第67部分(第4/8 頁)

die　before　morning。　And　why　cannot　I　reconcile　myself　to　the　prospect　of　death？　Why　do　I　struggle　to　retain　a　valueless　life？　Because　I　know；　or　believe；　Mr。　Rochester　is　living：　and　then；　to　die　of　want　and　cold　is　a　fate　to　which　nature　cannot　submit　passively。　Oh；　Providence！　sustain　me　a　little　longer！　Aid！—direct　me！”

My　glazed　eye　wandered　over　the　dim　and　misty　landscape。　I　saw　I　had　strayed　far　from　the　village：　it　was　quite　out　of　sight。　The　very　cultivation　surrounding　it　had　disappeared。　I　had；　by　cross…　ways　and　by…paths；　once　more　drawn　near　the　tract　of　moorland；　and　now；　only　a　few　fields；　almost　as　wild　and　unproductive　as　the　heath　from　which　they　were　scarcely　reclaimed；　lay　between　me　and　the　dusky　hill。

“Well；　I　would　rather　die　yonder　than　in　a　street　or　on　a　frequented　road；”　I　reflected。　“And　far　better　that　crows　and　ravens—if　any　ravens　there　be　in　these　regions—should　pick　my　flesh　from　my　bones；　than　that　they　should　be　prisoned　in　a　workhouse　coffin　and　moulder　in　a　pauper’s　grave。”

To　the　hill；　then；　I　turned。　I　reached　it。　It　remained　now　only　to　find　a　hollow　where　I　could　lie　down；　and　feel　at　least　hidden；　if　not　secure。　But　all　the　surface　of　the　waste　looked　level。　It　showed　no　variation　but　of　tint：　green；　where　rush　and　moss　overgrew　the　marshes；　black；　where　the　dry　soil　bore　only　heath。　Dark　as　it　was　getting；　I　could　still　see　these　changes；　though　but　as　mere　alternations　of　light　and　shade；　for　colour　had　faded　wi