“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; but 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.
CHAPTER XXXI
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 naïve 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.
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.