The Death Of Mrs Reed
Disclaimer - Jane Eyre is written by Charlotte Bronte, even though we have the same initials and first name I am not Charlotte Bronte. I am merely borrowing her characters for a while.
This is written from Mrs Reed's point of view before she dies. She has asked Jane to see her but her mind is often elsewhere and she is going mad.
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I lay now; alone in the room that for so long had become my prison, whilst I waited for death to take its clutches upon me: I waited in saturnine temperament. It is as well that I should ease my mind before I die: I have twice done Jane Eyre a wrong which I regret now. Despite my feelings of execration, pain and ire, my situation was one that was becoming increasingly exigent.
I had no concept of how much time had passed since I had requested of Bessie Jane Eyre's presence. There were blank moments in my mind, and occasions where I could not recall to whom I was speaking: even mistaking my own daughters as other acquaintances. There was another whom I was sure I had met recently, with a physical appearance not dissimilar to that of Jane Eyre; I found now that I could not recall the woman's features nor what happened at that meeting previous.
Time slipped away, silently, like a ghost. I lay there almost unheeded: my servants paid me but a remittent attention: the hired nurse would slip out of the room whenever she could. I had not spoken for days on end, Bessie was faithful to me; but she had her own family to mind, I knew this- I would occasionally hear them in the hall.
Awakening from my lethargy, I saw a figure, silhouetted against the window. For the first time in days – I spoke. "Who is it?"
She approached me, I could not see her clearly due to the dimness of the room but I heard some familiarity in her voice when she spoke – "It is I, aunt Reed".
"Who – I?" was my answer. "Who are you?" I asked for Bessie, but the stranger told me that Bessie currently resided at the lodge. Again, she used that word, Aunt. She was not one of the Gibsons, she was like – like Jane Eyre! I told the stranger this, but received no reply. Perhaps she, like so many others, had no idea how to address me: I carried on talking, more than I had done for days.
"I wished to see Jane Eyre, and I fancy a likeness where none exists: besides, in eight years she must be so changed." She now gently assured me that she was the person she supposed and desired me to be: she must have seen some recognition in my face, and that my senses were quite collected because she explained how Bessie had sent her husband to fetch her from Thornfield.
So this was Jane Eyre: I must tell her of the two wrongs of which I had done her. One was breaking the promise which I gave my husband to bring her up as my own child; the other –
So startled was I that I had spoken this out loud, I stopped, and contemplated how it was best to continue.
After all it is of no great importance, perhaps... and then I may get better; and to humble myself so to her is painful.
Some of these thoughts of mine must be audible to other people, I concluded, as many things I have not meant to say aloud have been responded to, care must be taken in future for maximum privacy. I knew I must tell the child of the other wrong I had done: I face eternity before me, I had better tell her. After this confession I would be free, I felt no remorse for sending her to Lowood, had I sought all England over, I could scarcely have found a system more exactly fitting a child like Jane Eyre. Consistency – I advocate consistency in all things. I will not apologise for this, the child who addressed me with such anger and hatred in the past must be taken away from me.
I now instructed the child to approach my dressing case and read the letter which resided in there. She did as she was told: I waited for her response.
"Why did I never hear of this?"
I could feel a storm brewing in the room's quiet atmosphere. The plain, untamed, passionate girl's eyes were two heavy weights upon my head: I did not look up. However finally, I felt the time had passed for silent submission, and I must face her once more, and tell her.
I told her of my reluctance to lift her to prosperity, my abhorrence for her: I could not forget her conduct to me – how she told me in such fury and such an unchildlike way how much she hated me. How I was afraid, how I could not forget my own sensations- I feared that you were cursing me in a man's voice: that of my husband's.
From here I found it impossible to continue and instead made a plea for water. Had this child cursed me? Was I to die now after telling her of my misdeeds?
To my surprise she offered me the draught I required and asked for my forgiveness of her passionate language and nature for she was then but a child. I heeded nothing of what she said; but after I had drawn breath I carried on- explaining that keeping the letter from Jane had been my revenge, I could not endure her being in a state of happiness and comfort. I told her to act as she pleases: write and contradict my assertion – for I had told him that Jane Eyre had died at typhus at Lowood.
It was all of the fault of Jane Eyre! Without her I would not have had the temptation to commit: she was born to be my torment- my final moments on this earth were now tainted with the memories of the past.
Despite my words, Jane Eyre continued to ask for reconciliation; to regard her with kindness and forgiveness – for absolution. Yet I could not give it – my confusion at her differing dispositions, my hatred for Jane were my preventions. She refused to give up and requested a kiss; I told her how she was oppressing me and again requested water. She laid me down once more, and left me with the following words.
"Love me then, or hate me, as you will, you have my full and free forgiveness: ask now for God's, and be at peace."
The nurse now entered, and Bessie followed. I could not help but notice that Jane Eyre lingered in my chambers for some time after – obviously hoping to see some sign of amity, but finding none she eventually withdrew.
My time was nearly at its end. As I lay in disconsolation, I contemplated following Jane Eyre's advice – to ask for God's forgiveness. But I was still so angry at Jane, my husband, myself, that I wouldn't even know where to begin.
My life was being purged from me, perhaps God was seeking revenge from me as I did with Jane Eyre. Time passed, I knew little about how long I lied there, thinking little about anything; I was sinking into darkness, the impenetrable stone walls which encased me seemed to close in. I gave a tiny cry and a tear ran along my face, there was no one to see or hear me; I was completely alone.
With that last thought- I gave in to the darkness.