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 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

filialfondness. 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 ceaselesslonging; 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" title="ad.精巧地，优美地">exquisitely neat and brilliantlyblooming. 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 farmhouse, 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 hands 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 cultivationsurrounding 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