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 beat of the
summer day. I looked at the sky; it was pure: a kindly star
twinkled just above the chasm ridge. The dew 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 filial fondness. 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 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.