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第75部分（第1页）

han　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　catechising　lesson。　Keenly；　I　fear；　did　the　eye　of　the　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　　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　fervour；　stronger　than　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　gaily；　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　bind　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　parlours　and　the　peace　of　Vale　Hall。　I　learnt　so　much　from　himself　in　an　inroad　I　once；　despite　his　reserve；　had　the　daring　to　make　on　his　confidence。

Miss　Oliver　already　honoured　me　y　cottage。　I　had　learnt　her　whole　character；　which　was　without　mystery　or　disguise：　she　was　coquettish　but　not　heartless；　exacting；　but　not　worthlessly　selfish。　She　had　been　indulged　from　her　birth；　but　was　not　absolutely　spoilt。　She　was　hasty；　but　good…humoured；　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；　posed；　and　firm；　like　him。　I　was　a　lusus　naturae；　she　affirmed；　as　a　village　schoolmistress：　she　was　sure　my　previous　history；　if　known；　would　make　a　delightful　romance。

One　evening；　while；　with　her　usual　child…like　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　card…board；　and　drew　a　careful　outline。　I　promised　myself　the　pleasure　of　colouring　it；　and；　as　it　was　getting　late　then；　I　told　her　she　must　e　and　sit　another　day。

She　made　such　a　report　of　me　to　her　father；　that　Mr。　Oliver　himself　acpanied　her　next　evening—a　tall；　massive…featured；　middle…aged；　and　grey…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　ing　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　ore　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　neighbourhood；　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　pensation　for　the　want　of　fortune。

It　was　the　5th　of　November；　and　a　holiday。　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　palette　and　pencils；　and　fell　to　the　more　soothing；　because　easier　occupation；　of　pleting　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　e　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　favoured。　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。　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　colouring；　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　presume。”

“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　colour；　light；　expression；　are　perfect。　It　smiles！”

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