The more I knew of the inmates of Moor House, the better I liked them. In a few days I had so far recovered my health that I could sit up all day and walk out sometimes. I 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 me.
I liked to read what they liked to read. What they enjoyed, delighted me and what they approved, I reverenced. They were both more accomplished and better read than I was, but with eagerness I followed in the path of knowledge they had trodden before me and as they saw I had learned skills, they no longer thought me a beggar-woman. I devoured the books they lent me and it was with full satisfaction that I discussed with them in the evening what I had perused during the day.
If in our trio there was a superior and a leader, it was Diana. Physically she far excelled me: she was handsome and vigorous. In an evening I was fain to sit on a stool at her feet, to rest my head on her knee and listen alternately to her and Mary, while they sounded thoroughly on a topic. Diana offered to teach me German, which I readily accepted, and Mary helped also with her kind, gentle manner.
As to Mr. St John, the intimacy which had arisen so naturally and rapidly between me and his sisters did not extend to him. One reason of the distance yet observed between us was that he was comparatively seldom at home since a large proportion of his time appeared devoted to visiting the sick and poor among the scattered population of his parish. No weather seemed to hinder him in these pastoral excursions: rain or fair, he would go out on his mission of love and duty.
But besides his frequent absences, there was another barrier to friendship with him: he seemed of a reserved, an abstracted, and even of a brooding nature. Zealous in his ministerial labours and blameless in his life and habits, he yet did not appear to enjoy that mental serenity which should be the reward of every sincere Christian and practical philanthropist. Incommunicative as he was, some time elapsed before I had an opportunity of gauging his mind. I first got an idea of its calibre when I heard him preach in his own church at Morton. I wish I could describe that sermon, but it is past my power. I cannot even render faithfully the effect it produced on me, but he was bitter, frustrated, and troubled. It was not the speech of a calm spirit.
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. It became urgent that I too should have a vocation of some kind again, though I had told no one of my past life at Thornfield Hall and when asked, had merely replied that I did not remember. They all supposed that I had fallen somewhere on the moor and lost my memory and at first, had asked around to discover a family that may be missing me, but none came forward. In the end, they stopped asking me if I remembered from where I was borne and instead accepted me for what I was.
One morning, being left alone with St. John a few minutes in the parlour, I approached his desk, hoping to ask a favor of him.
“You have a question to ask of me?” he said before I could speak.
“Yes, I wish to know whether you have heard of any service I can offer myself to undertake?”
“Indeed, I found or devised something for you. I did not want to cast you out of this house onto the moor once again and since we still do not know from whence you came, I took the liberty of securing a place for you to go.”
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?”
“Let me frankly tell you, I have nothing eligible or profitable to suggest. 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.”
He looked at me before he proceeded and 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, but not permanently, for I think you shall eventually depart from whence you came.”
“Do explain,” I urged, when he halted once more.
“I shall not stay long at Morton now that my father is dead. 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 and the children of the poor were excluded from every hope of progress. I established one for boys and 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 and her house is already furnished very simply, but sufficiently. Will you be this mistress?”
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. It was not unworthy, not mentally degrading and 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 and your scholars will be only poor girls—cottagers’ children and 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?”
“Save them till they are wanted. They will keep.”
I now smiled; not a bitter or a sad smile, but one well pleased and deeply gratified.
“And when will you commence the exercise of your function?” he asked.
“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. He still 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.
One evening we were sitting in the kitchen, sewing when St. John entered abruptly.
“Our uncle John is dead,” said he. Both the sisters seemed struck, but not shocked or appalled.
“Dead?” repeated Diana.
“Yes.”
She riveted a searching gaze on her brother’s face. “And what then?” she demanded, in a low voice.
He threw a letter into her lap and she glanced over it before handing 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.
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 and 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 and 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 and that letter informs us that he has bequeathed every penny to the other relation with the exception of thirty guineas which is 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.