them. In a few days I had so far recovered my health that I could

sit up all day, and walk out sometimes. I could join with Diana and

Mary in all their occupations; converse with them as much as they

wished, and aid them when and where they would allow me. There was a

reviving pleasure in this intercourse, of a kind now tasted by me

for the first time- the pleasure arising from perfect congeniality

of tastes, sentiments, and principles.

   I liked to read what they liked to read: what they enjoyed,

delighted me; what they approved, I reverenced. They loved their

sequestered home. I, too, in the grey, small, antique structure,

with its low roof, its latticed casements, its mouldering walls, its

avenue of aged firs- all grown aslant under the stress of mountain

winds; its garden, dark with yew and holly- and where no flowers but

of the hardiest species would bloom- found a charm both potent and

permanent. They clung to the purple moors behind and around their

dwelling- to the hollow vale into which the pebbly bridle-path leading

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 sustenance to a flock

of grey moorland sheep, with their little mossy-faced lambs:- they

clung to this scene, I say, with a perfect enthusiasm of attachment. I

could comprehend the feeling, and share both its strength and truth. I

saw the fascination of the locality. I felt the consecration of its

loneliness: my eye feasted on the outline of swell and sweep- on the

wild colouring communicated to ridge and dell by moss, by

heath-bell, by flower-sprinkled turf, by brilliant bracken, and mellow

granite crag. These details were just to me what 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 clouded night, developed for me, in

these regions, the same attraction as for them- wound round my

faculties the same spell that entranced theirs.

   Indoors we agreed equally well. They were both more accomplished

and better read than I was; but with eagerness I followed in the

path of knowledge they had trodden before me. I devoured the books

they lent me: then it was full satisfaction to discuss with them in

the evening what I had perused during the day. Thought fitted thought;

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 was vigorous.

In her animal spirits there was an affluence of life and certainty

of flow, such as excited my wonder, while it baffled my comprehension.

I could talk a while when the evening commenced, but the first gush of

vivacity and fluency gone, I was fain to sit on a stool at Diana's

feet, to rest my head on her knee, and listen alternately to her and

Mary, while they sounded thoroughly the topic on which I had but

touched. Diana offered to teach me German. I liked to learn of her:

I saw the part of instructress pleased and suited her; that of scholar

pleased and suited me no less. Our natures dovetailed: mutual

affection- of the strongest kind- was the result. They discovered I

could draw: their pencils and colour-boxes were immediately at my

service. My skill, greater in this one point than theirs, surprised

and charmed them. Mary would sit 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 like days.

   As to Mr. St. John, the intimacy which had arisen so naturally

and rapidly between me and his sisters did not extend to him. One

reason of the distance yet observed between us was, that he was

comparatively seldom at home: a large proportion of his time

appeared devoted to visiting the sick and poor among the scattered

population of his parish.

   No weather seemed to hinder him in these pastoral excursions:

rain or fair, he would, when his hours of morning study were over,

take his hat, and, followed by his father's old pointer, Carlo, go out

on his mission of love or duty- I scarcely know in which light he

regarded it. Sometimes, when the day was very unfavourable, his

sisters would expostulate. He would then say, with a peculiar smile,

more solemn than cheerful-

   'And if I let a gust of wind or a sprinkling of rain turn me

aside from these easy tasks, what preparation would such sloth be

for the future I propose to myself?'

   Diana and Mary's general answer to this question was a sigh, and

some minutes of apparently mournful meditation.

   But besides his frequent absences, there was another barrier to

friendship with him: he seemed of a reserved, an abstracted, and

even of a brooding nature. Zealous in his ministerial labours,

blameless in his life and habits, he yet did not appear to enjoy

that mental serenity, that inward content, which should be the

reward of every sincere Christian and practical philanthropist. Often,

of an evening, when he sat at the window, his desk and papers before

him, he would cease reading or writing, rest his chin on his hand, and

deliver himself up to I know not what course of thought; but that it

was perturbed and exciting might be seen in the frequent flash and

changeful dilation of his eye.

   I think, moreover, that Nature was not to him that treasury of

delight it was to his sisters. He expressed once, and but once in my

hearing, a strong sense of the rugged charm of the hills, and an

inborn affection for the dark roof and hoary walls he called his home;

but there was more of gloom than pleasure in the tone and words in

which the sentiment was manifested; and never did he seem to roam

the moors for the sake of their soothing silence- never seek out or

dwell upon the thousand peaceful delights they could yield.

   Incommunicative as he was, some time elapsed before I had an

opportunity of gauging his mind. I first got an idea of its calibre

when I heard him preach in his own church at Morton. I wish I could

describe that sermon: but it is past my power. I cannot even render

faithfully the effect it produced on me.

   It began calm- and indeed, as far as delivery and pitch of voice

went, it was calm to the end: an earnestly felt, yet strictly

restrained zeal breathed soon in the distinct accents, and prompted

the nervous language. This grew to force- compressed, condensed,

controlled. The heart was thrilled, the mind astonished, by the

power of the preacher: neither were softened. Throughout there was a

strange bitterness; an absence of consolatory gentleness; stern

allusions to Calvinistic doctrines- election, predestination,

reprobation- were frequent; and each reference to these points sounded

like a sentence pronounced for doom. When he had done, instead of

feeling better, calmer, more enlightened by his discourse, I

experienced an expressible sadness; for it seemed to me- I know not

whether equally so to others- that the eloquence to which I had been

listening had sprung from a depth where lay turbid dregs of

disappointment- where moved troubling impulses of insatiate

yearnings and disquieting aspirations. I was sure St. John Rivers-

pure-lived, conscientious, zealous as he was- had not yet found that

peace of God which passeth all understanding; he had no more found it,

I thought, than had I with my concealed and racking regrets for my

broken idol and lost elysium- regrets to which I have latterly avoided

referring, but which possessed me and tyrannised over me ruthlessly.

   Meantime a month was gone. Diana and Mary were soon to leave Moor

House, and return to the far different life and scene which awaited

them, as governesses in a large, fashionable, south-of-England city,

where each held a situation in families by whose wealthy and haughty

members they were regarded only as humble dependants, and who

neither knew nor sought out their innate excellences, and

appreciated only their acquired accomplishments as they appreciated

the skill of their cook or the taste of their waiting-woman. Mr. St.

John had said nothing to me yet about the employment he had promised

to obtain for me; yet it became urgent that I should have a vocation

of some kind. One morning, being left alone with him a few minutes

in the parlour, I ventured to approach the window-recess- which his

table, chair, and desk consecrated as a kind of study- and I was going

to speak, though not very well knowing in what words to frame my

inquiry- for it is at all times difficult to break the ice of

reserve glassing over such natures as his- when he saved me the

trouble by being the first to commence a dialogue.

   Looking up as I drew near- 'You have a question to ask of me?' he

said.

   'Yes; I wish to know whether you have heard of any service I can

offer myself to undertake?'

   'I found or devised something for you three weeks ago; but as you

seemed both useful and happy here- as my sisters had evidently

become attached to you, and your society gave them unusual pleasure- I

deemed it inexpedient to break in on your mutual comfort till their

approaching departure from Marsh End should render yours necessary.'

   '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 subject

first broached: but he seemed to have entered another train of

reflection: his look denoted abstraction from me and my business. I

was obliged to recall him to a theme which was of necessity one of

close and anxious interest to me.

   'What is the employment you had in view, Mr. Rivers? I hope this

delay will not have increased the difficulty of securing it.'

   'Oh, no; since it is an employment which depends only on me to

give, and you to accept.'

   He again paused: there seemed a reluctance to continue. I grew

impatient: a restless movement or two, and an eager and exacting

glance fastened on his face, conveyed the feeling to him as

effectually as words could have done, and with less trouble.

   'You need be in no hurry to hear,' he said: 'let me frankly tell

you, I have nothing eligible or profitable to suggest. Before I

explain, recall, if you please, my notice, clearly given, that if I

helped you, it must be as the blind man would help the lame. I am

poor; for I find that, when I have paid my father's debts, all the

patrimony remaining to me will be this crumbling grange, the row of

scathed firs behind, and the patch of moorish soil, with the yew-trees

and holly-bushes in front. I am obscure: Rivers is an old name; but of

the three sole descendants of the race, two earn the dependant's crust

among strangers, and the third considers himself an 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 from fleshly ties shall be laid

on his shoulders, and when the Head of that church-militant of whose

humblest members he is one, shall give the word, "Rise, follow Me!"'

   St. John said these words as he pronounced his sermons, with a

quiet, deep voice; with an unflushed cheek, and a coruscating radiance

of glance. He resumed-

   'And since I am myself poor and obscure, I can offer you but a

service 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 been amongst

the educated; but I consider that no service degrades which can better

our race. I hold that the more arid and unreclaimed the soil where the

Christian labourer's task of tillage is appointed him- the scantier

the meed his toil brings- the higher the honour. His, under such

circumstances, is the destiny of the pioneer; and the first pioneers

of the Gospel were the Apostles- their captain was Jesus, the

Redeemer, Himself.'

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

   He looked at me before he proceeded: indeed, he seemed leisurely to

read my face, as if its features and lines were characters on a

page. The conclusions drawn from this scrutiny he partially

expressed in his succeeding observations.

   'I believe you will accept the post I offer you,' said he, 'and

hold it for a while: not permanently, though: any more than I could

permanently keep the narrow and narrowing- the tranquil, hidden office

of English country incumbent; for in your nature is an alloy as

detrimental to repose as that in mine, though of a different kind.'

   '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 father is

dead, and that I am my own master. I shall leave the place probably in

the course of a twelvemonth; but while I do stay, I will exert

myself to the utmost for its improvement. Morton, when I came to it

two years ago, had no school: the children of the poor were excluded

from every hope of progress. I established one for boys: I mean now to

open a second school for girls. I have hired a building for the

purpose, with a cottage of two rooms attached to it for the mistress's

house. Her salary will be thirty pounds a year: her house is already

furnished, very simply, but sufficiently, by the kindness of a lady,

Miss Oliver; the only daughter of the sole rich man in my parish-

Mr. Oliver, the proprietor of a needle-factory and iron-foundry in the

valley. The same lady pays for the education and clothing of an orphan

from the workhouse, on condition that she shall aid the mistress in

such menial offices connected with her own house and the school as her

occupation of teaching will prevent her having time to discharge in

person. Will you be this mistress?'

   He put the question rather hurriedly; he seemed half to expect an

indignant, or at least a disdainful rejection of the offer: not

knowing all my thoughts and feelings, though guessing some, he could

not tell in what light the lot would appear to me. In truth it was

humble- but then it was sheltered, and I wanted a safe asylum: it

was plodding- but then, compared with that of a governess in a rich

house, it was independent; and the fear of servitude with strangers

entered my soul like iron: it was not ignoble- not unworthy- not

mentally degrading. I made my decision.

   'I thank you for the proposal, Mr. Rivers, and I accept it with all

my heart.'

   'But you comprehend me?' he said. 'It is a village school: your

scholars 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 your

accomplishments? 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 well

pleased 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 again

looked 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

promises the maintenance of an even tenor in life.'

   'I am not ambitious.'

   He started at the word 'ambitious.' He repeated, 'No. What made you

think of ambition? Who is ambitious? I know I am: but how did you 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 have

misunderstood the word, and been displeased. I mean, that human

affections and sympathies have a most powerful hold on you. I am

sure you cannot long be content to pass your leisure in solitude,

and to devote your working hours to a monotonous labour wholly void of

stimulus: any more than I can be content,' he added, with emphasis,

'to live here buried in morass, pent in with mountains- my nature,

that God gave me, contravened; my faculties, heaven-bestowed,

paralysed- made useless. You hear now how I contradict myself. I,

who preached contentment with a humble lot, and justified the vocation

even of hewers of wood and drawers of water in God's service- I, His

ordained minister, almost rave in my restlessness. Well,

propensities and principles must be reconciled by some means.'

   He left the room. In this brief hour I had learnt more of him

than in the whole previous month: yet still he puzzled me.

   Diana and Mary Rivers became more sad and silent as the day

approached for leaving their brother and their home. They both tried

to appear as usual; but the sorrow they had to struggle against was

one that could not be entirely conquered or concealed. Diana intimated

that this would be a different parting from any they had ever yet

known. It would probably, as far as St. John was concerned, 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 looks

quiet, Jane; but he hides a fever in his vitals. You would think him

gentle, yet in some things he is inexorable as death; and the worst of

it is, my conscience will hardly permit me to dissuade him from his

severe decision: certainly, I cannot for a moment blame him for it. It

is right, noble, Christian: yet it breaks my heart!' And the tears

gushed to her fine eyes. Mary bent her head low over her work.

   'We are now without father: we shall soon be without home and

brother,' she murmured.

   At that moment a little accident supervened, which seemed decreed

by fate purposely to prove the truth of the adage, that 'misfortunes

never come singly,' and to add to their distresses the vexing one of

the slip between the cup and the lip. St. John passed the window

reading a letter. He entered.

   '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.