Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte Deluxe Edition Chapter 28. 
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 hear
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 tonight."
"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 gaze 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.
Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte Deluxe Edition Chapter 29.>