“Well, that will do for this morning, James,” said Mr. Heatherley, after rising and requesting his visitor to be seated. “Rather better than usual, I think. Look over bonus, niger, and tristis again for Monday’s lesson. Good-bye.”
The lad collected his books together and went off at a sort of trot2, turning towards Helen, as he went out, a bright though rather ugly face.
“A little pupil of mine,” said the clergyman, by way of explanation. “His parents are unable to give him more than a very poor education, and as he is a sharp little chap I have got into the way of teaching him a little at odd times. On Saturday he doesn’t go to school, so we have our lessons rather later than usual. I am glad we have a fine morning, Miss Norman. I almost think we had better take our walk first of all, then return and discuss your plans with the work fresh in our minds. Do you approve?”
As he spoke4, he arranged a few books which he took from the table in their places in a well-filled book-case. Helen replied to his proposition with a cheerful assent5, watching him the while.
“Latin, I suppose, you have not attempted to subdue6?” he asked, turning a curious face towards his visitor.
“I can read Virgil and Horace with tolerable ease,” replied Helen. “But I am afraid my knowledge of the niceties of the language is very imperfect.”
“And Greek?” said Mr. Heatherley, without affecting surprise.
“Of Greek I have a very trifling7 knowledge.”
“Young ladies usually devote more attention to modern than to ancient languages, I believe,” said the clergyman.
“And I am no exception to the rule,” replied Helen.
“You know Italian?”
“Pretty well.”
“Ha! I envy you. I have a desperate desire to read Dante in the original — but time, time, time!”
“You would very quickly learn sufficient of the language for that,” said Helen, smiling slightly.
“You think so? Ah, well, I must make an attempt one of these days. In the meantime we have our work before us, Miss Norman. You are ready?”
“Quite.”
“Good. Then we will set out.”
As they issued into the street, Mr. Heatherley consulted a small note-book, in which appeared to be jotted8 memoranda9 concerning the poor he visited daily. Conversing10 agreeably as he walked — always in the same pithy11, energetic language, showing considerable information, both as regards books and men, and always such a healthy freedom from mere12 conventionality that Helen felt herself more and more at home with him — he led his companion by degrees into dark, dirty, narrow streets, where low-browed arches frowned on either side, leading off into courts and alleys13 of indescribable foulness14, and over-running with a population as horrible to view as their own abodes15.
“Now,” said the clergyman, as they paused for a moment to gaze down a court not more than three feet wide, the entrance into which was down a flight of broken stone steps, and at the other end of which was just visible another low archway precisely16 like the entrance to a kennel17, “I should neither advise nor permit you, Miss Norman, to venture into places such as that. The worst of these courts are the haunts of such unutterable brutality18 and wickedness that it is often dangerous for hardy19 men to venture into them. For a woman to do so would be folly20. It would be quite impossible for her to do good there at all adequate to the risk she ran. I trust that you will confine your visits to these wider streets. God knows there is enough wickedness everywhere in this neighbourhood, but you are not so remote from assistance in the open streets. And here we come to our first place of call. If you will follow me I will enter here.”
They stood before a second-hand21 clothes shop, the front of which was quite open to the street, where an old woman and a young girl sat on the floor amidst heaps of ragged22 clothing, stitching remnants together to form saleable articles. They looked up as the clergyman entered, and the old woman nodded a palsy-stricken head, the total baldness of which gave her a hideous23 appearance, and began to mutter unintelligibly24 between her bare gums.
“What does your grandmother say, Kitty?” asked Mr. Heatherley of the young girl.
The latter bent25 her ear close to the old woman’s mouth before replying.
“She says she’s better today. She’s been a wearin’ the flannel26 you giv’ her for her rheumatics, and she thinks as how it done her good.”
“That’s right. I’m glad to hear it. Is your mother in, Kitty?”
“She’s gone to the station,” replied the girl.
“What now? More trouble between her and your father?”
“Father come ‘ome this mornin’ drunker than ever,” said the girl, in a matter of fact way, continuing her stitching as she spoke. “Mother got up, and they begun to ‘ave words; an’ then father ‘it her on the ‘cad with his boot-heel, as he’d just took horff. And mother’s ‘ead bleeded — my! how it did bleed! An’ so she’s gone to the station for another summons, you see.”
Mr. Heatherley glanced at Helen to see the effect of this city-idyl upon her. She was rather paler than usual, but listened attentively27 to what was said.
“And where’s your father?” pursued the clergyman.
“Well, father got mad like, you see, at some words as mother used to him about ‘Arry as used to lodge28 ’ere. She said as ‘ow he’d have been a better ‘usbin to her than father ever was. So father got mad like, an’ he said as he’d go and murder ‘Arry this mornin’. An’ he’s gone to do it.”
The calm na?veté with which the girl uttered these last words chilled Helen’s very blood. The clergyman, more accustomed to such remarks, reassured29 her with a look, and proceeded with the conversation.
“Any new lodgers30 yet, Kitty?”
“Yes, there’s one — a young woman in the third floor back. Leastwise so mother tell’d me. I ain’t seen her.”
“What does she do?”
“Don’t do nothink, mother said.”
“How does she pay for her lodging32 then?”
“Don’t know.”
“I suppose she’s out now?”
“No; she ain’t comed out this mornin’ yet, cos I’s been here sen’ seven o’clock.”
“Is she ill?”
“Very like.”
“Could we go up to see her?”
“Why not? Don’t suppose as you’ll steal nothink, Mr. ‘Eatherley!”
Leave thus graciously granted, Mr. Heatherley led the way through the shop into a pitch-dark passage, where he was obliged to strike a match, a box of which he fortunately carried in his pocket, before he could venture to lead Helen up the mouldy staircase. The walls, Helen observed, had once been papered, but they now so reeked33 with damp that only an old strip or two still hung loose to indicate where the paper had been. She could feel the stairs often bend beneath her feet, so rotten were they. On reaching the third floor they tapped at the back-room door, and received permission to enter, delivered in a shrill34, childish voice.
In a garret, empty but for a small iron bedstead and a wooden stool, sat, upon the latter article, a child, whose age the visitors at first put down for some twelve years. She was dressed in rags which scarcely concealed35 her nakedness, and on her lap lay an infant sleeping. The elder child’s face was thick with grime, the only places where the original colour of the skin could be discovered being narrow streaks36 from the corners of the eyes, a sufficient indication that she cried long and frequently. She seemed frightened at the entrance of the strangers, and quickly stood up, gathering37 the infant carefully in her arms.
Mr. Heatherley instinctively38 yielded place to Helen. She seemed the more suitable person to commence the conversation.
“They told us down-stairs,” said Helen, “that there was a lodger31 here who was in want of employment. Is it you, my poor child?”
“Yes, mum. I’s got no ‘ployment. I on’y wish I ‘ad.”
“But are you quite alone here?”
“Yes, mum.”
“Have you no father or mother?”
“Both doin’ six weeks, mum.”
Helen looked interrogatively at Mr. Heatherley, who whispered that she meant to say her parents were both in prison for six weeks.
“But how do you feed your little sister? Is it sister or brother?”
“It’s my child, mum,” said the little creature, with perfect simplicity39, without a trace of shame.
“What! your child!”
“Yes, mum,” returned the other, surprised at the astonishment40 her remark had excited.
“But — but how old are you?” asked Helen, blushing as she spoke.
“Turned fifteen, mum.”
Here Mr. Heatherley came forward.
“If you will speak to this poor child for a few minutes, Miss Norman,” he said, “I will return directly. There is another lodger below I should like to see.”
He left the room, and Helen, after a brief pause, continued her questions.
“Are — are you married?” she asked.
“No, mum, not yet,” returned the child.
“Does the father of your child support you now?”
“No, mum, not yet.”
“Who is he? What does he do?”
“He’s a butcher-boy, mum.”
“Does he mean to marry you?”
“Some day, mum. When he gets fifteen shillin’ a week, that is.”
“How much does he get now?”
“Nine an’ six, mum.”
“But how are you going to live for the present?” asked Helen, bending down to stroke the miserable41 little baby’s face, at which a look of pleasure and pride lit up the young mother’s countenance42.
“He’s big for his age, an’ he grows every day, mum, he does,” she remarked.
Helen could scarcely restrain the tears from rushing to her eyes.
“How are you living now?” she repeated.
“I’ve got four shillin’s as mother give me the night afore she was locked up, mum, an’ that’ll last me a few days. And when that’s gone, I — I — oh, I really don’t know what I’ll do, mum!”
Here, for the first time, her fortitude43 broke down, and she wept bitterly. The baby set up a piercing shriek44 out of sympathy, and Helen’s tears at length refused to be held back. At this moment Mr. Heatherley again entered the room.
“Are you quite well?” asked Helen, hastily brushing away her tears with a handkerchief.
“Yes, mum, thanke, mum.”
“Take this, then, for the present,” she said, pressing two half-crowns into the child’s dirty palm, “and buy better food. Would you like me to come and see you again in a day or two to see how the little baby gets on?”
“0 yes, mum; I should, please, mum!” exclaimed the child, a radiant look upon her dirty face which Helen felt to be a heavenly reward for her little kindness.
“I will do so then. And I will tell the people below to find some clothes to fit you, as soon as possible, and some for the baby, too. Have you no wash-hand basin?”
“No, mum.”
“Where do you wash, then?”
“The tap in the wash’us, mum.”
“If I send you a jug45 and basin you will promise me to use it twice a day till I come again?”
“I’d be glad to, mum.”
“Very well. Good-bye for the present, then.”
And, bending once more to pat the baby’s check, she left the room, followed by Mr. Heatherley. On reaching the shop she soon made arrangements with regard to the clothing and the utensils46, after which they bade the old woman and her grand-daughter good-bye, and issued again into the street.
“I must warn you, Miss Norman,” said the clergyman, as they walked on, “against being too easily caught by affecting stories. I believe this is a really deserving case, but you will often be seriously imposed upon. I should advise you never to give much money at once. In any cases where you think more extensive relief desirable we will always appoint a meeting at the chapel47 with the people. It is often easier to arrive at a correct judgment48 of the poor when they are away from their ordinary horrible surroundings.”
After this they paid many visits, passing from one haunt of abominations to another, from one scene of heart-rending sufferings to another, till the morning had worn away. Everywhere Helen admired Mr. Heatherley’s kindness and readiness of speech, his thorough acquaintance with the circumstances of those he visited, his broad charity when faults seemed to call for reprobation49, his entire devotion to the work of alleviating50 wretchedness. When she began to feel weary and weak in consequence of the long walk and the excessive pressure upon her sympathies wherever they went, she admired and envied, too, the robustness51 of frame which rendered such a morning as this but child’s play to her guide.
On their return to Mr. Heatherley’s, they found a light lunch ready laid for them. Helen did not disguise her need of rest and refreshment52, and frankly53 accepted the clergyman’s friendly attentions. For a time she was very silent, her thoughts busy with the morning’s experiences, and with the devising of plans for future efforts. The clergyman was the first to commence the conversation.
“When we remember our Poor Laws, our hospitals, all our great efforts of public charity and private benevolence54, one who had not visited these poor neighbourhoods could scarcely believe that such misery55 existed.”
“It is an all-sufficing proof,” returned Helen, “that neither the public nor the private charity is well conducted. And yet it is, perhaps, unjust to speak so of the latter. In the midst of a social chaos56, such as ours, individual effort must necessarily be poor in results. Is it not a disgrace to our civilisation57, Mr. Heatherley, that such exertions58 as ours should be needful?”
“It used to be a favourite mental exercise with me,” replied the clergyman, smiling, “to originate schemes of future Utopias. But I fear I now see only too clearly the futility59 of all such dreams. The powers of Government are slight, Miss Norman, when weighed in the balance against human passions.”
“Then you cannot hope for a state of society in which disgraceful poverty, such as that we have witnessed this morning, will no longer exist, in which the will to earn a respectable livelihood60 shall be equivalent to success?”
“My hopes are unbounded,” replied Mr. Heatherley, rather sadly, “but my expectations, when confined to this life, arc of the most modest character.”
The phrase “this life” jarred terribly on Helen’s cars. Enthusiastic as she was for the future of humanity, she could scarcely restrain a hasty answer; but good taste withheld61 her from rudely shocking the clergyman’s ears.
“Well,” she replied, with a smile and a slight sigh, “it is this life in which I am principally interested, and doubtless you would laugh at me if I expressed to you all my expectations regarding it. When in Germany I thought and read much on social matters, and in the end formed my own theories as to the future constitution of society. But as such hopes have by no means reference to any immediate62 future, I may say that my stand-point is one with your own, Mr. Heatherley, in all practical matters. Whilst I know that even at this moment history is bringing about such changes for us as we cannot dream of, I am content in the meantime to do my little utmost towards rendering63 the transition somewhat easier. I have not much patience with those who look so much to the future, and stop their ears against the groans64 of the present. I tell you this, Mr. Heatherley, that you may understand more clearly the source of my eagerness to be a worker, that you may feel more convinced that my conduct is something beyond mere caprice, as you expressed it yesterday.”
The clergyman watched Helen calmly as she spoke, and then sank once more into thought. He seemed to be endeavouring to get at the bottom of her character, and the task appeared to be a troublesome one.
“You have studied in Germany, Miss Norman?” he asked at length.
“For about two years; I only returned a little more than a fortnight ago. I think,” she continued, after a short silence, “that I ought to give you some slight information with regard to myself; I am sure you think me somewhat bizarre; perhaps you even condemn65 me for being too forward.”
“You interest me much, Miss Norman,” replied Mr. Heatherley, in his frank way, “but, as yet, I have seen nothing in your conduct to warrant condemnation66.”
“The truth is,” pursued Helen, “I have always lived a rather solitary67 life, my only companions being people very much older than myself. My father was a clergyman; he died nearly four years ago. I have never been to a school in the ordinary way, but have studied privately68 with tutors and professors. For several years before my father’s death I lived with him in the south of France. We hardly mixed with society, and saw rarely anyone except one or two literary friends. In Germany, too, I made very few acquaintances, and those were grave, thoughtful people. These influences may, in some degree, explain to you, my habit of mind.”
“Was your father a clergyman of the English Church?”
Helen replied affirmatively, and there was again silence.
“There is also another matter,” resumed Helen, “not without importance at present. My father left me at his death considerable wealth, and, though I am still a ward3, my guardian69 allows me great freedom in disposing of this. I mention this, not for its own sake, but because I am bent upon carrying out one or two rather extensive schemes. I could not be satisfied with merely relieving a few individual cases of distress70; when my means enable me, I trust, to do much more.”
“Would you let me hear a few of your plans?”
“Naturally they are at present mere outlines,” pursued Helen, her eyes glowing with pleasure, and her tones becoming more rapid as she unfolded her thoughts. “I shall depend very greatly upon your suggestions in the practical details. First of all, then, I shall visit these haunts of poverty day after day, and do my best to become acquainted with the most pressing needs, and to learn the best ways of meeting them. I shall endeavour to gain the personal confidence of these poor people, so that they will freely impart to me their difficulties, and allow me to help them in the most effectual way. Then, as I am firmly convinced that no radical71 change for the better can take place in these people’s condition till they are educated, I shall endeavour to establish a free evening school for girls, principally for those who are engaged in earning their living, and who have never had the opportunity of being taught anything. Then, again, it has seemed to me that some good provision might be made for those suffering from illness. You tell me that the public hospitals are by no means sufficient to deal with these wants, so I would suggest something of this kind. Suppose I were to establish a good dispensary in the centre of this district, and to find one or two earnest physicians, who would be willing to attend there for certain hours every day — of course receiving adequate compensation for their work — the poor who wished to avail themselves of the dispensary could then apply either to you or to me, and we, if we thought fit, would give them tickets entitling them to gratuitous72 advice and medicine. The physicians would report to me any especially noticeable cases, and I should then be able to provide needful things which would be beyond the people’s own power to purchase. Do you think this a practicable scheme, Mr. Heatherley?”
“With care I think it might be made so,” replied the clergyman, after a moment’s thought, his tone and countenance showing that he derived73 much pleasure from these suggestions.
“I fear I shall burden you with work,” went on Helen, “if you are good enough to undertake to assist me. But, above all, I wish everything to be done with the utmost quietness. Publicity74 of my efforts would be the very last thing I should desire; for, of course, they will be nothing more than efforts for a long time. But I should like to lose no time in putting my theories into practice. Doubtless you could at once name several girls who could be induced to attend an evening class?”
“I think I could,” replied Mr. Heatherley, cautiously; “but the hour would necessarily have to be late. I should think eight o’clock would be the earliest practicable. Your pupils would, for the most part, be engaged in work-rooms, and they rarely regain75 their liberty before half-past seven.
“Oh, I would arrange for any hour, of course. And do you think I could find a physician to undertake the dispensary work?”
“I do not myself know of one,” replied the clergyman, reflecting. “Probably we should be obliged to have recourse to advertisement. In the nature of things it would not be a very difficult matter.”
“Then I may conclude that you approve these two plans?”
“I do, heartily76; and will help you with my utmost power, Miss Norman.”
“Thank you, thank you,” returned Helen, fervently77. “Oh,” she continued, “I have many more plans, some even more extensive still, but at present they are too immature78; I must gain experience. But, in the meantime, promise me, Mr. Heatherley, that you will never let a deserving case of poverty go unrelieved as long as I have the means of charity. Charity! I hate the word! It is justice to these poor sufferers to share my wealth with them! What right have I to such a superfluity?”
The conversation lasted for some half hour longer, during which many plans were discussed and some details of work arranged. When at length Helen rose to go, Mr. Heatherley, on shaking hands with her, said, solemnly —
“Miss Norman, though you deny the authority of Christ, you nevertheless are eager in His service.”
It was with a joyous79 heart that the noble girl returned home. The same evening she wrote to her friend, Dr. Gmelin, a long account of her plans in a letter where every word throbbed80, as it were, with fine enthusiasm. When she retired81 late at night it was only to spend many long wakeful hours, rendered restless by impatient longing82 for the new day.
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1
indirectly
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| adv.间接地，不直接了当地 | |
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trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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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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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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assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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trifling
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jotted
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| v.匆忙记下( jot的过去式和过去分词 )；草草记下，匆匆记下 | |
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memoranda
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conversing
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pithy
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mere
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alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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foulness
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abodes
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| 住所( abode的名词复数 )； 公寓； （在某地的）暂住； 逗留 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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kennel
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brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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folly
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second-hand
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ragged
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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unintelligibly
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bent
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flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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attentively
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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reassured
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lodgers
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lodger
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| n.寄宿人，房客 | |
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lodging
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reeked
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的过去式和过去分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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shrill
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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instinctively
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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43
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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utensils
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| 器具，用具，器皿( utensil的名词复数 )； 器物 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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reprobation
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| n.斥责 | |
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alleviating
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| 减轻，缓解，缓和( alleviate的现在分词 ) | |
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robustness
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| 坚固性，健壮性；鲁棒性 | |
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refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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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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chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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futility
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| n.无用 | |
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livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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gratuitous
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| adj.无偿的，免费的；无缘无故的，不必要的 | |
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derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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immature
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| adj.未成熟的，发育未全的，未充分发展的 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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