With difficulty I obeyed him. Presently I stood within that clean,
bright kitchen--on the very hearth--trembling, sickening; conscious
of an aspect in the last degree ghastly, wild, and weather-beaten.
The two ladies, their brother, Mr. St. John, the old servant, were
all gazing at me.
"St. John, who is it?" I heard one ask.
"I cannot tell: I found her at the door," was the reply.
"She does look white," said Hannah.
"As white as clay or death," was responded. "She will fall: let
her sit."
And indeed my head swam: I dropped, but a chair received me. I
still possessed my senses, though just now I could not speak.
"Perhaps a little water would restore her. Hannah, fetch some. But
she is worn to nothing. How very thin, and how very bloodless!"
"A mere spectre!"
"Is she ill, or only famished?"
"Famished, I think. Hannah, is that milk? Give it me, and a piece
of bread."
Diana (I knew her by the long curls which I saw drooping between me
and the fire as she bent over me) broke some bread, dipped it in
milk, and put it to my lips. Her face was near mine: I saw there
was pity in it, and I felt sympathy in her hurried breathing. In
her simple words, too, the same balm-like emotion spoke: "Try to
eat."
"Yes--try," repeated Mary gently; and Mary's hand removed my sodden
bonnet and lifted my head. I tasted what they offered me: feebly
at first, eagerly soon.
"Not too much at first--restrain her," said the brother; "she has
had enough." And he withdrew the cup of milk and the plate of
bread.
"A little more, St. John--look at the avidity in her eyes."
"No more at present, sister. Try if she can speak now--ask her her
name."
I felt I could speak, and I answered--"My name is Jane Elliott."
Anxious as ever to avoid discovery, I had before resolved to assume
an ALIAS.
"And where do you live? Where are your friends?"
I was silent.
"Can we send for any one you know?"
I shook my head.
"What account can you give of yourself?"
Somehow, now that I had once crossed the threshold of this house,
and once was brought face to face with its owners, I felt no longer
outcast, vagrant, and disowned by the wide world. I dared to put
off the mendicant--to resume my natural manner and character. I
began once more to know myself; and when Mr. St. John demanded an
account--which at present I was far too weak to render--I said after
a brief pause "Sir, I can give you no details to-night."