November, December, and half of January passed away. Christmas and the New Year had been celebrated at Gateshead with the usual festive cheer; presents had been interchanged, dinners and evening parties given.

From every enjoyment I was, of course, excluded. To speak truth, I had not the least wish to go into company, for in company I was very rarely noticed; and if Bessie had been kind, I should have spent the evenings quietly with her, instead of passing them under the eye of Mrs. Reed. In my room, I undressed hastily, and got into bed.

The hours seemed long while I waited the departure of the company, and listened for the sound of Bessie’s step on the stairs: sometimes she would come up to bring me something by way of supper – a bun or a cheese-cake – then she would sit on the bed while I ate it, and when I had finished, she would tuck the clothes round me, and twice she kissed me, and said, “Good night, Miss Jane.” When thus gentle, Bessie seemed to me the best, prettiest, kindest being in the world; I preferred her to any one else at Gateshead Hall.

It was the fifteenth of January, about nine o’clock in the morning: Bessie went down to breakfast; Eliza was putting on her bonnet and warm garden-coat to go and feed her poultry, an occupation of which she was fond.

Georgiana sat on a high stool, dressing her hair at the glass. I was making my bed.

From the window I saw the gates thrown open and a carriage roll through. Carriages often came to Gateshead, but none ever brought visitors in whom I was interested; it stopped in front of the house, the door-bell rang loudly, the new-comer was admitted. I was finishing my breakfast of bread and milk when Bessie came running upstairs into the nursery.

“Miss Jane, take off your pinafore. Have you washed your hands and face this morning?”

Bessie took me to the washstand, scrubbed my face and hands with soap, water, and a coarse towel; brushed my head, took off my pinafore, and then hurried me to the top of the stairs, told me to go down directly, as I was wanted in the breakfast-room.

“Who could want me?” I asked myself, as I turned the door-handle. “What should I see besides Aunt Reed in the room? – a man or a woman?” The handle turned, the door opened, I looked up at – a black pillar! – such, at least, appeared to me, at first sight, the straight, narrow shape whose face was like a carved mask.

Mrs. Reed took her usual seat by the fireside; she made a signal to me to approach; I did so, and she introduced me to the stranger with the words: “This is the little girl respecting whom I applied to you.”

He, for it was a man, turned his head slowly towards where I stood, and said in a bass voice, “Her size is small: what is her age?”

“Ten years.”

“So much?” was the doubtful answer. Presently he addressed me – “Your name, little girl?”

“Jane Eyre, sir.”

“Well, Jane Eyre, and are you a good child?”

Impossible to reply to this in the affirmative: I was silent. Mrs. Reed answered for me, “Perhaps the less said on that subject the better, Mr. Brocklehurst.”

“Sorry indeed to hear it! she and I must have some talk. Come here,” he said.

He placed me straight before him. What a face he had, now that it was almost on a level with mine! what a great nose! and what a mouth! and what large prominent teeth!

“A naughty child makes a sad sight,” he began, “especially a naughty little girl. Do you know where the wicked go after death?”

“They go to hell,” was my ready answer.

“And what is hell? Can you tell me that?”

“A pit full of fire.”

“And should you like to fall into that pit, and to be burning there for ever?”

“No, sir.”

“What must you do to avoid it?”

I hesitated for a moment: “I must keep in good health, and not die.”

“How can you keep in good health? Children younger than you die daily. I buried a little child of five years old only a day or two ago, – a good little child, whose soul is now in heaven.”

“I hope that you repent of your bad behaviour to your excellent benefactress. Do you say your prayers night and morning?” continued my interrogator.

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you read your Bible?”

“Sometimes.”

“And the Psalms? I hope you like them?”

“No, sir.”

“No? oh, shocking!”

“Psalms are not interesting,” I remarked.

“That proves you have a wicked heart; and you must pray to God to change it.”

“Mr. Brocklehurst, if you admit her into Lowood school, I will be glad if the superintendent and the teachers kept a strict eye on her, and, above all, control her tendency to deceit.”

This accusation cut me to the heart; I hastily wiped away some tears.

“Deceit is, indeed, a sad fault in a child,” said Mr. Brocklehurst; “she shall, however, be watched, Mrs. Reed. I will speak to Miss Temple and the teachers.”

“Quite right, sir. I may then depend upon this child being received as a pupil at Lowood?”

“Madam, you may: and I hope she will show herself grateful for the privilege of her election.”

“I will send her, then, as soon as possible, Mr. Brocklehurst.”

“Now I wish you good morning, madam. I shall return to Brocklehurst Hall in the course of a week or two. I shall send Miss Temple notice that she is to expect a new girl, so that there will be no difficulty about receiving her. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye, Mr. Brocklehurst; remember me to Mrs. and Miss Brocklehurst.”

“I will, madam. Little girl, here is a book called the ’Child’s Guide,’ read it with prayer.”

With these words Mr. Brocklehurst put into my hand a thin pamphlet, and left.

Mrs. Reed and I were left alone: some minutes passed in silence; she was sewing, I was watching her.

Mrs. Reed looked up from her work; her eye settled on mine.

“Go out of the room; return to the nursery,” was her order. My look or something else seemed offensive to her, for she spoke with extreme irritation. I got up, went to the door; then I came back again, close up to her.

“I am not deceitful: if I were, I should say I loved you; but I declare I do not love you: I dislike you the worst of anybody in the world except John Reed; and this book, which is about the liar, you may give to Georgiana, for it is she who tells lies, and not I.”

Mrs. Reed’s hands still lay on her work inactive: her eye of ice continued to dwell on mine.

“What more have you to say?” she asked.

I continued —

“I am glad you are no relation of mine: I will never call you aunt again as long as I live. I will never come to see you when I am grown up; and if any one asks me how I liked you, and how you treated me, I will say the very thought of you makes me sick^[14].”

“How dare you say that, Jane Eyre?”

“How dare I, Mrs. Reed? How dare I? Because it is the truth. You think I have no feelings, and that I can do without one bit of love or kindness; but I cannot live so: and you have no pity. I shall remember how you thrust me back into the red-room, and locked me up there, to my dying day; though I was in agony and cried, ’Have mercy! Have mercy, Aunt Reed!’ And that punishment you made me suffer because your wicked boy struck me – knocked me down for nothing. I will tell anybody who asks me questions, this exact tale. People think you a good woman, but you are bad, hard-hearted. You are deceitful!”

Before I had finished this reply I felt the strangest sense of freedom, of triumph. Mrs. Reed looked frightened; her work had slipped from her knee; she was lifting up her hands, and even twisting her face as if she would cry.

“Jane, you are under a mistake: what is the matter with you? Why do you tremble so violently? 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.”

“Not you. You told Mr. Brocklehurst I had a bad character, was a liar; and I’ll let everybody at Lowood know what you are, and what you have done.”

“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: and now return to the nursery – there’s a dear^[15] – 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 left the room.

I was left there alone – winner of the field. It was the hardest battle I had fought, and the first victory I had gained.

Outside the house I looked into an empty field where no sheep were feeding, where the short grass was nipped. It was a very grey day; I stood, a wretched child, whispering to myself over and over again, “What shall I do? – what shall I do?”

All at once I heard a clear voice call, “Miss Jane! Where are you? Come to lunch!”

It was Bessie, I knew; but I did not stir.

“You naughty little thing!” she said walking up the path. “Why don’t you come when you are called?”

Bessie’s presence seemed cheerful; I put my two arms round her and said, “Come, Bessie! Don’t scold.”

“You are a strange child, Miss Jane,” she said, as she looked down at me; “and you are going to school, I suppose?”

I nodded.

“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 frightened, shy little thing. You should be bolder.”

“What! To get more knocks?”

“Nonsense! Now, come in, and I’ve some good news for you.”

“I don’t think you have, Bessie.”

“Child! What do you mean? Well, but Missis and the young ladies and Master John are going out to tea this 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. Missis wants you to leave Gateshead in a day or two, and you shall choose what toys you like to take with you.”

“Bessie, you must promise not to scold me any more till I go.”

“I promise, Miss; I believe I am fonder of you than of all the others.”

“You don’t show it.”

“You little sharp thing^[16]! And so you’re glad to leave me?”

“Not at all, Bessie; indeed, just now I’m rather sorry.”

“Just now! And rather! I think if I asked you for a kiss you wouldn’t give it me: you’d say you’d rather not.”

“I’ll kiss you: bend your head down.” Bessie stooped; we mutually embraced, and I followed her into the house quite comforted. That afternoon passed in peace and harmony; and in the evening Bessie told me some of her best stories, and sang me some of her sweetest songs. Even for me life had its gleams of sunshine.