"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--come 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 while the flesh quivered on my 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 come 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.