“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 wäge 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.”
Hush, Hannah; I have a word to say to the woman
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 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.
CHAPTER XXIX
The recollection of about three days and nights succeeding this is very dim in my mind.I can recall some sensations felt in that interval; but few thoughts framed,and no actions performed. I knew I was in a small room and in a narrow bed.To that bed I seemed to have grown; I lay on it motionless as a stone;and to have torn me from it would have been almost to kill me.I took no note of the lapse of time—of the change from morning to noon, from noon to evening.I observed when any one entered or left the apartment: I could even tell who they were;I could understand what was said when the speaker stood near to me; but I could not answer;to open my lips or move my limbs was equally impossible. Hannah, the servant,was my most frequent visitor. Her coming disturbed me. I had a feeling that she wished me away:that she did not understand me or my circumstances; that she was prejudiced against me.Diana and Mary appeared in the chamber once or twice a day.They would whisper sentences of this sort at my bedside—
“It is very well we took her in.”
“Yes; she would certainly have been found dead at the door in the morning had she been left out all night. I wonder what she has gone through?”
“Strange hardships, I imagine—poor, emaciated, pallid wanderer!”
“She is not an uneducated person, I should think, by her manner of speaking;her accent was quite pure; and the clothes she took off, though splashed and wet, were little worn and fine.”
“She has a peculiar face; fleshless and haggard as it is, I rather like it;and when in good health and animated, I can fancy her physiognomy would be agreeable.”
Never once in their dialogues did I hear a syllable of regret at the hospitality they had extended to me,or of suspicion of, or aversion to, myself. I was comforted.
Mr. St. John came but once: he looked at me,and said my state of lethargy was the result of reaction from excessive and protracted fatigue.He pronounced it needless to send for a doctor: nature, he was sure, would manage best,left to herself. He said every nerve had been overstrained in some way,and the whole system must sleep torpid a while. There was no disease.He imagined my recovery would be rapid enough when once commenced.These opinions he delivered in a few words, in a quiet, low voice; and added, after a pause,in the tone of a man little accustomed to expansive comment, “Rather an unusual physiognomy;certainly, not indicative of vulgarity or degradation.”
“Far otherwise,” responded Diana. “To speak truth, St. John,my heart rather warms to the poor little soul. I wish we may be able to benefit her permanently.”
“That is hardly likely,” was the reply. “You will find she is some young lady who has had a misunderstanding with her friends,and has probably injudiciously left them. We may, perhaps, succeed in restoring her to them,if she is not obstinate: but I trace lines of force in her face which make me sceptical of her tractability.” He stood considering me some minutes; then added, “She looks sensible, but not at all handsome.”
“She is so ill, St. John.”
“Ill or well, she would always be plain.The grace and harmony of beauty are quite wanting in those features.”
On the third day I was better; on the fourth, I could speak, move, rise in bed, and turn.Hannah had brought me some gruel and dry toast, about, as I supposed, the dinner-hour.I had eaten with relish: the food was good—void of the feverish flavour which had hitherto poisoned what I had swallowed.When she left me, I felt comparatively strong and revived:ere long satiety of repose and desire for action stirred me. I wished to rise; but what could I put on?Only my damp and bemired apparel; in which I had slept on the ground and fallen in the marsh.I felt ashamed to appear before my benefactors so clad. I was spared the humiliation.
On a chair by the bedside were all my own things, clean and dry.My black silk frock hung against the wall. The traces of the bog were removed from it;the creases left by the wet smoothed out: it was quite decent.My very shoes and stockings were purified and rendered presentable.There were the means of washing in the room, and a comb and brush to smooth my hair.After a weary process, and resting every five minutes, I succeeded in dressing myself.My clothes hung loose on me; for I was much wasted, but I covered deficiencies with a shawl,and once more, clean and respectable looking—no speck of the dirt,no trace of the disorder I so hated, and which seemed so to degrade me,left—I crept down a stone staircase with the aid of the banisters, to a narrow low passage,and found my way presently to the kitchen.
It was full of the fragrance of new bread and the warmth of a generous fire. Hannah was baking.Prejudices, it is well known, are most difficult to eradicate from the heart whose soil has never been loosened or fertilised by education:they grow there, firm as weeds among stones. Hannah had been cold and stiff, indeed, at the first:latterly she had begun to relent a little; and when she saw me come in tidy and well-dressed, she even smiled.
“What, you have got up!” she said. “You are better, then. You may sit you down in my chair on the hearthstone, if you will. ”
She pointed to the rocking-chair: I took it. She bustled about,examining me every now and then with the corner of her eye. Turning to me,as she took some loaves from the oven, she asked bluntly—
“Did you ever go a-begging afore you came here?”
I was indignant for a moment; but remembering that anger was out of the question,and that I had indeed appeared as a beggar to her, I answered quietly,but still not without a certain marked firmness—
“You are mistaken in supposing me a beggar. I am no beggar;any more than yourself or your young ladies.”
After a pause she said, “I dunnut understand that: you’ve like no house, nor no brass, I guess?”
“The want of house or brass (by which I suppose you mean money) does not make a beggar in your sense of the word. ”
“Are you book-learned?” she inquired presently.
“Yes, very.”
“But you’ve never been to a boarding-school?”
“I was at a boarding-school eight years.”
She opened her eyes wide. “Whatever cannot ye keep yourself for, then?”
“I have kept myself; and, I trust, shall keep myself again.What are you going to do with these gooseberries?” I inquired, as she brought out a basket of the fruit.
“Mak’ ’em into pies.”
“Give them to me and I’ll pick them.”
“Nay; I dunnut want ye to do nought.”
“But I must do something. Let me have them.”
She consented; and she even brought me a clean towel to spread over my dress, “lest,” as she said, “I should mucky it.”
“Ye’ve not been used to sarvant’s wark, I see by your hands,” she remarked. “Happen ye’ve been a dressmaker?”
“No, you are wrong. And now, never mind what I have been: don’t trouble your head further about me;but tell me the name of the house where we are.”
“Some calls it Marsh End, and some calls it Moor House.”
“And the gentleman who lives here is called Mr. St. John?”
“Nay; he doesn’t live here: he is only staying a while. When he is at home, he is in his own parish at Morton.”
“That village a few miles off?
“Aye.”
“And what is he?”
“He is a parson.”
I remembered the answer of the old housekeeper at the parsonage,when I had asked to see the clergyman. “This, then, was his father’s residence?”
“Aye; old Mr. Rivers lived here, and his father, and grandfather,and gurt (great) grandfather afore him.”
“The name, then, of that gentleman, is Mr. St. John Rivers?”
“Aye; St. John is like his kirstened name.”
“And his sisters are called Diana and Mary Rivers?”
“Yes.”
“Their father is dead?”
“Dead three weeks sin’ of a stroke.”
“They have no mother?”
“The mistress has been dead this mony a year.”
“Have you lived with the family long?”
“I’ve lived here thirty year. I nursed them all three.”
“That proves you must have been an honest and faithful servant. I will say so much for you,though you have had the incivility to call me a beggar.”
She again regarded me with a surprised stare. “I believe,” she said,“I was quite mista’en in my thoughts of you: but there is so mony cheats goes about, you mun forgie me.”
“And though,” I continued, rather severely, “you wished to turn me from the door,on a night when you should not have shut out a dog.”
“Well, it was hard: but what can a body do?I thought more o’ th’ childer nor of mysel: poor things!They’ve like nobody to tak’ care on’em but me. I’m like to look sharpish.”
I maintained a grave silence for some minutes.
“You munnut think too hardly of me,” she again remarked.
“But I do think hardly of you,” I said; “and I’ll tell you why—not so much because you refused to give me shelter,or regarded me as an impostor, as because you just now made it a species of reproach that I had no ‘brass’ and no house.Some of the best people that ever lived have been as destitute as I am; and if you are a Christian,you ought not to consider poverty a crime.”
“No more I ought,” said she: “Mr. St. John tells me so too;and I see I wor wrang—but I’ve clear a different notion on you now to what I had.You look a raight down dacent little crater.”
“That will do—I forgive you now. Shake hands.”
She put her floury and horny hand into mine; another and heartier smile illumined her rough face, and from that moment we were friends.
Hannah was evidently fond of talking. While I picked the fruit, and she made the paste for the pies,she proceeded to give me sundry details about her deceased master and mistress, and “the childer, ” as she called the young people.