简爱(英文版)-第82部分

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near　me　more　than　once；　and　I　had　again　and　again　to　change　my　quarters；　no　sense　of　safety　or　tranquillity　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。”
The　girl　emptied　the　stiffened　mould　into　my　hand；　and　I　devoured　it　ravenously。
As　the　wet　twilight　deepened；　I　stopped　in　a　solitary　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　descends　so；　must　I　lay　my　head　on　the　cold；　drenched　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　prostration　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；　Providence！　sustain　me　a　little　longer！　Aid！—direct　me！”
My　glazed　eye　wandered　over　the　dim　and　misty　landscape。　I　saw　I　had　strayed　far　from　the　village：　it　was　quite　out　of　sight。　The　very　cultivation　surrounding　it　had　disappeared。　I　had；　by　cross…　ways　and　by…paths；　once　more　drawn　near　the　tract　of　moorland；　and　now；　only　a　few　fields；　almost　as　wild　and　unproductive　as　the　heath　from　which　they　were　scarcely　reclaimed；　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　ravens—if　any　ravens　there　be　in　these　regions—should　pick　my　flesh　from　my　bones；　than　that　they　should　be　prisoned　in　a　workhouse　coffin　and　moulder　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　tint：　green；　where　rush　and　moss　overgrew　the　marshes；　black；　where　the　dry　soil　bore　only　heath。　Dark　as　it　was　getting；　I　could　still　see　these　changes；　though　but　as　mere　alternations　of　light　and　shade；　for　colour　had　faded　with　the　daylight。
My　eye　still　roved　over　the　sullen　swell　and　along　the　moor…edge；　vanishing　amidst　the　wildest　scenery；　when　at　one　dim　point；　far　in　among　the　marshes　and　the　ridges；　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　steadily；　neither　receding　nor　advancing。　“Is　it；　then；　a　bonfire　just　kindled？”　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　conjectured；　“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　numbness　of　death—it　might　have　pelted　on；　I　should　not　have　felt　it；　but　my　yet　living　flesh　shuddered　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　aslant　over　the　hill；　through　a　wide　bog；　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　faculties。　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　knoll；　amidst　a　clump　of　trees—firs；　apparently；　from　what　I　could　distinguish　of　the　character　of　their　forms　and　foliage　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　discriminated　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　sable　bush…holly　or　yew。
Entering　the　gate　and　passing　the　shrubs；　the　silhouette　of　a　house　rose　to　view；　black；　low；　and　rather　long；　but　the　guiding　light　shone　nowhere。　All　was　obscurity。　Were　the　inmates　retired　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　panes　of　a　very　small　latticed　window；　within　a　foot　of　the　ground；　made　still　smaller　by　the　growth　of　ivy　or　some　other　creeping　plant；　whose　leaves　clustered　thick　over　the　portion　of　the　house　wall　in　which　it　was　set。　The　aperture　was　so　screened　and　narrow；　that　curtain　or　shutter　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　scoured；　a　dresser　of　walnut；　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　beacon；　burnt　on　the　table；　and　by　its　light　an　elderly　woman；　somewhat　rough…looking；　but　scrupulously　clean；　like　all　about　her；　was　knitting　a　stocking。
I　noticed　these　objects　cursorily　only—in　them　there　was　nothing　extraordinary。　A　group　of　more　interest　appeared　near　the　hearth；　sitting　still　amidst　the　rosy　peace　and　warmth　suffusing　it。　Two　young；　graceful　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　garb　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　humble　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　rustic；　and　they　were　all　delicacy　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　bent　over　a　book；　they　looked　thoughtful　almost　to　severity。　A　stand　between　them　supported　a　second　candle　and　two　great　volumes；　to　paring　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　cinders　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　awakened　in　terror—listen！”　And　in　a　low　voice　she　read　something；　of　which　not　one　word　was　intelligible　to　me；　for　it　was　in　an　unknown　tongue—neither　French　nor　Latin。　Whether　it　were　Greek　or　German　I　could　not　tell。
“That　is　strong；”　she　said；　when　she　had　finished：　“I　relish　it。”　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　brass　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　fustian。　‘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；