Presentiments are strange things! and so are sympathies; and so are signs; and the

three combined make one mystery to which humanity has not yet found the key.

I never laughed at presentiments in my life, because I have had strange ones of my

own.

Sympathies, I believe, exist (for instance, between far-distant, long-absent, wholly

estranged relatives asserting, notwithstanding their alienation, the unity

of the source to which each traces his

origin) whose workings baffle mortal comprehension.

And signs, for aught we know, may be but the sympathies of Nature with man.

When I was a little girl, only six years old, I one night heard Bessie Leaven say to

Martha Abbot that she had been dreaming about a little child; and that to dream of

children was a sure sign of trouble, either to one's self or one's kin.

The saying might have worn out of my memory, had not a circumstance immediately

followed which served indelibly to fix it there.

The next day Bessie was sent for home to the deathbed of her little sister.

Of late I had often recalled this saying and this incident; for during the past week

scarcely a night had gone over my couch that had not brought with it a dream of an

infant, which I sometimes hushed in my

arms, sometimes dandled on my knee, sometimes watched playing with daisies on a

lawn, or again, dabbling its hands in running water.

It was a wailing child this night, and a laughing one the next: now it nestled close

to me, and now it ran from me; but whatever mood the apparition evinced, whatever

aspect it wore, it failed not for seven

successive nights to meet me the moment I entered the land of slumber.

I did not like this iteration of one idea-- this strange recurrence of one image, and I

grew nervous as bedtime approached and the hour of the vision drew near.

It was from companionship with this baby- phantom I had been roused on that moonlight

night when I heard the cry; and it was on the afternoon of the day following I was

summoned downstairs by a message that some one wanted me in Mrs. Fairfax's room.

On repairing thither, I found a man waiting for me, having the appearance of a

gentleman's servant: he was dressed in deep mourning, and the hat he held in his hand

was surrounded with a crape band.

"I daresay you hardly remember me, Miss," he said, rising as I entered; "but my name

is Leaven: I lived coachman with Mrs. Reed when you were at Gateshead, eight or nine

years since, and I live there still."

"Oh, Robert! how do you do? I remember you very well: you used to give

me a ride sometimes on Miss Georgiana's bay pony.

And how is Bessie?

You are married to Bessie?" "Yes, Miss: my wife is very hearty, thank

you; she brought me another little one about two months since--we have three now--

and both mother and child are thriving."

"And are the family well at the house, Robert?"

"I am sorry I can't give you better news of them, Miss: they are very badly at present-

-in great trouble."

"I hope no one is dead," I said, glancing at his black dress.

He too looked down at the crape round his hat and replied--

"Mr. John died yesterday was a week, at his chambers in London."

"Mr. John?" "Yes."

"And how does his mother bear it?"

"Why, you see, Miss Eyre, it is not a common mishap: his life has been very wild:

these last three years he gave himself up to strange ways, and his death was

shocking."

"I heard from Bessie he was not doing well."

"Doing well!

He could not do worse: he ruined his health and his estate amongst the worst men and

the worst women.

He got into debt and into jail: his mother helped him out twice, but as soon as he was

free he returned to his old companions and habits.

His head was not strong: the knaves he lived amongst fooled him beyond anything I

ever heard.

He came down to Gateshead about three weeks ago and wanted missis to give up all to

him.

Missis refused: her means have long been much reduced by his extravagance; so he

went back again, and the next news was that he was dead.

How he died, God knows!--they say he killed himself."

I was silent: the things were frightful. Robert Leaven resumed--

"Missis had been out of health herself for some time: she had got very stout, but was

not strong with it; and the loss of money and fear of poverty were quite breaking her

down.

The information about Mr. John's death and the manner of it came too suddenly: it

brought on a stroke.

She was three days without speaking; but last Tuesday she seemed rather better: she

appeared as if she wanted to say something, and kept making signs to my wife and

mumbling.

It was only yesterday morning, however, that Bessie understood she was pronouncing

your name; and at last she made out the words, 'Bring Jane--fetch Jane Eyre: I want

to speak to her.'

Bessie is not sure whether she is in her right mind, or means anything by the words;

but she told Miss Reed and Miss Georgiana, and advised them to send for you.

The young ladies put it off at first; but their mother grew so restless, and said,

'Jane, Jane,' so many times, that at last they consented.

I left Gateshead yesterday: and if you can get ready, Miss, I should like to take you

back with me early to-morrow morning." "Yes, Robert, I shall be ready: it seems to

me that I ought to go."

"I think so too, Miss. Bessie said she was sure you would not

refuse: but I suppose you will have to ask leave before you can get off?"

"Yes; and I will do it now;" and having directed him to the servants' hall, and

recommended him to the care of John's wife, and the attentions of John himself, I went

in search of Mr. Rochester.

He was not in any of the lower rooms; he was not in the yard, the stables, or the

grounds.

I asked Mrs. Fairfax if she had seen him;-- yes: she believed he was playing billiards

with Miss Ingram.

To the billiard- room I hastened: the click of balls and the hum of voices resounded

thence; Mr. Rochester, Miss Ingram, the two Misses Eshton, and their admirers, were all

busied in the game.

It required some courage to disturb so interesting a party; my errand, however,

was one I could not defer, so I approached the master where he stood at Miss Ingram's

side.

She turned as I drew near, and looked at me haughtily: her eyes seemed to demand, "What

can the creeping creature want now?" and when I said, in a low voice, "Mr.

Rochester," she made a movement as if tempted to order me away.

I remember her appearance at the moment--it was very graceful and very striking: she

wore a morning robe of sky-blue crape; a gauzy azure scarf was twisted in her hair.

She had been all animation with the game, and irritated pride did not lower the

expression of her haughty lineaments.

"Does that person want you?" she inquired of Mr. Rochester; and Mr. Rochester turned

to see who the "person" was.

He made a curious grimace--one of his strange and equivocal demonstrations--threw

down his cue and followed me from the room.

"Well, Jane?" he said, as he rested his back against the schoolroom door, which he

had shut. "If you please, sir, I want leave of

absence for a week or two."

"What to do?--where to go?" "To see a sick lady who has sent for me."

"What sick lady?--where does she live?" "At Gateshead; in ---shire."

"-shire?

That is a hundred miles off! Who may she be that sends for people to see

her that distance?" "Her name is Reed, sir--Mrs. Reed."

"Reed of Gateshead?

There was a Reed of Gateshead, a magistrate."

"It is his widow, sir." "And what have you to do with her?

How do you know her?"

"Mr. Reed was my uncle--my mother's brother."

"The deuce he was! You never told me that before: you always

said you had no relations."

"None that would own me, sir. Mr. Reed is dead, and his wife cast me

off." "Why?"

"Because I was poor, and burdensome, and she disliked me."

"But Reed left children?--you must have cousins?

Sir George Lynn was talking of a Reed of Gateshead yesterday, who, he said, was one

of the veriest rascals on town; and Ingram was mentioning a Georgiana Reed of the same

place, who was much admired for her beauty a season or two ago in London."

"John Reed is dead, too, sir: he ruined himself and half-ruined his family, and is

supposed to have committed suicide.

The news so shocked his mother that it brought on an apoplectic attack."

"And what good can you do her? Nonsense, Jane!

I would never think of running a hundred miles to see an old lady who will, perhaps,

be dead before you reach her: besides, you say she cast you off."

"Yes, sir, but that is long ago; and when her circumstances were very different: I

could not be easy to neglect her wishes now."

"How long will you stay?"

"As short a time as possible, sir." "Promise me only to stay a week--"

"I had better not pass my word: I might be obliged to break it."

"At all events you will come back: you will not be induced under any pretext to

take up a permanent residence with her?" "Oh, no!

I shall certainly return if all be well."

"And who goes with you? You don't travel a hundred miles alone."

"No, sir, she has sent her coachman." "A person to be trusted?"

"Yes, sir, he has lived ten years in the family."

Mr. Rochester meditated. "When do you wish to go?"

"Early to-morrow morning, sir."

"Well, you must have some money; you can't travel without money, and I daresay you

have not much: I have given you no salary yet.

How much have you in the world, Jane?" he asked, smiling.

I drew out my purse; a meagre thing it was. "Five shillings, sir."

He took the purse, poured the hoard into his palm, and chuckled over it as if its

scantiness amused him.

Soon he produced his pocket-book: "Here," said he, offering me a note; it was fifty

pounds, and he owed me but fifteen. I told him I had no change.

"I don't want change; you know that.

Take your wages." I declined accepting more than was my due.

He scowled at first; then, as if recollecting something, he said--

"Right, right!

Better not give you all now: you would, perhaps, stay away three months if you had

fifty pounds. There are ten; is it not plenty?"

"Yes, sir, but now you owe me five."

"Come back for it, then; I am your banker for forty pounds."

"Mr. Rochester, I may as well mention another matter of business to you while I

have the opportunity."

"Matter of business? I am curious to hear it."

"You have as good as informed me, sir, that you are going shortly to be married?"

"Yes; what then?"

"In that case, sir, Adele ought to go to school: I am sure you will perceive the

necessity of it."

"To get her out of my bride's way, who might otherwise walk over her rather too

emphatically? There's sense in the suggestion; not a

doubt of it.

Adele, as you say, must go to school; and you, of course, must march straight to--the

devil?" "I hope not, sir; but I must seek another

situation somewhere."

"In course!" he exclaimed, with a twang of voice and a distortion of features equally

fantastic and ludicrous. He looked at me some minutes.

"And old Madam Reed, or the Misses, her daughters, will be solicited by you to seek

a place, I suppose?"

"No, sir; I am not on such terms with my relatives as would justify me in asking

favours of them--but I shall advertise." "You shall walk up the pyramids of Egypt!"

he growled.

"At your peril you advertise! I wish I had only offered you a sovereign

instead of ten pounds. Give me back nine pounds, Jane; I've a use

for it."

"And so have I, sir," I returned, putting my hands and my purse behind me.

"I could not spare the money on any account."

"Little niggard!" said he, "refusing me a pecuniary request!

Give me five pounds, Jane." "Not five shillings, sir; nor five pence."

"Just let me look at the cash."

"No, sir; you are not to be trusted." "Jane!"

"Sir?" "Promise me one thing."

"I'll promise you anything, sir, that I think I am likely to perform."

"Not to advertise: and to trust this quest of a situation to me.

I'll find you one in time."

"I shall be glad so to do, sir, if you, in your turn, will promise that I and Adele

shall be both safe out of the house before your bride enters it."

"Very well! very well!

I'll pledge my word on it. You go to-morrow, then?"

"Yes, sir; early." "Shall you come down to the drawing-room

after dinner?"

"No, sir, I must prepare for the journey." "Then you and I must bid good-bye for a

little while?" "I suppose so, sir."

"And how do people perform that ceremony of parting, Jane?

Teach me; I'm not quite up to it." "They say, Farewell, or any other form they

prefer."

"Then say it." "Farewell, Mr. Rochester, for the present."

"What must I say?" "The same, if you like, sir."

"Farewell, Miss Eyre, for the present; is that all?"

"Yes?" "It seems stingy, to my notions, and dry,

and unfriendly.

I should like something else: a little addition to the rite.

If one shook hands, for instance; but no-- that would not content me either.

So you'll do no more than say Farewell, Jane?"

"It is enough, sir: as much good-will may be conveyed in one hearty word as in many."

"Very likely; but it is blank and cool-- 'Farewell.'"

"How long is he going to stand with his back against that door?"

I asked myself; "I want to commence my packing."

The dinner-bell rang, and suddenly away he bolted, without another syllable: I saw him

no more during the day, and was off before he had risen in the morning.

I reached the lodge at Gateshead about five o'clock in the afternoon of the first of

May: I stepped in there before going up to the hall.