Jane Eyre (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Charlotte Bronte

  It seemed to me that Mr. St. John’s under lip protruded, and his upper lip curled a moment. His mouth certainly looked a good deal compressed, and the lower part of his face unusually stern and square, as the laughing girl gave him this information. He lifted his gaze, too, from the daisies, and turned it on her. An unsmiling, a searching, a meaning gaze it was. She answered it with a second laugh; and laughter well became her youth, her roses, her dimples, 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 to his friends; and if he could speak, he would not be silent.”

  As she patted the dog’s head, bending with native grace before his young and austere master, I saw a glow rise to that master’s face. I saw his solemn eye melt with sudden fire, and flicker with resistless motion. Flushed and kindled thus, he looked nearly as beautiful for a man as she for a woman. His chest heaved once, as if his large heart, weary of despotic constriction, had expanded, despite the will, and made a vigorous bound for the attainment of liberty. But he curbed it, I think, as a resolute rider would curb a rearing steed. He responded neither by word nor movement to the gentle 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 alone this evening, and not very well; will you return with me and visit him?”

  “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 hour when papa most wants company; when the works are closed, and he has no business to occupy him. Now, Mr. Rivers, do come. Why are you so very shy, and so very sombre?” She filled up the hiatus his silence left by a reply of her own.

  “I forgot,” she exclaimed, shaking her beautiful curled head, as if shocked at herself. “I am so giddy and thoughtless! Do excuse me. It had slipped my memory that you have good reasons to be indisposed for joining in my chatter. Diana and Mary have left you, and Moor House is shut up, and you are so lonely. I am sure I pity you. Do come and see papa.”

  “Not to-night, Miss Rosamond, not to-night.”

  Mr. St. John spoke almost like an automaton; himself only knew the effort it cost him thus to refuse.

  “Well, if you are so obstinate, I will leave you; for I dare not stay any longer; the dew begins to fall. Good-evening!”

  She held out her hand. He just touched it. “Good-evening!” he repeated, in a voice low and hollow as an echo. She turned; but in a moment returned.

  “Are you well?” she asked. Well might she put the question; his face was blanched as her gown.

  “Quite well,” he enunciated; and, with a bow, he left the gate. She went one way; he another. She turned twice to gaze after him, as she tripped fairylike down the field; he, as he strode firmly across, never turned at all.

  This spectacle of another’s suffering and sacrifices wrapped my thoughts from exclusive meditation on my own. Diana Rivers had designated her brother “inexorable as death.” She had not exaggerated.

  Chapter XXXII

  I continued the labors of the village school as actively and faithfully as I could. It was truly hard work at first. Some time elapsed before, with all my efforts, I could comprehend my scholars and their nature. Wholly untaught, with faculties quite torpid, they seemed to me hopelessly dull; and, at first sight, all dull alike; but I soon found I was mistaken. There was a difference among them as among the educated; and when I got to know them, and they me, this difference rapidly developed itself. Their amazement at me, my language, my rules and ways, once subsided, I found some of these heavy-looking, gaping rustics, wake up into sharp-witted girls enough. Many showed themselves obliging, and amiable, too; and I discovered among them not a few examples of natural politeness and innate self-respect, as well as of excellent capacity, that won both my good will and my admiration. These soon took a pleasure in doing their work well—in keeping their persons neat—in learning their tasks regularly—in acquiring quiet and orderly 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 they liked me. I had among my scholars several farmers’ daughters—young women grown, almost. These could already read, write, and sew; and to them I taught the elements of grammar, geography, history, and the finer kinds of needlework. I found estimable characters among them—characters desirous of information, and disposed for improvement—with whom I passed many a pleasant evening hour in their own homes. Their parents then (the farmer and his wife) loaded me with attentions. There was an enjoyment in accepting their simple kindness, and in repaying it by a consideration—a scrupulous regard to their feelings—to which they were not, perhaps, at all times accustomed, and which both charmed and benefited them; because, while it elevated them in their own eyes, it made them emulous to merit the deferential treatment they received.

  I felt I became a favorite in the neighborhood. Whenever I went out, I heard on all sides cordial salutations, and was welcomed with friendly smiles. To live amid general regard, though it be but the regard of working-people, is like “sitting in sunshine, calm and sweet;”87 serene inward feelings bud and bloom under the ray. At this period of my life, my heart far oftener swelled with thankfulness than sunk with dejection; and yet, reader, to tell you all, in the midst of this calm, this useful existence—after a day passed in honorable exertion among my scholars, an evening spent in drawing or reading contentedly alone—I used to rush into strange dreams at night—dreams many-colored, agitated, full of the ideal, the stirring, the stormy—dreams where, amid unusual scenes, charged with adventure, with agitating risk and romantic chance, I still again and again met Mr. Rochester, always at some exciting crisis; and then the sense of being in his arms, hearing his voice, meeting his eye, touching his hand and cheek, loving him, being loved by him—the hope of passing a lifetime at his side, would be renewed, with all its first force and fire. Then I awoke; then I recalled where I was, and how situated; then I rose up on my curtainless bed, trembling and quivering; and then the still, dark night witnessed the convulsion of despair, and heard the burst of passion. By nine o‘clock the next morning, I was punctually opening the school—tranquil, settled, prepared for the steady duties of the day.

  Rosamond Oliver kept her word in coming to visit me. Her call at the school was generally made in the course of her morning ride. She would canter up to the door on her pony, followed by a mounted livery servant. Anything more exquisite than her appearance, in her purple habit, with her Amazon’s cap of black velvet placed gracefully above the long curls that kissed her cheek and floated to her shoulders, can scarcely be imagined; and it was thus she would enter the rustic building, and glide through the dazzled ranks of the village children. She generally came at the hour when Mr. Rivers was engaged in giving his daily catechizing lesson. Keenly, I fear, did the eye of the young visitress pierce the young pastor’s heart. A sort of instinct seemed to warn him of her entrance, even when he did not see it; and when he was looking quite away from the door, if she appeared at it, his cheek would glow, and his marble-seeming features, though they refused to relax, changed indescribably; and in their very quiescence became expressive of a repressed fervor, stronger than the working muscle or darting glance could indicate.

  Of course, she knew her power; indeed, he did not, because he could not, conceal it from her. In spite of his Christian stoicism, when she went up and addressed him, and smiled gayly, encouragingly, even fondly, in his face, his hand would tremble, and his eye burn. He seemed to say, with his sad and resolute look, if he did not say it with his lips, “I love you, and I know you prefer me. It is not despair of success that keeps me dumb; if I offered my heart, I believe you would accept it. But that heart is already laid on a sacred altar—the fire is arranged round it; it will soon be no more than a sacrifice consumed.”

  And then
she would pout like a disappointed child; a pensive cloud would soften her radiant vivacity; she would withdraw her hand hastily from his, and turn in transient petulance from his aspect, at once so heroic and so martyr-like. St. John, no doubt, would have given the world to follow, recall, retain her, when she thus left him; but he would not give one chance of heaven, nor relinquish, for the elysium of her love, one hope of the true, eternal paradise. Besides, he could not bound all that he had in his nature—the rover, the aspirant, the poet, the priest—in the limits of a single passion. He could not—he would not—renounce his wild field of mission warfare for the parlors and the peace of Vale Hall. I learned so much from himself, in an inroad I once, despite his reserve, had the daring to make on his confidence.

  Miss Oliver already honored me with frequent visits to my cottage. I had learned her whole character, which was without mystery or disguise; she was coquettish, but not heardess—exacting, but not worthlessly selfish. She had been indulged from her birth, but was not absolutely spoiled. She was hasty, but good-humored; vain (she could not help it, when every glance in the glass showed her such a flush of loveliness), but not affected; liberal-handed; innocent of the pride of wealth; ingenuous; sufficiently intelligent; gay, lively, and unthinking; she was very charming, in short, even to a cool observer of her own sex like me; but she was not profoundly interesting or thoroughly impressive. A very different sort of mind was hers from that, for instance, of the sisters of St. John. Still, I liked her almost as I liked my pupil Adèle; except that, for a child whom we have watched over and taught, a closer affection is engendered than we 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,hm she affirmed, as a village school mistress; she was sure my previous history, if known, would make a delightful romance.

  One evening, while with her usual childlike 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 school in S——. Would I sketch a portrait of her to show to papa?”

  “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 cardboard, and drew a careful outline. I promised myself the pleasure of coloring 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 gray-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 neighborhood; 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 fifth of November, and a holiday.88 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 pallet 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 favored. 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.89 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 coloring; 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 pre sume.”

  “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 color, 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?”