The next thing I remember is, waking up with a feeling as if I hadhad a frightful nightmare, and seeing before me a terrible redglare, crossed with thick black bars. I heard voices, too, speakingwith a hollow sound, and as if muffled by a rush of wind or water:agitation, uncertainty, and an all-predominating sense of terrorconfused my faculties. Ere long, I became aware that some one washandling me; lifting me up and supporting me in a sitting posture,and that more tenderly than I had ever been raised or upheld before.I rested my head against a pillow or an arm, and felt easy.

In five minutes more the cloud of bewilderment dissolved: I knewquite well that I was in my own bed, and that the red glare was thenursery fire. It was night: a candle burnt on the table; Bessiestood at the bed-foot with a basin in her hand, and a gentleman satin a chair near my pillow, leaning over me.

I felt an inexpressible relief, a soothing conviction of protectionand security, when I knew that there was a stranger in the room, anindividual not belonging to Gateshead., and not related to Mrs.Reed. Turning from Bessie (though her presence was far lessobnoxious to me than that of Abbot, for instance, would have been),I scrutinised the face of the gentleman: I knew him; it was Mr.Lloyd, an apothecary, sometimes called in by Mrs. Reed when theservants were ailing: for herself and the children she employed aphysician.

"Well, who am I?" he asked.

I pronounced his name, offering him at the same time my hand: hetook it, smiling and saying, "We shall do very well by-and-by."Then he laid me down, and addressing Bessie, charged her to be verycareful that I was not disturbed during the night. Having givensome further directions, and intimates that he should call again thenext day, he departed; to my grief: I felt so sheltered andbefriended while he sat in the chair near my pillow; and as heclosed the door after him, all the room darkened and my heart againsank: inexpressible sadness weighed it down.

"Do you feel as if you should sleep, Miss?" asked Bessie, rathersoftly.

Scarcely dared I answer her; for I feared the next sentence might berough. "I will try."

"Would you like to drink, or could you eat anything?"

"No, thank you, Bessie."

"Then I think I shall go to bed, for it is past twelve o'clock; butyou may call me if you want anything in the night."

Wonderful civility this! It emboldened me to ask a question.

"Bessie, what is the matter with me? Am I ill?"

"You fell sick, I suppose, in the red-room with crying; you'll bebetter soon, no doubt."

Bessie went into the housemaid's apartment, which was near. I heardher say -

"Sarah, come and sleep with me in the nursery; I daren't for my lifebe alone with that poor child to-night: she might die; it's such astrange thing she should have that fit: I wonder if she sawanything. Missis was rather too hard."

Sarah came back with her; they both went to bed; they werewhispering together for half-an-hour before they fell asleep. Icaught scraps of their conversation, from which I was able only toodistinctly to infer the main subject discussed.

"Something passed her, all dressed in white, and vanished"--"A greatblack dog behind him"--"Three loud raps on the chamber door"--"Alight in the churchyard just over his grave," &c. &c.

At last both slept: the fire and the candle went out. For me, thewatches of that long night passed in ghastly wakefulness; strainedby dread: such dread as children only can feel.

No severe or prolonged bodily illness followed this incident of thered-room; it only gave my nerves a shock of which I feel thereverberation to this day. Yes, Mrs. Reed, to you I owe somefearful pangs of mental suffering, but I ought to forgive you, foryou knew not what you did: while rending my heart-strings, youthought you were only uprooting my bad propensities.

Next day, by noon, I was up and dressed, and sat wrapped in a shawlby the nursery hearth. I felt physically weak and broken down: butmy worse ailment was an unutterable wretchedness of mind: awretchedness which kept drawing from me silent tears; no sooner hadI wiped one salt drop from my cheek than another followed. Yet, Ithought, I ought to have been happy, for none of the Reeds werethere, they were all gone out in the carriage with their mama.Abbot, too, was sewing in another room, and Bessie, as she movedhither and thither, putting away toys and arranging drawers,addressed to me every now and then a word of unwonted kindness.This state of things should have been to me a paradise of peace,accustomed as I was to a life of ceaseless reprimand and thanklessfagging; but, in fact, my racked nerves were now in such a statethat no calm could soothe, and no pleasure excite them agreeably.

Bessie had been down into the kitchen, and she brought up with her atart on a certain brightly painted china plate, whose bird ofparadise, nestling in a wreath of convolvuli and rosebuds, had beenwont to stir in me a most enthusiastic sense of admiration; andwhich plate I had often petitioned to be allowed to take in my handin order to examine it more closely, but had always hitherto beendeemed unworthy of such a privilege. This precious vessel was nowplaced on my knee, and I was cordially invited to eat the circlet ofdelicate pastry upon it. Vain favour! coming, like most otherfavours long deferred and often wished for, too late! I could noteat the tart; and the plumage of the bird, the tints of the flowers,seemed strangely faded: I put both plate and tart away. Bessieasked if I would have a book: the word BOOK acted as a transientstimulus, and I begged her to fetch Gulliver's Travels from thelibrary. This book I had again and again perused with delight. Iconsidered it a narrative of facts, and discovered in it a vein ofinterest deeper than what I found in fairy tales: for as to theelves, having sought them in vain among foxglove leaves and bells,under mushrooms and beneath the ground-ivy mantling old wall-nooks,I had at length made up my mind to the sad truth, that they were allgone out of England to some savage country where the woods werewilder and thicker, and the population more scant; whereas, Lilliputand Brobdignag being, in my creed, solid parts of the earth'ssurface, I doubted not that I might one day, by taking a longvoyage, see with my own eyes the little fields, houses, and trees,the diminutive people, the tiny cows, sheep, and birds of the onerealm; and the corn-fields forest-high, the mighty mastiffs, themonster cats, the tower-like men and women, of the other. Yet, whenthis cherished volume was now placed in my hand--when I turned overits leaves, and sought in its marvellous pictures the charm I had,till now, never failed to find--all was eerie and dreary; the giantswere gaunt goblins, the pigmies malevolent and fearful imps,Gulliver a most desolate wanderer in most dread and dangerousregions. I closed the book, which I dared no longer peruse, and putit on the table, beside the untasted tart.

Bessie had now finished dusting and tidying the room, and havingwashed her hands, she opened a certain little drawer, full ofsplendid shreds of silk and satin, and began making a new bonnet forGeorgiana's doll. Meantime she sang: her song was -

"In the days when we went gipsying,A long time ago."

I had often heard the song before, and always with lively delight;for Bessie had a sweet voice,--at least, I thought so. But now,though her voice was still sweet, I found in its melody anindescribable sadness. Sometimes, preoccupied with her work, shesang the refrain very low, very lingeringly; "A long time ago" cameout like the saddest cadence of a funeral hymn. She passed intoanother ballad, this time a really doleful one.

"My feet they are sore, and my limbs they are weary;Long is the way, and the mountains are wild;Soon will the twilight close moonless and drearyOver the path of the poor orphan child.

Why did they send me so far and so lonely,Up where the moors spread and grey rocks are piled?Men are hard-hearted, and kind angels onlyWatch o'er the steps of a poor orphan child.

Yet distant and soft the night breeze is blowing,Clouds there are none, and clear stars beam mild,God, in His mercy, protection is showing,Comfort and hope to the poor orphan child.

Ev'n should I fall o'er the broken bridge passing,Or stray in the marshes, by false lights beguiled,Still will my Father, with promise and blessing,Take to His bosom the poor orphan child.

There is a thought that for strength should avail me,Though both of shelter and kindred despoiled;Heaven is a home, and a rest will not fail me;God is a friend to the poor orphan child."

"Come, Miss Jane, don't cry," said Bessie as she finished. Shemight as well have said to the fire, "don't burn!" but how could shedivine the morbid suffering to which I was a prey? In the course ofthe morning Mr. Lloyd came again.

"What, already up!" said he, as he entered the nursery. "Well,nurse, how is she?"

Bessie answered that I was doing very well.

"Then she ought to look more cheerful. Come here, Miss Jane: yourname is Jane, is it not?"

"Yes, sir, Jane Eyre."

"Well, you have been crying, Miss Jane Eyre; can you tell me whatabout? Have you any pain?"

"No, sir."

"Oh! I daresay she is crying because she could not go out withMissis in the carriage," interposed Bessie.

"Surely not! why, she is too old for such pettishness."

I thought so too; and my self-esteem being wounded by the falsecharge, I answered promptly, "I never cried for such a thing in mylife: I hate going out in the carriage. I cry because I ammiserable."

"Oh fie, Miss!" said Bessie.

The good apothecary appeared a little puzzled. I was standingbefore him; he fixed his eyes on me very steadily: his eyes weresmall and grey; not very bright, but I dare say I should think themshrewd now: he had a hard-featured yet good-natured looking face.Having considered me at leisure, he said -

"What made you ill yesterday?"

"She had a fall," said Bessie, again putting in her word.

"Fall! why, that is like a baby again! Can't she manage to walk ather age? She must be eight or nine years old."

"I was knocked down," was the blunt explanation, jerked out of me byanother pang of mortified pride; "but that did not make me ill," Iadded; while Mr. Lloyd helped himself to a pinch of snuff.

As he was returning the box to his waistcoat pocket, a loud bellrang for the servants' dinner; he knew what it was. "That's foryou, nurse," said he; "you can go down; I'll give Miss Jane alecture till you come back."

Bessie would rather have stayed, but she was obliged to go, becausepunctuality at meals was rigidly enforced at Gateshead Hall.

"The fall did not make you ill; what did, then?" pursued Mr. Lloydwhen Bessie was gone.

"I was shut up in a room where there is a ghost till after dark."

I saw Mr. Lloyd smile and frown at the same time.

"Ghost! What, you are a baby after all! You are afraid of ghosts?"

"Of Mr. Reed's ghost I am: he died in that room, and was laid outthere. Neither Bessie nor any one else will go into it at night, ifthey can help it; and it was cruel to shut me up alone without acandle,--so cruel that I think I shall never forget it."

"Nonsense! And is it that makes you so miserable? Are you afraidnow in daylight?"

"No: but night will come again before long: and besides,--I amunhappy,--very unhappy, for other things."

"What other things? Can you tell me some of them?"

How much I wished to reply fully to this question! How difficult itwas to frame any answer! Children can feel, but they cannot analysetheir feelings; and if the analysis is partially effected inthought, they know not how to express the result of the process inwords. Fearful, however, of losing this first and only opportunityof relieving my grief by imparting it, I, after a disturbed pause,contrived to frame a meagre, though, as far as it went, trueresponse.

"For one thing, I have no father or mother, brothers or sisters."

"You have a kind aunt and cousins."

Again I paused; then bunglingly enounced -

"But John Reed knocked me down, and my aunt shut me up in the red-room."

Mr. Lloyd a second time produced his snuff-box.

"Don't you think Gateshead Hall a very beautiful house?" asked he."Are you not very thankful to have such a fine place to live at?"

"It is not my house, sir; and Abbot says I have less right to behere than a servant."

"Pooh! you can't be silly enough to wish to leave such a splendidplace?"

"If I had anywhere else to go, I should be glad to leave it; but Ican never get away from Gateshead till I am a woman."

"Perhaps you may--who knows? Have you any relations besides Mrs.Reed?"

"I think not, sir."

"None belonging to your father?"

"I don't know. I asked Aunt Reed once, and she said possibly Imight have some poor, low relations called Eyre, but she knewnothing about them."

"If you had such, would you like to go to them?"

I reflected. Poverty looks grim to grown people; still more so tochildren: they have not much idea of industrious, working,respectable poverty; they think of the word only as connected withragged clothes, scanty food, fireless grates, rude manners, anddebasing vices: poverty for me was synonymous with degradation.

"No; I should not like to belong to poor people," was my reply.

"Not even if they were kind to you?"

I shook my head: I could not see how poor people had the means ofbeing kind; and then to learn to speak like them, to adopt theirmanners, to be uneducated, to grow up like one of the poor women Isaw sometimes nursing their children or washing their clothes at thecottage doors of the village of Gateshead: no, I was not heroicenough to purchase liberty at the price of caste.

"But are your relatives so very poor? Are they working people?"

"I cannot tell; Aunt. Reed says if I have any, they must be abeggarly set: I should not like to go a begging."

"Would you like to go to school?"

Again I reflected: I scarcely knew what school was: Bessiesometimes spoke of it as a place where young ladies sat in thestocks, wore backboards, and were expected to be exceedingly genteeland precise: John Reed hated his school, and abused his master; butJohn Reed's tastes were no rule for mine, and if Bessie's accountsof school-discipline (gathered from the young ladies of a familywhere she had lived before coming to Gateshead) were somewhatappalling, her details of certain accomplishments attained by thesesame young ladies were, I thought, equally attractive. She boastedof beautiful paintings of landscapes and flowers by them executed;of songs they could sing and pieces they could play, of purses theycould net, of French books they could translate; till my spirit wasmoved to emulation as I listened. Besides, school would be acomplete change: it implied a long journey, an entire separationfrom Gateshead, an entrance into a new life.

"I should indeed like to go to school," was the audible conclusionof my musings.

"Well, well! who knows what may happen?" said Mr. Lloyd, as he gotup. "The child ought to have change of air and scene," he added,speaking to himself; "nerves not in a good state."

Bessie now returned; at the same moment the carriage was heardrolling up the gravel-walk.

"Is that your mistress, nurse?" asked Mr. Lloyd. "I should like tospeak to her before I go."

Bessie invited him to walk into the breakfast-room, and led the wayout. In the interview which followed between him and Mrs. Reed, Ipresume, from after-occurrences, that the apothecary ventured torecommend my being sent to school; and the recommendation was nodoubt readily enough adopted; for as Abbot said, in discussing thesubject with Bessie when both sat sewing in the nursery one night,after I was in bed, and, as they thought, asleep, "Missis was, shedared say, glad enough to get rid of such a tiresome, ill-conditioned child, who always looked as if she were watchingeverybody, and scheming plots underhand." Abbot, I think, gave mecredit for being a sort of infantine Guy Fawkes.

On that same occasion I learned, for the first time, from MissAbbot's communications to Bessie, that my father had been a poorclergyman; that my mother had married him against the wishes of herfriends, who considered the match beneath her; that my grandfatherReed was so irritated at her disobedience, he cut her off without ashilling; that after my mother and father had been married a year,the latter caught the typhus fever while visiting among the poor ofa large manufacturing town where his curacy was situated, and wherethat disease was then prevalent: that my mother took the infectionfrom him, and both died within a month of each other.

Bessie, when she heard this narrative, sighed and said, "Poor MissJane is to be pitied, too, Abbot."

"Yes," responded Abbot; "if she were a nice, pretty child, one mightcompassionate her forlornness; but one really cannot care for such alittle toad as that."

"Not a great deal, to be sure," agreed Bessie: "at any rate, abeauty like Miss Georgiana would be more moving in the samecondition."

"Yes, I doat on Miss Georgiana!" cried the fervent Abbot. "Littledarling!--with her long curls and her blue eyes, and such a sweetcolour as she has; just as if she were painted!--Bessie, I couldfancy a Welsh rabbit for supper."

"So could I--with a roast onion. Come, we'll go down." They went.