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
273
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.”
274
“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
275
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
276
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.
277
“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.
