简爱(英文版)-第64章

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ey…headed　man；　at　whose　side　his　lovely　daughter　looked　like　a　bright　flower　near　a　hoary　turret。　He　appeared　a　taciturn；　and　perhaps　a　proud　personage；　but　he　was　very　kind　to　me。　The　sketch　of　Rosamond’s　portrait　pleased　him　highly：　he　said　I　must　make　a　finished　picture　of　it。　He　insisted；　too；　on　my　ing　the　next　day　to　spend　the　evening　at　Vale　Hall。
I　went。　I　found　it　a　large；　handsome　residence；　showing　abundant　evidences　of　wealth　in　the　proprietor。　Rosamond　was　full　of　glee　and　pleasure　all　the　time　I　stayed。　Her　father　was　affable；　and　when　he　entered　into　conversation　with　me　after　tea；　he　expressed　in　strong　terms　his　approbation　of　what　I　had　done　in　Morton　school；　and　said　he　only　feared；　from　what　he　saw　and　heard；　I　was　too　good　for　the　place；　and　ore　suitable。
“Indeed；”　cried　Rosamond；　“she　is　clever　enough　to　be　a　governess　in　a　high　family；　papa。”
I　thought　I　would　far　rather　be　where　I　am　than　in　any　high　family　in　the　land。　Mr。　Oliver　spoke　of　Mr。　Rivers—of　the　Rivers　family—　with　great　respect。　He　said　it　was　a　very　old　name　in　that　neighbourhood；　that　the　ancestors　of　the　house　were　wealthy；　that　all　Morton　had　once　belonged　to　them；　that　even　now　he　considered　the　representative　of　that　house　might；　if　he　liked；　make　an　alliance　with　the　best。　He　accounted　it　a　pity　that　so　fine　and　talented　a　young　man　should　have　formed　the　design　of　going　out　as　a　missionary；　it　was　quite　throwing　a　valuable　life　away。　It　appeared；　then；　that　her　father　would　throw　no　obstacle　in　the　way　of　Rosamond’s　union　with　St。　John。　Mr。　Oliver　evidently　regarded　the　young　clergyman’s　good　birth；　old　name；　and　sacred　profession　as　sufficient　pensation　for　the　want　of　fortune。
It　was　the　5th　of　November；　and　a　holiday。　My　little　servant；　after　helping　me　to　clean　my　house；　was　gone；　well　satisfied　with　the　fee　of　a　penny　for　her　aid。　All　about　me　was　spotless　and　bright—　scoured　floor；　polished　grate；　and　well…rubbed　chairs。　I　had　also　made　myself　neat；　and　had　now　the　afternoon　before　me　to　spend　as　I　would。
The　translation　of　a　few　pages　of　German　occupied　an　hour；　then　I　got　my　palette　and　pencils；　and　fell　to　the　more　soothing；　because　easier　occupation；　of　pleting　Rosamond　Oliver’s　miniature。　The　head　was　finished　already：　there　was　but　the　background　to　tint　and　the　drapery　to　shade　off；　a　touch　of　carmine；　too；　to　add　to　the　ripe　lips—a　soft　curl　here　and　there　to　the　tresses—a　deeper　tinge　to　the　shadow　of　the　lash　under　the　azured　eyelid。　I　was　absorbed　in　the　execution　of　these　nice　details；　when；　after　one　rapid　tap；　my　door　unclosed；　admitting　St。　John　Rivers。
“I　am　e　to　see　how　you　are　spending　your　holiday；”　he　said。　“Not；　I　hope；　in　thought？　No；　that　is　well：　while　you　draw　you　will　not　feel　lonely。　You　see；　I　mistrust　you　still；　though　you　have　borne　up　wonderfully　so　far。　I　have　brought　you　a　book　for　evening　solace；”　and　he　laid　on　the　table　a　new　publication—a　poem：　one　of　those　genuine　productions　so　often　vouchsafed　to　the　fortunate　public　of　those　days—the　golden　age　of　modern　literature。　Alas！　the　readers　of　our　era　are　less　favoured。　But　courage！　I　will　not　pause　either　to　accuse　or　repine。　I　know　poetry　is　not　dead；　nor　genius　lost；　nor　has　Mammon　gained　power　over　either；　to　bind　or　slay：　they　will　both　assert　their　existence；　their　presence；　their　liberty　and　strength　again　one　day。　Powerful　angels；　safe　in　heaven！　they　smile　when　sordid　souls　triumph；　and　feeble　ones　weep　over　their　destruction。　Poetry　destroyed？　Genius　banished？　No！　Mediocrity；　no：　do　not　let　envy　prompt　you　to　the　thought。　No；　they　not　only　live；　but　reign　and　redeem：　and　without　their　divine　influence　spread　everywhere；　you　would　be　in　hell—the　hell　of　your　own　meanness。
While　I　was　eagerly　glancing　at　the　bright　pages　of　“Marmion”　（for　“Marmion”　it　was）；　St。　John　stooped　to　examine　my　drawing。　His　tall　figure　sprang　erect　again　with　a　start：　he　said　nothing。　I　looked　up　at　him：　he　shunned　my　eye。　I　knew　his　thoughts　well；　and　could　read　his　heart　plainly；　at　the　moment　I　felt　calmer　and　cooler　than　he：　I　had　then　temporarily　the　advantage　of　him；　and　I　conceived　an　inclination　to　do　him　some　good；　if　I　could。
“With　all　his　firmness　and　self…control；”　thought　I；　“he　tasks　himself　too　far：　locks　every　feeling　and　pang　within—expresses；　confesses；　imparts　nothing。　I　am　sure　it　would　benefit　him　to　talk　a　little　about　this　sweet　Rosamond；　whom　he　thinks　he　ought　not　to　marry：　I　will　make　him　talk。”
I　said　first；　“Take　a　chair；　Mr。　Rivers。”　But　he　answered；　as　he　always　did；　that　he　could　not　stay。　“Very　well；”　I　responded；　mentally；　“stand　if　you　like；　but　you　shall　not　go　just　yet；　I　am　determined：　solitude　is　at　least　as　bad　for　you　as　it　is　for　me。　I’ll　try　if　I　cannot　discover　the　secret　spring　of　your　confidence；　and　find　an　aperture　in　that　marble　breast　through　which　I　can　shed　one　drop　of　the　balm　of　sympathy。”
“Is　this　portrait　like？”　I　asked　bluntly。
“Like！　Like　whom？　I　did　not　observe　it　closely。”
“You　did；　Mr。　Rivers。”
He　almost　started　at　my　sudden　and　strange　abruptness：　he　looked　at　me　astonished。　“Oh；　that　is　nothing　yet；”　I　muttered　within。　“I　don’t　mean　to　be　baffled　by　a　little　stiffness　on　your　part；　I’m　prepared　to　go　to　considerable　lengths。”　I　continued；　“You　observed　it　closely　and　distinctly；　but　I　have　no　objection　to　your　looking　at　it　again；”　and　I　rose　and　placed　it　in　his　hand。
“A　well…executed　picture；”　he　said；　“very　soft；　clear　colouring；　very　graceful　and　correct　drawing。”
“Yes；　yes；　I　know　all　that。　But　what　of　the　resemblance？　Who　is　it　like？”
Mastering　some　hesitation；　he　answered；　“Miss　Oliver；　I　presume。”
“Of　course。　And　now；　sir；　to　reward　you　for　the　accurate　guess；　I　will　promise　to　paint　you　a　careful　and　faithful　duplicate　of　this　very　picture；　provided　you　admit　that　the　gift　would　be　acceptable　to　you。　I　don’t　wish　to　throw　away　my　time　and　trouble　on　an　offering　you　would　deem　worthless。”
He　continued　to　gaze　at　the　picture：　the　longer　he　looked；　the　firmer　he　held　it；　the　more　he　seemed　to　covet　it。　“It　is　like！”　he　murmured；　“the　eye　is　well　managed：　the　colour；　light；　expression；　are　perfect。　It　smiles！”
“Would　it　fort；　or　would　it　wound　you　to　have　a　similar　painting？　Tell　me　that。　When　you　are　at　Madagascar；　or　at　the　Cape；　or　in　India；　would　it　be　a　consolation　to　have　that　memento　in　your　possession？　or　would　the　sight　of　it　bring　recollections　calculated　to　enervate　and　distress？”
He　now　furtively　raised　his　eyes：　he　glanced　at　me；　irresolute；　disturbed：　he　again　surveyed　the　picture。
“That　I　should　like　to　have　it　is　certain：　whether　it　would　be　judicious　or　wise　is　another　question。”
Since　I　had　ascertained　that　Rosamond　really　preferred　him；　and　that　her　father　was　not　likely　to　oppose　the　match；　I—less　exalted　in　my　views　than　St。　John—had　been　strongly　disposed　in　my　own　heart　to　advocate　their　union。　It　seemed　to　me　that；　should　he　bee　the　possessor　of　Mr。　Oliver’s　large　fortune；　he　might　do　as　much　good　with　it　as　if　he　went　and　laid　his　genius　out　to　wither；　and　his　strength　to　waste；　under　a　tropical　sun。　With　this　persuasion　I　now　answered—
“As　far　as　I　can　see；　it　would　be　wiser　and　more　judicious　if　you　were　to　take　to　yourself　the　original　at　once。”
By　this　time　he　had　sat　down：　he　had　laid　the　picture　on　the　table　before　him；　and　with　his　brow　supported　on　both　hands；　hung　fondly　over　it。　I　discerned　he　was　now　neither　angry　nor　shocked　at　my　audacity。　I　saw　even　that　to　be　thus　frankly　addressed　on　a　subject　he　had　deemed　unapproachable—to　hear　it　thus　freely　handled—was　beginning　to　be　felt　by　him　as　a　new　pleasure—an　unhoped…for　relief。　Reserved　people　often　really　need　the　frank　discussion　of　their　sentiments　and　griefs　more　than　the　expansive。　The　sternest…　seeming　stoic　is　human　after　all；　and　to　“burst”　with　boldness　and　good…will　into　“the　silent　sea”　of　their　souls　is　often　to　confer　on　them　the　first　of　obligations。
“She　likes　you；　I　am　sure；”　said　I；　as　I　stood　behind　his　chair；　“and　her　father　respects　you。　Moreover；　she　is　a　sweet　girl—rather　thoughtless；　but　you　would　have　sufficient　thought　for　both　yourself　and　her。　You　ought　to　marry　her。”
“Does　she　like　me？”　he　asked。
“Certainly；　better　than　she　likes　any　one　else。　She　talks　of　you　continually：　there　is　no　subject　she　enjoys　so　much　or　touches　upon　so　often。”
“It　is　very　pleasant　to　hear　this；”　he　said—“very：　go　on　for　another　quarter　of　an　hour。”　And　he　actually　took　out　his　watch　and　laid　it　upon　the　table　to　measure　the　time。
“But　where　is　the　use　of　going　on；”　I　asked；　“when　you　are　probably　preparing　some　iron　blow　of　contradiction；　or　forging　a　fresh　chain　to　fetter　your　heart？”
“Don’t　imagine　such　hard　things。　Fancy　me　yielding　and　melting；　as　I　am　doing：　human　love　rising　like　a　freshly　opened　fountain　in　my　mind　and　overflowing　with　sweet　inundation　all　the　field　I　have　so　carefully　and　with　such　labour　prepared—so　assiduously　sown　with　the　seeds　of　good　intentions；　of　self…denying　plans。　And　now　it　is　deluged　with　a　nectarous　flood—the　young　germs　swamped—delicious　poison　cankering　them：　now　I　see　myself　stretched　on　an　ottoman　in　the　drawing…room　at　Vale　Hall　at　my　bride　Rosamond　Oliver’s　feet：　she　is　talking　to　me　with　her　sweet　voice—gazing　down　on　me　with　those　eyes　your　skilful　hand　has　copied　so　well—smiling　at　me　with　these　coral　lips。　She　is　mine—I　am　hers—this　present　life　and　passing　world　suffice　to　me。　Hush！　say　nothing—my　heart　is　full　of　delight—my　senses　are　entranced—let　the　time　I　marked　pass　in　peace。”
I　humoured　him：　the　watch　ticked　on：　he　breathed　fast　and　low：　I　stood　silent。　Amidst　this　hush　the　quartet　sped；　he　replaced　the　watch；　laid　the　picture　down；　rose；　and　stood　on　the　hearth。
“Now；”　said　he；　“that　little　space　was　given　to　delirium　and　delusion。　I　rested　my　temples　on　the　breast　of　temptation；　and　put　my　neck　voluntarily　under　her　yoke　of　flowers。　I　tasted　her　cup。　The　pillow　was　burning：　there　is　an　asp　in　the　garland：　the　wine　has　a　bitter　taste：　her　promises　are　hollow—her　offers　false：　I　see　and　know　all　this。”
I　gazed　at　him　in　wonder。
“It　is　strange；”　pursued　he；　“that　while　I　love　Rosamond　Oliver　so　wildly—with　all　the　intensity；　indeed；　of　a　first　passion；　the　object　of　which　is　exquisitely　beautiful；　graceful；　fascinating—I　experience　at　the　same　time　a　calm；　unwarped　consciousness　that　she　would　not　make　me　a　good　wife；　that　she　is　not　the　partner　suited　to　me；　that　I　should　discover　this　within　a　year　after　marriage；　and　that　to　twelve　months’　rapture　would　succeed　a　lifetime　of　regret。　This　I　know。”
“Strange　indeed！”　I　could　not　help　ejaculating。
“While　something　in　me；”　he　went　on；　“is　acutely　sensible　to　her　charms；　something　else　is　as　deeply　impressed　with　her　defects：　they　are　such　that　she　could　sympathise　in　nothing　I　aspired　to—co…　operate　in　nothing　I　undertook。　Rosamond　a　sufferer；　a　labourer；　a　female　apostle？　Rosamond　a　missionary’s　wife？　No！”
“But　you　need　not　be　a　missionary。　You　might　relinquish　that　scheme。”
“Relinquish！　What！　my　vocation？　My　great　work？　My　foundation　laid　on　earth　for　a　mansion　in　heaven？　My　hopes　of　being　numbered　in　the　band　who　have　merged　all　ambitions　in　the　glorious　one　of　bettering　their　race—of　carrying　knowledge　into　the　realms　of　ignorance—of　substituting　peace　for　war—freedom　for　bondage—religion　for　superstition—the　hope　of　heaven　for　the　fear　of　hell？　Must　I　relinquish　that？　It　is　dearer　than　the　blood　in　my　veins。　It　is　what　I　have　to　look　forward　to；　and　to　live　for。”
After　a　considerable　pause；　I　said—“And　Miss　Oliver？　Are　her　disappointment　and　sorrow　of　no　interest　to　you？”
“Miss　Oliver　is　ever　surrounded　by　suitors　and　flatterers：　in　less　than　a　month；　my　image　will　be　effaced　from　her　heart。　She　will　forget　me；　and　will　marry；　probably；　some　one　who　will　make　her　far　happier　than　I　should　do。”
“You　speak　coolly　enough；　but　you　suffer　in　the　conflict。　You　are　wasting　away。”
“No。　If　I　get　a　little　thin；　it　is　with　anxiety　about　my　prospects；　yet　unsettled—my　departure；　continually　procrastinated。　Only　this　morning；　I　received　intelligence　that　the　successor；　whose　arrival　I　have　been　so　long　expecting；　cannot　be　ready　to　replace　me　for　three　months　to　e　yet；　and　perhaps　the　three　months　may　extend　to　six。”
“You　tremble　and　bee　flushed　whenever　Miss　Oliver　enters　the　schoolroom。”
Again　the　surprised　expression　crossed　his　face。　He　had　not　imagined　that　a　woman　would　dare　to　speak　so　to　a　man。　For　me；　I　felt　at　home　in　this　sort　of　discourse。　I　could　never　rest　in　munication　with　strong；　discreet；　and　refined　minds；　whether　male　or　female；　till　I　had　passed　the　outworks　of　conventional　reserve；　and　crossed　the　threshold　of　confidence；　and　won　a　place　by　their　heart’s　very　hearthstone。
“You　are　original；”　said　he；　“and　not　timid。　There　is　something　brave　in　your　spirit；　as　well　as　perating　in　your　eye；　but　allow　me　to　assure　you　that　you　partially　misinterpret　my　emotions。　You　think　them　more　profound　and　potent　than　they　are。　You　give　me　a　larger　allowance　of　sympathy　than　I　have　a　just　claim　to。　When　I　colour；　and　when　I　shade　before　Miss　Oliver；　I　do　not　pity　myself。　I　scorn　the　weakness。　I　know　it　is　ignoble：　a　mere　fever　o