简爱(英文版)-第99部分

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all　give　the　word；　‘Rise；　follow　Me！’”
St。　John　said　these　words　as　he　pronounced　his　sermons；　with　a　quiet；　deep　voice；　with　an　unflushed　cheek；　and　a　coruscating　radiance　of　glance。　He　resumed—
“And　since　I　am　myself　poor　and　obscure；　I　can　offer　you　but　a　service　of　poverty　and　obscurity。　You　may　even　think　it　degrading—　for　I　see　now　your　habits　have　been　what　the　world　calls　refined：　your　tastes　lean　to　the　ideal；　and　your　society　has　at　least　been　amongst　the　educated；　but　I　consider　that　no　service　degrades　which　can　better　our　race。　I　hold　that　the　more　arid　and　unreclaimed　the　soil　where　the　Christian　labourer’s　task　of　tillage　is　appointed　him—the　scantier　the　meed　his　toil　brings—the　higher　the　honour。　His；　under　such　circumstances；　is　the　destiny　of　the　pioneer；　and　the　first　pioneers　of　the　Gospel　were　the　Apostles—their　captain　was　Jesus；　the　Redeemer；　Himself。”
“Well？”　I　said；　as　he　again　paused—“proceed。”
He　looked　at　me　before　he　proceeded：　indeed；　he　seemed　leisurely　to　read　my　face；　as　if　its　features　and　lines　were　characters　on　a　page。　The　conclusions　drawn　from　this　scrutiny　he　partially　expressed　in　his　succeeding　observations。
“I　believe　you　will　accept　the　post　I　offer　you；”　said　he；　“and　hold　it　for　a　while：　not　permanently；　though：　any　more　than　I　could　permanently　keep　the　narrow　and　narrowing—the　tranquil；　hidden　office　of　English　country　incumbent；　for　in　your　nature　is　an　alloy　as　detrimental　to　repose　as　that　in　mine；　though　of　a　different　kind。”
“Do　explain；”　I　urged；　when　he　halted　once　more。
“I　will；　and　you　shall　hear　how　poor　the　proposal　is；—how　trivial—　how　cramping。　I　shall　not　stay　long　at　Morton；　now　that　my　father　is　dead；　and　that　I　am　my　own　master。　I　shall　leave　the　place　probably　in　the　course　of　a　twelve…month；　but　while　I　do　stay；　I　will　exert　myself　to　the　utmost　for　its　improvement。　Morton；　when　I　came　to　it　two　years　ago；　had　no　school：　the　children　of　the　poor　were　excluded　from　every　hope　of　progress。　I　established　one　for　boys：　I　mean　now　to　open　a　second　school　for　girls。　I　have　hired　a　building　for　the　purpose；　with　a　cottage　of　two　rooms　attached　to　it　for　the　mistress’s　house。　Her　salary　will　be　thirty　pounds　a　year：　her　house　is　already　furnished；　very　simply；　but　sufficiently；　by　the　kindness　of　a　lady；　Miss　Oliver；　the　only　daughter　of　the　sole　rich　man　in　my　parish—Mr。　Oliver；　the　proprietor　of　a　needle…　factory　and　iron…foundry　in　the　valley。　The　same　lady　pays　for　the　education　and　clothing　of　an　orphan　from　the　workhouse；　on　condition　that　she　shall　aid　the　mistress　in　such　menial　offices　connected　with　her　own　house　and　the　school　as　her　occupation　of　teaching　will　prevent　her　having　time　to　discharge　in　person。　Will　you　be　this　mistress？”
He　put　the　question　rather　hurriedly；　he　seemed　half　to　expect　an　indignant；　or　at　least　a　disdainful　rejection　of　the　offer：　not　knowing　all　my　thoughts　and　feelings；　though　guessing　some；　he　could　not　tell　in　what　light　the　lot　would　appear　to　me。　In　truth　it　was　humble—but　then　it　was　sheltered；　and　I　wanted　a　safe　asylum：　it　was　plodding—but　then；　pared　with　that　of　a　governess　in　a　rich　house；　it　was　independent；　and　the　fear　of　servitude　with　strangers　entered　my　soul　like　iron：　it　was　not　ignoble—not　unworthy—not　mentally　degrading；　I　made　my　decision。
“I　thank　you　for　the　proposal；　Mr。　Rivers；　and　I　accept　it　with　all　my　heart。”
“But　you　prehend　me？”　he　said。　“It　is　a　village　school：　your　scholars　will　be　only　poor　girls—cottagers’　children—at　the　best；　farmers’　daughters。　Knitting；　sewing；　reading；　writing；　ciphering；　will　be　all　you　will　have　to　teach。　What　will　you　do　with　your　acplishments？　What；　with　the　largest　portion　of　your　mind—　sentiments—tastes？”
“Save　them　till　they　are　wanted。　They　will　keep。”
“You　know　what　you　undertake；　then？”
“I　do。”
He　now　smiled：　and　not　a　bitter　or　a　sad　smile；　but　one　well　pleased　and　deeply　gratified。
“And　when　will　you　mence　the　exercise　of　your　function？”
“I　will　go　to　my　house　to…morrow；　and　open　the　school；　if　you　like；　next　week。”
“Very　well：　so　be　it。”
He　rose　and　walked　through　the　room。　Standing　still；　he　again　looked　at　me。　He　shook　his　head。
“What　do　you　disapprove　of；　Mr。　Rivers？”　I　asked。
“You　will　not　stay　at　Morton　long：　no；　no！”
“Why？　What　is　your　reason　for　saying　so？”
“I　read　it　in　your　eye；　it　is　not　of　that　description　which　promises　the　maintenance　of　an　even　tenor　in　life。”
“I　am　not　ambitious。”
He　started　at　the　word　“ambitious。”　He　repeated；　“No。　What　made　you　think　of　ambition？　Who　is　ambitious？　I　know　I　am：　but　how　did　you　find　it　out？”
“I　was　speaking　of　myself。”
“Well；　if　you　are　not　ambitious；　you　are—”　He　paused。
“What？”
“I　was　going　to　say；　impassioned：　but　perhaps　you　would　have　misunderstood　the　word；　and　been　displeased。　I　mean；　that　human　affections　and　sympathies　have　a　most　powerful　hold　on　you。　I　am　sure　you　cannot　long　be　content　to　pass　your　leisure　in　solitude；　and　to　devote　your　working　hours　to　a　monotonous　labour　wholly　void　of　stimulus：　any　more　than　I　can　be　content；”　he　added；　with　emphasis；　“to　live　here　buried　in　morass；　pent　in　with　mountains—my　nature；　that　God　gave　me；　contravened；　my　faculties；　heaven…　bestowed；　paralysed—made　useless。　You　hear　now　how　I　contradict　myself。　I；　who　preached　contentment　with　a　humble　lot；　and　justified　the　vocation　even　of　hewers　of　wood　and　drawers　of　water　in　God’s　service—I；　His　ordained　minister；　almost　rave　in　my　restlessness。　Well；　propensities　and　principles　must　be　reconciled　by　some　means。”
He　left　the　room。　In　this　brief　hour　I　had　learnt　more　of　him　than　in　the　whole　previous　month：　yet　still　he　puzzled　me。
Diana　and　Mary　Rivers　became　more　sad　and　silent　as　the　day　approached　for　leaving　their　brother　and　their　home。　They　both　tried　to　appear　as　usual；　bat　the　sorrow　they　had　to　struggle　against　was　one　that　could　not　be　entirely　conquered　or　concealed。　Diana　intimated　that　this　would　be　a　different　parting　from　any　they　had　ever　yet　known。　It　would　probably；　as　far　as　St。　John　was　concerned；　be　a　parting　for　years：　it　might　be　a　parting　for　life。
“He　will　sacrifice　all　to　his　long…framed　resolves；”　she　said：　“natural　affection　and　feelings　more　potent　still。　St。　John　looks　quiet；　Jane；　but　he　hides　a　fever　in　his　vitals。　You　would　think　him　gentle；　yet　in　some　things　he　is　inexorable　as　death；　and　the　worst　of　it　is；　my　conscience　will　hardly　permit　me　to　dissuade　him　from　his　severe　decision：　certainly；　I　cannot　for　a　moment　blame　him　for　it。　It　is　right；　noble；　Christian：　yet　it　breaks　my　heart！”　And　the　tears　gushed　to　her　fine　eyes。　Mary　bent　her　head　low　over　her　work。
“We　are　now　without　father：　we　shall　soon　be　without　home　and　brother；”　she　murmured；
At　that　moment　a　little　accident　supervened；　which　seemed　decreed　by　fate　purposely　to　prove　the　truth　of　the　adage；　that　“misfortunes　never　e　singly；”　and　to　add　to　their　distresses　the　vexing　one　of　the　slip　between　the　cup　and　the　lip。　St。　John　passed　the　window　reading　a　letter。　He　entered。
“Our　uncle　John　is　dead；”　said　he。
Both　the　sisters　seemed　struck：　not　shocked　or　appalled；　the　tidings　appeared　in　their　eyes　rather　momentous　than　afflicting。
“Dead？”　repeated　Diana。
“Yes。”
She　riveted　a　searching　gaze　on　her　brother’s　face。　“And　what　then？”　she　demanded；　in　a　low　voice。
“What　then；　Die？”　he　replied；　maintaining　a　marble　immobility　of　feature。　“What　then？　Why—nothing。　Read。”
He　threw　the　letter　into　her　lap。　She　glanced　over　it；　and　handed　it　to　Mary。　Mary　perused　it　in　silence；　and　returned　it　to　her　brother。　All　three　looked　at　each　other；　and　all　three　smiled—a　dreary；　pensive　smile　enough。
“Amen！　We　can　yet　live；”　said　Diana　at　last。
“At　any　rate；　it　makes　us　no　worse　off　than　we　were　before；”　remarked　Mary。
“Only　it　forces　rather　strongly　on　the　mind　the　picture　of　what　might　have　been；”　said　Mr。　Rivers；　“and　contrasts　it　somewhat　too　vividly　with　what　IS。”
He　folded　the　letter；　locked　it　in　his　desk；　and　again　went　out。
For　some　minutes　no　one　spoke。　Diana　then　turned　to　me。
“Jane；　you　will　wonder　at　us　and　our　mysteries；”　she　said；　“and　think　us　hard…hearted　b