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chapter xxix the recollection of about three days and nightssucceeding this is very dim in my mind. i can recall some sensationsfelt in that interval; but few thoughts framed, and no actions performed.i knew i was in a small room and in a narrow bed. to that bed i seemedto have grown; i lay on it motionless as a stone; and to have tornme from it would have been almost to kill me. i took no note of the lapseof time—of the change from morning to noon, from noon to evening.i observed when any one entered or left the apartment: i could eventell who they were; i could

understand what was said when the speakerstood near to me; but i could not answer; to open my lips or move my limbswas equally impossible. hannah, the servant, was my most frequentvisitor. her coming disturbed me. i had a feeling that she wished me away:that she did not understand me or my circumstances; that she was prejudicedagainst me. diana and mary appeared in the chamber once or twicea day. they would whisper sentences of this sort at my bedside— "it is very well we took her in." "yes; she would certainly have been founddead at the door in the morning

had she been left out all night. i wonderwhat she has gone through?" "strange hardships, i imagine—poor, emaciated,pallid wanderer?" "she is not an uneducated person, i shouldthink, by her manner of speaking; her accent was quite pure; and theclothes she took off, though splashed and wet, were little worn and fine." "she has a peculiar face; fleshless and haggardas it is, i rather like it; and when in good health and animated,i can fancy her physiognomy would be agreeable." never once in their dialogues did i hear asyllable of regret at the

hospitality they had extended to me, or ofsuspicion of, or aversion to, myself. i was comforted. mr. st. john came but once: he looked at me,and said my state of lethargy was the result of reaction from excessiveand protracted fatigue. he pronounced it needless to sendfor a doctor: nature, he was sure, would manage best, left to herself.he said every nerve had been overstrained in some way, and the whole systemmust sleep torpid a while. there was no disease. he imagined my recoverywould be rapid enough when once commenced. these opinions he deliveredin a few words, in a quiet,

low voice; and added, after a pause, in thetone of a man little accustomed to expansive comment, "rather anunusual physiognomy; certainly, not indicative of vulgarity ordegradation." "far otherwise," responded diana. "to speaktruth, st. john, my heart rather warms to the poor little soul. i wishwe may be able to benefit her permanently." "that is hardly likely," was the reply. "youwill find she is some young lady who has had a misunderstanding with herfriends, and has probably injudiciously left them. we may, perhaps,succeed in restoring her to

them, if she is not obstinate: but i tracelines of force in her face which make me sceptical of her tractability."he stood considering me some minutes; then added, "she looks sensible,but not at all handsome." "she is so ill, st. john." "ill or well, she would always be plain. thegrace and harmony of beauty are quite wanting in those features." on the third day i was better; on the fourth,i could speak, move, rise in bed, and turn. hannah had brought me somegruel and dry toast, about, as i supposed, the dinner-hour. i had eatenwith relish: the food was

good—void of the feverish flavour whichhad hitherto poisoned what i had swallowed. when she left me, i felt comparativelystrong and revived: ere long satiety of repose and desire foraction stirred me. i wished to rise; but what could i put on? only my dampand bemired apparel; in which i had slept on the ground and fallenin the marsh. i felt ashamed to appear before my benefactors so clad. iwas spared the humiliation. on a chair by the bedside were all my ownthings, clean and dry. my black silk frock hung against the wall. thetraces of the bog were removed from it; the creases left by the wetsmoothed out: it was quite

decent. my very shoes and stockings were purifiedand rendered presentable. there were the means of washingin the room, and a comb and brush to smooth my hair. after a weary process,and resting every five minutes, i succeeded in dressing myself. myclothes hung loose on me; for i was much wasted, but i covered deficiencieswith a shawl, and once more, clean and respectable looking—no speckof the dirt, no trace of the disorder i so hated, and which seemedso to degrade me, left—i crept down a stone staircase with the aid of thebanisters, to a narrow low passage, and found my way presently to thekitchen.

it was full of the fragrance of new breadand the warmth of a generous fire. hannah was baking. prejudices, it iswell known, are most difficult to eradicate from the heart whosesoil has never been loosened or fertilised by education: they grow there,firm as weeds among stones. hannah had been cold and stiff, indeed, atthe first: latterly she had begun to relent a little; and when she sawme come in tidy and well-dressed, she even smiled. "what, you have got up!" she said. "you arebetter, then. you may sit you down in my chair on the hearthstone, ifyou will."

she pointed to the rocking-chair: i took it.she bustled about, examining me every now and then with the cornerof her eye. turning to me, as she took some loaves from the oven,she asked bluntly— "did you ever go a-begging afore you camehere?" i was indignant for a moment; but rememberingthat anger was out of the question, and that i had indeed appeared asa beggar to her, i answered quietly, but still not without a certain markedfirmness— "you are mistaken in supposing me a beggar.i am no beggar; any more than yourself or your young ladies."

after a pause she said, "i dunnut understandthat: you've like no house, nor no brass, i guess?" "the want of house or brass (by which i supposeyou mean money) does not make a beggar in your sense of the word." "are you book-learned?" she inquired presently. "yes, very." "but you've never been to a boarding-school?" "i was at a boarding-school eight years." she opened her eyes wide. "whatever cannotye keep yourself for, then?"

"i have kept myself; and, i trust, shall keepmyself again. what are you going to do with these gooseberries?" i inquired,as she brought out a basket of the fruit. "mak' 'em into pies." "give them to me and i'll pick them." "nay; i dunnut want ye to do nought." "but i must do something. let me have them." she consented; and she even brought me a cleantowel to spread over my dress, "lest," as she said, "i should muckyit."

"ye've not been used to sarvant's wark, isee by your hands," she remarked. "happen ye've been a dressmaker?" "no, you are wrong. and now, never mind whati have been: don't trouble your head further about me; but tell me thename of the house where we are." "some calls it marsh end, and some calls itmoor house." "and the gentleman who lives here is calledmr. st. john?" "nay; he doesn't live here: he is only stayinga while. when he is at home, he is in his own parish at morton."

"that village a few miles off? "aye." "and what is he?" "he is a parson." i remembered the answer of the old housekeeperat the parsonage, when i had asked to see the clergyman. "this, then,was his father's residence?" "aye; old mr. rivers lived here, and his father,and grandfather, and gurt (great) grandfather afore him."

"the name, then, of that gentleman, is mr.st. john rivers?" "aye; st. john is like his kirstened name." "and his sisters are called diana and maryrivers?" "yes." "their father is dead?" "dead three weeks sin' of a stroke." "they have no mother?" "the mistress has been dead this mony a year." "have you lived with the family long?"

"i've lived here thirty year. i nursed themall three." "that proves you must have been an honestand faithful servant. i will say so much for you, though you have had theincivility to call me a beggar." she again regarded me with a surprised stare."i believe," she said, "i was quite mista'en in my thoughts of you:but there is so mony cheats goes about, you mun forgie me." "and though," i continued, rather severely,"you wished to turn me from the door, on a night when you should not haveshut out a dog."

"well, it was hard: but what can a body do?i thought more o' th' childer nor of mysel: poor things! they'velike nobody to tak' care on 'em but me. i'm like to look sharpish." i maintained a grave silence for some minutes. "you munnut think too hardly of me," she againremarked. "but i do think hardly of you," i said; "andi'll tell you why—not so much because you refused to give me shelter,or regarded me as an impostor, as because you just now made ita species of reproach that i had no 'brass' and no house. some of the bestpeople that ever lived

have been as destitute as i am; and if youare a christian, you ought not to consider poverty a crime." "no more i ought," said she: "mr. st. johntells me so too; and i see i wor wrang—but i've clear a different notionon you now to what i had. you look a raight down dacent little crater." "that will do—i forgive you now. shake hands." she put her floury and horny hand into mine;another and heartier smile illumined her rough face, and from that momentwe were friends. hannah was evidently fond of talking. whilei picked the fruit, and she

made the paste for the pies, she proceededto give me sundry details about her deceased master and mistress, and"the childer," as she called the young people. old mr. rivers, she said, was a plain manenough, but a gentleman, and of as ancient a family as could be found. marshend had belonged to the rivers ever since it was a house: and it was,she affirmed, "aboon two hundred year old—for all it looked but asmall, humble place, naught to compare wi' mr. oliver's grand hall down i'morton vale. but she could remember bill oliver's father a journeymanneedlemaker; and th' rivers

wor gentry i' th' owd days o' th' henrys,as onybody might see by looking into th' registers i' morton church vestry."still, she allowed, "the owd maister was like other folk—naught michout o' t' common way: stark mad o' shooting, and farming, and sich like."the mistress was different. she was a great reader, and studieda deal; and the "bairns" had taken after her. there was nothing likethem in these parts, nor ever had been; they had liked learning, allthree, almost from the time they could speak; and they had always been"of a mak' of their own." mr. st. john, when he grew up, would go to collegeand be a parson; and the

girls, as soon as they left school, wouldseek places as governesses: for they had told her their father had some yearsago lost a great deal of money by a man he had trusted turning bankrupt;and as he was now not rich enough to give them fortunes, they mustprovide for themselves. they had lived very little at home for a long while,and were only come now to stay a few weeks on account of their father'sdeath; but they did so like marsh end and morton, and all these moorsand hills about. they had been in london, and many other grand towns; butthey always said there was no place like home; and then they were so agreeablewith each other—never

fell out nor "threaped." she did not knowwhere there was such a family for being united. having finished my task of gooseberry picking,i asked where the two ladies and their brother were now. "gone over to morton for a walk; but theywould be back in half-an-hour to tea." they returned within the time hannah had allottedthem: they entered by the kitchen door. mr. st. john, when he sawme, merely bowed and passed through; the two ladies stopped: mary, ina few words, kindly and calmly

expressed the pleasure she felt in seeingme well enough to be able to come down; diana took my hand: she shook herhead at me. "you should have waited for my leave to descend,"she said. "you still look very pale—and so thin! poor child!—poorgirl!" diana had a voice toned, to my ear, like thecooing of a dove. she possessed eyes whose gaze i delighted to encounter.her whole face seemed to me full of charm. mary's countenancewas equally intelligent—her features equally pretty;but her expression was more reserved, and her manners, though gentle,more distant. diana looked and

spoke with a certain authority: she had awill, evidently. it was my nature to feel pleasure in yielding to anauthority supported like hers, and to bend, where my conscience and self-respectpermitted, to an active will. "and what business have you here?" she continued."it is not your place. mary and i sit in the kitchen sometimes, becauseat home we like to be free, even to license—but you are a visitor,and must go into the parlour." "i am very well here."

"not at all, with hannah bustling about andcovering you with flour." "besides, the fire is too hot for you," interposedmary. "to be sure," added her sister. "come, youmust be obedient." and still holding my hand she made me rise, and ledme into the inner room. "sit there," she said, placing me on the sofa,"while we take our things off and get the tea ready; it is another privilegewe exercise in our little moorland home—to prepare our ownmeals when we are so inclined, or when hannah is baking, brewing, washing,or ironing." she closed the door, leaving me solus withmr. st. john, who sat

opposite, a book or newspaper in his hand.i examined first, the parlour, and then its occupant. the parlour was rather a small room, veryplainly furnished, yet comfortable, because clean and neat. the old-fashionedchairs were very bright, and the walnut-wood table was likea looking-glass. a few strange, antique portraits of the men andwomen of other days decorated the stained walls; a cupboard with glass doorscontained some books and an ancient set of china. there was no superfluousornament in the room—not one modern piece of furniture,save a brace of workboxes and a

lady's desk in rosewood, which stood on aside-table: everything—including the carpet and curtains—lookedat once well worn and well saved. mr. st. john—sitting as still as one ofthe dusty pictures on the walls, keeping his eyes fixed on the page he perused,and his lips mutely sealed—was easy enough to examine. had hebeen a statue instead of a man, he could not have been easier. he wasyoung—perhaps from twenty- eight to thirty—tall, slender; his faceriveted the eye; it was like a greek face, very pure in outline: quite astraight, classic nose; quite

an athenian mouth and chin. it is seldom,indeed, an english face comes so near the antique models as did his. hemight well be a little shocked at the irregularity of my lineaments, hisown being so harmonious. his eyes were large and blue, with brown lashes;his high forehead, colourless as ivory, was partially streakedover by careless locks of fair hair. this is a gentle delineation, is it not, reader?yet he whom it describes scarcely impressed one with theidea of a gentle, a yielding, an impressible, or even of a placid nature.quiescent as he now sat,

there was something about his nostril, hismouth, his brow, which, to my perceptions, indicated elements within eitherrestless, or hard, or eager. he did not speak to me one word, noreven direct to me one glance, till his sisters returned. diana,as she passed in and out, in the course of preparing tea, brought me alittle cake, baked on the top of the oven. "eat that now," she said: "you must be hungry.hannah says you have had nothing but some gruel since breakfast." i did not refuse it, for my appetite was awakenedand keen. mr. rivers

now closed his book, approached the table,and, as he took a seat, fixed his blue pictorial-looking eyes full on me.there was an unceremonious directness, a searching, decided steadfastnessin his gaze now, which told that intention, and not diffidence, hadhitherto kept it averted from the stranger. "you are very hungry," he said. "i am, sir." it is my way—it always wasmy way, by instinct—ever to meet the brief with brevity, the direct withplainness. "it is well for you that a low fever has forcedyou to abstain for the

last three days: there would have been dangerin yielding to the cravings of your appetite at first. now you may eat,though still not immoderately." "i trust i shall not eat long at your expense,sir," was my very clumsily- contrived, unpolished answer. "no," he said coolly: "when you have indicatedto us the residence of your friends, we can write to them, and youmay be restored to home." "that, i must plainly tell you, is out ofmy power to do; being absolutely without home and friends."

the three looked at me, but not distrustfully;i felt there was no suspicion in their glances: there was moreof curiosity. i speak particularly of the young ladies. st. john'seyes, though clear enough in a literal sense, in a figurative one weredifficult to fathom. he seemed to use them rather as instruments tosearch other people's thoughts, than as agents to reveal his own:the which combination of keenness and reserve was considerably morecalculated to embarrass than to encourage. "do you mean to say," he asked, "that youare completely isolated from

every connection?" "i do. not a tie links me to any living thing:not a claim do i possess to admittance under any roof in england." "a most singular position at your age!" here i saw his glance directed to my hands,which were folded on the table before me. i wondered what he soughtthere: his words soon explained the quest. "you have never been married? you are a spinster?" diana laughed. "why, she can't be above seventeenor eighteen years old,

st. john," said she. "i am near nineteen: but i am not married.no." i felt a burning glow mount to my face; forbitter and agitating recollections were awakened by the allusionto marriage. they all saw the embarrassment and the emotion. diana andmary relieved me by turning their eyes elsewhere than to my crimsonedvisage; but the colder and sterner brother continued to gaze, till thetrouble he had excited forced out tears as well as colour. "where did you last reside?" he now asked.

"you are too inquisitive, st. john," murmuredmary in a low voice; but he leaned over the table and required an answerby a second firm and piercing look. "the name of the place where, and of the personwith whom i lived, is my secret," i replied concisely. "which, if you like, you have, in my opinion,a right to keep, both from st. john and every other questioner," remarkeddiana. "yet if i know nothing about you or your history,i cannot help you," he said. "and you need help, do you not?"

"i need it, and i seek it so far, sir, thatsome true philanthropist will put me in the way of getting work which ican do, and the remuneration for which will keep me, if but in the barestnecessaries of life." "i know not whether i am a true philanthropist;yet i am willing to aid you to the utmost of my power in a purposeso honest. first, then, tell me what you have been accustomed to do, andwhat you _can_ do." i had now swallowed my tea. i was mightilyrefreshed by the beverage; as much so as a giant with wine: it gave newtone to my unstrung nerves, and enabled me to address this penetrating youngjudge steadily.

"mr. rivers," i said, turning to him, andlooking at him, as he looked at me, openly and without diffidence, "you andyour sisters have done me a great service—the greatest man can do hisfellow-being; you have rescued me, by your noble hospitality, from death.this benefit conferred gives you an unlimited claim on my gratitude, anda claim, to a certain extent, on my confidence. i will tell you as muchof the history of the wanderer you have harboured, as i can tell withoutcompromising my own peace of mind—my own security, moral and physical,and that of others. "i am an orphan, the daughter of a clergyman.my parents died before i

could know them. i was brought up a dependant;educated in a charitable institution. i will even tell you the nameof the establishment, where i passed six years as a pupil, and two as ateacher—lowood orphan asylum, —-shire: you will have heard of it, mr.rivers?—the rev. robert brocklehurst is the treasurer." "i have heard of mr. brocklehurst, and i haveseen the school." "i left lowood nearly a year since to becomea private governess. i obtained a good situation, and was happy.this place i was obliged to leave four days before i came here. the reasonof my departure i cannot

and ought not to explain: it would be useless,dangerous, and would sound incredible. no blame attached to me: i amas free from culpability as any one of you three. miserable i am, andmust be for a time; for the catastrophe which drove me from a house ihad found a paradise was of a strange and direful nature. i observed buttwo points in planning my departure—speed, secrecy: to secure these,i had to leave behind me everything i possessed except a small parcel;which, in my hurry and trouble of mind, i forgot to take out of thecoach that brought me to whitcross. to this neighbourhood, then, icame, quite destitute. i

slept two nights in the open air, and wanderedabout two days without crossing a threshold: but twice in that spaceof time did i taste food; and it was when brought by hunger, exhaustion,and despair almost to the last gasp, that you, mr. rivers, forbade meto perish of want at your door, and took me under the shelter of yourroof. i know all your sisters have done for me since—for i havenot been insensible during my seeming torpor—and i owe to their spontaneous,genuine, genial compassion as large a debt as to your evangelicalcharity." "don't make her talk any more now, st. john,"said diana, as i paused;

"she is evidently not yet fit for excitement.come to the sofa and sit down now, miss elliott." i gave an involuntary half start at hearingthe _alias_: i had forgotten my new name. mr. rivers, whom nothing seemedto escape, noticed it at once. "you said your name was jane elliott?" heobserved. "i did say so; and it is the name by whichi think it expedient to be called at present, but it is not my real name,and when i hear it, it sounds strange to me."

"your real name you will not give?" "no: i fear discovery above all things; andwhatever disclosure would lead to it, i avoid." "you are quite right, i am sure," said diana."now do, brother, let her be at peace a while." but when st. john had mused a few momentshe recommenced as imperturbably and with as much acumen as ever. "you would not like to be long dependent onour hospitality—you would wish, i see, to dispense as soon as may bewith my sisters' compassion,

and, above all, with my _charity_ (i am quitesensible of the distinction drawn, nor do i resent it—it is just): youdesire to be independent of us?" "i do: i have already said so. show me howto work, or how to seek work: that is all i now ask; then let me go, ifit be but to the meanest cottage; but till then, allow me to stay here:i dread another essay of the horrors of homeless destitution." "indeed you _shall_ stay here," said diana,putting her white hand on my head. "you _shall_," repeated mary, in thetone of undemonstrative

sincerity which seemed natural to her. "my sisters, you see, have a pleasure in keepingyou," said mr. st. john, "as they would have a pleasure in keepingand cherishing a half-frozen bird, some wintry wind might have driven throughtheir casement. i feel more inclination to put you in the way ofkeeping yourself, and shall endeavour to do so; but observe, my sphereis narrow. i am but the incumbent of a poor country parish: my aidmust be of the humblest sort. and if you are inclined to despise the dayof small things, seek some more efficient succour than such as i canoffer."

"she has already said that she is willingto do anything honest she can do," answered diana for me; "and you know,st. john, she has no choice of helpers: she is forced to put up with suchcrusty people as you." "i will be a dressmaker; i will be a plain-workwoman;i will be a servant, a nurse-girl, if i can be no better,"i answered. "right," said mr. st. john, quite coolly."if such is your spirit, i promise to aid you, in my own time and way." he now resumed the book with which he hadbeen occupied before tea. i soon withdrew, for i had talked as much, andsat up as long, as my

present strength would permit. chapter xxx the more i knew of the inmates of moor house,the better i liked them. in a few days i had so far recovered my healththat i could sit up all day, and walk out sometimes. i could join withdiana and mary in all their occupations; converse with them as much asthey wished, and aid them when and where they would allow me. there was areviving pleasure in this intercourse, of a kind now tasted by me forthe first time—the pleasure arising from perfect congeniality of tastes,sentiments, and principles.

i liked to read what they liked to read: whatthey enjoyed, delighted me; what they approved, i reverenced. they lovedtheir sequestered home. i, too, in the grey, small, antique structure,with its low roof, its latticed casements, its mouldering walls,its avenue of aged firs—all grown aslant under the stress of mountainwinds; its garden, dark with yew and holly—and where no flowers but ofthe hardiest species would bloom—found a charm both potent and permanent.they clung to the purple moors behind and around their dwelling—tothe hollow vale into which the pebbly bridle-path leading from their gatedescended, and which wound

between fern-banks first, and then amongsta few of the wildest little pasture-fields that ever bordered a wildernessof heath, or gave sustenance to a flock of grey moorland sheep,with their little mossy- faced lambs:—they clung to this scene, isay, with a perfect enthusiasm of attachment. i could comprehend the feeling,and share both its strength and truth. i saw the fascinationof the locality. i felt the consecration of its loneliness: my eye feastedon the outline of swell and sweep—on the wild colouring communicatedto ridge and dell by moss, by heath-bell, by flower-sprinkled turf, bybrilliant bracken, and mellow

granite crag. these details were just to mewhat they were to them—so many pure and sweet sources of pleasure. thestrong blast and the soft breeze; the rough and the halcyon day; thehours of sunrise and sunset; the moonlight and the clouded night, developedfor me, in these regions, the same attraction as for them—wound roundmy faculties the same spell that entranced theirs. indoors we agreed equally well. they wereboth more accomplished and better read than i was; but with eagernessi followed in the path of knowledge they had trodden before me. i devouredthe books they lent me:

then it was full satisfaction to discuss withthem in the evening what i had perused during the day. thought fittedthought; opinion met opinion: we coincided, in short, perfectly. if in our trio there was a superior and aleader, it was diana. physically, she far excelled me: she was handsome;she was vigorous. in her animal spirits there was an affluenceof life and certainty of flow, such as excited my wonder, while it baffledmy comprehension. i could talk a while when the evening commenced, butthe first gush of vivacity and fluency gone, i was fain to sit on a stoolat diana's feet, to rest

my head on her knee, and listen alternatelyto her and mary, while they sounded thoroughly the topic on which i hadbut touched. diana offered to teach me german. i liked to learn of her:i saw the part of instructress pleased and suited her; thatof scholar pleased and suited me no less. our natures dovetailed: mutualaffection—of the strongest kind—was the result. they discovered i coulddraw: their pencils and colour-boxes were immediately at my service.my skill, greater in this one point than theirs, surprised and charmedthem. mary would sit and watch me by the hour together: then she wouldtake lessons; and a docile,

intelligent, assiduous pupil she made. thusoccupied, and mutually entertained, days passed like hours, and weekslike days. as to mr. st john, the intimacy which hadarisen so naturally and rapidly between me and his sisters did not extendto him. one reason of the distance yet observed between us was, thathe was comparatively seldom at home: a large proportion of his time appeareddevoted to visiting the sick and poor among the scattered populationof his parish. no weather seemed to hinder him in these pastoralexcursions: rain or fair, he would, when his hours of morningstudy 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 whichlight he regarded it. sometimes, when the day was very unfavourable,his sisters would expostulate. he would then say, with a peculiarsmile, more solemn than cheerful— "and if i let a gust of wind or a sprinklingof rain turn me aside from these easy tasks, what preparation would suchsloth be for the future i propose to myself?" diana and mary's general answer to this questionwas a sigh, and some

minutes of apparently mournful meditation. but besides his frequent absences, there wasanother barrier to friendship with him: he seemed of a reserved,an abstracted, and even of a brooding nature. zealous in his ministeriallabours, blameless in his life and habits, he yet did not appear toenjoy that mental serenity, that inward content, which should be the rewardof every sincere christian and practical philanthropist. often,of an evening, when he sat at the window, his desk and papers beforehim, he would cease reading or writing, rest his chin on his hand, anddeliver himself up to i know

not what course of thought; but that it wasperturbed and exciting might be seen in the frequent flash and changefuldilation of his eye. i think, moreover, that nature was not tohim that treasury of delight it was to his sisters. he expressed once, andbut once in my hearing, a strong sense of the rugged charm of the hills,and an inborn affection for the dark roof and hoary walls he calledhis home; but there was more of gloom than pleasure in the tone and wordsin which the sentiment was manifested; and never did he seem to roamthe moors for the sake of their soothing silence—never seek out or dwellupon the thousand peaceful

delights they could yield. incommunicative as he was, some time elapsedbefore i had an opportunity of gauging his mind. i first got an idea ofits calibre when i heard him preach in his own church at morton. i wishi could describe that sermon: but it is past my power. i cannot even renderfaithfully the effect it produced on me. it began calm—and indeed, as far as deliveryand pitch of voice went, it was calm to the end: an earnestly felt, yetstrictly restrained zeal breathed soon in the distinct accents, andprompted the nervous language.

this grew to force—compressed, condensed,controlled. the heart was thrilled, the mind astonished, by the powerof the preacher: neither were softened. throughout there was a strange bitterness;an absence of consolatory gentleness; stern allusions tocalvinistic doctrines—election, predestination, reprobation—werefrequent; and each reference to these points sounded like a sentencepronounced for doom. when he had done, instead of feeling better,calmer, more enlightened by his discourse, i experienced an inexpressiblesadness; for it seemed to me—i know not whether equally so to others—thatthe eloquence to which

i had been listening had sprung from a depthwhere lay turbid dregs of disappointment—where moved troubling impulsesof insatiate yearnings and disquieting aspirations. i was sure st. johnrivers—pure-lived, conscientious, zealous as he was—had notyet found that peace of god which passeth all understanding: he had nomore found it, i thought, than had i with my concealed and racking regretsfor my broken idol and lost elysium—regrets to which i have latterlyavoided referring, but which possessed me and tyrannised over me ruthlessly. meantime a month was gone. diana and marywere soon to leave moor house,

and return to the far different life and scenewhich awaited them, as governesses in a large, fashionable, south-of-englandcity, where each held a situation in families by whose wealthyand haughty members they were regarded only as humble dependants, andwho neither knew nor sought out their innate excellences, and appreciatedonly their acquired accomplishments as they appreciated the skillof their cook or the taste of their waiting-woman. mr. st. john had saidnothing to me yet about the employment he had promised to obtain forme; yet it became urgent that i should have a vocation 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, anddesk consecrated as a kind of study—and i was going to speak, though notvery well knowing in what words to frame my inquiry—for it is at alltimes difficult to break the ice of reserve glassing over such naturesas his—when he saved me the trouble by being the first to commence a dialogue. looking up as i drew near—"you have a questionto ask of me?" he said. "yes; i wish to know whether you have heardof any service i can offer myself to undertake?"

"i found or devised something for you threeweeks ago; but as you seemed both useful and happy here—as my sistershad evidently become attached to you, and your society gave them unusualpleasure—i deemed it inexpedient to break in on your mutual comforttill their approaching departure from marsh end should render yoursnecessary." "and they will go in three days now?" i said. "yes; and when they go, i shall return tothe parsonage at morton: hannah will accompany me; and this old house willbe shut up." i waited a few moments, expecting he wouldgo on with the subject first

broached: but he seemed to have entered anothertrain of reflection: his look denoted abstraction from me and my business.i was obliged to recall him to a theme which was of necessityone 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 ofsecuring it." "oh, no; since it is an employment which dependsonly on me to give, and you to accept." he again paused: there seemed a reluctanceto continue. i grew

impatient: a restless movement or two, andan eager and exacting glance fastened on his face, conveyed the feelingto him as effectually as words could have done, and with less trouble. "you need be in no hurry to hear," he said:"let me frankly tell you, i have nothing eligible or profitable to suggest.before i explain, recall, if you please, my notice, clearlygiven, that if i helped you, it must be as the blind man would help the lame.i am poor; for i find that, when i have paid my father's debts,all the patrimony remaining to me will be this crumbling grange, the rowof scathed firs behind, and the

patch of moorish soil, with the yew-treesand holly-bushes in front. i am obscure: rivers is an old name; but ofthe three sole descendants of the race, two earn the dependant's crust amongstrangers, and the third considers himself an alien from his nativecountry—not only for life, but in death. yes, and deems, and is boundto deem, himself honoured by the lot, and aspires but after the day whenthe cross of separation from fleshly ties shall be laid on his shoulders,and when the head of that church-militant of whose humblest membershe is one, shall give the word, 'rise, follow me!'"

st. john said these words as he pronouncedhis sermons, with a quiet, deep voice; with an unflushed cheek, and acoruscating radiance of glance. he resumed— "and since i am myself poor and obscure, ican offer you but a service of poverty and obscurity. _you_ may even thinkit degrading—for i see now your habits have been what the world callsrefined: your tastes lean to the ideal, and your society has at least beenamongst the educated; but _i_ consider that no service degrades whichcan better our race. i hold that the more arid and unreclaimed the soilwhere the christian

labourer's task of tillage is appointed him—thescantier the meed his toil brings—the higher the honour. his,under such circumstances, is the destiny of the pioneer; and the firstpioneers 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 leisurely to read my face, as if its features and lines werecharacters on a page. the conclusions drawn from this scrutiny he partiallyexpressed in his succeeding observations.

"i believe you will accept the post i offeryou," said he, "and hold it for a while: not permanently, though: anymore than i could permanently keep the narrow and narrowing—the tranquil,hidden office of english country incumbent; for in your nature is analloy as detrimental to repose as that in mine, though of a differentkind." "do explain," i urged, when he halted oncemore. "i will; and you shall hear how poor the proposalis,—how trivial—how cramping. i shall not stay long at morton,now that my father is dead, and that i am my own master. i shall leavethe 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 icame to it two years ago, had no school: the children of the poor were excludedfrom every hope of progress. i established one for boys: i meannow to open a second school for girls. i have hired a building for thepurpose, with a cottage of two rooms attached to it for the mistress'shouse. her salary will be thirty pounds a year: her house is alreadyfurnished, very simply, but sufficiently, by the kindness of a lady, missoliver; the only daughter of the sole rich man in my parish—mr. oliver,the proprietor of a needle-

factory and iron-foundry in the valley. thesame lady pays for the education and clothing of an orphan from theworkhouse, on condition that she shall aid the mistress in such menialoffices connected with her own house and the school as her occupation ofteaching will prevent her having time to discharge in person. will yoube this mistress?" he put the question rather hurriedly; he seemedhalf to expect an indignant, or at least a disdainful rejectionof the offer: not knowing all my thoughts and feelings, though guessingsome, he could not tell in what light the lot would appear to me. intruth it was humble—but then

it was sheltered, and i wanted a safe asylum:it was plodding—but then, compared with that of a governess in a richhouse, it was independent; and the fear of servitude with strangers enteredmy soul like iron: it was not ignoble—not unworthy—not mentallydegrading, 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 avillage school: your scholars will be only poor girls—cottagers' children—atthe best, farmers'

daughters. knitting, sewing, reading, writing,ciphering, will be all you will have to teach. what will you do withyour accomplishments? what, with the largest portion of your mind—sentiments—tastes?" "save them till they are wanted. they willkeep." "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 ofyour function?"

"i will go to my house to-morrow, and openthe school, if you like, next week." "very well: so be it." he rose and walked through the room. standingstill, he again looked at me. he shook his head. "what do you disapprove of, mr. rivers?" iasked. "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 thatdescription which promises the

maintenance of an even tenor 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 knowi 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 perhapsyou would have

misunderstood the word, and been displeased.i mean, that human affections and sympathies have a most powerfulhold on you. i am sure you cannot long be content to pass your leisurein solitude, and to devote your working hours to a monotonouslabour wholly void of stimulus: any more than i can be content," he added,with emphasis, "to live here buried in morass, pent in with mountains—mynature, that god gave me, contravened; my faculties, heaven-bestowed,paralysed—made useless. you hear now how i contradict myself. i, who preachedcontentment with a humble lot, and justified the vocation evenof hewers of wood and drawers

of water in god's service—i, his ordainedminister, almost rave in my restlessness. well, propensities and principlesmust be reconciled by some means." he left the room. in this brief hour i hadlearnt more of him than in the whole previous month: yet still he puzzledme. diana and mary rivers became more sad andsilent as the day approached for leaving their brother and their home.they both tried to appear as usual; but the sorrow they had to struggleagainst was one that could not be entirely conquered or concealed. dianaintimated that this would be a

different parting from any they had ever yetknown. it would probably, as far as st. john was concerned, be a partingfor years: it might be a parting for life. "he will sacrifice all to his long-framedresolves," she said: "natural affection and feelings more potent still.st. john looks quiet, jane; but he hides a fever in his vitals. you wouldthink him gentle, yet in some things he is inexorable as death; andthe worst of it is, my conscience will hardly permit me to dissuadehim from his severe decision: certainly, i cannot for a momentblame him for it. it is

right, noble, christian: yet it breaks myheart!" and the tears gushed to her fine eyes. mary bent her head low overher work. "we are now without father: we shall soonbe 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 adage,that "misfortunes never come singly," and to add to their distresses thevexing one of the slip between the cup and the lip. st. john passedthe window reading a letter. he entered.

"our uncle john is dead," said he. both the sisters seemed struck: not shockedor appalled; the tidings appeared in their eyes rather momentous thanafflicting. "dead?" repeated diana. she riveted a searching gaze on her brother'sface. "and what then?" she demanded, in a low voice. "what then, die?" he replied, maintaininga marble immobility of feature. "what then? why—nothing. read." he threw the letter into her lap. she glancedover it, and handed it to

mary. mary perused it in silence, and returnedit to her brother. all three looked at each other, and all threesmiled—a dreary, pensive smile enough. "amen! we can yet live," said diana at last. "at any rate, it makes us no worse off thanwe were before," remarked mary. "only it forces rather strongly on the mindthe picture of what _might have been_," said mr. rivers, "and contrastsit somewhat too vividly with what _is_."

he folded the letter, locked it in his desk,and again went out. for some minutes no one spoke. diana thenturned to me. "jane, you will wonder at us and our mysteries,"she said, "and think us hard-hearted beings not to be more moved atthe death of so near a relation as an uncle; but we have never seenhim or known him. he was my mother's brother. my father and he quarrelledlong ago. it was by his advice that my father risked most of his propertyin the speculation that ruined him. mutual recrimination passed betweenthem: they parted in anger, and were never reconciled. my uncleengaged afterwards in more

prosperous undertakings: it appears he realiseda fortune of twenty thousand pounds. he was never married, andhad no near kindred but ourselves and one other person, not more closelyrelated than we. my father always cherished the idea that he wouldatone for his error by leaving his possessions to us; that letterinforms 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 momentary dampis cast on the spirits by the

receipt of such news. mary and i would haveesteemed ourselves rich with a thousand pounds each; and to st. john sucha sum would have been valuable, for the good it would have enabledhim 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, dianaand mary quitted it for distant b-. in a week, mr. rivers and hannahrepaired to the parsonage: and so the old grange was abandoned. chapter xxxi

my home, then, when i at last find a home,—isa cottage; a little room with whitewashed walls and a sanded floor,containing four painted chairs and a table, a clock, a cupboard, with twoor three plates and dishes, and a set of tea-things in delf. above, achamber of the same dimensions as the kitchen, with a deal bedstead and chestof drawers; small, yet too large to be filled with my scanty wardrobe:though the kindness of my gentle and generous friends has increasedthat, by a modest stock of such things as are necessary. it is evening. i have dismissed, with thefee of an orange, the little

orphan who serves me as a handmaid. i am sittingalone on the hearth. this morning, the village school opened. ihad twenty scholars. but three of the number can read: none write orcipher. several knit, and a few sew a little. they speak with the broadestaccent of the district. at present, they and i have a difficulty inunderstanding each other's language. some of them are unmannered, rough,intractable, as well as ignorant; but others are docile, have a wishto learn, and evince a disposition that pleases me. i must not forgetthat these coarsely-clad little peasants are of flesh and blood asgood as the scions of gentlest

genealogy; and that the germs of native excellence,refinement, intelligence, kind feeling, are as likelyto exist in their hearts as in those of the best-born. my duty will be todevelop these germs: surely i shall find some happiness in discharging thatoffice. 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 iought, yield me enough to live on from day to day. was i very gleeful, settled, content, duringthe hours i passed in yonder bare, humble schoolroom this morning and afternoon?not to deceive

myself, i must reply—no: i felt desolateto a degree. i felt—yes, idiot that i am—i felt degraded. i doubtedi had taken a step which sank instead of raising me in the scale ofsocial existence. i was weakly dismayed at the ignorance, the poverty,the coarseness of all i heard and saw round me. but let me not hateand despise myself too much for these feelings; i know them to be wrong—thatis 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 myscholars may substitute gratification for disgust. meantime, let me ask myself one question—whichis better?—to have surrendered to temptation; listened to passion;made no painful effort—no struggle;—but to have sunk down in the silkensnare; fallen asleep on the flowers covering it; wakened in a southernclime, amongst the luxuries of a pleasure villa: to have beennow living in france, mr. rochester's mistress; delirious with his lovehalf my time—for he would—oh, yes, he would have loved me wellfor a while. he _did_ love

me—no one will ever love me so again. ishall never more know the sweet homage given to beauty, youth, and grace—fornever to any one else shall i seem to possess these charms. he was fondand proud of me—it is what no man besides will ever be.—but where ami wandering, and what am i saying, and above all, feeling? whether isit better, i ask, to be a slave in a fool's paradise at marseilles—feveredwith delusive bliss one hour—suffocating with the bitterest tearsof 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 adheredto principle and law, and scorned and crushed the insane promptingsof a frenzied moment. god directed me to a correct choice: i thank hisprovidence for the guidance! having brought my eventide musings to thispoint, 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 theschool, was distant half a mile from the village. the birds were singing theirlast strains— "the air was mild, the dew was balm." while i looked, i thought myself happy, andwas surprised to find myself

ere long weeping—and why? for the doom whichhad 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—whichmight now, perhaps, be dragging him from the path of right, too farto leave hope of ultimate restoration thither. at this thought, i turnedmy face aside from the lovely sky of eve and lonely vale of morton—isay _lonely_, for in that bend of it visible to me there was no buildingapparent save the church and the parsonage, half-hid in trees, and,quite at the extremity, the roof of vale hall, where the rich mr. oliverand his daughter lived. i

hid my eyes, and leant my head against thestone frame of my door; but soon a slight noise near the wicket whichshut in my tiny garden from the meadow beyond it made me look up. a dog—oldcarlo, mr. rivers' pointer, as i saw in a moment—was pushing the gatewith his nose, and st. john himself leant upon it with folded arms; hisbrow knit, his gaze, grave almost to displeasure, fixed on me. i askedhim to come in. "no, i cannot stay; i have only brought youa 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 itwas. he examined my face, i

thought, with austerity, as i came near: thetraces of tears were doubtless very visible upon it. "have you found your first day's work harderthan you expected?" he asked. "oh, no! on the contrary, i think in timei shall get on with my scholars very well." "but perhaps your accommodations—your cottage—yourfurniture—have disappointed your expectations? they are,in truth, scanty enough; but—" i interrupted—

"my cottage is clean and weather-proof; myfurniture sufficient and commodious. all i see has made me thankful,not despondent. i am not absolutely such a fool and sensualist as toregret 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 ihave 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? thelittle house there behind you is dark and empty."

"i have hardly had time yet to enjoy a senseof tranquillity, much less to grow impatient under one of loneliness." "very well; i hope you feel the content youexpress: at any rate, your good sense will tell you that it is too soonyet to yield to the vacillating fears of lot's wife. what youhad left before i saw you, of course i do not know; but i counsel you toresist firmly every temptation which would incline you to look back: pursueyour 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 ofinclination and turn the bent of nature; but that it may be done, i knowfrom experience. god has given us, in a measure, the power to makeour own fate; and when our energies seem to demand a sustenance theycannot get—when our will strains after a path we may not follow—weneed neither starve from inanition, nor stand still in despair: wehave but to seek another nourishment for the mind, as strong as theforbidden food it longed to taste—and perhaps purer; and to hew outfor the adventurous foot a road as direct and broad as the one fortune hasblocked 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: itsuniform duties wearied me to death. i burnt for the more active life ofthe world—for the more exciting toils of a literary career—forthe destiny of an artist, author, orator; anything rather than thatof a priest: yes, the heart of a politician, of a soldier, of a votary ofglory, a lover of renown, a luster after power, beat under my curate'ssurplice. i considered; my life was so wretched, it must be changed,or i must die. after a season

of darkness and struggling, light broke andrelief fell: my cramped existence all at once spread out to a plainwithout bounds—my powers heard a call from heaven to rise, gather theirfull strength, spread their wings, and mount beyond ken. god hadan errand for me; to bear which afar, to deliver it well, skill andstrength, courage and eloquence, the best qualifications of soldier,statesman, and orator, were all needed: for these all centre in thegood missionary. "a missionary i resolved to be. from thatmoment my state of mind changed; the fetters dissolved and droppedfrom every faculty, leaving

nothing of bondage but its galling soreness—whichtime 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 entanglementor two of the feelings broken through or cut asunder—a last conflictwith human weakness, in which i know i shall overcome, because i havevowed that i _will_ overcome—and i leave europe for the east." he said this, in his peculiar, subdued, yetemphatic voice; looking, when he had ceased speaking, not at me, but atthe setting sun, at which i

looked too. both he and i had our backs towardsthe path leading up the field to the wicket. we had heard no stepon that grass-grown track; the water running in the vale was the one lullingsound of the hour and scene; we might well then start when a gayvoice, sweet as a silver bell, exclaimed— "good evening, mr. rivers. and good evening,old carlo. your dog is quicker to recognise his friends than youare, sir; he pricked his ears and wagged his tail when i was at the bottomof the field, and you have your back towards me now."

it was true. though mr. rivers had startedat the first of those musical accents, as if a thunderbolt had split a cloudover his head, he stood yet, at the close of the sentence, in thesame attitude in which the speaker had surprised him—his arm restingon the gate, his face directed towards the west. he turned at last, withmeasured deliberation. a vision, as it seemed to me, had risen at hisside. there appeared, within three feet of him, a form clad in purewhite—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 longveil, there bloomed under

his glance a face of perfect beauty. perfectbeauty is a strong expression; but i do not retrace or qualifyit: as sweet features as ever the temperate clime of albion moulded; aspure hues of rose and lily as ever her humid gales and vapoury skies generatedand screened, justified, in this instance, the term. no charm was wanting,no defect was perceptible; the young girl had regular anddelicate lineaments; eyes shaped and coloured as we see them in lovelypictures, large, and dark, and full; the long and shadowy eyelash whichencircles a fine eye with so soft a fascination; the pencilled brow whichgives such clearness; the

white smooth forehead, which adds such reposeto the livelier beauties of tint and ray; the cheek oval, fresh, and smooth;the lips, fresh too, ruddy, healthy, sweetly formed; the even andgleaming teeth without flaw; the small dimpled chin; the ornament of rich,plenteous tresses—all advantages, in short, which, combined, realisethe ideal of beauty, were fully hers. i wondered, as i looked at thisfair creature: i admired her with my whole heart. nature had surely formedher in a partial mood; and, forgetting her usual stinted step-motherdole of gifts, had endowed this, her darling, with a grand-dame's bounty.

what did st. john rivers think of this earthlyangel? i naturally asked myself that question as i saw him turn toher and look at her; and, as naturally, i sought the answer to the inquiryin his countenance. he had already withdrawn his eye from the peri, andwas looking at a humble tuft of daisies which grew by the wicket. "a lovely evening, but late for you to beout alone," he said, as he crushed the snowy heads of the closed flowerswith his foot. "oh, i only came home from s-" (she mentionedthe name of a large town some twenty miles distant) "this afternoon.papa told me you had opened

your school, and that the new mistress wascome; and so i put on my bonnet after tea, and ran up the valley tosee her: this is she?" pointing to me. "it is," said st. john. "do you think you shall like morton?" sheasked of me, with a direct and naive simplicity of tone and manner, pleasing,if child-like. "i hope i shall. i have many inducements todo so." "did you find your scholars as attentive asyou 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 foryou in alice wood?" "you have indeed. she is teachable and handy."(this then, i thought, is miss oliver, the heiress; favoured, itseems, in the gifts of fortune, as well as in those of nature! what happycombination 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 stayat 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 officersare the most agreeable men in the world: they put all our young knife-grindersand scissor merchants to shame." it seemed to me that mr. st. john's underlip protruded, and his upper lip curled a moment. his mouth certainly lookeda good deal compressed,

and the lower part of his face unusually sternand square, as the laughing girl gave him this information. helifted 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 secondlaugh, and laughter well became her youth, her roses, her dimples,her bright eyes. as he stood, mute and grave, she again fellto caressing carlo. "poor carlo loves me," said she. "_he_ is not sternand distant to his friends; and if he could speak, he would notbe silent." as she patted the dog's head, bending withnative grace before his young

and austere master, i saw a glow rise to thatmaster's face. i saw his solemn eye melt with sudden fire, and flickerwith resistless emotion. flushed and kindled thus, he looked nearlyas beautiful for a man as she for a woman. his chest heaved once, as ifhis large heart, weary of despotic constriction, had expanded, despitethe 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 madehim. "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 meand visit him?" "it is not a seasonable hour to intrude onmr. 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 areclosed 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 hiatushis silence left by a reply of her own.

"i forgot!" she exclaimed, shaking her beautifulcurled head, as if shocked at herself. "i am so giddy and thoughtless!_do_ excuse me. it had slipped my memory that you have good reasonsto be indisposed for joining in my chatter. diana and mary haveleft you, and moor house is shut up, and you are so lonely. i am surei 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 leaveyou; 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. sheturned, but in a moment returned. "are you well?" she asked. well might sheput 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 gazeafter him as she tripped

fairy-like down the field; he, as he strodefirmly across, never turned at all. this spectacle of another's suffering andsacrifice rapt my thoughts from exclusive meditation on my own. diana rivershad designated her brother "inexorable as death." she had not exaggerated. chapter xxxii i continued the labours of the village-schoolas actively and faithfully as i could. it was truly hard work at first.some time elapsed before, with all my efforts, i could comprehend myscholars and their nature.

wholly untaught, with faculties quite torpid,they seemed to me hopelessly dull; and, at first sight, alldull alike: but i soon found i was mistaken. there was a difference amongstthem as amongst the educated; and when i got to know them, andthey me, this difference rapidly developed itself. their amazementat me, my language, my rules, and ways, once subsided, i found some of theseheavy-looking, gaping rustics wake up into sharp-witted girls enough.many showed themselves obliging, and amiable too; and i discoveredamongst them not a few examples of natural politeness, and innateself-respect, as well as of

excellent capacity, that won both my goodwilland my admiration. these soon took a pleasure in doing their work well,in keeping their persons neat, in learning their tasks regularly, inacquiring quiet and orderly manners. the rapidity of their progress, insome instances, was even surprising; and an honest and happy pridei took in it: besides, i began personally to like some of the best girls;and they liked me. i had amongst my scholars several farmers' daughters:young women grown, almost. these could already read, write, andsew; and to them i taught the elements of grammar, geography, history,and the finer kinds of

needlework. i found estimable characters amongstthem—characters desirous of information and disposed for improvement—withwhom i passed many a pleasant evening hour in their ownhomes. their parents then (the farmer and his wife) loaded me with attentions.there was an enjoyment in accepting their simple kindness, and inrepaying it by a consideration—a scrupulous regard to theirfeelings—to which they were not, perhaps, at all times accustomed, andwhich both charmed and benefited them; because, while it elevatedthem in their own eyes, it made them emulous to merit the deferentialtreatment they received.

i felt i became a favourite in the neighbourhood.whenever i went out, i heard on all sides cordial salutations, andwas welcomed with friendly smiles. to live amidst general regard, thoughit be but the regard of working people, is like "sitting in sunshine,calm and sweet;" serene inward feelings bud and bloom under the ray.at this period of my life, my heart far oftener swelled with thankfulnessthan sank with dejection: and yet, reader, to tell you all, in the midstof this calm, this useful existence—after a day passed in honourableexertion amongst my scholars, an evening spent in drawing or reading contentedlyalone—i used to rush

into strange dreams at night: dreams many-coloured,agitated, full of the ideal, the stirring, the stormy—dreams where,amidst unusual scenes, charged with adventure, with agitating riskand romantic chance, i still again and again met mr. rochester, alwaysat some exciting crisis; and then the sense of being in his arms, hearinghis voice, meeting his eye, touching his hand and cheek, loving him, beingloved by him—the hope of passing a lifetime at his side, would be renewed,with all its first force and fire. then i awoke. then i recalledwhere i was, and how situated. then i rose up on my curtainlessbed, trembling and quivering;

and then the still, dark night witnessed theconvulsion of despair, and heard the burst of passion. by nine o'clockthe next morning i was punctually opening the school; tranquil, settled,prepared for the steady duties of the day. rosamond oliver kept her word in coming tovisit me. her call at the school was generally made in the course ofher morning ride. she would canter up to the door on her pony, followedby a mounted livery servant. anything more exquisite than her appearance,in her purple habit, with her amazon's cap of black velvet placed gracefullyabove the long curls

that kissed her cheek and floated to her shoulders,can scarcely be imagined: and it was thus she would enterthe rustic building, and glide through the dazzled ranks of the village children.she generally came at the hour when mr. rivers was engaged in givinghis daily catechising lesson. keenly, i fear, did the eye of thevisitress pierce the young pastor's heart. a sort of instinct seemedto warn him of her entrance, even when he did not see it; and when he waslooking quite away from the door, if she appeared at it, his cheek wouldglow, and his marble-seeming features, though they refused to relax, changedindescribably, and in

their very quiescence became expressive ofa repressed fervour, stronger than working muscle or darting glance couldindicate. of course, she knew her power: indeed, hedid not, because he could not, conceal it from her. in spite of his christianstoicism, when she went up and addressed him, and smiled gaily, encouragingly,even fondly in his face, his hand would tremble and his eye burn.he seemed to say, with his sad and resolute look, if he did not sayit with his lips, "i love you, and i know you prefer me. it is not despairof success that keeps me dumb. if i offered my heart, i believeyou would accept it. but that

heart is already laid on a sacred altar: thefire is arranged round it. it will soon be no more than a sacrifice consumed." and then she would pout like a disappointedchild; a pensive cloud would soften her radiant vivacity; she would withdrawher hand hastily from his, and turn in transient petulance fromhis aspect, at once so heroic and so martyr-like. st. john, no doubt, wouldhave given the world to follow, recall, retain her, when she thusleft him; but he would not give one chance of heaven, nor relinquish, forthe elysium of her love, one hope of the true, eternal paradise. besides,he could not bind all that

he had in his nature—the rover, the aspirant,the poet, the priest—in the limits of a single passion. he could not—hewould not—renounce his wild field of mission warfare for the parloursand the peace of vale hall. i learnt so much from himself in aninroad i once, despite his reserve, had the daring to make on his confidence. miss oliver already honoured me with frequentvisits to my cottage. i had learnt her whole character, which waswithout mystery or disguise: she was coquettish but not heartless; exacting,but not worthlessly selfish. she had been indulged from her birth,but was not absolutely

spoilt. she was hasty, but good-humoured;vain (she could not help it, when every glance in the glass showed hersuch a flush of loveliness), but not affected; liberal-handed; innocentof the pride of wealth; ingenuous; sufficiently intelligent; gay,lively, and unthinking: she was very charming, in short, even to a cool observerof her own sex like me; but she was not profoundly interesting orthoroughly impressive. a very different sort of mind was hers from that,for instance, of the sisters of st. john. still, i liked her almost asi liked my pupil adele; except that, for a child whom we have watched overand taught, a closer

affection is engendered than we can give anequally attractive adult acquaintance. she had taken an amiable caprice to me. shesaid i was like mr. rivers, only, certainly, she allowed, "not one-tenthso handsome, though i was a nice neat little soul enough, but he was anangel." i was, however, good, clever, composed, and firm, like him.i was a _lusus naturae_, she affirmed, as a village schoolmistress: shewas sure my previous history, if known, would make a delightful romance. one evening, while, with her usual child-likeactivity, and thoughtless

yet not offensive inquisitiveness, she wasrummaging the cupboard and the table-drawer of my little kitchen, she discoveredfirst two french books, a volume of schiller, a german grammar anddictionary, and then my drawing-materials and some sketches, includinga pencil-head of a pretty little cherub-like girl, one of my scholars,and sundry views from nature, taken in the vale of morton and onthe surrounding moors. she was first transfixed with surprise, and thenelectrified with delight. "had i done these pictures? did i know frenchand german? what a love—what a miracle i was! i drew betterthan her master in the first

school in s-. would i sketch a portrait ofher, to show to papa?" "with pleasure," i replied; and i felt a thrillof artist-delight at the idea of copying from so perfect and radianta model. she had then on a dark-blue silk dress; her arms and her neckwere bare; her only ornament was her chestnut tresses, which waved overher shoulders with all the wild grace of natural curls. i took a sheetof fine card-board, and drew a careful outline. i promised myself the pleasureof colouring it; and, as it was getting late then, i told her shemust come and sit another day.

she made such a report of me to her father,that mr. oliver himself accompanied her next evening—a tall, massive-featured,middle-aged, and grey-headed man, at whose side his lovelydaughter looked like a bright flower near a hoary turret. he appeared ataciturn, and perhaps a proud personage; but he was very kind to me. thesketch of rosamond's portrait pleased him highly: he said i must make afinished picture of it. he insisted, too, on my coming the next day tospend the evening at vale hall. i went. i found it a large, handsome residence,showing abundant

evidences of wealth in the proprietor. rosamondwas full of glee and pleasure all the time i stayed. her fatherwas affable; and when he entered into conversation with me after tea,he expressed in strong terms his approbation of what i had done in mortonschool, and said he only feared, from what he saw and heard, i wastoo good for the place, and would soon quit it for one more suitable. "indeed," cried rosamond, "she is clever enoughto be a governess in a high family, papa." i thought i would far rather be where i amthan in any high family in the

land. mr. oliver spoke of mr. rivers—ofthe rivers family—with great respect. he said it was a very old name inthat neighbourhood; that the ancestors of the house were wealthy; thatall morton had once belonged to them; that even now he considered the representativeof that house might, if he liked, make an alliance with the best.he accounted it a pity that so fine and talented a young man should haveformed the design of going out as a missionary; it was quite throwinga valuable life away. it appeared, then, that her father would throwno obstacle in the way of rosamond's union with st. john. mr. oliverevidently regarded the young

clergyman's good birth, old name, and sacredprofession as sufficient compensation for the want of fortune. it was the 5th of november, and a holiday.my little servant, after helping me to clean my house, was gone, wellsatisfied with the fee of a penny for her aid. all about me was spotlessand bright—scoured floor, polished grate, and well-rubbed chairs. ihad also made myself neat, and had now the afternoon before me to spend asi would. the translation of a few pages of german occupiedan hour; then i got my palette and pencils, and fell to the moresoothing, because easier

occupation, of completing rosamond oliver'sminiature. the head was finished already: there was but the backgroundto tint and the drapery to shade off; a touch of carmine, too, to addto the ripe lips—a soft curl here and there to the tresses—a deeper tingeto the shadow of the lash under the azured eyelid. i was absorbed inthe execution of these nice details, when, after one rapid tap, my doorunclosed, admitting st. john rivers. "i am come to see how you are spending yourholiday," he said. "not, i hope, in thought? no, that is well: whileyou draw you will not feel

lonely. you see, i mistrust you still, thoughyou have borne up wonderfully so far. i have brought you a bookfor evening solace," and he laid on the table a new publication—apoem: one of those genuine productions so often vouchsafed to the fortunatepublic of those days—the golden age of modern literature. alas! thereaders of our era are less favoured. but courage! i will not pause eitherto accuse or repine. i know poetry is not dead, nor genius lost;nor has mammon gained power over either, to bind or slay: they will bothassert their existence, their presence, their liberty and strengthagain one day. powerful

angels, safe in heaven! they smile when sordidsouls triumph, and feeble ones weep over their destruction. poetry destroyed?genius banished? no! mediocrity, no: do not let envy promptyou to the thought. no; they not only live, but reign and redeem: and withouttheir divine influence spread everywhere, you would be in hell—thehell of your own meanness. while i was eagerly glancing at the brightpages of "marmion" (for "marmion" it was), st. john stooped to examinemy drawing. his tall figure sprang erect again with a start: hesaid nothing. i looked up at him: he shunned my eye. i knew his thoughtswell, and could read his

heart plainly; at the moment i felt calmerand cooler than he: i had then temporarily the advantage of him, and i conceivedan inclination to do him some good, if i could. "with all his firmness and self-control,"thought i, "he tasks himself too far: locks every feeling and pang within—expresses,confesses, imparts nothing. i am sure it would benefithim to talk a little about this sweet rosamond, whom he thinks he oughtnot to marry: i will make him talk." i said first, "take a chair, mr. rivers."but he answered, as he always

did, that he could not stay. "very well,"i responded, mentally, "stand if you like; but you shall not go just yet,i am determined: solitude is at least as bad for you as it is for me. i'lltry if i cannot discover the secret spring of your confidence, andfind an aperture in that marble breast through which i can shed one drop ofthe balm of sympathy." "is this portrait like?" i asked bluntly. "like! like whom? i did not observe it closely." "you did, mr. rivers." he almost started at my sudden and strangeabruptness: he looked at me

astonished. "oh, that is nothing yet," i mutteredwithin. "i don't mean to be baffled by a little stiffness on yourpart; i'm prepared to go to considerable lengths." i continued, "you observedit closely and distinctly; but i have no objection to yourlooking at it again," and i rose and placed it in his hand. "a well-executed picture," he said; "verysoft, clear colouring; very graceful and correct drawing." "yes, yes; i know all that. but what of theresemblance? who is it like?"

mastering some hesitation, he answered, "missoliver, i presume." "of course. and now, sir, to reward you forthe accurate guess, i will promise to paint you a careful and faithfulduplicate of this very picture, provided you admit that the giftwould be acceptable to you. i don't wish to throw away my time and troubleon an offering you would deem worthless." he continued to gaze at the picture: the longerhe looked, the firmer he held it, the more he seemed to covet it. "itis like!" he murmured; "the eye is well managed: the colour, light, expression,are perfect. it

smiles!" "would it comfort, or would it wound you tohave a similar painting? tell me that. when you are at madagascar, or atthe cape, or in india, would it be a consolation to have that memento inyour possession? or would the sight of it bring recollections calculatedto enervate and distress?" he now furtively raised his eyes: he glancedat me, irresolute, disturbed: he again surveyed the picture. "that i should like to have it is certain:whether it would be judicious or wise is another question."

since i had ascertained that rosamond reallypreferred him, and that her father was not likely to oppose the match,i—less exalted in my views than st. john—had been strongly disposedin my own heart to advocate their union. it seemed to me that, shouldhe become the possessor of mr. oliver's large fortune, he might do as muchgood with it as if he went and laid his genius out to wither, and hisstrength to waste, under a tropical sun. with this persuasion i now answered— "as far as i can see, it would be wiser andmore judicious if you were to take to yourself the original at once."

by this time he had sat down: he had laidthe picture on the table before him, and with his brow supported on both hands,hung fondly over it. i discerned he was now neither angry nor shockedat my audacity. i saw even that to be thus frankly addressed ona subject he had deemed unapproachable—to hear it thus freely handled—wasbeginning to be felt by him as a new pleasure—an unhoped-forrelief. reserved people often really need the frank discussion of theirsentiments and griefs more than the expansive. the sternest-seeming stoicis human after all; and to "burst" with boldness and good-will into "thesilent sea" of their souls

is often to confer on them the first of obligations. "she likes you, i am sure," said i, as i stoodbehind his chair, "and her father respects you. moreover, she is a sweetgirl—rather thoughtless; but you would have sufficient thought forboth yourself and her. you ought to marry her." "_does_ she like me?" he asked. "certainly; better than she likes any oneelse. she talks of you continually: there is no subject she enjoysso much or touches upon so often."

"it is very pleasant to hear this," he said—"very:go on for another quarter of an hour." and he actually tookout his watch and laid it upon the table to measure the time. "but where is the use of going on," i asked,"when you are probably preparing some iron blow of contradiction,or forging a fresh chain to fetter your heart?" "don't imagine such hard things. fancy meyielding and melting, as i am doing: human love rising like a freshly openedfountain in my mind and overflowing with sweet inundation all thefield i have so carefully and

with such labour prepared—so assiduouslysown with the seeds of good intentions, of self-denying plans. and nowit is deluged with a nectarous flood—the young germs swamped—deliciouspoison cankering them: now i see myself stretched on an ottomanin the drawing-room at vale hall at my bride rosamond oliver's feet:she is talking to me with her sweet voice—gazing down on me with thoseeyes your skilful hand has copied so well—smiling at me with thesecoral lips. she is mine—i am hers—this present life and passing worldsuffice to me. hush! say nothing—my heart is full of delight—mysenses are entranced—let the

time i marked pass in peace." i humoured him: the watch ticked on: he breathedfast and low: i stood silent. amidst this hush the quartet sped;he replaced the watch, laid the picture down, rose, and stood on the hearth. "now," said he, "that little space was givento delirium and delusion. i rested my temples on the breast of temptation,and put my neck voluntarily under her yoke of flowers. i tastedher cup. the pillow was burning: there is an asp in the garland: thewine has a bitter taste: her promises are hollow—her offers false: isee and know all this."

i gazed at him in wonder. "it is strange," pursued he, "that while ilove rosamond oliver so wildly—with all the intensity, indeed, ofa first passion, the object of which is exquisitely beautiful, graceful,fascinating—i experience at the same time a calm, unwarped consciousnessthat she would not make me a good wife; that she is not the partner suitedto me; that i should discover this within a year after marriage;and that to twelve months' rapture would succeed a lifetime of regret.this i know." "strange indeed!" i could not help ejaculating.

"while something in me," he went on, "is acutelysensible to her charms, something else is as deeply impressed withher defects: they are such that she could sympathise in nothing i aspiredto—co-operate in nothing i undertook. rosamond a sufferer, a labourer,a female apostle? rosamond a missionary's wife? no!" "but you need not be a missionary. you mightrelinquish that scheme." "relinquish! what! my vocation? my great work?my foundation laid on earth for a mansion in heaven? my hopes ofbeing numbered in the band who have merged all ambitions in the gloriousone of bettering their

race—of carrying knowledge into the realmsof ignorance—of substituting peace for war—freedom for bondage—religionfor superstition—the hope of heaven for the fear of hell? must i relinquishthat? it is dearer than the blood in my veins. it is what i haveto look forward to, and to live for." after a considerable pause, i said—"andmiss oliver? are her disappointment and sorrow of no interest toyou?" "miss oliver is ever surrounded by suitorsand flatterers: in less than a month, my image will be effaced from her heart.she will forget me; and

will marry, probably, some one who will makeher far happier than i should do." "you speak coolly enough; but you suffer inthe conflict. you are wasting away." "no. if i get a little thin, it is with anxietyabout my prospects, yet unsettled—my departure, continually procrastinated.only this morning, i received intelligence that the successor,whose arrival i have been so long expecting, cannot be ready to replaceme for three months to come yet; and perhaps the three months may extendto six."

"you tremble and become flushed whenever missoliver enters the schoolroom." again the surprised expression crossed hisface. he had not imagined that a woman would dare to speak so to a man.for me, i felt at home in this sort of discourse. i could never restin communication with strong, discreet, and refined minds, whether maleor female, till i had passed the outworks of conventional reserve, andcrossed the threshold of confidence, and won a place by their heart'svery hearthstone. "you are original," said he, "and not timid.there is something brave in

your spirit, as well as penetrating in youreye; but allow me to assure you that you partially misinterpret my emotions.you think them more profound and potent than they are. you giveme a larger allowance of sympathy than i have a just claim to. wheni colour, and when i shade before miss oliver, i do not pity myself.i scorn the weakness. i know it is ignoble: a mere fever of the flesh:not, i declare, the convulsion of the soul. _that_ is just as fixed as arock, firm set in the depths of a restless sea. know me to be what i am—acold hard man." i smiled incredulously.

"you have taken my confidence by storm," hecontinued, "and now it is much at your service. i am simply, in my originalstate—stripped of that blood-bleached robe with which christianitycovers human deformity—a cold, hard, ambitious man. natural affectiononly, of all the sentiments, has permanent power over me. reason,and not feeling, is my guide; my ambition is unlimited: my desireto rise higher, to do more than others, insatiable. i honour endurance,perseverance, industry, talent; because these are the means by whichmen achieve great ends and mount to lofty eminence. i watch your careerwith interest, because i

consider you a specimen of a diligent, orderly,energetic woman: not because i deeply compassionate what you havegone through, or what you still suffer." "you would describe yourself as a mere paganphilosopher," i said. "no. there is this difference between me anddeistic philosophers: i believe; and i believe the gospel. you missedyour epithet. i am not a pagan, but a christian philosopher—a followerof the sect of jesus. as his disciple i adopt his pure, his merciful,his benignant doctrines. i advocate them: i am sworn to spread them.won in youth to religion, she

has cultivated my original qualities thus:—fromthe minute germ, natural affection, she has developed the overshadowingtree, philanthropy. from the wild stringy root of human uprightness,she has reared a due sense of the divine justice. of the ambition to winpower and renown for my wretched self, she has formed the ambitionto spread my master's kingdom; to achieve victories for the standard of thecross. so much has religion done for me; turning the original materialsto the best account; pruning and training nature. but she could not eradicatenature: nor will it be eradicated 'till this mortal shall put onimmortality.'"

having said this, he took his hat, which layon the table beside my palette. once more he looked at the portrait. "she _is_ lovely," he murmured. "she is wellnamed the rose of the world, indeed!" "and may i not paint one like it for you?" "_cui bono_? no." he drew over the picture the sheet of thinpaper on which i was accustomed to rest my hand in painting, toprevent the cardboard from being sullied. what he suddenly saw on thisblank paper, it was

impossible for me to tell; but something hadcaught his eye. he took it up with a snatch; he looked at the edge; thenshot a glance at me, inexpressibly peculiar, and quite incomprehensible:a glance that seemed to take and make note of every point in myshape, face, and dress; for it traversed all, quick, keen as lightning. hislips parted, as if to speak: but he checked the coming sentence,whatever it was. "what is the matter?" i asked. "nothing in the world," was the reply; and,replacing the paper, i saw him dexterously tear a narrow slip from themargin. it disappeared in

his glove; and, with one hasty nod and "good-afternoon,"he vanished. "well!" i exclaimed, using an expression ofthe district, "that caps the globe, however!" i, in my turn, scrutinised the paper; butsaw nothing on it save a few dingy stains of paint where i had tried thetint in my pencil. i pondered the mystery a minute or two; butfinding it insolvable, and being certain it could not be of much moment,i dismissed, and soon forgot it. end of chapter xxxii�

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