Morningside
Heights
Chapter
2
THE next thing I remember is,
waking up with a feeling as if I had had a frightful nightmare, and seeing
before me a terrible red glare, crossed with thick black bars. I heard voices, too, speaking with a
hollow sound, and as if muffled by a rush of wind or water: agitation,
uncertainty, and an all-predominating sense of terror confused my
faculties. Ere long, I became aware
that some one was handling me; lifting me up and supporting me in a sitting
posture, and that more tenderly than I had ever been raised or upheld
before. I rested my head against a
pillow or an arm, and felt easy.
In five minutes more, the cloud of bewilderment dissolved: I knew quite
well that I was in my own bed, and that the red glare was the nursery fire. It was night: a candle burnt on the
table; Rita stood at the bed-foot with a basin in her hand, and a gentleman sat
in a chair near my pillow leaning over me.
I felt an inexpressive relief, a soothing conviction of protection and
security, when I knew that there was a stranger in the room. Turning from Rita my eyes rested on Mr.
Roberts, the local apothecary; Mrs. Byron had sometimes called on him when the
servants were ailing: for herself and the children she employed a
physician.
“ Well, who am I? he asked.
I pronounced his name and he took my hand feeling for a temperature. “ We shall do well by-and-by.” Then he
turned from me addressing Rita, charging her to be very careful that I was not
disturbed during the night.
Having given some further directions, and intimated that he should call
again the next day, he departed; to my grief: I felt so sheltered and befriended
while he sat in the chair near my pillow; and as he closed the door after him,
all the room darkened and my heart again sank: inexpressible sadness weighted
down.
“ Do you feel as if you should sleep, Ran?” asked Rita, rather
softly.
Scarcely dared I answer her; for I feared the next sentence might be
rough. “ I will
try.”
“ Would you like to drink, or could you eat something?”
“ No, thank you, Rita.”
“ Then I think I shall go to bed, for it is past twelve o’ clock; but you
may call me if you need anything in the night.”
Wonderful civility this! It
emboldened me to ask a question.
“ Rita, what is the matter with me? Am I ill?”
“ You fell sick I suppose, in the red-room with crying; you’ll be better
soon, no doubt.”
Rita went into the housemaid’s apartment which was near. I heard her say---
“ Sarah, come to sleep with me in the nursery; I daren’t for my life be
alone with that poor child to-night; he might die; it’s such a strange thing he
should have a fit: I wonder if he saw anything. Missis was rather too
hard.”
Upon hearing this a faint
chuckle escaped my lips before I became once more dead to the
world.
No severe or prolonged bodily illness followed this incident of the
red-room: it only gave my nerves a shock.
Next day, by noon, I was up and dressed, and by the fire in the
nursery. I felt physically weak and
broken down: but my worse ailment was an unutterable wretchedness of mind: a
wretchedness which kept drawing me to silent tears; no sooner had I wiped one
salt drop from my cheek than another followed. Yet I thought, I ought to have been
happy, for none of the Byrons were there; they were all gone out in the carriage
with their mama: Archer, too, was sewing in another room, and Rita, as she moved
hither and thither, putting away toys and arranging drawers, addressed to me
every now and then a word of unwonted kindness. This state of things should
have been to me a paradise of peace, accustomed as I was to a life of ceaseless
reprimand and thankless fagging; but, in fact my racked nerves were now in such
a state that no calm could soothe, and no pleasure excite them agreeably.
At three past noon the apothecary arrived as he had related the day
before. Mr. Roberts appeared
puzzled. I was standing before him;
he fixed his eyes on me very steadily: his eyes were small and grey ; not very
bright, but I daresay I should think them shrewd now: he had a hard-featured yet
good-natured looking face. Having
considered ma at leisure, he said----
“ What made you ill yesterday?”
“He had a fall,” said Rita, putting in her word.
“ Fall! Why that is like a baby! Can’t he manage to walk at his age? He
must be eight or none years old.”
“ I was knocked,” was the blunt explanation jerked out of me by a pang of
mortified pride: “but that did not make me ill, “ I added; while Mr. Roberts
helped himself to a pinch of snuff.
As he was returning the box to his waistcoat pocket, a loud bell rang for
the servants’ dinner; he knew what it was. “ That’s for you, nurse,” said he; “
you can go down: I’ll give Mr. Fujimiya a lecture till you come
back.”
Rita would have rather have stayed, but she was obliged to go, because
punctuality at meals was rigidly enforced at Gateshead
Hall.
“The fall did not make you ill; what did then?” pursued Mr. Roberts, when
Rita was gone. I remained silent
not wanting to be seen as a fool for indulging in wild fantasies of ghosts and
goblins. I saw Mr. Roberts smile
trying to put me at ease.
“What makes you so miserable? Are you not happy in Gateshead Hall? Don’t
you think Gateshead Hall is a very beautiful house?”
“ It is not my house, sir; and Archer says I have less right to be here
than a servant. I want to leave here soon; I am very
unhappy.”
“Pooh! You can’t be silly enough to wish to leave such a splendid
place?”
“If I had anywhere else to go, I should be glad to leave it; but I can
never get away from Gateshead till I am a man.”
“Perhaps you may---who knows? Have you any relations besides Mrs.
Byron?”
“ I think not, sir.”
“ None belonging to your father?”
I don’t know: I asked aunt Byron once, and she said possibly I might have
some poor, low relations called Fujimiya, but she knew nothing about
them.”
“If you had such, would you like to go to them?”
I reflected. Poverty looks
grim to grown people; still more to children: they have not much idea of
industrious, working, respectable poverty; they think of the word only as
connected with ragged clothes, scanty food, fireless grates, rude manners, and
debasing vices: poverty for me was synonymous with the
degradation.
“ No; I should not like to belong to poor people,” was my
reply.
“ Not even if they were kind to you?”
I shook my head: I could not see how poor people had the means of being
kind; and then to learn to speak like them, to adopt their manners, to be
uneducated, to grow up like one of those poor men I saw sometime working the
fields from dawn till dusk for a miserable amount of food: no, I was not heroic
enough to purchase liberty at the price of caste.
“ But are your relatives so very poor? Are they working
people?”
“ I cannot tell; aunt Byron says if I have any, they must be a beggarly
set: I should not like to go begging.”
“ Would you like to go to school?”
Again I reflected: I scarcely knew what school was; Rita sometimes spoke
of it as a place where young boys learned swordplay, the books of the Greek
thinkers, and where men became learned and gentlemen like: Peter Byron hated his
school, and abused his master; but Peter Byron’s tastes were no rule for
mine. Besides, school would be a
complete change: it implied a long journey, an entire separation from Gateshead,
an entrance into new life.
“ I should indeed like to go to school,” was the audible conclusion of my
musings.
“ Well, well; who knows what may happen?” said Mr. Roberts, as he got up:
“ The child ought to have change of air and scene,” he added, speaking to
himself; “ nerves not in a good state.” And with this Mr. Roberts took
his leave.
On that same occasion I learned, for the first time, from Mrs. Archer’s
communications to Rita, that my father had been a poor lawyer; that my mother
had married him against the wishes of her friends, who considered the match
beneath her; that my grandfather Byron was so irritated at her disobedience, he
cut her off without a shilling; that after my mother and father had been married
two years, the latter caught the typhus fever while visiting a large
manufacturing town where he was reviewing a case, and where the disease was
prevalent; that my mother took the infection with him, and both died within a
month of each other.
Rita, when she heard this narrative, sighed and said, “ Poor Master Ran
is to be pitied, too, Archer.”
“ Yes,” responded Archer; “ if he were a nice, pretty child, one might be
compassionate his forlornness; but one really cannot care for such a child like
that. He seems to be the child of
fortunetellers or witches with that odd hair and eyes. I can imagine the Devil having such
eyes.”
“Not a great deal to be sure,” agreed Rita: “ at any rate, a boy like
Master Peter would be more moving
in the same condition.”
“ Yes, I doat on Master Peter!” cried the fervent Archer. “ Little darling!----with his blond
curls and his blue eyes, and such a
nice colour he has; just as if he were painted!---Rita, I could fancy a Welsh
rabbit for supper.”
“ So could I----with a roast onion.
Come, we’ll go down.” They went.
FROM my discourse with Mr.
Roberts, and from the above reported conference between Rita and Archer, I
gathered enough to hope suffice as a motive for wishing to get well: a change
seemed near, ---I desired and waited in silence. It tarried, however: days and
weeks passed: I had regained my normal state of health, but no new allusion was
made to the subject over which I brooded.
Mrs. Byron surveyed me at times with a severe eye, but seldom addressed
me: since my illness, she had drawn a more marked line of separation than ever
between me and her own children; appointing me a small closet to sleep in by
myself, condemning me to take my meals alone, and pass all my time in the
nursery, while my cousins were constantly in the drawing-room. Not a hint, however, did she drop about
sending me to school: still I felt an instinctive certainty that she would not
long endure me under the same roof as her; for her glance, now more than ever,
when turned on me, expressed an insuperable and rooted
aversion.
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: my share of the gaiety consisted in witnessing the daily apparelling
of Viola and Mary, and seeing them descend to the drawing-room, dressed out in
thin muslin frocks and scarlet sashes, with hair elaborately ringleted; and
afterwards, in listening to the sound of the piano or the harp played below, to
the passing to and fro of the butler and footman, to the jingling of glass and
china as refreshments were handed, to the broken hum of conversation as the
drawing-room door opened and closed. When tired of this occupation, I would
retire from the stair-head to the solitary and silent nursery: there, though
somewhat sad, I was not miserable. To speak truth, I had not the least wish to
go into company, for in company I was very rarely noticed; and if Rita had but
been kind and companionable, I should have deemed it a treat to spend the
evenings quietly with her, instead of passing them under the formidable eye of
Mrs. Byron, in a room full of ladies and gentlemen. But Rita, as soon as she had
dressed her young ladies, used to take herself off to the lively regions of the
kitchen and housekeeper's room, generally bearing the candle along with her. I
then sat with a book on my knee till the fire got low, glancing round
occasionally to make sure that nothing worse than myself haunted the shadowy
room; and when the embers sank to a dull red, I undressed hastily, tugging at
buttons and knots as I best might, and sought shelter from cold and darkness in
my bed.
It was the
fifteenth of January, about nine o'clock in the morning: Rita was gone down to
breakfast; my cousins had not yet been summoned to their mama; Mary was putting
on her bonnet and warm garden-coat to go and feed her poultry, an occupation of
which she was fond: and not less so of selling the eggs to the housekeeper and
hoarding up the money she thus obtained. She had a turn for traffic, and a
marked propensity for saving; shown not only in the vending of eggs and
chickens, but also in driving hard bargains with the gardener about
flower-roots, seeds, and slips of plants; that functionary having orders from
Mrs. Byron to buy of his young lady all the products of her parterre she wished
to sell: and Mary would have sold the hair off her head if she could have made a
handsome profit thereby. As to her money, she first secreted it in odd corners,
wrapped in a rag or an old curl-paper; but some of these hoards having been
discovered by the housemaid, Mary, fearful of one day losing her valued
treasure, consented to intrust it to her mother, at a usurious rate of interest-
fifty or sixty per cent.; which interest she exacted every quarter, keeping her
accounts in a little book with anxious accuracy.
Viola sat on a high
stool, dressing her hair at the glass, and interweaving her curls with
artificial flowers and faded feathers, of which she had found a store in a
drawer in the attic. I was making my bed, having received strict orders from
Rita to get it arranged before she returned, (for Rita now frequently employed
me as a sort of under-nurserymaid, to tidy the room, dust the chairs, etc.).
Having spread the quilt and folded my night-clothes, I went to the window-seat
to put in order some picture-books and doll’s furniture scattered there; an
abrupt command from Viola to let her playthings alone (for the tiny chairs and
mirrors, the fairy plates and cups, were her property) stopped my proceedings;
and then, for lack of other occupation, I fell to breathing on the frost-flowers
with which the window was fretted, and thus clearing a space in the glass
through which I might look out on the grounds, where all was still and petrified
under the influence of a hard frost.
From this window
were visible the porter's lodge and the carriage-road, and just as I had
dissolved so much of the silver-white foliage veiling the panes as left room to
look out, I saw the gates thrown open and a carriage roll through. I watched it
ascending the drive with indifference; 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. All this being
nothing to me, my vacant attention soon found livelier attraction in the
spectacle of a little hungry robin, which came and chirruped on the twigs of the
leafless cherry-tree nailed against the wall near the casement. The remains of
my breakfast of bread and milk stood on the table, and having crumbled a morsel
of roll, I was tugging at the sash to put out the crumbs on the window-sill,
when Rita came running upstairs into the nursery.
“ Master Ran, put
on your coat: what are you doing there? Have you washed your hands and face this
morning?” I gave another tug before I answered, for I wanted the bird to be
secure of its bread: the sash yielded; I scattered the crumbs, some on the stone
sill, some on the cherry-tree bough, then, closing the window, I
replied:---
“ No, Rita; I have
only just finished dusting.”
“ Troublesome,
careless child! and what are you doing now? You look quite red, as if you had
been about some mischief: what were you opening the window
for?”
I was spared the
trouble of answering, for Rita seemed in too great a hurry to listen to
explanations; she hauled me to the washstand, inflicted a merciless, but happily
brief scrub on my face and hands with soap, water, and a coarse towel;
disciplined my head with a bristly brush, doted on me my coat, and then hurrying
me to the top of the stairs, bid me go down directly, as I was wanted in the
breakfast-room.
I would have asked
who wanted me: I would have demanded if Mrs. Byron was there; but Rita was
already gone, and had closed the nursery-door upon me. I slowly descended. For
nearly three months, I had never been called to Mrs. Byron's presence;
restricted so long to the nursery, the breakfast, dining, and drawing-rooms were
become for me awful regions, on which it dismayed me to intrude.
I now stood in the
empty hall; before me was the breakfast-room door, and I stopped, intimidated
and trembling. What a miserable little poltroon had fear, engendered of unjust
punishment, made of me in those days! I feared to return to the nursery, and
feared to go forward to the parlour; ten minutes I stood in agitated hesitation;
the vehement ringing of the breakfast-room bell decided me; I must enter.
'Who could want
me?' I asked inwardly, as with both hands I turned the stiff door-handle, which,
for a second or two, resisted my efforts. 'What should I see besides Aunt Byron
in the apartment?- a man or a woman?' The handle turned, the door unclosed, and
passing through and curtseying low, I looked up at- a black pillar!- such, at
least, appeared to me, at first sight, the straight, narrow, sable-clad shape
standing erect on the rug: the grim face at the top was like a carved mask,
placed above the shaft by way of capital.
Mrs. Byron occupied
her usual seat by the fireside; she made a signal to me to approach; I did so,
and she introduced me to the stony stranger with the words: 'This is the boy
respecting whom I applied to you.'
He, for it was a
man, turned his head slowly towards where I stood, and having examined me with
the two inquisitive-looking grey eyes which twinkled under a pair of bushy
brows, said solemnly, and in a bass voice, 'His size is small: what is his
age?'
'Ten years.'
'So much?' was the
doubtful answer; and he prolonged his scrutiny for some minutes. Presently he
addressed me-
'Your name, boy?'
'Ran
Fujimiya, sir.'
In uttering these
words I looked up: he seemed to me a tall gentleman; but then I was very little;
his features were large, and they and all the lines of his frame were equally
harsh and prim.
'Well, Ran
Fujimiya, and are you a good child?'
Impossible to reply
to this in the affirmative: my little world held a contrary opinion: I was
silent. Mrs. Byron answered for me by an expressive shake of the head, adding
soon, 'Perhaps the less said on that subject the better, Mr. Brocklehurst.'
'Sorry indeed to
hear it! he and I must have some talk;' and bending from the perpendicular, he
installed his person in the arm-chair opposite Mrs. Byron's. 'Come here,' he
said.
I stepped across
the rug; he placed me square and 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!
'No sight so sad as
that of a naughty child,' he began, 'especially a naughty boy. Do you know where
the wicked go after death?'
'They go to hell,'
was my ready and orthodox 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 deliberated a
moment; my answer, when it did come, was objectionable: '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 since,- a good little child, whose soul is now
in heaven. It is to be feared the same could not be said of you were you to be
called hence.'
Not being in a
condition to remove his doubt, I only cast my eyes down on the two large feet
planted on the rug, and sighed remaining silent.
'I hope that sigh
is from the heart, and that you repent of ever having been the occasion of
discomfort to your excellent benefactress.'
'Benefactress!
benefactress!' said I inwardly: 'they all call Mrs. Byron my benefactress; if
so, a benefactress is a disagreeable thing.'
'Do you say your
prayers night and morning?' continued my interrogator.
'Yes, sir.'
'Do you read your
Bible?'
'Sometimes.'
'With pleasure? Are
you fond of it?'
'I like
Revelations, and the book of Daniel, and Genesis and Samuel, and a little bit of
Exodus, and some parts of Kings and Chronicles, and Job and Jonah.'
'And the Psalms? I
hope you like them?'
'No,
sir.'
'No? oh, shocking!
I have a little boy, younger than you, who knows six Psalms by heart: and when
you ask him which he would rather have, a gingerbread-nut to eat or a verse of a
Psalm to learn, he says: "Oh! the verse of a Psalm! angels sing Psalms;" says
he, "I wish to be a little angel here below;" he then gets two nuts in
recompense for his infant piety.'
'Psalms are not
interesting,' I remarked.
'That proves you
have a wicked heart; and you must pray to God to change it: to give you a new
and clean one: to take away your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh.'
I was about to
propound a question, touching the manner in which that operation of changing my
heart was to be performed, when Mrs. Byron interposed, telling me to sit down;
she then proceeded to carry on the conversation herself.
'Mr. Brocklehurst,
I believe I intimated in the letter which I wrote to you three weeks ago, that
this boy has not quite the character and disposition I could wish: should you
admit him into Lowood school, I should be glad if the superintendent and
teachers were requested to keep a strict eye on him, and, above all, to guard
against his worst fault, a tendency to deceit. I mention this in your hearing,
Ran, that you may not attempt to impose on Mr. Brocklehurst.'
Well might I dread,
well might I dislike Mrs. Byron; for it was her nature to wound me cruelly;
never was I happy in her presence; however carefully I obeyed, however
strenuously I strove to please her, my efforts were still repulsed and repaid by
such sentences as the above. Now, uttered before a stranger, the accusation cut
me to the heart; I dimly perceived that she was already obliterating hope from
the new phase of existence which she destined me to enter; I felt, though I
could not have expressed the feeling, that she was sowing aversion and
unkindness along my future path; I saw myself transformed under Mr.
Brocklehurst's eye into an artful, noxious child, and what could I do to remedy
the injury?
'Nothing, indeed,'
thought I, as I struggled to repress a anger, and hastily wiped away some tears,
the impotent evidences of my anguish.
'Deceit is, indeed,
a sad fault in a child,' said Mr. Brocklehurst; 'it is akin to falsehood, and
all liars will have their portion in the lake burning with fire and brimstone;
he shall, however, be watched, Mrs. Byron. I will speak to Master Aaron and the
teachers.'
'I should wish him
to be brought up in a manner suiting his prospects,' continued my benefactress;
'to be made useful, to be kept humble: as for the vacations, he will, with your
permission, spend them always at Lowood.'
'Your decisions are
perfectly judicious, madam,' returned Mr. Brocklehurst. 'Humility is a Christian
grace, and one peculiarly appropriate to the pupils of Lowood; I, therefore,
direct that especial care shall be bestowed on its cultivation amongst them. I
have studied how best to mortify in them the worldly sentiment of pride; and,
only the other day, I had a pleasing proof of my success. My second daughter,
Augusta, went with her mama to visit the school, and on her return she
exclaimed: "Oh, dear papa, how quiet and plain all the boys at Lowood look, with
their hair cut short, and their simple coats and breeches---they are almost like
poor people’s children!
'This is the state
of things I quite approve,' returned Mrs. Byron; 'had I sought all England over,
I could scarcely have found a system more exactly fitting a child like Ran
Fujimiya. Consistency, my dear Mr. Brocklehurst; I advocate consistency in all
things.'
'Consistency,
madam, is the first of Christian duties; and it has been observed in every
arrangement connected with the establishment of Lowood: plain fare, simple
attire, unsophisticated accommodations, hardy and active habits; such is the
order of the day in the house and its inhabitants.'
'Quite right, sir.
I may then depend upon this child being received as a pupil at Lowood, and there
being trained in conformity to his position and prospects?'
'Madam, you may: he
shall be placed in that nursery of chosen plants, and I trust he will show
himself grateful for the inestimable privilege of his election.'
'I will send him,
then, as soon as possible, Mr. Brocklehurst; for, I assure you, I feel anxious
to be relieved of a responsibility that was becoming too irksome.'
'No doubt, no
doubt, madam; and now I wish you good morning. I shall return to Brocklehurst
Hall in the course of a week or two: my good friend, the Archdeacon, will not
permit me to leave him sooner. I shall send Master Aaron notice that he is to
expect a new boy, so that there will be no difficulty about receiving him.
Good-bye.'
'Good-bye, Mr.
Brocklehurst; remember me to Mrs. and Miss Brocklehurst, and to Augusta and
Theodore, and Master Broughton Brocklehurst.'
'I will, madam.
Boy, here is a book entitled the Child's Guide; read it with prayer, especially
that part containing "An account of the awfully sudden death of Marcus G___, a
naughty child addicted to falsehood and deceit."
With these words
Mr. Brocklehurst put into my hand a thin pamphlet sewn in a cover, and having
rung for his carriage, he departed.
Mrs. Byron and I
were left alone: some minutes passed in silence; she was sewing, I was watching
her. Mrs. Byron might be at that time some six or seven and thirty; she was a
woman of robust frame, square-shouldered and strong-limbed, not tall, and,
though stout, not obese: she had a somewhat large face, the under jaw being much
developed and very solid; her brow was low, her chin large and prominent, mouth
and nose sufficiently regular; under her light eyebrows glimmered an eye devoid
of ruth; her skin was dark and opaque, her hair nearly flaxen; her constitution
was sound as a bell- illness never came near her; she was an exact, clever
manager; her household and tenantry were thoroughly under her control; her
children only at times defied her authority and laughed it to scorn; she dressed
well, and had a presence and port calculated to set off handsome attire.
Sitting on a low
stool, a few yards from her arm-chair, I examined her figure; I perused her
features. In my hand I held the tract containing the sudden death of the Liar,
to which narrative my attention had been pointed as to an appropriate warning.
What had just passed; what Mrs. Byron had said concerning me to Mr.
Brocklehurst; the whole tenor of their conversation, was recent, raw, and
stinging in my mind; I had felt every word as acutely as I had heard it plainly,
and a passion of resentment fomented now within me.
Mrs. Byron looked
up from her work; her eye settled on mine, her fingers at the same time
suspended their nimble movements.
'Go out of the
room; return to the nursery,' was her mandate. My look or something else must
have struck her as offensive, for she spoke with extreme though suppressed
irritation. I got up, I went to the door; I came back again; I walked to the
window, across the room, then close up to her.
Speak I must: I had
been trodden on severely, and must turn: but how? What strength had I to dart
retaliation at my antagonist? I gathered my energies and launched them in this
blunt sentence-
'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 except Peter Byron; and this book about the
liar, you may give to your girl, Viola, for it is she who tells lies, and not
I.'
Mrs. Byron's hands
still lay on her work inactive: her eye of ice continued to dwell freezingly on
mine.
'What more have you
to say?' she asked, rather in the tone in which a person might address an
opponent of adult age than such as is ordinarily used to a child.
That eye of hers,
that voice stirred every antipathy I had. Shaking from head to foot, thrilled
with ungovernable excitement, I continued-
'I am glad you are
no relation of mine: I will never call you aunt again so 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,
and that you treated me with miserable cruelty.'
'How dare you
affirm that, Ran?'
“How dare I, Mrs.
Byron? How dare I? Because it is the truth. People think you a good woman, but
you are bad, hard-hearted. You are deceitful!'
Not without cause
was this sentiment: Mrs. Byron looked frightened; her work had slipped from her
knee; she was lifting up her hands, rocking herself to and fro, and even
twisting her face as if she would cry.
'Ran, 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. Byron.'
'Is there anything
else you wish for, Ran? I assure you, I desire to be your friend.'
'Not you. You told
Mr. Brocklehurst I had a bad character, a deceitful disposition; and I'll let
everybody at Lowood know what you are, and what you have done.'
'Ran, you don't
understand these things: children must be corrected for their faults.'
'Deceit is not my
fault!' I snapped out in a savage, low voice.
'But you are
passionate, Ran, that you must allow: and 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, madam, for I hate to live
here.'
'I will indeed send
him to school soon,' murmured Mrs. Byron sotto voce; 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. Brocklehurst
had stood, and I enjoyed my conqueror's solitude. First, I smiled to myself and
felt elate; but this fierce pleasure subsided in me as fast as did the
accelerated throb of my pulses. A child cannot quarrel with its elders, as I had
done; cannot give its furious feelings uncontrolled play, as I had given mine,
without experiencing afterwards the pang of remorse and the chill of reaction. A
ridge of lighted heath, alive, glancing, devouring, would have been a meet
emblem of my mind when I accused and menaced Mrs. Byron: the same ridge, black
and blasted after the flames are dead, would have represented as meetly my
subsequent condition, when half an hour's silence and reflection had shown me
the madness of my conduct, and the dreariness of my hated and hating position.
Something of
vengeance I had tasted for the first time; as aromatic wine it seemed, on
swallowing, warm and racy: its after-flavour, metallic and corroding, gave me a
sensation as if I had been poisoned. I took a book- some Arabian tales; I sat
down and endeavoured to read. I could make no sense of the subject; my own
thoughts swam always between me and the page I had usually found fascinating. I
opened the glass-door in the breakfast-room: the shrubbery was quite still: the
black frost reigned, unbroken by sun or breeze, through the grounds. I leaned
against a gate, and looked into an empty field where no sheep were feeding,
where the short grass was nipped and blanched. It was a very grey day; a most
opaque sky, 'onding on snaw,' canopied all; thence flakes fell at intervals,
which settled on the hard path and on the hoary lea without melting. I stood, a
wretched child enough, whispering to myself over and over again, 'What shall I
do?- what shall I do?'
All at once I heard
a clear voice call, 'Master Ran! where are you? Come to lunch!'
It was Rita, I knew
well enough; but I did not stir; her light step came tripping down the path.
'You naughty little
thing!' she said. 'Why don't you come when you are called?'
Rita's presence,
compared with the thoughts over which I had been brooding, seemed cheerful; even
though, as usual, she was somewhat cross. The fact is, after my conflict with
and victory over Mrs. Byron, I was not disposed to care much for the nursemaid's
transitory anger; and I was disposed to bask in her youthful lightness of heart.
I just put my two arms round her and said, 'Come, Rita! don't scold.'
The action was more
frank and fearless than any I was habituated to indulge in: somehow it pleased
her.
'You are a strange
child, Master Ran,' she said, as she looked down at me; 'a little roving,
solitary thing: and you are going to school, I suppose?'
I nodded.
'And won't you be
sorry to leave poor Rita?'
'What does Rita
care for me? She is always scolding me.'
'Because you're
such a queer, silent, shy little thing. You should be bolder.'
'What! to get more
knocks?'
'Nonsense! But you
are rather put upon, that's certain. My 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.'
'I don't think you
have, Rita.'
'Child! what do you
mean? What sorrowful eyes you fix on me! Well, but Missis and the young ladies
and Master Peter 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 intends you to
leave Gateshead in a day or two, and you shall choose what toys you like to take
with you.'
'Rita, you must
promise not to scold me any more till I go.'
'Well, I will; but
mind you are a very good boy, and don't be afraid of me. Don't start when I
chance to speak rather sharply; it's so provoking.'
'I don't think I
shall ever be afraid of you again, Rita, because I have got used to you, and I
shall soon have another set of people to dread.'
'If you dread them
they'll dislike you.'
'As you do, Rita?'
'I don't dislike
you, Ran: I believe I am fonder of you than of all the others.'
'You don't show
it.'
'You little sharp
thing! you've got quite a new way of talking. What makes you so venturesome and
hardy?'
'Why, I shall soon
be away from you, and besides'- I was going to say something about what had
passed between me and Mrs. Byron, but on second thoughts I considered it better
to remain silent on that head.
'And so you're glad
to leave me?'
'Not at all, Rita;
indeed, just now I'm rather sorry.'
'Just now! and
rather! How coolly you say it! I daresay now if I were to ask you for a kiss you
wouldn't give it me: you'd say you'd rather not.'
'I'll kiss you and
welcome: bend your head down.' Rita stooped; we mutually embraced, and I
followed her into the house quite comforted. That afternoon lapsed in peace
and harmony; and in the evening Rita told me some of her most enchaining
stories, and sang me some of her sweetest songs. Even for me life had its
gleams of sunshine.
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3