The Complete Works of Charlotte Brontë. Charlotte Bronte

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СКАЧАТЬ tell me this,” said I, “and since you know so much, you surely can tell it me — what of Mr. Rochester? How and where is he? What is he doing? Is he well?”

      “I am ignorant of all concerning Mr. Rochester: the letter never mentions him but to narrate the fraudulent and illegal attempt I have 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 not from 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 reckless desperation to some former haunt on the Continent. And what opiate for his severe sufferings — what object for his strong passions — had he sought there? I dared not answer the question. Oh, my poor master — once almost my husband — whom I had often called “my dear Edward!”

      “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 otherwise occupied than with him: I have my tale to finish. Since you won’t ask the governess’s name, I must tell it of my own accord. Stay! I have it here — it is always more satisfactory to see important points written down, fairly committed to black and white.”

      And the pocket-book was again deliberately produced, opened, sought through; from one of its compartments was extracted a shabby slip of paper, hastily torn off: I recognised in its texture and its stains of ultra-marine, and lake, and vermillion, the ravished margin of the portrait-cover. He got up, held it close to my eyes: and I read, traced in Indian ink, in my own handwriting, the words “Jane Eyre” — the work doubtless of some moment of abstraction.

      “Briggs wrote to me of a Jane Eyre:” he said, “the advertisements demanded a Jane Eyre: I knew a Jane Elliott. — I confess I had my suspicions, but it was only yesterday afternoon they were at once resolved 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 all about Mr. Rochester; it is not in Mr. Rochester he is interested. Meantime, you forget essential points in pursuing trifles: you do not inquire why Mr. Briggs sought after you — what he wanted with you.”

      “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. John presently: “a step which will offer no difficulties; you can then enter on immediate possession. Your fortune is vested in the English funds; Briggs has the will and the necessary documents.”

      Here was a new card turned up! It is a fine thing, reader, to be lifted in a moment from indigence to wealth — a very fine thing; but not a matter one can comprehend, or consequently enjoy, all at once. And then there are other chances in life far more thrilling and rapture-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 to consider responsibilities, and to ponder business; on a base of steady satisfaction rise certain grave cares, and we contain ourselves, and brood 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 the hope of one day seeing him: now, I never should. And then this money came only to me: not to me and a rejoicing family, but to my isolated self. It was a grand boon doubtless; and independence would be glorious — yes, I felt that — that thought swelled my heart.

      “You unbend your forehead at last,” said Mr. Rivers. “I thought Medusa 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 thousand pounds, I think they say — but what is that?”

      “Twenty thousand pounds?”

      Here was a new stunner — I had been calculating on four or five thousand. 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 you your 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 gastronomical powers sitting down to feast alone at a table spread with provisions for a hundred. Mr. Rivers rose now and put his cloak on.

      “If it were not such a very wild night,” he said, “I would send Hannah down to keep you company: you look too desperately miserable to be left alone. But Hannah, poor woman! could not stride the drifts so well as I: her legs are not quite so long: so I must e’en leave you to your sorrows. Goodnight.”

      He was lifting the latch: a sudden thought occurred to me. “Stop one minute!” I cried.

      “Well?”

      “It puzzles me to know why Mr. Briggs wrote to you about me; or how he 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 appealed to about odd matters.” Again the latch rattled.

      “No; that does not satisfy me!” I exclaimed: and indeed there was something in the hasty and unexplanatory reply which, instead of allaying, piqued my curiosity more than ever.

      “It is a very strange piece of business,” I added; “I must know more about it.”

      “Another time.”

      “No; tonight! СКАЧАТЬ