The more I knew of the inmates¹ of Moor² 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; converse³ with them as much as they wished, and aid them when and where they would allow me. There was a reviving pleasure in this intercourse⁴, 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 reverenced⁵. They loved their sequestered⁶ home. I, too, in the grey, small, antique structure, with its low roof, its latticed casements⁷, its mouldering⁸ walls, its avenue of aged⁹ firs--all grown aslant¹⁰ under the stress of mountain winds; its garden, dark with yew¹¹ and holly--and where no flowers but of the hardiest¹² species would bloom--found a charm both potent¹³ and permanent. They clung to the purple moors¹⁴ behind and around their dwelling--to the hollow vale into which the pebbly¹⁵ bridle-path leading from their gate descended¹⁶, and which wound between fern- banks first, and then amongst a few of the wildest little pasture- fields that ever bordered a wilderness¹⁷ of heath, or gave sustenance¹⁸ 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 attachment²⁰. I could comprehend the feeling, and share both its strength and truth. I saw the fascination²¹ of the locality. I felt the consecration²² of its loneliness: my eye feasted on the outline of swell²³ and sweep--on the wild colouring communicated to ridge²⁴ and dell by moss¹⁹, by heath-bell, by flower-sprinkled turf, by brilliant bracken, and mellow²⁵ granite²⁶ 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 halcyon²⁷ 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 faculties²⁸ the same spell that entranced theirs.

Indoors we agreed equally well. They were both more accomplished²⁹ and better read than I was; but with eagerness I followed in the path of knowledge they had trodden before me. I devoured³⁰ the books they lent me: then it was full satisfaction to discuss with them in the evening what I had perused³¹ during the day. Thought fitted thought; opinion met opinion: we coincided, in short, perfectly³².

If in our trio there was a superior and a leader, it was Diana. Physically³³, she far excelled me: she was handsome; she was vigorous. In her animal spirits there was an affluence³⁴ 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 gush³⁵ of vivacity³⁶ and fluency³⁷ 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 thoroughly³⁸ 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: mutual³⁹ 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 charmed them. Mary would sit and watch me by the hour together: then she would take lessons; and a docile⁴⁰, intelligent, assiduous pupil she made. Thus occupied, and mutually entertained, days passed like hours, and weeks like days.

As to Mr. St John, the intimacy⁴¹ 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 devoted⁴² to visiting the sick and poor among the scattered⁴³ 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 peculiar⁴⁴ smile, more solemn than cheerful -

"And if I let a gust⁴⁵ of wind or a sprinkling of rain turn me aside from these easy tasks, what preparation would such sloth⁴⁶ be for the future I propose to myself?"

Diana and Mary's general answer to this question was a sigh, and some minutes of apparently⁴⁷ mournful meditation⁴⁸.

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. Zealous⁵⁰ in his ministerial labours, blameless in his life and habits, he yet did not appear to enjoy that mental serenity⁵², that inward content, which should bet he reward of every sincere Christian⁵³ 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 perturbed⁵⁴ and exciting might be seen in the frequent flash and changeful dilation⁵⁵ of his eye.

I think, moreover, that Nature was not to him that treasury⁵⁶ of delight it was to his sisters. He expressed once, and but once in my hearing, a strong sense of the rugged⁵⁷ charm of the hills, and an inborn⁵⁸ affection for the dark roof and hoary⁵⁹ 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 soothing⁶⁰ 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 gauging⁶¹ 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 strictly⁶² restrained zeal⁴⁹ 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 softened⁶³. Throughout there was a strange bitterness; an absence of consolatory⁶⁴ gentleness; stern allusions⁶⁵ to Calvinistic doctrines--election, predestination, reprobation--were frequent; and each reference to these points sounded like a sentence pronounced for doom⁶⁶. When he had done, instead of feeling better, calmer, more enlightened by his discourse⁶⁷, I experienced an inexpressible sadness; for it seemed to me--I know not whether equally so to others--that the eloquence⁶⁸ to which I had been listening had sprung from a depth where lay turbid⁶⁹ dregs of disappointment--where moved troubling impulses of insatiate yearnings and disquieting⁷⁰ aspirations⁷¹. I was sure St. John Rivers-- pure-lived, conscientious⁷², 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 concealed⁷⁴ and racking regrets for my broken idol⁷⁵ and lost elysium--regrets to which I have latterly avoided referring, but which possessed⁷⁶ 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 haughty⁷⁷ members they were regarded only as humble⁷⁸ dependants⁷⁹, and who neither knew nor sought out their innate⁸⁰ excellences⁸¹, and appreciated only their acquired accomplishments⁸² 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 vocation⁸³ 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 consecrated⁸⁴ 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 Marsh⁸⁵ 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 broached⁸⁶: 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 in employment which depends only on me to give, and you to accept."

He again paused: there seemed a reluctance⁸⁷ to continue. I grew impatient: a restless movement or two, and an eager and exacting⁸⁸ glance fastened on his face, conveyed the feeling to him as effectually as words could have done, and with less trouble.

"You need be in no hurry to hear," he said: "let me frankly⁸⁹ tell you, I have nothing eligible⁹⁰ 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 lame⁵¹. I am poor; for I find that, when I have paid my father's debts, all the patrimony⁹¹ remaining to me will be this crumbling⁹² grange, the row of scathed⁹³ firs behind, and the patch of moorish⁹⁴ 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 dependant'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 aspires⁹⁵ 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 coruscating⁹⁶ 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 arid⁹⁷ and unreclaimed the soil where the Christian labourer's task of tillage is appointed him--the scantier⁹⁸ the meed his toil⁹⁹ 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 leisurely¹⁰⁰ to read my face, as if its features and lines were characters on a page. The conclusions drawn¹⁰¹ from this scrutiny¹⁰² he partially¹⁰³ expressed in his succeeding observations.

"I believe you will accept the post I offer you," said he, "and hold it for a while: not permanently¹⁰⁴, though: any more than I could permanently keep the narrow and narrowing--the tranquil¹⁰⁵, hidden office of English country incumbent¹⁰⁶; for in your nature is an alloy¹⁰⁸ as detrimental¹⁰⁹ to repose¹¹⁰ 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 cramping¹¹¹. 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 sufficiently¹¹², by the kindness of a lady, Miss Oliver; the only daughter of the sole rich man in my parish--Mr. Oliver, the proprietor¹¹³ of a needle- factory and iron-foundry in the valley. The same lady pays for the education and clothing of an orphan¹¹⁴ 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?"

He put the question rather hurriedly; he seemed half to expect an indignant, or at least a disdainful rejection¹¹⁵ 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 asylum¹¹⁶: 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. Standing⁷³ still, he again looked at me. He shook his head.

"What do you disapprove¹¹⁷ 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 tenor¹¹⁸ 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 displeased¹¹⁹. 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 solitude¹²⁰, and to devote your working hours to a monotonous¹²¹ labour wholly void of stimulus¹²²: any more than I can be content," he added, with emphasis, "to live here buried in morass¹²³, pent in with mountains--my nature, that God gave me, contravened¹²⁴; my faculties, heaven- bestowed¹²⁶, paralysed--made useless. You hear now how I contradict myself. I, who preached contentment with a humble lot, and justified¹²⁷ the vocation even of hewers of wood and drawers of water in God's service--I, His ordained¹²⁸ minister, almost rave¹²⁵ in my restlessness. Well, propensities¹²⁹ 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; bat the sorrow they had to struggle against was one that could not be entirely¹³⁰ 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 dissuade¹³¹ 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 gushed¹³² to her fine eyes. Mary bent¹⁰⁷ 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 adage¹³³, that "misfortunes never come singly," and to add to their distresses¹³⁴ the vexing¹³⁵ 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 appalled¹³⁶; the tidings appeared in their eyes rather momentous¹³⁷ than afflicting¹³⁸.

"Dead?" repeated Diana.

"Yes."

She riveted¹³⁹ 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 dreary¹⁴⁰, pensive¹⁴¹ 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 vividly¹⁴² with what is."

He folded the letter, locked it in his desk, and again went out.

For some minutes no one spoke¹⁴³. 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 speculation¹⁴⁴ that ruined him. Mutual recrimination passed between them: they parted in anger, and were never reconciled. My uncle engaged afterwards in more prosperous undertakings¹⁴⁵: 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 atone¹⁴⁶ 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 momentary¹⁴⁷ damp is cast on the spirits by the receipt of such news. Mary and I would have esteemed¹⁴⁸ 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.

上一篇：Jane Eyre-Chapter XXIX 下一篇：Jane Eyre-Chapter XXXI