LUYỆN ĐỌC TIẾNG ANH QUA TÁC PHẨM VĂN HỌC-JANE EYRE CHARLOTTE BRONTE Chapter 29

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JANE EYRE

CHARLOTTE BRONTE

Chapter 29
The recollection of about three days and nights succeeding this is very dim
in my mind. I can recall some sensations felt in that interval; but few
thoughts framed, and no actions performed. I knew I was in a small room
and in a narrow bed. To that bed I seemed to have grown; I lay on it
motionless as a stone; and to have torn me from it would have been almost
to kill me. I took no note of the lapse of time--of the change from morning to
noon, from noon to evening. I observed when any one entered or left the
apartment: I could even tell who they were; I could understand what was
said when the speaker stood near to me; but I could not answer; to open my
lips or move my limbs was equally impossible. Hannah, the servant, was my
most frequent visitor. Her coming disturbed me. I had a feeling that she
wished me away: that she did not understand me or my circumstances; that
she was prejudiced against me. Diana and Mary appeared in the chamber
once or twice a day. They would whisper sentences of this sort at my
bedside -
"It is very well we took her in."
"Yes; she would certainly have been found dead at the door in the morning
had she been left out all night. I wonder what she has gone through?"
"Strange hardships, I imagine--poor, emaciated, pallid wanderer?"
"She is not an uneducated person, I should think, by her manner of speaking;
her accent was quite pure; and the clothes she took off, though splashed and
wet, were little worn and fine."
"She has a peculiar face; fleshless and haggard as it is, I rather like it; and
when in good health and animated, I can fancy her physiognomy would be
agreeable."
Never once in their dialogues did I hear a syllable of regret at the hospitality
they had extended to me, or of suspicion of, or aversion to, myself. I was
comforted.
Mr. St. John came but once: he looked at me, and said my state of lethargy
was the result of reaction from excessive and protracted fatigue. He
pronounced it needless to send for a doctor: nature, he was sure, would
manage best, left to herself. He said every nerve had been overstrained in
some way, and the whole system must sleep torpid a while. There was no
disease. He imagined my recovery would be rapid enough when once
commenced. These opinions he delivered in a few words, in a quiet, low
voice; and added, after a pause, in the tone of a man little accustomed to
expansive comment, "Rather an unusual physiognomy; certainly, not
indicative of vulgarity or degradation."
"Far otherwise," responded Diana. "To speak truth, St. John, my heart rather
warms to the poor little soul. I wish we may be able to benefit her
permanently."
"That is hardly likely," was the reply. "You will find she is some young lady
who has had a misunderstanding with her friends, and has probably
injudiciously left them. We may, perhaps, succeed in restoring her to them,
if she is not obstinate: but I trace lines of force in her face which make me
sceptical of her tractability." He stood considering me some minutes; then
added, "She looks sensible, but not at all handsome."
"She is so ill, St. John."
"Ill or well, she would always be plain. The grace and harmony of beauty are
quite wanting in those features."
On the third day I was better; on the fourth, I could speak, move, rise in bed,
and turn. Hannah had brought me some gruel and dry toast, about, as I
supposed, the dinner-hour. I had eaten with relish: the food was good--void
of the feverish flavour which had hitherto poisoned what I had swallowed.
When she left me, I felt comparatively strong and revived: ere long satiety of
repose and desire for action stirred me. I wished to rise; but what could I put
on? Only my damp and bemired apparel; in which I had slept on the ground
and fallen in the marsh. I felt ashamed to appear before my benefactors so
clad. I was spared the humiliation.
On a chair by the bedside were all my own things, clean and dry. My black
silk frock hung against the wall. The traces of the bog were removed from it;
the creases left by the wet smoothed out: it was quite decent. My very shoes
and stockings were purified and rendered presentable. There were the means
of washing in the room, and a comb and brush to smooth my hair. After a
weary process, and resting every five minutes, I succeeded in dressing
myself. My clothes hung loose on me; for I was much wasted, but I covered
deficiencies with a shawl, and once more, clean and respectable looking--no
speck of the dirt, no trace of the disorder I so hated, and which seemed so to
degrade me, left--I crept down a stone staircase with the aid of the banisters,
to a narrow low passage, and found my way presently to the kitchen.
It was full of the fragrance of new bread and the warmth of a generous fire.
Hannah was baking. Prejudices, it is well known, are most difficult to
eradicate from the heart whose soil has never been loosened or fertilised by
education: they grow there, firm as weeds among stones. Hannah had been
cold and stiff, indeed, at the first: latterly she had begun to relent a little; and
when she saw me come in tidy and well-dressed, she even smiled.
"What, you have got up!" she said. "You are better, then. You may sit you
down in my chair on the hearthstone, if you will."
She pointed to the rocking-chair: I took it. She bustled about, examining me
every now and then with the corner of her eye. Turning to me, as she took
some loaves from the oven, she asked bluntly -
"Did you ever go a-begging afore you came here?"
I was indignant for a moment; but remembering that anger was out of the
question, and that I had indeed appeared as a beggar to her, I answered
quietly, but still not without a certain marked firmness -
"You are mistaken in supposing me a beggar. I am no beggar; any more than
yourself or your young ladies."
After a pause she said, "I dunnut understand that: you've like no house, nor
no brass, I guess?"
"The want of house or brass (by which I suppose you mean money) does not
make a beggar in your sense of the word."
"Are you book-learned?" she inquired presently.
"Yes, very."
"But you've never been to a boarding-school?"
"I was at a boarding-school eight years."
She opened her eyes wide. "Whatever cannot ye keep yourself for, then?"
"I have kept myself; and, I trust, shall keep myself again. What are you
going to do with these gooseberries?" I inquired, as she brought out a basket
of the fruit.
"Mak' 'em into pies."
"Give them to me and I'll pick them."
"Nay; I dunnut want ye to do nought."
"But I must do something. Let me have them."
She consented; and she even brought me a clean towel to spread over my
dress, "lest," as she said, "I should mucky it."
"Ye've not been used to sarvant's wark, I see by your hands," she remarked.
"Happen ye've been a dressmaker?"
"No, you are wrong. And now, never mind what I have been: don't trouble
your head further about me; but tell me the name of the house where we
are."
"Some calls it Marsh End, and some calls it Moor House."
"And the gentleman who lives here is called Mr. St. John?"
"Nay; he doesn't live here: he is only staying a while. When he is at home,
he is in his own parish at Morton."
"That village a few miles off?
"Aye."
"And what is he?"
"He is a parson."
I remembered the answer of the old housekeeper at the parsonage, when I
had asked to see the clergyman. "This, then, was his father's residence?"
"Aye; old Mr. Rivers lived here, and his father, and grandfather, and gurt
(great) grandfather afore him."
"The name, then, of that gentleman, is Mr. St. John Rivers?"
"Aye; St. John is like his kirstened name."
"And his sisters are called Diana and Mary Rivers?"
"Yes."
"Their father is dead?"
"Dead three weeks sin' of a stroke."
"They have no mother?"
"The mistress has been dead this mony a year."
"Have you lived with the family long?"
"I've lived here thirty year. I nursed them all three."
"That proves you must have been an honest and faithful servant. I will say so
much for you, though you have had the incivility to call me a beggar."
She again regarded me with a surprised stare. "I believe," she said, "I was
quite mista'en in my thoughts of you: but there is so mony cheats goes about,
you mun forgie me."
"And though," I continued, rather severely, "you wished to turn me from the
door, on a night when you should not have shut out a dog."
"Well, it was hard: but what can a body do? I thought more o' th' childer nor
of mysel: poor things! They've like nobody to tak' care on 'em but me. I'm
like to look sharpish."
I maintained a grave silence for some minutes.
"You munnut think too hardly of me," she again remarked.
"But I do think hardly of you," I said; "and I'll tell you why--not so much
because you refused to give me shelter, or regarded me as an impostor, as

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