Chapter 30 Chapter Twenty Eight

Two days passed.One summer evening, the coachman let me down at a place called Whitcross, and he could not carry me any farther for the little money I gave, and in this world I have not even a first The order can't be taken out.At this moment the carriage had driven a mile, and I was left alone.That's when I realized I'd forgotten to take the package out of the buggy storage box. I'd put it there for safety and didn't want to leave it there. It must have been left there, and I was out of money. Whitcross is not a town, not even a country.It was no more than a stone pillar, erected where four roads met: whitewashed, presumably to stand out at a distance and at night.Four guideposts protrude from the top of the column. According to the signs above, this intersection is ten miles from the nearest town and more than twenty miles from the farthest.Judging from these familiar town names, I knew in which county I got off the bus.This is a county in the north-central part. It can be seen that the wilderness is dark and the mountains are stacked.Behind me and to my left and right was the great wilderness, and beyond the deep valley beneath my feet was a rolling forest.The population here must be sparse, because there are no pedestrians on the road.Roads stretched north, south, east, and west—gray, wide, and solitary, all through the heath, with thick heath growing along their sides.But occasionally passers-by pass by, and now I don’t want anyone to see me wandering under the signposts, looking aimless and at a loss, strangers will not know what I am doing.I may be questioned and be left speechless except to say something that sounds unbelievable and suspicious.At this moment I was completely out of touch with human society—no trace of charm or hope to call me to my fellow beings—no trace of kindness or well wishes from anyone who saw me.I have no relatives, only nature, the mother of all things.I will throw myself into her arms and seek rest.

I walked straight into the heath, saw a deep gully on the edge of the brown moor, and walked straight along it, through the knee-high blue bushes, turning around bends, at the Found a moss-covered granite rock in a hidden corner, and sat down on it.Around me was the high edge of the moor, protected by rocks overhead, and above them the sky.Even here, it took me a while to feel at peace.I had a vague fear that there might be beasts nearby.Or some hunter or poacher will find me.If a gust of wind blew up the grass, I looked up lest a buffalo was coming.If a bird chirped, I imagined it was a human voice.Yet I found that my apprehensions were mere speculation, and the deep stillness of nightfall after dusk calmed me down and gave me confidence.But I didn't think about it before, I just listened, worried, and observed.And now I have regained the ability to think.

what should I do?Where are you going?Oh, how unbearable those questions were when I had nothing to think about, nowhere to go!I have to walk a long way on tired, trembling legs before I reach a place where people live—I have to beg cold mercy to find a lodging; I have to force reluctant sympathy, and mostly Only by being rejected by others can people listen to my experience and meet my needs. I touched the heather, and it was dry, with the slight warmth of summer heat.I looked at the sky and saw it was clear and pure, with a star blinking kindly above the valley.The dew fell with loving tenderness.No breeze whispers.Nature seems to be kind to me, and I think she loves me even though I am a wanderer.I can only expect suspicion, dislike and insult from man, and I want to attach myself faithfully and deeply to nature.At least I'll be there tonight--because I'm her child, and my mother will take me for no money, no price.I had a leftover morsel of bread, which I had bought in penny change, my last coin, from a town I passed in the afternoon.I saw ripe bilberries--glittering here and there like jets in the heath.I gathered a handful, and ate it with bread.I was hungry just now, and the hermit's food was not enough, but it was enough to satisfy my hunger.After eating, I said my night prayers, and then I chose a couch and went to bed.

Beside the rock, the heather grew tall.As soon as I lay down, my feet sank in, and the heather rose up on either side, leaving only a narrow area to be attacked by the night air.I folded the shawl in two and spread it over my body for a quilt, and a low, mossy mound for a pillow.I stayed like this, at least when night came, I felt cold. My repose, which might have been happy enough, is broken by a sad heart that weeps of its open wounds, its bleeding heart, and its broken strings.It trembles for Mr. Rochester and his death, and weeps for him with regret.It called him with unending longing, and though it could do nothing like a bird with a broken wing, it still flapped its broken wings and sought him in vain.

Exhausted by this thought, I got up and knelt down.The night had come, the stars had risen, and it was a night of peace and tranquility, too peaceful for terror.We know God is everywhere, but we feel His presence most when His work is magnificently displayed before us.In the cloudless night sky, where his universe rolls soundlessly onward, we clearly see his immensity, his omnipotence, his omnipresence.I have risen and knelt and prayed for Mr. Rochester.Looking up, I saw the vast Milky Way with tears in my eyes.When I think of what the Milky Way is--where countless galaxies sweep across space like a gleam of light--I feel the power of God.I am convinced that it is in his power to save his creation, and that neither the earth, nor the one soul it holds dear, can perish.I changed the content of my prayer to Thanksgiving.The source of life is also the savior of the soul.Mr. Rochester will be safe and sound.He belongs to God and God will protect him.I fell into the arms of Xiaoshan again, and soon, I forgot my sorrow in my deep sleep.

But the next day, a pale, stark lack came to me like a ghost.Long before the birds had left their nests, and the bees had flown to the heather at the golden hour of the day for honey, and the long shadows of the morning were shortened, and the sun was shining on earth and sky—I rose and looked round take a look. What a peaceful, hot day it is!The endless wasteland looks like a golden desert!There is sunshine everywhere.I wish I could live here and make a living from it.I saw a lizard crawl over rocks, and a bee was busy among the sweet bilberries.At this moment I would like to be a bee or a lizard, to find suitable nourishment and permanent dwelling here.But I am human with human needs.I can't stay in a place that doesn't meet that need, and I stand up and look back at the bed I've left behind.I feel hopeless, and may the Creator find it necessary to take my soul at night while I sleep; may my weary body be freed by death from further wrestling with fate; may it now rot silently. , calmly blending with the soil of this wilderness.Yet I still have life, and all its needs, pains, and responsibilities.Burdens must be carried; needs must be met; pain must be endured; responsibilities must still be fulfilled.So off I went.

I was again in Whitcross, and the sun was shining brightly.I have chosen a path against the sun, and I have no intention of making choices based on other circumstances.I had walked a long time, thinking that I had almost had enough, that I could give in to the fatigue that had nearly crushed me with peace of mind—that I could relax from this compulsive activity, and sat down on a rock I saw near me. , Let the heart and limbs feel numb.Just then I heard a bell strike—a church bell. I turned to the direction of the sound.There, among the romantic hills whose changes and appearance I had lost sight of an hour before, I saw a village and spires.The valley to my left was filled with pastures, cornfields, and woods.A gleaming brook meanders through shades of green, ripening rice, dark woods, clear and sunny meadows.There was the sound of rumbling wheels on the road ahead, and when I came back to my senses, I saw a heavy-duty cart struggling to climb up the hill.Not far away are two cows and a shepherd.There were people living and working nearby, and I had to struggle to live and work as hard as anyone else.

About two o'clock in the afternoon, I entered the village.At the end of a street was a little shop with some bread in the window.I'm hungry for a loaf of bread.With that piece of cake I might recover a little strength, but without it it would be difficult to go any further.As soon as I was back among my kind, the desire to regain my strength arose in my heart.I feel ashamed to pass out on the main road in a small village.Haven't I even got anything on me for a few loaves of bread?I thought about it.I have a small silk scarf around my neck, and a pair of gloves.I can't express how men and women live in poverty.I don't know if those two things will be accepted.Probably they won't, but I'll have to try.

I went into the store and there was a woman inside.Seeing a well-dressed person, she guessed it was a lady, so she stepped forward very politely.How can she take care of me?I am ashamed.My tongue is unwilling to spit out the request that I have already thought about.I dare not take out my old gloves, my crumpled scarf.Also, I thought it was ridiculous.I just begged her to let me sit for a while because I was tired.Disappointed at not finding a client, she coldly acceded to my request.She pointed to a seat and I sat down.I wanted to cry, but realized that the behavior would be unreasonable, so I held back.I immediately asked her "Are there any tailors or general needlework women in the village?"

"Yes, there are two or three. That's enough for the job." I pondered for a moment.Now I have to be blunt.I've come to the point where I have no food, no friends, and no money.I have to figure something out.what way?I have to go somewhere for help.Where are you going? "Do you know anyone around here who needs a servant?" "No, I can't tell." "What is the main industry in this place? What do most people do?" "Some were farmhands and many worked in Mr Oliver's sewing shop and foundry." "Does Mr. Oliver employ women?"

"No, that's a man's job." "Then what do women do?" "I can't tell," replied the other, "Some do this, some do that, and the poor have to find ways to get by." She seemed to be impatient with my reply, but in fact, why should I force others?A neighbor or two came in at this moment, obviously interested in my chair, and I got up to take my leave. I walked down the street, looking left and right, looking at all the houses, but could find no excuse or motive to enter.I walked aimlessly around the village for an hour or so, sometimes going a little farther and then turning back.Exhausted and miserable with nothing to eat, I turned into an alley and sat down under the hedge.But within a few minutes I was up again, looking for something else—food, or at least some news.At the top of the alley there was a pretty little house with a neat, flowery garden in front of it. I stopped by the garden, and why should I approach the white door to knock on the gleaming knocker?How could the owner of the house be interested in taking care of me?But I went closer and knocked on the door.A cheerful, cleanly dressed young woman opened the door.In the pitiful low, stammering voice of a desperate, weak-hearted person--asked her if she wanted a servant? "No," she said, "we don't hire people." "Can you tell me where I can find a job?" I continued. "I am very unfamiliar with this place. I have no acquaintances. If I want to find a job, I can do anything." But it's not her job to think of one for me, or to find a job, not to mention that in her eyes, my personality, my situation and the reasons I said must seem suspicious. She shook her head, "It's a pity that I didn't I can't give you any news," the white door closed gently and politely, but shut me out after all.If she'd let the door open a little longer, I'm sure I'd beg her for some bread, for now I've come down to a very low level. I can't bear to go back to the dirty village, and there's no hope of help there.I wanted to take a detour to a forest not far away that I could see.The shady ground there seemed likely to provide an attractive place to stay.But I was so sickly, and so tormented by natural cravings, that my instinct led me only to those dwellings where I had an opportunity of getting food.When hunger seizes me like a bird of prey with its jaws and claws, solitude is no longer solitude, and rest is no longer rest. I approached the house, walked away and came back, came back and walked away.Always repulsed by a sense that I have no reason to ask, no right to expect others to take an interest in my lonely fate.I turned and turned like a lost and hungry dog ​​until in the afternoon, when I was crossing the fields, I saw the church steeple ahead and hurried towards it.Near the churchyard and halfway between a garden, there was a small but well-built house, which I was sure was the vicar's house, and I remembered that strangers who came to a place with no relatives, looking for work, sometimes Will go to the pastor for referral and help.It's a priest's job to help those who want to be self-reliant—at least to give advice.I seem to have a certain right to go there to get advice.So I mustered up the courage, gathered up a little bit of remaining strength, and walked forward with all my strength.I reached the house and knocked on the kitchen door.An old woman answered the door, and I asked her if this was the parsonage. "yes." "Is the priest there?" "No." "Will you be back soon?" "No, he left the house." "To a place far away?" "It's not too far, one to three miles. He's been called away on account of the sudden death of his father, and he's living at Marsh House, and probably will stay for another fortnight." "Is there any lady in the house?" "No, there's no one but me, and I'm the housekeeper." Reader, I can't bear to beg her to help me out of the troubles I'm sinking deeper into, and I can't beg, so I hold back again I took off the scarf again—and thought of the bread from the shop again.Oh, even a piece of bread crumbs!As long as a bite would relieve the pangs of hunger, I instinctively turned my face to the village again, I saw the shop again, and went in, although there were other people in it besides the woman, I took the liberty of asking "Will you Shall I trade this scarf for a roll?" She looked at me visibly suspiciously, "No, I never sell things that way." In my desperation, I begged her to change the half, which she refused again. "How do I know where you got that scarf?" she said. "Will you take these gloves?" "No, what do I want it for?" Reader, it is unpleasant to recount such details.Some people say that looking back on the painful past is a kind of enjoyment.But even today I cannot bear to look back on those days I have mentioned, when moral degradation mixed with physical suffering constitutes a painful memory that I do not wish to recall.I don't blame anyone for being cold to me, it's all to be expected and inevitable.An ordinary beggar is often the object of suspicion, and a well-dressed beggar must be.Of course, I only beg for work, but whose business is it to give me work?Certainly not for people who met me for the first time and knew nothing about me.As for the woman's refusal to let me exchange my scarf for my bread, that's no wonder, and she was right, if my offer turned out to be ulterior motives, or if the exchange was unprofitable.Let me make a long story short, I hate this topic. When it was getting dark, I walked past a farmer's house.The farmer sat by the open door, having bread and cheese for his supper.I stopped and said: "Can you give me a piece of bread? Because I'm so hungry." He gave me a surprised look, but without saying a word, he cut a thick slice of bread and gave it to me.I reckon he doesn't think I'm a beggar, but just a queer lady who's taken a fancy to his black bread.As soon as I was out of sight of his house, I sat down and ate. Since I cannot expect to spend the night under the roof, let me spend the night in the aforementioned woods.But that night was terrible, the rest was intermittent, the ground was very wet, the air was very cold, and more than once outsiders passed by, which made me change places again and again, without feeling safe or quiet.It rained towards morning, and it rained all day the next day.Reader, don't ask me to detail the circumstances of that day.I searched for work like never before, got rejected like never before, starved like never before.But once food got in my mouth.At the door of a small hut, I saw a little girl pouring the messy cold porridge into the pig trough. "Can you give it to me?" I asked. She stares at me. "Mother!" she cried, "a woman wants me to give her the porridge." "All right, child," answered a voice within, "if she's a beggar, give it to her, and the pigs won't want it." The girl poured the caked porridge over my hand, and I devoured it. When the humid dusk was getting thicker, I stopped after walking on a remote horse path for more than an hour. "I'm failing physically," I said to myself. "I don't think I can go very far. Is there no place to stay tonight? It's raining so hard, do I have to rest my head on the cold and wet ground again? I'm afraid I have no choice. Who will take me in?" What? But with this hungry, dazed, cold, miserable feeling--a feeling of hopelessness, that's terrible. But it's likely I'll die before morning. So why can't I die willingly? Why should I still struggle to maintain a worthless life? Because I know, or believe, that Mr. Rochester is still alive, and besides, dying of hunger and cold is a fate that nature cannot acquiesce. Oh, God! Support me a little longer! Help me One - guide me!" My dull eyes wandered among the dark, foggy landscape.I found myself far away from the village, for it had disappeared from my view, and so had the plowed land around it.I had already traversed the trail, and by taking a short cut approached a large wasteland again.Now, between me and the dark hills, there were only a few small fields, hardly cultivated, almost as barren and barren as the old heather. "That's right, rather than dying on the street or on the road where people come and go, it's better to die there," I mused. "It's better for crows and ravens--if there are ravens in those parts--to peck my flesh off my bones than to be in a poorhouse coffin and a pauper's grave." Then I turned towards the hill and got there.Now it was just a matter of finding a place to lie down, if not safe, or at least hidden.But the surface of the heath all looked the same, differing only in colour; the swamp, where rushes and moss grew thickly, was blue; and the dry soil, where only the heather grew, was black.As the night grew darker, I could still see the difference, though it was only an alternation of light and shadow, for the colors had faded with the daylight. My eye still wanders over the dim uplands, and along the fringes of the moors lost in the wildest vistas.At this moment, far away among the swamp and the ridge, a blurred point, a light jumped into my eyes. "That's a will-o'-the-wisp," was my first thought, and I figured it would go away immediately.Yet the light continued to shine, appearing steady, neither retreating nor advancing. "Could it be a newly lit bonfire?" I wondered.I watched to see if it would spread.But no, it neither shrinks nor expands. "Maybe it's a candle in a house," I thought afterwards, "and even then I'll never get there. It's too far from here, but what's the point of being a yard from me? I just Knock, open, and close in my face." I slumped down where I was standing, buried my head in the ground, and lay quietly for a while.The night wind blew across the hills and over me, whimpering and disappearing in the distance.It rained heavily and drenched me again.Had it been so frozen--so friendly numb to death--the raindrops might still have struck like that; and I felt nothing.But my still living body trembled under the attack of the cold, and soon I stood up. The light was still there, dim and distant in the rain.I tried to walk again, walking slowly towards it with tired legs.It led me through a wide swamp and up the hill through sloping spurs.If it was winter, this swamp would be impassable, but even in midsummer, mud splashes everywhere and shakes with every step.Twice I fell, and both times I got up and picked myself up.That light was my almost hopeless hope, and I had to get there. Across the swamp I saw a white mark on the heath, and walking towards it I saw a road or path leading to the light that was coming from a little mound among the trees.I could tell from the shape of the trees and the leaves in the dimness, it was obviously a fir bush, and as soon as I approached, my star disappeared, because some barrier separated it from me, I stretched out my hand and groped in the blackness in front of me .I made out the rough stone of a low wall--on top what seemed to be a fence, and inside a tall, thorny fence.I continue to touch.The white thing gleamed before me again, and it turned out to be a door—a revolving door, which turned on its hinges when I touched it.On either side of the door stood dark bushes--holly or yew. After entering the door and walking through the bushes, a house appeared in silhouette, dark and short but quite long.But the guiding light disappeared, and everything was blurred.Is everyone in the house resting in peace?I fear it must be so.I turned an angle to look for the door, and there again the friendly light flashed from the diamond-shaped glass of a small latticed window within a foot, which had been shattered by ivy or creepers all over the wall. The leaves of vines appear smaller.The gap left is so small and covered so well that drapes and blinds seem unnecessary.I bent down and lifted the thick twigs on the window, and everything inside could be seen clearly.I could see the sand floor in the room was well mopped.There was also a walnut sideboard with rows of tin dishes reflecting the red light of a burning peat fire.I could see a clock, a white pine table and some chairs, and on the table was a candle that had always been my beacon.An old woman, rough-looking but as spotless as everything around her, was knitting socks by candlelight. I've only had a cursory look at these things—there's nothing unusual about them.What interested me more was the group of people by the fire, sitting silently in a rosy calm and warmth that permeates.Two young, elegant women--ladies in every respect--sat, one in a low rocking-chair; the other on an even lower stool.Both of them wore black gauze and woolen mourning gowns. The dark and dark clothes highlighted their fair necks and faces.A great hound rested his monstrous head on one girl's lap--and on another girl's lap was a black cat. It's strange that there are two people like this in this simple kitchen.Who could they be, it couldn't be the daughter of the elder at the table, because she looked very earthy, but they were all refined and cultivated.I have not seen such faces anywhere else, yet every feature seemed familiar to me as I stared at them.They can't be called beautiful--too pale and serious, not enough for the word.Both looked down at their books, looking thoughtful and even a little stern.On the shelf between them was a second candle and two large volumes of books. The two flipped through them from time to time, as if they were still comparing with the small book in their hands, as if they were looking up a dictionary and translating something.This scene was so quiet that everyone seemed to be a shadow, and the room with the fire was like a painting.It was so still here that I could hear the cinders falling from the grate, the clock ticking in the dark corner, and I even imagined I could make out the woman's knitting, so that when a voice at last broke the strange When it's quiet, I can hear clearly enough. "Listen, Diana," said one of the two absorbed students, "Franz was spending the night with old Daniel. Ferrantz was talking about a dream that woke him up--listen !” She lowered her voice, and read something that I could not understand a single word of, for it was a completely foreign language—neither French nor Latin.As to whether it is Greek or German, I cannot tell. "That's powerfully said," she said when she had finished, "I appreciate it." Another girl, who looked up and listened to her sister, repeated the line she had just read while gazing into the fire.Later, I came to know that language and that book, so I'll quote it here, although at first it sounded to me like a knock on brass - conveying no meaning: "Da trat hervor Einer, anzusehn wie die Sternen Nacht" "Wonderful! Wonderful!" she cried, her dark, deep eyes shining. "You just happen to have a vaguely great angel standing in front of you! This one line is worth a hundred pages of flashy articles. 'Ich wage die Gedanken in der Schale meines Zornes unddie Werke mit dem Gewichte meines Grimms' I love it!" The two were silent, "Which country do people speak like that?" The old woman stopped knitting and raised her head to ask. "Yes, Hannah - that's all they say in a country much bigger than England." "Oh, honestly, I don't know how they can understand each other. If one of you goes up there, I suppose you'll understand what he's saying?" "We probably know some, not all, of what they say - because we're not as clever as you think, Hannah, and we don't speak German, and we can't read it without a dictionary." "Then what use is it to you?" "One day we want to teach German - or at least the basics, as they say, and then we'll make more money than we do now," "Possibly, but you've read enough tonight. Time to stop." "I think that's enough. At least I'm tired, Mary. How about you?" "Extremely tiring. Learning a language so tirelessly without a teacher and only relying on a dictionary is exhausting after all." "Yes, especially in a language as difficult and excellent as German. I don't know when St. John will come home." "It won't be long now, it's only ten o'clock (she takes a little gold watch out of her girdle and looks at it)". "It's raining hard, Hannah. Would you please look at the fire in the drawing room?" The woman stood up and opened the door.Looking in from the door, I vaguely saw a corridor.After a while I heard her poking the fire in the room, and she returned immediately. "Oh, children!" said she, "it makes me sick to be in that room at the moment. The chairs are empty, all set back in the corner, and it looks deserted." She wiped her eyes with her apron, and the two serious-looking girls were also concerned now. "But he's in a better place," Hannah went on. "We shouldn't expect him to be here any more. Besides, no one could die more peacefully than him." "You say he never mentioned us?" asked a young lady. "He didn't have time to mention it, boy, he went at once--your father. He was in a little pain, like the day before, but nothing serious. Mr. St. John asked him if he would send for you two One of them came back and he was still laughing at him. The next day his head started to feel a little heavy - that was two weeks ago - and he fell asleep and never woke up again. When your brothers came into the room and found him, he Almost dead. Oh, boy! That's the last of the old-fashioned--for you and Mr. St. John seem to be of a different sort than those who die, and your mother is exactly like you, almost the same Learned. You are like her, Mary, and Diana is like your father." I thought they were very much like each other, and could not see the difference that the old servant (as I now judged her to be) saw the difference.Both were fair-skinned and slender.Both faces were extremely intelligent and characteristic.Of course one has darker hair than the other, and the hairstyle is different.Mary's light-brown hair was parted on the sides and pulled into slick braids, Diana's dark hair flowed into thick curls that fell over her neck.The clock struck ten. "Sure you want supper," Hannah said. "It will be the same when Mr. St. John returns." She was busy preparing dinner.The two ladies got up and seemed to be going away to the drawing room.Up to this point I had been looking at them so intently, their appearance and conversation aroused so much interest in me that I had half forgotten my own painful situation.But now I think about it again. Compared with them, my situation is even more bleak and hopeless.How impossible it was to persuade the people in the house to care for me, to believe that my needs and woes were real--to persuade them to provide a resting place for my wanderings!When I reached the door and knocked hesitantly, I felt that my last thought was just a delusion.Hannah opened the door. "What's the matter with you?" she asked in a surprised tone while looking at me by the light of the candle in her hand. "May I speak to your ladies?" I said. "Tell me what you have to say to them, and where are you from?" "I am a stranger." "What are you doing here at this time?" "I want to sleep in an outhouse or somewhere for the night, and I want a bite of bread." Hannah had the skeptical look I feared. "I'll give you a slice of bread," she said after a pause, "but we don't take homeless overnight. That's not right." "Let me speak to your ladies anyway." "No, I won't. What can they do for you? You shouldn't be loitering just now. The weather looks bad." "But if you drive me away, where shall I go? What shall I do?" "Oh, I promise you know where to go and what to do? Just be careful not to do anything bad. Here's a penny, now you go!" "A penny won't fill me up, and I've got no strength to go on. Don't close the door!—oh, don't, for God's sake:" "I have to turn it off, or the rain will pour in." "Tell the young girls, let me meet them." "To be honest, I won't let it. You don't keep your duty, otherwise you wouldn't be so noisy. Let's go!" "If you drive me away, I will die." "You don't. I'm afraid you're up to some bad idea, that's why you come to people's houses in the middle of the night. If you have any accomplices--a house robbery type--nearby, you can tell They, and we are not alone in the house, we have a gentleman, and dogs and guns." Here the honest but obstinate servant closed the door, and barred the inside. This time, but bad luck.A pang of pain - the pain of utter hopelessness - filled and tore my heart.In fact, I was so weak that I didn't even have the strength to take another step forward.I collapsed on the damp doorstep.I moaned -- wrung my hands -- and cried in agony.O ghost of death!Oh, how terrible was this last moment!Ah, this solitude--then to be cast out from one's own kind!Not to mention that the anchor of hope was gone, even the place where the strong spirit stood was gone—at least for a while, but after that, I immediately tried to restore it. "I have to die," I said, "and I trust in God, let me try to wait silently for His will." I not only thought these words, but said them, and I drove all the pain back to my heart, and tried to force it to remain there. ——Yi'an was silent. "People are always going to die," said a voice very close to me, "but not all people are destined to die slowly and early like you, if you die of hunger and thirst like this." “是谁，或者什么东西在说话？”我问道，一时被突如其来的声音吓了一跳。此刻我不会对发生的任何事情寄予得救的希望。一个影子移近了一—究竟什么影子，漆黑的夜和衰弱的视力使我难以分辨。这位新来者在门上重重地长时间敲了起来。 “是你吗，圣·约翰先生？”汉娜叫道。 “是呀—一是呀，快开门。” “哎呀，那么个狂风暴雨的夜晚，你准是又湿又感觉冷了：进来吧——你妹妹们为你很担心，而且我相信附近有坏人。有一个女讨饭——我说她还没有走呢？躺在那里。快起来！真害臊！我说你走吧！” “嘘，汉娜！我来对这女人说句话，你已经尽了责把她关在门外，这会儿让我来尽我的责把她放进来。我就在旁边，听了你也听了她说的。我想这情况特殊一一我至少得了解一下。年轻的女人，起来吧，从我面前进屋去。” 我困难地照他的话办了，不久我就站在干净明亮的厨房里了——就在炉子跟前——浑身发抖，病得厉害，知道自己风吹雨打、精神狂乱，样子极其可怕。两位小姐，她们的哥哥圣·约翰先生和老仆人都呆呆地看着我。 “圣·约翰，这是谁呀，”我听见一个问。 “我说不上来，发现她在门边，”那人回答。 “她脸色真苍白，”汉娜说。 “色如死灰，”对方回答，“她会倒下的，让她坐着吧。” 说真的我的脑袋昏昏沉沉的。我倒了下去，但一把椅子接住了我。尽管这会儿我说不了话，但神志是清醒的。 “也许喝点水会使她恢复过来。汉娜，去打点水来吧。不过她憔悴得不成样子了。那么瘦，一点血色也没有！” “简直成了个影子。” “她病了，还光是饿坏了？” “我想是饿坏了。汉娜，那可是牛奶，给我吧，再给一片面包。” 黛安娜（我是在她朝我弯下身子，看到垂在我与火炉之间的长卷发知道的）掰下了一些面包，在牛奶里浸了一浸，送进我嘴里。她的脸紧挨着我，在她脸上我看到了一种怜悯的表情，从她急促的呼吸中我感受到了她的同情。她用朴素的话说出了满腔温情：“硬吃一点吧。” “是呀——硬吃一点”玛丽和气地重复着，从我头上摘去了湿透的草帽，把我的头托起来。我尝了尝他们给我的东西，先是恹恹地，但马上便急不可耐了。 “先别让她吃得太多一一控制一下，”哥哥说，“她已经吃够了”。于是她端走了那杯牛奶和那盘面包。 “再让她吃一点点吧，圣·约翰——瞧她眼睛里的贪婪相。” “暂时不要了，妹妹。要是她现在能说话，那就试着——问问她的名字吧。” 我觉得自己能说了，而且回答——“我的名字叫简·爱略特，因为仍急于避免被人发现，我早就决定用别名了。” “你住在什么地方，你的朋友在哪里，” I didn't say anything. “我们可以把你认识的人去叫来吗？” I shook my head. “你能说说你自己的事儿吗？” 不知怎地，我一跨进门槛，一被带到这家主人面前，就不再觉得自己无家可归，到处流浪，被广阔的世界所抛弃了。我就敢于扔掉行乞的行当一—恢复我本来的举止和个性。我再次开始了解自己。圣·约翰要我谈—下自己的事时——眼下我体质太弱没法儿讲——我稍稍顿了一顿后说—— “先生，今晚我没法给你细讲了。” “不过，”他说，“那么你希望我们为你做些什么呢？” “没有，”我回答。我的力气只够我作这样简要的回答。黛安娜接过了话： “你的意思是，”她问，“我们既然已给了你所需要的帮助，那就可以把你打发到荒原和雨夜中去了？” 我看了看她。我想她的脸很出众，流溢着力量和善意。我蓦地鼓起勇气，对她满是同情的目光报之以微笑。我说：“我会相信你们。假如我是一条迷路的无主狗，我知道你们今天晚上不会把我从火炉旁撵走。其实，我真的并不害怕。随你们怎么对待我照应我吧，但请原谅我不能讲得太多——我的气很短——一讲话就痉挛。”三个人都仔细打量我，三个人都不说话。 “汉娜，”圣·约翰先生终于说，“这会儿就让她坐在那里吧，别问她问题。十分钟后把剩下的牛奶和面包给她。玛丽和黛安娜，我们到客厅去，仔细谈谈这件事吧。” 他们出去了。很快一位小姐回来了一—我分不出是哪一位，我坐在暖融融的火炉边时，一种神思恍惚的快感悄悄地流遍我全身。她低声吩咐了汉娜。没有多久，在佣人的帮助下，我挣扎着登上楼梯，脱去了湿淋淋的衣服，很快躺倒在一张温暖干燥的床上。我感谢上帝——在难以言说的疲惫中感受到了一丝感激的喜悦——便睡着了。