It must be admitted, however, that Barbox by no means hurried himself. His heart being in his work of good-nature, he revelled4 in it. There was the joy, too (it was a true joy to him), of sometimes sitting by, listening to Phoebe as she picked out more and more discourse5 from her musical instrument, and as her natural taste and ear refined daily upon her first discoveries. Besides being a pleasure, this was an occupation, and in the course of weeks it consumed hours. It resulted that his dreaded6 birthday was close upon him before he had troubled himself any more about it.
The matter was made more pressing by the unforeseen circumstance that the councils held (at which Mr. Lamps, beaming most brilliantly, on a few rare occasions assisted) respecting the road to be selected were, after all, in nowise assisted by his investigations7. For, he had connected this interest with this road, or that interest with the other, but could deduce no reason from it for giving any road the preference. Consequently, when the last council was holden, that part of the business stood, in the end, exactly where it had stood in the beginning.
“But, sir,” remarked Phoebe, “we have only six roads after all. Is the seventh road dumb?”
“The seventh road? Oh!” said Barbox Brothers, rubbing his chin. “That is the road I took, you know, when I went to get your little present. That is ITS story. Phoebe.”
“Would you mind taking that road again, sir?” she asked with hesitation8.
“Not in the least; it is a great high-road after all.”
“I should like you to take it,” returned Phoebe with a persuasive9 smile, “for the love of that little present which must ever be so dear to me. I should like you to take it, because that road can never be again like any other road to me. I should like you to take it, in remembrance of your having done me so much good: of your having made me so much happier! If you leave me by the road you travelled when you went to do me this great kindness,” sounding a faint chord as she spoke10, “I shall feel, lying here watching at my window, as if it must conduct you to a prosperous end, and bring you back some day.”
“It shall be done, my dear; it shall be done.”
So at last the gentleman for Nowhere took a ticket for Somewhere, and his destination was the great ingenious town.
He had loitered so long about the Junction12 that it was the eighteenth of December when he left it. “High time,” he reflected, as he seated himself in the train, “that I started in earnest! Only one clear day remains13 between me and the day I am running away from. I’ll push onward14 for the hill-country to-morrow. I’ll go to Wales.”
It was with some pains that he placed before himself the undeniable advantages to be gained in the way of novel occupation for his senses from misty15 mountains, swollen16 streams, rain, cold, a wild seashore, and rugged17 roads. And yet he scarcely made them out as distinctly as he could have wished. Whether the poor girl, in spite of her new resource, her music, would have any feeling of loneliness upon her now — just at first — that she had not had before; whether she saw those very puffs18 of steam and smoke that he saw, as he sat in the train thinking of her; whether her face would have any pensive19 shadow on it as they died out of the distant view from her window; whether, in telling him he had done her so much good, she had not unconsciously corrected his old moody20 bemoaning21 of his station in life, by setting him thinking that a man might be a great healer, if he would, and yet not be a great doctor; these and other similar meditations22 got between him and his Welsh picture. There was within him, too, that dull sense of vacuity23 which follows separation from an object of interest, and cessation of a pleasant pursuit; and this sense, being quite new to him, made him restless. Further, in losing Mugby Junction, he had found himself again; and he was not the more enamoured of himself for having lately passed his time in better company.
But surely here, not far ahead, must be the great ingenious town. This crashing and clashing that the train was undergoing, and this coupling on to it of a multitude of new echoes, could mean nothing less than approach to the great station. It did mean nothing less. After some stormy flashes of town lightning, in the way of swift revelations of red brick blocks of houses, high red brick chimney- shafts24, vistas25 of red brick railway arches, tongues of fire, blocks of smoke, valleys of canal, and hills if coal, there came the thundering in at the journey’s end.
Having seen his portmanteaus safely housed in the hotel he chose, and having appointed his dinner hour, Barbox Brothers went out for a walk in the busy streets. And now it began to be suspected by him that Mugby Junction was a Junction of many branches, invisible as well as visible, and had joined him to an endless number of by-ways. For, whereas he would, but a little while ago, have walked these streets blindly brooding, he now had eyes and thoughts for a new external world. How the many toiling26 people lived, and loved, and died; how wonderful it was to consider the various trainings of eye and hand, the nice distinctions of sight and touch, that separated them into classes of workers, and even into classes of workers at subdivisions of one complete whole which combined their many intelligences and forces, though of itself but some cheap object of use or ornament27 in common life; how good it was to know that such assembling in a multitude on their part, and such contribution of their several dexterities towards a civilising end, did not deteriorate28 them as it was the fashion of the supercilious29 Mayflies of humanity to pretend, but engendered30 among them a self-respect, and yet a modest desire to be much wiser than they were (the first evinced in their well-balanced bearing and manner of speech when he stopped to ask a question; the second, in the announcements of their popular studies and amusements on the public walls); these considerations, and a host of such, made his walk a memorable31 one. “I too am but a little part of a great whole,” he began to think; “and to be serviceable to myself and others, or to be happy, I must cast my interest into, and draw it out of, the common stock.”
Although he had arrived at his journey’s end for the day by noon, he had since insensibly walked about the town so far and so long that the lamp-lighters were now at their work in the streets, and the shops were sparkling up brilliantly. Thus reminded to turn towards his quarters, he was in the act of doing so, when a very little hand crept into his, and a very little voice said:
“Oh! if you please, I am lost!”
He looked down, and saw a very little fair-haired girl.
“Yes,” she said, confirming her words with a serious nod. “I am indeed. I am lost!”
Greatly perplexed32, he stopped, looked about him for help, descried33 none, and said, bending low.
“Where do you live, my child?”
“I don’t know where I live,” she returned. “I am lost.”
“What is your name?”
“Polly.”
“What is your other name?”
The reply was prompt, but unintelligible34.
Imitating the sound as he caught it, he hazarded the guess, “Trivits.”
“Oh no!” said the child, shaking her head. “Nothing like that.”
“Say it again, little one.”
An unpromising business. For this time it had quite a different sound.
He made the venture, “ Paddens?”
“Oh no!” said the child. “Nothing like that.”
“Once more. Let us try it again, dear.”
A most hopeless business. This time it swelled35 into four syllables36. “It can’t be Tappitarver?” said Barbox Brothers, rubbing his head with his hat in discomfiture37.
“No! It ain’t,” the child quietly assented38.
On her trying this unfortunate name once more, with extraordinary efforts at distinctness, it swelled into eight syllables at least.
“Ah! I think,” said Barbox Brothers with a desperate air of resignation, “that we had better give it up.”
“But I am lost,” said the child, nestling her little hand more closely in his, “and you’ll take care of me, won’t you?”
If ever a man were disconcerted by division between compassion39 on the one hand, and the very imbecility of irresolution40 on the other, here the man was. “Lost!” he repeated, looking down at the child. “I am sure I am. What is to be done?”
“Where do you live?” asked the child, looking up at him wistfully.
“Over there,” he answered, pointing vaguely41 in the direction of his hotel.
“Hadn’t we better go there?” said the child.
“Really,” he replied, “I don’t know but what we had.”
So they set off, hand-in-hand. He, through comparison of himself against his little companion, with a clumsy feeling on him as if he had just developed into a foolish giant. She, clearly elevated in her own tiny opinion by having got him so neatly42 out of his embarrassment43.
“We are going to have dinner when we get there, I suppose?” said Polly.
“Well,” he rejoined, “I— Yes, I suppose we are.”
“Do you like your dinner?” asked the child.
“Why, on the whole,” said Barbox Brothers, “yes, I think I do.”
“I do mine,” said Polly. “Have you any brothers and sisters?”
“No. Have you?”
“Mine are dead.”
“Oh!” said Barbox Brothers. With that absurd sense of unwieldiness of mind and body weighing him down, he would have not known how to pursue the conversation beyond this curt44 rejoinder, but that the child was always ready for him.
“What,” she asked, turning her soft hand coaxingly45 in his, “are you going to do to amuse me after dinner?”
“Upon my soul, Polly,” exclaimed Barbox Brothers, very much at a loss, “I have not the slightest idea!”
“Then I tell you what,” said Polly. “Have you got any cards at your house?”
“Plenty,” said Barbox Brothers in a boastful vein46.
“Very well. Then I’ll build houses, and you shall look at me. You mustn’t blow, you know.”
“Oh no,” said Barbox Brothers. “No, no, no. No blowing. Blowing’s not fair.”
He flattered himself that he had said this pretty well for an idiotic47 monster; but the child, instantly perceiving the awkwardness of his attempt to adapt himself to her level, utterly48 destroyed his hopeful opinion of himself by saying compassionately49: “What a funny man you are!”
Feeling, after this melancholy50 failure, as if he every minute grew bigger and heavier in person, and weaker in mind, Barbox gave himself up for a bad job. No giant ever submitted more meekly51 to be led in triumph by all-conquering Jack52 than he to be bound in slavery to Polly.
“Do you know any stories?” she asked him.
He was reduced to the humiliating confession53: “No.”
“What a dunce you must be, mustn’t you?” said Polly.
He was reduced to the humiliating confession: “Yes.”
“Would you like me to teach you a story? But you must remember it, you know, and be able to tell it right to somebody else afterwards.”
He professed54 that it would afford him the highest mental gratification to be taught a story, and that he would humbly55 endeavour to retain it in his mind. Whereupon Polly, giving her hand a new little turn in his, expressive56 of settling down for enjoyment57, commenced a long romance, of which every relishing58 clause began with the words: “So this,” or, “And so this.” As, “So this boy;” or, “So this fairy;” or, “And so this pie was four yards round, and two yards and a quarter deep.” The interest of the romance was derived59 from the intervention60 of this fairy to punish this boy for having a greedy appetite. To achieve which purpose, this fairy made this pie, and this boy ate and ate and ate, and his cheeks swelled and swelled and swelled. There were many tributary61 circumstances, but the forcible interest culminated62 in the total consumption of this pie, and the bursting of this boy. Truly he was a fine sight, Barbox Brothers, with serious attentive63 face, and ear bent64 down, much jostled on the pavements of the busy town, but afraid of losing a single incident of the epic65, lest he should be examined in it by-and-by, and found deficient66.
Thus they arrived at the hotel. And there he had to say at the bar, and said awkwardly enough; “I have found a little girl!”
The whole establishment turned out to look at the little girl. Nobody knew her; nobody could make out her name, as she set it forth67 — except one chamber-maid, who said it was Constantinople — which it wasn’t.
“I will dine with my young friend in a private room,” said Barbox Brothers to the hotel authorities, “and perhaps you will be so good as to let the police know that the pretty baby is here. I suppose she is sure to be inquired for soon, if she has not been already. Come along, Polly.”
Perfectly68 at ease and peace, Polly came along, but, finding the stairs rather stiff work, was carried up by Barbox Brothers. The dinner was a most transcendant success, and the Barbox sheepishness, under Polly’s directions how to mince69 her meat for her, and how to diffuse70 gravy71 over the plate with a liberal and equal hand, was another fine sight.
“And now,” said Polly, “while we are at dinner, you be good, and tell me that story I taught you.”
With the tremors72 of a Civil Service examination upon him, and very uncertain indeed, not only as to the epoch73 at which the pie appeared in history, but also as to the measurements of that indispensable fact, Barbox Brothers made a shaky beginning, but under encouragement did very fairly. There was a want of breadth observable in his rendering74 of the cheeks, as well as the appetite, of the boy; and there was a certain tameness in his fairy, referable to an under-current of desire to account for her. Still, as the first lumbering75 performance of a good-humoured monster, it passed muster76.
“I told you to be good,” said Polly, “and you are good, ain’t you?”
“I hope so,” replied Barbox Brothers.
Such was his deference77 that Polly, elevated on a platform of sofa cushions in a chair at his right hand, encouraged him with a pat or two on the face from the greasy78 bowl of her spoon, and even with a gracious kiss. In getting on her feet upon her chair, however, to give him this last reward, she toppled forward among the dishes, and caused him to exclaim, as he effected her rescue: “Gracious Angels! Whew! I thought we were in the fire, Polly!”
“What a coward you are, ain’t you?” said Polly when replaced.
“Yes, I am rather nervous,” he replied. “Whew! Don’t, Polly! Don’t flourish your spoon, or you’ll go over sideways. Don’t tilt79 up your legs when you laugh, Polly, or you’ll go over backwards80. Whew! Polly, Polly, Polly,” said Barbox Brothers, nearly succumbing81 to despair, “we are environed with dangers!”
Indeed, he could descry82 no security from the pitfalls83 that were yawning for Polly, but in proposing to her, after dinner, to sit upon a low stool. “I will, if you will,” said Polly. So, as peace of mind should go before all, he begged the waiter to wheel aside the table, bring a pack of cards, a couple of footstools, and a screen, and close in Polly and himself before the fire, as it were in a snug84 room within the room. Then, finest sight of all, was Barbox Brothers on his footstool, with a pint85 decanter on the rug, contemplating86 Polly as she built successfully, and growing blue in the face with holding his breath, lest he should blow the house down.
“How you stare, don’t you?” said Polly in a houseless pause.
Detected in the ignoble87 fact, he felt obliged to admit, apologetically:
“I am afraid I was looking rather hard at you, Polly.”
“Why do you stare?” asked Polly.
“I cannot,” he murmured to himself, “recall why. — I don’t know, Polly.”
“You must be a simpleton to do things and not know why, mustn’t you?” said Polly.
In spite of which reproof88, he looked at the child again intently, as she bent her head over her card structure, her rich curls shading her face. “It is impossible,” he thought, “that I can ever have seen this pretty baby before. Can I have dreamed of her? In some sorrowful dream?”
He could make nothing of it. So he went into the building trade as a journeyman under Polly, and they built three stories high, four stories high; even five.
“I say! Who do you think is coming?” asked Polly, rubbing her eyes after tea.
He guessed: “The waiter?”
“No,” said Polly, “the dustman. I am getting sleepy.”
A new embarrassment for Barbox Brothers!
“I don’t think I am going to be fetched to-night,” said Polly. “What do you think?”
He thought not, either. After another quarter of an hour, the dustman not merely impending90, but actually arriving, recourse was had to the Constantinopolitan chamber-maid: who cheerily undertook that the child should sleep in a comfortable and wholesome91 room, which she herself would share.
“And I know you will be careful, won’t you,” said Barbox Brothers, as a new fear dawned upon him, “that she don’t fall out of bed?”
Polly found this so highly entertaining that she was under the necessity of clutching him round the neck with both arms as he sat on his footstool picking up the cards, and rocking him to and fro, with her dimpled chin on his shoulder.
“Oh, what a coward you are, ain’t you?” said Polly. “Do you fall out of bed?”
“N— not generally, Polly.”
“No more do I.”
With that, Polly gave him a reassuring92 hug or two to keep him going, and then giving that confiding93 mite94 of a hand of hers to be swallowed up in the hand of the Constantinopolitan chamber-maid, trotted95 off, chattering96, without a vestige97 of anxiety.
He looked after her, had the screen removed and the table and chairs replaced, and still looked after her. He paced the room for half an hour. “A most engaging little creature, but it’s not that. A most winning little voice, but it’s not that. That has much to do with it, but there is something more. How can it be that I seem to know this child? What was it she imperfectly recalled to me when I felt her touch in the street, and, looking down at her, saw her looking up at me?”
“Mr. Jackson!”
With a start he turned towards the sound of the subdued98 voice, and saw his answer standing99 at the door.
“Oh, Mr. Jackson, do not be severe with me! Speak a word of encouragement to me, I beseech100 you.”
“You are Polly’s mother.”
“Yes.”
Yes. Polly herself might come to this, one day. As you see what the rose was in its faded leaves; as you see what the summer growth of the woods was in their wintry branches; so Polly might be traced, one day, in a careworn101 woman like this, with her hair turned grey. Before him were the ashes of a dead fire that had once burned bright. This was the woman he had loved. This was the woman he had lost. Such had been the constancy of his imagination to her, so had Time spared her under its withholding102, that now, seeing how roughly the inexorable hand had struck her, his soul was filled with pity and amazement103.
He led her to a chair, and stood leaning on a corner of the chimney- piece, with his head resting on his hand, and his face half averted104.
“Did you see me in the street, and show me to your child?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Is the little creature, then, a party to deceit?”
“I hope there is no deceit. I said to her, ‘We have lost our way, and I must try to find mine by myself. Go to that gentleman, and tell him you are lost. You shall be fetched by-and-by.’ Perhaps you have not thought how very young she is?”
“She is very self-reliant.”
“Perhaps because she is so young.”
He asked, after a short pause, “Why did you do this?”
“Oh, Mr. Jackson, do you ask me? In the hope that you might see something in my innocent child to soften105 your heart towards me. Not only towards me, but towards my husband.”
He suddenly turned about, and walked to the opposite end of the room. He came back again with a slower step, and resumed his former attitude, saying:
“I thought you had emigrated to America?”
“We did. But life went ill with us there, and we came back.”
“Do you live in this town?”
“Yes. I am a daily teacher of music here. My husband is a book- keeper.”
“Are you — forgive my asking — poor?”
“We earn enough for our wants. That is not our distress106. My husband is very, very ill of a lingering disorder107. He will never recover —”
“You check yourself. If it is for want of the encouraging word you spoke of, take it from me. I cannot forget the old time, Beatrice.”
“God bless you!” she replied with a burst of tears, and gave him her trembling hand.
“Compose yourself. I cannot be composed if you are not, for to see you weep distresses108 me beyond expression. Speak freely to me. Trust me.”
She shaded her face with her veil, and after a little while spoke calmly. Her voice had the ring of Polly’s.
“It is not that my husband’s mind is at all impaired109 by his bodily suffering, for I assure you that is not the case. But in his weakness, and in his knowledge that he is incurably110 ill, he cannot overcome the ascendancy111 of one idea. It preys112 upon him, embitters113 every moment of his painful life, and will shorten it.”
She stopping, he said again: “Speak freely to me. Trust me.”
“We have had five children before this darling, and they all lie in their little graves. He believes that they have withered114 away under a curse, and that it will blight115 this child like the rest.”
“Under what curse?”
“Both I and he have it on our conscience that we tried you very heavily, and I do not know but that, if I were as ill as he, I might suffer in my mind as he does. This is the constant burden:—‘I believe, Beatrice, I was the only friend that Mr. Jackson ever cared to make, though I was so much his junior. The more influence he acquired in the business, the higher he advanced me, and I was alone in his private confidence. I came between him and you, and I took you from him. We were both secret, and the blow fell when he was wholly unprepared. The anguish116 it caused a man so compressed must have been terrible; the wrath117 it awakened118 inappeasable. So, a curse came to be invoked119 on our poor, pretty little flowers, and they fall.’”
“And you, Beatrice,” he asked, when she had ceased to speak, and there had been a silence afterwards, “how say you?”
“Until within these few weeks I was afraid of you, and I believed that you would never, never forgive.”
“Until within these few weeks,” he repeated. “Have you changed your opinion of me within these few weeks?”
“Yes.”
“For what reason?”
“I was getting some pieces of music in a shop in this town, when, to my terror, you came in. As I veiled my face and stood in the dark end of the shop, I heard you explain that you wanted a musical instrument for a bedridden girl. Your voice and manner were so softened121, you showed such interest in its selection, you took it away yourself with so much tenderness of care and pleasure, that I knew you were a man with a most gentle heart. Oh, Mr. Jackson, Mr. Jackson, if you could have felt the refreshing122 rain of tears that followed for me!”
Was Phoebe playing at that moment on her distant couch? He seemed to hear her.
“I inquired in the shop where you lived, but could get no information. As I had heard you say that you were going back by the next train (but you did not say where), I resolved to visit the station at about that time of day, as often as I could, between my lessons, on the chance of seeing you again. I have been there very often, but saw you no more until to-day. You were meditating123 as you walked the street, but the calm expression of your face emboldened124 me to send my child to you. And when I saw you bend your head to speak tenderly to her, I prayed to GOD to forgive me for having ever brought a sorrow on it. I now pray to you to forgive me, and to forgive my husband. I was very young, he was young too, and, in the ignorant hardihood of such a time of life, we don’t know what we do to those who have undergone more discipline. You generous man! You good man! So to raise me up and make nothing of my crime against you!”— for he would not see her on her knees, and soothed125 her as a kind father might have soothed an erring126 daughter —“thank you, bless you, thank you!”
When he next spoke, it was after having drawn127 aside the window curtain and looked out awhile. Then he only said:
“Is Polly asleep?”
“Yes. As I came in, I met her going away upstairs, and put her to bed myself.”
“Leave her with me for to-morrow, Beatrice, and write me your address on this leaf of my pocket-book. In the evening I will bring her home to you — and to her father.”
* * *
“Hallo!” cried Polly, putting her saucy128 sunny face in at the door next morning when breakfast was ready: “I thought I was fetched last night?”
“So you were, Polly, but I asked leave to keep you here for the day, and to take you home in the evening.”
“Upon my word!” said Polly. “You are very cool, ain’t you?”
However, Polly seemed to think it a good idea, and added: “I suppose I must give you a kiss, though you ARE cool.”
The kiss given and taken, they sat down to breakfast in a highly conversational129 tone.
“Of course, you are going to amuse me?” said Polly.
“Oh, of course!” said Barbox Brothers.
In the pleasurable height of her anticipations130, Polly found it indispensable to put down her piece of toast, cross one of her little fat knees over the other, and bring her little fat right hand down into her left hand with a business-like slap. After this gathering131 of herself together, Polly, by that time a mere89 heap of dimples, asked in a wheedling132 manner:
“What are we going to do, you dear old thing?”
“Why, I was thinking,” said Barbox Brothers, “— but are you fond of horses, Polly?”
“Ponies133, I am,” said Polly, “especially when their tails are long. But horses — n-no — too big, you know.”
“Well,” pursued Barbox Brothers, in a spirit of grave mysterious confidence adapted to the importance of the consultation134, “I did see yesterday, Polly, on the walls, pictures of two long-tailed ponies, speckled all over —”
“No, no, NO!” cried Polly, in an ecstatic desire to linger on the charming details. “Not speckled all over!”
“Speckled all over. Which ponies jump through hoops135 —”
“No, no, NO!” cried Polly as before. “They never jump through hoops!”
“Yes, they do. Oh, I assure you they do! And eat pie in pinafores —”
“Ponies eating pie in pinafores!” said Polly. “What a story-teller you are, ain’t you?”
“Upon my honour. — And fire off guns.”
(Polly hardly seemed to see the force of the ponies resorting to fire-arms.)
“And I was thinking,” pursued the exemplary Barbox, “that if you and I were to go to the Circus where these ponies are, it would do our constitutions good.”
“Does that mean amuse us?” inquired Polly. “What long words you do use, don’t you?”
Apologetic for having wandered out of his depth, he replied:
“That means amuse us. That is exactly what it means. There are many other wonders besides the ponies, and we shall see them all. Ladies and gentlemen in spangled dresses, and elephants and lions and tigers.”
Polly became observant of the teapot, with a curled-up nose indicating some uneasiness of mind.
“They never get out, of course,” she remarked as a mere truism.
“The elephants and lions and tigers? Oh, dear no!”
“Oh, dear no!” said Polly. “And of course nobody’s afraid of the ponies shooting anybody.”
“Not the least in the world.”
“No, no, not the least in the world,” said Polly.
“I was also thinking,” proceeded Barbox, “that if we were to look in at the toy-shop, to choose a doll —”
“Not dressed!” cried Polly with a clap of her hands. “No, no, NO, not dressed!”
“Full-dressed. Together with a house, and all things necessary for housekeeping —”
Polly gave a little scream, and seemed in danger of falling into a swoon of bliss136.
“What a darling you are!” she languidly exclaimed, leaning back in her chair. “Come and be hugged, or I must come and hug you.”
This resplendent programme was carried into execution with the utmost rigour of the law. It being essential to make the purchase of the doll its first feature — or that lady would have lost the ponies — the toy-shop expedition took precedence. Polly in the magic warehouse137, with a doll as large as herself under each arm, and a neat assortment138 of some twenty more on view upon the counter, did indeed present a spectacle of indecision not quite compatible with unalloyed happiness, but the light cloud passed. The lovely specimen139 oftenest chosen, oftenest rejected, and finally abided by, was of Circassian descent, possessing as much boldness of beauty as was reconcilable with extreme feebleness of mouth, and combining a sky-blue silk pelisse with rose-coloured satin trousers, and a black velvet140 hat: which this fair stranger to our northern shores would seem to have founded on the portraits of the late Duchess of Kent. The name this distinguished141 foreigner brought with her from beneath the glowing skies of a sunny clime was (on Polly’s authority) Miss Melluka, and the costly142 nature of her outfit143 as a housekeeper144, from the Barbox coffers, may be inferred from the two facts that her silver tea-spoons were as large as her kitchen poker145, and that the proportions of her watch exceeded those of her frying-pan. Miss Melluka was graciously pleased to express her entire approbation146 of the Circus, and so was Polly; for the ponies were speckled, and brought down nobody when they fired, and the savagery147 of the wild beasts appeared to be mere smoke — which article, in fact, they did produce in large quantities from their insides. The Barbox absorption in the general subject throughout the realisation of these delights was again a sight to see, nor was it less worthy148 to behold149 at dinner, when he drank to Miss Melluka, tied stiff in a chair opposite to Polly (the fair Circassian possessing an unbendable spine), and even induced the waiter to assist in carrying out with due decorum the prevailing150 glorious idea. To wind up, there came the agreeable fever of getting Miss Melluka and all her wardrobe and rich possessions into a fly with Polly, to be taken home. But, by that time, Polly had become unable to look upon such accumulated joys with waking eyes, and had withdrawn151 her consciousness into the wonderful Paradise of a child’s sleep. “Sleep, Polly, sleep,” said Barbox Brothers, as her head dropped on his shoulder; “you shall not fall out of this bed easily, at any rate!”
What rustling152 piece of paper he took from his pocket, and carefully folded into the bosom153 of Polly’s frock, shall not be mentioned. He said nothing about it, and nothing shall be said about it. They drove to a modest suburb of the great ingenious town, and stopped at the fore-court of a small house. “Do not wake the child,” said Barbox Brothers softly to the driver; “I will carry her in as she is.”
Greeting the light at the opened door which was held by Polly’s mother, Polly’s bearer passed on with mother and child in to a ground-floor room. There, stretched on a sofa, lay a sick man, sorely wasted, who covered his eyes with his emaciated154 hand.
“Tresham,” said Barbox in a kindly155 voice, “I have brought you back your Polly, fast asleep. Give me your hand, and tell me you are better.”
The sick man reached forth his right hand, and bowed his head over the hand into which it was taken, and kissed it. “Thank you, thank you! I may say that I am well and happy.”
“That’s brave,” said Barbox. “Tresham, I have a fancy — Can you make room for me beside you here?”
He sat down on the sofa as he said the words, cherishing the plump peachey cheek that lay uppermost on his shoulder.
“I have a fancy, Tresham (I am getting quite an old fellow now, you know, and old fellows may take fancies into their heads sometimes), to give up Polly, having found her, to no one but you. Will you take her from me?”
As the father held out his arms for the child, each of the two men looked steadily156 at the other.
“She is very dear to you, Tresham?”
“Unutterably dear.”
“God bless her! It is not much, Polly,” he continued, turning his eyes upon her peaceful face as he apostrophized her, “it is not much, Polly, for a blind and sinful man to invoke120 a blessing157 on something so far better than himself as a little child is; but it would be much — much upon his cruel head, and much upon his guilty soul — if he could be so wicked as to invoke a curse. He had better have a millstone round his neck, and be cast into the deepest sea. Live and thrive, my pretty baby!” Here he kissed her. “Live and prosper11, and become in time the mother of other little children, like the Angels who behold The Father’s face!”
He kissed her again, gave her up gently to both her parents, and went out.
But he went not to Wales. No, he never went to Wales. He went straightway for another stroll about the town, and he looked in upon the people at their work, and at their play, here, there, every- there, and where not. For he was Barbox Brothers and Co. now, and had taken thousands of partners into the solitary158 firm.
He had at length got back to his hotel room, and was standing before his fire refreshing himself with a glass of hot drink which he had stood upon the chimney-piece, when he heard the town clocks striking, and, referring to his watch, found the evening to have so slipped away, that they were striking twelve. As he put up his watch again, his eyes met those of his reflection in the chimney- glass.
“Why, it’s your birthday already,” he said, smiling. “You are looking very well. I wish you many happy returns of the day.”
He had never before bestowed159 that wish upon himself. “By Jupiter!” he discovered, “it alters the whole case of running away from one’s birthday! It’s a thing to explain to Phoebe. Besides, here is quite a long story to tell her, that has sprung out of the road with no story. I’ll go back, instead of going on. I’ll go back by my friend Lamps’s Up X presently.”
He went back to Mugby Junction, and, in point of fact, he established himself at Mugby Junction. It was the convenient place to live in, for brightening Phoebe’s life. It was the convenient place to live in, for having her taught music by Beatrice. It was the convenient place to live in, for occasionally borrowing Polly. It was the convenient place to live in, for being joined at will to all sorts of agreeable places and persons. So, he became settled there, and, his house standing in an elevated situation, it is noteworthy of him in conclusion, as Polly herself might (not irreverently) have put it:
“There was an Old Barbox who lived on a hill, And if he ain’t gone, he lives there still.”
Here follows the substance of what was seen, heard, or otherwise picked up, by the gentleman for Nowhere, in his careful study of the Junction.
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1
veracious
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| adj.诚实可靠的 | |
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perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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revelled
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| v.作乐( revel的过去式和过去分词 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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investigations
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| （正式的）调查( investigation的名词复数 )； 侦查； 科学研究； 学术研究 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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prosper
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| v.成功，兴隆，昌盛；使成功，使昌隆，繁荣 | |
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junction
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| n.连接，接合；交叉点，接合处，枢纽站 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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puffs
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| n.吸( puff的名词复数 )；（烟斗或香烟的）一吸；一缕（烟、蒸汽等）；（呼吸或风的）呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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bemoaning
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| v.为（某人或某事）抱怨( bemoan的现在分词 )；悲悼；为…恸哭；哀叹 | |
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meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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23
vacuity
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| n.(想象力等)贫乏，无聊，空白 | |
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shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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deteriorate
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| v.变坏；恶化；退化 | |
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supercilious
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| adj.目中无人的，高傲的；adv.高傲地；n.高傲 | |
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engendered
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| v.产生（某形势或状况），造成，引起( engender的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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descried
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| adj.被注意到的，被发现的，被看到的 | |
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unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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36
syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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37
discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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irresolution
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| n.不决断，优柔寡断，犹豫不定 | |
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41
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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42
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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43
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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coaxingly
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| adv. 以巧言诱哄，以甘言哄骗 | |
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vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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47
idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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48
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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49
compassionately
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| adv.表示怜悯地，有同情心地 | |
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50
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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51
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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52
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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53
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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54
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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55
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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56
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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57
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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58
relishing
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| v.欣赏( relish的现在分词 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
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59
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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60
intervention
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| n.介入，干涉，干预 | |
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61
tributary
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| n.支流；纳贡国；adj.附庸的；辅助的；支流的 | |
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62
culminated
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| v.达到极点( culminate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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65
epic
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| n.史诗，叙事诗；adj.史诗般的，壮丽的 | |
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deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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69
mince
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| n.切碎物；v.切碎，矫揉做作地说 | |
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diffuse
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| v.扩散；传播；adj.冗长的；四散的，弥漫的 | |
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71
gravy
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| n.肉汁；轻易得来的钱，外快 | |
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72
tremors
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| 震颤( tremor的名词复数 )； 战栗； 震颤声； 大地的轻微震动 | |
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73
epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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74
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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75
lumbering
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| n.采伐林木 | |
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muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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77
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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79
tilt
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| v.(使)倾侧；(使)倾斜；n.倾侧；倾斜 | |
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80
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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81
succumbing
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的现在分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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82
descry
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| v.远远看到；发现；责备 | |
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83
pitfalls
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| （捕猎野兽用的）陷阱( pitfall的名词复数 )； 意想不到的困难，易犯的错误 | |
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84
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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85
pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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87
ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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mite
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| n.极小的东西；小铜币 | |
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trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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96
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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97
vestige
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| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
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98
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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99
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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100
beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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101
careworn
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| adj.疲倦的，饱经忧患的 | |
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102
withholding
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| 扣缴税款 | |
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103
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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104
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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105
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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106
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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107
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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108
distresses
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| n.悲痛( distress的名词复数 )；痛苦；贫困；危险 | |
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109
impaired
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| adj.受损的；出毛病的；有（身体或智力）缺陷的v.损害，削弱( impair的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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110
incurably
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| ad.治不好地 | |
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111
ascendancy
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| n.统治权，支配力量 | |
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112
preys
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| v.掠食( prey的第三人称单数 )；掠食；折磨；（人）靠欺诈为生 | |
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embitters
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| v.使怨恨，激怒( embitter的第三人称单数 ) | |
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withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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invoked
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| v.援引( invoke的过去式和过去分词 )；行使（权利等）；祈求救助；恳求 | |
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invoke
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| v.求助于(神、法律)；恳求，乞求 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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emboldened
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| v.鼓励，使有胆量( embolden的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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erring
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| 做错事的，错误的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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saucy
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| adj.无礼的；俊俏的；活泼的 | |
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conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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anticipations
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| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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wheedling
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| v.骗取（某物），哄骗（某人干某事）( wheedle的现在分词 ) | |
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ponies
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| 矮种马，小型马( pony的名词复数 )； ￡25 25 英镑 | |
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consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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hoops
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| n.箍( hoop的名词复数 )；（篮球）篮圈；（旧时儿童玩的）大环子；（两端埋在地里的）小铁弓 | |
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bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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warehouse
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| n.仓库；vt.存入仓库 | |
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assortment
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| n.分类，各色俱备之物，聚集 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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poker
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| n.扑克；vt.烙制 | |
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approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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savagery
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| n.野性 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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emaciated
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| adj.衰弱的，消瘦的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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