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 newcomer
appealed to the door.
'Is it you, Mr. St. John?' cried Hannah.
'Yes- yes; open quickly.'
'Well, how wet and cold you must be, such a wild night as it is!
Come in- your sisters are quite uneasy about you, and I believe
there are bad folks about. There has been a beggar-woman- I declare
she is not gone yet!- laid down there. Get up! for shame! Move off,
I say!'
'Hush, Hannah! I have a word to say to the woman. You have done
your duty in excluding, now let me do mine in admitting her. I was
near, and listened to both you and her. I think this is a peculiar
case- I must at least examine into it. Young woman, rise, and pass
before me into the house.'
With difficulty I obeyed him. Presently I stood within that
clean, bright kitchen- on the very hearth- trembling, sickening;
conscious of an aspect in the last degree ghastly, wild, and
weather-beaten. The two ladies, their brother, Mr. St. John, the old
servant, were all gazing at me.
'St. John, who is it?' I heard one ask.
'I cannot tell: I found her at the door,' was the reply.
'She does look white,' said Hannah.
'As white as clay or death,' was responded. 'She will fall: let her
sit.'
And indeed my head swam: I dropped, but a chair received me. I
still possessed my senses, though just now I could not speak.
'Perhaps a little water would restore her. Hannah, fetch some.
But she is worn to nothing. How very thin, and how very bloodless!'
'A mere spectre!'
'Is she ill, or only famished?'
'Famished, I think. Hannah, is that milk? Give it me, and a piece
of bread.'
Diana (I knew her by the long curls which I saw drooping between me
and the fire as she bent over me) broke some bread, dipped it in milk,
and put it to my lips. Her face was near mine: I saw there was pity in
it, and I felt sympathy in her hurried breathing. In her simple words,
too, the same balm-like emotion spoke: 'Try to eat.'
'Yes- try,' repeated Mary gently; and Mary's hand removed my sodden
bonnet and lifted my head. I tasted what they offered me: feebly at
first, eagerly soon.
'Not too much at first- restrain her,' said the brother; 'she has
had enough.' And he withdrew the cup of milk and the plate of bread.
'A little more, St. John- look at the avidity in her eyes.'
'No more at present, sister. Try if she can speak now- ask her
her name.'
I felt I could speak, and I answered- 'My name is Jane Elliott.'
Anxious as ever to avoid discovery, I had before resolved to assume an
alias.
'And where do you live? Where are your friends?'
I was silent.
'Can we send for any one you know?'
I shook my head.
'What account can you give of yourself?'
Somehow, now that I had once crossed the threshold of this house,
and once was brought face to face with its owners, I felt no longer
outcast, vagrant, and disowned by the wide world. I dared to put off
the mendicant- to resume my natural manner and character. I began once
more to know myself; and when Mr. St. John demanded an account-
which at present I was far too weak to render- I said after a brief
pause-
'Sir, I can give you no details to-night.'
'But what, then,' said he, 'do you expect me to do for you?'
'Nothing,' I replied. My strength sufficed for but short answers.
Diana took the word-
'Do you mean,' she asked, 'that we have now given you what aid
you require? and that we may dismiss you to the moor and the rainy
night?'
I looked at her. She had, I thought, a remarkable countenance,
instinct both with power and goodness. I took sudden courage.
Answering her compassionate 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.
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CHAPTER XXIX
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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
