Jane Eyre

company, conversation, sympathy, forbearance: you have lived, in short, as an independent being ought to do. Take this advice: the first and last I shall offer you; then you will not want me or any one else, happen what may. Neglect it – go on as heretofore, craving, whining, and idling – and suffer the results of your idiocy: however bad and insufferable they may be. I tell you this plainly; and listen: for though I shall no more repeat what I am now about to say, I shall steadily act on it. After my mother's death, I wash my hands of you: from the day her coffin is carried to the vault in Gateshead church, you and I will be as separate as if we had never known each other. You need not think that because we chanced to be born of the same parents, I shall suffer you to fasten me down by even the feeblest claim: I can tell you this – if the whole human race, ourselves excepted, were swept away, and we two stood alone on the earth, I would leave you in the old world, and betake myself to the new.«
    She closed her lips.
    »You might have spared yourself the trouble of delivering that tirade,« answered Georgiana. »Everybody knows you are the most selfish heartless creature in existence; and
I
know your spiteful hatred towards me: I have had a specimen of it before in the trick you played me about Lord Edwin Vere: you could not bear me to be raised above you, to have a title, to be received into circles where you dare not show your face, and so you acted the spy and informer, and ruined my prospects for ever.« Georgiana took out her handkerchief and blew her nose for an hour afterwards; Eliza sat cold, impassible, and assiduously industrious.
    True, generous feeling is made small account of by some: but here were two natures rendered, the one intolerably acrid, the other despicably savourless for the want of it. Feeling without judgment is a washy draught indeed; but judgment untempered by feeling is too bitter and husky a morsel for human deglutition.
    It was a wet and windy afternoon: Georgiana had fallen asleep on the sofa over the perusal of a novel; Eliza was gone to attend a saint's-day service at the new church – for in matters of religion she was a rigid formalist: no weather ever prevented the punctual discharge of what she considered her devotional dudes; fair or foul, she went to church thrice every Sunday, and as often on week-days as there were prayers.
    I bethought myself to go up stairs and see how the dying woman sped, who lay there almost unheeded: the very servants paid her but a remittent attention: the hired nurse, being little looked after, would slip out of the room whenever she could. Bessie was faithful; but she had her own family to mind, and could only come occasionally to the Hall. I found the sick-room unwatched, as I had expected: no nurse was there; the patient lay still, and seemingly lethargic; her livid face sunk in the pillows: the fire was dying in the grate. I renewed the fuel, re-arranged the bed-clothes, gazed awhile on her who could not now gaze on me, and then I moved away to the window.
    The rain beat strongly against the panes, the wind blew tempestuously: »One lies there,« I thought, »who will soon be beyond the war of earthly elements. Whither will that spirit – now struggling to quit its material tenement – flit when at length released?«
    In pondering the great mystery, I thought of Helen Burns: recalled her dying words – her faith – her doctrine of the equality of disembodied souls. I was still listening in thought to her well-remembered tones – still picturing her pale and spiritual aspect, her wasted face and sublime gaze, as she lay on her placid deathbed, and whispered her longing to be restored to her divine Father's bosom – when a feeble voice murmured from the couch behind: »Who is that?«
    I knew Mrs. Reed had not spoken for days: was she reviving? I went up to her.
    »It is I, aunt Reed.«
    »Who – I?« was her answer. »Who are you?« looking at me with surprise and a sort of alarm, but still not wildly. »You are quite a stranger to me – where is Bessie?«
    »She is at the lodge, aunt.«
    »Aunt,« she repeated. »Who calls me Aunt? You are not one of the Gibsons; and yet I know you – that face, and the eyes and forehead are quite familiar to me: you are like – why, you are like Jane Eyre!«
    I said nothing: I was afraid of occasioning some shock by declaring my identity.
    »Yet,« said she, »I am afraid it is a mistake: my