Jane Eyre

have done for me since—for I have not been insensible during my seeming torpor—and I owe to their spontaneous, genuine, genial compassion 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.