Jane Eyre (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Charlotte Bronte

  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 tor 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;80 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, among 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 corn-fields, and wood; and a glittering stream ran zig-zag through the varied shades of green, the mellowing grain, the sombre wood-land, the clear and sunny lea. Recalled by the rumbling of wheels to the road before me, I saw a heavily-laden wagon laboring up the hill; and not far beyond were two cows and their drover. Human life and human labor 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 vigor returned to me as soon as I was among 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 sunk 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 dress-maker or plain-work womanha 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 neighborhood 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-laborers; 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 neighbor 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 pro
spect 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 sunk 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 toward it. Near the church-yard, 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 wish 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, but for 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. Toward 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 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 is quite failing me,” I said in soliloquy. “I feel I cannot go much further. 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 still 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 imprisoned 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 color had faded with the daylight.

  My eye still roved over the sullen swell, and along the moor-edge, vanishing amid the wildest scenery, when, at one dim point, far in among the marshes and the ridges, a light sprung up. “That is an ignis fatuus,” was my first thought; and I expected it would soon vanish. It burned 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 sunk 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 to 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 toward 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, amid 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, burned on the table; and by its light an elderly woman, somewhat rough-looking, but scrupulously clean, like all about her, was knitting a stocking.