On reaching his apartment, which was in an angle of the principal edifice3 in the fort, Mr Stanley flung down his gun and paddles, and drawing a chair close to his wife, who was working with her needle near a window, took her hand in his and heaved a deep sigh.
“Why, George, that’s what you used to say to me when you were at a loss for words in the days of our courtship.”
“True, Jessie,” he replied, patting her shoulder with a hand that rough service had rendered hard and long exposure had burnt brown. “But the producing cause then was different from what it is now. Then it was love; now it is perplexity.”
Stanley’s wife was the daughter of English parents, who had settled many years ago in the fur countries. Being quite beyond the reach of any school, they had been obliged to undertake the instruction of their only child, Jessie, as they best could. At first this was an easy matter, but as years flew by, and little Jessie’s mind expanded, it was found to be a difficult matter to carry on her education in a country in most parts of which books were not to be had and schoolmasters did not exist. When the difficulty first presented itself, they talked of sending their little one to England to finish her education; but being unable to bring themselves to part with her, they resolved to have a choice selection of books sent out to them. Jessie’s mother was a clever, accomplished4, and lady-like woman, and decidedly pious5, so that the little flower, which was indeed born to blush unseen, grew up to be a gentle, affectionate woman—one who was a lady in all her thoughts and actions, yet had never seen polite society, save that of her father and mother. In process of time Jessie became Mrs Stanley, and the mother of a little girl whose voice was, at the time her father entered, ringing cheerfully in an adjoining room. Mrs Stanley’s nature was an earnest one, and she no sooner observed that her husband was worried about something, than she instantly dropped the light tone in which she at first addressed him.
“And what perplexes you now, dear George?” she said, laying down her work and looking up in his face with that straightforward6, earnest gaze that in days of yore had set the stout7 backwoodsman’s heart on fire, and still kept it in a perennial8 blaze.
“Nothing very serious,” he replied with a smile; “only these fellows have taken it into their stupid heads that Ungava is worse than the land beyond the Styx; and so, after the tough battle that I had with you this morning in order to prevail on you to remain here for a winter without me, I’ve had to fight another battle with them in order to get them to go on this expedition.”
“Have you been victorious9?” inquired Mrs Stanley.
“No, not yet.”
“Do you really mean to say they are afraid to go? Has Prince refused? are François, Gaspard, and Massan cowards?” she inquired, her eye kindling10 with indignation.
“Nay, my wife, not so. These men are not cowards; nevertheless they don’t feel inclined to go; and as for Dick Prince, he has been off hunting for a week, and I don’t expect him back for three weeks at least, by which time we shall be off.”
Mrs Stanley sighed, as if she felt the utter helplessness of woman in such affairs.
“Why, Jessie, that’s what you used to say to me when you were at a loss for words in the days of our courtship,” said Stanley, smiling.
“Ah, George, like you I may say that the cause is now perplexity; for what can I do to help you in your present difficulty?”
“Truly not much. But I like to tell you of my troubles, and to make more of them than they deserve, for the sake of drawing forth11 your sympathy. Bless your heart!” he said, in a sudden burst of enthusiasm, “I would gladly undergo any amount of trouble every day, if by so doing I should secure that earnest, loving, anxious gaze of your sweet blue eyes as a reward!” Stanley imprinted12 a hearty13 kiss on his wife’s cheek as he made this lover-like speech, and then rose to place his fowling-piece on the pegs14 from which it usually hung over the fireplace.
At that moment the door opened, and a little girl, with bright eyes and flaxen hair, bounded into the room.
“O mamma, mamma!” she said, holding up a sheet of paper, while a look of intense satisfaction beamed on her animated15 countenance16, “see, I have drawn17 Chimo’s portrait. Is it like, mamma? Do you think it like?”
“Come here, Eda, my darling, come to me,” said Stanley, seating himself on a chair and extending his arms. Edith instantly left the portrait of the dog in her mother’s possession, and, without waiting for an opinion as to its merits, ran to her father, jumped on his knee, threw her arms round his neck, and kissed him. Edith was by no means a beautiful child, but miserable18 indeed must have been the taste of him who would have pronounced her plain-looking. Her features were not regular; her nose had a strong tendency to what is called snubbed, and her mouth was large; but to counterbalance these defects she had a pair of large, deep-blue eyes, soft, golden hair, a fair, rosy19 complexion20, and an expression of sweetness at the corners of her mouth that betrayed habitual21 good-nature. She was quick in all her movements, combined with a peculiar22 softness and grace of deportment that was exceedingly attractive.
“Would you like to go, my pet,” said her father, “to a country far, far away in the north, where there are high mountains and deep valleys, inhabited by beautiful reindeer23, and large lakes and rivers filled with fish; where there is very little daylight all the long winter, and where there is scarcely any night all the long, bright summer? Would my Eda like to go there?”
The child possessed24 that fascinating quality of being intensely interested in all that was said to her. As her father spoke25, her eyes gradually expanded and looked straight into his, while her head turned slowly and very slightly to one side. As he concluded, she replied, “Oh! very, very, very much indeed,” with a degree of energy that made both her parents laugh.
“Ah, my darling! would that my lazy men were endued26 with some of your spirit,” said Stanley, patting the child’s head.
“Is Prince a lazy man, papa?” inquired Edith anxiously.
“No, certainly, Prince is not. Why do you ask?”
“Because I love Prince.”
“And do you not love all the men?”
“No,” replied Edith, with some hesitation27; “at least I don’t love them very much, and I hate one.”
“Hate one!” echoed Mrs Stanley. “Come here, my darling.”
Eda slipped from her father’s knee and went to her mother, feeling and looking as if she had said something wrong.
Mrs Stanley was not one of those mothers who, whenever they hear of their children having done anything wrong, assume a look of intense, solemnised horror, that would lead an ignorant spectator to suppose that intelligence had just been received of some sudden and appalling28 catastrophe29. She knew that children could not be deceived by such pieces of acting30. She expressed on her countenance precisely31 what she felt—a slight degree of sorrow that her child should cherish an evil passion, which, she knew, existed in her heart in common with all the human race, but which she expected, by God’s help and blessing32, to subdue33 effectually at last. Kissing Eda’s forehead she said kindly34,—“Which of them do you hate, darling?”
“Gaspard,” replied the child.
“And why do you hate him?”
“Because he struck my dog,” said Eda, while her face flushed and her eyes sparkled; “and he is always rude to everybody, and very, very cruel to the dogs.”
“That is very wrong of Gaspard; but, dearest Eda, do you not remember what is written in God’s Word,—‘Love your enemies?’ It is wrong to hate anybody.”
“I know that, mamma, and I don’t wish to hate Gaspard, but I can’t help it. I wish if I didn’t hate him, but it won’t go away.”
“Well, my pet,” replied Mrs Stanley, pressing the child to her bosom35, “but you must pray for him, and speak kindly to him when you meet him, and that will perhaps put it away. And now let us talk of the far-off country that papa was speaking about. I wonder what he has to tell you about it.”
Stanley had been gazing out of the window during the foregoing colloquy36, apparently37 inattentive, though, in reality, deeply interested in what was said. Turning round, he said—
“I was going to tell Eda that you had arranged to follow me to that country next year, and that perhaps you would bring her along with you.”
“Nay, George, you mistake. I did not arrange to do so—you only proposed the arrangement; but, to say truth, I don’t like it, and I can’t make up my mind to let you go without us. I cannot wait till next year.”
“Well, well, Jessie, I have exhausted38 all my powers of persuasion. I leave it entirely39 to yourself to do as you think best.”
At this moment the sound of deep voices was heard in the hall, which was separated from Stanley’s quarters by a thin partition of wood. In a few seconds the door opened, and George Barney, the Irish butler and general factotum40 to the establishment, announced that the “min wos in the hall awaitin’.”
Giving Eda a parting kiss, Stanley rose and entered the hall, where François, Massan, Gaspard, and several others were grouped in a corner. On their bourgeois41 entering, they doffed42 their bonnets43 and bowed.
“Well, lads,” began Stanley, with a smile, “you’ve thought better of it, I hope, and have come to volunteer for this expedition—” He checked himself and frowned, for he saw by their looks that they had come with quite a different intention. “What have you to say to me?” he continued abruptly44.
The men looked uneasily at each other, and then fixed45 their eyes on François, who was evidently expected to be spokesman.
“Come, François, speak out,” said Stanley; “if you have any objections, out with them; you’re free to say what you please here.”
As he spoke, and ere François could reply, Frank Morton entered the room. “Ah!” he exclaimed, as he deposited his rifle in a corner and flung his cap on the table, “in time, I see, to help at the council!”
“I was just asking François to state his objections to going,” said Stanley, as his young friend took his place beside him.
“Objections!” repeated Frank; “what objections can bold spirits have to go on a bold adventure? The question should have been, ‘Who will be first to volunteer?’”
At this moment the door of Stanley’s apartment opened, and his wife appeared leading Eda by the hand.
“Here are two volunteers,” she said, with a smile; “pray put us at the head of your list. We will go with you to any part of the world!”
“Bravo!” shouted Frank, catching46 up Eda, with whom he was a great favourite, and hugging her tightly in his arms.
“Nay, but, wife, this is sheer folly47. You know not the dangers that await you—”
“Perhaps not,” interrupted Mrs Stanley; “but you know them, and that is enough for me.”
“Indeed, Jessie, I know them not. I can but guess at them.—But, ah! well, ’tis useless to argue further. Be it so; we shall head the list with you and Eda.”
“And put my name next,” said a deep-toned voice from behind the other men. All turned round in surprise.
“Dick Prince!” they exclaimed; “you here?”
“Ay, lads,” said a tall man of about forty, who was not so remarkable48 for physical development (though in this respect he was by no means deficient) as for a certain decision of character that betrayed itself in every outline of his masculine, intelligent countenance—“ay, lads, I’m here; an’ sorry am I that I’ve jist comed in time to hear that you’re sich poor-spirited rascals49 as to hang back when ye should jump for’ard.”
“But how came you so opportunely50, Prince?” inquired Stanley.
“I met an Injin, sir, as told me you was goin’ off; so I thought you might want me, and comed straight back. And now, sir, I’m ready to go; and so is François,” he continued, turning to that individual, who seized his hand and exclaimed, “That am I, my boy—to the moon if ye like!”
“And Massan, too,” continued Prince.
“All right; book me for Nova Zembla,” replied that worthy51.
“So, so,” cried Mr Stanley, with a satisfied smile. “I see, lads, that we’re all of one mind now. Is it not so? Are we agreed?”
“Agreed! agreed!” they replied with one voice.
“That’s well,” he continued. “Now then, lads, clear out and get your kits52 ready.—And ho! Barney, give these men a glass of grog.—Prince, I shall want to talk with you this evening. Come to me an hour hence.—And now,” he added, taking Eda by the hand, “come along, my gentle volunteers; let’s go to supper.”
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1
deigned
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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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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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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perennial
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| adj.终年的；长久的 | |
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victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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imprinted
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| v.盖印（imprint的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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pegs
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| n.衣夹( peg的名词复数 )；挂钉；系帐篷的桩；弦钮v.用夹子或钉子固定( peg的第三人称单数 )；使固定在某水平 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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reindeer
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| n.驯鹿 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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endued
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| v.授予，赋予（特性、才能等）( endue的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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colloquy
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| n.谈话，自由讨论 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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factotum
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| n.杂役；听差 | |
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bourgeois
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| adj./n.追求物质享受的(人)；中产阶级分子 | |
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doffed
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| v.脱去，（尤指）脱帽( doff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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43
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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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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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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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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47
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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48
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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49
rascals
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| 流氓( rascal的名词复数 )； 无赖； （开玩笑说法）淘气的人（尤指小孩）； 恶作剧的人 | |
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opportunely
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| adv.恰好地，适时地 | |
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51
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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52
kits
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| 衣物和装备( kit的名词复数 )； 成套用品； 配套元件 | |
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