Jane Eyre

by Charlotte Bronte

  Meantime a month was gone. Diana and Mary were soon to leave Moor House, and return to the far different life and scene which awaited them, as governesses in a large, fashionable, south-of-England city, where each held a situation in families by whose wealthy and haughty members they were regarded only as humble dependants, and who neither knew nor sought out their innate excellences, and appreciated only their acquired accomplishments as they appreciated the skill of their cook or the taste of their waiting-woman. Mr St. John had said nothing to me yet about the employment he had promised to obtain for me, yet it became urgent that I should have a vocation of some kind. One morning, being left alone with him a few minutes in the parlour, I ventured to approach the window-recess—which his table, chair, and desk consecrated as a kind of study—and I was going to speak, though not very well knowing in what words to frame my inquiry—for it is at all times difficult to break the ice of reserve glassing over such natures as his—when he saved me the trouble by being the first to commence a dialogue.

  Looking up as I drew near—“You have a question to ask of me?” he said.

  “Yes. I wish to know whether you have heard of any service I can offer myself to undertake?”

  “I found or devised something for you three weeks ago, but as you seemed both useful and happy here—as my sisters had evidently become attached to you, and your society gave them unusual pleasure—I deemed it inexpedient to break in on your mutual comfort till their approaching departure from Marsh End should render yours necessary.”

  “And they will go in three days now?” I said.

  “Yes and when they go, I shall return to the parsonage at Morton, Hannah will accompany me and this old house will be shut up.”

  I waited a few moments, expecting he would go on with the subject first broached, but he seemed to have entered another train of reflection. His look denoted abstraction from me and my business. I was obliged to recall him to a theme which was of necessity one of close and anxious interest to me.

  “What is the employment you had in view, Mr Rivers? I hope this delay will not have increased the difficulty of securing it.”

  “Oh, no, since it is an employment which depends only on me to give, and you to accept.”

  He again paused. There seemed a reluctance to continue. I grew impatient, a restless movement or two, and an eager and exacting glance fastened on his face, conveyed the feeling to him as effectually as words could have done, and with less trouble.

  “You need be in no hurry to hear,” he said, “let me frankly tell you, I have nothing eligible or profitable to suggest. Before I explain, recall, if you please, my notice, clearly given, that if I helped you, it must be as the blind man would help the lame. I am poor; for I find that, when I have paid my father’s debts, all the patrimony remaining to me will be this crumbling grange, the row of scathed firs behind, and the patch of moorish soil, with the yew-trees and holly-bushes in front. I am obscure, Rivers is an old name, but of the three sole descendants of the race, two earn the dependant’s crust among strangers, and the third considers himself an alien from his native country—not only for life, but in death. Yes, and deems, and is bound to deem, himself honoured by the lot, and aspires but after the day when the cross of separation from fleshly ties shall be laid on his shoulders, and when the Head of that church-militant of whose humblest members he is one, shall give the word, ‘Rise, follow Me!’”

  St. John said these words as he pronounced his sermons, with a quiet, deep voice; with an unflushed cheek, and a coruscating radiance of glance. He resumed, “And since I am myself poor and obscure, I can offer you but a service of poverty and obscurity. You may even think it degrading—for I see now your habits have been what the world calls refined, your tastes lean to the ideal, and your society has at least been amongst the educated, but I consider that no service degrades which can better our race. I hold that the more arid and unreclaimed the soil where the Christian labourer’s task of tillage is appointed him—the scantier the meed his toil brings—the higher the honour. His, under such circumstances, is the destiny of the pioneer and the first pioneers of the Gospel were the Apostles—their captain was Jesus, the Redeemer, Himself.”

  “Well?” I said, as he again paused—“proceed.”

  He looked at me before he proceeded, indeed, he seemed leisurely to read my face, as if its features and lines were characters on a page. The conclusions drawn from this scrutiny he partially expressed in his succeeding observations.

  “I believe you will accept the post I offer you,” said he, “and hold it for a while, not permanently, though, any more than I could permanently keep the narrow and narrowing—the tranquil, hidden office of English country incumbent, for in your nature is an alloy as detrimental to repose as that in mine, though of a different kind.”

  “Do explain,” I urged, when he halted once more.

  “I will and you shall hear how poor the proposal is—how trivial—how cramping. I shall not stay long at Morton, now that my father is dead, and that I am my own master. I shall leave the place probably in the course of a twelve-month, but while I do stay, I will exert myself to the utmost for its improvement. Morton, when I came to it two years ago, had no school, the children of the poor were excluded from every hope of progress. I established one for boys, I mean now to open a second school for girls. I have hired a building for the purpose, with a cottage of two rooms attached to it for the mistress’s house. Her salary will be thirty pounds a year, her house is already furnished, very simply, but sufficiently, by the kindness of a lady, Miss Oliver—the only daughter of the sole rich man in my parish—Mr Oliver, the proprietor of a needle-factory and iron-foundry in the valley. The same lady pays for the education and clothing of an orphan from the workhouse, on condition that she shall aid the mistress in such menial offices connected with her own house and the school as her occupation of teaching will prevent her having time to discharge in person. Will you be this mistress?”

  He put the question rather hurriedly, he seemed half to expect an indignant, or at least a disdainful rejection of the offer. Not knowing all my thoughts and feelings, though guessing some, he could not tell in what light the lot would appear to me. In truth it was humble—but then it was sheltered, and I wanted a safe asylum. It was plodding—but then, compared with that of a governess in a rich house, it was independent and the fear of servitude with strangers entered my soul like iron, it was not ignoble—not unworthy—not mentally degrading, I made my decision.

  “I thank you for the proposal, Mr Rivers, and I accept it with all my heart.”

  “But you comprehend me?” he said. “It is a village school. Your scholars will be only poor girls—cottagers’ children—at the best, farmers’ daughters. Knitting, sewing, reading, writing, ciphering, will be all you will have to teach. What will you do with your accomplishments? What, with the largest portion of your mind—sentiments—tastes?”

  “Save them till they are wanted. They will keep.”

  “You know what you undertake, then?”

  “I do.”

  He now smiled, and not a bitter or a sad smile, but one well pleased and deeply gratified.

  “And when will you commence the exercise of your function?”

  “I will go to my house tomorrow, and open the school, if you like, next week.”

  “Very well, so be it.”

  He rose and walked through the room. Standing still, he again looked at me. He shook his head.

  “What do you disapprove of, Mr Rivers?” I asked.

  “You will not stay at Morton long, no, no!”

  “Why? What is your reason for saying so?”

  “I read it in your eye. It is not of that description which promises the maintenance of an even tenor in life.”

  “I am not ambitious.”

  He started at the word “ambitious.” He repeated, “No. What made you think of ambition? Who is ambitious? I know I am, but how did you find it out?”

  “I was speakin
g of myself.”

  “Well, if you are not ambitious, you are—” He paused.

  “What?”

  “I was going to say, impassioned, but perhaps you would have misunderstood the word, and been displeased. I mean, that human affections and sympathies have a most powerful hold on you. I am sure you cannot long be content to pass your leisure in solitude, and to devote your working hours to a monotonous labour wholly void of stimulus, any more than I can be content,” he added, with emphasis, “to live here buried in morass, pent in with mountains—my nature, that God gave me, contravened; my faculties, heaven-bestowed, paralysed—made useless. You hear now how I contradict myself. I, who preached contentment with a humble lot, and justified the vocation even of hewers of wood and drawers of water in God’s service—I, His ordained minister, almost rave in my restlessness. Well, propensities and principles must be reconciled by some means.”

  He left the room. In this brief hour I had learnt more of him than in the whole previous month, yet still he puzzled me.

  Diana and Mary Rivers became more sad and silent as the day approached for leaving their brother and their home. They both tried to appear as usual, but the sorrow they had to struggle against was one that could not be entirely conquered or concealed. Diana intimated that this would be a different parting from any they had ever yet known. It would probably, as far as St. John was concerned, be a parting for years, it might be a parting for life.

  “He will sacrifice all to his long-framed resolves,” she said, “natural affection and feelings more potent still. St. John looks quiet, Jane, but he hides a fever in his vitals. You would think him gentle, yet in some things he is inexorable as death and the worst of it is, my conscience will hardly permit me to dissuade him from his severe decision, certainly, I cannot for a moment blame him for it. It is right, noble, Christian, yet it breaks my heart!” And the tears gushed to her fine eyes. Mary bent her head low over her work.

  “We are now without father, we shall soon be without home and brother,” she murmured.

  At that moment a little accident supervened, which seemed decreed by fate purposely to prove the truth of the adage, that ‘misfortunes never come singly’, and to add to their distresses the vexing one of the slip between the cup and the lip. St. John passed the window reading a letter. He entered.

  “Our uncle John is dead,” said he.

  Both the sisters seemed struck, not shocked or appalled. The tidings appeared in their eyes rather momentous than afflicting.

  “Dead?” repeated Diana.

  “Yes.”

  She riveted a searching gaze on her brother’s face. “And what then?” she demanded, in a low voice.

  “What then, Die?” he replied, maintaining a marble immobility of feature. “What then? Why—nothing. Read.”

  He threw the letter into her lap. She glanced over it, and handed it to Mary. Mary perused it in silence, and returned it to her brother. All three looked at each other, and all three smiled—a dreary, pensive smile enough.

  “Amen! We can yet live,” said Diana at last.

  “At any rate, it makes us no worse off than we were before,” remarked Mary.

  “Only it forces rather strongly on the mind the picture of what might have been,” said Mr Rivers, “and contrasts it somewhat too vividly with what is.”

  He folded the letter, locked it in his desk, and again went out.

  For some minutes no one spoke. Diana then turned to me.

  “Jane, you will wonder at us and our mysteries,” she said, “and think us hard-hearted beings not to be more moved at the death of so near a relation as an uncle, but we have never seen him or known him. He was my mother’s brother. My father and he quarrelled long ago. It was by his advice that my father risked most of his property in the speculation that ruined him. Mutual recrimination passed between them, they parted in anger, and were never reconciled. My uncle engaged afterwards in more prosperous undertakings. It appears he realised a fortune of twenty thousand pounds. He was never married, and had no near kindred but ourselves and one other person, not more closely related than we. My father always cherished the idea that he would atone for his error by leaving his possessions to us; that letter informs us that he has bequeathed every penny to the other relation, with the exception of thirty guineas, to be divided between St. John, Diana, and Mary Rivers, for the purchase of three mourning rings. He had a right, of course, to do as he pleased, and yet a momentary damp is cast on the spirits by the receipt of such news. Mary and I would have esteemed ourselves rich with a thousand pounds each and to St. John such a sum would have been valuable, for the good it would have enabled him to do.”

  This explanation given, the subject was dropped, and no further reference made to it by either Mr Rivers or his sisters. The next day I left Marsh End for Morton. The day after, Diana and Mary quitted it for distant B-. In a week, Mr Rivers and Hannah repaired to the parsonage, and so the old grange was abandoned.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  My home, then, when I at last find a home—is a cottage; a little room with whitewashed walls and a sanded floor, containing four painted chairs and a table, a clock, a cupboard, with two or three plates and dishes, and a set of tea-things in delf. Above, a chamber of the same dimensions as the kitchen, with a deal bedstead and chest of drawers; small, yet too large to be filled with my scanty wardrobe, though the kindness of my gentle and generous friends has increased that, by a modest stock of such things as are necessary.

  It is evening. I have dismissed, with the fee of an orange, the little orphan who serves me as a handmaid. I am sitting alone on the hearth. This morning, the village school opened. I had twenty scholars. But three of the number can read, none write or cipher. Several knit, and a few sew a little. They speak with the broadest accent of the district. At present, they and I have a difficulty in understanding each other’s language. Some of them are unmannered, rough, intractable, as well as ignorant, but others are docile, have a wish to learn, and evince a disposition that pleases me. I must not forget that these coarsely-clad little peasants are of flesh and blood as good as the scions of gentlest genealogy and that the germs of native excellence, refinement, intelligence, kind feeling, are as likely to exist in their hearts as in those of the best-born. My duty will be to develop these germs, surely I shall find some happiness in discharging that office. Much enjoyment I do not expect in the life opening before me, yet it will, doubtless, if I regulate my mind, and exert my powers as I ought, yield me enough to live on from day to day.

  Was I very gleeful, settled, content, during the hours I passed in yonder bare, humble schoolroom this morning and afternoon? Not to deceive myself, I must reply—No, I felt desolate to a degree. I felt—yes, idiot that I am—I felt degraded. I doubted I had taken a step which sank instead of raising me in the scale of social existence. I was weakly dismayed at the ignorance, the poverty, the coarseness of all I heard and saw round me. But let me not hate and despise myself too much for these feelings. I know them to be wrong—that is a great step gained. I shall strive to overcome them. Tomorrow, I trust, I shall get the better of them partially and in a few weeks, perhaps, they will be quite subdued. In a few months, it is possible, the happiness of seeing progress, and a change for the better in my scholars may substitute gratification for disgust.

  Meantime, let me ask myself one question—Which is better?—To have surrendered to temptation; listened to passion; made no painful effort—no struggle—but to have sunk down in the silken snare; fallen asleep on the flowers covering it, wakened in a southern clime, amongst the luxuries of a pleasure villa. To have been now living in France, Mr Rochester’s mistress, delirious with his love half my time—for he would—oh, yes, he would have loved me well for a while. He did love me—no one will ever love me so again. I shall never more know the sweet homage given to beauty, youth, and grace—for never to anyone else shall I seem to possess these charms. He was fond and proud of me—it is what no man besides will ever be. But whe
re am I wandering, and what am I saying, and above all, feeling? Whether is it better, I ask, to be a slave in a fool’s paradise at Marseilles—fevered with delusive bliss one hour—suffocating with the bitterest tears of remorse and shame the next—or to be a village-schoolmistress, free and honest, in a breezy mountain nook in the healthy heart of England?

  Yes. I feel now that I was right when I adhered to principle and law, and scorned and crushed the insane promptings of a frenzied moment. God directed me to a correct choice, I thank His providence for the guidance!

  Having brought my eventide musings to this point, I rose, went to my door, and looked at the sunset of the harvest-day, and at the quiet fields before my cottage, which, with the school, was distant half a mile from the village. The birds were singing their last strains.

  “The air was mild, the dew was balm.”

  While I looked, I thought myself happy, and was surprised to find myself ere long weeping—and why? For the doom which had reft me from adhesion to my master, for him I was no more to see, for the desperate grief and fatal fury—consequences of my departure—which might now, perhaps, be dragging him from the path of right, too far to leave hope of ultimate restoration thither. At this thought, I turned my face aside from the lovely sky of eve and lonely vale of Morton—I say lonely, for in that bend of it visible to me there was no building apparent save the church and the parsonage, half-hid in trees, and, quite at the extremity, the roof of Vale Hall, where the rich Mr Oliver and his daughter lived. I hid my eyes, and leant my head against the stone frame of my door, but soon a slight noise near the wicket which shut in my tiny garden from the meadow beyond it made me look up. A dog—old Carlo, Mr Rivers’ pointer, as I saw in a moment—was pushing the gate with his nose, and St. John himself leant upon it with folded arms, his brow knit, his gaze, grave almost to displeasure, fixed on me. I asked him to come in.