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, 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 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 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!"