One’s own fireside is, to all well-regulated minds, a pleasant subject of contemplation when one is absent, and a source of deep gratification when present.
Especially may this be said to be the case in a cold, raw night in November, when mankind has a tendency to become chronically1 cross out of doors, and nature, generally, looks lugubrious2; for, just in proportion as the exterior3 world grows miserably4 chill, the world “at home,” with its blazing gas, its drawn5 curtains, its crackling fires, and its beaming smiles, becomes doubly comfortable and cosy6.
Even James Auberly, pompous7, stern, and ungenial though he was, appeared to entertain some such thoughts, as he sat by his own fireside, one such night, in his elegant mansion8 in Beverly Square, Euston Road, London; and smiled grimly over the top of the Times newspaper at the fire.
Mr Auberly always smiled—when he condescended9 to smile—grimly. He seldom laughed; when he did so he did it grimly too. In fact, he was a grim man altogether; a gaunt, cadaverous, tall, careworn10, middle-aged11 man—also a great one. There could be no question as to that; for, besides being possessed12 of wealth, which, in the opinion of some minds, constitutes greatness, he was chairman of a railway company, and might have changed situations with the charwoman who attended the head office of the same without much difference being felt. He was also a director of several other companies, which, fortunately for them, did not appear to require much direction in the conduct of their affairs.
Mr Auberly was also leader of the fashion, in his own circle, and an oracle13 among his own parasites14; but, strange to say, he was nobody whatever in any other sphere. Cabmen, it is true, appeared to have an immense respect for him on first acquaintance, for his gold rings and chains bespoke15 wealth, and he was a man of commanding presence, but their respect never outlived a first engagement. Cabmen seldom touched their hats to Mr Auberly on receiving their fare; they often parted from him with a smile as grim as his own, and once a peculiarly daring member of the fraternity was heard blandly16 to request him to step again into the cab, and he would drive him the “nine hundred and ninety-ninth part of an inch that was still doo on the odd sixpence.” That generous man even went further, and, when his fare walked away without making a reply, he shouted after him that “if he’d only do ’im the honour to come back, he’d throw in a inch an’ a half extra for nothink.” But Mr Auberly was inexorable.
“Louisa, dear,” said Mr Auberly, recovering from the grim smile which had indicated his appreciation17 of his own fireside, “pour me out another cup of coffee, and then you had better run away to bed. It is getting late.”
“Yes, papa,” replied a little dark-eyed, dark-haired girl, laying down her book and jumping up to obey the command.
It may be added that she was also dark-dressed, for Mr Auberly had become a widower18 and his child motherless only six months before.
While Louisa was pouring out the coffee, her father rose and turned his back to the fire.
It was really interesting, almost awe-inspiring, to behold19 Mr Auberly rise; he was so very tall, and so exceedingly straight. So remarkably20 perpendicular21 was he, so rigidly22 upright, that a hearty23 but somewhat rude sea-captain, with whom he once had business transactions, said to his mate on one occasion that he believed Mr Auberly must have been born with a handspike lashed24 to his backbone25. Yes, he was wonderfully upright, and it would have been downright madness to have doubted the uprightness of the spirit which dwelt in such a body; so nobody did doubt it, of course, except a few jaundiced and sceptical folk, who never could be got to believe anything.
“Good-night, my love,” said Mr Auberly, as the child placed the coffee beside his chair, and then advanced, somewhat timidly, and held up her cheek to be kissed.
The upright man stooped, and there was a shade less of grimness in his smile as his lips touched his daughter’s pale cheek.
Louisa, or, to use the name by which she was better known in the house, Loo, had clasped her hands tightly together while she was in the act of receiving this tribute of parental26 affection, as if she were struggling to crush down some feeling, but the feeling, whatever it was, would not be crushed down; it rose up and asserted itself by causing Loo to burst into a passionate27 flood of tears, throw her arms round her father’s neck, and hold him tight there while she kissed his cheek all over.
“Tut, tut, child!” exclaimed Mr Auberly, endeavouring to re-arrange the stiff collar and cravat28, which had been sadly disordered; “you must really try to get over these—there, don’t be cast down,” he added, in a kinder tone, patting Loo’s head. “Good-night, dear; run away to bed now, and be a good girl.”
Loo smiled faintly through her tears as she looked up at her father, who had again become upright, said “Good-night,” and ran from the room with a degree of energy that might have been the result of exuberant29 spirits, though possibly it was caused by some other feeling.
Mr Auberly sat for some time, dividing his attentions pretty equally between the paper, the fire, and the coffee, until he recollected30 having received a letter that day which he had forgotten to answer, whereupon he rose and sat down before his writing-table to reply.
The letter was from a poor widow, a sister-in-law of his own, who had disgraced herself for ever—at least in Mr Auberly’s eyes—by having married a waterman. Mr Auberly shut his eyes obstinately31 to the fact that the said waterman had, by the sheer force of intelligence, good conduct, courage, and perseverance32, raised himself to the command of an East Indiaman. It is astonishing how firmly some people can shut their eyes—sew them up, as it were, and plaster them over—to some things, and how easily they can open them to others! Mr Auberly’s eyes were open only to the fact that his sister-in-law had married a waterman, and that that was an unpardonable sin, for which she was for ever banished33 from the sunshine of his presence.
The widow’s letter set forth34 that since her husband’s death she had been in somewhat poor circumstances—though not in absolute poverty—for which she expressed herself thankful; that she did not write to ask for money, but that she had a young son—a boy of about twelve—whom she was very anxious to get into a mercantile house of some sort, and, knowing his great influence, etcetera, etcetera, she hoped that, forgetting, if not forgiving, the past, now that her husband was dead, he would kindly35 do what he could, etcetera, etcetera.
To this Mr Auberly replied that it was impossible to forgive the past, but he would do his best to forget it, and also to procure36 a situation for her son (though certainly not in his own office), on one consideration, namely, that she, the widow, should forget the past also—including his own, Mr Auberly’s, existence (as she had once before promised to do), and that she should never inform her son, or any other member of her family—if there happened to be any others members of it—of the relationship existing between them, nor apply to him by visit or by letter for any further favours. In the event of her agreeing to this arrangement, she might send her son to his residence in Beverly Square, on Thursday next, between eleven and twelve.
Just as he concluded this letter a footman entered softly and laid a three-cornered note on the table.
“Stay, Hopkins, I want you,” said Mr Auberly, as he opened the note and ran his eye over it.
Hopkins, who was clad in blue velvet37 and white stockings, stood like a mute beside his master’s chair. He was very tall and very thin, and very red in the nose.
“Is the young woman waiting, Hopkins?”
“Yes, sir; she’s in the lobby.”
“Send her up.”
In a few seconds Hopkins reopened the door, and looked down with majestic38 condescension39 on a smart young girl whom he ushered40 into the room.
“That will do; you may go—stay, post this letter. Come here, young woman.”
The young woman, who was evidently a respectable servant-girl, approached with some timidity.
“Your name is Matty Merryon, I understand (yes, sir), at least so your late mistress, Miss Tippet, informs me. Pray, what does Matty stand for?”
“Martha, sir.”
“Well, Martha, Miss Tippet gives you a very good character—which is well, because I intend you to be servant to my child—her maid; but Miss Tippet qualifies her remarks by saying that you are a little careless in some things. What things are you careless in?”
“La! sir—”
“You must not say ‘La!’ my girl,” interrupted Mr Auberly with a frown, “nor use exclamations41 of any kind in my presence; what are the ‘some things’ referred to?”
“Sure I don’t know, sir,” said the abashed42 Matty. “I s’pose there’s a-many things I ain’t very good at; but, please, sir, I don’t mean to do nothin’ wrong, sir, I don’t indeed; an’ I’ll try to serve you well, sir, if it wor only to plaaze my missis, as I’m leavin’ against my will, for I love my—”
“There, that will do,” said Mr Auberly somewhat sternly, as the girl appeared to be getting excited.
“Ring that bell; now, go downstairs and Hopkins will introduce you to my housekeeper43, who will explain your duties to you.”
Hopkins entered and solemnly marched Martha Merryon to the regions below.
Mr Auberly locked away his papers, pulled out his watch, wound it up, and then, lighting44 a bedroom candle, proceeded with much gravity upstairs.
He was a very stately-looking man, and strikingly dignified45 as he walked upstairs to his bedroom—slowly and deliberately46, as though he were marching at his own funeral to the tune47 of something even deader than the “Dead March in Saul.”
It is almost a violation48 of propriety49 to think of Mr Auberly doing such a very undignified thing as “going to bed!” Yet truth requires us to tell that he did it; that he undressed himself as other mortals do; that he clothed himself in the wonted ghostly garment; and that, when his head was last seen—in the act of closing the curtains around him—there was a conical white cap on it, tied with a string below the chin, and ornamented50 on the top with a little tassel51, which waggled as though it were bidding a triumphant52 and final adieu to human dignity!
Half an hour later, Mrs Rose, the housekeeper, a matronly, good-looking woman, with very red cheeks, was busy in the study explaining to Matty Merryon her duties. She had already shown her all over the house, and was now at the concluding lesson.
“Look here now, Merryon,” began the housekeeper.
“Oh, please don’t call me Merryon—I ain’t used to it. Call me Matty, do now!”
“Very well, Matty,” continued Mrs Rose, with a smile, “I’ve no objection; you Irish are a strange race! Now, look here. This is master’s study, and mind, he’s very partikler, dreadful partikler.”
She paused and looked at her pupil, as if desirous of impressing this point deeply on her memory.
“He don’t like his papers or books touched; not even dusted! So you’ll be careful not to dust ’em, nor to touch ’em even so much as with your little finger, for he likes to find ’em in the mornin’ just as he left ’em at night.”
“Yes, Mrs Rose,” said Matty, who was evidently giving up her whole soul to the instruction that was being imparted.
“Now,” continued the housekeeper, “the arranging of this room will be your last piece of work at night. You’ll just come in, rake out the grate, carry off the ashes, lay the noo fire, put the matches handy on the chimney-piece, look round to see that all’s right, and then turn off the gas. The master is a early riser, and lights the fire his-self of a mornin’.”
“Yes, ’m,” said Matty, with a courtesy.
“Now, go and do it,” said Mrs Rose, “that I may see you understand it. Begin with the grate an’ the ashes.”
Matty, who was in truth an experienced maid-of-all-work, began with alacrity53 to discharge the duties of her new station. She carried off the ashes, and returned with the materials for next day’s fire in a shovel54. Here she gave a slight indication of her so-called carelessness (awkwardness would have been more appropriate) by letting two or three pieces of stick and a bit of coal fall on the carpet, in her passage across the room.
“Be careful, Matty,” said Mrs Rose gently. “It’s all owin’ to haste. Take your time, an’ you won’t do such things.”
Matty apologised, picked up the materials, and laid the fire. Then she took her apron55 and approached the writing-table, evidently with the intention of taking the dust off the corners, but not by any means intending to touch the books or papers.
“Stop!” cried Mrs Rose sternly.
Matty stopped with a guilty look.
“Not a touch,” said Mrs Rose.
“Not even the edges, nor the legs?” inquired the pupil.
“Neither edges nor legs,” said the instructor56.
“Sure it could do no harm.”
“Matty,” said Mrs Rose solemnly, “the great thing that your countrywomen have to learn is obedience57.”
“Thank ’ee, ’m,” said Matty, who, being overawed by the housekeeper’s solemnity, felt confused, and was uncertain whether the reference to her countrywomen was complimentary58 or the reverse.
“Now,” continued Mrs Rose, “the matches.”
Matty placed the box of matches on the chimney-piece.
“Very well; now you’ve got to look round to see that all’s right.”
Matty looked round on the dark portraits that covered the walls (supposed to be ancestors), on the shelves of books, great and small, new and old (supposed to be read); on the vases, statuettes, chairs, tables, desks, curtains, papers, etcetera, etcetera, and, being utterly59 ignorant of what constituted right and what wrong in reference to such things, finally turned her eyes on Mrs Rose with an innocent smile.
She had not seen this, but she at once went and closed and barred them, in which operation she learned, first, that the bars refused to receive their respective “catches,” with unyielding obstinacy61 for some time; and, second, that they suddenly gave in without rhyme or reason and pinched her fingers severely62.
“Now then, what next?” inquired Mrs Rose.
“Put out the gas,” suggested Matty.
“Ah! sure, didn’t I forgit the candle!”
In order to rectify64 this oversight65, Matty laid the unlighted candle which she had brought with her to the room on the writing-table, and going to the chimney-piece, returned with the match-box.
“Be careful now, Matty,” said Mrs Rose earnestly. “There’s nothink I’ve such a fear of as fire. You can’t be too careful.”
This remark made Matty, who was of an anxious temperament66, extremely nervous. She struck the match hesitatingly, and lighted the candle shakily. Of course it would not light (candles never do on such occasions), and a long red-hot end of burnt wood projected from the point of the match.
“Don’t let the burnt end drop into the wastepaper basket!” exclaimed Mrs Rose, in an unfortunate moment.
“Where?” exclaimed Matty with a start that sent the red-hot end into the centre of a mass of papers.
“There, just at your feet; don’t be so nervous, girl!” cried Mrs Rose.
Matty, in her anxiety not to drop the match, at once dropped it into the waste-paper basket, which was instantly alight. A stamp of the foot might have extinguished it, but this did not occur to either of the domestics. The housekeeper, who was a courageous67 woman, seized the basket in both hands and rushed with it to the fireplace, thereby68 fanning the flame into a blaze and endangering her dress and curls. She succeeded, however, in cramming69 the basket and its contents into the grate; then the two, with the aid of poker70, tongs71, and shovel, crushed and beat out the fire.
“There! I said you’d do it,” gasped72 Mrs Rose, as she flung herself, panting, into Mr Auberly’s easy-chair; “this comes of bein’ in a hurry.”
“I was always unfort’nit,” sighed Matty, still holding the shovel and keeping her eye on the grate, as if ready to make a furious attack on the smallest spark that should venture to show itself.
“Come, now, we’ll go to bed,” said Mrs Rose, rising, “but first look well round to see that all is safe.”
A thorough and most careful investigation73 was made of the basket, the grate, and the carpet surrounding the fireplace, but nothing beyond the smell of the burnt papers could be discovered, so the instructor and pupil put out the gas, shut the door, and retired74 to the servants’-hall, where Hopkins, the cook, the housemaid, and a small maid-of-all-work awaited their arrival—supper being already on the table.
Here Mrs Rose entertained the company with a graphic—not to say exaggerated—account of the “small fire” in the study, and wound up with an eloquent75 appeal to all to “beware of fire,” and an assurance that there was nothing on the face of the whole earth that she had a greater horror of.
Meanwhile the “little spark” among the papers—forgotten in the excitement of the succeeding blaze of the waste-paper basket—continued to do its slow but certain work. Having fallen on the cloth between two bundles, it smouldered until it reached a cotton pen-wiper, which received it rather greedily in its embrace. This pen-wiper lay in contact with some old letters which were dry and tindery in their nature, and, being piled closely together in a heap, afforded enlarged accommodation, for the “spark,” which in about half an hour became quite worthy76 of being termed a “swell.”
After that things went on like—“like a house on fire”—if we may venture to use that too often misapplied expression, in reference to the elegant mansion in Beverly Square on that raw November night.
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1
chronically
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| ad.长期地 | |
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2
lugubrious
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| adj.悲哀的，忧郁的 | |
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exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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4
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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5
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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7
pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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8
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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9
condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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10
careworn
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| adj.疲倦的，饱经忧患的 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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12
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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13
oracle
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| n.神谕，神谕处，预言 | |
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14
parasites
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| 寄生物( parasite的名词复数 )； 靠他人为生的人； 诸虫 | |
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15
bespoke
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| adj.（产品）订做的；专做订货的v.预定( bespeak的过去式 )；订（货）；证明；预先请求 | |
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16
blandly
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| adv.温和地，殷勤地 | |
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17
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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19
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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perpendicular
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| adj.垂直的，直立的；n.垂直线，垂直的位置 | |
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rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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23
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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backbone
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| n.脊骨，脊柱，骨干；刚毅，骨气 | |
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parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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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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cravat
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| n.领巾，领结；v.使穿有领结的服装，使结领结 | |
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exuberant
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| adj.充满活力的；（植物）繁茂的 | |
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recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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31
obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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32
perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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33
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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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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procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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40
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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42
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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43
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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44
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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45
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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47
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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48
violation
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| n.违反(行为)，违背(行为)，侵犯 | |
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49
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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50
ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
tassel
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| n.流苏，穗；v.抽穗， （玉米）长穗须 | |
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52
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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53
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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54
shovel
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| n.铁锨，铲子，一铲之量；v.铲，铲出 | |
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55
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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56
instructor
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| n.指导者，教员，教练 | |
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57
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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58
complimentary
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| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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60
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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61
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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62
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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63
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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64
rectify
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| v.订正，矫正，改正 | |
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65
oversight
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| n.勘漏，失察，疏忽 | |
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66
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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67
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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68
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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69
cramming
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| n.塞满，填鸭式的用功v.塞入( cram的现在分词 )；填塞；塞满；（为考试而）死记硬背功课 | |
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70
poker
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| n.扑克；vt.烙制 | |
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71
tongs
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| n.钳；夹子 | |
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72
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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73
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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74
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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