Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Charlotte, Emily, Anne Brontë (Illustrated) (60 page)

“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.