My home, then, when I at last find a home,--is a cottage; a littleroom with whitewashed walls and a sanded floor, containing fourpainted chairs and a table, a clock, a cupboard, with two or threeplates and dishes, and a set of tea-things in delf. Above, achamber of the same dimensions as the kitchen, with a deal bedsteadand chest of drawers; small, yet too large to be filled with myscanty wardrobe: though the kindness of my gentle and generousfriends has increased that, by a modest stock of such things as arenecessary.

It is evening. I have dismissed, with the fee of an orange, thelittle orphan who serves me as a handmaid. I am sitting alone onthe hearth. This morning, the village school opened. I had twentyscholars. But three of the number can read: none write or cipher.Several knit, and a few sew a little. They speak with the broadestaccent of the district. At present, they and I have a difficulty inunderstanding each other's language. Some of them are unmannered,rough, intractable, as well as ignorant; but others are docile, havea wish to learn, and evince a disposition that pleases me. I mustnot forget that these coarsely-clad little peasants are of flesh andblood as good as the scions of gentlest genealogy; and that thegerms 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 somehappiness in discharging that office. Much enjoyment I do notexpect in the life opening before me: yet it will, doubtless, if Iregulate my mind, and exert my powers as I ought, yield me enough tolive on from day to day.

Was I very gleeful, settled, content, during the hours I passed inyonder bare, humble schoolroom this morning and afternoon? Not todeceive myself, I must reply--No: I felt desolate to a degree. Ifelt--yes, idiot that I am--I felt degraded. I doubted I had takena step which sank instead of raising me in the scale of socialexistence. I was weakly dismayed at the ignorance, the poverty, thecoarseness of all I heard and saw round me. But let me not hate anddespise 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 afew weeks, perhaps, they will be quite subdued. In a few months, itis possible, the happiness of seeing progress, and a change for thebetter in my scholars may substitute gratification for disgust.

Meantime, let me ask myself one question--Which is better?--To havesurrendered to temptation; listened to passion; made no painfuleffort--no struggle;--but to have sunk down in the silken snare;fallen asleep on the flowers covering it; wakened in a southernclime, amongst the luxuries of a pleasure villa: to have been nowliving in France, Mr. Rochester's mistress; delirious with his lovehalf my time--for he would--oh, yes, he would have loved me well fora while. He DID love me--no one will ever love me so again. Ishall never more know the sweet homage given to beauty, youth, andgrace--for never to any one else shall I seem to possess thesecharms. He was fond and proud of me--it is what no man besides willever be.--But where am I wandering, and what am I saying, and aboveall, feeling? Whether is it better, I ask, to be a slave in afool'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 breezymountain nook in the healthy heart of England?

Yes; I feel now that I was right when I adhered to principle andlaw, and scorned and crushed the insane promptings of a frenziedmoment. God directed me to a correct choice: I thank Hisprovidence for the guidance!

Having brought my eventide musings to this point, I rose, went to mydoor, and looked at the sunset of the harvest-day, and at the quietfields before my cottage, which, with the school, was distant half amile 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 findmyself ere long weeping--and why? For the doom which had reft mefrom adhesion to my master: for him I was no more to see; for thedesperate grief and fatal fury--consequences of my departure--whichmight now, perhaps, be dragging him from the path of right, too farto leave hope of ultimate restoration thither. At this thought, Iturned my face aside from the lovely sky of eve and lonely vale ofMorton--I say LONELY, for in that bend of it visible to me there wasno building apparent save the church and the parsonage, half-hid intrees, and, quite at the extremity, the roof of Vale Hall, where therich Mr. Oliver and his daughter lived. I hid my eyes, and leant myhead against the stone frame of my door; but soon a slight noisenear the wicket which shut in my tiny garden from the meadow beyondit made me look up. A dog--old Carlo, Mr. Rivers' pointer, as I sawin a moment--was pushing the gate with his nose, and St. Johnhimself 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 mysisters 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 myface, I thought, with austerity, as I came near: the traces oftears were doubtless very visible upon it.

"Have you found your first day's work harder than you expected?" heasked.

"Oh, no! On the contrary, I think in time I shall get on with myscholars very well."

"But perhaps your accommodations--your cottage--your furniture--havedisappointed your expectations? They are, in truth, scanty enough;but--" I interrupted -

"My cottage is clean and weather-proof; my furniture sufficient andcommodious. All I see has made me thankful, not despondent. I amnot absolutely such a fool and sensualist as to regret the absenceof a carpet, a sofa, and silver plate; besides, five weeks ago I hadnothing--I was an outcast, a beggar, a vagrant; now I haveacquaintance, a home, a business. I wonder at the goodness of God;the generosity of my friends; the bounty of my lot. I do notrepine."

"But you feel solitude an oppression? The little house there behindyou is dark and empty."

"I have hardly had time yet to enjoy a sense of tranquillity, muchless 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 tothe vacillating fears of Lot's wife. What you had left before I sawyou, of course I do not know; but I counsel you to resist firmlyevery temptation which would incline you to look back: pursue yourpresent 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 thebent 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; andwhen our energies seem to demand a sustenance they cannot get--whenour will strains after a path we may not follow--we need neitherstarve from inanition, nor stand still in despair: we have but toseek another nourishment for the mind, as strong as the forbiddenfood it longed to taste--and perhaps purer; and to hew out for theadventurous foot a road as direct and broad as the one Fortune hasblocked up against us, if rougher than it.

"A year ago I was myself intensely miserable, because I thought Ihad made a mistake in entering the ministry: its uniform dutieswearied me to death. I burnt for the more active life of the world--for the more exciting toils of a literary career--for the destinyof 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'ssurplice. I considered; my life was so wretched, it must bechanged, or I must die. After a season of darkness and struggling,light broke and relief fell: my cramped existence all at oncespread out to a plain without bounds--my powers heard a call fromheaven to rise, gather their full strength, spread their wings, andmount beyond ken. God had an errand for me; to bear which afar, todeliver it well, skill and strength, courage and eloquence, the bestqualifications 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 mindchanged; the fetters dissolved and dropped from every faculty,leaving nothing of bondage but its galling soreness--which time onlycan heal. My father, indeed, imposed the determination, but sincehis death, I have not a legitimate obstacle to contend with; someaffairs settled, a successor for Morton provided, an entanglement ortwo of the feelings broken through or cut asunder--a last conflictwith human weakness, in which I know I shall overcome, because Ihave 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, atwhich I looked too. Both he and I had our backs towards the pathleading up the field to the wicket. We had heard no step on thatgrass-grown track; the water running in the vale was the one lullingsound of the hour and scene; we might well then start when a gayvoice, sweet as a silver bell, exclaimed -

"Good evening, Mr. Rivers. And good evening, old Carlo. Your dogis quicker to recognise his friends than you are, sir; he prickedhis 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 thosemusical accents, as if a thunderbolt had split a cloud over hishead, he stood yet, at the close of the sentence, in the sameattitude in which the speaker had surprised him--his arm resting onthe gate, his face directed towards the west. He turned at last,with measured deliberation. A vision, as it seemed to me, had risenat his side. There appeared, within three feet of him, a form cladin pure white--a youthful, graceful form: full, yet fine incontour; and when, after bending to caress Carlo, it lifted up itshead, and threw back a long veil, there bloomed under his glance aface of perfect beauty. Perfect beauty is a strong expression; butI do not retrace or qualify it: as sweet features as ever thetemperate clime of Albion moulded; as pure hues of rose and lily asever her humid gales and vapoury skies generated and screened,justified, in this instance, the term. No charm was wanting, nodefect was perceptible; the young girl had regular and delicatelineaments; eyes shaped and coloured as we see them in lovelypictures, large, and dark, and full; the long and shadowy eyelashwhich encircles a fine eye with so soft a fascination; the pencilledbrow which gives such clearness; the white smooth forehead, whichadds such repose to the livelier beauties of tint and ray; the cheekoval, fresh, and smooth; the lips, fresh too, ruddy, healthy,sweetly formed; the even and gleaming teeth without flaw; the smalldimpled chin; the ornament of rich, plenteous tresses--alladvantages, in short, which, combined, realise the ideal of beauty,were fully hers. I wondered, as I looked at this fair creature: Iadmired her with my whole heart. Nature had surely formed her in apartial mood; and, forgetting her usual stinted step-mother dole ofgifts, had endowed this, her darling, with a grand-dame's bounty.

What did St. John Rivers think of this earthly angel? I naturallyasked 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 hiscountenance. He had already withdrawn his eye from the Peri, andwas 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 hecrushed the snowy heads of the closed flowers with his foot.

"Oh, I only came home from S-" (she mentioned the name of a largetown some twenty miles distant) "this afternoon. Papa told me youhad opened your school, and that the new mistress was come; and so Iput on my bonnet after tea, and ran up the valley to see her: thisis she?" pointing to me.

"It is," said St. John.

"Do you think you shall like Morton?" she asked of me, with a directand 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, Ithought, is Miss Oliver, the heiress; favoured, it seems, in thegifts of fortune, as well as in those of nature! What happycombination of the planets presided over her birth, I wonder?)

"I shall come up and help you to teach sometimes," she added. "Itwill be a change for me to visit you now and then; and I like achange. Mr. Rivers, I have been SO gay during my stay at S-. Lastnight, or rather this morning, I was dancing till two o'clock. The-th regiment are stationed there since the riots; and the officersare the most agreeable men in the world: they put all our youngknife-grinders and scissor merchants to shame."

It seemed to me that Mr. St. John's under lip protruded, and hisupper lip curled a moment. His mouth certainly looked a good dealcompressed, and the lower part of his face unusually stern andsquare, as the laughing girl gave him this information. He liftedhis gaze, too, from the daisies, and turned it on her. Anunsmiling, a searching, a meaning gaze it was. She answered it witha second laugh, and laughter well became her youth, her roses, herdimples, 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 tohis friends; and if he could speak, he would not be silent."

As she patted the dog's head, bending with native grace before hisyoung and austere master, I saw a glow rise to that master's face.I saw his solemn eye melt with sudden fire, and flicker withresistless emotion. Flushed and kindled thus, he looked nearly asbeautiful for a man as she for a woman. His chest heaved once, asif his large heart, weary of despotic constriction, had expanded,despite the will, and made a vigorous bound for the attainment ofliberty. But he curbed it, I think, as a resolute rider would curba rearing steed. He responded neither by word nor movement to thegentle 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 alonethis evening, and not very well: will you return with me and visithim?"

"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 hourwhen papa most wants company: when the works are closed and he hasno business to occupy him. Now, Mr. Rivers, DO come. Why are youso very shy, and so very sombre?" She filled up the hiatus hissilence left by a reply of her own.

"I forgot!" she exclaimed, shaking her beautiful curled head, as ifshocked at herself. "I am so giddy and thoughtless! DO excuse me.It had slipped my memory that you have good reasons to be indisposedfor joining in my chatter. Diana and Mary have left you, and MoorHouse is shut up, and you are so lonely. I am sure I pity you. Docome and see papa."

"Not to-night, Miss Rosamond, not to-night."

Mr. St. John spoke almost like an automaton: himself only knew theeffort it cost him thus to refuse.

"Well, if you are so obstinate, I will leave you; for I dare notstay any longer: the dew begins to fall. Good evening!"

She held out her hand. He just touched it. "Good evening!" herepeated, in a voice low and hollow as an echo. She turned, but ina moment returned.

"Are you well?" she asked. Well might she put the question: hisface was blanched as her gown.

"Quite well," he enunciated; and, with a bow, he left the gate. Shewent one way; he another. She turned twice to gaze after him as shetripped 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 thoughtsfrom exclusive meditation on my own. Diana Rivers had designatedher brother "inexorable as death." She had not exaggerated.