The more I knew of the inmates of Moor House, the better I likedthem. In a few days I had so far recovered my health that I couldsit up all day, and walk out sometimes. I could join with Diana andMary in all their occupations; converse with them as much as theywished, and aid them when and where they would allow me. There wasa reviving pleasure in this intercourse, of a kind now tasted by mefor the first time-the pleasure arising from perfect congeniality oftastes, sentiments, and principles.

I liked to read what they liked to read: what they enjoyed,delighted me; what they approved, I reverenced. They loved theirsequestered home. I, too, in the grey, small, antique structure,with its low roof, its latticed casements, its mouldering walls, itsavenue of aged firs--all grown aslant under the stress of mountainwinds; its garden, dark with yew and holly--and where no flowers butof the hardiest species would bloom--found a charm both potent andpermanent. They clung to the purple moors behind and around theirdwelling--to the hollow vale into which the pebbly bridle-pathleading from their gate descended, and which wound between fern-banks first, and then amongst a few of the wildest little pasture-fields that ever bordered a wilderness of heath, or gave sustenanceto a flock of grey moorland sheep, with their little mossy-facedlambs:- they clung to this scene, I say, with a perfect enthusiasmof attachment. I could comprehend the feeling, and share both itsstrength and truth. I saw the fascination of the locality. I feltthe consecration of its loneliness: my eye feasted on the outlineof swell and sweep--on the wild colouring communicated to ridge anddell by moss, by heath-bell, by flower-sprinkled turf, by brilliantbracken, and mellow granite crag. These details were just to mewhat they were to them--so many pure and sweet sources of pleasure.The strong blast and the soft breeze; the rough and the halcyon day;the hours of sunrise and sunset; the moonlight and the cloudednight, developed for me, in these regions, the same attraction asfor them--wound round my faculties the same spell that entrancedtheirs.

Indoors we agreed equally well. They were both more accomplishedand better read than I was; but with eagerness I followed in thepath of knowledge they had trodden before me. I devoured the booksthey lent me: then it was full satisfaction to discuss with them inthe evening what I had perused during the day. Thought fittedthought; opinion met opinion: we coincided, in short, perfectly.

If in our trio there was a superior and a leader, it was Diana.Physically, she far excelled me: she was handsome; she wasvigorous. In her animal spirits there was an affluence of life andcertainty of flow, such as excited my wonder, while it baffled mycomprehension. I could talk a while when the evening commenced, butthe first gush of vivacity and fluency gone, I was fain to sit on astool at Diana's feet, to rest my head on her knee, and listenalternately to her and Mary, while they sounded thoroughly the topicon which I had but touched. Diana offered to teach me German. Iliked to learn of her: I saw the part of instructress pleased andsuited her; that of scholar pleased and suited me no less. Ournatures dovetailed: mutual affection--of the strongest kind--wasthe result. They discovered I could draw: their pencils andcolour-boxes were immediately at my service. My skill, greater inthis one point than theirs, surprised and charmed them. Mary wouldsit and watch me by the hour together: then she would take lessons;and a docile, intelligent, assiduous pupil she made. Thus occupied,and mutually entertained, days passed like hours, and weeks likedays.

As to Mr. St John, the intimacy which had arisen so naturally andrapidly between me and his sisters did not extend to him. Onereason of the distance yet observed between us was, that he wascomparatively seldom at home: a large proportion of his timeappeared devoted to visiting the sick and poor among the scatteredpopulation of his parish.

No weather seemed to hinder him in these pastoral excursions: rainor fair, he would, when his hours of morning study were over, takehis hat, and, followed by his father's old pointer, Carlo, go out onhis mission of love or duty--I scarcely know in which light heregarded it. Sometimes, when the day was very unfavourable, hissisters would expostulate. He would then say, with a peculiarsmile, more solemn than cheerful -

"And if I let a gust of wind or a sprinkling of rain turn me asidefrom these easy tasks, what preparation would such sloth be for thefuture I propose to myself?"

Diana and Mary's general answer to this question was a sigh, andsome minutes of apparently mournful meditation.

But besides his frequent absences, there was another barrier tofriendship with him: he seemed of a reserved, an abstracted, andeven of a brooding nature. Zealous in his ministerial labours,blameless in his life and habits, he yet did not appear to enjoythat mental serenity, that inward content, which should bet hereward of every sincere Christian and practical philanthropist.Often, of an evening, when he sat at the window, his desk and papersbefore him, he would cease reading or writing, rest his chin on hishand, and deliver himself up to I know not what course of thought;but that it was perturbed and exciting might be seen in the frequentflash and changeful dilation of his eye.

I think, moreover, that Nature was not to him that treasury ofdelight it was to his sisters. He expressed once, and but once inmy hearing, a strong sense of the rugged charm of the hills, and aninborn affection for the dark roof and hoary walls he called hishome; but there was more of gloom than pleasure in the tone andwords in which the sentiment was manifested; and never did he seemto roam the moors for the sake of their soothing silence--never seekout or dwell upon the thousand peaceful delights they could yield.

Incommunicative as he was, some time elapsed before I had anopportunity of gauging his mind. I first got an idea of its calibrewhen I heard him preach in his own church at Morton. I wish I coulddescribe that sermon: but it is past my power. I cannot evenrender faithfully the effect it produced on me.

It began calm--and indeed, as far as delivery and pitch of voicewent, it was calm to the end: an earnestly felt, yet strictlyrestrained zeal breathed soon in the distinct accents, and promptedthe nervous language. This grew to force--compressed, condensed,controlled. The heart was thrilled, the mind astonished, by thepower of the preacher: neither were softened. Throughout there wasa strange bitterness; an absence of consolatory gentleness; sternallusions to Calvinistic doctrines--election, predestination,reprobation--were frequent; and each reference to these pointssounded like a sentence pronounced for doom. When he had done,instead of feeling better, calmer, more enlightened by hisdiscourse, I experienced an inexpressible sadness; for it seemed tome--I know not whether equally so to others--that the eloquence towhich I had been listening had sprung from a depth where lay turbiddregs of disappointment--where moved troubling impulses of insatiateyearnings and disquieting aspirations. I was sure St. John Rivers--pure-lived, conscientious, zealous as he was--had not yet found thatpeace of God which passeth all understanding: he had no more foundit, I thought, than had I with my concealed and racking regrets formy broken idol and lost elysium--regrets to which I have latterlyavoided referring, but which possessed me and tyrannised over meruthlessly.

Meantime a month was gone. Diana and Mary were soon to leave MoorHouse, and return to the far different life and scene which awaitedthem, as governesses in a large, fashionable, south-of-England city,where each held a situation in families by whose wealthy and haughtymembers they were regarded only as humble dependants, and whoneither knew nor sought out their innate excellences, andappreciated only their acquired accomplishments as they appreciatedthe skill of their cook or the taste of their waiting-woman. Mr.St. John had said nothing to me yet about the employment he hadpromised to obtain for me; yet it became urgent that I should have avocation of some kind. One morning, being left alone with him a fewminutes in the parlour, I ventured to approach the window-recess--which his table, chair, and desk consecrated as a kind of study--andI was going to speak, though not very well knowing in what words toframe my inquiry--for it is at all times difficult to break the iceof reserve glassing over such natures as his--when he saved me thetrouble by being the first to commence a dialogue.

Looking up as I drew near--"You have a question to ask of me?" hesaid.

"Yes; I wish to know whether you have heard of any service I canoffer myself to undertake?"

"I found or devised something for you three weeks ago; but as youseemed both useful and happy here--as my sisters had evidentlybecome attached to you, and your society gave them unusual pleasure--I deemed it inexpedient to break in on your mutual comfort tilltheir approaching departure from Marsh End should render yoursnecessary."

"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 subjectfirst broached: but he seemed to have entered another train ofreflection: his look denoted abstraction from me and my business.I was obliged to recall him to a theme which was of necessity one ofclose and anxious interest to me.

"What is the employment you had in view, Mr. Rivers? I hope thisdelay will not have increased the difficulty of securing it."

"Oh, no; since it is in employment which depends only on me to give,and you to accept."

He again paused: there seemed a reluctance to continue. I grewimpatient: a restless movement or two, and an eager and exactingglance fastened on his face, conveyed the feeling to him aseffectually as words could have done, and with less trouble.

"You need be in no hurry to hear," he said: "let me frankly tellyou, I have nothing eligible or profitable to suggest. Before Iexplain, recall, if you please, my notice, clearly given, that if Ihelped you, it must be as the blind man would help the lame. I ampoor; for I find that, when I have paid my father's debts, all thepatrimony remaining to me will be this crumbling grange, the row ofscathed firs behind, and the patch of moorish soil, with the yew-trees and holly-bushes in front. I am obscure: Rivers is an oldname; but of the three sole descendants of the race, two earn thedependant's crust among strangers, and the third considers himselfan 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 fromfleshly ties shall be laid on his shoulders, and when the Head ofthat church-militant of whose humblest members he is one, shall givethe word, 'Rise, follow Me!'"

St. John said these words as he pronounced his sermons, with aquiet, deep voice; with an unflushed cheek, and a coruscatingradiance of glance. He resumed -

"And since I am myself poor and obscure, I can offer you but aservice 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 beenamongst the educated; but I consider that no service degrades whichcan better our race. I hold that the more arid and unreclaimed thesoil where the Christian labourer's task of tillage is appointedhim--the scantier the meed his toil brings--the higher the honour.His, under such circumstances, is the destiny of the pioneer; andthe first pioneers of the Gospel were the Apostles--their captainwas Jesus, the Redeemer, Himself."

"Well?" I said, as he again paused--"proceed."

He looked at me before he proceeded: indeed, he seemed leisurely toread my face, as if its features and lines were characters on apage. The conclusions drawn from this scrutiny he partiallyexpressed in his succeeding observations.

"I believe you will accept the post I offer you," said he, "and holdit for a while: not permanently, though: any more than I couldpermanently keep the narrow and narrowing--the tranquil, hiddenoffice of English country incumbent; for in your nature is an alloyas detrimental to repose as that in mine, though of a differentkind."

"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 fatheris dead, and that I am my own master. I shall leave the placeprobably in the course of a twelve-month; but while I do stay, Iwill exert myself to the utmost for its improvement. Morton, when Icame to it two years ago, had no school: the children of the poorwere excluded from every hope of progress. I established one forboys: I mean now to open a second school for girls. I have hired abuilding for the purpose, with a cottage of two rooms attached to itfor the mistress's house. Her salary will be thirty pounds a year:her house is already furnished, very simply, but sufficiently, bythe kindness of a lady, Miss Oliver; the only daughter of the solerich man in my parish--Mr. Oliver, the proprietor of a needle-factory and iron-foundry in the valley. The same lady pays for theeducation and clothing of an orphan from the workhouse, on conditionthat she shall aid the mistress in such menial offices connectedwith her own house and the school as her occupation of teaching willprevent her having time to discharge in person. Will you be thismistress?"

He put the question rather hurriedly; he seemed half to expect anindignant, or at least a disdainful rejection of the offer: notknowing all my thoughts and feelings, though guessing some, he couldnot tell in what light the lot would appear to me. In truth it washumble--but then it was sheltered, and I wanted a safe asylum: itwas plodding--but then, compared with that of a governess in a richhouse, it was independent; and the fear of servitude with strangersentered my soul like iron: it was not ignoble--not unworthy--notmentally degrading, I made my decision.

"I thank you for the proposal, Mr. Rivers, and I accept it with allmy heart."

"But you comprehend me?" he said. "It is a village school: yourscholars 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 youraccomplishments? 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 wellpleased 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 againlooked 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 promisesthe maintenance of an even tenor in life."

"I am not ambitious."

He started at the word "ambitious." He repeated, "No. What madeyou think of ambition? Who is ambitious? I know I am: but how didyou 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 havemisunderstood the word, and been displeased. I mean, that humanaffections and sympathies have a most powerful hold on you. I amsure you cannot long be content to pass your leisure in solitude,and to devote your working hours to a monotonous labour wholly voidof stimulus: any more than I can be content," he added, withemphasis, "to live here buried in morass, pent in with mountains--mynature, that God gave me, contravened; my faculties, heaven-bestowed, paralysed--made useless. You hear now how I contradictmyself. I, who preached contentment with a humble lot, andjustified the vocation even of hewers of wood and drawers of waterin God's service--I, His ordained minister, almost rave in myrestlessness. Well, propensities and principles must be reconciledby some means."

He left the room. In this brief hour I had learnt more of him thanin the whole previous month: yet still he puzzled me.

Diana and Mary Rivers became more sad and silent as the dayapproached for leaving their brother and their home. They bothtried to appear as usual; bat the sorrow they had to struggleagainst was one that could not be entirely conquered or concealed.Diana intimated that this would be a different parting from any theyhad ever yet known. It would probably, as far as St. John wasconcerned, 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 looksquiet, Jane; but he hides a fever in his vitals. You would thinkhim gentle, yet in some things he is inexorable as death; and theworst of it is, my conscience will hardly permit me to dissuade himfrom his severe decision: certainly, I cannot for a moment blamehim for it. It is right, noble, Christian: yet it breaks myheart!" And the tears gushed to her fine eyes. Mary bent her headlow over her work.

"We are now without father: we shall soon be without home andbrother," she murmured,

At that moment a little accident supervened, which seemed decreed byfate purposely to prove the truth of the adage, that "misfortunesnever come singly," and to add to their distresses the vexing one ofthe slip between the cup and the lip. St. John passed the windowreading a letter. He entered.

"Our uncle John is dead," said he.

Both the sisters seemed struck: not shocked or appalled; thetidings appeared in their eyes rather momentous than afflicting.

"Dead?" repeated Diana.

"Yes."

She riveted a searching gaze on her brother's face. "And whatthen?" she demanded, in a low voice.

"What then, Die?" he replied, maintaining a marble immobility offeature. "What then? Why--nothing. Read."

He threw the letter into her lap. She glanced over it, and handedit to Mary. Mary perused it in silence, and returned it to herbrother. All three looked at each other, and all three smiled--adreary, 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 whatMIGHT HAVE BEEN," said Mr. Rivers, "and contrasts it somewhat toovividly 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, "andthink us hard-hearted beings not to be more moved at the death of sonear a relation as an uncle; but we have never seen him or knownhim. He was my mother's brother. My father and he quarrelled longago. It was by his advice that my father risked most of hisproperty in the speculation that ruined him. Mutual recriminationpassed between them: they parted in anger, and were neverreconciled. My uncle engaged afterwards in more prosperousundertakings: it appears he realised a fortune of twenty thousandpounds. He was never married, and had no near kindred but ourselvesand one other person, not more closely related than we. My fatheralways cherished the idea that he would atone for his error byleaving his possessions to us; that letter informs us that he hasbequeathed every penny to the other relation, with the exception ofthirty guineas, to be divided between St. John, Diana, and MaryRivers, 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 onthe spirits by the receipt of such news. Mary and I would haveesteemed ourselves rich with a thousand pounds each; and to St. Johnsuch a sum would have been valuable, for the good it would haveenabled him to do."

This explanation given, the subject was dropped, and no furtherreference made to it by either Mr. Rivers or his sisters. The nextday I left Marsh End for Morton. The day after, Diana and Maryquitted it for distant B-. In a week, Mr. Rivers and Hannahrepaired to the parsonage: and so the old grange was abandoned.