to his demand is possible: but for one item – one dreadful item. It is – that he asks me to be his wife, and has no more of a husband’s heart for me than that frowning giant of a rock, down which the stream is foaming in yonder gorge. He prizes me as a soldier would a good weapon, and that is all. Unmarried to him, this would never grieve me; but can I let him complete his calculations – coolly put into practice his plans – go through the wedding ceremony? Can I receive from him the bridal ring, endure all the forms of love (which I doubt not he would scrupulously observe) and know that the spirit was quite absent? Can I bear the consciousness that every endearment he bestows is a sacrifice made on principle? No: such a martyrdom would be monstrous. I will never undergo it. As his sister, I might accompany him – not as his wife: I will tell him so.’
I looked towards the knoll: there he lay, still as a prostrate column; his face turned to me: his eye beaming watchful and keen. He started to his feet and approached me.
‘I am ready to go to India, if I may go free.’
‘Your answer requires a commentary,’ he said; ‘it is not clear.’
‘You have hitherto been my adopted brother – I, your adopted sister: let us continue as such: you and I had better not marry.’
He shook his head. ‘Adopted fraternity will not do in this case. If you were my real sister it would be different; I should take you, and seek no wife. But as it is, either our union must be consecrated and sealed by marriage, or it cannot exist: practical obstacles oppose themselves to any other plan. Do you not see it, Jane? Consider a moment – your strong sense will guide you.’
I did consider; and still my sense, such as it was, directed me only to the fact that we did not love each other as man and wife should: and therefore it inferred we ought not to marry. I said so. ‘St John,’ I returned, ‘I regard you as a brother – you, me as a sister: so let us continue.’
‘We cannot – we cannot,’ he answered, with short, sharp determination: ‘it would not do. You have said you will go with me to India: remember – you have said that.’
‘Conditionally.’
‘Well – well. To the main point – the departure with me from England, the co-operation with me in my future labours – you do not object. You have already as good as put your hand to the plough:14 you are too consistent to withdraw it. You have but one end to keep in view – how the work you have undertaken can best be done. Simplify your complicated interests, feelings, thoughts, wishes, aims; merge all considerations in one purpose: that of fulfilling with effect – with power – the mission of your great Master. To do so, you must have a coadjutor: not a brother – that is a loose tie – but a husband. I, too, do not want a sister: a sister might any day be taken from me. I want a wife: the sole helpmeet I can influence efficiently in life, and retain absolutely till death.’
I shuddered as he spoke: I felt his influence in my marrow – his hold on my limbs.
‘Seek one elsewhere than in me, St John: seek one fitted to you.’
‘One fitted to my purpose, you mean – fitted to my vocation. Again I tell you it is not the insignificant private individual – the mere man, with the man’s selfish senses – I wish to mate: it is the missionary.’
‘And I will give the missionary my energies – it is all he wants – but not myself: that would be only adding the husk and shell to the kernel. For them he has no use: I retain them.’
‘You cannot – you ought not. Do you think God will be satisfied with half an oblation? Will He accept a mutilated sacrifice? It is the cause of God I advocate: it is under His standard I enlist you. I cannot accept on His behalf a divided allegiance: it must be entire.’
‘Oh! I will give my heart to God,’ I said. ‘You do not want it.’
I will not swear, reader, that there was not something of repressed sarcasm both in the tone in which I uttered this sentence, and in the