My home, then, when I at last find a home,--is a cottage; a little room with whitewashed1 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 chamber2 of the same dimensions as the kitchen, with a deal bedstead and chest of drawers; small, yet too large to be filled with my scanty3 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 orphan4 who serves me as a handmaid. I am sitting alone on the hearth5. This morning, the village school opened. I had twenty scholars. But three of the number can read: none write or cipher7. 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 docile8, have a wish to learn, and evince a disposition9 that pleases me. I must not forget that these coarsely-clad little peasants are of flesh and blood as good as the scions10 of gentlest genealogy11; and that the germs of native excellence12, refinement13, 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 enjoyment14 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, humble15 schoolroom this morning and afternoon? Not to deceive myself, I must reply--No: I felt desolate16 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 partially18; and in a few weeks, perhaps, they will be quite subdued19. 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 snare20; fallen asleep on the flowers covering it; wakened in a southern clime, amongst the luxuries of a pleasure villa6: to have been now living in France, Mr. Rochester's mistress; delirious21 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 homage22 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 delusive23 bliss24 one hour- -suffocating with the bitterest tears of remorse25 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 frenzied26 moment. God directed me to a correct choice: I thank His providence27 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 doom28 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 thither29. 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 extremity30, 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, fixed31 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 commodious32. All I see has made me thankful, not despondent33. 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 vagrant34; now I have acquaintance, a home, a business. I wonder at the goodness of God; the generosity35 of my friends; the bounty36 of my lot. I do not repine."
"But you feel solitude37 an oppression? The little house there behind you is dark and empty."
"I have hardly had time yet to enjoy a sense of tranquillity38, 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 steadily39, 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 inclination40 and turn the bent41 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 sustenance42 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 nourishment43 for the mind, as strong as the forbidden food it longed to taste--and perhaps purer; and to hew44 out for the adventurous45 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 miserable46, because I thought I had made a mistake in entering the ministry47: its uniform duties wearied me to death. I burnt for the more active life of the world- -for the more exciting toils48 of a literary career--for the destiny of an artist, author, orator49; anything rather than that of a priest: yes, the heart of a politician, of a soldier, of a votary50 of glory, a lover of renown51, a luster52 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 cramped53 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 ken17. God had an errand for me; to bear which afar, to deliver it well, skill and strength, courage and eloquence54, the best qualifications of soldier, statesman, and orator, were all needed: for these all centre in the good missionary55.
"A missionary I resolved to be. From that moment my state of mind changed; the fetters56 dissolved and dropped from every faculty57, leaving nothing of bondage58 but its galling59 soreness--which time only can heal. My father, indeed, imposed the determination, but since his death, I have not a legitimate60 obstacle to contend with; some affairs settled, a successor for Morton provided, an entanglement61 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 vowed62 that I will overcome--and I leave Europe for the East."
He said this, in his peculiar63, subdued, yet emphatic64 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 lulling65 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 pricked66 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, graceful67 form: full, yet fine in contour; and when, after bending to caress68 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 retrace69 or qualify it: as sweet features as ever the temperate70 clime of Albion moulded; as pure hues71 of rose and lily as ever her humid gales72 and vapoury skies generated and screened, justified73, 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 fascination74; the pencilled brow which gives such clearness; the white smooth forehead, which adds such repose75 to the livelier beauties of tint76 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 ornament77 of rich, plenteous tresses--all advantages, in short, which, combined, realise the ideal of beauty, were fully78 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 stinted79 step-mother dole80 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 inquiry81 in his countenance82. He had already withdrawn83 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 bonnet84 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 naive85 simplicity86 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 attentive87 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 regiment88 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 protruded89, 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 caressing90 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 austere91 master, I saw a glow rise to that master's face. I saw his solemn eye melt with sudden fire, and flicker92 with resistless emotion. Flushed and kindled93 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 constriction94, had expanded, despite the will, and made a vigorous bound for the attainment95 of liberty. But he curbed97 it, I think, as a resolute98 rider would curb96 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 intrude99 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 chatter100. Diana and Mary have left you, and Moor101 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 spoke102 almost like an automaton103: himself only knew the effort it cost him thus to refuse.
"Well, if you are so obstinate104, 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 blanched105 as her gown.
"Quite well," he enunciated106; 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 meditation107 on my own. Diana Rivers had designated her brother "inexorable as death." She had not exaggerated.
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