简爱(英文版)-第69部分

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　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　spasm　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　stupor　was　stealing　over　me　as　I　sat　by　the　genial　fire。　In　an　undertone　she　gave　some　directions　to　Hannah。　Ere　long；　with　the　servant’s　aid；　I　contrived　to　mount　a　staircase；　my　dripping　clothes　were　removed；　soon　a　warm；　dry　bed　received　me。　I　thanked　God—experienced　amidst　unutterable　exhaustion　a　glow　of　grateful　joy—and　slept。
Chapter　29
The　recollection　of　about　three　days　and　nights　succeeding　this　is　very　dim　in　my　mind。　I　can　recall　some　sensations　felt　in　that　interval；　but　few　thoughts　framed；　and　no　actions　performed。　I　knew　I　was　in　a　small　room　and　in　a　narrow　bed。　To　that　bed　I　seemed　to　have　grown；　I　lay　on　it　motionless　as　a　stone；　and　to　have　torn　me　from　it　would　have　been　almost　to　kill　me。　I　took　no　note　of　the　lapse　of　time—of　the　change　from　morning　to　noon；　from　noon　to　evening。　I　observed　when　any　one　entered　or　left　the　apartment：　I　could　even　tell　who　they　were；　I　could　understand　what　was　said　when　the　speaker　stood　near　to　me；　but　I　could　not　answer；　to　open　my　lips　or　move　my　limbs　possible。　Hannah；　the　servant；　ing　disturbed　me。　I　had　a　feeling　that　she　wished　me　away：　that　she　did　not　understand　me　or　my　circumstances；　that　she　was　prejudiced　against　me。　Diana　and　Mary　appeared　in　the　chamber　once　or　twice　a　day。　They　would　whisper　sentences　of　this　sort　at　my　bedside—
“It　is　very　well　we　took　her　in。”
“Yes；　she　would　certainly　have　been　found　dead　at　the　door　in　the　morning　had　she　been　left　out　all　night。　I　wonder　what　she　has　gone　through？”
“Strange　hardships；　I　imagine—poor；　emaciated；　pallid　wanderer？”
“She　is　not　an　uneducated　person；　I　should　think；　by　her　manner　of　speaking；　her　accent　was　quite　pure；　and　the　clothes　she　took　off；　though　splashed　and　wet；　were　little　worn　and　fine。”
“She　has　a　peculiar　face；　fleshless　and　haggard　as　it　is；　I　rather　like　it；　and　when　in　good　health　and　animated；　I　can　fancy　her　physiognomy　would　be　agreeable。”
Never　once　in　their　dialogues　did　I　hear　a　syllable　of　regret　at　the　hospitality　they　had　extended　to　me；　or　of　suspicion　of；　or　aversion　to；　myself。　I　was　forted。
Mr。　St。　John　came　but　once：　he　looked　at　me；　and　said　my　state　of　lethargy　was　the　result　of　reaction　from　excessive　and　protracted　fatigue。　He　pronounced　it　needless　to　send　for　a　doctor：　nature；　he　was　sure；　would　manage　best；　left　to　herself。　He　said　every　nerve　had　been　overstrained　in　some　way；　and　the　whole　system　must　sleep　torpid　a　while。　There　was　no　disease。　He　imagined　my　recovery　would　be　rapid　enough　when　once　menced。　These　opinions　he　delivered　in　a　few　words；　in　a　quiet；　low　voice；　and　added；　after　a　pause；　in　the　tone　of　a　man　little　accustomed　to　expansive　ment；　“Rather　an　unusual　physiognomy；　certainly；　not　indicative　of　vulgarity　or　degradation。”
“Far　otherwise；”　responded　Diana。　“To　speak　truth；　St。　John；　my　heart　rather　warms　to　the　poor　little　soul。　I　wish　we　may　be　able　to　benefit　her　permanently。”
“That　is　hardly　likely；”　was　the　reply。　“You　will　find　she　is　some　young　lady　who　has　had　a　misunderstanding　with　her　friends；　and　has　probably　injudiciously　left　them。　We　may；　perhaps；　succeed　in　restoring　her　to　them；　if　she　is　not　obstinate：　but　I　trace　lines　of　force　in　her　face　which　make　me　sceptical　of　her　tractability。”　He　stood　considering　me　some　minutes；　then　added；　“She　looks　sensible；　but　not　at　all　handsome。”
“She　is　so　ill；　St。　John。”
“Ill　or　well；　she　would　always　be　plain。　The　grace　and　harmony　of　beauty　are　quite　wanting　in　those　features。”
On　the　third　day　I　was　better；　on　the　fourth；　I　could　speak；　move；　rise　in　bed；　and　turn。　Hannah　had　brought　me　some　gruel　and　dry　toast；　about；　as　I　supposed；　the　dinner…hour。　I　had　eaten　with　relish：　the　food　was　good—void　of　the　feverish　flavour　which　had　hitherto　poisoned　what　I　had　swallowed。　When　she　left　me；　I　felt　paratively　strong　and　revived：　ere　long　satiety　of　repose　and　desire　for　action　stirred　me。　I　wished　to　rise；　but　what　could　I　put　on？　Only　my　damp　and　bemired　apparel；　in　which　I　had　slept　on　the　ground　and　fallen　in　the　marsh。　I　felt　ashamed　to　appear　before　my　benefactors　so　clad。　I　was　spared　the　humiliation。
On　a　chair　by　the　bedside　were　all　my　own　things；　clean　and　dry。　My　black　silk　frock　hung　against　the　wall。　The　traces　of　the　bog　were　removed　from　it；　the　creases　left　by　the　wet　smoothed　out：　it　y　very　shoes　and　stockings　were　purified　and　rendered　presentable。　There　were　the　means　of　washing　in　the　room；　and　a　b　and　brush　to　smooth　my　hair。　After　a　weary　process；　and　resting　every　five　minutes；　I　succeeded　in　dressing　myself。　My　clothes　hung　loose　on　me；　for　I　was　much　wasted；　but　I　covered　deficiencies　with　a　shawl；　and　once　more；　clean　and　respectable　looking—no　speck　of　the　dirt；　no　trace　of　the　disorder　I　so　hated；　and　which　seemed　so　to　degrade　me；　left—I　crept　down　a　stone　staircase　with　the　aid　of　the　banisters；　to　a　narrow　low　passage；　and　found　my　way　presently　to　the　kitchen。
It　was　full　of　the　fragrance　of　new　bread　and　the　warmth　of　a　generous　fire。　Hannah　was　baking。　Prejudices；　it　is　well　known；　are　most　difficult　to　eradicate　from　the　heart　whose　soil　has　never　been　loosened　or　fertilised　by　education：　they　grow　there；　firm　as　weeds　among　stones。　Hannah　had　been　cold　and　stiff；　indeed；　at　the　first：　latterly　she　had　begun　to　relent　a　little；　and　when　she　saw　me　e　in　tidy　and　well…dressed；　she　even　smiled。
“What；　you　have　got　up！”　she　said。　“You　are　better；　then。　You　may　sit　you　down　in　my　chair　on　the　hearthstone；　if　you　will。”
She　pointed　to　the　rocking…chair：　I　took　it。　She　bustled　about；　examining　me　every　now　and　then　with　the　corner　of　her　eye。　Turning　to　me；　as　she　took　some　loaves　from　the　oven；　she　asked　bluntly—
“Did　you　ever　go　a…begging　afore　you　came　here？”
I　was　indignant　for　a　moment；　but　remembering　that　anger　was　out　of　the　question；　and　that　I　had　indeed　appeared　as　a　beggar　to　her；　I　answered　quietly；　but　still　not　without　a　certain　marked　firmness—
“You　are　mistaken　in　supposing　me　a　beggar。　I　am　no　beggar；　any　more　than　yourself　or　your　young　ladies。”
After　a　pause　she　said；　“I　dunnut　understand　that：　you’ve　like　no　house；　nor　no　brass；　I　guess？”
“The　want　of　house　or　brass　（by　which　I　suppose　you　mean　money）　does　not　make　a　beggar　in　your　sense　of　the　word。”
“Are　you　book…learned？”　she　inquired　presently。
“Yes；　very。”
“But　you’ve　never　been　to　a　boarding…school？”
“I　was　at　a　boarding…school　eight　years。”
She　opened　her　eyes　wide。　“Whatever　cannot　ye　keep　yourself　for；　then？”
“I　have　kept　myself；　and；　I　trust；　shall　keep　myself　again。　What　are　you　going　to　do　with　these　gooseberries？”　I　inquired；　as　she　brought　out　a　basket　of　the　fruit。
“Mak’　‘em　into　pies。”
“Give　them　to　me　and　I’ll　pick　them。”
“Nay；　I　dunnut　want　ye　to　do　nought。”
“But　I　must　do　something。　Let　me　have　them。”
She　consented；　and　she　even　brought　me　a　clean　towel　to　spread　over　my　dress；　“lest；”　as　she　said；　“I　should　mucky　it。”
“Ye’ve　not　been　used　to　sarvant’s　wark；　I　see　by　your　hands；”　she　remarked。　“Happen　ye’ve　been　a　dressmaker？”
“No；　you　are　wrong。　And　now；　never　mind　what　I　have　been：　don’t　trouble　your　head　further　about　me；　but　tell　me　the　name　of　the　house　where　we　are。”
“Some　calls　it　Marsh　End；　and　some　calls　it　Moor　House。”
“And　the　gentleman　who　lives　here　is　called　Mr。　St。　John？”
“Nay；　he　doesn’t　live　here：　he　is　only　staying　a　while。　When　he　is　at　home；　he　is　in　his　own　parish　at　Morton。”
“That　village　a　few　miles　off？
“Aye。”
“And　what　is　he？”
“He　is　a　parson。”
I　remembered　the　answer　of　the　old　housekeeper　at　the　parsonage；　when　I　had　asked　to　see　the　clergyman。　“This；　then；　was　his　father’s　residence？”
“Aye；　old　Mr。　Rivers　lived　here；　and　his　father；　and　grandfather；　and　gurt　（great）　grandfather　afore　him。”
“The　name；　then；　of　that　gentleman；　is　Mr。　St。　John　Rivers？”
“Aye；　St。　John　is　like　his　kirstened　name。”
“And　his　sisters　are　called　Diana　and　Mary　Rivers？”
“Yes。”
“Their　father　is　dead？”
“Dead　three　weeks　sin’　of　a　stroke。”
“They　have　no　mother？”
“The　mistress　has　been　dead　this　mony　a　year。”
“Have　you　lived　with　the　family　long？”
“I’ve　lived　here　thirty　year。　I　nursed　them　all　three。”
“That　proves　you　must　have　been　an　honest　and　faithful　servant。　I　will　say　so　much　for　you；　though　you　have　had　the　incivility　to　call　me　a　beggar。”
She　again　regarded　me　with　a　surprised　stare。　“I　believe；”　she　said；　“I　y　thoughts　of　you：　but　there　is　so　mony　cheats　goes　about；　you　mun　forgie　me。”
“And　though；”　I　continued；　rather　severely；　“you　wished　to　turn　me　from　the　door；　on　a　night　when　you　should　not　have　shut　out　a　dog。”
“Well；　it　was　hard：　but　what　can　a　body　do？　I　thought　more　o’　th’　childer　nor　of　mysel：　poor　things！　They’ve　like　nobody　to　tak’　care　on　‘em　but　me。　I’m　like　to　look　sharpish。”
I　maintained　a　grave　silence　for　some　minutes。
“You　munnut　think　too　hardly　of　me；”　she　again　remarked。
“But　I　do　think　hardly　of　you；”　I　said；　“and　I’ll　tell　you　why—not　so　much　because　you　refused　to　give　me　shelter；　or　regarded　me　as　an　impostor；　as　because　you　just　now　made　it　a　species　of　reproach　that　I　had　no　‘brass’　and　no　house。　Some　of　the　best　people　that　ever　lived　have　been　as　destitute　as　I　am；　and　if　you　are　a　Christian；　you　ought　not　to　consider　poverty　a　crime。”
“No　more　I　ought；”　said　she：　“Mr。　St。　John　tells　me　so　too；　and　I　see　I　wor　wrang—but　I’ve　clear　a　different　notion　on　you　now　to　what　I　had。　You　look　a　raight　down　dacent　little　crater。”
“That　will　do—I　forgive　you　now。　Shake　hands。”
She　put　her　floury　and　horny　hand　into　mine；　another　and　heartier　smile　illumined　her　rough　face；　and　from　that　moment　we　were　friends。
Hannah　was　evidently　fond　of　talking。　While　I　picked　the　fruit；　and　she　made　the　paste　for　the　pies；　she　proceeded　to　give　me　sundry　details　about　her　deceased　master　and　mistress；　and　“the　childer；”　as　she　called　the　young　people。
Old　Mr。　Rivers；　she　said；　was　a　plain　man　enough；　but　a　gentleman；　and　of　as　ancient　a　family　as　could　be　found。　Marsh　End　had　belonged　to　the　Rivers　ever　since　it　was　a　house：　and　it　was；　she　affirmed；　“aboon　two　hundred　year　old—for　all　it　looked　but　a　small；　humble　place；　naught　to　pare　wi’　Mr。　Oliver’s　grand　hall　down　i’　Morton　Vale。　But　she　could　remember　Bill　Oliver’s　father　a　journeyman　needlemaker；　and　th’　Rivers　wor　gentry　i’　th’　owd　days　o’　th’　Henrys；　as　onybody　might　see　by　looking　into　th’　registers　i’　Morton　Church　vestry。”　Still；　she　allowed；　“the　owd　maister　was　like　other　folk—naught　mich　out　o’　t’　mon　way：　stark　mad　o’　shooting；　and　farming；　and　sich　like。”　The　mistress　was　different。　She　was　a　great　reader；　and　studied　a　deal；　and　the　“bairns”　had　taken