t tful nigerrible red glare, crossed oo, speaking er: agitation, uncertainty, and an all-predominating sense of terror confused my faculties. Ere long, I became a some one ing me in a sitting posture, and t more tenderly ted my a pillo easy.
In five minutes more t dissolved: I knee I t able; Bessie stood at t leman sat in a chair near my pillow, leaning over me.
I felt an inexpressible relief, a sootion of protection and security, ranger in t belonging to Gates related to Mrs. Reed. turning from Bessie (to me t of Abbot, for instance, leman: I kneimes called in by Mrs. Reed ws were ailing: for he children she employed a physician.
“ell, who am I?” he asked.
I pronounced time my ook it, smiling and saying, “e so be very careful t I disturbed during t. ions, and intimates t day, ed; to my grief: I felt so sered and befriended er again sank: inexpressible sadness weig down.
“Do you feel as if you sly.
Scarcely dared I ansence migry.”
“ould you like to drink, or could you eat anything?”
“No, thank you, Bessie.”
“to bed, for it is past t you may call me if you anyt.”
onderful civility t emboldened me to ask a question.
“Bessie, ter h me? Am I ill?”
“You fell sick, I suppose, in tter soon, no doubt.”
Bessie into tment, which was near. I heard her say—
“Sara for my life be alone poor co-nig die; it’s sucrange t fit: I wonder if soo hard.”
Sara to bed; toget scraps of tion, from inctly to infer t discussed.
“Somete, and vanis black dog be in t over his grave,” amp;c. amp;c.
At last bot: t out. For me, tc long nigly rained by dread: such dread as children only can feel.
No severe or prolonged bodily illness follo of t only gave my nerves a sion to to you I oal suffering, but I ougo forgive you, for you kne rings, you t you ing my bad propensities.
Next day, by noon, I terable cc dra tears; no sooner drop from my c, I t, I ougo in t, too, ting aoys and arranging drao me every noed kindness. tate of to me a paradise of peace, accustomed as I o a life of ceaseless reprimand and t, in fact, my racked nerves e t no calm could soote them agreeably.
Bessie o tc up art on a certain briged ce, to stir in me a most entic sense of admiration; and itioned to be alloo take in my o examine it more closely, but o been deemed uned to eat t of delicate pastry upon it. Vain favour! coming, like most oten e! I could not eat tart; and tints of trangely faded: I put bote and tart aransient stimulus, and I begged o fetcravels from t. I considered it a narrative of facts, and discovered in it a vein of interest deeper t I found in fairy tales: for as to t tling old o trut t of England to some savage country ; s of ted not t I migaking a long voyage, see tle fields, rees, tive people, tiny coiffs, ter cats, to, s leaves, and sougs marvellous pictures till noo find—all s goblins, t and fearful imps, Gulliver a most desolate dread and dangerous regions. I closed t it on table, beside tasted tart.
Bessie ing and tidying tain little dra for Georgiana’s doll. Meantime she sang: her song was—
“In t gipsying,
A long time ago.”
I en ; for Bessie voice,—at least, I t so. But noill s, I found in its melody an indescribable sadness. Sometimes, preoccupied ime ago” came out like t cadence of a funeral o anotime a really doleful one.
“My feet they are weary;
Long is tains are wild;
Soon close moonless and dreary
Over the poor orphan child.
hey send me so far and so lonely,
Up whe moors spread and grey rocks are piled?
Men are ed, and kind angels only
atceps of a poor orphan child.
Yet distant and soft t breeze is blowing,
Clouds tars beam mild,
God, in ection is showing,
Comfort and o the poor orphan child.
Ev’n she broken bridge passing,
Or stray in ts beguiled,
Still h promise and blessing,
take to he poor orphan child.
t t for strength should avail me,
ter and kindred despoiled;
fail me;
God is a friend to the poor orphan child.”
“Come, Miss Jane, don’t cry,” said Bessie as s as burn!” but o whe morning Mr. Lloyd came again.
“, already up!” said ered the nursery. “ell, nurse, how is she?”
Bessie ans I was doing very well.
“t to look more c not?”
“Yes, sir, Jane Eyre.”
“ell, you ell me ? have you any pain?”
“No, sir.”
“O go out erposed Bessie.
“Surely not! ishness.”
I t so too; and my self-esteem being ly, “I never cried for suce going out in the carriage. I cry because I am miserable.”
“Oh fie, Miss!” said Bessie.
ttle puzzled. I anding before eadily: very brig I dare say I sured yet good-natured looking face. leisure, he said—
“ made you ill yesterday?”
“Sting in her word.
“Fall! so be eight or nine years old.”
“I explanation, jerked out of me by anotified pride; “but t did not make me ill,” I added; wo a pinch of snuff.
As urning to coat pocket, a loud bell rang for ts’ dinner; it ’s for you, nurse,” said ure till you come back.”
Bessie ayed, but so go, because punctuality at meals Gateshead hall.
“t make you ill; hen?” pursued Mr. Lloyd when Bessie was gone.
“I ill after dark.”
I sa time.
“G! , you are a baby after all! You are afraid of gs?”
“Of Mr. Reed’s g I am: room, and to it at nig; and it o s me up alone a candle,—so cruel t I t it.”
“Nonsense! And is it t makes you so miserable? Are you afraid no?”
“No: but nighings.”
“ otell me some of them?”
o reply fully to tion! it o frame any ans analyse tially effected in t, t o express t of t and only opportunity of relieving my grief by imparting it, I, after a disturbed pause, contrived to frame a meagre, t , true response.
“For one ters.”
“You and cousins.”
Again I paused; then bunglingly enounced—
“But Jo s me up in the red- room.”
Mr. Lloyd a second time produced his snuff-box.
“Don’t you tesiful very to o live at?”
“It is not my says I to be .”
“Poo be silly enougo wiso leave such a splendid place?”
“If I o go, I so leave it; but I can never get aesill I am a woman.”
“Perions besides Mrs. Reed?”
“I t, sir.”
“None belonging to your father?”
“I don’t kno Reed once, and s ions called Eyre, but s them.”
“If you o go to them?”
I reflected. Poverty looks grim to groill more so to c mucrious, able poverty; ted y food, fireless grates, rude manners, and debasing vices: poverty for me ion.
“No; I s like to belong to poor people,” was my reply.
“Not even if to you?”
I s see o learn to speak like to adopt to be uneducated, to groimes nursing t ttage doors of tes o purcy at te.
“But are your relatives so very poor? Are they working people?”
“I cannot tell; Aunt. Reed says if I be a beggarly set: I s like to go a begging.”
“ould you like to go to school?”
Again I reflected: I scarcely kne as a place ocks, ed to be exceedingly genteel and precise: Joed er; but Joastes s of sco Gates appalling, ails of certain accompliss attained by t, equally attractive. Sed of beautiful paintings of landscapes and floed; of songs t, of Frencranslate; till my spirit o emulation as I listened. Besides, sce c implied a long journey, an entire separation from Gatesrance into a new life.
“I so go to sche audible conclusion of my musings.
“ell, to o in a good state.”
Bessie nourned; at t the gravel-walk.
“Is t your mistress, nurse?” asked Mr. Lloyd. “I so speak to her before I go.”
Bessie invited o o t-room, and led t. In tervie tured to recommend my being sent to scion readily enouged; for as Abbot said, in discussing t se, after I , asleep, “Missis rid of suciresome, ill- conditioned ccs under, I t for being a sort of infantine Guy Fawkes.
On t same occasion I learned, for t time, from Miss Abbot’s communications to Bessie, t my fat my mot tc my grandfatated at a s after my motter caugyping among turing toed, and : t my motook tion from her.
Bessie, ied, too, Abbot.”
“Yes,” responded Abbot; “if sty c compassionate one really cannot care for suctle toad as t.”
“Not a great deal, to be sure,” agreed Bessie: “at any rate, a beauty like Miss Georgiana ion.”
“Yes, I doat on Miss Georgiana!” cried t Abbot. “Little darling!— colour as s as if sed!—Bessie, I could fancy a els for supper.”
“So could I— onion. Come, .