The
more I knew of the inmates of
Moor House, the better I liked
them. In a few days I had so
far recovered my health that
I could sit up all day, and walk
out sometimes. I could join with
Diana and Mary in all their occupations;
converse with them as much as
they wished, and aid them when
and where they would allow me.
There was a reviving pleasure
in this intercourse, of a kind
now tasted by me for the first
time-the pleasure arising from
perfect congeniality of tastes,
sentiments, and principles.
I liked to read what they liked
to read: what they enjoyed, delighted
me; what they approved, I reverenced.
They loved their sequestered
home. I, too, in the grey, small,
antique structure, with its low
roof, its latticed casements,
its mouldering walls, its avenue
of aged firs--all grown aslant
under the stress of mountain
winds; its garden, dark with
yew and holly--and where no flowers
but of the hardiest species would
bloom--found a charm both potent
and permanent. They clung to
the purple moors behind and around
their dwelling--to the hollow
vale into which the pebbly bridle-path
leading from their gate descended,
and which wound between fern-
banks first, and then amongst
a few of the wildest little pasture-
fields that ever bordered a wilderness
of heath, or gave sustenance
to a flock of grey moorland sheep,
with their little mossy-faced
lambs:- they clung to this scene,
I say, with a perfect enthusiasm
of attachment. I could comprehend
the feeling, and share both its
strength and truth. I saw the
fascination of the locality.
I felt the consecration of its
loneliness: my eye feasted on
the outline of swell and sweep--on
the wild colouring communicated
to ridge and dell by moss, by
heath-bell, by flower-sprinkled
turf, by brilliant bracken, and
mellow granite crag. These details
were just to me what they were
to them--so many pure and sweet
sources of pleasure. The strong
blast and the soft breeze; the
rough and the halcyon day; the
hours of sunrise and sunset;
the moonlight and the clouded
night, developed for me, in these
regions, the same attraction
as for them--wound round my faculties
the same spell that entranced
theirs.
Indoors we agreed equally well.
They were both more accomplished
and better read than I was; but
with eagerness I followed in
the path of knowledge they had
trodden before me. I devoured
the books they lent me: then
it was full satisfaction to discuss
with them in the evening what
I had perused during the day.
Thought fitted thought; opinion
met opinion: we coincided, in
short, perfectly.
If in our trio there was a
superior and a leader, it was
Diana. Physically, she far excelled
me: she was handsome; she was
vigorous. In her animal spirits
there was an affluence of life
and certainty of flow, such as
excited my wonder, while it baffled
my comprehension. I could talk
a while when the evening commenced,
but the first gush of vivacity
and fluency gone, I was fain
to sit on a stool at Diana's
feet, to rest my head on her
knee, and listen alternately
to her and Mary, while they sounded
thoroughly the topic on which
I had but touched. Diana offered
to teach me German. I liked to
learn of her: I saw the part
of instructress pleased and suited
her; that of scholar pleased
and suited me no less. Our natures
dovetailed: mutual affection--of
the strongest kind--was the result.
They discovered I could draw:
their pencils and colour-boxes
were immediately at my service.
My skill, greater in this one
point than theirs, surprised
and charmed them. Mary would
sit and watch me by the hour
together: then she would take
lessons; and a docile, intelligent,
assiduous pupil she made. Thus
occupied, and mutually entertained,
days passed like hours, and weeks
like days.
As to Mr. St John, the intimacy
which had arisen so naturally
and rapidly between me and his
sisters did not extend to him.
One reason of the distance yet
observed between us was, that
he was comparatively seldom at
home: a large proportion of his
time appeared devoted to visiting
the sick and poor among the scattered
population of his parish.
No weather seemed to hinder
him in these pastoral excursions:
rain or fair, he would, when
his hours of morning study were
over, take his hat, and, followed
by his father's old pointer,
Carlo, go out on his mission
of love or duty--I scarcely know
in which light he regarded it.
Sometimes, when the day was very
unfavourable, his sisters would
expostulate. He would then say,
with a peculiar smile, more solemn
than cheerful -
"And
if I let a
gust of wind
or a sprinkling of rain turn
me aside from these easy tasks,
what preparation would such sloth
be for the future I propose to
myself?"
Diana and Mary's general answer
to this question was a sigh,
and some minutes of apparently
mournful meditation.
But besides his frequent absences,
there was another barrier to
friendship with him: he seemed
of a reserved, an abstracted,
and even of a brooding nature.
Zealous in his ministerial labours,
blameless in his life and habits,
he yet did not appear to enjoy
that mental serenity, that inward
content, which should bet he
reward of every sincere Christian
and practical philanthropist.
Often, of an evening, when he
sat at the window, his desk and
papers before him, he would cease
reading or writing, rest his
chin on his hand, and deliver
himself up to I know not what
course of thought; but that it
was perturbed and exciting might
be seen in the frequent flash
and changeful dilation of his
eye.
I think, moreover, that Nature
was not to him that treasury
of delight it was to his sisters.
He expressed once, and but once
in my hearing, a strong sense
of the rugged charm of the hills,
and an inborn affection for the
dark roof and hoary walls he
called his home; but there was
more of gloom than pleasure in
the tone and words in which the
sentiment was manifested; and
never did he seem to roam the
moors for the sake of their soothing
silence--never seek out or dwell
upon the thousand peaceful delights
they could yield.
Incommunicative as he was,
some time elapsed before I had
an opportunity of gauging his
mind. I first got an idea of
its calibre when I heard him
preach in his own church at Morton.
I wish I could describe that
sermon: but it is past my power.
I cannot even render faithfully
the effect it produced on me.
It began calm--and indeed,
as far as delivery and pitch
of voice went, it was calm to
the end: an earnestly felt, yet
strictly restrained zeal breathed
soon in the distinct accents,
and prompted the nervous language.
This grew to force--compressed,
condensed, controlled. The heart
was thrilled, the mind astonished,
by the power of the preacher:
neither were softened. Throughout
there was a strange bitterness;
an absence of consolatory gentleness;
stern allusions to Calvinistic
doctrines--election, predestination,
reprobation--were frequent; and
each reference to these points
sounded like a sentence pronounced
for doom. When he had done, instead
of feeling better, calmer, more
enlightened by his discourse,
I experienced an inexpressible
sadness; for it seemed to me--I
know not whether equally so to
others--that the eloquence to
which I had been listening had
sprung from a depth where lay
turbid dregs of disappointment--where
moved troubling impulses of insatiate
yearnings and disquieting aspirations.
I was sure St. John Rivers--
pure-lived, conscientious, zealous
as he was--had not yet found
that peace of God which passeth
all understanding: he had no
more found it, I thought, than
had I with my concealed and racking
regrets for my broken idol and
lost elysium--regrets to which
I have latterly avoided referring,
but which possessed me and tyrannised
over me ruthlessly.
Meantime a month was gone.
Diana and Mary were soon to leave
Moor House, and return to the
far different life and scene
which awaited them, as governesses
in a large, fashionable, south-of-England
city, where each held a situation
in families by whose wealthy
and haughty members they were
regarded only as humble dependants,
and who neither knew nor sought
out their innate excellences,
and appreciated only their acquired
accomplishments as they appreciated
the skill of their cook or the
taste of their waiting-woman.
Mr. St. John had said nothing
to me yet about the employment
he had promised to obtain for
me; yet it became urgent that
I should have a vocation of some
kind. One morning, being left
alone with him a few minutes
in the parlour, I ventured to
approach the window-recess--
which his table, chair, and desk
consecrated as a kind of study--and
I was going to speak, though
not very well knowing in what
words to frame my inquiry--for
it is at all times difficult
to break the ice of reserve glassing
over such natures as his--when
he saved me the trouble by being
the first to commence a dialogue.
Looking
up as I drew
near--"You
have a question to ask of me?" he
said.
"Yes;
I wish to know
whether you
have heard
of any service
I can offer myself to undertake?"
"I
found or devised
something for
you three weeks
ago; but
as you seemed both useful and
happy here--as my sisters had
evidently become attached to
you, and your society gave them
unusual pleasure- -I deemed it
inexpedient to break in on your
mutual comfort till their approaching
departure from Marsh End should
render yours necessary."
"And they will go in three
days now?" I said.
"Yes;
and when they
go, I shall
return to the parsonage at Morton:
Hannah will accompany me; and
this old house will be shut up."
I waited a few moments, expecting
he would go on with the subject
first broached: but he seemed
to have entered another train
of reflection: his look denoted
abstraction from me and my business.
I was obliged to recall him to
a theme which was of necessity
one of close and anxious interest
to me.
"What
is the employment
you had in
view, Mr. Rivers?
I hope
this delay will not have increased
the difficulty of securing it."
"Oh,
no; since it
is in employment
which depends only on me to give,
and you to accept."
He again paused: there seemed
a reluctance to continue. I grew
impatient: a restless movement
or two, and an eager and exacting
glance fastened on his face,
conveyed the feeling to him as
effectually as words could have
done, and with less trouble.
"You need be in no hurry to
hear," he said: "let me frankly
tell you, I have nothing eligible
or profitable to suggest. Before
I explain, recall, if you please,
my notice, clearly given, that
if I helped you, it must be as
the blind man would help the
lame. I am poor; for I find that,
when I have paid my father's
debts, all the patrimony remaining
to me will be this crumbling
grange, the row of scathed firs
behind, and the patch of moorish
soil, with the yew- trees and
holly-bushes in front. I am obscure:
Rivers is an old name; but of
the three sole descendants of
the race, two earn the dependant's
crust among strangers, and the
third considers himself an alien
from his native country--not
only for life, but in death.
Yes, and deems, and is bound
to deem, himself honoured by
the lot, and aspires but after
the day when the cross of separation
from fleshly ties shall be laid
on his shoulders, and when the
Head of that church-militant
of whose humblest members he
is one, shall give the word,
'Rise, follow Me!'"
St. John said these words as
he pronounced his sermons, with
a quiet, deep voice; with an
unflushed cheek, and a coruscating
radiance of glance. He resumed
-
"And
since I am
myself poor
and obscure, I can offer you
but a service of poverty and
obscurity. YOU may even think
it degrading-- for I see now
your habits have been what the
world calls refined: your tastes
lean to the ideal, and your society
has at least been amongst the
educated; but I consider that
no service degrades which can
better our race. I hold that
the more arid and unreclaimed
the soil where the Christian
labourer's task of tillage is
appointed him--the scantier the
meed his toil brings--the higher
the honour. His, under such circumstances,
is the destiny of the pioneer;
and the first pioneers of the
Gospel were the Apostles--their
captain was Jesus, the Redeemer,
Himself."
"Well?" I said, as he again
paused--"proceed."
He looked at me before he proceeded:
indeed, he seemed leisurely to
read my face, as if its features
and lines were characters on
a page. The conclusions drawn
from this scrutiny he partially
expressed in his succeeding observations.
"I believe you will accept
the post I offer you," said he, "and
hold it for a while: not permanently,
though: any more than I could
permanently keep the narrow and
narrowing--the tranquil, hidden
office of English country incumbent;
for in your nature is an alloy
as detrimental to repose as that
in mine, though of a different
kind."
"Do explain," I
urged, when
he halted once more.
"I
will; and you
shall hear
how poor the
proposal is,--how
trivial-- how cramping. I shall
not stay long at Morton, now
that my father is dead, and that
I am my own master. I shall leave
the place probably in the course
of a twelve-month; but while
I do stay, I will exert myself
to the utmost for its improvement.
Morton, when I came to it two
years ago, had no school: the
children of the poor were excluded
from every hope of progress.
I established one for boys: I
mean now to open a second school
for girls. I have hired a building
for the purpose, with a cottage
of two rooms attached to it for
the mistress's house. Her salary
will be thirty pounds a year:
her house is already furnished,
very simply, but sufficiently,
by the kindness of a lady, Miss
Oliver; the only daughter of
the sole rich man in my parish--Mr.
Oliver, the proprietor of a needle-
factory and iron-foundry in the
valley. The same lady pays for
the education and clothing of
an orphan from the workhouse,
on condition that she shall aid
the mistress in such menial offices
connected with her own house
and the school as her occupation
of teaching will prevent her
having time to discharge in person.
Will you be this mistress?"
He put the question rather
hurriedly; he seemed half to
expect an indignant, or at least
a disdainful rejection of the
offer: not knowing all my thoughts
and feelings, though guessing
some, he could not tell in what
light the lot would appear to
me. In truth it was humble--but
then it was sheltered, and I
wanted a safe asylum: it was
plodding--but then, compared
with that of a governess in a
rich house, it was independent;
and the fear of servitude with
strangers entered my soul like
iron: it was not ignoble--not
unworthy--not mentally degrading,
I made my decision.
"I
thank you for
the proposal,
Mr. Rivers, and I accept it with
all my heart."
"But you comprehend me?" he
said. "It is a village school:
your scholars will be only poor
girls--cottagers' children--at
the best, farmers' daughters.
Knitting, sewing, reading, writing,
ciphering, will be all you will
have to teach. What will you
do with your accomplishments?
What, with the largest portion
of your mind-- sentiments--tastes?"
"Save
them till they
are wanted.
They will keep."
"You
know what you
undertake,
then?"
"I
do."
He now smiled: and not a bitter
or a sad smile, but one well
pleased and deeply gratified.
"And
when will you
commence the
exercise of
your function?"
"I
will go to
my house to-morrow,
and open the school, if you like,
next week."
"Very
well: so be
it."
He rose and walked through
the room. Standing still, he
again looked at me. He shook
his head.
"What do you disapprove of,
Mr. Rivers?" I asked.
"You
will not stay
at Morton long:
no, no!"
"Why?
What is your
reason for
saying so?"
"I
read it in
your eye; it
is not of that description which
promises the maintenance of an
even tenor in life."
"I
am not ambitious."
He
started at
the word "ambitious." He
repeated, "No. What made you
think of ambition? Who is ambitious?
I know I am: but how did you
find it out?"
"I
was speaking
of myself."
"Well, if you are not ambitious,
you are--" He paused.
"What?"
"I was going to say, impassioned:
but perhaps you would have misunderstood
the word, and been displeased.
I mean, that human affections
and sympathies have a most powerful
hold on you. I am sure you cannot
long be content to pass your
leisure in solitude, and to devote
your working hours to a monotonous
labour wholly void of stimulus:
any more than I can be content," he
added, with emphasis, "to live
here buried in morass, pent in
with mountains--my nature, that
God gave me, contravened; my
faculties, heaven- bestowed,
paralysed--made useless. You
hear now how I contradict myself.
I, who preached contentment with
a humble lot, and justified the
vocation even of hewers of wood
and drawers of water in God's
service--I, His ordained minister,
almost rave in my restlessness.
Well, propensities and principles
must be reconciled by some means."
He left the room. In this brief
hour I had learnt more of him
than in the whole previous month:
yet still he puzzled me.
Diana and Mary Rivers became
more sad and silent as the day
approached for leaving their
brother and their home. They
both tried to appear as usual;
bat the sorrow they had to struggle
against was one that could not
be entirely conquered or concealed.
Diana intimated that this would
be a different parting from any
they had ever yet known. It would
probably, as far as St. John
was concerned, be a parting for
years: it might be a parting
for life.
"He will sacrifice all to his
long-framed resolves," she said: "natural
affection and feelings more potent
still. St. John looks quiet,
Jane; but he hides a fever in
his vitals. You would think him
gentle, yet in some things he
is inexorable as death; and the
worst of it is, my conscience
will hardly permit me to dissuade
him from his severe decision:
certainly, I cannot for a moment
blame him for it. It is right,
noble, Christian: yet it breaks
my heart!" And the tears gushed
to her fine eyes. Mary bent her
head low over her work.
"We are now without father:
we shall soon be without home
and brother," she murmured,
At
that moment
a little accident
supervened, which seemed decreed
by fate purposely to prove the
truth of the adage, that "misfortunes
never come singly," and to add
to their distresses the vexing
one of the slip between the cup
and the lip. St. John passed
the window reading a letter.
He entered.
"Our uncle John is dead," said
he.
Both the sisters seemed struck:
not shocked or appalled; the
tidings appeared in their eyes
rather momentous than afflicting.
"Dead?" repeated
Diana.
"Yes."
She
riveted a searching
gaze on her
brother's face. "And what
then?" she demanded, in a low
voice.
"What then, Die?" he replied,
maintaining a marble immobility
of feature. "What then? Why--nothing.
Read."
He threw the letter into her
lap. She glanced over it, and
handed it to Mary. Mary perused
it in silence, and returned it
to her brother. All three looked
at each other, and all three
smiled--a dreary, pensive smile
enough.
"Amen! We can yet live," said
Diana at last.
"At any rate, it makes us no
worse off than we were before," remarked
Mary.
"Only it forces rather strongly
on the mind the picture of what
MIGHT HAVE BEEN," said Mr. Rivers, "and
contrasts it somewhat too vividly
with what IS."
He folded the letter, locked
it in his desk, and again went
out.
For some minutes no one spoke.
Diana then turned to me.
"Jane, you will wonder at us
and our mysteries," she said, "and
think us hard-hearted beings
not to be more moved at the death
of so near a relation as an uncle;
but we have never seen him or
known him. He was my mother's
brother. My father and he quarrelled
long ago. It was by his advice
that my father risked most of
his property in the speculation
that ruined him. Mutual recrimination
passed between them: they parted
in anger, and were never reconciled.
My uncle engaged afterwards in
more prosperous undertakings:
it appears he realised a fortune
of twenty thousand pounds. He
was never married, and had no
near kindred but ourselves and
one other person, not more closely
related than we. My father always
cherished the idea that he would
atone for his error by leaving
his possessions to us; that letter
informs us that he has bequeathed
every penny to the other relation,
with the exception of thirty
guineas, to be divided between
St. John, Diana, and Mary Rivers,
for the purchase of three mourning
rings. He had a right, of course,
to do as he pleased: and yet
a momentary damp is cast on the
spirits by the receipt of such
news. Mary and I would have esteemed
ourselves rich with a thousand
pounds each; and to St. John
such a sum would have been valuable,
for the good it would have enabled
him to do."
This explanation given, the
subject was dropped, and no further
reference made to it by either
Mr. Rivers or his sisters. The
next day I left Marsh End for
Morton. The day after, Diana
and Mary quitted it for distant
B-. In a week, Mr. Rivers and
Hannah repaired to the parsonage:
and so the old grange was abandoned.
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