It was
near Christmas by the time all
was settled: the season of general
holiday approached. I now closed
Morton school, taking care that
the parting should not be barren
on my side. Good fortune opens
the hand as well as the heart
wonderfully; and to give somewhat
when we have largely received,
is but to afford a vent to the
unusual ebullition of the sensations.
I had long felt with pleasure
that many of my rustic scholars
liked me, and when we parted,
that consciousness was confirmed:
they manifested their affection
plainly and strongly. Deep was
my gratification to find I had
really a place in their unsophisticated
hearts: I promised them that
never a week should pass in future
that I did not visit them, and
give them an hour's teaching
in their school.
Mr. Rivers came up as, having
seen the classes, now numbering
sixty girls, file out before
me, and locked the door, I stood
with the key in my hand, exchanging
a few words of special farewell
with some half-dozen of my best
scholars: as decent, respectable,
modest, and well-informed young
women as could be found in the
ranks of the British peasantry.
And that is saying a great deal;
for after all, the British peasantry
are the best taught, best mannered,
most self- respecting of any
in Europe: since those days I
have seen paysannes and Bauerinnen;
and the best of them seemed to
me ignorant, coarse, and besotted,
compared with my Morton girls.
"Do you consider you have got
your reward for a season of exertion?" asked
Mr. Rivers, when they were gone. "Does
not the consciousness of having
done some real good in your day
and generation give pleasure?"
"Doubtless."
"And
you have only
toiled a few
months! Would
not a life
devoted to the task of regenerating
your race be well spent?"
"Yes," I said; "but
I could not
go on for ever
so: I want
to enjoy my own faculties as
well as to cultivate those of
other people. I must enjoy them
now; don't recall either my mind
or body to the school; I am out
of it and disposed for full holiday."
He
looked grave. "What
now? What sudden
eagerness is
this
you evince? What are you going
to do?"
"To
be active:
as active as
I can. And first I must beg you
to set Hannah at liberty, and
get somebody else to wait on
you."
"Do
you want her?"
"Yes,
to go with
me to Moor
House. Diana
and Mary will
be
at home in a week, and I want
to have everything in order against
their arrival."
"I
understand.
I thought you
were for flying off on some excursion.
It is better so: Hannah shall
go with you."
"Tell
her to be ready
by to-morrow
then; and here is the schoolroom
key: I will give you the key
of my cottage in the morning."
He
took it. "You give it up
very gleefully," said he; "I
don't quite understand your light-heartedness,
because I cannot tell what employment
you propose to yourself as a
substitute for the one you are
relinquishing. What aim, what
purpose, what ambition in life
have you now?"
"My
first aim will
be to CLEAN
DOWN (do you comprehend the full
force of the expression?)--to
CLEAN DOWN Moor House from chamber
to cellar; my next to rub it
up with bees-wax, oil, and an
indefinite number of cloths,
till it glitters again; my third,
to arrange every chair, table,
bed, carpet, with mathematical
precision; afterwards I shall
go near to ruin you in coals
and peat to keep up good fires
in every room; and lastly, the
two days preceding that on which
your sisters are expected will
be devoted by Hannah and me to
such a beating of eggs, sorting
of currants, grating of spices,
compounding of Christmas cakes,
chopping up of materials for
mince-pies, and solemnising of
other culinary rites, as words
can convey but an inadequate
notion of to the uninitiated
like you. My purpose, in short,
is to have all things in an absolutely
perfect state of readiness for
Diana and Mary before next Thursday;
and my ambition is to give them
a beau-ideal of a welcome when
they come."
St. John smiled slightly: still
he was dissatisfied.
"It is all very well for the
present," said he; "but seriously,
I trust that when the first flush
of vivacity is over, you will
look a little higher than domestic
endearments and household joys."
"The best things the world
has!" I interrupted.
"No,
Jane, no: this
world is not
the scene of
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, and for
pleasing yourself with this late-found
charm of relationship; but THEN,
I hope you will begin to look
beyond Moor House and Morton,
and sisterly society, and the
selfish calm and sensual comfort
of civilised affluence. I hope
your energies will then once
more trouble you with their strength."
I
looked at him
with surprise. "St.
John," I said, "I think you are
almost wicked to talk so. I am
disposed to be as content as
a queen, and you try to stir
me up to restlessness! To what
end?"
"To
the end of
turning to
profit the
talents which
God has committed
to your keeping; and of which
He will surely one day demand
a strict account. Jane, I shall
watch you closely and anxiously--I
warn you of that. And try to
restrain the disproportionate
fervour with which you throw
yourself into commonplace home
pleasures. Don't cling so tenaciously
to ties of the flesh; save your
constancy and ardour for an adequate
cause; forbear to waste them
on trite transient objects. Do
you hear, Jane?"
"Yes;
just as if
you were speaking
Greek. I feel I have adequate
cause to be happy, and I WILL
be happy. 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 amidst
the bustle of a house turned
topsy-turvy--how I could brush,
and dust, and clean, and cook.
And really, after a day or two
of confusion worse confounded,
it was delightful by degrees
to invoke order from the 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 for that purpose. The
ordinary sitting-room and bedrooms
I left much as they were: for
I knew Diana and Mary would derive
more pleasure from seeing again
the old homely tables, and chairs,
and beds, than from the spectacle
of the smartest innovations.
Still some novelty was necessary,
to give to their return the piquancy
with which I wished it to be
invested. Dark handsome new carpets
and curtains, an arrangement
of some carefully selected antique
ornaments in porcelain and bronze,
new coverings, and mirrors, and
dressing-cases, for the toilet
tables, answered the end: they
looked fresh without being glaring.
A spare parlour and bedroom I
refurnished entirely, with old
mahogany and crimson upholstery:
I laid canvas on the passage,
and carpets on the stairs. When
all was finished, I thought Moor
House as complete a model of
bright modest snugness within,
as it was, at this season, a
specimen of wintry waste and
desert dreariness without.
The eventful Thursday at length
came. They were expected about
dark, and ere dusk fires were
lit upstairs and below; the kitchen
was in perfect trim; Hannah and
I were dressed, and all was in
readiness.
St.
John arrived
first. I had
entreated him to keep quite clear
of the house till everything
was arranged: and, indeed, the
bare idea of the commotion, at
once sordid and trivial, going
on within its walls sufficed
to scare him to estrangement.
He found me in the kitchen, watching
the progress of certain cakes
for tea, then baking. Approaching
the hearth, he asked, "If I was
at last satisfied with housemaid's
work?" I answered by inviting
him to accompany me on a general
inspection of the result of my
labours. With some difficulty,
I got him to make the tour of
the house. He just looked in
at the doors I opened; and when
he had wandered upstairs and
downstairs, he said I must have
gone through a great deal of
fatigue and trouble to have effected
such considerable changes in
so short a time: but not a syllable
did he utter indicating pleasure
in the improved aspect of his
abode.
This silence damped me. I thought
perhaps the alterations had disturbed
some old associations he valued.
I inquired whether this was the
case: no doubt in a somewhat
crest-fallen tone.
"Not
at all; he
had, on the
contrary, remarked that I had
scrupulously respected every
association: he feared, indeed,
I must have bestowed more thought
on the matter than it was worth.
How many minutes, for instance,
had I devoted to studying the
arrangement of this very room?--By-the-bye,
could I tell him where such a
book was?"
I showed him the volume on
the shelf: he took it down, and
withdrawing to his accustomed
window recess, he began to read
it.
Now, I did not like this, reader.
St. John was a good man; but
I began to feel he had spoken
truth of himself when he said
he was hard and cold. The humanities
and amenities of life had no
attraction for him--its peaceful
enjoyments no charm. Literally,
he lived only to aspire--after
what was good and great, certainly;
but still he would never rest,
nor approve of others resting
round him. As I looked at his
lofty forehead, still and pale
as a white stone-- at his fine
lineaments fixed in study--I
comprehended all at once that
he would hardly make a good husband:
that it would be a trying thing
to be his wife. I understood,
as by inspiration, the nature
of his love for Miss Oliver;
I agreed with him that it was
but a love of the senses. I comprehended
how he should despise himself
for the feverish influence it
exercised over him; how he should
wish to stifle and destroy it;
how he should mistrust its ever
conducting permanently to his
happiness or hers. I saw he was
of the material from which nature
hews her heroes--Christian and
Pagan--her lawgivers, her statesmen,
her conquerors: a steadfast bulwark
for great interests to rest upon;
but, at the fireside, too often
a cold cumbrous column, gloomy
and out of place.
"This parlour is not his sphere," I
reflected: "the Himalayan ridge
or Caffre bush, even the plague-cursed
Guinea Coast swamp would suit
him better. Well may he eschew
the calm of domestic life; it
is not his element: there his
faculties stagnate--they cannot
develop or appear to advantage.
It is in scenes of strife and
danger--where courage is proved,
and energy exercised, and fortitude
tasked--that he will speak and
move, the leader and superior.
A merry child would have the
advantage of him on this hearth.
He is right to choose a missionary's
career--I see it now."
"They are coming! they are
coming!" cried Hannah, throwing
open the parlour door. At the
same moment old Carlo barked
joyfully. Out I ran. It was now
dark; but a rumbling of wheels
was audible. Hannah soon had
a lantern lit. The vehicle had
stopped at the wicket; the driver
opened the door: first one well-known
form, then another, stepped out.
In a minute I had my face under
their bonnets, in contact first
with Mary's soft cheek, then
with Diana's flowing curls. They
laughed--kissed me--then Hannah:
patted Carlo, who was half wild
with delight; asked eagerly if
all was well; and being assured
in the affirmative, hastened
into the house.
They were stiff with their
long and jolting drive from Whitcross,
and chilled with the frosty night
air; but their pleasant countenances
expanded to the cheerful firelight.
While the driver and Hannah brought
in the boxes, they demanded St.
John. At this moment he advanced
from the parlour. They both threw
their arms round his neck at
once. He gave each one quiet
kiss, said in a low tone a few
words of welcome, stood a while
to be talked to, and then, intimating
that he supposed they would soon
rejoin him in the parlour, withdrew
there as to a place of refuge.
I had lit their candles to
go upstairs, but Diana had first
to give hospitable orders respecting
the driver; this done, both followed
me. They were delighted with
the renovation and decorations
of their rooms; with the new
drapery, and fresh carpets, and
rich tinted china vases: they
expressed their gratification
ungrudgingly. I had the pleasure
of feeling that my arrangements
met their wishes exactly, and
that what I had done added a
vivid charm to their joyous return
home.
Sweet
was that evening.
My cousins,
full of exhilaration,
were so eloquent in narrative
and comment, that their fluency
covered St. John's taciturnity:
he was sincerely glad to see
his sisters; but in their glow
of fervour and flow of joy he
could not sympathise. The event
of the day--that is, the return
of Diana and Mary--pleased him;
but the accompaniments of that
event, the glad tumult, the garrulous
glee of reception irked him:
I saw he wished the calmer morrow
was come. In the very meridian
of the night's enjoyment, about
an hour after tea, a rap was
heard at the door. Hannah entered
with the intimation that "a poor
lad was come, at that unlikely
time, to fetch Mr. Rivers to
see his mother, who was drawing
away."
"Where
does she live,
Hannah?"
"Clear
up at Whitcross
Brow, almost
four miles
off, and moor
and moss all the way."
"Tell
him I will
go."
"I'm
sure, sir,
you had better
not. It's the worst road to travel
after dark that can be: there's
no track at all over the bog.
And then it is such a bitter
night--the keenest wind you ever
felt. You had better send word,
sir, that you will be there in
the morning."
But he was already in the passage,
putting on his cloak; and without
one objection, one murmur, he
departed. It was then nine o'clock:
he did not return till midnight.
Starved and tired enough he was:
but he looked happier than when
he set out. He had performed
an act of duty; made an exertion;
felt his own strength to do and
deny, and was on better terms
with himself.
I am afraid the whole of the
ensuing week tried his patience.
It was Christmas week: we took
to no settled employment, but
spent it in a sort of merry domestic
dissipation. The air of the moors,
the freedom of home, the dawn
of prosperity, acted on Diana
and Mary's spirits like some
life-giving elixir: they were
gay from morning till noon, and
from noon till night. They could
always talk; and their discourse,
witty, pithy, original, had such
charms for me, that I preferred
listening to, and sharing in
it, to doing anything else. St.
John did not rebuke our vivacity;
but he escaped from it: he was
seldom in the house; his parish
was large, the population scattered,
and he found daily business in
visiting the sick and poor in
its different districts.
One
morning at
breakfast,
Diana, after
looking a little
pensive
for some minutes, asked him, "If
his plans were yet unchanged."
"Unchanged and unchangeable," was
the reply. And he proceeded to
inform us that his departure
from England was now definitively
fixed for the ensuing year.
"And Rosamond Oliver?" suggested
Mary, the words seeming to escape
her lips involuntarily: for no
sooner had she uttered them,
than she made a gesture as if
wishing to recall them. St. John
had a book in his hand--it was
his unsocial custom to read at
meals--he closed it, and looked
up,
"Rosamond Oliver," said he, "is
about to be married to Mr. Granby,
one of the best connected and
most estimable residents in S-,
grandson and heir to Sir Frederic
Granby: I had the intelligence
from her father yesterday."
His sisters looked at each
other and at me; we all three
looked at him: he was serene
as glass.
"The match must have been got
up hastily," said Diana: "they
cannot have known each other
long."
"But
two months:
they met in
October at the county ball at
S-. But where there are no obstacles
to a union, as in the present
case, where the connection is
in every point desirable, delays
are unnecessary: they will be
married as soon as S- Place,
which Sir Frederic gives up to
them, can he refitted for their
reception."
The first time I found St.
John alone after this communication,
I felt tempted to inquire if
the event distressed him: but
he seemed so little to need sympathy,
that, so far from venturing to
offer him more, I experienced
some shame at the recollection
of what I had already hazarded.
Besides, I was out of practice
in talking to him: his reserve
was again frozen over, and my
frankness was congealed beneath
it. He had not kept his promise
of treating me like his sisters;
he continually made little chilling
differences between us, which
did not at all tend to the development
of cordiality: in short, now
that I was acknowledged his kinswoman,
and lived under the same roof
with him, I felt the distance
between us to be far greater
than when he had known me only
as the village schoolmistress.
When I remembered how far I had
once been admitted to his confidence,
I could hardly comprehend his
present frigidity.
Such being the case, I felt
not a little surprised when he
raised his head suddenly from
the desk over which he was stooping,
and said -
"You
see, Jane,
the battle
is fought and
the victory
won."
Startled at being thus addressed,
I did not immediately reply:
after a moment's hesitation I
answered -
"But
are you sure
you are not
in the position of those conquerors
whose triumphs have cost them
too dear? Would not such another
ruin you?"
"I think not; and if I were,
it does not much signify; I shall
never be called upon to contend
for such another. The event of
the conflict is decisive: my
way is now clear; I thank God
for it!" So saying, he returned
to his papers and his silence.
As our mutual happiness (i.e.,
Diana's, Mary's, and mine) settled
into a quieter character, and
we resumed our usual habits and
regular studies, St. John stayed
more at home: he sat with us
in the same room, sometimes for
hours together. While Mary drew,
Diana pursued a course of encyclopaedic
reading she had (to my awe and
amazement) undertaken, and I
fagged away at German, he pondered
a mystic lore of his own: that
of some Eastern tongue, the acquisition
of which he thought necessary
to his plans.
Thus engaged, he appeared,
sitting in his own recess, quiet
and absorbed enough; but that
blue eye of his had a habit of
leaving the outlandish-looking
grammar, and wandering over,
and sometimes fixing upon us,
his fellow-students, with a curious
intensity of observation: if
caught, it would be instantly
withdrawn; yet ever and anon,
it returned searchingly to our
table. I wondered what it meant:
I wondered, too, at the punctual
satisfaction he never failed
to exhibit on an occasion that
seemed to me of small moment,
namely, my weekly visit to Morton
school; and still more was I
puzzled when, if the day was
unfavourable, if there was snow,
or rain, or high wind, and his
sisters urged me not to go, he
would invariably make light of
their solicitude, and encourage
me to accomplish the task without
regard to the elements.
"Jane is not such a weakling
as you would make her," he would
say: "she can bear a mountain
blast, or a shower, or a few
flakes of snow, as well as any
of us. Her constitution is both
sound and elastic;--better calculated
to endure variations of climate
than many more robust."
And when I returned, sometimes
a good deal tired, and not a
little weather-beaten, I never
dared complain, because I saw
that to murmur would be to vex
him: on all occasions fortitude
pleased him; the reverse was
a special annoyance.
One afternoon, however, I got
leave to stay at home, because
I really had a cold. His sisters
were gone to Morton in my stead:
I sat reading Schiller; he, deciphering
his crabbed Oriental scrolls.
As I exchanged a translation
for an exercise, I happened to
look his way: there I found myself
under the influence of the ever-watchful
blue eye. How long it had been
searching me through and through,
and over and over, I cannot tell:
so keen was it, and yet so cold,
I felt for the moment superstitious--as
if I were sitting in the room
with something uncanny.
"Jane,
what are you
doing?"
"Learning
German."
"I
want you to
give up German
and learn Hindostanee."
"You
are not in
earnest?"
"In
such earnest
that I must
have it so: and I will tell you
why."
He then went on to explain
that Hindostanee was the language
he was himself at present studying;
that, as he advanced, he was
apt to forget the commencement;
that it would assist him greatly
to have a pupil with whom he
might again and again go over
the elements, and so fix them
thoroughly in his mind; that
his choice had hovered for some
time between me and his sisters;
but that he had fixed on me because
he saw I could sit at a task
the longest of the three. Would
I do him this favour? I should
not, perhaps, have to make the
sacrifice long, as it wanted
now barely three months to his
departure.
St. John was not a man to be
lightly refused: you felt that
every impression made on him,
either for pain or pleasure,
was deep-graved and permanent.
I consented. When Diana and Mary
returned, the former found her
scholar transferred from her
to her brother: she laughed,
and both she and Mary agreed
that St. John should never have
persuaded them to such a step.
He answered quietly -
"I
know it."
I
found him a
very patient,
very forbearing, and yet an exacting
master: he expected me to do
a great deal; and when I fulfilled
his expectations, he, in his
own way, fully testified his
approbation. By degrees, he acquired
a certain influence over me that
took away my liberty of mind:
his praise and notice were more
restraining than his indifference.
I could no longer talk or laugh
freely when he was by, because
a tiresomely importunate instinct
reminded me that vivacity (at
least in me) was distasteful
to him. I was so fully aware
that only serious moods and occupations
were acceptable, that in his
presence every effort to sustain
or follow any other became vain:
I fell under a freezing spell.
When he said "go," I went; "come," I
came; "do this," I did it. But
I did not love my servitude:
I wished, many a time, he had
continued to neglect me.
One evening when, at bedtime,
his sisters and I stood round
him, bidding him good-night,
he kissed each of them, as was
his custom; and, as was equally
his custom, he gave me his hand.
Diana, who chanced to be in a
frolicsome humour (SHE was not
painfully controlled by his will;
for hers, in another way, was
as strong), exclaimed -
"St.
John! you used
to call Jane
your third
sister, but
you
don't treat her as such: you
should kiss her too."
She pushed me towards him.
I thought Diana very provoking,
and felt uncomfortably confused;
and while I was thus thinking
and feeling, St. John bent his
head; his Greek face was brought
to a level with mine, his eyes
questioned my eyes piercingly--he
kissed me. There are no such
things as marble kisses or ice
kisses, or I should say my ecclesiastical
cousin's salute belonged to one
of these classes; but there may
be experiment kisses, and his
was an experiment kiss. When
given, he viewed me to learn
the result; it was not striking:
I am sure I did not blush; perhaps
I might have turned a little
pale, for I felt as if this kiss
were a seal affixed to my fetters.
He never omitted the ceremony
afterwards, and the gravity and
quiescence with which I underwent
it, seemed to invest it for him
with a certain charm.
As for me, I daily wished more
to please him; but to do so,
I felt daily more and more that
I must disown half my nature,
stifle half my faculties, wrest
my tastes from their original
bent, force myself to the adoption
of pursuits for which I had no
natural vocation. He wanted to
train me to an elevation I could
never reach; it racked me hourly
to aspire to the standard he
uplifted. The thing was as impossible
as to mould my irregular features
to his correct and classic pattern,
to give to my changeable green
eyes the sea-blue tint and solemn
lustre of his own.
Not his ascendancy alone, however,
held me in thrall at present.
Of late it had been easy enough
for me to look sad: a cankering
evil sat at my heart and drained
my happiness at its source--the
evil of suspense.
Perhaps you think I had forgotten
Mr. Rochester, reader, amidst
these changes of place and fortune.
Not for a moment. His idea was
still with me, because it was
not a vapour sunshine could disperse,
nor a sand-traced effigy storms
could wash away; it was a name
graven on a tablet, fated to
last as long as the marble it
inscribed. The craving to know
what had become of him followed
me everywhere; when I was at
Morton, I re-entered my cottage
every evening to think of that;
and now at Moor House, I sought
my bedroom each night to brood
over it.
In the course of my necessary
correspondence with Mr. Briggs
about the will, I had inquired
if he knew anything of Mr. Rochester's
present residence and state of
health; but, as St. John had
conjectured, he was quite ignorant
of all concerning him. I then
wrote to Mrs. Fairfax, entreating
information on the subject. I
had calculated with certainty
on this step answering my end:
I felt sure it would elicit an
early answer. I was astonished
when a fortnight passed without
reply; but when two months wore
away, and day after day the post
arrived and brought nothing for
me, I fell a prey to the keenest
anxiety.
I wrote again: there was a
chance of my first letter having
missed. Renewed hope followed
renewed effort: it shone like
the former for some weeks, then,
like it, it faded, flickered:
not a line, not a word reached
me. When half a year wasted in
vain expectancy, my hope died
out, and then I felt dark indeed.
A fine spring shone round me,
which I could not enjoy. Summer
approached; Diana tried to cheer
me: she said I looked ill, and
wished to accompany me to the
sea-side. This St. John opposed;
he said I did not want dissipation,
I wanted employment; my present
life was too purposeless, I required
an aim; and, I suppose, by way
of supplying deficiencies, he
prolonged still further my lessons
in Hindostanee, and grew more
urgent in requiring their accomplishment:
and I, like a fool, never thought
of resisting him--I could not
resist him.
One day I had come to my studies
in lower spirits than usual;
the ebb was occasioned by a poignantly
felt disappointment. Hannah had
told me in the morning there
was a letter for me, and when
I went down to take it, almost
certain that the long-looked
for tidings were vouchsafed me
at last, I found only an unimportant
note from Mr. Briggs on business.
The bitter check had wrung from
me some tears; and now, as I
sat poring over the crabbed characters
and flourishing tropes of an
Indian scribe, my eyes filled
again.
St. John called me to his side
to read; in attempting to do
this my voice failed me: words
were lost in sobs. He and I were
the only occupants of the parlour:
Diana was practising her music
in the drawing-room, Mary was
gardening--it was a very fine
May day, clear, sunny, and breezy.
My companion expressed no surprise
at this emotion, nor did he question
me as to its cause; he only said
-
"We will wait a few minutes,
Jane, till you are more composed." And
while I smothered the paroxysm
with all haste, he sat calm and
patient, leaning on his desk,
and looking like a physician
watching with the eye of science
an expected and fully understood
crisis in a patient's malady.
Having stifled my sobs, wiped
my eyes, and muttered something
about not being very well that
morning, I resumed my task, and
succeeded in completing it. St.
John put away my books and his,
locked his desk, and said -
"Now,
Jane, you shall
take a walk;
and with me."
"I
will call Diana
and Mary."
"No;
I want only
one companion
this morning, and that must be
you. Put on your things; go out
by the kitchen-door: take the
road towards the head of Marsh
Glen: I will join you in a moment."
I know no medium: I never in
my life have known any medium
in my dealings with positive,
hard characters, antagonistic
to my own, between absolute submission
and determined revolt. I have
always faithfully observed the
one, up to the very moment of
bursting, sometimes with volcanic
vehemence, into the other; and
as neither present circumstances
warranted, nor my present mood
inclined me to mutiny, I observed
careful obedience to St. John's
directions; and in ten minutes
I was treading the wild track
of the glen, side by side with
him.
The breeze was from the west:
it came over the hills, sweet
with scents of heath and rush;
the sky was of stainless blue;
the stream descending the ravine,
swelled with past spring rains,
poured along plentiful and clear,
catching golden gleams from the
sun, and sapphire tints from
the firmament. As we advanced
and left the track, we trod a
soft turf, mossy fine and emerald
green, minutely enamelled with
a tiny white flower, and spangled
with a star-like yellow blossom:
the hills, meantime, shut us
quite in; for the glen, towards
its head, wound to their very
core.
"Let us rest here," said
St. John, as
we reached
the first
stragglers of a battalion of
rocks, guarding a sort of pass,
beyond which the beck rushed
down a waterfall; and where,
still a little farther, the mountain
shook off turf and flower, had
only heath for raiment and crag
for gem--where it exaggerated
the wild to the savage, and exchanged
the fresh for the frowning--where
it guarded the forlorn hope of
solitude, and a last refuge for
silence.
I took a seat: St. John stood
near me. He looked up the pass
and down the hollow; his glance
wandered away with the stream,
and returned to traverse the
unclouded heaven which coloured
it: he removed his hat, let the
breeze stir his hair and kiss
his brow. He seemed in communion
with the genius of the haunt:
with his eye he bade farewell
to something.
"And I shall see it again," he
said aloud, "in dreams when I
sleep by the Ganges: and again
in a more remote hour--when another
slumber overcomes me--on the
shore of a darker stream!"
Strange words of a strange
love! An austere patriot's passion
for his fatherland! He sat down;
for half-an-hour we never spoke;
neither he to me nor I to him:
that interval past, he recommenced
-
"Jane,
I go in six
weeks; I have
taken my berth
in an East
Indiaman which sails on the 20th
of June."
"God will protect you; for
you have undertaken His work," I
answered.
"Yes," said he, "there
is my glory
and joy. I
am the servant
of an infallible Master. I am
not going out under human guidance,
subject to the defective laws
and erring control of my feeble
fellow-worms: my king, my lawgiver,
my captain, is the All-perfect.
It seems strange to me that all
round me do not burn to enlist
under the same banner,--to join
in the same enterprise."
"All
have not your
powers, and
it would be
folly for the
feeble to wish to march with
the strong."
"I
do not speak
to the feeble,
or think of them: I address only
such as are worthy of the work,
and competent to accomplish it."
"Those
are few in
number, and
difficult to discover."
"You
say truly;
but when found,
it is right to stir them up--to
urge and exhort them to the effort--to
show them what their gifts are,
and why they were given--to speak
Heaven's message in their ear,--to
offer them, direct from God,
a place in the ranks of His chosen."
"If
they are really
qualified for
the task, will
not their
own hearts be the first to inform
them of it?"
I felt as if an awful charm
was framing round and gathering
over me: I trembled to hear some
fatal word spoken which would
at once declare and rivet the
spell.
"And what does YOUR heart say?" demanded
St. John.
"My heart is mute,--my heart
is mute," I answered, struck
and thrilled.
"Then I must speak for it," continued
the deep, relentless voice. "Jane,
come with me to India: come as
my helpmeet and fellow- labourer."
The
glen and sky
spun round:
the hills heaved! It was as if
I had heard a summons from Heaven--as
if a visionary messenger, like
him of Macedonia, had enounced, "Come
over and help us!" But I was
no apostle,--I could not behold
the herald,--I could not receive
his call.
"Oh, St. John!" I cried, "have
some mercy!"
I appealed to one who, in the
discharge of what he believed
his duty, knew neither mercy
nor remorse. He continued -
"God
and nature
intended you
for a missionary's wife. It is
not personal, but mental endowments
they have given you: you are
formed for labour, not for love.
A missionary's wife you must--shall
be. You shall be mine: I claim
you--not for my pleasure, but
for my Sovereign's service."
"I am not fit for it: I have
no vocation," I said.
He had calculated on these
first objections: he was not
irritated by them. Indeed, as
he leaned back against the crag
behind him, folded his arms on
his chest, and fixed his countenance,
I saw he was prepared for a long
and trying opposition, and had
taken in a stock of patience
to last him to its close--resolved,
however, that that close should
be conquest for him.
"Humility, Jane," said he, "is
the groundwork of Christian virtues:
you say right that you are not
fit for the work. Who is fit
for it? Or who, that ever was
truly called, believed himself
worthy of the summons? I, for
instance, am but dust and ashes.
With St. Paul, I acknowledge
myself the chiefest of sinners;
but I do not suffer this sense
of my personal vileness to daunt
me. I know my Leader: that He
is just as well as mighty; and
while He has chosen a feeble
instrument to perform a great
task, He will, from the boundless
stores of His providence, supply
the inadequacy of the means to
the end. Think like me, Jane--trust
like me. It is the Rock of Ages
I ask you to lean on: do not
doubt but it will bear the weight
of your human weakness."
"I
do not understand
a missionary
life: I have never studied missionary
labours."
"There
I, humble as
I am, can give
you the aid
you want: I
can set you your task from hour
to hour; stand by you always;
help you from moment to moment.
This I could do in the beginning:
soon (for I know your powers)
you would be as strong and apt
as myself, and would not require
my help."
"But
my powers--where
are they for
this undertaking?
I do not
feel them. Nothing speaks or
stirs in me while you talk. I
am sensible of no light kindling--no
life quickening--no voice counselling
or cheering. Oh, I wish I could
make you see how much my mind
is at this moment like a rayless
dungeon, with one shrinking fear
fettered in its depths--the fear
of being persuaded by you to
attempt what I cannot accomplish!"
"I
have an answer
for you--hear
it. I have watched you ever since
we first met: I have made you
my study for ten months. I have
proved you in that time by sundry
tests: and what have I seen and
elicited? In the village school
I found you could perform well,
punctually, uprightly, labour
uncongenial to your habits and
inclinations; I saw you could
perform it with capacity and
tact: you could win while you
controlled. In the calm with
which you learnt you had become
suddenly rich, I read a mind
clear of the vice of Demas:-
lucre had no undue power over
you. In the resolute readiness
with which you cut your wealth
into four shares, keeping but
one to yourself, and relinquishing
the three others to the claim
of abstract justice, I recognised
a soul that revelled in the flame
and excitement of sacrifice.
In the tractability with which,
at my wish, you forsook a study
in which you were interested,
and adopted another because it
interested me; in the untiring
assiduity with which you have
since persevered in it--in the
unflagging energy and unshaken
temper with which you have met
its difficulties--I acknowledge
the complement of the qualities
I seek. Jane, you are docile,
diligent, disinterested, faithful,
constant, and courageous; very
gentle, and very heroic: cease
to mistrust yourself--I can trust
you unreservedly. As a conductress
of Indian schools, and a helper
amongst Indian women, your assistance
will be to me invaluable."
My iron shroud contracted round
me; persuasion advanced with
slow sure step. Shut my eyes
as I would, these last words
of his succeeded in making the
way, which had seemed blocked
up, comparatively clear. My work,
which had appeared so vague,
so hopelessly diffuse, condensed
itself as he proceeded, and assumed
a definite form under his shaping
hand. He waited for an answer.
I demanded a quarter of an hour
to think, before I again hazarded
a reply.
"Very willingly," he
rejoined; and
rising, he
strode a little
distance up the pass, threw himself
down on a swell of heath, and
there lay still.
"I CAN do what he wants me
to do: I am forced to see and
acknowledge that," I meditated,--"that
is, if life be spared me. But
I feel mine is not the existence
to be long protracted under an
Indian sun. What then? He does
not care for that: when my time
came to die, he would resign
me, in all serenity and sanctity,
to the God who gave me. The case
is very plain before me. In leaving
England, I should leave a loved
but empty land--Mr. Rochester
is not there; and if he were,
what is, what can that ever be
to me? My business is to live
without him now: nothing so absurd,
so weak as to drag on from day
to day, as if I were waiting
some impossible change in circumstances,
which might reunite me to him.
Of course (as St. John once said)
I must seek another interest
in life to replace the one lost:
is not the occupation he now
offers me truly the most glorious
man can adopt or God assign?
Is it not, by its noble cares
and sublime results, the one
best calculated to fill the void
left by uptorn affections and
demolished hopes? I believe I
must say, Yes--and yet I shudder.
Alas! If I join St. John, I abandon
half myself: if I go to India,
I go to premature death. And
how will the interval between
leaving England for India, and
India for the grave, be filled?
Oh, I know well! That, too, is
very clear to my vision. By straining
to satisfy St. John till my sinews
ache, I SHALL satisfy him--to
the finest central point and
farthest outward circle of his
expectations. If I DO go with
him-- if I DO make the sacrifice
he urges, I will make it absolutely:
I will throw all on the altar--heart,
vitals, the entire victim. He
will never love me; but he shall
approve me; I will show him energies
he has not yet seen, resources
he has never suspected. Yes,
I can work as hard as he can,
and with as little grudging.
"Consent,
then, to his
demand is possible:
but for one
item--one
dreadful item. It is--that he
asks me to be his wife, and has
no more of a husband's heart
for me than that frowning giant
of a rock, down which the stream
is foaming in yonder gorge. He
prizes me as a soldier would
a good weapon; and that is all.
Unmarried to him, this would
never grieve me; but can I let
him complete his calculations--coolly
put into practice his plans--go
through the wedding ceremony?
Can I receive from him the bridal
ring, endure all the forms of
love (which I doubt not he would
scrupulously observe) and know
that the spirit was quite absent?
Can I bear the consciousness
that every endearment he bestows
is a sacrifice made on principle?
No: such a martyrdom would be
monstrous. I will never undergo
it. As his sister, I might accompany
him--not as his wife: I will
tell him so."
I looked towards the knoll:
there he lay, still as a prostrate
column; his face turned to me:
his eye beaming watchful and
keen. He started to his feet
and approached me.
"I
am ready to
go to India,
if I may go free."
"Your answer requires a commentary," he
said; "it is not clear."
"You
have hitherto
been my adopted
brother--I,
your adopted
sister: let us continue as such:
you and I had better not marry."
He
shook his head. "Adopted
fraternity will not do in this
case. If you were my real sister
it would be different: I should
take you, and seek no wife. But
as it is, either our union must
be consecrated and sealed by
marriage, or it cannot exist:
practical obstacles oppose themselves
to any other plan. Do you not
see it, Jane? Consider a moment--your
strong sense will guide you."
I
did consider;
and still my
sense, such as it was, directed
me only to the fact that we did
not love each other as man and
wife should: and therefore it
inferred we ought not to marry.
I said so. "St. John," I returned, "I
regard you as a brother--you,
me as a sister: so let us continue."
"We cannot--we cannot," he
answered, with short, sharp determination: "it
would not do. You have said you
will go with me to India: remember--you
have said that."
"Conditionally."
"Well--well.
To the main
point--the
departure with
me from England,
the co-operation with me in my
future labours--you do not object.
You have already as good as put
your hand to the plough: you
are too consistent to withdraw
it. You have but one end to keep
in view--how the work you have
undertaken can best be done.
Simplify your complicated interests,
feelings, thoughts, wishes, aims;
merge all considerations in one
purpose: that of fulfilling with
effect-- with power--the mission
of your great Master. To do so,
you must have a coadjutor: not
a brother--that is a loose tie--but
a husband. I, too, do not want
a sister: a sister might any
day be taken from me. I want
a wife: the sole helpmeet I can
influence efficiently in life,
and retain absolutely till death."
I shuddered as he spoke: I
felt his influence in my marrow--his
hold on my limbs.
"Seek
one elsewhere
than in me,
St. John: seek
one fitted
to you."
"One
fitted to my
purpose, you
mean--fitted
to my vocation.
Again I tell you it is not the
insignificant private individual--the
mere man, with the man's selfish
senses--I wish to mate: it is
the missionary."
"And
I will give
the missionary
my energies--it is all he wants--but
not myself: that would be only
adding the husk and shell to
the kernel. For them he has no
use: I retain them."
"You
cannot--you
ought not.
Do you think
God will be
satisfied
with half an oblation? Will He
accept a mutilated sacrifice?
It is the cause of God I advocate:
it is under His standard I enlist
you. I cannot accept on His behalf
a divided allegiance: it must
be entire."
"Oh! I will give my heart to
God," I said. "YOU do not want
it."
I will not swear, reader, that
there was not something of repressed
sarcasm both in the tone in which
I uttered this sentence, and
in the feeling that accompanied
it. I had silently feared St.
John till now, because I had
not understood him. He had held
me in awe, because he had held
me in doubt. How much of him
was saint, how much mortal, I
could not heretofore tell: but
revelations were being made in
this conference: the analysis
of his nature was proceeding
before my eyes. I saw his fallibilities:
I comprehended them. I understood
that, sitting there where I did,
on the bank of heath, and with
that handsome form before me,
I sat at the feet of a man, caring
as I. The veil fell from his
hardness and despotism. Having
felt in him the presence of these
qualities, I felt his imperfection
and took courage. I was with
an equal--one with whom I might
argue--one whom, if I saw good,
I might resist.
He was silent after I had uttered
the last sentence, and I presently
risked an upward glance at his
countenance.
His
eye, bent on
me, expressed
at once stern surprise and keen
inquiry. "Is she sarcastic, and
sarcastic to ME!" it seemed to
say. "What does this signify?"
"Do not let us forget that
this is a solemn matter," he
said ere long; "one of which
we may neither think nor talk
lightly without sin. I trust,
Jane, you are in earnest when
you say you will serve your heart
to God: it is all I want. Once
wrench your heart from man, and
fix it on your Maker, the advancement
of that Maker's spiritual kingdom
on earth will be your chief delight
and endeavour; you will be ready
to do at once whatever furthers
that end. You will see what impetus
would be given to your efforts
and mine by our physical and
mental union in marriage: the
only union that gives a character
of permanent conformity to the
destinies and designs of human
beings; and, passing over all
minor caprices--all trivial difficulties
and delicacies of feeling--all
scruple about the degree, kind,
strength or tenderness of mere
personal inclination-- you will
hasten to enter into that union
at once."
"Shall I?" I
said briefly;
and I looked at his features,
beautiful in their harmony, but
strangely formidable in their
still severity; at his brow,
commanding but not open; at his
eyes, bright and deep and searching,
but never soft; at his tall imposing
figure; and fancied myself in
idea HIS WIFE. Oh! it would never
do! As his curate, his comrade,
all would be right: I would cross
oceans with him in that capacity;
toil under Eastern suns, in Asian
deserts with him in that office;
admire and emulate his courage
and devotion and vigour; accommodate
quietly to his masterhood; smile
undisturbed at his ineradicable
ambition; discriminate the Christian
from the man: profoundly esteem
the one, and freely forgive the
other. I should suffer often,
no doubt, attached to him only
in this capacity: my body would
be under rather a stringent yoke,
but my heart and mind would be
free. I should still have my
unblighted self to turn to: my
natural unenslaved feelings with
which to communicate in moments
of loneliness. There would be
recesses in my mind which would
be only mine, to which he never
came, and sentiments growing
there fresh and sheltered which
his austerity could never blight,
nor his measured warrior-march
trample down: but as his wife--at
his side always, and always restrained,
and always checked--forced to
keep the fire of my nature continually
low, to compel it to burn inwardly
and never utter a cry, though
the imprisoned flame consumed
vital after vital--THIS would
be unendurable.
"St. John!" I
exclaimed,
when I had
got so far
in my meditation.
"Well?" he
answered icily.
"I
repeat I freely
consent to
go with you
as your fellow-missionary,
but not as your wife; I cannot
marry you and become part of
you."
"A part of me you must become," he
answered steadily; "otherwise
the whole bargain is void. How
can I, a man not yet thirty,
take out with me to India a girl
of nineteen, unless she be married
to me? How can we be for ever
together--sometimes in solitudes,
sometimes amidst savage tribes--and
unwed?"
"Very well," I said shortly; "under
the circumstances, quite as well
as if I were either your real
sister, or a man and a clergyman
like yourself."
"It
is known that
you are not
my sister; I cannot introduce
you as such: to attempt it would
be to fasten injurious suspicions
on us both. And for the rest,
though you have a man's vigorous
brain, you have a woman's heart
and--it would not do."
"It would do," I affirmed with
some disdain, "perfectly well.
I have a woman's heart, but not
where you are concerned; for
you I have only a comrade's constancy;
a fellow-soldier's frankness,
fidelity, fraternity, if you
like; a neophyte's respect and
submission to his hierophant:
nothing more--don't fear."
"It is what I want," he said,
speaking to himself; "it is just
what I want. And there are obstacles
in the way: they must be hewn
down. Jane, you would not repent
marrying me--be certain of that;
we MUST be married. I repeat
it: there is no other way; and
undoubtedly enough of love would
follow upon marriage to render
the union right even in your
eyes."
"I scorn your idea of love," I
could not help saying, as I rose
up and stood before him, leaning
my back against the rock. "I
scorn the counterfeit sentiment
you offer: yes, St. John, and
I scorn you when you offer it."
He looked at me fixedly, compressing
his well-cut lips while he did
so. Whether he was incensed or
surprised, or what, it was not
easy to tell: he could command
his countenance thoroughly.
"I scarcely expected to hear
that expression from you," he
said: "I think I have done and
uttered nothing to deserve scorn."
I was touched by his gentle
tone, and overawed by his high,
calm mien.
"Forgive
me the words,
St. John; but
it is your
own fault
that I have been roused to speak
so unguardedly. You have introduced
a topic on which our natures
are at variance--a topic we should
never discuss: the very name
of love is an apple of discord
between us. If the reality were
required, what should we do?
How should we feel? My dear cousin,
abandon your scheme of marriage--forget
it."
"No," said he; "it
is a long-cherished
scheme, and the only one which
can secure my great end: but
I shall urge you no further at
present. To-morrow, I leave home
for Cambridge: I have many friends
there to whom I should wish to
say farewell. I shall be absent
a fortnight--take that space
of time to consider my offer:
and do not forget that if you
reject it, it is not me you deny,
but God. Through my means, He
opens to you a noble career;
as my wife only can you enter
upon it. Refuse to be my wife,
and you limit yourself for ever
to a track of selfish ease and
barren obscurity. Tremble lest
in that case you should be numbered
with those who have denied the
faith, and are worse than infidels!"
He had done. Turning from me,
he once more
"Looked to
river, looked to hill."
But this time his feelings
were all pent in his heart: I
was not worthy to hear them uttered.
As I walked by his side homeward,
I read well in his iron silence
all he felt towards me: the disappointment
of an austere and despotic nature,
which has met resistance where
it expected submission--the disapprobation
of a cool, inflexible judgment,
which has detected in another
feelings and views in which it
has no power to sympathise: in
short, as a man, he would have
wished to coerce me into obedience:
it was only as a sincere Christian
he bore so patiently with my
perversity, and allowed so long
a space for reflection and repentance.
That night, after he had kissed
his sisters, he thought proper
to forget even to shake hands
with me, but left the room in
silence. I--who, though I had
no love, had much friendship
for him--was hurt by the marked
omission: so much hurt that tears
started to my eyes.
"I see you and St. John have
been quarrelling, Jane," said
Diana, "during your walk on the
moor. But go after him; he is
now lingering in the passage
expecting you--he will make it
up."
I have not much pride under
such circumstances: I would always
rather be happy than dignified;
and I ran after him--he stood
at the foot of the stairs.
"Good-night, St. John," said
I.
"Good-night, Jane," he
replied calmly.
"Then shake hands," I
added.
What a cold, loose touch, he
impressed on my fingers! He was
deeply displeased by what had
occurred that day; cordiality
would not warm, nor tears move
him. No happy reconciliation
was to be had with him- -no cheering
smile or generous word: but still
the Christian was patient and
placid; and when I asked him
if he forgave me, he answered
that he was not in the habit
of cherishing the remembrance
of vexation; that he had nothing
to forgive, not having been offended.
And with that answer he left
me. I would much rather he had
knocked me down.
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