'It remains for me, then,' he said, 'to remember you in my prayers,
and to entreat God for you, in all earnestness, that you may not
indeed become a castaway. I had thought I recognised in you one of the
chosen. But God sees not as man sees: His will be done.'
He opened the gate, passed through it, and strayed away down the
glen. He was soon out of sight.
On re-entering the parlour, I found Diana standing at the window,
looking very thoughtful. Diana was a great deal taller than I:. she
put her hand on my shoulder, and, stooping, examined my face.
'Jane,' she said, 'you are always agitated and pale now. I am
sure there is something the matter. Tell me what business St. John and
you have on hands. I have watched you this half hour from the
window; you must forgive my being such a spy, but for a long time I
have fancied I hardly know what. St. John is a strange being-'
She paused- I did not speak: soon she resumed-
'That brother of mine cherishes peculiar views of some sort
respecting you, I am sure: he has long distinguished you by a notice
and interest he never showed to any one else- to what end? I wish he
loved you- does he, Jane?'
I put her cool hand to my hot forehead; 'No, Die, not one whit.'
'Then why does he follow you so with his eyes, and get you so
frequently alone with him, and keep you so continually at his side?
Mary and I had both concluded he wished you to marry him.'
'He does- he has asked me to be his wife.'
Diana clapped her hands. 'That is just what we hoped and thought!
And you will marry him, Jane, won't you? And then he will stay in
England.'
'Far from that, Diana; his sole idea in proposing to me is to
procure a fitting fellow-labourer in his Indian toils.'
'What! He wishes you to go to India?'
'Yes.'
'Madness!' she exclaimed. 'You would not live three months there, I
am certain. You never shall go: you have not consented, have you,
Jane?'
'I have refused to marry him-'
'And have consequently displeased him?' she suggested.
'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. Think of the task you
undertook- one of incessant fatigue, where fatigue kills even the
strong, and you are weak. St. John- you know him- would urge you to
impossibilities: with him there would be no permission to rest
during the hot hours; and unfortunately, I have noticed, whatever he
exacts, you force yourself to perform. I am astonished you found
courage to refuse his hand. You do not love him then, Jane?'
'Not as a husband.'
'Yet he is a handsome fellow.'
'And I am so plain, you see, Die. We should never suit.'
'Plain! You? Not at all. You are much too pretty, as well as too
good, to be grilled alive in Calcutta.' And again she earnestly
conjured me to give up all thoughts of going out with her brother.
'I must indeed,' I said; 'for when just now I repeated the offer of
serving him for a deacon, he expressed himself shocked at my want of
decency. He seemed to think I had committed an impropriety in
proposing to accompany him unmarried: as if I had not from the first
hoped to find in him a brother, and habitually regarded him as such.'
'What makes you say he does not love you, Jane?'
'You should hear himself on the subject. He has again and again
explained that it is not himself, but his office he wishes to mate. He
has told me I am formed for labour- not for love: which is true, no
doubt. But, in my opinion, if I am not formed for love, it follows
that I am not formed for marriage. Would it not be strange, Die, to be
chained for life to a man who regarded one but as a useful tool?'
'Insupportable- unnatural- out of the question!'
'And then,' I continued, 'though I have only sisterly affection for
him now, yet, if forced to be his wife, I can imagine the
possibility of conceiving an inevitable, strange, torturing kind of
love for him, because he is so talented; and there is often a
certain heroic grandeur in his look, manner, and conversation. In that
case, my lot would become unspeakably wretched. He would not want me
to love him; and if I showed the feeling, he would make me sensible
that it was a superfluity, unrequired by him, unbecoming in me. I know
he would.'
'And yet St. John is a good man,' said Diana.
'He is a good and a great man; but he forgets, pitilessly, the
feelings and claims of little people, in pursuing his own large views.
It is better, therefore, for the insignificant to keep 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 I saw him
entering the garden.
But I was forced to meet him again at supper. During that meal he
appeared just as composed as usual. I had thought he would hardly
speak to me, and I was certain he had given up the pursuit of his
matrimonial scheme: the sequel showed I was mistaken on both points.
He addressed me precisely in his ordinary manner, or what had, of
late, been his ordinary manner- one scrupulously polite. No doubt he
had invoked the help of the Holy Spirit to subdue the anger I had
roused in him, and now believed he had forgiven me once more.
For the evening reading before prayers, he selected the
twenty-first chapter of Revelation. It was at all times pleasant to
listen while from his lips fell the words of the Bible: never did
his fine voice sound at once so sweet and full- never did his manner
become so impressive in its noble simplicity, as when he delivered the
oracles of God: and to-night that voice took a more solemn tone-
that manner a more thrilling meaning- as he sat in the midst of his
household circle (the May moon shining in through the uncurtained
window, and rendering almost unnecessary the light of the candle on
the table): as he sat there, bending over the great old Bible, and
described from its page the vision of the new heaven and the new
earth- told how God would come to dwell with men, how He would wipe
away all tears from their eyes, and promised that there should be no
more death, neither sorrow nor crying, nor any more pain, because
the former things were passed away.
The succeeding words thrilled me strangely as he spoke them:
especially as I felt, by the slight, indescribable alteration in
sound, that in uttering them, his eye had turned on me.
'He that overcometh shall inherit all things; and I will be his
God, and he shall be my son. But,' was slowly, distinctly read, 'the
fearful, the unbelieving, etc., shall have their part in the lake
which burneth with fire and brimstone, which is the second death.'
Henceforward, I knew what fate St. John feared for me.
A calm, subdued triumph, blent with a longing earnestness, marked
his enunciation of the last glorious verses of that chapter. The
reader believed his name was already written in the Lamb's book of
life, and he yearned after the hour which should admit him to the city
to which the kings of the earth bring their glory and honour; which
has no need of sun or moon to shine in it, because the glory of God
lightens it, and the Lamb is the light thereof.
In the prayer following the chapter, all his energy gathered- all
his stern zeal woke: he was in deep earnest, wrestling with God, and
resolved on a conquest. He supplicated strength for the
weak-hearted; guidance for wanderers from the fold: a return, even
at the eleventh hour, for those whom the temptations of the world
and the flesh were luring from the narrow path. He asked, he urged, he
claimed the boon of a brand snatched from the burning. Earnestness
is ever deeply solemn: first, as I listened to that prayer, I wondered
at his; then, when it continued and rose, I was touched by it, and
at last awed. He felt the greatness and goodness of his purpose so
sincerely: others who heard him plead for it, could not but feel it
too.
The prayer over, we took leave of him: he was to go at a very early
hour in the morning. Diana and Mary having kissed him, left the
room- in compliance, I think, with a whispered hint from him: I
tendered my hand, and wished him a pleasant journey.
'Thank you, Jane. As I said, I shall return from Cambridge in a
fortnight: that space, then, is yet left you for reflection. If I
listened to human pride, I should say no more to you of marriage
with me; but I listen to my duty, and keep steadily in view my first
aim- to do all things to the glory of God. My Master was
long-suffering: so will I be. I cannot give you up to perdition as a
vessel of wrath: repent- resolve, while there is yet time. Remember,
we are bid to work while it is day- warned that "the night cometh when
no man shall work." Remember the fate of Dives, who had his good
things in this life. God give you strength to choose that better
part which shall not be taken from you!'
He laid his hand on my head as he uttered the last words. He had
spoken earnestly, mildly: his look was not, indeed, that of a lover
beholding his mistress, but it was that of a pastor recalling his
wandering sheep- or better, of a guardian angel watching the soul
for which he is responsible. All men of talent, whether they be men of
feeling or not; whether they be zealots, or aspirants, or despots-
provided only they be sincere- have their sublime moments, when they
subdue and rule. I felt veneration for St. John- veneration so
strong that 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 torrent of his will into the gulf of his existence, and there lose
my own. I was almost as hard beset by him now as I had been once
before, in a different way, by another. I was a fool both times. To
have yielded then would have been an error of principle; to have
yielded now would have been an error of judgment. So I think at this
hour, when I look back to the crisis through the quiet medium of time:
I was unconscious of folly at the instant.
I stood motionless under my hierophant's touch. My refusals were
forgotten- my fears overcome- my wrestlings paralysed. The Impossible-
i.e., my marriage with St. John- was fast becoming the Possible. All
was changing utterly with a sudden sweep. Religion called- Angels
beckoned- God commanded- life rolled together like a scroll- death's
gates opening, showed eternity beyond: it seemed, that for safety
and bliss there, all here might be 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 resist St. John's wrath: I
grew pliant as a reed under his kindness. Yet I knew all the time,
if I yielded now, I should not the less be made to repent, some day,
of my former rebellion. His nature was not changed by one hour of
solemn prayer: it was only elevated.
'I could decide if I were but certain,' I answered: 'were I but
convinced that it is God's will I should marry you, I could 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 surrounded me with his arm,
almost as if he loved me (I say almost- I knew the difference- for I
had felt what it was to be loved; but, like him, I had now put love
out of the question, and thought only of duty). I contended with my
inward dimness of vision, before which clouds yet rolled. I sincerely,
deeply, fervently longed to do what was right; and only that. 'Show
me, show me the path!' I entreated of Heaven. I was excited more
than I had ever been; and whether what followed was the effect of
excitement the reader shall judge.
All the house was still; for I believe all, except St. John and
myself, were now retired to rest. The one candle was dying out: the
room was full of moonlight. My heart beat fast and thick: I heard
its throb. Suddenly it stood still to an inexpressible feeling that
thrilled it through, and passed at once to my head and extremities.
The feeling was not like an electric shock, but it was quite as sharp,
as strange, as startling: it acted on my senses as if their utmost
activity hitherto had been but torpor, from which they were now
summoned and forced to wake. They rose expectant: eye and ear waited
while the flesh quivered on my bones.
'What have you heard? What do you see?' asked St. John. I saw
nothing, but I heard a voice somewhere cry-
'Jane! Jane! Jane!'- nothing more.
'O God! what is it?' I gasped.
I might have said, 'Where is it?' for it did not seem in the
room- nor in the house- nor in the garden; it did not come out of
the air- nor from under the earth- nor from overhead. I had heard
it- where, or whence, for ever impossible to know! And it was the
voice of a human being- a known, loved, well-remembered voice- that of
Edward Fairfax Rochester; and it spoke in pain and 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 answer faintly back- 'Where
are you?' I listened. The wind sighed low in the firs: all was
