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"Stop one minute!" I cried. "You leave off the best part of the story."
"How is that?"
"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. And the clergy are often appealed to about odd matters." Again the latch rattled.
"Clergymen are honest, and you are being less than forthright. Satisfy me with the rest of the tale, St. John."
"Another time."
"No. Now." And as he turned from the door, I placed myself between it and him. He looked rather embarrassed. "You certainly shall not go until you have told me all."
"I would rather not just now. I would rather Diana or Mary informed you. I apprised you that I was a hard man, difficult to persuade."
"And I am a hard woman, impossible to put off."
"And then, 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 onto my floor and made it like a trampled street. As you hope ever to be forgiven, Mr. Rivers, for spoiling my sanded kitchen, tell me what I wish to know."
He threw up his hands. "I yield. If not to your earnestness, to your perseverance. Your name is Jane Slayre?"
"Of course. That was all settled before."
"You are not, perhaps, aware that I am your namesake? That I was christened St. John Slayre Rivers?"
"No, indeed! I remember now seeing the letter S comprised in your initials written in books you have at different times lent me, but I never asked for what name it stood."
"My mother's name was Slayre. She had two brothers, one a clergyman, who married Miss Jane Reed, of Gateshead. The other,
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John Slayre, Esq., merchant, late of Funchal, Madeira. Mr. Briggs, being Mr. Slayre'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 St. John was going, but I set my back against the door. "Do let me speak. Let me have one moment to draw breath and reflect." I paused.
He stood before me, hat in hand, looking composed enough. I suspected as much, but to hear it confirmed, how happy it made me.
"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."
"We are cousins, yes. Slayres are Slayers. It is the family way. I had a vague suspicion when you excelled at training. Indeed, when you killed your Reed cousin. Was the whole family afflicted? You grew up with vampyres?"
"Mr. Reed was surrounded and attacked when he carried me, as a baby, back to his house. He managed to hide me. I believe I was the reason he agreed to become one of them, to be able to bring me home to safety. And then his wife demanded immortality, and the children, well, they were always so spoiled and indulged. As I've mentioned, it was my aunt's belief that common blood was tainted and would destroy them. Things didn't end well for the Reeds, all but Eliza, who has taken the vows and lives as a nun with a sect of vampyres who keep a remorseful, peaceful existence."
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"That is odd. But would that they would all find God and peace."
"It seems a rather rare occurrence amongst vampyres." I now clapped my hands in sudden joy. My pulse bounded. My veins thrilled. "But we are cousins, St. John! This is greater fortune to me than the wealth, though that is welcome indeed. 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 am glad!"
I walked fast through the room. Those who had saved my life could now benefit. I could reunite them. Were we not four? Twenty thousand pounds shared equally would be five thousand each, justice enough. Now the wealth did not weigh on me. It was a legacy of life, hope, and enjoyment.
"Write to Diana and Mary tomorrow," I said. "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 calm yourself."
"Nonsense! Mary and Diana work to keep themselves and to send money to you for your training schools. Now they don't have to do it. They can come home and live together happily with their studies at Moor House. What 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?"
"Perhaps, if you explained yourself a little more fully, I should comprehend better."
"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."
"This is acting on first impulses. You must take days to consider such a matter, ere your word can be regarded as valid."
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"Oh! If all you doubt is my sincerity, I am easy. You see the justice of the case?"
"It is not a matter of justice. The entire fortune is your right. Our uncle chose to leave it to you."
"And I choose to share it. That is my right."
"You think so now," rejoined St. John, "because you do not know what it is to possess, nor consequently to enjoy, wealth."
"And you cannot at all imagine the craving I have for fraternal and sisterly love. 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."
"This is my wish, to share my fortune equally amongst us. We will all be rich, or quite comfortable. I will not change my mind should I think it over another hundred years. Please, accept my wishes. Say again you will be my brother. When you uttered the words, I was happy. Repeat them, if you can, repeat them sincerely."
"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 tonight. Now you had better go, for if you stay longer, you will perhaps irritate me afresh by some mistrustful scruple."
"And the training school, Miss Slayre? It must now be shut up, I suppose?"
"No. I will retain my post of mistress until you get a substitute. I still intend to keep up my training with you, St. John."
He smiled approbation. We shook hands, and he took leave.
As I drifted off to sleep that night, my heart felt lighter. I could meet Mr. Rochester as an equal now, no longer as a dependent. Unfortunately, there was still the matter of what to do about his wife.
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CHAPTER 36
IT WAS NEAR CHRISTMAS by the time all was settled. I left Morton training school in care of my young assistant, Miss Dinah Winn, who, though only sixteen, seemed a most capable mistress. Should trouble arise, most of the youth and indeed some of the adults in Morton could capably launch a defense against vampyre aggressors. There hadn't been any trouble for months, but it paid to be prepared.
"Do you consider you have got your reward for a season of exertion?" asked Mr. Rivers after my last day with the girls at school. "Does not the consciousness of having done some real good in your day and gen
eration give pleasure?"
"Doubtless."
"And you have only toiled a few months! Would not a life devoted to the task of keeping the world safe from evil be well spent?"
"Yes, but I am out of it and disposed for full holiday."
He looked grave. "What now? What do you plan 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. Hannah shall go with you."
"Tell her to be ready by tomorrow 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. I don't quite understand your lightheartedness because I cannot tell what employment you
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propose to yourself as a substitute for the one you are relinquishing. What aim, what purpose, what ambition in life, have you now?"
"My aim will be to clean down Moor House from chamber to cellar. Afterwards I shall go near to ruin you in coals and peat to keep up good fires in every room. My purpose, in short, is to have all things in an absolutely perfect state of readiness for Diana and Mary before next Thursday. My ambition, at present, 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, but, seriously, I trust that when the first flush of vivacity has passed, you will look a little higher than domestic endearments and household joys."
"I am trained and ready to take on what may come. You know I intend to keep perfecting our designs."
"And studying your werewolves?"
"Indeed. Our uncle's notes have proven most helpful. It's possible to save some of the infected. There's an Italian potion, a remedy. I believe I have even seen it in use." I thought of the vials Mr. Rochester kept in his drawer, the one he slipped to Richard Mason after Bertha bit him. "The key seems to be to administer it early after exposure, and again during a full moon as the transformation process begins. It's complicated. I'm still analyzing our uncle's experiments with it."
I could see St. John's lack of interest in the subject. He still couldn't fathom werewolves becoming a problem near the same scope as the one presented by vampyres. Nor had he ever been in a position to dismember zombies, either.
"Jane, I excuse you for the present. Unless danger presents itself, 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, 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."
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I smiled. He was so serious, far too serious for his own good. "Be sure to come greet Mary and Diana when they arrive, brother."
I rose on my toes to kiss him on the cheek with sisterly affection, but he seemed taken aback by the gesture. His cheeks turned red and he looked away.
Happy at Moor house I was, and hard I worked. So did Hannah. She was charmed to see how jovial I could be amidst the bustle of a house turned topsy-turvy. I had purchased new furniture and made alterations to some rooms, while keeping others mostly the same so that Diana and Mary would still recognise Moor house as their home.
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.
To my surprise, St. John arrived first. He found me in the kitchen, watching the progress of cakes for tea.
"Are you at last satisfied with housemaid's work?" he said, leaning over the hearth and practically whispering in my ear.
I looked up to see a strange look in his eye.
"Come," I said, leaving my cakes and taking his hand. "I will show you the whole house from top to bottom, and we will see what you think of my labours."
He just looked in at the doors I opened. When he had wandered upstairs and downstairs, he said I must have gone through a great deal of fatigue and trouble to make such considerable changes in so short a time. Not a syllable did he utter to indicate any 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 crestfallen tone.
"Not at all," he said. "On the contrary, you have scrupulously
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respected every association. I fear you must have bestowed more thought on the matter than it was worth."
He took down a book and withdrew to his preferred window recess to read.
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. He would never rest, nor approve of others resting round him. I comprehended all at once that Miss Oliver had made a decent escape. He would hardly make a good husband. He was right to choose a missionary career.
"They are coming!" cried Hannah, throwing open the parlour door. At the same moment old Carlo barked joyfully. The vehicle had stopped at the wicket. The driver opened the door. First one well-known form, then another, stepped out. 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.
Sweet was that evening. My cousins, full of exhilaration, were so eloquent in narrative and comment that their fluency covered St. John's taciturnity. I was afraid the whole of the ensuing week tried his patience.
It was Christmas week. We took to no settled employment, but spent it in a sort of merry domestic dissipation. The air of the moors, the freedom of home, the dawn of prosperity, acted on Diana's and Mary's spirits like some life-giving elixir. They were gay from morning until noon, and from noon until night. St. John did not rebuke our vivacity, but he escaped from it. He was seldom in the house. His parish was large, the population scattered, and he found daily business in visiting the sick and poor in its different districts.
One morning at breakfast, Diana, after looking a little pensive for some minutes, asked him if his plans were yet unchanged.
"Unchanged and unchangeable." He informed us that his departure was now definitively fixed for the ensuing year, for England was
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growing quiet with fewer vampyre attacks while news was spreading of an increase in activity in India, which needed his special skills more than we did here at home.
"And Rosamond Oliver?" suggested Mary, the words seeming to escape her lips involuntarily, for no sooner had she uttered them than she made a gesture as if wishing to recall them.
"Rosamond Oliver," said he, closing the book he habitually kept open, "is about to be married to Mr. Granby, grandson and heir to Sir Frederic Granby. I had the intelligence from her father yesterday."
We all three looked at him. He was serene as glass.
"The match must have been got up hastily," said Diana. "They cannot have known each other long."
"But two months. They met in October at a county ball. But where there are no obstacles to a union, as in the present case, where the connection is in every point desirable, delays are unnecessary. They will be married as soon as Sutton Place, which Sir Frederic gives up to them, can be refitted for their reception."
The first time I found St. John alone after this communication, I felt tempted to inquire if the event distressed him. But he seemed well enough, so I left it alone. Besides, I was out of practise in talking to him. He had not kept his promise of treating me like his sisters. He felt more distant to me than he had even
when I was not known to be his relation, when we worked together in his shop, or training the children, or when he would teach me new ways to avoid a trap, or to grip a vampyre from behind to hold him steady while I planted the stake in his chest. When I remembered how far I had once been admitted to his confidence, I could hardly comprehend his present frigidity.
As the holiday passed and Diana, Mary, and I settled into a quieter character and we resumed our usual habits and regular studies, St. John stayed more at home. He sat with us in the same room, sometimes for hours together while we all pursued our own courses of study.
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I often noticed him looking at me. I wondered what it meant. I wondered, too, at the satisfaction he never failed to exhibit on my weekly visit to the Morton school to train with my former students. And still more was I puzzled when, if the day was unfavourable, if there was snow or rain or high wind, and his sisters urged me not to go, he would invariably make light of their solicitude and encourage me to accomplish the task without regard to the elements.
"Jane is not such a weakling as you would make her," he would say, beaming proudly at me in a way that looked almost ridiculous for a man of St. John's habitual calm. "She can bear a mountain blast, or a shower, or a few flakes of snow, as well as any of us."
One evening, on returning home later than planned, I nearly ran into a small group of strangers in the woods. At once, my instinct warned me what they were. I had thought they hadn't seen me, and I was without weapons save for a few stakes in my sleeve. I chose to avoid confronting them in favour of coming home to get St. John and the protection of some of our inventions first. But one followed me. He must have picked up my scent and, perhaps eager to keep a tasty morsel to himself, did not inform his friends of my presence. I felt his step gaining on me as I skirted through trees and stayed off the regular path to escape his notice. I did not want to lead him to Moor House. I hid behind a tree trunk and believed he had passed, but then he gripped me from the side.
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