简爱(英文版)-第36部分

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“I　am　very　ill；　I　know；”　she　said　ere　long。　“I　was　trying　to　turn　myself　a　few　minutes　since；　and　find　I　cannot　move　a　limb。　It　is　as　well　I　should　ease　my　mind　before　I　die：　what　we　think　little　of　in　health；　burdens　us　at　such　an　hour　as　the　present　is　to　me。　Is　the　nurse　here？　or　is　there　no　one　in　the　room　but　you？”
I　assured　her　we　were　alone。
“Well；　I　have　twice　done　you　a　wrong　which　I　regret　now。　One　was　in　breaking　the　promise　which　I　gave　my　husband　to　bring　you　up　as　my　own　child；　the　other—”　she　stopped。　“After　all；　it　is　of　no　great　importance；　perhaps；”　she　murmured　to　herself：　“and　then　I　may　get　better；　and　to　humble　myself　so　to　her　is　painful。”
She　made　an　effort　to　alter　her　position；　but　failed：　her　face　changed；　she　seemed　to　experience　some　inward　sensation—the　precursor；　perhaps；　of　the　last　pang。
“Well；　I　must　get　it　over。　Eternity　is　before　me：　I　had　better　tell　her。—Go　to　my　dressing…case；　open　it；　and　take　out　a　letter　you　will　see　there。”
I　obeyed　her　directions。　“Read　the　letter；”　she　said。
It　was　short；　and　thus　conceived：—
“Madam；—Will　you　have　the　goodness　to　send　me　the　address　of　my　niece；　Jane　Eyre；　and　to　tell　me　how　she　is？　It　is　my　intention　to　write　shortly　and　desire　her　to　e　to　me　at　Madeira。　Providence　has　blessed　my　endeavours　to　secure　a　petency；　and　as　I　am　unmarried　and　childless；　I　wish　to　adopt　her　during　my　life；　and　bequeath　her　at　my　death　whatever　I　may　have　to　leave。—I　am；　Madam；　etc。；　etc。；
“John　Eyre；　Madeira。”
It　was　dated　three　years　back。
“Why　did　I　never　hear　of　this？”　I　asked。
“Because　I　disliked　you　too　fixedly　and　thoroughly　ever　to　lend　a　hand　in　lifting　you　to　prosperity。　I　could　not　forget　your　conduct　to　me；　Jane—the　fury　with　which　you　once　turned　on　me；　the　tone　in　which　you　declared　you　abhorred　me　the　worst　of　anybody　in　the　world；　the　unchildlike　look　and　voice　with　which　you　affirmed　that　the　very　thought　of　me　made　you　sick；　and　asserted　that　I　had　treated　you　with　miserable　cruelty。　I　could　not　forget　my　own　sensations　when　you　thus　started　up　and　poured　out　the　venom　of　your　mind：　I　felt　fear　as　if　an　animal　that　I　had　struck　or　pushed　had　looked　up　at　me　with　human　eyes　and　cursed　me　in　a　man’s　voice。—　Bring　me　some　water！　Oh；　make　haste！”
“Dear　Mrs。　Reed；”　said　I；　as　I　offered　her　the　draught　she　required；　“think　no　more　of　all　this；　let　it　pass　away　from　your　mind。　Forgive　me　for　my　passionate　language：　I　was　a　child　then；　eight；　nine　years　have　passed　since　that　day。”
She　heeded　nothing　of　what　I　said；　but　when　she　had　tasted　the　water　and　drawn　breath；　she　went　on　thus—
“I　tell　you　I　could　not　forget　it；　and　I　took　my　revenge：　for　you　to　be　adopted　by　your　uncle；　and　placed　in　a　state　of　ease　and　fort；　was　what　I　could　not　endure。　I　wrote　to　him；　I　said　I　was　sorry　for　his　disappointment；　but　Jane　Eyre　was　dead：　she　had　died　of　typhus　fever　at　Lowood。　Now　act　as　you　please：　write　and　contradict　my　assertion—expose　my　falsehood　as　soon　as　you　like。　You　were　born；　I　think；　to　be　my　torment：　my　last　hour　is　racked　by　the　recollection　of　a　deed　which；　but　for　you；　I　should　never　have　been　tempted　to　mit。”
“If　you　could　but　be　persuaded　to　think　no　more　of　it；　aunt；　and　to　regard　me　with　kindness　and　forgiveness”
“You　have　a　very　bad　disposition；”　said　she；　“and　one　to　this　day　I　feel　it　impossible　to　understand：　how　for　nine　years　you　could　be　patient　and　quiescent　under　any　treatment；　and　in　the　tenth　break　out　all　fire　and　violence；　I　can　never　prehend。”
“My　disposition　is　not　so　bad　as　you　think：　I　am　passionate；　but　not　vindictive。　Many　a　time；　as　a　little　child；　I　should　have　been　glad　to　love　you　if　you　would　have　let　me；　and　I　long　earnestly　to　be　reconciled　to　you　now：　kiss　me；　aunt。”
I　approached　my　cheek　to　her　lips：　she　would　not　touch　it。　She　said　I　oppressed　her　by　leaning　over　the　bed；　and　again　demanded　water。　As　I　laid　her　down—for　I　raised　her　and　supported　her　on　my　arm　while　she　drank—I　covered　her　ice…cold　and　clammy　hand　with　mine：　the　feeble　fingers　shrank　from　my　touch—the　glazing　eyes　shunned　my　gaze。
“Love　me；　then；　or　hate　me；　as　you　will；”　I　said　at　last；　“you　have　my　full　and　free　forgiveness：　ask　now　for　God’s；　and　be　at　peace。”
Poor；　suffering　woman！　it　was　too　late　for　her　to　make　now　the　effort　to　change　her　habitual　frame　of　mind：　living；　she　had　ever　hated　me—dying；　she　must　hate　me　still。
The　nurse　now　entered；　and　Bessie　followed。　I　yet　lingered　half…an…　hour　longer；　hoping　to　see　some　sign　of　amity：　but　she　gave　none。　She　was　fast　relapsing　into　stupor；　nor　did　her　mind　again　rally：　at　twelve　o’clock　that　night　she　died。　I　was　not　present　to　close　her　eyes；　nor　were　either　of　her　daughters。　They　came　to　tell　us　the　next　morning　that　all　was　over。　She　was　by　that　time　laid　out。　Eliza　and　I　went　to　look　at　her：　Georgiana；　who　had　burst　out　into　loud　weeping；　said　she　dared　not　go。　There　was　stretched　Sarah　Reed’s　once　robust　and　active　frame；　rigid　and　still：　her　eye　of　flint　was　covered　with　its　cold　lid；　her　brow　and　strong　traits　wore　yet　the　impress　of　her　inexorable　soul。　A　strange　and　solemn　object　was　that　corpse　to　me。　I　gazed　on　it　with　gloom　and　pain：　nothing　soft；　nothing　sweet；　nothing　pitying；　or　hopeful；　or　subduing　did　it　inspire；　only　a　grating　anguish　for　her　woes—not　my　loss—and　a　sombre　tearless　dismay　at　the　fearfulness　of　death　in　such　a　form。
Eliza　surveyed　her　parent　calmly。　After　a　silence　of　some　minutes　she　observed—
“With　her　constitution　she　should　have　lived　to　a　good　old　age：　her　life　was　shortened　by　trouble。”　And　then　a　spasm　constricted　her　mouth　for　an　instant：　as　it　passed　away　she　turned　and　left　the　room；　and　so　did　I。　Neither　of　us　had　dropt　a　tear。
Chapter　22
Mr。　Rochester　had　given　me　but　one　week’s　leave　of　absence：　yet　a　month　elapsed　before　I　quitted　Gateshead。　I　wished　to　leave　immediately　after　the　funeral；　but　Georgiana　entreated　me　to　stay　till　she　could　get　off　to　London；　whither　she　was　now　at　last　invited　by　her　uncle；　Mr。　Gibson；　who　had　e　down　to　direct　his　sister’s　interment　and　settle　the　family　affairs。　Georgiana　said　she　dreaded　being　left　alone　with　Eliza；　from　her　she　got　neither　sympathy　in　her　dejection；　support　in　her　fears；　nor　aid　in　her　preparations；　so　I　bore　with　her　feeble…minded　wailings　and　selfish　lamentations　as　well　as　I　could；　and　did　my　best　in　sewing　for　her　and　packing　her　dresses。　It　is　true；　that　while　I　worked；　she　would　idle；　and　I　thought　to　myself；　“If　you　and　I　were　destined　to　live　always　together；　cousin；　we　would　mence　matters　on　a　different　footing。　I　should　not　settle　tamely　down　into　being　the　forbearing　party；　I　should　assign　you　your　share　of　labour；　and　pel　you　to　acplish　it；　or　else　it　should　be　left　undone：　I　should　insist；　also；　on　your　keeping　some　of　those　drawling；　half…insincere　plaints　hushed　in　your　own　breast。　It　is　only　because　our　connection　happens　to　be　very　transitory；　and　es　at　a　peculiarly　mournful　season；　that　I　consent　thus　to　render　it　so　patient　and　pliant　on　my　part。”
At　last　I　saw　Georgiana　off；　but　now　it　was　Eliza’s　turn　to　request　me　to　stay　another　e　and　attention；　she　said；　she　was　about　to　depart　for　some　unknown　bourne；　and　all　day　long　she　stayed　in　her　own　room；　her　door　bolted　within；　filling　trunks；　emptying　drawers；　burning　papers；　and　holding　no　munication　with　any　one。　She　wished　me　to　look　after　the　house；　to　see　callers；　and　answer　notes　of　condolence。
One　morning　she　told　me　I　was　at　liberty。　“And；”　she　added；　“I　am　obliged　to　you　for　your　valuable　services　and　discreet　conduct！　There　is　some　difference　between　living　with　such　an　one　as　you　and　with　Georgiana：　you　perform　your　own　part　in　life　and　burden　no　one。　To…morrow；”　she　continued；　“I　set　out　for　the　Continent。　I　shall　take　up　my　abode　in　a　religious　house　near　Lisle—a　nunnery　you　would　call　it；　there　I　shall　be　quiet　and　unmolested。　I　shall　devote　myself　for　a　time　to　the　examination　of　the　Roman　Catholic　dogmas；　and　to　a　careful　study　of　the　workings　of　their　system：　if　I　find　it　to　be；　as　I　half　suspect　it　is；　the　one　best　calculated　to　ensure　the　doing　of　all　things　decently　and　in　order；　I　shall　embrace　the　tes　of　Rome　and　probably　take　the　veil。”
I　neither　expressed　surprise　at　this　resolution　nor　attempted　to　dissuade　her　from　it。　“The　vocation　will　fit　you　to　a　hair；”　I　thought：　“much　good　may　it　do　you！”
When　we　parted；　she　said：　“Good…bye；　cousin　Jane　Eyre；　I　wish　you　well：　you　have　some　sense。”
I　then　returned：　“You　are　not　without　sense；　cousin　Eliza；　but　what　you　have；　I　suppose；　in　another　year　will　be　walled　up　alive　in　a　French　convent。　However；　it　is　not　my　business；　and　so　it　suits　you；　I　don’t　much　care。”
“You　are　in　the　right；”　said　she；　and　with　these　words　we　each　went　our　separate　way。　As　I　shall　not　have　occasion　to　refer　either　to　her　or　her　sister　again；　I　may　as　well　mention　here；　that　Georgiana　made　an　advantageous　match　with　a　wealthy　worn…out　man　of　fashion；　and　that　Eliza　actually　took　the　veil；　and　is　at　this　day　superior　of　the　convent　where　she　passed　the　period　of　her　novitiate；　and　which　she　endowed　with　her　fortune。
How　people　feel　when　they　are　returning　home　from　an　absence；　long　or　short；　I　did　not　know：　I　had　never　experienced　the　sensation。　I　had　known　what　it　was　to　e　back　to　Gateshead　when　a　child　after　a　long　walk；　to　be　scolded　for　looking　cold　or　gloomy；　and　later；　what　it　was　to　e　back　from　church　to　Lowood；　to　long　for　a　plenteous　meal　and　a　good　fire；　and　to　be　unable　to　get　either。　Neither　of　these　returnings　was　very　pleasant　or　desirable：　no　mag　drew　me　to　a　given　point；　increasing　in　its　strength　of　attraction　the　nearer　I　came。　The　return　to　Thornfield　was　yet　to　be　tried。
My　journey　seemed　tedious—very　tedious：　fifty　miles　one　day；　a　night　spent　at　an　inn；　fifty　miles　the　next　day。　During　the　first　twelve　hours　I　thought　of　Mrs。　Reed　in　her　last　moments；　I　saw　her　disfigured　and　discoloured　face；　and　heard　her　strangely　altered　voice。　I　mused　on　the　funeral　day；　the　coffin；　the　hearse；　the　black　train　of　tenants　and　servants—few　was　the　number　of　relatives—the　gaping　vault；　the　silent　church；　the　solemn　service。　Then　I　thought　of　Eliza　and　Georgiana；　I　beheld　one　the　cynosure　of　a　ball…room；　the　other　the　inmate　of　a　convent　cell；　and　I　dwelt　on　and　analysed　their　separate　peculiarities　of　person　and　character。　The　evening　arrival　at　the　great　town　of—scattered　these　thoughts；　night　gave　them　quite　another　turn：　laid　down　on　my　traveller’s　bed；　I　left　reminiscence　for　anticipation。
I　was　going　back　to　Thornfield：　but　how　long　was　I　to　stay　there？　Not　long；　of　that　I　was　sure。　I　had　heard　from　Mrs。　Fairfax　in　the　interim　of　my　absence：　the　party　at　the　hall　was　dispersed；　Mr。　Rochester　had　left　for　London　three　weeks　ago；　but　he　was　then　expected　to　return　in　a　fortnight。　Mrs。　Fairfax　surmised　that　he　was　gone　to　make　arrangements　for　his　wedding；　as　he　had　talked　of　purchasing　a　new　carriage：　she　said　the　idea　of　his　marrying　Miss　Ingram　still　seemed　strange　to　her；　but　from　what　everybody　said；　and　from　what　she　had　herself　seen；　she　could　no　longer　doubt　that　the　event　would　shortly　take　place。　“You　would　be　strangely　incredulous　if　you　did　doubt　it；”　was　my　mental　ment。　“I　don’t　doubt　it。”
The　question　followed；　“Where　was　I　to　go？”　I　dreamt　of　Miss　Ingram　all　the　night：　in　a　vivid　morning　dream　I　saw　her　closing　the　gates　of　Thornfield　against　me　and　pointing　me　out　another　road；　and　Mr。　Rochester　looked　on　with　his　arms　folded—smiling　sardonically；　as　it　seemed；　at　both　her　and　me。
I　had　not　notified　to　Mrs。　Fairfax　the　exact　day　of　my　return；　for　I　did　not　wish　either　car　or　carriage　to　meet　me　at　Millcote。　I　proposed　to　yself；　and　very　quietly；　after　leaving　my　box　in　the　ostler’s　care；　did　I　slip　away　from　the　George　Inn；　about　six　o’clock　of　a　June　evening；　and　take　the　old　road　to　Thornfield：　a　road　which　lay　chiefly　through　fields；　and　was　now　little　frequented。
It　was　not　a　bright　or　splendid　summer　evening；　though　fair　and　soft：　the　haymakers　were　at　work　all　along　the　road；　and　the　sky；　though　far　from　cloudless；　was　such　as　promised　well　for　the　future：　its　blue—where　blue　was　visible—was　mild　and　settled；　and　its　cloud　strata　high　and　thin。　The　west；　too；　was　warm：　no　watery　gleam　chilled　it—it　seemed　as　if　there　was　a　fire　lit；　an　altar　burning　behind　its　screen　of　marbled　vapour；　and　out　of　apertures　shone　a　golden　redness。
I　felt　glad　as　the　road　shortened　before　me：　so　glad　that　I　stopped　once　to　ask　myself　what　that　joy　meant：　and　to　remind　reason　that　it　was　not　to　my　home　I　was　going；　or　to　a　permanent　resting…place；　or　to　a　place　where　fond　friends　looked　out　for　me　and　waited　my　arrival。　“Mrs。　Fairfax　will　smile　you　a　calm　wele；　to　be　sure；”　said　I；　“and　little　Adèle　will　clap　her　hands　and　jump　to　see　you：　but　you　know　very　well　you　are　thinking　of　another　than　they；　and　that　he　is　not　thinking　of　you。”
But　what　is　so　headstrong　as　youth？　What　so　blind　as　inexperience？　These　affirmed　that　it　was　pleasure　enough　to　have　the　privilege　of　again　looking　on　Mr。　Rochester；　whether　he　looked　on　me　or　not；　and　they　added—“Hasten！　hasten！　be　with　him　while　you　may：　but　a　few　more　days　or　weeks；　at　most；　and　you　are　parted　from　him　for　ever！”　And　then　I　strangled　a　new…born　agony—a　deformed　thing　which　I　could　not　persuade　myself　to　own　and　rear—and　ran　on。
They　are　making　hay；　too；　in　Thornfield　meadows：　or　rather；　the　labourers　are　just　quitting　their　work；　and　returning　home　with　their　rakes　on　their　shoulders；　now；　at　the　hour　I　arrive。　I　have　but　a　field　or　two　to　traverse；　and　then　I　shall　cross　the　road　and　reach　the　gates。　How　full　the　hedges　are　of　roses！　But　I　have　no　time　to　gather　any；　I　want　to　be　at　the　house。　I　passed　a　tall　briar；　shooting　leafy　and　flowery　branches　across　the　path；　I　see　the　narrow　stile　with　stone　steps；　and　I　see—Mr。　Rochester　sitting　there；　a　book　and　a　pencil　in　his　hand；　he　is　writing。
Well；　he　is　not　a　ghost；　yet　every　nerve　I　have　is　unstrung：　for　a　moment　I　am　beyond　my　own　mastery。　What　does　it　mean？　I　did　not　think　I　should　tremble　in　this　way　when　I　saw　him；　or　lose　my　voice　or　the　power　of　motion　in　his　presence。　I　will　go　back　as　soon　as　I　can　stir：　I　need　not　make　an　absolute　fool　of　myself。　I　know　another　way　to　the　house。　It　does　not　signify　if　I　knew　twenty　ways；　for　he　has　seen　me。
“Hillo！”　he　cries；　and　he　puts　up　his　book　and　his　pencil。　“There　you　are！　e　on；　if　you　please。”
I　suppose　I　do　e　on；　though　in　what　fashion　I　know　not；　being　scarcely　cognisant　of　my　movements；　and　solicitous　only　to　appear　calm；　and；　above　all；　to　control　the　working　muscles　of　my　face—　which　I　feel　rebel　insolently　against　my　will；　and　struggle　to　express　what　I　had　resolved　to　conceal。　But　I　have　a　veil—it　is　down：　I　may　make　shift　yet　to　behave　with　decent　posure。
“And　this　is　Jane　Eyre？　Are　you　ing　from　Millcote；　and　on　foot？　Yes—just　one　of　your　tricks：　not　to　send　for　a　carriage；　and　e　clattering　over　street　and　road　like　a　mon　mortal；　but　to　steal　into　the　vicinage　of　your　home　along　with　twilight；　just　as　if　you　were　a　dream　or　a　shade。　What　the　deuce　have　you　done　with　yourself　this　last　month？”
“I　have　been　with　my　aunt；　sir；　who　is　dead。”
“A　true　Janian　reply！　Good　angels　be　my　guard！