Chapter 31
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My home, then, when I at last find a home,—is a cottage; a little room with whitewashed walls and a sanded floor, taining 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 kit, with a deal bedstead and chest of drawers; small, yet toe to be filled with my sty 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 e, the little orphan who serves me as a handmaid. I am sitting alone on the hearth. This m, the village school opened. I had twenty scholars. But three of the number read: none write or cipher. Several knit, and a few sew a little. They speak with the broadest at of the district. At present, they and I have a difficulty in uanding 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 fet that these coarsely-clad little peasants are of flesh and blood as good as the ss of ge genealogy; and that the germs of native excellence, refi, 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. Mujoyment I do not expe the life opening before me: yet it will, doubtless, if I regulate my mind, a my powers as I ought, yield me enough to live on from day to day.
Was I very gleeful, settled, tent, during the hours I passed in yonder bare, humble schoolroom this m 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 ignorahe 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 overe 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 ge for the better in my scholars may substitute gratification for disgust.
Meantime, let me ask myself one question—Which is better?—To have surreo temptation; listeo passion; made no painful effort—nle;—but to have sunk down in the silken snare; fallen asleep on the flowers c 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 o 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—suffog with the bitterest tears of remorse and shame the —or to be a village-sistress, free and ho, 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 sed 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 su 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—sequeny departure—which might now, perhaps, be dragging him from the path ht, 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 churd 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, a my head against the stone frame of my door; but soon a slight noise he wicket which shut in my tiny garden from the meadow beyond it made me look up. A dog—old r. Rivers’ pointer, as I saw in a moment—ushing 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 e in.
“No, I ot stay; I have only brought you a lit.le parcel my sisters left for you. I think it tains a colour-box, pencils, and paper.”
I approached to take it: a wele 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 trary, I think in time I shall get on with my scholars very well.”
“But perhaps your aodations—your cottage—your furniture—have disappointed your expectations? They are, in truth, sty enough; but—” I interrupted—
“My cottage is aher-proof; my furniture suffit and odious. All I see has made me thankful, not despo. I am not absolutely such a fool and sensualist as tret 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 wo 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 ay.”
“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 tent you express: at any rate, yood sense will tell you that it is too sooo 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 sel you to resist firmly every temptation which would ine 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 tinued—
“It is hard work to trol the ws of ination 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 sustehey ot get—when our will strains after a path we may not follow—we need her 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 loo taste—and perhaps purer; and to hew out for the adventurous foot a road as dired broad as the one Fortune has blocked up against us, if rougher than it.
“A year ago I was myself intensely mi<tt></tt>serable, because I thought I had made a mistake iering the ministry: its uniform duties wearied me to death. I burnt for the more active life of the world—for the more exg 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 politi, of a soldier, of a votary of glory, a lover of renown, a luster after power, beat under my curate’s surplice. I sidered; my life was so wretched, it must be ged, 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, ce and eloquehe best qualifications of soldier, statesman, and orator, were all needed: for these all tre in the good missionary.
“A missionary I resolved to be. From that moment my state of mind ged; the fetters dissolved and dropped from every faculty, leaving nothing of bo its galling soreness—which time only heal. My father, indeed, imposed the determination, but since his death, I have not a legitimate obstacle to tend with; some affairs settled, a successor for Morton provided, aa or two of the feelings broken through or cut asunder—a last flict with human weakness, in which I know I shall overe, because I have vowed that I will overe—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 se; we might well then start when a gay voice, sweet as a silver bell, exclaimed—
“Good evening, Mr. Rivers. And good evening, old Carlo. Y is quicker tnise 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 ats, 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 oe, his face directed towards the west. He tur 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 tour; 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 geed and sed, just?９９ｌiｂ.ified, in this instahe term. No charm was wanting, erceptible; the young girl had regular and delicate lis; eyes shaped and coloured as we see them in lovely pictures, large, and dark, and full; the long and shadowy eyelash whicircles a fine eye with so soft a fasation; 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 gleamih without flaw; the small dimpled ; the or of rich, plenteous tresses—all advantages, in short, which, bined, 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, fetting her usual stiep-mother dole of gifts, had ehis, 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 ao the inquiry in his tenance. 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 mentiohe 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 e; and so I put on my bo 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 dired naive simplicity of tone and manner, pleasing, if child-like.
“I hope I shall. I have many is to do so.”
“Did you find your scholars as attentive as you expected?”
“Quite.”
“Do you like your house?”
“Very much.”
“Have I fur 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 bination of the plas presided over her birth, I wonder?)
“I shall e up and help you to teaetimes,” she added. “It will be a ge for me to visit you now and then; and I like a ge. Mr. Rivers, I have been SO gay during my stay at S-. night, or rather this m, I was dang till two o’clock. The—th regiment are statiohere sihe riots; and the officers are the most agreeable men in the world: they put all our young knife-grinders and serts 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 pressed, and the lower part of his fausually stern and square, as the laughing girl gave him this information. He lifted his gaze, too, from the daisies, and tur on her. An unsmiling, a searg, a meaning gaze it was. She answered it with a sed laugh, and laughter well became her youth, her roses, her dimples, her bright eyes.
As he stood, mute and grave, she agaio 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 witbbr></abbr>h 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 kihus, he looked nearly as beautiful for a man as she for a woman. His chest heaved once, as if his large heart, weary of despotistri, had expanded, despite the will, and made a vigorous bound for the attai of liberty. But he curbed it, I think, as a resolute rider would curb a rearing steed. He responded her by word nor movement to the gentle advances made him.
“Papa says you never e to see us now,” tinued Miss Oliver, looking up. “You are quite a stra Vale Hall. He is alohis 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 i<q></q>t is. It is just the hour when papa most wants pany: when the works are closed and he has no busio occupy him. Now, Mr. Rivers, do e. 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 fot!” 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 e and see papa.”
“Not to-night, Miss Rosamond, not to-night.”
Mr. St. John spoke almost like an automaton: himself only khe effort it cost him thus to refuse.
“Well, if you are so obstinate, I will leave you; for I dare not stay any lohe 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 momeurned.
“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 turwice to gaze after him as she tripped fairy-like down the field; he, as he strode firmly across, ur 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.
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