Chapter 36

类别:文学名著 作者:夏洛蒂·勃朗特 本章:Chapter 36

    t came. I rose at dao leave time, I . Jo opped at my door: I feared  a slip of paper ook it up. It bore these words—

    “You left me too suddenly last nigayed but a little longer, you  your clear decision nigime, c you enter not into temptation: t, I trust, is  t. JOhN.”

    “My spirit,” I ansally, “is o do inctly knoo me. At any rate, it srong enougo searco grope an outlet from t, and find tainty.”

    It  of June; yet t and c fast on my casement. I -door open, and St. Jo. Looking traverse took ty moors in tion of cross—t the coach.

    “In a ferack, cousin,” t I: “I too o meet at cross. I too o see and ask after in England, before I depart for ever.”

    It ed yet time. I filled terval in ly about my room, and pondering tation . I recalled t inion I , s unspeakable strangeness. I recalled tioned  seemed in me—not in ternal  a mere nervous impression—a delusion? I could not conceive or believe: it ion. tions of Paul and Silas’s prison; it s bands—it  out of its sleep, rembling, listening, ag; ted tartled ear, and in my quaking  and t, ed as if in joy over t it o make, independent of the cumbrous body.

    “Ere many days,” I said, as I terminated my musings, “I  nigo summon me. Letters hem.”

    At breakfast I announced to Diana and Mary t I  least four days.

    “Alone, Jane?” they asked.

    “Yes; it o see or  wime been uneasy.”

    t  t, t to be  any friends save ten said so; but, rue natural delicacy, tained from comment, except t Diana asked me if I ravel. I looked very pale, s noty of mind, e.

    It o make my furts; for I roubled o t I could not no about my plans, to me tion I sances hem.

    I left Moor  ter four I stood at t of t of cross, ing to take me to distant t tary roads and desert  approac distance. It ed one summer evening on t—e, and less! It stopped as I beckoned. I entered—not noo part une as ts accommodation. Once more on to t like the messenger-pigeon flying home.

    It y  out from cross on a tuesday afternoon, and early on topped to er t a uated in t of scenery  of ern Norton!) met my eye like ts of a once familiar face. Yes, I kneer of this landscape: I was sure we were near my bourne.

    “ler.

    “Just the fields.”

    “My journey is closed,” I t to myself. I got out of to tler’s co be kept till I called for it; paid my fare; satisfied tening day gleamed on t letters, “ter Arms.” My  leapt up: I er’s very lands. It fell again: t struck it:—

    “Your master is you kno to speak to  your labour—you ter go no fartor. “Ask information of t ts at once. Go up to t man, and inquire if Mr. Rocer be at home.”

    tion  I could not force myself to act on it. I so dreaded a reply t  o prolong  yet once more see tar. tile before me—tracted racking and scourging me, on t course I o take, I  of t I c vie feelings I rees I knehem!

    At last tered dark; a loud caillness. Strange deligened. Anotyard self, till  vie s,” I determined, “tlements rike t once, and er’s very  it— in front. Could I but see  a moment! Surely, in t case, I s be so mad as to run to  tell—I am not certain. And if I did— t by my once more tasting t t cideless sea of th.”

    I ed along turned its angle: te just to tone pillars croone balls. From bely at t of tion, desirous to ascertain if any bedroom  dratlements, —all from tered station  my command.

    tcook t t. t imid at first, and t gradually I greare; and ture from my nicraying out into top full in front of t mansion, and a protracted, o. “ affectation of diffidence  first?” t  stupid regardlessness now?”

    ration, reader.

    A lover finds ress asleep on a mossy bank; o catc ly over to make no sound; irred:  for s on ures: s it, bends loe ty—.  glance! But arts! ly clasps in bot, a moment since, touc er—by any movement   sly: one dead.

    I looked imorous joy toately house: I saw a blackened ruin.

    No need to co, indeed!—to peep up at ctices, fearing life ir beo listen for doors opening—to fancy steps on t or trodden and e: tal ya  a tlements, no chimneys—all had crashed in.

    And t it: tude of a lonesome  letters addressed to people cles to a vault in a cones told by e tion: but  story belonged to ter?  loss, besides mortar and marble and o ans—not even dumb sign, mute token.

    In tered ated interior, I gat ty  of late occurrence. inter sno, ed t void arcer rains beaten in at ts; for, amidst tation: grass and ones and fallen rafters. And oime  land? Under arily o toes, and I asked, “Is er, ser of his narrow marble house?”

    Some ans be o tions. I could find it no turned. t  my breakfast into ted o s t doo ask  acle of desolation I  left prepared me in a measure for a tale of misery. t able-looking, middle-aged man.

    “You knoo say at last.

    “Yes, ma’am; I lived there once.”

    “Did you?” Not in my time, I t: you are a stranger to me.

    “I e Mr. Rocer’s butler,” he added.

    te! I seem to rying to evade.

    “te!” gasped. “Is he dead?”

    “I mean t gentleman, Mr. Eds flo Mr. Ed alive:  gentleman.” Gladdening  seemed I could  o come— be—ive tranquillity. Since  in t, to learn t  tipodes.

    “Is Mr. Rocer living at t t yet desirous of deferring t question as to where he really was.

    “No, ma’am—oranger in ts, or you umn,—te a ruin: it  do about -time. A dreadful calamity! sucity of valuable property destroyed: ure could be saved. t at dead of nige, t errible spectacle: I nessed it myself.”

    “At dead of nigtered. Yes, t ality at t knoed?” I demanded.

    “t ained beyond a doubt. You are not perinued, edging tle nearer table, and speaking lo tic, kept in the house?”

    “I .”

    “S in very close confinement, ma’am: people even for some years  absolutely certain of ence. No one sa s  to conjecture. t ress. But a queer thing.”

    I feared noo ory. I endeavoured to recall o t.

    “And this lady?”

    “turned out to be Mr. Rocer’s  about in trangest  t Mr. Rocer fell in—”

    “But ted.

    “I’m coming to t, ma’am—t Mr. Eds say ter inually. to cs ore on  everyt  tle small t like a c I’ve ell of er  forty, and t ty; and you see, ched. ell, he would marry her.”

    “You sell me t of tory anotime,” I said; “but no suspected t tic, Mrs. Rocer, ?”

    “You’ve  it, ma’am: it’s quite certain t it  it going. So take care of rust for one fault—a fault common to a deal of trons—s a private bottle of gin by ook a drop over-muc is excusable, for s: but still it er ter, tcake t of , let  of  t came into   I don’t kno t. , s fire first to t  doo a loorey, and made o t ters e at  t, fortunately. ter soug precious te savage on ment:   dangerous after  oo.  Mrs. Fairfax, to  a distance; but  tled an annuity on —s to scance ry, and s  at the hall.”

    “! did  leave England?”

    “Leave England? Bless you, no!  cross tones of t at nig like a g about t  is my opinion ed, bolder, keener gentleman t midge of a governess crossed  a man given to hornfield hall.”

    “ter  ?”

    “Yes, indeed o ttics s out of t back to get  of  to  sanding, lements, and sing out till t streaming against tood. I nessed, and several more nessed, Mr. Rocer ascend t on to t minute s.”

    “Dead?”

    “Dead! Ay, dead as tones on wtered.”

    “Good God!”

    “You may  ful!”

    he shuddered.

    “And afterwards?” I urged.

    “ell, ma’am, after to ts of anding now.”

    “ere any ot?”

    “No—per er if there had.”

    “ do you mean?”

    “Poor Mr. Edtle t ever to ! Some say it  judgment on  marriage secret, and ing to take anot I pity .”

    “You said he was alive?” I exclaimed.

    “Yes, yes:  many tter he dead.”

    “hy? how?” My blood was again running cold. “here is he?” I demanded. “Is he in England?”

    “Ay—ay— get out of England, I fancy—ure now.”

    agony o protract it.

    “one-blind,”  last. “Yes, one-blind, is Mr. Edward.”

    I rengto ask w y.

    “It ill every one else  before  staircase at last, after Mrs. Rocer tlements, t crasaken out from under t sadly : a beam o protect ly; but one eye , and one  Mr. Carter, to amputate it directly. t t of t also. he is now helpless, indeed—blind and a cripple.”

    “here is he? here does he now live?”

    “At Ferndean, a manor- ty miles off: quite a desolate spot.”

    “h him?”

    “Old Joe broken dohey say.”

    “ of conveyance?”

    “e have a chaise, ma’am, a very handsome chaise.”

    “Let it be got ready instantly; and if your post-boy can drive me to Ferndean before dark the hire you usually demand.”


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