Jane Eyre: An Autobiography
“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.”