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Title : standard furniture rochester upholstered bed in black

standard furniture rochester upholstered bed in black

chapter xxxiii when mr. st. john went, it was beginning tosnow; the whirling storm continued all night. the next day a keen windbrought fresh and blinding falls; by twilight the valley was driftedup and almost impassable. i had closed my shutter, laid a mat to the doorto prevent the snow from blowing in under it, trimmed my fire, andafter sitting nearly an hour on the hearth listening to the muffled fury ofthe tempest, i lit a candle, took down "marmion," and beginning— "day set on norham's castled steep,and tweed's fair river broad and deep,

and cheviot's mountains lone;the massive towers, the donjon keep, the flanking walls that round them sweep,in yellow lustre shone"— i soon forgot storm in music. i heard a noise: the wind, i thought, shookthe door. no; it was st. john rivers, who, lifting the latch, camein out of the frozen hurricane—the howling darkness—and stoodbefore me: the cloak that covered his tall figure all white as a glacier.i was almost in consternation, so little had i expected anyguest from the blocked-up vale that night.

"any ill news?" i demanded. "has anythinghappened?" "no. how very easily alarmed you are!" heanswered, removing his cloak and hanging it up against the door, towardswhich he again coolly pushed the mat which his entrance had deranged. hestamped the snow from his boots. "i shall sully the purity of your floor,"said he, "but you must excuse me for once." then he approached the fire."i have had hard work to get here, i assure you," he observed, as he warmedhis hands over the flame. "one drift took me up to the waist; happilythe snow is quite soft yet."

"but why are you come?" i could not forbearsaying. "rather an inhospitable question to put toa visitor; but since you ask it, i answer simply to have a little talkwith you; i got tired of my mute books and empty rooms. besides, sinceyesterday i have experienced the excitement of a person to whom a talehas been half-told, and who is impatient to hear the sequel." he sat down. i recalled his singular conductof yesterday, and really i began to fear his wits were touched. if hewere insane, however, his was a very cool and collected insanity: i hadnever seen that

handsome-featured face of his look more likechiselled marble than it did just now, as he put aside his snow-wet hairfrom his forehead and let the firelight shine free on his pale brow andcheek as pale, where it grieved me to discover the hollow trace of care orsorrow now so plainly graved. i waited, expecting he would say somethingi could at least comprehend; but his hand was now at his chin, his fingeron his lip: he was thinking. it struck me that his hand looked wasted likehis face. a perhaps uncalled-for gush of pity came over my heart:i was moved to say— "i wish diana or mary would come and livewith you: it is too bad that

you should be quite alone; and you are recklesslyrash about your own health." "not at all," said he: "i care for myselfwhen necessary. i am well now. what do you see amiss in me?" this was said with a careless, abstractedindifference, which showed that my solicitude was, at least in his opinion,wholly superfluous. i was silenced. he still slowly moved his finger over hisupper lip, and still his eye dwelt dreamily on the glowing grate; thinkingit urgent to say something,

i asked him presently if he felt any colddraught from the door, which was behind him. "no, no!" he responded shortly and somewhattestily. "well," i reflected, "if you won't talk, youmay be still; i'll let you alone now, and return to my book." so i snuffed the candle and resumed the perusalof "marmion." he soon stirred; my eye was instantly drawn to hismovements; he only took out a morocco pocket-book, thence produced a letter,which he read in silence, folded it, put it back, relapsed into meditation.it was vain to try to

read with such an inscrutable fixture beforeme; nor could i, in impatience, consent to be dumb; he might rebuffme if he liked, but talk i would. "have you heard from diana and mary lately?" "not since the letter i showed you a weekago." "there has not been any change made aboutyour own arrangements? you will not be summoned to leave england soonerthan you expected?" "i fear not, indeed: such chance is too goodto befall me." baffled so far, i changed my ground. i bethought myselfto talk about the school

and my scholars. "mary garrett's mother is better, and marycame back to the school this morning, and i shall have four new girls nextweek from the foundry close—they would have come to-day but forthe snow." "indeed!" "mr. oliver pays for two." "does he?" "he means to give the whole school a treatat christmas." "i know."

"was it your suggestion?" "no." "whose, then?" "his daughter's, i think." "it is like her: she is so good-natured." "yes." again came the blank of a pause: the clockstruck eight strokes. it aroused him; he uncrossed his legs, sat erect,turned to me. "leave your book a moment, and come a littlenearer the fire," he said.

wondering, and of my wonder finding no end,i complied. "half-an-hour ago," he pursued, "i spoke ofmy impatience to hear the sequel of a tale: on reflection, i find thematter will be better managed by my assuming the narrator's part, and convertingyou into a listener. before commencing, it is but fair to warnyou that the story will sound somewhat hackneyed in your ears; but staledetails often regain a degree of freshness when they pass through new lips.for the rest, whether trite or novel, it is short. "twenty years ago, a poor curate—never mindhis name at this moment—fell

in love with a rich man's daughter; she fellin love with him, and married him, against the advice of all herfriends, who consequently disowned her immediately after the wedding.before two years passed, the rash pair were both dead, and laid quietlyside by side under one slab. (i have seen their grave; it formed part ofthe pavement of a huge churchyard surrounding the grim, soot-blackold cathedral of an overgrown manufacturing town in —-shire.) they lefta daughter, which, at its very birth, charity received in her lap—coldas that of the snow-drift i almost stuck fast in to-night. charity carriedthe friendless thing to

the house of its rich maternal relations;it was reared by an aunt-in- law, called (i come to names now) mrs. reedof gateshead. you start—did you hear a noise? i daresay it is only a ratscrambling along the rafters of the adjoining schoolroom: it wasa barn before i had it repaired and altered, and barns are generallyhaunted by rats.—to proceed. mrs. reed kept the orphan ten years:whether it was happy or not with her, i cannot say, never having beentold; but at the end of that time she transferred it to a place youknow—being no other than lowood school, where you so long resided yourself.it seems her career

there was very honourable: from a pupil, shebecame a teacher, like yourself—really it strikes me there areparallel points in her history and yours—she left it to be a governess:there, again, your fates were analogous; she undertook the education ofthe ward of a certain mr. rochester." "mr. rivers!" i interrupted. "i can guess your feelings," he said, "butrestrain them for a while: i have nearly finished; hear me to the end.of mr. rochester's character i know nothing, but the one fact that he professedto offer honourable

marriage to this young girl, and that at thevery altar she discovered he had a wife yet alive, though a lunatic. whathis subsequent conduct and proposals were is a matter of pure conjecture;but when an event transpired which rendered inquiry after thegoverness necessary, it was discovered she was gone—no one could tellwhen, where, or how. she had left thornfield hall in the night; every researchafter her course had been vain: the country had been scoured farand wide; no vestige of information could be gathered respecting her.yet that she should be found is become a matter of serious urgency:advertisements have been put

in all the papers; i myself have receiveda letter from one mr. briggs, a solicitor, communicating the details i havejust imparted. is it not an odd tale?" "just tell me this," said i, "and since youknow so much, you surely can tell it me—what of mr. rochester? how andwhere is he? what is he doing? is he well?" "i am ignorant of all concerning mr. rochester:the letter never mentions him but to narrate the fraudulent and illegalattempt i have adverted to. you should rather ask the name of the governess—thenature of the event

which requires her appearance." "did no one go to thornfield hall, then? didno one see mr. rochester?" "i suppose not." "but they wrote to him?" "of course." "and what did he say? who has his letters?" "mr. briggs intimates that the answer to hisapplication was not from mr. rochester, but from a lady: it is signed 'alicefairfax.'" i felt cold and dismayed: my worst fears thenwere probably true: he had

in all probability left england and rushedin reckless desperation to some former haunt on the continent. and whatopiate for his severe sufferings—what object for his strong passions—hadhe sought there? i dared not answer the question. oh, my poormaster—once almost my husband—whom i had often called "my dearedward!" "he must have been a bad man," observed mr.rivers. "you don't know him—don't pronounce an opinionupon him," i said, with warmth. "very well," he answered quietly: "and indeedmy head is otherwise

occupied than with him: i have my tale tofinish. since you won't ask the governess's name, i must tell it of myown accord. stay! i have it here—it is always more satisfactory to seeimportant points written down, fairly committed to black and white." and the pocket-book was again deliberatelyproduced, opened, sought through; from one of its compartments wasextracted a shabby slip of paper, hastily torn off: i recognised in itstexture and its stains of ultra-marine, and lake, and vermillion, theravished margin of the portrait-cover. he got up, held it close tomy eyes: and i read, traced

in indian ink, in my own handwriting, thewords "jane eyre"—the work doubtless of some moment of abstraction. "briggs wrote to me of a jane eyre:" he said,"the advertisements demanded a jane eyre: i knew a jane elliott.—iconfess i had my suspicions, but it was only yesterday afternoonthey were at once resolved into certainty. you own the nameand renounce the _alias_?" "yes—yes; but where is mr. briggs? he perhapsknows more of mr. rochester than you do." "briggs is in london. i should doubt his knowinganything at all about

mr. rochester; it is not in mr. rochesterhe is interested. meantime, you forget essential points in pursuing trifles:you do not inquire why mr. briggs sought after you—what he wantedwith you." "well, what did he want?" "merely to tell you that your uncle, mr. eyreof madeira, is dead; that he has left you all his property, and thatyou are now rich—merely that—nothing more." "i!—rich?" "yes, you, rich—quite an heiress."

silence succeeded. "you must prove your identity of course,"resumed st. john presently: "a step which will offer no difficulties; youcan then enter on immediate possession. your fortune is vested in theenglish funds; briggs has the will and the necessary documents." here was a new card turned up! it is a finething, reader, to be lifted in a moment from indigence to wealth—a veryfine thing; but not a matter one can comprehend, or consequently enjoy,all at once. and then there are other chances in life far more thrillingand rapture-giving: _this_

is solid, an affair of the actual world, nothingideal about it: all its associations are solid and sober, and itsmanifestations are the same. one does not jump, and spring, and shout hurrah!at hearing one has got a fortune; one begins to consider responsibilities,and to ponder business; on a base of steady satisfaction rise certaingrave cares, and we contain ourselves, and brood over our bliss with asolemn brow. besides, the words legacy, bequest, go sideby side with the words, death, funeral. my uncle i had heard was dead—myonly relative; ever since being made aware of his existence, ihad cherished the hope of one

day seeing him: now, i never should. and thenthis money came only to me: not to me and a rejoicing family, butto my isolated self. it was a grand boon doubtless; and independence wouldbe glorious—yes, i felt that—that thought swelled my heart. "you unbend your forehead at last," said mr.rivers. "i thought medusa had looked at you, and that you were turningto stone. perhaps now you will ask how much you are worth?" "how much am i worth?" "oh, a trifle! nothing of course to speakof—twenty thousand pounds, i

think they say—but what is that?" "twenty thousand pounds?" here was a new stunner—i had been calculatingon four or five thousand. this news actually took my breath for a moment:mr. st. john, whom i had never heard laugh before, laughed now. "well," said he, "if you had committed a murder,and i had told you your crime was discovered, you could scarcely lookmore aghast." "it is a large sum—don't you think thereis a mistake?" "no mistake at all."

"perhaps you have read the figures wrong—itmay be two thousand!" "it is written in letters, not figures,—twentythousand." i again felt rather like an individual ofbut average gastronomical powers sitting down to feast alone at a tablespread with provisions for a hundred. mr. rivers rose now and put hiscloak on. "if it were not such a very wild night," hesaid, "i would send hannah down to keep you company: you look too desperatelymiserable to be left alone. but hannah, poor woman! could not stridethe drifts so well as i: her legs are not quite so long: so i muste'en leave you to your sorrows.

good-night." he was lifting the latch: a sudden thoughtoccurred to me. "stop one minute!" i cried. "well?" "it puzzles me to know why mr. briggs wroteto you about me; or how he knew you, or could fancy that you, livingin such an out-of-the-way place, had the power to aid in my discovery." "oh! i am a clergyman," he said; "and theclergy are often appealed to about odd matters." again the latch rattled.

"no; that does not satisfy me!" i exclaimed:and indeed there was something in the hasty and unexplanatory replywhich, instead of allaying, piqued my curiosity more than ever. "it is a very strange piece of business,"i added; "i must know more about it." "another time." "no; to-night!—to-night!" and as he turnedfrom the door, i placed myself between it and him. he looked ratherembarrassed. "you certainly shall not go till you havetold me all," i said.

"i would rather not just now." "you shall!—you must!" "i would rather diana or mary informed you." of course these objections wrought my eagernessto a climax: gratified it must be, and that without delay; and i toldhim so. "but i apprised you that i was a hard man,"said he, "difficult to persuade." "and i am a hard woman,—impossible to putoff." {and i am a hard woman,—impossible to putoff: p369.jpg}

"and then," he pursued, "i am cold: no fervourinfects me." "whereas i am hot, and fire dissolves ice.the blaze there has thawed all the snow from your cloak; by the sametoken, it has streamed on to my floor, and made it like a trampled street.as you hope ever to be forgiven, mr. rivers, the high crime and misdemeanourof spoiling a sanded kitchen, tell me what i wish to know." "well, then," he said, "i yield; if not toyour earnestness, to your perseverance: as stone is worn by continualdropping. besides, you must know some day,—as well now as later. yourname is jane eyre?"

"of course: that was all settled before." "you are not, perhaps, aware that i am yournamesake?—that i was christened st. john eyre rivers?" "no, indeed! i remember now seeing the lettere. comprised in your initials written in books you have at differenttimes lent me; but i never asked for what name it stood. but whatthen? surely—" i stopped: i could not trust myself to entertain,much less to express, the thought that rushed upon me—that embodieditself,—that, in a second, stood out a strong, solid probability.circumstances knit

themselves, fitted themselves, shot into order:the chain that had been lying hitherto a formless lump of links wasdrawn out straight,—every ring was perfect, the connection complete.i knew, by instinct, how the matter stood, before st. john had said anotherword; but i cannot expect the reader to have the same intuitive perception,so i must repeat his explanation. "my mother's name was eyre; she had two brothers;one a clergyman, who married miss jane reed, of gateshead; theother, john eyre, esq., merchant, late of funchal, madeira. mr. briggs,being mr. eyre's

solicitor, wrote to us last august to informus of our uncle's death, and to say that he had left his property to hisbrother the clergyman's orphan daughter, overlooking us, in consequenceof a quarrel, never forgiven, between him and my father. he wroteagain a few weeks since, to intimate that the heiress was lost, andasking if we knew anything of her. a name casually written on a slip ofpaper has enabled me to find her out. you know the rest." again he wasgoing, but i set my back against the door. "do let me speak," i said; "let me have onemoment to draw breath and

reflect." i paused—he stood before me, hatin hand, looking composed enough. i resumed— "your mother was my father's sister?" "my aunt, consequently?" he bowed. "my uncle john was your uncle john? you, diana,and mary are his sister's children, as i am his brother's child?" "undeniably." "you three, then, are my cousins; half ourblood on each side flows from

the same source?" "we are cousins; yes." i surveyed him. it seemed i had found a brother:one i could be proud of,—one i could love; and two sisters, whosequalities were such, that, when i knew them but as mere strangers, theyhad inspired me with genuine affection and admiration. the two girls, onwhom, kneeling down on the wet ground, and looking through the low, latticedwindow of moor house kitchen, i had gazed with so bitter a mixtureof interest and despair, were my near kinswomen; and the young andstately gentleman who had found

me almost dying at his threshold was my bloodrelation. glorious discovery to a lonely wretch! this was wealthindeed!—wealth to the heart!—a mine of pure, genial affections.this was a blessing, bright, vivid, and exhilarating;—not like the ponderousgift of gold: rich and welcome enough in its way, but sobering fromits weight. i now clapped my hands in sudden joy—my pulse bounded,my veins thrilled. "oh, i am glad!—i am glad!" i exclaimed. st. john smiled. "did i not say you neglectedessential points to pursue trifles?" he asked. "you were serious wheni told you you had got a

fortune; and now, for a matter of no moment,you are excited." "what can you mean? it may be of no momentto you; you have sisters and don't care for a cousin; but i had nobody;and now three relations,—or two, if you don't choose to be counted,—areborn into my world full-grown. i say again, i am glad!" i walked fast through the room: i stopped,half suffocated with the thoughts that rose faster than i could receive,comprehend, settle them:—thoughts of what might, could, would,and should be, and that ere long. i looked at the blank wall: it seemeda sky thick with ascending

stars,—every one lit me to a purpose ordelight. those who had saved my life, whom, till this hour, i had loved barrenly,i could now benefit. they were under a yoke,—i could free them:they were scattered,—i could reunite them: the independence, the affluencewhich was mine, might be theirs too. were we not four? twenty thousandpounds shared equally would be five thousand each, justice—enoughand to spare: justice would be done,—mutual happiness secured. now thewealth did not weigh on me: now it was not a mere bequest of coin,—itwas a legacy of life, hope, enjoyment.

how i looked while these ideas were takingmy spirit by storm, i cannot tell; but i perceived soon that mr. rivershad placed a chair behind me, and was gently attempting to make me sit downon it. he also advised me to be composed; i scorned the insinuationof helplessness and distraction, shook off his hand, and beganto walk about again. "write to diana and mary to-morrow," i said,"and tell them to come home directly. diana said they would both considerthemselves rich with a thousand pounds, so with five thousand theywill do very well." "tell me where i can get you a glass of water,"said st. john; "you must

really make an effort to tranquillise yourfeelings." "nonsense! and what sort of an effect willthe bequest have on you? will it keep you in england, induce you to marrymiss oliver, and settle down like an ordinary mortal?" "you wander: your head becomes confused. ihave been too abrupt in communicating the news; it has excited youbeyond your strength." "mr. rivers! you quite put me out of patience:i am rational enough; it is you who misunderstand, or rather who affectto misunderstand." "perhaps, if you explained yourself a littlemore fully, i should

comprehend better." "explain! what is there to explain? you cannotfail to see that twenty thousand pounds, the sum in question, dividedequally between the nephew and three nieces of our uncle, will give fivethousand to each? what i want is, that you should write to your sistersand tell them of the fortune that has accrued to them." "to you, you mean." "i have intimated my view of the case: i amincapable of taking any other. i am not brutally selfish, blindlyunjust, or fiendishly

ungrateful. besides, i am resolved i willhave a home and connections. i like moor house, and i will live at moor house;i like diana and mary, and i will attach myself for life to dianaand mary. it would please and benefit me to have five thousand pounds; itwould torment and oppress me to have twenty thousand; which, moreover,could never be mine in justice, though it might in law. i abandon to you,then, what is absolutely superfluous to me. let there be no opposition,and no discussion about it; let us agree amongst each other, and decidethe point at once." "this is acting on first impulses; you musttake days to consider such a

matter, ere your word can be regarded as valid." "oh! if all you doubt is my sincerity, i ameasy: you see the justice of the case?" "i _do_ see a certain justice; but it is contraryto all custom. besides, the entire fortune is your right: my unclegained it by his own efforts; he was free to leave it to whom he would:he left it to you. after all, justice permits you to keep it: you may, witha clear conscience, consider it absolutely your own." "with me," said i, "it is fully as much amatter of feeling as of

conscience: i must indulge my feelings; iso seldom have had an opportunity of doing so. were you to argue,object, and annoy me for a year, i could not forego the delicious pleasureof which i have caught a glimpse—that of repaying, in part, a mightyobligation, and winning to myself lifelong friends." "you think so now," rejoined st. john, "becauseyou do not know what it is to possess, nor consequently to enjoy wealth:you cannot form a notion of the importance twenty thousand pounds wouldgive you; of the place it would enable you to take in society; of theprospects it would open to

you: you cannot—" "and you," i interrupted, "cannot at all imaginethe craving i have for fraternal and sisterly love. i never had ahome, i never had brothers or sisters; i must and will have them now: youare not reluctant to admit me and own me, are you?" "jane, i will be your brother—my sisterswill be your sisters—without stipulating for this sacrifice of your justrights." "brother? yes; at the distance of a thousandleagues! sisters? yes; slaving amongst strangers! i, wealthy—gorgedwith gold i never earned

and do not merit! you, penniless! famous equalityand fraternisation! close union! intimate attachment!" "but, jane, your aspirations after familyties and domestic happiness may be realised otherwise than by the means youcontemplate: you may marry." "nonsense, again! marry! i don't want to marry,and never shall marry." "that is saying too much: such hazardous affirmationsare a proof of the excitement under which you labour." "it is not saying too much: i know what ifeel, and how averse are my inclinations to the bare thought of marriage.no one would take me for

love; and i will not be regarded in the lightof a mere money speculation. and i do not want a stranger—unsympathising,alien, different from me; i want my kindred: thosewith whom i have full fellow- feeling. say again you will be my brother:when you uttered the words i was satisfied, happy; repeat them, if youcan, repeat them sincerely." "i think i can. i know i have always lovedmy own sisters; and i know on what my affection for them is grounded,—respectfor their worth and admiration of their talents. you too haveprinciple and mind: your tastes and habits resemble diana's and mary's;your presence is always

agreeable to me; in your conversation i havealready for some time found a salutary solace. i feel i can easily andnaturally make room in my heart for you, as my third and youngest sister." "thank you: that contents me for to-night.now you had better go; for if you stay longer, you will perhaps irritateme afresh by some mistrustful scruple." "and the school, miss eyre? it must now beshut up, i suppose?" "no. i will retain my post of mistress tillyou get a substitute." he smiled approbation: we shook hands, andhe took leave.

i need not narrate in detail the further strugglesi had, and arguments i used, to get matters regarding the legacysettled as i wished. my task was a very hard one; but, as i was absolutelyresolved—as my cousins saw at length that my mind was really and immutablyfixed on making a just division of the property—as they must intheir own hearts have felt the equity of the intention; and must, besides,have been innately conscious that in my place they would have done preciselywhat i wished to do—they yielded at length so far as to consent toput the affair to arbitration. the judges chosen were mr. oliver and an ablelawyer: both coincided in

my opinion: i carried my point. the instrumentsof transfer were drawn out: st. john, diana, mary, and i, each becamepossessed of a competency. chapter xxxiv it was near christmas by the time all wassettled: the season of general holiday approached. i now closed morton school,taking care that the parting should not be barren on my side. goodfortune opens the hand as well as the heart wonderfully; and to givesomewhat when we have largely received, is but to afford a vent to the unusualebullition of the sensations. i had long felt with pleasurethat many of my rustic

scholars liked me, and when we parted, thatconsciousness was confirmed: they manifested their affection plainly andstrongly. deep was my gratification to find i had really a placein their unsophisticated hearts: i promised them that never a weekshould pass in future that i did not visit them, and give them an hour'steaching in their school. mr. rivers came up as, having seen the classes,now numbering sixty girls, file out before me, and locked thedoor, i stood with the key in my hand, exchanging a few words of specialfarewell with some half-dozen of my best scholars: as decent, respectable,modest, and well-informed

young women as could be found in the ranksof the british peasantry. and that is saying a great deal; for after all,the british peasantry are the best taught, best mannered, most self-respectingof 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 rewardfor a season of exertion?" asked mr. rivers, when they were gone. "doesnot the consciousness of having done some real good in your day andgeneration give pleasure?"

"doubtless." "and you have only toiled a few months! wouldnot a life devoted to the task of regenerating your race be well spent?" "yes," i said; "but i could not go on forever so: i want to enjoy my own faculties as well as to cultivate those ofother people. i must enjoy them now; don't recall either my mind or bodyto the school; i am out of it and disposed for full holiday." he looked grave. "what now? what sudden eagernessis this you evince? what are you going to do?"

"to be active: as active as i can. and firsti must beg you to set hannah at liberty, and get somebody else towait on you." "do you want her?" "yes, to go with me to moor house. diana andmary will be at home in a week, and i want to have everything in orderagainst their arrival." "i understand. i thought you were for flyingoff on some excursion. it is better so: hannah shall go with you." "tell her to be ready by to-morrow then; andhere is the schoolroom key: i will give you the key of my cottage in themorning."

he took it. "you give it up very gleefully,"said he; "i don't quite understand your light-heartedness, becausei cannot tell what employment you propose to yourself as a substitute forthe one you are relinquishing. what aim, what purpose, whatambition in life have you now?" "my first aim will be to _clean down_ (doyou comprehend the full force of the expression?)—to _clean down_ moorhouse from chamber to cellar; my next to rub it up with bees-wax, oil, andan 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 goodfires in every room; and lastly, the two days preceding that on whichyour sisters are expected will be devoted by hannah and me to such abeating of eggs, sorting of currants, grating of spices, compounding ofchristmas cakes, chopping up of materials for mince-pies, and solemnisingof other culinary rites, as words can convey but an inadequate notionof to the uninitiated like you. my purpose, in short, is to have all thingsin an absolutely perfect state of readiness for diana and mary beforenext thursday; and my

ambition is to give them a beau-ideal of awelcome when they come." st. john smiled slightly: still he was dissatisfied. "it is all very well for the present," saidhe; "but seriously, i trust that when the first flush of vivacity is over,you will look a little higher than domestic endearments and householdjoys." "the best things the world has!" i interrupted. "no, jane, no: this world is not the sceneof fruition; do not attempt to make it so: nor of rest; do not turn slothful." "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, andfor pleasing yourself with this late-found charm of relationship; but_then_, i hope you will begin to look beyond moor house and morton, andsisterly society, and the selfish calm and sensual comfort of civilisedaffluence. i hope your energies will then once more trouble you withtheir strength." i looked at him with surprise. "st. john,"i said, "i think you are almost wicked to talk so. i am disposed tobe as content as a queen, and you try to stir me up to restlessness! towhat end?"

"to the end of turning to profit the talentswhich god has committed to your keeping; and of which he will surelyone day demand a strict account. jane, i shall watch you closely andanxiously—i warn you of that. and try to restrain the disproportionatefervour with which you throw yourself into commonplace home pleasures.don't cling so tenaciously to ties of the flesh; save yourconstancy and ardour for an adequate cause; forbear to waste them on tritetransient 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. goodbye!" happy at moor house i was, and hard i worked;and so did hannah: she was charmed to see how jovial i could be amidstthe 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 worseconfounded, it was delightful by degrees to invoke order fromthe chaos ourselves had made. i had previously taken a journey to s—-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 forthat purpose. the ordinary

sitting-room and bedrooms i left much as theywere: for i knew diana and mary would derive more pleasure from seeingagain the old homely tables, and chairs, and beds, than from the spectacleof the smartest innovations. still some novelty was necessary,to give to their return the piquancy with which i wished it to beinvested. dark handsome new carpets and curtains, an arrangement of somecarefully selected antique ornaments in porcelain and bronze, new coverings,and mirrors, and dressing-cases, for the toilet tables, answeredthe end: they looked fresh without being glaring. a spare parlourand bedroom i refurnished

entirely, with old mahogany and crimson upholstery:i laid canvas on the passage, and carpets on the stairs. when allwas finished, i thought moor house as complete a model of bright modestsnugness within, as it was, at this season, a specimen of wintrywaste and desert dreariness without. the eventful thursday at length came. theywere 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 wasin readiness. st. john arrived first. i had entreated himto keep quite clear of the

house till everything was arranged: and, indeed,the bare idea of the commotion, at once sordid and trivial, goingon within its walls sufficed to scare him to estrangement. he found mein the kitchen, watching the progress of certain cakes for tea, then baking.approaching the hearth, he asked, "if i was at last satisfied withhousemaid's work?" i answered by inviting him to accompany me on a generalinspection of the result of my labours. with some difficulty, i got himto 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 havegone through a great deal of

fatigue and trouble to have effected suchconsiderable changes in so short a time: but not a syllable did he utterindicating pleasure in the improved aspect of his abode. this silence damped me. i thought perhapsthe alterations had disturbed some old associations he valued. i inquiredwhether this was the case: no doubt in a somewhat crest-fallen tone. "not at all; he had, on the contrary, remarkedthat i had scrupulously respected every association: he feared, indeed,i must have bestowed more thought on the matter than it was worth. howmany minutes, for instance,

had i devoted to studying the arrangementof this very room?—by-the-bye, could i tell him where such a book was?" i showed him the volume on the shelf: he tookit down, and withdrawing to his accustomed window recess, he began toread it. now, i did not like this, reader. st. johnwas a good man; but i began to feel he had spoken truth of himself whenhe said he was hard and cold. the humanities and amenities of life had noattraction for him—its peaceful enjoyments no charm. literally, helived only to aspire—after what was good and great, certainly; but stillhe would never rest, nor

approve of others resting round him. as ilooked at his lofty forehead, still and pale as a white stone—at his finelineaments fixed in study—i comprehended all at once that he would hardlymake 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 missoliver; i agreed with him that it was but a love of the senses. i comprehendedhow he should despise himself for the feverish influenceit exercised over him; how he should wish to stifle and destroy it; howhe should mistrust its ever conducting permanently to his happiness orhers. i saw he was of the

material from which nature hews her heroes—christianand 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 guineacoast swamp would suit him better. well may he eschew the calm of domesticlife; it is not his element: there his faculties stagnate—theycannot develop or appear to advantage. it is in scenes of strife and danger—wherecourage is

proved, and energy exercised, and fortitudetasked—that he will speak and move, the leader and superior. a merrychild would have the advantage of him on this hearth. he is rightto choose a missionary's career—i see it now." "they are coming! they are coming!" criedhannah, throwing open the parlour door. at the same moment old carlobarked joyfully. out i ran. it was now dark; but a rumbling of wheelswas audible. hannah soon had a lantern lit. the vehicle had stopped at thewicket; the driver opened the door: first one well-known form, thenanother, 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 halfwild with delight; asked eagerly if all was well; and being assuredin the affirmative, hastened into the house. they were stiff with their long and joltingdrive from whitcross, and chilled with the frosty night air; but theirpleasant countenances expanded to the cheerful firelight. whilethe driver and hannah brought in the boxes, they demanded st. john. at thismoment he advanced from

the parlour. they both threw their arms roundhis neck at once. he gave each one quiet kiss, said in a low tone afew words of welcome, stood a while to be talked to, and then, intimatingthat he supposed they would soon rejoin him in the parlour, withdrew thereas to a place of refuge. i had lit their candles to go upstairs, butdiana had first to give hospitable orders respecting the driver; thisdone, both followed me. they were delighted with the renovation anddecorations of their rooms; with the new drapery, and fresh carpets, andrich tinted china vases: they expressed their gratification ungrudgingly.i had the pleasure of

feeling that my arrangements met their wishesexactly, and that what i had done added a vivid charm to their joyousreturn home. sweet was that evening. my cousins, full ofexhilaration, were so eloquent in narrative and comment, that theirfluency covered st. john's taciturnity: he was sincerely glad to seehis 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—pleasedhim; but the accompaniments of that event, the glad tumult,the garrulous glee of reception irked him: i saw he wished the calmermorrow was come. in the

very meridian of the night's enjoyment, aboutan hour after tea, a rap was heard at the door. hannah entered withthe intimation that "a poor lad was come, at that unlikely time, to fetchmr. rivers to see his mother, who was drawing away." "where does she live, hannah?" "clear up at whitcross brow, almost four milesoff, and moor and moss all the way." "tell him i will go." "i'm sure, sir, you had better not. it's theworst road to travel after

dark that can be: there's no track at allover the bog. and then it is such a bitter night—the keenest wind youever felt. you had better send word, sir, that you will be there in the morning." but he was already in the passage, puttingon his cloak; and without one objection, one murmur, he departed. it wasthen nine o'clock: he did not return till midnight. starved and tired enoughhe was: but he looked happier than when he set out. he had performedan act of duty; made an exertion; felt his own strength to do anddeny, and was on better terms with himself.

i am afraid the whole of the ensuing weektried his patience. it was christmas week: we took to no settled employment,but spent it in a sort of merry domestic dissipation. the air ofthe moors, the freedom of home, the dawn of prosperity, acted on dianaand mary's spirits like some life-giving elixir: they were gay from morningtill noon, and from noon till night. they could always talk; and theirdiscourse, witty, pithy, original, had such charms for me, that i preferredlistening to, and sharing in it, to doing anything else. st.john did not rebuke our vivacity; but he escaped from it: he was seldomin the house; his parish

was large, the population scattered, and hefound daily business in visiting the sick and poor in its differentdistricts. one morning at breakfast, diana, after lookinga little pensive for some minutes, asked him, "if his plans were yetunchanged." "unchanged and unchangeable," was the reply.and he proceeded to inform us that his departure from england was nowdefinitively fixed for the ensuing year. "and rosamond oliver?" suggested mary, thewords seeming to escape her lips involuntarily: for no sooner had sheuttered 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—heclosed it, and looked up. "rosamond oliver," said he, "is about to bemarried to mr. granby, one of the best connected and most estimable residentsin s-, grandson and heir to sir frederic granby: i had the intelligencefrom 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 two months: they met in october at thecounty ball at s-. but where there are no obstacles to a union, as in thepresent case, where the connection is in every point desirable, delaysare unnecessary: they will be married as soon as s—- place, which sirfrederic gives up to them, can he refitted for their reception." the first time i found st. john alone afterthis communication, i felt tempted to inquire if the event distressedhim: but he seemed so little to need sympathy, that, so far from venturingto offer him more, i

experienced some shame at the recollectionof what i had already hazarded. besides, i was out of practice intalking to him: his reserve was again frozen over, and my frankness wascongealed beneath it. he had not kept his promise of treating me like hissisters; he continually made little chilling differences between us, whichdid not at all tend to the development of cordiality: in short, now thati was acknowledged his kinswoman, and lived under the same roof withhim, i felt the distance between us to be far greater than when hehad known me only as the village schoolmistress. when i rememberedhow far i had once been

admitted to his confidence, i could hardlycomprehend his present frigidity. such being the case, i felt not a little surprisedwhen he raised his head suddenly from the desk over which hewas stooping, and said— "you see, jane, the battle is fought and thevictory won." startled at being thus addressed, i did notimmediately reply: after a moment's hesitation i answered— "but are you sure you are not in the positionof those conquerors whose triumphs have cost them too dear? would notsuch another ruin you?"

"i think not; and if i were, it does not muchsignify; i shall never be called upon to contend for such another. theevent of the conflict is decisive: my way is now clear; i thank godfor 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 usualhabits and regular studies, st. john stayed more at home: he sat withus in the same room, sometimes for hours together. while mary drew, dianapursued a course of encyclopaedic reading she had (to my awe andamazement) undertaken, and i

fagged away at german, he pondered a mysticlore of his own: that of some eastern tongue, the acquisition of which hethought necessary to his plans. thus engaged, he appeared, sitting in hisown recess, quiet and absorbed enough; but that blue eye of his had a habitof leaving the outlandish- looking grammar, and wandering over, and sometimesfixing upon us, his fellow-students, with a curious intensityof observation: if caught, it would be instantly withdrawn; yet ever andanon, it returned searchingly to our table. i wondered what it meant: iwondered, too, at the punctual

satisfaction he never failed to exhibit onan occasion that seemed to me of small moment, namely, my weekly visit tomorton 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 urgedme 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 wouldmake her," he would say: "she can bear a mountain blast, or a shower, ora few flakes of snow, as well as any of us. her constitution is both soundand elastic;—better

calculated to endure variations of climatethan many more robust." and when i returned, sometimes a good dealtired, and not a little weather-beaten, i never dared complain, becausei saw that to murmur would be to vex him: on all occasions fortitudepleased him; the reverse was a special annoyance. one afternoon, however, i got leave to stayat home, because i really had a cold. his sisters were gone to morton inmy stead: i sat reading schiller; he, deciphering his crabbed orientalscrolls. as i exchanged a translation for an exercise, i happened tolook his way: there i found

myself under the influence of the ever-watchfulblue 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 feltfor the moment superstitious—as if i were sitting in theroom 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: andi will tell you why."

he then went on to explain that hindostaneewas the language he was himself at present studying; that, as he advanced,he was apt to forget the commencement; that it would assist himgreatly to have a pupil with whom he might again and again go over theelements, and so fix them thoroughly in his mind; that his choice hadhovered for some time between me and his sisters; but that he had fixedon me because he saw i could sit at a task the longest of the three. wouldi do him this favour? i should not, perhaps, have to make the sacrificelong, 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 orpleasure, was deep-graved and permanent. i consented. when diana and maryreturned, the former found her scholar transferred from her to her brother:she laughed, and both she and mary agreed that st. john should neverhave 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 wheni fulfilled his expectations,

he, in his own way, fully testified his approbation.by degrees, he acquired a certain influence over me thattook away my liberty of mind: his praise and notice were more restrainingthan his indifference. i could no longer talk or laugh freely whenhe was by, because a tiresomely importunate instinct reminded me that vivacity(at least in me) was distasteful to him. i was so fully aware thatonly serious moods and occupations were acceptable, that in his presenceevery effort to sustain or follow any other became vain: i fell undera 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 sistersand i stood round him, bidding him good-night, he kissed each of them, aswas 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 painfullycontrolled by his will; for hers, in another way, was as strong), exclaimed— "st. john! you used to call jane your thirdsister, but you don't treat her as such: you should kiss her too." she pushed me towards him. i thought dianavery provoking, and felt

uncomfortably confused; and while i was thusthinking and feeling, st. john bent his head; his greek face was broughtto a level with mine, his eyes questioned my eyes piercingly—he kissedme. there are no such things as marble kisses or ice kisses, ori should say my ecclesiastical cousin's salute belonged to one of these classes;but there may be experiment kisses, and his was an experimentkiss. 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 neveromitted the ceremony

afterwards, and the gravity and quiescencewith which i underwent it, seemed to invest it for him with a certaincharm. 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 originalbent, force myself to the adoption of pursuits for which i had no naturalvocation. he wanted to train me to an elevation i could never reach;it racked me hourly to aspire to the standard he uplifted. the thingwas as impossible as to mould my irregular features to his correctand classic pattern, to give

to my changeable green eyes the sea-blue tintand solemn lustre of his own. not his ascendancy alone, however, held mein thrall at present. of late it had been easy enough for me to look sad:a cankering evil sat at my heart and drained my happiness at its source—theevil 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 coulddisperse, nor a sand-traced effigy storms could wash away;it was a name graven on a

tablet, fated to last as long as the marbleit 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 thinkof that; and now at moor house, i sought my bedroom each night to broodover it. in the course of my necessary correspondencewith mr. briggs about the will, i had inquired if he knew anything ofmr. rochester's present residence and state of health; but, as st.john had conjectured, he was quite ignorant of all concerning him. i thenwrote to mrs. fairfax, entreating information on the subject. i hadcalculated with certainty

on this step answering my end: i felt sureit would elicit an early answer. i was astonished when a fortnightpassed without reply; but when two months wore away, and day after day thepost arrived and brought nothing for me, i fell a prey to the keenestanxiety. i wrote again: there was a chance of my firstletter having missed. renewed hope followed renewed effort: it shonelike 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 couldnot enjoy. summer approached; diana tried to cheer me: she saidi looked ill, and wished to accompany me to the sea-side. this st. johnopposed; he said i did not want dissipation, i wanted employment; mypresent life was too purposeless, i required an aim; and, i suppose,by way of supplying deficiencies, he prolonged still further mylessons in hindostanee, and grew more urgent in requiring their accomplishment:and i, like a fool, never thought of resisting him—i could notresist him. one day i had come to my studies in lowerspirits than usual; the ebb was

occasioned by a poignantly felt disappointment.hannah had told me in the morning there was a letter for me, andwhen i went down to take it, almost certain that the long-looked for tidingswere vouchsafed me at last, i found only an unimportant note frommr. briggs on business. the bitter check had wrung from me some tears;and now, as i sat poring over the crabbed characters and flourishing tropesof an indian scribe, my eyes filled again. st. john called me to his side to read; inattempting to do this my voice failed me: words were lost in sobs. he andi were the only occupants of

the parlour: diana was practising her musicin 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 youare more composed." and while i smothered the paroxysm with all haste,he sat calm and patient, leaning on his desk, and looking like a physicianwatching with the eye of science an expected and fully understoodcrisis in a patient's malady. having stifled my sobs, wiped my eyes, andmuttered something about not

being very well that morning, i resumed mytask, and succeeded in completing it. st. john put away my booksand his, locked his desk, and said— "now, jane, you shall take a walk; and withme." "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 haveknown any medium in my dealings

with positive, hard characters, antagonisticto my own, between absolute submission and determined revolt. i have alwaysfaithfully observed the one, up to the very moment of bursting, sometimeswith volcanic vehemence, into the other; and as neitherpresent circumstances warranted, nor my present mood inclined meto mutiny, i observed careful obedience to st. john's directions; and inten minutes i was treading the wild track of the glen, side by side withhim. the breeze was from the west: it came overthe hills, sweet with scents of heath and rush; the sky was of stainlessblue; 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 enamelledwith 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 reachedthe first stragglers of a battalion of rocks, guarding a sort of pass,beyond which the beck rushed down a waterfall; and where, stilla little farther, the mountain

shook off turf and flower, had only heathfor raiment and crag for gem—where it exaggerated the wild to thesavage, and exchanged the fresh for the frowning—where it guarded the forlornhope of solitude, and a last refuge for silence. i took a seat: st. john stood near me. helooked up the pass and down the hollow; his glance wandered away withthe stream, and returned to traverse the unclouded heaven which colouredit: 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 badefarewell 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—whenanother slumber overcomes me—on the shore of a darker stream!" strange words of a strange love! an austerepatriot's passion for his fatherland! he sat down; for half-an-hourwe never spoke; neither he to me nor i to him: that interval past, he recommenced— "jane, i go in six weeks; i have taken myberth in an east indiaman which sails on the 20th of june." "god will protect you; for you have undertakenhis 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 underhuman guidance, subject to the defective laws and erring control of myfeeble 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 thesame banner,—to join in the same enterprise." "all have not your powers, and it would befolly for the feeble to wish to march with the strong." "i do not speak to the feeble, or think ofthem: i address only such as

are worthy of the work, and competent to accomplishit." "those are few in number, and difficult todiscover." "you say truly; but when found, it is rightto stir them up—to urge and exhort them to the effort—to show them whattheir gifts are, and why they were given—to speak heaven's messagein their ear,—to offer them, direct from god, a place in the ranks of hischosen." "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 roundand gathering over me: i

trembled to hear some fatal word spoken whichwould at once declare and rivet the spell. "and what does _your_ heart say?" demandedst. john. "my heart is mute,—my heart is mute," ianswered, struck and thrilled. "then i must speak for it," continued thedeep, relentless voice. "jane, come with me to india: come as my helpmeetand 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 visionarymessenger, like him of macedonia, had enounced, "come over and helpus!" but i was no

apostle,—i could not behold the herald,—icould not receive his call. "oh, st. john!" i cried, "have some mercy!" i appealed to one who, in the discharge ofwhat he believed his duty, knew neither mercy nor remorse. he continued— "god and nature intended you for a missionary'swife. it is not personal, but mental endowments they havegiven you: you are formed for labour, not for love. a missionary's wifeyou 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 thecrag 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 takenin a stock of patience to last him to its close—resolved, however, thatthat close should be conquest for him. "humility, jane," said he, "is the groundworkof 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 himselfworthy of the summons? i, for instance, am but dust and ashes. withst. paul, i acknowledge myself the chiefest of sinners; but i do not sufferthis sense of my personal vileness to daunt me. i know my leader: thathe is just as well as mighty; and while he has chosen a feeble instrumentto perform a great task, he will, from the boundless stores ofhis providence, supply the inadequacy of the means to the end. thinklike 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: ihave never studied missionary labours." "there i, humble as i am, can give you theaid you want: i can set you your task from hour to hour; stand by youalways; 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 counsellingor cheering. oh, i

wish i could make you see how much my mindis at this moment like a rayless dungeon, with one shrinking fear fetteredin its depths—the fear of being persuaded by you to attempt whati cannot accomplish!" "i have an answer for you—hear it. i havewatched you ever since we first met: i have made you my study for tenmonths. i have proved you in that time by sundry tests: and what have iseen 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 couldwin while you controlled. in

the calm with which you learnt you had becomesuddenly rich, i read a mind clear of the vice of demas:—lucre hadno undue power over you. in the resolute readiness with which you cutyour wealth into four shares, keeping but one to yourself, and relinquishingthe three others to the claim of abstract justice, i recognised asoul that revelled in the flame and excitement of sacrifice. in the tractabilitywith which, at my wish, you forsook a study in which you were interested,and adopted another because it interested me; in the untiringassiduity with which you have since persevered in it—in the unflaggingenergy and unshaken temper with

which you have met its difficulties—i acknowledgethe 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 indianwomen, your assistance will be to me invaluable." my iron shroud contracted round me; persuasionadvanced with slow sure step. shut my eyes as i would, these lastwords of his succeeded in making the way, which had seemed blocked up,comparatively clear. my

work, which had appeared so vague, so hopelesslydiffuse, condensed itself as he proceeded, and assumed a definiteform under his shaping hand. he waited for an answer. i demandeda 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 ofheath, and there lay still. {he threw himself down on a swell of heath,and there lay still: p389.jpg} "i _can_ do what he wants me to do: i am forcedto see and acknowledge

that," i meditated,—"that is, if life bespared me. but i feel mine is not the existence to be long protracted underan indian sun. what then? he does not care for that: when my time cameto die, he would resign me, in all serenity and sanctity, to the god whogave me. the case is very plain before me. in leaving england, i shouldleave a loved but empty land—mr. rochester is not there; and ifhe were, what is, what can that ever be to me? my business is to live withouthim now: nothing so absurd, so weak as to drag on from day today, as if i were waiting some impossible change in circumstances, whichmight reunite me to him. of

course (as st. john once said) i must seekanother interest in life to replace the one lost: is not the occupationhe 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 calculatedto fill the void left by uptorn affections and demolished hopes? ibelieve i must say, yes—and yet i shudder. alas! if i join st. john, iabandon half myself: if i go to india, i go to premature death. and howwill the interval between leaving england for india, and india for thegrave, be filled? oh, i know well! that, too, is very clear to myvision. by straining to

satisfy st. john till my sinews ache, i _shall_satisfy him—to the finest central point and farthest outwardcircle of his expectations. if i _do_ go with him—if i _do_ make the sacrificehe 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 shallapprove me; i will show him energies he has not yet seen, resources hehas never suspected. yes, i can work as hard as he can, and with as littlegrudging. "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 frowninggiant of a rock, down which the stream is foaming in yonder gorge. he prizesme as a soldier would a good weapon; and that is all. unmarried tohim, this would never grieve me; but can i let him complete his calculations—coollyput 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 spiritwas quite absent? can i bear the consciousness that every endearmenthe bestows is a sacrifice made on principle? no: such a martyrdom wouldbe monstrous. i will

never undergo it. as his sister, i might accompanyhim—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 watchfuland 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 betternot marry."

he shook his head. "adopted fraternity willnot 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 mustbe consecrated and sealed by marriage, or it cannot exist: practical obstaclesoppose themselves to any other plan. do you not see it, jane? considera moment—your strong sense will guide you." i did consider; and still my sense, such asit was, directed me only to the fact that we did not love each other asman 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, withshort, sharp determination: "it would not do. you have said you will go withme to india: remember—you have said that." "conditionally." "well—well. to the main point—the departurewith me from england, the co-operation with me in my future labours—youdo 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 keepin view—how the work you have undertaken can best be done. simplify yourcomplicated interests, feelings, thoughts, wishes, aims; merge allconsiderations in one purpose: that of fulfilling with effect—withpower—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, donot 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 retainabsolutely till death." i shuddered as he spoke: i felt his influencein 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—fittedto my vocation. again i tell you it is not the insignificant private individual—themere man, with the man's selfish senses—i wish to mate:it is the missionary." "and i will give the missionary my energies—itis all he wants—but not myself: that would be only adding the huskand shell to the kernel. for them he has no use: i retain them." "you cannot—you ought not. do you thinkgod 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 ienlist you. i cannot accept on his behalf a divided allegiance: it mustbe entire." "oh! i will give my heart to god," i said."_you_ do not want it." i will not swear, reader, that there was notsomething of repressed sarcasm both in the tone in which i utteredthis sentence, and in the feeling that accompanied it. i had silentlyfeared st. john till now, because i had not understood him. he had heldme 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 werebeing made in this conference: the analysis of his nature was proceedingbefore my eyes. i saw his fallibilities: i comprehended them. i understoodthat, sitting there where i did, on the bank of heath, and withthat handsome form before me, i sat at the feet of a man, caring as i. theveil fell from his hardness and despotism. having felt in him the presenceof these qualities, i felt his imperfection and took courage. iwas 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 lastsentence, and i presently

risked an upward glance at his countenance. his eye, bent on me, expressed at once sternsurprise 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 solemnmatter," he said ere long; "one of which we may neither think nor talklightly without sin. i trust, jane, you are in earnest when you sayyou will serve your heart to god: it is all i want. once wrench your heartfrom man, and fix it on your maker, the advancement of that maker'sspiritual 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 whatimpetus would be given to your efforts and mine by our physical andmental union in marriage: the only union that gives a character of permanentconformity to the destinies and designs of human beings; and,passing over all minor caprices—all trivial difficulties and delicaciesof feeling—all scruple about the degree, kind, strength or tendernessof mere personal inclination—you will hasten to enter intothat union at once." "shall i?" i said briefly; and i looked athis features, beautiful in

their harmony, but strangely formidable intheir still severity; at his brow, commanding but not open; at his eyes,bright and deep and searching, but never soft; at his tall imposingfigure; and fancied myself in idea _his wife_. oh! it would neverdo! as his curate, his comrade, all would be right: i would crossoceans with him in that capacity; toil under eastern suns, in asiandeserts with him in that office; admire and emulate his courage anddevotion and vigour; accommodate quietly to his masterhood; smileundisturbed at his ineradicable ambition; discriminate the christianfrom the man:

profoundly esteem the one, and freely forgivethe other. i should suffer often, no doubt, attached to him only in thiscapacity: my body would be under rather a stringent yoke, but my heartand mind would be free. i should still have my unblighted self to turnto: my natural unenslaved feelings with which to communicate in momentsof loneliness. there would be recesses in my mind which would be onlymine, to which he never came, and sentiments growing there fresh and shelteredwhich his austerity could never blight, nor his measured warrior-marchtrample down: but as his wife—at his side always, and alwaysrestrained, and always

checked—forced to keep the fire of my naturecontinually low, to compel it to burn inwardly and never utter a cry,though the imprisoned flame consumed vital after vital—_this_ wouldbe unendurable. "st. john!" i exclaimed, when i had got sofar in my meditation. "well?" he answered icily. "i repeat i freely consent to go with youas your fellow-missionary, but not as your wife; i cannot marry you and becomepart of you." "a part of me you must become," he answeredsteadily; "otherwise the whole bargain is void. how can i, a man notyet thirty, take out with me

to india a girl of nineteen, unless she bemarried 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 manand a clergyman like yourself." "it is known that you are not my sister; icannot introduce you as such: to attempt it would be to fasten injurioussuspicions on us both. and for the rest, though you have a man's vigorousbrain, 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 submissionto his hierophant: nothing more—don't fear." "it is what i want," he said, speaking tohimself; "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 certainof that; we _must_ be

married. i repeat it: there is no other way;and undoubtedly enough of love would follow upon marriage to renderthe union right even in your eyes." "i scorn your idea of love," i could not helpsaying, as i rose up and stood before him, leaning my back againstthe 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-cutlips 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 expressionfrom you," he said: "i think i have done and uttered nothing to deservescorn." i was touched by his gentle tone, and overawedby his high, calm mien. "forgive me the words, st. john; but it isyour own fault that i have been roused to speak so unguardedly. you haveintroduced a topic on which our natures are at variance—a topicwe should never discuss: the very name of love is an apple of discord betweenus. if the reality were required, what should we do? how should wefeel? 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 youno further at present. to-morrow, i leave home for cambridge: i havemany friends there to whom i should wish to say farewell. i shall beabsent a fortnight—take that space of time to consider my offer: and donot forget that if you reject it, it is not me you deny, but god. throughmy means, he opens to you a noble career; as my wife only can you enterupon it. refuse to be my wife, and you limit yourself for ever to atrack of selfish ease and

barren obscurity. tremble lest in that caseyou should be numbered with those who have denied the faith, and are worsethan infidels!" he had done. turning from me, he once more "looked to river, looked to hill." but this time his feelings were all pent inhis heart: i was not worthy to hear them uttered. as i walked by his sidehomeward, i read well in his iron silence all he felt towards me: thedisappointment of an austere and despotic nature, which has met resistancewhere it expected submission—the disapprobation of a cool,inflexible judgment, which has

detected in another feelings and views inwhich it has no power to sympathise: in short, as a man, he would havewished to coerce me into obedience: it was only as a sincere christianhe bore so patiently with my perversity, and allowed so long a spacefor reflection and repentance. that night, after he had kissed his sisters,he thought proper to forget even to shake hands with me, but left theroom in silence. i—who, though i had no love, had much friendshipfor him—was hurt by the marked omission: so much hurt that tears startedto my eyes. "i see you and st. john have been quarrelling,jane," said diana, "during

your walk on the moor. but go after him; heis 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—hestood 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 onmy fingers! he was deeply

displeased by what had occurred that day;cordiality would not warm, nor tears move him. no happy reconciliation wasto be had with him—no cheering smile or generous word: but stillthe christian was patient and placid; and when i asked him if he forgaveme, he answered that he was not in the habit of cherishing the remembranceof vexation; that he had nothing to forgive, not having been offended. and with that answer he left me. i would muchrather he had knocked me down. chapter xxxv

he did not leave for cambridge the next day,as he had said he would. he deferred his departure a whole week, and duringthat time he made me feel what severe punishment a good yet stern, aconscientious yet implacable man can inflict on one who has offended him.without one overt act of hostility, one upbraiding word, he contrivedto impress me momently with the conviction that i was put beyond the paleof his favour. not that st. john harboured a spirit of unchristianvindictiveness—not that he would have injured a hair of my head,if it had been fully in his power to do so. both by nature and principle,he was superior to the

mean gratification of vengeance: he had forgivenme for saying i scorned him and his love, but he had not forgottenthe words; and as long as he and i lived he never would forget them. isaw by his look, when he turned to me, that they were always writtenon the air between me and him; whenever i spoke, they sounded in myvoice to his ear, and their echo toned every answer he gave me. he did not abstain from conversing with me:he even called me as usual each morning to join him at his desk; andi fear the corrupt man within him had a pleasure unimparted to, and unsharedby, the pure christian, in

evincing with what skill he could, while actingand speaking apparently just as usual, extract from every deed andevery phrase the spirit of interest and approval which had formerly communicateda certain austere charm to his language and manner. to me, hewas in reality become no longer flesh, but marble; his eye was a cold,bright, blue gem; his tongue a speaking instrument—nothing more. all this was torture to me—refined, lingeringtorture. it kept up a slow fire of indignation and a trembling troubleof grief, which harassed and crushed me altogether. i felt how—ifi were his wife, this good

man, pure as the deep sunless source, couldsoon kill me, without drawing from my veins a single drop of blood, or receivingon his own crystal conscience the faintest stain of crime. especiallyi felt this when i made any attempt to propitiate him. no ruthmet my ruth. _he_ experienced no suffering from estrangement—noyearning after reconciliation; and though, more than once,my fast falling tears blistered the page over which we both bent,they produced no more effect on him than if his heart had been really amatter of stone or metal. to his sisters, meantime, he was somewhat kinderthan usual: as if afraid

that mere coldness would not sufficientlyconvince me how completely i was banished and banned, he added the forceof contrast; and this i am sure he did not by force, but on principle. the night before he left home, happening tosee him walking in the garden about sunset, and remembering, as i lookedat him, that this man, alienated as he now was, had once saved mylife, and that we were near relations, i was moved to make a last attemptto regain his friendship. i went out and approached him as he stood leaningover the little gate; i spoke to the point at once.

"st. john, i am unhappy because you are stillangry 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 beencontemplating 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, iwish you no ill and all good." "i believe you, st. john; for i am sure youare incapable of wishing any one ill; but, as i am your kinswoman, i shoulddesire somewhat more of

affection than that sort of general philanthropyyou 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, tranquil tone, wasmortifying and baffling enough. had i attended to the suggestionsof pride and ire, i should immediately have left him; but something workedwithin me more strongly than those feelings could. i deeply veneratedmy cousin's talent and principle. his friendship was of value tome: to lose it tried me

severely. i would not so soon relinquish theattempt to reconquer it. "must we part in this way, st. john? and whenyou go to india, will you leave me so, without a kinder word than youhave yet spoken?" he now turned quite from the moon and facedme. "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 tothat resolution?" reader, do you know, as i do, what terrorthose cold people can put into

the ice of their questions? how much of thefall of the avalanche is in their anger? of the breaking up of the frozensea in their displeasure? "no. st. john, i will not marry you. i adhereto my resolution." the avalanche had shaken and slid a littleforward, but it did not yet crash down. "once more, why this refusal?" he asked. "formerly," i answered, "because you did notlove me; now, i reply, because you almost hate me. if i were to marryyou, you would kill me. you are killing 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 severereproof: they would seem inexcusable, but that it is the duty of manto forgive his fellow even until seventy-and-seven times." i had finished the business now. while earnestlywishing to erase from his mind the trace of my former offence, ihad stamped on that tenacious surface another and far deeper impression,i had burnt it in.

"now you will indeed hate me," i said. "itis useless to attempt to conciliate you: i see i have made an eternalenemy of you." a fresh wrong did these words inflict: theworse, because they touched on the truth. that bloodless lip quivered toa temporary spasm. i knew the steely ire i had whetted. i was heart-wrung. "you utterly 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 hewithdrew his hand from mine. "and now you recall your promise, and willnot 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 strugglethere was in him between nature and grace in this interval, i cannottell: only singular gleams scintillated in his eyes, and strange shadowspassed over his face. he spoke at last. "i before proved to you the absurdity of asingle woman of your age proposing to accompany abroad a single manof mine. i proved it to you in such terms as, i should have thought, wouldhave prevented your ever

again alluding to the plan. that you havedone so, i regret—for your sake." i interrupted him. anything like a tangiblereproach gave me courage at once. "keep to common sense, st. john: youare verging on nonsense. you pretend to be shocked by what i have said.you are not really shocked: for, with your superior mind, you cannot beeither so dull or so conceited 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

perfectly. he answered emphatically but calmly— "a female curate, who is not my wife, wouldnever suit me. with me, then, it seems, you cannot go: but if youare sincere in your offer, i will, while in town, speak to a married missionary,whose wife needs a coadjutor. your own fortune will make youindependent of the society's aid; and thus you may still be spared thedishonour of breaking your promise and deserting the band you engagedto join." now i never had, as the reader knows, eithergiven any formal promise or entered into any engagement; and this languagewas all much too hard and

much too despotic for the occasion. i replied— "there is no dishonour, no breach of promise,no desertion in the case. i am not under the slightest obligation to goto india, especially with strangers. with you i would have venturedmuch, because i admire, confide in, and, as a sister, i love you;but i am convinced that, go when and with whom i would, i should not livelong in that climate." "ah! you are afraid of yourself," he said,curling his lip. "i am. god did not give me my life to throwaway; and to do as you wish me would, i begin to think, be almost equivalentto committing suicide.

moreover, before i definitively resolve onquitting england, i will know for certain whether i cannot be of greateruse 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, andi can go nowhere till by some means that doubt is removed." "i know where your heart turns and to whatit clings. the interest you cherish is lawless and unconsecrated. longsince you ought to have

crushed it: now you should blush to alludeto 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 remains for me, then," he said, "to rememberyou in my prayers, and to entreat god for you, in all earnestness,that you may not indeed become a castaway. i had thought i recognisedin you one of the chosen. but god sees not as man sees: _his_ will bedone—"

he opened the gate, passed through it, andstrayed away down the glen. he was soon out of sight. on re-entering the parlour, i found dianastanding at the window, looking very thoughtful. diana was a great deal tallerthan i: she put her hand on my shoulder, and, stooping, examined myface. "jane," she said, "you are always agitatedand pale now. i am sure there is something the matter. tell me what businessst. john and you have on hands. i have watched you this half hour fromthe window; you must forgive my being such a spy, but for a longtime 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 peculiar viewsof some sort respecting you, i am sure: he has long distinguishedyou 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 whit." "then why does he follow you so with his eyes,and get you so frequently alone with him, and keep you so continuallyat 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 whatwe hoped and thought! and you will marry him, jane, won't you? and thenhe will stay in england." "far from that, diana; his sole idea in proposingto me is to procure a fitting fellow-labourer in his indian toils." "what! he wishes you to go to india?" "madness!" she exclaimed. "you would not livethree months there, i am certain. you never shall go: you have notconsented, have you, jane?"

"i have refused to marry him—" "and have consequently displeased him?" shesuggested. "deeply: he will never forgive me, i fear:yet i offered to accompany him as his sister." "it was frantic folly to do so, jane. thinkof the task you undertook—one of incessant fatigue, wherefatigue kills even the strong, and you are weak. st. john—you know him—wouldurge you to impossibilities: with him there would be nopermission to rest during the hot hours; and unfortunately, i have noticed,whatever he exacts, you

force yourself to perform. i am astonishedyou 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 shouldnever suit." "plain! you? not at all. you are much toopretty, as well as too good, to be grilled alive in calcutta." and againshe earnestly conjured me to give up all thoughts of going out with herbrother. "i must indeed," i said; "for when just nowi repeated the offer of

serving him for a deacon, he expressed himselfshocked at my want of decency. he seemed to think i had committedan impropriety in proposing to accompany him unmarried: as if i had notfrom the first hoped to find in him a brother, and habitually regardedhim as such." "what makes you say he does not love you,jane?" "you should hear himself on the subject. hehas again and again explained that it is not himself, but hisoffice he wishes to mate. he has told me i am formed for labour—not forlove: which is true, no doubt. but, in my opinion, if i am not formedfor love, it follows that

i am not formed for marriage. would it notbe strange, die, to be chained for life to a man who regarded onebut as a useful tool?" "insupportable—unnatural—out of the question!" "and then," i continued, "though i have onlysisterly affection for him now, yet, if forced to be his wife, i canimagine the possibility of conceiving an inevitable, strange, torturingkind of love for him, because he is so talented; and there is oftena certain heroic grandeur in his look, manner, and conversation. inthat case, my lot would become unspeakably wretched. he would not want meto love him; and if i showed

the feeling, he would make me sensible thatit was a superfluity, unrequired by him, unbecoming in me. i knowhe 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 hisown large views. it is better, therefore, for the insignificant tokeep out of his way, lest, in his progress, he should trample them down.here he comes! i will leave you, diana." and i hastened upstairs as isaw 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 hadthought he would hardly speak to me, and i was certain he had given up thepursuit of his matrimonial scheme: the sequel showed i was mistaken onboth points. he addressed me precisely in his ordinary manner, or whathad, of late, been his ordinary manner—one scrupulously polite. no doubthe had invoked the help of the holy spirit to subdue the anger i had rousedin him, and now believed he had forgiven me once more. for the evening reading before prayers, heselected the twenty-first chapter of revelation. it was at all timespleasant to listen while from

his lips fell the words of the bible: neverdid his fine voice sound at once so sweet and full—never did his mannerbecome so impressive in its noble simplicity, as when he delivered theoracles of god: and to-night that voice took a more solemn tone—thatmanner a more thrilling meaning—as he sat in the midst of his householdcircle (the may moon shining in through the uncurtained window,and rendering almost unnecessary the light of the candle on thetable): as he sat there, bending over the great old bible, and describedfrom its page the vision of the new heaven and the new earth—toldhow god would come to dwell

with men, how he would wipe away all tearsfrom their eyes, and promised that there should be no more death, neithersorrow nor crying, nor any more pain, because the former things werepassed away. the succeeding words thrilled me strangelyas he spoke them: especially as i felt, by the slight, indescribable alterationin 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, distinctlyread, "the fearful, the unbelieving, &c., shall have their part inthe lake which burneth with

fire and brimstone, which is the second death." henceforward, i knew what fate st. john fearedfor me. a calm, subdued triumph, blent with a longingearnestness, marked his enunciation of the last glorious verses ofthat chapter. the reader believed his name was already written in thelamb's book of life, and he yearned after the hour which should admithim 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 gloryof god lightens it, and the lamb is the light thereof.

in the prayer following the chapter, all hisenergy gathered—all his stern zeal woke: he was in deep earnest, wrestlingwith god, and resolved on a conquest. he supplicated strength forthe weak-hearted; guidance for wanderers from the fold: a return, evenat the eleventh hour, for those whom the temptations of the world andthe flesh were luring from the narrow path. he asked, he urged, he claimedthe boon of a brand snatched from the burning. earnestness isever 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 awed.he felt the greatness and

goodness of his purpose so sincerely: otherswho heard him plead for it, could not but feel it too. the prayer over, we took leave of him: hewas to go at a very early hour in the morning. diana and mary having kissedhim, left the room—in compliance, i think, with a whispered hintfrom him: i tendered my hand, and wished him a pleasant journey. "thank you, jane. as i said, i shall returnfrom cambridge in a fortnight: that space, then, is yet left youfor reflection. if i listened to human pride, i should say no moreto you of marriage with me;

but i listen to my duty, and keep steadilyin view my first aim—to do all things to the glory of god. my masterwas long-suffering: so will i be. i cannot give you up to perdition as avessel of wrath: repent—resolve, while there is yet time.remember, we are bid to work while it is day—warned that 'the night comethwhen no man shall work.' remember the fate of dives, who had his goodthings in this life. god give you strength to choose that better partwhich shall not be taken from you!" he laid his hand on my head as he utteredthe last words. he had spoken

earnestly, mildly: his look was not, indeed,that of a lover beholding his mistress, but it was that of a pastorrecalling his wandering sheep—or better, of a guardian angel watchingthe soul for which he is responsible. all men of talent, whether theybe men of feeling or not; whether they be zealots, or aspirants, ordespots—provided only they be sincere—have their sublime moments, whenthey subdue and rule. i felt veneration for st. john—veneration so strongthat its impetus thrust me at once to the point i had so long shunned.i was tempted to cease struggling with him—to rush down the torrentof his will into the gulf

of his existence, and there lose my own. iwas almost as hard beset by him now as i had been once before, in a differentway, by another. i was a fool both times. to have yielded then wouldhave been an error of principle; to have yielded now would havebeen an error of judgment. so i think at this hour, when i look back tothe crisis through the quiet medium of time: i was unconscious of follyat the instant. i stood motionless under my hierophant's touch.my refusals were forgotten—my fears overcome—my wrestlingsparalysed. the impossible—_i.e._, my marriage with st.john—was fast becoming the

possible. all was changing utterly with asudden sweep. religion called—angels beckoned—god commanded—liferolled together like a scroll—death's gates opening, showed eternitybeyond: it seemed, that for safety and bliss there, all here mightbe sacrificed in a second. the dim room was full of visions. "could you decide now?" asked the missionary.the inquiry was put in gentle tones: he drew me to him as gently.oh, that gentleness! how far more potent is it than force! i could resistst. john's wrath: i grew pliant as a reed under his kindness. yet iknew all the time, if i

yielded now, i should not the less be madeto repent, some day, of my former rebellion. his nature was not changedby one hour of solemn prayer: it was only elevated. "i could decide if i were but certain," ianswered: "were i but convinced that it is god's will i should marry you,i could vow to marry you here and now—come afterwards what would!" "my prayers are heard!" ejaculated st. john.he pressed his hand firmer on my head, as if he claimed me: he surroundedme with his arm, _almost_ as if he loved me (i say _almost_—i knewthe difference—for i had felt

what it was to be loved; but, like him, ihad now put love out of the question, and thought only of duty). i contendedwith my inward dimness of vision, before which clouds yet rolled.i sincerely, deeply, fervently longed to do what was right; andonly that. "show me, show me the path!" i entreated of heaven. i was excitedmore than i had ever been; and whether what followed was the effectof excitement the reader shall judge. all the house was still; for i believe all,except st. john and myself, were now retired to rest. the one candle wasdying out: the room was

full of moonlight. my heart beat fast andthick: i heard its throb. suddenly it stood still to an inexpressiblefeeling that thrilled it through, and passed at once to my head andextremities. the feeling was not like an electric shock, but it was quiteas sharp, as strange, as startling: it acted on my senses as if theirutmost activity hitherto had been but torpor, from which they were nowsummoned and forced to wake. they rose expectant: eye and ear waited whilethe flesh quivered on my bones. "what have you heard? what do you see?" askedst. john. i saw nothing,

but i heard a voice somewhere cry— "jane! jane! jane!"—nothing more. "o god! what is it?" i gasped. i might have said, "where is it?" for it didnot seem in the room—nor in the house—nor in the garden; it did notcome out of the air—nor from under the earth—nor from overhead. i hadheard it—where, or whence, for ever impossible to know! and it was thevoice of a human being—a known, loved, well-remembered voice—thatof edward fairfax rochester; and it spoke in pain and woe, wildly, eerily,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 marsh glen sent the answerfaintly back—"where are you?" i listened. the wind sighed low in thefirs: all was moorland loneliness and midnight hush. "down superstition!" i commented, as thatspectre 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 miracle—but her best." i broke from st. john, who had followed, andwould have detained me. it was _my_ time to assume ascendency. _my_ powerswere 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 atonce. where there is energy to command well enough, obedience never fails.i mounted to my chamber; locked myself in; fell on my knees; and prayedin my way—a different way to st. john's, but effective in its own fashion.i seemed to penetrate

very near a mighty spirit; and my soul rushedout in gratitude at his feet. i rose from the thanksgiving—tooka resolve—and lay down, unscared, enlightened—eager but for thedaylight. end of chapter xxxv�

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