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during the hot hours; and unfortunately, I have noticed, whatever he
exacts, you force yourself to perform. I am astonished you found
courage to refuse his hand. You do not love him then, Jane?'
'Not as a husband.'
'Yet he is a handsome fellow.'
'And I am so plain, you see, Die. We should never suit.'
'Plain! You? Not at all. You are much too pretty, as well as too
good, to be grilled alive in Calcutta.' And again she earnestly
conjured me to give up all thoughts of going out with her brother.
'I must indeed,' I said; 'for when just now I repeated the offer of
serving him for a deacon, he expressed himself shocked at my want of
decency. He seemed to think I had committed an impropriety in
proposing to accompany him unmarried: as if I had not from the first
hoped to find in him a brother, and habitually regarded him as such.'
'What makes you say he does not love you, Jane?'
'You should hear himself on the subject. He has again and again
explained that it is not himself, but his office he wishes to mate. He
has told me I am formed for labour- not for love: which is true, no
doubt. But, in my opinion, if I am not formed for love, it follows
that I am not formed for marriage. Would it not be strange, Die, to be
chained for life to a man who regarded one but as a useful tool?'
'Insupportable- unnatural- out of the question!'
'And then,' I continued, 'though I have only sisterly affection for
him now, yet, if forced to be his wife, I can imagine the
possibility of conceiving an inevitable, strange, torturing kind of
love for him, because he is so talented; and there is often a
certain heroic grandeur in his look, manner, and conversation. In that
case, my lot would become unspeakably wretched. He would not want me
to love him; and if I showed the feeling, he would make me sensible
that it was a superfluity, unrequired by him, unbecoming in me. I know
he would.'
'And yet St. John is a good man,' said Diana.
'He is a good and a great man; but he forgets, pitilessly, the
feelings and claims of little people, in pursuing his own large views.
It is better, therefore, for the insignificant to keep out of his way,
lest, in his progress, he should trample them down. Here he comes! I
will leave you, Diana.' And I hastened upstairs as I saw him
entering the garden.
But I was forced to meet him again at supper. During that meal he
appeared just as composed as usual. I had thought he would hardly
speak to me, and I was certain he had given up the pursuit of his
matrimonial scheme: the sequel showed I was mistaken on both points.
He addressed me precisely in his ordinary manner, or what had, of
late, been his ordinary manner- one scrupulously polite. No doubt he
had invoked the help of the Holy Spirit to subdue the anger I had
roused in him, and now believed he had forgiven me once more.
For the evening reading before prayers, he selected the