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Preses are strahings! and so are syathies; and so are signs; and the three bined ke oery to which hunity has not yet found the key. I neer ughed at preses in life, because I hae had strange ones of own. Syathies, I beliee, eist (for instance, between far-distant, long-absent, wholly estranged reties asserting, notwithstanding their alienation, the unity of the source to which each traces his in) whose ws baffle rtal prehension. And signs, fht we know, y be but the syathies of Nature with n.
When I was a little girl, only si years old, I one night heard Bessie Leaen say to Martha Abbot that she had been dreang about a little child; and that to dreaof children was a sure sign of trouble, either to one’s self or one’s kin. The saying ght hae worn out of ry, had not a circe iediately followed which sered indelibly to fi it there. The day Bessie was sent for ho to the deathbed of her little sister.
Of te I had often recalled this saying and this i; for during the past week scarcely a night had gone oer ch that had nht with it a dreaof an infant, which I sotis hushed in ar, sotis dandled on knee, sotis watched pying with daisies on a wn, ain, dabbling its hands in running water. It was a wailing child this night, and a ughing ohe : now it led close to , and now it ran fro; but whateer od the apparition einced, whateer aspect it wore, it failed not for seen suessie nights to et the nt I ehe nd of sluer.
I did not like this iteration of one idea—this strange recurrence of one ige, and I grew nerous as bedti approached and the hour of the ision drew near. It was fropanionship with this baby- phantoI had been roused on that onlight night when I heard the cry; and it was oernoon of the day following I was suoned downstairs by a ssage that so one wanted in Mrs. Fairfa’s roo On repairing thither, I found a n waiting for , haing the appearance of a gentlen’s serant: he was dressed in deep and the hat he held in his hand was surrounded with a crape band.
“I daresay you hardly reer , Miss,” he said, rising as I entered; “but na is Leaen: I lied an with Mrs. Reed when you were at Gateshead, eight or nine years since, and I lie there still.”
“Oh, Robert! how do you do? I reer you ery well: you used to gie a ride sotis on Miss Geiana’s bay pony. And how is Bessie? You are rried to Bessie?”
“Yes, Miss: wife is ery hearty, thank you; she brought another little one about two nths since—we hae three now—and both ther and child are thriing.”
“And are the faly well at the house, Robert?”
“I asorry I ’t gie you better news of the Miss: they are ery badly at present—irouble.”
“I hope no one is dead,” I said;q..;/q, gng at his bck dress. He too looked down at the crape round his hat and replied—
“Mr. John died yesterday was a week, at his chaers in London.”
“Mr. John?”
“Yes.”
“And how does his ther bear it?”
“Why, you see, Miss Eyre, it is not a ishap: his life has been ery wild: these st three years he gae hielf up te ways, and his death was shog.”
“I heard froBessie he was not doing well.”
“Doing well! Huld not do worse: he ruined his heah and his estate angst the worst n and the worst wo into debt and into jail: his ther helped hiout twice, but as soon as he was free he returo his old panions and habits. His head was not strong: the knaes he lied angst fooled hibeyond anything I eer heard. He ca down to Gateshead about three weeks ago and wanted ssis to gie up all to hi Missis refused: her ans hae long been ch reduced by his etraagance; so he went back again, and the news was that he was dead. How he died, God knows!—they say he killed hielf.”
I was silent: the things were frightful. Robert Leaen resud—
“Missis had been out of heah herself for so ti: she had got ery stout, but was not strong with it; and the loss of ney and fear of poerty were quite breaking her down. The infortion about Mr. John’s death and the nner of it ca too suddenly: it brought on a stroke. She was three days without speaking; but st Tuesday she seed rather better: she appeared as if she wao say sothing, a king signs to wife and ling. It was only yesterday howeer, that Bessie uood she ronoung your n and at st she de out the words, ‘Bring Jach Jane Eyre: I want to speak to her.’ Bessie is not sure whether she is in her right nd, or ans anything by the words; but she told Miss Reed and Miss Geiana, and adised theto send for you. The young dies put it off at first; but their ew so restless, and said, ‘Jane, Jane,’ so ny tis, that at st they sented. I left Gateshead yesterday: and if you get ready, Miss, I should like to take you back with early to- rrow ”
“Yes, Robert, I shall be ready: it see to that I ought to go.”
“I think so too, Miss. Bessie said she was sure you would not refuse: but I suppose you will hae to ask leae before you get off?”
“Yes; and I will do it now;” and haing directed hito the serants’ hall, and reended hito the care of John’s wife, and the attentions of John hielf, I went in searr. Rochester.
He was not in any of the lower roo; he was not in the yard, the stables, or the grounds. I asked Mrs. Fairfa if she had seen hi—yes: she belieed he ying billiards with Miss Ingra To the billiard-rooI hastehe click of balls and the huof oices resouhence; Mr. Rochester, Miss Ingra the two Misses Eshton, and their adrers, were all busied in the ga. It required so ce to disturb so iing a party; errand, howeer, was one uld not defer, so I approached the ster where he stood at Miss Ingras side. She turned as I drew near, and looked at haughtily: her eyes seed to dend, “What the creeping creature want now?” and when I said, in a low oice, “Mr. Rochester,” she de a ent as if teted to order away. I reer her appeara the nt—it was ery graceful and ery striking: she wore a robe of sky-blue crape; a gauzy azure scarf was twisted in her hair. She had been all anition with the ga, and irritated pride did not lower the epression of her haughty lis.
“Does that person want you?” she inquired of Mr. Rochester; and Mr. Rochester turo see who the “person” was. He de a curious grie of his strange and equiocal denstrations—threw down his cue and followed frothe roo
“Well, Jane?” he said, as he rested his back against the schoolroodoor, which he had shut.
“If you please, sir, I want leae of absence for a week or two.”
“What to do?—where to go?”
“To see a sick dy who has sent for .”
“What sick dy?—where does she lie?”
“At Gateshead; in—shire.”
“-shire? That is a hundred les off! Who y she be that sends for people to see her that distance?”
“Her na is Reed, sir—Mrs. Reed.”
“Reed of Gateshead? There was a Reed of Gateshead, a gistrate.”
“It is his widow, sir.”
“And what hae you to do with her? How do you know her?”
“Mr. Reed was uher’s brother.”
“The deuce he was! You old that before: you always said you had ions.”
“hat would own , sir. Mr. Reed is dead, and his wife cast off.”
“Why?”
“Because I oor, and burdenso, and she disliked .”
“But Reed left children?—you st hausins? Sir Gee Lynn was talking of a Reed of Gateshead yesterday, who, he said, was one of the eriest rascals on town; and Ingrawas ntioning a Geiana Reed of the sa pce, who was ch adred for her beauty a season or two ago in London.”
“John Reed is dead, too, sir: he ruined hielf and half-ruined his faly, and is supposed to hae itted suicide. The news so shocked his ther that it brought on an apoplectic attack.”
“And what good you do her? Nonsense, Jane! I would hink of running a hundred les to see an old dy who will, perhaps, be dead before you reach her: besides, you say she cast you off.”
“Yes, sir, but that is long ago; and when her circes were ery different: uld not be easy to her wishes now.”
“How long will you stay?”
“As short a ti as possible, sir.”
“Prose only to stay a week—”
“I had better not pass word: I ght be obliged to break it.”
“At all eents you will e back: you will not be induced under any pretet to take up a per resideh her?”
“Oh, no! I shall certainly return if all be well.”
“And who goes with you? You don’t trael a hundred les alone.”
“No, sir, she has sent her an.”
“A person to be trusted?”
“Yes, sir, he has lied ten years in the faly.”
Mr. Rochester ditated. “When do you wish to go?”
“Early to-rrow sir.”
“Well, you st hae so ney; you ’t trael without ney, and I daresay you hae not ch: I hae gien you no sary yet. How ch hae you in the world, Jane?” he asked, sling.
I drew out  urse; a agre thing it was. “Fie shillings, sir.” He took the purse, poured the hoard into his pal and chuckled oer it as if its stiness ased hi Soon he produced his pocket- book: “Here,” said he, a was fifty pounds, and he owed but fifteen. I told hiI had no ge.
“I don’t want ge; you know that. Take yes.”
I deed aeptihan was due. Hewled at first; then, as if lleg sothing, he said—
“Right, right! Better not gie you all now: you would, perhaps, stay away three nths if you had fifty pounds. There are ten; is it not plenty?”
“Yes, sir, but now you owe fie.”
“e back for it, then; I ayour banker for forty pounds.”
“Mr. Rochester, I y as well ntion aer of busio you while I hae the opportunity.”
“Matter of business? I acurious to hear it.”
“You hae as good as inford , sir, that yoing shortly to be rried?”
“Yes; what then?”
“In that case, sir, Adèle ought to go to school: I asure you will perceie the y of it.”
“To get her out of bride’s way, who ght otherwise walk oer her rather too ehatically? There’s sense in the suggestion; not a doubt of it. Adèle, as you say, st go to school; and you, ourse, st rch straight to—the deil?”
“I hope not, sir; but I st seek another situation sowhere.”
“Iurse!” he ecid, with a twang of oid a distortion of features equally fantastid ludicrous. He looked at so nutes.
“And old MadaReed, or the Misses, her daughters, will be solicited by you to seek a pce, I suppose?”
“No, sir; I anot on such ter with reties as would justify in asking faours of thebut I shall adertise.”
“You shall walk up the pyrads of Egypt!” he growled. “At your peril you adertise! I wish I had only offered you a sn instead of ten pounds. Gie baine pounds, Jane; I’e a use for it.”
“And so hae I, sir,” I returned, putting hands and  urse behind . “uld not spare the ney on any at.”
“Little niggard!” said he, “refusing a peiary request! Gie fie pounds, Jane.”
“Not fie shillings, sir; nor fie pence.”
“Just let look at the cash.”
“No, sir; you are not to be trusted.”
“Jane!”
“Sir?”
“Prose ohing.”
“I’ll prose you anything, sir, that I think I alikely to perfor”
“Not to adertise: and to trust this quest of a situation to . I’ll find you one in ti.”
“I shall be gd so to do, sir, if you, in your turn, will prose that I and Adèle shall be both safe out of the house before your bride enters it.”
“Very well! ery well! I’ll pledge word on it. You go to- rrow, then?”
“Yes, sir; early.”
“Shall you e down to the drawing-rooafter dinner?”
“No, sir, I st prepare for the journey.”
“Then you and I st bid good-bye for a little while?”
“I suppose so, sir.”
“And how do people perforthat y of parting, Jaeach ; I’not quite up to it.”
“They say, Farewell, or any other forthey prefer.”
“Then say it.”
“Farewell, Mr. Rochester, for the present.”
“What st I say?”
“The sa, if you like, sir.”
“Farewell, Miss Eyre, for the present; is that all?”
“Yes?”
“It see stingy, to notions, and dry, and unfriendly. I should like sothing else: a little addition to the rite. If one shook hands, for instance; but no—that would not teher. So you’ll do han say Farewell, Jane?”
“It is enough, sir: as ch good-will y be eyed in oy word as in ny.”
“Very likely; but it is bnk anol—‘Farewell.’”
“How long is he going to stand with his back against that door?” I asked self; “I want to enbsp; ag.” The dinner-bell rang, and suddenly away he boed, without another sylble: I saw hino re during the day, and was off before he had risen in the
I reached the lodge at Gateshead about fie o’clo the afternoon of the first of May: I stepped in there befoing up to the hall. It was ery a: the oral windows were hung with little white curtains; the floor otless; the grate and fire-irons were burnished bright, and the fire burnt clear. Bessie sat on the hearth, nursi-born, and Robert and his sister pyed quietly in a er.
“Bless you!—I knew you would e!” ecid Mrs. Leaen, as I entered.
“Yes, Bessie,” said I, after I had kissed her; “and I trust I anot too te. How is Mrs. Reed?—Alie still, I hope.”
“Yes, she is alie; and re sensible aed than she was. The doctor says she y linger a week or two yet; but he hardly thinks she will finally er.”
“Has she ntioned tely?”
“She was talking of you only this and wishing you would e, but she is sleeping now, or was ten nutes ago, when I at the house. She generally lies in a kind of lethargy all the afternoon, and wakes up about si or seen. Will you rest yourself here an hour, Miss, and then I will go up with you?”
Robert here entered, and Bessie id her sleeping child in the cradle ao wele hi afterwards she insisted on taking off bo and haing so te for she said I looked pale and tired. I was gd to aept her hospitality; and I subtted to be relieed of traelling garb just as passiely as I used to let her undress when a child.
Old tis crowded fast bae as I watched her bustling about— setting out the tea-tray with her best a, cutting bread and butter, toasting a tea-cake, and, between whiles, giing little Robert or Jane an oasional tap or push, just as she used to gie in forr days. Bessie had retained her quick teer as well as her light foot and good looks.
Tea ready, I was going to approach the table; but she desired to sit still, quite in her old peretory tones. I st be sered at the fireside, she said; and she pced before a little round stand with cup and a pte of toast, absolutely as she used to aodate with so priately purloined dainty on a nursery chair: and I sled and obeyed her as in bygone days.
She wao know if I was happy at Thornfield Hall, and what sort of a persoress was; and when I told her there was only a ster, whether he was a nice gentlen, and if I liked hi I told her he rather an ugly n, but quite a gentlen; and that he treated kindly, and I was tent. Then I went on to describe to her the gay pany that had tely been staying at the house; and to these details Bessie listened with i: they were precisely of the kind she relished.
In such ersation an hour was soon gone: Bessie restored to bo, c., and, apanied by her, I quitted the lodge for the hall. It was also apanied by her that I had, nearly nine years ago, walked dowh I was now asding. On a dark, sty, raw in January, I had left a hostile roof with a desperate atered heart—a sense of outwry and alst of reprobation—to seek the chilly harbe of Lowood: that bourne so far away and uneplored. The sa hostile roof now again rose before :  rospects were doubtful yet; and I had yet an ag heart. I still fe as a wanderer on the face of the earth; but I eperienced firr trust in self and own powers, and less withering dread of oppression. The gaping wound of wrongs, too, was now quite healed; and the f of rese etinguished.
“You shall go into the breakfast-roofirst,” said Bessie, as she preceded through the hall; “the young dies will be there.”
In a I was within that apartnt. There was eery article of furniture looking just as it did on the I was first introduced to Mr. Brocklehurst: the ery rug he had stood upon stilered the hearth. Gng at the bookcases, I thought uld distinguish the two olus of Bewick’s British Birds oupying their old p the third shelf, and Gullier’s Traels and the Arabian Nights ranged just aboe. The inanite objects were not ged; but the liing things had aered past reition.
Two young dies appeared before ; oall, alst as tall as Miss Ihin too, with a sallow fad seere en. There was sothing asceti her look, which was augnted by the etre pinness of a straight-skirted, bck, stuff dress, a starched linelr, hair bed away frothe teles, and the nun-like or of a string of ebony beads and a crucifi. This I fe sure was Eliza, though uld trace little reseo her forr self in that elongated anlourless isage.
The other was as certainly Geiana: but not the Geiana I reered—the sliand fairy-like girl of eleen. This was a full-blown, ery plu dael, fair as wawork, with handso and regur features, nguishing blue eyes, and ried yellow hair. The hue of her dress was bck too; but its fashion was so different froher sister’s—so ch re flowing and being—it looked as stylish as the other’s looked puritanical.
In each of the sisters there was orait of the ther—and only ohe thin and pallid elder daughter had her parent’s goreye: the bloong and luuriant younger girl had her tour of jaw and —perhaps a little softened, but still iarting an indescribable hardo the teherwise so oluptuous and buo
Both dies, as I adanced, rose to wele, and both addressed by the na of “Miss Eyre.” Eliza’s greeting was deliered in a short, abrupt oice, without a sle; and the down again, fied her eyes on the fire, aet . Geiana added to her “How d’ye do?” seeral onpces about jourhe weather, and so on, uttered in rather a drawling tone: and apanied by sundry side-ghat asured frohead to foot—now traersing the folds of drab rino pelisse, and now lingering on the pin triing of tage bo. Young dies hae a rerkable way of letting you know that they think you a “quiz” without actually saying the words. A certain superciliousness of look, ess of nner, nonce of tone, epress fully their ses on the point, without itting theby any positie rudeness in word or deed.
A sneer, howeer, whetheert or open, had now no lohat power oer it once possessed: as I sat between sins, I was surprised to find how easy I fe uhe total of the one and the se-sarcastic attentions of the other—Eliza did not rtify, neiana ruffle . The fact was, I had other things to think about; withi few nths feelings had been stirred in so ch re potent than any theuld raise—pains and pleasures so ch re acute and equisite had beeed than any it was in their power to inflict or bestow—that their airs gae no either food or bad.
“How is Mrs. Reed?” I asked soon, looking caly at Geiana, who thought fit to bridle at the direct address, as if it were an ued liberty.
“Mrs. Reed? Ah! , you an; she is etrely poorly: I doubt if you see her to-night.”
“If,” said I, “you would just step upstairs and tell her I ae, I should be ch obliged to you.”
Geiana alst started, and she opened her blue eyes wild and wide. “I know she had a particur wish to see ,” I added, “and I would not defer attending to her desire lohan is absolutely necessary.”
“Ma dislikes being disturbed in an eening,” rerked Eliza. I soon rose, quietly took off bo and gloes, uninited, and said I would just step out to Bessie—who was, I dared say, i—and ask her to ascertaiher Mrs. Reed was disposed to receie or not to-night. I went, and haing found Bessie ached her on errand, I proceeded to take further asures. It had heretofore been habit always to shrink france: re;ar?;/arceied as I had been to-day, I should, a year ago, hae resoled to quit Gateshead the ery now, it was disclosed to all at ohat that would be a foolish pn. I had taken a journey of a hundred les to see aunt, and I st stay with her till she was better—or dead: as to her daughters’ pride or folly, I st put it on one side, ke self indepe of it. So I addressed the housekeeper; asked her to show a roo told her I should probably be a isitor here for a week or two, had trunk eyed to chaer, and followed it thither self: I t Bessie on the nding.
“Missis is awake,” said she; “I hae told her you are here: e a us see if she will know you.”
I did not o be guided to the well-known roo to which I had so often been suoned for chastisent or reprind in forr days. I hastened before Bessie; I softly opehe door: a shaded light stood oable, for it was now getting dark. There was the great four-post bed with aer hangings as of old; there the toilet- table, the arhair, and the footstool, at which I had a huis beeeo ko ask pardon for offences by unitted. I looked into a certain er near, half-epeg to see the slioutline of a once dreaded switch which used to lurk there, waiting to leap out i-like and bsp; quiering palor shrinking neck. I approached the bed; I opehe curtains a oer the high-piled pillows.
Well did I reer Mrs. Reed’s face, and I eagerly sought the faliar ige. It is a happy thing that ti quells the longings of engeand hushes the protings e and aersion. I had left this won in bitterness and hate, and I ca back to her now with no other etion than a sort of ruth for her great sufferings, and a strong yearni and fie all injuries—to be reciled and csp hands in aty.
The well-known face was there: sterless as eer—there was that peculiar eye whiothinuld , and the sowhat raised, ierious, despotic eyebrow. How often had it lowered on nad hate! and how the lle of childhood’s terrors and sorrows reied as I traced its harsh line now! A I stooped down and kissed her: she looked at .
“Is this Jane Eyre?” she said.
“Yes, Aunt Reed. How are you, dear aunt?”
I had once owed that I would neer call her aunt again: I thought it no si and break that ow now. My fingers had fastened on her hand which y outside the sheet: had she pressed ne kindly, I should at that nt hae eperierue pleasure. But uniressioures are not so soon softened, nor are natural antipathies so readily eradicated. Mrs. Reed took her hand away, and, turning her face rather fro, she rerked that the night was war Again she regarded so icily, I fe at ohat her opinion of —her feeling towards —was unged and ungeable. I knew by her stony eye—opaque to tenderness, indissoluble to tears—that she was resoled to sider bad to the st; because to beliee good would gie her no generous pleasure: only a sense of rtification.
I fe pain, and then I fe ire; and then I fe a deternation to subdue her—to be her stress in spite both of her nature and her will. My tears had risen, just as in childhood: I ordered theback to their source. I brought a chair to the bed-head: I sat down and leaned oer the pillow.
“You sent for ,” I said, “and I ahere; and it is iion to stay till I see how you get on.”
“Oh, ourse! You hae seen daughters?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you y tell theI wish you to stay till I talk so things oer with you I hae on nd: to-night it is too te, and I hae a difficuy in recalling the But there was sothing I wished to say—let see—”
The wandering look ateraold what wreck had taken p her once igorous fra. Turnilessly, she drew the bedclothes round her; elbow, resting on a er of the qui, fied it down: she was at once irritated.
“Sit up!” said she; “don’t annoy with holding the clothes fast. Are you Jane Eyre?”
“I aJane Eyre.”
“I hae had re trouble with that child than any one would beliee. Such a burden to be left on hands—and so noyance as she caused , daily and hourly, with her inprehensible disposition, and her sudden starts of teer, ainual, unnatural watgs of one’s ents! I decre she talked to once like sothing d, or like a fiend—no child eer spoke or looked as she did; I was gd to get her away frothe house. What did they do with her at Lowood? The feer broke out there, and ny of the pupils died. She, howeer, did not die: but I said she did—I wish she had died!”
“A strange wish, Mrs. Reed; why do you hate her so?”
“I had a dislike to her ther always; for she was husband’s only sister, and a great faourite with hi he opposed the faly’s disowning her when she de her le; and when news ca of her death, he wept like a sileton. He would send for the baby; though I eed hirather to put it out to nurse and pay for its intenance. I hated it the first ti I set eyes on it—a sickly, whining, pining thing! It would wail in its cradle all night long—not screaily like any other child, but whiering and aning. Reed pitied it; and he used to and notice it as if it had been his own: re, ihan he eer noticed his own at that age. He would try to ke children friendly to the little beggar: the darlinguld not bear it, and he was angry with thewhen they showed their dislike. In his st illness, he had it brought tinually to his bedside; and but an hour before he died, he bound by ow to keep the creature. I would as soon hae been charged with a pauper brat out of a workhouse: but he was weak, naturally weak. John does not at all resele his father, and I agd of it: John is like and like brothers—he is quite a Gibson. Oh, I wish he would cease torntih letters for ney? I hae no re o gie hi we are getting poor. I st send away half the serants and shut up part of the house; or let it off. I eer subt to do that—yet how are we to get on? Two-thirds of ine goes in paying the i of s. John gales dreadfully, and always loses—poor boy! He is beset by sharpers: John is sunk and degraded—his look is frightful—I feel ashad for hiwhen I see hi”
She was getting ch ecited. “I think I had better leae her now,” said I to Bessie, who stood oher side of the bed.
“Perhaps you had, Miss: but she often talks in this way towards night—in the she is calr.”
I rose. “Stop!” ecid Mrs. Reed, “there is ahing I wished to say. He threatens —he tinually threateh his owh, or ne: and I dreasotis that I see hiid out with a great wound in his throat, or with a swollen and bed face. I ae to a strange pass: I hae heay troubles. What is to be done? How is the o be had?”
Bessie now endeaoured to persuade her to take a sedatie draught: she sueeded with difficuy. Soon after, Mrs. Reed grew re posed, and sank into a dozing state. I the her.
More than ten days epsed before I had again aion with her. She tinued either delirious or lethargid the doctor forbade eerything whiculd painfully ecite her. Meanti, I got on as well as uld with Geiana and Eliza. They were erld, indeed, at first. Eliza would sit half the day sewing, reading, or writing, and scarcely utter a word either to or her sister. Geiana would chatter nonseo her ary bird by the hour, and take no notie. But I was deterned not to seeat a loss for oupation or asent: I had brought drawing terials with , and they sered for both.
Proided with a case of pencils, and so sheets of paper, I used to take a seat apart frothe he window, and busy self ig fancy iges, representing ahat happearily to shape itself in the eer-shifting kaleidpe of igination: a glise of sea between two rocks; the rising on, and a ship crossing its disk; a group of reeds and water-fgs, and a naiad’s head, ed with lotus-flowers, rising out of the an elf sitting in a hedge-sparrow’s , under a wreath of hawthorn- bloobr /&
One I fell to sketg a face: what sort of a face it was to be, I did not care or know. I took a soft bck pencil, gae it a broad point, and worked away. Soon I had traced on the paper a broad and pro forehead and a square lower outline of isage: that tae  leasure; fingers proceeded actiely to fill it with features. Strongly-rked horizontal eyebrows st be traced uhat brow; then followed, naturally, a well-defined nose, with a straight ridge and full nostrils; then a fleible- looking uth, by no ans narrow; then a fir, with a decided cleft down the ddle of it: ourse, so bck whiskers were wanted, and so jetty hair, tufted oeles, and waed aboe the forehead. Now for the eyes: I had left theto the st, because they required the st careful w. I drew therge; I shaped thewell: the eyeshes I traced long and sore; the irids lustrous and rge. “Good! but not quite the thing,” I thought, as I sureyed the effect: “they want re ford spirit;” and I wrought the shades bcker, that the lights ght fsh re brilliantly—a happy touch or two secured suess. There, I had a friend’s fader gaze; and what did it signify that those young dies turheir bae? I looked at it; I sled at the speaking likeness: I was absorbed a.
“Is that a portrait of so one you know?” asked Eliza, who had approached unnoticed. I respohat it was rely a fancy head, and hurried it beh the other sheets. Ourse, I lied: it was, in fact, a ery faithful representation of Mr. Rochester. But what was that to her, or to any o self? Geiana also adao look. The other drawings pleased her ch, but she called that “an ugly n.” They both seed surprised at skill. I offered to sketch their portraits; and each, in turn, sat for a pencil outlihen Geiana produced her albu I prosed to tribute a watelour drawing: this put her at oo good huur. She proposed a walk in the grounds. Before we had been out two hours, we were deep in a fidential ersation: she had faoured with a description of the brilliant winter she had spent in London two seasons ago—of the adration she had there ecited— the attention she had receied; and I een got hints of the titled quest she had de. In thurse of the afternoon and eening these hints were enrged on: arious soft ersations were reported, aintal ses represented; and, in short, a olu of a noel of fashionable life was that day iroised by her for be. The unications were renewed froday to day: they always ran on the sa the—herself, her loes, and woes. It was strange she neer once aderted either to her ther’s illness, or her brother’s death, or the present gloo state of the faly prospects. Her nd seed wholly taken up with renisces of past gaiety, and aspirations after dissipations to e. She passed about fie nutes each day iher’s si, and no re.
Eliza still spoke little: she had eidently no ti to talk. I neer saw a busier person than she seed to be; yet it was difficu to say what she did: or rather, to der a of her diligence. She had an arto call her up early. I know not how she oupied herself before breakfast, but after that al she diided her ti intur portions, and each hour had its allotted task. Three tis a day she studied a little book, which I found, on iion, was a on Prayer Book. I asked her once what was the great attra of that olu, and she said, “the Rubric.” Three hours she gae to stitg, with gold thread, the border of a square cloth, alst rge enough for a carpet. In ao inquiries after the use of this article, she inford it was a c for the aar of a new church tely erected near Gateshead. Two hours she deoted to her diary; two t by herself i-garden; and oo the regution of her ats. She seed to want no pany; ion. I beliee she was happy in her way: this routine sufficed for her; and nothing annoyed her so ch as the ourrence of any i which forced her to ary its clockwurity.
She told one eening, when re disposed to be unicatie than usual, that John’s duct, and the threatened ruin of the faly, had been a source of profound affli to her: but she had now, she said, settled her nd, and ford her resolution. Her own fortune she had taken care to secure; and wheher died—and it was wholly irobable, she tranquilly rerked, that she should either er or linger long—she would eecute a long-cherished project: seek a retirent where punctual habits would be perly secured frodisturbance, and pce safe barriers between herself and a friolous world. I asked if Geiana would apany her.
“Ourse not. Geiana and she had nothing in on: they neer had had. She would not be burdened with her society for any sideration. Geiana should take her owurse; and she, Eliza, would take hers.”
Geiana, when not unburdening her heart to , spent st of her ti in lying on the sofa, fretting about the dulness of the house, and wishing oer and ain that her aunt Gibson would send her an initation up to town. “It would be so ch better,” she said, “if shuld only get out of the way for a nth or two, till all was oer.” I did not ask what she ant by “all being oer,” but I suppose she referred to the epected decease of her ther and the gloo sequel of funeral rites. Eliza generally took ice of her sister’s indolend pints than if no such rring, lounging object had been before her. One day, howeer, as she put away her at-book and unfolded her eroidery, she suddenly took her up thus—
“Geiana, a re ain and absurd anil than you was certainly neer allowed to cuer the earth. You had nht to be born, for you ke no use of life. Instead of liing for, in, and with yourself, as a reasonable being ought, you seek only to fasten your feebleness on so other person’s strength: if no one be found willing to burden her or hielf with such a fat, uffy, useless thing, you cry out that you are ill-treated, ed, serable. Then, too, eistence for you st be a se of tinual ge aent, or else the world is a dungeon: you st be adred, you st burted, you st be fttered—you st hae sic, dang, and society—or you nguish, you die away. Hae you no seo deise a systewhich will ke you indepe of all efforts, and all wills, but your own? Take one day; share it into ses; to each se apportion its task: leae no stray uneloyed quarters of an hour, ten nutes, fie nutes—include all; do each piece of business in its turn with thod, with rigid regurity. The day will close alst before you are aware it has begun; and you are ied to no one for helping you to get rid of o nt: you hae had to seek no one’s paion, syathy, forbearance; you hae lied, in short, as an indepe being ought to do. Take this adice: the first and st I shall offer you; then you will not want or any one else, happen what y. it—go on as heretofore, g, whining, and idling—and suffer the resus of your idiocy, howeer bad and insuperable they y be. I tell you this pinly; and listen: for though I shall no re repeat what I anow about to say, I shall steadily a it. After ther’s death, I wash hands of you: frothe day heffin is carried to the au in Gateshead Church, you and I will be as separate as if we had neer known each other. You need not think that because we ced to be born of the sa parents, I shall suffer you to fasten down by een the feeblest ci I tell you this—if the whole hun race, ourseles ecepted, were swept away, awo stood alone on the earth, I would leae you in the old world, aake self to the new.”
She closed her lips.
“You ght hae spared yourself the trouble of deliering that tirade,” answered Geiana. “Eerybody knows you are the st selfish, heartless creature ience: and I know your spiteful hatred towards : I hae had a spe of it before irick you pyed about Lord Edwin Vere: yould not bear to be raised aboe you, to hae a title, to be receied into ;/dfnircles where you dare not show your face, and so you acted the spy and inforr, and ruined  rospects for eer.” Geiana took out her handkerchief and blew her nose for an hour afterwards; Eliza sald, iassable, and assiduously industrious.
True, generous feeling is de sll at of by so, but here were two natures rehe oolerably acrid, the other despicably saourless for the want of it. Feeling without judgnt is a washy draught indeed; but judgnt unteered by feeling is too bitter and husky a rsel for huition.
It was a wet and windy afternoon: Geiana had fallen asleep on the sofa oer the perusal of a noel; Eliza was goo attend a saint’s-day serice at the new church—for in tters ion she was a rigid forlist: her eer preehe punctual discharge of what she sidered her deotional duties; fair or foul, she went to church thrice eery Sunday, and as often on week- days as there were prayers.
I bethought self to go upstairs and see how the dying ed, who y there alst unheeded: the ery serants paid her but a rettent attention: the hired nurse, being little looked after, would slip out of the roowheneer shuld. Bessie was faithful; but she had her own faly to nd, anuld only e oasionally to the hall. I found the si unwatched, as I had epected: no nurse was there; the patient y still, and seengly lethargic; her liid face sunk in the pillows: the fire was dying in the grate. I rehe fuel, re-arrahe bedclothes, gazed awhile on her whuld not now gaze on , and then I ed away to the window.
The rai strongly against the pahe wind blew teestuously: “One lies there,” I thought, “who will soon be beyond the war of earthly elents. Whither will that spirit—now struggling to quit its terial te—flit when at length released?”
In p the great stery, I thought of Helen Burns, recalled her dying words—her faith—her doe of the equality of diseodied souls. I was still listening in thought to her well- reered toill picturing her pale and spiritual aspect, her wasted fad subli gaze, as she y on her pcid deathbed, and whispered her longing to be restored to her diiher’s boso when a feeble oice rred frothuch behind: “Who is that?”
I knew Mrs. Reed had not spoken for days: was she reiing? I went up to her.
“It is I, Aunt Reed.”
“Who—I?” was her answer. “Who are you?” looking at with surprise and a sort of ar but still not wildly. “You are quite a strao —where is Bessie?”
“She is at the lodge, aunt.”
“Aunt,” she repeated. “Who calls aunt? You are not one of the Gibsons; a I know you—that face, and the eyes and forehead, are quiet faliar to : you are like—why, you are like Jane Eyre!”
I said nothing: I was afraid of oasioning so shock by deg identity.
“Yet,” said she, “I aafraid it is a stake: thoughts deceie . I wished to see Jane Eyre, and I fancy a likeness where nos: besides, i years she st be so ged.” I now gently assured her that I was the person she supposed and desired to be: and seeing that I was uood, and that her senses were quitllected, I epined how Bessie had sent her husband to fetbsp; froThornfield.
“I aery ill, I know,” she said ere long. “I was trying to turn self a few nutes since, and find I oe a li. It is as well I should ease nd before I die: what we think little of ih, burdens us at su hour as the present is to . Is the nurse here? or is there no one in the roobut you?”
I assured her we were alone.
“Well, I hae twice done you a wrong which I regret now. One was in breaking the prose which I gae husband t you up as own child; the other—” she stopped. “After all, it is of no great iortance, perhaps,” she rred to herself: “and then I y get better; and to hule self so to her is painful.”
She de an effort to aer her position, but failed: her face ged; she seed to eperiene inward sensation—the precursor, perhaps, of the st pang.
“Well, I st get it oer. Eternity is before : I had better tell her.—Go to dressing-case, open it, and take out a letter you will see there.”
I obeyed her dires. “Read the letter,” she said.
It was short, and thus ceied:—
“Mada—Will you hae the goodo sehe address of niece, Jane Eyre, and to tell how she is? It is iion to write shortly and desire her to e to at Madeira. Proidence has blessed endeaours to secure a petency; and as I aunrried and childless, I wish to adopt her during life, and bequeath her at death whateer I y hae to leae.—I a Mada etc., etc.,
“John Eyre, Madeira.”
It was dated three years back.
“Why did I neer hear of this?” I asked.
“Because I disliked you too fiedly and thhly eer to lend a hand in lifting you to prosperity. uld not fet your due, Jahe fury with which you ourned ohe tone in which you decred you abhorred the worst of anybody in the world; the unchildlike look and oice with which you affird that the ery thought of de you sick, and asserted that I had treated you with serable cruey. uld not fet owions when you thus started up and poured out the enoof your nd: I fe fear as if an anil that I had struck or pushed had looked up at with hun eyes and cursed in a n’s oice.— Bring so water! Oh, ke haste!”
“Dear Mrs. Reed,” said I, as I offered her the draught she required, “think no re of all this, let it pass away froyour nd. Fie for  assionate nguage: I was a child the, nine years hae passed sihat day.”
She heeded nothing of what I said; but when she had tasted the water and drawh, she went on thus—
“I tell you uld not fet it; and I took reenge: for you to be adopted by your uncle, and pced in a state of ease and fort, was what uld not endure. I wrote to hi I said I was sorry for his disappoi, but Jane Eyre was dead: she had died of typhus feer at Lowood. Now act as you please: write and tradibsp; assertion—epose falsehood as soon as you like. You were born, I think, to be tornt: st hour is racked by the lle of a deed which, but for you, I should neer hae beeed to it.”
“If yould but be persuaded to think no re of it, aunt, and tard with kindness and fieness”
“You hae a ery bad disposition,” said she, “and oo this day I feel it iossible to uand: how for nine years yould be patient and quiest under any treatnt, ah break out all fire and iolence, I eer prehend.”
“My disposition is not so bad as you think: I apassionate, but not indictie. Many a ti, as a little child, I should hae been gd to loe you if you would hae let ; and I long early to be reciled to you now: kiss , aunt.”
I approached cheek to her lips: she would not touch it. She said I oppressed her by leanihe bed, and again dended water. As I id her down—for I raised her and supported her on arwhile she drank—ered her icld and cy hand with he feeble fingers shrank fro touch—the gzing eyes shunned gaze.
“Loe , then, or hate , as you will,” I said at st, “you hae full and free fieness: ask now fod’s, a peace.”
Poor, suffering won! it was too te for her to ke now the effort to ge her habitual fra of nd: liing, she had eer hated —dying, she st hate still.
The nurse ered, and Bessie followed. I yet lingered half-an- hour longer, hoping to see so sign of aty: but she gae none. She was fast repsing into stupor; nor did her nd again rally: at twele o’clock that night she died. I was not present to close her eyes, nor were either of her daughters. They ca to tell us the that all was oer. She was by that ti id out. Eliza and I went to look at her: Geiana, who had burst out into loud weeping, said she dared not go. There was stretched Sarah Reed’s once robust and actie fra, rigid and still: her eye of flint waered with itld lid; her brow and strong traits wore yet the iress of her ineorable soul. A strange and sole object was tharpse to . I gazed on it with glooand pain: nothing soft, nothing sweet, nothing pitying, or hopeful, or subduing did it inspire; only a grating anguish for her woes—not loss—and a sore tearless disy at the fearfulness of death in such a for
Eliza sureyed her parent caly.藏书网;/a After a silence of so nutes she obsered—
“With her stitution she should hae lied to a good old age: her life was shortened by trouble.” And then a spasstricted her uth for an instant: as it passed away she turned ahe roo and so did I. her of us had dropt a tear.
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