“I must go and call upon Mr Turnbull, and ax him to help us,” said Stapleton, one day, pulling his last shilling out and laying it on the table. “I’m cleaned out; but he’s a good gentleman, and will lend me a trifle.” In the afternoon Stapleton returned, and I saw by his looks that he had been successful. “Jacob,” said he, “Mr Turnbull desires that you will breakfast with him to-morrow morning, as he wishes to see you.”
I set off accordingly at daylight the next morning, and was in good time for breakfast. Mr Turnbull was as kind as ever, and began telling me long stories about the ice in the northern regions.
“By-the-by, I hear there is an ox to be roasted whole, Jacob, a little above London Bridge; suppose we go and see the fun.”
I consented, and we took the Brentford coach, and were put down at the corner of Queen Street, from thence we walked to the river. The scene was very amusing and exciting. Booths were erected1 on the ice, in every direction, with flags flying, people walking, and some skating, although the ice was too rough for that pastime. The whole river was crowded with people, who now walked in security over where they, a month before, would have met with death. Here and there smoke ascended2 from various fires, on which sausages and other eatables were cooking; but the great attraction was the ox roasting whole, close to the centre pier3 of the bridge. Although the ice appeared to have fallen at the spot where so many hundreds were assembled, yet as it was now four or five feet thick, there was no danger. Here and there, indeed, were what were called rotten places, where the ice was not sound; but these were intimated by placards, warning people not to approach too near; and close to them were ropes and poles for succour, if required. We amused ourselves for some time with the gaiety of the scene, for the sun shone out brightly, and the sky was clear. The wind was fresh from the northward4, and piercing cold in the shade, the thermometer being then, it was said, twenty-eight degrees below the freezing point. We had been on the ice about three hours, amusing ourselves, when Mr Turnbull proposed our going home, and we walked up the river towards Blackfriars Bridge, where we proposed to land, and take the coach at Charing5 Cross.
“I wonder how the tide is now,” observed Mr Turnbull to me; “it would be rather puzzling to find out.”
“Not if I can find a hole,” replied I, looking for one. “Stop, here is one.” I threw in a piece of ice, and found that it was strong ebb6. We continued our walk over the ice, which was now very rough, when Mr Turnbull’s hat fell off, and the wind catching7 it, it blew away, skimming across the ice at a rapid rate. Mr Turnbull and I gave chase, but could scarcely keep up with it, and, at all events, could not overtake it. Many people on the river laughed as we passed, and watched us in our chase. Mr Turnbull was the foremost, and, heedless in the pursuit, did not observe a large surface of rotten ice before him; neither did I, until all at once I heard it break and saw Mr Turnbull fall in and disappear. Many people were close to us, and a rope was laid across the spot to designate the danger. I did not hesitate—I loved Mr Turnbull, and my love and my feelings of resentment8 were equally potent9. I seized the bight of the rope, twisted it round my arm, and plunged10 in after, recollecting11 it was ebb tide: fortunate for Mr Turnbull it was that he had accidentally put the question. I sank under the ice, and pushed down the stream, and in a few seconds felt myself grappled by him I sought, and at almost the same time, the rope hauling in from above. As soon as they found there was resistance, they knew that I, at least, was attached to it, and they hauled in quicker, not, however, until I had lost my recollection. Still I clung to the rope with the force of a drowning man, and Mr Turnbull did the same to me, and we shortly made our appearance at the hole in which we had been plunged. A ladder was thrown across, and two of the men of the Humane13 Society came to our assistance, pulled us out, and laid us upon it. They then drew back and hauled us on the ladder to a more secure situation. We were both still senseless; but having been taken to a public-house on the river-side, were put to bed, and medical advice having been procured14, were soon restored. The next morning we were able to return in a chaise to Brentford, where our absence had created the greatest alarm. Mr Turnbull spoke15 but little the whole time; but he often pressed my hand, and when I requested him to drop me at Fulham, that I might let Stapleton and his daughter know that I was safe, he consented, saying, “God bless you, my fine boy; I will see you soon.”
When I went up the stairs of Stapleton’s lodgings16, I found Mary by herself; she started up as soon as she saw me.
“Where have you been?” said she, half crying, half smiling.
“Are you in earnest, Jacob?” said she; “now don’t plague and frighten me, I’ve been too frightened already; I never slept a wink18 last night;” I then told her the circumstances which had occurred. “I was sure something had happened,” she replied. “I told my father so, but he wouldn’t believe it. You promised to be at home to give me my lesson, and I know you never break your word; but my father smoked away, and said, that when boys are amused, they forget their promises, and that it was nothing but human natur’. Oh, Jacob, I’m so glad you’re back again, and after what has happened, I don’t mind your kissing me for once.” And Mary held her face towards me, and returned my kiss.
“There, that must last you a long while, recollect12,” said she, laughing; “you must not think of another until you’re under the ice again.”
“Then I trust it will be the last,” replied I, laughing.
“You are not in love with me, Jacob, that’s clear, or you would not have made that answer,” replied Mary.
I had seen a great deal of Mary, and though she certainly was a great flirt19, yet she had many excellent and amiable20 qualities. For the first week after her father had given us the history of his life, his remarks upon her mother appeared to have made a decided21 impression upon her, and her conduct was much more staid and demure22; but as the remembrance wore off, so did her conduct become coquettish and flirting23 as before; still, it was impossible not to be fond of her, and even with all her caprice there was such a fund of real good feeling and amiableness24, which, when called forth25, was certain to appear, that I often thought how dangerous and captivating a girl she would be when she grew up. I had again produced the books, which I had thrown aside with disgust, to teach her to read and write. Her improvement was rapid, and would have been still more so if she had not been just as busy in trying to make me fond of her as she was in surmounting26 the difficulties of her lessons. But she was very young; and although, as her father declared, it was her natur’ to run after the men, there was every reason to hope that a year or two would render her less volatile27, and add to those sterling28 good qualities which she really possessed29. In heart and feeling she was a modest girl, although the buoyancy of her spirits often carried her beyond the bounds prescribed by decorum, and often called forth a blush upon her own animated30 countenance31, when her good sense, or the remarks of others, reminded her of her having committed herself. It was impossible to know Mary and not like her, although, at a casual meeting, a rigid32 person might go away with an impression by no means favourable33. As for myself, I must say, that the more I was in her company the more I was attached to her, and the more I respected her.
Old Stapleton came home in the evening. He had, as usual, been smoking, and thinking of human natur’, at the Feathers public-house. I told him what had happened, and upon the strength of it he sent for an extra pot of beer for Mary and me, which he insisted upon our drinking between us—a greater proof of good-will on his part could not have been given. Although Captain Turnbull appeared to have recovered from the effects of the accident, yet it seemed that such was not the case, as the morning after his arrival he was taken ill with shivering and pains in his loins, which ended in ague and fever, and he did not quit his bed for three or four weeks. I, on the contrary, felt no ill effects; but the constitution of a youth is better able to meet such violent shocks than that of a man of sixty years old, already sapped by exposure and fatigue34. As the frost still continued, I complied with Captain Turnbull’s request to come up and stay with him, and for many days, until he was able to leave his bed, I was his constant nurse. The general theme of his conversation was on my future prospects35, and a wish that I would embark36 in some pursuit or profession more likely to raise me in the world; but on this head I was positive, and also another point, which was, that I would in future put myself under an obligation to no one. I could not erase37 from my memory the injuries I had received, and my vindictive38 spirit continually brooded over them. I was resolved to be independent and free. I felt that in the company I was in I was with my equals, or, if there were any superiority, it was on my part, arising from education, and I never would submit to be again in the society of those above me, in which I was admitted as a favour, and by the major part looked down upon, and at the same time liable, as I had once been, to be turned out with contumely on the first moment of caprice. Still, I was very fond of Captain Turnbull. He had always been kind to me, spoke to me on terms of equality, and had behaved with consistency39, and my feelings towards him since the accident had consequently strengthened; but we always feel an increased regard towards those to whom we have been of service, and my pride was softened40 by the reflection that, whatever might be Mr Turnbull’s good-will towards me, he never could, even if I would permit it, repay me for the life which I had preserved. Towards him I felt unbounded regard; towards those who had ill-treated me, unlimited41 hatred42; towards the world in general a mixture of feeling which I could hardly analyse; and, as far as regarded myself, a love of liberty and independence, which nothing would ever have induced me to compromise. As I did not wish to hurt Captain Turnbull’s feelings by a direct refusal to all his proffers43 of service, and remarks upon the advantages which might arise, I generally made an evasive answer; but when, on the day proposed for my departure, he at once came to the point, offering me everything, and observing that he was childless, and, therefore, my acceptance of his offer would be injurious to nobody; when he took me by the hand, and drawing me near to him, passed his arm round me, and spoke to me in the kind accents of a father, almost entreating44 me to consent—the tears of gratitude45 coursed each other rapidly down my cheeks, but my resolution was no less firm—although it was with a faltering46, voice that I replied, “You have been very kind to me, sir—very kind—and I shall never forget it; and I hope I shall deserve it—but—Mr Drummond, and Mrs Drummond, and Sarah, were also kind to me—very kind to me—you know the rest. I will remain as I am, if you please; and if you wish to do me a kindness; if you wish me to love you, as I really do, let me be as I am—free and independent. I beg it of you as the greatest favour that you can possibly confer on me—the only favour which I can accept, or shall be truly thankful for.”
Captain Turnbull was some minutes before he could reply. He then said—“I see it is useless, and I will not tease you any more; but, Jacob, do not let the fire of injustice47 which you have received from your fellow-creatures prey48 so much upon your mind, or induce you to form the mistaken idea that the world is bad. As you live on, you will find much good; and recollect, that those who injured you, from the misrepresentation of others, have been willing, and have offered, to repair their fault. They can do no more, and I wish you could get over this vindictive feeling. Recollect, we must forgive, as we hope to be forgiven.”
“I do sometimes,” said I, “for Sarah’s sake—I can’t always.”
“But you ought to forgive, for other reasons, Jacob.”
“I know I ought—but if I cannot, I cannot.”
“Nay, my boy, I never heard you talk so—I was going to say—wickedly. Do you not perceive that you are now in error? You will not abandon a feeling which your own good sense and religion tell you to be wrong—you cling to it—and yet you will admit of no excuse for the errors of others.”
“I feel what you say—and the truth of it, sir,” replied I “but I cannot combat the feeling. I will, therefore, admit every excuse you please for the faults of others; but at the same time, I am surely not to be blamed if I refuse to put myself in a situation where I am again liable to meet with mortification49. Surely I am not to be censured50, if I prefer to work for my bread after my own fashion, and prefer the river to dry land?”
“No, that I acknowledge; but what I dislike in the choice is, that it is dictated51 by feelings of resentment.”
“What’s done can’t be helped,” replied I, quickly, wishing to break off the conversation.
“Very true, Jacob; but I follow that up with another of your remarks, which is, ‘Better luck next time.’ God bless you, my boy; take care of yourself, and don’t get under the ice again!”
“For you I would to-morrow,” replied I, taking the proffered52 hand: “but if I could only see that Hodgson near a hole—”
“You’d not push him in?”
“Indeed I would,” replied I, bitterly.
“Jacob, you would not, I tell you—you think so now, but if you saw him in distress53 you would assist him as you did me. I know you, my boy, better than you know yourself.”
Whether Captain Turnbull or I were right remains54 to be proved in the sequel. We then shook hands, and I hastened away to see Mary, whom I had often thought of during my absence.
“Who do you think has been here?” said Mary, after our first greeting.
“I cannot guess,” replied I. “Not old Tom and his son?”
“No; I don’t think it was old Tom, but it was such an old quiz—with such a nose—O heavens! I thought I should have died with laughing as soon as he went downstairs. Do you know, Jacob, that I made love to him, just to see how he’d take it. You know who it is now?”
“O yes! you mean the Dominie, my schoolmaster.”
“Yes, he told me so; and I talked so much about you, and about your teaching me to read and write, and how fond I was of learning, and how I should like to be married to an elderly man who was a great scholar, who would teach me Latin and Greek, that the old gentleman became quite chatty, and sat for two hours talking to me. He desired me to say that he should call here to-morrow afternoon, and I begged him to stay the evening, as you are to have two more of your friends here. Now, who do you think are those?”
“I have no others, except old Tom Beazeley and his son.”
“Well, it is your old Tom after all, and a nice old fellow he is, although I would not like him for a husband; but as for his son—he’s a lad after my own heart—I’m quite in love with him.”
“Your love will do you no harm, Mary; but, recollect, what may be a joke to you may not be so to other people. As for the Dominie meeting old Beazeley and his son, I don’t exactly know how that will suit, for I doubt if he will like to see them.”
“Why not?” inquired Mary.
Upon a promise never to hint at them, I briefly55 stated the circumstances attending the worthy56 man’s voyage on board of the lighter57. Mary paused, and then said, “Jacob, did we not read the last time that the most dangerous rocks to men were wine and women?”
“Yes, we did, if I recollect right.”
“Humph,” said she; “the old gentleman has given plenty of lessons in his time, and it appears that he has received one.”
“We may do so to the last day of our existence, Mary.”
“Well, he is a very clever, learned man, I’ve no doubt, and looks down upon all of us (not you, Jacob) as silly people. I’ll try if I can’t give him a lesson.”
“You, Mary, what can you teach him?”
“Never mind, we shall see;” and Mary turned the discourse58 on her father. “You know, I suppose, that father is gone up to Mr Turnbull’s.”
“No, I did not.”
“Yes, he has; he was desired to go there this morning, and hasn’t been back since. Jacob, I hope you won’t be so foolish again, for I don’t want to lose my master.”
“Oh, never fear; I shall teach you all you want to know before I die,” I replied.
“Don’t be too sure of that,” replied Mary; “how do you know how much I may wish to have of your company?”
“Well, if I walk off in a hurry, I’ll make you over to young Tom Beazeley. You’re half in love with him already, you know,” replied I, laughing.
“Well, he is a nice fellow,” replied she; “he laughs more than you do, Jacob.”
“He has suffered less,” replied I, gloomily, calling to mind what had occurred; “but, Mary, he is a fine young man, and a good-hearted, clever fellow to boot; and when you do know him, you will like him very much.” As I said this, I heard her father coming up stairs; he came in high good-humour with his interview with Captain Turnbull, called for his pipe and pot, and was excessively fluent upon “human natur’.”
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1
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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2
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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4
northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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charing
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| n.炭化v.把…烧成炭，把…烧焦( char的现在分词 )；烧成炭，烧焦；做杂役女佣 | |
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ebb
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| vi.衰退，减退；n.处于低潮，处于衰退状态 | |
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7
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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8
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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10
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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11
recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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humane
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| adj.人道的，富有同情心的 | |
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procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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15
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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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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thawed
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| 解冻 | |
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wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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flirt
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| v.调情，挑逗，调戏；n.调情者，卖俏者 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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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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demure
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| adj.严肃的；端庄的 | |
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flirting
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的现在分词 ) | |
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amiableness
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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surmounting
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| 战胜( surmount的现在分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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27
volatile
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| adj.反复无常的，挥发性的，稍纵即逝的，脾气火爆的；n.挥发性物质 | |
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sterling
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| adj.英币的(纯粹的，货真价实的)；n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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29
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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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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32
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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embark
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| vi.乘船，着手，从事，上飞机 | |
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erase
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| v.擦掉；消除某事物的痕迹 | |
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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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39
consistency
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| n.一贯性，前后一致，稳定性；(液体的)浓度 | |
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40
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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41
unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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42
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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43
proffers
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的第三人称单数 ) | |
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44
entreating
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
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45
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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46
faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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47
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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48
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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49
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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50
censured
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| v.指责，非难，谴责( censure的过去式 ) | |
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51
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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52
proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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54
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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55
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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56
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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57
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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58
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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