that mental serenity, that inward content, which should be the
reward of every sincere Christian and practical philanthropist. Often,
of an evening, when he sat at the window, his desk and papers before
him, he would cease reading or writing, rest his chin on his hand, and
deliver himself up to I know not what course of thought; but that it
was perturbed and exciting might be seen in the frequent flash and
changeful dilation of his eye.
I think, moreover, that Nature was not to him that treasury of
delight it was to his sisters. He expressed once, and but 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 called his home;
but there was more of gloom than pleasure in the tone and words in
which the sentiment was manifested; and never did he seem to roam
the moors for the sake of their soothing silence- never seek out or
dwell upon the thousand peaceful delights they could yield.
Incommunicative as he was, some time elapsed before I had an
opportunity of gauging his mind. I first got an idea of its calibre
when I heard him preach in his own church at Morton. I wish I could
describe that sermon: but it is past my power. I cannot even render
faithfully the effect it produced on me.
It began calm- and indeed, as far as delivery and pitch of voice
went, it was calm to the end: an earnestly felt, yet strictly
restrained zeal breathed soon in the distinct accents, and prompted
the nervous language. This grew to force- compressed, condensed,
controlled. The heart was thrilled, the mind astonished, by the
power of the preacher: neither were softened. Throughout there was a
strange bitterness; an absence of consolatory gentleness; stern
allusions to Calvinistic doctrines- election, predestination,
reprobation- were frequent; and each reference to these points sounded
like a sentence pronounced for doom. When he had done, instead of
feeling better, calmer, more enlightened by his discourse, I
experienced an expressible sadness; for it seemed to me- I know not
whether equally so to others- that the eloquence to which I had been
listening had sprung from a depth where lay turbid dregs of
disappointment- where moved troubling impulses of insatiate
yearnings and disquieting aspirations. I was sure St. John Rivers-
pure-lived, conscientious, zealous as he was- had not yet found that
peace of God which passeth all understanding; he had no more found it,
I thought, than had I with my concealed and racking regrets for my
broken idol and lost elysium- regrets to which I have latterly avoided
referring, but which possessed me and tyrannised over me ruthlessly.
Meantime a month was gone. Diana and Mary were soon to leave Moor
House, and return to the far different life and scene which awaited
them, as governesses in a large, fashionable, south-of-England city,
where each held a situation in families by whose wealthy and haughty
members they were regarded only as humble dependants, and who
neither knew nor sought out their innate excellences, and
appreciated only their acquired accomplishments as they appreciated
the skill of their cook or the taste of their waiting-woman. Mr. St.
John had said nothing to me yet about the employment he had promised
to obtain for me; 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, and desk consecrated as a kind of study- and I was going
to speak, though not very well knowing in what words to frame my
inquiry- for it is at all times difficult to break the ice of
reserve glassing over such natures as his- when he saved me the
trouble by being the first to commence a dialogue.
Looking up as I drew near- 'You have a question to ask of me?' he
said.
'Yes; I wish to know whether you have heard of any service I can
offer myself to undertake?'
'I found or devised something for you three weeks ago; but as you
seemed both useful and happy here- as my sisters had evidently
become attached to you, and your society gave them unusual pleasure- I
deemed it inexpedient to break in on your mutual comfort till their
approaching departure from Marsh End should render yours necessary.'
'And they will go in three days now?' I said.
'Yes; and when they go, I shall return to the parsonage at
Morton: Hannah will accompany me; and this old house will be shut up.'
I waited a few moments, expecting he would go on with the subject
first broached: but he seemed to have entered another train of
reflection: his look denoted abstraction from me and my business. I
was obliged to recall him to a theme which was of necessity one 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 of securing it.'
'Oh, no; since it is an employment which depends only on me to
give, and you to accept.'
He again paused: there seemed a reluctance to continue. I grew
impatient: a restless movement or two, and an eager and exacting
glance fastened on his face, conveyed the feeling to 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, clearly given, 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 row of
scathed firs behind, and the patch of moorish soil, with the yew-trees
and holly-bushes in front. I am obscure: Rivers is an old name; but of
the three sole descendants of the race, two earn the dependant's crust
among strangers, and the third considers himself an alien from his
native country- not only for life, but in death. Yes, and deems, and
is bound to deem, himself honoured by the lot, and aspires but after
the day when the cross of separation from fleshly ties shall be laid
on his shoulders, and when the Head of that church-militant of whose
humblest members he is one, shall give the word, "Rise, follow Me!"'
St. John said these words as he pronounced his sermons, with a
quiet, deep voice; with an unflushed cheek, and a coruscating radiance
of glance. He resumed-
'And since I am myself poor and obscure, I can offer you but a
service of poverty and obscurity. You may even think it degrading- for
I see now your habits have been what the world calls refined: your
tastes lean to the ideal, and your society has at least been amongst
the educated; but I consider that no service degrades which can better
our race. I hold that the more arid and unreclaimed the soil where the
Christian labourer's task of tillage is appointed him- the scantier
the meed his toil brings- the higher the honour. His, under such
circumstances, is the destiny of the pioneer; and the first pioneers
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 were characters on a
page. The conclusions drawn from this scrutiny he partially
expressed in his succeeding observations.
'I believe you will accept the post I offer you,' said he, 'and
hold it for a while: not permanently, though: any more than I could
permanently keep the narrow and narrowing- the tranquil, hidden office
of English country incumbent; for in your nature is an alloy as
detrimental to repose as that in mine, though of a different kind.'
'Do explain,' I urged, when he halted once more.
'I will; and you shall hear how poor the proposal is,- 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 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.
