简爱(英文版)-第72章

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tely；　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　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