One day I had come to my studies in lower spirits than usual; the

ebb was occasioned by a poignantly felt disappointment. Hannah had

told me in the morning there was a letter for me, and when I went

down to take it, almost certain that the long-looked for tidings

were vouchsafed me at last, I found only an unimportant note from

Mr. Briggs on business. The bitter check had wrung from me some

tears; and now, as I sat poring over the crabbed characters and

flourishing tropes of an Indian scribe, my eyes filled again.

St. John called me to his side to read; in attempting to do this my

voice failed me: words were lost in sobs. He and I were the only

occupants of the parlour: Diana was practising her music in the

drawing-room, Mary was gardening--it was a very fine May day, clear,

sunny, and breezy. My companion expressed no surprise at this

emotion, nor did he question me as to its cause; he only said "We will wait a few minutes, Jane, till you are more composed." And

while I smothered the paroxysm with all haste, he sat calm and

patient, leaning on his desk, and looking like a physician watching

with the eye of science an expected and fully understood crisis in a

patient's malady. Having stifled my sobs, wiped my eyes, and

muttered something about not being very well that morning, I resumed

my task, and succeeded in completing it. St. John put away my books

and his, locked his desk, and said "Now, Jane, you shall take a walk; and with me."

"I will call Diana and Mary."

"No; I want only one companion this morning, and that must be you.

Put on your things; go out by the kitchen-door: take the road

towards the head of Marsh Glen: I will join you in a moment."

I know no medium: I never in my life have known any medium in my

dealings with positive, hard characters, antagonistic to my own,

between absolute submission and determined revolt. I have always

faithfully observed the one, up to the very moment of bursting,

sometimes with volcanic vehemence, into the other; and as neither

present circumstances warranted, nor my present mood inclined me to

mutiny, I observed careful obedience to St. John's directions; and

in ten minutes I was treading the wild track of the glen, side by

side with him.

The breeze was from the west: it came over the hills, sweet with

scents of heath and rush; the sky was of stainless blue; the stream

descending the ravine, swelled with past spring rains, poured along

plentiful and clear, catching golden gleams from the sun, and

sapphire tints from the firmament. As we advanced and left the

track, we trod a soft turf, mossy fine and emerald green, minutely

enamelled with a tiny white flower, and spangled with a star-like

yellow blossom: the hills, meantime, shut us quite in; for the

glen, towards its head, wound to their very core.




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