The forehead of the singer was decorated with a patch of brown paper, from which arose a strong smell of vinegar. But he was not ashamed of it; indeed, he wore it all the next day, and was sorry when he had to take it off--for was it not, in a way, a badge of courage?
From this time Mr. Verdant Green began to despise mere reading-men who never went in for sports. He resolved at once to go in for them all. He took to rowing, and was rescued from a watery grave by Mr. Bouncer.
Then, defeated but undaunted, he took to riding, and was thrown off. But what did it matter? Before the term ended, he grew more accustomed to the management of Oxford tubs and Oxford hacks.
It is true that the unfeeling man who reported the Torpid races for "Bell"s Life" had the unkindness to state in cold print; "Worcester succeeded in making the b.u.mp at the Cherwell, in consequence of No. 3 of the Brazenface boat suffering from fatigue." And on the copy of the journal sent to Mrs. Green of Manor Green, her son sadly drew a pencil line under "No. 3," and wrote: "This was me." But both Mrs. Green and Miss Virginia Green were more than consoled when their beloved boy returned home about midsummer with a slip of paper on which was written and printed:
GREEN, VERDANT, e. Coll. AEn. Fac. Quiaestionibus Magistrorum Scholarum in Parviso pro forma respondit.
Ita testamur (GULIELMUS SMITH.
(ROBERTUS JONES.
In other words, Mr. Verdant Green had got through his Smalls. But, sad to say, poor Mr. Bouncer had been plucked.
Mr. Verdant Green smiled to himself. It was the sheerest bit of good luck that he had managed to get through. Still, he had learned more at Oxford than was taught in books--he had learned to be a manly fellow in spite of his gig-lamps.
CHARLOTTE BRONTe
Jane Eyre
Charlotte Bronte was born at Thornton, Yorkshire, England, on the 21st of April, 1816, of Irish and Cornish stock. By reason of her father"s manner of living, she was utterly deprived of all companions of her own age. She therefore lived in a little world of her own, and by the time she was thirteen years of age, it had become her constant habit, and one of her few pleasures, to weave imaginary tales, idealising her favorite historical heroes, and setting forth in narrative form her own thoughts and feelings. Both Charlotte and her sisters Emily and Anne early found refuge in their habits of composition, and about 1845 made their first literary venture--a small volume of poems. This was not successful, but the authors were encouraged to make a further trial, and each began to prepare a prose tale. "Jane Eyre," perhaps the most poignant love-story in the English tongue, was published on October 16, 1847. Its t.i.tle ran: "Jane Eyre: an Autobiography. Edited by Currer Bell." The romantic story of its acceptance by the publishers has been told in our condensation of Mrs. Gaskell"s "Life of Charlotte Bronte." (See LIVES AND LETTERS, Vol. IX.) Written secretly under the pressure of incessant domestic anxiety, as if with the very life-blood of its author, the wonderful intensity of the story kindled the imagination of the reading public in an extraordinary degree, and the popularity at once attained has never flagged. Though the experiences of Jane Eyre were not, except in comparatively unimportant episodes, the experiences of the auth.o.r.ess, Jane Eyre is Charlotte Bronte. One of the most striking features of the book--a feature preserved in the following summary--is the haunting suggestion of sympathy between nature and human emotion. The publication of "Jane Eyre" removed its auth.o.r.ess from almost straitened circ.u.mstances and a narrow round of life to material comfort and congenial society. In reality it endowed at once the most diffident of women with lasting fame.
After a brief period of married life, Charlotte Bronte died on March 31, 1855.
_I.--The Master of Thornfield Hall_
Thornfield, my new home after I left school, was, I found, a fine old battlemented hall, and Mrs. Fairfax, who had answered my advertis.e.m.e.nt, a mild, elderly lady, related by marriage to Mr. Rochester, the owner of the estate and the guardian of Adela Varens, my little pupil.
It was not till three months after my arrival there that my adventures began. One day Mrs. Fairfax proposed to show me over the house, much of which was unoccupied. The third storey especially had the aspect of a home of the past--a shrine of memory. I liked its hush and quaintness.
"If there were a ghost at Thornfield Hall this would be its haunt," said Mrs. Fairfax, as we pa.s.sed the range of apartments on our way to see the view from the roof.
I was pacing through the corridor of the third floor on my return, when the last sound I expected in so still a region struck my ear--a laugh, distinct, formal, mirthless. At first it was very low, but it pa.s.sed off in a clamorous peal that seemed to wake an echo in every lonely chamber.
"Mrs. Fairfax," I called out, "did you hear that laugh? Who is it?"
"Some of the servants very likely," she answered; "perhaps Grace Poole."
The laugh was repeated in a low tone, and terminated in an odd murmur.
"Grace!" exclaimed Mrs. Fairfax.
I didn"t expect Grace to answer, for the laugh was preternatural.
Nevertheless, the door nearest me opened, and a servant came out--a set, square-made figure, with a hard, plain face.
"Too much noise, Grace," said Mrs. Fairfax. "Remember directions!"
Grace curtseyed silently, and went in.
Not unfrequently after that I heard Grace Poole"s laugh and her eccentric murmurs, stranger than her laugh.
Late one fine, calm afternoon in January I volunteered to carry to the post at Hay, two miles distant, a letter Mrs. Fairfax had just written.
The lane to Hay inclined uphill all the way, and having reached the middle, I sat on a stile till the sun went down, and on the hill-top above me stood the rising moon. The village was a mile distant, but in the absolute hush I could hear plainly its murmurs of life.
A rude noise broke on the fine ripplings and whisperings of the evening calm, a metallic clatter, a horse was coming. The windings of the lane hid it as it approached. Then I heard a rush under the hedge, and close by glided a great dog, not staying to look up. The horse followed--a tall steed, and on its back a rider. He pa.s.sed; a sliding sound, a clattering tumble, and man and horse were down. They had slipped on the sheet of ice which glased the causeway. The dog came bounding back, sniffed round the prostrate group, and then ran up to me; it was all he could do. I obeyed him, and walked down to the traveller struggling himself free of his steed. I think he was swearing, but am not certain.
"Can I do anything?" I asked.
"You can stand on one side," he answered as he rose. Whereupon began a heaving, stamping process, accompanied by a barking and baying, and the horse was re-established and the dog silenced with a "Down, Pilot!"
"If you are hurt and want help, sir," I remarked, "I can fetch someone, either from Thornfield Hall or from Hay."
"Thank you, I shall do. I have no broken bones, only a sprain." And he limped to the stile.
He had a dark face, with stern features and a heavy brow. His eyes and gathered eyebrows looked ireful and thwarted; he was past youth, but had not reached middle age--perhaps he might be thirty-five. I felt no fear of him and but little shyness. His frown and roughness set me at ease.
He waved me to go, but I said:
"I cannot think of leaving you in this solitary lane till you are fit to mount your horse."
"You ought to be at home yourself," said he. "Where do you come from?"
"From just below."
"Do you mean that house with the battlements?"
"Yes, sir."
"Whose house is it?"
"Mr. Rochester"s."
"Do you know Mr. Rochester?"
"No, I have never seen him."
"You are not a servant at the Hall, of course. You are--"
"I am the governess."
"Ah, the governess!" he repeated. "Deuce take me if I had not forgotten!