Two
days are passed. It is a summer
evening; the coachman has set
me down at a place called Whitcross;
he could take me no farther for
the sum I had given, and I was
not possessed of another shilling
in the world. The coach is a
mile off by this time; I am alone.
At this moment I discover that
I forgot to take my parcel out
of the pocket of the coach, where
I had placed it for safety; there
it remains, there it must remain;
and now, I am absolutely destitute.
Whitcross is no town, nor even
a hamlet; it is but a stone pillar
set up where four roads meet:
whitewashed, I suppose, to be
more obvious at a distance and
in darkness. Four arms spring
from its summit: the nearest
town to which these point is,
according to the inscription,
distant ten miles; the farthest,
above twenty. From the well-known
names of these towns I learn
in what county I have lighted;
a north-midland shire, dusk with
moorland, ridged with mountain:
this I see. There are great moors
behind and on each hand of me;
there are waves of mountains
far beyond that deep valley at
my feet. The population here
must be thin, and I see no passengers
on these roads: they stretch
out east, west, north, and south--white,
broad, lonely; they are all cut
in the moor, and the heather
grows deep and wild to their
very verge. Yet a chance traveller
might pass by; and I wish no
eye to see me now: strangers
would wonder what I am doing,
lingering here at the sign-post,
evidently objectless and lost.
I might be questioned: I could
give no answer but what would
sound incredible and excite suspicion.
Not a tie holds me to human society
at this moment--not a charm or
hope calls me where my fellow-creatures
are--none that saw me would have
a kind thought or a good wish
for me. I have no relative but
the universal mother, Nature:
I will seek her breast and ask
repose.
I struck straight into the
heath; I held on to a hollow
I saw deeply furrowing the brown
moorside; I waded knee-deep in
its dark growth; I turned with
its turnings, and finding a moss-blackened
granite crag in a hidden angle,
I sat down under it. High banks
of moor were about me; the crag
protected my head: the sky was
over that.
Some time passed before I felt
tranquil even here: I had a vague
dread that wild cattle might
be near, or that some sportsman
or poacher might discover me.
If a gust of wind swept the waste,
I looked up, fearing it was the
rush of a bull; if a plover whistled,
I imagined it a man. Finding
my apprehensions unfounded, however,
and calmed by the deep silence
that reigned as evening declined
at nightfall, I took confidence.
As yet I had not thought; I had
only listened, watched, dreaded;
now I regained the faculty of
reflection.
What was I to do? Where to
go? Oh, intolerable questions,
when I could do nothing and go
nowhere!--when a long way must
yet be measured by my weary,
trembling limbs before I could
reach human habitation--when
cold charity must be entreated
before I could get a lodging:
reluctant sympathy importuned,
almost certain repulse incurred,
before my tale could be listened
to, or one of my wants relieved!
I touched the heath, it was
dry, and yet warm with the beat
of the summer day. I looked at
the sky; it was pure: a kindly
star twinkled just above the
chasm ridge. The dew fell, but
with propitious softness; no
breeze whispered. Nature seemed
to me benign and good; I thought
she loved me, outcast as I was;
and I, who from man could anticipate
only mistrust, rejection, insult,
clung to her with filial fondness.
To-night, at least, I would be
her guest, as I was her child:
my mother would lodge me without
money and without price. I had
one morsel of bread yet: the
remnant of a roll I had bought
in a town we passed through at
noon with a stray penny--my last
coin. I saw ripe bilberries gleaming
here and there, like jet beads
in the heath: I gathered a handful
and ate them with the bread.
My hunger, sharp before, was,
if not satisfied, appeased by
this hermit's meal. I said my
evening prayers at its conclusion,
and then chose my couch.
Beside the crag the heath was
very deep: when I lay down my
feet were buried in it; rising
high on each side, it left only
a narrow space for the night-air
to invade. I folded my shawl
double, and spread it over me
for a coverlet; a low, mossy
swell was my pillow. Thus lodged,
I was not, at least--at the commencement
of the night, cold.
My rest might have been blissful
enough, only a sad heart broke
it. It plained of its gaping
wounds, its inward bleeding,
its riven chords. It trembled
for Mr. Rochester and his doom;
it bemoaned him with bitter pity;
it demanded him with ceaseless
longing; and, impotent as a bird
with both wings broken, it still
quivered its shattered pinions
in vain attempts to seek him.
Worn out with this torture
of thought, I rose to my knees.
Night was come, and her planets
were risen: a safe, still night:
too serene for the companionship
of fear. We know that God is
everywhere; but certainly we
feel His presence most when His
works are on the grandest scale
spread before us; and it is in
the unclouded night-sky, where
His worlds wheel their silent
course, that we read clearest
His infinitude, His omnipotence,
His omnipresence. I had risen
to my knees to pray for Mr. Rochester.
Looking up, I, with tear-dimmed
eyes, saw the mighty Milky-way.
Remembering what it was--what
countless systems there swept
space like a soft trace of light--I
felt the might and strength of
God. Sure was I of His efficiency
to save what He had made: convinced
I grew that neither earth should
perish, nor one of the souls
it treasured. I turned my prayer
to thanksgiving: the Source of
Life was also the Saviour of
spirits. Mr. Rochester was safe;
he was God's, and by God would
he be guarded. I again nestled
to the breast of the hill; and
ere long in sleep forgot sorrow.
But next day, Want came to
me pale and bare. Long after
the little birds had left their
nests; long after bees had come
in the sweet prime of day to
gather the heath honey before
the dew was dried-- when the
long morning shadows were curtailed,
and the sun filled earth and
sky--I got up, and I looked round
me.
What a still, hot, perfect
day! What a golden desert this
spreading moor! Everywhere sunshine.
I wished I could live in it and
on it. I saw a lizard run over
the crag; I saw a bee busy among
the sweet bilberries. I would
fain at the moment have become
bee or lizard, that I might have
found fitting nutriment, permanent
shelter here. But I was a human
being, and had a human being's
wants: I must not linger where
there was nothing to supply them.
I rose; I looked back at the
bed I had left. Hopeless of the
future, I wished but this--that
my Maker had that night thought
good to require my soul of me
while I slept; and that this
weary frame, absolved by death
from further conflict with fate,
had now but to decay quietly,
and mingle in peace with the
soil of this wilderness. Life,
however, was yet in my possession,
with all its requirements, and
pains, and responsibilities.
The burden must be carried; the
want provided for; the suffering
endured; the responsibility fulfilled.
I set out.
Whitcross regained, I followed
a road which led from the sun,
now fervent and high. By no other
circumstance had I will to decide
my choice. I walked a long time,
and when I thought I had nearly
done enough, and might conscientiously
yield to the fatigue that almost
overpowered me--might relax this
forced action, and, sitting down
on a stone I saw near, submit
resistlessly to the apathy that
clogged heart and limb--I heard
a bell chime--a church bell.
I turned in the direction of
the sound, and there, amongst
the romantic hills, whose changes
and aspect I had ceased to note
an hour ago, I saw a hamlet and
a spire. All the valley at my
right hand was full of pasture-fields,
and cornfields, and wood; and
a glittering stream ran zig-zag
through the varied shades of
green, the mellowing grain, the
sombre woodland, the clear and
sunny lea. Recalled by the rumbling
of wheels to the road before
me, I saw a heavily-laden waggon
labouring up the hill, and not
far beyond were two cows and
their drover. Human life and
human labour were near. I must
struggle on: strive to live and
bend to toil like the rest.
About two o'clock p.m. I entered
the village. At the bottom of
its one street there was a little
shop with some cakes of bread
in the window. I coveted a cake
of bread. With that refreshment
I could perhaps regain a degree
of energy: without it, it would
be difficult to proceed. The
wish to have some strength and
some vigour returned to me as
soon as I was amongst my fellow-beings.
I felt it would be degrading
to faint with hunger on the causeway
of a hamlet. Had I nothing about
me I could offer in exchange
for one of these rolls? I considered.
I had a small silk handkerchief
tied round my throat; I had my
gloves. I could hardly tell how
men and women in extremities
of destitution proceeded. I did
not know whether either of these
articles would be accepted: probably
they would not; but I must try.
I
entered the
shop: a woman
was there. Seeing a respectably-
dressed person, a lady as she
supposed, she came forward with
civility. How could she serve
me? I was seized with shame:
my tongue would not utter the
request I had prepared. I dared
not offer her the half-worn gloves,
the creased handkerchief: besides,
I felt it would be absurd. I
only begged permission to sit
down a moment, as I was tired.
Disappointed in the expectation
of a customer, she coolly acceded
to my request. She pointed to
a seat; I sank into it. I felt
sorely urged to weep; but conscious
how unseasonable such a manifestation
would be, I restrained it. Soon
I asked her "if there were any
dressmaker or plain-workwoman
in the village?"
"Yes;
two or three.
Quite as many
as there was
employment
for."
I reflected. I was driven to
the point now. I was brought
face to face with Necessity.
I stood in the position of one
without a resource, without a
friend, without a coin. I must
do something. What? I must apply
somewhere. Where?
"Did
she know of
any place in
the neighbourhood
where a
servant was wanted?"
"Nay;
she couldn't
say."
"What
was the chief
trade in this
place? What
did most of
the people do?"
"Some
were farm labourers;
a good deal worked at Mr. Oliver's
needle-factory, and at the foundry."
"Did
Mr. Oliver
employ women?"
"Nay;
it was men's
work."
"And
what do the
women do?"
"I knawn't," was the answer. "Some
does one thing, and some another.
Poor folk mun get on as they
can."
She seemed to be tired of my
questions: and, indeed, what
claim had I to importune her?
A neighbour or two came in; my
chair was evidently wanted. I
took leave.
I passed up the street, looking
as I went at all the houses to
the right hand and to the left;
but I could discover no pretext,
nor see an inducement to enter
any. I rambled round the hamlet,
going sometimes to a little distance
and returning again, for an hour
or more. Much exhausted, and
suffering greatly now for want
of food, I turned aside into
a lane and sat down under the
hedge. Ere many minutes had elapsed,
I was again on my feet, however,
and again searching something--a
resource, or at least an informant.
A pretty little house stood at
the top of the lane, with a garden
before it, exquisitely neat and
brilliantly blooming. I stopped
at it. What business had I to
approach the white door or touch
the glittering knocker? In what
way could it possibly be the
interest of the inhabitants of
that dwelling to serve me? Yet
I drew near and knocked. A mild-looking,
cleanly-attired young woman opened
the door. In such a voice as
might be expected from a hopeless
heart and fainting frame--a voice
wretchedly low and faltering--I
asked if a servant was wanted
here?
"No," said she; "we
do not keep
a servant."
"Can you tell me where I could
get employment of any kind?" I
continued. "I am a stranger,
without acquaintance in this
place. I want some work: no matter
what."
But
it was not
her business
to think for me, or to seek a
place for me: besides, in her
eyes, how doubtful must have
appeared my character, position,
tale. She shook her head, she "was
sorry she could give me no information," and
the white door closed, quite
gently and civilly: but it shut
me out. If she had held it open
a little longer, I believe I
should have begged a piece of
bread; for I was now brought
low.
I could not bear to return
to the sordid village, where,
besides, no prospect of aid was
visible. I should have longed
rather to deviate to a wood I
saw not far off, which appeared
in its thick shade to offer inviting
shelter; but I was so sick, so
weak, so gnawed with nature's
cravings, instinct kept me roaming
round abodes where there was
a chance of food. Solitude would
be no solitude--rest no rest--
while the vulture, hunger, thus
sank beak and talons in my side.
I drew near houses; I left
them, and came back again, and
again I wandered away: always
repelled by the consciousness
of having no claim to ask--no
right to expect interest in my
isolated lot. Meantime, the afternoon
advanced, while I thus wandered
about like a lost and starving
dog. In crossing a field, I saw
the church spire before me: I
hastened towards it. Near the
churchyard, and in the middle
of a garden, stood a well-built
though small house, which I had
no doubt was the parsonage. I
remembered that strangers who
arrive at a place where they
have no friends, and who want
employment, sometimes apply to
the clergyman for introduction
and aid. It is the clergyman's
function to help--at least with
advice-- those who wished to
help themselves. I seemed to
have something like a right to
seek counsel here. Renewing then
my courage, and gathering my
feeble remains of strength, I
pushed on. I reached the house,
and knocked at the kitchen-door.
An old woman opened: I asked
was this the parsonage?
"Yes."
"Was
the clergyman
in?"
"No."
"Would
he be in soon?"
"No,
he was gone
from home."
"To
a distance?"
"Not
so far--happen
three mile.
He had been called away by the
sudden death of his father: he
was at Marsh End now, and would
very likely stay there a fortnight
longer."
"Was
there any lady
of the house?"
"Nay, there was naught but
her, and she was housekeeper;" and
of her, reader, I could not bear
to ask the relief for want of
which I was sinking; I could
not yet beg; and again I crawled
away.
Once
more I took
off my handkerchief--once
more I thought of the cakes of
bread in the little shop. Oh,
for but a crust! for but one
mouthful to allay the pang of
famine! Instinctively I turned
my face again to the village;
I found the shop again, and I
went in; and though others were
there besides the woman I ventured
the request--"Would she give
me a roll for this handkerchief?"
She
looked at me
with evident
suspicion: "Nay, she never sold
stuff i' that way."
Almost
desperate,
I asked for
half a cake; she again refused. "How
could she tell where I had got
the handkerchief?" she said.
"Would
she take my
gloves?"
"No!
what could
she do with
them?"
Reader, it is not pleasant
to dwell on these details. Some
say there is enjoyment in looking
back to painful experience past;
but at this day I can scarcely
bear to review the times to which
I allude: the moral degradation,
blent with the physical suffering,
form too distressing a recollection
ever to be willingly dwelt on.
I blamed none of those who repulsed
me. I felt it was what was to
be expected, and what could not
be helped: an ordinary beggar
is frequently an object of suspicion;
a well-dressed beggar inevitably
so. To be sure, what I begged
was employment; but whose business
was it to provide me with employment?
Not, certainly, that of persons
who saw me then for the first
time, and who knew nothing about
my character. And as to the woman
who would not take my handkerchief
in exchange for her bread, why,
she was right, if the offer appeared
to her sinister or the exchange
unprofitable. Let me condense
now. I am sick of the subject.
A little before dark I passed
a farm-house, at the open door
of which the farmer was sitting,
eating his supper of bread and
cheese. I stopped and said -
"Will you give me a piece of
bread? for I am very hungry." He
cast on me a glance of surprise;
but without answering, he cut
a thick slice from his loaf,
and gave it to me. I imagine
he did not think I was a beggar,
but only an eccentric sort of
lady, who had taken a fancy to
his brown loaf. As soon as I
was out of sight of his house,
I sat down and ate it.
I
could not hope
to get a lodging
under a roof, and sought it in
the wood I have before alluded
to. But my night was wretched,
my rest broken: the ground was
damp, the air cold: besides,
intruders passed near me more
than once, and I had again and
again to change my quarters;
no sense of safety or tranquillity
befriended me. Towards morning
it rained; the whole of the following
day was wet. Do not ask me, reader,
to give a minute account of that
day; as before, I sought work;
as before, I was repulsed; as
before, I starved; but once did
food pass my lips. At the door
of a cottage I saw a little girl
about to throw a mess of cold
porridge into a pig trough. "Will
you give me that?" I asked.
She
stared at me. "Mother!" she
exclaimed, "there is a woman
wants me to give her these porridge."
"Well lass," replied a voice
within, "give it her if she's
a beggar. T pig doesn't want
it."
The girl emptied the stiffened
mould into my hand, and I devoured
it ravenously.
As the wet twilight deepened,
I stopped in a solitary bridle-path,
which I had been pursuing an
hour or more.
"My strength is quite failing
me," I said in a soliloquy. "I
feel I cannot go much farther.
Shall I be an outcast again this
night? While the rain descends
so, must I lay my head on the
cold, drenched ground? I fear
I cannot do otherwise: for who
will receive me? But it will
be very dreadful, with this feeling
of hunger, faintness, chill,
and this sense of desolation--this
total prostration of hope. In
all likelihood, though, I should
die before morning. And why cannot
I reconcile myself to the prospect
of death? Why do I struggle to
retain a valueless life? Because
I know, or believe, Mr. Rochester
is living: and then, to die of
want and cold is a fate to which
nature cannot submit passively.
Oh, Providence! sustain me a
little longer! Aid!--direct me!"
My glazed eye wandered over
the dim and misty landscape.
I saw I had strayed far from
the village: it was quite out
of sight. The very cultivation
surrounding it had disappeared.
I had, by cross- ways and by-paths,
once more drawn near the tract
of moorland; and now, only a
few fields, almost as wild and
unproductive as the heath from
which they were scarcely reclaimed,
lay between me and the dusky
hill.
"Well, I would rather die yonder
than in a street or on a frequented
road," I reflected. "And far
better that crows and ravens--if
any ravens there be in these
regions--should pick my flesh
from my bones, than that they
should be prisoned in a workhouse
coffin and moulder in a pauper's
grave."
To the hill, then, I turned.
I reached it. It remained now
only to find a hollow where I
could lie down, and feel at least
hidden, if not secure. But all
the surface of the waste looked
level. It showed no variation
but of tint: green, where rush
and moss overgrew the marshes;
black, where the dry soil bore
only heath. Dark as it was getting,
I could still see these changes,
though but as mere alternations
of light and shade; for colour
had faded with the daylight.
My
eye still roved
over the sullen
swell and along
the moor-edge,
vanishing amidst the wildest
scenery, when at one dim point,
far in among the marshes and
the ridges, a light sprang up. "That
is an ignis fatuus," was my first
thought; and I expected it would
soon vanish. It burnt on, however,
quite steadily, neither receding
nor advancing. "Is it, then,
a bonfire just kindled?" I questioned.
I watched to see whether it would
spread: but no; as it did not
diminish, so it did not enlarge. "It
may be a candle in a house," I
then conjectured; "but if so,
I can never reach it. It is much
too far away: and were it within
a yard of me, what would it avail?
I should but knock at the door
to have it shut in my face."
And I sank down where I stood,
and hid my face against the ground.
I lay still a while: the night-wind
swept over the hill and over
me, and died moaning in the distance;
the rain fell fast, wetting me
afresh to the skin. Could I but
have stiffened to the still frost--
the friendly numbness of death--it
might have pelted on; I should
not have felt it; but my yet
living flesh shuddered at its
chilling influence. I rose ere
long.
The light was yet there, shining
dim but constant through the
rain. I tried to walk again:
I dragged my exhausted limbs
slowly towards it. It led me
aslant over the hill, through
a wide bog, which would have
been impassable in winter, and
was splashy and shaking even
now, in the height of summer.
Here I fell twice; but as often
I rose and rallied my faculties.
This light was my forlorn hope:
I must gain it.
Having crossed the marsh, I
saw a trace of white over the
moor. I approached it; it was
a road or a track: it led straight
up to the light, which now beamed
from a sort of knoll, amidst
a clump of trees--firs, apparently,
from what I could distinguish
of the character of their forms
and foliage through the gloom.
My star vanished as I drew near:
some obstacle had intervened
between me and it. I put out
my hand to feel the dark mass
before me: I discriminated the
rough stones of a low wall--above
it, something like palisades,
and within, a high and prickly
hedge. I groped on. Again a whitish
object gleamed before me: it
was a gate--a wicket; it moved
on its hinges as I touched it.
On each side stood a sable bush-holly
or yew.
Entering the gate and passing
the shrubs, the silhouette of
a house rose to view, black,
low, and rather long; but the
guiding light shone nowhere.
All was obscurity. Were the inmates
retired to rest? I feared it
must be so. In seeking the door,
I turned an angle: there shot
out the friendly gleam again,
from the lozenged panes of a
very small latticed window, within
a foot of the ground, made still
smaller by the growth of ivy
or some other creeping plant,
whose leaves clustered thick
over the portion of the house
wall in which it was set. The
aperture was so screened and
narrow, that curtain or shutter
had been deemed unnecessary;
and when I stooped down and put
aside the spray of foliage shooting
over it, I could see all within.
I could see clearly a room with
a sanded floor, clean scoured;
a dresser of walnut, with pewter
plates ranged in rows, reflecting
the redness and radiance of a
glowing peat-fire. I could see
a clock, a white deal table,
some chairs. The candle, whose
ray had been my beacon, burnt
on the table; and by its light
an elderly woman, somewhat rough-looking,
but scrupulously clean, like
all about her, was knitting a
stocking.
I noticed these objects cursorily
only--in them there was nothing
extraordinary. A group of more
interest appeared near the hearth,
sitting still amidst the rosy
peace and warmth suffusing it.
Two young, graceful women--ladies
in every point--sat, one in a
low rocking-chair, the other
on a lower stool; both wore deep
mourning of crape and bombazeen,
which sombre garb singularly
set off very fair necks and faces:
a large old pointer dog rested
its massive head on the knee
of one girl--in the lap of the
other was cushioned a black cat.
A strange place was this humble
kitchen for such occupants! Who
were they? They could not be
the daughters of the elderly
person at the table; for she
looked like a rustic, and they
were all delicacy and cultivation.
I had nowhere seen such faces
as theirs: and yet, as I gazed
on them, I seemed intimate with
every lineament. I cannot call
them handsome--they were too
pale and grave for the word:
as they each bent over a book,
they looked thoughtful almost
to severity. A stand between
them supported a second candle
and two great volumes, to which
they frequently referred, comparing
them, seemingly, with the smaller
books they held in their hands,
like people consulting a dictionary
to aid them in the task of translation.
This scene was as silent as if
all the figures had been shadows
and the firelit apartment a picture:
so hushed was it, I could hear
the cinders fall from the grate,
the clock tick in its obscure
corner; and I even fancied I
could distinguish the click-
click of the woman's knitting-needles.
When, therefore, a voice broke
the strange stillness at last,
it was audible enough to me.
"Listen, Diana," said one of
the absorbed students; "Franz
and old Daniel are together in
the night-time, and Franz is
telling a dream from which he
has awakened in terror--listen!" And
in a low voice she read something,
of which not one word was intelligible
to me; for it was in an unknown
tongue--neither French nor Latin.
Whether it were Greek or German
I could not tell.
"That is strong," she said,
when she had finished: "I relish
it." The other girl, who had
lifted her head to listen to
her sister, repeated, while she
gazed at the fire, a line of
what had been read. At a later
day, I knew the language and
the book; therefore, I will here
quote the line: though, when
I first heard it, it was only
like a stroke on sounding brass
to me--conveying no meaning:-
"'Da trat hervor Einer, anzusehen
wie die Sternen Nacht.' Good!
good!" she exclaimed, while her
dark and deep eye sparkled. "There
you have a dim and mighty archangel
fitly set before you! The line
is worth a hundred pages of fustian.
'Ich wage die Gedanken in der
Schale meines Zornes und die
Werke mit dem Gewichte meines
Grimms.' I like it!"
Both were again silent.
"Is there ony country where
they talk i' that way?" asked
the old woman, looking up from
her knitting.
"Yes,
Hannah--a far
larger country
than England,
where they
talk in no other way."
"Well,
for sure case,
I knawn't how
they can understand
t' one
t'other: and if either o' ye
went there, ye could tell what
they said, I guess?"
"We
could probably
tell something
of what they said, but not all--
for we are not as clever as you
think us, Hannah. We don't speak
German, and we cannot read it
without a dictionary to help
us."
"And
what good does
it do you?"
"We
mean to teach
it some time--or
at least the elements, as they
say; and then we shall get more
money than we do now."
"Varry
like: but give
ower studying;
ye've done
enough for
to- night."
"I
think we have:
at least I'm
tired. Mary,
are you?"
"Mortally:
after all,
it's tough
work fagging
away at a
language with no master but a
lexicon."
"It
is, especially
such a language
as this crabbed but glorious
Deutsch. I wonder when St. John
will come home."
"Surely
he will not
be long now:
it is just
ten (looking
at a little gold watch she drew
from her girdle). It rains fast,
Hannah: will you have the goodness
to look at the fire in the parlour?"
The woman rose: she opened
a door, through which I dimly
saw a passage: soon I heard her
stir a fire in an inner room;
she presently came back.
"Ah, childer!" said she, "it
fair troubles me to go into yond'
room now: it looks so lonesome
wi' the chair empty and set back
in a corner."
She wiped her eyes with her
apron: the two girls, grave before,
looked sad now.
"But he is in a better place," continued
Hannah: "we shouldn't wish him
here again. And then, nobody
need to have a quieter death
nor he had."
"You say he never mentioned
us?" inquired one of the ladies.
"He
hadn't time,
bairn: he was
gone in a minute,
was your
father. He had been a bit ailing
like the day before, but naught
to signify; and when Mr. St.
John asked if he would like either
o' ye to be sent for, he fair
laughed at him. He began again
with a bit of a heaviness in
his head the next day--that is,
a fortnight sin'--and he went
to sleep and niver wakened: he
wor a'most stark when your brother
went into t' chamber and fand
him. Ah, childer! that's t' last
o' t' old stock--for ye and Mr.
St. John is like of different
soart to them 'at's gone; for
all your mother wor mich i' your
way, and a'most as book-learned.
She wor the pictur' o' ye, Mary:
Diana is more like your father."
I thought them so similar I
could not tell where the old
servant (for such I now concluded
her to be) saw the difference.
Both were fair complexioned and
slenderly made; both possessed
faces full of distinction and
intelligence. One, to be sure,
had hair a shade darker than
the other, and there was a difference
in their style of wearing it;
Mary's pale brown locks were
parted and braided smooth: Diana's
duskier tresses covered her neck
with thick curls. The clock struck
ten.
"Ye'll want your supper, I
am sure," observed Hannah; "and
so will Mr. St. John when he
comes in."
And she proceeded to prepare
the meal. The ladies rose; they
seemed about to withdraw to the
parlour. Till this moment, I
had been so intent on watching
them, their appearance and conversation
had excited in me so keen an
interest, I had half-forgotten
my own wretched position: now
it recurred to me. More desolate,
more desperate than ever, it
seemed from contrast. And how
impossible did it appear to touch
the inmates of this house with
concern on my behalf; to make
them believe in the truth of
my wants and woes--to induce
them to vouchsafe a rest for
my wanderings! As I groped out
the door, and knocked at it hesitatingly,
I felt that last idea to be a
mere chimera. Hannah opened.
"What do you want?" she
inquired, in
a voice of
surprise, as
she
surveyed me by the light of the
candle she held.
"May I speak to your mistresses?" I
said.
"You
had better
tell me what
you have to say to them. Where
do you come from?"
"I
am a stranger."
"What
is your business
here at this
hour?"
"I
want a night's
shelter in
an out-house
or anywhere,
and
a morsel of bread to eat."
Distrust,
the very feeling
I dreaded, appeared in Hannah's
face. "I'll give you a piece
of bread," she said, after a
pause; "but we can't take in
a vagrant to lodge. It isn't
likely."
"Do
let me speak
to your mistresses."
"No,
not I. What
can they do
for you? You should not be roving
about now; it looks very ill."
"But
where shall
I go if you
drive me away? What shall I do?"
"Oh,
I'll warrant
you know where
to go and what
to do. Mind
you don't do wrong, that's all.
Here is a penny; now go--"
"A
penny cannot
feed me, and
I have no strength to go farther.
Don't shut the door:- oh, don't,
for God's sake!"
"I
must; the rain
is driving
in--"
"Tell
the young ladies.
Let me see
them- "
"Indeed,
I will not.
You are not
what you ought
to be, or
you wouldn't make such a noise.
Move off."
"But
I must die
if I am turned
away."
"Not you. I'm fear'd you have
some ill plans agate, that bring
you about folk's houses at this
time o' night. If you've any
followers- -housebreakers or
such like--anywhere near, you
may tell them we are not by ourselves
in the house; we have a gentleman,
and dogs, and guns." Here the
honest but inflexible servant
clapped the door to and bolted
it within.
This was the climax. A pang
of exquisite suffering--a throe
of true despair--rent and heaved
my heart. Worn out, indeed, I
was; not another step could I
stir. I sank on the wet doorstep:
I groaned-- I wrung my hands--I
wept in utter anguish. Oh, this
spectre of death! Oh, this last
hour, approaching in such horror!
Alas, this isolation--this banishment
from my kind! Not only the anchor
of hope, but the footing of fortitude
was gone--at least for a moment;
but the last I soon endeavoured
to regain.
"I can but die," I said, "and
I believe in God. Let me try
to wait His will in silence."
These words I not only thought,
but uttered; and thrusting back
all my misery into my heart,
I made an effort to compel it
to remain there--dumb and still.
"All men must die," said a
voice quite close at hand; "but
all are not condemned to meet
a lingering and premature doom,
such as yours would be if you
perished here of want."
"Who or what speaks?" I
asked, terrified
at the unexpected
sound,
and incapable now of deriving
from any occurrence a hope of
aid. A form was near--what form,
the pitch-dark night and my enfeebled
vision prevented me from distinguishing.
With a loud long knock, the new-comer
appealed to the door.
"Is it you, Mr. St. John?" cried
Hannah.
"Yes--yes;
open quickly."
"Well,
how wet and
cold you must
be, such a
wild night
as
it is! Come in--your sisters
are quite uneasy about you, and
I believe there are bad folks
about. There has been a beggar-woman--I
declare she is not gone yet!--laid
down there. Get up! for shame!
Move off, I say!"
"Hush,
Hannah! I have
a word to say
to the woman.
You have
done your duty in excluding,
now let me do mine in admitting
her. I was near, and listened
to both you and her. I think
this is a peculiar case--I must
at least examine into it. Young
woman, rise, and pass before
me into the house."
With difficulty I obeyed him.
Presently I stood within that
clean, bright kitchen--on the
very hearth--trembling, sickening;
conscious of an aspect in the
last degree ghastly, wild, and
weather-beaten. The two ladies,
their brother, Mr. St. John,
the old servant, were all gazing
at me.
"St. John, who is it?" I
heard one ask.
"I cannot tell: I found her
at the door," was the reply.
"She does look white," said
Hannah.
"As white as clay or death," was
responded. "She will fall: let
her sit."
And indeed my head swam: I
dropped, but a chair received
me. I still possessed my senses,
though just now I could not speak.
"Perhaps
a little water
would restore
her. Hannah,
fetch some.
But she is worn to nothing. How
very thin, and how very bloodless!"
"A
mere spectre!"
"Is
she ill, or
only famished?"
"Famished,
I think. Hannah,
is that milk? Give it me, and
a piece of bread."
Diana
(I knew her
by the long
curls which I saw drooping between
me and the fire as she bent over
me) broke some bread, dipped
it in milk, and put it to my
lips. Her face was near mine:
I saw there was pity in it, and
I felt sympathy in her hurried
breathing. In her simple words,
too, the same balm-like emotion
spoke: "Try to eat."
"Yes--try," repeated
Mary gently;
and Mary's hand removed my sodden
bonnet and lifted my head. I
tasted what they offered me:
feebly at first, eagerly soon.
"Not too much at first--restrain
her," said the brother; "she
has had enough." And he withdrew
the cup of milk and the plate
of bread.
"A
little more,
St. John--look
at the avidity in her eyes."
"No
more at present,
sister. Try
if she can
speak now--ask
her her name."
I
felt I could
speak, and
I answered--"My name is Jane Elliott." Anxious
as ever to avoid discovery, I
had before resolved to assume
an ALIAS.
"And
where do you
live? Where
are your friends?"
I was silent.
"Can
we send for
any one you
know?"
I shook my head.
"What
account can
you give of
yourself?"
Somehow, now that I had once
crossed the threshold of this
house, and once was brought face
to face with its owners, I felt
no longer outcast, vagrant, and
disowned by the wide world. I
dared to put off the mendicant--to
resume my natural manner and
character. I began once more
to know myself; and when Mr.
St. John demanded an account--which
at present I was far too weak
to render--I said after a brief
pause -
"Sir,
I can give
you no details
to-night."
"But what, then," said he, "do
you expect me to do for you?"
"Nothing," I
replied. My
strength sufficed
for but short
answers.
Diana took the word -
"Do you mean," she asked, "that
we have now given you what aid
you require? and that we may
dismiss you to the moor and the
rainy night?"
I
looked at her.
She had, I
thought, a
remarkable
countenance,
instinct both with power and
goodness. I took sudden courage.
Answering her compassionate gate
with a smile, I said--"I will
trust you. If I were a masterless
and stray dog, I know that you
would not turn me from your hearth
to-night: as it is, I really
have no fear. Do with me and
for me as you like; but excuse
me from much discourse--my breath
is short--I feel a spasm when
I speak." All three surveyed
me, and all three were silent.
"Hannah," said Mr. St. John,
at last, "let her sit there at
present, and ask her no questions;
in ten minutes more, give her
the remainder of that milk and
bread. Mary and Diana, let us
go into the parlour and talk
the matter over."
They withdrew. Very soon one
of the ladies returned--I could
not tell which. A kind of pleasant
stupor was stealing over me as
I sat by the genial fire. In
an undertone she gave some directions
to Hannah. Ere long, with the
servant's aid, I contrived to
mount a staircase; my dripping
clothes were removed; soon a
warm, dry bed received me. I
thanked God--experienced amidst
unutterable exhaustion a glow
of grateful joy--and slept.
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