子浪小说

第68部分（第2页）

“But　I　must　die　if　I　am　turned　away。”

“Not　you。　I’m　fear’d　you　have　some　ill　plans　agate；　that　bring　you　about　folk’s　houses　at　this　time　o’　night。　If　you’ve　any　followers—housebreakers　or　such　like—anywhere　near；　you　may　tell　them　we　are　not　by　ourselves　in　the　house；　we　have　a　gentleman；　and　dogs；　and　guns。”　Here　the　honest　but　inflexible　servant　clapped　the　door　to　and　bolted　it　within。

This　was　the　climax。　A　pang　of　exquisite　suffering—a　throe　of　true　despair—rent　and　heaved　my　heart。　Worn　out；　indeed；　I　was；　not　another　step　could　I　stir。　I　sank　on　the　wet　doorstep：　I　groaned—　I　wrung　my　hands—I　wept　in　utter　anguish。　Oh；　this　spectre　of　death！　Oh；　this　last　hour；　approaching　in　such　horror！　Alas；　this　isolation—this　banishment　from　my　kind！　Not　only　the　anchor　of　hope；　but　the　footing　of　fortitude　was　gone—at　least　for　a　moment；　but　the　last　I　soon　endeavoured　to　regain。

“I　can　but　die；”　I　said；　“and　I　believe　in　God。　Let　me　try　to　wait　His　will　in　silence。”

These　words　I　not　only　thought；　but　uttered；　and　thrusting　back　all　my　misery　into　my　heart；　I　made　an　effort　to　pel　it　to　remain　there—dumb　and　still。

“All　men　must　die；”　said　a　voice　quite　close　at　hand；　“but　all　are　not　condemned　to　meet　a　lingering　and　premature　doom；　such　as　yours　would　be　if　you　perished　here　of　want。”

“Who　or　what　speaks？”　I　asked；　terrified　at　the　unexpected　sound；　and　incapable　now　of　deriving　from　any　occurrence　a　hope　of　aid。　A　form　was　near—what　form；　the　pitch…dark　night　and　my　enfeebled　vision　prevented　me　from　distinguishing。　With　a　loud　long　knock；　the　new…er　appealed　to　the　door。

“Is　it　you；　Mr。　St。　John？”　cried　Hannah。

“Yes—yes；　open　quickly。”

“Well；　how　wet　and　cold　you　must　be；　such　a　wild　night　as　it　is！　e　in—your　sisters　are　quite　uneasy　about　you；　and　I　believe　there　are　bad　folks　about。　There　has　been　a　beggar…woman—I　declare　she　is　not　gone　yet！—laid　down　there。　Get　up！　for　shame！　Move　off；　I　say！”

“Hush；　Hannah！　I　have　a　word　to　say　to　the　woman。　You　have　done　your　duty　in　excluding；　now　let　me　do　mine　in　admitting　her。　I　was　near；　and　listened　to　both　you　and　her。　I　think　this　is　a　peculiar　case—I　must　at　least　examine　into　it。　Young　woman；　rise；　and　pass　before　me　into　the　house。”

With　difficulty　I　obeyed　him。　Presently　I　stood　within　that　clean；　bright　kitchen—on　the　very　hearth—trembling；　sickening；　conscious　of　an　aspect　in　the　last　degree　ghastly；　wild；　and　weather…beaten。　The　two　ladies；　their　brother；　Mr。　St。　John；　the　old　servant；　were　all　gazing　at　me。

“St。　John；　who　is　it？”　I　heard　one　ask。

“I　cannot　tell：　I　found　her　at　the　door；”　was　the　reply。

“She　does　look　white；”　said　Hannah。

“As　white　as　clay　or　death；”　was　responded。　“She　will　fall：　let　her　sit。”

And　indeed　my　head　swam：　I　dropped；　but　a　chair　received　me。　I　still　possessed　my　senses；　though　just　now　I　could　not　speak。

“Perhaps　a　little　water　would　restore　her。　Hannah；　fetch　some。　But　she　is　worn　to　nothing。　How　very　thin；　and　how　very　bloodless！”

“A　mere　spectre！”

“Is　she　ill；　or　only　famished？”

“Famished；　I　think。　Hannah；　is　that　milk？　Give　it　me；　and　a　piece　of　bread。”

Diana　（I　knew　her　by　the　long　curls　which　I　saw　drooping　between　me　and　the　fire　as　she　bent　over　me）　broke　some　bread；　dipped　it　in　milk；　and　put　it　to　my　lips。　Her　face　was　near　mine：　I　saw　there　was　pity　in　it；　and　I　felt　sympathy　in　her　hurried　breathing。　In　her　simple　words；　too；　the　same　balm…like　emotion　spoke：　“Try　to　eat。”

“Yes—try；”　repeated　Mary　gently；　and　Mary’s　hand　removed　my　sodden　bon　and　lifted　my　head。　I　tasted　what　they　offered　me：　feebly　at　first；　eagerly　soon。

“Not　too　much　at　first—restrain　her；”　said　the　brother；　“she　has　had　enough。”　And　he　withdrew　the　cup　of　milk　and　the　plate　of　bread。

“A　little　more；　St。　John—look　at　the　avidity　in　her　eyes。”

“No　more　at　present；　sister。　Try　if　she　can　speak　now—ask　her　her　name。”

I　felt　I　could　speak；　and　I　answered—“My　name　is　Jane　Elliott。”　Anxious　as　ever　to　avoid　discovery；　I　had　before　resolved　to　assume　an　alias。

“And　where　do　you　live？　Where　are　your　friends？”

I　was　silent。

“Can　we　send　for　any　one　you　know？”

I　shook　my　head。

“What　account　can　you　give　of　yourself？”

Somehow；　now　that　I　had　once　crossed　the　threshold　of　this　house；　and　once　was　brought　face　to　face　with　its　owners；　I　felt　no　longer　outcast；　vagrant；　and　disowned　by　the　wide　world。　I　dared　to　put　off　the　mendicant—to　resume　my　natural　manner　and　character。　I　began　once　more　to　know　myself；　and　when　Mr。　St。　John　demanded　an　account—which　at　present　I　was　far　too　weak　to　render—I　said　after　a　brief　pause—

“Sir；　I　can　give　you　no　details　to…night。”

“But　what；　then；”　said　he；　“do　you　expect　me　to　do　for　you？”

“Nothing；”　I　replied。　My　strength　sufficed　for　but　short　answers。　Diana　took　the　word—

“Do　you　mean；”　she　asked；　“that　we　have　now　given　you　ay　dismiss　you　to　the　moor　and　the　rainy　night？”

I　looked　at　her。　She　had；　I　thought；　a　remarkable　countenance；　instinct　both　with　power　and　goodness。　I　took　sudden　courage。　Answering　her　passionate　gate　with　a　smile；　I　said—“I　will　trust　you。　If　I　were　a　masterless　and　stray　dog；　I　know　that　you　would　not　turn　me　from　your　hearth　to…night：　as　it　is；　I　really　have　no　fear。　Do　with　me　and　for　me　as　you　like；　but　excuse　me　from　much　discourse—my　breath　is　sh

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