He did not leave for Cambridge the next day, as he had said he would. He deferred¹ his departure a whole week, and during that time he made me feel what severe punishment a good yet stern, a conscientious² yet implacable man can inflict³ on one who has offended him. Without one overt⁴ act of hostility⁵, one upbraiding⁶ word, he contrived⁷ to impress me momently with the conviction that I was put beyond the pale of his favour.

Not that St. John harboured a spirit of unchristian vindictiveness-- not that he would have injured a hair of my head, if it had been fully⁹ in his power to do so. Both by nature and principle, he was superior to the mean gratification of vengeance¹⁰: he had forgiven me for saying I scorned him and his love, but he had not forgotten the words; and as long as he and I lived he never would forget them. I saw by his look, when he turned to me, that they were always written on the air between me and him; whenever I spoke¹¹, they sounded in my voice to his ear, and their echo toned every answer he gave me.

He did not abstain¹² from conversing¹³ with me: he even called me as usual each morning to join him at his desk; and I fear the corrupt¹⁴ man within him had a pleasure unimparted to, and unshared by, the pure Christian⁸, in evincing with what skill he could, while acting¹⁵ and speaking apparently¹⁶ just as usual, extract from every deed and every phrase the spirit of interest and approval which had formerly¹⁷ communicated a certain austere¹⁸ charm to his language and manner. To me, he was in reality become no longer flesh, but marble; his eye was a cold, bright, blue gem¹⁹; his tongue a speaking instrument-- nothing more.

All this was torture to me--refined, lingering torture. It kept up a slow fire of indignation and a trembling trouble of grief, which harassed²⁰ and crushed me altogether. I felt how--if I were his wife, this good man, pure as the deep sunless source, could soon kill me, without drawing from my veins²¹ a single drop of blood, or receiving on his own crystal conscience the faintest stain of crime. Especially I felt this when I made any attempt to propitiate²² him. No ruth met my ruth. He experienced no suffering from estrangement- -no yearning²³ after reconciliation²⁴; and though, more than once, my fast falling tears blistered²⁵ the page over which we both bent²⁶, they produced no more effect on him than if his heart had been really a matter of stone or metal. To his sisters, meantime, he was somewhat kinder than usual: as if afraid that mere²⁷ coldness would not sufficiently²⁸ convince me how completely I was banished²⁹ and banned, he added the force of contrast; and this I am sure he did not by force, but on principle.

The night before he left home, happening to see him walking in the garden about sunset, and remembering, as I looked at him, that this man, alienated³⁰ as he now was, had once saved my life, and that we were near relations, I was moved to make a last attempt to regain³¹ his friendship. I went out and approached him as he stood leaning over the little gate; I spoke to the point at once.

"St. John, I am unhappy because you are still angry with me. Let us be friends."

"I hope we are friends," was the unmoved reply; while he still watched the rising of the moon, which he had been contemplating³² as I approached.

"No, St. John, we are not friends as we were. You know that."

"Are we not? That is wrong. For my part, I wish you no ill and all good."

"I believe you, St. John; for I am sure you are incapable³³ of wishing any one ill; but, as I am your kinswoman, I should desire somewhat more of affection than that sort of general philanthropy you extend to mere strangers."

"Of course," he said. "Your wish is reasonable, and I am far from regarding you as a stranger."

This, spoken in a cool, tranquil³⁴ tone, was mortifying³⁵ and baffling enough. Had I attended to the suggestions of pride and ire, I should immediately have left him; but something worked within me more strongly than those feelings could. I deeply venerated³⁶ my cousin's talent and principle. His friendship was of value to me: to lose it tried me severely³⁷. I would not so soon relinquish³⁸ the attempt to reconquer it.

"Must we part in this way, St. John? And when you go to India, will you leave me so, without a kinder word than you have yet spoken?"

He now turned quite from the moon and faced me.

"When I go to India, Jane, will I leave you! What! do you not go to India?"

"You said I could not unless I married you."

"And you will not marry me! You adhere to that resolution?"

Reader, do you know, as I do, what terror those cold people can put into the ice of their questions? How much of the fall of the avalanche³⁹ is in their anger? of the breaking up of the frozen sea in their displeasure?

"No. St. John, I will not marry you. I adhere to my resolution."

The avalanche had shaken and slid a little forward, but it did not yet crash down.

"Once more, why this refusal?" he asked.

"Formerly," I answered, "because you did not love me; now, I reply, because you almost hate me. If I were to marry you, you would kill me. You are killing⁴⁰ me now."

His lips and cheeks turned white--quite white.

"I should kill you--I am killing you? Your words are such as ought not to be used: violent, unfeminine, and untrue. They betray an unfortunate state of mind: they merit severe reproof⁴²: they would seem inexcusable, but that it is the duty of man to forgive his fellow even until seventy-and-seven times."

I had finished the business now. While earnestly wishing to erase⁴³ from his mind the trace of my former offence, I had stamped on that tenacious⁴⁴ surface another and far deeper impression, I had burnt it in.

"Now you will indeed hate me," I said. "It is useless to attempt to conciliate you: I see I have made an eternal enemy of you."

A fresh wrong did these words inflict: the worse, because they touched on the truth. That bloodless lip quivered to a temporary spasm⁴⁵. I knew the steely ire I had whetted⁴⁶. I was heart-wrung.

"You utterly⁴⁷ misinterpret my words," I said, at once seizing his hand: "I have no intention to grieve or pain you--indeed, I have not."

Most bitterly he smiled--most decidedly he withdrew his hand from mine. "And now you recall your promise, and will not go to India at all, I presume?" said he, after a considerable pause.

"Yes, I will, as your assistant," I answered.

A very long silence succeeded. What struggle there was in him between Nature and Grace in this interval⁴⁸, I cannot tell: only singular gleams scintillated⁴⁹ in his eyes, and strange shadows passed over his face. He spoke at last.

"I before proved to you the absurdity⁵⁰ of a single woman of your age proposing to accompany abroad a single man of mine. I proved it to you in such terms as, I should have thought, would have prevented your ever again alluding⁵¹ to the plan. That you have done so, I regret--for your sake."

I interrupted him. Anything like a tangible⁵² reproach gave me courage at once. "Keep to common sense, St. John: you are verging⁵³ on nonsense. You pretend to be shocked by what I have said. You are not really shocked: for, with your superior mind, you cannot be either so dull or so conceited⁵⁴ as to misunderstand my meaning. I say again, I will be your curate, if you like, but never your wife."

Again he turned lividly pale; but, as before, controlled his passion perfectly⁵⁵. He answered emphatically but calmly -

"A female curate, who is not my wife, would never suit me. With me, then, it seems, you cannot go: but if you are sincere in your offer, I will, while in town, speak to a married missionary⁵⁶, whose wife needs a coadjutor. Your own fortune will make you independent of the Society's aid; and thus you may still be spared the dishonour⁵⁷ of breaking your promise and deserting the band you engaged to join."

Now I never had, as the reader knows, either given any formal promise or entered into any engagement; and this language was all much too hard and much too despotic for the occasion. I replied -

"There is no dishonour, no breach⁵⁸ of promise, no desertion in the case. I am not under the slightest obligation to go to India, especially with strangers. With you I would have ventured much, because I admire, confide⁵⁹ in, and, as a sister, I love you; but I am convinced that, go when and with whom I would, I should not live long in that climate."

"Ah! you are afraid of yourself," he said, curling his lip.

"I am. God did not give me my life to throw away; and to do as you wish me would, I begin to think, be almost equivalent to committing suicide. Moreover, before I definitively⁶⁰ resolve on quitting England, I will know for certain whether I cannot be of greater use by remaining in it than by leaving it."

"What do you mean?"

"It would be fruitless to attempt to explain; but there is a point on which I have long endured painful doubt, and I can go nowhere till by some means that doubt is removed."

"I know where your heart turns and to what it clings. The interest you cherish is lawless and unconsecrated. Long since you ought to have crushed it: now you should blush to allude⁶¹ to it. You think of Mr. Rochester?"

It was true. I confessed it by silence.

"Are you going to seek Mr. Rochester?"

"I must find out what is become of him."

"It remains⁶² for me, then," he said, "to remember you in my prayers, and to entreat⁶³ God for you, in all earnestness, that you may not indeed become a castaway. I had thought I recognised in you one of the chosen. But God sees not as man sees: His will be done--"

He opened the gate, passed through it, and strayed away down the glen. He was soon out of sight.

On re-entering the parlour, I found Diana standing⁶⁴ at the window, looking very thoughtful. Diana was a great deal taller than I: she put her hand on my shoulder, and, stooping, examined my face.

"Jane," she said, "you are always agitated⁶⁵ and pale now. I am sure there is something the matter. Tell me what business St. John and you have on hands. I have watched you this half hour from the window; you must forgive my being such a spy, but for a long time I have fancied I hardly know what. St. John is a strange being--"

She paused--I did not speak: soon she resumed -

"That brother of mine cherishes peculiar⁶⁶ views of some sort respecting you, I am sure: he has long distinguished⁶⁷ you by a notice and interest he never showed to any one else--to what end? I wish he loved you--does he, Jane?"

I put her cool hand to my hot forehead; "No, Die, not one whit⁴¹."

"Then why does he follow you so with his eyes, and get you so frequently alone with him, and keep you so continually at his side? Mary and I had both concluded he wished you to marry him."

"He does--he has asked me to be his wife."

Diana clapped her hands. "That is just what we hoped and thought! And you will marry him, Jane, won't you? And then he will stay in England."

"Far from that, Diana; his sole idea in proposing to me is to procure⁶⁸ a fitting fellow-labourer in his Indian toils⁶⁹."

"What! He wishes you to go to India?"

"Yes."

"Madness!" she exclaimed. "You would not live three months there, I am certain. You never shall go: you have not consented, have you, Jane?"

"I have refused to marry him--"

"And have consequently displeased⁷⁰ him?" she suggested.

"Deeply: he will never forgive me, I fear: yet I offered to accompany him as his sister."

"It was frantic⁷¹ folly⁷² to do so, Jane. Think of the task you undertook--one of incessant⁷³ fatigue⁷⁴, where fatigue kills even the strong, and you are weak. St. John--you know him--would urge you to impossibilities: with him there would be no permission to rest during the hot hours; and unfortunately, I have noticed, whatever he exacts, you force yourself to perform. I am astonished you found courage to refuse his hand. You do not love him then, Jane?"

"Not as a husband."

"Yet he is a handsome fellow."

"And I am so plain, you see, Die. We should never suit."

"Plain! You? Not at all. You are much too pretty, as well as too good, to be grilled⁷⁵ alive in Calcutta." And again she earnestly conjured⁷⁶ me to give up all thoughts of going out with her brother.

"I must indeed," I said; "for when just now I repeated the offer of serving him for a deacon, he expressed himself shocked at my want of decency⁷⁷. He seemed to think I had committed an impropriety in proposing to accompany him unmarried: as if I had not from the first hoped to find in him a brother, and habitually⁷⁸ regarded him as such."

"What makes you say he does not love you, Jane?"

"You should hear himself on the subject. He has again and again explained that it is not himself, but his office he wishes to mate. He has told me I am formed for labour--not for love: which is true, no doubt. But, in my opinion, if I am not formed for love, it follows that I am not formed for marriage. Would it not be strange, Die, to be chained for life to a man who regarded one but as a useful tool?"

"Insupportable--unnatural--out of the question!"

"And then," I continued, "though I have only sisterly affection for him now, yet, if forced to be his wife, I can imagine the possibility of conceiving an inevitable⁷⁹, strange, torturing kind of love for him, because he is so talented; and there is often a certain heroic grandeur⁸⁰ in his look, manner, and conversation. In that case, my lot would become unspeakably wretched. He would not want me to love him; and if I showed the feeling, he would make me sensible that it was a superfluity, unrequired by him, unbecoming in me. I know he would."

"And yet St. John is a good man," said Diana.

"He is a good and a great man; but he forgets, pitilessly, the feelings and claims of little people, in pursuing his own large views. It is better, therefore, for the insignificant⁸¹ to keep out of his way, lest, in his progress, he should trample⁸² them down. Here he comes! I will leave you, Diana." And I hastened upstairs as I saw him entering the garden.

But I was forced to meet him again at supper. During that meal he appeared just as composed as usual. I had thought he would hardly speak to me, and I was certain he had given up the pursuit of his matrimonial scheme: the sequel showed I was mistaken on both points. He addressed me precisely⁸³ in his ordinary manner, or what had, of late, been his ordinary manner--one scrupulously⁸⁴ polite. No doubt he had invoked⁸⁵ the help of the Holy Spirit to subdue⁸⁶ the anger I had roused in him, and now believed he had forgiven me once more.

For the evening reading before prayers, he selected the twenty-first chapter of Revelation. It was at all times pleasant to listen while from his lips fell the words of the Bible: never did his fine voice sound at once so sweet and full--never did his manner become so impressive in its noble simplicity⁸⁷, as when he delivered the oracles⁸⁸ of God: and to-night that voice took a more solemn tone--that manner a more thrilling meaning--as he sat in the midst of his household circle (the May moon shining in through the uncurtained window, and rendering⁸⁹ almost unnecessary the light of the candle on the table): as he sat there, bending over the great old Bible, and described from its page the vision of the new heaven and the new earth--told how God would come to dwell with men, how He would wipe away all tears from their eyes, and promised that there should be no more death, neither sorrow nor crying, nor any more pain, because the former things were passed away.

The succeeding words thrilled me strangely as he spoke them: especially as I felt, by the slight, indescribable alteration⁹⁰ in sound, that in uttering them, his eye had turned on me.

"He that overcometh shall inherit all things; and I will be his God, and he shall be my son. But," was slowly, distinctly read, "the fearful, the unbelieving, &c., shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone, which is the second death."

Henceforward, I knew what fate St. John feared for me.

A calm, subdued⁹¹ triumph, blent with a longing⁹² earnestness, marked his enunciation⁹³ of the last glorious verses of that chapter. The reader believed his name was already written in the Lamb's book of life, and he yearned⁹⁴ after the hour which should admit him to the city to which the kings of the earth bring their glory and honour; which has no need of sun or moon to shine in it, because the glory of God lightens it, and the Lamb is the light thereof.

In the prayer following the chapter, all his energy gathered--all his stern zeal⁹⁵ woke: he was in deep earnest, wrestling with God, and resolved on a conquest. He supplicated⁹⁶ strength for the weak- hearted; guidance for wanderers from the fold: a return, even at the eleventh hour, for those whom the temptations of the world and the flesh were luring⁹⁷ from the narrow path. He asked, he urged, he claimed the boon⁹⁸ of a brand snatched from the burning. Earnestness is ever deeply solemn: first, as I listened to that prayer, I wondered at his; then, when it continued and rose, I was touched by it, and at last awed⁹⁹. He felt the greatness and goodness of his purpose so sincerely: others who heard him plead for it, could not but feel it too.

The prayer over, we took leave of him: he was to go at a very early hour in the morning. Diana and Mary having kissed him, left the room--in compliance¹⁰⁰, I think, with a whispered hint from him: I tendered my hand, and wished him a pleasant journey.

"Thank you, Jane. As I said, I shall return from Cambridge in a fortnight: that space, then, is yet left you for reflection. If I listened to human pride, I should say no more to you of marriage with me; but I listen to my duty, and keep steadily¹⁰¹ in view my first aim--to do all things to the glory of God. My Master was long- suffering: so will I be. I cannot give you up to perdition as a vessel¹⁰² of wrath¹⁰³: repent¹⁰⁴--resolve, while there is yet time. Remember, we are bid to work while it is day--warned that 'the night cometh when no man shall work.' Remember 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 from you!"

He laid his hand on my head as he uttered the last words. He had spoken earnestly, mildly: his look was not, indeed, that of a lover beholding¹⁰⁵ his mistress, but it was that of a pastor¹⁰⁶ recalling his wandering sheep--or better, of a guardian¹⁰⁷ angel watching the soul for which he is responsible. All men of talent, whether they be men of feeling or not; whether they be zealots, or aspirants¹⁰⁸, or despots--provided only they be sincere--have their sublime¹⁰⁹ moments, when they subdue and rule. I felt veneration¹¹⁰ for St. John-- veneration so strong that its impetus¹¹¹ thrust me at once to the point I had so long shunned¹¹². I was tempted¹¹³ to cease struggling with him-- to rush down the torrent¹¹⁴ of his will into the gulf¹¹⁵ of his existence, and there lose my own. I was almost as hard beset¹¹⁶ by him now as I had been once before, in a different way, by another. I was a fool both times. To have yielded then would have been an error of principle; to have yielded now would have been an error of judgment¹¹⁷. So I think at this hour, when I look back to the crisis through the quiet medium of time: I was unconscious of folly at the instant.

I stood motionless under my hierophant's touch. My refusals were forgotten--my fears overcome--my wrestlings paralysed. The Impossible--I.E., my marriage with St. John--was fast becoming the Possible. All was changing utterly with a sudden sweep. Religion called--Angels beckoned--God commanded--life rolled together like a scroll--death's gates opening, showed eternity¹¹⁸ beyond: it seemed, that for safety and bliss¹¹⁹ there, all here might be sacrificed in a second. The dim room was full of visions.

"Could you decide now?" asked the missionary. The inquiry¹²⁰ was put in gentle tones: he drew me to him as gently. Oh, that gentleness! how far more potent¹²¹ is it than force! I could resist St. John's wrath: I grew pliant¹²² as a reed under his kindness. Yet I knew all the time, if I yielded now, I should not the less be made to repent, some day, of my former rebellion. His nature was not changed by one hour of solemn prayer: it was only elevated.

"I could decide if I were but certain," I answered: "were I but convinced that it is God's will I should marry you, I could vow¹²³ to marry you here and now--come afterwards what would!"

"My I prayers are heard!" ejaculated St. John. He pressed his hand firmer on my head, as if he claimed me: he surrounded me with his arm, almost as if he loved me (I say almost--I knew the difference-- for I had felt what it was to be loved; but, like him, I had now put love out of the question, and thought only of duty). I contended with my inward dimness of vision, before which clouds yet rolled. I sincerely, deeply, fervently¹²⁴ longed to do what was right; and only that. "Show me, show me the path!" I entreated¹²⁵ of Heaven. I was excited more than I had ever been; and whether what followed was the effect of excitement the reader shall judge.

All the house was still; for I believe all, except St. John and myself, were now retired¹²⁶ to rest. The one candle was dying out: the room was full of moonlight. My heart beat fast and thick: I heard its throb¹²⁷. Suddenly it stood still to an inexpressible feeling that thrilled it through, and passed at once to my head and extremities¹²⁸. The feeling was not like an electric shock, but it was quite as sharp, as strange, as startling: it acted on my senses as if their utmost activity hitherto had been but torpor¹²⁹, from which they were now summoned and forced to wake. They rose expectant: eye and ear waited while the flesh quivered on my bones.

"What have you heard? What do you see?" asked St. John. I saw nothing, but I heard a voice somewhere cry -

"Jane! Jane! Jane!"--nothing more.

"O God! what is it?" I gasped¹³⁰.

I might have said, "Where is it?" for it did not seem in the room-- nor in the house--nor in the garden; it did not come out of the air- -nor from under the earth--nor from overhead. I had heard it-- where, or whence, for ever impossible to know! And it was the voice of a human being--a known, loved, well-remembered voice--that of Edward Fairfax Rochester; and it spoke in pain and woe¹³¹, wildly, eerily¹³², urgently.

"I am coming!" I cried. "Wait for me! Oh, I will come!" 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 exclaimed.

The hills beyond Marsh¹³³ Glen sent the answer faintly back--"Where are you?" I listened. The wind sighed low in the firs: all was moorland loneliness and midnight hush¹³⁴.

"Down superstition¹³⁵!" I commented, as that spectre rose up black by the black yew¹³⁶ at the gate. "This is not thy deception¹³⁷, nor thy witchcraft¹³⁸: it is the work of nature. She was roused, and did--no miracle--but her best."

I broke from St. John, who had followed, and would have detained me. It was my time to assume ascendency. MY powers were in play and in force. I told him to forbear question or remark; I desired him to leave me: I must and would be alone. He obeyed at once. Where there is energy to command well enough, obedience¹³⁹ never fails. I mounted to my chamber¹⁴⁰; locked myself in; fell on my knees; and prayed in my way--a different way to St. John's, but effective in its own fashion. I seemed to penetrate¹⁴¹ very near a Mighty¹⁴² Spirit; and my soul rushed out in gratitude¹⁴³ at His feet. I rose from the thanksgiving--took a resolve--and lay down, unscared, enlightened-- eager but for the daylight.

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