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
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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 be the 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
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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 dependents, 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 an 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.
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“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 dependent’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?”
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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
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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.
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“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.
