Chapter 35 The village school

1 I carried on the work of the village school as actively and faithfully as I could. It was truly hard at first. Some time passed before I could understand my pupils and their nature. Entirely untaught, they seemed at first sight hopelessly dull, but I soon found I was mistaken. Many of them had excellent intelligence, and began to take a pleasure in doing their work well. The rapidity of their progress was sometimes surprising, and I felt an honest and happy pride in it. Their parents were grateful and showed me respect. In time I felt I was becoming popular in the neighbourhood.

2 Yet, after a day spent in honourable labour among my pupils, and an evening passed in drawing or reading contentedly alone, I used to rush into strange dreams at night—stormy dreams, where, among unusual scenes, full of adventure, I again and again met Mr Rochester, always at some exciting moment, and the hope of passing my life by his side would return, with all its first force and fire. Then I awoke, and in the still, dark night I yielded to despair.

3 One day, it was a holiday. My house was tidy, and I sat in the afternoon drawing, when, after one rapid tap, my door opened, admitting St John Rivers.

4 'I have come to see how you are spending your free time,' he said. 'Not, I hope, in thought? No, that is well. While you draw, you will not feel lonely. I have brought you a book for the evening.'

5 While I was eagerly looking through the pages, St John bent to examine my drawing. When he had finished, he drew over it the sheet of thin paper on which I was accustomed to rest my hand in painting, to prevent the surface from being stained. What he saw on this blank paper, it was impossible for me to tell; but something attracted his attention. He picked it up, and gave me a look, inexpressibly peculiar, and quite beyond my understanding. His lips opened as if to speak; but he kept back the coming sentence, whatever it was.

6 'What is the matter?'

7 'Nothing in the world,' was the reply, and, as he replaced the paper, I saw him neatly tear off a narrow strip from the edge. It disappeared into his pocket, and, with one hasty nod and 'good afternoon', he went away.

8 I, in my turn, examined the paper, but saw nothing on it except a few dull stains of paint. I puzzled over the mystery for a minute or two, but finding no explanation, I soon dismissed it from my mind.