子浪小说

第77部分（第2页）

“Whose；　then？”

“His　daughter’s；　I　think。”

“It　is　like　her：　she　is　so　good…natured。”

“Yes。”

Again　came　the　blank　of　a　pause：　the　clock　struck　eight　strokes。　It　aroused　him；　he　uncrossed　his　legs；　sat　erect；　turned　to　me。

“Leave　your　book　a　moment；　and　e　a　little　nearer　the　fire；”　he　said。

Wondering；　and　of　my　wonder　finding　no　end；　I　plied。

“Half…an…hour　ago；”　he　pursued；　“I　spoke　of　my　impatience　to　hear　the　sequel　of　a　tale：　on　reflection；　I　find　the　matter　will　be　better　managed　by　my　assuming　the　narrator’s　part；　and　converting　you　into　a　listener。　Before　mencing；　it　is　but　fair　to　warn　you　that　the　story　will　sound　somewhat　hackneyed　in　your　ears；　but　stale　details　often　regain　a　degree　of　freshness　when　they　pass　through　new　lips。　For　the　rest；　whether　trite　or　novel；　it　is　short。

“Twenty　years　ago；　a　poor　curate—never　mind　his　name　at　this　moment—fell　in　love　with　a　rich　man’s　daughter；　she　fell　in　love　with　him；　and　married　him；　against　the　advice　of　all　her　friends；　who　consequently　disowned　her　immediately　after　the　wedding。　Before　two　years　passed；　the　rash　pair　were　both　dead；　and　laid　quietly　side　by　side　under　one　slab。　（I　have　seen　their　grave；　it　formed　part　of　the　pavement　of　a　huge　churchyard　surrounding　the　grim；　soot…black　old　cathedral　of　an　overgrown　manufacturing　town　in　—　shire。）　They　left　a　daughter；　which；　at　its　very　birth；　Charity　received　in　her　lap—cold　as　that　of　the　snow…drift　I　almost　stuck　fast　in　to…night。　Charity　carried　the　friendless　thing　to　the　house　of　its　rich　maternal　relations；　it　was　reared　by　an　aunt…in…law；　called　（I　e　to　names　now）　Mrs。　Reed　of　Gateshead。　You　start—did　you　hear　a　noise？　I　daresay　it　is　only　a　rat　scrambling　along　the　rafters　of　the　adjoining　schoolroom：　it　was　a　barn　before　I　had　it　repaired　and　altered；　and　barns　are　generally　haunted　by　rats。—To　proceed。　Mrs。　Reed　kept　the　orphan　ten　years：　whether　it　was　happy　or　not　with　her；　I　cannot　say；　never　having　been　told；　but　at　the　end　of　that　time　she　transferred　it　to　a　place　you　know—being　no　other　than　Lowood　School；　where　you　so　long　resided　yourself。　It　seems　her　career　there　was　very　honourable：　from　a　pupil；　she　became　a　teacher；　like　yourself—really　it　strikes　me　there　are　parallel　points　in　her　history　and　yours—she　left　it　to　be　a　governess：　there；　again；　your　fates　were　analogous；　she　undertook　the　education　of　the　ward　of　a　certain　Mr。　Rochester。”

“Mr。　Rivers！”　I　interrupted。

“I　can　guess　your　feelings；”　he　said；　“but　restrain　them　for　a　while：　I　have　nearly　finished；　hear　me　to　the　end。　Of　Mr。　Rochester’s　character　I　know　nothing；　but　the　one　fact　that　he　professed　to　offer　honourable　marriage　to　this　young　girl；　and　that　at　the　very　altar　she　discovered　he　had　a　wife　yet　alive；　though　a　lunatic。　What　his　subsequent　conduct　and　proposals　were　is　a　matter　of　pure　conjecture；　but　when　an　event　transpired　which　rendered　inquiry　after　the　governess　necessary；　it　was　discovered　she　was　gone—no　one　could　tell　when；　where；　or　how。　She　had　left　Thornfield　Hall　in　the　night；　every　research　after　her　course　had　been　vain：　the　country　had　been　scoured　far　and　wide；　no　vestige　of　information　could　be　gathered　respecting　her。　Yet　that　she　should　be　found　is　bee　a　matter　of　serious　urgency：　advertisements　have　been　put　in　all　the　papers；　I　myself　have　received　a　letter　from　one　Mr。　Briggs；　a　solicitor；　municating　the　details　I　have　just　imparted。　Is　it　not　an　odd　tale？”

“Just　tell　me　this；”　said　I；　“and　since　you　know　so　much；　you　surely　can　tell　it　me—what　of　Mr。　Rochester？　How　and　where　is　he？　What　is　he　doing？　Is　he　well？”

“I　am　ignorant　of　all　concerning　Mr。　Rochester：　the　letter　never　mentions　him　but　to　narrate　the　fraudulent　and　illegal　attempt　I　have　adverted　to。　You　should　rather　ask　the　name　of　the　governess—　the　nature　of　the　event　which　requires　her　appearance。”

“Did　no　one　go　to　Thornfield　Hall；　then？　Did　no　one　see　Mr。　Rochester？”

“I　suppose　not。”

“But　they　wrote　to　him？”

“Of　course。”

“And　what　did　he　say？　Who　has　his　letters？”

“Mr。　Briggs　intimates　that　the　answer　to　his　application　was　not　from　Mr。　Rochester；　but　from　a　lady：　it　is　signed　‘Alice　Fairfax。’”

I　felt　cold　and　dismayed：　my　worst　fears　then　were　probably　true：　he　had　in　all　probability　left　England　and　rushed　in　reckless　desperation　to　some　former　haunt　on　the　Continent。　And　what　opiate　for　his　severe　sufferings—what　object　for　his　strong　passions—had　he　sought　there？　I　dared　not　ansy　poor　master—once　almost　my　husband—whom　I　had　often　called　“my　dear　Edward！”

“He　must　have　been　a　bad　man；”　observed　Mr。　Rivers。

“You　don’t　know　him—don’t　pronounce　an　opinion　upon　him；”　I　said；　with　warmth。

“Very　well；”　he　answered　quietly：　“and　indeed　my　head　is　otherwise　occupied　than　with　him：　I　have　my　tale　to　finish。　Since　you　won’t　ask　the　governess’s　name；　I　must　tell　it　of　my　own　accord。　Stay！　I　have　it　here—it　is　always　more　satisfactory　to　see　important　points　written　down；　fairly　mitted　to　black　and　white。”

And　the　pocket…book　was　again　deliberately　produced；　opened；　sought　through；　from　one　of　its　partments　was　extracted　a　shabby　slip　of　paper；　hastily　torn　off：　I　recognised　in　its　texture　and　its　stains　of　ultra…marine；　and　lake；　and　vermillion；　the　ravished　margin　of　the　portrait…cover。　He　got　up；　held　it　close　to　my　eyes：　and　I　read；　traced　in　Indian　ink；　in　my　own　handwriting；　the　words　“JANE　EYRE”—the　work　doubtless　of　some　moment　of　abstraction。

“Briggs　wrote　to　me　of　a　Jane　Eyre：”　he　said；　“the　advertisements　demanded　a　Jane　Eyre：　I　knew　a　Jane　Elliott。—I　confess　I　had　my　suspicions；　but　it　was　only　yesterday　afternoon　they　were　at　once　resolved　into　certainty。　You　own　the　name　and　renounce　the　alias？”

“Yes—yes；　but　where　is　Mr。　Briggs？　He　perhaps　knows　more　of　Mr。　Rochester　than　you　do。”

“Briggs　is　in　London。　I　should　doubt　his　knowing　anything　at　all　about　Mr。　Rochester；　it　is　not　in　Mr。　Rochester　he　is　interested。　Meantime；　you　forget　essential　points　in　pursuing　trifles：　you　do　not　inquire　why　Mr。　Briggs　sought　after　you—what　he　wanted　with　you。”

“Well；　what　did　he　want？”

“Merely　to　tell　you　that　your　uncle；　Mr。　Eyre　of　Madeira；　is　dead；　that　he　has　left　you　all　his　property；　and　that　you　are　now　rich—　merely　that—nothing　more。”

“I！—rich？”

“Yes；　you；　rich—quite　an　heiress。”

Silence　succeeded。

“You　must　prove　your　identity　of　course；”　resumed　St。　John　presently：　“a　step　which　will　offer　no　difficulties；　you　can　then　enter　on　immediate　possession。　Your　fortune　is　vested　in　the　English　funds；　Briggs　has　the　will　and　the　necessary　documents。”

Here　was　a　new　card　turned　up！　It　is　a　fine　thing；　reader；　to　be　lifted　in　a　moment　from　indigence　to　wealth—a　very　fine　thing；　but　not　a　matter　one　can　prehend；　or　consequently　enjoy；　all　at　once。　And　then　there　are　other　chances　in　life　far　more　thrilling　and　rapture…gi

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