My home, then,
when I at last find a home,--is
a cottage; a little room with whitewashed
walls and a sanded floor, containing
four
painted chairs and a table, a clock, a cupboard, with two or three
plates and dishes, and a set of tea-things in delf. Above, a
chamber of the same dimensions as the kitchen, with a deal bedstead
and chest of drawers; small, yet too large to be filled with my
scanty wardrobe: though the kindness of my gentle and generous
friends has increased that, by a modest stock of such things as are
necessary.
It is evening. I have dismissed,
with the fee of an orange, the
little orphan who serves me as
a handmaid. I am sitting alone
on the hearth. This morning,
the village school opened. I
had twenty scholars. But three
of the number can read: none
write or cipher. Several knit,
and a few sew a little. They
speak with the broadest accent
of the district. At present,
they and I have a difficulty
in understanding each other's
language. Some of them are unmannered,
rough, intractable, as well as
ignorant; but others are docile,
have a wish to learn, and evince
a disposition that pleases me.
I must not forget that these
coarsely-clad little peasants
are of flesh and blood as good
as the scions of gentlest genealogy;
and that the germs of native
excellence, refinement, intelligence,
kind feeling, are as likely to
exist in their hearts as in those
of the best-born. My duty will
be to develop these germs: surely
I shall find some happiness in
discharging that office. Much
enjoyment I do not expect in
the life opening before me: yet
it will, doubtless, if I regulate
my mind, and exert my powers
as I ought, yield me enough to
live on from day to day.
Was I very gleeful, settled,
content, during the hours I passed
in yonder bare, humble schoolroom
this morning and afternoon? Not
to deceive myself, I must reply--No:
I felt desolate to a degree.
I felt--yes, idiot that I am--I
felt degraded. I doubted I had
taken a step which sank instead
of raising me in the scale of
social existence. I was weakly
dismayed at the ignorance, the
poverty, the coarseness of all
I heard and saw round me. But
let me not hate and despise myself
too much for these feelings;
I know them to be wrong- -that
is a great step gained; I shall
strive to overcome them. To-
morrow, I trust, I shall get
the better of them partially;
and in a few weeks, perhaps,
they will be quite subdued. In
a few months, it is possible,
the happiness of seeing progress,
and a change for the better in
my scholars may substitute gratification
for disgust.
Meantime, let me ask myself
one question--Which is better?--To
have surrendered to temptation;
listened to passion; made no
painful effort--no struggle;--but
to have sunk down in the silken
snare; fallen asleep on the flowers
covering it; wakened in a southern
clime, amongst the luxuries of
a pleasure villa: to have been
now living in France, Mr. Rochester's
mistress; delirious with his
love half my time--for he would--oh,
yes, he would have loved me well
for a while. He DID love me--no
one will ever love me so again.
I shall never more know the sweet
homage given to beauty, youth,
and grace--for never to any one
else shall I seem to possess
these charms. He was fond and
proud of me--it is what no man
besides will ever be.--But where
am I wandering, and what am I
saying, and above all, feeling?
Whether is it better, I ask,
to be a slave in a fool's paradise
at Marseilles--fevered with delusive
bliss one hour- -suffocating
with the bitterest tears of remorse
and shame the next- -or to be
a village-schoolmistress, free
and honest, in a breezy mountain
nook in the healthy heart of
England?
Yes; I feel now that I was
right when I adhered to principle
and law, and scorned and crushed
the insane promptings of a frenzied
moment. God directed me to a
correct choice: I thank His providence
for the guidance!
Having brought my eventide
musings to this point, I rose,
went to my door, and looked at
the sunset of the harvest-day,
and at the quiet fields before
my cottage, which, with the school,
was distant half a mile from
the village. The birds were singing
their last strains -
"The air was
mild, the dew was balm."
While I looked, I thought myself
happy, and was surprised to find
myself ere long weeping--and
why? For the doom which had reft
me from adhesion to my master:
for him I was no more to see;
for the desperate grief and fatal
fury--consequences of my departure--which
might now, perhaps, be dragging
him from the path of right, too
far to leave hope of ultimate
restoration thither. At this
thought, I turned my face aside
from the lovely sky of eve and
lonely vale of Morton--I say
LONELY, for in that bend of it
visible to me there was no building
apparent save the church and
the parsonage, half-hid in trees,
and, quite at the extremity,
the roof of Vale Hall, where
the rich Mr. Oliver and his daughter
lived. I hid my eyes, and leant
my head against the stone frame
of my door; but soon a slight
noise near the wicket which shut
in my tiny garden from the meadow
beyond it made me look up. A
dog--old Carlo, Mr. Rivers' pointer,
as I saw in a moment--was pushing
the gate with his nose, and St.
John himself leant upon it with
folded arms; his brow knit, his
gaze, grave almost to displeasure,
fixed on me. I asked him to come
in.
"No, I cannot
stay; I have only brought you
a little parcel
my sisters left for you. I think
it contains a colour-box, pencils,
and paper."
I approached to take it: a
welcome gift it was. He examined
my face, I thought, with austerity,
as I came near: the traces of
tears were doubtless very visible
upon it.
"Have you found your first
day's work harder than you expected?" he
asked.
"Oh, no! On
the contrary, I think in time
I shall get on
with my scholars very well."
"But perhaps your accommodations--your
cottage--your furniture--have
disappointed your expectations?
They are, in truth, scanty enough;
but--" I interrupted -
"My cottage
is clean and weather-proof;
my furniture sufficient and commodious.
All I see has made me thankful,
not despondent. I am not absolutely
such a fool and sensualist as
to regret the absence of a carpet,
a sofa, and silver plate; besides,
five weeks ago I had nothing--I
was an outcast, a beggar, a vagrant;
now I have acquaintance, a home,
a business. I wonder at the goodness
of God; the generosity of my
friends; the bounty of my lot.
I do not repine."
"But you feel
solitude an oppression? The
little house there behind
you is dark and empty."
"I have hardly
had time yet to enjoy a sense
of tranquillity,
much less to grow impatient under
one of loneliness."
"Very well;
I hope you feel the content
you express: at any
rate, your good sense will tell
you that it is too soon yet to
yield to the vacillating fears
of Lot's wife. What you had left
before I saw you, of course I
do not know; but I counsel you
to resist firmly every temptation
which would incline you to look
back: pursue your present career
steadily, for some months at
least."
"It is what I mean to do," I
answered. St. John continued
-
"It is hard
work to control the workings
of inclination and
turn the bent of nature; but
that it may be done, I know from
experience. God has given us,
in a measure, the power to make
our own fate; and when our energies
seem to demand a sustenance they
cannot get--when our will strains
after a path we may not follow--we
need neither starve from inanition,
nor stand still in despair: we
have but to seek another nourishment
for the mind, as strong as the
forbidden food it longed to taste--and
perhaps purer; and to hew out
for the adventurous foot a road
as direct and broad as the one
Fortune has blocked up against
us, if rougher than it.
"A year ago
I was myself intensely miserable,
because I thought
I had made a mistake in entering
the ministry: its uniform duties
wearied me to death. I burnt
for the more active life of the
world- -for the more exciting
toils of a literary career--for
the destiny of an artist, author,
orator; anything rather than
that of a priest: yes, the heart
of a politician, of a soldier,
of a votary of glory, a lover
of renown, a luster after power,
beat under my curate's surplice.
I considered; my life was so
wretched, it must be changed,
or I must die. After a season
of darkness and struggling, light
broke and relief fell: my cramped
existence all at once spread
out to a plain without bounds--my
powers heard a call from heaven
to rise, gather their full strength,
spread their wings, and mount
beyond ken. God had an errand
for me; to bear which afar, to
deliver it well, skill and strength,
courage and eloquence, the best
qualifications of soldier, statesman,
and orator, were all needed:
for these all centre in the good
missionary.
"A missionary
I resolved to be. From that
moment my state
of mind changed; the fetters
dissolved and dropped from every
faculty, leaving nothing of bondage
but its galling soreness--which
time only can heal. My father,
indeed, imposed the determination,
but since his death, I have not
a legitimate obstacle to contend
with; some affairs settled, a
successor for Morton provided,
an entanglement or two of the
feelings broken through or cut
asunder--a last conflict with
human weakness, in which I know
I shall overcome, because I have
vowed that I WILL overcome--and
I leave Europe for the East."
He said this, in his peculiar,
subdued, yet emphatic voice;
looking, when he had ceased speaking,
not at me, but at the setting
sun, at which I looked too. Both
he and I had our backs towards
the path leading up the field
to the wicket. We had heard no
step on that grass-grown track;
the water running in the vale
was the one lulling sound of
the hour and scene; we might
well then start when a gay voice,
sweet as a silver bell, exclaimed
-
"Good evening,
Mr. Rivers. And good evening,
old Carlo.
Your dog is quicker to recognise
his friends than you are, sir;
he pricked his ears and wagged
his tail when I was at the bottom
of the field, and you have your
back towards me now."
It was true. Though Mr. Rivers
had started at the first of those
musical accents, as if a thunderbolt
had split a cloud over his head,
he stood yet, at the close of
the sentence, in the same attitude
in which the speaker had surprised
him--his arm resting on the gate,
his face directed towards the
west. He turned at last, with
measured deliberation. A vision,
as it seemed to me, had risen
at his side. There appeared,
within three feet of him, a form
clad in pure white--a youthful,
graceful form: full, yet fine
in contour; and when, after bending
to caress Carlo, it lifted up
its head, and threw back a long
veil, there bloomed under his
glance a face of perfect beauty.
Perfect beauty is a strong expression;
but I do not retrace or qualify
it: as sweet features as ever
the temperate clime of Albion
moulded; as pure hues of rose
and lily as ever her humid gales
and vapoury skies generated and
screened, justified, in this
instance, the term. No charm
was wanting, no defect was perceptible;
the young girl had regular and
delicate lineaments; eyes shaped
and coloured as we see them in
lovely pictures, large, and dark,
and full; the long and shadowy
eyelash which encircles a fine
eye with so soft a fascination;
the pencilled brow which gives
such clearness; the white smooth
forehead, which adds such repose
to the livelier beauties of tint
and ray; the cheek oval, fresh,
and smooth; the lips, fresh too,
ruddy, healthy, sweetly formed;
the even and gleaming teeth without
flaw; the small dimpled chin;
the ornament of rich, plenteous
tresses--all advantages, in short,
which, combined, realise the
ideal of beauty, were fully hers.
I wondered, as I looked at this
fair creature: I admired her
with my whole heart. Nature had
surely formed her in a partial
mood; and, forgetting her usual
stinted step-mother dole of gifts,
had endowed this, her darling,
with a grand-dame's bounty.
What did St. John Rivers think
of this earthly angel? I naturally
asked myself that question as
I saw him turn to her and look
at her; and, as naturally, I
sought the answer to the inquiry
in his countenance. He had already
withdrawn his eye from the Peri,
and was looking at a humble tuft
of daisies which grew by the
wicket.
"A lovely evening, but late
for you to be out alone," he
said, as he crushed the snowy
heads of the closed flowers with
his foot.
"Oh, I only came home from
S-" (she mentioned the name of
a large town some twenty miles
distant) "this afternoon. Papa
told me you had opened your school,
and that the new mistress was
come; and so I put on my bonnet
after tea, and ran up the valley
to see her: this is she?" pointing
to me.
"It is," said
St. John.
"Do you think you shall like
Morton?" she asked of me, with
a direct and naive simplicity
of tone and manner, pleasing,
if child-like.
"I hope I shall.
I have many inducements to
do so."
"Did you find
your scholars as attentive
as you expected?"
"Quite."
"Do you like
your house?"
"Very much."
"Have I furnished
it nicely?"
"Very nicely,
indeed."
"And made a
good choice of an attendant
for you in Alice
Wood?"
"You have indeed. She is teachable
and handy." (This then, I thought,
is Miss Oliver, the heiress;
favoured, it seems, in the gifts
of fortune, as well as in those
of nature! What happy combination
of the planets presided over
her birth, I wonder?)
"I shall come up and help you
to teach sometimes," she added. "It
will be a change for me to visit
you now and then; and I like
a change. Mr. Rivers, I have
been SO gay during my stay at
S-. Last night, or rather this
morning, I was dancing till two
o'clock. The -th regiment are
stationed there since the riots;
and the officers are the most
agreeable men in the world: they
put all our young knife-grinders
and scissor merchants to shame."
It seemed to me that Mr. St.
John's under lip protruded, and
his upper lip curled a moment.
His mouth certainly looked a
good deal compressed, and the
lower part of his face unusually
stern and square, as the laughing
girl gave him this information.
He lifted his gaze, too, from
the daisies, and turned it on
her. An unsmiling, a searching,
a meaning gaze it was. She answered
it with a second laugh, and laughter
well became her youth, her roses,
her dimples, her bright eyes.
As he stood,
mute and grave, she again fell
to caressing Carlo. "Poor
Carlo loves me," said she. "HE
is not stern and distant to his
friends; and if he could speak,
he would not be silent."
As she patted the dog's head,
bending with native grace before
his young and austere master,
I saw a glow rise to that master's
face. I saw his solemn eye melt
with sudden fire, and flicker
with resistless emotion. Flushed
and kindled thus, he looked nearly
as beautiful for a man as she
for a woman. His chest heaved
once, as if his large heart,
weary of despotic constriction,
had expanded, despite the will,
and made a vigorous bound for
the attainment of liberty. But
he curbed it, I think, as a resolute
rider would curb a rearing steed.
He responded neither by word
nor movement to the gentle advances
made him.
"Papa says you never come to
see us now," continued Miss Oliver,
looking up. "You are quite a
stranger at Vale Hall. He is
alone this evening, and not very
well: will you return with me
and visit him?"
"It is not a seasonable hour
to intrude on Mr. Oliver," answered
St. John.
"Not a seasonable hour! But
I declare it is. It is just the
hour when papa most wants company:
when the works are closed and
he has no business to occupy
him. Now, Mr. Rivers, DO come.
Why are you so very shy, and
so very sombre?" She filled up
the hiatus his silence left by
a reply of her own.
"I forgot!" she exclaimed,
shaking her beautiful curled
head, as if shocked at herself. "I
am so giddy and thoughtless!
DO excuse me. It had slipped
my memory that you have good
reasons to be indisposed for
joining in my chatter. Diana
and Mary have left you, and Moor
House is shut up, and you are
so lonely. I am sure I pity you.
Do come and see papa."
"Not to-night,
Miss Rosamond, not to-night."
Mr. St. John spoke almost like
an automaton: himself only knew
the effort it cost him thus to
refuse.
"Well, if you
are so obstinate, I will leave
you; for I dare
not stay any longer: the dew
begins to fall. Good evening!"
She held out
her hand. He just touched it. "Good evening!" he
repeated, in a voice low and
hollow as an echo. She turned,
but in a moment returned.
"Are you well?" she
asked. Well might she put the
question:
his face was blanched as her
gown.
"Quite well," he
enunciated; and, with a bow,
he left the
gate. She went one way; he another.
She turned twice to gaze after
him as she tripped fairy-like
down the field; he, as he strode
firmly across, never turned at
all.
This spectacle
of another's suffering and
sacrifice rapt
my thoughts from exclusive meditation
on my own. Diana Rivers had designated
her brother "inexorable as death." She
had not exaggerated.
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