Part 1 of 2
“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 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 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.
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.
When it is a Christian name (i.e. a personal name, like Richard or Edward) St John is pronounced sin-jun.
Précis
Thinking over a proposal of marriage that she knows is about duty, not love, on both sides, Jane Eyre prays for guidance. The man who has made it, St John Rivers, thinks God’s answer is clear enough already, but in the stillness of late evening, Jane is suddenly gripped by some wordless conviction of her own. (56 / 60 words)
Part Two
“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 — 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 coming!” I cried. “Wait for me! Oh, I will come!” 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.
Précis
St John is startled by Jane’s behaviour: evidently, she had heard or seen something. Jane herself knows that what she has heard is the disembodied, anguished voice of the only man she has ever loved, Edward Rochester, but a frantic search of the house and lands around yields nothing. (49 / 60 words)