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1The next thing I remember is, waking up with a feeling as if I had had a frightful nightmare, and seeing before me a
2terrible red glare, crossed with thick black bars. I heard voices, too, speaking with a hollow sound, and as if muffled
3by a rush of wind or water: agitation, uncertainty, and an all-predominating sense of terror confused my faculties. Ere
4long, I became aware that some one was handling me; lifting me up and supporting me in a sitting posture, and that more
5tenderly than I had ever been raised or upheld before. I rested my head against a pillow or an arm, and felt easy. In
6five minutes more the cloud of bewilderment dissolved: I knew quite well that I was in my own bed, and that the red
7glare was the nursery fire. It was night: a candle burnt on the table; Bessie stood at the bed-foot with a basin in her
8hand, and a gentleman sat in a chair near my pillow, leaning over me. I felt an inexpressible relief, a soothing
9conviction of protection and security, when I knew that there was a stranger in the room, an individual not belonging to
10Gateshead, and not related to Mrs. Reed. Turning from Bessie (though her presence was far less obnoxious to me than that
11of Abbot, for instance, would have been), I scrutinised the face of the gentleman: I knew him; it was Mr. Lloyd, an
12apothecary, sometimes called in by Mrs. Reed when the servants were ailing: for herself and the children she employed a
13physician. "Well, who am I?" he asked. I pronounced his name, offering him at the same time my hand: he took it, smiling
14and saying, "We shall do very well by-and-by." Then he laid me down, and addressing Bessie, charged her to be very
15careful that I was not disturbed during the night. Having given some further directions, and intimated that he should
16call again the next day, he departed; to my grief: I felt so sheltered and befriended while he sat in the chair near my
17pillow; and as he closed the door after him, all the room darkened and my heart again sank: inexpressible sadness
18weighed it down. "Do you feel as if you should sleep, Miss?" asked Bessie, rather softly. Scarcely dared I answer her;
19for I feared the next sentence might be rough. "I will try." "Would you like to drink, or could you eat anything?" "No,
20thank you, Bessie." "Then I think I shall go to bed, for it is past twelve o'clock; but you may call me if you want
21anything in the night." Wonderful civility this! It emboldened me to ask a question. "Bessie, what is the matter with
22me? Am I ill?" "You fell sick, I suppose, in the red-room with crying; you'll be better soon, no doubt." Bessie went
23into the housemaid's apartment, which was near. I heard her say-- "Sarah, come and sleep with me in the nursery; I
24daren't for my life be alone with that poor child to-night: she might die; it's such a strange thing she should have
25that fit: I wonder if she saw anything. Missis was rather too hard." Sarah came back with her; they both went to bed;
26they were whispering together for half-an-hour before they fell asleep. I caught scraps of their conversation, from
27which I was able only too distinctly to infer the main subject discussed. "Something passed her, all dressed in white,
28and vanished"--"A great black dog behind him"--"Three loud raps on the chamber door"--"A light in the churchyard just
29over his grave," &c., &c. At last both slept: the fire and the candle went out. For me, the watches of that long night
30passed in ghastly wakefulness; ear, eye, and mind were alike strained by dread: such dread as children only can feel. No
31severe or prolonged bodily illness followed this incident of the red-room; it only gave my nerves a shock of which I
32feel the reverberation to this day. Yes, Mrs. Reed, to you I owe some fearful pangs of mental suffering, but I ought to
33forgive you, for you knew not what you did: while rending my heart-strings, you thought you were only uprooting my bad
34propensities. Next day, by noon, I was up and dressed, and sat wrapped in a shawl by the nursery hearth. I felt
35physically weak and broken down: but my worse ailment was an unutterable wretchedness of mind: a wretchedness which kept
36drawing from me silent tears; no sooner had I wiped one salt drop from my cheek than another followed. Yet, I thought, I
37ought to have been happy, for none of the Reeds were there, they were all gone out in the carriage with their mama.
38Abbot, too, was sewing in another room, and Bessie, as she moved hither and thither, putting away toys and arranging
39drawers, addressed to me every now and then a word of unwonted kindness. This state of things should have been to me a
40paradise of peace, accustomed as I was to a life of ceaseless reprimand and thankless fagging; but, in fact, my racked
41nerves were now in such a state that no calm could soothe, and no pleasure excite them agreeably. Bessie had been down
42into the kitchen, and she brought up with her a tart on a certain brightly painted china plate, whose bird of paradise,
43nestling in a wreath of convolvuli and rosebuds, had been wont to stir in me a most enthusiastic sense of admiration;
44and which plate I had often petitioned to be allowed to take in my hand in order to examine it more closely, but had
45always hitherto been deemed unworthy of such a privilege. This precious vessel was now placed on my knee, and I was
46cordially invited to eat the circlet of delicate pastry upon it. Vain favour! coming, like most other favours long
47deferred and often wished for, too late! I could not eat the tart; and the plumage of the bird, the tints of the
48flowers, seemed strangely faded: I put both plate and tart away. Bessie asked if I would have a book: the word book
49acted as a transient stimulus, and I begged her to fetch Gulliver's Travels from the library. This book I had again and
50again perused with delight. I considered it a narrative of facts, and discovered in it a vein of interest deeper than
51what I found in fairy tales: for as to the elves, having sought them in vain among foxglove leaves and bells, under
52mushrooms and beneath the ground-ivy mantling old wall-nooks, I had at length made up my mind to the sad truth, that
53they were all gone out of England to some savage country where the woods were wilder and thicker, and the population
54more scant; whereas, Lilliput and Brobdignag being, in my creed, solid parts of the earth's surface, I doubted not that
55I might one day, by taking a long voyage, see with my own eyes the little fields, houses, and trees, the diminutive
56people, the tiny cows, sheep, and birds of the one realm; and the corn-fields forest-high, the mighty mastiffs, the
57monster cats, the tower-like men and women, of the other. Yet, when this cherished volume was now placed in my
58hand--when I turned over its leaves, and sought in its marvellous pictures the charm I had, till now, never failed to
59find--all was eerie and dreary; the giants were gaunt goblins, the pigmies malevolent and fearful imps, Gulliver a most
60desolate wanderer in most dread and dangerous regions. I closed the book, which I dared no longer peruse, and put it on
61the table, beside the untasted tart. Bessie had now finished dusting and tidying the room, and having washed her hands,
62she opened a certain little drawer, full of splendid shreds of silk and satin, and began making a new bonnet for
63Georgiana's doll. Meantime she sang: her song was-- "In the days when we went gipsying, A long time ago." I had often
64heard the song before, and always with lively delight; for Bessie had a sweet voice,--at least, I thought so. But now,
65though her voice was still sweet, I found in its melody an indescribable sadness. Sometimes, preoccupied with her work,
66she sang the refrain very low, very lingeringly; "A long time ago" came out like the saddest cadence of a funeral hymn.
67She passed into another ballad, this time a really doleful one. "My feet they are sore, and my limbs they are weary;
68Long is the way, and the mountains are wild; Soon will the twilight close moonless and dreary Over the path of the poor
69orphan child. Why did they send me so far and so lonely, Up where the moors spread and grey rocks are piled? Men are
70hard-hearted, and kind angels only Watch o'er the steps of a poor orphan child.
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