My Mr. Rochester 1(18)

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Miss Scatcherd indicate a lady’s portrait on the wall at the front of the class. The same portrait hung in our dormitory and in the dining hall, and I’d seen it in Miss Temple’s parlor above the mantelpiece.

“Naomi Brocklehurst was one of the great ladies of Idaho. You poor girls may have lost one parent or both, but you are not friendless. In love and charity, you’ve been provided a home and an education. Lowood will render you fit for righteous work.”

The tableau vivant of the laughing girls danced into my mind. Where did they come from? Had they no guardians? If Lowood’s charges were the orphaned or unwanted daughters of men of rank, why were such fallen females allowed to walk among us? I didn’t for a moment believe those girls had husbands.

I couldn’t wait for the end of the day when I could get Helen aside and ask her about it.

“Stand up, Helen Burns!”

Miss Scatcherd’s shrill order jolted me from my thoughts. There was no telling what sin Helen had committed, but she now stood before Miss Scatcherd and the terrible crop. The whip came down across Helen’s back. She made no sound and didn’t grimace. It came down again. Helen nodded her head a little but stared ahead with a benign expression, as if she was looking into another world.

How could she bear it so quietly, and with such dignity?

We were kept busy with classes until dinner at five o’clock. After evening prayer we were set free for half an hour before bedtime. I found Helen in the music room. Two girls practiced a duet on the piano, some played backgammon, and some knitted or embroidered. I sat down on a sofa beside Helen and waited for her to look up from her book.

“I’m sorry Miss Scatcherd was so cruel to you today,” I said.

“Cruel? She only wants to correct my faults.”

“If she struck me with that rod, I’d take it from her and strike her back with it.”

“I doubt it. If you did, Bishop Brocklehurst would expel you. That would grieve your relatives. It’s better to endure something no one else feels than to be hasty and bring harm to those connected with you. Besides, the Bible tells us to love our enemies.”

More proof the Bible wasn’t perfect. “But to be hit like that in front of everyone—when she struck my hands I could hardly bear it.”

“It’s our duty to bear it. It’s silly to say you can’t bear what you must bear.”

I couldn’t understand her. Had she no pride? No self-respect? Endurance and forbearance were fine and good, but not in the face of injustice.

Still, I suspected she was right to return good for evil, and I was wrong to love justice more than forgiveness. But I could go no farther into that realm. My mind revolted. I retreated from philosophy and put the question off for another time when I’d be better equipped to defend my position.

I feared she would advise me to love Mrs. Reed and forgive John Reed—both obviously impossible!

Helen Burns wasn’t yet my example. She was a mystery.





« Chapter 8 »

To Hate Him More


The appearance of a thing isn’t the thing.

Weeks passed. The food got no better and my bed was no warmer. I grew used to my wrap-around uniform. The blisters on my feet became calluses, and I forgot my shoes fit so badly. Every morning the damn bell blared and the fluorescent lights blasted us out of bed. I was dressed, my face washed, teeth brushed, hair braided into submission and hands held out for inspection before I was ever fully awake.

Someone looking in randomly on the hunger, the lack of privacy, or the harsh discipline might call me perverse, but I truly preferred Lowood to my former home.

At Gateshead I was abused and tormented on purpose—because I was Jane Eyre, the unwanted poor relation. At Lowood I earned the whacks Miss Scatcherd applied to my hands or the back of my neck. I deserved the hours standing at the wall, contemplating my faults. My character flaws called discipline down on me, not the mere fact of my existence.

A kind of justice informed Lowood’s strict methods. And in justice lay security. For the first time in my life, I didn’t live on constant watch against irrational abuse.

I never did approach Helenic self-denial! But I scaled new heights in self-discipline.

One afternoon in history class my gaze wandered from the girl reciting her lesson to a shape passing by the window. My breath caught in my throat, for the shape was of a tall man wearing a broad round clergyman’s hat.

Bishop Brocklehurst entered followed by Miss Temple and Miss Miller. With them were two girls somewhat older than me and a young boy. I wondered if these were the bishop’s children and if this was the boy who loved to learn Psalms.