简爱(英文版)-第59部分

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y　acrid；　the　other　despicably　savourless　for　the　want　of　it。　Feeling　without　judgment　is　a　washy　draught　indeed；　but　judgment　untempered　by　feeling　is　too　bitter　and　husky　a　morsel　for　human　deglutition。
It　was　a　wet　and　windy　afternoon：　Georgiana　had　fallen　asleep　on　the　sofa　over　the　perusal　of　a　novel；　Eliza　was　gone　to　attend　a　saint’s…day　service　at　the　new　church—for　in　matters　of　religion　she　was　a　rigid　formalist：　no　weather　ever　prevented　the　punctual　discharge　of　what　she　considered　her　devotional　duties；　fair　or　foul；　she　went　to　church　thrice　every　Sunday；　and　as　often　on　week…　days　as　there　were　prayers。
I　bethought　myself　to　go　upstairs　and　see　how　the　dying　woman　sped；　who　lay　there　almost　unheeded：　the　very　servants　paid　her　but　a　remittent　attention：　the　hired　nurse；　being　little　looked　after；　would　slip　out　of　the　room　whenever　she　could。　Bessie　was　faithful；　but　she　had　her　own　family　to　mind；　and　could　only　e　occasionally　to　the　hall。　I　found　the　sick…room　unwatched；　as　I　had　expected：　no　nurse　was　there；　the　patient　lay　still；　and　seemingly　lethargic；　her　livid　face　sunk　in　the　pillows：　the　fire　was　dying　in　the　grate。　I　renewed　the　fuel；　re…arranged　the　bedclothes；　gazed　awhile　on　her　who　could　not　now　gaze　on　me；　and　then　I　moved　away　to　the　window。
The　rain　beat　strongly　against　the　panes；　the　wind　blew　tempestuously：　“One　lies　there；”　I　thought；　“who　will　soon　be　beyond　the　war　of　earthly　elements。　Whither　will　that　spirit—noaterial　tenement—flit　when　at　length　released？”
In　pondering　the　great　mystery；　I　thought　of　Helen　Burns；　recalled　her　dying　words—her　faith—her　doctrine　of　the　equality　of　disembodied　souls。　I　was　still　listening　in　thought　to　her　well…　remembered　tones—still　picturing　her　pale　and　spiritual　aspect；　her　wasted　face　and　sublime　gaze；　as　she　lay　on　her　placid　deathbed；　and　whispered　her　longing　to　be　restored　to　her　divine　Father’s　bosom—　when　a　feeble　voice　murmured　from　the　couch　behind：　“Who　is　that？”
I　knew　Mrs。　Reed　had　not　spoken　for　days：　was　she　reviving？　I　went　up　to　her。
“It　is　I；　Aunt　Reed。”
“Who—I？”　was　her　answer。　“Who　are　you？”　looking　at　me　with　surprise　and　a　sort　of　alarm；　but　still　not　e—where　is　Bessie？”
“She　is　at　the　lodge；　aunt。”
“Aunt；”　she　repeated。　“Who　calls　me　aunt？　You　are　not　one　of　the　Gibsons；　and　yet　I　know　you—that　face；　and　the　eyes　and　forehead；　are　quiet　familiar　to　me：　you　are　like—why；　you　are　like　Jane　Eyre！”
I　said　nothing：　I　was　afraid　of　occasioning　some　shock　by　declaring　my　identity。
“Yet；”　said　she；　“I　am　afraid　it　is　a　mistake：　my　thoughts　deceive　me。　I　wished　to　see　Jane　Eyre；　and　I　fancy　a　likeness　where　none　exists：　besides；　in　eight　years　she　must　be　so　changed。”　I　now　gently　assured　her　that　I　was　the　person　she　supposed　and　desired　me　to　be：　and　seeing　that　I　was　understood；　and　that　her　senses　were　quite　collected；　I　explained　how　Bessie　had　sent　her　husband　to　fetch　me　from　Thornfield。
“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