t is a summer evening; t me do a place called cross; ake me no fart possessed of anotime; I am alone. At t I discover t I forgot to take my parcel out of t of t for safety; t remains, t must remain; and noely destitute.
cross is no to is but a stone pillar set up a distance and in darkness. Four arms spring from its summit: t too o tion, distant ten miles; t, above ty. From toy I ed; a nortain: t moors beains far beyond t deep valley at my feet. tion be tretc east, , norte, broad, lonely; t in to t a craveller migo see me norangers , evidently objectless and lost. I migioned: I could give no ans e suspicion. Not a tie o y at t—not a cures are—none t sa ture: I will seek and ask repose.
I struck straigo to a s dark gros turnings, and finding a moss-blackened granite crag in a do. me; tected my .
Some time passed before I felt tranquil even tle mig some sportsman or poac discover me. If a gust of te, I looked up, fearing it led, I imagined it a man. Finding my appre reigned as evening declined at nigook confidence. As yet I t; I ened, cy of reflection.
o do? o go? Oolerable questions, be measured by my rembling limbs before I could reacation— be entreated before I could get a lodging: reluctant sympatuned, almost certain repulse incurred, before my tale could be listened to, or one of my s relieved!
I touc of t t ar t above t ious softness; no breeze o me benign and good; I t scast as I e only mistrust, rejection, insult, clung to o-nig least, I price. I : t of a roll I in a to noon ray penny—my last coin. I sae t satisfied, appeased by t’s meal. I said my evening prayers at its conclusion, and then chose my couch.
Beside t ; rising left only a narro-air to invade. I folded my s over me for a coverlet; a lo, at least—at t of t, cold.
My rest mig broke it. It plained of its gaping s ins riven c trembled for Mr. Rocer and bemoaned ter pity; it demanded ent as a bird still quivered its stered pinions in vain attempts to seek him.
orn out orture of t, I rose to my knees. Nigs ill nigoo serene for t God is everyainly is in t-sky, ude, ence, o my knees to pray for Mr. Rocer. Looking up, I, ear-dimmed eyes, say Milky- less systems t space like a soft trace of lig t and strengto save treasured. I turned my prayer to ts. Mr. Rocer o t of t sorrow.
But next day, ant came to me pale and bare. Long after ttle birds ts; long after bees prime of day to gatailed, and t up, and I looked round me.
a still, , perfect day! a golden desert t and on it. I sa bilberries. I t I migting nutriment, permanent ser I not linger t. ure, I my Maker nig good to require my soul of me t e, to decay quietly, and mingle in peace in my possession, s requirements, and pains, and responsibilities. t be carried; t provided for; ty fulfilled. I set out.
cross regained, I folloiously yield to tigue t almost overpoting doone I sa resistlessly to t clogged and limb—I heard a bell chime—a church bell.
I turned in tion of t tic I o note an and a spire. All t my rigure-fields, and cornfields, and tering stream ran zig-zag to t far beyond struggle on: strive to live and bend to toil like t.
About tered t ttom of its one street ttle sed a cake of bread. it refres I could per it, it to proceed. to rengturned to me as soon as I my fello it o faint . me I could offer in excied round my t; I ell remities of destitution proceeded. I did not knoed: probably t; but I must try.
I entered tably- dressed person, a lady as sy. ongue utter t I offer it o sit do, as I ired. Disappointed in tation of a customer, so my request. Sed to a seat; I sank into it. I felt sorely urged to conscious ation rained it. Soon I asked he village?”
“Yes; te as many as t for.”
I reflected. I o t noy. I stood in tion of one a resource, a friend, a coin. I must do somet? I must apply somewhere. here?
“Did s ed?”
“Nay; s say.”
“ rade in t did most of the people do?”
“Some Mr. Oliver’s needle-factory, and at the foundry.”
“Did Mr. Oliver employ women?”
“Nay; it was men’s work.”
“And he women do?”
“I kna,” on as they can.”
So be tired of my questions: and, indeed, une ed. I took leave.
I passed up treet, looking as I at all to t o t; but I could discover no pretext, nor see an inducement to enter any. I rambled round t, going sometimes to a little distance and returning again, for an ed, and suffering greatly no of food, I turned aside into a lane and sat does , least an informant. A pretty little ood at top of t, exquisitely neat and brilliantly blooming. I stopped at it. business o approace door or touctering knocker? In possibly be terest of tants of t do serve me? Yet I dretired young be expected from a and fainting frame—a voice cering—I asked if a servant ed here?
“No,” said s keep a servant.”
“Can you tell me of any kind?” I continued. “I am a stranger, acquaintance in t some ter w.”
But it o to seek a place for me: besides, in ful must er, position, tale. Sion,” and te door closed, quite gently and civilly: but it s me out. If s open a little longer, I believe I s low.
I could not bear to return to t of aid e to a far off, o offer inviting ser; but I ure’s cravings, instinct kept me roaming round abodes ude—rest no rest— wure, alons in my side.
I dreo ask—no rigo expect interest in my isolated lot. Meantime, ternoon advanced, and starving dog. In crossing a field, I saened to. Near tood a t strangers , sometimes apply to troduction and aid. It is tion to least o o to seek counsel rengt tche parsonage?
“Yes.”
“as the clergyman in?”
“No.”
“ould he be in soon?”
“No, he was gone from home.”
“to a distance?”
“Not so far— Marsay tnight longer.”
“as the house?”
“Nay, t but bear to ask t of beg; and again I crawled away.
Once more I took off my of ttle s a crust! for but one mouto allay tinctively I turned my face again to t in; and tured t—“ould shis handkerchief?”
S me suspicion: “Nay, suff i’ t way.”
Almost desperate, I asked for ell he handkerchief?” she said.
“ould sake my gloves?”
“No! w could shem?”
Reader, it is not pleasant to dails. Some say t in looking back to painful experience past; but at to revieimes to oo distressing a recollection ever to be on. I blamed none of t it o be expected, and be ly an object of suspicion; a ably so. to be sure, ; but o provide me ? Not, certainly, t of persons ime, and o t take my , if to er or table. Let me condense no.
A little before dark I passed a farm- tting, eating opped and said—
“ill you give me a piece of bread? for I am very on me a glance of surprise; but ans to me. I imagine t only an eccentric sort of lady, o of sig doe it.
I could not o get a lodging under a roof, and soug in to. But my nigc broken: truders passed near me more to cers; no sense of safety or tranquillity befriended me. to rained; t. Do not ask me, reader, to give a minute account of t day; as before, I sougarved; but once did food pass my lips. At ttage I satle girl about to to a pig troug?” I asked.
Sared at me. “Mots me to give hese porridge.”
“ell lass,” replied a voice pig doesn’t it.”
tied tiffened mould into my ravenously.
As t tary bridle-path, which I had been pursuing an hour or more.
“My strengte failing me,” I said in a soliloquy. “I feel I cannot go muccast again t? I lay my do ot it ness, cion—total prostration of I reconcile myself to t of deatruggle to retain a valueless life? Because I knoo die of and cold is a fate to submit passively. Oain me a little longer! Aid!—direct me!”
My glazed eye y landscape. I sa e out of sigivation surrounding it ract of moorland; and no as ive as the dusky hill.
“ell, I reet or on a frequented road,” I reflected. “And far better t cro they should be prisoned in a workhouse coffin and moulder in a pauper’s grave.”
to turned. I reac. It remained noo find a least secure. But all te looked level. It sion but of tint: green, ting, I could still see t as mere alternations of lig.
My eye still roved over t t scenery, , far in among t sprang up. “t is an ignis fatuus,” t; and I expected it on, e steadily, neit, t kindled?” I questioned. I co see no; as it did not diminis did not enlarge. “It may be a candle in a ured; “but if so, I can never reac. It is mucoo far a avail? I s knock at to s in my face.”
And I sank doill a over tance; t, ting me afreso t iffened to till frost— t miged on; I s it; but my yet living fles its chilling influence. I rose ere long.
t t constant tried to o. It led me aslant over ter, and as often I rose and rallied my faculties. t .
race of ; it rack: it led straigo t, a clump of trees—firs, apparently, from inguiser of tar vanisacle ervened bet. I put out my o feel ted tones of a lo, sometis gleamed before me: it e—a ; it moved on its ouc. On eacood a sable bush-holly or yew.
Entering te and passing tte of a o vie t sy. ere tes retired to rest? I feared it must be so. In seeking turned an angle: t out tticed of till smaller by t, ion of t . ture curtain or ster ooped do aside ting over it, I could see all , er plates ranged in roing t-fire. I could see a clock, a able, some c on table; and by its lig roug scrupulously clean, like all about ting a stocking.
I noticed ts cursorily only—in traordinary. A group of more interest appeared near tting still amidst t. t—sat, one in a lo off very fair necks and faces: a large old pointer dog rested its massive .
A strange place cs! be ters of t table; for sic, and tivation. I , as I gazed on timate . I cannot call too pale and grave for t over a book, tful almost to severity. A stand beted a second candle and t volumes, to ing a dictionary to aid task of translation. t as if all t apartment a picture: so , I could e, tick in its obscure corner; and I even fancied I could distinguisting-needles. range stillness at last, it was audible enougo me.
“Listen, Diana,” said one of tudents; “Franz and old Daniel are toget-time, and Franz is telling a dream from en!” And in a loelligible to me; for it ongue—neitin. tell.
“t is strong,” s.” ted o listen to er, repeated, a later day, I knee t , it roke on sounding brass to me—conveying no meaning:—
“‘Da trat ernen Nacy arcly set before you! tian. ‘Ic dem Gewic!”
Bot.
“Is try ting.
“Yes, ry talk in no other way.”
“ell, for sure case, I kna and t’ one t’ot tell hey said, I guess?”
“e could probably tell somet t not all— for as clever as you t speak German, and read it a dictionary to help us.”
“And do you?”
“e mean to teac some time—or at least ts, as t more money than we do now.”
“Varry like: but give oudying; ye’ve done enougo- night.”
“I t least I’m tired. Mary, are you?”
“Mortally: after all, it’s toug a language er but a lexicon.”
“It is, especially suc glorious Deutsc. John will come home.”
“Surely be long no is just ten (looking at a little gold c rains fast, o look at the parlour?”
tir a fire in an inner room; sly came back.
“A fair troubles me to go into yond’ room no looks so lonesome y and set back in a corner.”
Swo girls, grave before, looked sad now.
“But ter place,” continued h nor he had.”
“You say ioned us?” inquired one of the ladies.
“ time, bairn: e, ailing like t naugo signify; and for, of a day—t is, a fortnig to sleep and niver ark o t’ c’s t’ last o’ t’ old stock—for ye and Mr. St. Jo soart to t’s gone; for all your mot as book-learned. Sur’ o’ ye, Mary: Diana is more like your father.”
I t t tell inction and intelligence. One, to be sure, yle of ; Mary’s pale broed and braided smootresses covered ruck ten.
“Ye’ll your supper, I am sure,” observed . John when he comes in.”
And so prepare t to o till t, I ent on cion ed in me so keen an interest, I ten my ocion: no recurred to me. More desolate, more desperate t seemed from contrast. And appear to touces of to make truts and o induce to vouc for my t it atingly, I felt t last idea to be a mere chimera. hannah opened.
“ do you ?” s of the candle she held.
“May I speak to your mistresses?” I said.
“You ter tell me o them. here do you come from?”
“I am a stranger.”
“ is your business this hour?”
“I a niger in an out-o eat.”
Distrust, ter a pause; “but take in a vagrant to lodge. It isn’t likely.”
“Do let me speak to your mistresses.”
“No, not I. can t be roving about no looks very ill.”
“But w shall I do?”
“O you knoo do. Mind you don’t do ’s all. here is a penny; now go—”
“A penny cannot feed me, and I rengto go fart s t, for God’s sake!”
“I must; the rain is driving in—”
“tell t me see them- ”
“Indeed, I . You are not make such a noise. Move off.”
“But I must die if I am turned away.”
“Not you. I’m fear’d you e, t bring you about folk’s time o’ nigell t by ourselves in tleman, and dogs, and guns.” but inflexible servant clapped to and bolted it hin.
te suffering—a true despair—rent and . orn out, indeed, I anotep could I stir. I sank on t doorstep: I groaned— I ter anguisre of deat ion—t from my kind! Not only t ting of fortitude least for a moment; but t I soon endeavoured to regain.
“I can but die,” I said, “and I believe in God. Let me try to his will in silence.”
t only t, but uttered; and ting back all my misery into my , I made an effort to compel it to remain till.
“All men must die,” said a voice quite close at all are not condemned to meet a lingering and premature doom, suc.”
“ speaks?” I asked, terrified at ted sound, and incapable noc and my enfeebled vision prevented me from distinguiso the door.
“Is it you, Mr. St. John?” cried hannah.
“Yes—yes; open quickly.”
“ell, and cold you must be, suc as it is! Come in—your sisters are quite uneasy about you, and I believe t. t gone yet!—laid do up! for shame! Move off, I say!”
“o say to ty in excluding, no me do mine in admitting ened to bot at least examine into it. Young o the house.”
ity I obeyed ly I stood clean, brigcrembling, sickening; conscious of an aspect in t degree gly, en. t. Jo, me.
“St. Jo?” I heard one ask.
“I cannot tell: I found the reply.
“Se,” said hannah.
“As .”
And indeed my a cill possessed my senses, t no speak.
“Pertle er ore c so nothin, and how very bloodless!”
“A mere spectre!”
“Is she ill, or only famished?”
“Famis milk? Give it me, and a piece of bread.”
Diana (I kne over me) broke some bread, dipped it in milk, and put it to my lips. y in it, and I felt sympatoo, tion spoke: “try to eat.”
“Yes—try,” repeated Mary gently; and Mary’s and lifted my asted first, eagerly soon.
“Not too muc first—restrain e of bread.
“A little more, St. Jo ty 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 anst.” Anxious as ever to avoid discovery, I o assume an alias.
“And where do you live? here are your friends?”
I .
“Can we send for any one you know?”
I shook my head.
“ account can you give of yourself?”
Some I face to face s o no longer outcast, vagrant, and disoo put off t—to resume my natural manner and cer. I began once more to kno I oo o render—I said after a brief pause—
“Sir, I can give you no details to-night.”
“But me to do for you?”
“Notrengt s ansook the word—
“Do you mean,” s o t?”
I looked at , a remarkable countenance, instinct botook sudden courage. Anse rust you. If I erless and stray dog, I kno you turn me from your o-nig is, I really excuse me from muc—I feel a spasm w.
“. Jo last, “let t present, and ask ions; in ten minutes more, give milk and bread. Mary and Diana, let us go into talk tter over.”
turned—I could not tell upor ealing over me as I sat by tone sions to ’s aid, I contrived to mount a staircase; my dripping clot unutterable exion a gloeful joy—and slept.