“In the meantime I still followed up my profession in another house, in which I at present am a partner. Four years after the return of my uncle James to India news came home of his death; but it was also stated that no will could be found, and it was supposed that he died intestate. Of course my uncle Henry succeeded as heir-at-law to the whole property, and thus were the expectations and hopes of Cecilia and of myself dashed to the ground. But this was not the worst of it: my uncle, who had witnessed our feelings for each other, and had made no comment, as soon as he was in possession of the property, intimated to Cecilia that she should be his heiress, provided that she married according to his wishes; and pointed10 out to her that a fortune such as she might expect would warrant the alliance of the first nobleman in the kingdom; and he very plainly told me that he thought it advisable that I should find lodgings11 for myself, and not be any longer an inmate12 in the same house as was my cousin, as no good would result from it. Thus, sir, we were not only disappointed in our hopes, but thwarted13 in our affections, which had for some time been exchanged. Maddened at this intimation, I quitted the house; and at the same time the idea of my uncle James having made a will still pressed upon me, as I called to mind what I had heard him say to my uncle Henry previous to his sailing for India. There was a box of deeds and papers, the very box now in your possession, which my uncle invariably kept in his bedroom. I felt convinced that the will, if not destroyed (and I did not believe my uncle would dare to commit an act of felony), was in that box. Had I remained in the house I would have found some means to have opened it; but this was no longer possible. I communicated my suspicions to Cecilia, and begged her to make the attempt, which would be more easy as my uncle would not suspect her of being bold enough to venture it, even if he had the suspicion. Cecilia promised, and one day my uncle fortunately left his keys upon his dressing14-table when he came down to breakfast, and went out without missing them. Cecilia discovered them, and opened the box, and amongst other parchments found a document labelled outside as the will of our uncle James; but women understand little about these things, and she was in such trepidation15 for fear that my uncle should return that she could not examine it very minutely. As it was, my uncle did return for his keys just as she had locked the box and placed the keys upon the table. He asked her what she was doing there, and she made some excuse. He saw the keys on the table, and whether suspecting her, for she coloured up very much, or afraid that the attempt might be made at my suggestion, he removed the box and locked it up in a closet, the key of which, I believe, he left with his banker in town. When Cecilia wrote to me an account of what had passed, I desired her to find the means of opening the closet, that we might gain possession of the box; and this was easily effected, for the key of another closet fitted the lock exactly. I then persuaded her to put herself under my protection, with the determination that we would marry immediately; and we had so arranged that the tin box was to have accompanied us. You are aware, sir, how unfortunately our plan turned out—at least, so far unfortunately, that I lost, as I thought, not only Cecilia, but the tin box, containing, as I expect, the will of my uncle, of which I am more than ever convinced from the great anxiety shown by my uncle Henry to recover it. Since the loss he has been in a state of agitation16, which has worn him to a shadow. He feels that his only chance is that the waterman employed might have broken open the box, expecting to find money in it, and being disappointed, have destroyed the papers to avoid detection. If such had been the case, and it might have been had it not fallen into such good hands, he then would have obtained his only wish, that of the destruction of the will although not by his own hands. Now, sir, I have given you a full and honest account of the affair, and leave you to decide how to act.”
“If you leave me to decide, I shall do it very quickly,” replied Mr Turnbull. “A box has fallen into my hands, and I do not know who is the owner. I shall open it, and take a list of the deeds in contains, and advertise them in the Times and other newspapers. If your dead uncle’s will is in it it will, of course, be advertised with the others, and after such publicity17 your uncle Henry will not venture, I presume, to say a word, but be too glad not to be exposed.”
Mr Turnbull ordered a locksmith to be summoned, and the tin box was opened. It contained the document of the uncle’s purchase of the patent place in the courts, and some other papers, but it also contained the parchment so much looked after—the last will and testament18 of James Wharncliffe, Esquire, dated two months previous to his quitting England. “I think,” observed Mr Turnbull, “that in case of accident, it may be as well that this will should be read before witnesses. You observe, it is witnessed by Henry Wharncliffe, with two others. Let us take down their names.”
The will was read by young Wharncliffe, at the request of Mr Turnbull. Strange to say, the deceased bequeathed the whole of his property to his nephew, William Wharncliffe, and his niece, Cecilia, provided they married; if they did not, they were left 20,000 pounds each, and the remainder of the fortune to go to the first male child born after the marriage of either niece or nephew. To his brother the sum of 10,000 pounds was bequeathed, with a liberal arrangement, to be paid out of the estate, so long as his niece lived with him. The will was read, and returned to Mr Turnbull, who shook hands with Mr Wharncliffe, and congratulated him.
“I am so much indebted to you, sir, that I can hardly express my gratitude19, but I am still more indebted to this intelligent lad, Faithful. You must no longer be a waterman, Faithful,” and Mr Wharncliffe shook my hand. I made no answer to the latter observation, for Mr Turnbull had fixed20 his eye upon me: I merely said that I was very happy to have been of use to him.
“You may truly say, Mr Wharncliffe,” observed Mr Turnbull, “that your future prosperity will be through his means; and, as it appears by the will that you have 9000 pounds per annum safe in the Funds, I think you ought to give a prize wherry, to be rowed for every year.”
“And I will take that,” replied I, “for a receipt in full for my share in the transaction.”
“And now,” said Mr Turnbull, interrupting Mr Wharncliffe, who was about to answer me, “it appears to me that it may be as well to avoid any exposure—the case is too clear. Call upon your uncle—state in whose hands the documents are—tell him that he must submit to your terms, which are, that he proves the will, and permits the marriage to take place immediately, and that no more will be said on the subject. He, as a lawyer, knows how severely21 and disgracefully he might be punished for what he has done, and will be too happy now to accede22 to your terms. In the meantime I keep possession of the papers, for the will shall never leave my hands until it is lodged23 in Doctors’ Commons.”
Mr Wharncliffe could not but approve of this judicious24 arrangement, and we separated; and, not to interfere25 with my narrative26, I may as well tell the reader at once that Mr Wharncliffe’s uncle bowed to circumstances, pretended to rejoice at the discovery of the will, never mentioned the loss of his tin box, put the hand of Cecilia into that of William, and they were married one month after the meeting at Mr Turnbull’s, which I have now related.
The evening was so far advanced before this council-of-war was over, that I was obliged to defer8 the delivery of the cheque to Mr Drummond until the next day. I left about eleven o’clock, and arrived at noon; when I knocked at the door the servant did not know me.
“What did you want?”
“I wanted to speak with Mrs or Miss Drummond, and my name is Faithful.”
He desired me to sit down in the hall while he went up; “And wipe your shoes, my lad.” I cannot say that I was pleased at this command, as I may call it, but he returned, desiring me to walk up, and I followed him.
I found Sarah alone in the drawing-room.
“Jacob, I’m so glad to see you, and I’m sorry that you were made to wait below, but—if people who can be otherwise will be watermen, it is not our fault. The servants only judge by appearances.”
I felt annoyed for a moment, but it was soon over. I sat down by Sarah, and talked with her for some time.
“The present I had to make you was a purse of my own knitting, to put your earnings27 in;” said she, laughing; and then she held up her finger in mockery, crying, “Boat, sir; boat, sir. Well, Jacob, there’s nothing like independence, after all, and you must not mind my laughing at you.”
“None whatever, I grant; but a want of ambition, which I cannot understand. However, let us say no more about it.”
Mrs Drummond came into the room and greeted me kindly29. “When can you come and dine with us, Jacob? Will you come on Wednesday?”
“Oh, mamma! He can’t come on Wednesday; we have company on that day.”
“So we have, my dear; I had forgotten it; but on Thursday we are quite alone: will you come, then on Thursday, Jacob?”
I hesitated, for I felt that it was because I was a waterman that I was not admitted to the table where I had been accustomed to dine at one time, whoever might be invited.
“Yes, Jacob,” said Sarah, coming to me, “it must be Thursday, and you must not deny us; for although we have greater people on Wednesday, the party that day will not be so agreeable to me as your company on Thursday.”
The last compliment from Sarah decided30 me, and I accepted the invitation. Mr Drummond came in, and I delivered to him Mr Turnbull’s cheque. He was very kind, but said little further than that he was glad that I had promised to dine with them on Thursday. The footman came in and announced the carriage at the door, and this was a signal for me to take my leave. Sarah, as she shook hands with me, laughing, asserted that it was not considerate in them to detain me any longer, as I must have lost half-a-dozen good fares already; “So go down to your boat, pull off your jacket, and make up for lost time,” continued she; “one of these days mamma and I intend to go on the water, just to patronise you.” I laughed and went away, but I was cruelly mortified31. I could not be equal to them, because I was a waterman. The sarcasm32 of Sarah was not lost upon me; still there was so much kindness mixed with it that I could not be angry with her. On the Thursday I went there, as agreed; they were quite alone; friendly and attentive33; but still there was a degree of constraint34 which communicated itself to me. After dinner Mr Drummond said very little; there was no renewal35 of offers to take me into his employ, nor any inquiry36 as to how I got on in the profession which I had chosen. On the whole, I found myself uncomfortable, and was glad to leave early, nor did I feel at all inclined to renew my visit. I ought to remark that Mr Drummond was now moving in a very different sphere than when I first knew him. He was consignee37 of several large establishments abroad, and was making a rapid fortune. His establishment was also on a very different scale, every department being appointed with elegance38 and conducive39 to luxury. As I pulled up the river something within my breast told me that the Dominie’s prophecy would turn out correct, and that I should one day repent40 of my having refused the advances of Mr Drummond—nay, I did not exactly know whether I did not, even at that moment, very much doubt the wisdom of my asserting my independence.
And now, reader, that I may not surfeit41 you with an uninteresting detail, you may allow nearly two years to pass away before I recommence my narrative. The events of that time I shall sum up in one or two pages. The Dominie continued the even tenor42 of his way—blew his nose and handled his rod with as much effect as ever. I seldom passed a Sunday without paying him a visit, and benefiting by his counsel. Mr Turnbull was always kind and considerate, but gradually declining in health, having never recovered from the effects of his submersion under the ice. Of the Drummonds I saw but little; when we did meet, I was kindly received, but I never volunteered a call, and it was usually from a message through Tom that I went to pay my respects. Sarah had grown a very beautiful girl, and the well-known fact of Mr Drummond’s wealth, and her being an only daughter, was an introduction to a circle much higher than they had been formerly43 accustomed to. Every day, therefore, the disparity increased, and I felt less inclined to make my appearance at their house.
Stapleton, as usual, continued to smoke his pipe and descant44 upon human natur’. Mary had grown into a splendid woman, but coquettish as ever. Poor Tom Beazeley was fairly entrapped45 by her charms, and was a constant attendant upon her, but she played him fast and loose—one time encouraging and smiling on him, at another rejecting and flouting46 him. Still Tom persevered47, for he was fascinated, and having returned me the money advanced for his wherry, he expended48 all his earnings on dressing himself smartly, and making presents to her. She had completely grown out of any control from me, and appeared to have a pleasure in doing everything she knew I disapproved49; still, we were on fair friendly terms as inmates50 of the same house.
Old Tom Beazeley’s board was up, and he had met with great success; and all day he might be seen hammering at the bottom of boats of every description, and heard, at the same time, lightening his labour with his variety of song. I often called there on my way up and down the river, and occasionally passed a few hours listening to his yarns51, which, like his songs, appeared to be inexhaustible.
With respect to myself, it would be more a narrative of feelings than of action. My life glided52 on as did my wherry—silently and rapidly. One day was but the forerunner53 of another, with slight variety of incident and customers. My acquaintance, as the reader knows, were but few, and my visits occasional. I again turned to my books during the long summer evenings, in which Mary would walk out, accompanied by Tom and other admirers. Mr Turnbull’s library was at my service, and I profited much. After a time reading became almost a passion, and I was seldom without a book in my hand. But although I improved my mind, I did not render myself happier. On the contrary, I felt more and more that I had committed an act of egregious54 folly55 in thus asserting my independence. I felt that I was superior to my station in life, and that I had lived with those who were not companions—that I had thrown away, by foolish pride, those prospects of advancement56 which had offered themselves, and that I was passing my youth unprofitably. All this crowded upon me more and more every day, and I bitterly repented57, as the Dominie told me that I should, my spirit of independence—now that it was too late. The offers of Mr Drummond were never renewed, and Mr Turnbull, who had formed the idea that I was still of the same opinion, and who, at the same time, in his afflicted58 state—for he was a martyr59 to the rheumatism—naturally thought more of himself and less of others, never again proposed that I should quit my employment. I was still too proud to mention my wishes, and thus did I continue plying60 on the river, apathetic61 almost as to gain, and only happy when, in the pages of history or among the flowers of poetry, I could dwell upon times that were past, or revel62 in imagination. Thus did reading, like the snake which is said to contain in its body a remedy for the poison of its fangs63, become, as it enlarged my mind, a source of discontent at my humble64 situation; but, at the same time, the only solace65 in my unhappiness, by diverting my thoughts from the present. Pass, then, nearly two years, reader, taking the above remarks as an outline, and filling up the picture from the colours of your imagination, with incidents of no peculiar66 value, and I again resume my narrative.
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1
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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2
amassed
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| v.积累，积聚( amass的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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3
lucrative
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| adj.赚钱的，可获利的 | |
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4
sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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5
affronted
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| adj.被侮辱的，被冒犯的v.勇敢地面对( affront的过去式和过去分词 )；相遇 | |
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6
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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7
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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8
defer
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| vt.推迟，拖延；vi.(to)遵从，听从，服从 | |
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ripened
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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13
thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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14
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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15
trepidation
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| n.惊恐，惶恐 | |
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16
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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17
publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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18
testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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19
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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20
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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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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accede
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| v.应允，同意 | |
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lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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24
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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earnings
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| n.工资收人；利润，利益，所得 | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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29
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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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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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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32
sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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34
constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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consignee
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| n.受托者，收件人，代销人；承销人；收货人 | |
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elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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conducive
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| adj.有益的，有助的 | |
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40
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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41
surfeit
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| v.使饮食过度；n.(食物)过量，过度 | |
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42
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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43
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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descant
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| v.详论，絮说；n.高音部 | |
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45
entrapped
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| v.使陷入圈套，使入陷阱( entrap的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46
flouting
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| v.藐视，轻视( flout的现在分词 ) | |
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47
persevered
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| v.坚忍，坚持( persevere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48
expended
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| v.花费( expend的过去式和过去分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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49
disapproved
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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51
yarns
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| n.纱( yarn的名词复数 )；纱线；奇闻漫谈；旅行轶事 | |
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52
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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53
forerunner
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| n.前身，先驱（者），预兆，祖先 | |
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54
egregious
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| adj.非常的，过分的 | |
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55
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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56
advancement
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| n.前进，促进，提升 | |
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57
repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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60
plying
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的现在分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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apathetic
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| adj.冷漠的，无动于衷的 | |
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62
revel
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| vi.狂欢作乐，陶醉；n.作乐，狂欢 | |
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63
fangs
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| n.（尤指狗和狼的）长而尖的牙( fang的名词复数 )；（蛇的）毒牙；罐座 | |
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64
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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65
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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