Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Charlotte, Emily, Anne Brontë (Illustrated) (57 page)

“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.”

He took it.  “You give it up very gleefully,” said he; “I don’t quite understand your light-heartedness, because I cannot tell what employment you propose to yourself as a substitute for the one you are relinquishing.  What aim, what purpose, what ambition in life have you now?”

“My first aim will be to
clean down
(do you comprehend the full force of the expression?) — to
clean down
Moor House from chamber to cellar; my next to rub it up with bees-wax, oil, and an indefinite number of cloths, till it glitters again; my third, to arrange every chair, table, bed, carpet, with mathematical precision; afterwards I shall go near to ruin you in coals and peat to keep up good fires in every room; and lastly, the two days preceding that on which your sisters are expected will be devoted by Hannah and me to such a beating of eggs, sorting of currants, grating of spices, compounding of Christmas cakes, chopping up of materials for mince-pies, and solemnising of other culinary rites, as words can convey but an inadequate notion of to the uninitiated like you.  My purpose, in short, is to have all things in an absolutely perfect state of readiness for Diana and Mary before next Thursday; and my ambition 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,” said he; “but seriously, I trust that when the first flush of vivacity is over, you will look a little higher than domestic endearments and household joys.”

“The best things the world has!” I interrupted.

“No, Jane, no: this world is not the scene of fruition; do not attempt to make it so: nor of rest; do not turn slothful.”

“I mean, on the contrary, to be busy.”

“Jane, I excuse you for the present: 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
then
, 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.”

I looked at him with surprise.  “St. John,” I said, “I think you are almost wicked to talk so.  I am disposed to be as content as a queen, and you try to stir me up to restlessness!  To what end?”

“To the end of turning to profit the talents which God has committed to your keeping; and of which He will surely one day demand a strict account.  Jane, I shall watch you closely and anxiously — I warn you of that.  And try to restrain the disproportionate fervour with which you throw yourself into commonplace home pleasures.  Don’t cling so tenaciously to ties of the flesh; save your constancy and ardour for an adequate cause; forbear to waste them on trite transient objects.  Do you hear, Jane?”

“Yes; just as if you were speaking Greek.  I feel I have adequate cause to be happy, and I
will
be happy.  Goodbye!”

Happy at Moor House I was, and hard I worked; and so did Hannah: she was charmed to see how jovial I could be amidst the bustle of a house turned topsy-turvy — how I could brush, and dust, and clean, and cook.  And really, after a day or two of confusion worse confounded, it was delightful by degrees to invoke order from the chaos ourselves had made.  I had previously taken a journey to S — - to purchase some new furniture: my cousins having given me
carte blanche
to effect what alterations I pleased, and a sum having been set aside for that purpose.  The ordinary sitting-room and bedrooms I left much as they were: for I knew Diana and Mary would derive more pleasure from seeing again the old homely tables, and chairs, and beds, than from the spectacle of the smartest innovations.  Still some novelty was necessary, to give to their return the piquancy with which I wished it to be invested.  Dark handsome new carpets and curtains, an arrangement of some carefully selected antique ornaments in porcelain and bronze, new coverings, and mirrors, and dressing-cases, for the toilet tables, answered the end: they looked fresh without being glaring.  A spare parlour and bedroom I refurnished entirely, with old mahogany and crimson upholstery: I laid canvas on the passage, and carpets on the stairs.  When all was finished, I thought Moor House as complete a model of bright modest snugness within, as it was, at this season, a specimen of wintry waste and desert dreariness without.

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.

St. John arrived first.  I had entreated him to keep quite clear of the house till everything was arranged: and, indeed, the bare idea of the commotion, at once sordid and trivial, going on within its walls sufficed to scare him to estrangement.  He found me in the kitchen, watching the progress of certain cakes for tea, then baking.  Approaching the hearth, he asked, “If I was at last satisfied with housemaid’s work?”  I answered by inviting him to accompany me on a general inspection of the result of my labours.  With some difficulty, I got him to make the tour of the house.  He just looked in at the doors I opened; and when he had wandered upstairs and downstairs, he said I must have gone through a great deal of fatigue and trouble to have effected such considerable changes in so short a time: but not a syllable did he utter indicating 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 crest-fallen tone.

“Not at all; he had, on the contrary, remarked that I had scrupulously respected every association: he feared, indeed, I must have bestowed more thought on the matter than it was worth.  How many minutes, for instance, had I devoted to studying the arrangement of this very room? — By-the-bye, could I tell him where such a book was?”

I showed him the volume on the shelf: he took it down, and withdrawing to his accustomed window recess, he began to read it.

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.  Literally, he lived only to aspire — after what was good and great, certainly; but still he would never rest, nor approve of others resting round him.  As I looked at his lofty forehead, still and pale as a white stone — at his fine lineaments fixed in study — I comprehended all at once that he would hardly make a good husband: that it would be a trying thing to be his wife.  I understood, as by inspiration, the nature of his love for Miss Oliver; I agreed with him that it was but a love of the senses.  I comprehended how he should despise himself for the feverish influence it exercised over him; how he should wish to stifle and destroy it; how he should mistrust its ever conducting permanently to his happiness or hers.  I saw he was of the material from which nature hews her heroes — Christian and Pagan — her lawgivers, her statesmen, her conquerors: a steadfast bulwark for great interests to rest upon; but, at the fireside, too often a cold cumbrous column, gloomy and out of place.

“This parlour is not his sphere,” I reflected: “the Himalayan ridge or Caffre bush, even the plague-cursed Guinea Coast swamp would suit him better.  Well may he eschew the calm of domestic life; it is not his element: there his faculties stagnate — they cannot develop or appear to advantage.  It is in scenes of strife and danger — where courage is proved, and energy exercised, and fortitude tasked — that he will speak and move, the leader and superior.  A merry child would have the advantage of him on this hearth.  He is right to choose a missionary’s career — I see it now.”

“They are coming! they are coming!” cried Hannah, throwing open the parlour door.  At the same moment old Carlo barked joyfully.  Out I ran.  It was now dark; but a rumbling of wheels was audible.  Hannah soon had a lantern lit.  The vehicle had stopped at the wicket; the driver opened the door: first one well-known form, then another, stepped out.  In a minute I had my face under their bonnets, in contact first with Mary’s soft cheek, then with Diana’s flowing curls.  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.

They were stiff with their long and jolting drive from Whitcross, and chilled with the frosty night air; but their pleasant countenances expanded to the cheerful firelight.  While the driver and Hannah brought in the boxes, they demanded St. John.  At this moment he advanced from the parlour.  They both threw their arms round his neck at once.  He gave each one quiet kiss, said in a low tone a few words of welcome, stood a while to be talked to, and then, intimating that he supposed they would soon rejoin him in the parlour, withdrew there as to a place of refuge.

I had lit their candles to go upstairs, but Diana had first to give hospitable orders respecting the driver; this done, both followed me.  They were delighted with the renovation and decorations of their rooms; with the new drapery, and fresh carpets, and rich tinted china vases: they expressed their gratification ungrudgingly.  I had the pleasure of feeling that my arrangements met their wishes exactly, and that what I had done added a vivid charm to their joyous return home.

Sweet was that evening.  My cousins, full of exhilaration, were so eloquent in narrative and comment, that their fluency covered St. John’s taciturnity: he was sincerely glad to see his sisters; but in their glow of fervour and flow of joy he could not sympathise.  The event of the day — that is, the return of Diana and Mary — pleased him; but the accompaniments of that event, the glad tumult, the garrulous glee of reception irked him: I saw he wished the calmer morrow was come.  In the very meridian of the night’s enjoyment, about an hour after tea, a rap was heard at the door.  Hannah entered with the intimation that “a poor lad was come, at that unlikely time, to fetch Mr. Rivers to see his mother, who was drawing away.”