Jane Eyre (66 page)

I approached to take it, a welcome gift it was. He examined my face, I thought, with austerity, as I came near, the traces of tears were doubtless very visible upon it.

“Have you found your first day’s work harder than you expected?” he asked.

“Oh, no! On the contrary, I think in time I shall get on with my scholars very well.”

“But perhaps your accommodations—your cottage—your furniture—have disappointed your expectations? They are, in truth, scanty enough, but—” I interrupted, “my cottage is clean and weather-proof; my furniture sufficient and commodious. All I see has made me thankful, not despondent. I am not absolutely such a fool and sensualist as to regret the absence of a carpet, a sofa, and silver plate; besides, five weeks ago I had nothing—I was an outcast, a beggar, a vagrant. Now I have acquaintance, a home, a business. I 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? The little house there behind you is dark and empty.”

“I have hardly had time yet to enjoy a sense of tranquillity, much less to grow impatient under one of loneliness.”

“Very well. I hope you feel the content you express, at any rate, your good sense will tell you that it is too soon yet to yield to the vacillating fears of Lot’s wife. What you had left before I saw you, of course I do not know, but I counsel you to resist firmly every temptation which would incline you to look back, pursue your present career steadily, for some months at least.”

“It is what I mean to do,” I answered. St. John continued, “It is hard work to control the workings of inclination and turn the bent of nature, but that it may be done, I know from experience. God has given us, in a measure, the power to make our own fate and when our energies seem to demand a sustenance they cannot get—when our will strains after a path we may not follow—we need neither starve from inanition, nor stand still in despair. We have but to seek another nourishment for the mind, as strong as the forbidden food it longed to taste—and perhaps purer and to hew out for the adventurous foot a road as direct and broad as the one Fortune has blocked 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, its uniform duties wearied me to death. I burnt for the more active life of the world—for the more exciting toils of a literary career—for the destiny of an artist, author, orator, anything rather than that of a priest. Yes, the heart of a politician, of a soldier, of a votary of glory, a lover of renown, a luster after power, beat under my curate’s surplice. I considered, my life was so wretched, it must be changed, or I must die. After a season of darkness and struggling, light broke and relief fell, my cramped existence all at once spread out to a plain without bounds—my powers heard a call from heaven to rise, gather their full strength, spread their wings, and mount beyond ken. God had an errand for me, to bear which afar, to deliver it well, skill and strength, courage and eloquence, the best qualifications of soldier, statesman, and orator, were all needed, for these all centre in the good missionary.

“A missionary I resolved to be. From that moment my state of mind changed; the fetters dissolved and dropped from every faculty, leaving nothing of bondage but its galling soreness—which time 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 entanglement or two of the feelings broken through or cut asunder—a last conflict with human weakness, in which I know I shall overcome, because I have vowed that I
will
overcome—and I leave Europe for the East.”

He said this, in his peculiar, subdued, yet emphatic voice; looking, when he had ceased speaking, not at me, but at the setting sun, at which I looked too. Both he and I had our backs towards the path leading up the field to the wicket. We had heard no step on that grass-grown track; the water running in the vale was the one lulling sound of the hour and scene; we might well then start when a gay voice, sweet as a silver bell, exclaimed, “Good evening, Mr Rivers. And good evening, old Carlo. Your dog is quicker to recognise his friends than you are, sir; he pricked his ears and wagged his tail when I was at the bottom of the field, and you have your back towards me now.”

It was true. Though Mr Rivers had started at the first of those musical accents, as if a thunderbolt had split a cloud over his head, he stood yet, at the close of the sentence, in the same attitude in which the speaker had surprised him—his arm resting on the gate, his face directed towards the west. He turned at last, with measured deliberation. A vision, as it seemed to me, had risen at his side. There appeared, within three feet of him, a form clad in pure white—a youthful, graceful form, full, yet fine in contour and when, after bending to caress Carlo, it lifted up its head, and threw back a long veil, there bloomed under his glance a face of perfect beauty. Perfect beauty is a strong expression, but I do not retrace or qualify it, as sweet features as ever the temperate clime of Albion moulded; as pure hues of rose and lily as ever her humid gales and vapoury skies generated and screened, justified, in this instance, the term. No charm was wanting, no defect was perceptible. The young girl had regular and delicate lineaments, eyes shaped and coloured as we see them in lovely pictures, large, and dark, and full. The long and shadowy eyelash which encircles a fine eye with so soft a fascination; the pencilled brow which gives such clearness, the white smooth forehead, which adds such repose to the livelier beauties of tint and ray, the cheek oval, fresh, and smooth; the lips, fresh too, ruddy, healthy, sweetly formed. The even and gleaming teeth without flaw, the small dimpled chin, the ornament of rich, plenteous tresses—all advantages, in short, which, combined, realise the ideal of beauty, were fully hers. I wondered, as I looked at this fair creature, I admired her with my whole heart. Nature had surely formed her in a partial mood and, forgetting her usual stinted stepmother dole of gifts, had endowed this, her darling, with a grand-dame’s bounty.

What did St. John Rivers think of this earthly angel? I naturally asked myself that question as I saw him turn to her and look at her and, as naturally, I sought the answer to the inquiry in his countenance. He had already withdrawn his eye from the Peri, and was looking at a humble tuft of daisies which grew by the wicket.

“A lovely evening, but late for you to be out alone,” he said, as he crushed the snowy heads of the closed flowers with his foot.

“Oh, I only came home from S-”—she mentioned the name of a large town some twenty miles distant—“this afternoon. Papa told me you had opened your school, and that the new mistress was come and so I put on my bonnet after tea, and ran up the valley to see her, this is she?” pointing to me.

“It is,” said St. John.

“Do you think you shall like Morton?” she asked of me, with a direct and naive simplicity of tone and manner, pleasing, if child-like.

“I hope I shall. I have many inducements to do so.”

“Did you find your scholars as attentive as you 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 for you in Alice Wood?”

“You have indeed. She is teachable and handy.” This then, I thought, is Miss Oliver, the heiress; favoured, it seems, in the gifts of fortune, as well as in those of nature! What happy combination 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 stay at S-. Last night, or rather this morning, I was dancing till two o’clock. The regiment are stationed there since the riots and the officers are the most agreeable men in the world, they put all our young knife-grinders and scissor merchants to shame.”

It seemed to me that Mr St. John’s under lip protruded, and his upper lip curled a moment. His mouth certainly looked a good deal compressed, and the lower part of his face unusually stern and square, as the laughing girl gave him this information. He lifted 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 second laugh, and laughter well became her youth, her roses, her dimples, her bright eyes.

As he stood, mute and grave, she again fell to caressing Carlo. “Poor Carlo loves me,” said she. “
He
is not stern and distant to his friends and if he could speak, he would not be silent.”

As she patted the dog’s head, bending with native grace before his young and austere master, I saw a glow rise to that master’s face. I saw his solemn eye melt with sudden fire, and flicker with resistless emotion. Flushed and kindled thus, he looked nearly as beautiful for a man as she for a woman. His chest heaved once, as if his large heart, weary of despotic constriction, had expanded, despite the 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 made him.

“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 me and visit him?”

“It is not a seasonable hour to intrude on Mr Oliver,” answered St. John.

“Not a seasonable hour! But I declare it is. It is just the hour when papa most wants company, when the works are closed 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 hiatus his silence left by a reply of her own.

“I forgot!” she exclaimed, shaking her beautiful curled head, as if shocked at herself. “I am so giddy and thoughtless!
Do
excuse me. It had slipped my memory that you have good reasons to be indisposed for joining in my chatter. Diana and Mary have left you, and Moor House is shut up, and you are so lonely. I am sure I pity you. Do come and see papa.”

“Not tonight, Miss Rosamond, not tonight.”

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 leave you, 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. She turned, but in a moment returned.

“Are you well?” she asked. Well might she put the question, his face was blanched as her gown.

“Quite well,” he enunciated and, with a bow, he left the gate. She went one way; he another. She turned twice to gaze after him as she tripped fairy-like down the field; he, as he strode firmly across, never turned at all.

This spectacle of another’s suffering and sacrifice rapt my thoughts from exclusive meditation on my own. Diana Rivers had designated her brother ‘inexorable as death’. She had not exaggerated.

 Now that I was alone, I feared my thoughts turned to my own situation. Seeing the interplay betwixt the two of them made me recall the way Mr Rochester looked at me.

 Often I managed to pretend I had, indeed, left the past behind.

 But sometimes a mad longing came over me and I found my entire countenance responding as if he were there.

 Chapter Thirty-Two

I continued the labours of the village-school as actively and faithfully as I could. It was truly hard work at first. How I missed Adèle’s gaiety.
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.