The first part of the condition Frank found it easy enough to observe. He did not rise until late; and after he had finished breakfast, the “Times” occupied him pretty well till it was the hour for going into Prescott’s. After lunch he would take up a novel, light his pipe, make himself comfortable, and read for an hour or so. But presently he would put his book down, and begin to ask Prescott questions, and to entrap4 him into lengthy5 conversations, till Arthur became quite desperate; when Frank would leave him and sally out to make a round of calls, returning at six to go out to dinner with his friend. In the evening, Prescott was safe from interruption, as Frank was almost always out at dances and balls at the houses of the numerous friends he had met during his travels.
It was a week after the party at the Holls’. The frost had broken up, but the weather was raw and cold. Arthur Prescott was studying, and occasionally looking over, with a rather amused glance, at his friend. Frank having in vain 140tried to interest himself in his novel, had thrown it down in disgust, and was gazing disconsolately6 out of the window, upon the green lawn below, and at the leaden-coloured river beyond, with its black drifting barges7, and its busy little steamers hurrying past.
“By Jove, Prescott,” he broke out at last, “this is a beastly climate of ours.”
“As how, Frank?” Prescott asked quietly.
“As how?” Frank repeated irritably8. “Why in its wind, and its rain; and its damp, and its cold. It’s detestable. Last winter I was in Rome.”
“Ah, and were you there in summer, Frank?”
“Of course not, Prescott. One might as well live in an oven, with an air blowing in from a fever-den.”
“Quite so, Frank. You see other places have their detestable points as well as ours.”
Frank Maynard gave a grunt9 of discontent, and again looked out of the window. At last he turned round again.
“What on earth am I to do with myself, Prescott?”
“My dear Frank, I am afraid that question is 141likely to bring on a long discussion; but in consideration of the day, and the more especially as I see you do not mean to let me read, I will put away my books for the afternoon.”
“There’s a good fellow,” Frank said, brightening up greatly, and wheeling the fellow arm-chair of the one he had been sitting in, up to the fire, while Prescott put his books back into their places on the shelves. That done, he opened a bottle of beer, poured it into a large tankard—a college trophy10 of his prowess in boating—and lit his pipe.
“There, that’s comfortable,” Frank said. “The climate has its advantages after all. Now let us talk seriously. What in the world am I to do? Here have I been back in England little more than three months, two of which I have spent shooting, and now after a month in London, I am bored out of my life.”
“It is a hard case, Frank; a man with eight hundred a year, and nothing to do but to spend it; and you are out nearly every evening, too.”
“That’s all well enough for the evening, Prescott, but I can’t spend the day thinking 142whom I am going to meet in the evening; and whether the pretty girl I danced with the night before will be there, and so on.”
“Why not join a club, Frank?”
“I am down for the ‘Travellers,’ but it may be years before I am elected, and I don’t believe I shall care for it when I am. I have been into several clubs with men I know, and they seem to me the slowest places going. Men look in, and moon about the room, and take up a paper, and then throw it down again, and go and look out of the window, and then order their dinner, and grumble11 over it when they have got it. My dear fellow, it’s well enough for old fogies, but I can see no pull in it at all. Of course, in the evening one can play billiards12, but as I am out nearly every night, I don’t see that I shall gain much by that.”
“Why don’t you keep a horse, Frank?”
“Well, I might do that, Prescott; but I don’t think I should ever go out on the beggar if I had one. I don’t care much for riding at the best of times; and as to going up and down Rotten Row, it would drive me out of my mind in a week. No; when summer comes I shall 143buy a yacht of about twenty tons, and cruise about; but the question is the winter.”
“Well, Frank, as you do not care, I have heard you say, for country sports, I really think it would be worth your while to think seriously of entering yourself at the bar, or of taking to literary work; or in fact making some sort of aim for yourself. I confess that, as a busy man myself, I can hardly conceive a man having the whole day on his hands, with nothing definite before him.”
“My dear fellow,” Frank said despondently13; “what on earth would be the good of my entering at the bar? I should never read—you know that as well as I do; and consequently I should have no more to do than I have now, with the additional disadvantage of being obliged to dine so often in Hall, instead of being able to get my dinner where I like. As to literary work, the thing’s simply absurd; what on earth should I write about? And when I had fixed14 on a subject, what in the name of goodness should I have to say about it? Upon my word, Prescott, your suggestions are positively15 childish.”
Prescott shrugged16 his shoulders, and smoked 144for some time in silence. Presently he took his pipe from his mouth, and asked suddenly—
“Why don’t you get married, Frank?”
“Married! My dear Prescott, I wish you would not talk in that light way of such a serious business. I should as soon think of flying up to the moon. Besides, whom in the world should I marry? I go out to parties and balls, and flirt17 with dozens of girls, but I never think any more of them, nor do they of me. Just imagine one of their faces, if I were to say, ‘Madam, your obedient servant is on the look-out for a wife; will you supply the deficiency?’”
Frank laughed loudly; Prescott smiled, and then was quiet for some time. At last he said, with a sort of effort—
“There is one young lady with whom you are at any rate on intimate terms. I mean, of course, Miss Heathcote.”
“Alice!” Frank exclaimed in great surprise; “now that is about the very last suggestion I should have expected to hear from you; for, upon my word, in the three or four times we have been down there together, since I came back, you were so quiet, and—you know what I 145mean—that I had a sort of suspicion that you were spoony there yourself!”
Prescott coloured up hotly. “My dear Frank,” he said, gravely, “I have a very great esteem18 for Miss Heathcote; I think her a very loveable woman, but had I any deeper feeling for her, I should only endeavour to lay it aside as quickly as possible, because I know that I should not have the remotest chance in the world.”
“Upon my word now, Prescott, I don’t see why; Alice is an heiress, but I don’t know that her money would be a serious obstacle. She has no one to consult but herself, and if she fancies you, why should she not have you?”
“I am not speaking of money, Frank. If Miss Heathcote loved me, she would think nothing of her money; and I—although I would far rather bring wealth to my wife than that she should to me, still that would be no great obstacle. I am speaking of herself. I know that she would never care for me. So please do not let us discuss that part of the question. We were speaking of her in reference to yourself. Unless I am greatly mistaken, your uncle would be very 146pleased if you were to marry her. Why should you not do so?”
“Well, he has thrown out some hints, but I only laughed, thinking it was a joke. Upon my word now, Prescott, this is too bad!” Frank went on with an air of great perplexity, “It seems to me that my uncle and you have entered into a sort of plot to marry me to Alice. Thank goodness, though,” he said, cheering up, “Alice is not in it, for she has quite changed since I came back again. We were awful friends formerly19, I used to kiss her regularly, and we were as jolly together as possible. When I came back from abroad, after being away two years, of course I kissed her when we met, but next time I offered to do so, she would not have it, and said that she was a great deal too old for that sort of thing. I said that we were cousins, and therefore it was all right and proper, but she answered quite sharply, that we were, indeed, nothing of the sort. Altogether she has been at times quite stiff and formal, and not a bit like what she was before I went away to the Continent. No, no, she is not in the conspiracy20. Upon my word, Prescott, you quite frightened me. We like each 147other very well—very much perhaps, but there is not the slightest risk of either of us going further.”
Prescott shrugged his shoulders with an irritable21 impatience22 which was very unusual to him. He was angry with Frank for his careless indifference23, and yet, although he told himself over and over again that he was sorry to see that his friend was so blind, how could he help being glad? To him this was no new subject. He had thought it over and over till his head ached with the thought many a time. He had seen, years before, how the girl had looked up to Frank, had listened to his schoolboy stories, and his college tales, how she had submitted to all his boy’s humours, and had made a hero of him to herself. He had noticed in the last year before Frank went abroad, how the girl’s feeling had grown and intensified24 with her own growth towards womanhood; how she flushed up when Frank paid her little attentions; and how quickly she resented it whenever he still treated her as a child. He had noticed how eagerly she listened to all that was said about Frank when he was away, and, at the same time, how she shrank 148from appearing to pay any but the most ordinary attention. And more than ever, since Frank’s return, was Prescott sure that Alice Heathcote loved him. Another, a less close and less obtrusive25 watcher, would not have seen all this, but Prescott had a deep stake in the matter. He knew that he loved Alice with the whole strength of his nature. Had he believed that he had the slightest chance of success, he would have yielded no point of vantage, even to his friend Frank. Had both entered for the prize, and had Alice been neutral, Prescott would have told his friend frankly26 that they were rivals, and fought the matter out to the last. But here he could do nothing. The prize was given away, and the winner was too indifferent to stretch out his hand for it. True, he did not know that it might be had for the asking, and Prescott, as he sat quietly for a few minutes after Frank had spoken, was thinking very deeply with himself whether he ought to tell his friend that he was sure that he was mistaken. He was interrupted by Frank’s saying irritably, “I wish to goodness, Prescott, you had never put such a notion into my head. I was comfortable and at home with 149Alice before, as I had no more idea of marrying her than I had of flying, and now I shall never get the idea out of my head. I wonder whether my uncle has ever thrown out any hints of his idea to Alice. I should not be surprised if he has. That would account for what I was saying about her being cold and stiff to me; naturally she supposes that I want to make love to her, and she tries as plainly as she can to show me that she will have nothing to say to me. I tell you what, Prescott, you and my uncle, with your plans and ideas, will end by making Alice and me hate each other.”
Frank got up, and walked up and down the room, smoking his pipe in short puffs27, with an air of extreme vexation. Prescott said nothing in reply. He was actually far more irritated and much more puzzled than Frank himself was, but he could show neither his irritation28 nor the conflict of thoughts and feelings which was agitating29 him. Presently Frank stopped and said, “There is only one thing in the world I do think would induce me to marry Alice.”
“What is that, Frank?” Prescott asked, looking anxiously up at him.
150“I would marry her rather than that she should marry Fred Bingham. He is constantly there, and I think he is trying to make up to her.”
“I do not think that he has any chance whatever,” Prescott said quietly; “but you were always an upholder of your cousin—what has changed your opinion of him?”
“I don’t think that anything has changed it as far as I am concerned, Prescott,” Frank said, sitting down again; “you know he is not my sort of man. I believe just as much as I did that he is not a bad-hearted fellow—far from it; that is, I have no reason for believing otherwise. But you see I have been away for some time, and his cantankerous30 way comes upon me fresh. I never know whether he is making fun of me or not, and he does try my temper, which is, you know, none of the best, most amazingly. Although I know it is only prejudice, I own I do not like to see him hanging over Alice, turning over the leaves of her music for her, and that sort of thing; it makes me somehow feel cold and uncomfortable all over, and as I have said, rather than that he should marry her, I would save her 151from it by marrying her myself. Of course supposing that she would have me.”
“There is no fear, Frank, that you will be called upon to sacrifice yourself to prevent that contingency31 happening. Whatever Miss Heathcote may do, be assured she will never fall in love with Fred Bingham. As for what you say about your feelings towards him, it is not a prejudice against which you are struggling, it is a natural antipathy32; one of those instincts which nature gives us against what is dangerous and bad. You know what we all felt about him at Cambridge; you would not agree with us, you fought against the idea, but your instinct is too strong for you, and you will end by thinking like the rest of us.”
“No, no, Prescott, I will not allow that; I grant that he irritates me more than he did, and that somehow, although I have no idea why, I should not like to see Alice marry him; but I have not the least reason for changing my opinion that he is a good fellow at heart.”
“He is a bad egg,” Prescott said, dogmatically. “A bad egg, Frank; do what you will with him, he is bad to the core. His shell is 152white enough, but some day when you crack it, and find what a rotten inside it’s got, you will regret deeply enough that you ever took it in your hand.”
“You are a prejudiced beggar, Prescott,” Frank said, laughing; “but I know it is no use my arguing the point with you. Time will show which is right.”
Prescott nodded, and there was a short silence, when Frank rose.
“The sun is shining, Prescott, the afternoon is quite changed; suppose we go out. Oh, nonsense, you said you would give me the afternoon. Where shall we go?”
“It’s all the same to me, Frank.”
“I wish to goodness it was not, Prescott; you give me all the trouble of thinking—there now, I’ve got another idea—let’s go and see the boy that picked the dog out of the Serpentine33.”
“What are you going to say to him when you do see him, Frank?”
“In the first place I’m going to give him the sovereign Uncle Harry34 gave me for him; and in the next place—what a fellow you are, Prescott, in the next place—well, I suppose I shall tell him 153he is a fine little chap. No, I’ve another idea. By Jove, I will make a Buttons of him.”
“But what on earth do you want a Buttons for, Frank?” Prescott said, laughing.
“Oh, hundreds of things. He will be very useful in my chambers35, go messages, and all sorts of things. I never can find that old bed maker36 of mine. My dear fellow, I can’t make out how I have done without one so long. A Buttons will be just the thing; besides, if I get a horse, look how useful he would be. I will make him cabin boy on board the yacht—hundreds of things; my dear fellow, my ideas come so fast, I think I shall take up the literary line, after all. There, get your hat and coat on, Prescott, and we will charter a cab, and be off at once to get Buttons.”
The afternoon had come out clear and fine; so they went out through Essex Street into the Strand37, and took a cab, which soon set them down at the end of Sloane Street. Here they discharged it; and inquiring of a policeman where Moor38 Street was, received the intelligence that it lay down behind, but that they had better take the first turning to the right, and then inquire again. 154Accordingly they turned off from Sloane Street and entered the network of small lanes lying between Hans Place and Knightsbridge. Densely39 populated as the neighbourhood was, there were few signs of business, or the bustle40 of every day life. The place seemed entirely deserted41 by grown up people, and handed over bodily to children. The fathers were away at work, the mothers busy within the houses, but children swarmed42 everywhere; boys and girls of all ages and sizes, from the little baby set down upon a door step—sitting contentedly43 there, sucking a piece of rag, and gazing with a quiet old-fashioned look at the world around it, while its elder sister, a staid little woman of some seven years old, gossipped with another of the same standing44—to lazy, hulking fellows of sixteen or seventeen, lounging idly at the corners of streets, smoking. Everywhere children engaged in every game which the youthful mind was capable of devising from the very limited materials at hand. Boys playing at hop-scotch, and tip-cat, and ball, with much shouting and rushing about, and danger to passers-by; boys playing at marbles, and games with buttons, and flat stones, and halfpence. 155These amusements constantly gave rise to great squabbling and disputes, in which one of the great idle fellows before mentioned was usually called in as umpire, although like umpires in general, he always failed signally in giving satisfaction to either party. Girls sitting on door steps working; girls playing at shuttlecock; little things of five or six years old in strange garments and vast bonnets45, staggering along with babies nearly as big as themselves; grave little parties of nurses sitting on door steps—while the babies under their charge made dirt pies—and amusing themselves relating stories to each other,—not fanciful Arabian nights’ tales, but real histories of life:—“How father had come in on Saturday night drunk, and when mother had asked for money, how he had knocked she down.” Or, “how put about father was when he came home last night, to find that mother had been and pawned46 his Sunday clothes, and got drunk on it.” Many a similar tale do these little people relate gravely to each other. Poor little prematurely-old things, with their babies under their charge, and their cares already sitting heavily on their young shoulders, and such a life before them!
156Sometimes, but not often, a cart comes along, and the games are stopped, and the marbles scattered47, and the little nurses snatch up their charges; doors open hastily, and women rush out into the road and seize their little ones by their dress, or an arm, or a leg, or anything that comes handy, and carry them off into their houses, with much shaking and scolding, and through the closed doors come out sounds of slapping and cries.
Through all this, Frank Maynard and his friend make their way. They easily find Moor Street, but, not knowing the number, have some difficulty in discovering the Holls’ abode48. However, after inquiring of some twenty children, they light upon one who is able to point out the house. Mrs. Holl herself opens the door in answer to their knock. Mrs. Holl is engaged in washing, and her arms to the elbows are white with soap-suds. Greatly surprised is she at seeing two gentlemen standing at the door. Finding however, by their inquiry49 if she is Mrs. Holl, that there is no mistake, she wipes her arms hastily with her apron50, and asks them to walk in, apologizing as she does for the state of the room. 157There was no occasion for that, for it was beautifully clean. The washing-tub stood upon a low bench in one corner; there were some cords stretched across the ceiling, but the clothes were not yet suspended upon them, and except that there was a warm steam in the room, which made everything look clammy and moist, it was neat and tidy as usual. Mrs. Holl placed two chairs for her visitors, giving them a preliminary polish with her apron, and then waited in silence to hear the reason of their coming. But they were too much surprised at the conduct of the fourth inmate51 of the room to be able for a time to pay her any attention. He had at their entrance been sitting at work at his artificial flower making near the window. On seeing two gentlemen enter, and supposing that they wished to speak to Mrs. Holl, he had wheeled his box to its usual place by the fire, where there was a ladder fixed at a considerable angle and reaching to the ceiling. Under this he pushed his box, and then taking hold of its rungs he pulled himself up hand over hand to the ceiling, to the rafters of which were fixed a line of large open iron handles. Along these he swung himself to the staircase, and then away out 158of sight by similar handles; the whole being done apparently52 without the least effort, and as if it were a perfectly53 normal method of progression.
“By Jove!” Frank exclaimed, when he had disappeared up the stairs, “that’s wonderful. I am pretty good at gymnastics, but I could no more do that than I could fly, and it did not seem the least effort to him; and it is so much the more difficult that I see the poor fellow has lost the use of his legs.”
“James is wonderful strong, sir, in the arm,” Mrs. Holl said, “wonderful strong. He began that clambering work when he was about twelve year old. He was pale like and thin, and the doctor said he ought to go out in the air, and not always sit indoors. Well, sir, James he could not abear the thought of going out much, being drawed about in a cart, but he thought if father could put up a pole, across over his head, he might make a shift to draw himself up and down, and so exercise himself a bit. Well, sir, father he put up a pole, and in time James he got to be like a monkey, he could swing himself up with one arm and hang ever so long. After a bit, father he got the thought of setting some handles in the 159beams there, and the ladder to get up to them, and it were a great amusement for James; I have seen him go right round the room ten times; as for the stairs, that were James’s own idea. He were then about fifteen, and father used to carry him up to bed, and all at once it came to him, that if he had handles put on the top of the stairs and along his room, and then a ladder to get down by, he might make shift to go up and down of himself. Father went out that same night and got a blacksmith to make the handles, and that very night James went up to bed by himself. Lor, how pleased the poor lad were, to be sure. But I beg your pardon, gentlemen, for running on so—what can I do for you?”
“About ten days since, Mrs. Holl,” Frank said, “my friend and I were at the Serpentine, and your son—he said his name was Evan, I believe—went into the water to fetch out a dog.”
“He did, sir; are you the gentleman, sir, who was going in to fetch him out?”
“Just so, Mrs. Holl. Now I was very much pleased with him, and I have come here for two things to-day: the one to give him a sovereign which a friend of mine, to whom I was speaking of 160your boy’s pluck, gave me for him. Here it is; will you lay it out in something useful to him? The other reason was, I want a boy to be a general useful sort of lad—messenger or domestic, in fact for all sorts of things. Now it seems to me your son would be just the thing for me. I don’t of course know anything of him, but from what I have seen I have no doubt we should get on very well together, and I think he would be very comfortable with me.”
“I am sure you are very good, sir,” Mrs. Holl said, gratefully, “very good, and I should think Evan very lucky to get such a place. I can’t answer for him, sir, but I should say he would jump at it”
“Let him think it over, Mrs. Holl, and let him come up and see me any time before Thursday evening, when I may be going out of town for a week. Here is my card. By Jove! what beautiful wax flowers; look, Prescott, are they not exquisitely54 made?” and Frank went across the room to look at James Holl’s handiwork.
“They are beautifully made,” Prescott said, examining them; “I saw your son was at work at them when we came in.”
161“Yes, sir, he mostly is at work at them. He is very clever, James is, awful clever, and he earns a good deal of money at it too, besides its being a great amusement to him. Poor boy, it’s a heavy life, sir, always to sit in that box of his, with no hope of ever getting any better.”
“It must be, indeed, Mrs. Holl. Why, what is this—Colenso’s Algebra—does he read that?”
“He do, sir, while he is at work; and when he ain’t he never puts it down.”
“He must be fonder of it than I ever was,” Frank laughed. “But this is very interesting, Prescott, is it not?”
“If your son is so fond of study, Mrs. Holl,” Arthur said, “I have a number of my old college books. I shall never touch them again. They only block my place up, and he is perfectly welcome to them.”
“Lor, sir, it would be just a godsend to him.”
“I will look them out, Mrs. Holl, and send them down to-morrow.”
“I should take it very kind of you, sir—very kind; and James will be delighted.”
“And, Mrs. Holl, I should like some of those wax flowers amazingly; will you ask him to make 162me some?—a basket of them. Eh, Prescott, don’t you think a basket of wax flowers would be just the thing for my room?”
“I don’t know that they would be altogether in strict keeping with its general contents,” Prescott said, smiling, “but no doubt they would look very well.”
“Just so,” Frank said. “Will you ask your son to make me a basket, Mrs. Holl? I suppose he can buy a basket and a shade, and all that sort of thing? and you know I will pay him for it all when he sends it.”
“James will be very glad, sir; and thank’ee, but he is not my son.”
“Is he not, Mrs. Holl? If it is not an impertinent question, what relation is he of yours?”
“He ain’t no sort of relation, sir,” the woman said. The young men looked surprised, and Prescott asked—
“Then how did you come to bring him up, Mrs. Holl?”
“Well, sir, it was a very simple matter; but if so be as you care to hear it, I will tell you just how it happened;” and leaning against the mantelpiece, with the red light of the fire thrown 163up into her face, Mrs. Holl went on, very slowly, and speaking as though she almost saw what she was relating. “Well, sir, it were an evening in April—a cold, bitter day—I was sitting here between light and dark, drinking my tea with John, who had just come home from work—John is my husband, you see, sir—when we heard a noise outside in the street. We went out to see what was the matter, and we found a poor young creature, with a baby in her arms, had fallen down in a faint like. She was a pretty young thing, sir; and though her dress was poor and torn, she looked as if she had not been always so. Some one says, ‘Take them to the workhouse;’ ‘no,’ says I—for my heart yearned55 towards the poor young thing—‘bring her in here; mayn’t we, John?’ says I. Well, sir, John did not say nothing, but he took the baby out of her arms, and gived it to me, and then he upped and took the poor young creature—she were no great weight, sir—and carried her into the house, and laid her on the bed, as it might be by the window there. Well, gentlemen, that bed she never left; she came round a little, and lived some days, but her mind were never rightly itself 164again. She would lay there, with her baby beside her, and sing songs to herself, I don’t know what about, for it were some foreigner language. She were very gentle and quiet like, but I don’t think she ever knew where she was, or anything about it. She were very fond of baby, and would take it in her arms, and hush56 it and talk to it. She faded and faded away, and the doctor said nothing could be done for her. It made my heart ache, sir; and if you will believe me, I would go upstairs and cry by the hour. The thought of the little baby troubled me too. I had just lost my first little one, sir, and I could not abear the thought of the little thing going to a workhouse, so one day I says to John, ‘John, when that poor mother dies, for God’s sake, dont’ee send the little baby to the workhouse; He has taken away our own little one, and maybe He has sent this one for us to love in his place. Let us take him as our own.’ John, he did not say nothing, but he up and gived me a great kiss, and said, ‘Sairey, you’re a good woman;’ which of course, gentlemen,” Mrs. Holl put in apologetically, “is neither here nor there, for any mother would have done the 165same; but it’s John’s way when he’s pleased. That very same night the baby’s mother died.”
The young men listened in silence as Mrs. Holl told her story; standing, with her rough honest face lit up in the bright fire-glow, she related it simply, and as a matter of course, all unconscious of the good part she had taken in it, assuming no credit to herself, or seeing that she deserved any. When she had finished, there was a little silence; Frank passed his hand furtively57 across his eyes, and then Arthur sprang up and shook Mrs. Holl warmly by the hand, saying, “Your husband was right, Mrs. Holl; you are a good woman.”
Mrs. Holl looked completely amazed, and stammered58 out, “Lor bless you, sir, there weren’t nothing out of the way in what I did, and there’s scores and scores would do the like. Having just lost my own little one, my heart went out to the poor little thing, and it seemed sent natural like to fill the place of the little angel who was gone from us. Bless your heart, sir, there weren’t nothing out of the way in that; nothing at all; and we have never had cause to regret it. 166The boy’s a good boy, and a clever boy; and he is a comfort and a help to us. A better boy never lived; but we have always grieved sorely over his accident.”
“Dear me, no sir, not till he were six year old. It happened this a way: I were laid up at the time; I was just confined of Mary—she’s my eldest60 girl—and somehow, James he were out in the streets playing; I don’t rightly know how it happened, but never shall I forget when they brought him in, and said that a cart had run over him. John, he was in, which was lucky, for I think I lost my head like, and went clean out of my mind for a bit, for I loved him just like my own. They did not think he would have lived at first, for the cart had gone over the lower part of his body, and broke one of his thigh61 bones, and the other leg up high. It was a light cart, I have heard tell, or it must have killed him. He were in bed for months; and if you will believe me, if ever there was a patient little angel on earth, it was surely James. He never complained; and his chief trouble was for my sake. At last 167he got well, but the doctors said that he would never walk again, for they thought there were some damage done to his spine62; and sure enough he never has walked. He is always cheerful, only he never likes going out; and never would go at all, if we did not almost make him; he thinks folks look at him. Then he took to the climbing work, and that did him good; and the last three years he has taken to making them wax flowers; and it has been a wonderful thing for him, that has. He has always been given to reading. John made a shift to teach him his letters; and then the children of the neighbours, they lent him their school books, and taught him what they knew; and in a short time, bless you, sir, he knew more than them all. He would sit and read for hours together. He is wonderful clever, James is.”
“Well, Mrs. Holl,” Frank said, rising, “we are very much obliged to you for your story, but we must not keep you any longer. We will call again and arrange matters with you when Evan lets me know whether he accepts my offer.”
168“And I will be sure to forward the books to you to-morrow. Good bye.”
And greatly to Mrs. Holl’s astonishment63, the two young men shook hands warmly with her, as they took their leave.
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promotion
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entirely
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pretence
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entrap
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| v.以网或陷阱捕捉，使陷入圈套 | |
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lengthy
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| adj.漫长的，冗长的 | |
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disconsolately
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| adv.悲伤地，愁闷地；哭丧着脸 | |
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barges
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| 驳船( barge的名词复数 ) | |
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irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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grunt
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| v.嘟哝；作呼噜声；n.呼噜声，嘟哝 | |
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trophy
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| n.优胜旗，奖品，奖杯，战胜品，纪念品 | |
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grumble
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| vi.抱怨；咕哝；n.抱怨，牢骚；咕哝，隆隆声 | |
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billiards
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| n.台球 | |
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despondently
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| adv.沮丧地，意志消沉地 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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flirt
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| v.调情，挑逗，调戏；n.调情者，卖俏者 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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obtrusive
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| adj.显眼的；冒失的 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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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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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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agitating
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| 搅动( agitate的现在分词 )； 激怒； 使焦虑不安； （尤指为法律、社会状况的改变而）激烈争论 | |
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cantankerous
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| adj.爱争吵的，脾气不好的 | |
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contingency
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| n.意外事件，可能性 | |
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antipathy
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| n.憎恶；反感，引起反感的人或事物 | |
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serpentine
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| adj.蜿蜒的，弯曲的 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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densely
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| ad.密集地；浓厚地 | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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swarmed
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| 密集( swarm的过去式和过去分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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contentedly
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| adv.心满意足地 | |
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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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bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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pawned
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| v.典当，抵押( pawn的过去式和过去分词 )；以（某事物）担保 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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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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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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thigh
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| n.大腿；股骨 | |
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spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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