскиз

slam захлопнуть

slave-driver эксплуататор, надсмотрщик

slumber сон, дремота

smeared измазанный, испачканный

smitten влюбленный, очарованный

smooth down пригладить

smuggle принести тайком

snap говорить со злостью, рявкнуть

snappish раздраженный, беспокойный

snarling рычащий

sneak about рыскать, шнырять

sneer презрительная ухмылка

sneering ехидный, издевательский

sniff шмыгать носом

snore храпеть

snort хмыкнуть, фыркнуть

snowdrop подснежник

soak мочить, пропитывать

sodden промокший, намокший

solicitor адвокат, юрист

soothe успокоить, утешить

sore болезненный, больной

sour угрюмый, недовольный

sparkle блестеть

spinster старая дева

spire шпиль

splendid замечательный, шикарный

split разделять, раскалывать

splutter говорить бессвязно

sprain растяжение связок

spread распространение

sprightly оживленный, энергичный

spur пришпорить

sputter шипеть

squeaky скрипучий

squeeze сжимать

stammer говорить невнятно, заикаться

standing положение

stare глазеть, пялиться

stern жесткий, суровый

stile ступенька; скамья

stitch стежок

stoke up загружать топку, поддерживать огонь

stream ручей, речка

stride шагать

stroke удар; паралич

stumble спотыкаться

stunningly ошеломляюще

subdued подчиненный, подавленный

suggest предлагать

summon позвать

sunbeam солнечный луч

supper tray поднос с ужином

surplice зд. одежда священника

sway шататься; пошатнуться

swollen опухший

swoop устремиться вниз; налетать

take in осматривать

tangle сплетение

tapestry гобелен

taunt язвить, насмехаться

tend заботиться

tersely кратко

testimonial характеристика, рекомендательное письмо

thorn tree терновник

throttle задушить

thunder громыхать

throb стучать, пульсировать

thud глухой звук

thwart мешать, перечить; мешать исполнению

tolerate выносить, терпеть

torment мучить

tramp топать

trapdoor чердачный люк

tremble дрожать, трястись

trinket безделушка; побрякушка

trundle катиться

tuft пучок волос

tumble спадать

tut сказать с досадой

twinge приступ, проблеск

typhus сыпной тиф

unconscious без сознания

uncanny таинственный, жуткий

unearthly потусторонний, неземной

ungrateful неблагодарный

urge подгонять

vagabond бродяга, бездельник

vagrant бродяга

valet слуга, лакей

vault сейф, хранилище

vicar викарий, англиканский священник

viscount виконт

vividly живо

vow давать обет, торжественно клясться

wag вилять хвостом

ward воспитанница; подопечная

washstand умывальник

wax paper парафиновая бумага

wealth богатство

whirl around кружиться

whisk away быстро удаляться

winding извилистый

witness свидетель

witty умный, остроумный

wound рана

wrap заворачивать

wretch негодник, негодяй