Jane Slayre (8 page)

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The teachers looked at her with surprise.

"It is to be done on my responsibility," she added in an explanatory tone to them, and immediately afterwards left the room.

The bread and cheese were brought in and distributed to the delight of most of the school. It surprised me to see that some did not seem to share the excitement and remained bent over their work at tables, even when the order was given to head out to the garden. Curious, that! I was all for heading outdoors. Most girls put on coarse straw bonnets with strings of coloured calico and cloaks of grey frieze. I was similarly equipped, and, following the stream, I made my way into the open air.

The garden was a wide enclosure surrounded with walls. A covered veranda ran down one side, and broad walks bordered a middle space divided into scores of little beds assigned for the pupils to cultivate. When full of flowers they would doubtless look pretty, but now, at the latter end of January, all was wintry blight and brown decay. I shuddered as I stood and looked around. It was an inclement day for outdoor exercise; not positively rainy, but darkened by a drizzling yellow fog. The stronger amongst the girls ran about and engaged in active games. A smaller group of pale and thin ones herded together, I assumed for shelter and warmth, in the veranda.

As yet I had spoken to no one, nor did anybody seem to take notice of me. I stood lonely enough, but I was used to solitude. I leaned against a pillar of the veranda, drew my grey mantle close about me, and tried to forget the cold that nipped me to the core and made me long for a glimpse of the sun I hadn't seen in days.

I looked around the conventlike garden. At the far side, a field seemed to lead to another yard, and what looked like gravestones rising up from the ground. So close to the school? I had to be mistaken. Though I supposed that girls did take ill and die through a long winter as cold as it was in the bedrooms. I put it from my mind and looked back up at the house--a large building, half of which seemed grey and old, the other half quite new. The new part, containing

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the schoolroom and dormitory, lit by mullioned and latticed windows, had a churchlike aspect. A stone tablet over the door bore this inscription:

LOWOOD INSTITUTION. THIS PORTION WAS REBUILT BY NAOMI BOKOR-HURST, OF BOKORHURST HALL, IN THIS COUNTY.

I read these words over and over. I felt that an explanation belonged to them. I was still pondering the signification of
Institution
when the sound of a cough close behind me made me turn my head. I saw a girl sitting on a stone bench near me. She was bent over a book, on the perusal of which she seemed intent. From where I stood, I could see the title--it was
Rasselas;
a name that struck me as strange, and consequently attractive. In turning a leaf she happened to look up.

"Is your book interesting?" I asked.

"I like it," she answered after a pause of a second or two, during which she examined me.

I glanced over her shoulder at the book. A brief examination convinced me that the contents were less intriguing than the title. I saw nothing about fairies, nothing about genies, no bright variety seemed spread over the closely printed pages.

"Can you tell me what the writing on that stone over the door means?" I ventured to interrupt her again. "What is Lowood Institution?"

She looked at me as if I'd sprouted another head. "This house where you are come to live. It is partly a charity school. You and I, and all the rest of us, are charity children. I suppose you are an orphan. Is not either your father or your mother dead?"

"Both. They were killed before I can remember." It seemed an important distinction to me that they were killed and did not die by natural causes.

"Well, all the girls here have lost either one or both parents, and this is called an institution for educating orphans."

"Do we pay no money? Do they keep us for nothing?" Mrs. Reed

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gave the impression she was taking great care and expense to send me away to school. Was it not so?

"We pay, or our friends pay, fifteen pounds a year for each."

"Then why do they call us charity children?" I took some offence at the word. I was not from a poor family. The Reeds could well afford to send me to a proper school.

"Because fifteen pounds is not enough for board and teaching, and the deficiency is supplied by subscription. Different benevolent-minded ladies and gentlemen in this neighborhood and in London give to support us."

Perhaps Mrs. Reed was one who provided more than the fifteen pounds. "Who was Naomi Bokorhurst?"

"The lady who built the new part of this house as that tablet records, and whose son overlooks and directs everything here."

Mr. Bokorhurst indeed. The mere mention of him made me shudder. "Why?"

"Because he is treasurer and manager of the establishment."

"Then this house does not belong to that tall lady who wears a watch, and who said we were to have some bread and cheese?"

"To Miss Temple? Oh, no! I wish it did. She has to answer to Mr. Bokorhurst for all she does. Mr. Bokorhurst buys all our food and all our clothes."

"Does he live here?" I wished to avoid him as much as possible.

"No--two miles off, at a large hall."

"Did you say that tall lady was called Miss Temple?"

"Yes. And the one with red cheeks is called Miss Smith. She attends to the work and cuts out--for we make our own clothes, our frocks and pelisses, and everything. The little one with black hair is Miss Scatcherd. She teaches history and grammar and hears the second class's repetitions. And the older one who wears a shawl is Madame Pierrot. She comes from Lisle, in France, and she teaches French."

"Do you like the teachers? The little black-haired one?"

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"Miss Scatcherd is hasty--you must take care not to offend her."

"But Miss Temple is the best--isn't she?"

"Miss Temple is very good and very clever; she is above the rest because she knows far more than they do."

"Have you been here long? Are you an orphan?" I asked.

"Two years. My mother is dead," she said with little emotion, as if it might have happened long ago or she had learned not to express her sorrow.

"Are you happy here?"

"You ask rather too many questions. I have given you answers enough for the present. I want to read."

But at that moment, the dinner summons sounded. All reentered the house. The dinner was served in two huge tin-plated vessels, whence rose a strong steam redolent of John Reed's dirty old socks. I found the mess to consist of indifferent potatoes and something unidentifiable, possibly turnip greens, mixed and cooked together. I ate what I could and wondered whether every day's fare would be as bad. After dinner, we immediately adjourned to the schoolroom. Lessons recommenced and were continued until five o'clock.

Soon after 5:00 p.m. we had another meal, consisting of a small mug of coffee and half a slice of brown bread. I devoured my bread and drank my coffee with relish, but I craved more. The girl seated near me offered hers in a listless, uninterested voice.

"Don't you want it?" I asked. She looked so pale and thin. Her face had an odd, drawn quality that reminded me of Miss Abbot back at Gateshead.

"No." A simple answer. Instead of elaborating on it, she walked away and left her food. I ate hers quickly in case anyone around me staked a claim. I wondered if Mr. Bokorhurst had enlisted her to the school. Did her body parts fall off? I made a mental note to watch her in case she should be prone to falling asleep without notice.

A half hour's recreation succeeded, then study; then the glass

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of water and the piece of oat cake, prayers, and bed. Such was my first day at Lowood.

CHAPTER 6

THE NEXT DAY COMMENCED as before, getting up and dressing by rushlight. This morning we couldn't even wash, for the water in the pitchers was frozen. The weather had changed the preceding evening, and a keen northeast wind had whistled through the crevices of our bedroom windows all night long.

That day I was enrolled as a member of the fourth class, and regular tasks and occupations were assigned me. At last I was no longer a mere spectator at Lowood, but a participant, an active captain in command of my own destiny. At first, as I was little accustomed to learn by heart, the lessons appeared both long and difficult. The frequent change from task to task, too, bewildered me. I was glad when, about three o'clock in the afternoon, Miss Smith put into my hands a border of muslin two yards long, together with needle, thimble, and thread, and sent me to sit in a quiet corner of the schoolroom with directions to hem the same.

At that hour most of the others were sewing likewise; but one class still stood round Miss Scatcherd's chair reading, and as all was quiet, the subject of their lessons could be heard. It was English history. Amongst the readers I observed my acquaintance of the veranda. At the commencement of the lesson, her place had been at the top of the class, but for some error or inattention to stops, she was suddenly sent to the very bottom. Even in that obscure position, Miss Scatcherd continued to make her an object of constant notice.

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"Burns," the teacher said. The girls here were all called by their surnames, as boys are elsewhere. "Burns, you are standing on the side of your shoe. Turn your toes out immediately." Followed soon by "Burns, you poke your chin most unpleasantly. Draw it in." And next: "Burns, I insist on your holding your head up. I will not have you before me in that attitude," and on and on.

A chapter having been read through twice, the books were closed and the girls examined. The lesson had comprised part of the reign of Charles I, and most of the girls appeared unable to answer the sundry questions about tonnage and poundage and ship money. Still, every little difficulty was instantly solved when it reached Burns. Her memory seemed to have retained the substance of the whole lesson, and she was ready with answers on every point.

I kept expecting that Miss Scatcherd would praise her attention; but, instead of that, she suddenly cried out, "You dirty, disagreeable girl! You have never cleaned your nails this morning!"

Burns made no answer. Why did she not explain that she could neither clean her nails nor wash her face, as the water was frozen? As far as I was concerned, Miss Scatcherd was almost as bad as a vampyre. I studied her closely in case I could catch a glimpse of razor-sharp canines. Was it an accident that she sat far away from any windows?

Miss Smith drew my attention by requesting me to hold a skein of thread. While she was winding it, she talked to me from time to time, asking if I had ever been at school before, if I could mark, stitch, and knit. Until she dismissed me, I could not pursue my observations on Miss Scatcherd's movements.

When I returned to my seat, the lady was just delivering an order of which I did not catch the import. Burns immediately left the class, headed into the small inner room where the books were kept, and returned in half a minute, carrying a bundle of twigs tied together at one end. This ominous tool she presented to Miss Scatcherd with a respectful curtsy. The teacher instantly and sharply inflicted on her neck a dozen strokes with the bunch of twigs. The

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skin broken, a drop of blood rolled down her neck, but not a tear rose to Burns's eye. Two girls near me groaned, seemingly as moved by the sight of the stoic, bleeding Burns as I was, only they stared after her with a queer look, as if hunger, in their eyes. Curious, that.

I forgot them and paused from my sewing because my fingers quivered at the spectacle of Burns's beating with impotent anger, but not a feature of her pensive face altered its ordinary expression.

"Hardened girl!" exclaimed Miss Scatcherd. "Nothing can correct you of your slatternly habits. Carry the rod away!"

Burns obeyed. I observed as she emerged from the book closet. She was just putting her handkerchief back into her pocket, but the trace of a tear glistened on her thin cheek. I couldn't imagine how the injustice escaped the notice of most of the girls. A few in Burns's group, such as the two girls near me, stared after her with seeming fascination. The rest seemed blind to the entire scene, or at least they ignored it. I could not ignore it. I intended to speak to Burns again as soon as I could manage.

The evening play-hour I thought the pleasantest fraction of the day at Lowood: the bit of bread and the draught of coffee swallowed at five o'clock had revived vitality, if it had not satisfied hunger. I looked for Burns as I wandered as usual amongst the forms and tables and laughing groups without a companion, yet not feeling lonely.

I passed the windows, occasionally lifting a blind to look out on the snow. A drift was already forming against the lower panes. Probably, if I had lately left a good home and kind parents, this would have been the hour when I would most keenly have regretted the separation. I'd packed my doll, along with some stakes, but I did not dare pull her out in company, lest anyone see me. I did not notice any of the girls to have childlike possessions from home. The doll would stay in my pack, guarding the stakes, which might yet come in handy. I thought of Miss Scatcherd.

I derived a strange excitement from thinking of the stakes that I tried to attribute to the wildness of the wind instead. Doubtless the weather made me reckless and feverish. I wished the wind to