would. He deferred his departure a whole week, and during that time he

made me feel what severe punishment a good yet stern, a

conscientious yet implacable man can inflict on one who has offended

him. Without one overt act of hostility, one upbraiding word he

contrived to impress me momently with the conviction that I was put

beyond the pale of his favour.

Not that St. John harboured a spirit of unchristian vindictiveness-

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 forgiven me for

saying I scorned him and his love, but he had not forgotten the words;

and as long as he and I lived he never would forget them. I saw by his

look, when he turned to me, that they were always written on the air

between me and him; whenever I spoke, they sounded in my voice 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; and I fear the corrupt man

within him had a pleasure unimparted to, and unshared by, the pure

Christian, in evincing with what skill he could, while acting and

speakingapparently just as usual, extract from every deed and every

phrase the spirit of interest and approval which had formerly

communicated a certain austere charm to his language and manner. To

me, he was 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, lingering torture. It kept

up a slow fire of indignation and a trembling trouble of grief,

which harassed and crushed me altogether. I felt how- if I were his

wife, this good man, pure as the deep sunless source, could soon

kill me, without drawing from my veins a single drop of blood, or

receiving on his own crystal conscience the faintest stain of crime.

Especially I felt this when I made any attempt to propitiate him. No

ruth met my ruth. He experienced no suffering from estrangement- no

yearning 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 a

matter of stone or metal. To his sisters, meantime, he was somewhat

kinder than usual: as if afraid that mere coldness would not

sufficiently convince me how completely I was banished and banned,

he added the force of contrast; and this I am sure he did not by

malice, but on principle.

The night before he left home, happening to see him walking in

the garden about sunset, and remembering, as I looked at him, that

this man, alienated as he now was, had once saved my life, and that we

were near relations, I was moved to make a last attempt to regain

his friendship. I went out and approached him as he stood leaning over

the little gate; I spoke to the point at once.

'St. John, I am unhappy because you are still angry 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 been contemplating 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, I wish you no ill and

all good.'

'I believe you, St. John; for I am sure you are incapable of

wishing any one ill; but, as I am your kinswoman, I should desire

somewhat more of affection than that sort of general philanthropy

you 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, was mortifying and

baffling enough. Had I attended to the suggestions of pride and ire, I

should immediately have left him; but something worked within me

more strongly than those feelings could. I deeply venerated my

cousin's talent and principle. His friendship was of value to me: to

lose it tried me severely. I would not so soon relinquish the

attempt to reconquer it.

'Must we part in this way, St. John? And when you go to India, will

you leave me so, without a kinder word than you have yet spoken?'

He now turned quite from the moon and faced me.

'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 to that resolution?'

Reader, do you know, as I do, what terror those cold people can put

into the ice of their questions? How much of the fall of the avalanche

is in their anger? of the breaking up of the frozen sea in their

displeasure?

'No, St. John, I will not marry you. I adhere to my resolution.'

The avalanche had shaken and slid a little forward, but it did

not yet crash down.

'Once more, why this refusal?' he asked.

'Formerly,' I answered, 'because you did not love me; now, I reply,

because you almost hate me. If I were to marry you, 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 severe reproof: they would

seem inexcusable, but that it is the duty of man to forgive his fellow

even until seventy-and-seven times.'

I had finished the business now. While earnestly wishing to erase

from his mind the trace of my former offence, I had stamped on that

tenacious surface another and far deeper impression: I had burnt it

in.

'Now you will indeed hate me,' I said. 'It is useless to attempt to

conciliate you: I see I have made an eternal enemy of you.'

A fresh wrong did these words inflict: the worse, because they

touched on the truth. That bloodless lip quivered to a 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 he withdrew his hand from

mine. 'And now you recall your promise, and will not 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 struggle there was in him

between Nature and Grace in this interval, I cannot tell: only

singular gleams scintillated in his eyes, and strange shadows passed

over his face. He spoke at last.

'I before proved to you the absurdity of a single woman of your age

proposing to accompany abroad a single man of mine. I proved it to you

in such terms as, I should have thought, would have prevented your

ever again alluding to the plan. That you have done so, I regret-

for your sake.'

I interrupted him. Anything like a tangible reproach gave me

courage at once. 'Keep to common sense, St. John: you are 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 be either

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, would never suit me. With me,

then, it seems, you cannot go: but if you are sincere in your offer, I

will, while in town, speak to a married missionary, whose wife needs a

coadjutor. Your own fortune will make you independent of the Society's

aid; and thus you may still be spared the dishonour of breaking your

promise and deserting the band you engaged to join.'

Now I never had, as the reader knows, either given any formal

promise or entered into any engagement; and this language was 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 go to India,

especially with strangers. With you I would have ventured much,

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 live

long in that climate.'

'Ah! you are afraid of yourself,' he said, curling his lip.

'I am. God did not give me my life to throw away; and to do as

you wish me would, I begin to think, be almost equivalent to

committing suicide. Moreover, before I definitely resolve on

quitting England, I will know for certain whether I cannot be of

greater use 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, and I can go nowhere

till by some means that doubt is removed.'

'I know where your heart turns and to what it clings. The

interest you cherish is lawless and unconsecrated. Long since you

ought to have crushed it: now you should blush to allude to 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 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 incessantfatigue, 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 heroicgrandeur 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