“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.
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. There was a reviving pleasure
in this intercourse, of a kind now tasted by me for
the first time — the pleasure arising from
perfect congeniality of tastes, sentiments, and principles.
