Chapter-17
Hannah, the maid-servant, was indifferent to Jane. She wanted Jane to leave. Mary and Diana were not interested in the company of Jane Eyre either. They visited the room of Jane once or twice a day. Nevertheless, Hannah washed Jane’s clothes and gave her breakfast daily in the morning. Jane had lived there for four days. Now, she felt stronger and better than she was four days ago. Hannah considered Jane to be a beggar as Jane was poorly dressed right from the day she reached there.
One day, Hannah enquired of Jane about her background. Jane told her that she had been in a boarding school for eight long years. She also added that the want of a house didn’t make her a beggar. Hannah was impressed a lot.
Now, it was Jane’s turn to make enquiries. Hannah said, “Dear Jane! this house is called Moor House by some; others call it Marsh End. St John has a parish of his own at Morton and lives there. Mary and Diana are his two sisters who are employed as governesses. Mr Oliver, St John’s father, lived here earlier. He was a parson. He has died recently. The two sisters visit the house for holidays as they both love their old house. So far as I am concerned, I have lived among these three children since they lost their mother thirty years ago.”
In the meantime, St John along with his two sisters came over there. He said to Jane, “Do you have any friends who can be informed of your presence here?”
Jane replied, “I am without home and friends.” In the afternoon, Jane took her meals and was lost in thoughts. St John was tall and slender. He had deep respect for Jane and wanted to help her in one way or the other. In the evening again, St John accompanied by his two sisters appeared in the chamber of Jane Eyre who welcomed them. Then, St John said to Jane, “Have you ever been married? How old are you?”
Jane replied, “I am near nineteen, but not married as yet.”
“I am an orphan, the daughter of a clergyman. My parents died before I could know them. I was brought up as a dependent, educated in a charitable institution. I will even tell you the name of the establishment where I passed six years as a pupil and turn as a teacher—Lowood Orphan Asylum. The Reverend Robert Brocklehurst is the treasurer. I left Lowood nearly a year ago to become a private governess. I obtained a good situation and was happy. I was obliged to leave this place four days before I came here. The reason of my departure I can’t and ought not to explain. It would be useless, dangerous and would sound incredible. No blame attached to me. I am as free from culpability as any of you three. Miserable I am, and must be for a time, for the catastrophe which drove me from a house I had found a paradise was of a strange and direful nature.”
“I observed but two points in planning my departure—speed and secrecy. To secure these, I had to leave behind me everything I possessed except a small parcel; which, in my hurry and trouble of mind, I forgot to take out of the coach that brought me to Whitcross. To this neighbourhood, then I came quite destitute. I slept two nights in the open air and wandered about two days without crossing a threshold but twice in that space of time did I taste food; and it was when brought by hunger, exhaustion and despair almost to the last gasp, that you, Mr Rivers, forbade me to perish of want at your door, and took me under the shelter of your roof. I know all your sisters have done for me since—for I have not been insensible during my seeming torpor—and I owe to their spontaneous, genuine, genial compassion as large a debt as to your evangelical charity.”
“Don’t make her talk any more now, St John,” said Diana, as Jane paused for a while; “She is evidently not yet fit for excitement. Come to the sofa and sit down now, Miss Elliott.”
Jane gave an involuntary half start at hearing the alias. She had forgotten her new name. Mr. Rivers, whom nothing seemed to escape, noticed it at once.
“You said your name was Jane Elliott,” observed St John.
“I did say so; and it is the name by which I think it expedient to be called at present, but it is not my real name. When I hear it, it sounds strange to me,” said Jane.
“Will you not give your real name?” asked St John.
“No. I fear discovery above all things and whatever disclosure would lead to it, I avoid,” said Jane.
“You are quite right; I am sure,” said Diana,” Now do, brother, let her be at peace a while.”
But when St John had mused a few moments, he recommenced as imperturbably and with as much acumen as ever.
“You would not like to be long dependent on our hospitality—you would wish, I see, to dispense as soon as may be with my sisters’ compassion, and above all with my charity. You desire to be independent of us,” said St John.
“I do. I have already said so. Show me how to work or how to seek work. That is all I now ask. Then let me go if it be but to the meanest cottage. But till then, allow me to stay here. I dread another essay of the horrors of homeless destitution,” said Jane.
“Indeed you shall stay here,” said Diana, putting her white hand on Jane’s head.
“You shall,” repeated Mary, in the tone of undemonstrative sincerity which seemed natural to her.
“My sisters, you see, have a pleasure in keeping you,” said St John, “as they would have a pleasure in keeping and cherishing a half-frozen bird, some wintry wind might have driven through its casement. I feel more inclination to put you in the way of keeping yourself, and shall endeavour to do so. But observe, my sphere is narrow. I am but the incumbent of a poor country parish. My aid must be of the humblest sort. And if you are inclined to despise the day of small things, seek some more efficient succour than such as I can offer,” said St John.
“She has already said that she is willing to do anything honest she can do,” answered Diana for Jane, “and you know, St John, she has no choice of helpers. She is forced to put up with such crusty people as you.”
“I will be a dressmaker. I will be a plain-workwoman; I will be a servant, a nurse-girl, if I can be no better,” Jane answered.
“Right,” said St John, quite coolly, “If such is your spirit, I promise to aid you in my own time and way.”
Then, he resumed the book with which he had been occupied before tea. Jane soon withdrew, for she had talked as much and sat up as long, as her present strength would permit. The more Jane knew of the inmates of Moor House, the better she liked them. In a few days, she had so far recovered her health that she could sit up all day and walk out sometimes. She could join with Diana and Mary in all their occupations; converse with them as much as they wished and aid them when and where they would allow her. There was a reviving pleasure in this intercourse, of a kind now tasted by Jane for the first time—the pleasure arising from perfect congeniality of tastes, sentiments and principles.
Jane liked to read what they liked to read : what they enjoyed, delighted Jane. What they approved, Jane reverenced. They loved their sequestered home. Jane, too, in the grey, small, antique structure, with its low roof, its latticed casements, its mouldering walls, its avenue of aged firs—all grown aslant under the stress of mountain winds; its garden, dark with yew and holly—and where no flowers but of the hardiest species would bloom—found a charm both potent and permanent. They clung to the purple moors behind and around their dwelling—to the hollow vale into which the pebbly bridle-path leading from their gate descended, and which wound between fern-banks first, and then amongst a few of the wildest little pasture—fields that ever bordered a wilderness of heath, or gave sustenance to a flock of grey moorland sheep, with their little mossy-faced lambs. They clung to this scene with a perfect enthusiasm of attachment.
Jane could comprehend the feeling and share both its strength and truth. She saw the fascination of the locality. She felt the consecraton of its loneliness. Her eyes feasted on the outline of swell and sweep—on the wild colouring communicated to ridge and dell by moss, by heath-bell, by flower-sprinkled turf, by brilliant bracken and mellow granite crag. These details were just to Jane what they were to them—so many pure and sweet sources of pleasure. The strong blast and the soft breeze; the rough and the halcyon day; the hours of sunrise and sunset; the moonlight and the clouded night, developed for her, in these regions, the same attraction as for them—would round her faculties the same spell that entranced theirs.
They agreed equally well indoors. They were both more accomplished and better read than Jane was. But with eagerness Jane followed in the path of knowledge they had trodden before her. She devoured the books they lent her. Then, it was full satisfaction to discuss with them in the evening what she had perused during the day. Thought fitted thought; opinion met opinion. They all coincided, in short, perfectly.
If in their trio there was a superior and a leader, it was Diana. Physically, she far excelled Jane. She was excellent; she was vigorous. In her animal spirits there was an affluence of life and certainty of flow, such as excited Jane’s wonder, while it baffled her comprehension. Jane could talk a while when the evening commenced, but the first gust of vivacity and fluency gone, she was fain to sit on a stool at Diana’s feet, to rest her head on her knee and listen alternately to her and Mary while they sounded thoroughly the topic on which Jane had but touched. Diana offered to teach Jane German. Jane liked to learn of her. She saw the part of instructress pleased and suited her; that of scholar pleased and suited her no less. Their natures dovetailed. Mutul affection of the strongest kind was the result. They discovered Jane could draw. Their pencils and colour boxes were immediately at her service. Her skill, greater in this one point than theirs, surprised and charmed them. Mary would sit and watch her by the hour together. Then, she would take lessons. She made a docile, intelligent, assiduous pupil. Thus occupied, and mutually entertained, days passed like hours, and weeks like days.
