“Briggs wrote to me of a Jane Eyre:” he said, “the advertisements demanded a Jane Eyre:I knew a Jane Elliott.—I confess I had my suspicions,but it was only yesterday afternoon they were at once resolved into certainty.You own the name and renounce the _alias_?”
“Yes—yes; but where is Mr. Briggs?He perhaps knows more of Mr. Rochester than you do.”
“Briggs is in London. I should doubt his knowing anything at all about Mr. Rochester;it is not in Mr. Rochester he is interested. Meantime,you forget essential points in pursuing trifles: you do not inquire why Mr.Briggs sought after you—what he wanted with you.”
“Well, what did he want?”
“Merely to tell you that your uncle, Mr. Eyre of Madeira, is dead;that he has left you all his property, and that you are now rich—merely that—nothing more.”
“I!—rich?”
“Yes, you, rich—quite an heiress.”
Silence succeeded.
“You must prove your identity of course,” resumed St. John presently:“a step which will offer no difficulties; you can then enter on immediate possession.Your fortune is vested in the English funds; Briggs has the will and the necessary documents.”
Here was a new card turned up!It is a fine thing, reader, to be lifted in a moment from indigence to wealth—a very fine thing;but not a matter one can comprehend, or consequently enjoy, all at once.And then there are other chances in life far more thrilling and rapture-giving: _this_ is solid,an affair of the actual world, nothing ideal about it: all its associations are solid and sober,and its manifestations are the same. One does not jump, and spring, and shout hurrah!at hearing one has got a fortune; one begins to consider responsibilities, and to ponder business;on a base of steady satisfaction rise certain grave cares, and we contain ourselves,and brood over our bliss with a solemn brow.
Besides, the words Legacy, Bequest, go side by side with the words, Death, Funeral.My uncle I had heard was dead—my only relative; ever since being made aware of his existence,I had cherished the hope of one day seeing him: now, I never should.And then this money came only to me: not to me and a rejoicing family, but to my isolated self.It was a grand boon doubtless; and independence would be glorious—yes,I felt that—_that_ thought swelled my heart.
“You unbend your forehead at last,” said Mr. Rivers. “I thought Medusa had looked at you,and that you were turning to stone. Perhaps now you will ask how much you are worth?”
“How much am I worth?”
“Oh, a trifle!Nothing of course to speak of—twenty thousand pounds, I think they say—but what is that?”
“Twenty thousand pounds?”
Here was a new stunner—I had been calculating on four or five thousand.This news actually took my breath for a moment: Mr. St. John, whom I had never heard laugh before, laughed now.
“Well,” said he, “if you had committed a murder, and I had told you your crime was discovered, you could scarcely look more aghast.”
“It is a large sum—don’t you think there is a mistake?”
“No mistake at all.”
“Perhaps you have read the figures wrong—it may be two thousand!”
“It is written in letters, not figures,—twenty thousand.”
I again felt rather like an individual of but average gastronomical powers sitting down to feast alone at a table spread with provisions for a hundred.Mr. Rivers rose now and put his cloak on.
“If it were not such a very wild night,” he said, “I would send Hannah down to keep you company:you look too desperately miserable to be left alone. But Hannah, poor woman!could not stride the drifts so well as I: her legs are not quite so long:so I must e’en leave you to your sorrows. Good-night.”
He was lifting the latch: a sudden thought occurred to me.
“Stop one minute!” I cried.
“Well?”
“It puzzles me to know why Mr. Briggs wrote to you about me; or how he knew you,or could fancy that you, living in such an out-of-the-way place, had the power to aid in my discovery.”
“Oh!I am a clergyman,” he said; “and the clergy are often appealed to about odd matters. ” Again the latch rattled.
“No; that does not satisfy me!” I exclaimed: and indeed there was something in the hasty and unexplanatory reply which,instead of allaying, piqued my curiosity more than ever.
“It is a very strange piece of business,” I added; “I must know more about it.”
“Another time.”
“No; to-night!—to-night!” and as he turned from the door, I placed myself between it and him. He looked rather embarrassed.
“You certainly shall not go till you have told me all,” I said.
“I would rather not just now.”
“You shall!—you must!”
“I would rather Diana or Mary informed you.”
Of course these objections wrought my eagerness to a climax: gratified it must be,and that without delay; and I told him so.
“But I apprised you that I was a hard man,” said he, “difficult to persuade.”
“And I am a hard woman,—impossible to put off.”
And I am a hard woman,—impossible to put off
“And then,” he pursued, “I am cold: no fervour infects me.”
“Whereas I am hot, and fire dissolves ice. The blaze there has thawed all the snow from your cloak;by the same token, it has streamed on to my floor, and made it like a trampled street.As you hope ever to be forgiven, Mr. Rivers,the high crime and misdemeanour of spoiling a sanded kitchen, tell me what I wish to know.”
“Well, then,” he said, “I yield; if not to your earnestness, to your perseverance:as stone is worn by continual dropping. Besides, you must know some day,—as well now as later. Your name is Jane Eyre?”
“Of course: that was all settled before.”
“You are not, perhaps, aware that I am your namesake?—that I was christened St. John Eyre Rivers?”
“No, indeed!I remember now seeing the letter E. comprised in your initials written in books you have at different times lent me;but I never asked for what name it stood. But what then?Surely—”
I stopped: I could not trust myself to entertain, much less to express,the thought that rushed upon me—that embodied itself,—that, in a second, stood out a strong,solid probability. Circumstances knit themselves, fitted themselves, shot into order:the chain that had been lying hitherto a formless lump of links was drawn out straight,—every ring was perfect, the connection complete. I knew, by instinct, how the matter stood,before St. John had said another word; but I cannot expect the reader to have the same intuitive perception, so I must repeat his explanation.
“My mother’s name was Eyre; she had two brothers; one a clergyman, who married Miss Jane Reed,of Gateshead; the other, John Eyre, Esq., merchant, late of Funchal, Madeira. Mr. Briggs, being Mr.Eyre’s solicitor, wrote to us last August to inform us of our uncle’s death,and to say that he had left his property to his brother the clergyman’s orphan daughter,overlooking us, in consequence of a quarrel, never forgiven, between him and my father.He wrote again a few weeks since, to intimate that the heiress was lost,and asking if we knew anything of her. A name casually written on a slip of paper has enabled me to find her out.You know the rest.” Again he was going, but I set my back against the door.
“Do let me speak,” I said; “let me have one moment to draw breath and reflect.” I paused—he stood before me, hat in hand, looking composed enough. I resumed—
“Your mother was my father’s sister?”
“Yes.”
“My aunt, consequently?”
He bowed.
“My uncle John was your uncle John?You, Diana, and Mary are his sister’s children, as I am his brother’s child?”
“Undeniably.”
“You three, then, are my cousins; half our blood on each side flows from the same source?”
“We are cousins; yes.”
I surveyed him. It seemed I had found a brother: one I could be proud of,—one I could love;and two sisters, whose qualities were such, that, when I knew them but as mere strangers,they had inspired me with genuine affection and admiration. The two girls, on whom,kneeling down on the wet ground, and looking through the low,latticed window of Moor House kitchen, I had gazed with so bitter a mixture of interest and despair,were my near kinswomen; and the young and stately gentleman who had found me almost dying at his threshold was my blood relation. Glorious discovery to a lonely wretch!This was wealth indeed!—wealth to the heart!—a mine of pure, genial affections. This was a blessing, bright, vivid, and exhilarating;—not like the ponderous gift of gold: rich and welcome enough in its way,but sobering from its weight. I now clapped my hands in sudden joy—my pulse bounded, my veins thrilled.
“Oh, I am glad!—I am glad!” I exclaimed.
St. John smiled. “Did I not say you neglected essential points to pursue trifles?” he asked. “You were serious when I told you you had got a fortune; and now,for a matter of no moment, you are excited.”
“What _can_ you mean?It may be of no moment to you; you have sisters and don’t care for a cousin; but I had nobody;and now three relations,—or two, if you don’t choose to be counted,—are born into my world full-grown. I say again, I am glad!”
I walked fast through the room: I stopped,half suffocated with the thoughts that rose faster than I could receive, comprehend, settle them:—thoughts of what might, could, would, and should be, and that ere long. I looked at the blank wall:it seemed a sky thick with ascending stars,—every one lit me to a purpose or delight.Those who had saved my life, whom, till this hour, I had loved barrenly, I could now benefit.They were under a yoke,—I could free them: they were scattered,—I could reunite them:the independence, the affluence which was mine, might be theirs too. Were we not four?Twenty thousand pounds shared equally would be five thousand each, justice—enough and to spare:justice would be done,—mutual happiness secured. Now the wealth did not weigh on me:now it was not a mere bequest of coin,—it was a legacy of life, hope, enjoyment.
How I looked while these ideas were taking my spirit by storm, I cannot tell;but I perceived soon that Mr. Rivers had placed a chair behind me,and was gently attempting to make me sit down on it. He also advised me to be composed;I scorned the insinuation of helplessness and distraction, shook off his hand, and began to walk about again.
“Write to Diana and Mary to-morrow,” I said, “and tell them to come home directly.Diana said they would both consider themselves rich with a thousand pounds,so with five thousand they will do very well.”
“Tell me where I can get you a glass of water,” said St. John;“you must really make an effort to tranquillise your feelings.”
“Nonsense!and what sort of an effect will the bequest have on you?Will it keep you in England, induce you to marry Miss Oliver,and settle down like an ordinary mortal?”
“You wander: your head becomes confused. I have been too abrupt in communicating the news;it has excited you beyond your strength.”
“Mr. Rivers!you quite put me out of patience: I am rational enough; it is you who misunderstand, or rather who affect to misunderstand.”
“Perhaps, if you explained yourself a little more fully, I should comprehend better.”
“Explain!What is there to explain?You cannot fail to see that twenty thousand pounds, the sum in question,divided equally between the nephew and three nieces of our uncle, will give five thousand to each?What I want is, that you should write to your sisters and tell them of the fortune that has accrued to them. ”
“To you, you mean.”
“I have intimated my view of the case: I am incapable of taking any other.I am not brutally selfish, blindly unjust, or fiendishly ungrateful. Besides,I am resolved I will have a home and connections. I like Moor House, and I will live at Moor House;I like Diana and Mary, and I will attach myself for life to Diana and Mary.It would please and benefit me to have five thousand pounds;it would torment and oppress me to have twenty thousand; which, moreover,could never be mine in justice, though it might in law. I abandon to you, then,what is absolutely superfluous to me. Let there be no opposition, and no discussion about it;let us agree amongst each other, and decide the point at once.”
“This is acting on first impulses; you must take days to consider such a matter,ere your word can be regarded as valid.”
“Oh!if all you doubt is my sincerity, I am easy: you see the justice of the case?”
“I _do_ see a certain justice; but it is contrary to all custom. Besides,the entire fortune is your right: my uncle gained it by his own efforts;he was free to leave it to whom he would: he left it to you. After all,justice permits you to keep it: you may, with a clear conscience, consider it absolutely your own.”
“With me,” said I, “it is fully as much a matter of feeling as of conscience:I must indulge my feelings; I so seldom have had an opportunity of doing so. Were you to argue,object, and annoy me for a year, I could not forego the delicious pleasure of which I have caught a glimpse—that of repaying,in part, a mighty obligation, and winning to myself lifelong friends.”
“You think so now,” rejoined St. John, “because you do not know what it is to possess,nor consequently to enjoy wealth: you cannot form a notion of the importance twenty thousand pounds would give you;of the place it would enable you to take in society; of the prospects it would open to you: you cannot—”
“And you,” I interrupted, “cannot at all imagine the craving I have for fraternal and sisterly love.I never had a home, I never had brothers or sisters; I must and will have them now:you are not reluctant to admit me and own me, are you?”
“Jane, I will be your brother—my sisters will be your sisters—without stipulating for this sacrifice of your just rights. ”
“Brother?Yes; at the distance of a thousand leagues!Sisters?Yes; slaving amongst strangers!I, wealthy—gorged with gold I never earned and do not merit!You, penniless!Famous equality and fraternisation!Close union!Intimate attachment!”
“But, Jane, your aspirations after family ties and domestic happiness may be realised otherwise than by the means you contemplate: you may marry.”
“Nonsense, again!Marry!I don’t want to marry, and never shall marry.”
“That is saying too much: such hazardous affirmations are a proof of the excitement under which you labour. ”
“It is not saying too much: I know what I feel,and how averse are my inclinations to the bare thought of marriage. No one would take me for love;and I will not be regarded in the light of a mere money speculation.And I do not want a stranger—unsympathising, alien, different from me; I want my kindred:those with whom I have full fellow-feeling. Say again you will be my brother:when you uttered the words I was satisfied, happy; repeat them, if you can, repeat them sincerely.”
“I think I can. I know I have always loved my own sisters;and I know on what my affection for them is grounded,—respect for their worth and admiration of their talents. You too have principle and mind:your tastes and habits resemble Diana’s and Mary’s; your presence is always agreeable to me;in your conversation I have already for some time found a salutary solace.I feel I can easily and naturally make room in my heart for you, as my third and youngest sister.”
“Thank you: that contents me for to-night. Now you had better go; for if you stay longer,you will perhaps irritate me afresh by some mistrustful scruple.”
“And the school, Miss Eyre?It must now be shut up, I suppose?”
“No. I will retain my post of mistress till you get a substitute.”
He smiled approbation: we shook hands, and he took leave.
I need not narrate in detail the further struggles I had, and arguments I used,to get matters regarding the legacy settled as I wished. My task was a very hard one; but,as I was absolutely resolved—as my cousins saw at length that my mind was really and immutably fixed on making a just division of the property—as they must in their own hearts have felt the equity of the intention; and must, besides, have been innately conscious that in my place they would have done precisely what I wished to do—they yielded at length so far as to consent to put the affair to arbitration. The judges chosen were Mr. Oliver and an able lawyer: both coincided in my opinion: I carried my point. The instruments of transfer were drawn out: St. John, Diana, Mary, and I, each became possessed of a competency.
CHAPTER XXXIV
It was near Christmas by the time all was settled: the season of general holiday approached.I now closed Morton school, taking care that the parting should not be barren on my side.Good fortune opens the hand as well as the heart wonderfully;and to give somewhat when we have largely received,is but to afford a vent to the unusual ebullition of the sensations.I had long felt with pleasure that many of my rustic scholars liked me, and when we parted,that consciousness was confirmed: they manifested their affection plainly and strongly.Deep was my gratification to find I had really a place in their unsophisticated hearts:I promised them that never a week should pass in future that I did not visit them,and give them an hour’s teaching in their school.
Mr. Rivers came up as, having seen the classes, now numbering sixty girls, file out before me,and locked the door, I stood with the key in my hand,exchanging a few words of special farewell with some half-dozen of my best scholars: as decent,respectable, modest, and well-informed young women as could be found in the ranks of the British peasantry.And that is saying a great deal; for after all, the British peasantry are the best taught,best mannered, most self-respecting of any in Europe:since those days I have seen paysannes and Bäuerinnen; and the best of them seemed to me ignorant,coarse, and besotted, compared with my Morton girls.
“Do you consider you have got your reward for a season of exertion?” asked Mr. Rivers, when they were gone.“Does not the consciousness of having done some real good in your day and generation give pleasure?”
“Doubtless.”
“And you have only toiled a few months!Would not a life devoted to the task of regenerating your race be well spent?”
“Yes,” I said; “but I could not go on for ever so:I want to enjoy my own faculties as well as to cultivate those of other people.I must enjoy them now; don’t recall either my mind or body to the school;I am out of it and disposed for full holiday.”
He looked grave. “What now?What sudden eagerness is this you evince?What are you going to do?”
“To be active: as active as I can. And first I must beg you to set Hannah at liberty, and get somebody else to wait on you.”
“Do you want her?”
“Yes, to go with me to Moor House. Diana and Mary will be at home in a week,and I want to have everything in order against their arrival.”
“I understand. I thought you were for flying off on some excursion. It is better so: Hannah shall go with you.”
“Tell her to be ready by to-morrow then; and here is the schoolroom key:I will give you the key of my cottage in the morning.”
He took it. “You give it up very gleefully,” said he;“I don’t quite understand your light-heartedness,because I cannot tell what employment you propose to yourself as a substitute for the one you are relinquishing.What aim, what purpose, what ambition in life have you now?”
“My first aim will be to _clean down_ (do you comprehend the full force of the expression?)—to _clean down_ Moor House from chamber to cellar; my next to rub it up with bees-wax, oil,and an indefinite number of cloths, till it glitters again; my third, to arrange every chair,table, bed, carpet, with mathematical precision;afterwards I shall go near to ruin you in coals and peat to keep up good fires in every room;and lastly, the two days preceding that on which your sisters are expected will be devoted by Hannah and me to such a beating of eggs,sorting of currants, grating of spices, compounding of Christmas cakes,chopping up of materials for mince-pies, and solemnising of other culinary rites,as words can convey but an inadequate notion of to the uninitiated like you. My purpose, in short,is to have all things in an absolutely perfect state of readiness for Diana and Mary before next Thursday;and my ambition is to give them a beau-ideal of a welcome when they come.”
St. John smiled slightly: still he was dissatisfied.
“It is all very well for the present,” said he; “but seriously,I trust that when the first flush of vivacity is over,you will look a little higher than domestic endearments and household joys.”
“The best things the world has!” I interrupted.
“No, Jane, no: this world is not the scene of fruition; do not attempt to make it so: nor of rest; do not turn slothful.”
“I mean, on the contrary, to be busy.”
“Jane, I excuse you for the present: two months’ grace I allow you for the full enjoyment of your new position,and for pleasing yourself with this late-found charm of relationship; but _then_,I hope you will begin to look beyond Moor House and Morton, and sisterly society,and the selfish calm and sensual comfort of civilised affluence.I hope your energies will then once more trouble you with their strength.”
I looked at him with surprise. “St. John,” I said, “I think you are almost wicked to talk so.I am disposed to be as content as a queen, and you try to stir me up to restlessness!To what end?”
“To the end of turning to profit the talents which God has committed to your keeping;and of which He will surely one day demand a strict account. Jane,I shall watch you closely and anxiously—I warn you of that.And try to restrain the disproportionate fervour with which you throw yourself into commonplace home pleasures.Don’t cling so tenaciously to ties of the flesh;save your constancy and ardour for an adequate cause;forbear to waste them on trite transient objects. Do you hear, Jane?”
“Yes; just as if you were speaking Greek. I feel I have adequate cause to be happy, and I _will_ be happy. Goodbye!”
Happy at Moor House I was, and hard I worked; and so did Hannah:she was charmed to see how jovial I could be amidst the bustle of a house turned topsy-turvy—how I could brush,and dust, and clean, and cook. And really, after a day or two of confusion worse confounded,it was delightful by degrees to invoke order from the chaos ourselves had made.I had previously taken a journey to S—— to purchase some new furniture:my cousins having given me _carte blanche_ to effect what alterations I pleased,and a sum having been set aside for that purpose.The ordinary sitting-room and bedrooms I left much as they were:for I knew Diana and Mary would derive more pleasure from seeing again the old homely tables,and chairs, and beds, than from the spectacle of the smartest innovations.Still some novelty was necessary, to give to their return the piquancy with which I wished it to be invested.Dark handsome new carpets and curtains,an arrangement of some carefully selected antique ornaments in porcelain and bronze, new coverings,and mirrors, and dressing-cases, for the toilet tables, answered the end:they looked fresh without being glaring. A spare parlour and bedroom I refurnished entirely,with old mahogany and crimson upholstery: I laid canvas on the passage, and carpets on the stairs.When all was finished, I thought Moor House as complete a model of bright modest snugness within,as it was, at this season, a specimen of wintry waste and desert dreariness without.
The eventful Thursday at length came. They were expected about dark,and ere dusk fires were lit upstairs and below; the kitchen was in perfect trim;Hannah and I were dressed, and all was in readiness.
St. John arrived first. I had entreated him to keep quite clear of the house till everything was arranged:and, indeed, the bare idea of the commotion, at once sordid and trivial,going on within its walls sufficed to scare him to estrangement. He found me in the kitchen,watching the progress of certain cakes for tea, then baking. Approaching the hearth, he asked,“If I was at last satisfied with housemaid’s work?” I answered by inviting him to accompany me on a general inspection of the result of my labours.With some difficulty, I got him to make the tour of the house.He just looked in at the doors I opened; and when he had wandered upstairs and downstairs,he said I must have gone through a great deal of fatigue and trouble to have effected such considerable changes in so short a time:but not a syllable did he utter indicating pleasure in the improved aspect of his abode.
This silence damped me. I thought perhaps the alterations had disturbed some old associations he valued.I inquired whether this was the case: no doubt in a somewhat crest-fallen tone.
“Not at all; he had, on the contrary, remarked that I had scrupulously respected every association:he feared, indeed, I must have bestowed more thought on the matter than it was worth.How many minutes, for instance, had I devoted to studying the arrangement of this very room?—By-the-bye, could I tell him where such a book was?”
I showed him the volume on the shelf: he took it down,and withdrawing to his accustomed window recess, he began to read it.
Now, I did not like this, reader. St. John was a good man;but I began to feel he had spoken truth of himself when he said he was hard and cold.The humanities and amenities of life had no attraction for him—its peaceful enjoyments no charm.Literally, he lived only to aspire—after what was good and great, certainly;but still he would never rest, nor approve of others resting round him.As I looked at his lofty forehead, still and pale as a white stone—at his fine lineaments fixed in study—I comprehended all at once that he would hardly make a good husband: that it would be a trying thing to be his wife. I understood, as by inspiration, the nature of his love for Miss Oliver; I agreed with him that it was but a love of the senses. I comprehended how he should despise himself for the feverish influence it exercised over him; how he should wish to stifle and destroy it; how he should mistrust its ever conducting permanently to his happiness or hers. I saw he was of the material from which nature hews her heroes—Christian and Pagan—her lawgivers, her statesmen, her conquerors: a steadfast bulwark for great interests to rest upon; but, at the fireside, too often a cold cumbrous column, gloomy and out of place.
“This parlour is not his sphere,” I reflected: “the Himalayan ridge or Caffre bush,even the plague-cursed Guinea Coast swamp would suit him better.Well may he eschew the calm of domestic life; it is not his element:there his faculties stagnate—they cannot develop or appear to advantage.It is in scenes of strife and danger—where courage is proved, and energy exercised,and fortitude tasked—that he will speak and move, the leader and superior.A merry child would have the advantage of him on this hearth.He is right to choose a missionary’s career—I see it now.”
“They are coming!they are coming!” cried Hannah, throwing open the parlour door. At the same moment old Carlo barked joyfully.Out I ran. It was now dark; but a rumbling of wheels was audible. Hannah soon had a lantern lit.The vehicle had stopped at the wicket; the driver opened the door: first one well-known form,then another, stepped out. In a minute I had my face under their bonnets,in contact first with Mary’s soft cheek, then with Diana’s flowing curls.They laughed—kissed me—then Hannah: patted Carlo, who was half wild with delight;asked eagerly if all was well; and being assured in the affirmative, hastened into the house.
They were stiff with their long and jolting drive from Whitcross,and chilled with the frosty night air; but their pleasant countenances expanded to the cheerful firelight.While the driver and Hannah brought in the boxes, they demanded St. John.At this moment he advanced from the parlour. They both threw their arms round his neck at once.He gave each one quiet kiss, said in a low tone a few words of welcome,stood a while to be talked to, and then,intimating that he supposed they would soon rejoin him in the parlour, withdrew there as to a place of refuge.
I had lit their candles to go upstairs, but Diana had first to give hospitable orders respecting the driver;this done, both followed me. They were delighted with the renovation and decorations of their rooms;with the new drapery, and fresh carpets, and rich tinted china vases:they expressed their gratification ungrudgingly.I had the pleasure of feeling that my arrangements met their wishes exactly,and that what I had done added a vivid charm to their joyous return home.
Sweet was that evening. My cousins, full of exhilaration, were so eloquent in narrative and comment,that their fluency covered St. John’s taciturnity: he was sincerely glad to see his sisters;but in their glow of fervour and flow of joy he could not sympathise. The event of the day—that is,the return of Diana and Mary—pleased him; but the accompaniments of that event, the glad tumult,the garrulous glee of reception irked him: I saw he wished the calmer morrow was come.In the very meridian of the night’s enjoyment, about an hour after tea,a rap was heard at the door. Hannah entered with the intimation that “a poor lad was come,at that unlikely time, to fetch Mr. Rivers to see his mother, who was drawing away.”
“Where does she live, Hannah?”
“Clear up at Whitcross Brow, almost four miles off, and moor and moss all the way.”
“Tell him I will go.”
“I’m sure, sir, you had better not. It’s the worst road to travel after dark that can be:there’s no track at all over the bog. And then it is such a bitter night—the keenest wind you ever felt.You had better send word, sir, that you will be there in the morning.”