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 good-will 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'; sereneinward 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

exertionamongst 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" title="ad.深深地">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

'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