Rochester, always at some exciting crisis; and then the sense of being in his arms, hearing his voice, meeting his eye, touching his hand and cheek, loving him, being loved by him —­ the hope of passing a lifetime at his side, would be renewed, with all its first force and fire.  Then I awoke.  Then I recalled where I was, and how situated.  Then I rose up on my curtainless bed, trembling and quivering; and then the still, dark night witnessed the convulsion of despair, and heard the burst of passion.  By nine o’clock the next morning I was punctually opening the school; tranquil, settled, prepared for the steady duties of the day.

Rosamond Oliver kept her word in coming to visit me.  Her call at the school was generally made in the course of her morning ride.  She would canter up to the door on her pony, followed by a mounted livery servant.  Anything more exquisite than 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 when he was looking quite away from 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.