Master Swift’s death was a great shock to the windmiller, who was himself in frail1 health; and Jan gave as much time as he could to cheering his foster-father.
He had been spending an afternoon at the windmill, and the painter had been sketching2 the old church from the water-meadows, when they met on the little bridge near Dame3 Datchett’s, and strolled together to the Heart of Oak. Master Chuter met them at the door.
“There be a letter for you, Jan,” said he. “’Twas brought by a young varment I knows well. He belongs to them that keeps a low public at the foot of the hill, and he do be for all the world like a hudmedud, without the usefulness of un.” The letter was dirty and ill-written enough to correspond to the innkeeper’s account of its origin. Misspellings omitted, it ran thus:—
“Sir,—If so be you wants to know where you come from, and where to look for them as belongs to you, come to the public at the foot of the hill this evening, with a few pounds in your pocket to open the lips of them as knows. But fair play, mind. Gearge bean’t such a vool as a looks, and cart-horses won’t draw it out of un, if you sets on the police. Don’t you be took in by that cusnashun old rascal5 Cheap John. You may hold your head as high as the Squire6 yet, if you makes it worth the while of One who knows. I always was fond of you, Jan, my dear. Keep it dark.”
The painter decided7 to accept the invitation; but when George Sannel’s face loomed8 out of the smoke of the dingy9 little kitchen, all the terrors of his childhood seemed to awake again in Jan. The face looked worn and hungry, and alarmed; but it was the face of the miller’s man. In truth, he had deserted10 from his regiment11, and was in hiding; but of this Jan and his master knew nothing.
If George’s face bore some tokens of change, he seemed otherwise the same as of old. Cunning and stupidity, distrust and obstinacy12, joined with unscrupulous greed, still marked his loutish13 attempts to overreach. Indeed, his surly temper would have brought the conference to an abrupt14 end but for the interference of the girl at the inn. She had written the letter for him, and seemed to take an interest in his fate which it is hardly likely that he deserved. She acted as mediator15, and the artist was all the more disposed to credit her assurance that “Gearge did know a deal about the young gentleman, and should tell it all,” because her appearance was so very picturesque16. She did good service, when George began to pursue his old policy of mixing some lies with the truth he told, by calling him to account. Nor was she daunted17 by his threatening glances. “It be no manners of use thee looking at me like that, Gearge Sannel,” said she, folding her arms in a defiant18 attitude, which the painter hastily committed to memory. “Haven’t I give my word to the gentleman that he should hear a straight tale? And it be all to your advantage to tell it. You wants money, and the gentleman wants the truth. It be no mortal use to you to make up a tale, beyond annying the gentleman.”
Under pressure, therefore, George told all that he knew himself, and what he had learned from the Cheap Jack19’s wife, and part of the purchase-money of the pot boiler20 was his reward.
Master Lake confirmed his account of Jan’s first coming to the mill. He took the liveliest interest in his foster-son’s fate, but he thought, with the artist, that there was little “satisfaction” to be got out of trying to trace Jan’s real parentage. It was the painter’s deliberate opinion, and he impressed it upon Jan, as they sat together in Master Chuter’s parlor21.
“My dear Giotto, I do hope you are not building much on hopes of a new home and new relatives. If all we have heard is true, your mother is dead; and, if your father is not dead too, he has basely deserted you. You have to make a name, not to seek one; to confer credit, not to ask for it. And I don’t say this, Giotto, to make you vain, but to recall your responsibilities, and to dispel22 useless dreams. Believe me, my boy, your true mother, the tender nurse of your infancy23, sleeps in the sacred shadow of this dear old church. It is your part to make her name, and the name of your respectable foster-father, famous as your own; to render your windmill as highly celebrated24 as Rembrandt’s, and to hang late laurels25 of fame on the grave of your grand old schoolmaster. Ah! my child, I know well that the ductile26 artistic27 nature takes shape very early. The coloring of childhood stains every painter’s canvas who paints from the heart. You can never call any other place home, Giotto, but this idyllic28 corner of the world!”
It will be seen that the painter’s rose-colored spectacles were still on his nose. Every thing delighted him. He was never weary of sketching garrulous29 patriarchs in snowy smocks under rickety porches. He said that in an age of criticism it was quite delightful30 to hear Daddy Angel say, “Ay, ay,” to every thing; and he waxed eloquent31 on the luxury of having only one post a day, and that one uncertain. But his highest flights of approbation32 were given to the home-brewed ale. That pure, refreshing33 beverage34, sound and strong as a heart of oak should be, which quenched35 the thirst with a certain stringency36 which might hint at sourness to the vulgar palate, had—so he said—destroyed for ever his contentment with any other malt liquor. He spoke37 of Bass38 and Allsopp as “palatable tonics” and “non-poisonous medicinal compounds.” And when, with a flourish of hyperbole, he told Master Chuter’s guests that nothing to eat or drink was to be got in London, they took his word for it; and it was without suspicion of satire39 that Daddy Angel said, “The gen’leman do look pretty middlin’ hearty40 too—con-sid’rin’.”
It was evident that the painter had no intention of going away till the pot boiler fund was exhausted41, and Jan was willing enough to abide42, especially as Master Lake had caught cold at the schoolmaster’s funeral, and was grateful for his foster-son’s company and care. Jan was busy in many ways. He was Master Swift’s heir; but the old man’s illness had nearly swallowed up his savings43, and Jan’s legacy44 consisted of the books, the furniture, the gardening tools, and Rufus, who attached himself to his new master with a wistful affection which seemed to say, “You belong to the good old times, and I know you loved him.”
Jan moved the schoolmaster’s few chattels45 to the windmill, and packed the books to take to London. With them he packed the little old etching that had been bought from the Cheap Jack. “It’s a very good one,” said the painter. “It’s by an old Dutch artist. You can see a copy in the British Museum.” But it was not in the Museum that Jan first saw a duplicate of his old favorite.
He was nailing up this box one afternoon, and humming as he did so,—
“But I alone am left to pine,
And sit beneath the withy tree,
For truth and honesty be gone”—
when the painter came in behind him.
“Stop that doleful strain, Giotto, I beg; you’ve been painfully sentimental46 the last day or two.”
“It’s an old song they sing about here, sir,” said Jan.
“Never mind the song, you’ve been doleful yourself, Giotto! I believe you’re dissatisfied that we do not push the search for your father. Is it money you want, child? Believe me, riches enough lie between your fingers and your miller’s thumb. Or do you want a more fashionable protector than the old artist?”
“No, no, sir!” cried Jan. “I never want to leave you; and it’s not money I want, but”—
“Well, my boy? Don’t be afraid.”
“It’s my mother, sir,” said Jan, with flushed cheeks. “My real mother, I mean. She didn’t desert me, sir; she died—when I was born. I doubt nobody sees to her grave, sir. Perhaps there’s nobody but me who would. I can’t do any thing for her now, sir, I know; but it seems as if I hardly did my duty in not knowing where she lies.”
The painter’s hands were already deep in his loose pockets, from which, jumbled47 up with chalk, india-rubber, bits of wash-leather, cakes of color, reed pens, a penknife, and some drawing-pins, he brought the balance of his loose cash, and became absorbed in calculations. “Is that box ready?” he asked. “We start to-morrow, mind. You are right, and I was wrong; but my wish was to spare you possible pain. I now think it is your duty to risk the possible pain. If those rascally48 creatures who stole you are in London, the police will find them. Be content, Giotto; you shall stand by your mother’s grave!”
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1
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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sketching
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| n.草图 | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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Ford
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| n.浅滩，水浅可涉处；v.涉水，涉过 | |
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rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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7
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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8
loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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9
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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loutish
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| adj.粗鲁的 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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15
mediator
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| n.调解人，中介人 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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daunted
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| 使（某人）气馁，威吓( daunt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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20
boiler
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| n.锅炉；煮器(壶，锅等) | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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dispel
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| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
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infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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laurels
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| n.桂冠，荣誉 | |
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ductile
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| adj.易延展的，柔软的 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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idyllic
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| adj.质朴宜人的，田园风光的 | |
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garrulous
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| adj.唠叨的，多话的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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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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approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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beverage
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| n.(水，酒等之外的)饮料 | |
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35
quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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stringency
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| n.严格，紧迫，说服力；严格性；强度 | |
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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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bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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40
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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41
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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42
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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43
savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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44
legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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45
chattels
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| n.动产，奴隶( chattel的名词复数 ) | |
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46
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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47
jumbled
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| adj.混乱的；杂乱的 | |
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48
rascally
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| adj. 无赖的，恶棍的 adv. 无赖地，卑鄙地 | |
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