Jane eyre

"You mocking changeling--fairy-born and human-bred! You make me
feel as I have not felt these twelve months. If Saul could have had
you for his David, the evil spirit would have been exorcised without
the aid of the harp."
"There, sir, you are redd up and made decent. Now I'll leave you:
I have been travelling these last three days, and I believe I am
tired. Good night."
"Just one word, Jane: were there only ladies in the house where you
have been?"
I laughed and made my escape, still laughing as I ran upstairs. "A
good idea!" I thought with glee. "I see I have the means of
fretting him out of his melancholy for some time to come."
Very early the next morning I heard him up and astir, wandering from
one room to another. As soon as Mary came down I heard the
question: "Is Miss Eyre here?" Then: "Which room did you put her
into? Was it dry? Is she up? Go and ask if she wants anything;
and when she will come down."
I came down as soon as I thought there was a prospect of breakfast.
Entering the room very softly, I had a view of him before he
discovered my presence. It was mournful, indeed, to witness the
subjugation of that vigorous spirit to a corporeal infirmity. He
sat in his chair--still, but not at rest: expectant evidently; the
lines of now habitual sadness marking his strong features. His
countenance reminded one of a lamp quenched, waiting to be re-lit--
and alas! it was not himself that could now kindle the lustre of
animated expression: he was dependent on another for that office!
I had meant to be gay and careless, but the powerlessness of the
strong man touched my heart to the quick: still I accosted him with
what vivacity I could.
"It is a bright, sunny morning, sir," I said. "The rain is over and
gone, and there is a tender shining after it: you shall have a walk
soon."
I had wakened the glow: his features beamed.
"Oh, you are indeed there, my skylark! Come to me. You are not
gone: not vanished? I heard one of your kind an hour ago, singing
high over the wood: but its song had no music for me, any more than
the rising sun had rays. All the melody on earth is concentrated in
my Jane's tongue to my ear (I am glad it is not naturally a silent
one): all the sunshine I can feel is in her presence."
The water stood in my eyes to hear this avowal of his dependence;
just as if a royal eagle, chained to a perch, should be forced to
entreat a sparrow to become its purveyor. But I would not be
lachrymose: I dashed off the salt drops, and busied myself with
preparing breakfast.
Most of the morning was spent in the open air. I led him out of the
wet and wild wood into some cheerful fields: I described to him how
brilliantly green they were; how the flowers and hedges looked
refreshed; how sparklingly blue was the sky. I sought a seat for
him in a hidden and lovely spot, a dry stump of a tree; nor did I
refuse to let him, when seated, place me on his knee. Why should I,
when both he and I were happier near than apart? Pilot lay beside
us: all was quiet. He broke out suddenly while clasping me in his
arms -
"Cruel, cruel deserter! Oh, Jane, what did I feel when I discovered
you had fled from Thornfield, and when I could nowhere find you;
and, after examining your apartment, ascertained that you had taken
no money, nor anything which could serve as an equivalent! A pearl
necklace I had given you lay untouched in its little casket; your
trunks were left corded and locked as they had been prepared for the
bridal tour. What could my darling do, I asked, left destitute and
penniless? And what did she do? Let me hear now."
Thus urged, I began the narrative of my experience for the last
year. I softened considerably what related to the three days of
wandering and starvation, because to have told him all would have
been to inflict unnecessary pain: the little I did say lacerated
his faithful heart deeper than I wished.
I should not have left him thus, he said, without any means of
making my way: I should have told him my intention. I should have
confided in him: he would never have forced me to be his mistress.
Violent as he had seemed in his despair, he, in truth, loved me far
too well and too tenderly to constitute himself my tyrant: he would
have given me half his fortune, without demanding so much as a kiss
in return, rather than I should have flung myself friendless on the
wide world. I had endured, he was certain, more than I had
confessed to him.
"Well, whatever my sufferings had been, they were very short," I
answered: and then I proceeded to tell him how I had been received
at Moor House; how I had obtained the office of schoolmistress, &c.
The accession of fortune, the discovery of my relations, followed in
due order. Of course, St. John Rivers' name came in frequently in
the progress of my tale. When I had done, that name was immediately
taken up.
"This St. John, then, is your cousin?"
"Yes."
"You have spoken of him often: do you like him?"
"He was a very good man, sir; I could not help liking him."
"A good man. Does that mean a respectable well-conducted man of
fifty? Or what does it mean?"
"St John was only twenty-nine, sir."
"'Jeune encore,' as the French say. Is he a person of low stature,
phlegmatic, and plain. A person whose goodness consists rather in
his guiltlessness of vice, than in his prowess in virtue."
"He is untiringly active. Great and exalted deeds are what he lives
to perform."
"But his brain? That is probably rather soft? He means well: but
you shrug your shoulders to hear him talk?"
"He talks little, sir: what he does say is ever to the point. His
brain is first-rate, I should think not impressible, but vigorous."
"Is he an able man, then?"
"Truly able."
"A thoroughly educated man?"
"St. John is an accomplished and profound scholar."
"His manners, I think, you said are not to your taste?--priggish and
parsonic?"
"I never mentioned his manners; but, unless I had a very bad taste,
they must suit it; they are polished, calm, and gentlemanlike."
"His appearance,--I forget what description you gave of his
appearance;--a sort of raw curate, half strangled with his white
neckcloth, and stilted up on his thick-soled high-lows, eh?"
"St. John dresses well. He is a handsome man: tall, fair, with
blue eyes, and a Grecian profile."
(Aside.) "Damn him!"--(To me.) "Did you like him, Jane?"
"Yes, Mr. Rochester, I liked him: but you asked me that before."
I perceived, of course, the drift of my interlocutor. Jealousy had
got hold of him: she stung him; but the sting was salutary: it
gave him respite from the gnawing fang of melancholy. I would not,
therefore, immediately charm the snake.
"Perhaps you would rather not sit any longer on my knee, Miss Eyre?"
was the next somewhat unexpected observation.
"Why not, Mr. Rochester?"
"The picture you have just drawn is suggestive of a rather too
overwhelming contrast. Your words have delineated very prettily a
graceful Apollo: he is present to your imagination,--tall, fair,
blue-eyed, and with a Grecian profile. Your eyes dwell on a
Vulcan,--a real blacksmith, brown, broad-shouldered: and blind and
lame into the bargain."
"I never thought of it, before; but you certainly are rather like
Vulcan, sir."
"Well, you can leave me, ma'am: but before you go" (and he retained
me by a firmer grasp than ever), "you will be pleased just to answer
me a question or two." He paused.
"What questions, Mr. Rochester?"
Then followed this cross-examination.
"St. John made you schoolmistress of Morton before he knew you were
his cousin?"
"Yes."
"You would often see him? He would visit the school sometimes?"
"Daily."
"He would approve of your plans, Jane? I know they would be clever,
for you are a talented creature!"
"He approved of them--yes."
"He would discover many things in you he could not have expected to
find? Some of your accomplishments are not ordinary."
"I don't know about that."
"You had a little cottage near the school, you say: did he ever
come there to see you?"
"Now and then?"
"Of an evening?"
"Once or twice."
A pause.
"How long did you reside with him and his sisters after the
cousinship was discovered?"
"Five months."
"Did Rivers spend much time with the ladies of his family?"
"Yes; the back parlour was both his study and ours: he sat near the
window, and we by the table."
"Did he study much?"
"A good deal."
"What?"
"Hindostanee."
"And what did you do meantime?"
"I learnt German, at first."
"Did he teach you?"
"He did not understand German."
"Did he teach you nothing?"
"A little Hindostanee."
"Rivers taught you Hindostanee?"
"Yes, sir."
"And his sisters also?"
"No."
"Only you?"
"Only me."
"Did you ask to learn?"
"No."
"He wished to teach you?"
"Yes."
A second pause.
"Why did he wish it? Of what use could Hindostanee be to you?"
"He intended me to go with him to India."
"Ah! here I reach the root of the matter. He wanted you to marry
him?"
"He asked me to marry him."
"That is a fiction--an impudent invention to vex me."
"I beg your pardon, it is the literal truth: he asked me more than
once, and was as stiff about urging his point as ever you could be."
"Miss Eyre, I repeat it, you can leave me. How often am I to say
the same thing? Why do you remain pertinaciously perched on my
knee, when I have given you notice to quit?"
"Because I am comfortable there."
Gió nhớ gì ngẩn ngơ ngoài hiên
Mưa nhớ gì thì thầm ngoài hiên

​

"No, Jane, you are not comfortable there, because your heart is not
with me: it is with this cousin--this St. John. Oh, till this
moment, I thought my little Jane was all mine! I had a belief she
loved me even when she left me: that was an atom of sweet in much
bitter. Long as we have been parted, hot tears as I have wept over
our separation, I never thought that while I was mourning her, she
was loving another! But it is useless grieving. Jane, leave me:
go and marry Rivers."
"Shake me off, then, sir,--push me away, for I'll not leave you of
my own accord."
"Jane, I ever like your tone of voice: it still renews hope, it
sounds so truthful. When I hear it, it carries me back a year. I
forget that you have formed a new tie. But I am not a fool--go--"
"Where must I go, sir?"
"Your own way--with the husband you have chosen."
"Who is that?"
"You know--this St. John Rivers."
"He is not my husband, nor ever will be. He does not love me: I do
not love him. He loves (as he CAN love, and that is not as you
love) a beautiful young lady called Rosamond. He wanted to marry me
only because he thought I should make a suitable missionary's wife,
which she would not have done. He is good and great, but severe;
and, for me, cold as an iceberg. He is not like you, sir: I am not
happy at his side, nor near him, nor with him. He has no indulgence
for me--no fondness. He sees nothing attractive in me; not even
youth--only a few useful mental points.--Then I must leave you, sir,
to go to him?"
I shuddered involuntarily, and clung instinctively closer to my
blind but beloved master. He smiled.
"What, Jane! Is this true? Is such really the state of matters
between you and Rivers?"
"Absolutely, sir! Oh, you need not be jealous! I wanted to tease
you a little to make you less sad: I thought anger would be better
than grief. But if you wish me to love you, could you but see how
much I DO love you, you would be proud and content. All my heart is
yours, sir: it belongs to you; and with you it would remain, were
fate to exile the rest of me from your presence for ever."
Again, as he kissed me, painful thoughts darkened his aspect. "My
scared vision! My crippled strength!" he murmured regretfully.
I caressed, in order to soothe him. I knew of what he was thinking,
and wanted to speak for him, but dared not. As he turned aside his
face a minute, I saw a tear slide from under the sealed eyelid, and
trickle down the manly cheek. My heart swelled.
"I am no better than the old lightning-struck chestnut-tree in
Thornfield orchard," he remarked ere long. "And what right would
that ruin have to bid a budding woodbine cover its decay with
freshness?"
"You are no ruin, sir--no lightning-struck tree: you are green and
vigorous. Plants will grow about your roots, whether you ask them
or not, because they take delight in your bountiful shadow; and as
they grow they will lean towards you, and wind round you, because
your strength offers them so safe a prop."
Again he smiled: I gave him comfort.
"You speak of friends, Jane?" he asked.
"Yes, of friends," I answered rather hesitatingly: for I knew I
meant more than friends, but could not tell what other word to
employ. He helped me.
"Ah! Jane. But I want a wife."
"Do you, sir?"
"Yes: is it news to you?"
"Of course: you said nothing about it before."
"Is it unwelcome news?"
"That depends on circumstances, sir--on your choice."
"Which you shall make for me, Jane. I will abide by your decision."
"Choose then, sir--HER WHO LOVES YOU BEST."
"I will at least choose--HER I LOVE BEST. Jane, will you marry me?"
"Yes, sir."
"A poor blind man, whom you will have to lead about by the hand?"
"Yes, sir."
"A crippled man, twenty years older than you, whom you will have to
wait on?"
"Yes, sir."
"Truly, Jane?"
"Most truly, sir."
"Oh! my darling! God bless you and reward you!"
"Mr. Rochester, if ever I did a good deed in my life--if ever I
thought a good thought--if ever I prayed a sincere and blameless
prayer--if ever I wished a righteous wish,--I am rewarded now. To
be your wife is, for me, to be as happy as I can be on earth."
"Because you delight in sacrifice."
"Sacrifice! What do I sacrifice? Famine for food, expectation for
content. To be privileged to put my arms round what I value--to
press my lips to what I love--to repose on what I trust: is that to
make a sacrifice? If so, then certainly I delight in sacrifice."
"And to bear with my infirmities, Jane: to overlook my
deficiencies."
"Which are none, sir, to me. I love you better now, when I can
really be useful to you, than I did in your state of proud
independence, when you disdained every part but that of the giver
and protector."
"Hitherto I have hated to be helped--to be led: henceforth, I feel
I shall hate it no more. I did not like to put my hand into a
hireling's, but it is pleasant to feel it circled by Jane's little
fingers. I preferred utter loneliness to the constant attendance of
servants; but Jane's soft ministry will be a perpetual joy. Jane
suits me: do I suit her?"
"To the finest fibre of my nature, sir."
"The case being so, we have nothing in the world to wait for: we
must be married instantly."
He looked and spoke with eagerness: his old impetuosity was rising.
"We must become one flesh without any delay, Jane: there is but the
licence to get--then we marry."
"Mr. Rochester, I have just discovered the sun is far declined from
its meridian, and Pilot is actually gone home to his dinner. Let me
look at your watch."
"Fasten it into your girdle, Janet, and keep it henceforward: I
have no use for it."
"It is nearly four o'clock in the afternoon, sir. Don't you feel
hungry?"
"The third day from this must be our wedding-day, Jane. Never mind
fine clothes and jewels, now: all that is not worth a fillip."
"The sun has dried up all the rain-drops, sir. The breeze is still:
it is quite hot."
"Do you know, Jane, I have your little pearl necklace at this moment
fastened round my bronze scrag under my cravat? I have worn it
since the day I lost my only treasure, as a memento of her."
"We will go home through the wood: that will be the shadiest way."
He pursued his own thoughts without heeding me.
"Jane! you think me, I daresay, an irreligious dog: but my heart
swells with gratitude to the beneficent God of this earth just now.
He sees not as man sees, but far clearer: judges not as man judges,
but far more wisely. I did wrong: I would have sullied my innocent
flower--breathed guilt on its purity: the Omnipotent snatched it
from me. I, in my stiff-necked rebellion, almost cursed the
dispensation: instead of bending to the decree, I defied it.
Divine justice pursued its course; disasters came thick on me: I
was forced to pass through the valley of the shadow of death. HIS
chastisements are mighty; and one smote me which has humbled me for
ever. You know I was proud of my strength: but what is it now,
when I must give it over to foreign guidance, as a child does its
weakness? Of late, Jane--only--only of late--I began to see and
acknowledge the hand of God in my doom. I began to experience
remorse, repentance; the wish for reconcilement to my Maker. I
began sometimes to pray: very brief prayers they were, but very
sincere.
"Some days since: nay, I can number them--four; it was last Monday
night, a singular mood came over me: one in which grief replaced
frenzy--sorrow, sullenness. I had long had the impression that
since I could nowhere find you, you must be dead. Late that night--
perhaps it might be between eleven and twelve o'clock--ere I retired
to my dreary rest, I supplicated God, that, if it seemed good to
Him, I might soon be taken from this life, and admitted to that
world to come, where there was still hope of rejoining Jane.
"I was in my own room, and sitting by the window, which was open:
it soothed me to feel ********y night-air; though I could see no
stars and only by a vague, luminous haze, knew the presence of a
moon. I longed for thee, Janet! Oh, I longed for thee both with
soul and flesh! I asked of God, at once in anguish and humility, if
I had not been long enough desolate, afflicted, tormented; and might
not soon taste bliss and peace once more. That I merited all I
endured, I acknowledged--that I could scarcely endure more, I
pleaded; and the alpha and omega of my heart's wishes broke
involuntarily from my lips in the words--'Jane! Jane! Jane!'"
"Did you speak these words aloud?"
"I did, Jane. If any listener had heard me, he would have thought
me mad: I pronounced them with such frantic energy."
"And it was last Monday night, somewhere near midnight?"
"Yes; but the time is of no consequence: what followed is the
strange point. You will think me superstitious,--some superstition
I have in my blood, and always had: nevertheless, this is true--
true at least it is that I heard what I now relate.
"As I exclaimed 'Jane! Jane! Jane!' a voice--I cannot tell whence
the voice came, but I know whose voice it was--replied, 'I am
coming: wait for me;' and a moment after, went whispering on the
wind the words--'Where are you?'
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Mưa nhớ gì thì thầm ngoài hiên

​

"I'll tell you, if I can, the idea, the picture these words opened
to my mind: yet it is difficult to express what I want to express.
Ferndean is buried, as you see, in a heavy wood, where sound falls
dull, and dies unreverberating. 'Where are you?' seemed spoken
amongst mountains; for I heard a hill-sent echo repeat the words.
Cooler and fresher at the moment the gale seemed to visit my brow:
I could have deemed that in some wild, lone scene, I and Jane were
meeting. In spirit, I believe we must have met. You no doubt were,
at that hour, in unconscious sleep, Jane: perhaps your soul
wandered from its cell to comfort mine; for those were your accents-
-as certain as I live--they were yours!"
Reader, it was on Monday night--near midnight--that I too had
received the mysterious summons: those were the very words by which
I replied to it. I listened to Mr. Rochester's narrative, but made
no disclosure in return. The coincidence struck me as too awful and
inexplicable to be communicated or discussed. If I told anything,
my tale would be such as must necessarily make a profound impression
on the mind of my hearer: and that mind, yet from its sufferings
too prone to gloom, needed not the deeper shade of the supernatural.
I kept these things then, and pondered them in my heart.
"You cannot now wonder," continued my master, "that when you rose
upon me so unexpectedly last night, I had difficulty in believing
you any other than a mere voice and vision, something that would
melt to silence and annihilation, as the midnight whisper and
mountain echo had melted before. Now, I thank God! I know it to be
otherwise. Yes, I thank God!"
He put me off his knee, rose, and reverently lifting his hat from
his brow, and bending his sightless eyes to the earth, he stood in
mute devotion. Only the last words of the worship were audible.
"I thank my Maker, that, in the midst of judgment, he has remembered
mercy. I humbly entreat my Redeemer to give me strength to lead
henceforth a purer life than I have done hitherto!"
Then he stretched his hand out to be led. I took that dear hand,
held it a moment to my lips, then let it pass round my shoulder:
being so much lower of stature than he, I served both for his prop
and guide. We entered the wood, and wended homeward.
CHAPTER XXXVIII--CONCLUSION
Reader, I married him. A quiet wedding we had: he and I, the
parson and clerk, were alone present. When we got back from church,
I went into the kitchen of the manor-house, where Mary was cooking
the dinner and John cleaning the knives, and I said -
"Mary, I have been married to Mr. Rochester this morning." The
housekeeper and her husband were both of that decent phlegmatic
order of people, to whom one may at any time safely communicate a
remarkable piece of news without incurring the danger of having
one's ears pierced by some shrill ejaculation, and subsequently
stunned by a torrent of wordy wonderment. Mary did look up, and she
did stare at me: the ladle with which she was basting a pair of
chickens roasting at the fire, did for some three minutes hang
suspended in air; and for the same space of time John's knives also
had rest from the polishing process: but Mary, bending again over
the roast, said only -
"Have you, Miss? Well, for sure!"
A short time after she pursued--"I seed you go out with the master,
but I didn't know you were gone to church to be wed;" and she basted
away. John, when I turned to him, was grinning from ear to ear.
"I telled Mary how it would be," he said: "I knew what Mr. Edward"
(John was an old servant, and had known his master when he was the
cadet of the house, therefore, he often gave him his Christian
name)--"I knew what Mr. Edward would do; and I was certain he would
not wait long neither: and he's done right, for aught I know. I
wish you joy, Miss!" and he politely pulled his forelock.
"Thank you, John. Mr. Rochester told me to give you and Mary this."
I put into his hand a five-pound note. Without waiting to hear
more, I left the kitchen. In passing the door of that sanctum some
time after, I caught the words -
"She'll happen do better for him nor ony o't' grand ladies." And
again, "If she ben't one o' th' handsomest, she's noan faal and
varry good-natured; and i' his een she's fair beautiful, onybody may
see that."
I wrote to Moor House and to Cambridge immediately, to say what I
had done: fully explaining also why I had thus acted. Diana and
Mary approved the step unreservedly. Diana announced that she would
just give me time to get over the honeymoon, and then she would come
and see me.
"She had better not wait till then, Jane," said Mr. Rochester, when
I read her letter to him; "if she does, she will be too late, for
our honeymoon will shine our life long: its beams will only fade
over your grave or mine."
How St. John received the news, I don't know: he never answered the
letter in which I communicated it: yet six months after he wrote to
me, without, however, mentioning Mr. Rochester's name or alluding to
my marriage. His letter was then calm, and, though very serious,
kind. He has maintained a regular, though not frequent,
correspondence ever since: he hopes I am happy, and trusts I am not
of those who live without God in the world, and only mind earthly
things.
You have not quite forgotten little Adele, have you, reader? I had
not; I soon asked and obtained leave of Mr. Rochester, to go and see
her at the school where he had placed her. Her frantic joy at
beholding me again moved me much. She looked pale and thin: she
said she was not happy. I found the rules of the establishment were
too strict, its course of study too severe for a child of her age:
I took her home with me. I meant to become her governess once more,
but I soon found this impracticable; my time and cares were now
required by another--my husband needed them all. So I sought out a
school conducted on a more indulgent system, and near enough to
permit of my visiting her often, and bringing her home sometimes. I
took care she should never want for anything that could contribute
to her comfort: she soon settled in her new abode, became very
happy there, and made fair progress in her studies. As she grew up,
a sound English education corrected in a great measure her French
defects; and when she left school, I found in her a pleasing and
obliging companion: docile, good-tempered, and well-principled. By
her grateful attention to me and mine, she has long since well
repaid any little kindness I ever had it in my power to offer her.
My tale draws to its close: one word respecting my experience of
married life, and one brief glance at the fortunes of those whose
names have most frequently recurred in this narrative, and I have
done.
I have now been married ten years. I know what it is to live
entirely for and with what I love best on earth. I hold myself
supremely blest--blest beyond what language can express; because I
am my husband's life as fully is he is mine. No woman was ever
nearer to her mate than I am: ever more absolutely bone of his bone
and flesh of his flesh. I know no weariness of my Edward's society:
he knows none of mine, any more than we each do of the pulsation of
the heart that beats in our separate bosoms; consequently, we are
ever together. To be together is for us to be at once as free as in
solitude, as gay as in company. We talk, I believe, all day long:
to talk to each other is but a more animated and an audible
thinking. All my confidence is bestowed on him, all his confidence
is devoted to me; we are precisely suited in character--perfect
concord is the result.
Mr. Rochester continued blind the first two years of our union;
perhaps it was that circumstance that drew us so very near--that
knit us so very close: for I was then his vision, as I am still his
right hand. Literally, I was (what he often called me) the apple of
his eye. He saw nature--he saw books through me; and never did I
weary of gazing for his behalf, and of putting into words the effect
of field, tree, town, river, cloud, sunbeam--of the landscape before
us; of the weather round us--and impressing by sound on his ear what
light could no longer stamp on his eye. Never did I weary of
reading to him; never did I weary of conducting him where he wished
to go: of doing for him what he wished to be done. And there was a
pleasure in my services, most full, most exquisite, even though sad-
-because he claimed these services without painful shame or damping
humiliation. He loved me so truly, that he knew no reluctance in
profiting by my attendance: he felt I loved him so fondly, that to
yield that attendance was to indulge my sweetest wishes.
One morning at the end of the two years, as I was writing a letter
to his dictation, he came and bent over me, and said--"Jane, have
you a glittering ornament round your neck?"
I had a gold watch-chain: I answered "Yes."
"And have you a pale blue dress on?"
I had. He informed me then, that for some time he had fancied the
obscurity clouding one eye was becoming less dense; and that now he
was sure of it.
He and I went up to London. He had the advice of an eminent
oculist; and he eventually recovered the sight of that one eye. He
cannot now see very distinctly: he cannot read or write much; but
he can find his way without being led by the hand: the sky is no
longer a blank to him--the earth no longer a void. When his first-
born was put into his arms, he could see that the boy had inherited
his own eyes, as they once were--large, brilliant, and black. On
that occasion, he again, with a full heart, acknowledged that God
had tempered judgment with mercy.
My Edward and I, then, are happy: and the more so, because those we
most love are happy likewise. Diana and Mary Rivers are both
married: alternately, once every year, they come to see us, and we
go to see them. Diana's husband is a captain in the navy, a gallant
officer and a good man. Mary's is a clergyman, a college friend of
her brother's, and, from his attainments and principles, worthy of
the connection. Both Captain Fitzjames and Mr. Wharton love their
wives, and are loved by them.
As to St. John Rivers, he left England: he went to India. He
entered on the path he had marked for himself; he pursues it still.
A more resolute, indefatigable pioneer never wrought amidst rocks
and dangers. Firm, faithful, and devoted, full of energy, and zeal,
and truth, he labours for his race; he clears their painful way to
improvement; he hews down like a giant the prejudices of creed and
caste that encumber it. He may be stern; he may be exacting; he may
be ambitious yet; but his is the sternness of the warrior
Greatheart, who guards his pilgrim convoy from the onslaught of
Apollyon. His is the exaction of the apostle, who speaks but for
Christ, when he says--"Whosoever will come after me, let him deny
himself, and take up his cross and follow me." His is the ambition
of the high master-spirit, which aims to fill a place in the first
rank of those who are redeemed from the earth--who stand without
fault before the throne of God, who share the last mighty victories
of the Lamb, who are called, and chosen, and faithful.
St. John is unmarried: he never will marry now. Himself has
hither*****fficed to the toil, and the toil draws near its close:
his glorious sun hastens to its setting. The last letter I received
from him drew from my eves human tears, and yet filled my heart with
divine joy: he anticipated his sure reward, his incorruptible
crown. I know that a stranger's hand will write to me next, to say
that the good and faithful servant has been called at length into
the joy of his Lord. And why weep for this? No fear of death will
darken St. John's last hour: his mind will be unclouded, his heart
will be undaunted, his hope will be sure, his faith steadfast. His
own words are a pledge of this -
"My Master," he says, "has forewarned me. Daily He announces more
distinctly,--'Surely I come quickly!' and hourly I more eagerly
respond,--'Amen; even so come, Lord Jesus!'"
End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Jane Eyre, by Charlotte Bronte
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