“It is quite a treat to sit in them,” Prescott said.
“Yes,” Frank answered, puffing13 out his smoke with an air of extreme contentment. “I flatter myself that they approach as nearly to perfect comfort as it is possible for anything earthly to do. I do love an easy chair. I remember when I was a child I used to be tortured, not as a punishment, mind, but as a regular thing—tortured by having to sit on a high-legged, straight-backed chair, with a seat no bigger than a cheese-plate, so that you could neither lean forward nor backward. How my unfortunate little back used to ache! I really wonder that my spine14 ever grew straight. At other times, when not in that terrible little chair, I had to sit bolt upright, and it was a penal15 offence to loll, as my grandmother 198called it, or in any way to approach a comfortable attitude.”
“It was nearly as bad in my case, Frank,” Prescott said. “I believe our fathers had a vague idea that unless we sat perfectly16 upright, our spine would become irretrievably crooked17, whereas I really believe the reverse to be nearer the fact. I feel certain that many a man and woman with a curved spine and broken health has nothing but those atrocious chairs and the miserable18 stiff attitudes they had to sit in as children to thank for their misfortunes.”
“If our ancestors had but used their common sense,” Frank said, “which with respect to the treatment of their children they never seem to have done, they would have seen that the straightest and best formed people in the world, the Arabs of the Desert, and I may add the North American Indians—as they used to be, before they were improved off the face of the earth—never sat on a chair in their lives, but always either lay at full length, or squatted19 on the ground with their backs in a bow.
“Halloa!” he broke off; “there’s a single knock at the door; I wonder who that can 199be, I have not ordered anything that I know of.”
“Please, sir, I want to see Mr. Maynard.”
“I am Mr. Maynard,” Frank said; “what do you want?”
“Please, sir, my name is Evan Holl.”
“Oh, is it you, Evan? Come in, it is so dark out here I did not know you again. I am glad you have come.”
Frank led the way back again into the sitting-room21, followed by Evan, greatly abashed22 at the splendour of its belongings23.
“Well, Evan, my lad,” Frank said, leaning against the mantel, “I suppose your mother has told you what I said to her. Mr. Prescott here and I were so much pleased with your pluck the other day at the Serpentine25, that I thought we should get on together capitally, for if there’s one thing more than another I like, it is pluck. What do think of it; would you like to come?”
“Please, sir, I should like it very much.”
“That’s right, Evan. Now you understand you are to be my man of all work—errand-boy, 200footman, valet, groom26, coachman, gardener, butler, sailor, steward27 and cook—in fact, general factotum28.”
Prescott laughed, and Evan opened his eyes in astonishment29.
“Lor’ bless you, sir, I don’t know nothing about driving coaches, or gardening, or cooking.”
“No!” Frank said in a tone of great surprise. “Of course in that case I shall not be able to trust either my coach or my garden into your charge at present. As to cooking, I should advise you to commence as soon as possible; and I should recommend you to go through a course of study: begin, say, by boiling a potato in its skin; next endeavour to reach perfection with an egg; proceed gradually to a rasher of bacon; and after that, master the intricacies of chops and steaks. I think that will do for the present; my little favourite dishes I will myself instruct you in afterwards.”
“What nonsense you do talk, Frank!” Prescott said, laughing; “the boy does not know whether you are in earnest or not.”
Which, indeed, was the truth, for Evan was standing shifting uneasily from one foot to the 201other, and twirling his cap between his hands with a look of considerable embarrassment30.
“Well, Evan,” Frank went on, “as Mr. Prescott seems to think that at present we had better leave these matters alone, I suppose we must postpone31 the cooking part of the business, as well as the driving and gardening, and hope that it will all come in time. And now, Prescott, about his dress; what do you say to a neat thing in green, picked out with scarlet32?”
“Nonsense, Frank! I don’t see that you want to put him in livery at all.”
“My dear Prescott,” Frank said, plaintively33, “you have no idea of the fitness of things. You destroy all my illusions. I did think that green picked out with scarlet would have harmonised well with the room. Do you not agree with me, now, that a Turkish dress with a fez, and especial instruction as to cleaning and lighting34 pipes and making black coffee, would have a good effect;—a sort of Nubian slave attire35, only he would have to black his face to be in keeping? You would not mind that, Evan, would you?”
Evan had by this time an idea that his new master was only joking, so he answered more 202briskly, “I don’t know that I should mind it much, sir.”
“That is right,” Frank said, approvingly; “but I foresee a difficulty in the matter. You see, Prescott, if he blacks his face, of course his hands must be blacked, too, and that would be disagreeable, for it would be sure to come off. I wonder, now, whether I could get a good receipt anywhere. I should say that a gipsy would be a likely person to apply to. They say, you know, that they steal children and dye them brown, and perhaps they could do rather a darker shade if they liked. However, till I find a gipsy the matter must stand over.”
“There, Frank, do stop talking nonsense, and let the boy go.”
“Very well, Evan, that will do for to-night. You understand, there will not be much for you to do for the present. Keep yourself clean and tidy; lose no time when I send you on messages; and, above all—and this I feel sure I may trust you in from what your mother says of you—above all, never tell me a lie; whatever may happen, tell me exactly the truth, and I have no question that we shall get on capitally together. I will 203give you a line to my tailor, and tell him to fit you out with a suit of plain undress livery. And now, here are three sovereigns, take them to your mother, and ask her to get you shoes and everything you may want, and then you will start fair. I have arranged nothing about your wages, but we shall not differ about that. There, good night, Evan; go with the note at once to the tailor’s; I have told him to get, at any rate, some of your things ready by the day after to-morrow, and when you have got them come here at once. You will sleep in the little room off the passage. I will get a bed and things for you to-morrow. Good-night.”
Evan took his leave, highly contented36 with his visit, and went home in great spirits, and related to his brothers and sisters what had taken place at the interview. The little ones were so amused at the idea of Evan dressed up as a black boy, and having his face painted, that Mrs. Holl had the greatest difficulty in getting them off to sleep, their laughter bursting out afresh again and again; so that at last father himself had to halloa at the foot of the stairs, that if they were not quiet he should have to come 204up to them, a threat which they knew meant something, whereas all mother’s scolding went for nothing.
After Evan had left, Prescott announced his intention of going up to read, and asked Frank what he intended to do with himself.
“What time is it now?—half-past seven. Tomorrow evening I am engaged out. I think I shall go down and see my uncle.”
Frank, in accordance with this intention, proceeded to change his coat, Prescott waiting while he did so. He took a quantity of letters from his pocket.
“How terribly letters do accumulate, and I am afraid that most of them want answering. Put me in mind of it to-morrow morning, Prescott, and I will do a regular batch37 of letter writing. What’s this? Ah! Stephen Walker—by the way I promised to look him up, and see how he is after his shaking. It is somewhere down Knightsbridge way, so I may as well do it while I think of it. As he is a tobacconist, I will go in and get a cigar, and if he recognises me, well and good; if not, I shall not introduce myself. Good-bye, old man, take care of yourself. 205Mind, you breakfast with me in the morning.”
Frank Maynard found the shop of Stephen Walker without much difficulty. The solitary38 candle burnt on the counter, but no one was in the shop. However, on hearing the door open, Carry came out of the back room, where she had been sitting reading, bringing another lighted candle in her hand. Frank, who had fully39 expected to see an elderly man make his appearance, was not a little surprised at seeing such a remarkably40 pretty girl come out. He asked for some tobacco, which Carry, who had noticed at the first glance that he was not a regular customer, gave him in silence; for, indeed, at the moment he entered, she had been engaged in a most interesting chapter of her book, and she was longing24 to get back to it again.
“Have you any good cigars?” Frank asked.
Almost mechanically she drew back the glasses from above the cigars upon the counter. Frank glanced at them.
“No, thank you,” he said. “I mean, have you any really good ones?”
206Carry looked fairly up at Frank for the first time.
“Come, now,” he urged, “I have no doubt but that you have a box of good ones which you keep for your favoured customers.”
Carry smiled, and brought out the box which was usually reserved for Fred Bingham’s smoking. “I believe these are good, sir.”
“Yes,” Frank said, examining them, “these look the right thing, I will take half a dozen.”
Now Frank had entered the shop with his mind perfectly made up, that unless he was recognised, he should go out again without saying who he was; but Carry looked so very pretty and bright, that he thought it would be very pleasant to sit down and have a chat with her, and to do so there was no other way than to say who he was. So he began,—
“Mr. Walker—your father I presume—has he quite recovered from the fright and the shock he got the other day?”
The bright eyes glanced up inquiringly at him now, and a flash of eager colour came across her face.
207“How did you know my father was hurt, sir?”
“I saw him fall,” Frank said; “indeed I was fortunately close to him at the time, and helped him to pick himself up.”
“Did you indeed, sir?” Carry asked earnestly, “and was it you really who saved his life?”
“I do not know that I actually saved his life,” Frank said, smiling, “but I certainly helped him up.”
“Father! father!” Carry cried, flying into the next room and calling up the stairs. “Come down, come down at once; here is the gentleman who saved your life.” Then she rushed back into the shop, but this time to the same side of the counter as that on which Frank was standing, seized his hand in hers, and looked up into his face with those large eyes of hers. “Oh, I am so glad you have come, I wanted so much to thank you; so, so much. Father has told me all about it, and I know that I owe his life to you.”
“Don’t say anything more about it,” Frank said; “I saved your father’s life by the simple accident that I happened to be close to him when 208he fell, and fortunately having my wits about me, picked him up in time.”
“It is very well for you to say so, sir,” Carry said, “but you will never make me feel differently towards you; you saved father’s life at the risk of your own, and how can I ever thank you enough?” And Carry looked up so gratefully and earnestly, that Frank did as most other young fellows would have done in his place, bent41 down and kissed the bright face lifted up to his. Carry returned the kiss as an impulsive42 child might have done; it was the saviour43 of her father’s life that she thanked, not a good-looking young man, and flushed and excited as she was, the colour hardly deepened upon her cheek.
“There, we are quits now,” Frank said, “so the burden is off your mind.”
At this moment Stephen Walker entered. He was evidently even more nervous and embarrassed than usual.
“Oh, sir,” he began, when Frank interrupted,—
“Pray say no more about it, Mr. Walker. I was lucky enough to be close to you, and did what any one else would have done under the circumstances. Your daughter has already thanked me 209most amply for you both,” and he glanced for a moment at Carry, who this time coloured up hotly; “so please let us say no more about it,” and he shook Stephen Walker warmly by the hand. As he did so, Stephen Walker, by a great effort, overcame his habitual44 nervousness, and said, quietly,
“My life, sir, is of no great value to myself or to any one else except to my daughter here, but for her sake I thank you very much for saving it. And now, sir, it is very long since any gentleman has honoured my roof with his presence, but if you will come in for half an hour, and smoke a cigar, I shall take it as a favour.”
Frank willingly accepted the invitation, and rather surprised at the manner in which it was given, went into the little parlour, Stephen Walker pausing for a moment to speak a word or two to his daughter. He then produced his best cigars, lit one himself instead of his usual pipe, and when Carry came in with two bottles of spirits, she was surprised to find her father and his guest talking together like old acquaintances.
Stephen Walker seemed for once to have laid aside that nervous timidity which had cost him 210so much during his life, and which had become almost a part of his nature; he chatted with Frank quietly and cheerfully, as one gentleman with another. The conversation turned upon travels, and Frank found to his astonishment that there was hardly a place he had visited in Europe that his host did not know as well as he did himself. As for Carry, she could hardly believe her senses. Was this her dear, nervous old father? She had heard him say incidentally that he had travelled when he was a young man, but she had had no idea of the extent of his journeyings. As the conversation went on, her blue eyes opened wider and wider, and at last she was so convinced that she must be dreaming, that she ran the needle, with which she was pretending to work, into her finger, to assure herself that she was awake. Frank remained for about an hour in conversation with Stephen Walker, and then took his leave, promising45 that he would call again. With Carry he had hardly exchanged a word after his first entrance; indeed he had been so much interested in his conversation with her father that he had quite forgotten the motive46 he had in first declaring himself. As for Carry, 211she was far too much surprised at her father’s change of manner, to think of speaking at all. After Frank had gone, Stephen Walker went back into the little parlour, while Carry locked the door and closed the shop for the night. When she had done this, she went into the other room, and found her father sitting in his chair with his head bent down, and his empty pipe, which he had mechanically taken down, lying across his knees. Carry paused a little, and then seeing that he did not raise his head, she went up to him, laid her hand upon his shoulder, and said, “Who is this person? Have I been dreaming, or has this been my old father who has been talking here for the last hour?”
For more than a minute her father did not answer. His fingers played nervously47, with his pipe; then he looked up and said, hurriedly,—
“No, Carry, no. It was not your old father who was speaking then. Not his real self, but quite another being. It was one who might have been me, but not myself as I am. No, no, child, don’t think it, don’t think it.” And he moved his hands nervously, as if to wipe away the thought.
“Don’t think what? pappy dear,” she said, 212coming closer to him and putting one arm round his neck, while with her other she stroked his thin grey hair. “I only am thinking what a bad naughty pappy it has been, when it could talk like that, and knew all these things, never to let poor little me know anything about it. To think that all these years this bad thing should have hidden what it really was, and let me have my own way, and be mistress, and scold it and talk to it as if it were a child, when it was all the time so clever and wise. Naughty, naughty pappy.” Carry talked playfully, but it was evident that she was very much in earnest, for the tears stood in her eyes.
“No, no, Carry, whatever you do, do not think that I was ever as I was to-night; do not think that the one you have always known is a pretence48, and that this one was the real thing. I was never like that. Do not think that misfortune,—you know I was better off once—has so changed me that I have become what I am from that. I never was so, dear; I might have been so, but I never was. Had I always been as you just saw me we should not be here as we are now, and all would have been quite different; but that other 213nature went away when I was quite little, scared by harsh treatment, and never came back again except for a little little time till to-night. Why it did come back to-night I cannot say, only to raise doubts between my child and me,” and Stephen Walker wrung49 his hands in feeble despair.
“No, no, father dear,” Carry said, throwing her arms round his neck and kissing him, “not doubts. I was very pleased and proud, but very surprised too, to hear my old pappy talk like that, and a little ashamed when I thought how much I had underrated you. Not that I should have loved you more, had you been the cleverest man in the world, not one bit more; but I should have looked up to you more, and felt somehow differently towards you.”
“That is just it,” Stephen Walker said, helplessly; “she would have felt differently. She is not going to be my little Carry any more. That other one has come in between us, and frightened her away.”
“No, no, pappy,” Carry said coaxingly50, and seating herself upon his knees, “this is your little Carry, is it not? There, look up, and don’t hang your naughty head down. Is not this 214little Carry? Come, speak, sir, or I shall scold you dreadfully.”
“Yes, yes, my darling,” the old man said, “you are my own little Carry. And now listen, dear, and I will tell you in a few words the story of my life. My father was a tradesman well to do, but he was a stern man, and took a mistaken view of his religious duties. I was a poor weakly delicate child; at school I was beaten and worried; at home lectured and preached at; my life was a misery51 and a burden; and even at that young age, all hope of my ever being what I otherwise might have been, had I been differently brought up, was lost. After some years I became my own master, but it was too late then, my child; too late. For awhile I travelled, as you have heard this evening. Then I married; things went badly with me. I am, as you know, from my nervous timidity, a poor hand at business. So I lost, as might have been expected, what little I had; and here I am a poor, but, I thank God, a far happier and more contented man than I had ever hoped or deserved to be. Happy in having enough to live upon without anxiety, and in having my own little Carry 215to love and pet. And now, Carry, light my pipe, and try and forget what has taken place to-night.”
Carry never spoke52 of it again, but she did think of it a good deal. Only to think that if that dear old father of hers had not lost his money, she should have been rich, and perhaps riding in a carriage instead of selling periodicals and cigars behind a counter. Her father had certainly spoken of losing what little he had, but that could only have been his way of talking; for did he not travel about everywhere, and did it not cost a good deal of money to travel; and was it not only rich people who travelled about in that way? Oh! he must have been rich; and how nice it would have been to be rich, and to do what one liked, and to buy beautiful dresses and things, instead of merely looking at them in the shop windows. And Carry pictured herself in all sorts of pretty dresses, and tasty little bonnets54, and thought she should certainly look very nice. Then she sighed a little, and wondered whether she should ever be rich. Who could say? The gentlemen who came to the shop all paid her compliments, and some of them 216were real gentlemen, not mere53 clerks; and Carry resolved in her mind to be rather more distant in her manner to these last than had been her custom. Besides all this, she thought a good deal of Frank Maynard, so brave and strong and good-looking, but very impertinent—not, perhaps, that she liked him any the worse in her heart for that, girls seldom do—and to think of her kissing him, too. How could she have done such a thing? He must think her very bold and forward; and even when alone, Carry coloured up at the thought, as she had not done at the time when, in the fulness of her gratitude55, she had kissed Frank Maynard.
That gentleman, after leaving the shop, had gone straight to Lowndes Square, where he found only his uncle at home, Alice having gone out, under the chaperonage of a neighbour, to a ball.
“Well, Frank, where do you come from? You do not often drop in so late as this.”
“No, uncle; but I have just been making a call.”
“Making a call, Frank? You have chosen rather a curious hour for visiting. Who is your friend?”
217“Stephen Walker, uncle.”
“Stephen Walker!” Captain Bradshaw said, in a puzzled tone. “I seem to remember the name, but damme if I can recollect56 who it is.”
“Ah, yes, I remember now,” Captain Bradshaw said, laughing; “periodicals punctually supplied. And how long did your visit last, Frank?”
“Better than an hour, uncle. I went into his room and smoked a pipe with him.”
“Oh, indeed. And has the excellent newsman any family, Frank?”
“He has one daughter, and she is without exception one of the very prettiest girls I ever saw.”
“Oh, indeed,” Captain Bradshaw said, drily; “that accounts for the length of your visit. I suppose she was very grateful to the preserver of her father’s life, and that sort of thing? I should not be surprised now if she threw herself into your arms and kissed you—eh, Frank?”
“Well, uncle,” Frank said, laughing, “I shall think you are a conjurer, for I confess that I did kiss her.”
218“Just what I guessed,” Captain Bradshaw said, even more drily. “And the father, Frank? I suppose he is a very superior sort of man?”
“Very much so, uncle; I can assure you, although you are laughing at me, he is quite a gentleman; has travelled all over Europe, and has evidently mixed in good society there.”
“Look here, Frank” Captain Bradshaw said, very gravely; “this is exactly the sort of thing which is sure to end badly. Here we have all the elements: father a decayed gentleman; daughter a lovely and accomplished58 girl, gushing59 over with gratitude to the preserver of her father’s life. I should advise you very seriously not to go there again. I have known these sort of things over and over again, scores of times, and they end in nine cases out of ten in a man’s making either a fool or a rascal60 of himself.”
“But, uncle,” Frank broke out hotly——
“Pooh, pooh! Frank, don’t tell me,” the captain said. “Damme, sir, do you think I have not heard it over and over again? Of course you have only been there once; you have found a pretty, grateful girl, and you have given her a kiss, as was only right and natural that you should 219do under the circumstances. There is no harm in these first meetings—there never is. A man seldom goes into these things with his eyes open—very few men are scoundrels enough deliberately61 to plan these things—but he calls again and again. He still finds her very pretty, and her gratitude gradually grows into a warmer feeling; he has kissed her once, and of course it would be absurd for her to make any objection when he does it the second time; and so these things go on, until the man, as I have said, either makes a fool of himself, and marries her, or makes a rascal of himself, and does worse. I know, Frank, that such an idea is at present as far from your head as it is from mine; but as a man of the world, I ask you, ask yourself, if you were to go there often—sometimes, of course, finding her father away, and having a half hour’s chat with her all to yourself—would you not end by feeling that you had very much better have left the matter alone? Honestly, now?”
“Well, uncle, honestly, now you put it in that light, very likely I should. But I think you know me well enough to feel——”
“Quite so, Frank,” the captain said, taking 220his hand; “quite so. I believe you to be an honourable62, upright young fellow. I believe you to be more free than young men in general from this sort of thing, but for that very reason more likely to make a fool of yourself. Now you have my opinion of the affair. If you are wise you will take my advice, and not go there again.”
As Frank Maynard walked home that night, thinking over what had happened, he took his cigar from his mouth, and said to himself, “By Jove, uncle is right; she is a wonderfully pretty winning little thing; and if I were to go there often, and find, as he says, her father out, I should be very likely to get spoony, and make in the end, as he prophesies63, either a fool or a rascal of myself; so I will take his advice, and go there no more. Prevention is better than cure.”
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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grumbling
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questionable
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inventory
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luxuriously
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luxurious
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rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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goblets
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amber
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glistening
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recess
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mutual
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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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spine
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penal
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perfectly
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crooked
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squatted
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serpentine
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groom
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steward
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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plaintively
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| adv.悲哀地，哀怨地 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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batch
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| n.一批(组，群)；一批生产量 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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saviour
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| n.拯救者，救星 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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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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coaxingly
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| adv. 以巧言诱哄，以甘言哄骗 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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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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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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gushing
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| adj.迸出的；涌出的；喷出的；过分热情的v.喷，涌( gush的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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prophesies
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的第三人称单数 ) | |
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