Jane Eyre is one of the most loved English Classics of all time! Mystery, hardship--and love. Jane comes from nothing but she desires everything life can offer her. And when she finds work as a governess in a mysterious mansion, it seems she has finally met her match with the darkly fascinating Mr Rochester. But Thornfield Hall contains a shameful secret--one that could keep Jane and Rochester apart forever. Can she choose between what is right, and her one chance of happiness? "At the end we are steeped through and through with the genius, the vehemence, the indignation of Charlotte Brontë." --Virginia Woolf Jane Eyre is Charlotte Bronte's most enduring masterpiece, the unforgettable tale of an orphan girl's ardent search for a wider and richer life. Originally published in 1847, it was an immediate popular success, but it also caused a storm of controversy. Bronte's firm insistence on the equality of the sexes and her prescient creation of one of literature's most independent heroines shocked many of her contemporaries. This surprisingly modern sensibility, combined with Bronte's magical use of language and her incandescent storytelling, makes the novel particularly rewarding and accessible today. Set in England's lonely moors and peopled with such memorable characters as the brooding Mr. Rochester, passionate yet melancholy, and the keeper of a terrible secret; the hypocritical Mr. Brocklehurst, a dour "black marble clergyman"; Helen Burns, Jane's beloved but doomed young friend; Bertha, the famous madwoman in the attic; and of course, its incomparable heroine, Jane Eyre has rightfully taken its place among our greatest literary works. Charlotte Bronte (1816-55), sister of Anne Bronte and Emily Bronte. Jane Eyre appeared in 1847 and was followed by Shirley (1848) and Vilette (1853). In 1854 Charlotte Bronte married her father's curate, Arthur Bell Nicholls. She died during her pregnancy on March 31, 1855 in Haworth, Yorkshire. Chapter One There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. We had been wandering, indeed, in the leafless shrubbery an hour in the morning; but since dinner (Mrs. Reed, when there was no company, dined early) the cold winter wind had brought with it clouds so sombre, and a rain so penetrating, that further outdoor exercise was now out of the question. I was glad of it; I never liked long walks, especially on chilly afternoons: dreadful to me was the coming home in the raw twilight, with nipped fingers and toes, and a heart saddened by the chidings of Bessie, the nurse, and humbled by the consciousness of my physical inferiority to Eliza, John, and Georgiana Reed. The said Eliza, John, and Georgiana were now clustered round their mamma in the drawing-room: she lay reclined on a sofa by the fireside, and with her darlings about her (for the time neither quarrelling nor crying) looked perfectly happy. Me, she had dispensed from joining the group, saying, "She regretted to be under the necessity of keeping me at a distance; but that until she heard from Bessie, and could discover by her own observation that I was endeavouring in good earnest to acquire a more sociable and childlike disposition, a more attractive and sprightly manner--something lighter, franker, more natural, as it were--she really must exclude me from privileges intended only for contented, happy little children." "What does Bessie say I have done?" I asked. "Jane, I don't like cavillers or questioners; besides, there is something truly forbidding in a child taking up her elders in that manner. Be seated somewhere; and until you can speak pleasantly, remain silent." A small breakfast-room adjoined the drawing-room, I slipped in there. It contained a bookcase; I soon possessed myself of a volume, taking care that it should be one stored with pictures. I mounted into the window-seat: gathering up my feet, I sat crosslegged, like a Turk; and, having drawn the red moreen curtain nearly close, I was shrined in double retirement. Folds of scarlet drapery shut in my view to the right hand; to the left were the clear panes of glass, protecting, but not separating me from the drear November day. At intervals, while turning over the leaves in my book, I studied the aspect of that winter afternoon. Afar, it offered a pale blank of mist and cloud; near, a scene of wet lawn and storm-beat shrub, with ceaseless rain sweeping away wildly before a long and lamentable blast. I returned to my book--Bewick's History of British Birds: the letterpress thereof I cared little for, generally speaking; and yet there were certain introductory pages that, child as I was, I could not pass quite as a blank. They were those which treat of the haunts of sea-fowl; of "the solitary rocks and promontories" by them only inhabited; of the coast of Norway, studded with isles from its southern extremity, the Lindeness, or Naze, to the North Cape-- Where the Northern Ocean, in vast whirls, Boils round the naked, melancholy isles Of fa