'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.
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CHAPTER XXXI
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MY home, then,- when I at last find a home,- is a cottage; a little
room with whitewashed walls and a sanded floor, containing four
painted chairs and a table, a clock, a cupboard, with two or three
plates and dishes, and a set of tea-things in delf. Above, a chamber
of the same dimensions as the kitchen, with a deal bedstead and
chest of drawers; small, yet too large to be filled with my scanty
wardrobe: though the kindness of my gentle and generous friends has
increased that, by a modest stock of such things as are necessary.
It is evening. I have dismissed, with the fee of an orange, the
little orphan who serves me as a handmaid. I am sitting alone on the
hearth. This morning, the village school opened. I had twenty
scholars. But three of the number can read: none write or cipher.
Several knit, and a few sew a little. They speak with the broadest
accent of the district. At present, they and I have a difficulty in
understanding each other's language. Some of them are unmannered,
rough, intractable, as well as ignorant; but others are docile, have a
wish to learn, and evince a disposition that pleases me. I must not
forget that these coarsely-clad little peasants are of flesh and blood
as good as the scions of gentlest genealogy; and that the germs of
native excellence, refinement, intelligence, kind feeling, are as
likely to exist in their hearts as in those of the best-born. My
duty will be to develop these germs: surely I shall find some
happiness in discharging that office. Much enjoyment I do not expect
in the life opening before me: yet it will, doubtless, if I regulate
my mind, and exert my powers as I ought, yield me enough to live on
from day to day.
Was I very gleeful, settled, content, during the hours I passed
in yonder bare, humble schoolroom this morning and afternoon? Not to
deceive myself, I must reply- No: I felt desolate to a degree. I felt-
yes, idiot that I am- I felt degraded. I doubted I had taken a step
which sank instead of raising me in the scale of social existence. I
was weakly dismayed at the ignorance, the poverty, the coarseness of
all I heard and saw round me. But let me not hate and despise myself
too much for these feelings; I know them to be wrong- that is a
great step gained; I shall strive to overcome them. To-morrow, I
trust, I shall get the better of them partially; and in a few weeks,
perhaps, they will be quite subdued. In a few months, it is
possible, the happiness of seeing progress, and a change for the
better in my scholars may substitute gratification for disgust.
Meantime, let me ask myself one question- Which is better?- To have
surrendered to temptation; listened to passion; made no painful
effort- no struggle;- but to have sunk down in the silken snare;
fallen asleep on the flowers covering it; wakened in a southern clime,
amongst the luxuries of a pleasure villa: to have been now living in
France, Mr. Rochester's mistress; delirious with his love half my
time- for he would- oh, yes, he would have loved me well for a
while. He did love me- no one will ever love me so again. I shall
never more know the sweet homage given to beauty, youth, and grace-
for never to any one else shall I seem to possess these charms. He was
fond and proud of me- it is what no man besides will ever be.- But
where am I wandering, and what am I saying, and above all, feeling?
Whether is it better, I ask, to be a slave in a fool's paradise at
Marseilles- fevered with delusive bliss one hour- suffocating with the
bitterest tears of remorse and shame the next- or to be a
village-schoolmistress, free and honest, in a breezy mountain nook
in the healthy heart of England?
Yes; I feel now that I was right when I adhered to principle and
law, and scorned and crushed the insane promptings of a frenzied
moment. God directed me to a correct choice: I thank His providence
for the guidance!
Having brought my eventide musings to this point, I rose, went to
my door, and looked at the sunset of the harvest-day, and at the quiet
fields before my cottage, which, with the school, was distant half a
mile from the village. The birds were singing their last strains-
'The air was mild, the dew was balm.'
While I looked, I thought myself happy, and was surprised to find
myself ere long weeping- and why? For the doom which had reft me
from adhesion to my master: for him I was no more to see; for the
desperate grief and fatal fury- consequences of my departure- which
might now, perhaps, be dragging him from the path of right, too far to
leave hope of ultimate restoration thither. At this thought, I
turned my face aside from the lovely sky of eve and lonely vale of
Morton- I say lonely, for in that bend of it visible to me there was
no building apparent save the church and the parsonage, half-hid in
trees, and, quite at the extremity, the roof of Vale Hall, where the
rich Mr. Oliver and his daughter lived. I hid my eyes, and leant my
head against the stone frame of my door; but soon a slight noise
near the wicket which shut in my tiny garden from the meadow beyond it
made me look up. A dog- old Carlo, Mr. Rivers' pointer, as I saw in
a moment- was pushing the gate with his nose, and St. John himself
leant upon it with folded arms; his brow knit, his gaze, grave
almost to displeasure, fixed on me. I asked him to come in.
'No, I cannot stay; I have only brought you a little parcel My
sisters left for you. I think it contains a colour-box, pencils, and
paper.'
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, opposed 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 the
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
