article of furniture looking just as it did on the morning I was first

introduced to Mr. Brocklehurst: the very rug he had stood upon still

covered the hearth. Glancing at the bookcases, I thought I could

distinguish the two volumes of Bewick's British Birds occupying

their old place on the third shelf, and Gulliver's Travels and the

Arabian Nights ranged just above. The inanimate objects were not

changed; but the living things had altered past recognition.

Two young ladies appeared before me; one very tall, almost as

tall as Miss Ingram- very thin too, with a sallow face and severe

mien. There was something ascetic in her look, was augmented by the

extreme plainness of a straight-skirted, black, stuff dress, a

starched linen collar, hair combed away from the temples, and the

nun-like ornament of a string of ebony beads and a crucifix. This I

felt sure was Eliza, though I could trace little resemblance to her

former self in that elongated and colourlessvisage.

The other was as certainly Georgiana: but not the Georgiana I

remembered- the slim and fairy-like girl of eleven. This was a

full-blown, very plump damsel, fair as waxwork, with handsome and

regular features, anguish" title="vi.变得衰弱无力">languishing" title="a.衰弱下去的">anguish" title="vi.变得衰弱无力">languishing blue eyes, and ringleted yellow hair.

The hue of her dress was black too; but its fashion was so different

from her sister's- so much more flowing and becoming- it looked as

stylish as the other's looked puritanical.

In each of the sisters there was one trait of the mother- and

only one; the thin and pallid elder daughter had her parent's

Cairngorm eye: the blooming and luxuriant younger girl had her contour

of jaw and chin- perhaps a little softened, but still imparting an

indescribablehardness to the countenance, otherwise so voluptuous and

buxom.

Both ladies, as I advanced, rose to welcome me, and both

addressed me by the name of 'Miss Eyre.' Eliza's greeting was

delivered in a short, abrupt voice, without a smile; and then she

sat down again, fixed her eyes on the fire, and seemed to forget me.

Georgiana added to her 'How d 'ye do?' several commonplaces about my

journey, the weather, and so on, uttered in rather a drawling tone:

and accompanied by sundry side-glances that measured me from head to

foot-now traversing the folds of my drab merino pelisse, and now

lingering on the plain trimming of my cottage bonnet. Young ladies

have a remarkable way of letting you know that they think you a 'quiz'

without actually saying the words. A certain superciliousness of look,

coolness of manner, nonchalance of tone, express fully their

sentiments on the point, without committing them by any positive

rudeness in word or deed.

A sneer, however, whether covert or open, had now no longer that

power over me it once possessed: as I sat between my cousins, I was

surprised to find how easy I felt under the total neglect of the one

and the semi-sarcastic attentions of the other- Eliza did not mortify,

nor Georgiana ruffle me. The fact was, I had other things to think

about; within the last few months feelings had been stirred in me so

much more potent than any they could raise- pains and pleasures so

much more acute and exquisite had been excited than any it was in

their power to inflict or bestow- that their airs gave me no concern

either for good or bad.

'How is Mrs. Reed?' I asked soon, looking calmly at Georgiana,

who thought fit to bridle at the direct address, as if it were an

unexpected liberty.

'Mrs. Reed? Ah, mama, you mean; she is extremely poorly: I doubt if

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 and

wide. 'I know she had a particular wish to see me,' I added, 'and I

would not defer attending to her desire longer than is absolutely

necessary.'

'Mama dislikes being disturbed in an evening,' remarked Eliza. I

soon rose, quietly took off my bonnet and gloves, uninvited, and

said I would just step out to Bessie- who was, I dared say, in the

kitchen- and ask her to ascertain whether Mrs. Reed was disposed to

receive me or not to-night. I went, and having found Bessie and

despatched 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 resolved

to quit Gateshead the very next morning; now, it was disclosed to me

all at once that that would be a foolish plan. I had taken a journey

of a hundred miles to see my aunt, and I must stay with her till 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 I addressed the

housekeeper; asked her to show me a room, told her I should probably

be a visitor here for a week or two, had my trunk conveyed to my

chamber, and followed it thither myself: I met Bessie on the landing.

'Missis is awake,' said she; 'I have told her you are here: come

and let us see if she will know you.'

I did not need to be guided to the well-known room, to which I

had so often been summoned for chastisement or reprimand in former

days. I hastened before Bessie; I softly opened the door: a shaded

light stood on the table, for it was now getting dark. There was the

great four-post bed with amber hangings as of old; there the

toilet-table, the arm-chair, and the footstool, at which I had a

hundred times been sentenced to kneel, to ask pardon for offences by

me uncommitted. I looked into a certain corner near, half expecting to

see the slim outline of a once dreaded switch which used to lurk

there, waiting to leap out imp-like and lace my quivering palm or

shrinking neck. I approached the bed; I opened the curtains and

leant over the high-piled pillows.

Well did I remember Mrs. Reed's face, and I eagerly sought the

familiar image. It is a happy thing that time quells the longings of

vengeance and hushes the promptings of rage and aversion. I had left

this woman in bitterness and hate, and I came back to her now with

no other emotion than a sort of ruth for her great sufferings, and a

strong yearning to forget and forgive all injuries- to be reconciled

and clasp hands in amity.

The well-known face was there: stern, relentless as ever- there was

that peculiar eye which nothing could melt, and the somewhat raised,

imperious, despotic eyebrow. How often had it lowered on me menace and

hate! and how the recollection of childhood's terrors and sorrows

revived as I traced its harsh line now! And yet I stooped down 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

thought it no sin to forget and break that vow now. My fingers had

fastened on her hand which lay outside the sheet: had she pressed mine

kindly, I should at that moment have experienced true pleasure. But

unimpressionable natures are not so soon softened, nor are natural

antipathies so readily eradicated. Mrs. Reed took her hand away,

and, turning her face rather from me, she remarked that the night

was warm. Again she regarded me so icily, I felt at once that her

opinion of me- her feeling towards me- was unchanged and unchangeable.

I knew by her stony eye- opaque to tenderness, indissoluble to

tears- that she was resolved to consider me bad to the last; because

to believe me good would give her no generous pleasure: only a sense

of mortification.

I felt pain, and then I felt ire; and then I felt a determination

to subdue her- to be her mistress in spite both of her nature and

her will. My tears had risen, just as in childhood: I ordered them

back to their source. I brought a chair to the bed-head: I sat down

and leaned over the pillow.

'You sent for me,' I said, 'and I am here; and it is my intention

to stay 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 some

things 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 something I

wished to say- let me see-'

The wandering look and changed utterance told what wreck had

taken place in her once vigorous frame. Turning restlessly, she drew

the bedclothes 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 she caused me, daily and hourly, with her incomprehensible

disposition, and her sudden starts of temper, and her continual,

unnatural watchings of one's movements! I declare she talked to me

once like something mad, or like a fiend- no child ever spoke or

looked as she did; I was glad to get her away from the house. What did

they do with her at Lowood? The fever broke out there, and many of the

pupils died. She, however, 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 mother always; for she was my husband's

only sister, and a great favourite with him: he opposed the family's

disowning her when she made her low marriage; and when news came of

her 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 its

maintenance. I hated it the first time I set my eyes on it- a

sickly, whining, pining thing! It would wail in its cradle all night

long- not screaming heartily like any other child, but whimpering

and moaning. Reed pitied it; and he used to nurse it and notice it

as if it had been his own: more, indeed, than he ever noticed his

own at that age. He would try to make my children friendly to the

little beggar: the darlings could not bear it, and he was angry with

them when they showed their dislike. In his last illness, he had it

brought continually to his bedside; and but an hour before he died, he

bound me by vow to keep the creature. I would as soon have been

charged with a pauper brat out of a workhouse: but he was weak,

naturally weak. John does not at all resemble his father, and I am

glad of it: John is like me and like my brothers- he is quite a

Gibson. Oh, I wish he would cease tormenting me with letters for

money! I have no more money to give him: we are getting poor. I must

send away half the servants and shut up part of the house; or let it

off. I can never submit to do that- yet how are we to get on?

Two-thirds of my income goes in paying the interest of mortgages. John

gambles dreadfully, and always loses- poor boy! He is beset by

sharpers: John is sunk and degraded- his look is frightful- I feel

ashamed for him when I see him.'

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 towards

night- in the morning she is calmer.'

I rose. 'Stop!' exclaimed Mrs. Reed, 'there is another thing I

wished to say. He threatens me- he continually threatens me with his

own death, or mine: and I dream sometimes that I see him laid out with

a great wound in his throat, or with a swollen and blackened face. I

am come to a strange pass: I have heavy troubles. 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

more composed, and sank into a dozing state. I then left her.

More than ten days elapsed before I had again any conversation with

her. She continued either delirious or lethargic; and the doctor

forbade everything which could painfully excite her. Meantime, I got

on as well as I could with Georgiana and Eliza. They were very cold,

indeed, at first. Eliza would sit half the day sewing, reading, or

writing, and scarcely utter a word either to me or her sister.

Georgiana would chatter nonsense to her canary bird by the hour, and

take no notice of me. But I was determined not to seem at a loss for

occupation or amusement: I had brought my drawing materials with me,

and they served me for both.

Provided with a case of pencils, and some sheets of paper, I used

to take a seat apart from them, near the window, and busy myself in

sketching fancy vignettes, representing any scene that happened

momentarily to shape itself in the ever-shifting kaleidoscope of

imagination: a glimpse of sea between two rocks; the rising moon,

and a ship crossing its disk; a group of reeds and water-flags, and

a naiad's head, crowned with lotus-flowers, rising out of them; an elf

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

was to be, I did not care or know. I took a soft black pencil, gave it

a broad point, and worked away. Soon I had traced on the paper a broad

and prominent forehead and a square lower outline of visage: that

contour gave me pleasure; my fingers proceeded actively to fill it

with features. Strongly-marked horizontaleyebrows must be traced

under that brow; then followed, naturally, a well-defined nose, with a

straight ridge and full nostrils; then a flexible-looking mouth, by no

means narrow; then a firm chin, with a decided cleft down the middle

of it: of course, some black whiskers were wanted, and some jetty

hair, tufted on the temples, and waved above the 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; the irids lustrous and large.

'Good! but not quite the thing,' I thought, as I surveyed the

effect: 'they want more force and spirit'; and I wrought the shades

blacker, that the lights might flash more brilliantly- a happy touch

or two secured success. There, I had a friend's face under my gaze;

and what did it signify that those young ladies turned their backs

on me? I looked at it; I smiled at the speakinglikeness: I was

absorbed and content.

'Is that a portrait of some one you know?' asked Eliza, who had

approached me unnoticed. I responded that it was merely a fancy

head, 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 also

advanced to look. The other drawings pleased her much, but she

called that 'an ugly man.' They both seemed surprised at my skill. I

offered to sketch their portraits; and each, in turn, sat for a pencil

outline. Then Georgiana produced her album. I promised to contribute a

water-colour drawing: this put her at once into good humour. She

proposed a walk in the grounds. Before we had been out two hours, we

were deep in a confidential conversation: she had favoured me with a

description of the brilliant winter she had spent in London two

seasons ago- of the admiration she had there excited- the attention

she had received; and I even got hints of the titled conquest she

had made. In the course of the afternoon and evening these hints

were enlarged on: various soft conversations were reported, and

sentimental scenes represented; and, in short, a volume of a novel

of fashionable life was that day improvised by her for my benefit. The

communications were renewed from day to day: they always ran on the

same theme- herself, her loves, and woes. It was strange she never

once adverted either to her mother's illness, or her brother's

death, or the present gloomy state of the family prospects. Her mind

seemed wholly taken up with reminiscences of past gaiety, and

aspirations after dissipations to come. She passed about five

minutes each day in her mother's sick-room, and no more.

Eliza still spoke little: she had evidently no time to talk. I

never saw a busier person than she seemed to be; yet it was

difficult to say what she did: or rather, to discover any result of

her diligence. She had an alarm to call her up early. I know not how

she occupied herself before breakfast, but after that meal she divided

her time into regular portions, and each hour had its allotted task.

Three times a day she studied a little book, which I found, on

inspection, was a Common Prayer Book. I asked her once what was the

great attraction of that volume, and she said, 'the Rubric.' Three

hours she gave to stitching, with gold thread, the border of a

square crimson cloth, almost large enough for a carpet. In answer to

my inquiries after the use of this article, she informed me it was a

covering for the altar of a new church lately erected near

Gateshead. Two hours she devoted to her diary; two to working by

herself in the kitchen-garden; and one to the regulation of her

accounts. She seemed to want no company; no conversation. I believe

she was happy in her way: this routine sufficed for her; and nothing

annoyed her so much as the occurrence of any incident which forced her

to vary its clockwork regularity.

She told me one evening, when more disposed to be communicative

than usual, that John's conduct, and the threatened ruin of the

family, had been a source of profoundaffliction to her: but she had

now, she said, settled her mind, and formed her resolution. Her own

fortune she had taken care to secure; and when her mother died- and it

was wholly improbable, she tranquilly remarked, that she should either

recover or linger long- she would execute a long-cherished project:

seek a retirement where punctual habits would be permanently secured

from disturbance, and place safe barriers between herself and a

frivolous world. I asked if Georgiana would accompany her.

'Of course not. Georgiana and she had nothing in common: they never

had had. She would not be burdened with her society for any

consideration. Georgiana should take her own course; and she, Eliza,

would take hers.'

Georgiana, when not unburdening her heart to me, spent most of

her time in lying on the sofa, fretting about the dulness of the

house, and wishing over and over again that her aunt Gibson would send

her an 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

all was over.' I did not ask what she meant by 'all being over,' but I

suppose she referred to the expected decease of her mother and the

gloomy sequel of funeral rites. Eliza generally took no more notice of

her sister's indolence and complaints than if no such murmuring,

lounging object had been before her. One day, however, as she put away

her account-book and unfolded her embroidery, she suddenly took her up

thus-

'Georgiana, a more vain and absurd animal than you was certainly

never allowed to cumber the earth. You had no right to be born, for