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he did not leave for caridge theday, as he had said he would. he deferred his departure a whole week, and during that ti he defeel what severe punishnt a good yet stern, a stious yet ilacable ninfli one who has offended hi w&a;a;lt;rk&a;a;gt;９９lib.&a;a;lt;/rk&a;a;gt;ithout one overt act of hostility, one upbraiding word, he trived to iressntly with the vi that i ut beyond the pale of his favour.
not that st. john harboured a spirit of unchristian vindictiveness— not that he would have injured a hair ofhead, if it had been fully in his power to do so. both by nature and principle, he was superior to the an gratification of vengeance: he had fivenfor saying i sed hiand his love, but he had not fotten the words; and as long as he and i lived he never would fet the i saw by his look, wheuro , that they were always written on the air betweenand hi whenever i spoke, they sounded invoice to his ear, and their echo toned every answer he gave .
he did not abstain froversing with : he even calledas usual each to join hiat his desk; and i fear thrrupt n within hihad a pleasure uniarted to, and unshared by, the pure christian, in eving with what skill huld, while ag and speaking apparently just as usual, extract froevery deed and every phrase the spirit of i and approval which had forrly unicated a certain austere charto his language and o , he was iy bee no longer flesh, but rble; his eye was ld, bright, blue ge his tongue a speaking instrunt— nothing re.
all this was torture to —refined, lingering torture. it kept up a slow fire of indignation and a treling trouble of grief, which harassed and crushedaltogether. i felt how—if i were his wife, this good n, pure as the deep sunless sourceuld soon kill , without drawing fro veins a single drop of blood, or receiving on his own crystal sce the fai stain of cri. especially i felt this when i de any attet to propitiate hi no ruth truth. he experieno suffering froestra—no yearning after reciliation; and though, re than once,fast falling tears blistered the page over which we both bent, they produo re effe hithan if his heart had been really a tter of stone or tal. to his sisters, anti, he was sowhat kihan usual: as if afraid that re ess would not suffitly vincehow pletely i was banished and banned, he added the force of trast; and this i asure he did not by force, but on principle.
the night before he left ho, happening to see hiwalking in the garden about su, and reering, as i looked at hi that this n, alienated as he now was, had once savedlife, and that we were near relations, i was ved to ke a last attet tain his friendship. i went out and approached hias he stood leaning over the little gate; i spoke to the point at once.
“st. john, i aunhappy because you are still angry with . let us be friends.”
“i hope we are friends,” was the unved reply; while he still watched the rising of the on, which he had been plating as i approached.
“no,&a;a;gt;?9９lib?&a;a;lt;/a&a;a;gt; st. john, we are not friends as we were. you know that.”
“are we not? that is wrong. forpart, i wish you no ill and all good.”
“i believe you, st. john; for i asure you are incapable of wishing any one ill; but, as i ayour kinswon, i should desire sowhat re of affe than that sort of general philanthropy you extend to re strangers.”
“ourse,” he said. “your wish is reasonable, and i afar frarding you as a stranger.”
this, spoken in ol, tranquil tone, was rtifying and baffling enough. had i atteo the suggestions of pride and ire, i should iediately have left hi but sothing worked withinre strongly than those feelinguld. i deeply veed sin’s talent and principle. his friendship was of value to : to lose it triedseverely. i would not so soon relinquish the attet to requer it.
“must we part in this way, st. john? and when you go to india, will you leaveso, without a kinder word than you have yet spoken?”
he now turned quite frothe on and faced .
“when i go to india, jane, will i leave you! what! do you not go to india?”
“you said uld not unless i rried you.”
“and you will not rry ! you adhere to that resolution?”
reader, do you know, as i do, what terror thosld peopleput into the ice of their questions? how ch of the fall of the avalanche is in their anger? of the breaking up of the frozen sea in their displeasure?
“no. st. john, i will not rry you. i adhere toresolution.”
the avalanche had shaken and slid a little forward, but it did not yet crash down.
“once re, why this refusal?” he asked.
“forrly,” i answered, “because you did not love ; now, i reply, because you alst hate . if i were to rry you, you would kill . you are killingnow.”
his lips and cheeks turned white—quite white.
“i should kill you—i akilling you? your words are such as ought not to be used: violent, unfenine, and uhey betray an unfortuate of nd: they rit severe reproof: they would seeinexcusable, but that it is the duty of n tive his fellow even until seventy-and-seven tis.”
i had fihe business now. while early wishing to erase frohis nd the tray forr offence, i had staed on that tenacious surfaother and far deeper iression, i had burnt it in.
“now you will indeed hate ,” i said. “it is useless to attet to ciliate you: i see i have de aernal ene of you.”
a fresh wrong did these words inflict: the worse, because they touched oruth. that bloodless lip quivered to a teorary spas i khe steely ire i had whetted. i was heart-wrung.
“you utterly sinterpretwords,” i said, at once seizing his hand: “i have no iion to grieve or pain you—indeed, i have not.”
most bitterly he sled—st decidedly he withdrew his hand frone. “and now you recall your prose, and will not go to india at all, i presu?” said he, after a siderable pause.
“yes, i will, as your assistant,” i answered.
a very long silence sueeded. what struggle there was in hibetween nature and gra this interval, i ot tell: only singular glea stillated in his eyes, and strange shadows passed over his face. he spoke at last.
“i before proved to you the absurdity of a single won of ye proposing to apany abroad a single n of ne. i proved it to you in such ter as, i should have thought, would have prevented your ever again alluding to the plan. that you have done so, i regret—for your sake.”
i interrupted hi anything like a tangible reproach gavece at once. “keep to on se. john: you are verging on nonsense. you pretend to be shocked by what i have said. you are not really shocked: for, with your superior nd, you ot be either so dull or so ceited as to suandaning. i say again, i will be your curate, if you like, but never your wife.”
agaiurned lividly pale; but, as before, trolled his passion perfectly. he answered ehatically but caly—
“a fele curate, who is notwife, would never suit . with , then, it see, you ot go: but if you are sincere in your offer, i will, while in town, speak to a rried ssionary, whose wife needs adjutor. your own fortune will ke you indepe of the society’s aid; and thus you y still be spared the dishonour of breaking your prose aing the band you eo join.”
now i never had, as the reader knows, either given any forl prose or entered into any e; and this language was all ch too hard and ch too despotic for the oasion. i replied—
“there is no dishonour, no breach of prose, ion in the case. i anot uhe slightest obligation to go to india, especially with strangers. with you i would have ventured ch, because i adre, fide in, and, as a sister, i love you; but i avihat, go when and with whoi would, i should not live long in that clite.”
“ah! you are afraid of yourself,” he said, curling his lip.
“i a god did not give life to throw away; and to do as you wishwould, i begin to think, be alst equivalent to itting suicide. moreover, before i definitively resolve on quitting england, i will know for certaiher i ot be of greater use by reining in it than by leaving it.”
“what do you an?”
“it would be fruitless to attet to explain; but there is a point on which i have long endured painful doubt, and igo ill by so ans that doubt is reved.”
“i know where your heart turns and to what it gs. the i you cherish is lawless and ued. long since you ought to have crushed it: now you should blush to allude to it. you think of mr. rochester?”
it was true. i fessed it by silence.
“are you going to seek mr. rochester?”
“i st find out what is bee of hi”
“it reins for , then,” he said, “to reer you inprayers, and to e god for you, in all earness, that you y not indeed bee a castaway. i had thought i reised in you one of the chosen. but god sees not as n sees: his will be done—”
he opehe gate, passed through it, and strayed away down the glen. he was soon out of sight.
the parlour, i found diana standing at the window, lookihoughtful. diana was a great deal taller than i: she put her hand onshoulder, and, stooping, exanedface.
“jane,” she said, “you are always agitated and pale now. i asure there is sothing the tter. tellwhat business st. john and you have on hands. i have watched you this half hour frothe window; you st fivebeing such a spy, but for a long ti i have fancied i hardly know what. st. john is a strange being—”
she paused—i did not speak: soon she resud—
“that brother of ne cherishes peculiar views of so sort respeg you, i asure: he has long distinguished you by a notid i he never showed to any one else—to what end? i wish he loved you—does he, jane?”
i put heol hand tohot forehead; “no, die, not one whit.”
“then why does he follow you so with his eyes, a you so frequently aloh hi and keep you so tinually at his side? mary and i had both cluded he wished you to rry hi”
“he does—he has askedto be his wife.”
diana clapped her hands. “that is just what we hoped and thought! and you will rry hi jane, won’t you? and then he will stay in england.”
“far frothat, diana; his sole idea in proposing tois to procure a fitting fellow-labourer in his indian toils.”
“what! he wishes you to go to india?”
“yes.”
“madness!” she exclaid. “you would not live three nths there, i acertain. you never shall go: you have not sented, have you, jane?”
“i have refused to rry hi”
“and have sequently displeased hi” she suggested.
“deeply: he will never five , i fear: yet i offered to apany hias his sister.”
“it was frantic folly to do so, jahink of the task you uook—one of incessant fatigue, where fatigue kills everong, and you are weak. st. john—you know hiwould urge you to iossibilities: with hithere would be no perssion to rest during the hot hours; and unfortunately, i have noticed, whatever he exacts, you force yourself to perfor i aastonished you fouo refuse his hand. you do not love hithen, jane?”
“not as a husband.”
“yet he is a handso fellow.”
“and i aso plain, you see, die. we should never suit.”
“plain! you? not at all. you are ch too pretty, as well as too good, to be grilled alive in calcutta.” and again she early juredto give up all thoughts of going out with her brother.
“i st indeed,” i said; “for when just now i repeated the offer of serving hifor a dea, he expressed hielf shocked atwant of decy. he seed to think i had itted an iropriety in proposing to apany hiunrried: as if i had not frothe first hoped to find in hia brother, and habitually regarded hias such.”
“what kes you say he does not love you, jane?”
“you should hear hielf on the subject. he has again and again explaihat it is not hie..lf, but his office he wishes to te. he has toldi aford for labour—not for love: which is true, no doubt. but, inopinion, if i anot ford for love, it follows that i anot ford for rriage. would it not be strange, die, to be ed for life to a n wharded o as a useful tool?”
“insupportable—unnatural—out of the question!”
“and then,” i tinued, “though i have only sisterly affe for hinow, yet, if forced to be his wife, iigihe possibility of ceiving aable, stra kind of love for hi because he is so talented; and there is often a certain heroic grandeur in his look, nner, aion. in that case,lot would bee unspeakably wretched. he would not wao love hi and if i showed the feeling, he would kesensible that it erfluity, unrequired by hi unbeing in . i know he would.”
“a. john is a good n,” said diana.
“he is a good and a great n; but he fets, pitilessly, the feelings and clai of little people, in pursuing his own large views. it is better, therefore, for the insignifit to keep out of his way, lest, in his progress, he should trale thedown. here he es! i will leave you, diana.” and i hastened upstairs as i saw hientering the garden.
but i was forced to et hiagain at supper. during that al he appeared just as posed as usual. i had thought he would hardly speak to , and i was certai;bdi&a;a;gt;９9lib?&a;a;lt;/bdi&a;a;gt; had given up the pursuit of his trinial sche: the sequel showed i was staken on both points. he addressedprecisely in his ordinary nner, or what had, of late, been his ordinary nner—one scrupulously polite. no doubt he had ihe help of the holy spirit to subdue the anger i had roused in hi and now believed he had fivenonce re.
for the evening reading before prayers, he selected the twenty-first chapter of revelation. it was at all tis pleasant to listen while frohis lips fell the words of the bible: never did his fine voice sound at once so sweet and full—never did his nner bee so iressive in its noble silicity, as when he delivered the oracles of god: and to-night that voice took a re sole tohat nner a re thrilling aning—as he sat in the dst of his household circle (the may on shining in through the uncurtained window, and rendering alst unnecessary the light of the dle oable): as he sat there, bending over the great old bible, and described froits page the vision of the new heaven and the h—told how god would e to dwell with n, how he would wipe away all tears frotheir eyes, and prosed that there should be no re death, her sorrow n, nor any re pain, because the forr things were passed away.
the sueeding words thrilledstrangely as he spoke the especially as i felt, by the slight, indescribable alteration in sound, that in uttering the his eye had turned on .
“he that overeth shall i all things; and i will be his god, and he shall beson. but,” was slowly, distinctly read, “the fearful, the unbelieving, &a;a;a;a;c., shall have their part in the lake which burh with fire and britone, which is the sed death.”
henceforward, i knew what fate st. john feared for .
a cal subdued triuh, blent with a longing earness, rked his enunciation of the last glorious verses of that chapter. the reader believed his na was already written in the la’s book of life, and he yearned after the hour which should adt hito the city to which the kings of the earth bring their glory and honour; which has no need of sun or on to shine in it, because the glory of god lightens it, and the la is the light thereof.
in the prayer following the chapter, all his energy gathered—all his stern zeal woke: he was in deep ear, wrestling with god, and resolved on a quest. he supplicated strength for the weak- hearted; guidance for wanderers frothe fold: a return, even at the eleventh hour, for those whothe tetations of the world and the flesh were luring frothe narrow path. he asked, he urged, he claid the boon of a brand snatched frothe burning. earness is ever deeply sole: first, as i listeo that prayer, i wo his; then, when it tinued and rose, i was touched by it, and at last awed. he felt the greatness and goodness of his purpose so sincerely: others who heard hiplead for ituld not but feel it too.
the prayer over, we took leave of hi he was to go at a very early hour in thediana and mary having kissed hi left the rooin pliance, i think, with a whispered hint frohi i tenderedhand, and wished hia pleasant journey.
“thank you, jane. as i said, i shall return frocaridge in a fht: that space, then, is yet left you for refle. if i listeo hun pride, i should say no re to you of rriage with ; but i listen toduty, and keep steadily in viewfirst aito do all things to the glory of god. my master was long- suffering: so will i be. i ot give you up to perdition as a vessel of wrath: repent—resolve, while there is yet ti. reer, we are bid to work while it is day—warhat ‘the night eth when no n shall work.’ reer the fate of dives, who had his good things in this life. god give you strength to choose that better part which shall not be taken froyou!”
he laid his hand onhead as he uttered the last words. he had spoken early, ldly: his look was not, ihat of a lover beholding his stress, but it was that of a pastor recalling his wandering sheep—or better, of a guardian angel watg the soul for which he is responsible. all n of talent, whether they be n of feeling or not; whether they be zealots, or aspirant&a;a;lt;var&a;a;gt;&a;a;lt;/var&a;a;gt;s, or despots—provided only they be sincere—have their subli nts, when they subdue and rule. i felt veion for st. john— veion s that its ietus thrustat oo the point i had so long shunned. i was teted to cease struggling with hi to rush doworrent of his will into the gulf of his existence, and there loseown. i was alst as hard beset by hinow as i had been once before, in a different way, by another. i was a fool both tis. to have yielded then would have been an error of principle; to have yielded now would have been an error of judgnt. so i think at this hour, when i look back to the crisis through the quiet diuof ti: i was unscious of folly at the instant.
i stood tionless underhierophant’s touch. my refusals were fotten— fears overy wrestlings paralysed. the iossible—i.e.,rriage with st. john—was fast being the possible. all was ging utterly with a sudden sweep. religion called—angels beed—god anded—life rolled together like a scroll—death’s gates opening, showed eternity beyond: it seed, that for safety and bliss there, all here ght be sacrificed in a sed. the diroowas full of visions.
“could you decide now?” asked the ssionary. the inquiry ut ile tones: he drewto hias gently. oh, that gentleness! how far re potent is it than force! uld resist st. john’s wrath: i grew pliant as a reed under his kindness. yet i knew all the ti, if i yielded now, i should not the less be de to repent, so day, offorr rebellion. his nature was not ged by one hour of sole prayer: it was only elevated.
“uld decide if i were but certain,” i answered: “were i but vihat it is god’s will i should rry you, uld vow to rry you here and erwards what would!”
“my i prayers are heard!” ejaculated st. john. he pressed his hand firr onhead, as if he claid : he surroundedwith his ar alst as if he loved(i say alst—i khe difference— for i had felt what it was to be loved; but, like hi i had now put love out of the question, and thought only of duty). i tended withinward diess of vision, before which clouds yet rolled. i sincerely, deeply, fervently loo do what was right; and only that. “show , showthe path!” i eed of heaven. i was excited re than i had ever been; and whether what followed was the effect of excitent the reader shall judge.
all the house was still; for i believe all, except st. john and self, were now retired to rest. the one dle was dying out: the roowas full of onlight. my heart beat fast and thick: i heard its throb. suddenly it stood still to an inexpressible feeling that thrilled it through, and passed at oohead areties. the feeling was not like aric shock, but it was quite as sharp, as strange, as startling: it acted onsenses as if their utst activity hitherto had been but torpor, frowhich they were now suoned and forced to wake. they rose expet: eye and ear waited while the flesh quivered onbones.
“what have you heard? what do you see?” asked st. john. i saw nothing, but i heard a voiewhere cry—
“jane! jane! jane!”—nothing re.
“o god! what is it?” i gasped.
i ght have said, “where is it?” for it did not seein the roo nor in the house—nor in the garden; it didof the air—nor frouhe earth—nor frooverhead. i had heard it— where, or whence, for ever iossible to know! and it was the voice of a hun being—a known, loved, well-reered voice—that of edward fairfax rochester; and it spoke in pain and woe, wildly, eerily, urgently.
“i aing!” i cried. “wait for ! oh, i will e!” i flew to the door and looked into the passage: it was dark. i ran out into the garden: it was void.
“where are you?” i exclaid.
the hills beyond marsh glehe answer faintly back—“where are you?” i listehe wind sighed low in the firs: all was orland loneliness and dnight hush.
“down superstition!” i ented, as that spectre rose up black by the black yew at the gate. “this is not thy deception, nor thy witchcraft: it is the work of nature. she was roused, and did—no racle—but her best.”
i broke frost. john, who had followed, and would have detained . it wasti to assu asdency. my powers were in play and in force. i told hito forbear question or rerk; i desired hito leave : i st and would be alone. he obeyed at once. where there is energy to and well enough, obedienever fails. i uochaer; locked self in; fell onknees; and prayed inway—a different way to st. john’s, but effective in its own fashion. i seed to pee very near a mighty spirit; andsoul rushed out in gratitude at his feet. i rose frothe thanksgiving—took a resolve—and lay down, unscared, enlightened— eager but for the daylight.
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