“Well, Jacob,” replied he, “we’ll not talk of that any more. I’ll give your messages just in your own words. Now, take your draught18, and try to get a little sleep.”
I complied with this request, and nothing but weakness now remaining, I rapidly regained19 my strength, and with my strength, my feelings of resentment20 increased in proportion. Nothing but the very weak state that I was in when Captain Turnbull spoke21 to me would have softened22 me down to give the kind message that I did; but my vindictive mind was subdued23 by disease, and better feelings predominated. The only effect this had was to increase my animosity against the other parties who were the cause of my ill-treatment, and I vowed24 that they, at least, should one day repent25 their conduct.
The Dominie called upon me the following Sunday. I was dressed and looking through the window when he arrived. The frost was now intense, and the river was covered with large masses of ice, and my greatest pleasure was to watch them as they floated down with the tide; “Thou hast had a second narrow escape, my Jacob,” said he, after some preliminary observations. “Once again did death (pallida mors) hover26 over thy couch; but thou hast arisen, and thy fair fame is again established. When wilt27 thou be able to visit Mr Drummond, and be able to thank him for his kindness?”
“Never, sir,” replied I; “I will never again enter Mr Drummond’s house.”
“Nay, Jacob, this savoureth of enmity. Are not we all likely to be deceived—all likely to do wrong? Did not I, even I, in thy presence, backslide into intemperance and folly28? Did not I disgrace myself before my pupil—and shalt thou, in thy tender years, harbour ill-will against one who had cherished thee when thou wert destitute29, and who was deceived with regard to thee by the base and evil-speaking?”
“I am obliged to Mr Drummond for all his kindness, sir,” replied I; “but I never wish to enter his house. I was turned out of it, and never will again go into it.”
“Eheu! Jacobe, thou art in error; it is our duty to forgive as we hope to be forgiven.”
“I do forgive, sir, if that is what is requested: but I cannot, and will not, accept of further favours.”
The Dominie urged in vain, and left me. Mr Tomkins also came, and argued the point without success. I was resolved. I was determined30 to be independent; and I looked to the river as my father, mother, home, and everything. As soon as my health was reinstated, Captain Turnbull one day came to me. “Jacob,” said he, “the lighter has returned: and I wish to know if you intend to go on board again, and afterwards go into the vessel31 into which Mr Drummond proposes to send you.”
“I will go into no vessel through Mr Drummond’s means or interest,” replied I.
“What will you do then?” replied he.
“I can always enter on board a man-of-war,” replied I, “if the worst comes to the worst; but if I can serve out my apprenticeship33 on the river, I should prefer it.”
“I rather expected this answer, Jacob, from what you have said to me already; and I have been trying if I cannot help you to something which may suit you. You don’t mind being obliged to me?”
“O, no; but promise you will never doubt me—never accuse me.” My voice faltered34, and I could say no more.
“No, my lad, that I will not; I know you, as I think, pretty well; and the heart that feels a false accusation35 as yours does is sure to guard against committing what you are so angry at being accused of. Now, Jacob, listen to me. You know old deaf Stapleton, whose wherry we have so often pulled up and down the river? I have spoken to him to take you as his help, and he has consented. Will you like to go? He has served his time, and has a right to take a ’prentice.”
“Yes,” replied I, “with pleasure; and with more pleasure, from expecting to see you often.”
“O, I promise you all my custom, Jacob,” replied he, laughing. “We’ll often turn old Stapleton out, and have a row together. Is it agreed?”
“It is,” replied I; “and many thanks to you.”
“Well, then, consider it settled. Stapleton has a very good room, and all that’s requisite36 on shore, at Fulham. I have seen his place, and I think you will be comfortable.”
I did not know at the time how much Captain Turnbull had been my friend—that he had made Stapleton take better lodgings37, and had made up the difference to him, besides allowing him a trifle per week, and promising38 him a gratuity39 occasionally, if I were content with my situation. In a few days I had removed all my clothes to Stapleton’s, had taken my leave of Mr Turnbull, and was established as an apprentice32 to a waterman on the Thames. The lighter was still at the wharf when I left, and my parting with old Tom and his son was equally and sincerely felt on both sides.
“Jacob,” said old Tom, “I likes your pride after all, ’cause why, I think you have some right to be proud; and the man who only asks fair play, and no favour always will rise in this world. But look you, Jacob, there’s sometimes a current ’gainst a man that no one can make head against; and if so be that should be your case for a time, recollect40 the old house, the old woman, and old Tom, and there you’ll always find a hearty41 welcome, and a hearty old couple who’ll share with you what they have, be it good, bad, or indifferent. Here’s luck to you, my boy; and recollect, I means to go to the expense of painting the sides of my craft blue, and then you’ll always know her as she creeps up and down the river.”
“And Jacob,” said young Tom;—“I may be a wild one, but I’m a true one; if ever you want me in fair weather and in foul—good or bad—for fun or for mischief—for a help, or for a friend in need, through thick or thin, I’m yours, even to the gallows42; and here’s my hand upon it.”
“Just like you, Tom,” observed his father; “but I know what you mean, and all’s right.”
I shook hands with them both, and we parted.
Thus did I remove from the lighter, and at once take up the profession of a waterman; I walked down to the Fulham side, where I found Stapleton at the door of the public-house, standing43 with two or three others, smoking his pipe. “Well, lad, so you’re chained to my wherry for two or three years; and I’m to initiate44 you into all the rules and regulations of the company. Now, I’ll tell you one thing, which is, d’ye see, when the river’s covered with ice, as it is just now, haul your wherry up high and dry, and smoke your pipe till the river is clear, as I do now.”
“Very true; but don’t bawl46 in my ear quite so loud, I hears none the better for it; my ears require coaxing48, that’s all.”
“Why, I thought you were as deaf as a post.”
“Yes, so I be with strangers, ’cause I don’t know the pitch of their voice; but with those about me I hear better when they speak quietly—that’s human nature. Come, let’s go home, my pipe is finished, and as there’s nothing to be done on the river, we may just as well make all tidy there.”
Stapleton had lost his wife; but he had a daughter, fifteen years old, who kept his lodgings, and did for him, as he termed it. He lived in part of some buildings leased by a boat-builder; his windows looked out on the river; and, on the first floor, a bay-window was thrown out, so that at high water the river ran under it. As for the rooms, consisting of five, I can only say that they could not be spoken of as large and small, but as small and smaller. The sitting-room49 was eight feet square, the two bed-rooms at the back, for himself and his daughter, just held a small bed each, and the kitchen and my room below were to match; neither were the tenements50 in the very best repair, the parlour especially, hanging over the river, being lop-sided, and giving you the uncomfortable idea that it would every minute fall into the stream below. Still, the builder declared that it would last many years without sinking further, and that was sufficient. At all events, they were very respectable accommodations for a waterman, and Stapleton paid for them 10 pounds per annum. Stapleton’s daughter was certainly a very well-favoured girl. She had rather a large mouth; but her teeth were very fine, and beautifully white. Her hair was auburn—her complexion51 very fair, her eyes were large, and of a deep blue, and from her figure, which was very good, I should have supposed her to have been eighteen, although she was not past fifteen, as I found out afterwards. There was a frankness and honesty of countenance52 about her, and an intellectual smile, which was very agreeable.
“Well, Mary, how do you get on?” said Stapleton, as we ascended53 to the sitting-room. “Here’s young Faithful come to take up with us.”
“Well, father, his bed’s all ready; and I have taken so much dirt from the room that I expect we shall be indicted54 for filling up the river. I wonder what nasty people lived in this house before us.”
“Very nice rooms, nevertheless; ain’t they, boy?”
“O yes, very nice for idle people; you may amuse yourself looking out on the river, or watching what floats past, or fishing with a pin at high water,” replied Mary, looking at me.
“I like the river,” replied I, gravely; “I was born on it, and hope to get my bread on it.”
“And I like this sitting-room,” rejoined Stapleton; “how mighty55 comfortable it will be to sit at the open window, and smoke in the summer time, with one’s jacket off!”
“At all events you’ll have no excuse for dirtying the room, father; and as for the lad, I suppose his smoking days have not come yet.”
“No,” replied I; “but my days for taking off my jacket are, I suspect.”
“O yes,” replied she, “never fear that; father will let you do all the work you please, and look on—won’t you, father?”
“Don’t let your tongue run quite so fast, Mary; you’re not over fond of work yourself.”
“No; there’s only one thing I dislike more,” replied she, “and that’s holding my tongue.”
“Well, I shall leave you and Jacob to make it out together; I am going back to the Feathers.” And old Stapleton walked down stairs, and went back to the inn, saying, as he went out, that he should be back to his dinner.
Mary continued her employment of wiping the furniture of the room with a duster for some minutes, during which I did not speak, but watched the floating ice on the river. “Well,” said Mary, “do you always talk as you do now? if so, you’ll be a very nice companion. Mr Turnbull who came to my father, told me that you was a sharp fellow, could read, write, and do everything, and that I should like you very much; but if you mean to keep it all to yourself, you might as well not have had it.”
“I am ready to talk when I have anything to talk about,” replied I.
“That’s not enough. I’m ready to talk about nothing, and you must do the same.”
“Very well,” replied I. “How old are you?”
“How old am I! O, then you consider me nothing. I’ll try hard but you shall alter your opinion, my fine fellow. However, to answer your question, I believe I’m about fifteen.”
“Not more? well, there’s an old proverb, which I will not repeat.”
“Mine! let me see; well, I believe that I am nearly seventeen.”
“Are you really so old? well, now, I should have thought you no more than fourteen.”
This answer at first surprised me, as I was very stout57 and tall for my age; but a moment’s reflection told me that it was given to annoy me. A lad is as much vexed58 at being supposed younger than he really is as a man of a certain age is annoyed at being taken for so much older. “Pooh!” replied I; “that shows how little you know about men.”
“I wasn’t talking about men, that I know of; but still, I do know something about them. I’ve had two sweethearts already.”
“Indeed! and what have you done with them?”
“Done with them! I jilted the first for the second, because the second was better looking; and when Mr Turnbull told me so much about you, I jilted the second to make room for you: but now I mean to try if I can’t get him back again.”
“With all my heart,” replied I laughing. “I shall prove but a sorry sweetheart, for I have never made love in my life.”
“Have you ever had anybody to make love to?”
“No.”
“That’s the reason, Mr Jacob, depend upon it. All you have to do is to swear that I’m the prettiest girl in the world, that you like me better than anybody else in the world; do anything in the world that I wish you to do—spend all the money you have in the world in buying me ribbons and fairings, and then—”
“And then, what?”
“Why, then, I shall hear all you have to say, take all you have to give, and laugh at you in the bargain.”
“But I shouldn’t stand that long.”
“O, yes, you would. I’d put you out of humour, and coax47 you in again; the fact is, Jacob Faithful, I made my mind up, before I saw you, that you should be my sweetheart, and when I will have a thing, I will, so you may as well submit to it at once. If you don’t, as I keep the key of the cupboard, I’ll half starve you; that’s the way to tame any brute59, they say. And I tell you why, Jacob, I mean that you shall be my sweetheart; it’s because Mr Turnbull told me that you knew Latin; now, tell me, what is Latin?”
“Latin is a language which people spoke in former times, but now they do not.”
“Well, then, you shall make love to me in Latin, that’s agreed.”
“And how do you mean to answer me?”
“O, in plain English, to be sure.”
“But how are you to understand me?” replied I, much amused with the conversation.
“O, if you make love properly, I shall soon understand you; I shall read the English of it in your eyes.”
“Very well, I have no objection; when am I to begin?”
“Why, directly, you stupid fellow, to be sure. What a question!”
I went close up to Mary, and repeated a few words of Latin. “Now,” says I, “look into my eyes, and see if you can translate them.”
“Not at all,” replied I, “I only asked for this,” and I snatched a kiss, in return for which I received a box on the ear, which made it tingle61 for five minutes. “Nay,” replied I, “that’s not fair; I did as you desired—I made love in Latin.”
“And I answered you, as I said I would, in plain English,” replied Mary, reddening up to the forehead, but directly after bursting out into a loud laugh. “Now, Mr Jacob, I plainly see that you know nothing about making love. Bless me, a year’s dangling62, and a year’s pocket-money should not have given you what you have had the impudence63 to take in so many minutes. But it was my own fault, that’s certain, and I have no one to thank but myself. I hope I didn’t hurt you—I’m very sorry if I did; but no more making love in Latin. I’ve had quite enough of that.”
“Well, then, suppose we make friends,” replied I, holding out my hand.
“That’s what I really wished to do, although I’ve been talking so much nonsense,” replied Mary. “I know we shall like one another, and be very good friends. You can’t help feeling kind towards a girl you’ve kissed; and I shall try by kindness to make up to you for the box on the ear; so now, sit down, and let’s have a long talk. Mr Turnbull told us that he wished you to serve out your apprenticeship on the river with my father, so that, if you agree, we shall be a long while together. I take Mr Turnbull’s word, not that I can find it out yet, that you are a very good-tempered, good-looking, clever, modest lad; and as an apprentice who remains64 with my father must live with us, of course I had rather it should be one of that sort than some ugly, awkward brute who—”
“Is not fit to make love to you,” replied I.
“Who is not fit company for me,” replied Mary. “I want no more love from you at present. The fact is that father spends all the time he can spare from the wherry at the ale-house, smoking; and it’s very dull for me, and having nothing to do, I look out of the window, and make faces at the young men as they pass by, just to amuse myself. Now, there was no great harm in that a year or two ago; but now, you know, Jacob—”
“Well now, what then?”
“O, I’m bigger, that’s all? and what might be called sauciness65 in a girl may be thought something more of in a young woman. So I’ve been obliged to leave it off; but being obliged to remain home, with nobody to talk to, I never was so glad as when I heard that you were to come; so you see, Jacob, we must be friends. I daren’t quarrel with you long, although I shall sometimes, just for variety, and to have the pleasure of making it up again. Do you hear me—or what are you thinking of?”
“I’m thinking that you’re a very odd girl.”
“I dare say that I am, but how can I help that? Mother died when I was five years old, and father couldn’t afford to put me out, so he used to lock me in all day till he came home from the river; and it was not till I was seven years old, and of some use, that the door was left open. I never shall forget the day when he told me that in future he should trust me, and leave the door open. I thought I was quite a woman, and have thought so ever since. I recollect that I often peeped out, and longed to run about the world; but I went two or three yards from the door, and felt so frightened, that I ran back as fast as I could. Since that I have seldom quitted the house for an hour, and never have been out of Fulham.”
“Then you have never been at school?”
“O, no—never. I often wish that I had. I used to see the little girls coming home, as they passed our door, so merrily, with their bags from the school-house; and I’m sure, if it were only to have the pleasure of going there and back again for the sake of the run, I’d have worked hard, if for nothing else.”
“Would you like to learn to read and write?”
“Will you teach me?” replied Mary, taking me by the arm, and looking me earnestly in the face.
“Yes, I will, with pleasure,” replied I, laughing. “We will pass the evening better than making love, after all, especially if you hit so hard. How came you so knowing in those matters?”
“I don’t know,” replied Mary, smiling; “I suppose, as father says, it’s human nature, for I never learnt anything; but you will teach me to read and write?”
“I will teach you all I know myself, Mary, if you wish to learn. Everything but Latin—we’ve had enough of that.”
“Oh! I shall be so much obliged to you. I shall love you so!”
“There you are again.”
“No, no, I didn’t mean that,” replied Mary, earnestly. “I meant that—after all, I don’t know what else to say. I mean that I shall love you for your kindness, without your loving me again, that’s it.”
“I understand you; but now, Mary, as we are to be such good friends, it is necessary that your father and I should be good friends; so I must ask you what sort of a person he is, for I know but little of him, and, of course, wish to oblige him.”
“Well then, to prove to you that I’m sincere, I will tell you something; My father, in the first place, is a very good tempered sort of man. He works pretty well, but might gain more, but he likes to smoke at the public-house. All he requires of me is his dinner ready, his linen66 clean, and the house tidy. He never drinks too much, and is always civil spoken; but he leaves me too much alone, and talks too much about human nature, that’s all.”
“But he’s so deaf—he can’t talk to you.”
“Give me your hand—now promise—for I’m going to do a very foolish thing, which is to trust a man—promise you’ll never tell it again.”
“Well, I promise,” replied I, supposing her secret of no consequence.
“Well, then—mind—you’ve promised. Father is no more deaf than you or I.”
“Indeed!” replied I; “why, he goes by the name of Deaf Stapleton?”
“I know he does, and makes everybody believe that he is so; but it is to make money.”
“How can he make money by that?”
“There’s many people in business who go down the river, and they wish to talk of their affairs without being overheard as they go down. They always call for Deaf Stapleton: and there’s many a gentleman and lady, who have much to say to each other, without wishing people to listen—you understand me?”
“O yes, I understand—Latin!”
“Exactly—and they call for Deaf Stapleton; and by this means he gets more good fares than any other waterman, and does less work.”
“But how will he manage now that I am with him?”
“O, I suppose it will depend upon his customers; if a single person wants to go down, you will take the sculls; if they call for oars67, you will both go; if he considers Deaf Stapleton only is wanted, you will remain on shore; or, perhaps, he will insist upon your being deaf too.”
“But I do not like deceit.”
“No, it’s not right; although it appears to me that there is a great deal of it. Still I should like you to sham68 deaf, and then tell me all that people say. It would be so funny. Father never will tell a word.”
“So far, your father, to a certain degree, excuses himself.”
“Well, I think he will soon tell you what I have now told you, but till then you must keep your promise; and now you must do as you please, as I must go down in the kitchen, and get dinner on the fire.”
“I have nothing to do,” replied I; “can I help you?”
“To be sure you can, and talk to me, which is better still. Come down and wash the potatoes for me, and then I’ll find you some more work. Well, I do think we shall be very happy.”
I followed Mary Stapleton down into the kitchen, and we were soon very busy, and very noisy, laughing, talking, blowing the fire, and preparing the dinner. By the time that her father came home we were sworn friends.
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1
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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wharf
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| n.码头，停泊处 | |
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intemperance
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| n.放纵 | |
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aggravated
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| 使恶化( aggravate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使更严重； 激怒； 使恼火 | |
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remonstrate
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| v.抗议，规劝 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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equivocating
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| v.使用模棱两可的话隐瞒真相( equivocate的现在分词 ) | |
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testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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10
interrogated
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| v.询问( interrogate的过去式和过去分词 )；审问；（在计算机或其他机器上）查询 | |
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vindictive
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| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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dissent
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| n./v.不同意，持异议 | |
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ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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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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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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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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hover
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| vi.翱翔，盘旋；徘徊；彷徨，犹豫 | |
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wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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apprentice
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| n.学徒，徒弟 | |
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apprenticeship
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| n.学徒身份；学徒期 | |
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faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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gratuity
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| n.赏钱，小费 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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gallows
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| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
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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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initiate
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| vt.开始，创始，发动；启蒙，使入门；引入 | |
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bawling
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的现在分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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bawl
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| v.大喊大叫，大声地喊，咆哮 | |
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coax
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| v.哄诱，劝诱，用诱哄得到，诱取 | |
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coaxing
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的现在分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱；“锻炼”效应 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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tenements
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| n.房屋，住户，租房子( tenement的名词复数 ) | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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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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ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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indicted
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| 控告，起诉( indict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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saucy
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| adj.无礼的；俊俏的；活泼的 | |
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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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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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tingle
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| vi.感到刺痛，感到激动；n.刺痛，激动 | |
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dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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sauciness
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| n.傲慢，鲁莽 | |
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66
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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oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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