Ere the half-hour ended, five o’clock struck; school was dismissed, and all were gone
into the refectory to tea. I now ventured to descend: it was deep dusk; I retired into a
corner and sat down on the floor. The spell by which I had been so far supported began
to dissolve; reaction took place, and soon, so overwhelming was the grief that seized me,
I sank prostrate with my face to the ground. Now I wept: Helen Burns was not here;
nothing sustained me; left to myself I abandoned myself, and my tears watered the
boards. I had meant to be so good, and to do so much at Lowood: to make so many
friends, to earn respect and win affection. Already I had made visible progress: that very
morning I had reached the head of my class; Miss Miller had praised me warmly; Miss
Temple had smiled approbation; she had promised to teach me drawing, and to let me
learn French, if I continued to make similar improvement two months longer: and then I
was well received by my fellow-pupils; treated as an equal by those of my own age, and
not molested by any; now, here I lay again crushed and trodden on; and could I ever rise
more?
“Never,” I thought; and ardently I wished to die. While sobbing out this wish in broken
accents, some one approached: I started up—again Helen Burns was near me; the fading
fires just showed her coming up the long, vacant room; she brought my coffee and
bread.
“Come, eat something,” she said; but I put both away from me, feeling as if a drop or a
crumb would have choked me in my present condition. Helen regarded me, probably
with surprise: I could not now abate my agitation, though I tried hard; I continued to
weep aloud. She sat down on the ground near me, embraced her knees with her arms,
and rested her head upon them; in that attitude she remained silent as an Indian. I was
the first who spoke—
“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 you called so, and
the world contains hundreds of millions.”
“But what have I to do with millions? The eighty, I know, despise me.”
“Jane, you are mistaken: probably not one in the school either despises or dislikes you:
many, I am sure, pity you much.”
“How can they pity me after what Mr. Brocklehurst has said?”
“Mr. Brocklehurst is not a god: nor is he even a great and admired man: he is little liked
here; he never took steps to make himself liked. Had he treated you as an especial
favourite, you would have found enemies, declared or covert, all around you; as it is, the
greater number would offer you sympathy if they dared. Teachers and pupils may look
coldly on you for a day or two, but friendly feelings are concealed in their hearts; and if
you persevere in doing well, these feelings will ere long appear so much the more
evidently for their temporary suppression. Besides, Jane”—she paused.
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“Well, Helen?” said I, putting my hand into hers: she chafed my fingers gently to warm
them, and went on—
“If all the world hated you, and believed you wicked, while your own conscience
approved you, and absolved you from guilt, you would not be without friends.”
“No; I know I should think well of myself; but that is not enough: if others don’t love me
I would rather die than live—I cannot bear to be solitary and hated, Helen. Look here; to
gain some real affection from you, or Miss Temple, or any other whom I truly love, I
would willingly submit to have the bone of my arm broken, or to let a bull toss me, or to
stand behind a kicking horse, and let it dash its hoof at my chest—”
“Hush, Jane! you think too much of the love of human beings; you are too impulsive, too
vehement; the sovereign hand that created your frame, and put life into it, has provided
you with other resources than your feeble self, or than creatures feeble as you. Besides
this earth, and besides the race of men, there is an invisible world and a kingdom of
spirits: that world is round us, for it is everywhere; and those spirits watch us, for they
are commissioned to guard us; and if we were dying in pain and shame, if scorn smote
us on all sides, and hatred crushed us, angels see our tortures, recognise our innocence
(if innocent we be: as I know you are of this charge which Mr. Brocklehurst has weakly
and pompously repeated at second-hand from Mrs. Reed; for I read a sincere nature in
your ardent eyes and on your clear front), and God waits only the separation of spirit
from flesh to crown us with a full reward. Why, then, should we ever sink overwhelmed
with distress, when life is so soon over, and death is so certain an entrance to
happiness—to glory?”
I was silent; Helen had calmed me; but in the tranquillity she imparted there was an
alloy of inexpressible sadness. I felt the impression of woe as she spoke, but I could not
tell whence it came; and when, having done speaking, she breathed a little fast and
coughed a short cough, I momentarily forgot my own sorrows to yield to a vague
concern for her.
Resting my head on Helen’s shoulder, I put my arms round her waist; she drew me to
her, and we reposed in silence. We had not sat long thus, when another person came in.
Some heavy clouds, swept from the sky by a rising wind, had left the moon bare; and her
light, streaming in through a window near, shone full both on us and on the approaching
figure, which we at once recognised as Miss Temple.
“I came on purpose to find you, Jane Eyre,” said she; “I want you in my room; and as
Helen Burns is with you, she may come too.”
We went; following the superintendent’s guidance, we had to thread some intricate
passages, and mount a staircase before we reached her apartment; it contained a good
fire, and looked cheerful. Miss Temple told Helen Burns to be seated in a low arm-chair
on one side of the hearth, and herself taking another, she called me to her side.
“Is it all over?” she asked, looking down at my face. “Have you cried your grief away?”
“I am afraid I never shall do that.”
“Why?”
“Because I have been wrongly accused; and you, ma’am, and everybody else, will now
think me wicked.”
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“We shall think you what you prove yourself to be, my child. Continue to act as a good
girl, and you will satisfy us.”
“Shall I, Miss Temple?”
“You will,” said she, passing her arm round me. “And now tell me who is the lady whom
Mr. Brocklehurst called your benefactress?”
“Mrs. Reed, my uncle’s wife. My uncle is dead, and he left me to her care.”
“Did she not, then, adopt you of her own accord?”
“No, ma’am; she was sorry to have to do it: but my uncle, as I have often heard the
servants say, got her to promise before he died that she would always keep me.”
“Well now, Jane, you know, or at least I will tell you, that when a criminal is accused, he
is always allowed to speak in his own defence. You have been charged with falsehood;
defend yourself to me as well as you can. Say whatever your memory suggests is true;
but add nothing and exaggerate nothing.”
I resolved, in the depth of my heart, that I would be most moderate—most correct; and,
having reflected a few minutes in order to arrange coherently what I had to say, I told
her all the story of my sad childhood. Exhausted by emotion, my language was more
subdued than it generally was when it developed that sad theme; and mindful of Helen’s
warnings against the indulgence of resentment, I infused into the narrative far less of
gall and wormwood than ordinary. Thus restrained and simplified, it sounded more
credible: I felt as I went on that Miss Temple fully believed me.
In the course of the tale I had mentioned Mr. Lloyd as having come to see me after the
fit: for I never forgot the, to me, frightful episode of the red-room: in detailing which, my
excitement was sure, in some degree, to break bounds; for nothing could soften in my
recollection the spasm of agony which clutched my heart when Mrs. Reed spurned my
wild supplication for pardon, and locked me a second time in the dark and haunted
chamber.
I had finished: Miss Temple regarded me a few minutes in silence; she then said—
“I know something of Mr. Lloyd; I shall write to him; if his reply agrees with your
statement, you shall be publicly cleared from every imputation; to me, Jane, you are
clear now.”
She kissed me, and still keeping me at her side (where I was well contented to stand, for
I derived a child’s pleasure from the contemplation of her face, her dress, her one or two
ornaments, her white forehead, her clustered and shining curls, and beaming dark
eyes), she proceeded to address Helen Burns.
“How are you to-night, Helen? Have you coughed much to-day?”
“Not quite so much, I think, ma’am.”
“And the pain in your chest?”
“It is a little better.”
Miss Temple got up, took her hand and examined her pulse; then she returned to her
own seat: as she resumed it, I heard her sigh low. She was pensive a few minutes, then
rousing herself, she said cheerfully—
“But you two are my visitors to-night; I must treat you as such.” She rang her bell.
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“Barbara,” she said to the servant who answered it, “I have not yet had tea; bring the
tray and place cups for these two young ladies.”
And a tray was soon brought. How pretty, to my eyes, did the china cups and bright
teapot look, placed on the little round table near the fire! How fragrant was the steam of
the beverage, and the scent of the toast! of which, however, I, to my dismay (for I was
beginning to be hungry) discerned only a very small portion: Miss Temple discerned it
too.
“Barbara,” said she, “can you not bring a little more bread and butter? There is not
enough for three.”
Barbara went out: she returned soon—
“Madam, Mrs. Harden says she has sent up the usual quantity.”
Mrs. Harden, be it observed, was the housekeeper: a woman after Mr. Brocklehurst’s
own heart, made up of equal parts of whalebone and iron.
“Oh, very well!” returned Miss Temple; “we must make it do, Barbara, I suppose.” And as
the girl withdrew she added, smiling, “Fortunately, I have it in my power to supply
deficiencies for this once.”
Having invited Helen and me to approach the table, and placed before each of us a cup of
tea with one delicious but thin morsel of toast, she got up, unlocked a drawer, and
taking from it a parcel wrapped in paper, disclosed presently to our eyes a good-sized
seed-cake.
“I meant to give each of you some of this to take with you,” said she, “but as there is so
little toast, you must have it now,” and she proceeded to cut slices with a generous hand.
We feasted that evening as on nectar and ambrosia; and not the least delight of the
entertainment was the smile of gratification with which our hostess regarded us, as we
satisfied our famished appetites on the delicate fare she liberally supplied.
Tea over and the tray removed, she again summoned us to the fire; we sat one on each
side of her, and now a conversation followed between her and Helen, which it was
indeed a privilege to be admitted to hear.
Miss Temple had always something of serenity in her air, of state in her mien, of refined
propriety in her language, which precluded deviation into the ardent, the excited, the
eager: something which chastened the pleasure of those who looked on her and listened
to her, by a controlling sense of awe; and such was my feeling now: but as to Helen
Burns, I was struck with wonder.
The refreshing meal, the brilliant fire, the presence and kindness of her beloved
instructress, or, perhaps, more than all these, something in her own unique mind, had
roused her powers within her. They woke, they kindled: first, they glowed in the bright
tint of her cheek, which till this hour I had never seen but pale and bloodless; then they
shone in the liquid lustre of her eyes, which had suddenly acquired a beauty more
singular than that of Miss Temple’s—a beauty neither of fine colour nor long eyelash,
nor pencilled brow, but of meaning, of movement, of radiance. Then her soul sat on her
lips, and language flowed, from what source I cannot tell. Has a girl of fourteen a heart
large enough, vigorous enough, to hold the swelling spring of pure, full, fervid
eloquence? Such was the characteristic of Helen’s discourse on that, to me, memorable
55
evening; her spirit seemed hastening to live within a very brief span as much as many
live during a protracted existence.
They conversed of things I had never heard of; of nations and times past; of countries
far away; of secrets of nature discovered or guessed at: they spoke of books: how many
they had read! What stores of knowledge they possessed! Then they seemed so familiar
with French names and French authors: but my amazement reached its climax when
Miss Temple asked Helen if she sometimes snatched a moment to recall the Latin her
father had taught her, and taking a book from a shelf, bade her read and construe a page
of Virgil; and Helen obeyed, my organ of veneration expanding at every sounding line.
She had scarcely finished ere the bell announced bedtime! no delay could be admitted;
Miss Temple embraced us both, saying, as she drew us to her heart—
“God bless you, my children!”
Helen she held a little longer than me: she let her go more reluctantly; it was Helen her
eye followed to the door; it was for her she a second time breathed a sad sigh; for her
she wiped a tear from her cheek.
On reaching the bedroom, we heard the voice of Miss Scatcherd: she was examining
drawers; she had just pulled out Helen Burns’s, and when we entered Helen was greeted
with a sharp reprimand, and told that to-morrow she should have half-a-dozen of
untidily folded articles pinned to her shoulder.
“My things were indeed in shameful disorder,” murmured Helen to me, in a low voice: “I
intended to have arranged them, but I forgot.”
Next morning, Miss Scatcherd wrote in conspicuous characters on a piece of pasteboard
the word “Slattern,” and bound it like a phylactery round Helen’s large, mild, intelligent,
and benign-looking forehead. She wore it till evening, patient, unresentful, regarding it
as a deserved punishment. The moment Miss Scatcherd withdrew after afternoon
school, I ran to Helen, tore it off, and thrust it into the fire: the fury of which she was
incapable had been burning in my soul all day, and tears, hot and large, had continually
been scalding my cheek; for the spectacle of her sad resignation gave me an intolerable
pain at the heart.
About a week subsequently to the incidents above narrated, Miss Temple, who had
written to Mr. Lloyd, received his answer: it appeared that what he said went to
corroborate my account. Miss Temple, having assembled the whole school, announced
that inquiry had been made into the charges alleged against Jane Eyre, and that she was
most happy to be able to pronounce her completely cleared from every imputation. The
teachers then shook hands with me and kissed me, and a murmur of pleasure ran
through the ranks of my companions.
Thus relieved of a grievous load, I from that hour set to work afresh, resolved to pioneer
my way through every difficulty: I toiled hard, and my success was proportionate to my
efforts; my memory, not naturally tenacious, improved with practice; exercise
sharpened my wits; in a few weeks I was promoted to a higher class; in less than two
months I was allowed to commence French and drawing. I learned the first two tenses
of the verb Etre, and sketched my first cottage (whose walls, by-the-bye, outrivalled in
slope those of the leaning tower of Pisa), on the same day. That night, on going to bed, I
forgot to prepare in imagination the Barmecide supper of hot roast potatoes, or white
bread and new milk, with which I was wont to amuse my inward cravings: I feasted
instead on the spectacle of ideal drawings, which I saw in the dark; all the work of my
56
own hands: freely pencilled houses and trees, picturesque rocks and ruins, Cuyp-like
groups of cattle, sweet paintings of butterflies hovering over unblown roses, of birds
picking at ripe cherries, of wren’s nests enclosing pearl-like eggs, wreathed about with
young ivy sprays. I examined, too, in thought, the possibility of my ever being able to
translate currently a certain little French story which Madame Pierrot had that day
shown me; nor was that problem solved to my satisfaction ere I fell sweetly asleep.
Well has Solomon said—“Better is a dinner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and
hatred therewith.”
I would not now have exchanged Lowood with all its privations for Gateshead and its
daily luxuries.
