My Mr. Rochester 1(19)

As Miss Scatcherd welcomed Bishop Brocklehurst, I quashed a smile and looked down at my hands. If those were the bishop’s children, apparently he required less self-denial of them than of other people. Their clothing was exquisite, well-tailored, fashionable, and of fine materials.

“Jane Eyre!”

Bishop Brocklehurst’s voice thundered over our heads. Against my will I looked at him. “Yes, sir?” What could he possibly have to say to me?

“Fetch that stool in the corner and place it here.” He indicated the spot beside him at the front of the classroom.

Crossing the silent classroom, I crossed my arms to stop myself from shaking. The anxiety of my days at Gateshead returned. Blood rushed in my ears and made me dizzy.

“Stand on the stool, Jane Eyre, and face your fellow students.”

I automatically raged against the order, but Helen caught my eye. She nodded encouragement. Be like Helen, I told myself. Endure. With a deep breath I stepped up.

Miss Scatcherd looked to the bishop, ready to take instruction. Miss Miller’s eyes were cast down. Miss Temple stared ahead at nothing. By now I understood her well enough to know she was seething inside, not for my sake but at the usurpation of her authority.

I call it progress that I noted these things. A month earlier, I would have been consumed by my agony, ready to cry out against the injustice before I knew what it was. I could do this. I would recede inside myself until Brocklehurst was gone. I would be serene.

“This girl is a wanton!” the bishop said. “A Jezebel. A harlot.”

I wasn’t serene. I nearly fell off the stool.

“Bishop!” Miss Temple said.

“A Salome. Who would think the Evil One could find a servant and agent in a girl so plain and unremarkable? Yet such is the case.”

Jezebel. My heart sank. John Reed had called me that. And Mrs. Reed too. Brocklehurst must have visited Gateshead recently. They hated me so much! Getting rid of me wasn’t enough. They had to send slander on my heels.

“Jane Eyre’s benefactor sent her to Lowood in good faith,” the bishop said. “That good woman knows nothing of what I’ve heard in strict confidence. This girl is a temptress, a seductress. She attempted to corrupt even her benefactor’s son.”

What did John tell him? I flashed back to the Red Room. John Reed’s skinny tongue—for all his girth—poking into my mouth, his hand groping me while I was tied to the chair. He was the unchaste one! He was the molester.

But I was doomed. Brocklehurst would never believe my side of the story.

“This is a sad matter. I will not publish what I know of this girl’s wickedness, for it would hurt a good and decent lady, but it’s my duty to warn you all.” He circled me as he spoke. “Jane Eyre is not one of God’s lambs. She’s a castaway. Exclude her from your company. Shun her!”

So unfair! Shame burned my face, and the stares of my classmates made me want to die.

“Teachers, watch her.” He placed his large hand squarely on my stomach. “Jane Eyre might better belong to Bethany House.”

“Don’t touch me!” I pushed him away, and a collective gasp went up.

Brocklehurst’s face darkened. He raised his hand to strike me, but a commotion among the girls stopped him.

“Miss Scatcherd, Miss Temple. Helen Burns has fainted!”

Everyone rushed to Helen, glad to break off from the subject of the wanton Jane Eyre.

“Helen!” I cried out from my perch. “Helen! What’s wrong? Someone tell me, is she ill?”

“Bring her forward,” Miss Temple said. “Give her room to breathe.”

As Miss Scatcherd and one of the older girls lifted Helen off the floor, she moaned and opened her eyes. “What happened?”

Someone brought out Miss Scatcherd’s chair and they put Helen down in it. She was so pale. Her scarf had fallen away, and her strawberry blond curls fell in a cascade around her face and shoulders. She was like an angel.

“What is this vanity?” Bishop Brocklehurst lifted a lock of the beautiful hair. “Miss Temple?”

“Her hair is naturally curly, bishop,” Miss Temple said. “She keeps it under her scarf.”

“To hide vanity doesn’t make it virtue. Miss Scatcherd, do you have scissors?”

“I do, sir.”

“Bring them out at once, and remove these undignified curls.”

Miss Scatcherd fetched the scissors from the desk drawer and trimmed the greatest offender, the curl that always fell in Helen’s face when she read. Helen stared into another world, bearing the indignity with characteristic grace.

“Not like that.” Bishop Brocklehurst took the instrument from Miss Scatcherd and went to work himself. When he was finished, Helen’s head was as bare as the shorn lamb. She remained stoic through the process. She didn’t cry, but to me she looked very ill.