简爱(英文版)-第73章

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“In　a　few　more　hours　I　shall　succeed　you　in　that　track；　cousin；”　thought　I：　“I　too　have　a　coach　to　meet　at　Whitcross。　I　too　have　some　to　see　and　ask　after　in　England；　before　I　depart　for　ever。”
It　wanted　yet　two　hours　of　breakfast…time。　I　filled　the　interval　in　walking　softly　about　my　room；　and　pondering　the　visitation　which　had　given　my　plans　their　present　bent。　I　recalled　that　inward　sensation　I　had　experienced：　for　I　could　recall　it；　with　all　its　unspeakable　strangeness。　I　recalled　the　voice　I　had　heard；　again　I　questioned　whence　it　came；　as　vainly　as　before：　it　seemed　in　me—not　in　the　external　world。　I　asked　was　it　a　mere　nervous　impression—a　delusion？　I　could　not　conceive　or　believe：　it　was　more　like　an　inspiration。　The　wondrous　shock　of　feeling　had　e　like　the　earthquake　which　shook　the　foundations　of　Paul　and　Silas’s　prison；　it　had　opened　the　doors　of　the　soul’s　cell　and　loosed　its　bands—it　had　wakened　it　out　of　its　sleep；　whence　it　sprang　trembling；　listening；　aghast；　then　vibrated　thrice　a　cry　on　my　startled　ear；　and　in　my　quaking　heart　and　through　my　spirit；　which　neither　feared　nor　shook；　but　exulted　as　if　in　joy　over　the　success　of　one　effort　it　had　been　privileged　to　make；　independent　of　the　cumbrous　body。
“Ere　many　days；”　I　said；　as　I　terminated　my　musings；　“I　will　know　something　of　him　whose　voice　seemed　last　night　to　summon　me。　Letters　have　proved　of　no　avail—personal　inquiry　shall　replace　them。”
At　breakfast　I　announced　to　Diana　and　Mary　that　I　was　going　a　journey；　and　should　be　absent　at　least　four　days。
“Alone；　Jane？”　they　asked。
“Yes；　it　was　to　see　or　hear　news　of　a　friend　about　whom　I　had　for　some　time　been　uneasy。”
They　might　have　said；　as　I　have　no　doubt　they　thought；　that　they　had　believed　me　to　be　without　any　friends　save　them：　for；　indeed；　I　had　often　said　so；　but；　with　their　true　natural　delicacy；　they　abstained　from　ment；　except　that　Diana　asked　me　if　I　was　sure　I　was　well　enough　to　travel。　I　looked　very　pale；　she　observed。　I　replied；　that　nothing　ailed　me　save　anxiety　of　mind；　which　I　hoped　soon　to　alleviate。
It　was　easy　to　make　my　further　arrangements；　for　I　was　troubled　ises。　Having　once　explained　to　them　that　I　could　not　now　be　explicit　about　my　plans；　they　kindly　and　wisely　acquiesced　in　the　silence　with　which　I　pursued　them；　according　to　me　the　privilege　of　free　action　I　should　under　similar　circumstances　have　accorded　them。
I　left　Moor　House　at　three　o’clock　p。m。；　and　soon　after　four　I　stood　at　the　foot　of　the　sign…post　of　Whitcross；　waiting　the　arrival　of　the　coach　which　was　to　take　me　to　distant　Thornfield。　Amidst　the　silence　of　those　solitary　roads　and　desert　hills；　I　heard　it　approach　from　a　great　distance。　It　was　the　same　vehicle　whence；　a　year　ago；　I　had　alighted　one　summer　evening　on　this　very　spot—how　desolate；　and　hopeless；　and　objectless！　It　stopped　as　I　beckoned。　I　entered—not　now　obliged　to　part　with　my　whole　fortune　as　the　price　of　its　acmodation。　Once　more　on　the　road　to　Thornfield；　I　felt　like　the　messenger…pigeon　flying　home。
It　was　a　journey　of　six…and…thirty　hours。　I　had　set　out　from　Whitcross　on　a　Tuesday　afternoon；　and　early　on　the　succeeding　Thursday　morning　the　coach　stopped　to　water　the　horses　at　a　wayside　inn；　situated　in　the　midst　of　scenery　whose　green　hedges　and　large　fields　and　low　pastoral　hills　（how　mild　of　feature　and　verdant　of　hue　pared　with　the　stern　North…Midland　moors　of　Morton！）　met　my　eye　like　the　lineaments　of　a　once　familiar　face。　Yes；　I　knew　the　character　of　this　landscape：　I　was　sure　we　were　near　my　bourne。
“How　far　is　Thornfield　Hall　from　here？”　I　asked　of　the　ostler。
“Just　two　miles；　ma’am；　across　the　fields。”
“My　journey　is　closed；”　I　thought　to　myself。　I　got　out　of　the　coach；　gave　a　box　I　had　into　the　ostler’s　charge；　to　be　kept　till　I　called　for　it；　paid　my　fare；　satisfied　the　coachman；　and　was　going：　the　brightening　day　gleamed　on　the　sign　of　the　inn；　and　I　read　in　gilt　letters；　“The　Rochester　Arms。”　My　heart　leapt　up：　I　was　already　on　my　master’s　very　lands。　It　fell　again：　the　thought　struck　it：—
“Your　master　himself　may　be　beyond　the　British　Channel；　for　aught　you　know：　and　then；　if　he　is　at　Thornfield　Hall；　towards　which　you　hasten；　who　besides　him　is　there？　His　lunatic　wife：　and　you　have　nothing　to　do　with　him：　you　dare　not　speak　to　him　or　seek　his　presence。　You　have　lost　your　labour—you　had　better　go　no　farther；”　urged　the　monitor。　“Ask　information　of　the　people　at　the　inn；　they　can　give　you　all　you　seek：　they　can　solve　your　doubts　at　once。　Go　up　to　that　man；　and　inquire　if　Mr。　Rochester　be　at　home。”
The　suggestion　was　sensible；　and　yet　I　could　not　force　myself　to　act　on　it。　I　so　dreaded　a　reply　that　would　crush　me　with　despair。　To　prolong　doubt　was　to　prolong　hope。　I　might　yet　once　more　see　the　Hall　under　the　ray　of　her　star。　There　was　the　stile　before　me—the　very　fields　through　which　I　had　hurried；　blind；　deaf；　distracted　with　a　revengeful　fury　tracking　and　scourging　me；　on　the　morning　I　fled　from　Thornfield：　ere　I　well　knew　what　course　I　had　resolved　to　take；　I　was　in　the　midst　of　them。　How　fast　I　walked！　How　I　ran　sometimes！　How　I　looked　forward　to　catch　the　first　view　of　the　well…known　woods！　With　what　feelings　I　weled　single　trees　I　knew；　and　familiar　glimpses　of　meadow　and　hill　between　them！
At　last　the　woods　rose；　the　rookery　clustered　dark；　a　loud　cawing　broke　the　morning　stillness。　Strange　delight　inspired　me：　on　I　hastened。　Another　field　crossed—a　lane　threaded—and　there　were　the　courtyard　walls—the　back　offices：　the　house　itself；　the　rookery　still　hid。　“My　first　view　of　it　shall　be　in　front；”　I　determined；　“where　its　bold　battlements　will　strike　the　eye　nobly　at　once；　and　where　I　can　single　out　my　master’s　very　window：　perhaps　he　will　be　standing　at　it—he　rises　early：　perhaps　he　is　now　walking　in　the　orchard；　or　on　the　pavement　in　front。　Could　I　but　see　him！—but　a　moment！　Surely；　in　that　case；　I　should　not　be　so　mad　as　to　run　to　him？　I　cannot　tell—I　am　not　certain。　And　if　I　did—what　then？　God　bless　him！　What　then？　Who　would　be　hurt　by　my　once　more　tasting　the　life　his　glance　can　give　me？　I　rave：　perhaps　at　this　moment　he　is　watching　the　sun　rise　over　the　Pyrenees；　or　on　the　tideless　sea　of　the　south。”
I　had　coasted　along　the　lower　wall　of　the　orchard—turned　its　angle：　there　was　a　gate　just　there；　opening　into　the　meadow；　between　two　stone　pillars　crowned　by　stone　balls。　From　behind　one　pillar　I　could　peep　round　quietly　at　the　full　front　of　the　mansion。　I　advanced　my　head　with　precaution；　desirous　to　ascertain　if　any　bedroom　window…blinds　were　yet　drawn　up：　battlements；　windows；　long　front—all　from　this　sheltered　station　were　at　my　mand。
The　crows　sailing　overhead　perhaps　watched　me　while　I　took　this　survey。　I　wonder　what　they　thought。　They　must　have　considered　I　was　very　careful　and　timid　at　first；　and　that　gradually　I　grew　very　bold　and　reckless。　A　peep；　and　then　a　long　stare；　and　then　a　departure　from　my　niche　and　a　straying　out　into　the　meadow；　and　a　sudden　stop　full　in　front　of　the　great　mansion；　and　a　protracted；　hardy　gaze　towards　it。　“What　affectation　of　diffidence　was　this　at　first？”　they　might　have　demanded；　“what　stupid　regardlessness　now？”
Hear　an　illustration；　reader。
A　lover　finds　his　mistress　asleep　on　a　mossy　bank；　he　wishes　to　catch　a　glimpse　of　her　fair　face　without　waking　her。　He　steals　softly　over　the　grass；　careful　to　make　no　sound；　he　pauses—fancying　she　has　stirred：　he　withdraws：　not　for　worlds　would　he　be　seen。　All　is　still：　he　again　advances：　he　bends　above　her；　a　light　veil　rests　on　her　features：　he　lifts　it；　bends　lower；　now　his　eyes　anticipate　the　vision　of　beauty—warm；　and　blooming；　and　lovely；　in　rest。　How　hurried　was　their　first　glance！　But　how　they　fix！　How　he　starts！　How　he　suddenly　and　vehemently　clasps　in　both　arms　the　form　he　dared　not；　a　moment　since；　touch　with　his　finger！　How　he　calls　aloud　a　name；　and　drops　his　burden；　and　gazes　on　it　wildly！　He　thus　grasps　and　cries；　and　gazes；　because　he　no　longer　fears　to　waken　by　any　sound　he　can　utter—by　any　movement　he　can　make。　He　thought　his　love　slept　sweetly：　he　finds　she　is　stone　dead。
I　looked　with　timorous　joy　towards　a　stately　house：　I　saw　a　blackened　ruin。
No　need　to　cower　behind　a　gate…post；　indeed！—to　peep　up　at　chamber　lattices；　fearing　life　was　astir　behind　them！　No　need　to　listen　for　doors　opening—to　fancy　steps　on　the　pavement　or　the　gravel…walk！　The　lawn；　the　grounds　were　trodden　and　waste：　the　portal　yawned　void。　The　front　was；　as　I　had　once　seen　it　in　a　dream；　but　a　well…　like　wall；　very　high　and　very　fragile…looking；　perforated　with　paneless　windows：　no　roof；　no　battlements；　no　chimneys—all　had　crashed　in。
And　there　was　the　silence　of　death　about　it：　the　solitude　of　a　lonesome　wild。　No　wonder　that　letters　addressed　to　people　here　had　never　received　an　answer：　as　well　despatch　epistles　to　a　vault　in　a　church　aisle。　The　grim　blackness　of　the　stones　told　by　what　fate　the　Hall　had　fallen—by　conflagration：　but　how　kindled？　What　story　belonged　to　this　disaster？　What　loss；　besides　mortar　and　marble　and　wood…work　had　followed　upon　it？　Had　life　been　wrecked　as　well　as　property？　If　so；　whose？　Dreadful　question：　there　was　no　one　here　to　answer　it—not　even　dumb　sign；　mute　token。
In　wandering　round　the　shattered　walls　and　through　the　devastated　interior；　I　gathered　evidence　that　the　calamity　was　not　of　late　occurrence。　Winter　snows；　I　thought；　had　drifted　through　that　void　arch；　winter　rains　beaten　in　at　those　hollow　casements；　for；　amidst　the　drenched　piles　of　rubbish；　spring　had　cherished　vegetation：　grass　and　weed　grew　here　and　there　between　the　stones　and　fallen　rafters。　And　oh！　where　meantime　was　the　hapless　owner　of　this　wreck？　In　what　land？　Under　what　auspices？　My　eye　involuntarily　wandered　to　the　grey　church　tower　near　the　gates；　and　I　asked；　“Is　he　with　Damer　de　Rochester；　sharing　the　shelter　of　his　narrow　marble　house？”
Some　answer　must　be　had　to　these　questions。　I　could　find　it　nowhere　but　at　the　inn；　and　thither；　ere　long；　I　returned。　The　host　himself　brought　my　breakfast　into　the　parlour。　I　requested　him　to　shut　the　door　and　sit　do。　But　when　he　plied；　I　scarcely　knew　how　to　begin；　such　horror　had　I　of　the　possible　answers。　And　yet　the　spectacle　of　desolation　I　had　just　left　prepared　me　in　a　measure　for　a　tale　of　misery。　The　host　was　a　respectable…looking；　middle…aged　man。
“You　know　Thornfield　Hall；　of　course？”　I　managed　to　say　at　last。
“Yes；　ma’am；　I　lived　there　once。”
“Did　you？”　Not　in　my　time；　I　thought：　you　are　a　stranger　to　me。
“I　was　the　late　Mr。　Rochester’s　butler；”　he　added。
The　late！　I　seem　to　have　received；　with　full　force；　the　blow　I　had　been　trying　to　evade。
“The　late！”　gasped。　“Is　he　dead？”
“I　mean　the　present　gentleman；　Mr。　Edward’s　father；”　he　explained。　I　breathed　again：　my　blood　resumed　its　flow。　Fully　assured　by　these　words　that　Mr。　Edward—my　Mr。　Rochester　（God　bless　him；　wherever　he　was！）—was　at　least　alive：　was；　in　short；　“the　present　gentleman。”　Gladdening　words！　It　seemed　I　could　hear　all　that　was　to　e—whatever　the　disclosures　might　be—with　parative　tranquillity。　Since　he　was　not　in　the　grave；　I　could　bear；　I　thought；　to　learn　that　he　was　at　the　Antipodes。
“Is　Mr。　Rochester　living　at　Thornfield　Hall　now？”　I　asked；　knowing；　of　course；　what　the　answer　would　be；　but　yet　desirous　of　deferring　the　direct　question　as　to　where　he　really　was。
“No；　ma’am—oh；　no！　No　one　is　living　there。　I　suppose　you　are　a　stranger　in　these　parts；　or　you　would　have　heard　what　happened　last　autumn；—Thornfield　Hall　is　quite　a　ruin：　it　was　burnt　down　just　about　harvest…time。　A　dreadful　calamity！　such　an　immense　quantity　of　valuable　property　destroyed：　hardly　any　of　the　furniture　could　be　saved。　The　fire　broke　out　at　dead　of　night；　and　before　the　engines　arrived　from　Millcote；　the　building　was　one　mass　of　flame。　It　was　a　terrible　spectacle：　I　witnessed　it　myself。”
“At　dead　of　night！”　I　muttered。　Yes；　that　was　ever　the　hour　of　fatality　at　Thornfield。　“Was　it　known　how　it　originated？”　I　demanded。
“They　guessed；　ma’am：　they　guessed。　Indeed；　I　should　say　it　was　ascertained　beyond　a　doubt。　You　are　not　perhaps　aware；”　he　continued；　edging　his　chair　a　little　nearer　the　table；　and　speaking　low；　“that　there　was　a　lady—a—a　lunatic；　kept　in　the　house？”
“I　have　heard　something　of　it。”
“She　was　kept　in　very　close　confinement；　ma’am：　people　even　for　some　years　was　not　absolutely　certain　of　her　existence。　No　one　saw　her：　they　only　knew　by　rumour　that　such　a　person　was　at　the　Hall；　and　who　or　what　she　was　it　was　difficult　to　conjecture。　They　said　Mr。　Edward　had　brought　her　from　abroad；　and　some　believed　she　had　been　his　mistress。　But　a　queer　thing　happened　a　year　since—a　very　queer　thing。”
I　feared　now　to　hear　my　own　story。　I　endeavoured　to　recall　him　to　the　main　fact。
“And　this　lady？”
“This　lady；　ma’am；”　he　answered；　“turned　out　to　be　Mr。　Rochester’s　wife！　The　discovery　was　brought　about　in　the　strangest　way。　There　was　a　young　lady；　a　governess　at　the　Hall；　that　Mr。　Rochester　fell　in—”
“But　the　fire；”　I　suggested。
“I’m　ing　to　that；　ma’am—that　Mr。　Edward　fell　in　love　with。　The　servants　say　they　never　saw　anybody　so　much　in　love　as　he　was：　he　was　after　her　continually。　They　used　to　watch　him—servants　will；　you　know；　ma