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, genialcompassion 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.