Джейн Эйр / Jane Eyre

A month had passed with no answer. This alarmed me, as I knew Mrs. Fairfax loved writing letters. I had been sure she would reply at once.

I thought perhaps she hadn’t received my letter, so I wrote again. Again, I heard nothing. As the weeks went by, I became more and more anxious. My fears filled my heart even when I was with St. John, day after day, and battled with my Hindustani verbs.

Diana and Mary noticed that something was troubling me, and asked what it was, but I couldn’t say. Then, one late spring morning, as St. John and I studied together, I found myself thinking about Thornfield and suddenly began to cry.

When he saw my tears, my cousin was as calm and cool as ever. “We shall put away the books, Jane,” he said. “Let us take a walk upon the moor instead.”

“I’ll fetch Diana and Mary,” I sniffed, getting up and wiping my eyes.

“No,” he said. “It will be just you and me.” The sun was shining as we set out, but the heather was damp and dewy, and there was a strong breeze. I was glad I had brought my cloak.

We left the path and walked up a hillside meadow where tiny white and yellow flowers dotted the ground, until we came to a clear stream. I sat down on a rock to rest, while St. John remained standing. He slowly turned around, surveying the countryside that he would soon be leaving behind – perhaps forever.

“I set sail in six weeks, Jane,” he said, over the noise of the stream.

“And I wish you good luck, cousin,” I replied. “Few people are fit for such an adventure.”

“Well,” he said, with a rare smile, “I cannot afford to dwell on those who are too weak to travel to India. I am thinking only of those who are strong enough for it.”

I was not sure what he meant, but I had an idea what it might be, and my heart sank.

“Surely if someone is suited to such work, their hearts will tell them so,” I said.

“And what does your heart say, Jane?”

So I was right. “Nothing at all,” I answered. “My heart has nothing to say on the matter.”

“Then I must speak for it,” he said, coming around and standing before me. “Jane, you must come with me to India, to be my companion and my assistant – to be my wife. I want you to marry me.”

“No!” I responded at once, a little too hastily. I tried to explain. “I cannot, St. John; I do not want to go to India,” I went on, although I felt his cold eyes on me, and found it very hard to tell him no.

“But you are brave, hardworking and honest – I feel you were born to be a missionary’s wife.”

“No,” I said again, but I could not look at him. He had more to say, though. “Jane, it is not for my own pleasure that I ask you this – it is for the service of God. It is because you are so well suited to the position…”

This was even worse. I saw that St. John was prepared to marry me, even though he felt no passion for me, simply because he wanted help with his holy work.

I shook my head again and again, but he had more arguments ready. Had I not said I wished to travel? Now that I had money, and did not need to work, should I not use my life to do some good in the world? And were not he and I similar, in our interests, and our natures?

I did not think so at all. I closed my eyes against his reasons, and inside my head I thought of Mr. Rochester, and how he had loved me with a true heart full of feeling, so unlike St. John’s cold, logical reasoning. And I still loved him back. But I could see that, as long as I did so, I would be in danger. I would have to resist the temptation of returning, and suffer the agony of longing to hear about him.

If I were married, and gone to India, I could never be tempted to go back to him. And wasn’t St. John right, that it would be a noble and useful way to spend my life? Even though I didn’t love St. John – not as anything more than a cousin? Even though the thought of being married to him was –

“You will be my wife, Jane,” I heard him say, very close to me now. My eyes were still closed, but I felt him lay a hand on top of my head, and rest it there. It felt almost as if he were hypnotizing me – as if some strange power of control flowed from his hand, and I began to feel forced to obey him…

“Jane! Jane! Jane!”

Mr. Rochester’s voice rang through my head so clearly that for a second I could have sworn he was there on the moor with us. I opened my eyes and stood up at once, shaking St. John’s hand away from me; and my eyes darted around and scanned the horizon. There no one was in sight.

Had the voice been inside my head? I wasn’t sure, but I was certain I had heard him calling me, calling me with such longing and desperation that I suddenly knew I had to go to him, now, whatever the cost, whatever was right or wrong.

I pulled my shawl tightly around me and, ignoring St. John’s shouts of protest, I ran away across the moor, down the hillside and back to the house.

Chapter 33