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My ho, then, when I at st find a ho,—is ttage; a little roowith whitewashed walls and a sanded floor, taining four painted chairs and a table, a clock, a cupboard, with two or three ptes and dishes, and a set of tea-things in delf. Aboe, a chaer of the sa dinsions as the kit, with a deal bedstead and chest of drawers; sll, yet toe to be filled with sty wardrobe: though the kindness of gentle and generous friends has increased that, by a dest stock of such things as are necessary.
It is eening. I hae disssed, with the fee of ahe little orphan who seres as a handid. I asitting alone on the hearth. This the ilge school opened. I had twenty schors. But three of the nuer read: none write or cipher. Seeral knit, and a few sew a little. They speak with the broadest at of the district. At present, they and I hae a difficuy in uanding each other’s nguage. So of theare unnnered, rough, intractable, as well as ignorant; but others are docile, hae a wish to learn, and eince a disposition that pleases . I st not fet that thesarsely-cd little peasants are of flesh and blood as good as the ss of ge genealogy; and that the ger of natie ecellence, refi, intelligence, kind feeling, are as likely to eist in their hearts as in those of the best-born. My duty will be to deelop these ger: surely I shall find so happiness in discharging that office. Mujoynt I do he life opening before : yet it will, doubtless, if I regute nd, a  owers as I ought, yield enough to lie on froday to day.
Was I ery gleeful, settled, tent, during the hours I passed in yonder bare, hule schoolroothis and afternoon? Not to deceie self, I st reply—No: I fe desote to a degree. I fe—yes, idiot that I aI fe degraded. I doubted I had taken a step which sank instead of raising in the scale of social eistence. I was weakly disyed at the ignorahe poerty, tharseness of all I heard and saw round . But let not hate and despise self too ch for these feelings; I know theto be wrong—that is a great step gained; I shall strie to oere the To- rrow, I trust, I shall get the better of thepartially; and in a few weeks, perhaps, they will be quite subdued. In a few nths, it is possible, the happiness of seeing progress, and a ge for the better in schors y substitute gratification for disgust.
Meanti, let ask self one question—Which is better?—To hae surreo tetation; listeo passion; de no painful effort—nle;—but to hae sunk down in the silken snare; fallen asleep on the flowers c it; wakened in a southern cli, angst the luuries of a pleasure il: to hae been now liing in France, Mr. Rochester’s stress; delirious with his loe half ti—for he would—oh, yes, he would hae loed well for a while. He did loe —no one will eer loe so again. I shall neer re know the sweet hoge gien to beauty, youth, and grace—for o any one else shall I seeto possess these char. He was fond and proud of —it is what no n besides will eer be.—But where aI wandering, and what aI saying, and aboe all, feeling? Whether is it better, I ask, to be a se in a fool’s paradise at Marseilles—feered with delusie bliss one hour—suffog with the bitterest tears of rerse and sha the —or to be a ilge-sistress, free and ho, in a breezy untain nook in the heahy heart of Engnd?
Yes; I feel now that I was right when I adhered to principle and w, and sed and crushed the insane protings of a fre. God directed to rrect choice: I thank His proidence for the guidance!
Haing brought eentide sings to this point, I rose, went to door, and looked at the su of the harest-day, and at the quiet fields before tage, which, with the school, was distant half a le frothe ilge. The birds were singing their st strains—
“The air was ld, the dew was bal”
While I looked, I thought self happy, and was surprised to find self ere long weeping—and why? For the doowhich had reft froadhesion to ster: for hiI was o see; for the desperate grief and fatal fury—sequeure—which ght now, perhaps, be dragging hifrothe path ht, too far to leae hope of uite restoration thither. At this thought, I turned face aside frothe loely sky of ee and lonely ale of Morton—I say lonely, for in that bend of it isible to there was no building apparent sae the churd the parsonage, half-hid in trees, and, quite at the etrety, the roof of Vale Hall, where the rich Mr. Olier and his daughter lied. I hid eyes, a head against the stone fra of door; but soon a slight noise he wicket which shut in tiny garden frothe adow beyond it de look up. A dog—old r. Riers’ pointer, as I saw in a nt—ushing the gate with his nose, and St. John hielf leant upon it with folded ar; his brow knit, his gaze, grae alst to displeasure, fied on . I asked hito e in.
“No, I ot stay; I hae only brought you a lit.le parbsp; sisters left for you. I think it tains lour-bo, pencils, and paper.”
I approached to take it: a wele gift it was. He eaned face, I thought, with austerity, as I ear: the traces of tears were doubtless ery isible upon it.
“Hae you found your first day’s work harder than you epected?” he asked.
“Oh, no! Orary, I think in ti I shall get on with schors ery well.”
“But perhaps your aodations—youttage—your furniture—hae disappointed your epectations? They are, in truth, sty enough; but—” I interrupted—
“Mttage is aher-proof; furniture suffit and odious. All I see has de thankful, not despo. I anot absolutely such a fool and sensualist as tret the absence of a carpet, a sofa, and siler pte; besides, fie weeks ago I had nothing—I was an outcast, a beggar, a agrant; now I hae acquaintance, a ho, a business. I wo the goodness of God; the generosity of friends; the bounty of lot. I do not repine.”
“But you feel solitude an oppression? The little house there behind you is dark ay.”
“I hae hardly had ti yet to enjoy a sense of tranquillity, ch less to grow iatient under one of loneliness.”
“Very well; I hope you feel the tent you epress: at any rate, yood sense will tell you that it is too sooo yield to the acilting fears of Lot’s wife. What you had left before I saw you, ourse I do not know; but I sel you to resist firy eery tetation which would ine you to look back: pursue your present career steadily, for so nths at least.”
“It is what I an to do,” I answered. St. John tinued—
“It is hard work to trol the ws of ination and turn the bent of nature; but that it y be done, I know froeperience. God has gien us, in a asure, the power to ke our own fate; and when our energies seeto dend a sustehey ot get—when our will strains after a path we y not follow—we need her stare froinanition, nor stand still in despair: we hae but to seek another nourishnt for the nd, as strong as the forbidden food it loo taste—and perhaps purer; and to hew out for the adenturous foot a road as dired broad as the one Fortune has blocked up against us, if rougher than it.
“A year ago I was self intensely ;tt;/ttserable, because I thought I had de a stake iering the nistry: its uniforduties wearied to death. I burnt for the re actie life of the world—for the re eg toils of a literary career—for the destiny of an artist, author, orator; anything rather than that of a priest: yes, the heart of a politi, of a soldier, of a otary of glory, a loer of renown, a luster after power, beat under curate’s surplice. I sidered; life was so wretched, it st be ged, or I st die. After a season of darkness and struggling, light broke and relief fell: craed eistence all at once spread out to a pin without bounds— powers heard a call froheaen to rise, gather their full strength, spread their wings, and unt beyond ken. God had an errand for ; to bear which afar, to delier it well, skill and strength, d eloquehe best qualifications of soldier, statesn, and orator, were all needed: for these all tre in the good ssionary.
“A ssionary I resoled to be. Frothat nt state of he fetters dissoled and dropped froeery facuy, leaing nothing of bo its galling soreness—which ti only heal. My father, indeed, iosed the deternation, but since his death, I hae not a legitite obstacle to tend with; so affairs settled, a suessor for Morton proided, aa or two of the feelings broken through or cut asunder—a st flict with hun weakness, in which I know I shall oere, because I hae owed that I will oere—and I leae Europe for the East.”
He said this, in his peculiar, subdued, yet ehatic oice; looking, when he had ceased speaking, not at , but at the setting sun, at which I looked too. Both he and I had our backs towards the path leading up the field to the wicket. We had heard no step on that grass-grown track; the water running in the ale was the one lulling sound of the hour and se; we ght well then start when a gay oice, sweet as a siler bell, ecid—
“Good eening, Mr. Riers. And good eening, old Carlo. Y is quicker tnise his friends than you are, sir; he pricked his ears and wagged his tail when I was at the bottoof the field, and you hae your back towards now.”
It was true. Though Mr. Riers had started at the first of those sical ats, as if a thunderbo had split a cloud oer his head, he stood yet, at the close of the sentence, in the sa attitude in which the speaker had surprised hihis arresting oe, his face directed towards the west. He tur st, with asured deliberation. A ision, as it seed to , had risen at his side. There appeared, within three feet of hi a for pure white—a youthful, graceful for full, yet fine in tour; and when, after bending to caress Carlo, it lifted up its head, and threw back a long eil, there blood under his gnce a face of perfect beauty. Perfect beauty is a strong epression; but I do not retrace or qualify it: as sweet features as eer the teerate cli of Albion ulded; as pure hues of rose and lily as eer her hud gales and apoury skies geed and sed, just?９９ｌiｂ.ified, in this instahe ter No charwas wanting, erceptible; the young girl had regur and delicate lis; eyes shaped anloured as we see thein loely pictures, rge, and dark, and full; the long and shadowy eyesh whicircles a fine eye with so soft a fasation; the pencilled brow which gies such clearness; the white soth forehead, which adds such repose to the lielier beauties of tint and ray; the cheek oal, fresh, and soth; the lips, fresh too, ruddy, heahy, sweetly ford; the een and gleah without fw; the sll diled ; the or of rich, plenteous tresses—all adantages, in short, which, bined, realise the ideal of beauty, were fully hers. I wondered, as I looked at this fair creature: I adred her with whole heart. Nature had surely ford her in a partial od; and, fetting her usual stiep-ther dole of gifts, had ehis, her darling, with a grand-da’s bounty.
What did St. Johhink of this earthly angel? I naturally asked self that question as I saw hiturn to her and look at her; and, as naturally, I sought the ao the inquiry in his tenance. He had already withdrawn his eye frothe Peri, and was looking at a hule tuft of daisies which grew by the wicket.
“A loely eening, but te for you to be out alone,” he said, as he crushed the snowy heads of the closed flowers with his foot.
“Oh, I only ca ho froS-” (she ntiohe na of a rge town so twenty les distant) “this afternoon. Papa told you had opened your school, and that the ress was e; and so I put on bo after tea, and ran up the alley to see her: this is she?” pointing to .
“It is,” said St. John.
“Do you think you shall like Morton?” she asked of , with a dired naie silicity of tone and nner, pleasing, if child-like.
“I hope I shall. I hae ny is to do so.”
“Did you find your schors as attentie as you epected?”
“Quite.”
“Do you like your house?”
“Very ch.”
“Hae I fur nicely?”
“Very nicely, indeed.”
“And de a good choice of an attendant for you in Alice Wood?”
“You hae indeed. She is teachable and handy.” (This then, I thought, is Miss Olier, the heiress; faoured, it see, in the gifts of fortune, as well as in those of nature! What happy bination of the ps presided oer her birth, I wonder?)
“I shall e up and help you to teaetis,” she added. “It will be a ge for to isit you now and then; and I like a ge. Mr. Riers, I hae been SO gay during stay at S-. night, or rather this I was dang till two o’clock. The—th regint are statiohere sihe riots; and the officers are the st agreeable n in the world: they put all our young knife-grinders as to sha.”
It seed to that Mr. St. John’s under lip protruded, and his upper lip curled a nt. His uth certainly looked a good deal pressed, and the lower part of his fausually stern and square, as the ughing girl gae hithis infortion. He lifted his gaze, too, frothe daisies, and tur on her. An unsling, a searg, a aning gaze it was. She answered it with a sed ugh, and ughter well beca her youth, her roses, her diles, her bright eyes.
As he stood, te and grae, she agaio caressing Carlo. “Poor Carlo loes ,” said she. “He is not stern and distant to his friends; and if huld speak, he would not be silent.”
As she patted the dog’s head, bending witbbr;/abbrh natie grace before his young and austere ster, I saw a glow rise to that ster’s face. I saw his sole eye with sudden fire, and flicker with resistless etion. Flushed and kihus, he looked nearly as beautiful for a n as she for a won. His chest heaed once, as if his rge heart, weary of despotistri, had epanded, despite the will, and de a igorous bound for the attai of liberty. But he curbed it, I think, as a resolute rider would curb a rearing steed. He responded her by word o the gentle adances de hi
“Papa says you neer e to see us now,” tinued Miss Olier, looking up. “You are quite a stra Vale Hall. He is alohis eening, and not ery well: will you return with and isit hi”
“It is not a seasonable hour to intrude on Mr. Olier,” answered St. John.
“Not a seasonable hour! But I decre i;q;/qt is. It is just the hour when papa st wants pany: when the works are closed and he has no busio oupy hi Now, Mr. Riers, do e. Why are you so ery shy, and so ery sore?” She filled up the hiatus his silence left by a reply of her own.
“I fot!” she ecid, shaking her beautiful curled head, as if shocked at herself. “I aso giddy and thoughtless! Do ecuse . It had slipped ry that you hae good reasons to be indisposed for joining in chatter. Diana and Mary hae left you, and Moor House is shut up, and you are so lonely. I asure I pity you. Do e and see papa.”
“Not to-night, Miss Rosand, not to-night.”
Mr. St. John spoke alst like an autoton: hielf only khe effort ist hithus to refuse.
“Well, if you are so obstinate, I will leae you; for I dare not stay any lohe dew begins to fall. Good eening!”
She held out her hand. He just touched it. “Good eening!” he repeated, in a oice low and hollow as an echo. She turned, but in a urned.
“Are you well?” she asked. Well ght she put the question: his face was bnched as her gown.
“Quite well,” he enunciated; and, with a bow, he left the gate. She went one way; he another. She turwice to gaze after hias she tripped fairy-like down the field; he, as he strode firy across, ur all.
This spectacle of another’s suffering and sacrifice rapt thoughts froeclusie ditation on own. Diana Riers had designated her brother “ineorable as death.” She had not eaggerated.
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