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I stabbed the air in front of Mrs. Reed's face, making her eyes widen with shock, or perhaps fright?
Ere I had finished this demonstration, my soul began to expand, to exult, with the strangest sense of freedom, of triumph, I ever felt. It seemed as if an invisible bond had burst, and that I had struggled out into unhoped-for liberty. Mrs. Reed trembled. Her work had slipped from her knee; she was lifting up her hands, rocking herself to and fro, even twisting her face as if she would cry.
"Jane, put that away! What is the matter with you? You are suffering under a mistaken notion, surely. We do not act as monsters, but for our own survival. You're having delusions, perhaps? Would you like to drink some water?"
"No, Mrs. Reed."
"Is there anything else you wish for, Jane? I assure you, I desire to be your friend."
"Friend? When you told Mr. Bokorhurst I had a bad character, a deceitful disposition? I'll let everybody at Lowood know what you are, and what you have done."
"You mean with your punishments, surely? Jane, you don't understand these things. Children must be corrected for their faults."
"Deceit is not my fault!" I cried out in a savage, high voice.
"But you are passionate, Jane, that you must allow. Now return to the nursery--there's a dear--and lie down a little."
"I am not your dear. I cannot lie down. Send me to school soon, Mrs. Reed, for I hate to live here."
"I will indeed send her to school soon," murmured Mrs. Reed; and gathering up her work, she abruptly quitted the apartment.
I was left there alone, winner of the field. It was the hardest battle I had fought, and the first victory I had gained. I stood awhile on the rug, where Mr. Bokorhurst had stood, and I enjoyed my conqueror's solitude. First, I smiled to myself and felt elated, but this fierce pleasure subsided in me as fast as did the accelerated throb of my pulse. I had actually stood my ground. I had threatened her beloved
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boy's precious existence should he cross my path again, and I felt full ready to act on my own behalf as necessary.
Something of vengeance, of violence, I had for the first time tasted. As aromatic wine it seemed, on swallowing, warm and racy, burning in my veins, intoxicating. I could not sit still. I went to the breakfast room and opened the drapes and the glass door. The frost reigned unbroken by sun or breeze through the grounds, a fairyland painted in white. It looked so pure, so cleansing, as if nothing bad had ever touched it or crawled under soil to roots. I wanted to be a part of that fresh, white scene.
I stepped out. I breathed deep and let the frigid air fill my lungs, needles piercing, pricking me back to life. I walked along, delighting in the silent trees, the falling fir cones, the congealed relics of autumn, russet leaves, swept by past winds into heaps and now stiffened together. I leaned against a gate and looked into an empty field where no sheep were feeding, where the short grass was nipped and blanched. Snowflakes fell in intervals to settle on the hard path.
"Miss Jane! Where are you? Come to lunch! You naughty little thing!" she said, catching up to me. "Why don't you come when you are called?"
I knew well enough it was Bessie, but I could not force my feet to move, as if I had become part of the frozen scene. Her presence did not break the enchanted mood. When she drew near, I threw my arms around her. "Come, Bessie, don't scold."
"You are a strange child, Miss Jane," she said as she looked down at me, "a little roving, solitary thing. And you are going to school, I suppose? And won't you be sorry to leave poor Bessie?"
"What does Bessie care for me? She is always scolding me."
"Because you're such a queer, shy little thing. You should be bolder."
"Ha!" I laughed. She clearly had not heard from Mrs. Reed. "I don't think that should be a problem now."
"Nonsense! I will worry when you are at school, no Bessie to look after you. But you are rather put-upon here, that's certain. My
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mother said, when she came to see me last week, that she would not like a little one of her own to be in your place. Now, come in, and I've some good news for you."
"What could be better than the beauty of this day, Bessie?"
"Child! I believe you've been out too long. Perhaps your brain is freezing. We shall go in. Missus and the young ladies and Master John will be in bed all afternoon, and you shall have tea with me. I'll ask cook to bake you a little cake, and then you shall help me to look over your drawers, for I am soon to pack your trunk. Missus intends you to leave Gateshead in a day or two, and I will let you choose what toys you like to take with you."
That afternoon lapsed in peace and harmony. In the evening, Bessie stayed with me quite late instead of running off to her duties with the Reeds. She told me some of her most enchanting stories and sang me some of her sweetest songs. My life had improved tremendously at Gateshead just as I was about to leave it for the great unknown.
CHAPTER 5
FIVE O'CLOCK HAD HARDLY struck on the morning of the nineteenth of January when Bessie brought a candle into my closet and found me already up and nearly dressed. I was to leave Gateshead that day by the 6:00 a.m. coach. Bessie was the only person yet risen. She had lit a fire in the nursery, where she now made my breakfast. I was not hungry, but Bessie pressed me in vain to take a few spoonfuls of the boiled milk and bread. In the end, she wrapped some biscuits in a paper and put them into my bag, then helped me on with my pelisse and bonnet and we left the nursery.
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As we passed Mrs. Reed's bedroom, Bessie said, "Will you go in and bid Missus good-bye? She hasn't been settled long. She may still be awake."
"I won't take that chance. She came to my room last night when you were gone down to supper and said I need not disturb her or my cousins in the morning. She told me to remember that she had always been my best friend, and to speak well of her and be grateful to her accordingly."
"What did you say, miss?"
"Nothing. I covered my face with the bedclothes and turned from her to the wall."
"That was wrong, Miss Jane."
"It was quite right, Bessie. Your Missus has not been my friend."
"Miss Jane, don't say so! They live differently from us, to be sure, but that's in their very nature. What seems odd or cruel to others makes sense to those who come to understand."
"I'll never understand. Their very existence is in conflict with nature. Good-bye to Gateshead!" cried I, as we passed through the hall and went out the front door.
The moon was set, and it was dark. Bessie carried a lantern. Raw and chill was the winter morning. My teeth chattered as I hastened down the drive. There was a light in the porter's lodge. When we reached it, we found the porter's wife just kindling her fire. My trunk, which had been carried down the evening before, stood corded at the door. It wanted but a few minutes of six, and shortly after that hour had struck, the distant roll of wheels announced the coming coach. I went to the door and watched its lamps approach rapidly through the gloom.
"Is she going by herself?" asked the porter's wife.
"Yes."
"And how far is it?"
"Fifty miles."
"What a long way! I wonder Mrs. Reed is not afraid to trust her so far alone."
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Trust? I did not say that she had little reason to trust me, nor did she. Her need to be rid of me exceeded her interest in her protection from what I might say out in the world. She certainly had no concern for my fate. Once I left her gates, she would most likely breathe a sigh of relief. I had no doubt she would risk standing in a window at dawn just to see, with her own eyes, that I would get on that coach and go.
The coach drew up to the gates with its four horses and its top laden with passengers. The guard and coachman loudly urged haste. My trunk was hoisted up. I was taken from Bessie's neck, to which I clung with kisses.
"Be sure and take good care of her," cried she to the guard as he lifted me into the inside.
"Take care, Bessie Le
e!" I shouted back, though we were already pulling away, for I did not doubt that she was the one more in need of protection in continuing to live with the Reeds.
Thus was I severed from Bessie and Gateshead, thus whirled away to unknown and, as I then deemed, remote and mysterious regions.
I remember but little of the journey. We passed through several towns, and in a large one the coach stopped. The horses were taken out, and the passengers alighted to dine. I was carried into an inn, where the guard wanted me to have some dinner; but, as I had no appetite, he left me in an immense room with a fireplace at each end, a chandelier pendent from the ceiling, and a little red gallery high up against the wall filled with musical instruments. I walked about for a long time, feeling strange and mortally apprehensive of someone's coming in and kidnapping me; for I believed in kidnappers, their exploits having frequently figured in Bessie's fireside chronicles.
I wouldn't have been surprised had Mrs. Reed hired someone to do the vile deed of capturing me and killing me before I could get to the school and spread stories of life at Gateshead. To what lengths would she go to protect her secret from exposure? But if she'd meant
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to do me in, it would have been easier to do it at home, if not for fear of being tainted by my common blood. For the first time that morning, I felt my lips curl up in a smile. I should be happy, after all. I had finally made my escape.
Instead, my stomach felt more twisted than the French horn that was left abandoned against the gallery wall. Something wasn't right. If not kidnappers, who--or what--might be lurking about? I heard someone approaching and I moved quickly to stand in the dark corner behind the door. I saw a fellow passenger, the woman who had boarded the coach some miles past Gateshead, being led by the hand. Her guide was an older man with a ridiculous mustache.
"This way, my beauty," he said. "I can show you such things as you never imagined."
"As I never imagined? I only wanted to see the crystal you mentioned for sale. I could probably resell it for double the price in town."
He took her in his arms. "You won't be getting to town."
That's when I saw his bared fangs. I started to cry out in warning, but the guard returned and the vampyre hid with his prey behind the gallery.
I stepped out of the shadows.
"There you are," the guard said. "Come along. We'll be getting back on the road."
"But my fellow passenger." I wish I had known her name. "She's there!"
I pointed to the gallery and reached in my pockets, prepared to pull out a stake in case the vampyre took the guard unawares. But the guard looked and came back, apparently seeing nothing. Perhaps they'd slipped away out a back entrance?
"There's no one there, child. Come."
"But, the woman--"
"Eh, she didn't pay full fare. If she misses her ride, she'll find another."
Afraid for what sort of ride she might find, I stared into the dark
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room as the guard lifted me to carry me away. I was only a child. What more could I say?
Once more I was stowed away in the coach. My protector mounted his own seat, sounded his hollow horn, and away we rattled over the stony streets. As the misty afternoon waned into dusk, I began to feel that we were getting very far indeed from Gates-head, and very cheerful for it. The country changed. Great grey hills heaved up round the horizon. As twilight deepened, we descended a valley, dark with wood, and long after night had over-clouded the prospect, I heard a wild wind rushing amongst trees.
It was as if a knot of tension finally uncoiled in my stomach, allowing me to find a sort of relaxed inner peace. I fell asleep. I had not long slumbered when the sudden cessation of motion awoke me. The coach door opened, and a person like a servant stood at it. I saw her face and dress by the light of the lamps.
"Is there a little girl called Jane Slayre here?" she asked.
"Yes," I said, and was then lifted out. My trunk was handed down, and the coach instantly drove away.
I was stiff with long sitting, and bewildered with the noise and motion of the coach. Gathering my faculties, I looked about me. Rain, wind, and darkness filled the air; nevertheless, I dimly discerned a wall before me, and a door open in it. Through this door I passed with my new guide. She shut and locked it behind her. There was now visible a house or houses--for the building spread far--with many windows, and lights burning in some. We went up a broad, pebbly path, splashing wet, and were admitted at a door; then the servant led me through a passage into a room with a fire, where she left me alone.
I stood and warmed my numbed fingers over the blaze. There was no candle, but the uncertain light from the hearth showed, by intervals, papered walls, carpet, curtains, shining mahogany furniture. It was a parlour, not so spacious or splendid as the drawing room at Gateshead, but comfortable enough. I puzzled to make out the weapons hanging in a row down the wall as if treasured works
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of art--swords, with long blades that gleamed in the firelight. I supposed someone was a collector, perhaps one of the teachers. The door opened and a woman entered. Another woman followed close behind.
The first was a tall lady with dark hair, dark eyes, and a pale and large forehead. Her figure was partly enveloped in a shawl. Her countenance was grave but gentle, her bearing erect. I guessed she might be around twenty-nine years of age, her companion some years younger.
"The child is very young to be sent alone," said the tall lady, putting her candle down on the table. She considered me attentively for a minute or two. "She had better be put to bed soon. She looks tired. Are you tired?" she asked, placing her hand on my shoulder.
"A little, ma'am."
"And hungry, too, no doubt. Let her have some supper before she goes to bed, Miss Miller."
"But, perhaps we should wait and see first? In case--"
"Nonsense. She is clearly full of life, and there's no meat to be had. Is this the first time you have left your parents to come to school, my little girl?"
I explained to her that I had no parents. She inquired how long they had been dead, how old I was, what my name was, and whether I could read, write, and sew a little. She touched my cheek gently with her forefinger. "I hope you should be a good child."
Mr. Bokorhurst's conversation with Mrs. Reed came to mind, but I shut it out. Yes, I recalled his connection to Miss Abbot, but so far, the women who greeted me seemed nothing out of the ordinary. No waxen pallor, extended fangs, or misarranged limbs. I reasoned I was safe enough. I would prove myself a good child with nothing to fear at my new school.
The tall woman now left me to the more ordinary Miss Miller. Miss Miller, red-faced and careworn, was hurried in gait and action like one who had a multiplicity of tasks on hand. She looked, indeed, what I afterwards found she really was, an underteacher.
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She led me along, passing from compartment to compartment, from passage to passage, of a large and irregular building. We emerged from the total and somewhat dreary silence pervading that portion of the house and came upon the hum of many voices as we entered a wide, long room, with great tables, two at each end.
A congregation of girls of every age, from nine or ten to twenty, sat on benches around the tables. Seen by the dim light of the candles, two on each table, their number to me appeared countless, though not in reality exceeding eighty. They were uniformly dressed in brown stuff frocks of quaint fashion, and long holland pinafores. They were apparently going over tomorrow's lesson. The hum I had heard was the combined result of their whispered repetitions.
Miss Miller signed to me to sit on a bench near the door. She walked up to the top of the long room. "Monitors, collect the lesson books and put them away!"
Four tall girls arose from different tables and went around gathering the books.
"Monitors, fetch the supper trays!" Miss Miller said, once the books were gathered and put away.
The tall girls went out and returned presently, each bearing a tray wi
th a thin oaten cake divided into portions, and a pitcher of water and a mug in the middle of each tray. The portions were handed around. Those who liked took a draught of the water, the mug being common to all. When it came to my turn, I drank, for I was thirsty, but did not touch the food, excitement and fatigue rendering me incapable of eating.
Once the meal was over, Miss Miller read prayers, and the classes filed off, two and two, upstairs. By the time I reached my room, I was so overcome with weariness that I barely noticed what sort of a place the bedroom was, except that, like the schoolroom, it was long. Tonight I was to be Miss Miller's bedfellow. She helped me undress. Once tucked in, I glanced at the long rows of beds, each filled with two occupants. In as little as ten minutes, the single
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light was extinguished, and amid silence and complete darkness I fell asleep.
The night passed rapidly. I was too tired even to dream. When I opened my eyes, a loud bell was ringing. The girls got up quickly and started dressing. Day had not yet begun to dawn, and rush-lights burned in the room. I rose reluctantly. It was bitter cold, and I dressed as well as I could for shivering, and washed when there was a basin at liberty, which did not soon occur as there was but one basin to every six girls on the stands down the middle of the room. Some barely shivered, seemingly insensitive to the cold. I couldn't imagine that I would ever get used to such extreme frigidity inside.
Again, the bell rang. All formed in file, two and two, and I joined in as in that order we descended the stairs and entered the cold and dimly lit schoolroom.
"Form classes!" Miss Miller said.
A great tumult succeeded for some minutes, during which Miss Miller repeatedly exclaimed, "Silence!" and "Order!" When it subsided, I saw them all drawn up in four semicircles, before four chairs, placed at the four tables. All held books in their hands, and a great book, like a Bible, lay on each table before the vacant seat.
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