down, unscared, enlightened--eager but for the daylight.' The
Mighty Spirit, who was Jane Eyre's God, had directed her not to go
to India as St. John's bride to save souls from damnation by
conversion to Jehovah, but to set off that very day to Rochester at
Thornfield Hall.

Consider also how inseparably the important incidents in Jane Eyre
are linked with one another and with character. Jane refused
Rochester at first and St. John finally. She could not possibly do
otherwise. But I must stop. You did not ask for an essay on
Charlotte Bronte. Suffice it to say that when I had finished Jane
Eyre I said to myself that I would not write any more. Nor did I
ever attempt fiction again. Judith Crowhurst is a plain, true
story, altered a little in order to prevent recognition. I knew her
well. There is no suffering in any stage tragedy equal to that of
the unmarried woman who is well brought up, with natural gifts above
those of women generally, living on a small income, past middle-age,
and unable to work. It is not the suffering which is acute torture
ending in death, but worse, the black, moveless gloom of the second
floor in Hackney or Islington. Almost certainly she has but few
friends, and those she has will be occupied with household or wage-
earning duties. She is afraid of taking up their time; she never
calls without an excuse. What is she to do? She cannot read all
day, and, if she could, what is the use of reading? Poets and
philosophers do not touch her case; descriptions of moonlit seas,
mountains, moors, and waterfalls darken by contrast the view of the
tiles and chimneys from her own window. Ideas do not animate or
interest her, for she never has a chance of expressing them and,
lacking expression, they are indistinct. Her eyes wander down page
after page of her book, but she is only half-conscious. Religion,