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ut to go in and to say—
“Mr。 Rochester； I will love you and live with you through life till death；” and a fount of rapture would spring to my lips。 I thought of this。
That kind master； who could not sleep now； was waiting with impatience for day。 He would send for me in the morning； I should be gone。 He would have me sought for： vainly。 He would feel himself forsaken； his love rejected： he would suffer； perhaps grow desperate。 I thought of this too。 My hand moved towards the lock： I caught it back； and glided on。
Drearily I wound my way downstairs： I knew what I had to do； and I did it mechanically。 I sought the key of the side…door in the kitchen； I sought； too； a phial of oil and a feather； I oiled the key and the lock。 I got some water； I got some bread： for perhaps I should have to walk far； and my strength； sorely shaken of late； must not break down。 All this I did without one sound。 I opened the door； passed out； shut it softly。 Dim dawn glimmered in the yard。 The great gates were closed and locked； but a wicket in one of them was only latched。 Through that I departed： it； too； I shut； and now I was out of Thornfield。
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 e 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 forter—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 e 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。
Chapter 28
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 questione