Certainly his sister Pomona was not married; she was only sixteen, an age too early for such bliss4, but all the same she was going to have a baby; he had quarrelled with his mother about that. He quarrelled with his mother about most things, she delighted in quarrels, they amused her very much; but on this occasion she was really very angry, or she pretended to be so—which was worse, much worse than the real thing.
[296]
The Flynns were poor people, quite poor, living in two top-floor rooms at the house of a shoemaker, also moderately poor, whose pelting5 and hammering of soles at evening were a durable6 grievance7 to Johnny. He was fond of the shoemaker, a kind bulky tall man of fifty, though he did not like the shoemaker’s wife, as bulky as her husband and as tall but not kind to him or to anything except Johnny himself; nor did he like any of the other lodgers8, of whom there were several, all without exception beyond the reach of affluence9. The Flynn apartments afforded a bedroom in front for Mrs. Flynn and Pomona, a room where Johnny seldom intruded10, never without a strained sense of sanctity similar to the feeling he experienced when entering an empty church as he sometimes did. He slept in the other room, the living room, an arrangement that also annoyed him. He was easily annoyed, but he could never go to bed until mother and sister had retired11, and for the same reason he had always to rise before they got up, an exasperating12 abuse of domestic privilege.
One night he had just slipped happily into his bed and begun to read a book called “Rasselas,” which the odd-eyed man at the public library had commended to him, when his mother returned to the room, first tapping at the door, for Johnny was a prude as she knew not only from instinct and observation but from protests which had occasionally been addressed to her by the indignant boy. She came in now only half clad, in petticoat and stockinged feet, her arms quite bare.[297] They were powerful arms as they had need to be, for she was an ironer of linen13 at a laundry, but they were nice to look at and sometimes Johnny liked looking at them, though he did not care for her to run about like that very often. Mrs. Flynn sat down at the foot of his couch and stared at her son.
“Johnny,” she began steadily14, but paused to rub her forehead with her thick white shiny fingers. “I don’t know how to tell you, I’m sure, or what you’ll say....” Johnny shook “Rasselas” rather impatiently and heaved a protesting sigh. “I can’t think,” continued his mother, “no, I can’t think that it’s our Pomony, but there she is and it’s got to be done, I must tell you; besides you’re the only man in our family now, so it’s only right for you, you see, and she’s going to have a baby. Our Pomony!”
The boy turned his face to the wall, although his mother was not looking at him—she was staring at that hole in the carpet near the fender. At last he said, “Humph ... well?” And as his mother did not say anything, he added, “What about it, I don’t mind?” Mrs. Flynn was horrified15 at his unconcern, or she pretended to be so; Johnny was never sure about the genuineness of her moods. It was most unfilial, but he was like that—so was Mrs. Flynn. Now she cried out, “You’ll have to mind, there, you must. I can’t take everything on my own shoulders. You’re the only man left in our family now, you must, Johnny. What are we to do?”
He glared at the wallpaper a foot from his eyes.[298] It had an unbearable16 pattern of blue but otherwise indescribable flowers; he had it in his mind to have some other pattern there—some day.
“Eh?” asked his mother sharply, striking the foot of the bed with her fist.
“Why ... there’s nothing to be done ... now ... I suppose.” He was blushing furiously. “How did it happen, when will it be?”
“It’s a man she knows, he got hold of her, his name is Stringer. Another two months about. Stringer. Hadn’t you noticed anything? Everybody else has. You are a funny boy, I can’t make you out at all, Johnny, I can’t make you out. Stringer his name is, but I’ll make him pay dearly for it, and that’s what I want you—to talk to you about. Of course he denies of everything, they always do.”
Mrs. Flynn sighed at this disgusting perfidy17, brightening however when her son began to discuss the problem. But she talked so long and he got so sleepy at last that he was very glad when she went to bed again. Secretly she was both delighted and disappointed at his easy acceptance of her dreadful revelation; fearing a terrible outburst of anger she had kept the knowledge from him for a long time. She was glad to escape that, it is true, but she rather hungered for some flashing reprobation18 of this unknown beast, this Stringer. She swore she would bring him to book, but she felt old and lonely, and Johnny was a strange son, not very virile19. The mother had told Pomona terrifying prophetic tales of what Johnny would do, what he would be certain to do; he would,[299] for instance, murder that Stringer and drive Pomony into the street; of course he would. Yet here he was, quite calm about it, as if he almost liked it. Well, she had told him, she could do no more, she would leave it to him.
In the morning Johnny greeted his sister with tender affection and at evening, having sent her to bed, he and his mother resumed their discussion.
“Do you know, mother,” he said, “she is quite handsome, I never noticed it before.”
Mrs. Flynn regarded him with desperation and then informed him that his sister was an ugly disgusting little trollop who ought to be birched.
“No, no, you are wrong, mother, it’s bad, but it’s all right.”
“You think you know more about such things than your own mother, I suppose.” Mrs. Flynn sniffed20 and glared.
He said it to her gently: “Yes.”
She produced a packet of notepaper and envelopes “The Monster Packet for a Penny,” all complete with a wisp of pink blotting21 paper and a penholder without a nib22, which she had bought at the Chandler’s on her way home that evening, along with some sago and some hair oil for Johnny whose stiff unruly hair provoked such spasms23 of rage in her bosom24 that she declared that she was “sick to death of it.” On the supper table lay also a platter, a loaf, a basin of mustard pickle25, and a plate with round lengths of cheese shaped like small candles.
“Devil blast him!” muttered Mrs. Flynn as she[300] fetched from a cupboard shelf a sour-looking bottle labelled Writing Fluid, a dissolute pen, and requested Johnny to compose a letter to Stringer—devil blast him!—telling him of the plight26 of her daughter Pomona Flynn, about whom she desired him to know that she had already consulted her lawyers and the chief of police and intimating that unless she heard from him satisfactory by the day after tomorrow the matter would pass out of her hands.
“That’s no good, it’s not the way,” declared her son thoughtfully; Mrs. Flynn therefore sat humbly27 confronting him and awaited the result of his cogitations. Johnny was not a very robust28 youth, but he was growing fast now, since he had taken up with running; he was very fleet, so Mrs. Flynn understood, and had already won a silver-plated hot water jug29, which they used for the milk. But still he was thin and not tall, his dark hair was scattered30; his white face was a nice face, thought Mrs. Flynn, very nice, only there was always something strange about his clothes. She couldn’t help that now, but he had such queer fancies, there was no other boy in the street whose trousers were so baggy31 or of such a colour. His starched33 collars were all right of course, beautifully white and shiny, she got them up herself, and they set his neck off nicely.
“All we need do,” her son broke in, “is just tell him.”
“Tell him?”
“Yes, just tell him about it—it’s very unfortunate—and ask him to come and see you. I hope, though,”[301] he paused, “I hope they won’t want to go and get married.”
“He ought to be made to, devil blast him,” cried Mrs. Flynn, “only she’s frightened, she is; afraid of her mortal life of him! We don’t want him here, neither, she says he’s a nasty horrible man.”
Johnny sat dumb for some moments. Pomona was a day girl in service at a restaurant. Stringer was a clerk to an auctioneer. The figure of his pale little sister shrinking before a ruffian (whom he figured as a fat man with a red beard) startled and stung him.
“Besides,” continued Mrs. Flynn, “he’s just going to be married to some woman, some pretty judy, God help her ... in fact, as like as not he’s married to her already by now. No, I gave up that idea long ago, I did, before I told you, long ago.”
“We can only tell him about Pomony then, and ask him what he would like to do.”
“What he would like to do, well, certainly!” protested the widow.
“And if he’s a decent chap,” continued Johnny serenely34, “it will be all right, there won’t be any difficulty. If he ain’t, then we can do something else.”
His mother was reluctant to concur35 but the boy had his way. He sat with his elbows on the table, his head pressed in his hands, but he could not think out the things he wanted to say to this man. He would look up and stare around the room as if he were in a strange place, though it was not strange to him at all for he had lived in it many years. There was not[302] much furniture in the apartment, yet there was but little space in it. The big table was covered with American cloth, mottled and shiny. Two or three chairs full of age and discomfort36 stood upon a carpet that was full of holes and stains. There were some shelves in a recess37, an engraving38 framed in maple39 of the player scene from “Hamlet,” and near by on the wall hung a gridiron whose prongs were woven round with coloured wools and decorated with satin bows. Mrs. Flynn had a passion for vases, and two of these florid objects bought at a fair companioned a clock whose once snowy face had long since turned sallow because of the oil Mrs. Flynn had administered “to make it go properly.”
But he could by no means think out this letter; his mother sat so patiently watching him that he asked her to go and sit in the other room. Then he sat on, sniffing40, as if thinking with his nose, while the room began to smell of the smoking lamp. He was remembering how years ago, when they were little children, he had seen Pomony in her nightgown and, angered with her for some petty reason, he had punched her on the side. Pomony had turned white, she could not speak, she could not breathe. He had been momentarily proud of that blow, it was a good blow, he had never hit another boy like that. But Pomony had fallen into a chair, her face tortured with pain, her eyes filled with tears that somehow would not fall. Then a fear seized him, horrible, piercing, frantic41: she was dying, she would die, and there was nothing he could do to stop her! In passionate42 remorse43 and pity he had[303] flung himself before her, kissing her feet—they were small and beautiful though not very clean,—until at last he had felt Pomony’s arms droop44 caressingly45 around him and heard Pomony’s voice speaking lovingly and forgivingly to him.
“What are we going to do about her?” she asked, “she’ll have to go away.”
“Away! Do you mean go to a home? No, but why go away? I’m not ashamed; what is there to be ashamed of?”
“Who the deuce is going to look after her? You talk like a tom-fool—yes, you are,” insisted Mrs. Flynn passionately47. “I’m out all day from one week’s end to the other. She can’t be left alone, and the people downstairs are none too civil about it as it is. She’ll have to go to the workhouse, that’s all.”
Johnny was aghast, indignant, and really angry. He would never never consent to such a thing! Pomony! Into a workhouse! She should not, she should stop at home, here, like always, and have a nurse.
“Fool!” muttered his mother, with castigating48 scorn. “Where’s the money for nurses and doctors to come from? I’ve got no money for such things!”
“I’ll get some!” declared Johnny hotly.
“Where?”
“I’ll sell something.”
“What?”
“I’ll save up.”
“How?”
[304]
“And I’ll borrow some.”
“You’d better shut up now or I’ll knock your head off,” cried his mother. “Fidding and fadding about—you’re daft!”
“She shan’t go to any workhouse!”
“Fool!” repeated his mother, revealing her disgust at his hopeless imbecility.
“I tell you she shall not go there,” shouted the boy, stung into angry resentment49 by her contempt.
“She shall, she must.”
“I say she shan’t!”
“O don’t be such a blasted fool,” cried the distracted woman, rising from her chair.
Johnny sprang to his feet almost screaming, “You are the blasted fool, you, you!”
Mrs. Flynn seized a table knife and struck at her son’s face with it. He leaped away in terror, his startled appearance, glaring eyes and strained figure so affecting Mrs. Flynn that she dropped the knife, and, sinking into her chair, burst into peals50 of hysterical51 laughter. Recovering himself the boy hastened to the laughing woman. The maddening peals continued and increased, shocking him, unnerving him again; she was dying, she would die. His mother’s laughter had always been harsh but delicious to him, it was so infectious, but this was demoniacal, it was horror.
“O, don’t, don’t, mother, don’t,” he cried, fondling her and pressing her yelling face to his breast. But she pushed him fiercely away and the terrifying laughter continued to sear his very soul until he could bear it no[305] longer. He struck at her shoulders with clenched52 fist and shook her frenziedly, frantically53, crying:
“Stop it, stop, O stop it, she’ll go mad, stop it, stop.”
He was almost exhausted54, when suddenly Pomona rushed into the room in her nightgown. Her long black hair tumbled in lovely locks about her pale face and her shoulder; her feet were bare.
“O Johnny, what are you doing?” gasped55 his little pale sister Pomony, who seemed so suddenly, so unbelievably, turned into a woman. “Let her alone.”
She pulled the boy away, fondling and soothing56 their distracted mother until Mrs. Flynn partially57 recovered.
“Come to bed now,” commanded Pomona, and Mrs. Flynn thereupon, still giggling58, followed her child. When he was alone trembling Johnny turned down the lamp flame which had filled the room with smoky fumes59. His glance rested upon the table knife; the room was silent and oppressive now. He glared at the picture of Hamlet, at the clock with the oily face, at the notepaper lying white upon the table. They had all turned into quivering semblances60 of the things they were; he was crying.
II
A letter, indited61 in the way he desired, was posted by Johnny on his way to work next morning. He was clerk in the warehouse62 of a wholesale63 provision merchant and he kept tally64, in some underground cellars carpeted with sawdust, of hundreds of sacks of sugar[306] and cereals, tubs of butter, of lard, of treacle65, chests of tea, a regular promontory66 of cheeses, cases of candles, jam, starch32, and knife polish, many of them stamped with the mysterious words “Factory Bulked.” He did not like those words, they sounded ugly and their meaning was obscure. Sometimes he took the cheese-tasting implement67 from the foreman’s bench and, when no one was looking, pierced it into a fine Cheddar or Stilton, withdrawing it with a little cylinder68 of cheese lying like a small candle in the curved blade. Then he would bite off the piece of rind, restore it neatly69 to the body of the cheese, and drop the other candle-like piece into his pocket. Sometimes his pocket was so full of cheese that he was reluctant to approach the foreman fearing he would smell it. He was very fond of cheese. All of them liked cheese.
The Flynns waited several days for a reply to the letter, but none came. Stringer did not seem to think it called for any reply. At the end of a week Johnny wrote again to his sister’s seducer70. Pomona had given up her situation at the restaurant; her brother was conspicuously71 and unfailingly tender to her. He saved what money he could, spent none upon himself, and brought home daily an orange or an egg for the girl. He wrote a third letter to the odious72 Stringer, not at all threateningly, but just invitingly73, persuasively74. And he waited, but waited in vain. Then in that underground cheese tunnel where he worked he began to plot an alternate course of action, and as time passed bringing no recognition from Stringer his plot began to crystallize and determine itself. It was nothing[307] else than to murder the man; he would kill him, he had thought it out, it could be done. He would wait for him near Stringer’s lodgings75 one dark night and beat out his brains with a club. All that was necessary then would be to establish an alibi76. For some days Johnny dwelt so gloatingly upon the details of this retribution that he forgot about the alibi. By this time he had accumulated from his mother—for he could never once bring himself to interrogate77 Pomona personally about her misfortune—sufficient description of Stringer to recognize him among a thousand, so he thought. It appeared that he was not a large man with a red beard, but a small man with glasses, spats78, and a slight limp, who always attended a certain club of which he was the secretary at a certain hour on certain nights in each week. To Johnny’s mind, the alibi was not merely important in itself, it was a romantic necessity. And it was so easy; it would be quite sufficient for Johnny to present himself at the public library where he was fairly well known. The library was quite close to Stringer’s lodgings and they, fortunately, were in a dark quiet little street. He would borrow a book from the odd-eyed man in the reference department, retire to one of the inner study rooms, and at half past seven creep out unseen, creep out, creep out with his thick stick and wait by the house in that dark quiet little street; it was very quiet, and it would be very dark; wait there for him all in the dark, just creep quietly out—and wait. But in order to get that alibi quite perfect he would have to take a friend with him to the library room, so that the friend could swear[308] that he had really been there all the time, because it was just possible the odd-eyed man wouldn’t be prepared to swear to it; he did not seem able to see very much, but it was hard to tell with people like that.
Johnny Flynn had not told any of his friends about his sister’s misfortune; in time, time enough, they were bound to hear of it. Of all his friends he rejected the close ones, those of whom he was very fond, and chose a stupid lump of a fellow, massive and nasal, named Donald. Though awkward and fat he had joined Johnny’s running club; Johnny had trained him for his first race. But he had subjected Donald to such exhausting exercise, what with skipping, gymnastics, and tiring jaunts79, that though his bulk disappeared his strength went with it; to Johnny’s great chagrin80 he grew weak, and failed ignominiously81 in the race. Donald thereafter wisely rejected all offers of assistance and projected a training system of his own. For weeks he tramped miles into hilly country, in the heaviest of boots to the soles of which he had nailed some thick pads of lead. When he donned his light running shoes for his second race he displayed an agility82 and suppleness83, a god-like ease, that won not only the race, but the admiration84 and envy of all the competitors. It was this dull lumpish Donald that Johnny fixed85 upon to assist him. He was a great tool and it would not matter if he did get himself into trouble. Even if he did Johnny could get him out again, by confessing to the police; so that was all right. He asked Donald to go to the library with him on a certain[309] evening to read a book called “Rasselas”—it was a grand book, very exciting—and Donald said he would go. He did not propose to tell Donald of his homicidal intention; he would just sit him down in the library with “Rasselas” while he himself sat at another table behind Donald, yes, behind him; even if Donald noticed him creeping out he would say he was only going to the counter to get another book. It was all quite clear, and safe. He would be able to creep out, creep out, rush up to the dark little street—yes, he would ask Donald for a piece of that lead and wrap it round the head of the stick—he would creep out, and in ten minutes or twenty he would be back in the library again asking for another book or sitting down by Donald as if he had not been outside the place, as if nothing had happened as far as he was concerned, nothing at all!
The few intervening days passed with vexing deliberation. Each night seemed the best of all possible nights for the deed, each hour that Stringer survived seemed a bad hour for the world. They were bad slow hours for Johnny, but at last the day dawned, passed, darkness came, and the hour rushed upon him.
He took his stick and called for Donald.
“Can’t come,” said Donald, limping to the door in answer to Johnny’s knock. “I been and hurt my leg.”
For a moment Johnny was full of an inward silent blasphemy86 that flashed from a sudden tremendous hatred87, but he said calmly:
“But still ... no, you haven’t ... what have you hurt it for?”
[310]
Donald was not able to deal with such locution. He ignored it and said:
“My knee-cap, my shin, Oo, come and have a look. We was mending a flue ... it was the old man’s wheelbarrow.... Didn’t I tell him of it neither!”
“O, you told him of it?”
Johnny listened to his friend’s narration88 very abstractedly and at last went off to the library by himself. As he walked away he was conscious of a great feeling of relief welling up in him. He could not get an alibi without Donald, not a sure one, so he would not be able to do anything tonight. He felt relieved, he whistled as he walked, he was happy again, but he went on to the library. He was going to rehearse the alibi by himself, that was the wise thing to do, of course, rehearse it, practise it; it would be perfect next week when Donald was better. So he did this. He got out a book from the odd-eyed man, who strangely enough was preoccupied89 and did not seem to recognize him. It was disconcerting, that; he specially90 wanted the man to notice him. He went into the study room rather uneasily. Ten minutes later he crept out unseen, carrying his stick—he had forgotten to ask Donald for the piece of lead—and was soon lurking91 in the shadow of the dark quiet little street.
It was a perfect spot, there could not be a better place, not in the middle of a town. The house had an area entry through an iron gate; at the end of a brick pathway, over a coalplate, five or six stone steps led steeply up to a narrow front door with a brass92 letter box, a brass knocker, and a glazed93 fanlight painted 29.[311] The windows too were narrow and the whole house had a squeezed appearance. A church clock chimed eight strokes. Johnny began to wonder what he would do, what would happen, if Stringer were suddenly to come out of that gateway94. Should he—would he—could he...? And then the door at the top of the steps did open wide and framed there in the lighted space young Flynn saw the figure of his own mother.
She came down the steps alone and he followed her short jerky footsteps secretly until she reached the well-lit part of the town, where he joined her. It was quite simple, she explained to him with an air of superior understanding: she had just paid Mr. Stringer a visit, waiting for letters from that humbug96 had made her “popped.” Had he thought she would creep on her stomach and beg for a fourpenny piece when she could put him in jail if all were known, as she would too, if it hadn’t been for her children, poor little fatherless things? No, middling boxer97, not that! So she had left off work early, had gone and caught him at his lodgings and taxed him with it. He denied of it; he was that cocky, it so mortified98 her, that she had snatched up the clock and thrown it at him. Yes, his own clock.
“But it was only a little one, though. He was frightened out of his life and run upstairs. Then his landlady99 came rushing in. I told her all about it, everything, and she was that ‘popped’ with him she give me the name and address of his feons—their banns is been put up. She made him come downstairs and face me, and his face was as white as the driven snow. Johnny, it was. He was obliged to own up. The lady said to[312] him ‘Whatever have you been at, Mr. Stringer,’ she said to him. ‘I can’t believe it, knowing you for ten years, you must have forgot yourself.’ O, a proper understanding it was,” declared Mrs. Flynn finally; “his lawyers are going to write to us and put everything in order; Duckle & Hoole, they are.”
Again a great feeling of relief welled up in the boy’s breast, as if, having been dragged into a horrible vortex he had been marvellously cast free again.
The days that followed were blessedly tranquil100, though Johnny was often smitten101 with awe102 at the thought of what he had contemplated103. That fool, Donald, too, one evening insisted on accompanying him to the library where he spent an hour of baffled understanding over the pages of “Rasselas.” But the lawyers Duckle & Hoole aroused a tumult104 of hatred in Mrs. Flynn. They pared down her fond anticipations105 to the minimum; they put so much slight upon her family, and such a gentlemanly decorum and generous forbearance upon the behaviour of their client, Mr. Stringer, that she became inarticulate. When informed that that gentleman desired no intercourse106 whatsoever107 with any Flynn or the offspring thereof she became speechless. Shortly, Messrs. Duckle & Hoole begged to submit for her approval a draft agreement embodying108 their client’s terms, one provision of which was that if the said Flynns violated the agreement by taking any proceedings109 against the said Stringer they should thereupon ipso facto willy nilly or whatever forfeit110 and pay unto him the said Stringer not by way of penalty[313] but as damages the sum of ￡100. Whereupon Mrs. Flynn recovered her speech and suffered a little tender irony111 to emerge.
The shoemaker, whose opinion upon this draft agreement was solicited112, confessed himself as much baffled by its phraseology as he was indignant at its tenor113 and terms.
“That man,” he declared solemnly to Johnny, “ought to have his brain knocked out”; and he conveyed by subtle intimations to the boy that that was the course he would favour were he himself standing95 in Johnny’s shoes. “One dark night,” he had roared with a dreadful glare in his eyes, “with a neat heavy stick!”
The Flynns also consulted a cabman who lodged114 in the house. His legal qualifications appeared to lie in the fact that he had driven the private coach of a major general whose son, now a fruit farmer in British Columbia, had once been entered for the bar. The cabman was a very positive and informative115 cabman. “List and learn,” he would say, “list and learn”: and he would regale116 Johnny, or any one else, with an oration117 to which you might listen as hard as you liked but from which you could not learn. He was husky, with a thick red neck and the cheek bones of a horse. Having perused118 the agreement with one eye judicially119 cocked, the other being screened by a drooping120 lid adorned121 with a glowing nodule, he carefully refolded the folios and returned them to the boy:
“Any judge—who was up to snuff—would impound that dockyment.”
[314]
“What’s that?”
“But what’s impound it? What for?”
“I tell you it would be impounded, that dockyment would,” asseverated123 the cabman. Once more he took the papers from Johnny, opened them out, reflected upon them and returned them again without a word. Catechism notwithstanding, the oracle124 remained impregnably mystifying.
The boy continued to save his pocket money. His mother went about her work with a grim air, having returned the draft agreement to the lawyers with an ungracious acceptance of the terms.
One April evening Johnny went home to an empty room; Pomona was out. He prepared his tea and afterwards sat reading “Tales of a Grandfather.” That was a book if anybody wanted a book! When darkness came he descended125 the stairs to enquire126 of the shoemaker’s wife about Pomony, he was anxious. The shoemaker’s wife was absent too and it was late when she returned accompanied by his mother.
Pomona’s hour had come—they had taken her to the workhouse—only just in time—a little boy—they were both all right—he was an uncle.
His mother’s deceit stupified him, he felt shamed, deeply shamed, but after a while that same recognizable feeling of relief welled up in his breast and drenched127 him with satisfactions. After all what could it matter where a person was born, or where one died, as long as you had your chance of growing up at all,[315] and, if lucky, of growing up all right. But this babe had got to bear the whole burden of its father’s misdeed, though; it had got to behave itself or it would have to pay its father a hundred pounds as damages. Perhaps that was what that queer bit of poetry meant, “The child is father of the man.”
His mother swore that they were very good and clean and kind at the workhouse, everything of the best and most expensive; there was nothing she would have liked better than to have gone there herself when Johnny and Pomony were born.
“And if ever I have any more,” Mrs. Flynn sighed, but with profound conviction, “I will certainly go there.”
Johnny gave her half the packet of peppermints128 he had bought for Pomona. With some of his saved money he bought her a bottle of stout129—she looked tired and sad—she was very fond of stout. The rest of the money he gave her for to buy Pomony something when she visited her. He would not go himself to visit her, not there. He spent the long intervening evenings at the library—the odd-eyed man had shown him a lovely book about birds. He was studying it. On Sundays, in the spring, he was going out to catch birds himself, out in the country, with a catapult. The cuckoo was a marvellous bird. So was a titlark. Donald Gower found a goatsucker’s nest last year.
Then one day he ran from work all the way home, knowing Pomony would at last be there. He walked slowly up the street to recover his breath. He stepped up the stairs, humming quite casually130, and tapped at[316] the door of their room—he did not know why he tapped. He heard Pomony’s voice calling him. A thinner paler Pomony stood by the hearth131, nursing a white-clothed bundle, the fat pink babe.
He took Pomona into his arms, crushing the infant against her breast and his own. But she did not mind. She did not rebuke133 him, she even let him dandle her precious babe.
“Look, what is his name to be, Pomony? Let’s call him Rasselas.”
Pomona looked at him very doubtfully.
“Or would you like William Wallace then, or Robert Bruce?”
“I shall call him Johnny,” said Pomona.
“O, that’s silly!” protested her brother. But Pomona was quite positive about this. He fancied there were tears in her eyes, she was always tender-hearted.
“I shall call him Johnny, Johnny Flynn.”
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1
vexing
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| adj.使人烦恼的，使人恼火的v.使烦恼( vex的现在分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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manifestations
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| n.表示，显示（manifestation的复数形式） | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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pelting
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| 微不足道的，无价值的，盛怒的 | |
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durable
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| adj.持久的，耐久的 | |
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grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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8
lodgers
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| n.房客，租住者( lodger的名词复数 ) | |
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9
affluence
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| n.充裕，富足 | |
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10
intruded
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| n.侵入的，推进的v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的过去式和过去分词 )；把…强加于 | |
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11
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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12
exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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13
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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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
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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16
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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17
perfidy
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| n.背信弃义，不忠贞 | |
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18
reprobation
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| n.斥责 | |
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19
virile
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| adj.男性的；有男性生殖力的；有男子气概的；强有力的 | |
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20
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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21
blotting
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| 吸墨水纸 | |
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22
nib
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| n.钢笔尖；尖头 | |
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23
spasms
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| n.痉挛( spasm的名词复数 )；抽搐；（能量、行为等的）突发；发作 | |
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24
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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25
pickle
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| n.腌汁，泡菜；v.腌，泡 | |
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26
plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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27
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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28
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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29
jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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30
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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31
baggy
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| adj.膨胀如袋的，宽松下垂的 | |
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32
starch
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| n.淀粉；vt.给...上浆 | |
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33
starched
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|
| adj.浆硬的，硬挺的，拘泥刻板的v.把（衣服、床单等）浆一浆( starch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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34
serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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35
concur
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| v.同意，意见一致，互助，同时发生 | |
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36
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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37
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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38
engraving
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| n.版画；雕刻（作品）；雕刻艺术；镌版术v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的现在分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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39
maple
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| n.槭树，枫树，槭木 | |
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40
sniffing
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|
| n.探查法v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的现在分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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41
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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42
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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43
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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44
droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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45
caressingly
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| 爱抚地，亲切地 | |
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46
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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47
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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48
castigating
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| v.严厉责骂、批评或惩罚（某人）( castigate的现在分词 ) | |
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49
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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50
peals
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| n.（声音大而持续或重复的）洪亮的响声( peal的名词复数 )；隆隆声；洪亮的钟声；钟乐v.（使）（钟等）鸣响，（雷等）发出隆隆声( peal的第三人称单数 ) | |
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51
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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52
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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54
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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55
gasped
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|
| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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56
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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57
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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58
giggling
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的现在分词 ) | |
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59
fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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60
semblances
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| n.外表，外观（semblance的复数形式） | |
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61
indited
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| v.写（文章，信等）创作，赋诗，创作( indite的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
warehouse
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|
| n.仓库；vt.存入仓库 | |
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63
wholesale
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|
| n.批发；adv.以批发方式；vt.批发，成批出售 | |
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64
tally
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|
| n.计数器，记分，一致，测量；vt.计算，记录，使一致；vi.计算，记分，一致 | |
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65
treacle
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| n.糖蜜 | |
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66
promontory
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| n.海角；岬 | |
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67
implement
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| n.(pl.)工具，器具；vt.实行，实施，执行 | |
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68
cylinder
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|
| n.圆筒，柱(面)，汽缸 | |
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69
neatly
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|
| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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70
seducer
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| n.诱惑者,骗子,玩弄女性的人 | |
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71
conspicuously
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| ad.明显地，惹人注目地 | |
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72
odious
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|
| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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73
invitingly
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| adv. 动人地 | |
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74
persuasively
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| adv.口才好地；令人信服地 | |
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75
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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76
alibi
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| n.某人当时不在犯罪现场的申辩或证明；借口 | |
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77
interrogate
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| vt.讯问，审问，盘问 | |
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78
spats
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| n.口角( spat的名词复数 )；小争吵；鞋罩；鞋套v.spit的过去式和过去分词( spat的第三人称单数 )；口角；小争吵；鞋罩 | |
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79
jaunts
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| n.游览( jaunt的名词复数 ) | |
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80
chagrin
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|
| n.懊恼；气愤；委屈 | |
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81
ignominiously
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|
| adv.耻辱地，屈辱地，丢脸地 | |
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82
agility
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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83
suppleness
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| 柔软； 灵活； 易弯曲； 顺从 | |
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84
admiration
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|
| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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85
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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86
blasphemy
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|
| n.亵渎，渎神 | |
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87
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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88
narration
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| n.讲述，叙述；故事；记叙体 | |
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89
preoccupied
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|
| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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90
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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91
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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92
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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93
glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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94
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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95
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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96
humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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97
boxer
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| n.制箱者，拳击手 | |
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98
mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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99
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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100
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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101
smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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102
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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103
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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104
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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105
anticipations
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| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
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106
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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107
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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108
embodying
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| v.表现( embody的现在分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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109
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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110
forfeit
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| vt.丧失；n.罚金，罚款，没收物 | |
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111
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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112
solicited
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| v.恳求( solicit的过去式和过去分词 )；（指娼妇）拉客；索求；征求 | |
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113
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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114
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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115
informative
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| adj.提供资料的，增进知识的 | |
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116
regale
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| v.取悦，款待 | |
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117
oration
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| n.演说，致辞，叙述法 | |
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118
perused
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的过去式和过去分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
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119
judicially
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| 依法判决地，公平地 | |
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120
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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121
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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122
wryly
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| adv. 挖苦地，嘲弄地 | |
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123
asseverated
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| v.郑重声明，断言( asseverate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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124
oracle
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| n.神谕，神谕处，预言 | |
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125
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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126
enquire
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| v.打听，询问；调查，查问 | |
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127
drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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128
peppermints
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| n.薄荷( peppermint的名词复数 )；薄荷糖 | |
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130
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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131
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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132
larks
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| n.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的名词复数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了v.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的第三人称单数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了 | |
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133
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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