简爱(英文版)-第62部分

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“I　believe　you；　St。　John；　for　I　am　sure　you　are　incapable　of　wishing　any　one　ill；　but；　as　I　am　your　kinswoman；　I　should　desire　somewhat　more　of　affection　than　that　sort　of　general　philanthropy　you　extend　to　mere　strangers。”
“Of　course；”　he　said。　“Your　wish　is　reasonable；　and　I　am　far　from　regarding　you　as　a　stranger。”
This；　spoken　in　a　cool；　tranquil　tone；　was　mortifying　and　baffling　enough。　Had　I　attended　to　the　suggestions　of　pride　and　ire；　I　should　immediately　have　left　him；　but　something　worked　within　me　more　strongly　than　those　feelings　could。　I　deeply　venerated　my　cousin’s　talent　and　principle。　His　friendship　was　of　value　to　me：　to　lose　it　tried　me　severely。　I　would　not　so　soon　relinquish　the　attempt　to　reconquer　it。
“Must　we　part　in　this　way；　St。　John？　And　when　you　go　to　India；　will　you　leave　me　so；　without　a　kinder　word　than　you　have　yet　spoken？”
He　nooon　and　faced　me。
“When　I　go　to　India；　Jane；　will　I　leave　you！　What！　do　you　not　go　to　India？”
“You　said　I　could　not　unless　I　married　you。”
“And　you　will　not　marry　me！　You　adhere　to　that　resolution？”
Reader；　do　you　know；　as　I　do；　what　terror　those　cold　people　can　put　into　the　ice　of　their　questions？　How　much　of　the　fall　of　the　avalanche　is　in　their　anger？　of　the　breaking　up　of　the　frozen　sea　in　their　displeasure？
“No。　St。　John；　I　will　not　marry　you。　I　adhere　to　my　resolution。”
The　avalanche　had　shaken　and　slid　a　little　forward；　but　it　did　not　yet　crash　down。
“Once　more；　why　this　refusal？”　he　asked。
“Formerly；”　I　answered；　“because　you　did　not　love　me；　now；　I　reply；　because　you　almost　hate　me。　If　I　were　to　marry　you；　you　would　kill　me。　You　are　killing　me　now。”
His　lips　and　cheeks　turned　white—quite　white。
“I　should　kill　you—I　am　killing　you？　Your　words　are　such　as　ought　not　to　be　used：　violent；　unfeminine；　and　untrue。　They　betray　an　unfortunate　state　of　mind：　they　merit　severe　reproof：　they　would　seem　inexcusable；　but　that　it　is　the　duty　of　man　to　forgive　his　fellow　even　until　seventy…and…seven　times。”
I　had　finished　the　business　now。　While　earnestly　wishing　to　erase　from　his　mind　the　trace　of　my　former　offence；　I　had　stamped　on　that　tenacious　surface　another　and　far　deeper　impression；　I　had　burnt　it　in。
“Now　you　will　indeed　hate　me；”　I　said。　“It　is　useless　to　attempt　to　conciliate　you：　I　see　I　have　made　an　eternal　enemy　of　you。”
A　fresh　wrong　did　these　words　inflict：　the　worse；　because　they　touched　on　the　truth。　That　bloodless　lip　quivered　to　a　temporary　spasm。　I　knew　the　steely　ire　I　had　whetted。　I　was　heart…wrung。
“You　utterly　misinterpret　my　words；”　I　said；　at　once　seizing　his　hand：　“I　have　no　intention　to　grieve　or　pain　you—indeed；　I　have　not。”
Most　bitterly　he　smiled—most　decidedly　he　withdrew　his　hand　from　mine。　“And　now　you　recall　your　promise；　and　will　not　go　to　India　at　all；　I　presume？”　said　he；　after　a　considerable　pause。
“Yes；　I　will；　as　your　assistant；”　I　answered。
A　very　long　silence　succeeded。　What　struggle　there　was　in　him　between　Nature　and　Grace　in　this　interval；　I　cannot　tell：　only　singular　gleams　scintillated　in　his　eyes；　and　strange　shadows　passed　over　his　face。　He　spoke　at　last。
“I　before　proved　to　you　the　absurdity　of　a　single　woman　of　your　age　proposing　to　acpany　abroad　a　single　man　of　mine。　I　proved　it　to　you　in　such　terms　as；　I　should　have　thought；　would　have　prevented　your　ever　again　alluding　to　the　plan。　That　you　have　done　so；　I　regret—for　your　sake。”
I　interrupted　him。　Anything　like　a　tangible　reproach　gave　me　courage　at　once。　“Keep　to　mon　sense；　St。　John：　you　are　verging　on　nonsense。　You　pretend　to　be　shocked　by　what　I　have　said。　You　are　not　really　shocked：　for；　with　your　superior　mind；　you　cannot　be　either　so　dull　or　so　conceited　as　to　misunderstand　my　meaning。　I　say　again；　I　will　be　your　curate；　if　you　like；　but　never　your　wife。”
Again　he　turned　lividly　pale；　but；　as　before；　controlled　his　passion　perfectly。　He　answered　emphatically　but　calmly—
“A　female　curate；　who　is　not　my　wife；　would　never　suit　me。　With　me；　then；　it　seems；　you　cannot　go：　but　if　you　are　sincere　in　your　offer；　I　will；　while　in　town；　speak　to　a　married　missionary；　whose　wife　needs　a　coadjutor。　Your　own　fortune　will　make　you　independent　of　the　Society’s　aid；　and　thus　you　may　still　be　spared　the　dishonour　of　breaking　your　promise　and　deserting　the　band　you　engaged　to　join。”
Now　I　never　had；　as　the　reader　knows；　either　given　any　formal　promise　or　entered　into　any　engagement；　and　this　language　was　all　much　too　hard　and　much　too　despotic　for　the　occasion。　I　replied—
“There　is　no　dishonour；　no　breach　of　promise；　no　desertion　in　the　case。　I　am　not　under　the　slightest　obligation　to　go　to　India；　especially　with　strangers。　With　you　I　would　have　ventured　much；　because　I　admire；　confide　in；　and；　as　a　sister；　I　love　you；　but　I　am　convinced　that；　go　when　and　with　whom　I　would；　I　should　not　live　long　in　that　climate。”
“Ah！　you　are　afraid　of　yourself；”　he　said；　curling　his　lip。
“I　am。　God　did　not　give　me　my　life　to　throw　away；　and　to　do　as　you　wish　me　would；　I　begin　to　think；　be　almost　equivalent　to　mitting　suicide。　Moreover；　before　I　definitively　resolve　on　quitting　England；　I　will　know　for　certain　whether　I　cannot　be　of　greater　use　by　remaining　in　it　than　by　leaving　it。”
“What　do　you　mean？”
“It　would　be　fruitless　to　attempt　to　explain；　but　there　is　a　point　on　which　I　have　long　endured　painful　doubt；　and　I　can　go　nowhere　till　by　some　means　that　doubt　is　removed。”
“I　know　where　your　heart　turns　and　to　what　it　clings。　The　interest　you　cherish　is　lawless　and　unconsecrated。　Long　since　you　ought　to　have　crushed　it：　now　you　should　blush　to　allude　to　it。　You　think　of　Mr。　Rochester？”
It　was　true。　I　confessed　it　by　silence。
“Are　you　going　to　seek　Mr。　Rochester？”
“I　must　find　out　what　is　bee　of　him。”
“It　remains　for　me；　then；”　he　said；　“to　remember　you　in　my　prayers；　and　to　entreat　God　for　you；　in　all　earnestness；　that　you　may　not　indeed　bee　a　castaway。　I　had　thought　I　recognised　in　you　one　of　the　chosen。　But　God　sees　not　as　man　sees：　His　will　be　done—”
He　opened　the　gate；　passed　through　it；　and　strayed　away　down　the　glen。　He　was　soon　out　of　sight。
On　re…entering　the　parlour；　I　found　Diana　standing　at　the　window；　looking　very　thoughtful。　Diana　was　a　great　deal　taller　than　I：　she　put　her　hand　on　my　shoulder；　and；　stooping；　examined　my　face。
“Jane；”　she　said；　“you　are　always　agitated　and　pale　now。　I　am　sure　there　is　something　the　matter。　Tell　me　what　business　St。　John　and　you　have　on　hands。　I　have　watched　you　this　half　hour　from　the　window；　you　must　forgive　my　being　such　a　spy；　but　for　a　long　time　I　have　fancied　I　hardly　know　what。　St。　John　is　a　strange　being—”
She　paused—I　did　not　speak：　soon　she　resumed—
“That　brother　of　mine　cherishes　peculiar　views　of　some　sort　respecting　you；　I　am　sure：　he　has　long　distinguished　you　by　a　notice　and　interest　he　never　showed　to　any　one　else—to　what　end？　I　wish　he　loved　you—does　he；　Jane？”
I　put　her　cool　hand　to　my　hot　forehead；　“No；　Die；　not　one　whit。”
“Then　why　does　he　follow　you　so　with　his　eyes；　and　get　you　so　frequently　alone　with　him；　and　keep　you　so　continually　at　his　side？　Mary　and　I　had　both　concluded　he　wished　you　to　marry　him。”
“He　does—he　has　asked　me　to　be　his　wife。”
Diana　clapped　her　hands。　“That　is　just　what　we　hoped　and　thought！　And　you　will　marry　him；　Jane；　won’t　you？　And　then　he　will　stay　in　England。”
“Far　from　that；　Diana；　his　sole　idea　in　proposing　to　me　is　to　procure　a　fitting　fellow…labourer　in　his　Indian　toils。”
“What！　He　wishes　you　to　go　to　India？”
“Yes。”
“Madness！”　she　exclaimed。　“You　would　not　live　three　months　there；　I　am　certain。　You　never　shall　go：　you　have　not　consented；　have　you；　Jane？”
“I　have　refused　to　marry　him—”
“And　have　consequently　displeased　him？”　she　suggested。
“Deeply：　he　will　never　forgive　me；　I　fear：　yet　I　offered　to　acpany　him　as　his　sister。”
“It　was　frantic　folly　to　do　so；　Jane。　Think　of　the　task　you　undertook—one　of　incessant　fatigue；　where　fatigue　kills　even　the　strong；　and　you　are　weak。　St。　John—you　know　him—would　urge　you　to　impossibilities：　with　him　there　would　be　no　permission　to　rest　during　the　hot　hours；　and　unfortunately；　I　have　noticed；　whatever　he　exacts；　you　force　yourself　to　perform。　I　am　astonished　you　found　courage　to　refuse　his　hand。　You　do　not　love　him　then；　Jane？”
“Not　as　a　husband。”
“Yet　he　is　a　handsome　fellow。”
“And　I　am　so　plain；　you　see；　Die。　We　should　never　suit。”
“Plain！　You？　Not　at　all。　You　are　much　too　pretty；　as　well　as　too　good；　to　be　grilled　alive　in　Calcutta。”　And　again　she　earnestly　conjured　me　to　give　up　all　thoughts　of　going　out　with　her　brother。
“I　must　indeed；”　I　said；　“for　when　just　now　I　repeated　the　offer　of　serving　him　for　a　deacon；　he　expressed　himself　shocked　at　my　want　of　decency。　He　seemed　to　think　I　had　mitted　an　impropriety　in　proposing　to　acpany　him　unmarried：　as　if　I　had　not　from　the　first　hoped　to　find　in　him　a　brother；　and　habitually　regarded　him　as　such。”
“What　makes　you　say　he　does　not　love　you；　Jane？”
“You　should　hear　himself　on　the　subject。　He　has　again　and　again　explained　that　it　is　not　himself；　but　his　office　he　wishes　to　mate。　He　has　told　me　I　am　formed　for　labour—not　for　love：　which　is　true；　no　doubt。　But；　in　my　opinion；　if　I　am　not　formed　for　love；　it　follows　that　I　am　not　formed　for　marriage。　Would　it　not　be　strange；　Die；　to　be　chained　for　life　to　a　man　who　regarded　one　but　as　a　useful　tool？”
“Insupportable—unnatural—out　of　the　question！”
“And　then；”　I　continued；　“though　I　have　only　sisterly　affection　for　him　now；　yet；　if　forced　to　be　his　wife；　I　can　imagine　the　possibility　of　conceiving　an　inevitable；　strange；　torturing　kind　of　love　for　him；　because　he　is　so　talented；　and　there　is　often　a　certain　heroic　grandeur　in　his　look；　manner；　and　conversation。　In　that　case；　my　lot　would　bee　unspeakably　wretched。　He　would　not　want　me　to　love　him；　and　if　I　showed　the　feeling；　he　would　make　me　sensible　that　it　was　a　superfluity；　unrequired　by　him；　unbeing　in　me。　I　know　he　would。”
“And　yet　St。　John　is　a　good　man；”　said　Diana。
“He　is　a　good　and　a　great　man；　but　he　forgets；　pitilessly；　the　feelings　and　claims　of　little　people；　in　pursuing　his　own　large　views。　It　is　better；　therefore；　for　the　insignificant　to　keep　out　of　his　way；　lest；　in　his　progress；　he　should　trample　them　down。　Here　he　es！　I　will　leave　you；　Diana。”　And　I　hastened　upstairs　as　I　saw　him　entering　the　garden。
But　I　was　forced　to　meet　him　again　at　supper。　During　that　meal　he　appeared　just　as　posed　as　usual。　I　had　thought　he　would　hardly　speak　to　me；　and　I　was　certain　he　had　given　up　the　pursuit　of　his　matrimonial　scheme：　the　sequel　showed　I　was　mistaken　on　both　points。　He　addressed　me　precisely　in　his　ordinary　manner；　or　what　had；　of　late；　been　his　ordinary　manner—one　scrupulously　polite。　No　doubt　he　had　invoked　the　help　of　the　Holy　Spirit　to　subdue　the　anger　I　had　roused　in　him；　and　now　believed　he　had　forgiven　me　once　more。
For　the　evening　reading　before　prayers；　he　selected　the　twenty…first　chapter　of　Revelation。　It　was　at　all　times　pleasant　to　listen　while　from　his　lips　fell　the　words　of　the　Bible：　never　did　his　fine　voice　sound　at　once　so　sweet　and　full—never　did　his　manner　bee　so　impressive　in　its　noble　simplicity；　as　when　he　delivered　the　oracles　of　God：　and　to…night　that　voice　took　a　more　solemn　tone—that　manner　a　more　thrilling　meaning—as　he　sat　in　the　midst　of　his　household　circle　（the　May　moon　shining　in　through　the　uncurtained　window；　and　rendering　almost　unnecessary　the　light　of　the　candle　on　the　table）：　as　he　sat　there；　bending　over　the　great　old　Bible；　and　described　from　its　page　the　vision　of　the　new　heaven　and　the　new　earth—told　how　God　would　e　to　dwell　with　men；　how　He　would　wipe　away　all　tears　from　their　eyes；　and　promised　that　there　should　be　no　more　death；　neither　sorrow　nor　crying；　nor　any　more　pain；　because　the　former　things　were　passed　away。
The　succeeding　words　thrilled　me　strangely　as　he　spoke　them：　especially　as　I　felt；　by　the　slight；　indescribable　alteration　in　sound；　that　in　uttering　them；　his　eye　had　turned　on　me。
“He　that　overeth　shall　inherit　all　things；　and　I　will　be　his　God；　and　he　shall　be　my　son。　But；”　was　slowly；　distinctly　read；　“the　fearful；　the　unbelieving；　&c。；　shall　have　their　part　in　the　lake　which　burh　with　fire　and　brimstone；　which　is　the　second　death。”
Henceforward；　I　knew　what　fate　St。　John　feared　for　me。
A　calm；　subdued　triumph；　blent　with　a　longing　earnestness；　marked　his　enunciation　of　the　last　glorious　verses　of　that　chapter。　The　reader　believed　his　name　was　already　written　in　the　Lamb’s　book　of　life；　and　he　yearned　after　the　hour　which　should　admit　him　to　the　city　to　which　the　kings　of　the　earth　bring　their　glory　and　honour；　which　has　no　need　of　sun　or　moon　to　shine　in　it；　because　the　glory　of　God　lightens　it；　and　the　Lamb　is　the　light　thereof。
In　the　prayer　following　the　chapter；　all　his　energy　gathered—all　his　stern　zeal　woke：　he　was　in　deep　earnest；　wrestling　with　God；　and　resolved　on　a　conquest。　He　supplicated　strength　for　the　weak…　hearted；　guidance　for　wanderers　from　the　fold：　a　return；　even　at　the　eleventh　hour；　for　those　whom　the　temptations　of　the　world　and　the　flesh　were　luring　from　the　narrow　path。　He　asked；　he　urged；　he　claimed　the　boon　of　a　brand　snatched　from　the　burning。　Earnestness　is　ever　deeply　solemn：　first；　as　I　listened　to　that　prayer；　I　wondered　at　his；　then；　when　it　continued　and　rose；　I　was　touched　by　it；　and　at　last　awed。　He　felt　the　greatness　and　goodness　of　his　purpose　so　sincerely：　others　who　heard　him　plead　for　it；　could　not　but　feel　it　too。
The　prayer　over；　we　took　leave　of　him：　he　was　to　go　at　a　very　early　hour　in　the　morning。　Diana　and　Mary　having　kissed　him；　left　the　room—in　pliance；　I　think；　with　a　whispered　hint　from　him：　I　tendered　my　hand；　and　wished　him　a　pleasant　journey。
“Thank　you；　Jane。　As　I　said；　I　shall　return　from　Cambridge　in　a　fortnight：　that　space；　then；　is　yet　left　you　for　reflection。　If　I　listened　to　human　pride；　I　should　say　no　more　to　you　of　marriage　with　me；　but　I　listen　to　my　duty；　and　keep　steadily　in　view　my　first　aim—to　do　all　things　to　the　glory　of　God。　My　Master　was　long…　suffering：　so　will　I　be。　I　cannot　give　you　up　to　perdition　as　a　vessel　of　wrath：　repent—resolve；　while　there　is　yet　time。　Remember；　we　are　bid　to　work　while　it　is　day—warned　that　‘the　night　eth　when　no　man　shall　work。’　Remember　the　fate　of　Dives；　who　had　his　good　things　in　this　life。　God　give　you　strength　to　choose　that　better　part　which　shall　not　be　taken　from　you！”
He　laid　his　hand　on　my　head　as　he　uttered　the　last　words。　He　had　spoken　earnestly；　mildly：　his　look　was　not；　indeed；　that　of　a　lover　beholding　his　mistress；　but　it　was　that　of　a　pastor　recalling　his　wandering　sheep—or　better；　of　a　guardian　angel　watching　the　soul　for　which　he　is　responsible。　All　men　of　talent；　whether　they　be　men　of　feeling　or　not；　whether　they　be　zealots；　or　aspirants；　or　despots—provided　only　they　be　sincere—have　their　sublime　moments；　when　they　subdue　and　rule。　I　felt　veneration　for　St。　John—　veneration　so　strong　that　its　impetus　thrust　me　at　once　to　the　point　I　had　so　long　shunned。　I　was　tempted　to　cease　struggling　with　him—　to　rush　down　the　torrent　of　his　will　into　the　gulf　of　his　existence；　and　there　lose　my　own。　I　was　almost　as　hard　beset　by　him　no