Jane Eyre 简爱 Chapter 28
时间：2014-10-09 04:55:56
（单词翻译:单击）
TWO days are passed. It is a summer evening; the coachman has set me down at a place called Whitcross; he could take me no farther for the sum I had given, and I was not possessed1 of another shilling in the world. The coach is a mile off by this time; I am alone. At this moment I discover that I forgot to take my parcel out of the pocket of the coach, where I had placed it for safety; there it remains2, there it must remain; and now, I am absolutely destitute3.
Whitcross is no town, nor even a hamlet; it is but a stone pillar set up where four roads meet: whitewashed4, I suppose, to be more obvious at a distance and in darkness. Four arms spring from its summit: the nearest town to which these point is, according to the inscription5, distant ten miles; the farthest, above twenty. From the well-known names of these towns I learn in what county I have lighted; a north-midland shire, dusk with moorland, ridged with mountain: this I see. There are great moors8 behind and on each hand of me; there are waves of mountains far beyond that deep valley at my feet. The population here must be thin, and I see no passengers on these roads: they stretch out east, west, north, and south-white, broad, lonely; they are all cut in the moor6, and the heather grows deep and wild to their very verge9. Yet a chance traveller might pass by; and I wish no eye to see me now: strangers would wonder what I am doing, lingering here at the sign-post, evidently objectless and lost. I might be questioned: I could give no answer but what would sound incredible and excite suspicion. Not a tie holds me to human society at this moment- not a charm or hope calls me where my fellow-creatures are- none that saw me would have a kind thought or a good wish for me.
I struck straight into the heath; I held on to a hollow I saw deeply furrowing11 the brown moorside; I waded12 knee-deep in its dark growth; I turned with its turnings, and finding a moss13-blackened granite14 crag in a hidden angle, I sat down under it. High banks of moor were about me; the crag protected my head: the sky was over that.
Some time passed before I felt tranquil15 even here: I had a vague dread16 that wild cattle might be near, or that some sportsman or poacher might discover me. If a gust17 of wind swept the waste, I looked up, fearing it was the rush of a bull; if a plover18 whistled, I imagined it a man. Finding my apprehensions19 unfounded, however, and calmed by the deep silence that reigned20 as evening declined at nightfall, I took confidence. As yet I had not thought; I had only listened, watched, dreaded21; now I regained23 the faculty24 of reflection.
What was I to do? Where to go? Oh, intolerable questions, when I could do nothing and go nowhere!- when a long way must yet be measured by my weary, trembling limbs before I could reach human habitation- when cold charity must be entreated25 before I could get a lodging26: reluctant sympathy importuned28, almost certain repulse29 incurred30, before my tale could be listened to, or one of my wants relieved!
I touched the heath: it was dry, and yet warm with the heat of the summer day. I looked at the sky; it was pure: a kindly31 star twinkled just above the chasm32 ridge7. The day fell, but with propitious33 softness; no breeze whispered. Nature seemed to me benign34 and good;
I thought she loved me, outcast as I was; and I, who from man could anticipate only mistrust, rejection35, insult, clung to her with filial fondness. To-night, at least, I would be her guest, as I was her child: my mother would lodge36 me without money and without price. I had one morsel37 of bread yet: the remnant of a roll I had bought in a town we passed through at noon with a stray penny- my last coin. I saw ripe bilberries gleaming here and there, like jet beads38 in the heath: I gathered a handful and ate them with the bread. My hunger, sharp before, was, if not satisfied, appeased39 by this hermit's meal. I said my evening prayers at its conclusion, and then chose my couch.
Beside the crag the heath was very deep: when I lay down my feet were buried in it; rising high on each side, it left only a narrow space for the night-air to invade. I folded my shawl double, and spread it over me for a coverlet; a low, mossy swell40 was my pillow.
My rest might have been blissful enough, only a sad heart broke it.
It plained of its gaping42 wounds, its inward bleeding, its riven chords. It trembled for Mr. Rochester and his doom43; it bemoaned44 him with bitter pity; it demanded him with ceaseless longing45; and, impotent as a bird with both wings broken, it still quivered its shattered pinions46 in vain attempts to seek him.
Worn out with this torture of thought, I rose to my knees. Night was come, and her planets were risen: a safe, still night: too serene47 for the companionship of fear. We know that God is everywhere; but certainly we feel His presence most when His works are on the grandest scale spread before us; and it is in the unclouded night-sky, where His worlds wheel their silent course, that we read clearest His infinitude, His omnipotence48, His omnipresence. I had risen to my knees to pray for Mr. Rochester. Looking up, I, with tear-dimmed eyes, saw the mighty49 Milky-way. Remembering what it was- what countless50 systems there swept space like a soft trace of light- I felt the might and strength of God. Sure was I of His efficiency to save what He had made: convinced I grew that neither earth should perish, nor one of the souls it treasured. I turned my prayer to thanksgiving: the Source of Life was also the Saviour51 of spirits.
Mr. Rochester was safe: he was God's, and by God would he be guarded. I again nestled to the breast of the hill; and ere long in sleep forgot sorrow.
But next day, Want came to me pale and bare. Long after the little birds had left their nests; long after bees had come in the sweet prime of day to gather the heath honey before the dew was dried- when the long morning shadows were curtailed52, and the sun filled earth and sky- I got up, and I looked round me.
What a still, hot, perfect day! What a golden desert this spreading moor! Everywhere sunshine. I wished I could live in it and on it. I saw a lizard53 run over the crag; I saw a bee busy among the sweet bilberries. I would fain at the moment have become bee or lizard, that I might have found fitting nutriment, permanent shelter here. But I was a human being, and had a human being's wants: I must not linger where there was nothing to supply them. I rose; I looked back at the bed I had left. Hopeless of the future, I wished but this- that my Maker54 had that night thought good to require my soul of me while I slept; and that this weary frame, absolved55 by death from further conflict with fate, had now but to decay quietly, and mingle56 in peace with the soil of this wilderness57. Life, however, was yet in my possession, with all its requirements, and pains, and responsibilities. The burden must be carried; the want provided for; the suffering endured; the responsibility fulfilled. I set out.
Whitcross regained, I followed a road which led from the sun, now fervent58 and high. By no other circumstance had I will to decide my choice. I walked a long time, and when I thought I had nearly done enough, and might conscientiously59 yield to the fatigue60 that almost overpowered me- might relax this forced action, and, sitting down on a stone I saw near, submit resistlessly to the apathy61 that clogged62 heart and limb- I heard a bell chime- a church bell.
I turned in the direction of the sound, and there, amongst the romantic hills, whose changes and aspect I had ceased to note an hour ago, I saw a hamlet and a spire63. All the valley at my right hand was full of pasture-fields, and cornfields, and wood; and a glittering stream ran zigzag64 through the varied65 shades of green, the mellowing66 grain, the sombre woodland, the clear and sunny lea.
Recalled by the rumbling67 of wheels to the road before me, I saw a heavily-laden waggon68 labouring up the hill, and not far beyond were two cows and their drover. Human life and human labour were near. I must struggle on: strive to live and bend to toil69 like the rest.
About two o'clock P.M. I entered the village. At the bottom of its one street there was a little shop with some cakes of bread in the window. I coveted70 a cake of bread. With that refreshment71 I could perhaps regain22 a degree of energy: without it, it would be difficult to proceed. The wish to have some strength and some vigour72 returned to me as soon as I was amongst my fellow-beings. I felt it would be degrading to faint with hunger on the causeway of a hamlet. Had I nothing about me I could offer in exchange for one of these rolls? I considered. I had a small silk handkerchief tied round my throat; I had my gloves. I could hardly tell how men and women in extremities73 of destitution74 proceeded. I did not know whether either of these articles would be accepted: probably they would not; but I must try.
I entered the shop: a woman was there. Seeing a respectably-dressed person, a lady as she supposed, she came forward with civility. How could she serve me? I was seized with shame: my tongue would not utter the request I had prepared. I dared not offer her the half-worn gloves, the creased75 handkerchief: besides, I felt it would be absurd. I only begged permission to sit down a moment, as I was tired.
Disappointed in the expectation of a customer, she coolly acceded77 to my request. She pointed76 to a seat; I sank into it. I felt sorely urged to weep; but conscious how unseasonable such a manifestation78 would be, I restrained it. Soon I asked her 'if there were any dressmaker or plain-workwoman in the village?'
'Yes; two or three. Quite as many as there was employment for.'
I reflected. I was driven to the point now. I was brought face to face with Necessity. I stood in the position of one without a resource, without a friend, without a coin. I must do something. What? I must apply somewhere. Where?
'Did she know of any place in the neighbourhood where a servant was wanted?'
'What was the chief trade in this place? What did most of the people do?'
'Some were farm labourers; a good deal worked at Mr. Oliver's needle-factory, and at the foundry.'
'Did Mr. Oliver employ women?'
'Nay; it was men's work.'
'And what do the women do?'
'I knawn't,' was the answer. 'Some does one thing, and some another. Poor folk mun get on as they can.'
She seemed to be tired of my questions: and, indeed, what claim had I to importune27 her? A neighbour or two came in; my chair was evidently wanted. I took leave.
I passed up the street, looking as I went at all the houses to the right hand and to the left; but I could discover no pretext80, nor see an inducement to enter any. I rambled81 round the hamlet, going sometimes to a little distance and returning again, for an hour or more. Much exhausted82, and suffering greatly now for want of food, I turned aside into a lane and sat down under the hedge. Ere many minutes had elapsed, I was again on my feet, however, and again searching something- a resource, or at least an informant. A pretty little house stood at the top of the lane, with a garden before it, exquisitely84 neat and brilliantly blooming. I stopped at it. What business had I to approach the white door or touch the glittering knocker? In what way could it possibly be the interest of the inhabitants of that dwelling85 to serve me? Yet I drew near and knocked.
A mild-looking, cleanly-attired young woman opened the door. In such a voice as might be expected from a hopeless heart and fainting frame- a voice wretchedly low and faltering- I asked if a servant was wanted here?
'No,' said she; 'we do not keep a servant.'
'Can you tell me where I could get employment of any kind?' I continued. 'I am a stranger, without acquaintance in this place. I want some work: no matter what.'
But it was not her business to think for me, or to seek a place for me: besides, in her eyes, how doubtful must have appeared my character, position, tale. She shook her head, she 'was sorry she could give me no information,' and the white door closed, quite gently and civilly: but it shut me out. If she had held it open a little longer, I believe I should have begged a piece of bread; for I was now brought low.
I could not bear to return to the sordid86 village, where, besides, no prospect87 of aid was visible. I should have longed rather to deviate88 to a wood I saw not far off, which appeared in its thick shade to offer inviting89 shelter; but I was so sick, so weak, so gnawed90 with nature's cravings, instinct kept me roaming round abodes91 where there was a chance of food. Solitude92 would be no solitude- rest no rest- while the vulture, hunger, thus sank beak93 and talons94 in my side.
I drew near houses; I left them, and came back again, and again I wandered away: always repelled95 by the consciousness of having no claim to ask- no right to expect interest in my isolated96 lot. Meantime, the afternoon advanced, while I thus wandered about like a lost and starving dog. In crossing a field, I saw the church spire before me: I hastened towards it. Near the churchyard, and in the middle of a garden, stood a well-built though small house, which I had no doubt was the parsonage. I remembered that strangers who arrive at a place where they have no friends, and who want employment, sometimes apply to the clergyman for introduction and aid. It is the clergyman's function to help- at least with advice- those who wished to help themselves. I seemed to have something like a right to seek counsel here. Renewing then my courage, and gathering97 my feeble remains of strength, I pushed on. I reached the house, and knocked at the kitchen-door. An old woman opened: I asked was this the parsonage?
'Yes.'
'Was the clergyman in?'
'No.'
'Would he be in soon?'
'No, he was gone from home.'
'To a distance?'
'Not so far- happen three mile. He had been called away by the sudden death of his father: he was at Marsh98 End now, and would very likely stay there a fortnight longer.'
'Was there any lady of the house?'
'Nay, there was naught99 but her, and she was housekeeper'; and of her, reader, I could not bear to ask the relief for want of which I was sinking; I could not yet beg; and again I crawled away.
Once more I took off my handkerchief- once more I thought of the cakes of bread in the little shop. Oh, for but a crust! for but one mouthful to allay100 the pang101 of famine! Instinctively102 I turned my face again to the village; I found the shop again, and I went in; and though others were there besides the woman I ventured the request-
'Would she give me a roll for this handkerchief?'
She looked at me with evident suspicion: 'Nay, she never sold stuff i' that way.'
Almost desperate, I asked for half a cake; she again refused.
'How could she tell where I had got the handkerchief?' she said.
'Would she take my gloves?'
'No! what could she do with them?'
Reader, it is not pleasant to dwell on these details. Some say there is enjoyment103 in looking back to painful experience past; but at this day I can scarcely bear to review the times to which I allude104: the moral degradation105, blent with the physical suffering, form too distressing106 a recollection ever to be willingly dwelt on. I blamed none of those who repulsed107 me. I felt it was what was to be expected, and what could not be helped: an ordinary beggar is frequently an object of suspicion; a well-dressed beggar inevitably108 so. To be sure, what I begged was employment; but whose business was it to provide me with employment? Not, certainly, that of persons who saw me then for the first time, and who knew nothing about my character. And as to the woman who would not take my handkerchief in exchange for her bread, why, she was right, if the offer appeared to her sinister109 or the exchange unprofitable. Let me condense now. I am sick of the subject.
A little before dark I passed a farmhouse110, at the open door of which the farmer was sitting, eating his supper of bread and cheese. I stopped and said-
'Will you give me a piece of bread? for I am very hungry.' He cast on me a glance of surprise; but without answering, he cut a thick slice from his loaf, and gave it to me. I imagine he did not think I was a beggar, but only an eccentric sort of lady, who had taken a fancy to his brown loaf. As soon as I was out of sight of his house, I sat down and ate it.
I could not hope to get a lodging under a roof, and sought it in the wood I have before alluded111 to. But my night was wretched, my rest broken: the ground was damp, the air cold: besides, intruders passed near me more than once, and I had again and again to change my quarters: no sense of safety or tranquillity112 befriended me. Towards morning it rained; the whole of the following day was wet. Do not ask me, reader, to give a minute account of that day; as before, I sought work; as before, I was repulsed; as before, I starved; but once did food pass my lips. At the door of a cottage I saw a little girl about to throw a mess of cold porridge into a pig trough. 'Will you give me that?' I asked.
She stared at me. 'Mother!' she exclaimed, 'there is a woman wants me to give her these porridge.'
'Well, lass,' replied a voice within, 'give it her if she's a beggar. T' pig doesn't want it.'
As the wet twilight116 deepened, I stopped in a solitary117 bridle-path, which I had been pursuing an hour or more.
'My strength is quite failing me,' I said in a soliloquy. 'I feel I cannot go much farther. Shall I be an outcast again this night?
While the rain descends119 so, must I lay my head on the cold, drenched120 ground? I fear I cannot do otherwise: for who will receive me? But it will be very dreadful, with this feeling of hunger, faintness, chill, and this sense of desolation- this total prostration121 of hope.
In all likelihood, though, I should die before morning. And why cannot I reconcile myself to the prospect of death? Why do I struggle to retain a valueless life? Because I know, or believe, Mr. Rochester is living: and then, to die of want and cold is a fate to which nature cannot submit passively. Oh, Providence122! sustain me a little longer!
Aid!- direct me!'
My glazed123 eye wandered over the dim and misty124 landscape. I saw I had strayed far from the village: it was quite out of sight. The very cultivation125 surrounding it had disappeared. I had, by cross-ways and by-paths, once more drawn126 near the tract127 of moorland; and now, only a few fields, almost as wild and unproductive as the heath from which they were scarcely reclaimed128, lay between me and the dusky hill.
'Well, I would rather die yonder than in a street or on a frequented road,' I reflected. 'And far better that crows and ravens129- if any ravens there be in these regions- should pick my flesh from my bones, than that they should be prisoned in a workhouse coffin130 and moulder131 in a pauper's grave.'
To the hill, then, I turned. I reached it. It remained now only to find a hollow where I could lie down, and feel at least hidden, if not secure. But all the surface of the waste looked level. It showed no variation but of tint132: green, where rush and moss overgrew the marshes133; black, where the dry soil bore only heath. Dark as it was getting, I could still see these changes, though but as mere134 alternations of light and shade; for colour had faded with the daylight.
My eye still roved over the sullen135 swell and along the moor-edge, vanishing amidst the wildest scenery, when at one dim point, far in among the marshes and the ridges136, a light sprang up. 'That is an ignis fatuus,' was my first thought; and I expected it would soon vanish. It burnt on, however, quite steadily137, neither receding138 nor advancing. 'Is it, then, a bonfire just kindled139?' I questioned. I watched to see whether it would spread: but no; as it did not diminish, so it did not enlarge. 'It may be a candle in a house,' I then conjectured140; 'but if so, I can never reach it. It is much too far away: and were it within a yard of me, what would it avail? I should but knock at the door to have it shut in my face.'
And I sank down where I stood, and hid my face against the ground. I lay still a while: the night-wind swept over the hill and over me, and died moaning in the distance; the rain fell fast, wetting me afresh to the skin. Could I but have stiffened to the still frost- the friendly numbness141 of death- it might have pelted142 on; I should not have felt it; but my yet living flesh shuddered143 at its chilling influence. I rose ere long.
The light was yet there, shining dim but constant through the rain.
I tried to walk again: I dragged my exhausted limbs slowly towards it.
It led me aslant144 over the hill, through a wide bog145, which would have been impassable in winter, and was splashy and shaking even now, in the height of summer. Here I fell twice; but as often I rose and rallied my faculties147. This light was my forlorn hope: I must gain it.
Having crossed the marsh, I saw a trace of white over the moor. I approached it; it was a road or a track: it led straight up to the light, which now beamed from a sort of knoll148, amidst a clump149 of trees- firs, apparently150, from what I could distinguish of the character of their forms and foliage151 through the gloom. My star vanished as I drew near: some obstacle had intervened between me and it. I put out my hand to feel the dark mass before me: I discriminated152 the rough stones of a low wall- above it, something like palisades, and within, a high and prickly hedge. I groped on. Again a whitish object gleamed before me: it was a gate- a wicket; it moved on its hinges as I touched it. On each side stood a sable146 bush- holly153 or yew154.
Entering the gate and passing the shrubs155, the silhouette156 of a house rose to view, black, low, and rather long; but the guiding light shone nowhere. All was obscurity. Were the inmates157 retired158 to rest? I feared it must be so. In seeking the door, I turned an angle: there shot out the friendly gleam again, from the lozenged panes159 of a very small latticed window, within a foot of the ground, made still smaller by the growth of ivy160 or some other creeping plant, whose leaves clustered thick over the portion of the house wall in which it was set. The aperture161 was so screened and narrow, that curtain or shutter162 had been deemed unnecessary; and when I stooped down and put aside the spray of foliage shooting over it, I could see all within. I could see clearly a room with a sanded floor, clean scoured163; a dresser of walnut164, with pewter plates ranged in rows, reflecting the redness and radiance of a glowing peat-fire. I could see a clock, a white deal table, some chairs. The candle, whose ray had been my beacon165, burnt on the table; and by its light an elderly woman, somewhat rough-looking, but scrupulously166 clean, like all about her, was knitting a stocking.
I noticed these objects cursorily167 only- in them there was nothing extraordinary. A group of more interest appeared near the hearth168, sitting still amidst the rosy169 peace and warmth suffusing170 it. Two young, graceful171 women- ladies in every point- sat, one in a low rocking-chair, the other on a lower stool; both wore deep mourning of crape and bombazeen, which sombre garb172 singularly set off very fair necks and faces: a large old pointer dog rested its massive head on the knee of one girl- in the lap of the other was cushioned a black cat.
A strange place was this humble173 kitchen for such occupants! Who were they? They could not be the daughters of the elderly person at the table; for she looked like a rustic174, and they were all delicacy175 and cultivation. I had nowhere seen such faces as theirs: and yet, as I gazed on them, I seemed intimate with every lineament. I cannot call them handsome- they were too pale and grave for the word: as they each bent176 over a book, they looked thoughtful almost to severity. A stand between them supported a second candle and two great volumes, to which they frequently referred, comparing them, seemingly, with the smaller books they held in their hands, like people consulting a dictionary to aid them in the task of translation. This scene was as silent as if all the figures had been shadows and the firelit apartment a picture: so hushed was it, I could hear the cinders178 fall from the grate, the clock tick in its obscure corner; and I even fancied I could distinguish the click-click of the woman's knitting-needles. When, therefore, a voice broke the strange stillness at last, it was audible enough to me.
'Listen, Diana,' said one of the absorbed students; 'Franz and old Daniel are together in the night-time, and Franz is telling a dream from which he has awakened179 in terror- listen!' And in a low voice she read something, of which not one word was intelligible180 to me; for it was in an unknown tongue- neither French nor Latin. Whether it were Greek or German I could not tell.
The other girl, who had lifted her head to listen to her sister, repeated, while she gazed at the fire, a line of what had been read.
At a later day, I knew the language and the book; therefore, I will here quote the line: though, when I first heard it, it was only like a stroke on sounding brass182 to me- conveying no meaning:-
'"Da trat hervor Einer, anzusehen wie die Sternen Nacht." Good! good!' she exclaimed, while her dark and deep eye sparkled. 'There you have a dim and mighty archangel fitly set before you! The line is worth a hundred pages of fustian183. "Ich wage die Gedanken in der Schale meines Zornes und die Werke mit dem Gewichte meines Grimms." I like it!'
Both were again silent.
'Is there ony country where they talk i' that way?' asked the old woman, looking up from her knitting.
'Yes, Hannah- a far larger country than England, where they talk in no other way.'
'Well, for sure case, I knawn't how they can understand t'one t'other: and if either o' ye went there, ye could tell what they said, I guess?'
'We could probably tell something of what they said, but not all- for we are not as clever as you think us, Hannah. We don't speak German, and we cannot read it without a dictionary to help us.'
'And what good does it do you?'
'We mean to teach it some time- or at least the elements, as they say; and then we shall get more money than we do now.'
'Varry like: but give ower studying; ye've done enough for to-night.'
'I think we have: at least I'm tired. Mary, are you?'
'It is, especially such a language as this crabbed185 but glorious Deutsch. I wonder when St. John will come home.'
'Surely he will not be long now: it is just ten (looking at a little gold watch she drew from her girdle). It rains fast, Hannah: will you have the goodness to look at the fire in the parlour?'
The woman rose: she opened a door, through which I dimly saw a passage: soon I heard her stir a fire in an inner room; she presently came back.
'Ah, childer!' said she, 'it fair troubles me to go into yond' room now: it looks so lonesome wi' the chair empty and set back in a corner.'
'But he is in a better place,' continued Hannah: 'we shouldn't wish him here again. And then, nobody need to have a quieter death nor he had.'
'You say he never mentioned us?' inquired one of the ladies.
'He hadn't time, bairn: he was gone in a minute, was your father.
He had been a bit ailing118 like the day before, but naught to signify; and when Mr. St. John asked if he would like either o' ye to be sent for, he fair laughed at him. He began again with a bit of a heaviness in his head the next day- that is, a fortnight sin'- and he went to sleep and niver wakened: he wor a'most stark187 when your brother went into t' chamber188 and fand him. Ah, childer! that's t' last o' t' old stock- for ye and Mr. St. John is like of different soart to them 'at's gone; for all your mother wor mich i' your way, and a'most as book-learned. She wor the pictur' o' ye, Mary: Diana is more like your father.'
I thought them so similar I could not tell where the old servant (for such I now concluded her to be) saw the difference. Both were fair complexioned189 and slenderly made; both possessed faces full of distinction and intelligence. One, to be sure, had hair a shade darker than the other, and there was a difference in their style of wearing it; Mary's pale brown locks were parted and braided smooth: Diana's duskier tresses covered her neck with thick curls. The clock struck ten.
'Ye'll want your supper, I am sure,' observed Hannah; 'and so will Mr. St. John when he comes in.'
And she proceeded to prepare the meal. The ladies rose; they seemed about to withdraw to the parlour. Till this moment, I had been so intent on watching them, their appearance and conversation had excited in me so keen an interest, I had half-forgotten my own wretched position: now it recurred190 to me. More desolate191, more desperate than ever, it seemed from contrast. And how impossible did it appear to touch the inmates of this house with concern on my behalf; to make them believe in the truth of my wants and woes- to induce them to vouchsafe192 a rest for my wanderings! As I groped out the door, and knocked at it hesitatingly, I felt that last idea to be a mere chimera193. Hannah opened.
'What do you want?' she inquired, in a voice of surprise, as she surveyed me by the light of the candle she held.
'May I speak to your mistresses?' I said.
'You had better tell me what you have to say to them. Where do you come from?'
'I am a stranger.'
'What is your business here at this hour?'
'I want a night's shelter in an out-house or anywhere, and a morsel of bread to eat.'
Distrust, the very feeling I dreaded, appeared in Hannah's face.
'I'll give you a piece of bread,' she said, after a pause; 'but we can't take in a vagrant194 to lodge. It isn't likely.'
'Do let me speak to your mistresses.'
'No, not I. What can they do for you? You should not be roving about now; it looks very ill.'
'But where shall I go if you drive me away? What shall I do?'
'Oh, I'll warrant you know where to go and what to do. Mind you don't do wrong, that's all. Here is a penny; now go-'
'A penny cannot feed me, and I have no strength to go farther.
Don't shut the door:- oh, don't, for God's sake!'
'I must; the rain is driving in-'
'Tell the young ladies. Let me see them-'
'Indeed, I will not. You are not what you ought to be, or you wouldn't make such a noise. Move off.'
'But I must die if I am turned away.'
'Not you. I'm fear'd you have some ill plans agate195, that bring you about folk's houses at this time o' night. If you've any followers- housebreakers or such like- anywhere near, you may tell them we are not by ourselves in the house; we have a gentleman, and dogs, and guns.' Here the honest but inflexible196 servant clapped the door to and bolted it within.
This was the climax197. A pang of exquisite83 suffering- a throe of true despair- rent and heaved my heart. Worn out, indeed, I was; not another step could I stir. I sank on the wet doorstep: I groaned- I wrung198 my hands- I wept in utter anguish199. Oh, this spectre of death!
Oh, this last hour, approaching in such horror! Alas200, this isolation- this banishment201 from my kind! Not only the anchor of hope, but the footing of fortitude202 was gone- at least for a moment; but the last I soon endeavoured to regain.
'I can but die,' I said, 'and I believe in God. Let me try to wait His will in silence.'
These words I not only thought, but uttered; and thrusting back all my misery203 into my heart, I made an effort to compel it to remain there- dumb and still.
'All men must die,' said a voice quite close at hand; 'but all are not condemned204 to meet a lingering and premature205 doom, such as yours would be if you perished here of want.'
'Who or what speaks?' I asked, terrified at the unexpected sound, and incapable206 now of deriving207 from any occurrence a hope of aid. A form was near- what form, the pitch-dark night and my enfeebled vision prevented me from distinguishing. With a loud long knock, the newcomer appealed to the door.
'Is it you, Mr. St. John?' cried Hannah.
'Yes- yes; open quickly.'
'Well, how wet and cold you must be, such a wild night as it is!
Come in- your sisters are quite uneasy about you, and I believe there are bad folks about. There has been a beggar-woman- I declare she is not gone yet!- laid down there. Get up! for shame! Move off, I say!'
'Hush177, Hannah! I have a word to say to the woman. You have done your duty in excluding, now let me do mine in admitting her. I was near, and listened to both you and her. I think this is a peculiar208 case- I must at least examine into it. Young woman, rise, and pass before me into the house.'
With difficulty I obeyed him. Presently I stood within that clean, bright kitchen- on the very hearth- trembling, sickening; conscious of an aspect in the last degree ghastly, wild, and weather-beaten. The two ladies, their brother, Mr. St. John, the old servant, were all gazing at me.
'St. John, who is it?' I heard one ask.
'I cannot tell: I found her at the door,' was the reply.
'She does look white,' said Hannah.
'As white as clay or death,' was responded. 'She will fall: let her sit.'
And indeed my head swam: I dropped, but a chair received me. I still possessed my senses, though just now I could not speak.
'Perhaps a little water would restore her. Hannah, fetch some.
But she is worn to nothing. How very thin, and how very bloodless!'
'A mere spectre!'
'Famished, I think. Hannah, is that milk? Give it me, and a piece of bread.'
Diana (I knew her by the long curls which I saw drooping210 between me and the fire as she bent over me) broke some bread, dipped it in milk, and put it to my lips. Her face was near mine: I saw there was pity in it, and I felt sympathy in her hurried breathing. In her simple words, too, the same balm-like emotion spoke211: 'Try to eat.'
'Yes- try,' repeated Mary gently; and Mary's hand removed my sodden212 bonnet213 and lifted my head. I tasted what they offered me: feebly at first, eagerly soon.
'Not too much at first- restrain her,' said the brother; 'she has had enough.' And he withdrew the cup of milk and the plate of bread.
'A little more, St. John- look at the avidity in her eyes.'
'No more at present, sister. Try if she can speak now- ask her her name.'
I felt I could speak, and I answered- 'My name is Jane Elliott.'
'And where do you live? Where are your friends?'
I was silent.
'Can we send for any one you know?'
I shook my head.
'What account can you give of yourself?'
Somehow, now that I had once crossed the threshold of this house, and once was brought face to face with its owners, I felt no longer outcast, vagrant, and disowned by the wide world. I dared to put off the mendicant- to resume my natural manner and character. I began once more to know myself; and when Mr. St. John demanded an account- which at present I was far too weak to render- I said after a brief pause-
'Sir, I can give you no details to-night.'
'But what, then,' said he, 'do you expect me to do for you?'
'Nothing,' I replied. My strength sufficed for but short answers.
Diana took the word-
'Do you mean,' she asked, 'that we have now given you what aid you require? and that we may dismiss you to the moor and the rainy night?'
I looked at her. She had, I thought, a remarkable215 countenance216, instinct both with power and goodness. I took sudden courage.
Answering her compassionate217 gaze with a smile, I said- 'I will trust you. If I were a masterless and stray dog, I know that you would not turn me from your hearth to-night: as it is, I really have no fear. Do with me and for me as you like; but excuse me from much discourse- my breath is short- I feel a spasm218 when I speak.' All three surveyed me, and all three were silent.
'Hannah,' said Mr. St. John, at last, 'let her sit there at present, and ask her no questions; in ten minutes more, give her the remainder of that milk and bread. Mary and Diana, let us go into the parlour and talk the matter over.'
They withdrew. Very soon one of the ladies returned- I could not tell which. A kind of pleasant stupor219 was stealing over me as I sat by the genial220 fire. In an undertone she gave some directions to Hannah.
Ere long, with the servant's aid, I contrived221 to mount a staircase; my dripping clothes were removed; soon a warm, dry bed received me. I thanked God- experienced amidst unutterable exhaustion222 a glow of grateful joy- and slept.
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1
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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3
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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whitewashed
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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furrowing
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| v.犁田，开沟( furrow的现在分词 ) | |
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waded
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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14
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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18
plover
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| n.珩，珩科鸟，千鸟 | |
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apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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21
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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22
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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24
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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26
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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27
importune
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| v.强求；不断请求 | |
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28
importuned
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| v.纠缠，向（某人）不断要求( importune的过去式和过去分词 )；（妓女）拉（客） | |
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29
repulse
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| n.击退，拒绝；vt.逐退，击退，拒绝 | |
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30
incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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31
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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32
chasm
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| n.深坑，断层，裂口，大分岐，利害冲突 | |
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33
propitious
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| adj.吉利的；顺利的 | |
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34
benign
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| adj.善良的，慈祥的；良性的，无危险的 | |
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35
rejection
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| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
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36
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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37
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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38
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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39
appeased
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| 安抚，抚慰( appease的过去式和过去分词 )； 绥靖（满足另一国的要求以避免战争） | |
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40
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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41
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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42
gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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43
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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44
bemoaned
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| v.为（某人或某事）抱怨( bemoan的过去式和过去分词 )；悲悼；为…恸哭；哀叹 | |
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45
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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46
pinions
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| v.抓住[捆住]（双臂）( pinion的第三人称单数 ) | |
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47
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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48
omnipotence
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| n.全能，万能，无限威力 | |
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49
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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50
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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51
saviour
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| n.拯救者，救星 | |
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52
curtailed
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| v.截断，缩短( curtail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
lizard
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| n.蜥蜴，壁虎 | |
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54
maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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55
absolved
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| 宣告…无罪，赦免…的罪行，宽恕…的罪行( absolve的过去式和过去分词 )； 不受责难，免除责任 [义务] ,开脱（罪责） | |
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56
mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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57
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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58
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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59
conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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60
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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61
apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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62
clogged
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| （使）阻碍( clog的过去式和过去分词 )； 淤滞 | |
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63
spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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64
zigzag
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| n.曲折，之字形；adj.曲折的，锯齿形的；adv.曲折地，成锯齿形地；vt.使曲折；vi.曲折前行 | |
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65
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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66
mellowing
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| 软化，醇化 | |
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67
rumbling
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| n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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68
waggon
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| n.运货马车，运货车；敞篷车箱 | |
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69
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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70
coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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71
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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72
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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73
extremities
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| n.端点( extremity的名词复数 )；尽头；手和足；极窘迫的境地 | |
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74
destitution
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| n.穷困，缺乏，贫穷 | |
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75
creased
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| （使…）起折痕，弄皱( crease的过去式和过去分词 )； （皮肤）皱起，使起皱纹； 皱皱巴巴 | |
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76
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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77
acceded
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| v.（正式）加入( accede的过去式和过去分词 )；答应；（通过财产的添附而）增加；开始任职 | |
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78
manifestation
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| n.表现形式；表明；现象 | |
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79
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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80
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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81
rambled
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的过去式和过去分词 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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82
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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83
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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84
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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85
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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86
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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87
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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88
deviate
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| v.(from)背离，偏离 | |
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89
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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90
gnawed
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| 咬( gnaw的过去式和过去分词 )； （长时间） 折磨某人； （使）苦恼； （长时间）危害某事物 | |
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91
abodes
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| 住所( abode的名词复数 )； 公寓； （在某地的）暂住； 逗留 | |
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92
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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93
beak
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| n.鸟嘴，茶壶嘴，钩形鼻 | |
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94
talons
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| n.（尤指猛禽的）爪( talon的名词复数 )；（如爪般的）手指；爪状物；锁簧尖状突出部 | |
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95
repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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96
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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97
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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98
marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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99
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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100
allay
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| v.消除，减轻(恐惧、怀疑等) | |
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101
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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102
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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103
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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104
allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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105
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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106
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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107
repulsed
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| v.击退( repulse的过去式和过去分词 )；驳斥；拒绝 | |
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108
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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109
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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110
farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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111
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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112
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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113
stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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114
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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115
ravenously
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| adv.大嚼地，饥饿地 | |
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116
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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117
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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118
ailing
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| v.生病 | |
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119
descends
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| v.下来( descend的第三人称单数 )；下去；下降；下斜 | |
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120
drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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121
prostration
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| n. 平伏, 跪倒, 疲劳 | |
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122
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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123
glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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124
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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125
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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126
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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127
tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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128
reclaimed
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| adj.再生的；翻造的；收复的；回收的v.开拓( reclaim的过去式和过去分词 )；要求收回；从废料中回收（有用的材料）；挽救 | |
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129
ravens
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| n.低质煤；渡鸦( raven的名词复数 ) | |
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130
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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131
moulder
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| v.腐朽，崩碎 | |
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132
tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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133
marshes
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| n.沼泽，湿地( marsh的名词复数 ) | |
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134
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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135
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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136
ridges
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| n.脊( ridge的名词复数 )；山脊；脊状突起；大气层的)高压脊 | |
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137
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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138
receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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139
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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140
conjectured
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| 推测，猜测，猜想( conjecture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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141
numbness
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| n.无感觉，麻木，惊呆 | |
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142
pelted
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| （连续地）投掷( pelt的过去式和过去分词 )； 连续抨击； 攻击； 剥去…的皮 | |
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143
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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144
aslant
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| adv.倾斜地；adj.斜的 | |
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145
bog
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| n.沼泽；室...陷入泥淖 | |
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146
sable
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| n.黑貂；adj.黑色的 | |
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147
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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148
knoll
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| n.小山，小丘 | |
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149
clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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150
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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151
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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152
discriminated
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| 分别，辨别，区分( discriminate的过去式和过去分词 )； 歧视，有差别地对待 | |
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153
holly
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| n.[植]冬青属灌木 | |
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154
yew
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| n.紫杉属树木 | |
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155
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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156
silhouette
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| n.黑色半身侧面影，影子，轮廓；v.描绘成侧面影，照出影子来，仅仅显出轮廓 | |
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157
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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158
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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159
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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160
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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161
aperture
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| n.孔，隙，窄的缺口 | |
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162
shutter
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| n.百叶窗；(照相机)快门；关闭装置 | |
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163
scoured
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| 走遍（某地）搜寻（人或物）( scour的过去式和过去分词 )； （用力）刷； 擦净； 擦亮 | |
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164
walnut
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| n.胡桃，胡桃木，胡桃色，茶色 | |
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165
beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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166
scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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167
cursorily
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| adv.粗糙地，疏忽地，马虎地 | |
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168
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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169
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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170
suffusing
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的现在分词 ) | |
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171
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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172
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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173
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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174
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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175
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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176
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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177
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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178
cinders
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| n.煤渣( cinder的名词复数 )；炭渣；煤渣路；煤渣跑道 | |
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179
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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180
intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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181
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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182
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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183
fustian
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| n.浮夸的；厚粗棉布 | |
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184
lexicon
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| n.字典，专门词汇 | |
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185
crabbed
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| adj.脾气坏的；易怒的；（指字迹）难辨认的；（字迹等）难辨认的v.捕蟹( crab的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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186
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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187
stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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188
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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189
complexioned
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| 脸色…的 | |
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190
recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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191
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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192
vouchsafe
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| v.惠予，准许 | |
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193
chimera
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| n.神话怪物；梦幻 | |
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194
vagrant
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| n.流浪者，游民；adj.流浪的，漂泊不定的 | |
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195
agate
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| n.玛瑙 | |
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196
inflexible
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| adj.不可改变的，不受影响的，不屈服的 | |
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197
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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198
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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199
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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200
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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201
banishment
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| n.放逐，驱逐 | |
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202
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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203
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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204
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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205
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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206
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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207
deriving
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| v.得到( derive的现在分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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208
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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209
famished
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| adj.饥饿的 | |
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210
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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211
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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212
sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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213
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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214
alias
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| n.化名；别名；adv.又名 | |
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215
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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216
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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217
compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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218
spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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219
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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220
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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221
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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222
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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