“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.
CHAPTER XXXII
I continued the labours of the village-school as actively and faithfully as I could. It was truly hard work at first. Some time elapsed before, with all my efforts, I could comprehend my scholars and their nature. Wholly untaught, with faculties quite torpid, they seemed to me hopelessly dull; and, at first sight, all dull alike: but I soon found I was mistaken. There was a difference amongst them as amongst the educated; and when I got to know them, and they me, this difference rapidly developed itself. Their amazement at me, my language, my rules, and ways, once subsided, I found some of these heavy-looking, gaping rustics wake up into sharp-witted girls enough. Many showed themselves obliging, and amiable too; and I discovered amongst them not a few examples of natural politeness, and innate self-respect, as well as of excellent capacity, that won both my goodwill and my admiration. These soon took a pleasure in doing their work well, in keeping their persons neat, in learning their tasks regularly, in acquiring quiet and orderly manners. The rapidity of their progress, in some instances, was even surprising; and an honest and happy pride I took in it: besides, I began personally to like some of the best girls; and they liked me. I had amongst my scholars several farmers’ daughters: young women grown, almost. These could already read, write, and sew; and to them I taught the elements of grammar, geography, history, and the finer kinds of needlework. I found estimable characters amongst them—characters desirous of information and disposed for improvement—with whom I passed many a pleasant evening hour in their own homes. Their parents then (the farmer and his wife) loaded me with attentions. There was an enjoyment in accepting their simple kindness, and in repaying it by a consideration—a scrupulous regard to their feelings—to which they were not, perhaps, at all times accustomed, and which both charmed and benefited them; because, while it elevated them in their own eyes, it made them emulous to merit the deferential treatment they received.
I felt I became a favourite in the neighbourhood.Whenever I went out,I heard on all sides cordial salutations,and was welcomed with friendly smiles.To live amidst general regard,though it be but the regard of working people,is like “sitting in sunshine, calm and sweet;” serene inward feelings bud and bloom under the ray.At this period of my life,my heart far oftener swelled with thankfulness than sank with dejection:and yet, reader, to tell you all,in the midst of this calm,this useful existence—after a day passed in honourable exertion amongst my scholars, an evening spent in drawing or reading contentedly alone—I used to rush into strange dreams at night: dreams many-coloured, agitated, full of the ideal, the stirring, the stormy—dreams where, amidst unusual scenes, charged with adventure, with agitating risk and romantic chance, I still again and again met Mr. Rochester, always at some exciting crisis; and then the sense of being in his arms, hearing his voice, meeting his eye, touching his hand and cheek, loving him, being loved by him—the hope of passing a lifetime at his side, would be renewed, with all its first force and fire. Then I awoke. Then I recalled where I was, and how situated. Then I rose up on my curtainless bed, trembling and quivering; and then the still, dark night witnessed the convulsion of despair, and heard the burst of passion. By nine o’clock the next morning I was punctually opening the school; tranquil, settled, prepared for the steady duties of the day.
Rosamond Oliver kept her word in coming to visit me.Her call at the school was generally made in the course of her morning ride.She would canter up to the door on her pony,followed by a mounted livery servant.Anything more exquisite than her appearance,in her purple habit,with her Amazon’s cap of black velvet placed gracefully above the long curls that kissed her cheek and floated to her shoulders, can scarcely be imagined: and it was thus she would enter the rustic building, and glide through the dazzled ranks of the village children. She generally came at the hour when Mr. Rivers was engaged in giving his daily catechising lesson. Keenly, I fear, did the eye of the visitress pierce the young pastor’s heart. A sort of instinct seemed to warn him of her entrance, even when he did not see it; and when he was looking quite away from the door, if she appeared at it, his cheek would glow, and his marble-seeming features, though they refused to relax, changed indescribably, and in their very quiescence became expressive of a repressed fervour, stronger than working muscle or darting glance could indicate.
Of course, she knew her power: indeed, he did not,because he could not, conceal it from her.In spite of his Christian stoicism,when she went up and addressed him, and smiled gaily,encouragingly, even fondly in his face,his hand would tremble and his eye burn.He seemed to say, with his sad and resolute look,if he did not say it with his lips, “I love you,and I know you prefer me.It is not despair of success that keeps me dumb.If I offered my heart, I believe you would accept it.But that heart is already laid on a sacred altar:the fire is arranged round it.It will soon be no more than a sacrifice consumed.”
And then she would pout like a disappointed child;a pensive cloud would soften her radiant vivacity;she would withdraw her hand hastily from his,and turn in transient petulance from his aspect,at once so heroic and so martyr-like. St. John,no doubt, would have given the world to follow, recall,retain her, when she thus left him;but he would not give one chance of heaven,nor relinquish, for the elysium of her love,one hope of the true, eternal Paradise. Besides,he could not bind all that he had in his nature—the rover,the aspirant, the poet,the priest—in the limits of a single passion.He could not—he would not—renounce his wild field of mission warfare for the parlours and the peace of Vale Hall. I learnt so much from himself in an inroad I once, despite his reserve, had the daring to make on his confidence.