简爱(英文版)-第6部分

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


n　little　drawer；　full　of　splendid　shreds　of　silk　and　satin；　and　began　making　a　new　bon　for　Georgiana’s　doll。　Meantime　she　sang：　her　song　was—
“In　the　days　when　we　went　gipsying；
A　long　time　ago。”
I　had　often　heard　the　song　before；　and　always　with　lively　delight；　for　Bessie　had　a　sweet　voice；—at　least；　I　thought　so。　But　now；　though　her　voice　was　still　sweet；　I　found　in　its　melody　an　indescribable　sadness。　Sometimes；　preoccupied　with　her　work；　she　sang　the　refrain　very　low；　very　lingeringly；　“A　long　time　ago”　came　out　like　the　saddest　cadence　of　a　funeral　hymn。　She　passed　into　another　ballad；　this　time　a　really　doleful　one。
“My　feet　they　are　sore；　and　my　limbs　they　are　weary；
Long　is　the　way；　and　the　mountains　are　wild；
Soon　will　the　twilight　close　moonless　and　dreary
Over　the　path　of　the　poor　orphan　child。
Why　did　they　send　me　so　far　and　so　lonely；
Up　where　the　moors　spread　and　grey　rocks　are　piled？
Men　are　hard…hearted；　and　kind　angels　only
Watch　o’er　the　steps　of　a　poor　orphan　child。
Yet　distant　and　soft　the　night　breeze　is　blowing；
Clouds　there　are　none；　and　clear　stars　beam　mild；
God；　in　His　mercy；　protection　is　showing；
fort　and　hope　to　the　poor　orphan　child。
Ev’n　should　I　fall　o’er　the　broken　bridge　passing；
Or　stray　in　the　marshes；　by　false　lights　beguiled；
Still　will　my　Father；　with　promise　and　blessing；
Take　to　His　bosom　the　poor　orphan　child。
There　is　a　thought　that　for　strength　should　avail　me；
Though　both　of　shelter　and　kindred　despoiled；
Heaven　is　a　home；　and　a　rest　will　not　fail　me；
God　is　a　friend　to　the　poor　orphan　child。”
“e；　Miss　Jane；　don’t　cry；”　said　Bessie　as　she　finished。　She　might　as　well　have　said　to　the　fire；　“don’t　burn！”　but　how　could　she　divine　the　morbid　suffering　to　which　I　was　a　prey？　In　the　course　of　the　morning　Mr。　Lloyd　came　again。
“What；　already　up！”　said　he；　as　he　entered　the　nursery。　“Well；　nurse；　how　is　she？”
Bessie　answered　that　I　was　doing　very　well。
“Then　she　ought　to　look　more　cheerful。　e　here；　Miss　Jane：　your　name　is　Jane；　is　it　not？”
“Yes；　sir；　Jane　Eyre。”
“Well；　you　have　been　crying；　Miss　Jane　Eyre；　can　you　tell　me　what　about？　Have　you　any　pain？”
“No；　sir。”
“Oh！　I　daresay　she　is　crying　because　she　could　not　go　out　with　Missis　in　the　carriage；”　interposed　Bessie。
“Surely　not！　why；　she　is　too　old　for　such　pettishness。”
I　thought　so　too；　and　my　self…esteem　being　wounded　by　the　false　charge；　I　answered　promptly；　“I　never　cried　for　such　a　thing　in　my　life：　I　hate　going　out　in　the　carriage。　I　cry　because　I　am　miserable。”
“Oh　fie；　Miss！”　said　Bessie。
The　good　apothecary　appeared　a　little　puzzled。　I　was　standing　before　him；　he　fixed　his　eyes　on　me　very　steadily：　his　eyes　were　small　and　grey；　not　very　bright；　but　I　dare　say　I　should　think　them　shrewd　now：　he　had　a　hard…featured　yet　good…natured　looking　face。　Having　considered　me　at　leisure；　he　said—
“What　made　you　ill　yesterday？”
“She　had　a　fall；”　said　Bessie；　again　putting　in　her　word。
“Fall！　why；　that　is　like　a　baby　again！　Can’t　she　manage　to　walk　at　her　age？　She　must　be　eight　or　nine　years　old。”
“I　was　knocked　down；”　was　the　blunt　explanation；　jerked　out　of　me　by　another　pang　of　mortified　pride；　“but　that　did　not　make　me　ill；”　I　added；　while　Mr。　Lloyd　helped　himself　to　a　pinch　of　snuff。
As　he　was　returning　the　box　to　his　waistcoat　pocket；　a　loud　bell　rang　for　the　servants’　dinner；　he　knew　what　it　was。　“That’s　for　you；　nurse；”　said　he；　“you　can　go　down；　I’ll　give　Miss　Jane　a　lecture　till　you　e　back。”
Bessie　would　rather　have　stayed；　but　she　was　obliged　to　go；　because　punctuality　at　meals　was　rigidly　enforced　at　Gateshead　Hall。
“The　fall　did　not　make　you　ill；　what　did；　then？”　pursued　Mr。　Lloyd　when　Bessie　was　gone。
“I　was　shut　up　in　a　room　where　there　is　a　ghost　till　after　dark。”
I　saw　Mr。　Lloyd　smile　and　frown　at　the　same　time。
“Ghost！　What；　you　are　a　baby　after　all！　You　are　afraid　of　ghosts？”
“Of　Mr。　Reed’s　ghost　I　am：　he　died　in　that　room；　and　was　laid　out　there。　Neither　Bessie　nor　any　one　else　will　go　into　it　at　night；　if　they　can　help　it；　and　it　was　cruel　to　shut　me　up　alone　without　a　candle；—so　cruel　that　I　think　I　shall　never　forget　it。”
“Nonsense！　And　is　it　that　makes　you　so　miserable？　Are　you　afraid　now　in　daylight？”
“No：　but　night　will　e　again　before　long：　and　besides；—I　am　unhappy；—very　unhappy；　for　other　things。”
“What　other　things？　Can　you　tell　me　some　of　them？”
How　much　I　wished　to　reply　fully　to　this　question！　How　difficult　it　was　to　frame　any　answer！　Children　can　feel；　but　they　cannot　analyse　their　feelings；　and　if　the　analysis　is　partially　effected　in　thought；　they　know　not　how　to　express　the　result　of　the　process　in　words。　Fearful；　however；　of　losing　this　first　and　only　opportunity　of　relieving　my　grief　by　imparting　it；　I；　after　a　disturbed　pause；　contrived　to　frame　a　meagre；　though；　as　far　as　it　went；　true　response。
“For　one　thing；　I　have　no　father　or　mother；　brothers　or　sisters。”
“You　have　a　kind　aunt　and　cousins。”
Again　I　paused；　then　bunglingly　enounced—
“But　John　Reed　knocked　me　down；　and　my　aunt　shut　me　up　in　the　red…　room。”
Mr。　Lloyd　a　second　time　produced　his　snuff…box。
“Don’t　you　think　Gateshead　Hall　a　very　beautiful　house？”　asked　he。　“Are　you　not　very　thankful　to　have　such　a　fine　place　to　live　at？”
“It　is　not　my　house；　sir；　and　Abbot　says　I　have　less　right　to　be　here　than　a　servant。”
“Pooh！　you　can’t　be　silly　enough　to　wish　to　leave　such　a　splendid　place？”
“If　I　had　anywhere　else　to　go；　I　should　be　glad　to　leave　it；　but　I　can　never　get　away　from　Gateshead　till　I　am　a　woman。”
“Perhaps　you　may—who　knows？　Have　you　any　relations　besides　Mrs。　Reed？”
“I　think　not；　sir。”
“None　belonging　to　your　father？”
“I　don’t　know。　I　asked　Aunt　Reed　once；　and　she　said　possibly　I　might　have　some　poor；　low　relations　called　Eyre；　but　she　knew　nothing　about　them。”
“If　you　had　such；　would　you　like　to　go　to　them？”
I　reflected。　Poverty　looks　grim　to　grown　people；　still　more　so　to　children：　they　have　not　much　idea　of　industrious；　working；　respectable　poverty；　they　think　of　the　word　only　as　connected　with　ragged　clothes；　scanty　food；　fireless　grates；　rude　manners；　and　debasing　vices：　poverty　for　me　was　synonymous　with　degradation。
“No；　I　should　not　like　to　belong　to　poor　people；”　was　my　reply。
“Not　even　if　they　were　kind　to　you？”
I　shook　my　head：　I　could　not　see　how　poor　people　had　the　means　of　being　kind；　and　then　to　learn　to　speak　like　them；　to　adopt　their　manners；　to　be　uneducated；　to　grow　up　like　one　of　the　poor　women　I　saw　sometimes　nursing　their　children　or　washing　their　clothes　at　the　cottage　doors　of　the　village　of　Gateshead：　no；　I　was　not　heroic　enough　to　purchase　liberty　at　the　price　of　caste。
“But　are　your　relatives　so　very　poor？　Are　they　working　people？”
“I　cannot　tell；　Aunt。　Reed　says　if　I　have　any；　they　must　be　a　beggarly　set：　I　should　not　like　to　go　a　begging。”
“Would　you　like　to　go　to　school？”
Again　I　reflected：　I　scarcely　knew　what　school　was：　Bessie　sometimes　spoke　of　it　as　a　place　where　young　ladies　sat　in　the　stocks；　wore　backboards；　and　were　expected　to　be　exceedingly　genteel　and　precise：　John　Reed　hated　his　school；　and　abused　his　master；　but　John　Reed’s　tastes　were　no　rule　for　mine；　and　if　Bessie’s　accounts　of　school…discipline　（gathered　from　the　young　ladies　of　a　family　where　she　had　lived　before　ing　to　Gateshead）　were　somewhat　appalling；　her　details　of　certain　acplishments　attained　by　these　same　young　ladies　were；　I　thought；　equally　attractive。　She　boasted　of　beautiful　paintings　of　landscapes　and　flowers　by　them　executed；　of　songs　they　could　sing　and　pieces　they　could　play；　of　purses　they　could　；　of　French　books　they　could　translate；　till　my　spirit　was　moved　to　emulation　as　I　listened。　Besides；　school　would　be　a　plete　change：　it　implied　a　long　journey；　an　entire　separation　from　Gateshead；　an　entrance　into　a　new　life。
“I　should　indeed　like　to　go　to　school；”　was　the　audible　conclusion　of　my　musings。
“Well；　well！　who　knows　what　may　happen？”　said　Mr。　Lloyd；　as　he　got　up。　“The　child　ought　to　have　change　of　air　and　scene；”　he　added；　speaking　to　himself；　“nerves　not　in　a　good　state。”
Bessie　now　returned；　at　the　same　moment　the　carriage　w