Maximum-assistance view: every word above everyday vocabulary is explained at every appearance; each name is introduced at its first appearance in the chapter.

CHAPTER II

I resisted all the way: a new thing for me (I fought them the whole way — something I had never done before), and a circumstance which greatly strengthened the bad opinion Bessie and Miss Abbot were disposed to entertain of me (and a fact that greatly hardened the poor opinion Bessie and Miss Abbot were already inclined to hold of me). The fact is, I was a trifle beside myself; or rather out of myself, as the French would say (The truth is I was a little beside myself — or rather out of myself, as the French put it): I was conscious that a moment’s mutiny had already rendered me liable to strange penalties (I knew that one moment of rebellion had already laid me open to strange punishments), and, like any other rebel slave, I felt resolved, in my desperation, to go all lengths (and like any other rebel slave, in my despair I was set on going to the very end).

“Hold her arms, Miss Abbot: she’s like a mad cat (Hold her arms, Miss Abbot — she is like a wild cat).”

“For shame! for shame!” cried the lady’s-maid (cried the lady's personal maid). “What shocking conduct, Miss Eyre, to strike a young gentleman, your benefactress’s son! (What shameful behaviour, Miss Eyre, hitting a young gentleman — the son of the lady who supports you!) Your young master.”

“Master! How is he my master? Am I a servant? (Master! How is he any master of mine? Am I a servant?)”

“No; you are less than a servant, for you do nothing for your keep (you are less than a servant, for you do no work to earn your keep). There, sit down, and think over your wickedness (There — sit down and think about how wicked you have been).”

They had got me by this time into the apartment indicated by Mrs. Reed, and had thrust me upon a stool (By now they had dragged me into the room Mrs. Reed had named and pushed me down on a stool): my impulse was to rise from it like a spring; their two pair of hands arrested me instantly (my urge was to shoot straight up off it, but their two pairs of hands stopped me at once).

“If you don’t sit still, you must be tied down,” said Bessie. “Miss Abbot, lend me your garters; she would break mine directly (lend me your stocking-bands to tie her; she would snap mine in a moment).”

Miss Abbot turned to divest a stout leg of the necessary ligature (Miss Abbot turned to strip the needed tie from her thick leg). This preparation for bonds, and the additional ignominy it inferred, took a little of the excitement out of me (These preparations to tie me down, and the extra shame they implied, cooled my fever a little).

“Don’t take them off,” I cried; “I will not stir.”

In guarantee whereof, I attached myself to my seat by my hands (And to prove it, I gripped my seat with both hands).

“Mind you don’t (See that you do not),” said Bessie; and when she had ascertained that I was really subsiding, she loosened her hold of me (when she had made sure I was truly calming down, she let go of me); then she and Miss Abbot stood with folded arms, looking darkly and doubtfully on my face, as incredulous of my sanity (staring darkly and doubtfully into my face, as if they could not believe I was in my right mind).

“She never did so before,” at last said Bessie, turning to the Abigail (Bessie said at last, turning to the lady's maid).

“But it was always in her (But it was in her all along),” was the reply. “I’ve told Missis often my opinion about the child, and Missis agreed with me (I have often told the mistress my view of the child, and the mistress agreed). She’s an underhand little thing: I never saw a girl of her age with so much cover (She is a sly little thing: I never saw a girl her age hide so much).”

Bessie answered not; but ere long, addressing me, she said (but before long, speaking to me, she said)—

“You ought to be aware, Miss, that you are under obligations to Mrs. Reed: she keeps you (you owe everything to Mrs. Reed: she feeds and houses you): if she were to turn you off, you would have to go to the poorhouse (if she turned you out, you would end up in the parish house for the penniless).”

I had nothing to say to these words: they were not new to me: my very first recollections of existence included hints of the same kind (they were nothing new: my earliest memories of being alive held hints of the same sort). This reproach of my dependence had become a vague sing-song in my ear (This blaming of me for living on charity had become a dim chant in my ear): very painful and crushing, but only half intelligible (deeply painful and crushing, but only half understood). Miss Abbot joined in—

“And you ought not to think yourself on an equality with the Misses Reed and Master Reed (you must not fancy yourself the equal of the Reed young ladies and Master Reed), because Missis kindly allows you to be brought up with them (just because the mistress kindly lets you be raised alongside them). They will have a great deal of money, and you will have none: it is your place to be humble, and to try to make yourself agreeable to them (your place is to be humble and to try to make yourself pleasant to them).”

“What we tell you is for your good,” added Bessie, in no harsh voice (Bessie added, in a voice not unkind), “you should try to be useful and pleasant, then, perhaps, you would have a home here (try to be useful and pleasant, and then perhaps this can stay your home); but if you become passionate and rude, Missis will send you away, I am sure (but if you turn wild-tempered and rude, the mistress will send you away, I am certain).”

“Besides,” said Miss Abbot, “God will punish her: He might strike her dead in the midst of her tantrums, and then where would she go? (He might strike her dead in the middle of one of her rages, and where would she go then?) Come, Bessie, we will leave her (Come, Bessie, let us leave her): I wouldn’t have her heart for anything (I would not have her heart in me for anything). Say your prayers, Miss Eyre, when you are by yourself; for if you don’t repent, something bad might be permitted to come down the chimney and fetch you away (for if you are not sorry, something evil might be allowed down the chimney to carry you off).”

They went, shutting the door, and locking it behind them.

The red-room was a square chamber, very seldom slept in (The red room was a square bedroom, very rarely slept in), I might say never, indeed, unless when a chance influx of visitors at Gateshead Hall rendered it necessary to turn to account all the accommodation it contained (except when a sudden flood of guests at Gateshead Hall forced every bed in the house into use): yet it was one of the largest and stateliest chambers in the mansion (yet it was one of the biggest and grandest rooms in the great house). A bed supported on massive pillars of mahogany, hung with curtains of deep red damask, stood out like a tabernacle in the centre (A bed raised on huge posts of dark tropical wood, hung with deep red patterned curtains, stood out in the centre like a holy shrine); the two large windows, with their blinds always drawn down, were half shrouded in festoons and falls of similar drapery (the two big windows, blinds always down, were half wrapped in loops and drops of the same red cloth); the carpet was red; the table at the foot of the bed was covered with a crimson cloth (the carpet was red, and the table at the bed's foot wore a deep-red cloth); the walls were a soft fawn colour with a blush of pink in it (the walls were a soft light-brown shade warmed with pink); the wardrobe, the toilet-table, the chairs were of darkly polished old mahogany. Out of these deep surrounding shades rose high, and glared white, the piled-up mattresses and pillows of the bed, spread with a snowy Marseilles counterpane (Out of all these deep dark tones the piled mattresses and pillows rose high and glaring white, spread with a snow-white quilted cover). Scarcely less prominent was an ample cushioned easy-chair near the head of the bed, also white, with a footstool before it (Almost as striking was a wide cushioned armchair near the bed's head, white as well, with a footstool before it); and looking, as I thought, like a pale throne (looking, I thought, like a pale throne).

This room was chill, because it seldom had a fire; it was silent, because remote from the nursery and kitchen (This room was cold, for it rarely had a fire; silent, for it lay far from the nursery and kitchen); solemn, because it was known to be so seldom entered (and grave in feeling, because everyone knew how rarely anyone went in). The house-maid alone came here on Saturdays, to wipe from the mirrors and the furniture a week’s quiet dust (Only the housemaid came, on Saturdays, to wipe a week's quiet dust from the mirrors and furniture): and Mrs. Reed herself, at far intervals, visited it to review the contents of a certain secret drawer in the wardrobe (and Mrs. Reed herself, at long intervals, came to look over a certain secret drawer in the big clothes-cupboard), where were stored divers parchments, her jewel-casket, and a miniature of her deceased husband (which held various legal papers, her jewel box, and a small portrait of her dead husband); and in those last words lies the secret of the red-room—the spell which kept it so lonely in spite of its grandeur (and in those last words lies the red room's secret — the spell that kept it so empty for all its splendour).

Mr. Reed had been dead nine years: it was in this chamber he breathed his last; here he lay in state (he drew his final breath in this room; here his body lay for mourners to view); hence his coffin was borne by the undertaker’s men (from here the burial men carried out his coffin); and, since that day, a sense of dreary consecration had guarded it from frequent intrusion (and since that day a gloomy sense of the room being set apart had kept visitors away).

My seat, to which Bessie and the bitter Miss Abbot had left me riveted, was a low ottoman near the marble chimney-piece (My seat, where Bessie and the sour Miss Abbot had left me pinned, was a low padded stool near the marble mantel); the bed rose before me; to my right hand there was the high, dark wardrobe, with subdued, broken reflections varying the gloss of its panels (the tall dark clothes-cupboard, its polished panels flickering with dim broken reflections); to my left were the muffled windows; a great looking-glass between them repeated the vacant majesty of the bed and room (on my left were the cloth-hung windows, and a great mirror between them doubled the empty grandeur of bed and room). I was not quite sure whether they had locked the door; and when I dared move, I got up and went to see. Alas! yes: no jail was ever more secure (Sadly yes: no prison was ever better locked). Returning, I had to cross before the looking-glass; my fascinated glance involuntarily explored the depth it revealed (Coming back I had to pass the mirror, and my caught gaze searched its depths whether I would or no). All looked colder and darker in that visionary hollow than in reality (Everything looked colder and darker in that dream-like hollow than in real life): and the strange little figure there gazing at me, with a white face and arms specking the gloom (and the strange little figure staring out at me, its white face and arms dotting the dark), and glittering eyes of fear moving where all else was still, had the effect of a real spirit (its bright frightened eyes moving where everything else hung still, struck me as a true ghost): I thought it like one of the tiny phantoms, half fairy, half imp, Bessie’s evening stories represented as coming out of lone, ferny dells in moors (I took it for one of the tiny spirits, half fairy, half goblin, that Bessie's evening tales brought out of lonely fern-filled hollows on the open hills), and appearing before the eyes of belated travellers (to appear before travellers caught out after dark). I returned to my stool.

Superstition was with me at that moment; but it was not yet her hour for complete victory (Fear of the unseen was with me at that moment, but her hour of full victory had not yet come): my blood was still warm; the mood of the revolted slave was still bracing me with its bitter vigour (my blood was still hot; the mood of the risen slave still held me up with its bitter strength); I had to stem a rapid rush of retrospective thought before I quailed to the dismal present (and I had to ride out a fast flood of backward-looking thought before I shrank before the gloomy present).

All John Reed’s violent tyrannies, all his sisters’ proud indifference, all his mother’s aversion, all the servants’ partiality (All John Reed's violent bullying, all his sisters' proud coldness, all his mother's dislike, all the servants' taking of sides), turned up in my disturbed mind like a dark deposit in a turbid well (rose in my troubled mind like dark mud stirred up in a clouded well). Why was I always suffering, always browbeaten, always accused, for ever condemned? (Why was I always suffering, always pushed down, always accused, forever found guilty?) Why could I never please? Why was it useless to try to win any one’s favour? Eliza, who was headstrong and selfish, was respected (Eliza, stubborn and selfish, was respected). Georgiana, who had a spoiled temper (Georgiana — the younger Reed sister — with her spoiled temper), a very acrid spite, a captious and insolent carriage, was universally indulged (a biting spite and a fault-finding, insolent manner, was forgiven everything by everyone). Her beauty, her pink cheeks and golden curls, seemed to give delight to all who looked at her, and to purchase indemnity for every fault (seemed to delight all who looked at her and to buy her a free pass for every fault). John no one thwarted, much less punished (John no one crossed, let alone punished); though he twisted the necks of the pigeons, killed the little pea-chicks, set the dogs at the sheep (though he twisted the pigeons' necks around, killed the baby peacocks, set the dogs on the sheep), stripped the hothouse vines of their fruit, and broke the buds off the choicest plants in the conservatory (stripped the glasshouse vines of fruit and snapped the buds off the finest plants in the plant room): he called his mother “old girl,” too; sometimes reviled her for her dark skin, similar to his own; bluntly disregarded her wishes (sometimes insulted her for her dark skin, so like his own; flatly ignored her wishes); not unfrequently tore and spoiled her silk attire (and often enough tore and ruined her silk clothes); and he was still “her own darling.” I dared commit no fault: I strove to fulfil every duty (I dared not put a foot wrong: I worked to meet every duty); and I was termed naughty and tiresome, sullen and sneaking, from morning to noon, and from noon to night (and I was called naughty and tiresome, sour and sneaking, from morning to noon and noon to night).

My head still ached and bled with the blow and fall I had received (My head still hurt and was still bleeding from the blow and the fall): no one had reproved John for wantonly striking me (no one had told John off for hitting me without cause); and because I had turned against him to avert farther irrational violence, I was loaded with general opprobrium (and because I had turned on him to stop more senseless violence, all the blame was heaped on me).

“Unjust!—unjust!” said my reason, forced by the agonising stimulus into precocious though transitory power (said my reason, driven by the sting of it into a power beyond my years, though it did not last): and Resolve, equally wrought up, instigated some strange expedient to achieve escape from insupportable oppression (and Resolve, worked up just as high, urged some strange scheme of escape from unbearable oppression)—as running away, or, if that could not be effected, never eating or drinking more, and letting myself die (running away, or if that could not be managed, never eating or drinking again and letting myself die).

What a consternation of soul was mine that dreary afternoon! (What a storm of soul was mine that grey afternoon!) How all my brain was in tumult, and all my heart in insurrection! (How my whole brain boiled, and my whole heart rose in revolt!) Yet in what darkness, what dense ignorance, was the mental battle fought! (Yet in what darkness, what thick ignorance, that inner battle was fought!) I could not answer the ceaseless inward question—why I thus suffered (I could not answer the question that never stopped asking itself inside me — why I suffered so); now, at the distance of—I will not say how many years, I see it clearly (now, at a distance of — I will not say how many years — I see it plainly).

I was a discord in Gateshead Hall: I was like nobody there (I was a wrong note at Gateshead Hall: I was like no one there); I had nothing in harmony with Mrs. Reed or her children, or her chosen vassalage (I had nothing in tune with Mrs. Reed, her children, or the servants she favoured). If they did not love me, in fact, as little did I love them (If they did not love me, in truth I loved them just as little). They were not bound to regard with affection a thing that could not sympathise with one amongst them (They owed no fondness to a creature who could not feel with a single one of them); a heterogeneous thing, opposed to them in temperament, in capacity, in propensities (an odd-one-out, opposite to them in temper, in ability, in leanings); a useless thing, incapable of serving their interest, or adding to their pleasure (a useless thing, unable to serve their interests or add to their pleasure); a noxious thing, cherishing the germs of indignation at their treatment, of contempt of their judgment (a poisonous thing, nursing the seeds of anger at their treatment and contempt for their judgment). I know that had I been a sanguine, brilliant, careless, exacting, handsome, romping child (I know that had I been a sunny, dazzling, carefree, demanding, pretty, romping child)—though equally dependent and friendless—Mrs. Reed would have endured my presence more complacently (just as penniless and friendless though I was — Mrs. Reed would have borne my presence more contentedly); her children would have entertained for me more of the cordiality of fellow-feeling (her children would have felt more of the warmth of fellow feeling for me); the servants would have been less prone to make me the scapegoat of the nursery (and the servants would have been less quick to make me the nursery's whipping-girl).

Daylight began to forsake the red-room; it was past four o’clock, and the beclouded afternoon was tending to drear twilight (Daylight began to leave the red room; it was past four, and the clouded afternoon was sinking toward gloomy dusk). I heard the rain still beating continuously on the staircase window, and the wind howling in the grove behind the hall (and the wind howling in the little wood behind the hall); I grew by degrees cold as a stone, and then my courage sank (Bit by bit I went cold as stone, and then my courage failed). My habitual mood of humiliation, self-doubt, forlorn depression, fell damp on the embers of my decaying ire (My usual mood of shame, self-doubt, and lost low spirits fell like damp on the dying coals of my anger). All said I was wicked, and perhaps I might be so; what thought had I been but just conceiving of starving myself to death? (Everyone said I was wicked, and perhaps I was: had I not just been planning to starve myself to death?) That certainly was a crime: and was I fit to die? (That was certainly a sin — and was I ready to die?) Or was the vault under the chancel of Gateshead Church an inviting bourne? (Or was the burial chamber under the altar end of Gateshead Church a welcoming destination?) In such vault I had been told did Mr. Reed lie buried; and led by this thought to recall his idea, I dwelt on it with gathering dread (In that chamber, I had been told, Mr. Reed lay buried; and led to think of him, I found the thought growing into dread). I could not remember him; but I knew that he was my own uncle—my mother’s brother—that he had taken me when a parentless infant to his house (he had brought me, a baby with no parents, into his house); and that in his last moments he had required a promise of Mrs. Reed that she would rear and maintain me as one of her own children (and in his last moments had made Mrs. Reed promise to raise and keep me as one of her own children). Mrs. Reed probably considered she had kept this promise; and so she had, I dare say, as well as her nature would permit her (Mrs. Reed likely believed she had kept that promise — and so she had, I suppose, as far as her nature allowed); but how could she really like an interloper not of her race, and unconnected with her, after her husband’s death, by any tie? (but how could she truly like an intruder not of her blood, tied to her by nothing once her husband died?) It must have been most irksome to find herself bound by a hard-wrung pledge to stand in the stead of a parent to a strange child she could not love (It must have galled her to be bound by a promise forced from her to play parent to a strange child she could not love), and to see an uncongenial alien permanently intruded on her own family group (and to see an unwelcome outsider planted for good in her own family circle).

A singular notion dawned upon me (A strange idea rose in me). I doubted not—never doubted—that if Mr. Reed had been alive he would have treated me kindly (I did not doubt — never doubted — that had Mr. Reed lived he would have been kind to me); and now, as I sat looking at the white bed and overshadowed walls—occasionally also turning a fascinated eye towards the dimly gleaming mirror (now and then turning a spellbound eye toward the faintly shining mirror)—I began to recall what I had heard of dead men, troubled in their graves by the violation of their last wishes (I began remembering what I had heard of dead men, restless in their graves when their dying wishes are broken), revisiting the earth to punish the perjured and avenge the oppressed (returning to earth to punish oath-breakers and avenge the wronged); and I thought Mr. Reed’s spirit, harassed by the wrongs of his sister’s child, might quit its abode (and I thought Mr. Reed's spirit, troubled by the wrongs done his sister's child, might leave its resting place)—whether in the church vault or in the unknown world of the departed—and rise before me in this chamber (whether the church's burial chamber or the unknown world of the dead — and rise before me in this room). I wiped my tears and hushed my sobs, fearful lest any sign of violent grief might waken a preternatural voice to comfort me (I wiped my tears and choked my crying, afraid that any show of wild grief might wake an unearthly voice to comfort me), or elicit from the gloom some haloed face, bending over me with strange pity (or call some ringed-with-light face out of the dark to bend over me in strange pity). This idea, consolatory in theory, I felt would be terrible if realised (The idea, comforting as theory, would be terrible in fact, I felt): with all my might I endeavoured to stifle it—I endeavoured to be firm (and with all my strength I tried to smother it — tried to stand firm). Shaking my hair from my eyes, I lifted my head and tried to look boldly round the dark room; at this moment a light gleamed on the wall (just then a light shone on the wall). Was it, I asked myself, a ray from the moon penetrating some aperture in the blind? (Was it, I asked myself, moonlight coming through some gap in the blind?) No; moonlight was still, and this stirred (It could not be: moonlight lies still, and this moved); while I gazed, it glided up to the ceiling and quivered over my head (as I watched, it slid up to the ceiling and shook above my head). I can now conjecture readily that this streak of light was, in all likelihood, a gleam from a lantern carried by some one across the lawn (Looking back I can easily guess the streak was most likely lantern light carried across the lawn): but then, prepared as my mind was for horror, shaken as my nerves were by agitation (but then, primed for horror as my mind was, my nerves all shaken), I thought the swift darting beam was a herald of some coming vision from another world (I took the quick darting beam for the forerunner of some vision from another world). My heart beat thick, my head grew hot; a sound filled my ears, which I deemed the rushing of wings (My heart pounded, my head burned; a sound filled my ears that I took for rushing wings); something seemed near me; I was oppressed, suffocated: endurance broke down (something seemed close by me; I felt crushed, smothered — my endurance gave way); I rushed to the door and shook the lock in desperate effort (I ran to the door and shook the lock in desperate effort). Steps came running along the outer passage; the key turned, Bessie and Abbot entered (Feet came running along the passage outside; the key turned, and Bessie and Abbot came in).

“Miss Eyre, are you ill?” said Bessie.

“What a dreadful noise! it went quite through me! (What a dreadful noise! It went right through me!)” exclaimed Abbot (Abbot cried).

“Take me out! Let me go into the nursery!” was my cry.

“What for? Are you hurt? Have you seen something?” again demanded Bessie (Bessie asked again).

“Oh! I saw a light, and I thought a ghost would come (A light came, and I was sure a ghost would follow).” I had now got hold of Bessie’s hand, and she did not snatch it from me (By now I had hold of Bessie's hand, and she did not pull it away).

“She has screamed out on purpose (She screamed like that on purpose),” declared Abbot, in some disgust (Abbot declared, half disgusted). “And what a scream! If she had been in great pain one would have excused it, but she only wanted to bring us all here: I know her naughty tricks (Had she been in real pain one could forgive it, but she only wanted to bring us all running: I know her naughty tricks).”

“What is all this?” demanded another voice peremptorily (another voice demanded, in a tone that allowed no argument); and Mrs. Reed came along the corridor, her cap flying wide, her gown rustling stormily (her cap streaming loose, her dress rustling like a storm). “Abbot and Bessie, I believe I gave orders that Jane Eyre should be left in the red-room till I came to her myself (I believe my orders were that Jane Eyre be left in the red room until I came for her myself).”

“Miss Jane screamed so loud, ma’am (Miss Jane screamed so loudly, madam),” pleaded Bessie (Bessie said, begging pardon).

“Let her go,” was the only answer. “Loose Bessie’s hand, child: you cannot succeed in getting out by these means, be assured (Let go of Bessie's hand, child: you will not get out by such tricks, I promise you). I abhor artifice, particularly in children (I hate scheming, above all in children); it is my duty to show you that tricks will not answer (it is my duty to show you that tricks will not work): you will now stay here an hour longer, and it is only on condition of perfect submission and stillness that I shall liberate you then (and only on condition of total obedience and stillness will I set you free even then).”

“O aunt! have pity! Forgive me! I cannot endure it—let me be punished some other way! (Oh aunt, have pity! Forgive me! I cannot bear it — punish me some other way!) I shall be killed if—”

“Silence! This violence is all most repulsive (Quiet! This wildness is disgusting):” and so, no doubt, she felt it. I was a precocious actress in her eyes (In her eyes I was a child actress grown cunning before my years); she sincerely looked on me as a compound of virulent passions, mean spirit, and dangerous duplicity (she honestly saw me as a mixture of poisonous tempers, low spirit, and dangerous two-facedness).

Bessie and Abbot having retreated, Mrs. Reed, impatient of my now frantic anguish and wild sobs, abruptly thrust me back and locked me in, without farther parley (Mrs. Reed, out of patience with my frantic misery and wild crying, shoved me back inside and locked the door without another word). I heard her sweeping away (I heard her sweep off down the corridor); and soon after she was gone, I suppose I had a species of fit: unconsciousness closed the scene (I suppose I had a kind of fit: blackness ended the scene).