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
it as if he went and laid his genius out to wither, and his strength
to waste, under a tropical sun. With this persuasion I now answered-
'As far as I can see, it would be wiser and more judicious if you
were to take to yourself the original at once.'
By this time he had sat down: he had laid the picture on the
table before him, and with his brow supported on both hands, hung
fondly over it. I discerned he was now neither angry nor shocked at my
audacity. I saw even that to be thus frankly addressed on a subject he
had deemed unapproachable- to hear it thus freely handled- was
beginning to be felt by him as a new pleasure- an unhoped-for
relief. Reserved people often really need the frank discussion of
their sentiments and griefs more than the expansive. The
sternest-seeming stoic is human after all; and to 'burst' with
boldness and good-will into 'the silent sea' of their souls is often
to confer on them the first of obligations.
'She likes you, I am sure,' said I, as I stood behind his chair,
'and her father respects you. Moreover, she is a sweet girl- rather
thoughtless; but you would have sufficient thought for both yourself
and her. You ought to marry her.'
'Does she like me?' he asked.
'Certainly; better than she likes any one else. She talks of you
continually: there is no subject she enjoys so much or touches upon so
often.'
'It is very pleasant to hear this,' he said- 'very: go on for
another quarter of an hour.' And he actually took out his watch and
laid it upon the table to measure the time.
'But where is the use of going on,' I asked, 'when you are probably
preparing some iron blow of contradiction, or forging a fresh chain to
fetter your heart?'
'Don't imagine such hard things. Fancy me yielding and melting,
as I am doing: human love rising like a freshly opened fountain in
my mind and overflowing with sweet inundation all the field I have
so carefully and with such labour prepared- so assiduously sown with
the seeds of good intentions, of self-denying plans. And now it is
deluged with a nectarous flood- the young germs swamped- delicious
poison cankering them: now I see myself stretched on an ottoman in the
drawing-room at Vale Hall at my bride Rosamond Oliver's feet: she is
talking to me with her sweet voice- gazing down on me with those
eyes your skilful hand has copied so well- smiling at me with these
coral lips. She is mine- I am hers- this present life and passing
world suffice to me. Hush! say nothing- my heart is full of delight-
my senses are entranced- let the time I marked pass in peace.'
I humoured him: the watch ticked on: he breathed fast and low: I
stood silent. Amidst this hush the quarter sped; he replaced the
watch, laid the picture down, rose, and stood on the hearth.
'Now,' said he, 'that little space was given to delirium and
delusion. I rested my temples on the breast of temptation, and put
my neck voluntarily under her yoke of flowers; I tasted her cup. The
pillow was burning: there is an asp in the garland: the wine has a
bitter taste: her promises are hollow- her offers false: I see and
know all this.'
I gazed at him in wonder.
'It is strange,' pursued he, 'that while I love Rosamond Oliver
so wildly- with all the intensity, indeed, of a first passion, the
object of which is exquisitely beautiful, graceful, and fascinating- I
experience at the same time a calm, unwarped consciousness that she
would not make me a good wife; that she is not the partner suited to
me; that I should discover this within a year after marriage; and that
to twelve months' rapture would succeed a lifetime of regret. This I
know.'
'Strange indeed!' I could not help ejaculating.
'While something in me,' he went on, 'is acutely sensible to her
charms, something else is as deeply impressed with her defects: they
are such that she could sympathise in nothing I aspired to- co-operate
in nothing I undertook. Rosamond a sufferer, a labourer, a female
apostle? Rosamond a missionary's wife? No!'
'But you need not be a missionary. You might relinquish that
scheme.'
'Relinquish! What! my vocation? My great work? My foundation laid
on earth for a mansion in heaven? My hopes of being numbered in the
band who have merged all ambitions in the glorious one of bettering
their race- of carrying knowledge into the realms of ignorance- of
substituting peace for war- freedom for bondage- religion for
