so fix them thoroughly in his mind; that his choice had hovered for
some time between me and his sisters; but that he had fixed on me
because he saw I could sit at a task the longest of the three. Would I
do him this favour? I should not, perhaps, have to make the
sacrifice long, as it wanted now barely three months to his departure.
St. John was not a man to be lightly refused: you felt that every
impression made on him, either for pain or pleasure, was deep-graved
and permanent. I consented. When Diana and Mary returned, the former
found her scholar transferred from her to her brother: she laughed,
and both she and Mary agreed that St. John should never have persuaded
them to such a step. He answered quietly-
'I know it.'
I found him a very patient, very forbearing, and yet an exacting
master: he expected me to do a great deal; and when I fulfilled his
expectations, he, in his own way, fully testified his approbation.
By degrees, he acquired a certain influence over me that took away
my liberty of mind: his praise and notice were more restraining than
his indifference. I could no longer talk or laugh freely when he was
by, because a tiresomely importunate instinct reminded me that
vivacity (at least in me) was distasteful to him. I was so fully aware
that only serious moods and occupations were acceptable, that in his
presence every effort to sustain or follow any other became vain: I
fell under a freezing spell. When he said 'go,' I went; 'come,' I
came; 'do this,' I did it. But I did not love my servitude: I
wished, many a time, he had continued to neglect me.
One evening when, at bedtime, his sisters and I stood round him,
bidding him good-night, he kissed each of them, as was his custom;
and, as was equally his custom, he gave me his hand. Diana, who
chanced to be in a frolicsome humour (she was not painfully controlled
by his will; for hers, in another way, was as strong), exclaimed-
'St. John! you used to call Jane your third sister, but you don't
treat her as such: you should kiss her too.'
She pushed me towards him. I thought Diana very provoking, and felt
uncomfortably confused; and while I was thus thinking and feeling, St.
John bent his head; his Greek face was brought to a level with mine,
his eyes questioned my eyes piercingly- he kissed me. There are no
such things as marble kisses or ice kisses, or I should say my
ecclesiastical cousin's salute belonged to one of these classes; but
there may be experiment kisses, and his was an experiment kiss. When
given, he viewed me to learn the result; it was not striking: I am
sure I did not blush; perhaps I might have turned a little pale, for I
felt as if this kiss were a seal affixed to my fetters. He never
omitted the ceremony afterwards, and the gravity and quiescence with
which I underwent it, seemed to invest it for him with a certain
charm.
As for me, I daily wished more to please him; but to do so, I
felt daily more and more that I must disown half my nature, stifle
half my faculties, wrest my tastes from their original bent, force
myself to the adoption of pursuits for which I had no natural
vocation. He wanted to train me to an elevation I could never reach;
it racked me hourly to aspire to the standard he uplifted. The thing
was as impossible as to mould my irregular features to his correct and
classic pattern, to give to my changeable green eyes the sea-blue tint
and solemn lustre of his own.
Not his ascendancy alone, however, held me in thrall at present. Of
late it had been easy enough for me to look sad: a cankering evil
sat in my heart and drained my happiness at its source- the evil of
suspense.
Perhaps you think I had forgotten Mr. Rochester, reader, amidst
these changes of place and fortune. Not for a moment. His idea was
still with me, because it was not a vapour sunshine could disperse,
nor a sand-traced effigy storms could wash away; it was a name
graven on a tablet, fated to last as long as the marble it
inscribed. The craving to know what had become of him followed me
everywhere; when I was at Morton, I re-entered my cottage every
evening to think of that; and now at Moor House, I sought my bedroom
each night to brood over it.
In the course of my necessary correspondence with Mr. Briggs
about the will, I had inquired if he knew anything of Mr.
Rochester's present residence and state of health; but, as St. John
had conjectured, he was quite ignorant of all concerning him. I then
wrote to Mrs. Fairfax, entreating information on the subject. I had
calculated with certainty on this step answering my end: I felt sure
it would elicit an early answer. I was astonished when a fortnight
passed without reply; but when two months wore away, and day after day
the post arrived and brought nothing for me, I fell a prey to the
keenest anxiety.
I wrote again: there was a chance of my first letter having missed.
Renewed hope followed renewed effort: it shone like the former for
some weeks, then, like it, it faded, flickered: not a line, not a word
reached me. When half a year wasted in vain expectancy, my hope died
out, and then I felt dark indeed.
A fine spring shone round me, which I could not enjoy. Summer
approached; Diana tried to cheer me: she said I looked ill, and wished
to accompany me to the sea-side. This St. John opposed; he said I
did not want dissipation, I wanted employment; my present life was too
purposeless, I required an aim; and, I suppose, by way of supplying
deficiencies, he prolonged still further my lessons in Hindostanee,
and grew more urgent in requiring their accomplishment: and I, like
a fool, never thought of resisting him- I could not resist him.
One day I had come to my studies in lower spirits than usual; the
ebb was occasioned by a poignantly felt disappointment. Hannah had
told me in the morning there was a letter for me, and when I went down
to take it, almost certain that the long-looked-for tidings were
vouchsafed me at last, I found only an unimportant note from Mr.
Briggs on business. The bitter check had wrung from me some tears; and
now, as I sat poring over the crabbed characters and flourishing
tropes of an Indian scribe, my eyes filled again.
St. John called me to his side to read; in attempting to do this my
voice failed me: words were lost in sobs. He and I were the only
occupants of the parlour: Diana was practising her music in the
drawing-room, Mary was gardening- it was a very fine May day, clear,
sunny, and breezy. My companion expressed no surprise at this emotion,
nor did he question me as to its cause; he only said-
'We will wait a few minutes, Jane, till you are more composed.' And
while I smothered the paroxysm with all haste, he sat calm and
patient, leaning on his desk, and looking like a physician watching
with the eye of science an expected and fully understood crisis in a
patient's malady. Having stifled my sobs, wiped my eyes, and
muttered something about not being very well that morning, I resumed
my task, and succeeded in completing it. St. John put away my books
and his, locked his desk, and said-
'Now, Jane, you shall take a walk; and with me.'
'I will call Diana and Mary.'
'No; I want only one companion this morning, and that must be
you. Put on your things; go out by the kitchen-door: take the road
towards the head of Marsh Glen: I will join you in a moment.'
I know no medium: I never in my life have known any medium in my
dealings with positive, hard characters, antagonistic to my own,
between absolute submission and determined revolt. I have always
faithfully observed the one, up to the very moment of bursting,
sometimes with volcanic vehemence, into the other; and as neither
present circumstances warranted, nor my present mood inclined me to
mutiny, I observed careful obedience to St. John's directions; and
in ten minutes I was treading the wild track of the glen, side by side
with him.
The breeze was from the west: it came over the hills, sweet with
scents of heath and rush; the sky was of stainless blue; the stream
descending the ravine, swelled with past spring rains, poured along
plentiful and clear, catching golden gleams from the sun, and sapphire
tints from the firmament. As we advanced and left the track, we trod a
soft turf, mossy fine and emerald green, minutely enamelled with a
tiny white flower, and spangled with a star-like yellow blossom: the
hills, meantime, shut us quite in; for the glen, towards its head,
wound to their very core.
'Let us rest here,' said St. John, as we reached the first
stragglers of a battalion of rocks, guarding a sort of pass, beyond
which the beck rushed down a waterfall; and where, still a little
farther, the mountain shook off turf and flower, had only heath for
raiment and crag for gem- where it exaggerated the wild to the savage,
and exchanged the fresh for the frowning- where it guarded the forlorn
hope of solitude, and a last refuge for silence.
I took a seat: St. John stood near me. He looked up the pass and
down the hollow; his glance wandered away with the stream, and
returned to traverse the unclouded heaven which coloured it: he
removed his hat, let the breeze stir his hair and kiss his brow. He
seemed in communion with the genius of the haunt: with his eye he bade
farewell to something.
'And I shall see it again,' he said aloud, 'in dreams when I
sleep by the Ganges: and again in a more remote hour- when another
slumber overcomes me- on the shore of a darker stream!'
Strange words of a strange love! An austere patriot's passion for
his fatherland! He sat down; for half an hour we never spoke;
neither he to me nor I to him: that interval past, he recommenced-
'Jane, I go in six weeks; I have taken my berth in an East Indiaman
which sails on the 20th of June.'
'God will protect you; for you have undertaken His work,' I
answered.
'Yes,' said he, 'there is my glory and joy. I am the servant of
an infallible Master. I am not going out under human guidance, subject
to the defective laws and erring control of my feeble fellow-worms: my
king, my lawgiver, my captain, is the All-perfect. It seems strange to
me that all round me do not burn to enlist under the same banner,-
to join in the same enterprise.'
'All have not Your powers, and it would be folly for the feeble
to wish to march with the strong.'
'I do not speak to the feeble, or think of them: I address only
such as are worthy of the work, and competent to accomplish it.'
'Those are few in number, and difficult to discover.'
'You say truly; but when found, it is right to stir them up- to
urge and exhort them to the effort- to show them what their gifts are,
and why they were given- to speak Heaven's message in their ear,- to
offer them, direct from God, a place in the ranks of His chosen.'
'If they are really qualified for the task, will not their own
hearts be the first to inform them of it?'
I felt as if an awful charm was framing round and gathering over
me: I trembled to hear some fatal word spoken which would at once
declare and rivet the spell.
'And what does your heart say?' demanded St. John.
'My heart is mute- my heart is mute,' I answered, struck and
thrilled.
'Then I must speak for it,' continued the deep, relentless voice.
'Jane, come with me to India: come as my helpmeet and
fellow-labourer.'
The glen and sky spun round: the hills heaved! It was as if I had
heard a summons from Heaven- as if a visionary messenger, like him
of Macedonia, had enounced, 'Come over and help us!' But I was no
apostle,- I could not behold the herald,- I could not receive his
call.
'Oh, St. John!' I cried, 'have some mercy!'
I appealed to one who, in the discharge of what he believed his
duty, knew neither mercy nor remorse. He continued-
'God and nature intended you for a missionary's wife. It is not
personal, but mental endowments they have given you: you are formed
for labour, not for love. A missionary's wife you must- shall be.
You shall be mine: I claim you- not for my pleasure, but for my
Sovereign's service.'
'I am not fit for it: I have no vocation,' I said.
He had calculated on these first objections: he was not irritated
by them. Indeed, as he leaned back against the crag behind him, folded
his arms on his chest, and fixed his countenance, I saw he was
prepared for a long and trying opposition, and had taken in a stock of
patience to last him to its close- resolved, however, that that
close should be conquest for him.
'Humility, Jane,' said he, 'is the groundwork of Christian virtues:
you say right that you are not fit for the work. Who is fit for it? Or
who, that ever was truly called, believed himself worthy of the
summons? I, for instance, am but dust and ashes. With St. Paul, I
acknowledge myself the chiefest of sinners; but I do not suffer this
sense of my personal vileness to daunt me. I know my Leader: that He
is just as well as mighty; and while He has chosen a feeble instrument
to perform a great task, He will, from the boundless stores of His
providence, supply the inadequacy of the means to the end. Think
like me, Jane- trust like me. It is the Rock of Ages I ask you to lean
on: do not doubt but it will bear the weight of your human weakness.'
'I do not understand a missionary life: I have never studied
missionary labours.'
'There I, humble as I am, can give you the aid you want: I can
set you your task from hour to hour; stand by you always; help you
