is very dim in my mind. I can recall some sensations felt in that

interval; but few thoughts framed, and no actions performed. I knew

I was in a small room and in a narrow bed. To that bed I seemed to

have grown; I lay on it motionless as a stone; and to have torn me

from it would have been almost to kill me. I took no note of the lapse

of time- of the change from morning to noon, from noon to evening. I

observed when any one entered or left the apartment: I could even tell

who they were; I could understand what was said when the speaker stood

near to me; but I could not answer; to open my lips or move my limbs

was equally impossible. Hannah, the servant, was my most frequent

visitor. Her coming disturbed me. I had a feeling that she wished me

away: that she did not understand me or my circumstances; that she was

prejudiced against me. Diana and Mary appeared in the chamber once

or twice a day. They would whisper sentences of this sort at my

bedside-

   'It is very well we took her in.'

   'Yes; she would certainly have been found dead at the door in the

morning had she been left out all night. I wonder what she has gone

through?'

   'Strange hardships, I imagine- poor, emaciated, pallid wanderer?'

   'She is not an uneducated person, I should think, by her manner

of speaking; her accent was quite pure; and the clothes she took

off, though splashed and wet, were little worn and fine.'

   'She has a peculiar face; fleshless and haggard as it is, I

rather like it; and when in good health and animated, I can fancy

her physiognomy would be agreeable.'

   Never once in their dialogues did I hear a syllable of regret at

the hospitality they had extended to me, or of suspicion of, or

aversion to, myself. I was comforted.

   Mr. St. John came but once: he looked at me, and said my state of

lethargy was the result of reaction from excessive and protracted

fatigue. He pronounced it needless to send for a doctor: nature, he

was sure, would manage best, left to herself. He said every nerve

had been overstrained in some way, and the whole system must sleep

torpid a while. There was no disease. He imagined my recovery would be

rapid enough when once commenced. These opinions he delivered in a few

words, in a quiet, low voice; and added, after a pause, in the tone of

a man little accustomed to expansive comment, 'Rather an unusual

physiognomy; certainly, not indicative of vulgarity or degradation.'

   'Far otherwise,' responded Diana. 'To speak truth, St. John, my

heart rather warms to the poor little soul. I wish we may be able to

benefit her permanently.'

   'That is hardly likely,' was the reply. 'You will find she is

some young lady who has had a misunderstanding with her friends, and

has probably injudiciously left them. We may, perhaps, succeed in

restoring her to them, if she is not obstinate: but I trace lines of

force in her face which make me sceptical of her tractability.' He

stood considering me some minutes; then added, 'She looks sensible,

but not at all handsome.'

   'She is so ill, St. John.'

   'Ill or well, she would always be plain. The grace and harmony of

beauty are quite wanting in those features.'

   On the third day I was better; on the fourth, I could speak,

move, rise in bed, and turn. Hannah had brought me some gruel and

dry toast, about, as I supposed, the dinner-hour. I had eaten with

relish: the food was good- void of the feverish flavour which had

hitherto poisoned what I had swallowed. When she left me, I felt

comparatively strong and revived: ere long satiety of repose and

desire for action stirred me. I wished to rise; but what could I put

on? Only my damp and bemired apparel; in which I had slept on the

ground and fallen in the marsh. I felt ashamed to appear before my

benefactors so clad. I was spared the humiliation.

   On a chair by the bedside were all my own things, clean and dry. My

black silk frock hung against the wall. The traces of the bog were

removed from it; the creases left by the wet smoothed out: it was

quite decent. My very shoes and stockings were purified and rendered

presentable. There were the means of washing in the room, and a comb

and brush to smooth my hair. After a weary process, and resting

every five minutes, I succeeded in dressing myself. My clothes hung

loose on me; for I was much wasted, but I covered deficiencies with

a shawl, and once more, clean and respectable looking- no speck of the

dirt, no trace of the disorder I so hated, and which seemed so to

degrade me, left- I crept down a stone staircase with the aid of the

banisters, to a narrow low passage, and found my way presently to

the kitchen.

   It was full of the fragrance of new bread and the warmth of a

generous fire. Hannah was baking. Prejudices, it is well known, are

most difficult to eradicate from the heart whose soil has never been

loosened or fertilised by education: they grow there, firm as weeds

among stones. Hannah had been cold and stiff, indeed, at the first:

latterly she had begun to relent a little; and when she saw me come in

tidy and well-dressed, she even smiled.

   'What, you have got up!' she said. 'You are better, then. You may

sit you down in my chair on the hearthstone, if you will.'

   She pointed to the rocking-chair: I took it. She bustled about,

examining me every now and then with the corner of her eye. Turning to

me, as she took some loaves from the oven, she asked bluntly-

   'Did you ever go a-begging afore you came here?'

   I was indignant for a moment; but remembering that anger was out of

the question, and that I had indeed appeared as a beggar to her, I

answered quietly, but still not without a certain marked firmness-

   'You are mistaken in supposing me a beggar. I am no beggar; any

more than yourself or your young ladies.'

   After a pause she said, 'I dunnut understand that: you've like no

house, nor no brass, I guess?'

   'The want of house or brass (by which I suppose you mean money)

does not make a beggar in your sense of the word.'

   'Are you book-learned?' she inquired presently.

   'Yes, very.'

   'But you've never been to a boarding-school?'

   'I was at a boarding-school eight years.'

   She opened her eyes wide. 'Whatever cannot ye keep yourself for,

then?'

   'I have kept myself; and, I trust, shall keep myself again. What

are you going to do with these gooseberries?' I inquired as she

brought out a basket of the fruit.

   'Mak' 'em into pies.'

   'Give them to me and I'll pick them.'

   'Nay; I dunnut want ye to do nought.'

   'But I must do something. Let me have them.'

   She consented; and she even brought me a clean towel to spread over

my dress, 'lest,' as she said, 'I should mucky it.'

   'Ye've not been used to sarvant's wark, I see by your hands,' she

remarked. 'Happen ye've been a dressmaker?'

   'No, you are wrong. And now, never mind what I have been: don't

trouble your head further about me; but tell me the name of the

house where we are.'

   'Some calls it Marsh End, and some calls it Moor House.'

   'And the gentleman who lives here is called Mr. St. John?'

   'Nay; he doesn't live here: he is only staying a while. When he

is at home, he is in his own parish at Morton.'

   'That village a few miles off?'

   'Aye.'

   'And what is he?'

   'He is a parson.'

   I remembered the answer of the old housekeeper at the parsonage,

when I had asked to see the clergyman. 'This, then, was his father's

residence?'

   'Aye; old Mr. Rivers lived here, and his father, and grandfather,

and gurt (great) grandfather afore him.'

   'The name, then, of that gentleman, is Mr. St. John Rivers?'

   'Aye; St. John is like his kirstened name.'

   'And his sisters are called Diana and Mary Rivers?'

   'Yes.'

   'Their father is dead?'

   'Dead three weeks sin' of a stroke.'

   'They have no mother?'

   'The mistress has been dead this mony a year.'

   'Have you lived with the family long?'

   'I've lived here thirty year. I nursed them all three'

   'That proves you must have been an honest and faithful servant. I

will say so much for you, though you have had the incivility to call

me a beggar.'

   She again regarded me with a surprised stare. 'I believe,' she

said, 'I was quite mista'en in my thoughts of you: but there is so

mony cheats goes about, you mun forgie me.'

   'And though,' I continued, rather severely, 'you wished to turn

me from the door, on a night when you should not have shut out a dog.'

   'Well, it was hard: but what can a body do? I thought more o' th'

childer nor of mysel: poor things! They've like nobody to tak' care on

'em but me. I'm like to look sharpish.'

   I maintained a grave silence for some minutes.

   'You munnut think too hardly of me,' she again remarked.

   'But I do think hardly of you,' I said; 'and I'll tell you why- not

so much because you refused to give me shelter, or regarded me as an

impostor, as because you just now made it a species of reproach that I

had no "brass" and no house. Some of the best people that ever lived

have been as destitute as I am; and if you are a Christian, you

ought not to consider poverty a crime.'

   'No more I ought,' said she: 'Mr. St. John tells me so too; and I

see I wor wrang- but I've clear a different notion on you now to

what I had. You look a raight down dacent little crater.'

   'That will do- I forgive you now. Shake hands.'

   She put her floury and horny hand into mine; another and heartier

smile illumined her rough face, and from that moment we were friends.

   Hannah was evidently fond of talking. While I picked the fruit, and

she made the paste for the pies, she proceeded to give me sundry

details about her deceased master and mistress, and 'the childer,'

as she called the young people.

   Old Mr. Rivers, she said, was a plain man enough, but a

gentleman, and of as ancient a family as could be found. Marsh End had

belonged to the Rivers ever since it was a house: and it was, she

affirmed, 'aboon two hundred year old- for all it looked but a

small, humble place, naught to compare wi' Mr. Oliver's grand hall

down i' Morton Vale. But she could remember Bill Oliver's father a

journeyman needle-maker; and th' Rivers wor gentry i' th' owd days

o' th' Henrys, as onybody might see by looking into th' registers i'

Morton Church vestry.' Still, she allowed, 'the owd maister was like

other folk- naught mich out o' th' common way: stark mad o'

shooting, and farming, and sich like.' The mistress was different. She

was a great reader, and studied a deal; and the 'bairns' had taken

after her. There was nothing like them in these parts, nor ever had

been; they had liked learning, all three, almost from the time they

could speak; and they had always been 'of a mak' of their own.' Mr.

St. John, when he grew up, would go to college and be a parson; and

the girls, as soon as they left school, would seek places as

governesses: for they had told her their father had some years ago

lost a great deal of money by a man he had trusted turning bankrupt;

and as he was now not rich enough to give them fortunes, they must

provide for themselves. They had lived very little at home for a

long while, and were only come now to stay a few weeks on account of

their father's death; but they did so like Marsh End and Morton, and

all these moors and hills about. They had been in London, and many

other grand towns; but they always said there was no place like

home; and then they were so agreeable with each other- never fell

out nor 'threaped.' She did not know where there was such a family for

being united.

   Having finished my task of gooseberry picking, I asked where the

two ladies and their brother were now.

   'Gone over to Morton for a walk; but they would be back in half

an hour to tea.'

   They returned within the time Hannah had allotted them: they

entered by the kitchen door. Mr. St. John, when he saw me, merely

bowed and passed through; the two ladies stopped: Mary, in a few

words, kindly and calmly expressed the pleasure she felt in seeing

me well enough to be able to come down; Diana took my hand: she

shook her head at me.

   'You should have waited for my leave to descend,' she said. 'You

still look very pale- and so thin! Poor child!- poor girl!'

   Diana had a voice toned, to my ear, like the cooing of a dove.

She possessed eyes whose gaze I delighted to encounter. Her whole face

seemed to me full of charm. Mary's countenance was equally

intelligent- her features equally pretty; but her expression was

more reserved, and her manners, though gentle, more distant. Diana

looked and spoke with a certain authority: she had a will,

evidently. It was my nature to feel pleasure in yielding to an

authority supported like hers, and to bend, where my conscience and

self-respect permitted, to an active will.

   'And what business have you here?' she continued. 'It is not your

place. Mary and I sit in the kitchen sometimes, because at home we

like to be free, even to license- but you are a visitor, and must go

into the parlour.'

   'I am very well here.'

   'Not at all, with Hannah bustling about and covering you with

flour.'

   'Besides, the fire is too hot for you,' interposed Mary.

   'To be sure,' added her sister. 'Come, you must be obedient.' And

still holding my hand she made me rise, and led me into the inner

room.

   'Sit there,' she said, placing me on the sofa, 'while we take our

things off and get the tea ready; it is another privilege we

exercise in our little moorland home- to prepare our own meals when we

are so inclined, or when Hannah is baking, brewing, washing, or

ironing.'

   She closed the door, leaving me solus with Mr. St. John, who sat

opposite, a book or newspaper in his hand. I examined first, the

parlour, and then its occupant.

   The parlour was rather a small room, very plainly furnished, yet

comfortable, because clean and neat. The old-fashioned chairs were

very bright, and the walnut-wood table was like a looking-glass. A few

strange, antique portraits of the men and women of other days

decorated the stained walls; a cupboard with glass doors contained

some books and an ancient set of china. There was no superfluous

ornament in the room- not one modern piece of furniture, save a

brace of workboxes and a lady's desk in rosewood, which stood on a

side-table: everything- including the carpet and curtains- looked at

once well worn and well saved.

   Mr. St. John- sitting as still as one of the dusty pictures on

the walls, keeping his eyes fixed on the page he perused, and his lips

mutely sealed- was easy enough to examine. Had he been a statue

instead of a man, he could not have been easier. He was young- perhaps

from twenty-eight to thirty- tall, slender; his face riveted the

eye; it was like a Greek face, very pure in outline: quite a straight,

classic nose; quite an Athenian mouth and chin. It is seldom,

indeed, an English face comes so near the antique models as did his.

He might well be a little shocked at the irregularity of my

lineaments, his own being so harmonious. His eyes were large and blue,

with brown lashes; his high forehead, colourless as ivory, was

partially streaked over by careless locks of fair hair.

   This is a gentle delineation, is it not, reader? Yet he whom it

describes scarcely impressed one with the idea of a gentle, a

yielding, an impressible, or even of a placid nature. Quiescent as

he now sat, there was something about his nostril, his mouth, his

brow, which, to my perceptions, indicated elements within either

restless, or hard, or eager. He did not speak to me one word, nor even

direct to me one glance, till his sisters returned. Diana, as she

passed in and out, in the course of preparing tea, brought me a little

cake, baked on the top of the oven.

   'Eat that now,' she said: 'you must be hungry. Hannah says you have

had nothing but some gruel since breakfast.'

   I did not refuse it, for my appetite was awakened and keen. Mr.

Rivers now closed his book, approached the table, and, as he took a

seat, fixed his blue pictorial-looking eyes full on me. There was an

unceremonious directness, a searching, decided steadfastness in his

gaze now, which told that intention and not diffidence, had hitherto

kept it averted from the stranger.

   'You are very hungry,' he said.

   'I am, sir.' It is my way- it always was my way, by instinct-

ever to meet the brief with brevity, the direct with plainness.

   'It is well for you that a low fever has forced you to abstain

for the last three days: there would have been danger in yielding to

the cravings of your appetite at first. Now you may eat, though

still not immoderately.'

   'I trust I shall not eat long at your expense, sir,' was my very

clumsily-contrived, unpolished answer.

   'No,' he said coolly: 'when you have indicated to us the

residence of your friends, we can write to them, and you may be

restored to home.'

   'That, I must plainly tell you, is out of my power to do; being

absolutely without home and friends.'

   The three looked at me, but not distrustfully; I felt there was

no suspicion in their glances: there was more of curiosity. I speak

particularly of the young ladies. St. John's eyes, though clear enough

in a literal sense, in a figurative one were difficult to fathom. He

seemed to use them rather as instruments to search other people's

thoughts, than as agents to reveal his own: the which combination of

keenness and reserve was considerably more calculated to embarrass

than to encourage.

   'Do you mean to say,' he asked, 'that you are completely isolated

from every connection?'

   'I do. Not a tie links me to any living thing: not a claim do I

possess to admittance under any roof in England.'

   'A most singular position at your age!'

   Here I saw his glance directed to my hands, which were folded on

the table before me. I wondered what he sought there: his words soon

explained the quest.

   'You have never been married? You are a spinster?'

   Diana laughed. 'Why, she can't be above seventeen or eighteen years

old, St. John,' said she.

   'I am near nineteen: but I am not married. No.'

   I felt a burning glow mount to my face; for bitter and agitating

recollections were awakened by the allusion to marriage. They all

saw the embarrassment and the emotion. Diana and Mary relieved me by

turning their eyes elsewhere than to my crimsoned visage; but the

colder and sterner brother continued to gaze, till the trouble he

had excited forced out tears as well as colour.

   'Where did you last reside?' he now asked.

   'You are too inquisitive, St. John,' murmured Mary in a low

voice; but he leaned over the table and required an answer by a second

firm and piercing look.

   'The name of the place where, and of the person with whom I

lived, is my secret,' I replied concisely.

   'Which, if you like, you have, in my opinion, a right to keep, both

from St. John and every other questioner,' remarked Diana.

   'Yet if I know nothing about you or your history, I cannot help

you,' he said. 'And you need help, do you not?'

   'I need it, and I seek it so far, sir, that some true

philanthropist will put me in the way of getting work which I can

do, and the remuneration for which will keep me, if but in the

barest necessaries of life.'

   'I know not whether I am a true philanthropist; yet I am willing to

aid you to the utmost of my power in a purpose so honest. First, then,

tell me what you have been accustomed to do, and what you can do.'

   I had now swallowed my tea. I was mightily refreshed by the

beverage; as much so as a giant with wine: it gave new tone to my

unstrung nerves, and enabled me to address this penetrating young

judge steadily.

   'Mr. Rivers,' I said, turning to him, and looking at him, as he

looked at me, openly and without diffidence, 'you and your sisters

have done me a great service- the greatest man can do his

fellow-being; you have rescued me, by your noble hospitality, from

death. This benefit conferred gives you an unlimited claim on my

gratitude, and a claim, to a certain extent, on my confidence. I

will tell you as much of the history of the wanderer you have

harboured, as I can tell without compromising my own peace of mind- my

own security, moral and physical, and that of others.

   'I am an orphan, the daughter of a clergyman. My parents died

before I could know them. I was brought up a dependant; educated in

a charitable institution. I will even tell you the name of the

establishment, where I passed six years as a pupil, and two as a

Mr. Rivers?- the Rev. Robert Brocklehurst is the treasurer.'

   'I have heard of Mr. Brocklehurst, and I have seen the school.'

   'I left Lowood nearly a year since to become a private governess. I

obtained a good situation, and was happy. This place I was obliged

to leave four days before I came here. The reason of my departure I

cannot 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 one 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, 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 I

paused; 'she is evidently not yet fit for excitement. Come to the sofa

and sit down now, Miss Elliott.'

   I gave an involuntary half start at hearing the alias: I had

forgotten my new name. Mr. Rivers, whom nothing seemed to escape,

noticed it at once.

   'You said your name was Jane Elliott?' he observed.

   '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, and when I hear

it, it sounds strange to me.'

   'Your real name you will not give?'

   'No: I fear discovery above all things; and whatever disclosure

would lead to it, I avoid.'

   '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 (I am quite sensible of

the distinction drawn, nor do I resent it- it is just): you desire

to be independent of us?'

   '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.'

   'Indeed you shall stay here,' said Diana, putting her white hand on

my 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 Mr. St.

John, 'as they would have a pleasure in keeping and cherishing a

half-frozen bird, some wintry wind might have driven through their

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.'

   'She has already said that she is willing to do anything honest she

can do,' answered Diana for me; '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,' I answered.

   'Right,' said Mr. St. John, quite coolly. 'If such is your

spirit, I promise to aid you, in my own time and way.'

   He now resumed the book with which he had been occupied before tea.

I soon withdrew, for I had talked as much, and sat up as long, as my

present strength would permit.