简爱(英文版)-第65章

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before　Miss　Oliver；　I　do　not　pity　myself。　I　scorn　the　weakness。　I　know　it　is　ignoble：　a　mere　fever　of　the　flesh：　not；　I　declare；　the　convulsion　of　the　soul。　That　is　just　as　fixed　as　a　rock；　firm　set　in　the　depths　of　a　restless　sea。　Know　me　to　be　what　I　am—a　cold　hard　man。”
I　smiled　incredulously。
“You　have　taken　my　confidence　by　storm；”　he　continued；　“and　now　it　is　much　at　your　service。　I　am　simply；　in　my　original　state—　stripped　of　that　blood…bleached　robe　with　which　Christianity　covers　human　deformity—a　cold；　hard；　ambitious　man。　Natural　affection　only；　of　all　the　sentiments；　has　permanent　power　over　me。　Reason；　and　not　feeling；　is　my　guide；　my　ambition　is　unlimited：　my　desire　to　rise　higher；　to　do　more　than　others；　insatiable。　I　honour　endurance；　perseverance；　industry；　talent；　because　these　are　the　means　by　which　men　achieve　great　ends　and　mount　to　lofty　eminence。　I　watch　your　career　with　interest；　because　I　consider　you　a　specimen　of　a　diligent；　orderly；　energetic　woman：　not　because　I　deeply　passionate　what　you　have　gone　through；　or　what　you　still　suffer。”
“You　would　describe　yourself　as　a　mere　pagan　philosopher；”　I　said。
“No。　There　is　this　difference　between　me　and　deistic　philosophers：　I　believe；　and　I　believe　the　Gospel。　You　missed　your　epithet。　I　am　not　a　pagan；　but　a　Christian　philosopher—a　follower　of　the　sect　of　Jesus。　As　His　disciple　I　adopt　His　pure；　His　merciful；　His　benignant　doctrines。　I　advocate　them：　I　am　sworn　to　spread　them。　Won　in　youth　to　religion；　she　has　cultivated　my　original　qualities　thus：…　From　the　minute　germ；　natural　affection；　she　has　developed　the　overshadowing　tree；　philanthropy。　From　the　wild　stringy　root　of　human　uprightness；　she　has　reared　a　due　sense　of　the　Divine　justice。　Of　the　ambition　to　win　power　and　renown　for　my　wretched　self；　she　has　formed　the　ambition　to　spread　my　Master’s　kingdom；　to　achieve　victories　for　the　standard　of　the　cross。　So　much　has　religion　done　for　me；　turning　the　original　materials　to　the　best　account；　pruning　and　training　nature。　But　she　could　not　eradicate　nature：　nor　will　it　be　eradicated　‘till　this　mortal　shall　put　on　immortality。’”
Having　said　this；　he　took　his　hat；　which　lay　on　the　table　beside　my　palette。　Once　more　he　looked　at　the　portrait。
“She　IS　lovely；”　he　murmured。　“She　is　well　named　the　Rose　of　the　World；　indeed！”
“And　may　I　not　paint　one　like　it　for　you？”
“Cui　bono？　No。”
He　drew　over　the　picture　the　sheet　of　thin　paper　on　which　I　was　accustomed　to　rest　my　hand　in　painting；　to　prevent　the　cardboard　from　being　sullied。　What　he　suddenly　saw　on　this　blank　paper；　it　was　impossible　for　me　to　tell；　but　something　had　caught　his　eye。　He　took　it　up　with　a　snatch；　he　looked　at　the　edge；　then　shot　a　glance　at　me；　inexpressibly　peculiar；　and　quite　inprehensible：　a　glance　that　seemed　to　take　and　make　note　of　every　point　in　my　shape；　face；　and　dress；　for　it　traversed　all；　quick；　keen　as　lightning。　His　lips　parted；　as　if　to　speak：　but　he　checked　the　ing　sentence；　whatever　it　was。
“What　is　the　matter？”　I　asked。
“Nothing　in　the　world；”　was　the　reply；　and；　replacing　the　paper；　I　saw　him　dexterously　tear　a　narrow　slip　from　the　margin。　It　disappeared　in　his　glove；　and；　with　one　hasty　nod　and　“good…　afternoon；”　he　vanished。
“Well！”　I　exclaimed；　using　an　expression　of　the　district；　“that　caps　the　globe；　however！”
I；　in　my　turn；　scrutinised　the　paper；　but　saw　nothing　on　it　save　a　few　dingy　stains　of　paint　where　I　had　tried　the　tint　in　my　pencil。　I　pondered　the　mystery　a　minute　or　two；　but　finding　it　insolvable；　and　being　certain　it　could　not　be　of　much　moment；　I　dismissed；　and　soon　forgot　it。
Chapter　34
When　Mr。　St。　John　went；　it　was　beginning　to　snow；　the　whirling　storm　continued　all　night。　The　next　day　a　keen　wind　brought　fresh　and　blinding　falls；　by　twilight　the　valley　was　drifted　up　and　almost　impassable。　I　had　closed　my　shutter；　laid　a　mat　to　the　door　to　prevent　the　snow　from　blowing　in　under　it；　trimmed　my　fire；　and　after　sitting　nearly　an　hour　on　the　hearth　listening　to　the　muffled　fury　of　the　tempest；　I　lit　a　candle；　took　down　“Marmion；”　and　beginning—
“Day　set　on　Norham’s　castled　steep；
And　Tweed’s　fair　river　broad　and　deep；
And　Cheviot’s　mountains　lone；
The　massive　towers；　the　donjon　keep；
The　flanking　walls　that　round　them　sweep；
In　yellow　lustre　shone”—
I　soon　forgot　storm　in　music。
I　heard　a　noise：　the　wind；　I　thought；　shook　the　door。　No；　it　was　St。　John　Rivers；　who；　lifting　the　latch；　came　in　out　of　the　frozen　hurricane—the　howling　darkness—and　stood　before　me：　the　cloak　that　covered　his　tall　figure　all　white　as　a　glacier。　I　was　almost　in　consternation；　so　little　had　I　expected　any　guest　from　the　blocked…up　vale　that　night。
“Any　ill　news？”　I　demanded。　“Has　anything　happened？”
“No。　How　very　easily　alarmed　you　are？”　he　answered；　removing　his　cloak　and　hanging　it　up　against　the　door；　towards　which　he　again　coolly　pushed　the　mat　which　his　entrance　had　deranged。　He　stamped　the　snow　from　his　boots。
“I　shall　sully　the　purity　of　your　floor；”　said　he；　“but　you　must　excuse　me　for　once。”　Then　he　approached　the　fire。　“I　have　had　hard　work　to　get　here；　I　assure　you；”　he　observed；　as　he　warmed　his　hands　over　the　flame。　“One　drift　took　me　up　to　the　waist；　happily　the　snow　is　quite　soft　yet。”
“But　why　are　you　e？”　I　could　not　forbear　saying。
“Rather　an　inhospitable　question　to　put　to　a　visitor；　but　since　you　ask　it；　I　answer　simply　to　have　a　little　talk　with　you；　I　got　tired　of　my　mute　books　and　empty　rooms。　Besides；　since　yesterday　I　have　experienced　the　excitement　of　a　person　to　whom　a　tale　has　been　half…　told；　and　who　is　impatient　to　hear　the　sequel。”
He　sat　down。　I　recalled　his　singular　conduct　of　yesterday；　and　really　I　began　to　fear　his　wits　were　touched。　If　he　were　insane；　however；　his　was　a　very　cool　and　collected　insanity：　I　had　never　seen　that　handsome…featured　face　of　his　look　more　like　chiselled　marble　than　it　did　just　now；　as　he　put　aside　his　snow…wet　hair　from　his　forehead　and　let　the　firelight　shine　free　on　his　pale　brow　and　cheek　as　pale；　where　it　grieved　me　to　discover　the　hollow　trace　of　care　or　sorrow　now　so　plainly　graved。　I　waited；　expecting　he　would　say　something　I　could　at　least　prehend；　but　his　hand　was　now　at　his　chin；　his　finger　on　his　lip：　he　was　thinking。　It　struck　me　that　his　hand　looked　wasted　like　his　face。　A　perhaps　uncalled…for　gush　of　pity　came　over　my　heart：　I　was　moved　to　say—
“I　wish　Diana　or　Mary　would　e　and　live　with　you：　it　is　too　bad　that　you　should　be　quite　alone；　and　you　are　recklessly　rash　about　your　own　health。”
“Not　at　all；”　said　he：　“I　care　for　myself　when　necessary。　I　am　well　now。　What　do　you　see　amiss　in　me？”
This　was　said　with　a　careless；　abstracted　indifference；　which　showed　that　my　solicitude　was；　at　least　in　his　opinion；　wholly　superfluous。　I　was　silenced。
He　still　slowly　moved　his　finger　over　his　upper　lip；　and　still　his　eye　dwelt　dreamily　on　the　glowing　grate；　thinking　it　urgent　to　say　something；　I　asked　him　presently　if　he　felt　any　cold　draught　from　the　door；　which　was　behind　him。
“No；　no！”　he　responded　shortly　and　somewhat　testily。
“Well；”　I　reflected；　“if　you　won’t　talk；　you　may　be　still；　I’ll　let　you　alone　now；　and　return　to　my　book。”
So　I　snuffed　the　candle　and　resumed　the　perusal　of　“Marmion。”　He　soon　stirred；　my　eye　was　instantly　drawn　to　his　movements；　he　only　took　out　a　morocco　pocket…book；　thence　produced　a　letter；　which　he　read　in　silence；　folded　it；　put　it　back；　relapsed　into　meditation。　It　was　vain　to　try　to　read　with　such　an　inscrutable　fixture　before　me；　nor　could　I；　in　impatience；　consent　to　be　dumb；　he　might　rebuff　me　if　my　he　liked；　but　talk　I　would。
“Have　you　heard　from　Diana　and　Mary　lately？”
“Not　since　the　letter　I　showed　you　a　week　ago。”
“There　has　not　been　any　change　made　about　your　own　arrangements？　You　will　not　be　summoned　to　leave　England　sooner　than　you　expected？”
“I　fear　not；　indeed：　such　chance　is　too　good　to　befall　me。”　Baffled　so　far；　I　changed　my　ground。　I　bethought　myself　to　talk　about　the　school　and　my　scholars。
“Mary　Garrett’s　mother　is　better；　and　Mary　came　back　to　the　school　this　morning；　and　I　shall　have　four　new　girls　next　week　from　the　Foundry　Close—they　would　have　e　to…day　but　for　the　snow。”
“Indeed！”
“Mr。　Oliver　pays　for　two。”
“Does　he？”
“He　means　to　give　the　whole　school　a　treat　at　Christmas。”
“I　know。”
“Was　it　your　suggestion？”
“No。”
“Whose；　then？”
“His　daughter’s；　I　think。”
“It　is　like　her：　she　is　so　good…natured。”
“Yes。”
Again　came　the　blank　of　a　pause：　the　clock　struck　eight　strokes。　It　aroused　him；　he　uncrossed　his　legs；　sat　erect；　turned　to　me。
“Leave　your　book　a　moment；　and　e　a　little　nearer　the　fire；”　he　said。
Wondering；　and　of　my　wonder　finding　no　end；　I　plied。
“Half…an…hour　ago；”　he　pursued；　“I　spoke　of　my　impatience　to　hear　the　sequel　of　a　tale：　on　reflection；　I　find　the　matter　will　be　better　managed　by　my　assuming　the　narrator’s　part；　and　converting　you　into　a　listener。　Before　mencing；　it　is　but　fair　to　warn　you　that　the　story　will　sound　somewhat　hackneyed　in　your　ears；　but　stale　details　often　regain　a　degree　of　freshness　when　they　pass　through　new　lips。　For　the　rest；　whether　trite　or　novel；　it　is　short。
“Twenty　years　ago；　a　poor　curate—never　mind　his　name　at　this　moment—fell　in　love　with　a　rich　man’s　daughter；　she　fell　in　love　with　him；　and　married　him；　against　the　advice　of　all　her　friends；　who　consequently　disowned　her　immediately　after　the　wedding。　Before　two　years　passed；　the　rash　pair　were　both　dead；　and　laid　quietly　side　by　side　under　one　slab。　（I　have　seen　their　grave；　it　formed　part　of　the　pavement　of　a　huge　churchyard　surrounding　the　grim；　soot…black　old　cathedral　of　an　overgrown　manufacturing　town　in　—　shire。）　They　left　a　daughter；　which；　at　its　very　birth；　Charity　received　in　her　lap—cold　as　that　of　the　snow…drift　I　almost　stuck　fast　in　to…night。　Charity　carried　the　friendless　thing　to　the　house　of　its　rich　maternal　relations；　it　was　reared　by　an　aunt…in…law；　called　（I　e　to　names　now）　Mrs。　Reed　of　Gateshead。　You　start—did　you　hear　a　noise？　I　daresay　it　is　only　a　rat　scrambling　along　the　rafters　of　the　adjoining　schoolroom：　it　was　a　barn　before　I　had　it　repaired　and　altered；　and　barns　are　generally　haunted　by　rats。—To　proceed。　Mrs。　Reed　kept　the　orphan　ten　years：　whether　it　was　happy　or　not　with　her；　I　cannot　say；　never　having　been　told；　but　at　the　end　of　that　time　she　transferred　it　to　a　place　you　know—being　no　other　than　Lowood　School；　where　you　so　long　resided　yourself。　It　seems　her　career　there　was　very　honourable：　from　a　pupil；　she　became　a　teacher；　like　yourself—really　it　strikes　me　there　are　parallel　points　in　her　history　and　yours—she　left　it　to　be　a　governess：　there；　again；　your　fates　were　analogous；　she　undertook　the　education　of　the　ward　of　a　certain　Mr。　Rochester。”
“Mr。　Rivers！”　I　interrupted。
“I　can　guess　your　feelings；”　he　said；　“but　restrain　them　for　a　while：　I　have　nearly　finished；　hear　me　to　the　end。　Of　Mr。　Rochester’s　character　I　know　nothing；　but　the　one　fact　that　he　professed　to　offer　honourable　marriage　to　this　young　girl；　and　that　at　the　very　altar　she　discovered　he　had　a　wife　yet　alive；　though　a　lunatic。　What　his　subsequent　conduct　and　proposals　were　is　a　matter　of　pure　conjecture；　but　when　an　event　transpired　which　rendered　inquiry　after　the　governess　necessary；　it　was　discovered　she　was　gone—no　one　could　tell　when；　where；　or　how。　She　had　left　Thornfield　Hall　in　the　night；　every　research　after　her　course　had　been　vain：　the　country　had　been　scoured　far　and　wide；　no　vestige　of　information　could　be　gathered　respecting　her。　Yet　that　she　should　be　found　is　bee　a　matter　of　serious　urgency：　advertisements　have　been　put　in　all　the　papers；　I　myself　have　received　a　letter　from　one　Mr。　Briggs；　a　solicitor；　municating　the　details　I　have　just　imparted。　Is　it　not　an　odd　tale？”
“Just　tell　me　this；”　said　I；　“and　since　you　know　so　much；　you　surely　can　tell　it　me—what　of　Mr。　Rochester？　How　and　where　is　he？　What　is　he　doing？　Is　he　well？”
“I　am　ignorant　of　all　concerning　Mr。　Rochester：　the　letter　never　mentions　him　but　to　narrate　the　fraudulent　and　illegal　attempt　I　have　adverted　to。　You　should　rather　ask　the　name　of　the　governess—　the　nature　of　the　event　which　requires　her　appearance。”
“Did　no　one　go　to　Thornfield　Hall；　then？　Did　no　one　see　Mr。　Rochester？”
“I　suppose　not。”
“But　they　wrote　to　him？”
“Of　course。”
“And　what　did　he　say？　Who　has　his　letters？”
“Mr。　Briggs　intimates　that　the　answer　to　his　application　was　not　from　Mr。　Rochester；　but　from　a　lady：　it　is　signed　‘Alice　Fairfax。’”
I　felt　cold　and　dismayed：　my　worst　fears　then　were　probably　true：　he　had　in　all　probability　left　England　and　rushed　in　reckless　desperation　to　some　former　haunt　on　the　Continent。　And　what　opiate　for　his　severe　sufferings—what　object　for　his　strong　passions—had　he　sought　there？　I　dared　not　ansy　poor　master—once　almost　my　husband—whom　I　had　often　called　“my　dear　Edward！”
“He　must　have　been　a　bad　man；”　observed　Mr。　Rivers。
“You　don’t　know　him—don’t　pronounce　an　opinion　upon　him；”　I　said；　with　warmth。
“Very　well；”　he　answered　quietly：　“and　indeed　my　head　is　otherwise　occupied　than　with　him：　I　have　my　tale　to　finish。　Since　you　won’t　ask　the　governess’s　name；