I continued the labours of the village-school as actively andfaithfully as I could. It was truly hard work at first. Some timeelapsed before, with all my efforts, I could comprehend my scholarsand their nature. Wholly untaught, with faculties quite torpid,they seemed to me hopelessly dull; and, at first sight, all dullalike: but I soon found I was mistaken. There was a differenceamongst them as amongst the educated; and when I got to know them,and they me, this difference rapidly developed itself. Theiramazement at me, my language, my rules, and ways, once subsided, Ifound some of these heavy-looking, gaping rustics wake up intosharp-witted girls enough. Many showed themselves obliging, andamiable too; and I discovered amongst them not a few examples ofnatural politeness, and innate self-respect, as well as of excellentcapacity, that won both my goodwill and my admiration. These soontook a pleasure in doing their work well, in keeping their personsneat, in learning their tasks regularly, in acquiring quiet andorderly manners. The rapidity of their progress, in some instances,was even surprising; and an honest and happy pride I took in it:besides, I began personally to like some of the best girls; and theyliked me. I had amongst my scholars several farmers' daughters:young women grown, almost. These could already read, write, andsew; and to them I taught the elements of grammar, geography,history, and the finer kinds of needlework. I found estimablecharacters amongst them--characters desirous of information anddisposed for improvement--with whom I passed many a pleasant eveninghour in their own homes. Their parents then (the farmer and hiswife) loaded me with attentions. There was an enjoyment inaccepting their simple kindness, and in repaying it by aconsideration--a scrupulous regard to their feelings--to which theywere not, perhaps, at all times accustomed, and which both charmedand benefited them; because, while it elevated them in their owneyes, it made them emulous to merit the deferential treatment theyreceived.

I felt I became a favourite in the neighbourhood. Whenever I wentout, I heard on all sides cordial salutations, and was welcomed withfriendly smiles. To live amidst general regard, though it be butthe regard of working people, is like "sitting in sunshine, calm andsweet;" serene inward feelings bud and bloom under the ray. At thisperiod of my life, my heart far oftener swelled with thankfulnessthan sank with dejection: and yet, reader, to tell you all, in themidst of this calm, this useful existence--after a day passed inhonourable exertion amongst my scholars, an evening spent in drawingor reading contentedly alone--I used to rush into strange dreams atnight: dreams many-coloured, agitated, full of the ideal, thestirring, the stormy--dreams where, amidst unusual scenes, chargedwith adventure, with agitating risk and romantic chance, I stillagain and again met Mr. Rochester, always at some exciting crisis;and then the sense of being in his arms, hearing his voice, meetinghis eye, touching his hand and cheek, loving him, being loved byhim--the hope of passing a lifetime at his side, would be renewed,with all its first force and fire. Then I awoke. Then I recalledwhere I was, and how situated. Then I rose up on my curtainlessbed, trembling and quivering; and then the still, dark nightwitnessed the convulsion of despair, and heard the burst of passion.By nine o'clock the next morning I was punctually opening theschool; tranquil, settled, prepared for the steady duties of theday.

Rosamond Oliver kept her word in coming to visit me. Her call atthe school was generally made in the course of her morning ride.She would canter up to the door on her pony, followed by a mountedlivery servant. Anything more exquisite than her appearance, in herpurple habit, with her Amazon's cap of black velvet placedgracefully above the long curls that kissed her cheek and floated toher shoulders, can scarcely be imagined: and it was thus she wouldenter the rustic building, and glide through the dazzled ranks ofthe village children. She generally came at the hour when Mr.Rivers was engaged in giving his daily catechising lesson. Keenly,I fear, did the eye of the visitress pierce the young pastor'sheart. A sort of instinct seemed to warn him of her entrance, evenwhen he did not see it; and when he was looking quite away from thedoor, if she appeared at it, his cheek would glow, and his marble-seeming features, though they refused to relax, changedindescribably, and in their very quiescence became expressive of arepressed fervour, stronger than working muscle or darting glancecould indicate.

Of course, she knew her power: indeed, he did not, because he couldnot, conceal it from her. In spite of his Christian stoicism, whenshe went up and addressed him, and smiled gaily, encouragingly, evenfondly in his face, his hand would tremble and his eye burn. Heseemed to say, with his sad and resolute look, if he did not say itwith his lips, "I love you, and I know you prefer me. It is notdespair of success that keeps me dumb. If I offered my heart, Ibelieve you would accept it. But that heart is already laid on asacred altar: the fire is arranged round it. It will soon be nomore than a sacrifice consumed."

And then she would pout like a disappointed child; a pensive cloudwould soften her radiant vivacity; she would withdraw her handhastily from his, and turn in transient petulance from his aspect,at once so heroic and so martyr-like. St. John, no doubt, wouldhave given the world to follow, recall, retain her, when she thusleft him; but he would not give one chance of heaven, norrelinquish, for the elysium of her love, one hope of the true,eternal Paradise. Besides, he could not bind all that he had in hisnature--the rover, the aspirant, the poet, the priest--in the limitsof a single passion. He could not--he would not--renounce his wildfield of mission warfare for the parlours and the peace of ValeHall. I learnt so much from himself in an inroad I once, despitehis reserve, had the daring to make on his confidence.

Miss Oliver already honoured me with frequent visits to my cottage.I had learnt her whole character, which was without mystery ordisguise: she was coquettish but not heartless; exacting, but notworthlessly selfish. She had been indulged from her birth, but wasnot absolutely spoilt. She was hasty, but good-humoured; vain (shecould not help it, when every glance in the glass showed her such aflush of loveliness), but not affected; liberal-handed; innocent ofthe pride of wealth; ingenuous; sufficiently intelligent; gay,lively, and unthinking: she was very charming, in short, even to acool observer of her own sex like me; but she was not profoundlyinteresting or thoroughly impressive. A very different sort of mindwas hers from that, for instance, of the sisters of St. John.Still, I liked her almost as I liked my pupil Adele; except that,for a child whom we have watched over and taught, a closer affectionis engendered than we can give an equally attractive adultacquaintance.

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 alusus naturae, she affirmed, as a village schoolmistress: she wassure my previous history, if known, would make a delightful romance.

One evening, while, with her usual child-like activity, andthoughtless yet not offensive inquisitiveness, she was rummaging thecupboard and the table-drawer of my little kitchen, she discoveredfirst two French books, a volume of Schiller, a German grammar anddictionary, and then my drawing-materials and some sketches,including a pencil-head of a pretty little cherub-like girl, one ofmy scholars, and sundry views from nature, taken in the Vale ofMorton and on the surrounding moors. She was first transfixed withsurprise, and then electrified with delight.

"Had I done these pictures? Did I know French and German? What alove--what a miracle I was! I drew better than her master in thefirst school in S-. Would I sketch a portrait of her, to show topapa?"

"With pleasure," I replied; and I felt a thrill of artist--delightat the idea of copying from so perfect and radiant a model. She hadthen on a dark-blue silk dress; her arms and her neck were bare; heronly ornament was her chestnut tresses, which waved over hershoulders with all the wild grace of natural curls. I took a sheetof fine card-board, and drew a careful outline. I promised myselfthe pleasure of colouring it; and, as it was getting late then, Itold her she must come and sit another day.

She made such a report of me to her father, that Mr. Oliver himselfaccompanied her next evening--a tall, massive-featured, middle-aged,and grey-headed man, at whose side his lovely daughter looked like abright flower near a hoary turret. He appeared a taciturn, andperhaps a proud personage; but he was very kind to me. The sketchof Rosamond's portrait pleased him highly: he said I must make afinished picture of it. He insisted, too, on my coming the next dayto spend the evening at Vale Hall.

I went. I found it a large, handsome residence, showing abundantevidences of wealth in the proprietor. Rosamond was full of gleeand pleasure all the time I stayed. Her father was affable; andwhen he entered into conversation with me after tea, he expressed instrong 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 goodfor the place, and would soon quit it for one more suitable.

"Indeed," cried Rosamond, "she is clever enough to be a governess ina high family, papa."

I thought I would far rather be where I am than in any high familyin the land. Mr. Oliver spoke of Mr. Rivers--of the Rivers family--with great respect. He said it was a very old name in thatneighbourhood; that the ancestors of the house were wealthy; thatall Morton had once belonged to them; that even now he consideredthe representative of that house might, if he liked, make analliance with the best. He accounted it a pity that so fine andtalented a young man should have formed the design of going out as amissionary; it was quite throwing a valuable life away. Itappeared, then, that her father would throw no obstacle in the wayof Rosamond's union with St. John. Mr. Oliver evidently regardedthe young clergyman's good birth, old name, and sacred profession assufficient compensation for the want of fortune.

It was the 5th of November, and a holiday. My little servant, afterhelping me to clean my house, was gone, well satisfied with the feeof a penny for her aid. All about me was spotless and bright--scoured floor, polished grate, and well-rubbed chairs. I had alsomade myself neat, and had now the afternoon before me to spend as Iwould.

The translation of a few pages of German occupied an hour; then Igot my palette and pencils, and fell to the more soothing, becauseeasier occupation, of completing Rosamond Oliver's miniature. Thehead was finished already: there was but the background to tint andthe drapery to shade off; a touch of carmine, too, to add to theripe lips--a soft curl here and there to the tresses--a deeper tingeto the shadow of the lash under the azured eyelid. I was absorbedin 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 youwill not feel lonely. You see, I mistrust you still, though youhave borne up wonderfully so far. I have brought you a book forevening solace," and he laid on the table a new publication--a poem:one of those genuine productions so often vouchsafed to thefortunate public of those days--the golden age of modern literature.Alas! the readers of our era are less favoured. But courage! Iwill not pause either to accuse or repine. I know poetry is notdead, nor genius lost; nor has Mammon gained power over either, tobind or slay: they will both assert their existence, theirpresence, their liberty and strength again one day. Powerfulangels, safe in heaven! they smile when sordid souls triumph, andfeeble ones weep over their destruction. Poetry destroyed? Geniusbanished? No! Mediocrity, no: do not let envy prompt you to thethought. No; they not only live, but reign and redeem: and withouttheir divine influence spread everywhere, you would be in hell--thehell 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 tallfigure sprang erect again with a start: he said nothing. I lookedup at him: he shunned my eye. I knew his thoughts well, and couldread his heart plainly; at the moment I felt calmer and cooler thanhe: I had then temporarily the advantage of him, and I conceived aninclination to do him some good, if I could.

"With all his firmness and self-control," thought I, "he taskshimself too far: locks every feeling and pang within--expresses,confesses, imparts nothing. I am sure it would benefit him to talka little about this sweet Rosamond, whom he thinks he ought not tomarry: I will make him talk."

I said first, "Take a chair, Mr. Rivers." But he answered, as healways did, that he could not stay. "Very well," I responded,mentally, "stand if you like; but you shall not go just yet, I amdetermined: 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 shedone 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 atme astonished. "Oh, that is nothing yet," I muttered within. "Idon't mean to be baffled by a little stiffness on your part; I'mprepared to go to considerable lengths." I continued, "You observedit closely and distinctly; but I have no objection to your lookingat 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 itlike?"

Mastering some hesitation, he answered, "Miss Oliver, I presume."

"Of course. And now, sir, to reward you for the accurate guess, Iwill promise to paint you a careful and faithful duplicate of thisvery picture, provided you admit that the gift would be acceptableto you. I don't wish to throw away my time and trouble on anoffering you would deem worthless."

He continued to gaze at the picture: the longer he looked, thefirmer he held it, the more he seemed to covet it. "It is like!" hemurmured; "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 inIndia, would it be a consolation to have that memento in yourpossession? or would the sight of it bring recollections calculatedto 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 bejudicious or wise is another question."

Since I had ascertained that Rosamond really preferred him, and thather father was not likely to oppose the match, I--less exalted in myviews than St. John--had been strongly disposed in my own heart toadvocate their union. It seemed to me that, should he become thepossessor of Mr. Oliver's large fortune, he might do as much goodwith it as if he went and laid his genius out to wither, and hisstrength to waste, under a tropical sun. With this persuasion I nowanswered -

"As far as I can see, it would be wiser and more judicious if youwere to take to yourself the original at once."

By this time he had sat down: he had laid the picture on the tablebefore him, and with his brow supported on both hands, hung fondlyover it. I discerned he was now neither angry nor shocked at myaudacity. I saw even that to be thus frankly addressed on a subjecthe had deemed unapproachable--to hear it thus freely handled--wasbeginning to be felt by him as a new pleasure--an unhoped-forrelief. Reserved people often really need the frank discussion oftheir sentiments and griefs more than the expansive. The sternest-seeming stoic is human after all; and to "burst" with boldness andgood-will into "the silent sea" of their souls is often to confer onthem 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--ratherthoughtless; but you would have sufficient thought for both yourselfand her. You ought to marry her."

"DOES she like me?" he asked.

"Certainly; better than she likes any one else. She talks of youcontinually: there is no subject she enjoys so much or touches uponso often."

"It is very pleasant to hear this," he said--"very: go on foranother quarter of an hour." And he actually took out his watch andlaid it upon the table to measure the time.

"But where is the use of going on," I asked, "when you are probablypreparing some iron blow of contradiction, or forging a fresh chainto fetter your heart?"

"Don't imagine such hard things. Fancy me yielding and melting, asI am doing: human love rising like a freshly opened fountain in mymind and overflowing with sweet inundation all the field I have socarefully and with such labour prepared--so assiduously sown withthe seeds of good intentions, of self-denying plans. And now it isdeluged with a nectarous flood--the young germs swamped--deliciouspoison cankering them: now I see myself stretched on an ottoman inthe 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 withthose eyes your skilful hand has copied so well--smiling at me withthese coral lips. She is mine--I am hers--this present life andpassing world suffice to me. Hush! say nothing--my heart is full ofdelight--my senses are entranced--let the time I marked pass inpeace."

I humoured him: the watch ticked on: he breathed fast and low: Istood silent. Amidst this hush the quartet sped; he replaced thewatch, laid the picture down, rose, and stood on the hearth.

"Now," said he, "that little space was given to delirium anddelusion. I rested my temples on the breast of temptation, and putmy neck voluntarily under her yoke of flowers. I tasted her cup.The pillow was burning: there is an asp in the garland: the winehas a bitter taste: her promises are hollow--her offers false: Isee and know all this."

I gazed at him in wonder.

"It is strange," pursued he, "that while I love Rosamond Oliver sowildly--with all the intensity, indeed, of a first passion, theobject of which is exquisitely beautiful, graceful, fascinating--Iexperience at the same time a calm, unwarped consciousness that shewould not make me a good wife; that she is not the partner suited tome; that I should discover this within a year after marriage; andthat 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 hercharms, 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, afemale apostle? Rosamond a missionary's wife? No!"

"But you need not be a missionary. You might relinquish thatscheme."

"Relinquish! What! my vocation? My great work? My foundation laidon earth for a mansion in heaven? My hopes of being numbered in theband who have merged all ambitions in the glorious one of betteringtheir race--of carrying knowledge into the realms of ignorance--ofsubstituting peace for war--freedom for bondage--religion forsuperstition--the hope of heaven for the fear of hell? Must Irelinquish that? It is dearer than the blood in my veins. It iswhat I have to look forward to, and to live for."

After a considerable pause, I said--"And Miss Oliver? Are herdisappointment and sorrow of no interest to you?"

"Miss Oliver is ever surrounded by suitors and flatterers: in lessthan a month, my image will be effaced from her heart. She willforget me; and will marry, probably, some one who will make her farhappier than I should do."

"You speak coolly enough; but you suffer in the conflict. You arewasting away."

"No. If I get a little thin, it is with anxiety about my prospects,yet unsettled--my departure, continually procrastinated. Only thismorning, I received intelligence that the successor, whose arrival Ihave been so long expecting, cannot be ready to replace me for threemonths to come yet; and perhaps the three months may extend to six."

"You tremble and become flushed whenever Miss Oliver enters theschoolroom."

Again the surprised expression crossed his face. He had notimagined that a woman would dare to speak so to a man. For me, Ifelt at home in this sort of discourse. I could never rest incommunication with strong, discreet, and refined minds, whether maleor female, till I had passed the outworks of conventional reserve,and crossed the threshold of confidence, and won a place by theirheart's very hearthstone.

"You are original," said he, "and not timid. There is somethingbrave in your spirit, as well as penetrating in your eye; but allowme to assure you that you partially misinterpret my emotions. Youthink them more profound and potent than they are. You give me alarger allowance of sympathy than I have a just claim to. When Icolour, and when I shade before Miss Oliver, I do not pity myself.I scorn the weakness. I know it is ignoble: a mere fever of theflesh: not, I declare, the convulsion of the soul. THAT is just asfixed as a rock, firm set in the depths of a restless sea. Know meto be what I am--a cold hard man."

I smiled incredulously.

"You have taken my confidence by storm," he continued, "and now itis much at your service. I am simply, in my original state--stripped of that blood-bleached robe with which Christianity covershuman deformity--a cold, hard, ambitious man. Natural affectiononly, of all the sentiments, has permanent power over me. Reason,and not feeling, is my guide; my ambition is unlimited: my desireto rise higher, to do more than others, insatiable. I honourendurance, perseverance, industry, talent; because these are themeans by which men achieve great ends and mount to lofty eminence.I watch your career with interest, because I consider you a specimenof a diligent, orderly, energetic woman: not because I deeplycompassionate what you have gone through, or what you still suffer."

"You would describe yourself as a mere pagan philosopher," I said.

"No. There is this difference between me and deistic philosophers:I believe; and I believe the Gospel. You missed your epithet. I amnot a pagan, but a Christian philosopher--a follower of the sect ofJesus. As His disciple I adopt His pure, His merciful, Hisbenignant doctrines. I advocate them: I am sworn to spread them.Won in youth to religion, she has cultivated my original qualitiesthus:- From the minute germ, natural affection, she has developedthe overshadowing tree, philanthropy. From the wild stringy root ofhuman uprightness, she has reared a due sense of the Divine justice.Of the ambition to win power and renown for my wretched self, shehas formed the ambition to spread my Master's kingdom; to achievevictories for the standard of the cross. So much has religion donefor me; turning the original materials to the best account; pruningand training nature. But she could not eradicate nature: nor willit be eradicated 'till this mortal shall put on immortality.'"

Having said this, he took his hat, which lay on the table beside mypalette. Once more he looked at the portrait.

"She IS lovely," he murmured. "She is well named the Rose of theWorld, indeed!"

"And may I not paint one like it for you?"

"CUI BONO? No."

He drew over the picture the sheet of thin paper on which I wasaccustomed to rest my hand in painting, to prevent the cardboardfrom being sullied. What he suddenly saw on this blank paper, itwas impossible for me to tell; but something had caught his eye. Hetook it up with a snatch; he looked at the edge; then shot a glanceat me, inexpressibly peculiar, and quite incomprehensible: a glancethat seemed to take and make note of every point in my shape, face,and dress; for it traversed all, quick, keen as lightning. His lipsparted, as if to speak: but he checked the coming sentence,whatever it was.

"What is the matter?" I asked.

"Nothing in the world," was the reply; and, replacing the paper, Isaw him dexterously tear a narrow slip from the margin. Itdisappeared in his glove; and, with one hasty nod and "good-afternoon," he vanished.

"Well!" I exclaimed, using an expression of the district, "that capsthe globe, however!"

I, in my turn, scrutinised the paper; but saw nothing on it save afew dingy stains of paint where I had tried the tint in my pencil.I pondered the mystery a minute or two; but finding it insolvable,and being certain it could not be of much moment, I dismissed, andsoon forgot it.