Presentiments are strange things! and so are sympathies; and so aresigns; and the three combined make one mystery to which humanity hasnot yet found the key. I never laughed at presentiments in my life,because I have had strange ones of my own. Sympathies, I believe,exist (for instance, between far-distant, long-absent, whollyestranged relatives asserting, notwithstanding their alienation, theunity of the source to which each traces his origin) whose workingsbaffle mortal comprehension. And signs, for aught we know, may bebut the sympathies of Nature with man.

When I was a little girl, only six years old, I one night heardBessie Leaven say to Martha Abbot that she had been dreaming about alittle child; and that to dream of children was a sure sign oftrouble, either to one's self or one's kin. The saying might haveworn out of my memory, had not a circumstance immediately followedwhich served indelibly to fix it there. The next day Bessie wassent for home to the deathbed of her little sister.

Of late I had often recalled this saying and this incident; forduring the past week scarcely a night had gone over my couch thathad not brought with it a dream of an infant, which I sometimeshushed in my arms, sometimes dandled on my knee, sometimes watchedplaying with daisies on a lawn, or again, dabbling its hands inrunning water. It was a wailing child this night, and a laughingone the next: now it nestled close to me, and now it ran from me;but whatever mood the apparition evinced, whatever aspect it wore,it failed not for seven successive nights to meet me the moment Ientered the land of slumber.

I did not like this iteration of one idea--this strange recurrenceof one image, and I grew nervous as bedtime approached and the hourof the vision drew near. It was from companionship with this baby-phantom I had been roused on that moonlight night when I heard thecry; and it was on the afternoon of the day following I was summoneddownstairs by a message that some one wanted me in Mrs. Fairfax'sroom. On repairing thither, I found a man waiting for me, havingthe appearance of a gentleman's servant: he was dressed in deepmourning, and the hat he held in his hand was surrounded with acrape band.

"I daresay you hardly remember me, Miss," he said, rising as Ientered; "but my name is Leaven: I lived coachman with Mrs. Reedwhen you were at Gateshead, eight or nine years since, and I livethere still."

"Oh, Robert! how do you do? I remember you very well: you used togive me a ride sometimes on Miss Georgiana's bay pony. And how isBessie? You are married to Bessie?"

"Yes, Miss: my wife is very hearty, thank you; she brought meanother little one about two months since--we have three now--andboth mother and child are thriving."

"And are the family well at the house, Robert?"

"I am sorry I can't give you better news of them, Miss: they arevery badly at present--in great trouble."

"I hope no one is dead," I said, glancing at his black dress. Hetoo looked down at the crape round his hat and replied -

"Mr. John died yesterday was a week, at his chambers in London."

"Mr. John?"

"Yes."

"And how does his mother bear it?"

"Why, you see, Miss Eyre, it is not a common mishap: his life hasbeen very wild: these last three years he gave himself up tostrange ways, and his death was shocking."

"I heard from Bessie he was not doing well."

"Doing well! He could not do worse: he ruined his health and hisestate amongst the worst men and the worst women. He got into debtand into jail: his mother helped him out twice, but as soon as hewas free he returned to his old companions and habits. His head wasnot strong: the knaves he lived amongst fooled him beyond anythingI ever heard. He came down to Gateshead about three weeks ago andwanted missis to give up all to him. Missis refused: her meanshave long been much reduced by his extravagance; so he went backagain, and the next news was that he was dead. How he died, Godknows!--they say he killed himself."

I was silent: the things were frightful. Robert Leaven resumed -

"Missis had been out of health herself for some time: she had gotvery stout, but was not strong with it; and the loss of money andfear of poverty were quite breaking her down. The information aboutMr. John's death and the manner of it came too suddenly: it broughton a stroke. She was three days without speaking; but last Tuesdayshe seemed rather better: she appeared as if she wanted to saysomething, and kept making signs to my wife and mumbling. It wasonly yesterday morning, however, that Bessie understood she waspronouncing your name; and at last she made out the words, 'BringJane--fetch Jane Eyre: I want to speak to her.' Bessie is not surewhether she is in her right mind, or means anything by the words;but she told Miss Reed and Miss Georgiana, and advised them to sendfor you. The young ladies put it off at first; but their mothergrew so restless, and said, 'Jane, Jane,' so many times, that atlast they consented. I left Gateshead yesterday: and if you canget ready, Miss, I should like to take you back with me early to-morrow morning."

"Yes, Robert, I shall be ready: it seems to me that I ought to go."

"I think so too, Miss. Bessie said she was sure you would notrefuse: but I suppose you will have to ask leave before you can getoff?"

"Yes; and I will do it now;" and having directed him to theservants' hall, and recommended him to the care of John's wife, andthe attentions of John himself, I went in search of Mr. Rochester.

He was not in any of the lower rooms; he was not in the yard, thestables, or the grounds. I asked Mrs. Fairfax if she had seen him;--yes: she believed he was playing billiards with Miss Ingram. Tothe billiard-room I hastened: the click of balls and the hum ofvoices resounded thence; Mr. Rochester, Miss Ingram, the two MissesEshton, and their admirers, were all busied in the game. Itrequired some courage to disturb so interesting a party; my errand,however, was one I could not defer, so I approached the master wherehe stood at Miss Ingram's side. She turned as I drew near, andlooked at me haughtily: her eyes seemed to demand, "What can thecreeping creature want now?" and when I said, in a low voice, "Mr.Rochester," she made a movement as if tempted to order me away. Iremember her appearance at the moment--it was very graceful and verystriking: she wore a morning robe of sky-blue crape; a gauzy azurescarf was twisted in her hair. She had been all animation with thegame, and irritated pride did not lower the expression of herhaughty lineaments.

"Does that person want you?" she inquired of Mr. Rochester; and Mr.Rochester turned to see who the "person" was. He made a curiousgrimace--one of his strange and equivocal demonstrations--threw downhis cue and followed me from the room.

"Well, Jane?" he said, as he rested his back against the schoolroomdoor, which he had shut.

"If you please, sir, I want leave of absence for a week or two."

"What to do?--where to go?"

"To see a sick lady who has sent for me."

"What sick lady?--where does she live?"

"At Gateshead; in -shire."

"-shire? That is a hundred miles off! Who may she be that sendsfor people to see her that distance?"

"Her name is Reed, sir--Mrs. Reed."

"Reed of Gateshead? There was a Reed of Gateshead, a magistrate."

"It is his widow, sir."

"And what have you to do with her? How do you know her?"

"Mr. Reed was my uncle--my mother's brother."

"The deuce he was! You never told me that before: you always saidyou had no relations."

"None that would own me, sir. Mr. Reed is dead, and his wife castme off."

"Why?"

"Because I was poor, and burdensome, and she disliked me."

"But Reed left children?--you must have cousins? Sir George Lynnwas talking of a Reed of Gateshead yesterday, who, he said, was oneof the veriest rascals on town; and Ingram was mentioning aGeorgiana Reed of the same place, who was much admired for herbeauty a season or two ago in London."

"John Reed is dead, too, sir: he ruined himself and half-ruined hisfamily, and is supposed to have committed suicide. The news soshocked his mother that it brought on an apoplectic attack."

"And what good can you do her? Nonsense, Jane! I would never thinkof running a hundred miles to see an old lady who will, perhaps, bedead before you reach her: besides, you say she cast you off."

"Yes, sir, but that is long ago; and when her circumstances werevery different: I could not be easy to neglect her wishes now."

"How long will you stay?"

"As short a time as possible, sir."

"Promise me only to stay a week--"

"I had better not pass my word: I might be obliged to break it."

"At all events you WILL come back: you will not be induced underany pretext to take up a permanent residence with her?"

"Oh, no! I shall certainly return if all be well."

"And who goes with you? You don't travel a hundred miles alone."

"No, sir, she has sent her coachman."

"A person to be trusted?"

"Yes, sir, he has lived ten years in the family."

Mr. Rochester meditated. "When do you wish to go?"

"Early to-morrow morning, sir."

"Well, you must have some money; you can't travel without money, andI daresay you have not much: I have given you no salary yet. Howmuch have you in the world, Jane?" he asked, smiling.

I drew out my purse; a meagre thing it was. "Five shillings, sir."He took the purse, poured the hoard into his palm, and chuckled overit as if its scantiness amused him. Soon he produced his pocket-book: "Here," said he, offering me a note; it was fifty pounds, andhe owed me but fifteen. I told him I had no change.

"I don't want change; you know that. Take your wages."

I declined accepting more than was my due. He scowled at first;then, as if recollecting something, he said -

"Right, right! Better not give you all now: you would, perhaps,stay away three months if you had fifty pounds. There are ten; isit not plenty?"

"Yes, sir, but now you owe me five."

"Come back for it, then; I am your banker for forty pounds."

"Mr. Rochester, I may as well mention another matter of business toyou while I have the opportunity."

"Matter of business? I am curious to hear it."

"You have as good as informed me, sir, that you are going shortly tobe married?"

"Yes; what then?"

"In that case, sir, Adele ought to go to school: I am sure you willperceive the necessity of it."

"To get her out of my bride's way, who might otherwise walk over herrather too emphatically? There's sense in the suggestion; not adoubt of it. Adele, as you say, must go to school; and you, ofcourse, must march straight to--the devil?"

"I hope not, sir; but I must seek another situation somewhere."

"In course!" he exclaimed, with a twang of voice and a distortion offeatures equally fantastic and ludicrous. He looked at me someminutes.

"And old Madam Reed, or the Misses, her daughters, will be solicitedby you to seek a place, I suppose?"

"No, sir; I am not on such terms with my relatives as would justifyme in asking favours of them--but I shall advertise."

"You shall walk up the pyramids of Egypt!" he growled. "At yourperil you advertise! I wish I had only offered you a sovereigninstead of ten pounds. Give me back nine pounds, Jane; I've a usefor it."

"And so have I, sir," I returned, putting my hands and my pursebehind me. "I could not spare the money on any account."

"Little niggard!" said he, "refusing me a pecuniary request! Giveme five pounds, Jane."

"Not five shillings, sir; nor five pence."

"Just let me look at the cash."

"No, sir; you are not to be trusted."

"Jane!"

"Sir?"

"Promise me one thing."

"I'll promise you anything, sir, that I think I am likely toperform."

"Not to advertise: and to trust this quest of a situation to me.I'll find you one in time."

"I shall be glad so to do, sir, if you, in your turn, will promisethat I and Adele shall be both safe out of the house before yourbride enters it."

"Very well! very well! I'll pledge my word on it. You go to-morrow, then?"

"Yes, sir; early."

"Shall you come down to the drawing-room after dinner?"

"No, sir, I must prepare for the journey."

"Then you and I must bid good-bye for a little while?"

"I suppose so, sir."

"And how do people perform that ceremony of parting, Jane? Teachme; I'm not quite up to it."

"They say, Farewell, or any other form they prefer."

"Then say it."

"Farewell, Mr. Rochester, for the present."

"What must I say?"

"The same, if you like, sir."

"Farewell, Miss Eyre, for the present; is that all?"

"Yes?"

"It seems stingy, to my notions, and dry, and unfriendly. I shouldlike something else: a little addition to the rite. If one shookhands, for instance; but no--that would not content me either. Soyou'll do no more than say Farewell, Jane?"

"It is enough, sir: as much good-will may be conveyed in one heartyword as in many."

"Very likely; but it is blank and cool--'Farewell.'"

"How long is he going to stand with his back against that door?" Iasked myself; "I want to commence my packing." The dinner-bellrang, and suddenly away he bolted, without another syllable: I sawhim no more during the day, and was off before he had risen in themorning.

I reached the lodge at Gateshead about five o'clock in the afternoonof the first of May: I stepped in there before going up to thehall. It was very clean and neat: the ornamental windows were hungwith little white curtains; the floor was spotless; the grate andfire-irons were burnished bright, and the fire burnt clear. Bessiesat on the hearth, nursing her last-born, and Robert and his sisterplayed quietly in a corner.

"Bless you!--I knew you would come!" exclaimed Mrs. Leaven, as Ientered.

"Yes, Bessie," said I, after I had kissed her; "and I trust I am nottoo late. How is Mrs. Reed?--Alive still, I hope."

"Yes, she is alive; and more sensible and collected than she was.The doctor says she may linger a week or two yet; but he hardlythinks she will finally recover."

"Has she mentioned me lately?"

"She was talking of you only this morning, and wishing you wouldcome, but she is sleeping now, or was ten minutes ago, when I was upat the house. She generally lies in a kind of lethargy all theafternoon, and wakes up about six or seven. Will you rest yourselfhere an hour, Miss, and then I will go up with you?"

Robert here entered, and Bessie laid her sleeping child in thecradle and went to welcome him: afterwards she insisted on mytaking off my bonnet and having some tea; for she said I looked paleand tired. I was glad to accept her hospitality; and I submitted tobe relieved of my travelling garb just as passively as I used to lether undress me when a child.

Old times crowded fast back on me as I watched her bustling about--setting out the tea-tray with her best china, cutting bread andbutter, toasting a tea-cake, and, between whiles, giving littleRobert or Jane an occasional tap or push, just as she used to giveme in former days. Bessie had retained her quick temper as well asher light foot and good looks.

Tea ready, I was going to approach the table; but she desired me tosit still, quite in her old peremptory tones. I must be served atthe fireside, she said; and she placed before me a little roundstand with my cup and a plate of toast, absolutely as she used toaccommodate me with some privately purloined dainty on a nurserychair: and I smiled and obeyed her as in bygone days.

She wanted to know if I was happy at Thornfield Hall, and what sortof a person the mistress was; and when I told her there was only amaster, whether he was a nice gentleman, and if I liked him. I toldher he rather an ugly man, but quite a gentleman; and that hetreated me kindly, and I was content. Then I went on to describe toher the gay company that had lately been staying at the house; andto these details Bessie listened with interest: they were preciselyof the kind she relished.

In such conversation an hour was soon gone: Bessie restored to memy bonnet, &c., and, accompanied by her, I quitted the lodge for thehall. It was also accompanied by her that I had, nearly nine yearsago, walked down the path I was now ascending. On a dark, misty,raw morning in January, I had left a hostile roof with a desperateand embittered heart--a sense of outlawry and almost of reprobation--to seek the chilly harbourage of Lowood: that bourne so far awayand unexplored. The same hostile roof now again rose before me: myprospects were doubtful yet; and I had yet an aching heart. I stillfelt as a wanderer on the face of the earth; but I experiencedfirmer trust in myself and my own powers, and less withering dreadof oppression. The gaping wound of my wrongs, too, was now quitehealed; and the flame of resentment extinguished.

"You shall go into the breakfast-room first," said Bessie, as shepreceded me through the hall; "the young ladies will be there."

In another moment I was within that apartment. There was everyarticle of furniture looking just as it did on the morning I wasfirst introduced to Mr. Brocklehurst: the very rug he had stoodupon still covered the hearth. Glancing at the bookcases, I thoughtI could distinguish the two volumes of Bewick's British Birdsoccupying their old place on the third shelf, and Gulliver's Travelsand the Arabian Nights ranged just above. The inanimate objectswere not changed; but the living things had altered pastrecognition.

Two young ladies appeared before me; one very tall, almost as tallas Miss Ingram--very thin too, with a sallow face and severe mien.There was something ascetic in her look, which was augmented by theextreme plainness of a straight-skirted, black, stuff dress, astarched linen collar, hair combed away from the temples, and thenun-like ornament of a string of ebony beads and a crucifix. This Ifelt sure was Eliza, though I could trace little resemblance to herformer self in that elongated and colourless visage.

The other was as certainly Georgiana: but not the Georgiana Iremembered--the slim and fairy-like girl of eleven. This was afull-blown, very plump damsel, fair as waxwork, with handsome andregular features, languishing blue eyes, and ringleted yellow hair.The hue of her dress was black too; but its fashion was so differentfrom her sister's--so much more flowing and becoming--it looked asstylish as the other's looked puritanical.

In each of the sisters there was one trait of the mother--and onlyone; the thin and pallid elder daughter had her parent's Cairngormeye: the blooming and luxuriant younger girl had her contour of jawand chin--perhaps a little softened, but still imparting anindescribable hardness to the countenance otherwise so voluptuousand buxom.

Both ladies, as I advanced, rose to welcome me, and both addressedme by the name of "Miss Eyre." Eliza's greeting was delivered in ashort, abrupt voice, without a smile; and then she sat down again,fixed her eyes on the fire, and seemed to forget me. Georgianaadded to her "How d'ye do?" several commonplaces about my journey,the weather, and so on, uttered in rather a drawling tone: andaccompanied by sundry side-glances that measured me from head tofoot--now traversing the folds of my drab merino pelisse, and nowlingering on the plain trimming of my cottage bonnet. Young ladieshave a remarkable way of letting you know that they think you a"quiz" without actually saying the words. A certainsuperciliousness of look, coolness of manner, nonchalance of tone,express fully their sentiments on the point, without committing themby any positive rudeness in word or deed.

A sneer, however, whether covert or open, had now no longer thatpower over me it once possessed: as I sat between my cousins, I wassurprised to find how easy I felt under the total neglect of the oneand the semi-sarcastic attentions of the other--Eliza did notmortify, nor Georgiana ruffle me. The fact was, I had other thingsto think about; within the last few months feelings had been stirredin me so much more potent than any they could raise--pains andpleasures so much more acute and exquisite had been excited than anyit was in their power to inflict or bestow--that their airs gave meno concern either for good or bad.

"How is Mrs. Reed?" I asked soon, looking calmly at Georgiana, whothought fit to bridle at the direct address, as if it were anunexpected liberty.

"Mrs. Reed? Ah! mama, you mean; she is extremely poorly: I doubtif you can see her to-night."

"If," said I, "you would just step upstairs and tell her I am come,I should be much obliged to you."

Georgiana almost started, and she opened her blue eyes wild andwide. "I know she had a particular wish to see me," I added, "and Iwould not defer attending to her desire longer than is absolutelynecessary."

"Mama dislikes being disturbed in an evening," remarked Eliza. Isoon rose, quietly took off my bonnet and gloves, uninvited, andsaid I would just step out to Bessie--who was, I dared say, in thekitchen--and ask her to ascertain whether Mrs. Reed was disposed toreceive me or not to-night. I went, and having found Bessie anddespatched her on my errand, I proceeded to take further measures.It had heretofore been my habit always to shrink from arrogance:received as I had been to-day, I should, a year ago, have resolvedto quit Gateshead the very next morning; now, it was disclosed to meall at once that that would be a foolish plan. I had taken ajourney of a hundred miles to see my aunt, and I must stay with hertill she was better--or dead: as to her daughters' pride or folly,I must put it on one side, make myself independent of it. So Iaddressed the housekeeper; asked her to show me a room, told her Ishould probably be a visitor here for a week or two, had my trunkconveyed to my chamber, and followed it thither myself: I metBessie on the landing.

"Missis is awake," said she; "I have told her you are here: comeand let us see if she will know you."

I did not need to be guided to the well-known room, to which I hadso often been summoned for chastisement or reprimand in former days.I hastened before Bessie; I softly opened the door: a shaded lightstood on the table, for it was now getting dark. There was thegreat four-post bed with amber hangings as of old; there the toilet-table, the armchair, and the footstool, at which I had a hundredtimes been sentenced to kneel, to ask pardon for offences by meuncommitted. I looked into a certain corner near, half-expecting tosee the slim outline of a once dreaded switch which used to lurkthere, waiting to leap out imp-like and lace my quivering palm orshrinking neck. I approached the bed; I opened the curtains andleant over the high-piled pillows.

Well did I remember Mrs. Reed's face, and I eagerly sought thefamiliar image. It is a happy thing that time quells the longingsof vengeance and hushes the promptings of rage and aversion. I hadleft this woman in bitterness and hate, and I came back to her nowwith no other emotion than a sort of ruth for her great sufferings,and a strong yearning to forget and forgive all injuries--to bereconciled and clasp hands in amity.

The well-known face was there: stern, relentless as ever--there wasthat peculiar eye which nothing could melt, and the somewhat raised,imperious, despotic eyebrow. How often had it lowered on me menaceand hate! and how the recollection of childhood's terrors andsorrows revived as I traced its harsh line now! And yet I stoopeddown and kissed her: she looked at me.

"Is this Jane Eyre?" she said.

"Yes, Aunt Reed. How are you, dear aunt?"

I had once vowed that I would never call her aunt again: I thoughtit no sin to forget and break that vow now. My fingers had fastenedon her hand which lay outside the sheet: had she pressed minekindly, I should at that moment have experienced true pleasure. Butunimpressionable natures are not so soon softened, nor are naturalantipathies so readily eradicated. Mrs. Reed took her hand away,and, turning her face rather from me, she remarked that the nightwas warm. Again she regarded me so icily, I felt at once that heropinion of me--her feeling towards me--was unchanged andunchangeable. I knew by her stony eye--opaque to tenderness,indissoluble to tears--that she was resolved to consider me bad tothe last; because to believe me good would give her no generouspleasure: only a sense of mortification.

I felt pain, and then I felt ire; and then I felt a determination tosubdue her--to be her mistress in spite both of her nature and herwill. My tears had risen, just as in childhood: I ordered themback to their source. I brought a chair to the bed-head: I satdown and leaned over the pillow.

"You sent for me," I said, "and I am here; and it is my intention tostay till I see how you get on."

"Oh, of course! You have seen my daughters?"

"Yes."

"Well, you may tell them I wish you to stay till I can talk somethings over with you I have on my mind: to-night it is too late,and I have a difficulty in recalling them. But there was somethingI wished to say--let me see--"

The wandering look and changed utterance told what wreck had takenplace in her once vigorous frame. Turning restlessly, she drew thebedclothes round her; my elbow, resting on a corner of the quilt,fixed it down: she was at once irritated.

"Sit up!" said she; "don't annoy me with holding the clothes fast.Are you Jane Eyre?"

"I am Jane Eyre."

"I have had more trouble with that child than any one would believe.Such a burden to be left on my hands--and so much annoyance as shecaused me, daily and hourly, with her incomprehensible disposition,and her sudden starts of temper, and her continual, unnaturalwatchings of one's movements! I declare she talked to me once likesomething mad, or like a fiend--no child ever spoke or looked as shedid; I was glad to get her away from the house. What did they dowith her at Lowood? The fever broke out there, and many of thepupils died. She, however, did not die: but I said she did--I wishshe had died!"

"A strange wish, Mrs. Reed; why do you hate her so?"

"I had a dislike to her mother always; for she was my husband's onlysister, and a great favourite with him: he opposed the family'sdisowning her when she made her low marriage; and when news came ofher death, he wept like a simpleton. He would send for the baby;though I entreated him rather to put it out to nurse and pay for itsmaintenance. I hated it the first time I set my eyes on it--asickly, whining, pining thing! It would wail in its cradle allnight long--not screaming heartily like any other child, butwhimpering and moaning. Reed pitied it; and he used to nurse it andnotice it as if it had been his own: more, indeed, than he evernoticed his own at that age. He would try to make my childrenfriendly to the little beggar: the darlings could not bear it, andhe was angry with them when they showed their dislike. In his lastillness, he had it brought continually to his bedside; and but anhour before he died, he bound me by vow to keep the creature. Iwould as soon have been charged with a pauper brat out of aworkhouse: but he was weak, naturally weak. John does not at allresemble his father, and I am glad of it: John is like me and likemy brothers--he is quite a Gibson. Oh, I wish he would ceasetormenting me with letters for money? I have no more money to givehim: we are getting poor. I must send away half the servants andshut up part of the house; or let it off. I can never submit to dothat--yet how are we to get on? Two-thirds of my income goes inpaying the interest of mortgages. John gambles dreadfully, andalways loses--poor boy! He is beset by sharpers: John is sunk anddegraded--his look is frightful--I feel ashamed for him when I seehim."

She was getting much excited. "I think I had better leave her now,"said I to Bessie, who stood on the other side of the bed.

"Perhaps you had, Miss: but she often talks in this way towardsnight--in the morning she is calmer."

I rose. "Stop!" exclaimed Mrs. Reed, "there is another thing Iwished to say. He threatens me--he continually threatens me withhis own death, or mine: and I dream sometimes that I see him laidout with a great wound in his throat, or with a swollen andblackened face. I am come to a strange pass: I have heavytroubles. What is to be done? How is the money to be had?"

Bessie now endeavoured to persuade her to take a sedative draught:she succeeded with difficulty. Soon after, Mrs. Reed grew morecomposed, and sank into a dozing state. I then left her.

More than ten days elapsed before I had again any conversation withher. She continued either delirious or lethargic; and the doctorforbade everything which could painfully excite her. Meantime, Igot on as well as I could with Georgiana and Eliza. They were verycold, indeed, at first. Eliza would sit half the day sewing,reading, or writing, and scarcely utter a word either to me or hersister. Georgiana would chatter nonsense to her canary bird by thehour, and take no notice of me. But I was determined not to seem ata loss for occupation or amusement: I had brought my drawingmaterials with me, and they served me for both.

Provided with a case of pencils, and some sheets of paper, I used totake a seat apart from them, near the window, and busy myself insketching fancy vignettes, representing any scene that happenedmomentarily to shape itself in the ever-shifting kaleidoscope ofimagination: a glimpse of sea between two rocks; the rising moon,and a ship crossing its disk; a group of reeds and water-flags, anda naiad's head, crowned with lotus-flowers, rising out of them; anelf sitting in a hedge-sparrow's nest, under a wreath of hawthorn-bloom

One morning I fell to sketching a face: what sort of a face it wasto be, I did not care or know. I took a soft black pencil, gave ita broad point, and worked away. Soon I had traced on the paper abroad and prominent forehead and a square lower outline of visage:that contour gave me pleasure; my fingers proceeded actively to fillit with features. Strongly-marked horizontal eyebrows must betraced under that brow; then followed, naturally, a well-definednose, with a straight ridge and full nostrils; then a flexible-looking mouth, by no means narrow; then a firm chin, with a decidedcleft down the middle of it: of course, some black whiskers werewanted, and some jetty hair, tufted on the temples, and waved abovethe forehead. Now for the eyes: I had left them to the last,because they required the most careful working. I drew them large;I shaped them well: the eyelashes I traced long and sombre; theirids lustrous and large. "Good! but not quite the thing," Ithought, as I surveyed the effect: "they want more force andspirit;" and I wrought the shades blacker, that the lights mightflash more brilliantly--a happy touch or two secured success.There, I had a friend's face under my gaze; and what did it signifythat those young ladies turned their backs on me? I looked at it; Ismiled at the speaking likeness: I was absorbed and content.

"Is that a portrait of some one you know?" asked Eliza, who hadapproached me unnoticed. I responded that it was merely a fancyhead, and hurried it beneath the other sheets. Of course, I lied:it was, in fact, a very faithful representation of Mr. Rochester.But what was that to her, or to any one but myself? Georgiana alsoadvanced to look. The other drawings pleased her much, but shecalled that "an ugly man." They both seemed surprised at my skill.I offered to sketch their portraits; and each, in turn, sat for apencil outline. Then Georgiana produced her album. I promised tocontribute a water-colour drawing: this put her at once into goodhumour. She proposed a walk in the grounds. Before we had been outtwo hours, we were deep in a confidential conversation: she hadfavoured me with a description of the brilliant winter she had spentin London two seasons ago--of the admiration she had there excited--the attention she had received; and I even got hints of the titledconquest she had made. In the course of the afternoon and eveningthese hints were enlarged on: various soft conversations werereported, and sentimental scenes represented; and, in short, avolume of a novel of fashionable life was that day improvised by herfor my benefit. The communications were renewed from day to day:they always ran on the same theme--herself, her loves, and woes. Itwas strange she never once adverted either to her mother's illness,or her brother's death, or the present gloomy state of the familyprospects. Her mind seemed wholly taken up with reminiscences ofpast gaiety, and aspirations after dissipations to come. She passedabout five minutes each day in her mother's sick-room, and no more.

Eliza still spoke little: she had evidently no time to talk. Inever saw a busier person than she seemed to be; yet it wasdifficult to say what she did: or rather, to discover any result ofher diligence. She had an alarm to call her up early. I know nothow she occupied herself before breakfast, but after that meal shedivided her time into regular portions, and each hour had itsallotted task. Three times a day she studied a little book, which Ifound, on inspection, was a Common Prayer Book. I asked her oncewhat was the great attraction of that volume, and she said, "theRubric." Three hours she gave to stitching, with gold thread, theborder of a square crimson cloth, almost large enough for a carpet.In answer to my inquiries after the use of this article, sheinformed me it was a covering for the altar of a new church latelyerected near Gateshead. Two hours she devoted to her diary; two toworking by herself in the kitchen-garden; and one to the regulationof her accounts. She seemed to want no company; no conversation. Ibelieve she was happy in her way: this routine sufficed for her;and nothing annoyed her so much as the occurrence of any incidentwhich forced her to vary its clockwork regularity.

She told me one evening, when more disposed to be communicative thanusual, that John's conduct, and the threatened ruin of the family,had been a source of profound affliction to her: but she had now,she said, settled her mind, and formed her resolution. Her ownfortune she had taken care to secure; and when her mother died--andit was wholly improbable, she tranquilly remarked, that she shouldeither recover or linger long--she would execute a long-cherishedproject: seek a retirement where punctual habits would bepermanently secured from disturbance, and place safe barriersbetween herself and a frivolous world. I asked if Georgiana wouldaccompany her.

"Of course not. Georgiana and she had nothing in common: theynever had had. She would not be burdened with her society for anyconsideration. Georgiana should take her own course; and she,Eliza, would take hers."

Georgiana, when not unburdening her heart to me, spent most of hertime in lying on the sofa, fretting about the dulness of the house,and wishing over and over again that her aunt Gibson would send heran invitation up to town. "It would be so much better," she said,"if she could only get out of the way for a month or two, till allwas over." I did not ask what she meant by "all being over," but Isuppose she referred to the expected decease of her mother and thegloomy sequel of funeral rites. Eliza generally took no more noticeof her sister's indolence and complaints than if no such murmuring,lounging object had been before her. One day, however, as she putaway her account-book and unfolded her embroidery, she suddenly tookher up thus -

"Georgiana, a more vain and absurd animal than you was certainlynever allowed to cumber the earth. You had no right to be born, foryou make no use of life. Instead of living for, in, and withyourself, as a reasonable being ought, you seek only to fasten yourfeebleness on some other person's strength: if no one can be foundwilling to burden her or himself with such a fat, weak, puffy,useless thing, you cry out that you are ill-treated, neglected,miserable. Then, too, existence for you must be a scene ofcontinual change and excitement, or else the world is a dungeon:you must be admired, you must be courted, you must be flattered--youmust have music, dancing, and society--or you languish, you dieaway. Have you no sense to devise a system which will make youindependent of all efforts, and all wills, but your own? Take oneday; share it into sections; to each section apportion its task:leave no stray unemployed quarters of an hour, ten minutes, fiveminutes--include all; do each piece of business in its turn withmethod, with rigid regularity. The day will close almost before youare aware it has begun; and you are indebted to no one for helpingyou to get rid of one vacant moment: you have had to seek no one'scompany, conversation, sympathy, forbearance; you have lived, inshort, as an independent being ought to do. Take this advice: thefirst and last I shall offer you; then you will not want me or anyone else, happen what may. Neglect it--go on as heretofore,craving, whining, and idling--and suffer the results of your idiocy,however bad and insuperable they may be. I tell you this plainly;and listen: for though I shall no more repeat what I am now aboutto say, I shall steadily act on it. After my mother's death, I washmy hands of you: from the day her coffin is carried to the vault inGateshead Church, you and I will be as separate as if we had neverknown each other. You need not think that because we chanced to beborn of the same parents, I shall suffer you to fasten me down byeven the feeblest claim: I can tell you this--if the whole humanrace, ourselves excepted, were swept away, and we two stood alone onthe earth, I would leave you in the old world, and betake myself tothe new."

She closed her lips.

"You might have spared yourself the trouble of delivering thattirade," answered Georgiana. "Everybody knows you are the mostselfish, heartless creature in existence: and I know your spitefulhatred towards me: I have had a specimen of it before in the trickyou played me about Lord Edwin Vere: you could not bear me to beraised above you, to have a title, to be received into circles whereyou dare not show your face, and so you acted the spy and informer,and ruined my prospects for ever." Georgiana took out herhandkerchief and blew her nose for an hour afterwards; Eliza satcold, impassable, and assiduously industrious.

True, generous feeling is made small account of by some, but herewere two natures rendered, the one intolerably acrid, the otherdespicably savourless for the want of it. Feeling without judgmentis a washy draught indeed; but judgment untempered by feeling is toobitter and husky a morsel for human deglutition.

It was a wet and windy afternoon: Georgiana had fallen asleep onthe sofa over the perusal of a novel; Eliza was gone to attend asaint's-day service at the new church--for in matters of religionshe was a rigid formalist: no weather ever prevented the punctualdischarge of what she considered her devotional duties; fair orfoul, she went to church thrice every Sunday, and as often on week-days as there were prayers.

I bethought myself to go upstairs and see how the dying woman sped,who lay there almost unheeded: the very servants paid her but aremittent attention: the hired nurse, being little looked after,would slip out of the room whenever she could. Bessie was faithful;but she had her own family to mind, and could only come occasionallyto the hall. I found the sick-room unwatched, as I had expected:no nurse was there; the patient lay still, and seemingly lethargic;her livid face sunk in the pillows: the fire was dying in thegrate. I renewed the fuel, re-arranged the bedclothes, gazed awhileon her who could not now gaze on me, and then I moved away to thewindow.

The rain beat strongly against the panes, the wind blewtempestuously: "One lies there," I thought, "who will soon bebeyond the war of earthly elements. Whither will that spirit--nowstruggling to quit its material tenement--flit when at lengthreleased?"

In pondering the great mystery, I thought of Helen Burns, recalledher dying words--her faith--her doctrine of the equality ofdisembodied souls. I was still listening in thought to her well-remembered tones--still picturing her pale and spiritual aspect, herwasted face and sublime gaze, as she lay on her placid deathbed, andwhispered her longing to be restored to her divine Father's bosom--when a feeble voice murmured from the couch behind: "Who is that?"

I knew Mrs. Reed had not spoken for days: was she reviving? I wentup to her.

"It is I, Aunt Reed."

"Who--I?" was her answer. "Who are you?" looking at me withsurprise and a sort of alarm, but still not wildly. "You are quitea stranger to me--where is Bessie?"

"She is at the lodge, aunt."

"Aunt," she repeated. "Who calls me aunt? You are not one of theGibsons; and yet I know you--that face, and the eyes and forehead,are quiet familiar to me: you are like--why, you are like JaneEyre!"

I said nothing: I was afraid of occasioning some shock by declaringmy identity.

"Yet," said she, "I am afraid it is a mistake: my thoughts deceiveme. I wished to see Jane Eyre, and I fancy a likeness where noneexists: besides, in eight years she must be so changed." I nowgently assured her that I was the person she supposed and desired meto be: and seeing that I was understood, and that her senses werequite collected, I explained how Bessie had sent her husband tofetch me from Thornfield.

"I am very ill, I know," she said ere long. "I was trying to turnmyself a few minutes since, and find I cannot move a limb. It is aswell I should ease my mind before I die: what we think little of inhealth, burdens us at such an hour as the present is to me. Is thenurse here? or is there no one in the room but you?"

I assured her we were alone.

"Well, I have twice done you a wrong which I regret now. One was inbreaking the promise which I gave my husband to bring you up as myown child; the other--" she stopped. "After all, it is of no greatimportance, perhaps," she murmured to herself: "and then I may getbetter; and to humble myself so to her is painful."

She made an effort to alter her position, but failed: her facechanged; she seemed to experience some inward sensation--theprecursor, perhaps, of the last pang.

"Well, I must get it over. Eternity is before me: I had bettertell her.--Go to my dressing-case, open it, and take out a letteryou will see there."

I obeyed her directions. "Read the letter," she said.

It was short, and thus conceived:-

"Madam,--Will you have the goodness to send me the address of myniece, Jane Eyre, and to tell me how she is? It is my intention towrite shortly and desire her to come to me at Madeira. Providencehas blessed my endeavours to secure a competency; and as I amunmarried and childless, I wish to adopt her during my life, andbequeath her at my death whatever I may have to leave.--I am, Madam,&c., &c.,

"JOHN EYRE, Madeira."

It was dated three years back.

"Why did I never hear of this?" I asked.

"Because I disliked you too fixedly and thoroughly ever to lend ahand in lifting you to prosperity. I could not forget your conductto me, Jane--the fury with which you once turned on me; the tone inwhich you declared you abhorred me the worst of anybody in theworld; the unchildlike look and voice with which you affirmed thatthe very thought of me made you sick, and asserted that I hadtreated you with miserable cruelty. I could not forget my ownsensations when you thus started up and poured out the venom of yourmind: I felt fear as if an animal that I had struck or pushed hadlooked up at me with human eyes and cursed me in a man's voice.--Bring me some water! Oh, make haste!"

"Dear Mrs. Reed," said I, as I offered her the draught she required,"think no more of all this, let it pass away from your mind.Forgive me for my passionate language: I was a child then; eight,nine years have passed since that day."

She heeded nothing of what I said; but when she had tasted the waterand drawn breath, she went on thus -

"I tell you I could not forget it; and I took my revenge: for youto be adopted by your uncle, and placed in a state of ease andcomfort, was what I could not endure. I wrote to him; I said I wassorry for his disappointment, but Jane Eyre was dead: she had diedof typhus fever at Lowood. Now act as you please: write andcontradict my assertion--expose my falsehood as soon as you like.You were born, I think, to be my torment: my last hour is racked bythe recollection of a deed which, but for you, I should never havebeen tempted to commit."

"If you could but be persuaded to think no more of it, aunt, and toregard me with kindness and forgiveness"

"You have a very bad disposition," said she, "and one to this day Ifeel it impossible to understand: how for nine years you could bepatient and quiescent under any treatment, and in the tenth breakout all fire and violence, I can never comprehend."

"My disposition is not so bad as you think: I am passionate, butnot vindictive. Many a time, as a little child, I should have beenglad to love you if you would have let me; and I long earnestly tobe reconciled to you now: kiss me, aunt."

I approached my cheek to her lips: she would not touch it. Shesaid I oppressed her by leaning over the bed, and again demandedwater. As I laid her down--for I raised her and supported her on myarm while she drank--I covered her ice-cold and clammy hand withmine: the feeble fingers shrank from my touch--the glazing eyesshunned my gaze.

"Love me, then, or hate me, as you will," I said at last, "you havemy full and free forgiveness: ask now for God's, and be at peace."

Poor, suffering woman! it was too late for her to make now theeffort to change her habitual frame of mind: living, she had everhated me--dying, she must hate me still.

The nurse now entered, and Bessie followed. I yet lingered half-an-hour longer, hoping to see some sign of amity: but she gave none.She was fast relapsing into stupor; nor did her mind again rally:at twelve o'clock that night she died. I was not present to closeher eyes, nor were either of her daughters. They came to tell usthe next morning that all was over. She was by that time laid out.Eliza and I went to look at her: Georgiana, who had burst out intoloud weeping, said she dared not go. There was stretched SarahReed's once robust and active frame, rigid and still: her eye offlint was covered with its cold lid; her brow and strong traits woreyet the impress of her inexorable soul. A strange and solemn objectwas that corpse to me. I gazed on it with gloom and pain: nothingsoft, nothing sweet, nothing pitying, or hopeful, or subduing did itinspire; only a grating anguish for HER woes--not MY loss--and asombre tearless dismay at the fearfulness of death in such a form.

Eliza surveyed her parent calmly. After a silence of some minutesshe observed -

"With her constitution she should have lived to a good old age: herlife was shortened by trouble." And then a spasm constricted hermouth for an instant: as it passed away she turned and left theroom, and so did I. Neither of us had dropt a tear.