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."