Original subtitles

Good afternoon. Is this the parsonage?

Aye.

Is the clergyman in?

Nay.

Will he be home soon?

Nay. His father's died

and he'll most likely be away a fortnight or even more.

Is there a lady of the house?

Nay. I keep house here and I've nowt for charity.

Thank you.

Excuse me for disturbing you but is a servant wanted here, please?

Please, give me that food.

Mother, there's a beggar woman here who wants me to give her my porridge!

Well, lass, give it to her if pigs don't want it.

What do you want?

Please, can I speak to your mistresses?

You'd better tell me what you want to say.

I want a night's shelter.

In an outhouse. Anywhere.

And a crust of bread?

I'll give you some bread,

but we can't take in vagrants.

But where shall I go if you turn me away?!

Oh, here's a penny. Now go!

Please, I can go no further!

Don't close the door! Please don't!

Stop pushing! The rain's coming in!

You are not what you ought to be!

Now move off!

What is it, Hannah? Who is she?

Some beggar woman.

I can but die. God's will be done.

Hannah! Open quickly!

Oh, Mr. St. John, your sisters were quite uneasy about you.

That beggar woman tried to force her way in!

Be off with you! For shame!

Hannah, I have a word to say to the woman.

You have done your duty in excluding, now let me do mine.

This is a strange case, and one I must look into.

Here, sit down.

Hannah, perhaps some water.

No, some milk and a little bread. Fetch some.

Oh, she is worn almost to nothing.

Not too much at first. She is too unwell.

What is your name?

My name?

My name is Jane.

Jane Elliott.

And where do you live? Where are your friends?

Can we send for anyone you know?

No.

What account can you give of yourself?

Sir, I can tell you nothing tonight.

What then do you wish me to do for you?

Nothing.

Do you mean you want nothing more of us

and that we may dismiss you to the moor and the rainy night?

I trust you.

You would not do that to a stray dog tonight.

Do with me as you wish,

but please excuse me from talking.

My breath is short

and I feel a spasm when I speak.

Here. Do try to eat.

Yes, try.

Mary, Diana, let us go to the parlour.

Hannah, attend her.

Come.

Come along.

I am to go?

Yes. Straight upstairs,

out of those wet clothes and into a good warm bed.

Diana's up there now lighting a fire.

Here, let me help you.

Hannah,

bring up some hot water bottles.

There.

It is needless to send for a doctor.

It is only the effect of excessive and prolonged fatigue.

I am, however, certain there is no disease.

Heaven be thanked.

As soon as she can take sufficient nourishment,

she will regain her strength.

She has rather an unusual face,

but I see no sign of vulgarity or degradation.

The very opposite.

To speak the truth, St. John,

my heart rather warms to the poor little soul.

I wish we could help her permanently.

It is hardly likely.

You'll find probably she is a young lady

who has had a misunderstanding with her friends

and injudiciously left them.

We may, perhaps, restore her to them if she is not obstinate.

She looks sensible.

It is strange.

The grace and harmony of beauty are quite wanting in her features.

She is not at all handsome.

She is so ill, St. John.

Let her sleep.

Come.

"Willst du die andern verstehen,

blick in dein eigenes Herz."

It means, "wouldst thou understand others,

look in thine own heart."

So true.

Drink your milk, Miss.

Still on with that German? What good does it do you?

Well, Mary and I mean to teach it.

That way we can make more money than we do now.

Very like. But give over, you've done enough.

Yes. And I think Jane can sleep now.

Good night, my dear.

Good night.

Oh, at least you're eating and drinking better.

Can you sit up?

Ooh. Only just.

how long have I been here?

You've not been out of this bed for 3 days,

and tonight makes 4 nights.

I would get up if I had the strength.

And I have nothing to wear. My clothes are ruined.

One thing at a time.

Lie back now and sleep, like Miss Diana told you.

Good night, then.

I wish I could get to me bed when I fancied.

Good morning, Hannah.

Oh, you got up, then.

You look a sight better, I must say.

Sit ye down in my chair.

Did you ever go begging before you came here?

I'm no beggar,

any more than you or your young ladies.

I do not understand that.

You've got like no house nor no brass, I guess.

It does not make me a beggar.

Are you book-learnt?

Yes. I was at a boarding school for 8 years.

Whatever cannot ye keep yourself for, then?

I have done so

and I hope I will again in the future.

What are you going to do with those apples?

Make them into pies.

Give them to me and I'll peel them for you.

Very well.

Here, put this on your lap or you'll mucky your dress.

Thank you.

You've not been used to servant's work,

I see by your hands.

Never mind what I have been.

What is the name of this house?

They call it moor house.

And Mr. St. John lives here?

Nay, he doesn't live here.

And it's Mr. St. John rivers.

He's a parson at Morton, a few miles off

with a home of his own.

Then it is his father's residence?

It was.

Old Mr. Rivers died 3 weeks since of a stroke.

That's why Mr. St. John, Miss Diana,

and Miss Mary are all here.

The young ladies do not live here, either?

Oh, they work in London as governesses.

Their mother's been dead many a year,

and old Mr. Rivers,

he'd lost a great deal of money

by a man he had trusted turning bankrupt.

They love this old house, though.

And the Moors round about. They come whenever they can.

And you? Have you lived with the family long?

I've been here 30 year.

I nursed them, all three.

That proves you must have been a faithful and honest servant.

I will say so even though you were uncivil enough to call me a beggar.

There's so many cheats about, you mon forgive me.

You munnit be too hard on me.

You look a right down decent little creature.

That'll do. Shake hands.

Oh, lass, I know you will not talk,

but you've got the look of a lady.

Someone must be worrying about you.

Yes.

It hurts me so I cannot bear to think about it.

I dare not communicate. I dare not.

The more you eat, the better.

I've never eaten so much.

You are hungry.

I trust I will not eat long at your expense, sir.

No. When you have told us where your friends are,

we can write to them, and you may be restored to home.

I must be plain, sir.

That is beyond my power.

I am without home or friends.

A most singular position.

You wear no ring. You are a spinster?

Why, St. John, she cannot be above 17 years of age.

I am near 19.

No, I'm not married.

You are too inquisitive, St. John.

I cannot help you if I know nothing about you.

I want only to be put in the way of some work I can do,

to earn the bare necessaries of life.

I will aid you in that to the best of my powers. But…

oh, don't make her talk any more, St. John.

One can see that she's not yet fit for excitement.

Come and sit here, Miss Elliott.

You said your name was Jane Elliott?

Yes.

It is not my real name.

It is what I think it best to be called at present.

Your real name you will not give?

No. I fear discovery above all things.

You are quite right, I am sure.

Oh, let her be at peace, St. John.

You wish to remain independent?

My sisters would love to keep you,

but in a month or so, they will return to their duties in the south.

I shall return to my parish and take Hannah with me.

This house will be shut up.

I shall endeavour to enable you to keep yourself.

I'll do anything, even the humblest task.

If such is your spirit,

I promise to aid you in my own time and way.

Even away from his parish,

St. John will go out visiting the sick and the poor.

He lives only for his vocation, Jane.

Here he comes at last!

Excuse me.

Come in.

You have a question to ask of me?

If I may.

I'm anxious to know whether you've heard

of any service I can undertake.

I found something for you 3 weeks ago,

but you seemed so useful and happy

and my sisters are very attached to you.

I thought I would not speak

until the time came for us to leave Moor House.

But that is in only 3 days' time.

Yes.

Well, what is the engagement you have in view, Mr. Rivers?

Morton, when I came to it 2 years ago, had no school.

The children of the poor had no hope of progress.

I have since established a boys' school

and I now mean to open one for girls.

The teacher's salary will be £30 a year.

She will have a small cottage

and some attendance from a needy child.

The funds are provided by Miss Oliver.

Will you be this teacher?

Thank you, Mr. Rivers. I accept with all my heart!

But you comprehend me?

It is a village school.

The scholars will only be poor girls.

Farm children, at most.

What will you do with your mind,

accomplishments, sentiments, tastes?

They will keep until they are needed.

You know what you undertake, then?

I do. I will open the school next week if you like.

Very well. So be it.

And I'm to start in 3 days' time!

Oh, Jane, it is a great sacrifice you make.

Our uncle John is dead.

And what then?

What then, die?

Why, nothing. Read.

Amen.

We may at least live.

We shall be no worse off than we were before.

It does force upon the mind what might have been.

Too vivid a contrast with what is.

Oh, Jane,

you must wonder at us and our mysteries.

We may seem hard-hearted over the death of an uncle,

but we've never seen him.

It was by his advice that my father lost most of his money.

They quarrelled

and my uncle john later prospered and became rich.

He never married and my father always cherished the belief

that he would atone for his error by leaving his possessions to us.

This letter informs us that every penny has gone to another relation

with the exception of 30 guineas

to purchase 3 mourning rings for St. John, Mary and me.

It would have bought ourselves rich with £1,000 each.

And St. John would have done such a lot of good with some money.

But come, my dears,

let us be cheerful before our parting.

Good day, Miss Elliott.

Good day, Mr. Rivers. Please, won't you come in?

Have you found your first day's work harder than you expected?

Oh, no, on the contrary. May I make you some tea?

No. I have only brought you a little parcel my sisters left for you.

Some colour-box, pencils, and paper, I think.

Thank you. How good of them.

-But perhaps your accommodation is not… -All I see has made me thankful.

Good.

Miss Elliott, I counsel you very firmly

to resist every temptation to look back.

Why do you say that?

I see something in your eyes.

It is a restlessness. You will not stay long at Morton.

-Why? I'm not ambitious. -No? I know I am.

What made you use the word?

I was speaking of myself.

You are—forgive the word— impassioned.

It is hard to control the workings of inclination.

I know from experience, but it may be done.

A year ago, I was intensely miserable.

The dull duties of the ministry wearied me to death.

I longed for excitement, for some distinguished career.

But after much darkness and struggling,

light broke upon me.

I have resolved to be a missionary.

I have vowed, within a year, to leave Europe for the east.

Allow me.

Oh! Good evening, Mr. Rivers.

Good evening.

Papa told me that the new mistress was come

and I ran up the valley to see her.

This is she?

Do you think you will like Morton?

Oh, I hope so. You are Miss Oliver?

Indeed I am. Do you like your house?

Greatly. And I thank you for all you've done to provide for me.

I shall come up to help you sometimes.

Mr. Rivers, I have been so gay of late.

I was dancing till 2 o'clock this morning.

You're quite a stranger at the hall.

Will you return with me and visit papa?

It is not a seasonable hour to intrude on Mr. Oliver.

Oh, I declare it is.

Why are you so very shy and somber?

Oh, I'm so thoughtless.

You are sad after parting with your sisters.

Do come. We will be company for you.

Not tonight.

Well, if you're so obstinate, I must leave you.

I dare not stay, for the dew begins to fall.

-Good evening. -Good evening.

Mr. Briggs, you were kind enough to concern yourself

in the affairs of myself and Miss Eyre but a few days since.

-Sir… -I know!

You were only doing your duty.

I was, Mr. Rochester.

But why do you summon me back here so soon

and so imperatively?

Miss Eyre has disappeared.

-I am hardly surprised. -Hear me out, man!

I need help.

The kind for which a local lawyer is not fitted.

I need a London man.

What would you wish me to do, Mr. Rochester?

You have brother lawyers in every town.

Write to them. Advertise.

There are discreet agents to trace people, are there not?

Engage them. Spare no expense.

If I do find her,

she may not wish her whereabouts to be revealed.

I do not mean to hound her.

I shall leave her in peace if I can.

But I must know that she does not want,

that she is well, that she is cared for,

that she is safe.

I cannot live fearing for her.

I must know she dwells securely upon this same earth as myself.

Find her, Mr. Briggs.

Find her.