It was near Christmas by the time all was settled: the season ofgeneral holiday approached. I now closed Morton school, taking carethat the parting should not be barren on my side. Good fortuneopens the hand as well as the heart wonderfully; and to givesomewhat when we have largely received, is but to afford a vent tothe unusual ebullition of the sensations. I had long felt withpleasure that many of my rustic scholars liked me, and when weparted, that consciousness was confirmed: they manifested theiraffection plainly and strongly. Deep was my gratification to find Ihad really a place in their unsophisticated hearts: I promised themthat 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 sixtygirls, file out before me, and locked the door, I stood with the keyin my hand, exchanging a few words of special farewell with somehalf-dozen of my best scholars: as decent, respectable, modest, andwell-informed young women as could be found in the ranks of theBritish 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 paysannesand 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 consciousnessof having done some real good in your day and generation givepleasure?"

"Doubtless."

"And you have only toiled a few months! Would not a life devoted tothe task of regenerating your race be well spent?"

"Yes," I said; "but I could not go on for ever so: I want to enjoymy own faculties as well as to cultivate those of other people. Imust enjoy them now; don't recall either my mind or body to theschool; I am out of it and disposed for full holiday."

He looked grave. "What now? What sudden eagerness is this youevince? What are you going to do?"

"To be active: as active as I can. And first I must beg you to setHannah 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 homein a week, and I want to have everything in order against theirarrival."

"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 schoolroomkey: 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'tquite understand your light-heartedness, because I cannot tell whatemployment you propose to yourself as a substitute for the one youare relinquishing. What aim, what purpose, what ambition in lifehave you now?"

"My first aim will be to CLEAN DOWN (do you comprehend the fullforce of the expression?)--to CLEAN DOWN Moor House from chamber tocellar; my next to rub it up with bees-wax, oil, and an indefinitenumber of cloths, till it glitters again; my third, to arrange everychair, table, bed, carpet, with mathematical precision; afterwards Ishall go near to ruin you in coals and peat to keep up good fires inevery room; and lastly, the two days preceding that on which yoursisters are expected will be devoted by Hannah and me to such abeating of eggs, sorting of currants, grating of spices, compoundingof Christmas cakes, chopping up of materials for mince-pies, andsolemnising of other culinary rites, as words can convey but aninadequate notion of to the uninitiated like you. My purpose, inshort, is to have all things in an absolutely perfect state ofreadiness for Diana and Mary before next Thursday; and my ambitionis 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, Itrust that when the first flush of vivacity is over, you will look alittle 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 notattempt 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 youfor the full enjoyment of your new position, and for pleasingyourself with this late-found charm of relationship; but THEN, Ihope you will begin to look beyond Moor House and Morton, andsisterly society, and the selfish calm and sensual comfort ofcivilised affluence. I hope your energies will then once moretrouble you with their strength."

I looked at him with surprise. "St. John," I said, "I think you arealmost wicked to talk so. I am disposed to be as content as aqueen, and you try to stir me up to restlessness! To what end?"

"To the end of turning to profit the talents which God has committedto your keeping; and of which He will surely one day demand a strictaccount. Jane, I shall watch you closely and anxiously--I warn youof that. And try to restrain the disproportionate fervour withwhich you throw yourself into commonplace home pleasures. Don'tcling so tenaciously to ties of the flesh; save your constancy andardour 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 adequatecause 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 ahouse 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 from thechaos ourselves had made. I had previously taken a journey to S- topurchase some new furniture: my cousins having given me CARTEBLANCHE TO effect what alterations I pleased, and a sum having beenset aside for that purpose. The ordinary sitting-room and bedroomsI left much as they were: for I knew Diana and Mary would derivemore 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 thepiquancy with which I wished it to be invested. Dark handsome newcarpets and curtains, an arrangement of some carefully selectedantique ornaments in porcelain and bronze, new coverings, andmirrors, and dressing-cases, for the toilet tables, answered theend: they looked fresh without being glaring. A spare parlour andbedroom I refurnished entirely, with old mahogany and crimsonupholstery: I laid canvas on the passage, and carpets on thestairs. When all was finished, I thought Moor House as complete amodel of bright modest snugness within, as it was, at this season, aspecimen of wintry waste and desert dreariness without.

The eventful Thursday at length came. They were expected aboutdark, and ere dusk fires were lit upstairs and below; the kitchenwas in perfect trim; Hannah and I were dressed, and all was inreadiness.

St. John arrived first. I had entreated him to keep quite clear ofthe house till everything was arranged: and, indeed, the bare ideaof the commotion, at once sordid and trivial, going on within itswalls sufficed to scare him to estrangement. He found me in thekitchen, watching the progress of certain cakes for tea, thenbaking. Approaching the hearth, he asked, "If I was at lastsatisfied with housemaid's work?" I answered by inviting him toaccompany me on a general inspection of the result of my labours.With some difficulty, I got him to make the tour of the house. Hejust looked in at the doors I opened; and when he had wanderedupstairs and downstairs, he said I must have gone through a greatdeal of fatigue and trouble to have effected such considerablechanges 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 perhaps the alterations haddisturbed some old associations he valued. I inquired whether thiswas the case: no doubt in a somewhat crest-fallen tone.

"Not at all; he had, on the contrary, remarked that I hadscrupulously respected every association: he feared, indeed, I musthave bestowed more thought on the matter than it was worth. Howmany minutes, for instance, had I devoted to studying thearrangement of this very room?--By-the-bye, could I tell him wheresuch a book was?"

I showed him the volume on the shelf: he took it down, andwithdrawing to his accustomed window recess, he began to read it.

Now, I did not like this, reader. St. John was a good man; but Ibegan to feel he had spoken truth of himself when he said he washard 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; butstill 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 oncethat he would hardly make a good husband: that it would be a tryingthing to be his wife. I understood, as by inspiration, the natureof his love for Miss Oliver; I agreed with him that it was but alove of the senses. I comprehended how he should despise himselffor the feverish influence it exercised over him; how he should wishto stifle and destroy it; how he should mistrust its ever conductingpermanently to his happiness or hers. I saw he was of the materialfrom which nature hews her heroes--Christian and Pagan--herlawgivers, her statesmen, her conquerors: a steadfast bulwark forgreat interests to rest upon; but, at the fireside, too often a coldcumbrous column, gloomy and out of place.

"This parlour is not his sphere," I reflected: "the Himalayan ridgeor Caffre bush, even the plague-cursed Guinea Coast swamp would suithim better. Well may he eschew the calm of domestic life; it is nothis element: there his faculties stagnate--they cannot develop orappear to advantage. It is in scenes of strife and danger--wherecourage is proved, and energy exercised, and fortitude tasked--thathe will speak and move, the leader and superior. A merry childwould have the advantage of him on this hearth. He is right tochoose a missionary's career--I see it now."

"They are coming! they are coming!" cried Hannah, throwing open theparlour door. At the same moment old Carlo barked joyfully. Out Iran. It was now dark; but a rumbling of wheels was audible. Hannahsoon had a lantern lit. The vehicle had stopped at the wicket; thedriver opened the door: first one well-known form, then another,stepped out. In a minute I had my face under their bonnets, incontact first with Mary's soft cheek, then with Diana's flowingcurls. They laughed--kissed me--then Hannah: patted Carlo, who washalf wild with delight; asked eagerly if all was well; and beingassured 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 pleasantcountenances expanded to the cheerful firelight. While the driverand Hannah brought in the boxes, they demanded St. John. At thismoment he advanced from the parlour. They both threw their armsround his neck at once. He gave each one quiet kiss, said in a lowtone a few words of welcome, stood a while to be talked to, andthen, intimating that he supposed they would soon rejoin him in theparlour, withdrew there as to a place of refuge.

I had lit their candles to go upstairs, but Diana had first to givehospitable orders respecting the driver; this done, both followedme. They were delighted with the renovation and decorations oftheir rooms; with the new drapery, and fresh carpets, and richtinted china vases: they expressed their gratificationungrudgingly. I had the pleasure of feeling that my arrangementsmet their wishes exactly, and that what I had done added a vividcharm to their joyous return home.

Sweet was that evening. My cousins, full of exhilaration, were soeloquent in narrative and comment, that their fluency covered St.John's taciturnity: he was sincerely glad to see his sisters; butin 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, thegarrulous glee of reception irked him: I saw he wished the calmermorrow was come. In the very meridian of the night's enjoyment,about an hour after tea, a rap was heard at the door. Hannahentered with the intimation that "a poor lad was come, at thatunlikely time, to fetch Mr. Rivers to see his mother, who wasdrawing away."

"Where does she live, Hannah?"

"Clear up at Whitcross Brow, almost four miles off, and moor andmoss all the way."

"Tell him I will go."

"I'm sure, sir, you had better not. It's the worst road to travelafter dark that can be: there's no track at all over the bog. Andthen it is such a bitter night--the keenest wind you ever felt. Youhad better send word, sir, that you will be there in the morning."

But he was already in the passage, putting on his cloak; and withoutone 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 actof duty; made an exertion; felt his own strength to do and deny, andwas on better terms with himself.

I am afraid the whole of the ensuing week tried his patience. Itwas Christmas week: we took to no settled employment, but spent itin a sort of merry domestic dissipation. The air of the moors, thefreedom of home, the dawn of prosperity, acted on Diana and Mary'sspirits like some life-giving elixir: they were gay from morningtill noon, and from noon till night. They could always talk; andtheir discourse, witty, pithy, original, had such charms for me,that I preferred listening to, and sharing in it, to doing anythingelse. St. John did not rebuke our vivacity; but he escaped from it:he was seldom in the house; his parish was large, the populationscattered, and he found daily business in visiting the sick and poorin its different districts.

One morning at breakfast, Diana, after looking a little pensive forsome minutes, asked him, "If his plans were yet unchanged."

"Unchanged and unchangeable," was the reply. And he proceeded toinform us that his departure from England was now definitively fixedfor the ensuing year.

"And Rosamond Oliver?" suggested Mary, the words seeming to escapeher lips involuntarily: for no sooner had she uttered them, thanshe made a gesture as if wishing to recall them. St. John had abook in his hand--it was his unsocial custom to read at meals--heclosed 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 intelligencefrom her father yesterday."

His sisters looked at each other and at me; we all three looked athim: he was serene as glass.

"The match must have been got up hastily," said Diana: "they cannothave known each other long."

"But two months: they met in October at the county ball at S-. Butwhere there are no obstacles to a union, as in the present case,where the connection is in every point desirable, delays areunnecessary: 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 after this communication, Ifelt tempted to inquire if the event distressed him: but he seemedso little to need sympathy, that, so far from venturing to offer himmore, I experienced some shame at the recollection of what I hadalready hazarded. Besides, I was out of practice in talking to him:his reserve was again frozen over, and my frankness was congealedbeneath it. He had not kept his promise of treating me like hissisters; he continually made little chilling differences between us,which did not at all tend to the development of cordiality: inshort, now that I was acknowledged his kinswoman, and lived underthe same roof with him, I felt the distance between us to be fargreater than when he had known me only as the villageschoolmistress. When I remembered how far I had once been admittedto his confidence, I could hardly comprehend his present frigidity.

Such being the case, I felt not a little surprised when he raisedhis 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 conquerorswhose triumphs have cost them too dear? Would not such another ruinyou?"

"I think not; and if I were, it does not much signify; I shall neverbe called upon to contend for such another. The event of theconflict is decisive: my way is now clear; I thank God for it!" Sosaying, he returned to his papers and his silence.

As our mutual happiness (i.e., Diana's, Mary's, and mine) settledinto a quieter character, and we resumed our usual habits andregular studies, St. John stayed more at home: he sat with us inthe 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 amystic lore of his own: that of some Eastern tongue, theacquisition of which he thought necessary to his plans.

Thus engaged, he appeared, sitting in his own recess, quiet andabsorbed enough; but that blue eye of his had a habit of leaving theoutlandish-looking grammar, and wandering over, and sometimes fixingupon us, his fellow-students, with a curious intensity ofobservation: if caught, it would be instantly withdrawn; yet everand anon, it returned searchingly to our table. I wondered what itmeant: I wondered, too, at the punctual satisfaction he neverfailed to exhibit on an occasion that seemed to me of small moment,namely, my weekly visit to Morton school; and still more was Ipuzzled when, if the day was unfavourable, if there was snow, orrain, or high wind, and his sisters urged me not to go, he wouldinvariably make light of their solicitude, and encourage me toaccomplish 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 ofsnow, as well as any of us. Her constitution is both sound andelastic;--better calculated to endure variations of climate thanmany more robust."

And when I returned, sometimes a good deal tired, and not a littleweather-beaten, I never dared complain, because I saw that to murmurwould be to vex him: on all occasions fortitude pleased him; thereverse was a special annoyance.

One afternoon, however, I got leave to stay at home, because Ireally had a cold. His sisters were gone to Morton in my stead: Isat reading Schiller; he, deciphering his crabbed Oriental scrolls.As I exchanged a translation for an exercise, I happened to look hisway: 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 felt for 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: and I will tell you why."

He then went on to explain that Hindostanee was the language he washimself at present studying; that, as he advanced, he was apt toforget the commencement; that it would assist him greatly to have apupil with whom he might again and again go over the elements, andso fix them thoroughly in his mind; that his choice had hovered forsome time between me and his sisters; but that he had fixed on mebecause 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 thesacrifice long, as it wanted now barely three months to hisdeparture.

St. John was not a man to be lightly refused: you felt that everyimpression made on him, either for pain or pleasure, was deep-gravedand permanent. I consented. When Diana and Mary returned, theformer found her scholar transferred from her to her brother: shelaughed, 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 exactingmaster: he expected me to do a great deal; and when I fulfilled hisexpectations, he, in his own way, fully testified his approbation.By degrees, he acquired a certain influence over me that took awaymy 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 methat vivacity (at least in me) was distasteful to him. I was sofully aware that only serious moods and occupations were acceptable,that in his presence every effort to sustain or follow any otherbecame vain: I fell under a freezing spell. When he said "go," Iwent; "come," I came; "do this," I did it. But I did not love myservitude: 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, whochanced 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 third sister, but you don'ttreat her as such: you should kiss her too."

She pushed me towards him. I thought Diana very provoking, and feltuncomfortably confused; and while I was thus thinking and feeling,St. John bent his head; his Greek face was brought to a level withmine, his eyes questioned my eyes piercingly--he kissed me. Thereare no such things as marble kisses or ice kisses, or I should saymy 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 littlepale, for I felt as if this kiss were a seal affixed to my fetters.He never omitted the ceremony afterwards, and the gravity andquiescence with which I underwent it, seemed to invest it for himwith a certain charm.

As for me, I daily wished more to please him; but to do so, I feltdaily more and more that I must disown half my nature, stifle halfmy faculties, wrest my tastes from their original bent, force myselfto the adoption of pursuits for which I had no natural vocation. Hewanted to train me to an elevation I could never reach; it racked mehourly to aspire to the standard he uplifted. The thing was asimpossible as to mould my irregular features to his correct andclassic pattern, to give to my changeable green eyes the sea-bluetint and solemn lustre of his own.

Not his ascendancy alone, however, held me in thrall at present. Oflate it had been easy enough for me to look sad: a cankering evilsat at my heart and drained my happiness at its source--the evil ofsuspense.

Perhaps you think I had forgotten Mr. Rochester, reader, amidstthese changes of place and fortune. Not for a moment. His idea wasstill with me, because it was not a vapour sunshine could disperse,nor a sand-traced effigy storms could wash away; it was a namegraven on a tablet, fated to last as long as the marble itinscribed. The craving to know what had become of him followed meeverywhere; when I was at Morton, I re-entered my cottage everyevening to think of that; and now at Moor House, I sought my bedroomeach night to brood over it.

In the course of my necessary correspondence with Mr. Briggs aboutthe will, I had inquired if he knew anything of Mr. Rochester'spresent residence and state of health; but, as St. John hadconjectured, 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 feltsure it would elicit an early answer. I was astonished when afortnight passed without reply; but when two months wore away, andday after day the post arrived and brought nothing for me, I fell aprey 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 forsome weeks, then, like it, it faded, flickered: not a line, not aword reached me. When half a year wasted in vain expectancy, myhope died out, and then I felt dark indeed.

A fine spring shone round me, which I could not enjoy. Summerapproached; Diana tried to cheer me: she said I looked ill, andwished to accompany me to the sea-side. This St. John opposed; hesaid I did not want dissipation, I wanted employment; my presentlife was too purposeless, I required an aim; and, I suppose, by wayof supplying deficiencies, he prolonged still further my lessons inHindostanee, 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 lower spirits than usual; theebb was occasioned by a poignantly felt disappointment. Hannah hadtold me in the morning there was a letter for me, and when I wentdown 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 sometears; and now, as I sat poring over the crabbed characters andflourishing tropes of an Indian scribe, my eyes filled again.

St. John called me to his side to read; in attempting to do this myvoice failed me: words were lost in sobs. He and I were the onlyoccupants of the parlour: Diana was practising her music in thedrawing-room, Mary was gardening--it was a very fine May day, clear,sunny, and breezy. My companion expressed no surprise at thisemotion, nor did he question me as to its cause; he only said -

"We will wait a few minutes, Jane, till you are more composed." Andwhile I smothered the paroxysm with all haste, he sat calm andpatient, leaning on his desk, and looking like a physician watchingwith the eye of science an expected and fully understood crisis in apatient's malady. Having stifled my sobs, wiped my eyes, andmuttered something about not being very well that morning, I resumedmy task, 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 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 roadtowards 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 mydealings with positive, hard characters, antagonistic to my own,between absolute submission and determined revolt. I have alwaysfaithfully observed the one, up to the very moment of bursting,sometimes with volcanic vehemence, into the other; and as neitherpresent circumstances warranted, nor my present mood inclined me tomutiny, I observed careful obedience to St. John's directions; andin ten minutes I was treading the wild track of the glen, side byside with him.

The breeze was from the west: it came over the hills, sweet withscents of heath and rush; the sky was of stainless blue; the streamdescending the ravine, swelled with past spring rains, poured alongplentiful and clear, catching golden gleams from the sun, andsapphire tints from the firmament. As we advanced and left thetrack, we trod a soft turf, mossy fine and emerald green, minutelyenamelled with a tiny white flower, and spangled with a star-likeyellow blossom: the hills, meantime, shut us quite in; for theglen, towards its head, wound to their very core.

"Let us rest here," said St. John, as we reached the firststragglers of a battalion of rocks, guarding a sort of pass, beyondwhich the beck rushed down a waterfall; and where, still a littlefarther, the mountain shook off turf and flower, had only heath forraiment and crag for gem--where it exaggerated the wild to thesavage, and exchanged the fresh for the frowning--where it guardedthe forlorn hope of solitude, and a last refuge for silence.

I took a seat: St. John stood near me. He looked up the pass anddown the hollow; his glance wandered away with the stream, andreturned to traverse the unclouded heaven which coloured it: heremoved his hat, let the breeze stir his hair and kiss his brow. Heseemed in communion with the genius of the haunt: with his eye hebade farewell to something.

"And I shall see it again," he said aloud, "in dreams when I sleepby the Ganges: and again in a more remote hour--when anotherslumber overcomes me--on the shore of a darker stream!"

Strange words of a strange love! An austere patriot's passion forhis 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 Indiamanwhich sails on the 20th of June."

"God will protect you; for you have undertaken His work," Ianswered.

"Yes," said he, "there is my glory and joy. I am the servant of aninfallible Master. I am not going out under human guidance, subjectto the defective laws and erring control of my feeble fellow-worms:my king, my lawgiver, my captain, is the All-perfect. It seemsstrange to me that all round me do not burn to enlist under the samebanner,--to join in the same enterprise."

"All have not your powers, and it would be folly for the feeble towish to march with the strong."

"I do not speak to the feeble, or think of them: I address onlysuch 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 urgeand 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,--tooffer them, direct from God, a place in the ranks of His chosen."

"If they are really qualified for the task, will not their ownhearts 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 oncedeclare and rivet the spell.

"And what does YOUR heart say?" demanded St. John.

"My heart is mute,--my heart is mute," I answered, struck andthrilled.

"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 hadheard a summons from Heaven--as if a visionary messenger, like himof Macedonia, had enounced, "Come over and help us!" But I was noapostle,--I could not behold the herald,--I could not receive hiscall.

"Oh, St. John!" I cried, "have some mercy!"

I appealed to one who, in the discharge of what he believed hisduty, knew neither mercy nor remorse. He continued -

"God and nature intended you for a missionary's wife. It is notpersonal, but mental endowments they have given you: you are formedfor 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 mySovereign's service."

"I am not fit for it: I have no vocation," I said.

He had calculated on these first objections: he was not irritatedby them. Indeed, as he leaned back against the crag behind him,folded his arms on his chest, and fixed his countenance, I saw hewas prepared for a long and trying opposition, and had taken in astock of patience to last him to its close--resolved, however, thatthat 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 thesummons? I, for instance, am but dust and ashes. With St. Paul, Iacknowledge myself the chiefest of sinners; but I do not suffer thissense of my personal vileness to daunt me. I know my Leader: thatHe is just as well as mighty; and while He has chosen a feebleinstrument to perform a great task, He will, from the boundlessstores of His providence, supply the inadequacy of the means to theend. Think like me, Jane--trust like me. It is the Rock of Ages Iask you to lean on: do not doubt but it will bear the weight ofyour human weakness."

"I do not understand a missionary life: I have never studiedmissionary labours."

"There I, humble as I am, can give you the aid you want: I can setyou your task from hour to hour; stand by you always; help you frommoment to moment. This I could do in the beginning: soon (for Iknow your powers) you would be as strong and apt as myself, andwould not require my help."

"But my powers--where are they for this undertaking? I do not feelthem. Nothing speaks or stirs in me while you talk. I am sensibleof no light kindling--no life quickening--no voice counselling orcheering. Oh, I wish I could make you see how much my mind is atthis moment like a rayless dungeon, with one shrinking fear fetteredin its depths--the fear of being persuaded by you to attempt what Icannot accomplish!"

"I have an answer for you--hear it. I have watched you ever sincewe first met: I have made you my study for ten months. I haveproved you in that time by sundry tests: and what have I seen andelicited? In the village school I found you could perform well,punctually, uprightly, labour uncongenial to your habits andinclinations; I saw you could perform it with capacity and tact:you could win while you controlled. In the calm with which youlearnt you had become suddenly rich, I read a mind clear of the viceof Demas:- lucre had no undue power over you. In the resolutereadiness with which you cut your wealth into four shares, keepingbut one to yourself, and relinquishing the three others to the claimof abstract justice, I recognised a soul that revelled in the flameand excitement of sacrifice. In the tractability with which, at mywish, you forsook a study in which you were interested, and adoptedanother because it interested me; in the untiring assiduity withwhich you have since persevered in it--in the unflagging energy andunshaken temper with which you have met its difficulties--Iacknowledge the complement of the qualities I seek. Jane, you aredocile, diligent, disinterested, faithful, constant, and courageous;very gentle, and very heroic: cease to mistrust yourself--I cantrust you unreservedly. As a conductress of Indian schools, and ahelper amongst Indian women, your assistance will be to meinvaluable."

My iron shroud contracted round me; persuasion advanced with slowsure step. Shut my eyes as I would, these last words of hissucceeded in making the way, which had seemed blocked up,comparatively clear. My work, which had appeared so vague, sohopelessly diffuse, condensed itself as he proceeded, and assumed adefinite form under his shaping hand. He waited for an answer. Idemanded a quarter of an hour to think, before I again hazarded areply.

"Very willingly," he rejoined; and rising, he strode a littledistance up the pass, threw himself down on a swell of heath, andthere lay still.

"I CAN do what he wants me to do: I am forced to see andacknowledge that," I meditated,--"that is, if life be spared me.But I feel mine is not the existence to be long protracted under anIndian sun. What then? He does not care for that: when my timecame to die, he would resign me, in all serenity and sanctity, tothe God who gave me. The case is very plain before me. In leavingEngland, I should leave a loved but empty land--Mr. Rochester is notthere; and if he were, what is, what can that ever be to me? Mybusiness is to live without him now: nothing so absurd, so weak asto drag on from day to day, as if I were waiting some impossiblechange in circumstances, which might reunite me to him. Of course(as St. John once said) I must seek another interest in life toreplace the one lost: is not the occupation he now offers me trulythe most glorious man can adopt or God assign? Is it not, by itsnoble cares and sublime results, the one best calculated to fill thevoid left by uptorn affections and demolished hopes? I believe Imust 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 how will the interval between leaving England for India, andIndia for the grave, be filled? Oh, I know well! That, too, isvery clear to my vision. By straining to satisfy St. John till mysinews ache, I SHALL satisfy him--to the finest central point andfarthest outward circle of his expectations. If I DO go with him--if I DO make the sacrifice he urges, I will make it absolutely: Iwill throw all on the altar--heart, vitals, the entire victim. Hewill never love me; but he shall approve me; I will show himenergies 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--onedreadful item. It is--that he asks me to be his wife, and has nomore 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 asoldier would a good weapon; and that is all. Unmarried to him,this would never grieve me; but can I let him complete hiscalculations--coolly put into practice his plans--go through thewedding ceremony? Can I receive from him the bridal ring, endureall the forms of love (which I doubt not he would scrupulouslyobserve) and know that the spirit was quite absent? Can I bear theconsciousness that every endearment he bestows is a sacrifice madeon principle? No: such a martyrdom would be monstrous. I willnever undergo it. As his sister, I might accompany him--not as hiswife: I will tell him so."

I looked towards the knoll: there he lay, still as a prostratecolumn; 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 takeyou, and seek no wife. But as it is, either our union must beconsecrated and sealed by marriage, or it cannot exist: practicalobstacles 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 onlyto 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, sharpdetermination: "it would not do. You have said you will go with meto 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 aretoo consistent to withdraw it. You have but one end to keep inview--how the work you have undertaken can best be done. Simplifyyour complicated interests, feelings, thoughts, wishes, aims; mergeall considerations in one purpose: that of fulfilling with effect--with power--the mission of your great Master. To do so, you musthave a coadjutor: not a brother--that is a loose tie--but ahusband. I, too, do not want a sister: a sister might any day betaken from me. I want a wife: the sole helpmeet I can influenceefficiently in life, and retain absolutely till death."

I shuddered as he spoke: I felt his influence in my marrow--hishold 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 Itell you it is not the insignificant private individual--the mereman, with the man's selfish senses--I wish to mate: it is themissionary."

"And I will give the missionary my energies--it is all he wants--butnot myself: that would be only adding the husk and shell to thekernel. For them he has no use: I retain them."

"You cannot--you ought not. Do you think God will be satisfied withhalf an oblation? Will He accept a mutilated sacrifice? It is thecause of God I advocate: it is under His standard I enlist you. Icannot accept on His behalf a divided allegiance: it must beentire."

"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 repressedsarcasm both in the tone in which I uttered this sentence, and inthe feeling that accompanied it. I had silently feared St. Johntill 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, howmuch mortal, I could not heretofore tell: but revelations werebeing made in this conference: the analysis of his nature wasproceeding before my eyes. I saw his fallibilities: I comprehendedthem. I understood that, sitting there where I did, on the bank ofheath, and with that handsome form before me, I sat at the feet of aman, caring as I. The veil fell from his hardness and despotism.Having felt in him the presence of these qualities, I felt hisimperfection and took courage. I was with an equal--one with whom Imight argue--one whom, if I saw good, I might resist.

He was silent after I had uttered the last sentence, and I presentlyrisked an upward glance at his countenance.

His eye, bent on me, expressed at once stern surprise and keeninquiry. "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 erelong; "one of which we may neither think nor talk lightly withoutsin. I trust, Jane, you are in earnest when you say you will serveyour heart to God: it is all I want. Once wrench your heart fromman, 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. Youwill see what impetus would be given to your efforts and mine by ourphysical and mental union in marriage: the only union that gives acharacter of permanent conformity to the destinies and designs ofhuman beings; and, passing over all minor caprices--all trivialdifficulties and delicacies of feeling--all scruple about thedegree, 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, beautifulin their harmony, but strangely formidable in their still severity;at his brow, commanding but not open; at his eyes, bright and deepand searching, but never soft; at his tall imposing figure; andfancied myself in idea HIS WIFE. Oh! it would never do! As hiscurate, his comrade, all would be right: I would cross oceans withhim in that capacity; toil under Eastern suns, in Asian deserts withhim in that office; admire and emulate his courage and devotion andvigour; accommodate quietly to his masterhood; smile undisturbed athis ineradicable ambition; discriminate the Christian from the man:profoundly esteem the one, and freely forgive the other. I shouldsuffer often, no doubt, attached to him only in this capacity: mybody would be under rather a stringent yoke, but my heart and mindwould be free. I should still have my unblighted self to turn to:my natural unenslaved feelings with which to communicate in momentsof loneliness. There would be recesses in my mind which would beonly mine, to which he never came, and sentiments growing therefresh and sheltered which his austerity could never blight, nor hismeasured warrior-march trample down: but as his wife--at his sidealways, and always restrained, and always checked--forced to keepthe fire of my nature continually low, to compel it to burn inwardlyand never utter a cry, though the imprisoned flame consumed vitalafter 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 thewhole bargain is void. How can I, a man not yet thirty, take outwith me to India a girl of nineteen, unless she be married to me?How can we be for ever together--sometimes in solitudes, sometimesamidst savage tribes--and unwed?"

"Very well," I said shortly; "under the circumstances, quite as wellas if I were either your real sister, or a man and a clergyman likeyourself."

"It is known that you are not my sister; I cannot introduce you assuch: to attempt it would be to fasten injurious suspicions on usboth. And for the rest, though you have a man's vigorous brain, youhave a woman's heart and--it would not do."

"It would do," I affirmed with some disdain, "perfectly well. Ihave a woman's heart, but not where you are concerned; for you Ihave only a comrade's constancy; a fellow-soldier's frankness,fidelity, fraternity, if you like; a neophyte's respect andsubmission to his hierophant: nothing more--don't fear."

"It is what I want," he said, speaking to himself; "it is just whatI want. And there are obstacles in the way: they must be hewndown. Jane, you would not repent marrying me--be certain of that;we MUST be married. I repeat it: there is no other way; andundoubtedly enough of love would follow upon marriage to render theunion right even in your eyes."

"I scorn your idea of love," I could not help saying, as I rose upand stood before him, leaning my back against the rock. "I scornthe counterfeit sentiment you offer: yes, St. John, and I scorn youwhen you offer it."

He looked at me fixedly, compressing his well-cut lips while he didso. Whether he was incensed or surprised, or what, it was not easyto tell: he could command his countenance thoroughly.

"I scarcely expected to hear that expression from you," he said: "Ithink I have done and uttered nothing to deserve scorn."

I was touched by his gentle tone, and overawed by his high, calmmien.

"Forgive me the words, St. John; but it is your own fault that Ihave been roused to speak so unguardedly. You have introduced atopic on which our natures are at variance--a topic we should neverdiscuss: the very name of love is an apple of discord between us.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 onewhich can secure my great end: but I shall urge you no further atpresent. To-morrow, I leave home for Cambridge: I have manyfriends there to whom I should wish to say farewell. I shall beabsent 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, butGod. Through my means, He opens to you a noble career; as my wifeonly can you enter upon it. Refuse to be my wife, and you limityourself for ever to a track of selfish ease and barren obscurity.Tremble lest in that case you should be numbered with those who havedenied 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 notworthy to hear them uttered. As I walked by his side homeward, Iread well in his iron silence all he felt towards me: thedisappointment of an austere and despotic nature, which has metresistance where it expected submission--the disapprobation of acool, inflexible judgment, which has detected in another feelingsand views in which it has no power to sympathise: in short, as aman, he would have wished to coerce me into obedience: it was onlyas a sincere Christian he bore so patiently with my perversity, andallowed so long a space for reflection and repentance.

That night, after he had kissed his sisters, he thought proper toforget 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 hurtby 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 nowlingering in the passage expecting you--he will make it up."

I have not much pride under such circumstances: I would alwaysrather be happy than dignified; and I ran after him--he stood at thefoot 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 deeplydispleased 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 waspatient and placid; and when I asked him if he forgave me, heanswered that he was not in the habit of cherishing the remembranceof vexation; that he had nothing to forgive, not having beenoffended.

And with that answer he left me. I would much rather he had knockedme down.