chapter xxviii two days are passed. it is a summer evening; the coachman hasset me down at a place called whitcross; he could take me no farther for the sum i hadgiven, and i was not possessed of another shilling in the world. the coach is a mile off by this time; i amalone. at this moment i discover that i forgot totake 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; itis but a stone pillar set up where four roads meet: whitewashed, i suppose, to bemore obvious at a distance and in darkness. four arms spring from its summit: thenearest town to which these point is, according to the inscription, distant tenmiles; the farthest, above twenty. from the well-known names of these towns ilearn 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 eachhand of me; there are waves of mountains far beyond that deep valley at my feet. the population here must be thin, and i seeno 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 wildto their very verge. yet a chance traveller might pass by; and iwish no eye to see me now: strangers would wonder what i am doing, lingering here atthe sign-post, evidently objectless and lost. i might be questioned: i could give noanswer but what would sound incredible and excite suspicion. not a tie holds me to human society at thismoment--not a charm or hope calls me where my fellow-creatures are--none that saw mewould have a kind thought or a good wish
for me. i have no relative but the universalmother, nature: i will seek her breast and ask repose. i struck straight into the heath; i held onto a hollow i saw deeply furrowing the brown moorside; i waded knee-deep in itsdark growth; i turned with its turnings, and finding a moss-blackened granite cragin a hidden angle, i sat down under it. high banks of moor were about me; the cragprotected my head: the sky was over that. some time passed before i felt tranquileven here: i had a vague dread that wild cattle might be near, or that somesportsman or poacher might discover me.
if a gust of wind swept the waste, i lookedup, 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 atnightfall, i took confidence. as yet i had not thought; i had onlylistened, watched, dreaded; now i regained the faculty of reflection.what was i to do? where to go? oh, intolerable questions, when i could donothing and go nowhere!--when a long way must yet be measured by my weary, tremblinglimbs 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 talecould be listened to, or one of my wants relieved! i touched the heath: it was dry, and yetwarm with the heat of the summer day. i looked at the sky; it was pure: a kindlystar twinkled just above the chasm ridge. the dew fell, but with propitious softness;no breeze whispered. nature seemed to me benign and good; ithought she loved me, outcast as i was; and i, who from man could anticipate onlymistrust, 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 remnantof a roll i had bought in a town we passed through at noon with a stray penny--my lastcoin. i saw ripe bilberries gleaming here andthere, like jet beads in the heath: i gathered a handful and ate them with thebread. my hunger, sharp before, was, if notsatisfied, appeased by this hermit's meal. i said my evening prayers at itsconclusion, and then chose my couch.
{i said my evening prayers: p311.jpg} 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 anarrow space for the night-air to invade. i folded my shawl double, and spread itover 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 inwardbleeding, 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 invain attempts to seek him. worn out with this torture of thought, irose 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; butcertainly we feel his presence most when his works are on the grandest scale spreadbefore us; and it is in the unclouded night-sky, where his worlds wheel their silent course, that we read clearest hisinfinitude, his omnipotence, his
omnipresence.i had risen to my knees to pray for mr. rochester. looking up, i, with tear-dimmed eyes, sawthe mighty milky- way. remembering what it was--what countlesssystems there swept space like a soft trace of light--i felt the might and strength ofgod. sure was i of his efficiency to save whathe had made: convinced i grew that neither earth should perish, nor one of the soulsit treasured. i turned my prayer to thanksgiving: thesource 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 andbare. long after the little birds had left theirnests; long after bees had come in the sweet prime of day to gather the heathhoney before the dew was dried--when the long morning shadows were curtailed, and the sun filled earth and sky--i got up, andi 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 beeor lizard, that i might have found fitting nutriment, permanent shelter here. but i was a human being, and had a humanbeing'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; andthat this weary frame, absolved by death
from further conflict with fate, had now but to decay quietly, and mingle in peacewith 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 wantprovided for; the suffering endured; the responsibility fulfilled.i set out. whitcross regained, i followed a road whichled from the sun, now fervent and high. by no other circumstance had i will todecide my choice. i walked a long time, and when i thought ihad nearly done enough, and might
conscientiously yield to the fatigue thatalmost overpowered me--might relax this forced action, and, sitting down on a stone i saw near, submit resistlessly to theapathy that clogged heart and limb--i heard a bell chime--a church bell. i turned in the direction of the sound, andthere, amongst the romantic hills, whose changes and aspect i had ceased to note anhour ago, i saw a hamlet and a spire. all the valley at my right hand was full ofpasture- fields, and cornfields, and wood; and a glittering stream ran zig-zag throughthe varied shades of green, the mellowing grain, the sombre woodland, the clear andsunny lea.
recalled by the rumbling of wheels to theroad before me, i saw a heavily-laden waggon labouring up the hill, and not farbeyond were two cows and their drover. human life and human labour were near. i must struggle on: strive to live and bendto toil like the rest. about two o'clock p.m.i entered the village. at the bottom of its one street there was alittle shop with some cakes of bread in the window.i coveted a cake of bread. with that refreshment i could perhapsregain a degree of energy: without it, it would be difficult to proceed.
the wish to have some strength and somevigour 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 inexchange 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 inextremities of destitution proceeded. i did not know whether either of thesearticles 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 withcivility. how could she serve me? i was seized with shame: my tongue wouldnot 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 amoment, as i was tired. disappointed in the expectation of acustomer, she coolly acceded to my request. she pointed to a seat; i sank into it.
i felt sorely urged to weep; but conscioushow unseasonable such a manifestation would be, i restrained it. soon i asked her "if there were anydressmaker 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 theneighbourhood 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 dealworked 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 tothe left; but i could discover no pretext, nor see an inducement to enter any. i rambled round the hamlet, going sometimesto a little distance and returning again, for an hour or more. much exhausted, and suffering greatly nowfor want of food, i turned aside into a
lane and sat down under the hedge. ere many minutes had elapsed, i was againon my feet, however, and again searching something--a resource, or at least aninformant. a pretty little house stood at the top ofthe lane, with a garden before it, exquisitely neat and brilliantly blooming.i stopped at it. what business had i to approach the whitedoor or touch the glittering knocker? in what way could it possibly be theinterest 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 ahopeless heart and fainting frame--a voice wretchedly low and faltering--i asked if aservant was wanted here? "no," said she; "we do not keep a servant." "can you tell me where i could getemployment 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, inher eyes, how doubtful must have appeared
my character, position, tale. she shook her head, she "was sorry shecould give me no information," and the white door closed, quite gently andcivilly: but it shut me out. if she had held it open a little longer, ibelieve i should have begged a piece of bread; for i was now brought low. i could not bear to return to the sordidvillage, where, besides, no prospect of aid was visible. i should have longed rather to deviate to awood 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 offood. solitude would be no solitude--rest norest--while the vulture, hunger, thus sank beak and talons in my side. i drew near houses; i left them, and cameback again, and again i wandered away: always repelled by the consciousness ofhaving no claim to ask--no right to expect interest in my isolated lot. meantime, the afternoon advanced, while ithus 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 agarden, stood a well-built though small house, which i had no doubt was theparsonage. i remembered that strangers who arrive at aplace where they have no friends, and who want employment, sometimes apply to theclergyman for introduction and aid. it is the clergyman's function to help--atleast 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 myfeeble remains of strength, i pushed on.
i reached the house, and knocked at thekitchen-door. an old woman opened: i asked was this theparsonage? "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 deathof his father: he was at marsh end now, and would very likely stay there a fortnightlonger." "was there any lady of the house?"
"nay, there was naught but her, and she washousekeeper;" and of her, reader, i could not bear to ask the relief for want ofwhich i was sinking; i could not yet beg; and again i crawled away. once more i took off my handkerchief--oncemore 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 thevillage; i found the shop again, and i went in; and though others were there besidesthe 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 thehandkerchief?" she said. "would she take my gloves?""no! what could she do with them?" reader, it is not pleasant to dwell onthese details. some say there is enjoyment in looking backto painful experience past; but at this day i can scarcely bear to review the times towhich i allude: the moral degradation, blent with the physical suffering, form too distressing a recollection ever to bewillingly dwelt on.
i blamed none of those who repulsed me. i felt it was what was to be expected, andwhat could not be helped: an ordinary beggar is frequently an object ofsuspicion; 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 methen for the first time, and who knew nothing about my character. and as to the woman who would not take myhandkerchief in exchange for her bread,
why, she was right, if the offer appearedto 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 andcheese. i stopped and said-- "will you give me a piece of bread? for iam very hungry." he cast on me a glance of surprise; butwithout 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 aroof, 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 ortranquillity befriended me. towards morning it rained; the whole of thefollowing day was wet.
do not ask me, reader, to give a minuteaccount 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 littlegirl about to throw a mess of cold porridge into a pig trough."will you give me that?" i asked. {"will you give me that?"i asked: p316.jpg} she stared at me."mother!" she exclaimed, "there is a woman wants me to give her these porridge." "well lass," replied a voice within, "giveit 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 ina 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 myhead on the cold, drenched ground? i fear i cannot do otherwise: for who willreceive me? but it will be very dreadful, with thisfeeling of hunger, faintness, chill, and
this sense of desolation--this totalprostration of hope. in all likelihood, though, i should diebefore morning. and why cannot i reconcile myself to theprospect of death? why do i struggle to retain a valuelesslife? because i know, or believe, mr. rochesteris living: and then, to die of want and cold is a fate to which nature cannotsubmit 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 haddisappeared. i had, by cross-ways and by- paths, oncemore drawn near the tract of moorland; and now, only a few fields, almost as wild andunproductive as the heath from which they were scarcely reclaimed, lay between me andthe dusky hill. "well, i would rather die yonder than in astreet or on a frequented road," i reflected. "and far better that crows and ravens--ifany ravens there be in these regions-- should pick my flesh from my bones, thanthat 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 wherei could lie down, and feel at least hidden, if not secure. but all the surface of the waste lookedlevel. 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 seethese changes, though but as mere alternations of light and shade; for colourhad faded with the daylight.
my eye still roved over the sullen swelland 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 firstthought; 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 thenconjectured; "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 itshut in my face." and i sank down where i stood, and hid myface against the ground. i lay still a while: the night-wind sweptover 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 stillfrost--the friendly numbness of death--it might have pelted on; i should not havefelt 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 awide bog, which would have been impassable in winter, and was splashy and shaking evennow, in the height of summer. here i fell twice; but as often i rose andrallied my faculties. this light was my forlorn hope: i must gainit. having crossed the marsh, i saw a trace ofwhite 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 clumpof trees--firs, apparently, from what i could distinguish of the character of theirforms and foliage through the gloom. my star vanished as i drew near: someobstacle had intervened between me and it. i put out my hand to feel the dark massbefore me: i discriminated the rough stones of a low wall--above it, something likepalisades, 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 itshinges as i touched it.
on each side stood a sable bush-holly oryew. entering the gate and passing the shrubs,the silhouette of a house rose to view, black, low, and rather long; but theguiding 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 smalllatticed window, within a foot of the ground, made still smaller by the growth of ivy or some other creeping plant, whoseleaves 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 andput aside the spray of foliage shooting over it, i could see all within. i could see clearly a room with a sandedfloor, 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, butscrupulously clean, like all about her, was knitting a stocking. i noticed these objects cursorily only--inthem there was nothing extraordinary. a group of more interest appeared near thehearth, sitting still amidst the rosy peace and warmth suffusing it. two young, graceful women--ladies in everypoint--sat, one in a low rocking-chair, the other on a lower stool; both wore deepmourning of crape and bombazeen, which sombre garb singularly set off very fair necks and faces: a large old pointer dogrested its massive head on the knee of one
girl--in the lap of the other was cushioneda black cat. a strange place was this humble kitchen forsuch occupants! who were they? they could not be the daughters of theelderly person at the table; for she looked like a rustic, and they were all delicacyand 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 toopale and grave for the word: as they each bent over a book, they looked thoughtfulalmost to severity.
a stand between them supported a secondcandle 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 oftranslation. this scene was as silent as if all thefigures had been shadows and the firelit apartment a picture: so hushed was it, icould 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 strangestillness at last, it was audible enough to
me. "listen, diana," said one of the absorbedstudents; "franz and old daniel are together in the night-time, and franz istelling a dream from which he has awakened in terror--listen!" and in a low voice she read something, ofwhich not one word was intelligible to me; for it was in an unknown tongue--neitherfrench nor latin. whether it were greek or german i could nottell. "that is strong," she said, when she hadfinished: "i relish it." the other girl, who had lifted her head tolisten to her sister, repeated, while she
gazed at the fire, a line of what had beenread. at a later day, i knew the language and thebook; therefore, i will here quote the line: though, when i first heard it, it wasonly like a stroke on sounding brass to me- -conveying no meaning:-- "'da trat hervor einer, anzusehen wie diesternen nacht.' good! good!" she exclaimed, while her darkand deep eye sparkled. "there you have a dim and mighty archangelfitly set before you! the line is worth a hundred pages offustian. 'ich wage die gedanken in der schale meineszornes 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 theycan understand t' one t'other: and if either o' ye went there, ye could tell whatthey said, i guess?" "we could probably tell something of whatthey 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 weshall get more money than we do now." "varry like: but give ower studying; ye'vedone enough for to-night." "i think we have: at least i'm tired.mary, are you?" "mortally: after all, it's tough workfagging 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 shedrew from her girdle). it rains fast, hannah: will you have thegoodness to look at the fire in the parlour?" the woman rose: she opened a door, throughwhich i dimly saw a passage: soon i heard her stir a fire in an inner room; shepresently came back. "ah, childer!" said she, "it fair troublesme to go into yond' room now: it looks so lonesome wi' the chair empty and set backin a corner." she wiped her eyes with her apron: the twogirls, grave before, looked sad now. "but he is in a better place," continuedhannah: "we shouldn't wish him here again.
and then, nobody need to have a quieterdeath nor he had." "you say he never mentioned us?" inquiredone of the ladies. "he hadn't time, bairn: he was gone in aminute, was your father. he had been a bit ailing like the daybefore, 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 inhis head the next day--that is, a fortnight sin'--and he went to sleep and niverwakened: he wor a'most stark when your brother went into t' chamber and fand him. ah, childer! that's t' last o' t' oldstock--for ye and mr. st. john is like of
different soart to them 'at's gone; for allyour mother wor mich i' your way, and a'most as book-learned. she wor the pictur' o' ye, mary: diana ismore like your father." i thought them so similar i could not tellwhere the old servant (for such i now concluded her to be) saw the difference. both were fair complexioned and slenderlymade; both possessed faces full of distinction and intelligence. one, to be sure, had hair a shade darkerthan the other, and there was a difference in their style of wearing it; mary's palebrown locks were parted and braided smooth:
diana's duskier tresses covered her neckwith 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 towithdraw to the parlour. till this moment, i had been so intent onwatching them, their appearance and conversation had excited in me so keen aninterest, i had half-forgotten my own wretched position: now it recurred to me. more desolate, more desperate than ever, itseemed from contrast.
and how impossible did it appear to touchthe inmates of this house with concern on my behalf; to make them believe in thetruth of my wants and woes--to induce them to vouchsafe a rest for my wanderings! as i groped out the door, and knocked at ithesitatingly, i felt that last idea to be a mere chimera.hannah opened. "what do you want?" she inquired, in avoice 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 tosay 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-houseor 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; itlooks 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 nostrength to go farther. don't shut the door:--oh, don't, for god'ssake!" "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 orsuch like--anywhere near, you may tell them we are not by ourselves in the house; wehave a gentleman, and dogs, and guns." here the honest but inflexible servantclapped 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 stepcould i stir. i sank on the wet doorstep: i groaned--iwrung my hands--i wept in utter anguish. oh, this spectre of death! oh, this last hour, approaching in suchhorror! alas, this isolation--this banishment frommy kind! not only the anchor of hope, but thefooting of fortitude was gone--at least for a moment; but the last i soon endeavouredto regain. "i can but die," i said, "and i believe ingod.
let me try to wait his will in silence." these words i not only thought, bututtered; and thrusting back all my misery into my heart, i made an effort to compelit to remain there--dumb and still. "all men must die," said a voice quiteclose 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 anyoccurrence a hope of aid. a form was near--what form, the pitch-darknight 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 awild night as it is! come in--your sisters are quite uneasyabout 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, nowlet me do mine in admitting her. i was near, and listened to both you andher. i think this is a peculiar case--i must atleast examine into it. young woman, rise, and pass before me intothe house." {hush, hannah; i have a word to say to thewoman: p323.jpg} with difficulty i obeyed him. presently i stood within that clean, brightkitchen--on the very hearth--trembling, sickening; conscious of an aspect in thelast 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 achair received me. i still possessed my senses, though justnow 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 isaw drooping between me and the fire as she bent over me) broke some bread, dipped itin milk, and put it to my lips. her face was near mine: i saw there waspity 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; andmary'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," saidthe brother; "she has had enough." and he withdrew the cup of milk and theplate of bread. "a little more, st. john--look at theavidity 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--"myname is jane elliott." anxious as ever to avoid discovery, i hadbefore 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 thethreshold of this house, and once was brought face to face with its owners, ifelt no longer outcast, vagrant, and disowned by the wide world.
i dared to put off the mendicant--to resumemy natural manner and character. i began once more to know myself; and whenmr. st. john demanded an account--which at present i was far too weak to render--isaid after a brief pause-- "sir, i can give you no details to-night." "but what, then," said he, "do you expectme 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 nowgiven you what aid you require? and that we may dismiss you to the moor and the rainynight?"
i looked at her. she had, i thought, a remarkablecountenance, instinct both with power and goodness.i took sudden courage. answering her compassionate gaze with asmile, i said--"i will trust you. if i were a masterless and stray dog, iknow that you would not turn me from your hearth to-night: as it is, i really have nofear. do with me and for me as you like; butexcuse 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, "lether sit there at present, and ask her no questions; in ten minutes more, give herthe remainder of that milk and bread. mary and diana, let us go into the parlourand 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 overme as i sat by the genial fire. in an undertone she gave some directions tohannah. ere long, with the servant's aid, icontrived to mount a staircase; my dripping clothes were removed; soon a warm, dry bedreceived me.
i thanked god--experienced amidstunutterable exhaustion a glow of grateful joy--and slept.