Jane Eyre

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 teacher – Lowood Orphan Asylum, ––shire: you will have heard of it, 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, 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