wn。 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 I depart for ever。”
It wanted yet two hours of breakfast…time。 I filled the interval in walking softly about my room； and pondering the visitation which had given my plans their present bent。 I recalled that inward sensation I had experienced： for I could recall it； with all its unspeakable strangeness。 I recalled the voice I had heard； again I questioned whence it came； as vainly as before： it seemed in me—not in the external world。 I asked was it a mere nervous impression—a delusion？ I could not conceive or believe： it was more like an inspiration。 The wondrous shock of feeling had e like the earthquake which shook the foundations of Paul and Silas’s prison； it had opened the doors of the soul’s cell and loosed its bands—it had wakened it out of its sleep； whence it sprang trembling； listening； aghast； then vibrated thrice a cry on my startled ear； and in my quaking heart and through my spirit； which neither feared nor shook； but exulted as if in joy over the success of one effort it had been privileged to make； independent of the cumbrous body。
“Ere many days；” I said； as I terminated my musings； “I will know something of him whose voice seemed last night to summon me。 Letters have proved of no avail—personal inquiry shall replace them。”
At breakfast I announced to Diana and Mary that I was going a journey； and should be absent at least four days。
“Alone； Jane？” they asked。
“Yes； it was to see or hear news of a friend about whom I had for some time been uneasy。”
They might have said； as I have no doubt they thought； that they had believed me to be without any friends save them： for； indeed； I had often said so； but； with their true natural delicacy； they abstained from ment； except that Diana asked me if I was sure I was well enough to travel。 I looked very pale； she observed。 I replied； that nothing ailed me save anxiety of mind； which I hoped soon to alleviate。
It was easy to make my further arrangements； for I was troubled ises。 Having once explained to them that I could not now be explicit about my plans； they kindly and wisely acquiesced in the silence with which I pursued them； according to me the privilege of free action I should under similar circumstances have accorded them。
I left Moor House at three o’clock p。m。； and soon after four I stood at the foot of the sign…post of Whitcross； waiting the arrival of the coach which was to take me to distant Thornfield。 Amidst the silence of those solitary roads and desert hills； I heard it approach from a great distance。 It was the same vehicle whence； a year ago； I had alighted one summer evening on this very spot—how desolate； and hopeless； and objectless！ It stopped as I beckoned。 I entered—not now obliged to part with my whole fortune as the price of its acmodation。 Once more on the road to Thornfield； I felt like the messenger…pigeon flying home。
It was a journey of six…and…thirty hours。 I had set out from Whitcross on a Tuesday afternoon； and early on the succeeding Thursday morning the coach stopped to water the horses at a wayside inn； situated in the midst of scenery whose green hedges and large fields and low pastoral hills （how mild of feature and verdant of hue pared with the stern North…Midland moors of Morton！） met my eye like the lineaments of a once familiar face。 Yes； I knew the character of this landscape： I was sure we were near my bourne。
“How far is Thornfield Hall from here？” I asked of the ostler。
“Just two miles； ma’am； across the fields。”
“My journey is closed；” I thought to myself。 I got out of the coach； gave a box I had into the ostler’s charge； to be kept till I called for it； paid my fare； satisfied the coachman； and was going： the brightening day gleamed on the sign of the inn； and I read in gilt letters； “The Rochester Arms。” My heart leapt up： I was already on my master’s very lands。 It fell again： the thought struck it：—
“Your master himself may be beyond the British Channel； for aught you know： and then； if he is at Thornfield Hall； towards which you hasten； who besides him is there？ His l