03-02-03-勃朗特一家的故事 [13]
'I said．'But…but why do you use these strange names？'
'Because people are stupid，papa，'Anne said．'No one thinks women can write good books，so we have used men's names instead．And now they say that Currer Bell is a writer who understands women very well！'She laughed again．
'My dears，my dears！' I held out my hands to them， and kissed each of them in turn．'I don't know what to say．I am so pleased for you all．You have made your old papa happy to－day．'Something in Emily's face stopped me．'Emily？You will let me read your book，won't you？'
She thought for a moment．'Yes，papa．Of course．But… it's very different from Charlotte's．I'm not sure you'll like it．'
'You yourself are very different from Charlotte，my dear，but I love you both．You must show me the book as soon as it comes-and you too，Anne．'
I read both their books that winter．They were very differ－ent．Anne's book-Agnes Grey-was the story of an un－happy governess．As I read it，I was sad to think how miserable Anne had been，in a big house away from home，where no one understood her．It was a good book，but it was harder to read than Jane Eyre．
Emily's book was called Wuthering Heights．It was a terri－ble，frightening，wonderful story．There is love in it，and hate，and fear，and a man called Heathcliff，who is strong and cruel like the devill himself．I read it late one night when the wind was screaming round the house， blowing snow against all the windows，and sometimes I was afraid． When I got up to go to bed，I saw Emily sitting quietly by the fire．She was stroking her big dog，Keeper，with one hand，and drawing a picture with the other．
She looked like a quiet，gentle young woman，I thought．Tall，pretty，and also… There was something different about her．Something very strange and very strong．There was some－thing in her that was stronger than any of her sisters，even Charlotte．Something stronger than even me，or her brother Branwell．
Much stronger than Branwell．
All that year Branwell was very ill．He spent more and more time drinking．He slept most of the day，and was awake half of then night．His face was white，his hands shook when he tried to write．His sisters didn't tell him about their books，or show him the new ones that they were writing．They were afraid that he would be unhappy about their success，because he had wanted to be a writer himself．He made life hard for all of us．
Is September 1848 he became very ill．He coughed all day and all night．He began to talk of death，and asked us to pray with him．While we stood together，praying，he began to cough again．He fell to the ground．Emily and I put our arms round him，but he couldn't get up． There was blood on his mouth，and on Emily's dress．
When he stopped coughing，it was because he had stopped breathing．My only son was dead．
We buried him in the church beside his mother and little sis－ters．It was a cold，rainy afternoon．There were dead wet leaves in the graveyard，and the wind blew rain into our faces．I came back into the house soon afterwards，but Emily walked for an hour or two in the rain with her dog，Keeper．When she came back into the house，her dress was wet through．
Several days later Emily became ill．Her face was hot，she couldn't eat，she kept moving round the house．It was difficult for her to breathe，and it took her a long time to climb the stairs．Charlotte felt her heart—it was beating a hundred and fifteen times a minute．
'Let me call a doctor，Emily，' Charlotte said．
But Emily refused．'If he comes，I won't talk to him．'
'Then go to bed and rest，please．I can light a fire in your room，and bring you milk and read to you if you like．You need rest，sister！'
'I…do…not！'said Emily slowly．She had to breathe hard between each word，and her face was as white as Branwell's had been．'My body…doesn't… matter now．I don't…care…about it．I'll live…as I always…have．'
And so，every day，she got up at seven o'clock，dressed her－self，and stayed downstairs until ten at night．She ate little or nothing，and coughed for hours．Sometimes she coughed blood．She never went out of the house，but one day Charlotte brought some heather from the moors for her to look at
'Because people are stupid，papa，'Anne said．'No one thinks women can write good books，so we have used men's names instead．And now they say that Currer Bell is a writer who understands women very well！'She laughed again．
'My dears，my dears！' I held out my hands to them， and kissed each of them in turn．'I don't know what to say．I am so pleased for you all．You have made your old papa happy to－day．'Something in Emily's face stopped me．'Emily？You will let me read your book，won't you？'
She thought for a moment．'Yes，papa．Of course．But… it's very different from Charlotte's．I'm not sure you'll like it．'
'You yourself are very different from Charlotte，my dear，but I love you both．You must show me the book as soon as it comes-and you too，Anne．'
I read both their books that winter．They were very differ－ent．Anne's book-Agnes Grey-was the story of an un－happy governess．As I read it，I was sad to think how miserable Anne had been，in a big house away from home，where no one understood her．It was a good book，but it was harder to read than Jane Eyre．
Emily's book was called Wuthering Heights．It was a terri－ble，frightening，wonderful story．There is love in it，and hate，and fear，and a man called Heathcliff，who is strong and cruel like the devill himself．I read it late one night when the wind was screaming round the house， blowing snow against all the windows，and sometimes I was afraid． When I got up to go to bed，I saw Emily sitting quietly by the fire．She was stroking her big dog，Keeper，with one hand，and drawing a picture with the other．
She looked like a quiet，gentle young woman，I thought．Tall，pretty，and also… There was something different about her．Something very strange and very strong．There was some－thing in her that was stronger than any of her sisters，even Charlotte．Something stronger than even me，or her brother Branwell．
Much stronger than Branwell．
All that year Branwell was very ill．He spent more and more time drinking．He slept most of the day，and was awake half of then night．His face was white，his hands shook when he tried to write．His sisters didn't tell him about their books，or show him the new ones that they were writing．They were afraid that he would be unhappy about their success，because he had wanted to be a writer himself．He made life hard for all of us．
Is September 1848 he became very ill．He coughed all day and all night．He began to talk of death，and asked us to pray with him．While we stood together，praying，he began to cough again．He fell to the ground．Emily and I put our arms round him，but he couldn't get up． There was blood on his mouth，and on Emily's dress．
When he stopped coughing，it was because he had stopped breathing．My only son was dead．
We buried him in the church beside his mother and little sis－ters．It was a cold，rainy afternoon．There were dead wet leaves in the graveyard，and the wind blew rain into our faces．I came back into the house soon afterwards，but Emily walked for an hour or two in the rain with her dog，Keeper．When she came back into the house，her dress was wet through．
Several days later Emily became ill．Her face was hot，she couldn't eat，she kept moving round the house．It was difficult for her to breathe，and it took her a long time to climb the stairs．Charlotte felt her heart—it was beating a hundred and fifteen times a minute．
'Let me call a doctor，Emily，' Charlotte said．
But Emily refused．'If he comes，I won't talk to him．'
'Then go to bed and rest，please．I can light a fire in your room，and bring you milk and read to you if you like．You need rest，sister！'
'I…do…not！'said Emily slowly．She had to breathe hard between each word，and her face was as white as Branwell's had been．'My body…doesn't… matter now．I don't…care…about it．I'll live…as I always…have．'
And so，every day，she got up at seven o'clock，dressed her－self，and stayed downstairs until ten at night．She ate little or nothing，and coughed for hours．Sometimes she coughed blood．She never went out of the house，but one day Charlotte brought some heather from the moors for her to look at