All Librivox recordings are in the public domain.

For more information or to volunteer please visit Librivox.org

Recording by Elizabeth Klett Jane Eyre by Charlotte BRONTË Chapter Eight

Ere the half-hour ended, five o'clock struck; school was dismissed, and

all were gone into the refectory to tea.

I now ventured to descend: it was deep dusk; I retired into a corner and

sat down on the floor.

The spell by which I had been so far supported

began to dissolve; reaction took place, and soon, so overwhelming was

the grief that seized me, I sank prostrate with my face to the ground.

Now I wept: Helen Burns was not here; nothing sustained me; left to myself

I abandoned myself, and my tears watered the boards.

I had meant to be so good, and to do so much at Lowood: to make so many friends, to earn

respect and win affection.

Already I had made visible progress: that very morning I had reached the

head of my class; Miss Miller had praised me warmly; Miss Temple had

smiled approbation; she had promised to teach me drawing, and to let me

learn French, if I continued to make similar improvement two months

longer: and then I was well received by my fellow-pupils; treated as an

equal by those of my own age, and not molested by any; now, here I lay

again crushed and trodden on; and could I ever rise more?

"Never," I thought; and ardently I wished to die.

While sobbing out this wish in broken accents, some one approached:

I started up--again Helen Burns was near me; the fading fires just showed

her coming up the long, vacant room; she brought my coffee and bread.

"Come, eat something," she said; but I put both away from me, feeling as

if a drop or a crumb would have choked me in my present condition.

Helen regarded me, probably with surprise: I could

not now abate my agitation, though I tried hard; I continued to weep aloud.

She sat down on the ground near me, embraced her knees with her

arms, and rested her head upon them; in that attitude she remained silent

as an Indian.

I was the first who spoke--

"Helen, why do you stay with a girl whom everybody believes to be a

liar?"

"Everybody, Jane?

Why, there are only eighty people who have heard you

called so, and the world contains hundreds of millions."

"But what have I to do with millions?

The eighty, I know, despise me."

"Jane, you are mistaken: probably not one in the school either despises

or dislikes you: many, I am sure, pity you much."

"How can they pity me after what Mr. Brocklehurst has said?"

"Mr. Brocklehurst is not a god: nor is he even a great and admired man:

he is little liked here; he never took steps to make himself liked.

Had he treated you as an especial favourite, you

would have found enemies, declared or covert, all around you; as it

is, the greater number would offer you sympathy if they dared.

Teachers and pupils may look coldly on you for a day or two, but friendly feelings

are concealed in their hearts; and if you persevere in doing well,

these feelings will ere long appear so much the more evidently for their

temporary suppression.

Besides, Jane"--she paused.

"Well, Helen?" said I, putting my hand into hers: she chafed my fingers

gently to warm them, and went on--

"If all the world hated you, and believed you wicked, while your own

conscience approved you, and absolved you from guilt, you would not be

without friends."

"No; I know I should think well of myself; but that is not enough: if

others don't love me I would rather die than live--I cannot bear to be

solitary and hated, Helen.

Look here; to gain some real affection from you, or Miss Temple, or any other whom I truly

love, I would willingly submit to have the bone of my arm broken,

or to let a bull toss me, or to stand behind a kicking horse, and let it dash

its hoof at my chest--"

"Hush, Jane!

you think too much of the love of human beings; you are too

impulsive, too vehement; the sovereign hand that created your frame, and

put life into it, has provided you with other resources than your feeble

self, or than creatures feeble as you.

Besides this earth, and besides the race of men, there is an invisible world

and a kingdom of spirits: that world is round us, for it is everywhere;

and those spirits watch us, for they are commissioned to guard us; and

if we were dying in pain and shame, if scorn smote us on all sides, and

hatred crushed us, angels see our tortures, recognise our innocence (if

innocent we be: as I know you are of this charge which Mr. Brocklehurst

has weakly and pompously repeated at second-hand from Mrs. Reed; for

I read a sincere nature in your ardent eyes and on your clear front),

and God waits only the separation of spirit from flesh to crown us

with a full reward.

Why, then, should we ever sink overwhelmed with

distress, when life is so soon over, and death is so certain an entrance

to happiness--to glory?"

I was silent; Helen had calmed me; but in the tranquillity she imparted

there was an alloy of inexpressible sadness.

I felt the impression of woe as she spoke, but I could not tell whence

it came; and when, having done speaking, she breathed a little fast

and coughed a short cough, I momentarily forgot my own sorrows to yield

to a vague concern for her.

Resting my head on Helen's shoulder, I put my arms round her waist; she

drew me to her, and we reposed in silence.

We had not sat long thus, when another person came in.

Some heavy clouds, swept from the sky by a rising wind, had left the moon bare; and her

light, streaming in through a window near, shone full both on us and on

the approaching figure, which we at once recognised as Miss Temple.

"I came on purpose to find you, Jane Eyre," said she; "I want you in my

room; and as Helen Burns is with you, she may come too."

We went; following the superintendent's guidance, we had to thread some

intricate passages, and mount a staircase before we reached her

apartment; it contained a good fire, and looked cheerful.

Miss Temple told Helen Burns to be seated in a low arm-chair

on one side of the hearth, and herself taking another, she called

me to her side.

"Is it all over?"

she asked, looking down at my face.

"Have you cried your grief away?"

"I am afraid I never shall do that."

"Why?"

"Because I have been wrongly accused; and you, ma'am, and everybody else,

will now think me wicked."

"We shall think you what you prove yourself to be, my child.

Continue to act as a good girl, and you will satisfy us."

"Shall I, Miss Temple?"

"You will," said she, passing her arm round me.

"And now tell me who is the lady whom Mr. Brocklehurst called your

benefactress?"

"Mrs. Reed, my uncle's wife.

My uncle is dead, and he left me to her care."

"Did she not, then, adopt you of her own accord?"

"No, ma'am; she was sorry to have to do it: but my uncle, as I have often

heard the servants say, got her to promise before he died that she would

always keep me."

"Well now, Jane, you know, or at least I will tell you, that when a

criminal is accused, he is always allowed to speak in his own defence.

You have been charged with falsehood; defend yourself to me as well as

you can.

Say whatever your memory suggests is true; but add nothing and

exaggerate nothing."

I resolved, in the depth of my heart, that I would be most moderate--most

correct; and, having reflected a few minutes in order to arrange

coherently what I had to say, I told her all the story of my sad

childhood.

Exhausted by emotion, my language was more subdued than it

generally was when it developed that sad theme; and mindful of Helen's

warnings against the indulgence of resentment, I infused into the

narrative far less of gall and wormwood than ordinary.

Thus restrained and simplified, it sounded more credible:

I felt as I went on that Miss Temple fully believed me.

In the course of the tale I had mentioned Mr. Lloyd as having come to see

me after the fit: for I never forgot the, to me, frightful episode of the

red-room: in detailing which, my excitement was sure, in some degree, to

break bounds; for nothing could soften in my recollection the spasm of

agony which clutched my heart when Mrs. Reed spurned my wild supplication

for pardon, and locked me a second time in the dark and haunted chamber.

I had finished: Miss Temple regarded me a few minutes in silence; she

then said--

"I know something of Mr. Lloyd; I shall write to him; if his reply agrees

with your statement, you shall be publicly cleared from every imputation;

to me, Jane, you are clear now."

She kissed me, and still keeping me at her side (where I was well

contented to stand, for I derived a child's pleasure from the

contemplation of her face, her dress, her one or two ornaments, her white

forehead, her clustered and shining curls, and beaming dark eyes), she

proceeded to address Helen Burns.

"How are you to-night, Helen?

Have you coughed much to-day?"

"Not quite so much, I think, ma'am."

"And the pain in your chest?"

"It is a little better."

Miss Temple got up, took her hand and examined her pulse; then she

returned to her own seat: as she resumed it, I heard her sigh low.

She was pensive a few minutes, then rousing herself,

she said cheerfully--

"But you two are my visitors to-night; I must treat you as such."

She rang her bell.

"Barbara," she said to the servant who answered it, "I have not yet had

tea; bring the tray and place cups for these two young ladies."

And a tray was soon brought.

How pretty, to my eyes, did the china cups and bright teapot look, placed on the little

round table near the fire!

How fragrant was the steam of the beverage, and the scent of the toast!

of which, however, I, to my dismay (for I was beginning to be hungry)

discerned only a very small portion: Miss Temple discerned it too.

"Barbara," said she, "can you not bring a little more bread and butter?

There is not enough for three."

Barbara went out: she returned soon--

"Madam, Mrs. Harden says she has sent up the usual quantity."

Mrs. Harden, be it observed, was the housekeeper: a woman after Mr.

Brocklehurst's own heart, made up of equal parts of whalebone and iron.

"Oh, very well!"

returned Miss Temple; "we must make it do, Barbara, I

suppose."

And as the girl withdrew she added, smiling, "Fortunately, I

have it in my power to supply deficiencies for this once."

Having invited Helen and me to approach the table, and placed before each

of us a cup of tea with one delicious but thin morsel of toast, she got

up, unlocked a drawer, and taking from it a parcel wrapped in paper,

disclosed presently to our eyes a good-sized seed-cake.

"I meant to give each of you some of this to take with you," said she,

"but as there is so little toast, you must have it now," and she

proceeded to cut slices with a generous hand.

We feasted that evening as on nectar and ambrosia; and not the least

delight of the entertainment was the smile of gratification with which

our hostess regarded us, as we satisfied our famished appetites on the

delicate fare she liberally supplied.

Tea over and the tray removed, she again summoned us to the fire; we sat

one on each side of her, and now a conversation followed between her and

Helen, which it was indeed a privilege to be admitted to hear.

Miss Temple had always something of serenity in her air, of state in her

mien, of refined propriety in her language, which precluded deviation

into the ardent, the excited, the eager: something which chastened the

pleasure of those who looked on her and listened to her, by a controlling

sense of awe; and such was my feeling now: but as to Helen Burns, I was

struck with wonder.

The refreshing meal, the brilliant fire, the presence and kindness of her

beloved instructress, or, perhaps, more than all these, something in her

own unique mind, had roused her powers within her.

They woke, they kindled: first, they glowed in the bright

tint of her cheek, which till this hour I had never seen but pale and bloodless;

then they shone in the liquid lustre of her eyes, which had suddenly