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- Шарлотта Бронте
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- Джэйн Эйр
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A
mile
off
,
beyond
the
fields
,
lay
a
road
which
stretched
in
the
contrary
direction
to
Millcote
;
a
road
I
had
never
travelled
,
but
often
noticed
,
and
wondered
where
it
led
:
thither
I
bent
my
steps
.
No
reflection
was
to
be
allowed
now
:
not
one
glance
was
to
be
cast
back
;
not
even
one
forward
.
Not
one
thought
was
to
be
given
either
to
the
past
or
the
future
.
The
first
was
a
page
so
heavenly
sweet
--
so
deadly
sad
--
that
to
read
one
line
of
it
would
dissolve
my
courage
and
break
down
my
energy
.
The
last
was
an
awful
blank
:
something
like
the
world
when
the
deluge
was
gone
by
.
I
skirted
fields
,
and
hedges
,
and
lanes
till
after
sunrise
.
I
believe
it
was
a
lovely
summer
morning
:
I
know
my
shoes
,
which
I
had
put
on
when
I
left
the
house
,
were
soon
wet
with
dew
.
But
I
looked
neither
to
rising
sun
,
nor
smiling
sky
,
nor
wakening
nature
.
He
who
is
taken
out
to
pass
through
a
fair
scene
to
the
scaffold
,
thinks
not
of
the
flowers
that
smile
on
his
road
,
but
of
the
block
and
axe-edge
;
of
the
disseverment
of
bone
and
vein
;
of
the
grave
gaping
at
the
end
:
and
I
thought
of
drear
flight
and
homeless
wandering
--
and
oh
!
with
agony
I
thought
of
what
I
left
.
I
could
not
help
it
.
I
thought
of
him
now
--
in
his
room
--
watching
the
sunrise
;
hoping
I
should
soon
come
to
say
I
would
stay
with
him
and
be
his
.
I
longed
to
be
his
;
I
panted
to
return
:
it
was
not
too
late
;
I
could
yet
spare
him
the
bitter
pang
of
bereavement
.
As
yet
my
flight
,
I
was
sure
,
was
undiscovered
.
I
could
go
back
and
be
his
comforter
--
his
pride
;
his
redeemer
from
misery
,
perhaps
from
ruin
.
Oh
,
that
fear
of
his
self-abandonment
--
far
worse
than
my
abandonment
--
how
it
goaded
me
!
It
was
a
barbed
arrow-head
in
my
breast
;
it
tore
me
when
I
tried
to
extract
it
;
it
sickened
me
when
remembrance
thrust
it
farther
in
.
Birds
began
singing
in
brake
and
copse
:
birds
were
faithful
to
their
mates
;
birds
were
emblems
of
love
.
What
was
I
?
In
the
midst
of
my
pain
of
heart
and
frantic
effort
of
principle
,
I
abhorred
myself
.
I
had
no
solace
from
self-approbation
:
none
even
from
self-respect
.
I
had
injured
--
wounded
--
left
my
master
.
I
was
hateful
in
my
own
eyes
.
Still
I
could
not
turn
,
nor
retrace
one
step
.
God
must
have
led
me
on
.
As
to
my
own
will
or
conscience
,
impassioned
grief
had
trampled
one
and
stifled
the
other
.
I
was
weeping
wildly
as
I
walked
along
my
solitary
way
:
fast
,
fast
I
went
like
one
delirious
A
weakness
,
beginning
inwardly
,
extending
to
the
limbs
,
seized
me
,
and
I
fell
:
I
lay
on
the
ground
some
minutes
,
pressing
my
face
to
the
wet
turf
.
I
had
some
fear
--
or
hope
--
that
here
I
should
die
:
but
I
was
soon
up
;
crawling
forwards
on
my
hands
and
knees
,
and
then
again
raised
to
my
feet
--
as
eager
and
as
determined
as
ever
to
reach
the
road
.
When
I
got
there
,
I
was
forced
to
sit
to
rest
me
under
the
hedge
;
and
while
I
sat
,
I
heard
wheels
,
and
saw
a
coach
come
on
.
I
stood
up
and
lifted
my
hand
;
it
stopped
.
I
asked
where
it
was
going
:
the
driver
named
a
place
a
long
way
off
,
and
where
I
was
sure
Mr.
Rochester
had
no
connections
.
I
asked
for
what
sum
he
would
take
me
there
;
he
said
thirty
shillings
;
I
answered
I
had
but
twenty
;
well
,
he
would
try
to
make
it
do
.
He
further
gave
me
leave
to
get
into
the
inside
,
as
the
vehicle
was
empty
:
I
entered
,
was
shut
in
,
and
it
rolled
on
its
way
.
Gentle
reader
,
may
you
never
feel
what
I
then
felt
!
May
your
eyes
never
shed
such
stormy
,
scalding
,
heart-wrung
tears
as
poured
from
mine
.
May
you
never
appeal
to
Heaven
in
prayers
so
hopeless
and
so
agonised
as
in
that
hour
left
my
lips
;
for
never
may
you
,
like
me
,
dread
to
be
the
instrument
of
evil
to
what
you
wholly
love
.
Two
days
are
passed
.
It
is
a
summer
evening
;
the
coachman
has
set
me
down
at
a
place
called
Whitcross
;
he
could
take
me
no
farther
for
the
sum
I
had
given
,
and
I
was
not
possessed
of
another
shilling
in
the
world
.
The
coach
is
a
mile
off
by
this
time
;
I
am
alone
.
At
this
moment
I
discover
that
I
forgot
to
take
my
parcel
out
of
the
pocket
of
the
coach
,
where
I
had
placed
it
for
safety
;
there
it
remains
,
there
it
must
remain
;
and
now
,
I
am
absolutely
destitute
.
Whitcross
is
no
town
,
nor
even
a
hamlet
;
it
is
but
a
stone
pillar
set
up
where
four
roads
meet
:
whitewashed
,
I
suppose
,
to
be
more
obvious
at
a
distance
and
in
darkness
.
Four
arms
spring
from
its
summit
:
the
nearest
town
to
which
these
point
is
,
according
to
the
inscription
,
distant
ten
miles
;
the
farthest
,
above
twenty
.
From
the
well-known
names
of
these
towns
I
learn
in
what
county
I
have
lighted
;
a
north-midland
shire
,
dusk
with
moorland
,
ridged
with
mountain
:
this
I
see
.
There
are
great
moors
behind
and
on
each
hand
of
me
;
there
are
waves
of
mountains
far
beyond
that
deep
valley
at
my
feet
.
The
population
here
must
be
thin
,
and
I
see
no
passengers
on
these
roads
:
they
stretch
out
east
,
west
,
north
,
and
south
--
white
,
broad
,
lonely
;
they
are
all
cut
in
the
moor
,
and
the
heather
grows
deep
and
wild
to
their
very
verge
.
Yet
a
chance
traveller
might
pass
by
;
and
I
wish
no
eye
to
see
me
now
:
strangers
would
wonder
what
I
am
doing
,
lingering
here
at
the
sign-post
,
evidently
objectless
and
lost
.
I
might
be
questioned
:
I
could
give
no
answer
but
what
would
sound
incredible
and
excite
suspicion
.
Not
a
tie
holds
me
to
human
society
at
this
moment
--
not
a
charm
or
hope
calls
me
where
my
fellow-creatures
are
--
none
that
saw
me
would
have
a
kind
thought
or
a
good
wish
for
me
.
I
have
no
relative
but
the
universal
mother
,
Nature
:
I
will
seek
her
breast
and
ask
repose
.
I
struck
straight
into
the
heath
;
I
held
on
to
a
hollow
I
saw
deeply
furrowing
the
brown
moorside
;
I
waded
knee-deep
in
its
dark
growth
;
I
turned
with
its
turnings
,
and
finding
a
moss-blackened
granite
crag
in
a
hidden
angle
,
I
sat
down
under
it
.
High
banks
of
moor
were
about
me
;
the
crag
protected
my
head
:
the
sky
was
over
that
.
