简爱(英文版)-第94部分

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“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；　I　must　tell　it　of　my　own　accord。　Stay！　I　have　it　here—it　is　always　more　satisfactory　to　see　important　points　written　down；　fairly　mitted　to　black　and　white。”
And　the　pocket…book　was　again　deliberately　produced；　opened；　sought　through；　from　one　of　its　partments　was　extracted　a　shabby　slip　of　paper；　hastily　torn　off：　I　recognised　in　its　texture　and　its　stains　of　ultra…marine；　and　lake；　and　vermillion；　the　ravished　margin　of　the　portrait…cover。　He　got　up；　held　it　close　to　my　eyes：　and　I　read；　traced　in　Indian　ink；　in　my　own　handwriting；　the　words　“JANE　EYRE”—the　work　doubtless　of　some　moment　of　abstraction。
“Briggs　wrote　to　me　of　a　Jane　Eyre：”　he　said；　“the　advertisements　demanded　a　Jane　Eyre：　I　knew　a　Jane　Elliott。—I　confess　I　had　my　suspicions；　but　it　was　only　yesterday　afternoon　they　were　at　once　resolved　into　certainty。　You　own　the　name　and　renounce　the　alias？”
“Yes—yes；　but　where　is　Mr。　Briggs？　He　perha