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Chapter 21

PRESENTIMENTS are strange things! and so are sympathies; and so are signs; and the three combined make one mystery to which humanity has not yet found the key. I never laughed at presentiments in my life, because I have had strange ones of my own. Sympathies, I believe, exist (for instance, between far-distant, long-absent, wholly estranged relatives asserting, notwithstanding their alienation, the unity of the source to which each traces his origin) whose workings baffle mortal comprehension. And signs, for aught we know, may be but the sympathies of Nature with man.
When I was a little girl, only six years old, I one night heard Bessie Leaven say to Martha Abbot that she had been dreaming about a little child; and that to dream of children was a sure sign of trouble, either to one's self or one's kin. The saying might have worn out of my memory, had not a circumstance immediately followed which served indelibly to fix it there. The next day Bessie was sent for home to the deathbed of her little sister.

Of late I had often recalled this saying and this incident; for during the past week scarcely a night had gone over my couch that had not brought with it a dream of an infant, which I sometimes hushed in my arms, sometimes dandled on my knee, sometimes watched playing with daisies on a lawn, or again, dabbling its hands in running water.

It was a wailing child this night, and a laughing one the next: now it nestled close to me, and now it ran from me; but whatever mood the apparition evinced, whatever aspect it wore, it failed not for seven successive nights to meet me the moment I entered the land of slumber.

I did not like this iteration of one idea- this strange recurrence of one image, and I grew nervous as bedtime approached and the hour of the vision drew near. It was from companionship with this baby-phantom I had been roused on that moonlight night when I heard the cry; and it was on the afternoon of the day following I was summoned downstairs by a message that some one wanted me in Mrs. Fairfax's room. On repairing thither, I found a man waiting for me, having the appearance of a gentleman's servant: he was dressed in deep mourning, and the hat he held in his hand was surrounded with a crape band.

'I daresay you hardly remember me, Miss,' he said, rising as I entered; 'but my name is Leaven: I lived coachman with Mrs. Reed when you were at Gateshead, eight or nine years since, and I live there still.'

'Oh, Robert! how do you do? I remember you very well: you used to give me a ride sometimes on Miss Georgiana's bay pony. And how is Bessie? You are married to Bessie?'

'Yes, Miss: my wife is very hearty, thank you; she brought me another little one about two months since- we have three now- and both mother and child are thriving.'

'And are the family well at the house, Robert?'

'I am sorry I can't give you better news of them, Miss: they are very badly at present- in great trouble.'

'I hope no one is dead,' I said, glancing at his black dress. He too looked down at the crape round his hat and replied-

'Mr. John died yesterday was a week, at his chambers in London.'

'Mr. John?'

'Yes.'

'And how does his mother bear it?'

'Why, you see, Miss Eyre, it is not a common mishap: his life has been very wild: these last three years he gave himself up to strange ways, and his death was shocking.'

'I heard from Bessie he was not doing well.'

'Doing well! He could not do worse: he ruined his health and his estate amongst the worst men and the worst women. He got into debt and into jail: his mother helped him out twice, but as soon as he was free he returned to his old companions and habits. His head was not strong: the knaves he lived amongst fooled him beyond anything I ever heard.

He came down to Gateshead about three weeks ago and wanted missis to give up all to him. Missis refused: her means have long been much reduced by his extravagance; so he went back again, and the next news was that he was dead. How he died, God knows!- they say he killed himself.'

I was silent: the tidings were frightful. Robert Leaven resumed-

'Missis had been out of health herself for some time: she had got very stout, but was not strong with it; and the loss of money and fear of poverty were quite breaking her down. The information about Mr. John's death and the manner of it came too suddenly: it brought on a  stroke. She was three days without speaking; but last Tuesday she seemed rather better: she appeared as if she wanted to say something, and kept making signs to my wife and mumbling. It was only yesterday morning, however, that Bessie understood she was pronouncing your name; and at last she made out the words, "Bring Jane- fetch Jane Eyre: I want to speak to her." Bessie is not sure whether she is in her right mind, or means anything by the words; but she told Miss Reed and Miss Georgiana, and advised them to send for you. The young ladies put it off at first; but their mother grew so restless, and said, "Jane, Jane," so many times, that at last they consented. I left Gateshead yesterday: and if you can get ready, Miss, I should like to take you back with me early to-morrow morning.'

'Yes, Robert, I shall be ready: it seems to me that I ought to go.'

'I think so too, Miss. Bessie said she was sure you would not refuse: but I suppose you will have to ask leave before you can get off?'

'Yes; and I will do it now'; and having directed him to the servants' hall, and recommended him to the care of John's wife, and the attentions of John himself, I went in search of Mr. Rochester.

He was not in any of the lower rooms; he was not in the yard, the stables, or the grounds. I asked Mrs. Fairfax if she had seen him;- yes: she believed he was playing billiards with Miss Ingram. To the billiard-room I hastened: the click of balls and the hum of voices resounded thence; Mr. Rochester, Miss Ingram, the two Misses Eshton, and their admirers, were all busied in the game. It required some courage to disturb so interesting a party; my errand, however, was one I could not defer, so I approached the master where he stood at Miss Ingram's side. She turned as I drew near, and looked at me haughtily: her eyes seemed to demand, 'What can the creeping creature want now?' and when I said, in a low voice, 'Mr. Rochester,' she made a movement as if tempted to order me away. I remember her appearance at the moment- it was very graceful and very striking: she wore a morning robe of sky-blue crape; a gauzy azure scarf was twisted in her hair. She had been all animation with the game, and irritated pride did not lower the expression of her haughty lineaments.

'Does that person want you?' she inquired of Mr. Rochester; and Mr. Rochester turned to see who the 'person' was. He made a curious grimace- one of his strange and equivocal demonstrations- threw down his cue and followed me from the room.

'Well, Jane?' he said, as he rested his back against the school-room door, which he had shut.

'If you please, sir, I want leave of absence for a week or two.'

'What to do?- where to go?'

'To see a sick lady who has sent for me.'

'What sick lady?- where does she live?'

for people to see her that distance?'

'Her name is Reed sir- Mrs. Reed.'

'Reed of Gateshead? There was a Reed of Gateshead, a magistrate.'

'It is his widow, sir.'

'And what have you to do with her? How do you know her?'

'Mr. Reed was my uncle- my mother's brother.'

'The deuce he was! You never told me that before: you always said you had no relations.'

'None that would own me, sir. Mr. Reed is dead, and his wife cast me off.'

'Why?'

'Because I was poor, and burdensome, and she disliked me.'

'But Reed left children?- you must have cousins? Sir George Lynn was talking of a Reed of Gateshead yesterday, who, he said, was one of the veriest rascals on town; and Ingram was mentioning a Georgiana Reed of the same place, who was much admired for her beauty a season or two ago in London.'

'John Reed is dead, too, sir: he ruined himself and half-ruined his family, and is supposed to have committed suicide. The news so shocked his mother that it brought on an apoplectic attack.'

'And what good can you do her? Nonsense, Jane! I would never think of running a hundred miles to see an old lady who will, perhaps, be dead before you reach her: besides, you say she cast you off.'

'Yes, sir, but that is long ago; and when her circumstances were very different: I could not be easy to neglect her wishes now.'

'How long will you stay?'

'As short a time as possible, sir.'

'Promise me only to stay a week-'

'I had better not pass my word: I might be obliged to break it.'

'At all events you will come back: you will not be induced under any pretext to take up a permanent residence with her?'

'Oh, no! I shall certainly return if all be well.'

'And who goes with you? You don't travel a hundred miles alone.'

'No, sir, she has sent her coachman.'

'A person to be trusted?'

'Yes, sir, he has lived ten years in the family.'

Mr. Rochester meditated. 'When do you wish to go?'

'Early to-morrow morning, sir.'

'Well, you must have some money; you can't travel without money, and I daresay you have not much: I have given you no salary yet. How much have you in the world, Jane?' he asked, smiling.

I drew out my purse; a meagre thing it was. 'Five shillings, sir.' He took the purse, poured the hoard into his palm, and chuckled over it as if its scantiness amused him. Soon he produced his pocket-book: 'Here,' said he, offering me a note; it was fifty pounds, and he owed me but fifteen. I told him I had no change.

'I don't want change; you know that. Take your wages.'

I declined accepting more than was my due. He scowled at first; then, as if recollecting something, he said-

'Right, right! Better not give you all now: you would, perhaps, stay away three months if you had fifty pounds. There are ten; is it not plenty?'

'Yes, sir, but now you owe me five.'

'Come back for it, then; I am your banker for forty pounds.'

'Mr. Rochester, I may as well mention another matter of business to you while I have the opportunity.'

'Matter of business? I am curious to hear it.'

'You have as good as informed me, sir, that you are going shortly to be married?'

'Yes; what then?'

'In that case, sir, Adele ought to go to school: I am sure you will perceive the necessity of it.'

'To get her out of my bride's way, who might otherwise walk over her rather too emphatically? There's sense in the suggestion; not a doubt of it. Adele, as you say, must go to school; and you, of course, must march straight to- the devil?'

'I hope not, sir; but I must seek another situation somewhere.'

'In course!' he exclaimed, with a twang of voice and a distortion of features equally fantastic and ludicrous. He looked at me some minutes.

'And old Madam Reed, or the Misses, her daughters, will be solicited by you to seek a place, I suppose?'

'No, sir; I am not on such terms with my relatives as would justify me in asking favours of them- but I shall advertise.'

'You shall walk up the pyramids of Egypt!' he growled. 'At your peril you advertise! I wish I had only offered you a sovereign instead of ten pounds. Give me back nine pounds, Jane; I've a use for it.'

'And so have I, sir,' I returned, putting my hands and my purse behind me. 'I could not spare the money on any account.'

'Little niggard!' said he, 'refusing me a pecuniary request! Give me five pounds, Jane.'

'Not five shillings, sir; nor five pence.'

'Just let me look at the cash.'

'No, sir; you are not to be trusted.'

'Jane!'

'Sir?'

'Promise me one thing.'

'I'll promise you anything, sir, that I think I am likely to perform.'

'Not to advertise: and to trust this quest of a situation to me. I'll find you one in time.'

'I shall be glad so to do, sir, if you, in your turn, will promise that I and Adele shall be both safe out of the house before your bride enters it.'

'Very well! very well! I'll pledge my word on it. You go to-morrow, then?'

'Yes, sir; early.'

'Shall you come down to the drawing-room after dinner?'

'No, sir, I must prepare for the journey.'

'Then you and I must bid good-bye for a little while?'

'I suppose so, sir.'

'And how do people perform that ceremony of parting, Jane? Teach me; I'm not quite up to it.'

'They say, Farewell, or any other form they prefer.'

'Then say it.'

'Farewell, Mr. Rochester, for the present.'

'What must I say?'

'The same, if you like, sir.'

'Farewell, Miss Eyre, for the present; is that all?'

'Yes.'

'It seems stingy, to my notions, and dry, and unfriendly. I should like something else: a little addition to the rite. If one shook hands, for instance; but no- that would not content me either.

So you'll do no more than say Farewell, Jane?'

'It is enough, sir: as much good-will may be conveyed in one hearty word as in many.'

'Very likely; but it is blank and cool- "Farewell."'

'How long is he going to stand with his back against that door?'

I asked myself; 'I want to commence my packing.' The dinner-bell rang, and suddenly away he bolted, without another syllable: I saw him no more during the day, and was off before he had risen in the morning.

I reached the lodge at Gateshead about five o'clock in the afternoon of the first of May: I stepped in there before going up to the hall. It was very clean and neat: the ornamental windows were hung with little white curtains; the floor was spotless; the grate and fire-irons were burnished bright, and the fire burnt clear. Bessie sat on the hearth, nursing her last-born, and Robert and his sister played quietly in a corner.

'Bless you!- I knew you would come!' exclaimed Mrs. Leaven, as I entered.

'Yes, Bessie,' said I, after I had kissed her; 'and I trust I am not too late. How is Mrs. Reed?- Alive still, I hope.'

'Yes, she is alive; and more sensible and collected than she was.

The doctor says she may linger a week or two yet; but he hardly thinks she will finally recover.'

'Has she mentioned me lately?'

'She was talking of you only this morning, and wishing you would come: but she is sleeping now, or was ten minutes ago, when I was up at the house. She generally lies in a kind of lethargy all the afternoon, and wakes up about six or seven. Will you rest yourself here an hour, Miss, and then I will go up with you?'

Robert here entered, and Bessie laid her sleeping child in the cradle and went to welcome him: afterwards she insisted on my taking off my bonnet and having some tea; for she said I looked pale and tired. I was glad to accept her hospitality; and I submitted to be relieved of my travelling garb just as passively as I used to let her undress me when a child.

Old times crowded fast back on me as I watched her bustling about- setting out the tea-tray with her best china, cutting bread and butter, toasting a tea-cake, and, between whiles, giving little Robert or Jane an occasional tap or push, just as she used to give me in former days. Bessie had retained her quick temper as well as her light foot and good looks.

Tea ready, I was going to approach the table; but she desired me to sit still, quite in her old peremptory tones. I must be served at the fireside, she said; and she placed before me a little round stand with my cup and a plate of toast, absolutely as she used to accommodate me with some privately purloined dainty on a nursery chair: and I smiled and obeyed her as in bygone days.

She wanted to know if I was happy at Thornfield Hall, and what sort of a person the mistress was; and when I told her there was only a master, whether he was a nice gentleman, and if I liked him. I told her he was rather an ugly man, but quite a gentleman; and that he treated me kindly, and I was content. Then I went on to describe to her the gay company that had lately been staying at the house; and to these details Bessie listened with interest: they were precisely of the kind she relished.

In such conversation an hour was soon gone: Bessie restored to me my bonnet, etc., and, accompanied by her, I quitted the lodge for the hall. It was also accompanied by her that I had, nearly nine years ago, walked down the path I was now ascending. On a dark, misty, raw morning in January, I had left a hostile roof with a desperate and embittered heart- a sense of outlawry and almost of reprobation- to seek the chilly harbourage of Lowood: that bourne so far away and unexplored. The same hostile roof now again rose before me: my prospects were doubtful yet; and I had yet an aching heart. I still felt as a wanderer on the face of the earth; but I experienced firmer trust in myself and my own powers, and less withering dread of oppression. The gaping wound of my wrongs, too, was now quite healed; and the flame of resentment extinguished.

'You shall go into the breakfast-room first,' said Bessie, as she preceded me through the hall; 'the young ladies will be there.'

In another moment I was within that apartment. There was every article of furniture looking just as it did on the morning I was first introduced to Mr. Brocklehurst: the very rug he had stood upon still covered the hearth. Glancing at the bookcases, I thought I could distinguish the two volumes of Bewick's British Birds occupying their old place on the third shelf, and Gulliver's Travels and the Arabian Nights ranged just above. The inanimate objects were not changed; but the living things had altered past recognition.

Two young ladies appeared before me; one very tall, almost as tall as Miss Ingram- very thin too, with a sallow face and severe mien. There was something ascetic in her look, was augmented by the extreme plainness of a straight-skirted, black, stuff dress, a starched linen collar, hair combed away from the temples, and the nun-like ornament of a string of ebony beads and a crucifix. This I felt sure was Eliza, though I could trace little resemblance to her former self in that elongated and colourless visage.

The other was as certainly Georgiana: but not the Georgiana I remembered- the slim and fairy-like girl of eleven. This was a full-blown, very plump damsel, fair as waxwork, with handsome and regular features, languishing blue eyes, and ringleted yellow hair.

The hue of her dress was black too; but its fashion was so different from her sister's- so much more flowing and becoming- it looked as stylish as the other's looked puritanical.

In each of the sisters there was one trait of the mother- and only one; the thin and pallid elder daughter had her parent's Cairngorm eye: the blooming and luxuriant younger girl had her contour of jaw and chin- perhaps a little softened, but still imparting an indescribable hardness to the countenance, otherwise so voluptuous and buxom.

Both ladies, as I advanced, rose to welcome me, and both addressed me by the name of 'Miss Eyre.' Eliza's greeting was delivered in a short, abrupt voice, without a smile; and then she sat down again, fixed her eyes on the fire, and seemed to forget me.

Georgiana added to her 'How d 'ye do?' several commonplaces about my journey, the weather, and so on, uttered in rather a drawling tone: and accompanied by sundry side-glances that measured me from head to foot-now traversing the folds of my drab merino pelisse, and now lingering on the plain trimming of my cottage bonnet. Young ladies have a remarkable way of letting you know that they think you a 'quiz' without actually saying the words. A certain superciliousness of look, coolness of manner, nonchalance of tone, express fully their sentiments on the point, without committing them by any positive rudeness in word or deed.

A sneer, however, whether covert or open, had now no longer that power over me it once possessed: as I sat between my cousins, I was surprised to find how easy I felt under the total neglect of the one and the semi-sarcastic attentions of the other- Eliza did not mortify, nor Georgiana ruffle me. The fact was, I had other things to think about; within the last few months feelings had been stirred in me so much more potent than any they could raise- pains and pleasures so much more acute and exquisite had been excited than any it was in their power to inflict or bestow- that their airs gave me no concern either for good or bad.

'How is Mrs. Reed?' I asked soon, looking calmly at Georgiana, who thought fit to bridle at the direct address, as if it were an unexpected liberty.

'Mrs. Reed? Ah, mama, you mean; she is extremely poorly: I doubt if you can see her to-night.'

'If,' said I, 'you would just step upstairs and tell her I am come, I should be much obliged to you.'

Georgiana almost started, and she opened her blue eyes wild and wide. 'I know she had a particular wish to see me,' I added, 'and I would not defer attending to her desire longer than is absolutely necessary.'

'Mama dislikes being disturbed in an evening,' remarked Eliza. I soon rose, quietly took off my bonnet and gloves, uninvited, and said I would just step out to Bessie- who was, I dared say, in the kitchen- and ask her to ascertain whether Mrs. Reed was disposed to receive me or not to-night. I went, and having found Bessie and despatched her on my errand, I proceeded to take further measures.

It had heretofore been my habit always to shrink from arrogance: received as I had been to-day, I should, a year ago, have resolved to quit Gateshead the very next morning; now, it was disclosed to me all at once that that would be a foolish plan. I had taken a journey of a hundred miles to see my aunt, and I must stay with her till she was better- or dead: as to her daughters' pride or folly, I must put it on one side, make myself independent of it. So I addressed the housekeeper; asked her to show me a room, told her I should probably be a visitor here for a week or two, had my trunk conveyed to my chamber, and followed it thither myself: I met Bessie on the landing.

'Missis is awake,' said she; 'I have told her you are here: come and let us see if she will know you.'

I did not need to be guided to the well-known room, to which I had so often been summoned for chastisement or reprimand in former days. I hastened before Bessie; I softly opened the door: a shaded light stood on the table, for it was now getting dark. There was the great four-post bed with amber hangings as of old; there the toilet-table, the arm-chair, and the footstool, at which I had a hundred times been sentenced to kneel, to ask pardon for offences by me uncommitted. I looked into a certain corner near, half expecting to see the slim outline of a once dreaded switch which used to lurk there, waiting to leap out imp-like and lace my quivering palm or shrinking neck. I approached the bed; I opened the curtains and leant over the high-piled pillows.

Well did I remember Mrs. Reed's face, and I eagerly sought the familiar image. It is a happy thing that time quells the longings of vengeance and hushes the promptings of rage and aversion. I had left this woman in bitterness and hate, and I came back to her now with no other emotion than a sort of ruth for her great sufferings, and a strong yearning to forget and forgive all injuries- to be reconciled and clasp hands in amity.

The well-known face was there: stern, relentless as ever- there was that peculiar eye which nothing could melt, and the somewhat raised, imperious, despotic eyebrow. How often had it lowered on me menace and hate! and how the recollection of childhood's terrors and sorrows revived as I traced its harsh line now! And yet I stooped down and kissed her: she looked at me.

'Is this Jane Eyre?' she said.

'Yes, Aunt Reed. How are you, dear aunt?'

I had once vowed that I would never call her aunt again: I thought it no sin to forget and break that vow now. My fingers had fastened on her hand which lay outside the sheet: had she pressed mine kindly, I should at that moment have experienced true pleasure. But unimpressionable natures are not so soon softened, nor are natural antipathies so readily eradicated. Mrs. Reed took her hand away, and, turning her face rather from me, she remarked that the night was warm. Again she regarded me so icily, I felt at once that her opinion of me- her feeling towards me- was unchanged and unchangeable.

I knew by her stony eye- opaque to tenderness, indissoluble to tears- that she was resolved to consider me bad to the last; because to believe me good would give her no generous pleasure: only a sense of mortification.

I felt pain, and then I felt ire; and then I felt a determination to subdue her- to be her mistress in spite both of her nature and her will. My tears had risen, just as in childhood: I ordered them back to their source. I brought a chair to the bed-head: I sat down and leaned over the pillow.

'You sent for me,' I said, 'and I am here; and it is my intention to stay till I see how you get on.'

'Oh, of course! You have seen my daughters?'

'Yes.'

'Well, you may tell them I wish you to stay till I can talk some things over with you I have on my mind: to-night it is too late, and I have a difficulty in recalling them. But there was something I wished to say- let me see-'

The wandering look and changed utterance told what wreck had taken place in her once vigorous frame. Turning restlessly, she drew the bedclothes round her; my elbow, resting on a corner of the quilt, fixed it down: she was at once irritated.

'Sit up!' said she; 'don't annoy me with holding the clothes fast. Are you Jane Eyre?'

'I am Jane Eyre.'

'I have had more trouble with that child than any one would believe. Such a burden to be left on my hands- and so much annoyance as she caused me, daily and hourly, with her incomprehensible disposition, and her sudden starts of temper, and her continual, unnatural watchings of one's movements! I declare she talked to me once like something mad, or like a fiend- no child ever spoke or looked as she did; I was glad to get her away from the house. What did they do with her at Lowood? The fever broke out there, and many of the pupils died. She, however, did not die: but I said she did- I wish she had died!'

'A strange wish, Mrs. Reed; why do you hate her so?'

'I had a dislike to her mother always; for she was my husband's only sister, and a great favourite with him: he opposed the family's disowning her when she made her low marriage; and when news came of her death, he wept like a simpleton. He would send for the baby; though I entreated him rather to put it out to nurse and pay for its maintenance. I hated it the first time I set my eyes on it- a sickly, whining, pining thing! It would wail in its cradle all night long- not screaming heartily like any other child, but whimpering and moaning. Reed pitied it; and he used to nurse it and notice it as if it had been his own: more, indeed, than he ever noticed his own at that age. He would try to make my children friendly to the little beggar: the darlings could not bear it, and he was angry with them when they showed their dislike. In his last illness, he had it brought continually to his bedside; and but an hour before he died, he bound me by vow to keep the creature. I would as soon have been charged with a pauper brat out of a workhouse: but he was weak, naturally weak. John does not at all resemble his father, and I am glad of it: John is like me and like my brothers- he is quite a Gibson. Oh, I wish he would cease tormenting me with letters for money! I have no more money to give him: we are getting poor. I must send away half the servants and shut up part of the house; or let it off. I can never submit to do that- yet how are we to get on?

Two-thirds of my income goes in paying the interest of mortgages. John gambles dreadfully, and always loses- poor boy! He is beset by sharpers: John is sunk and degraded- his look is frightful- I feel ashamed for him when I see him.'

She was getting much excited. 'I think I had better leave her now,' said I to Bessie, who stood on the other side of the bed.

'Perhaps you had, Miss: but she often talks in this way towards night- in the morning she is calmer.'

I rose. 'Stop!' exclaimed Mrs. Reed, 'there is another thing I wished to say. He threatens me- he continually threatens me with his own death, or mine: and I dream sometimes that I see him laid out with a great wound in his throat, or with a swollen and blackened face. I am come to a strange pass: I have heavy troubles. What is to be done? How is the money to be had?'

Bessie now endeavoured to persuade her to take a sedative draught: she succeeded with difficulty. Soon after, Mrs. Reed grew more composed, and sank into a dozing state. I then left her.

More than ten days elapsed before I had again any conversation with her. She continued either delirious or lethargic; and the doctor forbade everything which could painfully excite her. Meantime, I got on as well as I could with Georgiana and Eliza. They were very cold, indeed, at first. Eliza would sit half the day sewing, reading, or writing, and scarcely utter a word either to me or her sister.

Georgiana would chatter nonsense to her canary bird by the hour, and take no notice of me. But I was determined not to seem at a loss for occupation or amusement: I had brought my drawing materials with me, and they served me for both.

Provided with a case of pencils, and some sheets of paper, I used to take a seat apart from them, near the window, and busy myself in sketching fancy vignettes, representing any scene that happened momentarily to shape itself in the ever-shifting kaleidoscope of imagination: a glimpse of sea between two rocks; the rising moon, and a ship crossing its disk; a group of reeds and water-flags, and a naiad's head, crowned with lotus-flowers, rising out of them; an elf sitting in a hedge-sparrow's nest, under a wreath of hawthorn-bloom.

One morning I fell to sketching a face: what sort of a face it was to be, I did not care or know. I took a soft black pencil, gave it a broad point, and worked away. Soon I had traced on the paper a broad and prominent forehead and a square lower outline of visage: that contour gave me pleasure; my fingers proceeded actively to fill it with features. Strongly-marked horizontal eyebrows must be traced under that brow; then followed, naturally, a well-defined nose, with a straight ridge and full nostrils; then a flexible-looking mouth, by no means narrow; then a firm chin, with a decided cleft down the middle of it: of course, some black whiskers were wanted, and some jetty hair, tufted on the temples, and waved above the forehead. Now for the eyes: I had left them to the last, because they required the most careful working. I drew them large; I shaped them well: the eyelashes I traced long and sombre; the irids lustrous and large.

'Good! but not quite the thing,' I thought, as I surveyed the effect: 'they want more force and spirit'; and I wrought the shades blacker, that the lights might flash more brilliantly- a happy touch or two secured success. There, I had a friend's face under my gaze; and what did it signify that those young ladies turned their backs on me? I looked at it; I smiled at the speaking likeness: I was absorbed and content.

'Is that a portrait of some one you know?' asked Eliza, who had approached me unnoticed. I responded that it was merely a fancy head, and hurried it beneath the other sheets. Of course, I lied: it was, in fact, a very faithful representation of Mr. Rochester. But what was that to her, or to any one but myself? Georgiana also advanced to look. The other drawings pleased her much, but she called that 'an ugly man.' They both seemed surprised at my skill. I offered to sketch their portraits; and each, in turn, sat for a pencil outline. Then Georgiana produced her album. I promised to contribute a water-colour drawing: this put her at once into good humour. She proposed a walk in the grounds. Before we had been out two hours, we were deep in a confidential conversation: she had favoured me with a description of the brilliant winter she had spent in London two seasons ago- of the admiration she had there excited- the attention she had received; and I even got hints of the titled conquest she had made. In the course of the afternoon and evening these hints were enlarged on: various soft conversations were reported, and sentimental scenes represented; and, in short, a volume of a novel of fashionable life was that day improvised by her for my benefit. The communications were renewed from day to day: they always ran on the same theme- herself, her loves, and woes. It was strange she never once adverted either to her mother's illness, or her brother's death, or the present gloomy state of the family prospects. Her mind seemed wholly taken up with reminiscences of past gaiety, and aspirations after dissipations to come. She passed about five minutes each day in her mother's sick-room, and no more.

Eliza still spoke little: she had evidently no time to talk. I never saw a busier person than she seemed to be; yet it was difficult to say what she did: or rather, to discover any result of her diligence. She had an alarm to call her up early. I know not how she occupied herself before breakfast, but after that meal she divided her time into regular portions, and each hour had its allotted task.

Three times a day she studied a little book, which I found, on inspection, was a Common Prayer Book. I asked her once what was the great attraction of that volume, and she said, 'the Rubric.' Three hours she gave to stitching, with gold thread, the border of a square crimson cloth, almost large enough for a carpet. In answer to my inquiries after the use of this article, she informed me it was a covering for the altar of a new church lately erected near Gateshead. Two hours she devoted to her diary; two to working by herself in the kitchen-garden; and one to the regulation of her accounts. She seemed to want no company; no conversation. I believe she was happy in her way: this routine sufficed for her; and nothing annoyed her so much as the occurrence of any incident which forced her to vary its clockwork regularity.

She told me one evening, when more disposed to be communicative than usual, that John's conduct, and the threatened ruin of the family, had been a source of profound affliction to her: but she had now, she said, settled her mind, and formed her resolution. Her own fortune she had taken care to secure; and when her mother died- and it was wholly improbable, she tranquilly remarked, that she should either recover or linger long- she would execute a long-cherished project: seek a retirement where punctual habits would be permanently secured from disturbance, and place safe barriers between herself and a frivolous world. I asked if Georgiana would accompany her.

'Of course not. Georgiana and she had nothing in common: they never had had. She would not be burdened with her society for any consideration. Georgiana should take her own course; and she, Eliza, would take hers.'

Georgiana, when not unburdening her heart to me, spent most of her time in lying on the sofa, fretting about the dulness of the house, and wishing over and over again that her aunt Gibson would send her an invitation up to town. 'It would be so much better,' she said, 'if she could only get out of the way for a month or two, till all was over.' I did not ask what she meant by 'all being over,' but I suppose she referred to the expected decease of her mother and the gloomy sequel of funeral rites. Eliza generally took no more notice of her sister's indolence and complaints than if no such murmuring, lounging object had been before her. One day, however, as she put away her account-book and unfolded her embroidery, she suddenly took her up thus-

'Georgiana, a more vain and absurd animal than you was certainly never allowed to cumber the earth. You had no right to be born, for you make no use of life. Instead of living for, in, and with yourself, as a reasonable being ought, you seek only to fasten your feebleness on some other person's strength: if no one can be found willing to burden her or himself with such a fat, weak, puffy, useless thing, you cry out that you are ill-treated, neglected, miserable. Then, too, existence for you must be a scene of continual change and excitement, or else the world is a dungeon: you must be admired, you must be courted, you must be flattered- you must have music, dancing, and society- or you languish, you die away. Have you no sense to devise a system which will make you independent of all efforts, and all wills, but your own? Take one day; share it into sections; to each section apportion its task: leave no stray unemployed quarters of an hour, ten minutes, five minutes- include all; do each piece of business in its turn with method, with rigid regularity. The day will close almost before you are aware it has begun; and you are indebted to no one for helping you to get rid of one vacant moment: you have had to seek no one's company, conversation, sympathy forbearance; you have lived, in short, as an independent being ought to do. Take this advice: the first and last I shall offer you; then you will not want me or any one else, happen what may. Neglect it-go on as heretofore, craving, whining, and idling- and suffer the results of your idiocy, however bad and insufferable they may be. I tell you this plainly; and listen: for though I shall no more repeat what I am now about to say, I shall steadily act on it. After my mother's death, I wash my hands of you: from the day her coffin is carried to the vault in Gateshead Church, you and I will be as separate as if we had never known each other. You need not think that because we chanced to be born of the same parents, I shall suffer you to fasten me down by even the feeblest claim: I can tell you this- if the whole human race, ourselves excepted, were swept away, and we two stood alone on the earth, I would leave you in the old world, and betake myself to the new.'

She closed her lips.

'You might have spared yourself the trouble of delivering that tirade,' answered Georgiana. 'Everybody knows you are the most selfish, heartless creature in existence: and I know your spiteful  hatred towards me: I have had a specimen of it before in the trick you played me about Lord Edwin Vere: you could not bear me to be raised above you, to have a title, to be received into circles where you dare not show your face, and so you acted the spy and informer, and ruined my prospects for ever.' Georgiana took out her handkerchief and blew her nose for an hour afterwards; Eliza sat cold, impassible, and assiduously industrious.

True, generous feeling is made small account of by some, but here were two natures rendered, the one intolerably 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 come 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- now struggling to quit its material 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 wildly. 'You are quite a stranger to me- 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 quite 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 come to me at Madeira. Providence has blessed my endeavours to secure a competency; 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 comfort, 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 commit.'

'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 comprehend.'

'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.
 

预感真是个怪物!还有感应,还有征兆,都无不如此。三者合一构成了人类至今无法索解的秘密。我平生从未讥笑过预感,因为我自己也有过这种奇怪的经历。我相信心灵感应是存在的(例如在关系甚远、久不往来、完全生疏的亲戚之间,尽管彼此疏远,但都认不有着同一个渊源)。心灵感应究竟如何产生,却不是人类所能理解的。至于征兆,也许不过是自然与人的感应。

我还只是一个六岁的小女孩时,一天夜里听见贝茜.利文对马撒.艾博特说,她梦见了一个小孩,而梦见孩子无论对自己还是对亲人,肯定是不祥之兆。要不是紧接着发生的一件事给我留下了难以磨灭的印象,这种说法也许早就淡忘了。第二天贝茜被叫回家去看她咽气的小妹妹。

近来,我常常忆起这种说法和这件事情。因为上个星期,我几乎每晚都在床上梦见一个婴孩。有时抱在怀里哄它安静下来;有时放在膝头摆弄;有时看着它在草地上摸弄雏菊,或者伸手在流水中戏水。一晚是个哭着的孩子,另一晚是个笑着的孩子;一会儿它紧偎着我,一会又逃得远远的。但是不管这幽灵心情怎样,长相如何,一连七夜我一进入梦乡,它便来迎接我。

我不喜欢同一念头反复不去——不喜欢同一形象奇怪地一再出现。临要上床和幻象就要出现的时刻,我便局促不安起来。由于同这位梦中的婴孩形影不离,那个月夜,我听到了一声啼哭后便惊醒过来。第二天下午我被叫下楼去,捎来口信说有人要见我,等候在太敦,而她也许还没等你赶到就死了。更何况你说她把你抛弃了。”

“不错,先生,但那已是很久以前了,而且当时的情况不同。现在要是我无视她的心愿,我会不安心的。”

“你要呆多久?”

“尽量短些,先生。”

“答应我只呆一星期。”

“我还是不要许诺好,很可能我会不得不食言。”

“无论如何你要回来,在任何情况下都要经得住劝诱,不跟她一辈子住P舺&喱小姐,我的太太很健康,谢谢。两个月之前她又给我生了个小家伙——现在我们有三个了——大人和孩子都好。”

“盖茨黑德府全家都好吗,罗伯特?”

“很抱歉,我没法儿给你带来好消息,小姐。眼下他们都很糟——糟糕得很哪。”

“但愿没有人去世了,”我瞥了一下他黑色的丧服说。他也低头瞧了一下围在帽上的黑纱,并回答道:

“约翰先生在伦敦住所去世了,到昨天正好一周。”

“约翰先生?”

“不错。”

“他母亲怎么受得了呢?”

“哎呀你瞧,爱小姐,这不是一桩平平常常的不幸,他的生活非常放荡,最近三年他放纵得出奇,死得也吓人。”

“我从贝茜那儿听到他日子不好过。”

“不好过!不能再坏了,他在一批坏男女中间厮混,糟塌了身体,荡光了家产,负了债,坐了牢。他母亲两次帮他弄出来,但他一出来便又找到了老相识,恢复了旧习气。他的脑子不大健全,那些同他相处的无赖,不择手段欺骗他。三个礼拜之前,他来到盖茨黑德府,要夫人把什么都给他,被夫人拒绝了,因为她的财产早已被他挥霍掉很多。所以又只好返回去,随后的消息便是他死掉了。天知道他是怎么死的!——他们说他自杀了。”

我默默无语,这消息着实可怕。罗伯特.利文又往下说:

“夫人自己健康也不好,这已经有好长一段时间了。身体发胖,但并不强壮。她损失了钱,又怕变成穷光蛋,所以便垮了下来。约翰先生的死讯和这种死法来得很突然,害得她中风了。一连三天没有说话。不过上星期二似乎好些了,仿佛想说什么,不住地招呼我妻子,嘴里还叽哩咕噜。直到昨天早上贝茜才弄明白,她叨念着你的名字。最后贝茜把她的话搞清楚了,‘把简叫来——去把简.爱叫来,我有话要同她说。’贝茜不敢肯定她的神志是否清醒,这些话有没有意思。不过她告诉了里德小姐和乔治亚娜小姐,向她们建议把你去叫来。起初两位年轻小姐拖拖拉拉,但她们的母亲越来越焦躁不安,而旦‘简,简’地叫个不停,最后她们终算同意了。昨天我从盖茨黑德府动身。小姐,要是来得及准备,我想明天一早带
你同我一起回去。”

“是的,罗伯特,我会准备好的,我似乎应当去。”

“我也是这么想的,小姐。贝茜说她可以肯定,你不会拒绝。不过我想,你动身之前得请个假。”

“是呀,我现在就去请假。”我把他领到了仆人室,将他交给约翰的妻子照应,并由约翰亲自过问后,便进去寻找罗切斯特先生了。

他不在底下几层的房间里,也不在院子里,马厩里或者庭园里。我问费尔法克斯太太有没有见到过他——不错,她想他跟英格拉姆小姐在玩台球。我急忙赶到台球房,那里回响着台球的咔嗒声和嗡嗡的说话声。罗切斯特先生、英格拉姆小姐、两位埃希顿小姐和她们的倾慕者正忙着玩那游戏呢。要去打搅这批兴致勃勃的人是需要有勇气的,但我的事儿又不能拖延。于是我便向我主人走去,他站在英格拉姆小姐旁边。我一走近,她便回过头来盛气凌人地看着我,她的眼睛似乎在说,“那个迟迟疑疑的家伙现在要干什么?”当我轻轻地叫了声,“罗切斯特先生”时,她移动了一下,仿佛按捺不住要命令我走开。我还记得她那时的样子——优雅而出众。她穿着一件天蓝的皱纱睡袍,头发上缠着一条青色薄纱头巾。她玩兴正浓,虽然触犯了自尊,但脸上骄矜之气未减。

“那人找你吗?”她问罗切斯特先生。罗切斯特先生回头看看“那人”是谁,作了个奇
怪的鬼脸——异样而含糊的表情——扔下了球棒,随我走出了房门。

“怎么啦,简?”他关了房门后,身子倚在门上说。

“对不起,先生,我想请一、两周假。”

“干嘛?——上哪儿去呀?”

“去看一位生了病的太太,是她派人来叫我的。”

“哪位生病的太太?——她住在哪儿?”

“在××郡的盖茨黑德府。”

“××郡?离这儿有一百英里呢!这么远叫人回去看她,这人可是谁呀?”

“她叫里德,先生——里德太太。”

“盖茨黑德的里德吗?盖茨黑德府是有一个叫里德的,是个地方法官。”

“我说的是他的寡妇,先生。”

“那你与她有什么关系?怎么认得她的呢?”

“里德先生是我的舅舅——我母亲的哥哥。”

“哎呀他是你舅舅!你从来没有跟我说起过他,你总是说你没有亲戚。”

“没有一个亲戚肯承认我,先生。里德先生去世了,他的夫人抛弃了我。”

“为什么?”

“因为我穷,是个包袱,她不喜欢我。”

“可是里德他留下了孩子?——你一定有表兄妹的了?昨天乔治.林恩爵士说起盖茨黑德府一个叫里德的人——他说这人是城里一个十足的无赖,而英格拉姆提到了同一个地方叫乔治亚娜.里德的,一两个社交季节之前,因为美貌,在伦敦大受倾慕。”

“约翰.里德也死了,先生,他毁了自己,也差不多毁了他的家,据说他是自杀的。噩耗传来,他母亲大为震惊,一下子中风了。”

“你能帮她什么忙?胡闹,简?我才不会想跑一百英里去看一个老太太呢,而她也许还没等你赶到就死了。更何况你说她把你抛弃了。”

“不错,先生,但那已是很久以前了,而且当时的情况不同。现在要是我无视她的心愿,我会不安心的。”

“你要呆多久?”

“尽量短些,先生。”

“答应我只呆一星期。”

“我还是不要许诺好,很可能我会不得不食言。”

“无论如何你要回来,在任何情况下都要经得住劝诱,不跟她一辈子住在一起。”

“呵,对!要是一切顺利,我当然会回来的。”

“谁同你一起走?可不能独个儿跑一百英里路呀?”

“不,先生,她派了一个赶车人来。”

“一个信得过的人吗?”

“是的先生,他在那儿已经住了十年。”

罗切斯特先生沉思了一会。“你希望什么时候走?”

“明天一早,先生。”

“好吧,你得带些钱在身边,出门可不能没有钱。我猜想你钱不多。我还没有付你工资呢。你一古脑儿还有多少钱,简?”他笑着问。

我取出钱包,里面瘪瘪的。“五先令,先生。”他伸手拿过钱包,把里面的钱全倒在手掌上,噗吃一声笑了出来,仿佛是钱使他高兴似的。他立刻取出了自己的皮夹子,“拿着吧,”他说着递给我一张钞票:五十英镑,而他只欠我十五英镑。我告诉他我找不出。

“我不要你找,你知道的。拿着你的工资吧。”

我拒绝接受超过我应得的东西。他先是皱了皱眉,随后仿佛想起了什么似地说:

“行,行!现在还是不要全给你的好。要是你有五十镑,也许就会呆上三个月。十英镑,够吗?”

“够啦,先生,不过现在你欠我五英镑了。”

“那就回来拿吧,你有四十镑存在我这儿。”

“罗切斯特先生,我还是趁这个机会向你提一下另一桩事务吧。”

“事务?我听了很感到好奇。”

“你实际上已经通知我,先生,你很快就要结婚了。”

“是的,那又怎么样?”

“那样的话,先生,阿黛勒该去上学了,可以肯定你会觉察到这样做的必要性。”

“让她别碍着我新娘,不然她会过份地蔑视她。毫无疑问,你这建议有道理。像你说的,阿黛勒得上学,而你,当然,得直奔——魔鬼?”

“希望不是这样,先生。不过我得上什么地方另找个工作。”

“当然!”他大叫道,嗓门里带着鼻音,面部抽搐了一下,表情既古怪又可笑。他打量了我几分钟。

“你会去求老夫人里德,或者她的女儿,也就是那些小姐们给你找个工作,我猜是吧?”

“不,先生,我亲戚们没有那层可以请求帮忙的关系——不过我会登广告。”

“你还可以大步跨上埃及金字塔!”他咆哮着。“你登广告是冒险:但愿我刚才只给了你一镑,而不是十镑。把五镑还给我,简,我要派用处。”

“我也要派用处,先生,”我回嘴道,双手抓住钱包藏到了背后。“那钱我说什么也不放。”

“小气鬼!”他说,“问你要点儿钱你就拒绝!给我五镑,简。”

“连五镑也不给,先生,五便士也不给。”

“让我就瞧一瞧你的钱吧。”

“不,先生,我不能相信你。”

“简!”

“先生?”

“答应我一件事。”

“先生,凡是自己力所能及的,我都能答应。”

“不要去登广告,你就把找工作的事交给我办吧,到时候我会给你找一个。”

“我很乐意这么做,先生。只要你反过不答应我,在新娘进屋之前我和阿黛勒都太太平平离开这所房子。”

“好呀!好呀!我答应。那你明天动身?”

“是的,先生,一大早。”

“晚饭后你下楼来客厅吗?”

“不来了,先生,我还得收拾行装呢。”

“那你我得暂时告别了?”

“我想是这样,先生。”

“一般人采用怎样的仪式来告别,简?教一教我吧,我不大在行。”

“他们说再见,或者其他喜欢的方式。”

“那就说吧。”

“再见,罗切斯特先生,暂时告别了。”

“我该说什么呢?”

“一样说法,要是你高兴,先生。”

“再见了。简.爱,暂时告别了,就是这些吗?”

“是的。”

“在我看来,你好象有点太吝啬、干巴巴、不友好。我还想要点别的,一点礼仪之外的东西。比如,握握手,不,——那也不能使我满意。那你就只说‘再见’了,简?”

“这够了,先生,这两个亲切的字眼所表达的友好情意,跟许多字里一样多。”“很可能是这样,但这既空洞又冷淡——‘再见’”

“他背靠着门会站多久呢?”我暗自问道,“我要开始收拾了。”晚餐铃响了,他猛地跑开,一句话也没有说。那天我没有再见到他,第二天早晨,他还没起床我就动身走了。

五月一日下午五点左右,我到了盖茨黑德府门房,上府宅之前我先进去瞧瞧。里面十分整洁,装饰窗上挂着小小的白色窗帘,地板一尘不染,炉栅和炉具都擦得锃亮,炉子里燃着明净的火苗。贝茜坐在火炉边上,喂着最小的一个孩子,罗伯特和妹妹在墙角不声不响地玩着。

“哎呀!——我知道你会来的!”我进门时利文太太叫道。

“是呀,贝茜,”我吻了吻她说,“我相信来得还不至于太晚,里德太太怎么样了?——我希望还活着。”

“不错,她还活着,而且更明白事理,更泰然了。医生说她会拖上一周两周,但认为她很难好得了。”

“近来她提到过我吗?”

“今天早上还说起过你呢,希望你能来。不过她现在睡着了,或者说十分钟之前我在楼上的时候,正睡着呢。整个下午她总是那么懒洋洋地躺着,六七点钟左右醒来。小姐,你在这儿歇个把小时,然后我跟你一起上去好吗?”

这时罗伯特进来了,贝茜把睡着的孩子放进摇篮,上去迎接他。随后她硬要我脱掉帽子,用些茶点,说我显得既苍白又疲惫。我很乐意接受她的殷勤招待,顺从地任她脱去了行装,就像儿时任她脱掉衣服一样。

我瞧着她忙乎着,摆好茶盘,拿出最好的瓷器,切好面包和奶油,烤好茶点吐司,不时还轻轻地拍一拍,推一推罗伯特或简,就象小时候对待我一样;于是旧时的记忆又立刻浮上心头。贝茜的性子依然那么急,手脚依然那么轻,容貌依然那么姣好。

茶点备好以后,我正要走近桌子,她却要我坐着别动,用的还是过去那种专断的口气。她说得让我坐着,在火炉旁招待我。她把一个园园的架子放在我面前,架子上摆了杯子和一盘吐司,完全就像她过去一样,把我安顿在育儿室的椅子上,让我吃一些暗地里偷来的精美食品。我象往昔一样微笑着依了她。

她想知道我在桑菲尔德府是不是愉快,女主人是怎样一个人。当我告诉她只有一个男主人时,她问我那位先生好不好,我是不是喜欢。我告诉她这人长得比较难看,却很有教养,待我很好,我很满意。随后我继续给她描绘那批最近呆在府上寻欢作乐的客人,贝茜对这些细节听得津津有味,她恰巧就爱听这些东西。

谈着谈着一小时很快就过去了,贝茜把帽子等还给我。我由她陪着出了门房上府宅去。差不多九年之前我也是由她这么陪着,从我此刻登上的小径走下来的。一月的某个灰暗阴冷、雾气弥漫的早晨,我带着绝望和痛



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