When Mr. St. John went, it was beginning to snow; the whirling stormcontinued all night. The next day a keen wind brought fresh andblinding falls; by twilight the valley was drifted up and almostimpassable. I had closed my shutter, laid a mat to the door toprevent the snow from blowing in under it, trimmed my fire, andafter sitting nearly an hour on the hearth listening to the muffledfury of the tempest, I lit a candle, took down "Marmion," andbeginning -

"Day set on Norham's castled steep,And Tweed's fair river broad and deep,And Cheviot's mountains lone;The massive towers, the donjon keep,The flanking walls that round them sweep,In yellow lustre shone" -

I soon forgot storm in music.

I heard a noise: the wind, I thought, shook the door. No; it wasSt. John Rivers, who, lifting the latch, came in out of the frozenhurricane--the howling darkness--and stood before me: the cloakthat covered his tall figure all white as a glacier. I was almostin consternation, so little had I expected any guest from theblocked-up vale that night.

"Any ill news?" I demanded. "Has anything happened?"

"No. How very easily alarmed you are?" he answered, removing hiscloak and hanging it up against the door, towards which he againcoolly pushed the mat which his entrance had deranged. He stampedthe snow from his boots.

"I shall sully the purity of your floor," said he, "but you mustexcuse me for once." Then he approached the fire. "I have had hardwork to get here, I assure you," he observed, as he warmed his handsover the flame. "One drift took me up to the waist; happily thesnow is quite soft yet."

"But why are you come?" I could not forbear saying.

"Rather an inhospitable question to put to a visitor; but since youask it, I answer simply to have a little talk with you; I got tiredof my mute books and empty rooms. Besides, since yesterday I haveexperienced the excitement of a person to whom a tale has been half-told, and who is impatient to hear the sequel."

He sat down. I recalled his singular conduct of yesterday, andreally I began to fear his wits were touched. If he were insane,however, his was a very cool and collected insanity: I had neverseen that handsome-featured face of his look more like chiselledmarble than it did just now, as he put aside his snow-wet hair fromhis forehead and let the firelight shine free on his pale brow andcheek as pale, where it grieved me to discover the hollow trace ofcare or sorrow now so plainly graved. I waited, expecting he wouldsay something I could at least comprehend; but his hand was now athis chin, his finger on his lip: he was thinking. It struck methat his hand looked wasted like his face. A perhaps uncalled-forgush of pity came over my heart: I was moved to say -

"I wish Diana or Mary would come and live with you: it is too badthat you should be quite alone; and you are recklessly rash aboutyour own health."

"Not at all," said he: "I care for myself when necessary. I amwell now. What do you see amiss in me?"

This was said with a careless, abstracted indifference, which showedthat my solicitude was, at least in his opinion, wholly superfluous.I was silenced.

He still slowly moved his finger over his upper lip, and still hiseye dwelt dreamily on the glowing grate; thinking it urgent to saysomething, I asked him presently if he felt any cold draught fromthe door, which was behind him.

"No, no!" he responded shortly and somewhat testily.

"Well," I reflected, "if you won't talk, you may be still; I'll letyou alone now, and return to my book."

So I snuffed the candle and resumed the perusal of "Marmion." Hesoon stirred; my eye was instantly drawn to his movements; he onlytook out a morocco pocket-book, thence produced a letter, which heread in silence, folded it, put it back, relapsed into meditation.It was vain to try to read with such an inscrutable fixture beforeme; nor could I, in impatience, consent to be dumb; he might rebuffme if my he liked, but talk I would.

"Have you heard from Diana and Mary lately?"

"Not since the letter I showed you a week ago."

"There has not been any change made about your own arrangements?You will not be summoned to leave England sooner than you expected?"

"I fear not, indeed: such chance is too good to befall me."Baffled so far, I changed my ground. I bethought myself to talkabout the school and my scholars.

"Mary Garrett's mother is better, and Mary came back to the schoolthis morning, and I shall have four new girls next week from theFoundry Close--they would have come to-day but for the snow."

"Indeed!"

"Mr. Oliver pays for two."

"Does he?"

"He means to give the whole school a treat at Christmas."

"I know."

"Was it your suggestion?"

"No."

"Whose, then?"

"His daughter's, I think."

"It is like her: she is so good-natured."

"Yes."

Again came the blank of a pause: the clock struck eight strokes.It aroused him; he uncrossed his legs, sat erect, turned to me.

"Leave your book a moment, and come a little nearer the fire," hesaid.

Wondering, and of my wonder finding no end, I complied.

"Half-an-hour ago," he pursued, "I spoke of my impatience to hearthe sequel of a tale: on reflection, I find the matter will bebetter managed by my assuming the narrator's part, and convertingyou into a listener. Before commencing, it is but fair to warn youthat the story will sound somewhat hackneyed in your ears; but staledetails often regain a degree of freshness when they pass throughnew lips. For the rest, whether trite or novel, it is short.

"Twenty years ago, a poor curate--never mind his name at thismoment--fell in love with a rich man's daughter; she fell in lovewith him, and married him, against the advice of all her friends,who consequently disowned her immediately after the wedding. Beforetwo years passed, the rash pair were both dead, and laid quietlyside by side under one slab. (I have seen their grave; it formedpart of the pavement of a huge churchyard surrounding the grim,soot-black old cathedral of an overgrown manufacturing town in -shire.) They left a daughter, which, at its very birth, Charityreceived in her lap--cold as that of the snow-drift I almost stuckfast in to-night. Charity carried the friendless thing to the houseof its rich maternal relations; it was reared by an aunt-in-law,called (I come to names now) Mrs. Reed of Gateshead. You start--didyou hear a noise? I daresay it is only a rat scrambling along therafters of the adjoining schoolroom: it was a barn before I had itrepaired and altered, and barns are generally haunted by rats.--Toproceed. Mrs. Reed kept the orphan ten years: whether it was happyor not with her, I cannot say, never having been told; but at theend of that time she transferred it to a place you know--being noother than Lowood School, where you so long resided yourself. Itseems her career there was very honourable: from a pupil, shebecame a teacher, like yourself--really it strikes me there areparallel points in her history and yours--she left it to be agoverness: there, again, your fates were analogous; she undertookthe education of the ward of a certain Mr. Rochester."

"Mr. Rivers!" I interrupted.

"I can guess your feelings," he said, "but restrain them for awhile: I have nearly finished; hear me to the end. Of Mr.Rochester's character I know nothing, but the one fact that heprofessed to offer honourable marriage to this young girl, and thatat the very altar she discovered he had a wife yet alive, though alunatic. What his subsequent conduct and proposals were is a matterof pure conjecture; but when an event transpired which renderedinquiry after the governess necessary, it was discovered she wasgone--no one could tell when, where, or how. She had leftThornfield Hall in the night; every research after her course hadbeen vain: the country had been scoured far and wide; no vestige ofinformation could be gathered respecting her. Yet that she shouldbe found is become a matter of serious urgency: advertisements havebeen put in all the papers; I myself have received a letter from oneMr. Briggs, a solicitor, communicating the details I have justimparted. Is it not an odd tale?"

"Just tell me this," said I, "and since you know so much, you surelycan tell it me--what of Mr. Rochester? How and where is he? Whatis he doing? Is he well?"

"I am ignorant of all concerning Mr. Rochester: the letter nevermentions him but to narrate the fraudulent and illegal attempt Ihave adverted to. You should rather ask the name of the governess--the nature of the event which requires her appearance."

"Did no one go to Thornfield Hall, then? Did no one see Mr.Rochester?"

"I suppose not."

"But they wrote to him?"

"Of course."

"And what did he say? Who has his letters?"

"Mr. Briggs intimates that the answer to his application was notfrom Mr. Rochester, but from a lady: it is signed 'Alice Fairfax.'"

I felt cold and dismayed: my worst fears then were probably true:he had in all probability left England and rushed in recklessdesperation to some former haunt on the Continent. And what opiatefor his severe sufferings--what object for his strong passions--hadhe sought there? I dared not answer the question. Oh, my poormaster--once almost my husband--whom I had often called "my dearEdward!"

"He must have been a bad man," observed Mr. Rivers.

"You don't know him--don't pronounce an opinion upon him," I said,with warmth.

"Very well," he answered quietly: "and indeed my head is otherwiseoccupied than with him: I have my tale to finish. Since you won'task the governess's name, I must tell it of my own accord. Stay! Ihave it here--it is always more satisfactory to see important pointswritten down, fairly committed to black and white."

And the pocket-book was again deliberately produced, opened, soughtthrough; from one of its compartments was extracted a shabby slip ofpaper, hastily torn off: I recognised in its texture and its stainsof ultra-marine, and lake, and vermillion, the ravished margin ofthe portrait-cover. He got up, held it close to my eyes: and Iread, traced in Indian ink, in my own handwriting, the words "JANEEYRE"--the work doubtless of some moment of abstraction.

"Briggs wrote to me of a Jane Eyre:" he said, "the advertisementsdemanded a Jane Eyre: I knew a Jane Elliott.--I confess I had mysuspicions, but it was only yesterday afternoon they were at onceresolved into certainty. You own the name and renounce the alias?"

"Yes--yes; but where is Mr. Briggs? He perhaps knows more of Mr.Rochester than you do."

"Briggs is in London. I should doubt his knowing anything at allabout Mr. Rochester; it is not in Mr. Rochester he is interested.Meantime, you forget essential points in pursuing trifles: you donot inquire why Mr. Briggs sought after you--what he wanted withyou."

"Well, what did he want?"

"Merely to tell you that your uncle, Mr. Eyre of Madeira, is dead;that he has left you all his property, and that you are now rich--merely that--nothing more."

"I!--rich?"

"Yes, you, rich--quite an heiress."

Silence succeeded.

"You must prove your identity of course," resumed St. Johnpresently: "a step which will offer no difficulties; you can thenenter on immediate possession. Your fortune is vested in theEnglish funds; Briggs has the will and the necessary documents."

Here was a new card turned up! It is a fine thing, reader, to belifted in a moment from indigence to wealth--a very fine thing; butnot a matter one can comprehend, or consequently enjoy, all at once.And then there are other chances in life far more thrilling andrapture-giving: THIS is solid, an affair of the actual world,nothing ideal about it: all its associations are solid and sober,and its manifestations are the same. One does not jump, and spring,and shout hurrah! at hearing one has got a fortune; one begins toconsider responsibilities, and to ponder business; on a base ofsteady satisfaction rise certain grave cares, and we containourselves, and blood over our bliss with a solemn brow.

Besides, the words Legacy, Bequest, go side by side with the words,Death, Funeral. My uncle I had heard was dead--my only relative;ever since being made aware of his existence, I had cherished thehope of one day seeing him: now, I never should. And then thismoney came only to me: not to me and a rejoicing family, but to myisolated self. It was a grand boon doubtless; and independencewould be glorious--yes, I felt that--that thought swelled my heart.

"You unbend your forehead at last," said Mr. Rivers. "I thoughtMedusa had looked at you, and that you were turning to stone.Perhaps now you will ask how much you are worth?"

"How much am I worth?"

"Oh, a trifle! Nothing of course to speak of--twenty thousandpounds, I think they say--but what is that?"

"Twenty thousand pounds?"

Here was a new stunner--I had been calculating on four or fivethousand. This news actually took my breath for a moment: Mr. St.John, whom I had never heard laugh before, laughed now.

"Well," said he, "if you had committed a murder, and I had told youyour crime was discovered, you could scarcely look more aghast."

"It is a large sum--don't you think there is a mistake?"

"No mistake at all."

"Perhaps you have read the figures wrong--it may be two thousand!"

"It is written in letters, not figures,--twenty thousand."

I again felt rather like an individual of but average gastronomicalpowers sitting down to feast alone at a table spread with provisionsfor a hundred. Mr. Rivers rose now and put his cloak on.

"If it were not such a very wild night," he said, "I would sendHannah down to keep you company: you look too desperately miserableto be left alone. But Hannah, poor woman! could not stride thedrifts so well as I: her legs are not quite so long: so I muste'en leave you to your sorrows. Good-night."

He was lifting the latch: a sudden thought occurred to me. "Stopone minute!" I cried.

"Well?"

"It puzzles me to know why Mr. Briggs wrote to you about me; or howhe 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," he said; "and the clergy are often appealedto about odd matters." Again the latch rattled.

"No; that does not satisfy me!" I exclaimed: and indeed there wassomething in the hasty and unexplanatory reply which, instead ofallaying, piqued my curiosity more than ever.

"It is a very strange piece of business," I added; "I must know moreabout it."

"Another time."

"No; to-night!--to-night!" and as he turned from the door, I placedmyself between it and him. He looked rather embarrassed.

"You certainly shall not go till you have told me all," I said.

"I would rather not just now."

"You shall!--you must!"

"I would rather Diana or Mary informed you."

Of course these objections wrought my eagerness to a climax:gratified it must be, and that without delay; and I told him so.

"But I apprised you that I was a hard man," said he, "difficult topersuade."

"And I am a hard woman,--impossible to put off."

"And then," he pursued, "I am cold: no fervour infects me."

"Whereas I am hot, and fire dissolves ice. The blaze there hasthawed all the snow from your cloak; by the same token, it hasstreamed on to my floor, and made it like a trampled street. As youhope ever to be forgiven, Mr. Rivers, the high crime andmisdemeanour of spoiling a sanded kitchen, tell me what I wish toknow."

"Well, then," he said, "I yield; if not to your earnestness, to yourperseverance: as stone is worn by continual dropping. Besides, youmust know some day,--as well now as later. Your name is Jane Eyre?"

"Of course: that was all settled before."

"You are not, perhaps, aware that I am your namesake?--that I waschristened St. John Eyre Rivers?"

"No, indeed! I remember now seeing the letter E. comprised in yourinitials written in books you have at different times lent me; but Inever asked for what name it stood. But what then? Surely--"

I stopped: I could not trust myself to entertain, much less toexpress, the thought that rushed upon me--that embodied itself,--that, in a second, stood out a strong, solid probability.Circumstances knit themselves, fitted themselves, shot into order:the chain that had been lying hitherto a formless lump of links wasdrawn out straight,--every ring was perfect, the connectioncomplete. I knew, by instinct, how the matter stood, before St.John had said another word; but I cannot expect the reader to havethe same intuitive perception, so I must repeat his explanation.

"My mother's name was Eyre; she had two brothers; one a clergyman,who married Miss Jane Reed, of Gateshead; the other, John Eyre,Esq., merchant, late of Funchal, Madeira. Mr. Briggs, being Mr.Eyre's solicitor, wrote to us last August to inform us of ouruncle's death, and to say that he had left his property to hisbrother the clergyman's orphan daughter, overlooking us, inconsequence of a quarrel, never forgiven, between him and my father.He wrote again a few weeks since, to intimate that the heiress waslost, and asking if we knew anything of her. A name casuallywritten on a slip of paper has enabled me to find her out. You knowthe rest." Again he was going, but I set my back against the door.

"Do let me speak," I said; "let me have one moment to draw breathand reflect." I paused--he stood before me, hat in hand, lookingcomposed enough. I resumed -

"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 hissister's children, as I am his brother's child?"

"Undeniably."

"You three, then, are my cousins; half our blood on each side flowsfrom the same source?"

"We are cousins; yes."

I surveyed him. It seemed I had found a brother: one I could beproud of,--one I could love; and two sisters, whose qualities weresuch, that, when I knew them but as mere strangers, they hadinspired me with genuine affection and admiration. The two girls,on whom, kneeling down on the wet ground, and looking through thelow, latticed window of Moor House kitchen, I had gazed with sobitter a mixture of interest and despair, were my near kinswomen;and the young and stately gentleman who had found me almost dying athis threshold was my blood relation. Glorious discovery to a lonelywretch! This was wealth indeed!--wealth to the heart!--a mine ofpure, genial affections. This was a blessing, bright, vivid, andexhilarating;--not like the ponderous gift of gold: rich andwelcome enough in its way, but sobering from its weight. I nowclapped my hands in sudden joy--my pulse bounded, my veins thrilled.

"Oh, I am glad!--I am glad!" I exclaimed.

St. John smiled. "Did I not say you neglected essential points topursue trifles?" he asked. "You were serious when I told you youhad got a fortune; and now, for a matter of no moment, you areexcited."

"What can you mean? It may be of no moment to you; you have sistersand don't care for a cousin; but I had nobody; and now threerelations,--or two, if you don't choose to be counted,--are borninto my world full-grown. I say again, I am glad!"

I walked fast through the room: I stopped, half suffocated with thethoughts that rose faster than I could receive, comprehend, settlethem:- thoughts of what might, could, would, and should be, and thatere long. I looked at the blank wall: it seemed a sky thick withascending stars,--every one lit me to a purpose or delight. Thosewho had saved my life, whom, till this hour, I had loved barrenly, Icould now benefit. They were under a yoke,--I could free them:they were scattered,--I could reunite them: the independence, theaffluence which was mine, might be theirs too. Were we not four?Twenty thousand pounds shared equally would be five thousand each,justice--enough and to spare: justice would be done,--mutualhappiness secured. Now the wealth did not weigh on me: now it wasnot a mere bequest of coin,--it was a legacy of life, hope,enjoyment.

How I looked while these ideas were taking my spirit by storm, Icannot tell; but I perceived soon that Mr. Rivers had placed a chairbehind me, and was gently attempting to make me sit down on it. Healso advised me to be composed; I scorned the insinuation ofhelplessness and distraction, shook off his hand, and began to walkabout again.

"Write to Diana and Mary to-morrow," I said, "and tell them to comehome directly. Diana said they would both consider themselves richwith a thousand pounds, so with five thousand they will do verywell."

"Tell me where I can get you a glass of water," said St. John; "youmust really make an effort to tranquillise your feelings."

"Nonsense! and what sort of an effect will the bequest have on you?Will it keep you in England, induce you to marry Miss Oliver, andsettle down like an ordinary mortal?"

"You wander: your head becomes confused. I have been too abrupt incommunicating the news; it has excited you beyond your strength."

"Mr. Rivers! you quite put me out of patience: I am rationalenough; it is you who misunderstand, or rather who affect tomisunderstand."

"Perhaps, if you explained yourself a little more fully, I shouldcomprehend better."

"Explain! What is there to explain? You cannot fail to see thattwenty thousand pounds, the sum in question, divided equally betweenthe nephew and three nieces of our uncle, will give five thousand toeach? What I want is, that you should write to your sisters andtell them of the fortune that has accrued to them."

"To you, you mean."

"I have intimated my view of the case: I am incapable of taking anyother. I am not brutally selfish, blindly unjust, or fiendishlyungrateful. Besides, I am resolved I will have a home andconnections. I like Moor House, and I will live at Moor House; Ilike Diana and Mary, and I will attach myself for life to Diana andMary. It would please and benefit me to have five thousand pounds;it would torment and oppress me to have twenty thousand; which,moreover, could never be mine in justice, though it might in law. Iabandon to you, then, what is absolutely superfluous to me. Letthere be no opposition, and no discussion about it; let us agreeamongst each other, and decide the point at once."

"This is acting on first impulses; you must take days to considersuch a matter, ere your word can be regarded as valid."

"Oh! if all you doubt is my sincerity, I am easy: you see thejustice of the case?"

"I DO see a certain justice; but it is contrary to all custom.Besides, the entire fortune is your right: my uncle gained it byhis own efforts; he was free to leave it to whom he would: he leftit to you. After all, justice permits you to keep it: you may,with a clear conscience, consider it absolutely your own."

"With me," said I, "it is fully as much a matter of feeling as ofconscience: I must indulge my feelings; I so seldom have had anopportunity of doing so. Were you to argue, object, and annoy mefor a year, I could not forego the delicious pleasure of which Ihave caught a glimpse--that of repaying, in part, a mightyobligation, and winning to myself lifelong friends."

"You think so now," rejoined St. John, "because you do not know whatit is to possess, nor consequently to enjoy wealth: you cannot forma notion of the importance twenty thousand pounds would give you; ofthe place it would enable you to take in society; of the prospectsit would open to you: you cannot--"

"And you," I interrupted, "cannot at all imagine the craving I havefor fraternal and sisterly love. I never had a home, I never hadbrothers or sisters; I must and will have them now: you are notreluctant 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 Inever earned and do not merit! You, penniless! Famous equality andfraternisation! Close union! Intimate attachment!"

"But, Jane, your aspirations after family ties and domestichappiness may be realised otherwise than by the means youcontemplate: you may marry."

"Nonsense, again! Marry! I don't want to marry, and never shallmarry."

"That is saying too much: such hazardous affirmations are a proofof the excitement under which you labour."

"It is not saying too much: I know what I feel, and how averse aremy inclinations to the bare thought of marriage. No one would takeme for love; and I will not be regarded in the light of a mere moneyspeculation. And I do not want a stranger--unsympathising, alien,different from me; I want my kindred: those with whom I have fullfellow-feeling. Say again you will be my brother: when you utteredthe words I was satisfied, happy; repeat them, if you can, repeatthem sincerely."

"I think I can. I know I have always loved my own sisters; and Iknow on what my affection for them is grounded,--respect for theirworth and admiration of their talents. You too have principle andmind: your tastes and habits resemble Diana's and Mary's; yourpresence is always agreeable to me; in your conversation I havealready for some time found a salutary solace. I feel I can easilyand naturally make room in my heart for you, as my third andyoungest 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 somemistrustful 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, andarguments I used, to get matters regarding the legacy settled as Iwished. My task was a very hard one; but, as I was absolutelyresolved--as my cousins saw at length that my mind was really andimmutably fixed on making a just division of the property--as theymust in their own hearts have felt the equity of the intention; andmust, besides, have been innately conscious that in my place theywould have done precisely what I wished to do--they yielded atlength so far as to consent to put the affair to arbitration. Thejudges chosen were Mr. Oliver and an able lawyer: both coincided inmy opinion: I carried my point. The instruments of transfer weredrawn out: St. John, Diana, Mary, and I, each became possessed of acompetency.