We had a very pleasant day on the hill, but as the sports were all the same as those of the day before (with the exception of jumping in sacks, which was substituted for climbing the pole, and was very good fun), I shall not give any further account of them; especially as the gentlemen who are going to publish my story[250] seem to think already that I am rather too long-winded.
We got down home in capital time for tea, and Joe followed very soon afterwards, in the highest spirits; for, as he said, every thing had gone off so well, and everybody was pleased and satisfied; so we were all very merry, and had another charming evening. I couldn’t tell what had come to me when I got up stairs alone by myself, for I seemed as if a new life were growing up in me, and I were getting all of a sudden into a much bigger world, full of all sorts of work and pleasure, which I had never dreamt of, and of people whom I could get to love and honour, though I might never see or speak to them.
I had been bred up from a child never to look beyond my own narrow sphere. To get on in it was the purpose of my life, and I had drilled myself into despising every thing which did not, as I thought, help towards this end. Near relations I had none. I was really fond of my two friends, but I don’t think I should ever have got to be friends with them if we hadn’t been in the same office; and I used often to be half provoked with them, and to think myself a very[251] wise fellow, because out of office-hours they would read poetry and novels instead of fagging at shorthand or accounts, as I did, and spent all their salaries instead of saving. Except those two, I knew nobody; and though I belonged to a debating society, it wasn’t that I cared for the members, or what they talked about, but that I thought it might be useful to me to talk fluently if I got on in business. Sometimes, and especially in my yearly holidays, I had felt as if I wanted something else, and that my way of life was after all rather a one-eyed sort of business; but I set all such misgivings11 down as delusions12, and had never allowed them long to trouble me. In short I begin to suspect that I must have been getting to be a very narrow, bigoted13, disagreeable sort of fellow, and it was high time that I should find my way to Elm Close, or some such place, to have my eyes opened a little, and discover that a man may work just as steadily14 and honestly—aye, much more steadily and honestly—at his own business, without shutting up his brains and his heart against every thing else that is going on in the world around him. However, I can’t be too thankful that my teaching came to me in the way it did,[252] for I might have had to learn my lesson in a very different school from Elm Close Farm.
There certainly never was such a pleasant school. For the next two or three days after ‘the Scouring,’ Mr. Warton was my chief companion. Joe and Miss Lucy both had their work to attend to after breakfast, and so the Parson and I were left a good deal together; and we used to start off to see some of the old men whom he had promised to show me, who could tell me about the old pastimes. I never liked any thing so much as these walks—not even the walks I afterwards used to have alone with Miss Lucy, for they were too exciting, and half the time I was in such a fret15 that I couldn’t thoroughly enjoy them. But there was no drawback in these walks with the Parson. He was full of fun, and of all sorts of knowledge; and he liked talking, and I think rather took a fancy to me, and was pleased to see how I worked at collecting all the information I could about the White Horse, for he took a great deal of pains to help me.
One morning though I remember he got me into a regular puzzle about King Alfred, for I had been reading over my notes of the old gentleman’s[253] story, and couldn’t make it agree with the tales which I had read about Alfred’s hiding away in the cowherd’s hut, and burning the cakes. So I asked Mr. Warton about it.
“I think,” said he, “you will find that Alfred was in the cowherd’s cottage in the year 878, after the battle at Chippenham.”
“But, Sir,” said I, “according to the old gentleman’s story, Ashdown was Alfred’s greatest victory; and Ashdown was fought in 871. Now it seems very odd that he should have to run away and skulk16 about in such places after that.”
“Well,” said he, “I’m not well enough up in the history to explain it to you, but I’m pretty sure you’ll find I’m right about the dates—why shouldn’t you write and ask the old gentleman?”
So I did, and I kept a copy of my letter; but I don’t think I need print that, because his answer will be quite enough without it. Here it is:—
“22d September, 1857.
“My Dear Sir,—I am favoured with yours of the 20th ult., which came safely to hand this morning. Our post is somewhat behind the times, and I know of hardly any town or village[254] from which a letter can arrive at this place under two days. I do not myself complain of this state of things.
“With regard to the subject of your letter, I have to tell you that your friend the clergyman is right in his dates. It was in the year 878 that Alfred was deserted17 by his nobles and people after the battle of Chippenham, which was a drawn18 battle. Then he fled to the Island of Athelney, in Somersetshire, and the incident to which you allude19 took place, but you have not got the verses correctly; they run,—
“‘Casn’t mind the ke-aks mun, and doosn’t zee ’em burn?
I’ze warn thee’lt yeat ’em vast enough, zo zoon az ’tiz thy turn.’
“But you are not to believe from this, that the Danish army ever got a hold on the kingdom of Wessex. I think that the following passage from Asser’s ‘Life of Alfred’ will explain a good deal to you. Referring to his sojourn20 in Athelney, Asser says:—
“‘We may believe that this misfortune was brought upon the aforesaid king, because in the beginning of his reign21, when he was a youth, and influenced by youthful feelings, he would not listen to the petitions which his subjects[255] made to him for help in their necessities; but he drove them from him and paid no heed22 to their requests. This particular gave much pain to the holy man, St. Neot, who was his kinsman23; and often foretold24 to him in the spirit of prophecy that he would suffer great adversity on this account; but Alfred neither attended to the reproof25 of the man of God, nor listened to his true prophecy—wherefore seeing that a man’s sins must be corrected either in this world or the next, the true and righteous Judge willed that his sin should not go unpunished in this world, to the end that he might spare him in the world to come. From this cause, therefore, Alfred often fell into such great misery26, that sometimes none of his subjects knew where he was, or what had become of him.’
“And Alfred learned his lesson well in the next few years, for you will find that in the year 886 A.D., ‘which was the thirty-eighth year since his birth, King Alfred, after the burning of cities and slaying27 of the people, honourably28 rebuilt the city of London and made it again habitable, and gave it into the custody29 of his son-in-law, ?thelred, Earl of Mercia; to which King Alfred, all the Angles and Saxons, who[256] before had been dispersed30 every where, or were in captivity31 with the pagans, voluntarily turned and submitted themselves to his rule!’
“You see they had turned from his rule many of them because it was an unjust one in those early years of his reign. But they were never subdued32 by the Danes,—so that my statement which you quote, ‘that the battle of Ashdown saved England from one hundred years of Paganism,’ is not shaken.
“I have directed my London bookseller to leave a copy of Asser’s ‘Life of Alfred the Great,’ for you, at Somerset House, directed to the care of my friend, the secretary of the Antiquaries’ Society; you will find it to be well worth a careful perusal33. I shall be always glad to hear from you upon the subjects on which we have conversed34, and heartily35 desiring that the veneration36 for all that is old may grow upon you, and that God may have you in his good keeping, I am faithfully yours,
“——.”
But to return to my subject, from which I have been wandering for the pleasure of putting in the old gentleman’s letter. The Parson in our walks set me thinking about fifty subjects[257] which I never cared about before, because I could see that he was himself deeply interested in them, and really believed whatever he said to me. We used to get home by about twelve o’clock, and then I would go away by myself, and think over what we had been talking about till dinner. And, after dinner, Miss Lucy, and sometimes Joe, would come out and walk with us till tea. Sometimes we went to the village school, and I sat at the door and heard them teaching; and as long as Mr. Warton was with us it was all right, but afterwards, when he had gone, I could see that the schoolmistress, a young woman of about thirty, sallow-faced and rather prudish37, used to look at me as if I had no business there.
When he left, Mr. Warton gave me a kind invitation to go and see him in town, and added he had no doubt I should come, for he could see I should soon want some such work as he could give me to do.
After he was gone I tumbled fairly head over heels into the net in which I suppose every man “as is a man” (as old Seeley would say) gets enmeshed once in his life. I found it was no use to struggle any longer, and gave myself up[258] to the stream, with all sails set. Now there is no easier thing than going down stream somehow, when wind and tide are with you; but to steer38 so as to make the most of wind and tide, isn’t so easy—at least I didn’t find it so.
For as often as not, I think, I did the wrong thing, and provoked, instead of pleasing her. I used to get up every morning before six, to be ready to wish her good morning as she went out to the dairy; but I don’t think she half liked it, for she was generally in a very old gown tucked through her pocket holes, and pattens. Then after breakfast I used to hanker round the kitchen, or still-room, or wherever she might happen to be, like a Harry-long-legs round a candle. And again in the afternoon I never could keep away, but was at her side in the garden, or on her walks; in fact, to get rid of me, she had fairly to go up to her room.
But I couldn’t help myself; I felt that, come what might, I must be near her while I could; and on the whole, I think she was pleased, and didn’t at all dislike seeing me reduced to this pitiful state.
When I was involuntarily out of her sight, I used to have a sort of craving39 for poetry[259] and often wished that I had spent a little more time over such matters. I got Joe to lend me the key of the cupboard where he kept his library, hoping to find something to suit me there. But, besides a few old folios of divinity and travel, and some cookery books, and the Farmer’s Magazine, there was nothing but Watts’s Hymns40 and Pollock’s Course of Time, which I didn’t find of any use to me.
Joe used to wonder at me at first, when I refused his offers of a day’s coursing, or a ride with him to Farringdon or Didcot markets; but he soon got used to it, and put it down to my cockney bringing up, and congratulated himself that, at any rate, I was pretty good company over a pipe in the kitchen.
The autumn days sped away all too quickly, but I made the most of them as they passed, and over and over again I wondered whether there were any but kind and hospitable41 and amusing people in the Vale, for the longer I stayed there, the more I was astonished at the kind courtesy of everybody I came across, from the highest to the lowest, and I suppose everybody else would find it the same as I did.
It seemed as if I were destined42 to leave Elm[260] Close without a single unkind thought of any body I had seen while there, for even Jack made his peace with me. Only two days before my departure, Miss Lucy gave out at breakfast that she was going to walk over to see her uncle, and wanted to know if her mother or Joe had any message. No, they hadn’t. But of course I managed to accompany her.
When we came to her uncle’s farm, he was out, and in five minutes Miss Lucy was away with her dear friend and cousin, one of the girls I had seen at the pastime, and I was left to the tender mercies of Jack. However, Jack at his own house, with no women by to encourage him to make a fool of himself, was a very decent fellow. He walked me about the homestead, and chatted away about the pastime, and the accomplishments43 of his terrier dog, whom he had got from the kennel44 of the Berkshire hounds, and whose father used to run with them regularly. Then he began to inquire about me in a patronizing way; how I came to know Joe, what I was, and where I lived. And when he had satisfied his curiosity about me, he took to talking about his[261] cousins. Joe, I soon found out, was his hero; and he looked forward to the time when he should be able to breed a good horse, like Joe’s chestnut45, and to go about to all the markets and carry his head as high as any one, as Joe could, as the height of human happiness. As to cousin Lu, if he were looking out for any thing of the sort, there was no girl within twenty miles that he knew of to whom she couldn’t give a stone over any country. But she wasn’t likely to marry any of the young men about; she was too full of fun, and laughed at them too much. “I shouldn’t be a bit surprised now, if she was to take to some town chap like you, after all’s said and done,” said Jack, in conclusion, as we returned to the house.
My last day at Elm Close came swiftly and surely, and the sun rose, and went pitilessly up into the heavens, and sank down behind White Horse Hill, and the clocks went on striking one after another, just as if it had been any other day. What a number of things I had in my head that morning to say to all of them, and above all to her; but one thing or another interfered46, and I had said not one quarter of them, and these not in the way I had intended,[262] before it was dark, and tea on the table. But I did go all round the farm and the village, and took a last look at every field and nook and corner where I had been so happy.
The old lady was unusually talkative at tea, and for some time afterwards. The fact that I was not going to leave the house till after midnight, and was to be at business, in London, at nine o’clock the next morning, now that she had realized it, excited her very much, and waked up all sorts of recollections of her own travels; particularly how, when she was a child, she had been a whole day getting to Reading by the stage, and how, even after her marriage, she and father had had to sleep at Windsor, on the occasion of their one visit to London. I was watching Miss Lucy at her work all the time, and thought she seemed a little absent and sorrowful, and when our eyes met every now and then, she looked away directly. We hardly said a word, and left Joe to keep up the talk with the old lady.
Before long she got tired and went off to bed, and then, I thought, if something would only call Joe out—but nothing happened, and so we sat on talking commonplaces, till prayer time;[263] which, however, Joe did consent to put off this evening, because it was my last, till past ten o’clock. The three servants came in, and knelt down as usual; and I, in a place where I could see her, and watch every turn of her figure, and hear every breath she drew. I own I didn’t listen to a word that Joe read—I couldn’t—and I don’t believe any poor fellow in my state will ever be hardly judged, whatever square-toed people may say, for not forcing himself to attend when he hasn’t the power to do it. I only know that, though I couldn’t listen to the prayers, I could and did thank God for having brought me down there, and allowed me to see her and know her; and prayed, as heartily as was in me to pray, that I might never do any thing which might make me unworthy of one so bright, and pure, and good as she.
And too soon Joe shut the book, and got up, and the servants went out, and Joe dived off into the recess47; and she lighted her candle and came up to me, holding out her hand, but without saying any thing, or looking up in my face.
I took the hand which she held out to me in both mine, but somehow, when I thought it[264] might be for the last time, I couldn’t let it go. So I stood holding it, my heart beating so that I couldn’t speak, and feeling very uncomfortable about the throat. She didn’t take it away, and presently I got my voice again.
“Good bye, Miss Lucy,” said I, “and God bless you. I can’t tell you what my holiday at Elm Close has been to me—and I can’t find words to thank you. I’m a poor lonely fellow, with nobody belonging to me, and leading a slave of a life in the midst of the great crowd, with all sorts of temptations to go wrong. You’ll let me think of you, and Elm Close, and it will be like a little bright window with the sun shining through into our musty clerks’ room. I feel it will help to keep me straight for many a long day. You’ll let me think of you now, won’t you?” said I, pressing the little hand which I held in mine.
“Why, you see I can’t help it if I would,” said she, looking up with a merry light in her eyes; but she went on directly, “but, indeed, I’m sure we shall think of you quite as often as you will of us. Joe used to talk so often about you that I felt quite like an old friend[265] before we met, and now you’ve been here we shall feel so dull without you.”
“Now, you two! don’t stand talking there all night,” said Joe, coming out of the recess, where he had been rummaging48 out the pipes and a black bottle; “come, come, kiss and part.”
I felt the blood rush up to my face, when Joe said that, but I opened my hands with a jerk, and let hers go, I hardly knew why. If I hadn’t been so fond that I was afraid of her, I should have taken Joe at his word. But I’m glad I didn’t; I’m sure I was right, for I stole a look at her, and saw that she looked vexed49, and flushed up to her bright brown hair. Next moment she held out her hand again, and shook mine heartily, and said, without looking up, “Good-bye, you must come again soon,” and then hurried out of the room, and took away all the light with her. Heigh-ho! when shall I see the light again.
Well, as I followed Joe into the kitchen, what between the sinking I felt at having to leave, and the doubt whether I hadn’t made a fool of myself at the last with Miss Lucy, I felt half mad, and the first thing I made up my mind to was to have a good quarrel with Joe.
[266]
So when he sat down on one side of the fire, and began lighting50 his pipe, I kept standing51 looking at him, and thinking how I should begin.
“There’s your pipe, Dick,” said he, puffing53 away, “on the settle—why don’t you sit down and light up?”
“I shan’t smoke with you to-night, Joe,” said I, “you ought to be ashamed of yourself!”
“Ashamed o’ myself,” shouted Joe, staring up at me till I could hardly keep from laughing, angry as I was; “what, in the name o’ goodness, have I done to be ashamed of?”
“’Tisn’t what you’ve done, but what you’ve said.”
“Said! what in the world have I said? Precious little I know, for you always get all the talk to yourself.”
“Why, what you said just now to me and Miss Lucy,” said I.
“To you and Lu?” said he, looking puzzled; and then off he went into one of his great laughs. “Oh, I take—well, that’s too much! To be blown up by you for it! Why, if any one is to scold, I should say it’s Lu.”
“Do you think I like to be made the means of giving your sister pain?” said I.
[267]
“There now, don’t be a fool, Dick—sit down like a good fellow, and light your pipe. What I said don’t mean any thing down in these parts. Well, I’m very sorry. She’ll never think twice about it, bless you. And besides, you know, there can’t be any harm done, for you didn’t take my advice.”
Well, I began to get cool, and to think I might do something better than quarrel with Joe the last night; so I took my pipe, and filled it, and sat down opposite him, and he began to mix two glasses of grog, twisting his face about all the time to keep himself from laughing.
“Here’s your health, old fellow,” said he, when he had done, “and, mind you, we shall always be glad to see you here when you can come; though I’m afraid the place must be terrible dull for a Londoner.”
“It’s the best place I’ve ever been in,” said I, with a sigh.
This pleased Joe; and he went off about what he would find me to do if I could come down in the winter or the spring; but I didn’t listen much, for I was making up my mind to speak to him about his sister, and I was afraid how he might take it.
[268]
Presently he stopped for a moment, and I thought, ‘now or never,’ and began.
“I want to ask you, Joe, is your sister engaged to any one?”
“Not she,” said Joe, looking up rather surprised; “why, she’s only eighteen come Lady-day!”
“What do you think of Mr. Warton?” said I.
“Our Parson!” laughed Joe; “that is a good ’un. Why he has got a sweetheart of his own. Let alone that he’d know better than to court a farmer’s daughter.”
“Are you sure?” said I; “your sister isn’t like most girls, I can tell you.”
“Yes, I tell you,” said Joe, “he’s no more in love with our Lu than you are.”
“Then I’m over head and ears in love with her, and that’s all about it,” said I, and I looked straight across at him, though it wasn’t an easy thing to do. But I felt I was in for it, and I should be much better for having it over.
Joe gave a start, and a long whistle; and then a puff52 or two at his pipe, staring at me right in the eyes till I felt my head swimming. But I wasn’t going to look down just then; if[269] he had looked me right through he couldn’t have found any thing I was ashamed of, so far as his sister was concerned, and I felt he had a right to look as hard as he pleased, and that I was bound not to shirk it.
Presently he got up, and took a turn or two up and down the kitchen. Then he stopped—
“Spoke to her, yet?” said he.
“No,” said I, “I haven’t.”
“Come, give us your hand, Dick,” said he, holding out his, and looking quite bright again; “I knew you would be all on the square, let be what might.”
“Well, I won’t deceive you, Joe,” said I, “I don’t deserve any credit for that.”
“How not?” said he.
“Why, I meant to have spoken to her half-a-dozen times, only one little thing or another stopped it. But I’m very glad of it, for I think you ought to know it first.”
“Well, well,” said he, coming and sitting down again, and staring into the fire, “it’s a precious bad job. Let’s think a bit how we be to tackle it.”
“I know,” said I, drawing up a bit—for I didn’t feel flattered at this speech—“that I’m[270] not in the same position you are in, and that you’ve a right to look for a much richer man than I am for your sister, but—”
“Oh, bother that,” said Joe, beginning to smoke again, and still staring into the fire; “I wasn’t thinking of that. ’Twill be just as bad for we, let who will take her. Here’s mother getting a’most blind, and ’mazing forgetful-like about every thing. Who’s to read her her chapter, or to find her spectacles? and what in the world’s to become of the keys? I be no use to mother by myself, you see,” said Joe, “and I couldn’t abide55 to see the old lady put about at her time of life; let alone how the pickling and preserving is to go on.”
I was very pleased and surprised to see him taking it so coolly, and particularly that he seemed not to be objecting to me, but only to losing his sister at all.
“Then there’s my dairy,” said he; “that cow Daisy, as gives the richest milk in all the Vale, nobody could ever get her to stand quiet till Lu took to her; she’ll kick down a matter o’ six pail o’ milk a week, I’ll warrant. And the poultry56, too; there’s that drattl’d old galleeny’ll be learning the Spanish hens to lay astray up[271] in the brake, as soon as ever Lu goes, and then the fox’ll have ’em all. To think of the trouble I took to get that breed, and not a mossel o’ use at last!”
“Well, but Joe,” said I, “one would think we were going to be married to-morrow, to hear you talk.”
“Well, you want to be married, don’t you?” said he, looking up.
“Yes, but not directly,” said I; “you see, I should like to have a tidy place got all ready before I should think—”
“Why, she mayn’t be agreeable after all,” interrupted Joe, as if a new light had suddenly struck him; and then he had a good laugh at the thought, in which I didn’t join.
“Then, Joe,” said I, “I think you don’t seem to mind my being a cockney, and not a rich man?”
“I’d sooner have had a chap that knows a horse from a handspike, and something about four-course,” said he, “so I won’t tell a lie about it, Dick. Put that out of the way, and I’d as lief call you brother-in-law as any man. But you ain’t in any hurry you said just now?”
[272]
“Well, no,” said I; “but of course I should like to write to your sister directly and tell her, and I hope you won’t object to that, and won’t hinder me if you can’t help me.”
“Don’t have any of that writing,” said Joe, “’pend upon it, a good-bred girl like Lu wouldn’t stand it.”
“That’s all very well,” said I, “but I’m going away to-night, you know, and if I don’t write how’s she ever to know any thing about it?”
“Look here,” said Joe; “will you promise, Dick, to give me and mother a year to turn round in from next Christmas—that is, supposing Lu don’t say no?”
“Yes, certainly,” said I; “Christmas year is the earliest time I could hope to be ready by.”
“Then I’ll tell you what,” said he; “Don’t you go writing to her at all, and I’ll bring her up with me for Christmas cattle-show, and you can get us lodgings58, and show us some of the sights. You can have it all out with her before we come home, and I shall be by to see all fair.”
“No, no, Joe, I couldn’t say a word with you by.”
[273]
“I didn’t mean that I was to be in the room, you know, only if any thing goes wrong—you understand,” said Joe, looking round, and nodding at me with a solemn face.
“Yes, I see,” said I; “but somebody else—one of the young farmers now, that I saw on the hill, may be stepping in before Christmas.”
“Not they. It’s busy times with us these next two months. Besides, I’ll look after that. Is it a bargain, then?”
“Yes,” said I, “only mind, Joe, that you look sharp meantime.”
“All right,” said he; and then fell to looking into the fire again; and I sat thinking too, and wondering at my luck, which I could hardly believe in yet.
“And now about the pot,” said Joe; “suppose Lu says yes, what have you got to keep the pot boiling?”
Then I told him what my salary was, and what I had saved, and where I had put it out, and he nodded away, and seemed very well satisfied.
“Well, Lu has got ￡500,” said he, “under father’s will. Parson and I are the executors. You must go and see the Parson when you get[274] back to London; he’s an out-and-outer, and worth more than all the chaps at that jawing59 shop of yours put together. The money is out at interest, all but ￡200, which we’ve never raised yet, but for that matter I can pay it up whenever it’s wanted.”
“Of course,” said I, “I should wish all her fortune to be settled on her.”
“Yes, I forgot,” said he; “I suppose there ought to be some sort of tying-up done for the children. So I’ll go and see Lawyer Smith about it next market-day.”
“Perhaps you had better wait till after Christmas,” said I.
“Aye, aye,” said he, “I forgot. We may be running a tail scent60 after all. But, I say, Dick, if you get married, Lu can never live in those dirty, dark streets, and you away all day; she’d mope to death without a place for poultry, and a little bit of turf to cool her feet on.”
“Well,” said I, “you see I’ve got a bit of ground under a freehold land society, down the Great Northern line. It’s a very pretty place, and only five minutes’ walk from a station. I could build a house there in the spring, you know, and have the garden made.”
[275]
“That’ll do,” said he; “and if you want ￡100 or so, to finish it off as should be, why you know where to come for it.”
“Thank you,” said I, “but I think I can manage it.”
“I shall send her up those Spanish hens,” said he, looking up again presently from his pipe; “they won’t be no use here.”
“I wish, Joe,” said I, “you wouldn’t talk as if it was all quite certain; it makes me feel uncomfortable. Your sister mayn’t like me, after all.”
“Makes no odds61 at all,” said he; “if she don’t have you, there’ll be some other chap on in no time. Once a young gal57 gets a follower62 it’s all over, so fur as I see; though ’tisn’t always the first as they takes up with as they sticks to for better for worse.”
“Thank you for nothing, Master Joe,” said I to myself; and I smoked away opposite him for some time without saying a word, thinking what a queer fellow he was, and how I had better let things rest as they were, for I couldn’t see how to handle him the least bit in the world; and I can’t tell whether I was most glad or sorry, when we heard the fogger come[276] to the kitchen door to say the trap was all ready.
Joe knocked the ashes out of his last pipe, took off the last drop out of his tumbler, and then put out his hand and gave me one of his grips.
“It’s got to be done,” said he, “there’s no mistake about that.”
“What?” said I, “what’s to be done? Don’t look so solemn, Joe, for goodness’ sake.”
“It’s no laughing matter, mind you,” said he; and he took the candle and went off into the passage, and came back with his whip and two top-coats. “Here, you get into that,” he went on, handing me one of them; “you’ll find the night rawish.”
I buttoned myself into the coat, which was a white drab one, about as thick as a deal board, with double seams and mother-of-pearl buttons as big as cheese-plates, and followed Joe into the yard with a heavy heart.
“Carpet-bag and hamper63 in?” said he, taking the reins64.
“Ees, Sir, all right.”
“Jump up, Dick.”
I shook hands with the honest fogger, and[277] gave him half-a-crown, which he didn’t seem to know how to take; and then I got up by Joe’s side, and we walked out of the yard at a foot’s pace, on to the grass; he kept off the road to be more quiet. It was bright moonlight, and a streak65 of white mist lay along the Close. I could hear nothing but the soft crush of the wheels on the rich sward, and the breathing of the great cows as we passed them in the mist. But my heart was beating like a hammer, as I looked back over my shoulder at one window of the old house, until it was hidden behind the elm-trees; and when I jumped down to open the gate into the road, I tore open the great coat, or I think I should have been suffocated66.
“It’s no laughing matter, mind you,” said Joe, looking round, after we had gone about half-a-mile along the road at a steady trot67.
“No, indeed,” said I. I felt much more like crying, and I thought he was trying to comfort me, in his way.
“Come, you button up that coat again, Dick; I won’t have you getting into the train at one in the morning with a chill on you. I won’t turn my back,” he went on, “on any man in the county at sampling wheat, or buying a horse, or[278] a lot of heifers, or a flock of sheep. Besides, if a chap does get the blind side of me, it’s maybe a ten-pound note lost, and there’s an end of it. But when you come to choosing a missus, why, it seems like jumping in the dark, for all as I can see. There’s nothing to sample ’em by, and you can’t look in their mouths or feel ’em over. I don’t take it as a man’s judgment of any account when he comes to that deal—and then, if he does get the wrong sort!”
“Thank you, Joe,” said I, “but I’m not a bit afraid about getting the wrong sort, if all goes well.”
“No, but I be,” said he; “why, one would think, Dick, that nobody had to get a missus but you.”
Well, that made me laugh out, I was so tickled68 to find he was thinking of himself all the time; and for the rest of the drive we were merry enough, for he went on talking about his own prospects69 so funnily that it was impossible to keep sad or sentimental70.
We drew up at the silent station five or six minutes nearly before the train was due, and were received by the one solitary71 porter.
“What luggage, Sir?” said he to me, as I got down.
[279]
“One carpet-bag,” I answered, “for Paddington.”
“And a hamper,” said Joe; “you’ll find a hamper in behind there. And take care to keep it right side up, porter, for there are some pots of jam in it.”
“Who is it for?” said I; “can I look after it, and take it any where for you?”
“Why, for you, of course,” said Joe; “you don’t suppose the women would have let you go back without some of their kickshaws; and I’ve had a hare and a couple of chickens put in, and some bacon. You must eat the hare this week, mind.”
I was quite taken by surprise at this fresh instance of the thoughtful kindness of my Vale friends, and wrung72 Joe’s hand, mumbling73 out something which I meant for thanks.
“Well, good-bye, old fellow,” he said, “I’m very glad to think you’ve found your way down at last, and now, don’t forget it;” and he gave me a grip which nearly crashed all my knuckles74 into a jelly, and was gathering75 up his reins to drive off.
“But Joe, here’s your coat,” I called out, and was beginning to take it off—“you’ve forgotten your coat.”
[280]
“No, no,” said he, “keep it on—’twill be very cold to-night, and you’ll want it in the train. We’ll fetch it at Christmas, and the hamper and the jam pots too, at the same time. Lu will be sure to look after them, so mind you don’t lose ’em—Hullo! What in the world are you cutting off the direction for?”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” said I, “but I often fancy parcels go safer with only the railway label on them. Besides, I shall have it in the carriage with me.”
The fact was I had caught sight of the direction, which was in her handwriting, and had quite forgotten Joe, as I was cutting it off to put it in my pocket-book.
“Well, that’s a rum start,” said Joe, “but every one has their own notions about travelling;” and so, with a cheery good-bye to me, off he drove along the dark road; and in another minute the train came up, and I and my luggage were on our way to London.
We went away up through the cold night, eastward76, towards the great city which had been my home from childhood. I felt that another man was journeying back from the one who had come down a fortnight before; that he who[281] was travelling eastward had learnt to look beyond his own narrow cellar in the great world-city, to believe in other things than cash payments and shorthand for making his cellar liveable in, to have glimpses of and to sympathize with the life of other men, in his own time, and in the old times before him. These thoughts crowded on me, but all under the shadow of and subordinated to the one great rising hope, in which I had first found and felt my new life. Together they lifted up my heart during the first stages of that night journey, and I opened the window and leant out into the rushing night air, for the carriage was too small for me, and my grand visions and resolves. But soon it began to feel cold, and I shut up the window and squeezed myself into a corner with my feet up on the opposite seat, and felt very thankful that I had on Joe’s great coat. Then the lamp went out, and it got colder as the dawn came on, and my visions and resolves began to get less bright and firm. The other side of the picture rose up in ugly colours, and I thought of the dirty dark clerks’ room, and the hours of oil-lamps and bad air, and the heartless whirl and din6 of the great city. And[282] to crown all came the more than doubt whether my hope would not fade out and die in the recesses77 of my own heart. What was I? and what my prospects, that any one should ever give me a thought again of those whom I was so fast leaving behind, much more that she, the flower of them all, should single me out before all others? It was absurd, I should most likely never see Elm Close, or the Vale, or the great mysterious Hill again—I had better make up my mind to live the next twenty years as I had the last. With some such meaning spoke the doleful voices, but I was never much of a hand at looking at the doleful side of things, and I made good strong fight on that night ride; and took out my pipe, and lit it, and pressed my back firmer into my corner.
Well, and if they don’t remember me, thought I, I can remember them at any rate—they can’t help that; and I will remember them too, and all their kind pleasant ways, and their manlike games, and their queer songs and stories—and the queen of them all, I can carry her in my heart, thank God for that, and every word I ever heard her speak, and every smile I ever saw light up her merry eyes or dimple round[283] her mouth—and the country, too, the fair rich Vale, and the glorious old Hill, they are mine for ever, and all the memories of the slaying of dragons; and of great battles with the Pagan. I wonder whether I shall ever see the old gentleman again who conjured78 it up for me, and put life into it, and made me feel as if King Alfred and his Saxons were as near and dear to me as Sir Colin Campbell and the brave lads in India!
Just then the train stopped at Reading, and the guard put his head in to say we stopped for three minutes, and I could get a glass of ale.
So I jumped out and had a glass of ale, and then another; and stamped about the platform till the train started. And when I got into my corner again, I was quite warm and jolly.
I have been always used to a good night’s rest, and I daresay the ale made me more sleepy, and so I fell into a kind of doze54 almost directly. But in my doze the same train of thought went on, and all the people I had been living with and hearing of flitted about in the oddest jumbles79, with Elm Close and White Horse Hill for a background. I went through[284] the strangest scenes. One minute I was first cousin to King Alfred, and trying to carry his messages over the Hill to ?thelred, only Joe’s old brown horse would run away with me along the Ridgeway; then I was the leader of the Berkshire old gamesters, playing out the last tie with a highwayman, for a gold-laced hat and pair of buckskin breeches; then I was married—I needn’t say to whom—and we were keeping house under the Hill, and waiting tea for St. George, when he should come down from killing80 the Dragon. And so it went on, till at last a mist came over the Hill, and all the figures got fainter and fainter, and seemed to be fading away. But as they faded, I could see one great figure coming out clearer through the mist, which I had never noticed before. It was like a grand old man, with white hair and mighty81 limbs; who looked as old as the hill itself, but yet as if he were as young now as he ever had been,—and at his feet were a pickaxe and spade, and at his side a scythe82. But great and solemn as it looked, I felt that the figure was not a man, and I was angry with it,—why should it come in with its great pitiful eyes and smile? why were my brothers[285] and sisters, the men and women, to fade away before it?
“The labour that a man doeth under the sun, it is all vanity. Prince and peasant, the wise man and the fool, they all come to me at last, and I garner83 them away, and their place knows them no more!”—so the figure seemed to say to itself, and I felt melancholy84 as I watched it sitting there at rest, playing with the fading figures.
At last it placed one of the little figures on its knee, half in mockery, as it seemed to me, and half in sorrow. But then all changed; and the great figure began to fade, and the small man came out clearer and clearer. And he took no heed of his great neighbour, but rested there where he was placed; and his face was quiet, and full of life, as he gazed steadily and earnestly through the mist. And the other figures came flitting by again, and chanted as they passed, “The work of one true man is greater than all thy work. Thou hast nought85 but a seeming power, over it, or over him. Every true man is greater than thee. Every true man shall conquer more than thee; for he shall triumph over death, and hell, and thee, oh, Time!”
[286]
And then I woke up, for the train stopped at the place where the tickets are collected; and, in another five minutes, I was in a cab, with my bag and the great basket of country treasures, creeping along in the early November morning towards Gray’s Inn Lane. And so ended my fortnight’s holiday.
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1
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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2
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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3
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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4
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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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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din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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7
negligent
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| adj.疏忽的；玩忽的；粗心大意的 | |
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8
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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9
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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10
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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11
misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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12
delusions
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| n.欺骗( delusion的名词复数 )；谬见；错觉；妄想 | |
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13
bigoted
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| adj.固执己见的，心胸狭窄的 | |
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14
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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15
fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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16
skulk
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| v.藏匿；潜行 | |
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17
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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18
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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19
allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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20
sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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21
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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22
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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23
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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24
foretold
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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25
reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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26
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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27
slaying
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| 杀戮。 | |
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28
honourably
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| adv.可尊敬地，光荣地，体面地 | |
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29
custody
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| n.监护，照看，羁押，拘留 | |
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30
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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31
captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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32
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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33
perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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34
conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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35
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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36
veneration
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| n.尊敬，崇拜 | |
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37
prudish
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| adj.装淑女样子的，装规矩的，过分规矩的；adv.过分拘谨地 | |
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38
steer
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| vt.驾驶，为…操舵；引导；vi.驾驶 | |
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39
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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40
hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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41
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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42
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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43
accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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44
kennel
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| n.狗舍，狗窝 | |
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45
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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46
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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47
recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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48
rummaging
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的现在分词 )； 海关检查 | |
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49
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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50
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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51
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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52
puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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53
puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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54
doze
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| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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55
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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56
poultry
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| n.家禽，禽肉 | |
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57
gal
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| n.姑娘，少女 | |
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58
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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59
jawing
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| n.用水灌注 | |
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60
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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61
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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62
follower
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| n.跟随者；随员；门徒；信徒 | |
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63
hamper
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| vt.妨碍，束缚，限制；n.(有盖的)大篮子 | |
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64
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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65
streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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66
suffocated
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| （使某人）窒息而死( suffocate的过去式和过去分词 )； （将某人）闷死； 让人感觉闷热； 憋气 | |
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67
trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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68
tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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69
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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70
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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71
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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72
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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73
mumbling
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的现在分词 ) | |
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74
knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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75
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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76
eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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77
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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78
conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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79
jumbles
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| 混杂( jumble的名词复数 )； （使）混乱； 使混乱； 使杂乱 | |
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80
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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81
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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82
scythe
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| n. 长柄的大镰刀，战车镰； v. 以大镰刀割 | |
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83
garner
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| v.收藏；取得 | |
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84
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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85
nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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