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 heat of
the summer day. I looked at the sky; it was pure: a kindly star
twinkled just above the chasm ridge. The day fell, but with propitious
softness; no breeze whispered. Nature seemed to me benign and good;
I thought she loved me, outcast as I was; and I, who from man could
anticipate only mistrust, rejection, insult, clung to her with
filial fondness. To-night, at least, I would be her guest, as I was
her child: my mother would lodge me without money and without price. I
had one morsel of bread yet: the remnant of a roll I had bought in a
town we passed through at noon with a stray penny- my last coin. I saw
ripe bilberries gleaming here and there, like jet beads in the
heath: I gathered a handful and ate them with the bread. My hunger,
sharp before, was, if not satisfied, appeased by this hermit's meal. I
said my evening prayers at its conclusion, and then chose my couch.
Beside the crag the heath was very deep: when I lay down my feet
were buried in it; rising high on each side, it left only a narrow
space for the night-air to invade. I folded my shawl double, and
spread it over me for a coverlet; a low, mossy swell was my pillow.
Thus lodged, I was not, at least at the commencement of the night,
cold.
My rest might have been blissful enough, only a sad heart broke it.
It plained of its gaping wounds, its inward bleeding, its riven
chords. It trembled for Mr. Rochester and his doom; it bemoaned him
with bitter pity; it demanded him with ceaseless longing; and,
impotent as a bird with both wings broken, it still quivered its
shattered pinions in vain attempts to seek him.
Worn out with this torture of thought, I rose to my knees. Night
was come, and her planets were risen: a safe, still night: too
serene for the companionship of fear. We know that God is
everywhere; but certainly we feel His presence most when His works are
on the grandest scale spread before us; and it is in the unclouded
night-sky, where His worlds wheel their silent course, that we read
clearest His infinitude, His omnipotence, His omnipresence. I had
risen to my knees to pray for Mr. Rochester. Looking up, I, with
tear-dimmed eyes, saw the mighty Milky-way. Remembering what it was-
what countless systems there swept space like a soft trace of light- I
felt the might and strength of God. Sure was I of His efficiency to
save what He had made: convinced I grew that neither earth should
perish, nor one of the souls it treasured. I turned my prayer to
thanksgiving: the Source of Life was also the Saviour of spirits.
Mr. Rochester was safe: he was God's, and by God would he be
guarded. I again nestled to the breast of the hill; and ere long in
sleep forgot sorrow.
But next day, Want came to me pale and bare. Long after the
little birds had left their nests; long after bees had come in the
sweet prime of day to gather the heath honey before the dew was dried-
when the long morning shadows were curtailed, and the sun filled earth
and sky- I got up, and I looked round me.
What a still, hot, perfect day! What a golden desert this spreading
moor! Everywhere sunshine. I wished I could live in it and on it. I
saw a lizard run over the crag; I saw a bee busy among the sweet
bilberries. I would fain at the moment have become bee or lizard, that
I might have found fitting nutriment, permanent shelter here. But I
was a human being, and had a human being's wants: I must not linger
where there was nothing to supply them. I rose; I looked back at the
bed I had left. Hopeless of the future, I wished but this- that my
Maker had that night thought good to require my soul of me while I
slept; and that this weary frame, absolved by death from further
conflict with fate, had now but to decay quietly, and mingle in
peace with the soil of this wilderness. Life, however, was yet in my
possession, with all its requirements, and pains, and
responsibilities. The burden must be carried; the want provided for;
the suffering endured; the responsibility fulfilled. I set out.
Whitcross regained, I followed a road which led from the sun, now
fervent and high. By no other circumstance had I will to decide my
choice. I walked a long time, and when I thought I had nearly done
enough, and might conscientiously yield to the fatigue that almost
overpowered me- might relax this forced action, and, sitting down on a
stone I saw near, submit resistlessly to the apathy that clogged heart
and limb- I heard a bell chime- a church bell.
I turned in the direction of the sound, and there, amongst the
romantic hills, whose changes and aspect I had ceased to note an
hour ago, I saw a hamlet and a spire. All the valley at my right
hand was full of pasture-fields, and cornfields, and wood; and a
glittering stream ran zigzag 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
