“Just tell me this,” said I, “and since you know so much, you surely can tell it me—what of Mr. Rochester? How and where is he? What is he doing? Is he well?”
“I am ignorant of all concerning Mr. Rochester; the letter never mentions him but to narrate the fraudulent and illegal attempt I have adverted to. You should rather ask the name of the governess—the nature of the event which requires her appearance.”
“Did no one go to Thornfield Hall, then? Did no one see Mr. Rochester?”
“I suppose not.”
“But they wrote to him?”
“Of course.”
“And what did he say? Who has his letters?”
“Mr. Briggs intimates that the answer to his application was not from Mr. Rochester, but from a lady; it is signed ‘Alice Fairfax.’ ”
I felt cold and dismayed; my worst fears, then, were probably true; he had in all probability left England and rushed in reckless desperation to some former haunt on the continent. And what opiate for his severe sufferings—what object for his strong passions—had he sought there? I dared not answer the question. Oh, my poor master—once almost my husband—whom I had often called “my dear Edward”!
“He must have been a bad man,” observed Mr. Rivers.
“You don’t know him—don’t pronounce an opinion upon him,” I said with warmth.
“Very well,” he answered, quietly; “and, indeed, my head is otherwise occupied than with him; I have my tale to finish. Since you won’t ask the governess’ name, I must tell it of my own accord—stay—I have it here—it is always more satisfactory to see important points written down, fairly committed to black and white.”
And the pocket-book was again deliberately produced, opened, sought through; from one of its compartments was extracted a shabby slip of paper, hastily torn off; I recognized in its texture, and its stains of ultra-marine, and lake, and vermilion, the ravished margin of the portrait-cover. He got up, held it close to my eyes; and I read, traced in Indian ink, in my own handwriting, the words “JANE EYRE”—the work, doubtless, of some moment of abstraction.
“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 2,000?”
“It is written in letters, not figures—twenty thousand.”
I again felt rather like an individual of but average gastronom ical 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 apprized you that I was a hard man,” said he, “difficult to persuade.”
“And I am a hard woman—impossible to put off.”
“And then,” he pursued, “I am cold; no fervor 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 misdemeanor 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?”
“N
o, 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 lighted 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—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 tranquillize 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 among 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 life-long 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 and 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 among strangers! I, wealthy—gorged with gold I nev
er earned and do not merit! You, penniless! Famous equality and fraternization! Close union! Intimate attachment!”
“But, Jane, your aspirations after family ties and domestic happiness may be realized 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 labor.”
“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—unsympathizing, 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.
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