“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 Adèle 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. It was very clean and neat： the ornamental windows were hung with little white curtains； the floor was spotless； the grate and fire-irons were burnished bright， and the fire burnt clear. Bessie sat on the hearth， nursing her last-born， and Robert and his sister played quietly in a corner.
“Bless you！—I knew you would come！” exclaimed Mrs. Leaven， as I entered.
“Yes， Bessie，” said I， after I had kissed her；“and I trust I am not too late. How is Mrs. Reed？—Alive still， I hope.”
“Yes， she is alive； and more sensible and collected than she was. The doctor says she may linger a week or two yet； but he hardly thinks she will finally recover.”
“Has she mentioned me lately？”
“She was talking of you only this morning， and wishing you would come， but she is sleeping now， or was ten minutes ago， when I was up at the house. She generally lies in a kind of lethargy all the afternoon， and wakes up about six or seven. Will you rest yourself here an hour， Miss， and then I will go up with you？”
Robert here entered， and Bessie laid her sleeping child in the cradle and went to welcome him： afterwards she insisted on my taking off my bonnet and having some tea； for she said I looked pale and tired. I was glad to accept her hospitality； and I submitted to be relieved of my travelling garb just as passively as I used to let her undress me when a child.
Old times crowded fast back on me as I watched her bustling about—setting out the tea-tray with her best china， cutting bread and butter， toasting a tea-cake， and， between whiles， giving little Robert or Jane an occasional tap or push， just as she used to give me in former days. Bessie had retained her quick temper as well as her light foot and good looks.
Tea ready， I was going to approach the table； but she desired me to sit still， quite in her old peremptory tones. I must be served at the fireside， she said； and she placed before me a little round stand with my cup and a plate of toast， absolutely as she used to accommodate me with some privately purloined dainty on a nursery chair： and I smiled and obeyed her as in bygone days.
She wanted to know if I was happy at Thornfield Hall， and what sort of a person the mistress was； and when I told her there was only a master， whether he was a nice gentleman， and if I liked him. I told her he was rather an ugly man， but quite a gentleman； and that he treated me kindly， and I was content. Then I went on to describe to her the gay company that had lately been staying at the house； and to these details Bessie listened with interest： they were precisely of the kind she relished.
In such conversation an hour was soon gone： Bessie restored to me my bonnet， &c.， and， accompanied by her， I quitted the lodge for the hall. It was also accompanied by her that I had， nearly nine years ago， walked down the path I was now ascending. On a dark， misty， raw morning in January， I had left a hostile roof with a desperate and embittered heart—a sense of outlawry and almost of reprobation—to seek the chilly harbourage of Lowood： that bourne so far away and unexplored. The same hostile roof now again rose before me： my prospects were doubtful yet； and I had yet an aching heart. I still felt as a wanderer on the face of the earth； but I experienced firmer trust in myself and my own powers， and less withering dread of oppression. The gaping wound of my wrongs， too， was now quite healed； and the flame of resentment extinguished.
“You shall go into the breakfast-room first，” said Bessie， as she preceded me through the hall；“the young ladies will be there.”
In another moment I was within that apartment. There was every article of furniture looking just as it did on the morning I was first introduced to Mr. Brocklehurst： the very rug he had stood upon still covered the hearth. Glancing at the bookcases， I thought I could distinguish the two volumes of Bewick’s British Birds occupying their old place on the third shelf， and Gulliver’s Travels and the Arabian Nights ranged just above. The inanimate objects were not changed； but the living things had altered past recognition.
