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bidding him good-night, he kissed each of them, as was his custom;
and, as was equally his custom, he gave me his hand. Diana, who
chanced to be in a frolicsome humour (she was not painfully controlled
by his will; for hers, in another way, was as strong), exclaimed-
'St. John! you used to call Jane your third sister, but you don't
treat her as such: you should kiss her too.'
She pushed me towards him. I thought Diana very provoking, and felt
uncomfortably confused; and while I was thus thinking and feeling, St.
John bent his head; his Greek face was brought to a level with mine,
his eyes questioned my eyes piercingly- he kissed me. There are no
such things as marble kisses or ice kisses, or I should say my
ecclesiastical cousin's salute belonged to one of these classes; but
there may be experiment kisses, and his was an experiment kiss. When
given, he viewed me to learn the result; it was not striking: I am
sure I did not blush; perhaps I might have turned a little pale, for I
felt as if this kiss were a seal affixed to my fetters. He never
omitted the ceremony afterwards, and the gravity and quiescence with
which I underwent it, seemed to invest it for him with a certain
charm.
As for me, I daily wished more to please him; but to do so, I
felt daily more and more that I must disown half my nature, stifle
half my faculties, wrest my tastes from their original bent, force
myself to the adoption of pursuits for which I had no natural
vocation. He wanted to train me to an elevation I could never reach;
it racked me hourly to aspire to the standard he uplifted. The thing
was as impossible as to mould my irregular features to his correct and
classic pattern, to give to my changeable green eyes the sea-blue tint
and solemn lustre of his own.
Not his ascendancy alone, however, held me in thrall at present. Of
late it had been easy enough for me to look sad: a cankering evil
sat in my heart and drained my happiness at its source- the evil of
suspense.
Perhaps you think I had forgotten Mr. Rochester, reader, amidst
these changes of place and fortune. Not for a moment. His idea was
still with me, because it was not a vapour sunshine could disperse,
nor a sand-traced effigy storms could wash away; it was a name
graven on a tablet, fated to last as long as the marble it
inscribed. The craving to know what had become of him followed me
everywhere; when I was at Morton, I re-entered my cottage every
evening to think of that; and now at Moor House, I sought my bedroom
each night to brood over it.
In the course of my necessary correspondence with Mr. Briggs
about the will, I had inquired if he knew anything of Mr.
Rochester's present residence and state of health; but, as St. John
had conjectured, he was quite ignorant of all concerning him. I then
wrote to Mrs. Fairfax, entreating information on the subject. I had
calculated with certainty on this step answering my end: I felt sure