They withdrew into a low archway for shelter from the rain, and watched the faces of those who passed, to find in one among them a ray of encouragement or hope. Some frowned, some smiled, some muttered to themselves, some made slight gestures, as if anticipating the conversation in which they would shortly be engaged, some wore the cunning look of bargaining and plotting, some were anxious and eager, some slow and dull; in some countenances16, were written gain; in others, loss. It was like being in the confidence of all these people to stand quietly there, looking into their faces as they flitted past. In busy places, where each man has an object of his own, and feels assured that every other man has his, his character and purpose are written broadly in his face. In the public walks and lounges of a town, people go to see and to be seen, and there the same expression, with little variety, is repeated a hundred times. The working-day faces come nearer to the truth, and let it out more plainly.
Falling into that kind of abstraction which such a solitude awakens17, the child continued to gaze upon the passing crowd with a wondering interest, amounting almost to a temporary forgetfulness of her own condition. But cold, wet, hunger, want of rest, and lack of any place in which to lay her aching head, soon brought her thoughts back to the point whence they had strayed. No one passed who seemed to notice them, or to whom she durst appeal. After some time, they left their place of refuge from the weather, and mingled19 with the concourse.
Evening came on. They were still wandering up and down, with fewer people about them, but with the same sense of solitude in their own breasts, and the same indifference20 from all around. The lights in the streets and shops made them feel yet more desolate21, for with their help, night and darkness seemed to come on faster. Shivering with the cold and damp, ill in body, and sick to death at heart, the child needed her utmost firmness and resolution even to creep along.
Why had they ever come to this noisy town, when there were peaceful country places, in which, at least, they might have hungered and thirsted, with less suffering than in its squalid strife22! They were but an atom, here, in a mountain heap of misery23, the very sight of which increased their hopelessness and suffering.
The child had not only to endure the accumulated hardships of their destitute24 condition, but to bear the reproaches of her grandfather, who began to murmur25 at having been led away from their late abode26, and demand that they should return to it. Being now penniless, and no relief or prospect27 of relief appearing, they retraced28 their steps through the deserted29 streets, and went back to the wharf30, hoping to find the boat in which they had come, and to be allowed to sleep on board that night. But here again they were disappointed, for the gate was closed, and some fierce dogs, barking at their approach, obliged them to retreat.
‘We must sleep in the open air to-night, dear,’ said the child in a weak voice, as they turned away from this last repulse32; ‘and to-morrow we will beg our way to some quiet part of the country, and try to earn our bread in very humble33 work.’
‘Why did you bring me here?’ returned the old man fiercely. ‘I cannot bear these close eternal streets. We came from a quiet part. Why did you force me to leave it?’
‘Because I must have that dream I told you of, no more,’ said the child, with a momentary34 firmness that lost itself in tears; ‘and we must live among poor people, or it will come again. Dear grandfather, you are old and weak, I know; but look at me. I never will complain if you will not, but I have some suffering indeed.’
‘Ah! poor, houseless, wandering, motherless child!’ cried the old man, clasping his hands and gazing as if for the first time upon her anxious face, her travel-stained dress, and bruised35 and swollen36 feet; ‘has all my agony of care brought her to this at last! Was I a happy man once, and have I lost happiness and all I had, for this!’
‘If we were in the country now,’ said the child, with assumed cheerfulness, as they walked on looking about them for a shelter, we should find some good old tree, stretching out his green arms as if he loved us, and nodding and rustling37 as if he would have us fall asleep, thinking of him while he watched. Please God, we shall be there soon — to-morrow or next day at the farthest — and in the meantime let us think, dear, that it was a good thing we came here; for we are lost in the crowd and hurry of this place, and if any cruel people should pursue us, they could surely never trace us further. There’s comfort in that. And here’s a deep old doorway38 — very dark, but quite dry, and warm too, for the wind don’t blow in here — What’s that!’
Uttering a half shriek39, she recoiled40 from a black figure which came suddenly out of the dark recess41 in which they were about to take refuge, and stood still, looking at them.
‘Speak again,’ it said; ‘do I know the voice?’
‘No,’ replied the child timidly; ‘we are strangers, and having no money for a night’s lodging42, were going to rest here.’
There was a feeble lamp at no great distance; the only one in the place, which was a kind of square yard, but sufficient to show how poor and mean it was. To this, the figure beckoned43 them; at the same time drawing within its rays, as if to show that it had no desire to conceal44 itself or take them at an advantage. The form was that of a man, miserably45 clad and begrimed with smoke, which, perhaps by its contrast with the natural colour of his skin, made him look paler than he really was. That he was naturally of a very wan18 and pallid46 aspect, however, his hollow cheeks, sharp features, and sunken eyes, no less than a certain look of patient endurance, sufficiently47 testified. His voice was harsh by nature, but not brutal48; and though his face, besides possessing the characteristics already mentioned, was overshadowed by a quantity of long dark hair, its expression was neither ferocious49 nor bad.
‘How came you to think of resting there?’ he said. ‘Or how,’ he added, looking more attentively50 at the child, ‘do you come to want a place of rest at this time of night?’
‘Our misfortunes,’ the grandfather answered, ‘are the cause.’
‘Do you know,’ said the man, looking still more earnestly at Nell, ‘how wet she is, and that the damp streets are not a place for her?’
‘I know it well, God help me,’ he replied. ‘What can I do!’
The man looked at Nell again, and gently touched her garments, from which the rain was running off in little streams. ‘I can give you warmth,’ he said, after a pause; ‘nothing else. Such lodging as I have, is in that house,’ pointing to the doorway from which he had emerged, ‘but she is safer and better there than here. The fire is in a rough place, but you can pass the night beside it safely, if you’ll trust yourselves to me. You see that red light yonder?’
They raised their eyes, and saw a lurid51 glare hanging in the dark sky; the dull reflection of some distant fire.
‘It’s not far,’ said the man. ‘Shall I take you there? You were going to sleep upon cold bricks; I can give you a bed of warm ashes — nothing better.’
Without waiting for any further reply than he saw in their looks, he took Nell in his arms, and bade the old man follow.
Carrying her as tenderly, and as easily too, as if she had been an infant, and showing himself both swift and sure of foot, he led the way through what appeared to be the poorest and most wretched quarter of the town; and turning aside to avoid the overflowing52 kennels53 or running waterspouts, but holding his course, regardless of such obstructions54, and making his way straight through them. They had proceeded thus, in silence, for some quarter of an hour, and had lost sight of the glare to which he had pointed31, in the dark and narrow ways by which they had come, when it suddenly burst upon them again, streaming up from the high chimney of a building close before them.
‘This is the place,’ he said, pausing at a door to put Nell down and take her hand. ‘Don’t be afraid. There’s nobody here will harm you.’
It needed a strong confidence in this assurance to induce them to enter, and what they saw inside did not diminish their apprehension55 and alarm. In a large and lofty building, supported by pillars of iron, with great black apertures56 in the upper walls, open to the external air; echoing to the roof with the beating of hammers and roar of furnaces, mingled with the hissing57 of red-hot metal plunged58 in water, and a hundred strange unearthly noises never heard elsewhere; in this gloomy place, moving like demons59 among the flame and smoke, dimly and fitfully seen, flushed and tormented60 by the burning fires, and wielding61 great weapons, a faulty blow from any one of which must have crushed some workman’s skull62, a number of men laboured like giants. Others, reposing63 upon heaps of coals or ashes, with their faces turned to the black vault64 above, slept or rested from their toil65. Others again, opening the white-hot furnace-doors, cast fuel on the flames, which came rushing and roaring forth66 to meet it, and licked it up like oil. Others drew forth, with clashing noise, upon the ground, great sheets of glowing steel, emitting an insupportable heat, and a dull deep light like that which reddens in the eyes of savage67 beasts.
Through these bewildering sights and deafening68 sounds, their conductor led them to where, in a dark portion of the building, one furnace burnt by night and day — so, at least, they gathered from the motion of his lips, for as yet they could only see him speak: not hear him. The man who had been watching this fire, and whose task was ended for the present, gladly withdrew, and left them with their friend, who, spreading Nell’s little cloak upon a heap of ashes, and showing her where she could hang her outer-clothes to dry, signed to her and the old man to lie down and sleep. For himself, he took his station on a rugged69 mat before the furnace-door, and resting his chin upon his hands, watched the flame as it shone through the iron chinks, and the white ashes as they fell into their bright hot grave below.
The warmth of her bed, hard and humble as it was, combined with the great fatigue70 she had undergone, soon caused the tumult of the place to fall with a gentler sound upon the child’s tired ears, and was not long in lulling71 her to sleep. The old man was stretched beside her, and with her hand upon his neck she lay and dreamed.
It was yet night when she awoke, nor did she know how long, or for how short a time, she had slept. But she found herself protected, both from any cold air that might find its way into the building, and from the scorching72 heat, by some of the workmen’s clothes; and glancing at their friend saw that he sat in exactly the same attitude, looking with a fixed73 earnestness of attention towards the fire, and keeping so very still that he did not even seem to breathe. She lay in the state between sleeping and waking, looking so long at his motionless figure that at length she almost feared he had died as he sat there; and softly rising and drawing close to him, ventured to whisper in his ear.
He moved, and glancing from her to the place she had lately occupied, as if to assure himself that it was really the child so near him, looked inquiringly into her face.
‘I feared you were ill,’ she said. ‘The other men are all in motion, and you are so very quiet.’
‘They leave me to myself,’ he replied. ‘They know my humour. They laugh at me, but don’t harm me in it. See yonder there — that’s my friend.’
‘The fire?’ said the child.
‘It has been alive as long as I have,’ the man made answer. ‘We talk and think together all night long.’
The child glanced quickly at him in her surprise, but he had turned his eyes in their former direction, and was musing74 as before.
‘It’s like a book to me,’ he said —‘the only book I ever learned to read; and many an old story it tells me. It’s music, for I should know its voice among a thousand, and there are other voices in its roar. It has its pictures too. You don’t know how many strange faces and different scenes I trace in the red-hot coals. It’s my memory, that fire, and shows me all my life.’
The child, bending down to listen to his words, could not help remarking with what brightened eyes he continued to speak and muse75.
‘Yes,’ he said, with a faint smile, ‘it was the same when I was quite a baby, and crawled about it, till I fell asleep. My father watched it then.’
‘Had you no mother?’ asked the child.
‘No, she was dead. Women work hard in these parts. She worked herself to death they told me, and, as they said so then, the fire has gone on saying the same thing ever since. I suppose it was true. I have always believed it.’
‘Were you brought up here, then?’ said the child.
‘Summer and winter,’ he replied. ‘Secretly at first, but when they found it out, they let him keep me here. So the fire nursed me — the same fire. It has never gone out.’
‘You are fond of it?’ said the child.
‘Of course I am. He died before it. I saw him fall down — just there, where those ashes are burning now — and wondered, I remember, why it didn’t help him.’
‘Have you been here ever since?’ asked the child.
‘Ever since I came to watch it; but there was a while between, and a very cold dreary76 while it was. It burned all the time though, and roared and leaped when I came back, as it used to do in our play days. You may guess, from looking at me, what kind of child I was, but for all the difference between us I was a child, and when I saw you in the street to-night, you put me in mind of myself, as I was after he died, and made me wish to bring you to the fire. I thought of those old times again, when I saw you sleeping by it. You should be sleeping now. Lie down again, poor child, lie down again!’
With that, he led her to her rude couch, and covering her with the clothes with which she had found herself enveloped77 when she woke, returned to his seat, whence he moved no more unless to feed the furnace, but remained motionless as a statue. The child continued to watch him for a little time, but soon yielded to the drowsiness78 that came upon her, and, in the dark strange place and on the heap of ashes, slept as peacefully as if the room had been a palace chamber79, and the bed, a bed of down.
When she awoke again, broad day was shining through the lofty openings in the walls, and, stealing in slanting80 rays but midway down, seemed to make the building darker than it had been at night. The clang and tumult were still going on, and the remorseless fires were burning fiercely as before; for few changes of night and day brought rest or quiet there.
Her friend parted his breakfast — a scanty81 mess of coffee and some coarse bread — with the child and her grandfather, and inquired whither they were going. She told him that they sought some distant country place remote from towns or even other villages, and with a faltering82 tongue inquired what road they would do best to take.
‘I know little of the country,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘for such as I, pass all our lives before our furnace doors, and seldom go forth to breathe. But there are such places yonder.’
‘And far from here?’ said Nell.
‘Aye surely. How could they be near us, and be green and fresh? The road lies, too, through miles and miles, all lighted up by fires like ours — a strange black road, and one that would frighten you by night.’
‘We are here and must go on,’ said the child boldly; for she saw that the old man listened with anxious ears to this account.
‘Rough people — paths never made for little feet like yours — a dismal83 blighted84 way — is there no turning back, my child!’
‘There is none,’ cried Nell, pressing forward. ‘If you can direct us, do. If not, pray do not seek to turn us from our purpose. Indeed you do not know the danger that we shun85, and how right and true we are in flying from it, or you would not try to stop us, I am sure you would not.’
‘God forbid, if it is so!’ said their uncouth86 protector, glancing from the eager child to her grandfather, who hung his head and bent87 his eyes upon the ground. ‘I’ll direct you from the door, the best I can. I wish I could do more.’
He showed them, then, by which road they must leave the town, and what course they should hold when they had gained it. He lingered so long on these instructions, that the child, with a fervent88 blessing89, tore herself away, and stayed to hear no more.
But, before they had reached the corner of the lane, the man came running after them, and, pressing her hand, left something in it — two old, battered90, smoke-encrusted penny pieces. Who knows but they shone as brightly in the eyes of angels, as golden gifts that have been chronicled on tombs?
And thus they separated; the child to lead her sacred charge farther from guilt91 and shame; the labourer to attach a fresh interest to the spot where his guests had slept, and read new histories in his furnace fire.
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收听单词发音
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1
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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3
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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waggons
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| 四轮的运货马车( waggon的名词复数 )； 铁路货车； 小手推车 | |
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laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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wares
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| n. 货物, 商品 | |
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greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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11
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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12
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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mariner
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| n.水手号不载人航天探测器，海员，航海者 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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hems
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| 布的褶边，贴边( hem的名词复数 )； 短促的咳嗽 | |
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countenances
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| n.面容( countenance的名词复数 )；表情；镇静；道义支持 | |
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awakens
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的第三人称单数 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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retraced
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| v.折回( retrace的过去式和过去分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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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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wharf
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| n.码头，停泊处 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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repulse
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| n.击退，拒绝；vt.逐退，击退，拒绝 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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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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42
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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43
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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45
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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46
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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47
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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49
ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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50
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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51
lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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52
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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53
kennels
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| n.主人外出时的小动物寄养处，养狗场；狗窝( kennel的名词复数 )；养狗场 | |
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54
obstructions
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| n.障碍物( obstruction的名词复数 )；阻碍物；阻碍；阻挠 | |
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55
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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56
apertures
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| n.孔( aperture的名词复数 )；隙缝；（照相机的）光圈；孔径 | |
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57
hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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59
demons
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| n.恶人( demon的名词复数 )；恶魔；精力过人的人；邪念 | |
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tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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wielding
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| 手持着使用（武器、工具等）( wield的现在分词 )； 具有； 运用（权力）； 施加（影响） | |
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skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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reposing
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的现在分词 ) | |
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vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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deafening
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| adj. 振耳欲聋的, 极喧闹的 动词deafen的现在分词形式 | |
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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lulling
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的现在分词形式） | |
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scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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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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musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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drowsiness
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| n.睡意；嗜睡 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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shun
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| vt.避开，回避，避免 | |
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uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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