第141章

第141章“mystrengthisquitefailingme,”isaidinasoliloquy.“ifeelicannotgomuchfarther.shallibeanoutcastagainthisnight?whiletheraindescendsso,mustilaymyheadonthecold,drenchedground?ifearicannotdootherwise:forwhowillreceiveme?butitwillbeverydreadful,withthisfeelingofhunger,faintness,chill,andthissenseofdesolation—thistotalprostrationofhope.inalllikelihood,though,ishoulddiebeforemorning.andwhycannotireconcilemyselftotheprospectofdeath?whydoiletoretainavaluelesslife?becauseiknow,orbelieve,mr.rochesterisliving:andthen,todieofwantandcoldisafatetowhichnaturecannotsubmitpassively.oh,providence!sustainmealittlelonger!aid!—directme!”

myglazedeyewanderedoverthedimandmistylandscape.isawihadstrayedfarfromthevillage:itwasquiteoutofsight.theverycultivationsurroundingithaddisappeared.ihad,bycross-waysandby-paths,oncemoredrawnnearthetractofmoorland;andnow,onlyafewfields,almostaswildandunproductiveastheheathfromwhichtheywerescarcelyreclaimed,laybetweenmeandtheduskyhill.

“well,iwouldratherdieyonderthaninastreetoronafrequentedroad,”ireflected.“andfarbetterthatcrowsandravens—ifanyravenstherebeintheseregions—shouldpickmyfleshfrommybones,thanthattheyshouldbeprisonedinaworkhousecoffinandmoulderinapauper’sgrave.”

tothehill,then,iturned.ireachedit.itremainednowonlytofindahollowwhereicouldliedown,andfeelatleasthidden,ifnotsecure.butallthesurfaceofthewastelookedlevel.itshowednovariationbutoftint:green,whererushandmossovergrewthemarshes;black,wherethedrysoilboreonlyheath.darkasitwasgetting,icouldstillseethesechanges,thoughbutasmerealternationsoflightandshade;forcolourhadfadedwiththedaylight.

myeyestillrovedoverthesullenswellandalongthemoor-edge,vanishingamidstthewildestscenery,whenatonedimpoint,farinamongthemarshesandtheridges,alightsprangup.“thatisanignisfatuus,”wasmyfirstthought;andiexpecteditwouldsoonvanish.itburnton,however,quitesteadily,neitherrecedingnoradvancing.“isit,then,abonfirejustkindled?”iquestioned.iwatchedtoseewhetheritwouldspread:butno;asitdidnotdiminish,soitdidnotenlarge.“itmaybeacandleinahouse,”ithenconjectured;“butifso,icanneverreachit.itismuchtoofaraway:andwereitwithinayardofme,whatwoulditavail?ishouldbutknockatthedoortohaveitshutinmyface.”andisankdownwhereistood,andhidmyfaceagainsttheground.ilaystillawhile:thenight-windsweptoverthehillandoverme,anddiedmoaninginthedistance;therainfellfast,wettingmeafreshtotheskin.couldibuthavestiffenedtothestillfrost—thefriendlynumbnessofdeath—itmighthavepeltedon;ishouldnothavefeltit;butmyyetlivingfleshshudderedatitschillinginfluence.iroseerelong.

thelightwasyetthere,shiningdimbutconstantthroughtherain.itriedtowalkagain:iedmyexhaustedlimbsslowlytowardsit.itledmeaslantoverthehill,throughawidebog,whichwouldhavebeenimpassableinwinter,andwassplashyandshakingevennow,intheheightofsummer.hereifelltwice;butasofteniroseandralliedmyfaculties.thislightwasmyforlornhope:imustgainit.

havingcrossedthemarsh,isawatraceofwhiteoverthemoor.iapproachedit;itwasaroadoratrack:itledstraightuptothelight,whichnowbeamedfromasortofknoll,amidstaclumpoftrees—firs,apparently,fromwhaticoulddistinguishofthecharacteroftheirformsandfoliagethroughthegloom.mystarvanishedasidrewnear:someobstaclehadintervenedbetweenmeandit.iputoutmyhandtofeelthedarkmassbeforeme:idiscriminatedtheroughstonesofalowwall—aboveit,somethinglikepalisades,andwithin,ahighandpricklyhedge.igropedon.againawhitishobjectgleamedbeforeme:itwasagate—awicket;itmovedonitshingesasitouchedit.oneachsidestoodasablebush-hollyoryew.

enteringthegateandpassingtheshrubs,thesilhouetteofahouserosetoview,black,low,andratherlong;buttheguidinglightshonenowhere.allwasobscurity.weretheinmatesretiredtorest?ifeareditmustbeso.inseekingthedoor,iturnedanangle:thereshotoutthefriendlygleamagain,fromthelozengedpanesofaverysmalllatticedwindow,withinafootoftheground,madestillsmallerbythegrowthofivyorsomeothercreepingplant,whoseleavesclusteredthickovertheportionofthehousewallinwhichitwasset.theaperturewassoscreenedandnarrow,thatcurtainorshutterhadbeendeemedunnecessary;andwhenistoopeddownandputasidethesprayoffoliageshootingoverit,icouldseeallwithin.icouldseeclearlyaroomwithasandedfloor,cleanscoured;adresserofwalnut,withpewterplatesrangedinrows,reflectingtherednessandradianceofaglowingpeat-fire.icouldseeaclock,awhitedealtable,somechairs.thecandle,whoserayhadbeenmybeacon,burntonthetable;andbyitslightanelderlywoman,somewhatrough-looking,butscrupulouslyclean,likeallabouther,wasknittingastocking.

inoticedtheseobjectscursorilyonly—inthemtherewasnothingextraordinary.agroupofmoreinterestappearednearthehearth,sittingstillamidsttherosypeaceandwarmthsuffusingit.twoyoung,gracefulwomen—ladiesineverypoint—sat,oneinalowrocking-chair,theotheronalowerstool;bothworedeepmourningofcrapeandbombazeen,whichsombregarbsingularlysetoffveryfairnecksandfaces:alargeoldpointerdogresteditsmassiveheadonthekneeofonegirl—inthelapoftheotherwascushionedablackcat.