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, opposed 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 the

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.

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 naive 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

night, or rather this morning, I was dancing till two o'clock. The

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 Mis 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.