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wn。 I was almost as hard beset by him now as I had been once before; in a different way; by another。 I was a fool both times。 To have yielded then would have been an error of principle; to have yielded now would have been an error of judgment。 So I think at this hour; when I look back to the crisis through the quiet medium of time: I was unconscious of folly at the instant。
I stood motionless under my hierophant’s touch。 My refusals were forgotten—my fears overe—my wrestlings paralysed。 The Impossible—i。e。; my marriage with St。 John—was fast being the Possible。 All was changing utterly with a sudden sweep。 Religion called—Angels beckoned—God manded—life rolled together like a scroll—death’s gates opening; showed eternity beyond: it seemed; that for safety and bliss there; all here might be sacrificed in a second。 The dim room was full of visions。
“Could you decide now?” asked the missionary。 The inquiry was put in gentle tones: he drew me to him as gently。 Oh; that gentleness! how far more potent is it than force! I could resist St。 John’s wrath: I grew pliant as a reed under his kindness。 Yet I knew all the time; if I yielded now; I should not the less be made to repent; some day; of my former rebellion。 His nature was not changed by one hour of solemn prayer: it was only elevated。
“I could decide if I were but certain;” I answered: “were I but convinced that it is God’s will I should marry you; I could vow to marry you here and now—e afterwards what would!”
“My I prayers are heard!” ejaculated St。 John。 He pressed his hand firmer on my head; as if he claimed me: he surrounded me with his arm; almost as if he loved me (I say almost—I knew the difference— for I had felt what it was to be loved; but; like him; I had now put love out of the question; and thought only of duty)。 I contended with my inward dimness of vision; before which clouds yet rolled。 I sincerely; deeply; fervently longed to do what was right; and only that。 “Show me; show me the path!” I entreated of Heaven。 I was excited more than I had ever been; and whether what followed was the effect of excitement the reader shall judge。
All the house was still; for I believe all; except St。 John and myself; were now retired to rest。 The one candle was dying out: the room was full of moonlight。 My heart beat fast and thick: I heard its throb。 Suddenly it stood still to an inexpressible feeling that thrilled it through; and passed at once to my head and extremities。 The feeling was not like an electric shock; but it was quite as sharp; as strange; as startling: it acted on my senses as if their utmost activity hitherto had been but torpor; from which they were now summoned and forced to wake。 They rose expectant: eye and ear waited y bones。
“What have you heard? What do you see?” asked St。 John。 I saw nothing; but I heard a voice somewhere cry—
“Jane! Jane! Jane!”—nothing more。
“O God! what is it?” I gasped。
I might have said; “Where is it?” for it did not seem in the room— nor in the house—nor in the garden; it did not e out of the air—nor from under the earth—nor from overhead。 I had heard it— where; or whence; for ever impossible to know! And it was the voice of a human being—a known; loved; well…remembered voice—that of Edward Fairfax Rochester; and it spoke in pain and woe; wildly; eerily; urgently。
“I am ing!” I cried。 “Wait for me! Oh; I will e!” I flew to the door and looked into the passage: it was dark。 I ran out into the garden: it was void。
“Where are you?” I exclaimed。
The hills beyond Marsh Glen sent the answer faintly back—“Where are you?” I listened。 The wind sighed low in the firs: all was moorland loneliness and midnight hush。
“Down superstition!” I mented; as that spectre rose up black by the black yew at the gate。 “This is not thy deception; nor thy witchcraft: it is the work of nature。 She was roused; and did—no miracle—but her best。”
I broke from St。 John; who had followed; and would have detained me。 It was my time to assume ascendency。 My powers were in play and in force。 I told him to forbear question or remark; I desired him to leave me: I must and would be alone。 He obeyed at once。 Where there is energy to mand well enough; obedience never fails。 I mounted to my chamber; locked myself in; fell on my knees; and prayed in my way—a different way to St。 John’s; but effective in its own fashion。 I seemed to perate very near a Mighty Spirit; and my soul rushed out in gratitude at His feet。 I rose from the thanksgiving—took a resolve—and lay down; unscared; enlightened— eager but for the daylight。
Chapter 36
The daylight came。 I rose at dawn。 I busied myself for an hour or two with arranging my things in my chamber; drawers; and wardrobe; in the order wherein I should wish to leave them during a brief absence。 Meantime; I heard St。 John quit his room。 He stopped at my door: I feared he would knock—no; but a slip of paper was passed under the door。 I took it up。 It bore these words—
“You left me too suddenly last night。 Had you stayed but a little longer; you would have laid your hand on the Christian’s cross and the angel’s crown。 I shall expect your clear decision when I return this day fortnight。 Meantime; watch and pray that you enter not into temptation: the spirit; I trust; is willing; but the flesh; I see; is weak。 I shall pray for you hourly。—Yours; ST。 JOHN。”
“My spirit;” I answered mentally; “is willing to do what is right; and my flesh; I hope; is strong enough to acplish the will of Heaven; when once that will is distinctly known to me。 At any rate; it shall be strong enough to search—inquire—to grope an outlet from this cloud of doubt; and find the open day of certainty。”
It was the first of June; yet the morning was overcast and chilly: rain beat fast on my casement。 I heard the front…door open; and St。 John pass out。 Looking through the window; I saw him traverse the garden。 He took the way over the misty moors in the direction of Whitcross—there he would meet the coach。
“In a few more hours I shall succeed you in that track; cousin;” thought I: “I too have a coach to meet at Whitcross。 I too have some to see and ask after in England; before