03-02-03-勃朗特一家的故事 [15]
个。它跟着我们参加了她的葬礼，以后好几个星期，它躺在她的卧室门外，叫着。
■ 9 Arthur Nicholls
That was not the end of my sadness．Anne，too，became ill．She could not breathe，she coughed，her face was white．But she was more sensible than Emily．She took all her medicines，and did everything the doctors said．It didn't help much．In the spring she said she wanted to go to the sea，to a warmer place．The doctors told her to wait．I thought she would die before she went．
At last，in May， Charlotte went away with her． They went to York first，where they visited a wonderful church，York Minster．'If men can make something as beautiful as this，'Anne whispered，'what is God's real home like？'
Charlotte told me this in a letter she sent from Scarborough，a town by the sea on the north-east coast．
'On 26th May Anne rode a donkey on the beach，'the letter said．'She was very happy，papa．Afterwards we went to church and then sat and watched the sea for a long time．On the 28th she was too ill to go out． She died quietly at two o'clock in the afternoon．She will be buried in a graveyard near the sea．'
Anne was the baby of the family，the youngest and prettiest of them all．Before she died，she wrote another book-The Tenant of Wildfell Hall—about a woman who left her cruel husband．She was proud of it，and so was I．She was twenty-nine years old．I don't want to die，papa，'she said．' I have too many ideas in my head，too many books to write．'
When Charlotte came home the dogs barked happily．Per－haps they thought Anne and Emily and Branwell were coming home too—I don't know．But it was only Charlotte．The smallest of all my children．Not the prettiest，not the strongest，not the strangest．God had taken all those for himself．He had left me with the one who would become the most famous．And the one who nearly had a child．
Charlotte wrote two more books：Shirley，about a strong brave woman like her sister Emily；and Villette，about love be－tween a teacher and a pupil．But Jane Eyre was her most fa－mous book．Everyone in England talked abut it；everyone wanted to read it．
Charlotte went to London and met many famous writers． I was very pleased；I loved to hear about the people and places that she saw．But she always came back to Haworth；she didn't like to be with famous people very long．And this quiet place was her home．
In 1852，just before Christmas，a terrible thing happened．I heard some of it from my room．My curate，Arthur Nicholls，opened the door to Charlotte's sitting－room， and stood there．His face was white，and he was shaking．
'Yes，Mr Nicholls？'Charlotte said．'Do you want to come in？'
'No，Miss Charlotte—that is， yes． I mean— I have some－thing important to say to you．'
I heard his voice stop for a moment and then he went on．'I have always…felt strongly about you，Miss Charlotte，and…my feelings are stronger，much stronger，than you know．And，well， the fact is， Miss Charlotte， that…I am asking you to be my wife．'
There was a long silence．I heard every word，and I felt cold and angry．Mr Nicholls was a good curate，but that was all．I paid him ￡100 a year to help me with my work，but he had no place in my house，or in my daughter's bed！I stood up， and opened my door．
'Mr，Nichols！'
He turned and looked at me．I could see Charlotte behind him．
'You will leave this house at once，Mr Nicholls．I am very，very angry！You must not speak to my daughter again-ever！Do you understand me？'
The stupid man was shaking and almost crying！I thought he was ill．He opened his mouth to speak，but no words came out．Then he turned and went out of the door．
Mr Nicholls stayed in his own house for three days．He re－fused to eat，the stupid man， and he sent me some angry letters．But Charlotte wrote to him，to say that she would not marry him．Then Mr Nicholls said he would leave Haworth，and go to Australia．
On his last day，in church， he had to give people bread to eat．But when he held out the bread to Charlotte，he could not do it， because he was shaking and crying so much． Afterwards，the people of Haworth gave him a gold watch．He cried aboutthat， too．
I thought it was all finished，but I was wrong．I think he wrote to Charlotte
■ 9 Arthur Nicholls
That was not the end of my sadness．Anne，too，became ill．She could not breathe，she coughed，her face was white．But she was more sensible than Emily．She took all her medicines，and did everything the doctors said．It didn't help much．In the spring she said she wanted to go to the sea，to a warmer place．The doctors told her to wait．I thought she would die before she went．
At last，in May， Charlotte went away with her． They went to York first，where they visited a wonderful church，York Minster．'If men can make something as beautiful as this，'Anne whispered，'what is God's real home like？'
Charlotte told me this in a letter she sent from Scarborough，a town by the sea on the north-east coast．
'On 26th May Anne rode a donkey on the beach，'the letter said．'She was very happy，papa．Afterwards we went to church and then sat and watched the sea for a long time．On the 28th she was too ill to go out． She died quietly at two o'clock in the afternoon．She will be buried in a graveyard near the sea．'
Anne was the baby of the family，the youngest and prettiest of them all．Before she died，she wrote another book-The Tenant of Wildfell Hall—about a woman who left her cruel husband．She was proud of it，and so was I．She was twenty-nine years old．I don't want to die，papa，'she said．' I have too many ideas in my head，too many books to write．'
When Charlotte came home the dogs barked happily．Per－haps they thought Anne and Emily and Branwell were coming home too—I don't know．But it was only Charlotte．The smallest of all my children．Not the prettiest，not the strongest，not the strangest．God had taken all those for himself．He had left me with the one who would become the most famous．And the one who nearly had a child．
Charlotte wrote two more books：Shirley，about a strong brave woman like her sister Emily；and Villette，about love be－tween a teacher and a pupil．But Jane Eyre was her most fa－mous book．Everyone in England talked abut it；everyone wanted to read it．
Charlotte went to London and met many famous writers． I was very pleased；I loved to hear about the people and places that she saw．But she always came back to Haworth；she didn't like to be with famous people very long．And this quiet place was her home．
In 1852，just before Christmas，a terrible thing happened．I heard some of it from my room．My curate，Arthur Nicholls，opened the door to Charlotte's sitting－room， and stood there．His face was white，and he was shaking．
'Yes，Mr Nicholls？'Charlotte said．'Do you want to come in？'
'No，Miss Charlotte—that is， yes． I mean— I have some－thing important to say to you．'
I heard his voice stop for a moment and then he went on．'I have always…felt strongly about you，Miss Charlotte，and…my feelings are stronger，much stronger，than you know．And，well， the fact is， Miss Charlotte， that…I am asking you to be my wife．'
There was a long silence．I heard every word，and I felt cold and angry．Mr Nicholls was a good curate，but that was all．I paid him ￡100 a year to help me with my work，but he had no place in my house，or in my daughter's bed！I stood up， and opened my door．
'Mr，Nichols！'
He turned and looked at me．I could see Charlotte behind him．
'You will leave this house at once，Mr Nicholls．I am very，very angry！You must not speak to my daughter again-ever！Do you understand me？'
The stupid man was shaking and almost crying！I thought he was ill．He opened his mouth to speak，but no words came out．Then he turned and went out of the door．
Mr Nicholls stayed in his own house for three days．He re－fused to eat，the stupid man， and he sent me some angry letters．But Charlotte wrote to him，to say that she would not marry him．Then Mr Nicholls said he would leave Haworth，and go to Australia．
On his last day，in church， he had to give people bread to eat．But when he held out the bread to Charlotte，he could not do it， because he was shaking and crying so much． Afterwards，the people of Haworth gave him a gold watch．He cried aboutthat， too．
I thought it was all finished，but I was wrong．I think he wrote to Charlotte