Джейн Эйр / Jane Eyre

Then Diana said to me, “Jane, you will think us heartless not to mourn our uncle. But you see, we never knew him. He was our mother’s brother, and after she died, he argued with our father and went abroad. Our father hoped that our uncle would eventually leave us some of his money. And if he had, we would all be able to relax a little, for we are far from wealthy. So you see, we are disappointed.”

“Well, he leaves us nothing,” said St. John again. “And that is that.”

A few weeks later, I was settled into my new life as Miss Elliot, village schoolmistress at Morton. My students were simple village girls and farmer’s daughters, and when they came to me, hardly any of them could read a word – but they tried hard. They loved to knit and sew and sing, and my little school buzzed with activity from morning to night. Rosamund Oliver, the school’s patron, often visited us, and St. John came every day to teach an hour of scripture. The villagers always greeted me politely in the street and doffed their caps to me. I had money to live on, and I was warm, safe and happy – or at least, as happy as I thought I would ever be.

Of course, not a moment went by when I did not think of Mr. Rochester. I dreamed about him by day and by night, and his face never faded from my mind. How I missed him! I often wondered what my life might be like if I had chosen differently, and gone to live with him as his mistress. But a part of me always knew that I had made the right choice.

And so the months passed by, and summer turned to autumn, and autumn to winter. November the fifth was a holiday and, after doing some cleaning and baking, I sat down at my table to finish a miniature of Miss Oliver. I had drawn her from life a week previously, and now I was adding paint to the sketch, which I planned to give her as a present.

I was filling in the dark blue of her silk dress when there was a quick tap at the door. Before I could get up to answer it, St. John Rivers stepped in.

“I have come to see how you are spending your holiday,” he said. “At your painting, as I expected.”

“It is a picture of Rosamund Oliver,” I said, turning it to show him, “but I’m afraid I haven’t quite captured her. Don’t you think she’s beautiful?”

“Hmmm,” St. John mumbled. I suspected that he and Miss Oliver liked each other, and wondered if they would get married. I did not dare drop any more hints, but St. John had guessed at my meaning.

“Miss Elliot,” he said, and I looked up. “You know, or at least I imagine my sisters have told you, that I plan to travel to India to be a missionary. If I marry at all, it must be to someone who is used to hardship. I’m afraid Miss Oliver would not do, lovely as she is. But enough of that. I’m here for another reason.”

“What is that?”

“To see your artworks. I have been meaning for some time to ask you if I could look at them.”

I was surprised. He had never shown the slightest interest in my pictures before. But I got up and fetched a folder full of drawings, and gave it to him.

St. John remained standing as he leafed through them. “Very good,” he murmured.

I was again absorbed in my work when I heard a little tearing sound, and looked up. St. John, holding up a small sketch, had torn off a corner of the paper. He seemed alive with excitement. It was quite unlike any expression I had seen on his face before.

“I knew you would sign your work, like any good artist,” he said. “But it is not signed ‘Jane Elliot’, is it?”

I blushed deeply, and felt my heart thumping. “St. John, I’m so sorry to have deceived you,” I said. “You see I–I simply didn’t want someone… I mean anyone, to find me here. I can explain.”

“No need, Miss Eyre, I am sure you had your reasons. It is not your falsehood I am interested in, but the truth. You are Miss Jane Eyre, formerly of Gateshead Hall, and Thornfield Hall?”

“How do you know?!” I gasped.

“It is all in my late uncle’s will,” he said. “My uncle John Eyre, of Madeira.”

“What?” I felt unsteady; the room seemed to spin.

“Our uncle on our mother’s side, and yours on your father’s side,” he said. “And you, Jane, are the poor orphan to whom he left his fortune. All of it.”

“How did you guess?” I asked, my voice a whisper.

“I thought I glimpsed the name on your drawings, and I decided to come and find out for certain.”

“And you, Diana, and Mary – you are my cousins?”

“It would seem so,” St. John said, allowing himself a smile. “But you have more than cousins, Jane. You have twenty thousand pounds. You are a rich lady.”

Chapter 31

The sum of twenty thousand pounds was more money than I could possibly imagine. Yet it was more important to me that I had a real family, that my dear Diana and Mary and St. John were my own blood relatives.