Two days later on a summer evening, a coachman 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. Once I had alighted, the coach carried on and I was alone. I quickly discovered that I had forgotten to take my parcel out of the pocket of the coach, where I had placed it for safety and now I was absolutely destitute.
Whitcross was no town, nor even a hamlet, but a stone pillar set up where four roads met. Four arms sprung from its summit displaying the directions of towns and from the well-known names of these towns, I learnt in what county I had lighted. There were great moors behind and on each hand of me; waves of mountains and deep valleys. The population there must have been thin and I saw no passengers on those roads.
I began striding straight into the heath, wading knee-deep in its dark growth. What was I to do? Where to go? Oh, intolerable questions, when I could do nothing and go nowhere! A long way must yet be measured by my weary, trembling limbs before I could reach human habitation and beg for charity.
Night fell and I stopped beside a crag to sleep beneath the stars. My hunger was sharp and I tried to satisfy it with some nearby berries but they did little to alleviate the ache. 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 and it bemoaned him with bitter pity.
The next day, I lay still for a long time before finally rousing myself. I felt safe in the tranquil quiet of this moor and almost did not want to return to Whitcross, but having regained it, 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 yield to the fatigue that almost overpowered me I heard a bell chime, a church bell.
I turned in the direction of the sound, and there, amongst the romantic hills, I saw a hamlet and a spire. 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, 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 and 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? No.
I was so sick, so weak, and so gnawed with nature’s cravings that instinct kept me roaming around abodes where there was a chance of food all afternoon. I drew near houses, left them and then came back again, before wandering away. In crossing a field, I saw the church spire before me again and I hastened towards it. Near the churchyard, in the middle of a garden, stood a well-built though small house, which I had no doubt was the parsonage. 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 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.
“Yes?”
“Is the clergyman in?”
“No, he is gone from home.”
“To a distance?”
“Not so far—three miles. He has been called away by the sudden death of his father and he is at Marsh End now, and will very likely stay there a fortnight longer.”
“Is there any lady of the house?”
“Nay, naught but me and I am the housekeeper.”
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.
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 so sought it in a nearby wood. But my night was wretched and damp and no sense of safety or tranquillity befriended me. Towards morning it rained and the whole of the following day was wet. Do not ask me, Reader, to give a minute account of that day for as before, I sought work and as before, I was repulsed. 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 this 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 was leaving me and I felt weaker than ever before.
My glazed eye wandered over the dim and misty landscape before me and I saw I had strayed far from the village since it was quite out of sight. I had, by cross-ways and by-paths, once more drawn near the tract of moorland and now only a few fields lay between me and the dusky hill.
I sank down where I stood and hid my face against the ground, exhaustion overtaking me. I lay still a while and the night-wind swept over the hill and over me, before dying in a moan. The rain fell fast again, 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 and I should not have felt it, but my yet living flesh shuddered at its chilling influence. I rose ere long.
Then I saw a light, shining dim but constant through the rain. At first I mistrusted it and thought I dreamt, but it blazed on. I tried to walk again and began dragging my exhausted limbs slowly towards it. It led me aslant over the hill, through a wide bog and I fell twice, but as often I rose and rallied my faculties. This light was my forlorn hope and I must gain it.
The silhouette of a house rose to view; black, low, and rather long. In seeking the door, I turned an angle and approached a very small latticed window instead. Looking in, I saw a group near the hearth, sitting still amidst the rosy peace and warmth suffusing it. Two young, graceful women— ladies in every point—sat wearing 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 and 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.
“Listen, Diana,” said one, consulting one of the books before them. “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 a strange language that I later learnt was German. “That is strong,” she said, when she had finished. “I relish it.”
“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.”
“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 and then we shall get more money than we do now.”
“Varry like: but give ower studying; ye’ve done enough for tonight.”
“I think we have,” replied Diana. “At least I’m tired. Mary, are you?”
“Mortally. I wonder when St. John will come home.”
“Surely he will not be long now, it is just ten. But it rains fast, Hannah, will you have the goodness to look at the fire in the parlour?”
The old woman rose and she opened a door, through which I dimly saw a passage. Soon I heard her stir a fire in an inner room and she presently came back.
“Ah, childer!” said she. “It fair troubles me to go into yond’ room now since it looks so lonesome wi’ the chair empty and set back in a corner.”
She wiped her eyes with her apron and the two girls, grave before looked sad.
“But Father 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.”
They were silent for a moment, till 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 now rose and they seemed about to withdraw to the parlour. Till this moment, I had been so intent on watching them that I had half-forgotten my own wretched position, but now it recurred to me. I turned and groped out the door, knocking at it hesitatingly. 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 for it looks very ill.”
“Tell the young ladies. Let me see them—”
“Indeed, I will not.”
“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.”
Here, the honest but inflexible servant clapped the door to and bolted it within.
This was the climax. A pang of exquisite suffering heaved my heart and I sank on the wet doorstep. I groaned, wrung my hands and wept in utter anguish.
“I can but die,” I said aloud.
“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 but I could not distinguish it from the gloom. With a loud long knock, the new-comer appealed to the door.
“Is it you, Mr. St. John?” cried Hannah. “Yes, yes, open quickly.”
“How wet and cold you must be on 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, trembling, sickening, and conscious of my disgusting appearance. The two ladies, their brother, Mr. St. John, and 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 but just now I could not speak.
“Perhaps a little water would restore her. Hannah, fetch some. How very thin, and how very bloodless she is!”
“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 and I saw there was pity in it, I felt sympathy in her hurried breathing. In her simple words, too, the same balm-like emotion spoke. “Try to eat,” she whispered.
“Yes—try,” repeated Mary gently.
Mary’s hand removed my sodden bonnet and lifted my head. I tasted what they offered me, feebly at first, but eagerly soon.
“Try if she can speak now,” said St. John. “Ask her her name.”
I felt I could speak and I answered, “My name is Jane Elliott.”
“And where do you live? Where are your friends?”
I was silent.
“Can we send for any one you know?” I shook my head.
“But what, then,” said he. “Do you expect me to do for you?”
“Nothing,” I replied. 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, but very soon one of the ladies returned although 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 and 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 and I slept.