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- Шарлотта Бронте
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- Джэйн Эйр
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True
,
generous
feeling
is
made
small
account
of
by
some
,
but
here
were
two
natures
rendered
,
the
one
intolerably
acrid
,
the
other
despicably
savourless
for
the
want
of
it
.
Feeling
without
judgment
is
a
washy
draught
indeed
;
but
judgment
untempered
by
feeling
is
too
bitter
and
husky
a
morsel
for
human
deglutition
.
It
was
a
wet
and
windy
afternoon
:
Georgiana
had
fallen
asleep
on
the
sofa
over
the
perusal
of
a
novel
;
Eliza
was
gone
to
attend
a
saint
's
-
day
service
at
the
new
church
--
for
in
matters
of
religion
she
was
a
rigid
formalist
:
no
weather
ever
prevented
the
punctual
discharge
of
what
she
considered
her
devotional
duties
;
fair
or
foul
,
she
went
to
church
thrice
every
Sunday
,
and
as
often
on
week-days
as
there
were
prayers
.
I
bethought
myself
to
go
upstairs
and
see
how
the
dying
woman
sped
,
who
lay
there
almost
unheeded
:
the
very
servants
paid
her
but
a
remittent
attention
:
the
hired
nurse
,
being
little
looked
after
,
would
slip
out
of
the
room
whenever
she
could
.
Bessie
was
faithful
;
but
she
had
her
own
family
to
mind
,
and
could
only
come
occasionally
to
the
hall
.
I
found
the
sick-room
unwatched
,
as
I
had
expected
:
no
nurse
was
there
;
the
patient
lay
still
,
and
seemingly
lethargic
;
her
livid
face
sunk
in
the
pillows
:
the
fire
was
dying
in
the
grate
.
I
renewed
the
fuel
,
re-arranged
the
bedclothes
,
gazed
awhile
on
her
who
could
not
now
gaze
on
me
,
and
then
I
moved
away
to
the
window
.
The
rain
beat
strongly
against
the
panes
,
the
wind
blew
tempestuously
:
"
One
lies
there
,
"
I
thought
,
"
who
will
soon
be
beyond
the
war
of
earthly
elements
.
Whither
will
that
spirit
--
now
struggling
to
quit
its
material
tenement
--
flit
when
at
length
released
?
"
In
pondering
the
great
mystery
,
I
thought
of
Helen
Burns
,
recalled
her
dying
words
--
her
faith
--
her
doctrine
of
the
equality
of
disembodied
souls
.
I
was
still
listening
in
thought
to
her
well-remembered
tones
--
still
picturing
her
pale
and
spiritual
aspect
,
her
wasted
face
and
sublime
gaze
,
as
she
lay
on
her
placid
deathbed
,
and
whispered
her
longing
to
be
restored
to
her
divine
Father
's
bosom
--
when
a
feeble
voice
murmured
from
the
couch
behind
:
"
Who
is
that
?
"
I
knew
Mrs.
Reed
had
not
spoken
for
days
:
was
she
reviving
?
I
went
up
to
her
.
"
It
is
I
,
Aunt
Reed
.
"
"
Who
--
I
?
"
was
her
answer
.
"
Who
are
you
?
"
looking
at
me
with
surprise
and
a
sort
of
alarm
,
but
still
not
wildly
.
"
You
are
quite
a
stranger
to
me
--
where
is
Bessie
?
"
"
She
is
at
the
lodge
,
aunt
.
"
