how cramping. I shall not stay long at Morton, now that my father is

dead, and that I am my own master. I shall leave the place probably in

the course of a twelvemonth; but while I do stay, I will exert

myself to the utmost for its improvement. Morton, when I came to it

two years ago, had no school: the children of the poor were excluded

from every hope of progress. I established one for boys: I mean now to

open a second school for girls. I have hired a building for the

purpose, with a cottage of two rooms attached to it for the mistress's

house. Her salary will be thirty pounds a year: her house is already

furnished, very simply, but sufficiently, by the kindness of a lady,

Miss Oliver; 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. The same lady pays for the education and clothing of an orphan

from the workhouse, on condition that she shall aid the mistress in

such menial offices connected with her own house and the school as her

occupation of teaching will prevent her having time to discharge in

person. Will you be this mistress?'

He put the question rather hurriedly; he seemed half to expect an

indignant, or at least a disdainful rejection of the offer: not

knowing all my thoughts and feelings, though guessing some, he could

not tell in what light the lot would appear to me. In truth 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 rich

house, it was independent; and the fear of servitude with strangers

entered my soul like iron: it was not ignoble- not unworthy- not

mentally degrading. 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 a village school: your

scholars will be only poor girls- cottagers' children- at the best,

farmers' daughters. Knitting, sewing, reading, writing, ciphering,

will be all you will have to teach. What will you do with your

accomplishments? What, with the largest portion of your mind-

sentiments- tastes?'

'Save them till they are wanted. They will keep.'

'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 of your function?'

'I will go to my house to-morrow, and open the school, if you like,

next week.'

'Very well: so be it.'

He rose and walked through the room. Standing still, he again

looked at me. He shook his head.

'What do you disapprove of, Mr. Rivers?' I asked.

'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 that description 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 know I 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 perhaps you would have

misunderstood the word, and been displeased. I mean, that human

affections and sympathies have a most powerful hold on you. I am

sure you cannot long be content to pass your leisure in solitude,

and to devote your working hours to a monotonous labour 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- my nature,

that God gave me, contravened; my faculties, heaven-bestowed,

paralysed- made useless. You hear now how I contradict myself. I,

who preached contentment with a humble lot, and justified the vocation

even of hewers of wood and drawers of water in God's service- I, His

ordained minister, almost rave in my restlessness. Well,

propensities and principles must be reconciled by some means.'

He left the room. In this brief hour I had learnt more of him

than in the whole previous month: yet still he puzzled me.

Diana and Mary Rivers became more sad and silent as the day

approached for leaving their brother and their home. They both tried

to appear as usual; but the sorrow they had to struggle against was

one that could not be entirely conquered or concealed. Diana intimated

that this would be a different parting from any they had ever yet

known. It would probably, as far as St. John was concerned, be a

parting for years: it might be a parting for life.

'He will sacrifice all to his long-framed resolves,' she said:

'natural affection and feelings more potent still. St. John looks

quiet, Jane; but he hides a fever in his vitals. You would think him

gentle, yet in some things he is inexorable as death; and the worst of

it is, my conscience will hardly permit me to dissuade him from his

severe decision: certainly, I cannot for a moment blame him for it. It

is right, noble, Christian: yet it breaks my heart!' And the tears

gushed to her fine eyes. Mary bent her head low over her work.

'We are now without father: we shall soon be 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 the vexing one of

the slip between the cup and the lip. St. John passed the window

reading a letter. He entered.

'Our uncle John is dead,' said he.

Both the sisters seemed struck: not shocked or appalled; the

tidings appeared in their eyes rather momentous than afflicting.

'Dead?' repeated Diana.

'Yes.'

She riveted a searching gaze on her brother's face. 'And what

then?' she demanded, in a low voice.

'What then, Die?' he replied, maintaining a marble immobility of

feature. 'What then? Why- nothing. Read.'

He threw the letter into her lap. She glanced over it, and handed

it to Mary. Mary perused it in silence, and returned it to her

brother. All three looked at each other, and all three smiled- a

dreary, pensive smile enough.

'Amen! We can yet live,' said Diana at last.

'At any rate, it makes us no worse off than we were before,'

remarked Mary.

'Only it forces rather strongly on the mind the picture of what

might have been; said Mr. Rivers, 'and contrasts it 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 then turned to me.

'Jane, you will wonder at us and our mysteries,' she said, 'and

think us hard-hearted beings not to be more moved at the death of so

near a relation as an uncle; but we have never seen him or known

him. He was my mother's brother. My father and he quarrelled long ago.

It was by his advice that my father risked most of his property in the

speculation that ruined him. Mutual recrimination passed between them:

they parted in anger, and were never reconciled. My uncle engaged

afterwards in more prosperous undertakings: it appears he realised a

fortune of twenty thousand pounds. He was never married, and had no

near kindred but ourselves and one other person, not more closely

related than we. My father always cherished the idea that he would

atone for his error by leaving his possessions to us; that letter

informs 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 damp is cast on the spirits by the receipt of such news.

Mary and I would have esteemed ourselves rich with a thousand pounds

each; and to St. John such a sum would have been valuable, for the

good it would have enabled him 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, Diana and Mary quitted

the parsonage: and so the old grange was abandoned.