简爱(英文版)-第41部分

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e　narrative　itself：　a　wealthy　Englishman’s　passion　for　a　French　dancer；　and　her　treachery　to　him；　were　every…　day　matters　enough；　no　doubt；　in　society；　but　there　was　something　decidedly　strange　in　the　paroxysm　of　emotion　which　had　suddenly　seized　him　when　he　was　in　the　act　of　expressing　the　present　contentment　of　his　mood；　and　his　newly　revived　pleasure　in　the　old　hall　and　its　environs。　I　meditated　wonderingly　on　this　incident；　but　gradually　quitting　it；　as　I　found　it　for　the　present　inexplicable；　I　turned　to　the　consideration　of　my　master’s　manner　to　myself。　The　confidence　he　had　thought　fit　to　repose　in　me　seemed　a　tribute　to　my　discretion：　I　regarded　and　accepted　it　as　such。　His　deportment　had　now　for　some　weeks　been　more　uniform　towards　me　than　at　the　first。　I　never　seemed　in　his　way；　he　did　not　take　fits　of　chilling　hauteur：　when　he　met　me　unexpectedly；　the　encounter　seemed　wele；　he　had　always　a　word　and　sometimes　a　smile　for　me：　when　summoned　by　formal　invitation　to　his　presence；　I　was　honoured　by　a　cordiality　of　reception　that　made　me　feel　I　really　possessed　the　power　to　amuse　him；　and　that　these　evening　conferences　were　sought　as　much　for　his　pleasure　as　for　my　benefit。
I；　indeed；　talked　paratively　little；　but　I　heard　him　talk　with　relish。　It　was　his　nature　to　be　municative；　he　liked　to　open　to　a　mind　unacquainted　with　the　world　glimpses　of　its　scenes　and　ways　（I　do　not　mean　its　corrupt　scenes　and　wicked　ways；　but　such　as　derived　their　interest　from　the　great　scale　on　which　they　were　acted；　the　strange　novelty　by　which　they　were　characterised）；　and　I　had　a　keen　delight　in　receiving　the　new　ideas　he　offered；　in　imagining　the　new　pictures　he　portrayed；　and　following　him　in　thought　through　the　new　regions　he　disclosed；　never　startled　or　troubled　by　one　noxious　allusion。
The　ease　of　his　manner　freed　me　from　painful　restraint：　the　friendly　frankness；　as　correct　as　cordial；　with　which　he　treated　me；　drew　me　to　him。　I　felt　at　times　as　if　he　were　my　relation　rather　than　my　master：　yet　he　was　imperious　sometimes　still；　but　I　did　not　mind　that；　I　saw　it　was　his　way。　So　happy；　so　gratified　did　I　bee　with　this　new　interest　added　to　life；　that　I　ceased　to　pine　after　kindred：　my　thin　crescent…destiny　seemed　to　enlarge；　the　blanks　of　existence　were　filled　up；　my　bodily　health　improved；　I　gathered　flesh　and　strength。
And　was　Mr。　Rochester　now　ugly　in　my　eyes？　No；　reader：　gratitude；　and　many　associations；　all　pleasurable　and　genial；　made　his　face　the　object　I　best　liked　to　see；　his　presence　in　a　room　was　more　cheering　than　the　brightest　fire。　Yet　I　had　not　forgotten　his　faults；　indeed；　I　could　not；　for　he　brought　them　frequently　before　me。　He　was　proud；　sardonic；　harsh　to　inferiority　of　every　description：　in　my　secret　soul　I　knew　that　his　great　kindness　to　me　was　balanced　by　unjust　severity　to　many　others。　He　was　moody；　too；　unaccountably　so；　I　more　than　once；　when　sent　for　to　read　to　him；　found　him　sitting　in　his　library　alone；　with　his　head　bent　on　his　folded　arms；　and；　when　he　looked　up；　a　morose；　almost　a　malignant；　scowl　blackened　his　features。　But　I　believed　that　his　moodiness；　his　harshness；　and　his　former　faults　of　morality　（I　say　former；　for　now　he　seemed　corrected　of　them）　had　their　source　in　some　cruel　cross　of　fate。　I　believed　he　was　naturally　a　man　of　better　tendencies；　higher　principles；　and　purer　tastes　than　such　as　circumstances　had　developed；　education　instilled；　or　destiny　encouraged。　I　thought　there　were　excellent　materials　in　him；　though　for　the　present　they　hung　together　somewhat　spoiled　and　tangled。　I　cannot　deny　that　I　grieved　for　his　grief；　whatever　that　was；　and　would　have　given　much　to　assuage　it。
Though　I　had　now　extinguished　my　candle　and　was　laid　down　in　bed；　I　could　not　sleep　for　thinking　of　his　look　when　he　paused　in　the　avenue；　and　told　how　his　destiny　had　risen　up　before　him；　and　dared　him　to　be　happy　at　Thornfield。
“Why　not？”　I　asked　myself。　“What　alienates　him　from　the　house？　Will　he　leave　it　again　soon？　Mrs。　Fairfax　said　he　seldom　stayed　here　longer　than　a　fortnight　at　a　time；　and　he　has　now　been　resident　eight　weeks。　If　he　does　go；　the　change　will　be　doleful。　Suppose　he　should　be　absent　spring；　summer；　and　autumn：　how　joyless　sunshine　and　fine　days　will　seem！”
I　hardly　know　whether　I　had　slept　or　not　after　this　musing；　at　any　rate；　I　started　wide　awake　on　hearing　a　vague　murmur；　peculiar　and　lugubrious；　which　sounded；　I　thought；　just　above　me。　I　wished　I　had　kept　my　candle　burning：　the　night　was　drearily　dark；　my　spirits　were　depressed。　I　rose　and　sat　up　in　bed；　listening。　The　sound　was　hushed。
I　tried　again　to　sleep；　but　my　heart　beat　anxiously：　my　inward　tranquillity　was　broken。　The　clock；　far　down　in　the　hall；　struck　two。　Just　then　it　seemed　my　chamber…door　was　touched；　as　if　fingers　had　swept　the　panels　in　groping　a　way　along　the　dark　gallery　outside。　I　said；　“Who　is　there？”　Nothing　answered。　I　was　chilled　with　fear。
All　at　once　I　remembered　that　it　might　be　Pilot；　who；　when　the　kitchen…door　chanced　to　be　left　open；　not　unfrequently　found　his　way　up　to　the　threshold　of　Mr。　Rochester’s　chamber：　I　had　seen　him　lying　there　myself　in　the　mornings。　The　idea　calmed　me　somewhat：　I　lay　down。　Silence　poses　the　nerves；　and　as　an　unbroken　hush　now　reigned　again　through　the　whole　house；　I　began　to　feel　the　return　of　slumber。　But　it　was　not　fated　that　I　should　sleep　that　night。　A　dream　had　scarcely　approached　my　ear；　when　it　fled　affrighted；　scared　by　a　marrow…freezing　incident　enough。
This　was　a　demoniac　laugh—low；　suppressed；　and　deep—uttered；　as　it　seemed；　at　the　very　keyhole　of　my　chamber　door。　The　head　of　my　bed　was　near　the　door；　and　I　thought　at　first　the　goblin…laugher　stood　at　my　bedside—or　rather；　crouched　by　my　pillow：　but　I　rose；　looked　round；　and　could　see　nothing；　while；　as　I　still　gazed；　the　unnatural　sound　was　reiterated：　and　I　knew　it　came　from　behind　the　panels。　My　first　impulse　was　to　rise　and　fasten　the　bolt；　my　next；　again　to　cry　out；　“Who　is　there？”
Something　gurgled　and　moaned。　Ere　long；　steps　retreated　up　the　gallery　towards　the　third…storey　staircase：　a　door　had　lately　been　made　to　shut　in　that　staircase；　I　heard　it　open　and　close；　and　all　was　still。
“Was　that　Grace　Poole？　and　is　she　possessed　with　a　devil？”　thought　I。　Impossible　now　to　remain　longer　by　myself：　I　must　go　to　Mrs。　Fairfax。　I　hurried　on　my　frock　and　a　shawl；　I　withdrew　the　bolt　and　opened　the　door　with　a　trembling　hand。　There　was　a　candle　burning　just　outside；　and　on　the　matting　in　the　gallery。　I　was　surprised　at　this　circumstance：　but　still　more　was　I　amazed　to　perceive　the　air　quite　dim；　as　if　filled　with　smoke；　and；　while　looking　to　the　right　hand　and　left；　to　find　whence　these　blue　wreaths　issued；　I　became　further　aware　of　a　strong　smell　of　burning。
Something　creaked：　it　was　a　door　ajar；　and　that　door　was　Mr。　Rochester’s；　and　the　smoke　rushed　in　a　cloud　from　thence。　I　thought　no　more　of　Mrs。　Fairfax；　I　thought　no　more　of　Grace　Poole；　or　the　laugh：　in　an　instant；　I　was　within　the　chamber。　Tongues　of　flame　darted　round　the　bed：　the　curtains　were　on　fire。　In　the　midst　of　blaze　and　vapour；　Mr。　Rochester　lay　stretched　motionless；　in　deep　sleep。
“Wake！　wake！”　I　cried。　I　shook　him；　but　he　only　murmured　and　turned：　the　smoke　had　stupefied　him。　Not　a　moment　could　be　lost：　the　very　sheets　were　kindling；　I　rushed　to　his　basin　and　ewer；　fortunately；　one　was　wide　and　the　other　deep；　and　both　were　filled　with　water。　I　heaved　them　up；　deluged　the　bed　and　its　occupant；　flew　back　to　my　own　room；　brought　my　own　water…jug；　baptized　the　couch　afresh；　and；　by　God’s　aid；　succeeded　in　extinguishing　the　flames　which　were　devouring　it。
The　hiss　of　the　quenched　element；　the　breakage　of　a　pitcher　which　I　flung　from　my　hand　when　I　had　emptied　it；　and；　above　all；　the　splash　of　the　shower…bath　I　had　liberally　bestowed；　roused　Mr。　Rochester　at　last。　Though　it　was　now　dark；　I　knew　he　was　awake；　because　I　heard　him　fulminating　strange　anathemas　at　finding　himself　lying　in　a　pool　of　water。
“Is　there　a　flood？”　he　cried。
“No；　sir；”　I　answered；　“but　there　has　been　a　fire：　get　up；　do；　you　are　quenched　now；　I　will　fetch　you　a　candle。”
“In　the　name　of　all　the　elves　in　Christendom；　is　that　Jane　Eyre？”　he　demanded。　“Wha