Once outside, amidst the din1 of rattling2 cabs and excited passengers, Uncle Luke seemed perplexed3 what to do next. He took off his high hat, and scratched his head; and this appeared to remind him that he had a paper carefully tucked into the hat’s lining4. So he searched for and found the paper, on which was written, in a round, clear hand—
Marmaduke White, Esq.,
The Den5,
Willowtree Road,
St. John’s Wood.
In his perplexity he turned to a policeman, and, with his usual grin, showed him the paper. The policeman, who happened to be good-natured, informed him that he must walk across London Bridge, and make the best of his way to the Bank, where he would get an omnibus which would take him straight to his destination.
‘When you get to the Bank, look for a “City Hatlas”—you’ll see “City Hatlas” written on the outside. You can’t go wrong.5
Thus instructed, Uncle Luke toddled6 off as fast as his legs could carry him, and was swept along with the traffic that sets all day from London Bridge Station over the great Bridge. Madeline clung to him in amazement7 and terror, with her great wistful eyes wide in wonder.
As they passed over the bridge and saw the river gleaming, she uttered a cry, and would have stopped to gaze, but her Uncle pulled her along, being far too excited for explanation or conversation.
In due time they reached the Bank; and now a fresh perplexity occurred, for the little man had quite forgotten the policeman’s directions. Madeline, however, remembered, and spying an omnibus labelled ‘City Atlas’ hurried him towards it.
He showed his paper to the conductor.
‘All right,’ said that worthy8; ‘jump in.’
And soon they were well afloat in the great stream of London, with the waters roaring and mingling9 and crying around them. Madeline gazed out, and her wonder deepened as she saw the great shining shops, and the innumerable horses and vehicles, and the people ever coming and going, like waves of a sea. She thought it beautiful, a kind of terrible Fairyland, and it would have given her perfect pleasure if her heart had not been so full of a great grief. For the time being, indeed, she almost forgot her childish trouble in the strange new sense of a vast and troubled world, of whose mysterious motions she had never dreamed.
It was a long ride, but it seemed only to occupy a few minutes. Uncle Luke was silent, crushed by his sorrow and by the situation; he held her hand tight, and fixed10 his poor sad eyes on vacancy11, seeing and hearing nothing, only conscious that he had a task to perform, and determined12, though his heart should break, that he would perform it to the end.
At last they left the long thoroughfares behind and came out into a region comparatively green and countrified, with villas13 of all tastes and sizes ranged on either side of the road. Here the omnibus stopped, and the conductor told Uncle Luke to alight, announcing that they were at the corner of Willowtree Road, and that the address written on the paper must be close by. So Uncle Luke alighted with Madeline, paid their fare, and stood hesitating, while the omnibus rolled away.
Willowtree Road consisted, from end to end, of detached and semi-detached villas, only variegated15 at two of the corners by public-houses. It was very quiet and suburban16, and as all the trees in the gardens were already green, and many of them in flower, it looked quite rural and bright.
Paper in hand Uncle Luke trotted17 up and down for some time, in a vain search for the house he sought. The road was quite deserted18, and there was no one whom he could consult. At last he came against a telegraph boy, sauntering along and whistling in the leisurely19 manner of those swift Mercuries of the period.
‘I’ve just come from there,’ said Mercury, after inspecting the paper. ‘You see that house with the verander? Well, you don’t go up the front steps, but walk round to the side, and you’ll see a bell marked “Stoodio”; ring that, and ask for Mr. White.’
Thus directed, Uncle Luke approached the house, a small, semi-detached villa14, and passing round, as directed, to the side, discovered with some little difficulty the bell in question. Without any hesitation20, he rang. Scarcely had he done so, when the door opened as it were of its own accord, and he found himself in a dilapidated garden, face to face with a small building which looked like a diminutive21 Methodist chapel22. Approaching the door of this edifice23, he was about to knock, when his eyes fell upon a paper pasted upon it. On this paper was printed rather than written these words—
Mr. White out of town. Back this day week.
With Madeline’s aid Uncle Luke spelt out the inscription24, and it filled him with complete consternation25. There being no date to the announcement, ‘this day week’ was curiously26 indefinite, particularly as the paper showed signs of having been there for a considerable time already. While he stood gaping27 and scratching his head the studio door suddenly opened, and a very small boy with a very old face, clad in a very dirty page’s uniform, made his appearance.
‘Well, what is it’ cried this worthy, snappishly.
‘Who do you want?’
Uncle Luke took off his hat respectfully, and handed over the paper. Strange to say, the boy would not deign28 to inspect it.
‘If it’s the milk bill, you’re to call again next week. If it’s a summons, nobody ain’t at home. Which of the gents is it for?’
‘I’m a-looking for Master White,’ said Uncle Luke, timidly, ‘and if you please——’
‘But he don’t please,’ answered the boy, with a fierce sense of grievance29. ‘He ain’t at home. Didn’t you see the paper on that there door?’
At this juncture30 another head appeared in the background, and a pair of human eyes seemed rapidly to inspect the intruders. Then a voice said—
‘It’s all right, Judas. Let ’em come in.’
Thus instructed, the page threw open the door, and Uncle Luke entered, with Madeline clinging to him. Their astonishment31 was considerable when they found themselves in a large apartment, lighted by glass windows from above, and full of all the paraphernalia32 of an artist’s workshop—several easels, two or three lay figures, paintings in various states of completion. In one corner stood a stove, on the top of which was a loaf of brown bread and a tin coffee pot, and close to the stove was a perfect hecatomb of egg-shells. Indeed, what with general dust and debris33 of all kinds, the entire ‘studio’ seemed sadly in need of cleaning out.
Fronting them as they entered was the only tenant34 of the apartment—a young man with a very light moustache, a watery35 blue eye, and a large amount of unkempt flaxen hair. He grasped a palette in one hand, a paint brush in the other, and in his mouth he held a black meerschaum pipe.
‘Is it anything I can do for you?’ he said, with a rather vacant smile. ‘I’m Mr. Cheveley.’
‘I want to see Master White,’ said Uncle Luke in a faltering36 voice. ‘I’ve come all the way from the country, all along o’ Madlin, here. Haven’t I, Madlin? If so be he’s away, can’t some one fetch him, and tell him Luke Peartree wants him, and that Uncle Mark’s dead, and that poor Aunt Jane’s a widder, and that things has all gone contrary, and all our hearts is broke?’
Tears rose in Uncle Luke’s eyes, and he stood choking, while Madeline clung to him and began crying too. The young man looked at them in astonishment for some minutes; then, struck by an idea, he walked rapidly to an inner door and cried loudly—
‘Here, White.’
A sleepy voice answered from within—
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Some one to see you—come, get up!’
The answer seemed a combination of strong expressions, combined with inarticulate groans37. After listening for a moment, Cheveley turned to Uncle Luke—
‘Here, I say!’ he said, with the vacant helpless manner peculiar38 to him. ‘He’s writing in bed, and he won’t rise. You’d better go in and explain your own business. The little girl can wait here.’
Not without some little fear and trembling, Uncle Luke released Madeline’s hand, and moved with timid steps into the inner room. It was a very small chamber39, furnished as a bedroom; that is to say, it contained an iron bedstead, a washstand, a table, and other conveniences. A chest of drawers gaping open was covered with articles of attire40 in most admired disorder41, and other articles were hung on the walls or scattered42 about the room.
Perched up on the bed, with an embroidered43 smoking-cap on his head, was a gentleman in gold spectacles. He was writing rapidly with a pencil in a large manuscript book, and he scarcely looked up as Uncle Luke entered. But when Uncle Luke, whose heart was full and overflowed44 at the sight of one whom he believed to be a friend of the family, trotted over to the bedside and took his hand, crying like a child, he dropped his notebook and seemed aghast. Then, recognising his visitor, he questioned him, and soon knew the whole sad story—of Uncle Mark’s accidental death, of the break-up of the little home, of the despair of the family, and their conviction that they could no longer do their duty by Madeline.
‘And Madlin’s here,’ cried Uncle Luke. ‘I brung her, but, Lord, she don’t guess why I brung her; she thinks she’s a-going back. Oh, Mr. White, be a father to her! She ain’t got ne’er another, now her Uncle Mark’s dead.’ Mr. White wiped his spectacles, and seemed utterly45 stupefied; at last he nodded, as if he had made up his mind.
‘Give me those trousers,’ he said, ‘I’ll get up.’
In another minute he had slipped into an old pair of tweed trousers, a pair of very dirty fancy slippers46, and an old dressing-gown. Thus attired47 he even looked less engaging than when composing in bed. His hands were greatly in need of soap, his whiskers were ragged48 and ornamented49 with fragments of yolk50 of egg, and his face, which was otherwise kindly51 and good-humoured, looked parboiled. Seizing a brush, he went through the formality of brushing the very minute bunches of hair which ornamented his bald head, and then, after a momentary52 struggle with his whiskers, led the way into the ‘studio.’ Here they found Madeline in high delight, for Cheveley, seizing a piece of charcoal53, had dashed off a rough likeness54 of her on a canvas which stood vacant. The wild locks, the great wistful eyes, the delicate mouth, were happily caught, and for the moment the child forgot all her troubles.
‘Look, Uncle Luke,’ she cried, running to him and pointing out the likeness. ‘It’s me.’
Uncle Luke, still pale and trembling with his great grief, grinned from ear to ear, and gazed upon the artist in pathetic admiration55. Meantime White stood blinking benignly56 through his spectacles; at last Madeline caught his look, and returned it with no little astonishment.
‘This is Madlin,’ said Uncle Luke, gently.
Thus introduced, Madeline dropped her eyes timidly, and gave a country curtsey, as she had been accustomed to do to the magnates of the village.
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1
din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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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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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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toddled
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| v.（幼儿等）东倒西歪地走( toddle的过去式和过去分词 )；蹒跚行走；溜达；散步 | |
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7
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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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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vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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15
variegated
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| adj.斑驳的，杂色的 | |
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16
suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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18
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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19
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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20
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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25
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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27
gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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28
deign
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| v. 屈尊, 惠允 ( 做某事) | |
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grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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paraphernalia
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| n.装备；随身用品 | |
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33
debris
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| n.瓦砾堆，废墟，碎片 | |
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tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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35
watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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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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38
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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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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attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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42
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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43
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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47
attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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49
ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
yolk
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| n.蛋黄，卵黄 | |
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51
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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52
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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53
charcoal
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| n.炭，木炭，生物炭 | |
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54
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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55
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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56
benignly
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| adv.仁慈地，亲切地 | |
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