Mr. Rochester is not there; and if he were, what is, what can that ever be to me?  My business is to live without him now:  nothing so absurd, so weak as to drag on from day to day, as if I were waiting some impossible change in circumstances, which might reunite me to him.  Of course (as St. John once said) I must seek another interest in life to replace the one lost:  is not the occupation he now offers me truly the most glorious man can adopt or God assign?  Is it not, by its noble cares and sublime results, the one best calculated to fill the void left by uptorn affections and demolished hopes?  I believe I must say, Yes —­ and yet I shudder.  Alas!  If I join St. John, I abandon half myself:  if I go to India, I go to premature death.  And how will the interval between leaving England for India, and India for the grave, be filled?  Oh, I know well!  That, too, is very clear to my vision.  By straining to satisfy St. John till my sinews ache, I shall satisfy him —­ to the finest central point and farthest outward circle of his expectations.  If I do go with him —­ if I do make the sacrifice he urges, I will make it absolutely:  I will throw all on the altar —­ heart, vitals, the entire victim.  He will never love me; but he shall approve me; I will show him energies he has not yet seen, resources he has never suspected.  Yes, I can work as hard as he can, and with as little grudging.

“Consent, then, 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.”