general holiday approached. I now closed Morton school, taking care

that the parting should not be barren on my side. Good fortune opens

the hand as well as the heart wonderfully; and to give somewhat when

we have largely received, is but to afford a vent to the unusual

ebullition of the sensations. I had long felt with pleasure that

many of my rustic scholars liked me, and when we parted, that

consciousness was confirmed: they manifested their affection plainly

and strongly. Deep was my gratification to find I had really a place

in their unsophisticated hearts: I promised them that never a week

should pass in future that I did not visit them, and give them an

hour's teaching in their school.

   Mr. Rivers came up as, having seen the classes, now numbering sixty

girls, file out before me, and locked the door, I stood with the key

in my hand, exchanging a few words of special farewell with some

half-dozen of my best scholars: as decent, respectable, modest, and

well-informed young women as could be found in the ranks of the

British peasantry. And that is saying a great deal; for after all, the

British peasantry are the best taught, best mannered, most

self-respecting of any in Europe: since those days I have seen

paysannes and Bauerinnen; and the best of them seemed to me

ignorant, coarse, and besotted, compared with my Morton girls.

   'Do you consider you have got your reward for a season of

exertion?' asked Mr. Rivers, when they were gone. 'Does not the

consciousness of having done some real good in your day and generation

give pleasure?'

   'Doubtless.'

   'And you have only toiled a few months! Would not a life devoted to

the task of regenerating your race be well spent?'

   'Yes,' I said; 'but I could not go on for ever so: I want to

enjoy my own faculties as well as to cultivate those of other

people. I must enjoy them now; don't recall either my mind or body

to the school; I am out of it and disposed for full holiday.'

   He looked grave. 'What now? What sudden eagerness is this you

evince? What are you going to do?'

   'To be active: as active as I can. And first I must beg you to

set Hannah at liberty, and get somebody else to wait on you.'

   'Do you want her?'

   'Yes, to go with me to Moor House. Diana and Mary will be at home

in a week, and I want to have everything in order against their

arrival.'

   'I understand. I thought you were for flying off on some excursion.

It is better so: Hannah shall go with you.'

   'Tell her to be ready by to-morrow then; and here is the schoolroom

key: I will give you the key of my cottage in the morning.'

   He took it. 'You give it up very gleefully,' said he; 'I don't

quite understand your light-heartedness, because I cannot tell what

employment you propose to yourself as a substitute for the one you are

relinquishing. What aim, what purpose, what ambition in life have

you now?'

   'My first aim will be to clean down (do you comprehend the full

force of the expression?)- to clean down Moor House from chamber to

cellar; my next to rub it up with bees-wax, oil, and an indefinite

number of cloths, till it glitters again; my third, to arrange every

chair, table, bed, carpet, with mathematical precision; afterwards I

shall go near to ruin you in coals and peat to keep up good fires in

every room; and lastly, the two days preceding that on which your

sisters are expected will be devoted by Hannah and me to such a

beating of eggs, sorting of currants, grating of spices, compounding

of Christmas cakes, chopping up of materials for mince-pies, and

solemnising of other culinary rites, as words can convey but an

inadequate notion of to the uninitiated like you. My purpose, in

short, is to have all things in an absolutely perfect state of

readiness for Diana and Mary before next Thursday; and my ambition

is to give them a beau-ideal of a welcome when they come.'

   St. John smiled slightly: still he was dissatisfied.

   'It is all very well for the present,' said he; 'but seriously, I

trust that when the first flush of vivacity is over, you will look a

little higher than domestic endearments and household joys.'

   'I mean, on the contrary, to be busy.'

   'Jane, I excuse you for the present: two months' grace I allow

you for the full enjoyment of your new position, and for pleasing

yourself with this late-found charm of relationship; but then, I

hope you will begin to look beyond Moor House and Morton, and sisterly

society, and the selfish calm and sensual comfort of civilised

affluence. I hope your energies will then once more trouble you with

their strength.'

   I looked at him with surprise. 'St. John,' I said, 'I think you are

almost wicked to talk so. I am disposed to be as content as a queen,

and you try to stir me up to restlessness! To what end?'

   'To the end of turning to profit the talents which God has

committed to your keeping; and of which He will surely one day

demand a strict account. Jane, I shall watch you closely and

anxiously- I warn you of that. And try to restrain the

disproportionate fervour with which you throw yourself into

commonplace home pleasures. Don't cling so tenaciously to ties of

the flesh; save your constancy and ardour for an adequate cause;

forbear to waste them on trite transient objects. Do you hear, Jane?'

   'Yes; just as if you were speaking Greek. I feel I have adequate

cause to be happy, and I will be happy. Good-bye!'

   Happy at Moor House I was, and hard I worked; and so did Hannah:

she was charmed to see how jovial I could be amidst the bustle of a

house turned topsy-turvy- how I could brush, and dust, and clean,

and cook. And really, after a day or two of confusion worse

confounded, it was delightful by degrees to invoke order from the

to purchase some new furniture: my cousins having given me carte

blanche to effect what alterations I pleased, and a sum having been

set aside for that purpose. The ordinary sitting-room and bedrooms I

left much as they were: for I knew Diana and Mary would derive more

pleasure from seeing again the old homely tables, and chairs, and

beds, than from the spectacle of the smartest innovations. Still

some novelty was necessary, to give to their return the piquancy

with which I wished it to be invested. Dark handsome new carpets and

curtains, an arrangement of some carefully selected antique

ornaments in porcelain and bronze, new coverings, and mirrors, and

dressing-cases, for the toilet-tables, answered the end: they looked

fresh without being glaring. A spare parlour and bedroom I refurnished

entirely, with old mahogany and crimson upholstery: I laid canvas on

the passage, and carpets on the stairs. When all was finished, I

thought Moor House as complete a model of bright modest snugness

within, as it was, at this season, a specimen of wintry waste and

desert dreariness without.

   The eventful Thursday at length came. They were expected about

dark, and ere dusk fires were lit upstairs and below; the kitchen

was in perfect trim; Hannah and I were dressed, and all was in

readiness.

   St. John arrived first. I had entreated him to keep quite clear

of the house till everything was arranged: and, indeed, the bare

idea of the commotion, at once sordid and trivial, going on within its

walls sufficed to scare him to estrangement. He found me in the

kitchen, watching the progress of certain cakes for tea, then

baking. Approaching the hearth, he asked, 'If I was at last

satisfied with housemaid's work?' I answered by inviting him to

accompany me on a general inspection of the result of my labours. With

some difficulty, I got him to make the tour of the house. He just

looked in at the doors I opened; and when he had wandered upstairs and

downstairs, he said I must have gone through a great deal of fatigue

and trouble to have effected such considerable changes in so short a

time: but not a syllable did he utter indicating pleasure in the

improved aspect of his abode.

   This silence damped me. I thought perhaps the alterations had

disturbed some old associations he valued. I inquired whether this was

the case: no doubt in a somewhat crestfallen tone.

   'Not at all; he had, on the contrary, remarked that I had

scrupulously respected every association: he feared, indeed, I must

have bestowed more thought on the matter than it was worth. How many

minutes, for instance, had I devoted to studying the arrangement of

this very room?- By the bye, could I tell him where such a book was?'

   I showed him the volume on the shelf: he took it down, and

withdrawing to his accustomed window recess, he began to read it.

   Now, I did not like this, reader. St. John was a good man; but I

began to feel he had spoken truth of himself when he said he was

hard and cold. The humanities and amenities of life had no

attraction for him- its peaceful enjoyments no charm. Literally, he

lived only to aspire- after what was good and great, certainly; but

still he would never rest, nor approve of others resting round him. As

I looked at his lofty forehead, still and pale as a white stone- at

his fine lineaments fixed in study- I comprehended all at once that he

would hardly make a good husband: that it would be a trying thing to

be his wife. I understood, as by inspiration, the nature of his love

for Miss Oliver; I agreed with him that it was but a love of the

senses. I comprehended how he should despise himself for the

feverish influence it exercised over him; how he should wish to stifle

and destroy it; how he should mistrust its ever conducing

permanently to his happiness or hers. I saw he was of the material

from which nature hews her heroes- Christian and Pagan- her lawgivers,

her statesmen, her conquerors: a steadfast bulwark for great interests

to rest upon; but, at the fireside, too often a cold cumbrous

column, gloomy and out of place.

   'This parlour is not his sphere,' I reflected: 'the Himalayan ridge

or Caffre bush, even the plague-cursed Guinea Coast swamp would suit

him better. Well may he eschew the calm of domestic life; it is not

his element: there his faculties stagnate- they cannot develop or

appear to advantage. It is in scenes of strife and danger- where

courage is proved, and energy exercised, and fortitude tasked- that he

will speak and move, the leader and superior. A merry child would have

the advantage of him on this hearth. He is right to choose a

missionary's career- I see it now.'

   'They are coming! they are coming!' cried Hannah, throwing open the

parlour door. At the same moment old Carlo barked joyfully. Out I ran.

It was now dark; but a rumbling of wheels was audible. Hannah soon had

a lantern lit. The vehicle had stopped at the wicket; the driver

opened the door: first one well-known form, then another, stepped out.

In a minute I had my face under their bonnets, in contact first with

Mary's soft cheek, then with Diana's flowing curls. They laughed-

kissed me- then Hannah: patted Carlo, who was half wild with

delight; asked eagerly if all was well; and being assured in the

affirmative, hastened into the house.

   They were stiff with their long and jolting drive from Whitcross,

and chilled with the frosty night air; but their pleasant countenances

expanded to the cheerful firelight. While the driver and Hannah

brought in the boxes, they demanded St. John. At this moment he

advanced from the parlour. They both threw their arms round his neck

at once. He gave each one quiet kiss, said in a low tone a few words

of welcome, stood a while to be talked to, and then, intimating that

he supposed they would soon rejoin him in the parlour, withdrew

there as to a place of refuge.

   I had lit their candles to go upstairs, but Diana had first to give

hospitable orders respecting the driver; this done, both followed

me. They were delighted with the renovation and decorations of their

rooms; with the new drapery, and fresh carpets, and rich tinted

china vases: they expressed their gratification ungrudgingly. I had

the pleasure of feeling that my arrangements met their wishes exactly,

and that what I had done added a vivid charm to their joyous return

home.

   Sweet was that evening. My cousins, full of exhilaration, were so

eloquent in narrative and comment, that their fluency covered St.

John's taciturnity: he was sincerely glad to see his sisters; but in

their glow of fervour and flow of joy he could not sympathise. The

event of the day- that is, the return of Diana and Mary- pleased

him; but the accompaniments of that event, the glad tumult, the

garrulous glee of reception irked him: I saw he wished the calmer

morrow was come. In the very meridian of the night's enjoyment,

about an hour after tea, a rap was heard at the door. Hannah entered

with the intimation that 'a poor lad was come, at that unlikely

time, to fetch Mr. Rivers to see his mother, who was drawing away.'

   'Where does she live, Hannah?'

   'Clear up at Whitcross Brow, almost four miles off, and moor and

moss all the way.'

   'Tell him I will go.'

   'I'm sure, sir, you had better not. It's the worst road to travel

after dark that can be: there's no track at all over the bog. And then

it is such a bitter night- the keenest wind you ever felt. You had

better send word, sir, that you will be there in the morning.'

   But he was already in the passage, putting on his cloak; and

without one objection, one murmur, he departed. It was then nine

o'clock: he did not return till midnight. Starved and tired enough

he was: but he looked happier than when he set out. He had performed

an act of duty; made an exertion; felt his own strength to do and

deny, and was on better terms with himself.

   I am afraid the whole of the ensuing week tried his patience. It

was Christmas week: we took to no settled employment, but spent it

in a sort of merry domestic dissipation. The air of the moors, the

freedom of home, the dawn of prosperity, acted on Diana and Mary's

spirits like some life-giving elixir: they were gay from morning

till noon, and from noon till night. They could always talk; and their

discourse, witty, pithy, original, had such charms for me, that I

preferred listening to, and sharing in it, to doing anything else. St.

John did not rebuke our vivacity; but he escaped from it: he was

seldom in the house; his parish was large, the population scattered,

and he found daily business in visiting the sick and poor in its

different districts.

   One morning at breakfast, Diana, after looking a little pensive for

some minutes, asked him, 'If his plans were yet unchanged.'

   'Unchanged and unchangeable,' was the reply. And he proceeded to

inform us that his departure from England was now definitely fixed for

the ensuing year.

   'And Rosamond Oliver?' suggested Mary, the words seeming to

escape her lips involuntarily: for no sooner had she uttered them,

than she made a gesture as if wishing to recall them. St. John had a

book in his hand- it was his unsocial custom to read at meals- he

closed it, and looked up.

   'Rosamond Oliver,' said he, 'is about to be married to Mr.

Granby, one of the best connected and most estimable residents in

from her father yesterday.'

   His sisters looked at each other and at me; we all three looked

at him: he was serene as glass.

   'The match must have been got up hastily,' said Diana: 'they cannot

have known each other long.'

But where there are no obstacles to a union, as in the present case,

where the connection is in every point desirable, delays are

Frederic gives up to them, can be refitted for their reception.'

   The first time I found St. John alone after this communication, I

felt tempted to inquire if the event distressed him: but he seemed

so little to need sympathy, that, so far from venturing to offer him

more, I experienced some shame at the recollection of what I had

already hazarded. Besides, I was out of practice in talking to him:

his reserve was again frozen over, and my frankness was congealed

beneath it. He had not kept his promise of treating me like his

sisters; he continually made little, chilling differences between

us, which did not at all tend to the development of cordiality: in

short, now that I was acknowledged his kinswoman, and lived under

the same roof with him, I felt the distance between us to be far

greater than when he had known me only as the village

schoolmistress. When I remembered how far I had once been admitted

to his confidence, I could hardly comprehend his present frigidity.

   Such being the case, I felt not a little surprised when he raised

his head suddenly from the desk over which he was stooping, and said-

   'You see, Jane, the battle is fought and the victory won.'

   Startled at being thus addressed, I did not immediately reply:

after a moment's hesitation I answered-

   'But are you sure you are not in the position of those conquerors

whose triumphs have cost them too dear? Would not such another ruin

you?'

   'I think not; and if I were, it does not much signify; I shall

never be called upon to contend for such another. The event of the

conflict is decisive: my way is now clear; I thank God for it!' So

saying, he returned to his papers and his silence.

   As our mutual happiness (i.e., Diana's, Mary's, and mine) settled

into a quieter character, and we resumed our usual habits and

regular studies, St. John stayed more at home: he sat with us in the

same room, sometimes for hours together. While Mary drew, Diana

pursued a course of encyclopaedic reading she had (to my awe and

amazement) undertaken, and I fagged away at German, he pondered a

mystic lore of his own: that of some Eastern tongue, the acquisition

of which he thought necessary to his plans.

   Thus engaged, he appeared, sitting in his own recess, quiet and

absorbed enough; but that blue eye of his had a habit of leaving the

outlandish-looking grammar, and wandering over, and sometimes fixing

upon us, his fellow-students, with a curious intensity of observation:

if caught, it would be instantly withdrawn; yet ever and anon, it

returned searchingly to our table. I wondered what it meant: I

wondered, too, at the punctual satisfaction he never failed to exhibit

on an occasion that seemed to me of small moment, namely, my weekly

visit to Morton school; and still more was I puzzled when, if the

day was unfavourable, if there was snow, or rain, or high wind, and

his sisters urged me not to go, he would invariably make light of

their solicitude, and encourage me to accomplish the task without

regard to the elements.

   'Jane is not such a weakling as you would make her,' he would

say: 'she can bear a mountain blast, or a shower, or a few flakes of

snow, as well as any of us. Her constitution is both sound and

elastic;- better calculated to endure variations of climate than

many more robust.'

   And when I returned, sometimes a good deal tired, and not a

little weather-beaten, I never dared complain, because I saw that to

murmur would be to vex him: on all occasions fortitude pleased him;

the reverse was a special annoyance.

   One afternoon, however, I got leave to stay at home, because I

really had a cold. His sisters were gone to Morton in my stead: I

sat reading Schiller; he, deciphering his crabbed Oriental scrolls. As

I exchanged a translation for an exercise, I happened to look his way:

there I found myself under the influence of the ever-watchful blue

eye. How long it had been searching me through and through, and over

and over, I cannot tell: so keen was it, and yet so cold, I felt for

the moment superstitious- as if I were sitting in the room with

something uncanny.

   'Jane, what are you doing?'

   'Learning German.'

   'I want you to give up German and learn Hindostanee.'

   'You are not in earnest?'

   'In such earnest that I must have it so: and I will tell you why.'

   He then went on to explain that Hindostanee was the language he was

himself at present studying; that, as he advanced, he was apt to

forget the commencement; that it would assist him greatly to have a

pupil with whom he might again and again go over the elements, and

so fix them thoroughly in his mind; that his choice had hovered for

some time between me and his sisters; but that he had fixed on me

because he saw I could sit at a task the longest of the three. Would I

do him this favour? I should not, perhaps, have to make the

sacrifice long, as it wanted now barely three months to his departure.

   St. John was not a man to be lightly refused: you felt that every

impression made on him, either for pain or pleasure, was deep-graved

and permanent. I consented. When Diana and Mary returned, the former

found her scholar transferred from her to her brother: she laughed,

and both she and Mary agreed that St. John should never have persuaded

them to such a step. He answered quietly-

   'I know it.'

   I found him a very patient, very forbearing, and yet an exacting

master: he expected me to do a great deal; and when I fulfilled his

expectations, he, in his own way, fully testified his approbation.

By degrees, he acquired a certain influence over me that took away

my liberty of mind: his praise and notice were more restraining than

his indifference. I could no longer talk or laugh freely when he was

by, because a tiresomely importunate instinct reminded me that

vivacity (at least in me) was distasteful to him. I was so fully aware

that only serious moods and occupations were acceptable, that in his

presence every effort to sustain or follow any other became vain: I

fell under a freezing spell. When he said 'go,' I went; 'come,' I

came; 'do this,' I did it. But I did not love my servitude: I

wished, many a time, he had continued to neglect me.

   One evening when, at bedtime, his sisters and I stood round him,

bidding him good-night, he kissed each of them, as was his custom;

and, as was equally his custom, he gave me his hand. Diana, who

chanced to be in a frolicsome humour (she was not painfully controlled

by his will; for hers, in another way, was as strong), exclaimed-

   'St. John! you used to call Jane your third sister, but you don't

treat her as such: you should kiss her too.'

   She pushed me towards him. I thought Diana very provoking, and felt

uncomfortably confused; and while I was thus thinking and feeling, St.

John bent his head; his Greek face was brought to a level with mine,

his eyes questioned my eyes piercingly- he kissed me. There are no

such things as marble kisses or ice kisses, or I should say my

ecclesiastical cousin's salute belonged to one of these classes; but

there may be experiment kisses, and his was an experiment kiss. When

given, he viewed me to learn the result; it was not striking: I am

sure I did not blush; perhaps I might have turned a little pale, for I

felt as if this kiss were a seal affixed to my fetters. He never

omitted the ceremony afterwards, and the gravity and quiescence with

which I underwent it, seemed to invest it for him with a certain

charm.

   As for me, I daily wished more to please him; but to do so, I

felt daily more and more that I must disown half my nature, stifle

half my faculties, wrest my tastes from their original bent, force

myself to the adoption of pursuits for which I had no natural

vocation. He wanted to train me to an elevation I could never reach;

it racked me hourly to aspire to the standard he uplifted. The thing

was as impossible as to mould my irregular features to his correct and

classic pattern, to give to my changeable green eyes the sea-blue tint

and solemn lustre of his own.

   Not his ascendancy alone, however, held me in thrall at present. Of

late it had been easy enough for me to look sad: a cankering evil

sat in my heart and drained my happiness at its source- the evil of

suspense.

   Perhaps you think I had forgotten Mr. Rochester, reader, amidst

these changes of place and fortune. Not for a moment. His idea was

still with me, because it was not a vapour sunshine could disperse,

nor a sand-traced effigy storms could wash away; it was a name

graven on a tablet, fated to last as long as the marble it

inscribed. The craving to know what had become of him followed me

everywhere; when I was at Morton, I re-entered my cottage every

evening to think of that; and now at Moor House, I sought my bedroom

each night to brood over it.

   In the course of my necessary correspondence with Mr. Briggs

about the will, I had inquired if he knew anything of Mr.

Rochester's present residence and state of health; but, as St. John

had conjectured, he was quite ignorant of all concerning him. I then

wrote to Mrs. Fairfax, entreating information on the subject. I had

calculated with certainty on this step answering my end: I felt sure

it would elicit an early answer. I was astonished when a fortnight

passed without reply; but when two months wore away, and day after day

the post arrived and brought nothing for me, I fell a prey to the

keenest anxiety.

   I wrote again: there was a chance of my first letter having missed.

Renewed hope followed renewed effort: it shone like the former for

some weeks, then, like it, it faded, flickered: not a line, not a word

reached me. When half a year wasted in vain expectancy, my hope died

out, and then I felt dark indeed.

   A fine spring shone round me, which I could not enjoy. Summer

approached; Diana tried to cheer me: she said I looked ill, and wished

to accompany me to the sea-side. This St. John opposed; he said I

did not want dissipation, I wanted employment; my present life was too

purposeless, I required an aim; and, I suppose, by way of supplying

deficiencies, he prolonged still further my lessons in Hindostanee,

and grew more urgent in requiring their accomplishment: and I, like

a fool, never thought of resisting him- I could not resist him.

   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.

   'Let us rest here,' said St. John, as we reached the first

stragglers of a battalion of rocks, guarding a sort of pass, beyond

which the beck rushed down a waterfall; and where, still a little

farther, the mountain shook off turf and flower, had only heath for

raiment and crag for gem- where it exaggerated the wild to the savage,

and exchanged the fresh for the frowning- where it guarded the forlorn

hope of solitude, and a last refuge for silence.

   I took a seat: St. John stood near me. He looked up the pass and

down the hollow; his glance wandered away with the stream, and

returned to traverse the unclouded heaven which coloured it: he

removed his hat, let the breeze stir his hair and kiss his brow. He

seemed in communion with the genius of the haunt: with his eye he bade

farewell to something.

   'And I shall see it again,' he said aloud, 'in dreams when I

sleep by the Ganges: and again in a more remote hour- when another

slumber overcomes me- on the shore of a darker stream!'

   Strange words of a strange love! An austere patriot's passion for

his fatherland! He sat down; for half an hour we never spoke;

neither he to me nor I to him: that interval past, he recommenced-

   'Jane, I go in six weeks; I have taken my berth in an East Indiaman

which sails on the 20th of June.'

   'God will protect you; for you have undertaken His work,' I

answered.

   'Yes,' said he, 'there is my glory and joy. I am the servant of

an infallible Master. I am not going out under human guidance, subject

to the defective laws and erring control of my feeble fellow-worms: my

king, my lawgiver, my captain, is the All-perfect. It seems strange to

me that all round me do not burn to enlist under the same banner,-

to join in the same enterprise.'

   'All have not Your powers, and it would be folly for the feeble

to wish to march with the strong.'

   'I do not speak to the feeble, or think of them: I address only

such as are worthy of the work, and competent to accomplish it.'

   'Those are few in number, and difficult to discover.'

   'You say truly; but when found, it is right to stir them up- to

urge and exhort them to the effort- to show them what their gifts are,

and why they were given- to speak Heaven's message in their ear,- to

offer them, direct from God, a place in the ranks of His chosen.'

   'If they are really qualified for the task, will not their own

hearts be the first to inform them of it?'

   I felt as if an awful charm was framing round and gathering over

me: I trembled to hear some fatal word spoken which would at once

declare and rivet the spell.

   'And what does your heart say?' demanded St. John.

   'My heart is mute- my heart is mute,' I answered, struck and

thrilled.

   'Then I must speak for it,' continued the deep, relentless voice.

'Jane, come with me to India: come as my helpmeet and

fellow-labourer.'

   The glen and sky spun round: the hills heaved! It was as if I had

heard a summons from Heaven- as if a visionary messenger, like him

of Macedonia, had enounced, 'Come over and help us!' But I was no

apostle,- I could not behold the herald,- I could not receive his

call.

   'Oh, St. John!' I cried, 'have some mercy!'

   I appealed to one who, in the discharge of what he believed his

duty, knew neither mercy nor remorse. He continued-

   'God and nature intended you for a missionary's wife. It is not

personal, but mental endowments they have given you: you are formed

for labour, not for love. A missionary's wife you must- shall be.

You shall be mine: I claim you- not for my pleasure, but for my

Sovereign's service.'

   'I am not fit for it: I have no vocation,' I said.

   He had calculated on these first objections: he was not irritated

by them. Indeed, as he leaned back against the crag behind him, folded

his arms on his chest, and fixed his countenance, I saw he was

prepared for a long and trying opposition, and had taken in a stock of

patience to last him to its close- resolved, however, that that

close should be conquest for him.

   'Humility, Jane,' said he, 'is the groundwork of Christian virtues:

you say right that you are not fit for the work. Who is fit for it? Or

who, that ever was truly called, believed himself worthy of the

summons? I, for instance, am but dust and ashes. With St. Paul, I

acknowledge myself the chiefest of sinners; but I do not suffer this

sense of my personal vileness to daunt me. I know my Leader: that He

is just as well as mighty; and while He has chosen a feeble instrument

to perform a great task, He will, from the boundless stores of His

providence, supply the inadequacy of the means to the end. Think

like me, Jane- trust like me. It is the Rock of Ages I ask you to lean

on: do not doubt but it will bear the weight of your human weakness.'

   'I do not understand a missionary life: I have never studied

missionary labours.'

   'There I, humble as I am, can give you the aid you want: I can

set you your task from hour to hour; stand by you always; help you

from moment to moment. This I could do in the beginning: soon (for I

know your powers) you would be as strong and apt as myself, and

would not require my help.'

   'But my powers- where are they for this undertaking? I do not

feel them. Nothing speaks or stirs in me while you talk. I am sensible

of no light kindling- no life quickening- no voice counselling or

cheering. Oh, I wish I could make you see how much my mind is at

this moment like a rayless dungeon, with one shrinking fear fettered

in its depths- the fear of being persuaded by you to attempt what I

cannot accomplish!'

   'I have an answer for you- hear it. I have watched you ever since

we first met: I have made you my study for ten months. I have proved

you in that time by sundry tests: and what have I seen and elicited?

In the village school I found you could perform well, punctually,

uprightly, labour uncongenial to your habits and inclinations; I saw

you could perform it with capacity and tact: you could win while you

controlled. In the calm with which you learnt you had become

suddenly rich, I read a mind clear of the vice of Demas:- lucre had no

undue power over you. In the resolute readiness with which you cut

your wealth into four shares, keeping but one to yourself, and

relinquishing the three others to the claim of abstract justice, I

recognised a soul that revelled in the flame and excitement of

sacrifice. In the tractability with which, at my wish, you forsook a

study in which you were interested, and adopted another because it

interested me; in the untiring assiduity with which you have since

persevered in it- in the unflagging energy and unshaken temper with

which you have met its difficulties- I acknowledge the complement of

the qualities I seek. Jane, you are docile, diligent, disinterested,

faithful, constant, and courageous; very gentle, and very heroic:

cease to mistrust yourself- I can trust you unreservedly. As a

conductress of Indian schools, and a helper amongst Indian women, your

assistance will be to me invaluable.'

   My iron shroud contracted round me; persuasion advanced with

slow, sure step. Shut my eyes as I would, these last words of his

succeeded in making the way, which had seemed blocked up,

comparatively clear. My work, which had appeared so vague, so

hopelessly diffuse, condensed itself as he proceeded, and assumed a

definite form under his shaping hand. He waited for an answer. I

demanded a quarter of an hour to think, before I again hazarded a

reply.

   'Very willingly,' he rejoined; and rising, he strode a little

distance up the pass, threw himself down on a swell of heath, and

there lay still.

   'I can do what he wants me to do: I am forced to see and

acknowledge that,' I meditated,- 'that is, if life be spared me. But I

feel mine is not the existence to be long protracted under an Indian

sun. What then? He does not care for that: when my time came to die,

he would resign me, in all serenity and sanctity, to the God who

gave me. The case is very plain before me. In leaving England, I

should leave a loved but empty land- Mr. Rochester is not there; and

if he were, what is, what can that ever be to me? My business is to

live without him now: nothing so absurd, so weak as to drag on from

day to day, as if I were waiting some impossible change in

circumstances, which might reunite me to him. Of course (as St. John

once said) I must seek another interest in life to replace the one

lost: is not the occupation he now offers me truly the most glorious

man can adopt or God assign? Is it not, by its noble cares and sublime

results, the one best calculated to fill the void left by uptorn

affections and demolished hopes? I believe I must say, Yes- and yet

I shudder. Alas! If I join St. John, I abandon half myself: if I go to

India, I go to premature death. And how will the interval between

leaving England for India, and India for the grave, be filled? Oh, I

know well! That, too, is very clear to my vision. By straining to

satisfy St. John till my sinews ache, I shall satisfy him- to the

finest central point and farthest outward circle of his

expectations. If I do go with him- if I do make the sacrifice he

urges, I will make it absolutely: I will throw all on the altar-

heart, vitals, the entire victim. He will never love me; but he

shall approve me; I will show him energies he has not yet seen,

resources he has never suspected. Yes, I can work as hard as he can,

and with as little grudging.

   'Consent, then, to his demand is possible: but for one item- one

dreadful item. It is- that he asks me to be his wife, and has no

more of a husband's heart for me than that frowning giant of a rock,

down which the stream is foaming in yonder gorge. He prizes me as a

soldier would a good weapon, and that is all. Unmarried to him, this

would never grieve me; but can I let him complete his calculations-

coolly put into practice his plans- go through the wedding ceremony?

Can I receive from him the bridal ring, endure all the forms of love

(which I doubt not he would scrupulously observe) and know that the

spirit was quite absent? Can I bear the consciousness that every

endearment he bestows is a sacrifice made on principle? No: such a

martyrdom would be monstrous. I will never undergo it. As his

sister, I might accompany him- not as his wife: I will tell him so.'

   I looked towards the knoll: there he lay, still as a prostrate

column; his face turned to me: his eye beaming watchful and keen. He

started to his feet and approached me.

   'I am ready to go to India, if I may go free.'

   'Your answer requires a commentary,' he said; 'it is not clear.'

   'You have hitherto been my adopted brother- I, your adopted sister:

let us continue as such: you and I had better not marry.'

   He shook his head. 'Adopted fraternity will not do in this case. If

you were my real sister it would be different: I should take you,

and seek no wife. But as it is, either our union must be consecrated

and sealed by marriage, or it cannot exist: practical obstacles oppose

themselves to any other plan. Do you not see it, Jane? Consider a

moment- your strong sense will guide you.'

   I did consider; and still my sense, such as it was, directed me

only to the fact that we did not love each other as man and wife

should: and therefore it inferred we ought not to marry. I said so.

'St. John,' I returned, 'I regard you as a brother- you, me as a

sister: so let us continue.'

   'We cannot- we cannot,' he answered, with short, sharp

determination: 'it would not do. You have said you will go with me

to India: remember- you have said that.'

   'Conditionally.'

   'Well- well. To the main point- the departure with me from England,

the co-operation with me in my future labours- you do not object.

You have already as good as put your hand to the plough: you are too

consistent to withdraw it. You have but one end to keep in view- how

the work you have undertaken can best be done. Simplify your

complicated interests, feelings, thoughts, wishes, aims; merge all

considerations in one purpose: that of fulfilling with effect- with

power- the mission of your great Master. To do so, you must have a

coadjutor: not a brother- that is a loose tie- but a husband. I,

too, do not want a sister: a sister might any day be taken from me.

I want a wife: the sole helpmeet I can influence efficiently in

life, and retain absolutely till death.'

   I shuddered as he spoke: I felt his influence in my marrow- his

hold on my limbs.

   'Seek one elsewhere than in me, St. John: seek one fitted to you.'

   'One fitted to my purpose, you mean- fitted to my vocation. Again I

tell you it is not the insignificant private individual- the mere man,

with the man's selfish senses- I wish to mate: it is the missionary.'

   'And I will give the missionary my energies- it is all he wants-

but not myself: that would be only adding the husk and shell to the

kernel. For them he has no use: I retain them.'

   'You cannot- you ought not. Do you think God will be satisfied with

half an oblation? Will He accept a mutilated sacrifice? It is the

cause of God I advocate: it is under His standard I enlist you. I

cannot accept on His behalf a divided allegiance: it must be entire.'

   'Oh! I will give my heart to God,' I said. 'You do not want it.'

   I will not swear, reader, that there was not something of repressed

sarcasm both in the tone in which I uttered this sentence, and in

the feeling that accompanied it. I had silently feared St. John till

now, because I had not understood him. He had held me in awe,

because he had held me in doubt. How much of him was saint, how much

mortal, I could not heretofore tell: but revelations were being made

in this conference: the analysis of his nature was proceeding before

my eyes. I saw his fallibilities: I comprehended them. I understood

that, sitting there where I did, on the bank of heath, and with that

handsome form before me, I sat at the feet of a man, erring as I.

The veil fell from his hardness and despotism. Having felt in him

the presence of these qualities, I felt his imperfection and took

courage. I was with an equal- one with whom I might argue- one whom,

if I saw good, I might resist.

   He was silent after I had uttered the last sentence, and I

presently risked an upward glance at his countenance. His eye, bent on

me, expressed at once stern surprise and keen inquiry. 'Is she

sarcastic, and sarcastic to me!' it seemed to say. 'What does this

signify?'

   'Do not let us forget that this is a solemn matter,' he said ere

long; 'one of which we may neither think nor talk lightly without sin.

I trust, Jane, you are in earnest when you say you will give your

heart to God: it is all I want. Once wrench your heart from man, and

fix it on your Maker, the advancement of that Maker's spiritual

kingdom on earth will be your chief delight and endeavour; you will be

ready to do at once whatever furthers that end. You will see what

impetus would be given to your efforts and mine by our physical and

mental union in marriage: the only union that gives a character of

permanent conformity to the destinies and designs of human beings;

and, passing over all minor caprices- all trivial difficulties and

delicacies of feeling- all scruple about the degree, kind, strength or

tenderness of mere personal inclination- you will hasten to enter into

that union at once.'

   'Shall I?' I said briefly; and I looked at his features,

beautiful in their harmony, but strangely formidable in their still

severity; at his brow, commanding but not open; at his eyes, bright

and deep and searching, but never soft; at his tall imposing figure;

and fancied myself in idea his wife. Oh! it would never do! As his

curate, his comrade, all would be right: I would cross oceans with him

in that capacity; toil under Eastern suns, in Asian deserts with him

in that office; admire and emulate his courage and devotion and

vigour; accommodate quietly to his masterhood; smile undisturbed at

his ineradicable ambition; discriminate the Christian from the man:

profoundly esteem the one, and freely forgive the other. I should

suffer often, no doubt, attached to him only in this capacity: my body

would be under rather a stringent yoke, but my heart and mind would be

free. I should still have my unblighted self to turn to: my natural

unenslaved feelings with which to communicate in moments of

loneliness. There would be recesses in my mind which would be only

mine, to which he never came, and sentiments growing there fresh and

sheltered which his austerity could never blight, nor his measured

warrior-march trample down: but as his wife- at his side always, and

always restrained, and always checked- forced to keep the fire of my

nature continually low, to compel it to burn inwardly and never

utter a cry, though the imprisoned flame consumed vital after vital-

this would be unendurable.

   'St. John!' I exclaimed, when I had got so far in my meditation.

   'Well?' he answered icily.

   'I repeat I freely consent to go with you as your

fellow-missionary, but not as your wife; I cannot marry you and become

part of you.'

   'A part of me you must become,' he answered steadily: 'otherwise

the whole bargain is void. How can I, a man not yet thirty, take out

with me to India a girl of nineteen, unless she be married to me?

How can we be for ever together- sometimes in solitudes, sometimes

amidst savage tribes- and unwed?'

   'Very well,' I said shortly; 'under the circumstances, quite as

well as if I were either your real sister, or a man and a clergyman

like yourself.'

   'It is known that you are not my sister; I cannot introduce you

as such: to attempt it would be to fasten injurious suspicions on us

both. And for the rest, though you have a man's vigorous brain, you

have a woman's heart and- it would not do.'

   'It would do,' I affirmed with some disdain, 'perfectly well. I

have a woman's heart, but not where you are concerned; for you I

have only a comrade's constancy; a fellow-soldier's frankness,

fidelity, fraternity, if you like; a neophyte's respect and submission

to his hierophant: nothing more- don't fear.'

   'It is what I want,' he said, speaking to himself; 'it is just what

I want. And there are obstacles in the way: they must be hewn down.

Jane, you would not repent marrying me- be certain of that; we must be

married. I repeat it: there is no other way; and undoubtedly enough of

love would follow upon marriage to render the union right even in your

eyes.'

   'I scorn your idea of love,' I could not help saying, as I rose

up and stood before him, leaning my back against the rock. 'I scorn

the counterfeit sentiment you offer: yes, St. John, and I scorn you

when you offer it.'

   He looked at me fixedly, compressing his well-cut lips while he did

so. Whether he was incensed or surprised, or what, it was not easy

to tell: he could command his countenance thoroughly.

   'I scarcely expected to hear that expression from you,' he said: 'I

think I have done and uttered nothing to deserve scorn.'

   I was touched by his gentle tone, and overawed by his high, calm

mien.

   'Forgive me the words, St. John; but it is your own fault that I

have been roused to speak so unguardedly. You have introduced a

topic on which our natures are at variance- a topic we should never

discuss: the very name of love is an apple of discord between us. If

the reality were required, what should we do? How should we feel? My

dear cousin, abandon your scheme of marriage- forget it.'

   'No,' said he; 'it is a long-cherished scheme, and the only one

which can secure my great end: but I shall urge you no further at

present. To-morrow, I leave home for Cambridge: I have many friends

there to whom I should wish to say farewell. I shall be absent a

fortnight- take that space of time to consider my offer: and do not

forget that if you reject it, it is not me you deny, but God.

Through my means, He opens to you a noble career; as my wife only

can you enter upon it. Refuse to be my wife, and you limit yourself

for ever to a track of selfish ease and barren obscurity. Tremble lest

in that case you should be numbered with those who have denied the

faith, and are worse than infidels!'

   He had done. Turning from me, he once more
 
 

                'Looked to river, looked to hill.'
 
 

But this time his feelings were all pent in his heart: I was not

worthy to hear them uttered. As I walked by his side homeward, I

read well in his iron silence all he felt towards me: the

disappointment of an austere and despotic nature, which has met

resistance where it expected submission- the disapprobation of a cool,

inflexible judgment, which has detected in another feelings and

views in which it has no power to sympathise: in short, as a man, he

would have wished to coerce me into obedience: it was only as a

sincere Christian he bore so patiently with my perversity, and allowed

so long a space for reflection and repentance.

   That night, after he had kissed his sisters, he thought proper to

forget even to shake hands with me, but left the room in silence. I-

who, though I had no love, had much friendship for him- was hurt by

the marked omission: so much hurt that tears started to my eyes.

   'I see you and St. John have been quarrelling, Jane,' said Diana,

'during your walk on the moor. But go after him; he is now lingering

in the passage expecting you- he will make it up.'

   I have not much pride under such circumstances: I would always

rather be happy than dignified; and I ran after him- he stood at the

foot of the stairs.

   'Good-night, St. John,' said I.

   'Good-night, Jane,' he replied calmly.

   'Then shake hands,' I added.

   What a cold, loose touch he impressed on my fingers! He was

deeply displeased by what had occurred that day; cordiality would

not warm, nor tears move him. No happy reconciliation was to be had

with him- no cheering smile or generous word: but still the

Christian was patient and placid; and when I asked him if he forgave

me, he answered that he was not in the habit of cherishing the

remembrance of vexation; that he had nothing to forgive, not having

been offended.

   And with that answer he left me. I would much rather he had knocked

me down.