This description applies to the river-frontage of the Six Jolly Fellowship Porters. The back of the establishment, though the chief entrance was there, so contracted that it merely represented in its connexion with the front, the handle of a flat iron set upright on its broadest end. This handle stood at the bottom of a wilderness9 of court and alley10: which wilderness pressed so hard and close upon the Six Jolly Fellowship Porters as to leave the hostelry not an inch of ground beyond its door. For this reason, in combination with the fact that the house was all but afloat at high water, when the Porters had a family wash the linen11 subjected to that operation might usually be seen drying on lines stretched across the reception-rooms and bed-chambers.
The wood forming the chimney-pieces, beams, partitions, floors and doors, of the Six Jolly Fellowship Porters, seemed in its old age fraught12 with confused memories of its youth. In many places it had become gnarled and riven, according to the manner of old trees; knots started out of it; and here and there it seemed to twist itself into some likeness13 of boughs14. In this state of second childhood, it had an air of being in its own way garrulous15 about its early life. Not without reason was it often asserted by the regular frequenters of the Porters, that when the light shone full upon the grain of certain panels, and particularly upon an old corner cupboard of walnut-wood in the bar, you might trace little forests there, and tiny trees like the parent tree, in full umbrageous16 leaf.
The bar of the Six Jolly Fellowship Porters was a bar to soften17 the human breast. The available space in it was not much larger than a hackney-coach; but no one could have wished the bar bigger, that space was so girt in by corpulent little casks, and by cordial-bottles radiant with fictitious18 grapes in bunches, and by lemons in nets, and by biscuits in baskets, and by the polite beer-pulls that made low bows when customers were served with beer, and by the cheese in a snug19 corner, and by the landlady’s own small table in a snugger20 corner near the fire, with the cloth everlastingly21 laid. This haven22 was divided from the rough world by a glass partition and a half-door, with a leaden sill upon it for the convenience of resting your liquor; but, over this half-door the bar’s snugness23 so gushed24 forth25 that, albeit26 customers drank there standing27, in a dark and draughty passage where they were shouldered by other customers passing in and out, they always appeared to drink under an enchanting28 delusion29 that they were in the bar itself.
For the rest, both the tap and parlour of the Six Jolly Fellowship Porters gave upon the river, and had red curtains matching the noses of the regular customers, and were provided with comfortable fireside tin utensils30, like models of sugar-loaf hats, made in that shape that they might, with their pointed31 ends, seek out for themselves glowing nooks in the depths of the red coals, when they mulled your ale, or heated for you those delectable32 drinks, Purl, Flip33, and Dog’s Nose. The first of these humming compounds was a speciality of the Porters, which, through an inscription34 on its door-posts, gently appealed to your feelings as, ‘The Early Purl House’. For, it would seem that Purl must always be taken early; though whether for any more distinctly stomachic reason than that, as the early bird catches the worm, so the early purl catches the customer, cannot here be resolved. It only remains35 to add that in the handle of the flat iron, and opposite the bar, was a very little room like a three-cornered hat, into which no direct ray of sun, moon, or star, ever penetrated36, but which was superstitiously37 regarded as a sanctuary38 replete39 with comfort and retirement40 by gaslight, and on the door of which was therefore painted its alluring41 name: Cosy42.
Miss Potterson, sole proprietor43 and manager of the Fellowship Porters, reigned44 supreme45 on her throne, the Bar, and a man must have drunk himself mad drunk indeed if he thought he could contest a point with her. Being known on her own authority as Miss Abbey Potterson, some water-side heads, which (like the water) were none of the clearest, harboured muddled46 notions that, because of her dignity and firmness, she was named after, or in some sort related to, the Abbey at Westminster. But, Abbey was only short for Abigail, by which name Miss Potterson had been christened at Limehouse Church, some sixty and odd years before.
‘Now, you mind, you Riderhood,’ said Miss Abbey Potterson, with emphatic47 forefinger48 over the half-door, ‘the Fellowship don’t want you at all, and would rather by far have your room than your company; but if you were as welcome here as you are not, you shouldn’t even then have another drop of drink here this night, after this present pint49 of beer. So make the most of it.’
‘But you know, Miss Potterson,’ this was suggested very meekly50 though, ‘if I behave myself, you can’t help serving me, miss.’
‘CAN’T I!’ said Abbey, with infinite expression.
‘No, Miss Potterson; because, you see, the law —’
‘I am the law here, my man,’ returned Miss Abbey, ‘and I’ll soon convince you of that, if you doubt it at all.’
‘I never said I did doubt it at all, Miss Abbey.’
‘So much the better for you.’
Abbey the supreme threw the customer’s halfpence into the till, and, seating herself in her fireside-chair, resumed the newspaper she had been reading. She was a tall, upright, well-favoured woman, though severe of countenance51, and had more of the air of a schoolmistress than mistress of the Six Jolly Fellowship Porters. The man on the other side of the half-door, was a waterside-man with a squinting52 leer, and he eyed her as if he were one of her pupils in disgrace.
‘You’re cruel hard upon me, Miss Potterson.’
Miss Potterson read her newspaper with contracted brows, and took no notice until he whispered:
‘Miss Potterson! Ma’am! Might I have half a word with you?’
Deigning53 then to turn her eyes sideways towards the suppliant55, Miss Potterson beheld56 him knuckling57 his low forehead, and ducking at her with his head, as if he were asking leave to fling himself head foremost over the half-door and alight on his feet in the bar.
‘Well?’ said Miss Potterson, with a manner as short as she herself was long, ‘say your half word. Bring it out.’
‘Miss Potterson! Ma’am! Would you ‘sxcuse me taking the liberty of asking, is it my character that you take objections to?’
‘Certainly,’ said Miss Potterson.
‘Is it that you’re afraid of —’
‘I am not afraid OF YOU,’ interposed Miss Potterson, ‘if you mean that.’
‘But I humbly58 don’t mean that, Miss Abbey.’
‘Then what do you mean?’
‘You really are so cruel hard upon me! What I was going to make inquiries59 was no more than, might you have any apprehensions60 — leastways beliefs or suppositions — that the company’s property mightn’t be altogether to be considered safe, if I used the house too regular?’
‘What do you want to know for?’
‘Well, Miss Abbey, respectfully meaning no offence to you, it would be some satisfaction to a man’s mind, to understand why the Fellowship Porters is not to be free to such as me, and is to be free to such as Gaffer.’
The face of the hostess darkened with some shadow of perplexity, as she replied: ‘Gaffer has never been where you have been.’
‘Signifying in Quod, Miss? Perhaps not. But he may have merited it. He may be suspected of far worse than ever I was.’
‘Who suspects him?’
‘Many, perhaps. One, beyond all doubts. I do.’
‘YOU are not much,’ said Miss Abbey Potterson, knitting her brows again with disdain61.
‘But I was his pardner. Mind you, Miss Abbey, I was his pardner. As such I know more of the ins and outs of him than any person living does. Notice this! I am the man that was his pardner, and I am the man that suspects him.’
‘Then,’ suggested Miss Abbey, though with a deeper shade of perplexity than before, ‘you criminate yourself.’
‘No I don’t, Miss Abbey. For how does it stand? It stands this way. When I was his pardner, I couldn’t never give him satisfaction. Why couldn’t I never give him satisfaction? Because my luck was bad; because I couldn’t find many enough of ‘em. How was his luck? Always good. Notice this! Always good! Ah! There’s a many games, Miss Abbey, in which there’s chance, but there’s a many others in which there’s skill too, mixed along with it.’
‘That Gaffer has a skill in finding what he finds, who doubts, man?’ asked Miss Abbey.
‘A skill in purwiding what he finds, perhaps,’ said Riderhood, shaking his evil head.
Miss Abbey knitted her brow at him, as he darkly leered at her. ‘If you’re out upon the river pretty nigh every tide, and if you want to find a man or woman in the river, you’ll greatly help your luck, Miss Abbey, by knocking a man or woman on the head aforehand and pitching ‘em in.’
‘Gracious Lud!’ was the involuntary exclamation62 of Miss Potterson.
‘Mind you!’ returned the other, stretching forward over the half door to throw his words into the bar; for his voice was as if the head of his boat’s mop were down his throat; ‘I say so, Miss Abbey! And mind you! I’ll follow him up, Miss Abbey! And mind you! I’ll bring him to hook at last, if it’s twenty year hence, I will! Who’s he, to he favoured along of his daughter? Ain’t I got a daughter of my own!’
With that flourish, and seeming to have talked himself rather more drunk and much more ferocious63 than he had begun by being, Mr Riderhood took up his pint pot and swaggered off to the taproom.
Gaffer was not there, but a pretty strong muster64 of Miss Abbey’s pupils were, who exhibited, when occasion required, the greatest docility65. On the clock’s striking ten, and Miss Abbey’s appearing at the door, and addressing a certain person in a faded scarlet67 jacket, with ‘George Jones, your time’s up! I told your wife you should be punctual,’ Jones submissively rose, gave the company good-night, and retired69. At half-past ten, on Miss Abbey’s looking in again, and saying, ‘William Williams, Bob Glamour70, and Jonathan, you are all due,’ Williams, Bob, and Jonathan with similar meekness71 took their leave and evaporated. Greater wonder than these, when a bottle-nosed person in a glazed72 hat had after some considerable hesitation73 ordered another glass of gin and water of the attendant potboy, and when Miss Abbey, instead of sending it, appeared in person, saying, ‘Captain Joey, you have had as much as will do you good,’ not only did the captain feebly rub his knees and contemplate74 the fire without offering a word of protest, but the rest of the company murmured, ‘Ay, ay, Captain! Miss Abbey’s right; you be guided by Miss Abbey, Captain.’ Nor, was Miss Abbey’s vigilance in anywise abated75 by this submission76, but rather sharpened; for, looking round on the deferential77 faces of her school, and descrying78 two other young persons in need of admonition, she thus bestowed79 it: ‘Tom Tootle, it’s time for a young fellow who’s going to be married next month, to be at home and asleep. And you needn’t nudge him, Mr Jack68 Mullins, for I know your work begins early tomorrow, and I say the same to you. So come! Good-night, like good lads!’ Upon which, the blushing Tootle looked to Mullins, and the blushing Mullins looked to Tootle, on the question who should rise first, and finally both rose together and went out on the broad grin, followed by Miss Abbey; in whose presence the cormpany did not take the liberty of grinning likewise.
In such an establishment, the white-aproned pot-boy with his shirtsleeves arranged in a tight roll on each bare shoulder, was a mere8 hint of the possibility of physical force, thrown out as a matter of state and form. Exactly at the closing hour, all the guests who were left, filed out in the best order: Miss Abbey standing at the half door of the bar, to hold a ceremony of review and dismissal. All wished Miss Abbey good-night and Miss Abbey wished goodnight to all, except Riderhood. The sapient81 pot-boy, looking on officially, then had the conviction borne in upon his soul, that the man was evermore outcast and excommunicate from the Six Jolly Fellowship Porters.
‘You Bob Gliddery,’ said Miss Abbey to this pot-boy, ‘run round to Hexam’s and tell his daughter Lizzie that I want to speak to her.’
With exemplary swiftness Bob Gliddery departed, and returned. Lizzie, following him, arrived as one of the two female domestics of the Fellowship Porters arranged on the snug little table by the bar fire, Miss Potterson’s supper of hot sausages and mashed82 potatoes.
‘Come in and sit ye down, girl,’ said Miss Abbey. ‘Can you eat a bit?’
‘No thank you, Miss. I have had my supper.’
‘I have had mine too, I think,’ said Miss Abbey, pushing away the untasted dish, ‘and more than enough of it. I am put out, Lizzie.’
‘I am very sorry for it, Miss.’
‘Then why, in the name of Goodness,’ quoth Miss Abbey, sharply, ‘do you do it?’
‘I do it, Miss!’
‘There, there. Don’t look astonished. I ought to have begun with a word of explanation, but it’s my way to make short cuts at things. I always was a pepperer. You Bob Gliddery there, put the chain upon the door and get ye down to your supper.’
With an alacrity83 that seemed no less referable to the pepperer fact than to the supper fact, Bob obeyed, and his boots were heard descending84 towards the bed of the river.
‘Lizzie Hexam, Lizzie Hexam,’ then began Miss Potterson, ‘how often have I held out to you the opportunity of getting clear of your father, and doing well?’
‘Very often, Miss.’
‘Very often? Yes! And I might as well have spoken to the iron funnel85 of the strongest sea-going steamer that passes the Fellowship Porters.’
‘No, Miss,’ Lizzie pleaded; ‘because that would not be thankful, and I am.’
‘I vow86 and declare I am half ashamed of myself for taking such an interest in you,’ said Miss Abbey, pettishly87, ‘for I don’t believe I should do it if you were not good-looking. Why ain’t you ugly?’
Lizzie merely answered this difficult question with an apologetic glance.
‘However, you ain’t,’ resumed Miss Potterson, ‘so it’s no use going into that. I must take you as I find you. Which indeed is what I’ve done. And you mean to say you are still obstinate88?’
‘Not obstinate, Miss, I hope.’
‘Firm (I suppose you call it) then?’
‘Yes, Miss. Fixed89 like.’
‘Never was an obstinate person yet, who would own to the word!’ remarked Miss Potterson, rubbing her vexed90 nose; ‘I’m sure I would, if I was obstinate; but I am a pepperer, which is different. Lizzie Hexam, Lizzie Hexam, think again. Do you know the worst of your father?’
‘Do I know the worst of father!’ she repeated, opening her eyes. ‘Do you know the suspicions to which your father makes himself liable? Do you know the suspicions that are actually about, against him?’
The consciousness of what he habitually91 did, oppressed the girl heavily, and she slowly cast down her eyes.
‘Say, Lizzie. Do you know?’ urged Miss Abbey.
‘Please to tell me what the suspicions are, Miss,’ she asked after a silence, with her eyes upon the ground.
‘It’s not an easy thing to tell a daughter, but it must be told. It is thought by some, then, that your father helps to their death a few of those that he finds dead.’
The relief of hearing what she felt sure was a false suspicion, in place of the expected real and true one, so lightened Lizzie’s breast for the moment, that Miss Abbey was amazed at her demeanour. She raised her eyes quickly, shook her head, and, in a kind of triumph, almost laughed.
‘They little know father who talk like that!’
(’She takes it,’ thought Miss Abbey, ‘very quietly. She takes it with extraordinary quietness!’)
‘And perhaps,’ said Lizzie, as a recollection flashed upon her, ‘it is some one who has a grudge92 against father; some one who has threatened father! Is it Riderhood, Miss?’
‘Well; yes it is.’
‘Yes! He was father’s partner, and father broke with him, and now he revenges himself. Father broke with him when I was by, and he was very angry at it. And besides, Miss Abbey! — Will you never, without strong reason, let pass your lips what I am going to say?’
She bent93 forward to say it in a whisper.
‘I promise,’ said Miss Abbey.
‘It was on the night when the Harmon murder was found out, through father, just above bridge. And just below bridge, as we were sculling home, Riderhood crept out of the dark in his boat. And many and many times afterwards, when such great pains were taken to come to the bottom of the crime, and it never could be come near, I thought in my own thoughts, could Riderhood himself have done the murder, and did he purposely let father find the body? It seemed a’most wicked and cruel to so much as think such a thing; but now that he tries to throw it upon father, I go back to it as if it was a truth. Can it be a truth? That was put into my mind by the dead?’
She asked this question, rather of the fire than of the hostess of the Fellowship Porters, and looked round the little bar with troubled eyes.
But, Miss Potterson, as a ready schoolmistress accustomed to bring her pupils to book, set the matter in a light that was essentially94 of this world.
‘You poor deluded95 girl,’ she said, ‘don’t you see that you can’t open your mind to particular suspicions of one of the two, without opening your mind to general suspicions of the other? They had worked together. Their goings-on had been going on for some time. Even granting that it was as you have had in your thoughts, what the two had done together would come familiar to the mind of one.’
‘You don’t know father, Miss, when you talk like that. Indeed, indeed, you don’t know father.’
‘Lizzie, Lizzie,’ said Miss Potterson. ‘Leave him. You needn’t break with him altogether, but leave him. Do well away from him; not because of what I have told you to-night — we’ll pass no judgment96 upon that, and we’ll hope it may not be — but because of what I have urged on you before. No matter whether it’s owing to your good looks or not, I like you and I want to serve you. Lizzie, come under my direction. Don’t fling yourself away, my girl, but be persuaded into being respectable and happy.’
In the sound good feeling and good sense of her entreaty97, Miss Abbey had softened98 into a soothing99 tone, and had even drawn100 her arm round the girl’s waist. But, she only replied, ‘Thank you, thank you! I can’t. I won’t. I must not think of it. The harder father is borne upon, the more he needs me to lean on.’
And then Miss Abbey, who, like all hard people when they do soften, felt that there was considerable compensation owing to her, underwent reaction and became frigid101.
‘I have done what I can,’ she said, ‘and you must go your way. You make your bed, and you must lie on it. But tell your father one thing: he must not come here any more.
‘Oh, Miss, will you forbid him the house where I know he’s safe?’
‘The Fellowships,’ returned Miss Abbey, ‘has itself to look to, as well as others. It has been hard work to establish order here, and make the Fellowships what it is, and it is daily and nightly hard work to keep it so. The Fellowships must not have a taint102 upon it that may give it a bad name. I forbid the house to Riderhood, and I forbid the house to Gaffer. I forbid both, equally. I find from Riderhood and you together, that there are suspicions against both men, and I’m not going to take upon myself to decide betwixt them. They are both tarred with a dirty brush, and I can’t have the Fellowships tarred with the same brush. That’s all I know.’
‘Good-night, Miss!’ said Lizzie Hexam, sorrowfully.
‘Hah! — Good-night!’ returned Miss Abbey with a shake of her head.
‘Believe me, Miss Abbey, I am truly grateful all the same.’
‘I can believe a good deal,’ returned the stately Abbey, ‘so I’ll try to believe that too, Lizzie.’
No supper did Miss Potterson take that night, and only half her usual tumbler of hot Port Negus. And the female domestics — two robust103 sisters, with staring black eyes, shining flat red faces, blunt noses, and strong black curls, like dolls — interchanged the sentiment that Missis had had her hair combed the wrong way by somebody. And the pot-boy afterwards remarked, that he hadn’t been ‘so rattled104 to bed’, since his late mother had systematically105 accelerated his retirement to rest with a poker106.
The chaining of the door behind her, as she went forth, disenchanted Lizzie Hexam of that first relief she had felt. The night was black and shrill107, the river-side wilderness was melancholy108, and there was a sound of casting-out, in the rattling109 of the iron-links, and the grating of the bolts and staples110 under Miss Abbey’s hand. As she came beneath the lowering sky, a sense of being involved in a murky111 shade of Murder dropped upon her; and, as the tidal swell112 of the river broke at her feet without her seeing how it gathered, so, her thoughts startled her by rushing out of an unseen void and striking at her heart.
Of her father’s being groundlessly suspected, she felt sure. Sure. Sure. And yet, repeat the word inwardly as often as she would, the attempt to reason out and prove that she was sure, always came after it and failed. Riderhood had done the deed, and entrapped113 her father. Riderhood had not done the deed, but had resolved in his malice114 to turn against her father, the appearances that were ready to his hand to distort. Equally and swiftly upon either putting of the case, followed the frightful115 possibility that her father, being innocent, yet might come to be believed guilty. She had heard of people suffering Death for bloodshed of which they were afterwards proved pure, and those ill-fated persons were not, first, in that dangerous wrong in which her father stood. Then at the best, the beginning of his being set apart, whispered against, and avoided, was a certain fact. It dated from that very night. And as the great black river with its dreary116 shores was soon lost to her view in the gloom, so, she stood on the river’s brink unable to see into the vast blank misery117 of a life suspected, and fallen away from by good and bad, but knowing that it lay there dim before her, stretching away to the great ocean, Death.
One thing only, was clear to the girl’s mind. Accustomed from her very babyhood promptly119 to do the thing that could be done — whether to keep out weather, to ward54 off cold, to postpone120 hunger, or what not — she started out of her meditation121, and ran home.
The room was quiet, and the lamp burnt on the table. In the bunk122 in the corner, her brother lay asleep. She bent over him softly, kissed him, and came to the table.
‘By the time of Miss Abbey’s closing, and by the run of the tide, it must be one. Tide’s running up. Father at Chiswick, wouldn’t think of coming down, till after the turn, and that’s at half after four. I’ll call Charley at six. I shall hear the church-clocks strike, as I sit here.’
Very quietly, she placed a chair before the scanty123 fire, and sat down in it, drawing her shawl about her.
‘Charley’s hollow down by the flare124 is not there now. Poor Charley!’
The clock struck two, and the clock struck three, and the clock struck four, and she remained there, with a woman’s patience and her own purpose. When the morning was well on between four and five, she slipped off her shoes (that her going about, might not wake Charley), trimmed the fire sparingly, put water on to boil, and set the table for breakfast. Then she went up the ladder, lamp in hand, and came down again, and glided125 about and about, making a little bundle. Lastly, from her pocket, and from the chimney-piece, and from an inverted126 basin on the highest shelf she brought halfpence, a few sixpences, fewer shillings, and fell to laboriously127 and noiselessly counting them, and setting aside one little heap. She was still so engaged, when she was startled by:
‘Hal-loa!’ From her brother, sitting up in bed.
‘You made me jump, Charley.’
‘Jump! Didn’t you make ME jump, when I opened my eyes a moment ago, and saw you sitting there, like the ghost of a girl miser118, in the dead of the night.’
‘It’s not the dead of the night, Charley. It’s nigh six in the morning.’
‘Is it though? But what are you up to, Liz?’
‘Still telling your fortune, Charley.’
‘It seems to be a precious small one, if that’s it,’ said the boy. ‘What are you putting that little pile of money by itself for?’
‘For you, Charley.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Get out of bed, Charley, and get washed and dressed, and then I’ll tell you.’
Her composed manner, and her low distinct voice, always had an influence over him. His head was soon in a basin of water, and out of it again, and staring at her through a storm of towelling.
‘I never,’ towelling at himself as if he were his bitterest enemy, ‘saw such a girl as you are. What IS the move, Liz?’
‘Are you almost ready for breakfast, Charley?’
‘You can pour it out. Hal-loa! I say? And a bundle?’
‘And a bundle, Charley.’
‘You don’t mean it’s for me, too?’
‘Yes, Charley; I do; indeed.’
More serious of face, and more slow of action, than he had been, the boy completed his dressing66, and came and sat down at the little breakfast-table, with his eyes amazedly directed to her face.
‘You see, Charley dear, I have made up my mind that this is the right time for your going away from us. Over and above all the blessed change of by-and-bye, you’ll be much happier, and do much better, even so soon as next month. Even so soon as next week.’
‘How do you know I shall?’
‘I don’t quite know how, Charley, but I do.’ In spite of her unchanged manner of speaking, and her unchanged appearance of composure, she scarcely trusted herself to look at him, but kept her eyes employed on the cutting and buttering of his bread, and on the mixing of his tea, and other such little preparations. ‘You must leave father to me, Charley — I will do what I can with him — but you must go.’
‘You don’t stand upon ceremony, I think,’ grumbled128 the boy, throwing his bread and butter about, in an ill-humour.
She made him no answer.
‘I tell you what,’ said the boy, then, bursting out into an angry whimpering, ‘you’re a selfish jade129, and you think there’s not enough for three of us, and you want to get rid of me.’
‘If you believe so, Charley — yes, then I believe too, that I am a selfish jade, and that I think there’s not enough for three of us, and that I want to get rid of you.’
It was only when the boy rushed at her, and threw his arms round her neck, that she lost her self-restraint. But she lost it then, and wept over him.
‘Don’t cry, don’t cry! I am satisfied to go, Liz; I am satisfied to go. I know you send me away for my good.’
‘O, Charley, Charley, Heaven above us knows I do!’
‘Yes yes. Don’t mind what I said. Don’t remember it. Kiss me.’
After a silence, she loosed him, to dry her eyes and regain130 her strong quiet influence.
‘Now listen, Charley dear. We both know it must be done, and I alone know there is good reason for its being done at once. Go straight to the school, and say that you and I agreed upon it — that we can’t overcome father’s opposition131 — that father will never trouble them, but will never take you back. You are a credit to the school, and you will be a greater credit to it yet, and they will help you to get a living. Show what clothes you have brought, and what money, and say that I will send some more money. If I can get some in no other way, I will ask a little help of those two gentlemen who came here that night.’
‘I say!’ cried her brother, quickly. ‘Don’t you have it of that chap that took hold of me by the chin! Don’t you have it of that Wrayburn one!’
Perhaps a slight additional tinge132 of red flushed up into her face and brow, as with a nod she laid a hand upon his lips to keep him silently attentive133.
‘And above all things mind this, Charley! Be sure you always speak well of father. Be sure you always give father his full due. You can’t deny that because father has no learning himself he is set against it in you; but favour nothing else against him, and be sure you say — as you know — that your sister is devoted134 to him. And if you should ever happen to hear anything said against father that is new to you, it will not be true. Remember, Charley! It will not be true.’
The boy looked at her with some doubt and surprise, but she went on again without heeding135 it.
‘Above all things remember! It will not be true. I have nothing more to say, Charley dear, except, be good, and get learning, and only think of some things in the old life here, as if you had dreamed them in a dream last night. Good-bye, my Darling!’
Though so young, she infused in these parting words a love that was far more like a mother’s than a sister’s, and before which the boy was quite bowed down. After holding her to his breast with a passionate136 cry, he took up his bundle and darted137 out at the door, with an arm across his eyes.
The white face of the winter day came sluggishly138 on, veiled in a frosty mist; and the shadowy ships in the river slowly changed to black substances; and the sun, blood-red on the eastern marshes139 behind dark masts and yards, seemed filled with the ruins of a forest it had set on fire. Lizzie, looking for her father, saw him coming, and stood upon the causeway that he might see her.
He had nothing with him but his boat, and came on apace. A knot of those amphibious human-creatures who appear to have some mysterious power of extracting a subsistence out of tidal water by looking at it, were gathered together about the causeway. As her father’s boat grounded, they became contemplative of the mud, and dispersed140 themselves. She saw that the mute avoidance had begun.
Gaffer saw it, too, in so far as that he was moved when he set foot on shore, to stare around him. But, he promptly set to work to haul up his boat, and make her fast, and take the sculls and rudder and rope out of her. Carrying these with Lizzie’s aid, he passed up to his dwelling141.
‘Sit close to the fire, father, dear, while I cook your breakfast. It’s all ready for cooking, and only been waiting for you. You must be frozen.’
‘Well, Lizzie, I ain’t of a glow; that’s certain. And my hands seem nailed through to the sculls. See how dead they are!’ Something suggestive in their colour, and perhaps in her face, struck him as he held them up; he turned his shoulder and held them down to the fire.
‘You were not out in the perishing night, I hope, father?’
‘No, my dear. Lay aboard a barge142, by a blazing coal-fire. — Where’s that boy?’
‘There’s a drop of brandy for your tea, father, if you’ll put it in while I turn this bit of meat. If the river was to get frozen, there would be a deal of distress143; wouldn’t there, father?’
‘Ah! there’s always enough of that,’ said Gaffer, dropping the liquor into his cup from a squat144 black bottle, and dropping it slowly that it might seem more; ‘distress is for ever a going about, like sut in the air — Ain’t that boy up yet?’
‘The meat’s ready now, father. Eat it while it’s hot and comfortable. After you have finished, we’ll turn round to the fire and talk.’
But, he perceived that he was evaded145, and, having thrown a hasty angry glance towards the bunk, plucked at a corner of her apron80 and asked:
‘What’s gone with that boy?’
‘Father, if you’ll begin your breakfast, I’ll sit by and tell you.’ He looked at her, stirred his tea and took two or three gulps146, then cut at his piece of hot steak with his case-knife, and said, eating:
‘Now then. What’s gone with that boy?’
‘Don’t be angry, dear. It seems, father, that he has quite a gift of learning.’
‘Unnat’ral young beggar!’ said the parent, shaking his knife in the air.
‘And that having this gift, and not being equally good at other things, he has made shift to get some schooling147.’
‘Unnat’ral young beggar!’ said the parent again, with his former action.
‘— And that knowing you have nothing to spare, father, and not wishing to be a burden on you, he gradually made up his mind to go seek his fortune out of learning. He went away this morning, father, and he cried very much at going, and he hoped you would forgive him.’
‘Let him never come a nigh me to ask me my forgiveness,’ said the father, again emphasizing his words with the knife. ‘Let him never come within sight of my eyes, nor yet within reach of my arm. His own father ain’t good enough for him. He’s disowned his own father. His own father therefore, disowns him for ever and ever, as a unnat’ral young beggar.’
He had pushed away his plate. With the natural need of a strong rough man in anger, to do something forcible, he now clutched his knife overhand, and struck downward with it at the end of every succeeding sentence. As he would have struck with his own clenched148 fist if there had chanced to be nothing in it.
‘He’s welcome to go. He’s more welcome to go than to stay. But let him never come back. Let him never put his head inside that door. And let you never speak a word more in his favour, or you’ll disown your own father, likewise, and what your father says of him he’ll have to come to say of you. Now I see why them men yonder held aloof149 from me. They says to one another, “Here comes the man as ain’t good enough for his own son!” Lizzie —!’
But, she stopped him with a cry. Looking at her he saw her, with a face quite strange to him, shrinking back against the wall, with her hands before her eyes.
‘Father, don’t! I can’t bear to see you striking with it. Put it down!’
He looked at the knife; but in his astonishment150 still held it.
‘Father, it’s too horrible. O put it down, put it down!’
Confounded by her appearance and exclamation, he tossed it away, and stood up with his open hands held out before him.
‘What’s come to you, Liz? Can you think I would strike at you with a knife?’
‘No, father, no; you would never hurt me.’
‘What should I hurt?’
‘Nothing, dear father. On my knees, I am certain, in my heart and soul I am certain, nothing! But it was too dreadful to bear; for it looked —’ her hands covering her face again, ‘O it looked —’
‘What did it look like?’
The recollection of his murderous figure, combining with her trial of last night, and her trial of the morning, caused her to drop at his feet, without having answered.
He had never seen her so before. He raised her with the utmost tenderness, calling her the best of daughters, and ‘my poor pretty creetur’, and laid her head upon his knee, and tried to restore her. But failing, he laid her head gently down again, got a pillow and placed it under her dark hair, and sought on the table for a spoonful of brandy. There being none left, he hurriedly caught up the empty bottle, and ran out at the door.
He returned as hurriedly as he had gone, with the bottle still empty. He kneeled down by her, took her head on his arm, and moistened her lips with a little water into which he dipped his fingers: saying, fiercely, as he looked around, now over this shoulder, now over that:
‘Have we got a pest in the house? Is there summ’at deadly sticking to my clothes? What’s let loose upon us? Who loosed it?’
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1
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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outlast
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| v.较…耐久 | |
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outlasted
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| v.比…长久，比…活得长( outlast的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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jumble
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| vt.使混乱，混杂；n.混乱；杂乱的一堆 | |
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impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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impended
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| v.进行威胁，即将发生( impend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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7
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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8
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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10
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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12
fraught
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| adj.充满…的，伴有(危险等)的；忧虑的 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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14
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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15
garrulous
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| adj.唠叨的，多话的 | |
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16
umbrageous
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| adj.多荫的 | |
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soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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18
fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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19
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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20
snugger
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| adj.整洁的( snug的比较级 )；温暖而舒适的；非常舒适的；紧身的 | |
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everlastingly
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| 永久地，持久地 | |
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haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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snugness
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gushed
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| v.喷，涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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25
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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albeit
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| conj.即使；纵使；虽然 | |
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27
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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28
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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30
utensils
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| 器具，用具，器皿( utensil的名词复数 )； 器物 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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32
delectable
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| adj.使人愉快的；美味的 | |
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33
flip
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| vt.快速翻动；轻抛；轻拍；n.轻抛；adj.轻浮的 | |
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34
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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35
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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36
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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37
superstitiously
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| 被邪教所支配 | |
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38
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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39
replete
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| adj.饱满的，塞满的；n.贮蜜蚁 | |
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40
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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41
alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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42
cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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43
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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44
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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45
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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46
muddled
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| adj.混乱的；糊涂的；头脑昏昏然的v.弄乱，弄糟( muddle的过去式)；使糊涂；对付，混日子 | |
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47
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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48
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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49
pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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50
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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51
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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52
squinting
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| 斜视( squint的现在分词 )； 眯着眼睛； 瞟； 从小孔或缝隙里看 | |
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53
deigning
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的现在分词 ) | |
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54
ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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55
suppliant
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| adj.哀恳的；n.恳求者，哀求者 | |
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56
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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57
knuckling
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| n.突球v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的现在分词 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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58
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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59
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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60
apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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61
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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62
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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63
ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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64
muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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65
docility
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| n.容易教，易驾驶，驯服 | |
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66
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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67
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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68
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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69
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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70
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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71
meekness
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| n.温顺，柔和 | |
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72
glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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73
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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74
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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75
abated
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| 减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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76
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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77
deferential
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| adj. 敬意的，恭敬的 | |
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78
descrying
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| v.被看到的，被发现的，被注意到的( descried的过去分词 ) | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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81
sapient
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| adj.有见识的，有智慧的 | |
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82
mashed
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| a.捣烂的 | |
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83
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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84
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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85
funnel
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| n.漏斗；烟囱；v.汇集 | |
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86
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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87
pettishly
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88
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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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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90
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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91
habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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92
grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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93
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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94
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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95
deluded
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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96
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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97
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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98
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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99
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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100
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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101
frigid
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| adj.寒冷的，凛冽的；冷淡的；拘禁的 | |
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102
taint
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| n.污点；感染；腐坏；v.使感染；污染 | |
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103
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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104
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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105
systematically
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| adv.有系统地 | |
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106
poker
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| n.扑克；vt.烙制 | |
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107
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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108
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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109
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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110
staples
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| n.（某国的）主要产品( staple的名词复数 )；钉书钉；U 形钉；主要部份v.用钉书钉钉住( staple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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111
murky
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| adj.黑暗的，朦胧的；adv.阴暗地，混浊地；n.阴暗；昏暗 | |
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112
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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113
entrapped
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| v.使陷入圈套，使入陷阱( entrap的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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114
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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115
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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116
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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117
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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118
miser
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| n.守财奴，吝啬鬼 (adj.miserly) | |
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119
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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120
postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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121
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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122
bunk
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| n.(车、船等倚壁而设的)铺位；废话 | |
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123
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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124
flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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125
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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126
inverted
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| adj.反向的，倒转的v.使倒置，使反转( invert的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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127
laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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128
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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129
jade
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| n.玉石；碧玉；翡翠 | |
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130
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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131
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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132
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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133
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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134
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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135
heeding
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的现在分词 ) | |
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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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137
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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138
sluggishly
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| adv.懒惰地；缓慢地 | |
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139
marshes
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| n.沼泽，湿地( marsh的名词复数 ) | |
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140
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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141
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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142
barge
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| n.平底载货船，驳船 | |
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143
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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144
squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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145
evaded
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| 逃避( evade的过去式和过去分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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146
gulps
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| n.一大口（尤指液体）( gulp的名词复数 )v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的第三人称单数 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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147
schooling
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| n.教育；正规学校教育 | |
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148
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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149
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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150
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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