波波小说

第67部分（第1页）

Renewing　then　my　courage；　and　gathering　my　feeble　remains　of　strength；　I　pushed　on。　I　reached　the　house；　and　knocked　at　the　kitchen…door。　An　old　woman　opened：　I　asked　was　this　the　parsonage？

“Yes。”

“Was　the　clergyman　in？”

“No。”

“Would　he　be　in　soon？”

“No；　he　was　gone　from　home。”

“To　a　distance？”

“Not　so　far—happen　three　mile。　He　had　been　called　away　by　the　sudden　death　of　his　father：　he　was　at　Marsh　End　now；　and　would　very　likely　stay　there　a　fortnight　longer。”

“Was　there　any　lady　of　the　house？”

“Nay；　there　was　naught　but　her；　and　she　was　housekeeper；”　and　of　her；　reader；　I　could　not　bear　to　ask　the　relief　for　want　of　which　I　was　sinking；　I　could　not　yet　beg；　and　again　I　crawled　away。

Once　more　I　took　off　my　handkerchief—once　more　I　thought　of　the　cakes　of　bread　in　the　little　shop。　Oh；　for　but　a　crust！　for　but　one　mouthful　to　allay　the　pang　of　famine！　Instinctively　I　turned　my　face　again　to　the　village；　I　found　the　shop　again；　and　I　went　in；　and　though　others　were　there　besides　the　woman　I　ventured　the　request—“Would　she　give　me　a　roll　for　this　handkerchief？”

She　looked　at　me　with　evident　suspicion：　“Nay；　she　never　sold　stuff　i’　that　way。”

Almost　desperate；　I　asked　for　half　a　cake；　she　again　refused。　“How　could　she　tell　where　I　had　got　the　handkerchief？”　she　said。

“Would　she　take　my　gloves？”

“No！　what　could　she　do　with　them？”

Reader；　it　is　not　pleasant　to　dwell　on　these　details。　Some　say　there　is　enjoyment　in　looking　back　to　painful　experience　past；　but　at　this　day　I　can　scarcely　bear　to　review　the　times　to　which　I　allude：　the　moral　degradation；　blent　with　the　physical　suffering；　form　too　distressing　a　recollection　ever　to　be　willingly　dwelt　on。　I　blamed　none　of　those　who　repulsed　me。　I　felt　it　was　what　was　to　be　expected；　and　what　could　not　be　helped：　an　ordinary　beggar　is　frequently　an　object　of　suspicion；　a　well…dressed　beggar　inevitably　so。　To　be　sure；　what　I　begged　was　employment；　but　whose　business　was　it　to　provide　me　with　employment？　Not；　certainly；　that　of　persons　who　saw　me　then　for　the　first　time；　and　who　knew　nothing　about　my　character。　And　as　to　the　woman　who　would　not　take　my　handkerchief　in　exchange　for　her　bread；　why；　she　was　right；　if　the　offer　appeared　to　her　sinister　or　the　exchange　unprofitable。　Let　me　condense　now。　I　am　sick　of　the　subject。

A　little　before　dark　I　passed　a　farm…house；　at　the　open　door　of　which　the　farmer　was　sitting；　eating　his　supper　of　bread　and　cheese。　I　stopped　and　said—

“Will　you　give　me　a　piece　of　bread？　for　I　am　very　hungry。”　He　cast　on　me　a　glance　of　surprise；　but　without　answering；　he　cut　a　thick　slice　from　his　loaf；　and　gave　it　to　me。　I　imagine　he　did　not　think　I　was　a　beggar；　but　only　an　eccentric　sort　of　lady；　who　had　taken　a　fancy　to　his　brown　loaf。　As　soon　as　I　was　out　of　sight　of　his　house；　I　sat　down　and　ate　it。

I　could　not　hope　to　get　a　lodging　under　a　roof；　and　sought　it　in　the　wood　I　have　before　alluded　to。　But　my　night　was　wretched；　my　rest　broken：　the　ground　was　damp；　the　air　cold：　besides；　intruders　passed　near　me　more　than　once；　and　I　had　again　and　again　to　change　my　quarters；　no　sense　of　safety　or　tranquillity　befriended　me。　Towards　morning　it　rained；　the　whole　of　the　following　day　was　wet。　Do　not　ask　me；　reader；　to　give　a　minute　account　of　that　day；　as　before；　I　sought　work；　as　before；　I　was　repulsed；　as　before；　I　starved；　but　once　did　food　pass　my　lips。　At　the　door　of　a　cottage　I　saw　a　little　girl　about　to　throw　a　mess　of　cold　porridge　into　a　pig　trough。　“Will　you　give　me　that？”　I　asked。

She　stared　at　me。　“Mother！”　she　exclaimed；　“there　is　a　woman　wants　me　to　give　her　these　porridge。”

“Well　lass；”　replied　a　voice　within；　“give　it　her　if　she’s　a　beggar。　T　pig　doesn’t　want　it。”

The　girl　emptied　the　stiffened　mould　into　my　hand；　and　I　devoured　it　ravenously。

As　the　wet　twilight　deepened；　I　stopped　in　a　solitary　bridle…path；　which　I　had　been　pursuing　an　hour　or　more。

“My　strength　is　quite　failing　me；”　I　said　in　a　soliloquy。　“I　feel　I　cannot　go　much　farther。　Shall　I　be　an　outcast　again　this　night？　While　the　rain　descends　so；　must　I　lay　my　head　on　the　cold；　drenched　ground？　I　fear　I　cannot　do　otherwise：　for　who　will　receive　me？　But　it　will　be　very　dreadful；　with　this　feeling　of　hunger；　faintness；　chill；　and　this　sense　of　desolation—this　total　prostration　of　hope。　In　all　likelihood；　though；　I　should　die　before　morning。　And　why　cannot　I　reconcile　myself　to　the　prospect　of　death？　Why　do　I　struggle　to　retain　a　valueless　life？　Because　I　know；　or　believe；　Mr。　Rochester　is　living：　and　then；　to　die　of　want　and　cold　is　a　fate　to　which　nature　cannot　submit　passively。　Oh；　Providence！　sustain　me　a　little　longer！　Aid！—direct　me！”

My　glazed　eye　wandered　over　the　dim　and　misty　landscape。　I　saw　I　had　strayed　far　from　the　village：　it　was　quite　out　of　sight。　The　very　cultivation　surrounding　it　had　disappeared。　I　had；　by　cross…　ways　and　by…paths；　once　more　drawn　near　the　tract　of　moorland；　and　now；　only　a　few　fields；　almost　as　wild　and　unproductive　as　the　heath　from　which　they　were　scarcely　reclaimed；　lay　between　me　and　the　dusky　hill。

“Well；　I　would　rather　die　yonder　than　in　a　street　or　on　a　frequented　road；”　I　reflected。　“And　far　better　that　crows　and　ravens—if　any　ravens　there　be　in　these　regions—should　pick　my　flesh　from　my　bones；　than　that　they　should　be　prisoned　in　a　workhouse　coffin　and　moulder　in　a　pauper’s　grave。”

To　the　hill；　then；　I　turned。　I　reached　it。　It　remained　now　only　to　find　a　hollow　where　I　could　lie　down；　and　feel　at　least　hidden；　if　not　secure。　But　all　the　surface　of　the　waste　looked　level。　It　showed　no　variation　but　of　tint：　green；　where　rush　and　moss　overgrew　the　marshes；　black；　where　the　dry　soil　bore　only　heath。　Dark　as　it　was　getting；　I　could　still　see　these　changes；　though　but　as　mere　alternations　of　light　and　shade；　for　colour　had　faded　with　the　daylight。

My　eye　still　roved　over　the　sullen　swell　and　along　the　moor…edge；　vanishing　amidst　the　wildest　scenery；　when　at　one　dim　point；　far　in　among　the　marshes　and　the　ridges；　a　light　sprang　up。　“That　is　an　ignis　fatuus；”　was　my　first　thought；　and　I　expected　it　would　soon　vanish。　It　burnt　on；　however；　quite　steadily；　neither　receding　nor　advancing。　“Is　it；　then；　a　bonfire　just　kindled？”　I　questioned。　I　watched　to　see　whether　it　would　spread：　but　no；　as　it　did　not　diminish；　so　it　did　not　enlarge。　“It　may　be　a　candle　in　a　house；”　I　then　conjectured；　“but　if　so；　I　can　never　reach　it。　It　is　much　too　far　away：　and　were　it　within　a　yard　of　me；　what　would　it　avail？　I　should　but　knock　at　the　door　to　have　it　shut　in　my　face。”

And　I　sank　down　where　I　stood；　and　hid　my　face　against　the　ground。　I　lay　still　a　while：　the　night…wind　swept　over　the　hill　and　over　me；　and　died　moaning　in　the　distance；　the　rain　fell　fast；　wetting　me　afresh　to　the　skin。　Could　I　but　have　stiffened　to　the　still　frost—　the　friendly　numbness　of　death—it　might　have　pelted　on；　I　should　not　have　felt　it；　but　my　yet　living　flesh　shuddered　at　its　chilling　influence。　I　rose　ere　long。

The　light　was　yet　there；　shining　dim　but　constant　through　the　rain。　I　tried　to　walk　again：　I　dragged　my　exhausted　limbs　slowly　towards　it。　It　led　me　aslant　over　the　hill；　through　a　wide　bog；　which　would　have　been　impassable　in　winter；　and　was　splashy　and　shaking　even　now；　in　the　height　of　summer。　Here　I　fell　twice；　but　as　often　I　rose　and　rallied　my　faculties。　This　light　was　my　forlorn　hope：　I　must　gain　it。

Having　crossed　the　marsh；　I　saw　a　trace　of　white　over　the　moor。　I　approached　it；　it　was　a　road　or　a　track：　it　led　straight　up　to　the　light；　which　now　beamed　from　a　sort　of　knoll；　amidst　a　clump　of　trees—firs；　apparently；　from　what　I　could　distinguish　of　the　character　of　their　forms　and　foliage　through　the　gloom。　My　star　vanished　as　I　drew　near：　some　obstacle　had　intervened　between　me　and　it。　I　put　out　my　hand　to　feel　the　dark　mass　before　me：　I　discriminated　the　rough　stones　of　a　low　wall—above　it；　something　like　palisades；　and　within；　a　high　and　prickly　hedge。　I　groped　on。　Again　a　whitish　object　gleamed　before　me：　it　was　a　gate—a　wicket；　it　moved　on　its　hinges　as　I　touched　it。　On　each　side　stood　a　sable　bush…holly　or　yew。

Entering　the　gate　and　passing　the　shrubs；　the　silhouette　of　a　house　rose　to　view；　black；　low；　and　rather　long；　but　the　guiding　light　shone　nowhere。　All　was　obscurity。　Were　the　inmates　retired　to　rest？　I　feared　it　must　be　so。　In　seeking　the　door；　I　turned　an　angle：　there　shot　out　the　friendly　gleam　again；　from　the　lozenged　panes　of　a　very　small　latticed　window；　within　a　foot　of　the　ground；　made　still　smaller　by　the　growth　of　ivy　or　some　other　creeping　plant；　whose　leaves　clustered　thick　over　the　portion　of　the　house　wall　in　which　it　was　set。　The　aperture　was　so　screened　and　narrow；　that　curtain　or　shutter　had　been　deemed　unnecessary；　and　when　I　stooped　down　and　put　aside　the　spray　of　foliage　shooting　over　it；　I　could　see　all　within。　I　could　see　clearly　a　room　with　a　sanded　floor；　clean　scoured；　a　dresser　of　walnut；　with　pewter　plates　ranged　in　rows；　reflecting　the　redness　and　radiance　of　a　glowing　peat…fire。　I　could　see　a　clock；　a　white　deal　table；　some　chairs。　The　candle；　whose　ray　had　been　my　beacon；　burnt　on　the　table；　and　by　its　light　an　elderly　woman；　somewhat　rough…looking；　but　scrupulously　clean；　like　all　about　her；　was　knitting　a　stocking。

I　noticed　these　objects　cursorily　only—in　them　there　was　nothing　extraordinary。　A　group　of　more　interest　appeared　near　the　hearth；　sitting　still　amidst　the　rosy　peace　and　warmth　suffusing　it。　Two　young；　graceful　women—ladies　in　every　point—sat；　one　in　a　low　rocking…chair；　the　other　on　a　lower　stool；　both　wore　deep　mourning　of　crape　and　bombazeen；　which　sombre　garb　singularly　set　off　very　fair　necks　and　faces：　a　large　old　pointer　dog　rested　its　massive　head　on　the　knee　of　one　girl—in　the　lap　of　the　other　was　cushioned　a　black　cat。

A　strange　place　was　this　humble　kitchen　for　such　occupants！　Who　were　they？　They　could　not　be　the　daughters　of　the　elderly　person　at　the　table；　for　she　looked　like　a　rustic；　and　they　were　all　delicacy　and　cultivation。　I　had　nowhere　seen　such　faces　as　theirs：　and　yet；　as　I　gazed　on　them；　I　seemed　intimate　with　every　lineament。　I　cannot　call　them　handsome—they　were　too　pale　and　grave　for　the　word：　as　they　each　bent　over　a　book；　they　looked　thoughtful　almost　to　severity。　A　stand　between　them　supported　a　second　candle　and　two　great　volumes；　to　paring　them；　seemingly；　with　the　smaller　books　they　held　in　their　hands；　like　people　consulting　a　dictionary　to　aid　them　in　the　task　of　translation。　This　scene　was　as　silent　as　if　all　the　figures　had　been　shadows　and　the　firelit　apartment　a　picture：　so　hushed　was　it；　I　could　hear　the　cinders　fall　from　the　grate；　the　clock　tick　in　its　obscure　corner；　and　I　even　fancied　I　could　distinguish　the　click…　click　of　the　woman’s　knitting…needles。　When；　therefore；　a　voice　broke　the　strange　stillness　at　last；　it　was　audible　enough　to　me。

“Listen；　Diana；”　said　one　of　the　absorbed　students；　“Franz　and　old　Daniel　are　together　in　the　night…time；　and　Franz　is　telling　a　dream　from　which　he　has　awakened　in　terror—listen！”　And　in　a　low　voice　she　read　something；　of　which　not　one　word　was　intelligible　to　me；　for　it　was　in　an　unknown　tongue—neither　French　nor　Latin。　Whether　it　were　Greek

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