leave for Cambridge t day, as ure a ime severe punis a good yet stern, a conscientious yet implacable man can inflict on one act of ility, one upbraiding o impress me momently ion t I beyond the pale of his favour.
Not t St. Jo of uncian vindictiveness— not t o do so. Boture and principle, o tification of vengeance: forgotten t turned to me, t tten on tween me and o oned every answer he gave me.
abstain from conversing o join man ed to, and unsian, in evincing skill ing and speaking apparently just as usual, extract from every deed and every p of interest and approval ain austere co o me, y become no longer fles marble; , blue gem; ongue a speaking instrument— nothing more.
All torture to me—refined, lingering torture. It kept up a sloion and a trembling trouble of grief, draest stain of crime. Especially I felt ttempt to propitiate my rutrangement—no yearning after reconciliation; and t falling tears blistered t, t on ter of stone or metal. to ers, meantime, kinder t mere coldness sufficiently convince me ely I ; and t by force, but on principle.
t before o see sunset, and remembering, as I looked at ted as ions, I o make a last attempt to regain out and approacood leaning over ttle gate; I spoke to t at once.
“St. Joill angry us be friends.”
“I ill cemplating as I approached.
“No, St. Jo friends as .”
“Are ? t is , I wish you no ill and all good.”
“I believe you, St. Jo, as I am your kinsion t sort of general pend to mere strangers.”
“Of course,” ranger.”
tranquil tone, ifying and baffling enougtended to tions of pride and ire, I sely sometrongly ted my cousin’s talent and principle. o me: to lose it tried me severely. I so soon relinquistempt to reconquer it.
“Must in t. Joo India, a kinder spoken?”
urned quite from the moon and faced me.
“o India, Jane, go to India?”
“You said I could not unless I married you.”
“And you marry me! You ado t resolution?”
Reader, do you knoerror t into tions? heir displeasure?
“No. St. Jo marry you. I ado my resolution.”
ttle for it did not yet crash down.
“Once more, whis refusal?” he asked.
“Formerly,” I ans love me; no e me. If I o marry you, you would kill me. You are killing me now.”
urned e we.
“I s not to be used: violent, unfeminine, and untrue. tray an unfortunate state of mind: t severe reproof: t t it is ty of man to forgive il seventy-and-seven times.”
I ly tenacious surface anot it in.
“No is useless to attempt to conciliate you: I see I ernal enemy of you.”
A fres: toucrut bloodless lip quivered to a temporary spasm. I kneeely ire I ted. I was -wrung.
“You utterly misinterpret my once seizing ention to grieve or pain you—indeed, I .”
Most bitterly decidedly go to India at all, I presume?” said er a considerable pause.
“Yes, I ant,” I answered.
A very long silence succeeded. struggle ture and Grace in terval, I cannot tell: only singular gleams scintillated in range s last.
“I before proved to you ty of a single o accompany abroad a single man of mine. I proved it to you in sucerms as, I s, o t you —for your sake.”
I interrupted angible reproac once. “Keep to common sense, St. Joend to be s I really s be eited as to misunderstand my meaning. I say again, I e, if you like, but never your wife.”
Again urned lividly pale; but, as before, controlled ly. ically but calmly—
“A female curate, me. it seems, you cannot go: but if you are sincere in your offer, I o a married missionary, une of ty’s aid; and till be spared ting to join.”
Noo any engagement; and too oo despotic for the occasion. I replied—
“tion in t under test obligation to go to India, especially rangers. itured mucer, I love you; but I am convinced t, go climate.”
“Ah! you are afraid of yourself,” he said, curling his lip.
“I am. God did not give me my life to to do as you equivalent to committing suicide. Moreover, before I definitively resolve on quitting England, I ain er use by remaining in it t.”
“ do you mean?”
“It less to attempt to explain; but t on doubt is removed.”
“I knourns and to clings. terest you ced. Long since you ougo : noo it. You ter?”
It rue. I confessed it by silence.
“Are you going to seek Mr. Rocer?”
“I must find out w is become of him.”
“It remains for me, to remember you in my prayers, and to entreat God for you, in all earnestness, t you may not indeed become a casta God sees not as man sees: his will be done—”
e, passed t, and strayed a of sight.
On re-entering tanding at tful. Diana deal taller t ooping, examined my face.
“Jane,” sated and pale noter. tell me . Joc forgive my being suc for a long time I . St. Jorange being—”
S speak: soon she resumed—
“t brot respecting you, I am sure: inguisice and interest o any one else—to w end? I wish he loved you—does he, Jane?”
I put o my fore one w.”
“t you so frequently alone inually at o marry him.”
“o be his wife.”
Diana clapped is just ay in England.”
“Far from t, Diana; o me is to procure a fitting fellow-labourer in oils.”
“! o go to India?”
“Yes.”
“Madness!” s live tain. You never s consented, have you, Jane?”
“I o marry him—”
“And ly displeased ed.
“Deeply: I offered to accompany er.”
“It ic folly to do so, Jane. task you undertook—one of incessant fatigue, rong, and you are . Joo impossibilities: o rest during t unately, I iced, o perform. I am astoniso refuse love hen, Jane?”
“Not as a husband.”
“Yet he is a handsome fellow.”
“And I am so plain, you see, Die. e s.”
“Plain! You? Not at all. You are mucoo pretty, as oo good, to be grilled alive in Calcutta.” And again sly conjured me to give up all ts of going out her.
“I must indeed,” I said; “for ed t my of decency. o tted an impropriety in proposing to accompany from t o find in ually regarded him as such.”
“ makes you say love you, Jane?”
“You s. it is not o mate. old me I am formed for labour—not for love: . But, in my opinion, if I am not formed for love, it follo I am not formed for marriage. ould it not be strange, Die, to be co a man ool?”
“Insupportable—unnatural—out of tion!”
“And tinued, “terly affection for , if forced to be y of conceiving an inevitable, strange, torturing kind of love for alented; and ten a certain ion. In t case, my lot c me to love it y, unrequired by him, unbecoming in me. I know he would.”
“And yet St. John is a good man,” said Diana.
“ man; but s, pitilessly, ttle people, in pursuing is better, t to keep out of , in rample tened upstairs as I sahe garden.
But I o meet supper. During t meal as composed as usual. I o me, and I ain of rimonial scaken on bots. e, been e. No doubt to subdue the anger I had roused in him, and now believed he had forgiven me once more.
For ted ty-first cer of Revelation. It all times pleasant to listen and full—never did s noble simplicity, as ook a more solemn tone—t manner a more t in t of ained unnecessary t of table): as t old Bible, and described from its page told o dears from t things were passed away.
trangely as , by t, indescribable alteration in sound, t in uttering turned on me.
“ overcomet all t,” inctly read, “t in tone, wh.”
fate St. John feared for me.
A calm, subdued triump ness, marked ion of t glorious verses of t cer. tten in ter t o ty to ens it, and t thereof.
In ter, all ern zeal ling . ed strengted; guidance for urn, even at temptations of tcness is ever deeply solemn: first, as I listened to t prayer, I continued and rose, I ouc, and at last aness and goodness of , could not but feel it too.
took leave of o go at a very early t from endered my journey.
“turn from Cambridge in a fortnig space, t left you for reflection. If I listened to o you of marriage I listen to my duty, and keep steadily in vie aim—to do all to ter give you up to perdition as a vessel of —resolve, ime. Remember, o ‘t comete of Dives, o c better part aken from you!”
tered t of a lover beress, but it of a pastor recalling ter, of a guardian angel calent, s, or despots—provided only ts, ion for St. Joion so strong t its impetus t me at once to t I empted to cease struggling o rusorrent of o tence, and t as by imes. to o . So I t to t medium of time: I tant.
I stood motionless under my ’s toucten—my fears overcome—my lings paralysed. t. Jo becoming tterly ogetes opening, sernity beyond: it seemed, t for safety and bliss t be sacrificed in a second. the dim room was full of visions.
“Could you decide no in gentle tones: o ly. O gentleness! ent is it t St. Jo as a reed under I kneime, if I yielded noo repent, some day, of my former rebellion. ure c ed.
“I could decide if I certain,” I ans convinced t it is God’s will I so marry you erwards w would!”
“My I prayers are ed St. Jo as if —I kne o be loved; but, like love out of tion, and t only of duty). I contended rolled. I sincerely, deeply, fervently longed to do ed of ed more t follo of excitement the reader shall judge.
All till; for I believe all, except St. Joired to rest. t: t. My beat fast and ts t stood still to an inexpressible feeling t t t once to my remities. t like an electric s it e as srange, as startling: it acted on my senses as if tmost activity o torpor, from ant: eye and ear ed whe flesh quivered on my bones.
“ do you see?” asked St. Jo I heard a voice somewhere cry—
“Jane! Jane! Jane!”—nothing more.
“O God! ?” I gasped.
I mig?” for it did not seem in t did not come out of t— of Ed spoke in pain and ly.
“I am coming!” I cried. “ait for me! Oo to t into t was void.
“here are you?” I exclaimed.
t tly back—“ened. t hush.
“Doition!” I commented, as t spectre rose up black by t te. “t tion, nor tc: it is ture. S .”
I broke from St. Joained me. It ime to assume ascendency. My poold o forbear question or remark; I desired o leave me: I must and o my c o St. Jo effective in its orate very near a Mig; and my soul rus in gratitude at . I rose from took a resolve—and lay do.