I continued
the labours of the village-school
as actively and faithfully as
I could. It was truly hard work
at first. Some time elapsed before,
with all my efforts, I could
comprehend my scholars and their
nature. Wholly untaught, with
faculties quite torpid, they
seemed to me hopelessly dull;
and, at first sight, all dull
alike: but I soon found I was
mistaken. There was a difference
amongst them as amongst the educated;
and when I got to know them,
and they me, this difference
rapidly developed itself. Their
amazement at me, my language,
my rules, and ways, once subsided,
I found some of these heavy-looking,
gaping rustics wake up into sharp-witted
girls enough. Many showed themselves
obliging, and amiable too; and
I discovered amongst them not
a few examples of natural politeness,
and innate self-respect, as well
as of excellent capacity, that
won both my goodwill and my admiration.
These soon took a pleasure in
doing their work well, in keeping
their persons neat, in learning
their tasks regularly, in acquiring
quiet and orderly manners. The
rapidity of their progress, in
some instances, was even surprising;
and an honest and happy pride
I 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, and sew; and to
them I taught the elements of
grammar, geography, history,
and the finer kinds of needlework.
I found estimable characters
amongst them--characters desirous
of information and disposed for
improvement--with whom I passed
many a pleasant evening hour
in their own homes. Their parents
then (the farmer and his wife)
loaded me with attentions. There
was an enjoyment in accepting
their simple kindness, and in
repaying it by a consideration--a
scrupulous regard to their feelings--to
which they were not, perhaps,
at all times accustomed, and
which both charmed and benefited
them; because, while it elevated
them in their own eyes, it made
them emulous to merit the deferential
treatment they
received.
I
felt I became
a favourite
in the neighbourhood. Whenever
I went out, I heard on all sides
cordial salutations, and was
welcomed with friendly smiles.
To live amidst general regard,
though it 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 thankfulness than
sank with dejection: and yet,
reader, to tell you all, in the
midst of this calm, this useful
existence--after a day passed
in honourable exertion amongst
my scholars, an evening spent
in drawing or reading contentedly
alone--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 risk and romantic chance,
I still again and again met Mr.
Rochester, always at some exciting
crisis; and then the sense of
being in his arms, hearing his
voice, meeting his eye, touching
his hand and cheek, loving him,
being loved 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 recalled
where I was, and how situated.
Then I rose up on my curtainless
bed, trembling and quivering;
and then the still, dark night
witnessed the convulsion of despair,
and heard the burst of passion.
By nine o'clock the 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 to visit me. Her call
at the school was generally made
in the course of her morning
ride. She would canter up to
the door on her pony, followed
by a mounted livery servant.
Anything more exquisite than
her appearance, in her purple
habit, with her Amazon's cap
of black velvet placed gracefully
above the long curls that kissed
her cheek and floated to her
shoulders, can scarcely be imagined:
and it was thus she would enter
the rustic building, and glide
through the dazzled ranks of
the village children. She generally
came at the hour when Mr. Rivers
was engaged in giving his daily
catechising lesson. Keenly, I
fear, did the eye of the visitress
pierce the young pastor's heart.
A sort of instinct seemed to
warn him of her entrance, even
when he did not see it; and when
he was looking quite away from
the door, if she appeared at
it, his cheek would glow, and
his marble- seeming features,
though they refused to relax,
changed indescribably, and in
their very quiescence became
expressive of a repressed fervour,
stronger than working muscle
or darting glance could indicate.
Of
course, she
knew her power:
indeed, he did not, because he
could not, conceal it from her.
In spite of his Christian stoicism,
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 say it with his lips, "I
love you, and I know you prefer
me. It is not despair of success
that keeps me dumb. If I offered
my heart, I believe you would
accept it. But that heart is
already laid on a sacred altar:
the fire is arranged round it.
It will soon be no more than
a sacrifice consumed."
And then she would pout like
a disappointed child; a pensive
cloud would soften her radiant
vivacity; she would withdraw
her hand hastily from his, and
turn in transient petulance from
his aspect, at once so heroic
and so martyr-like. St. John,
no doubt, would have given the
world to follow, recall, retain
her, when she thus left him;
but he would not give one chance
of heaven, nor relinquish, for
the 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--he
would not--renounce his wild
field of mission warfare for
the parlours and the peace of
Vale Hall. I learnt so much from
himself in an inroad I once,
despite his reserve, had the
daring to make on his confidence.
Miss Oliver already honoured
me with frequent visits to my
cottage. I had learnt her whole
character, which was without
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 her such a flush of loveliness),
but not affected; liberal-handed;
innocent of the pride of wealth;
ingenuous; sufficiently intelligent;
gay, lively, and unthinking:
she was very charming, in short,
even to a cool observer of her
own sex like me; but she was
not profoundly interesting or
thoroughly impressive. A very
different sort of mind was hers
from that, for instance, of the
sisters of St. John. Still, I
liked her almost as I liked my
pupil Adele; except that, for
a child whom we have watched
over and taught, a closer affection
is engendered than we can give
an equally attractive adult acquaintance.
She
had taken an
amiable caprice
to me. She said I was like Mr.
Rivers, only, certainly, she
allowed, "not one-tenth so handsome,
though I was a nice neat little
soul enough, but he was an angel." I
was, however, good, clever, composed,
and firm, like him. I was a lusus
naturae, she affirmed, as a village
schoolmistress: she was sure
my previous history, if known,
would make a delightful romance.
One evening, while, with her
usual child-like activity, and
thoughtless yet not offensive
inquisitiveness, she was rummaging
the cupboard and the table-drawer
of my little kitchen, she discovered
first two French books, a volume
of Schiller, a German grammar
and dictionary, and then my drawing-materials
and some sketches, including
a 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
on the surrounding moors. She
was first transfixed with surprise,
and then electrified with delight.
"Had
I done these
pictures? Did
I know French
and German?
What a love--what a miracle I
was! I drew better than her master
in the first school in S-. Would
I sketch a portrait of her, to
show to papa?"
"With pleasure," I
replied; and
I felt a thrill
of artist--delight
at the idea of copying from so
perfect and radiant a model.
She had then on a dark-blue silk
dress; her arms and her neck
were bare; her only ornament
was her chestnut tresses, which
waved over her shoulders with
all the wild grace of natural
curls. I took a sheet of fine
card-board, and drew a careful
outline. I promised myself the
pleasure of colouring it; and,
as it was getting late then,
I told her she must 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 lovely
daughter looked like a bright
flower near a hoary turret. He
appeared a taciturn, and perhaps
a proud personage; but he was
very kind to me. The sketch of
Rosamond's portrait pleased him
highly: he said I must make a
finished picture of it. He insisted,
too, on my coming the next day
to spend the evening at Vale
Hall.
I went. I found it a large,
handsome residence, showing abundant
evidences of wealth in the proprietor.
Rosamond was full of glee and
pleasure all the time I stayed.
Her father was affable; and when
he entered into conversation
with me after tea, he expressed
in strong terms his approbation
of what I had done in Morton
school, and said he only feared,
from what he saw and heard, I
was too good for the place, and
would soon quit it for one more
suitable.
"Indeed," cried Rosamond, "she
is clever enough to be a governess
in a high family, papa."
I thought I would far rather
be where I am than in any high
family in the land. Mr. Oliver
spoke of Mr. Rivers--of the Rivers
family-- with great respect.
He said it was a very old name
in that neighbourhood; that the
ancestors of the house were wealthy;
that all Morton had once belonged
to them; that even now he considered
the representative of 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 have formed
the design of going out as a
missionary; it was quite throwing
a valuable life away. It appeared,
then, that her father would throw
no obstacle in the way of Rosamond's
union with St. John. Mr. Oliver
evidently regarded the young
clergyman's good birth, old name,
and sacred profession 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, well satisfied
with the fee of a penny for her
aid. All about me was spotless
and bright-- scoured floor, polished
grate, and well-rubbed chairs.
I had also made myself neat,
and had now the afternoon before
me to spend as I would.
The translation of a few pages
of German occupied an hour; then
I got my palette and pencils,
and fell to the more soothing,
because easier occupation, of
completing Rosamond Oliver's
miniature. The head was finished
already: there was but the background
to tint and the drapery to shade
off; a touch of carmine, too,
to add to the ripe lips--a soft
curl here and there to the tresses--a
deeper tinge to the shadow of
the lash under the azured eyelid.
I was absorbed in the execution
of these nice details, when,
after one rapid tap, my door
unclosed, admitting St. John
Rivers.
"I am come to see how you are
spending your holiday," he said. "Not,
I hope, in thought? No, that
is well: while you draw you will
not feel lonely. You see, I mistrust
you still, though you have borne
up wonderfully so far. I have
brought you a book for evening
solace," and he laid on the table
a new publication--a poem: one
of those genuine productions
so often vouchsafed to the fortunate
public of those days--the golden
age of modern literature. Alas!
the readers of our era are less
favoured. But courage! I will
not pause either to 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 both
assert their existence, their
presence, their liberty and strength
again one day. Powerful angels,
safe in heaven! they smile when
sordid souls triumph, and feeble
ones weep over their destruction.
Poetry destroyed? Genius banished?
No! Mediocrity, no: do not let
envy prompt you to the thought.
No; they not only live, but reign
and redeem: and without their
divine influence spread everywhere,
you would be in hell--the hell
of your own meanness.
While
I was eagerly
glancing at
the bright
pages of "Marmion" (for "Marmion" it
was), St. John stooped to examine
my drawing. His tall figure sprang
erect again with a start: he
said nothing. I looked up at
him: he shunned my eye. I knew
his thoughts well, and could
read his heart plainly; at the
moment I felt calmer and cooler
than he: I had then temporarily
the advantage of him, and I conceived
an 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 benefit him
to talk a little about this sweet
Rosamond, whom he thinks he ought
not 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'll try if I cannot
discover the secret spring of
your confidence, and find an
aperture in that marble breast
through which I can shed one
drop of the 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 strange abruptness: he looked
at me astonished. "Oh, that is
nothing yet," I muttered within. "I
don't mean to be baffled by a
little stiffness on your part;
I'm prepared to go to considerable
lengths." I continued, "You observed
it closely and distinctly; but
I have no objection to your looking
at it again," and I rose and
placed it in his hand.
"A well-executed picture," he
said; "very soft, clear colouring;
very graceful and correct drawing."
"Yes,
yes; I know
all that. But
what of the
resemblance?
Who is it like?"
Mastering
some hesitation,
he answered, "Miss Oliver, I
presume."
"Of
course. And
now, sir, to
reward you for the accurate guess,
I will promise to paint you a
careful and faithful duplicate
of this very picture, provided
you admit that the gift would
be acceptable to you. I don't
wish to throw away my time and
trouble on an offering you would
deem worthless."
He
continued to
gaze at the
picture: the longer he looked,
the firmer he held it, the more
he seemed to covet it. "It is
like!" he murmured; "the eye
is well managed: the colour,
light, expression, are perfect.
It smiles!"
"Would
it comfort,
or would it
wound you to
have a similar
painting? Tell me that. When
you are at Madagascar, or at
the Cape, or in India, would
it be a consolation to have that
memento in your possession? or
would the sight of it bring recollections
calculated to enervate and distress?"
He now furtively raised his
eyes: he glanced at 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 really preferred him,
and that her father was not likely
to oppose the match, I--less
exalted in my views than St.
John--had been strongly disposed
in my own heart to advocate their
union. It seemed to me that,
should he become the possessor
of Mr. Oliver's large fortune,
he might do as much good with
it as if he went and laid his
genius out to wither, and his
strength to waste, under a tropical
sun. With this persuasion I now
answered -
"As
far as I can
see, it would
be wiser and more judicious if
you were to take to yourself
the original at once."
By
this time he
had sat down:
he had laid the 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
shocked at my audacity. I saw
even that to be thus frankly
addressed on a subject he had
deemed unapproachable--to hear
it thus freely handled--was beginning
to be felt by him as a new pleasure--an
unhoped-for relief. Reserved
people often really need the
frank discussion of their sentiments
and griefs more than the expansive.
The sternest- seeming stoic is
human after all; and to "burst" with
boldness and good-will into "the
silent sea" of their souls is
often to confer on them the first
of obligations.
"She likes you, I am sure," said
I, as I stood behind his chair, "and
her father respects you. Moreover,
she is a sweet girl--rather thoughtless;
but you would have sufficient
thought for both yourself and
her. You ought to marry her."
"DOES she like me?" he
asked.
"Certainly;
better than
she likes any
one else. She
talks
of you continually: there is
no subject she enjoys so 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 took out 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 me yielding and melting,
as I am doing: human love rising
like a freshly opened fountain
in my mind and overflowing with
sweet inundation all the field
I have so carefully and with
such labour prepared--so assiduously
sown with the seeds of good intentions,
of self-denying plans. And now
it is deluged with a nectarous
flood--the young germs swamped--delicious
poison cankering them: now I
see myself stretched on an ottoman
in 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 those eyes your skilful
hand has copied so well--smiling
at me with these coral lips.
She is mine--I am hers--this
present life and passing world
suffice to me. Hush! say nothing--my
heart is full of delight--my
senses are entranced--let the
time I marked pass in peace."
I humoured him: the watch ticked
on: he breathed fast 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 given to
delirium and
delusion. I rested my temples
on the breast of temptation,
and put my neck voluntarily under
her yoke of flowers. I tasted
her cup. The pillow was burning:
there is an asp in the garland:
the wine has a bitter taste:
her promises are hollow--her
offers false: I see and know
all this."
I gazed at him in wonder.
"It is strange," pursued he, "that
while I love Rosamond Oliver
so wildly--with all the intensity,
indeed, of a first passion, the
object of which is exquisitely
beautiful, graceful, fascinating--I
experience at the same time a
calm, unwarped consciousness
that she would not make me a
good wife; that she is not the
partner suited to 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 acutely sensible
to her charms, something else
is as deeply impressed with her
defects: they are such that she
could sympathise in nothing I
aspired to--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 might relinquish that scheme."
"Relinquish!
What! my vocation?
My great work? My foundation
laid on earth for a mansion in
heaven? My hopes of being numbered
in the band who have merged all
ambitions in the glorious one
of bettering their race--of carrying
knowledge into the realms of
ignorance--of substituting peace
for war--freedom for bondage--religion
for superstition--the hope of
heaven for the fear of hell?
Must I relinquish that? It is
dearer than the blood in my veins.
It is what I have to look forward
to, and to live for."
After
a considerable
pause, I said--"And
Miss Oliver?
Are her disappointment
and sorrow
of no interest to you?"
"Miss
Oliver is ever
surrounded
by suitors
and 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 make
her far happier than I should
do."
"You
speak coolly
enough; but
you suffer in the conflict. You
are wasting away."
"No.
If I get a
little thin,
it is with anxiety about 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 replace me
for three months to come yet;
and perhaps the three months
may extend to six."
"You
tremble and
become flushed
whenever Miss Oliver enters the
schoolroom."
Again the surprised expression
crossed his face. 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 rest
in communication with strong,
discreet, and refined minds,
whether male or female, till
I had passed the outworks of
conventional reserve, and crossed
the threshold of confidence,
and won a place by their heart's
very hearthstone.
"You are original," said he, "and
not timid. There is something
brave in your spirit, as well
as penetrating in your eye; but
allow me to assure you that you
partially misinterpret my emotions.
You think them more profound
and potent than they are. You
give me a larger allowance of
sympathy than I have a just claim
to. When I 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 a rock, firm set in the depths
of a restless sea. Know me to
be what I am--a cold hard man."
I smiled incredulously.
"You have taken my confidence
by storm," he continued, "and
now it is much at your service.
I am simply, in my original state--
stripped of that blood-bleached
robe with which Christianity
covers human deformity--a cold,
hard, ambitious man. Natural
affection only, of all the sentiments,
has permanent power over me.
Reason, and not feeling, is my
guide; my ambition is unlimited:
my desire to rise higher, to
do more than others, insatiable.
I honour endurance, perseverance,
industry, talent; because these
are the means by which men achieve
great ends and mount to lofty
eminence. I watch your career
with interest, because I consider
you a specimen of a diligent,
orderly, energetic woman: not
because I deeply compassionate
what you have gone through, or
what you still suffer."
"You would describe yourself
as a mere pagan philosopher," I
said.
"No.
There is this
difference
between me
and deistic
philosophers:
I believe; and I believe the
Gospel. You missed your epithet.
I am not a pagan, but a Christian
philosopher--a follower of 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:- From the minute germ,
natural affection, she has developed
the overshadowing tree, philanthropy.
From the wild stringy root of
human uprightness, she has reared
a due sense of the Divine justice.
Of the ambition to win power
and renown for my wretched self,
she has formed the ambition to
spread my Master's kingdom; to
achieve victories for the standard
of the cross. So much has religion
done for me; turning the original
materials to the best account;
pruning and training nature.
But she could not eradicate nature:
nor will it be eradicated 'till
this mortal shall put on immortality.'"
Having said this, he took his
hat, which lay on the table beside
my palette. Once more he looked
at the portrait.
"She IS lovely," he murmured. "She
is well named 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 thin paper on which
I was accustomed to rest my hand
in painting, to prevent the cardboard
from being sullied. What he suddenly
saw on this blank paper, it was
impossible for me to tell; but
something had caught his eye.
He took it up with a snatch;
he looked at the edge; then shot
a glance at me, inexpressibly
peculiar, and quite incomprehensible:
a glance that seemed to take
and make note of every point
in my shape, face, and dress;
for it traversed all, quick,
keen as lightning. His lips 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 the margin.
It disappeared in his glove;
and, with one hasty nod and "good-
afternoon," he vanished.
"Well!" I exclaimed, using
an expression of the district, "that
caps the globe, however!"
I, in my turn, scrutinised
the paper; but saw nothing on
it save a few dingy stains of
paint where I had tried the tint
in my pencil. I pondered the
mystery a minute or two; but
finding it insolvable, and being
certain it could not be of much
moment, I dismissed, and soon
forgot it.
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