My father died, curiously2 enough, on the morning of his birthday. We had not expected the end to arrive for some time, and at first did not know that it had come.
“I have left him sleeping,” said my mother, who had slipped out very quietly in her dressing-gown. “Washburn gave him a draught3 last night. We won't disturb him.”
So we sat round the breakfast table, speaking in low tones, for the house was small and flimsy, all sound easily heard through its thin partitions. Afterwards my mother crept upstairs, I following, and cautiously opened the door a little way.
The blinds were still down, and the room dark. It seemed a long time that my mother stood there listening, her ear against the jar. The first costermonger—a girl's voice, it sounded—passed, crying shrilly5: “Watercreases, fine fresh watercreases with your breakfast-a'penny a bundle watercreases;” and further off a hoarse6 youth was wailing8: “Mee-ilk-mee-ilk-oi.”
Inch by inch my mother opened the door wider and we stole in. He was lying with his eyes still closed, the lips just slightly parted. I had never seen death before, and could not realise it. All that I could see was that he looked even younger than I had ever seen him look before. By slow degrees only, it came home to me, the knowledge that he was gone away from us. For days—for weeks, I would hear his step behind me in the street, his voice calling to me, see his face among the crowds, and hastening to meet him, stand bewildered because it had mysteriously disappeared. But at first I felt no pain whatever.
To my mother it was but a short parting. Into her placid9 faith had never fallen fear nor doubt. He was waiting for her. In God's good time they would meet again. What need of sorrow! Without him the days passed slowly: the house must ever be a little dull when the good man's away. But that was all. So my mother would speak of him always—of his dear, kind ways, of his oddities and follies10 we loved so to recall, not through tears, but smiles, thinking of him not as of one belonging to the past, but as of one beckoning11 to her from the future.
We lived on still in the old house though ever planning to move, for the great brick monster had crept closer round about us year by year, devouring12 in his progress all things fair. Field and garden, tree and cottage, time-mellowed house suggesting story, kind hedgerow hiding hideousness14 beyond—the few spots yet in that doomed16 land lingering to remind one of the sunshine, one by one had he scrunched17 them between his ugly teeth. A world apart, this east end of London, this ghetto18 of the poor for ever growing, dreariness19 added year by year to dreariness, hopelessness stretching ever farther its long, shrivelled arms, these endless rows of reeking21 cells where London herds22 her slaves. Often of a misty23 afternoon when we knew that without this city of the dead life was stirring in the sunshine, we would fare forth24 to house-hunt in pleasant suburbs, now themselves added to the weary catacomb of narrow streets—to Highgate, then a tiny town connected by a coach with leafy Holloway; to Hampstead with its rows of ancient red-brick houses, from whose wind-blown heath one saw beyond the woods and farms, far London's domes25 and spires26, to Wood Green among the pastures, where smock-coated labourers discussed their politics and ale beneath wide-spreading elms; to Hornsey, then a village consisting of an ivy-covered church and one grass-bordered way. But though we often saw “the very thing for us” and would discuss its possibilities from every point of view and find them good, we yet delayed.
“We must think it over,” would say my mother; “there is no hurry; for some reasons I shall be sorry to leave Poplar.”
“For what reasons, mother?”
“Oh, well, no particular reason, Paul. Only we have lived there so long, you know. It will be a wrench27 leaving the old house.”
To the making of man go all things, even to the instincts of the clinging vine. We fling our tendrils round what is the nearest castle-keep or pig-stye wall, rain and sunshine fastening them but firmer. Dying Sir Walter Scott—do you remember?—hastening home from Italy, fearful lest he might not be in time to breathe again the damp mists of the barren hills. An ancient dame28 I knew, they had carried her from her attic29 in slumland that she might be fanned by the sea breezes, and the poor old soul lay pining for what she called her “home.” Wife, mother, widow, she had lived there till the alley's reek20 smelt30 good to her nostrils31, till its riot was the voices of her people. Who shall understand us save He who fashioned us?
So the old house held us to its dismal32 bosom33; and not until within its homely34 but unlovely arms, first my aunt, and later on my mother had died, and I had said good-bye to Amy, crying in the midst of littered emptiness, did I leave it.
“You will be glad to get rid of me, all of you!” she said, dropping for the first and last time I can recollect36 into the retort direct; “and I can't say I shall be very sorry to go myself. It hasn't been my idea of life.”
Poor old lady! That was only a couple of weeks before the end. I do not suppose she guessed it was so certain or perhaps she might have been more sentimental37.
“Don't be foolish,” said my mother, “you're not going to die!”
“What's the use of talking like an idiot,” retorted my aunt, “I've got to do it some time. Why not now, when everything's all ready for it. It isn't as if I was enjoying myself.”
“I am sure we do all we can for you,” said my mother. “I know you do,” replied my aunt. “I'm a burden to you. I always have been.”
“Not a burden,” corrected my mother.
“What does the woman call it then,” snapped back my aunt. “Does she reckon I've been a sunbeam in the house? I've been a trial to everybody. That's what I was born for; it's my metier.”
My mother put her arms about the poor old soul and kissed her. “We should miss you very much,” she said.
“I'm sure I hope they all will!” answered my aunt. “It's the only thing I've got to leave 'em, worth having.”
My mother laughed.
“Maybe it's been a good thing for you, Maggie,” grumbled38 my aunt; “if it wasn't for cantankerous39, disagreeable people like me, gentle, patient people like you wouldn't get any practice. Perhaps, after all, I've been a blessing40 to you in disguise.”
I cannot honestly say we ever wished her back; though we certainly did miss her—missed many a joke at her oddities, many a laugh at her cornery ways. It takes all sorts, as the saying goes, to make a world. Possibly enough if only we perfect folk were left in it we would find it uncomfortably monotonous41.
As for Amy, I believe she really regretted her.
“One never knows what's good for one till one's lost it,” sighed Amy.
“I'm glad to think you liked her,” said my mother.
“You see, mum,” explained Amy, “I was one of a large family; and a bit of a row now and again cheers one up, I always think. I'll be losing the power of my tongue if something doesn't come along soon.”
“Well, you are going to be married in a few weeks now,” my mother reminded her.
But Amy remained despondent42. “They're poor things, the men, at a few words, the best of them,” she replied. “As likely as not just when you're getting interested you turn round to find that they've put on their hat and gone out.”
My mother and I were very much alone after my aunt's death. Barbara had gone abroad to put the finishing touches to her education—to learn the tricks of the Nobs' trade, as old Hasluck phrased it; and I had left school and taken employment with Mr. Stillwood, without salary, the idea being that I should study for the law.
“You are in luck's way, my boy, in luck's way,” old Mr. Gadley had assured me. “To have commenced your career in the office of Stillwood, Waterhead and Royal will be a passport for you anywhere. It will stamp you, my boy.”
Mr. Stillwood himself was an extremely old and feeble gentleman—so old and feeble it seemed strange that he, a wealthy man, had not long ago retired43.
“I am always meaning to,” he explained to me one day soon after my advent44 in his office. “When your poor father came to me he told me very frankly45 the sad fact—that he had only a few more years to live. 'Mr. Kelver,' I answered him, 'do not let that trouble you, so far as I am concerned. There are one or two matters in the office I should like to see cleared up, and in these you can help me. When they are completed I shall retire! Yet, you see, I linger on. I am like the old hackney coach horse, Mr. Weller—or is it Mr. Jingle—tells us of; if the shafts46 were drawn47 away I should probably collapse48. So I jog on, I jog on.'”
He had married late in life a common woman much younger than himself, who had brought to him a horde49 of needy50 and greedy relatives, and no doubt, as a refuge from her noisy neighbourhood, the daily peace of Lombard Street was welcome to him. We saw her occasionally. She was one of those blustering51, “managing” women who go through life under the impression that making a disturbance52 is somehow “putting things to rights.” Ridiculously ashamed of her origin, she sought to hide it under what her friends assured her was the air of a duchess, but which, as a matter of fact, resembled rather the Sunday manners of an elderly barmaid. Mr. Gadley alone was not afraid of her; but, on the contrary, kept her always very much in fear of him, often speaking to her with refreshing53 candour. He had known her in the days it was her desire should be buried in oblivion, and had always resented as a personal insult her entry into the old established aristocratic firm of Stillwood & Co.
Her history was peculiar54. Mr. Stillwood, when a blase55 man about town, verging56 on forty, had first seen her, then a fair-haired, ethereal-looking child, in spite of her dirt, playing in the gutter57. To his lasting58 self-reproach it was young Gadley himself, accompanying his employer home from Westminster, who had drawn Mr. Stillwood's attention to the girl by boxing her ears for having, as he passed, slapped his face with a convenient sprat. Stillwood, acting59 on the impulse of the moment, had taken the child by the hand and dragged her, unwilling60, to her father's place of business—a small coal shed in the Horseferry Road. The arrangement he there made amounted practically to the purchase of the child. She was sent abroad to school and the coal shed closed. On her return, ten years later, a big, handsome young woman, he married her, and learned at leisure the truth of the old saying, “what's bred in the bone will come out in the flesh,” scrub it and paint it and hide it away under fine clothes as you will.
Her constant complaint against her husband was that he was only a solicitor61, a profession she considered vulgar; and nothing “riled” old Gadley more than hearing her views upon this point.
“It's not fair to the gals,” I once heard her say to him. I was working in the next room, with the door not quite closed, added to which she talked at the top of her voice on all subjects. “What real gentleman, I should like to know, is going to marry the daughter of a City attorney? As I told him years ago, he ought to have retired and gone into the House.”
“The very thing your poor father used to talk of doing whenever things were going a bit queer in the retail62 coal and potato business,” grunted63 old Gadley.
Mrs. Stillwood called him a “low beast” in her most aristocratic tones, and swept out of the room.
Not that old Stillwood himself ever expressed fondness for the law.
“I am not at all sure, Kelver,” I remember his saying to me on one occasion, “that you have done wisely in choosing the law. It makes one regard humanity morally as the medical profession regards it physically64:—as universally unsound. You suspect everybody of being a rogue65. When people are behaving themselves, we lawyers hear nothing of them. All we hear of is roguery, trickery and hypocrisy66. It deteriorates67 the character, Kelver. We live in a perpetual atmosphere of transgression68. I sometimes fancy it may be infectious.”
“It does not seem to have infected you, sir,” I replied; for, as I think I have already mentioned, the firm of Stillwood, Waterhead and Royal was held in legal circles as the synonym69 for rectitude of dealing70 quite old-fashioned.
“I hope not, Kelver, I hope not,” the old gentleman replied; “and yet, do you know, I sometimes suspect myself—wonder if I may not perhaps be a scamp without realising it. A rogue, you know, Kelver, can always explain himself into an honest man to his own satisfaction. A scamp is never a scamp to himself.”
His words for the moment alarmed me, for, acting on old Gadley's advice, I had persuaded my mother to put all her small capital into Mr. Stillwood's hands for re-investment, a transaction that had resulted in substantial increase of our small income. But, looking into his smiling eyes, my momentary71 fear vanished.
Laughing, he laid his hand upon my shoulder. “One person always be suspicious of, Kelver—yourself. Nobody can do you so much harm as yourself.”
Of Washburn we saw more and more. “Hal” we both called him now, for removing with his gentle, masterful hands my mother's shyness from about her, he had established himself almost as one of the family, my mother regarding him as she might some absurdly bearded boy entrusted72 to her care without his knowing it, I looking up to him as to some wonderful elder brother.
“You rest me, Mrs. Kelver,” he would say, lighting73 his pipe and sinking down into the deep leathern chair that always waited for him in our parlour. “Your even voice, your soft eyes, your quiet hands, they soothe74 me.”
“It is good for a man,” he would say, looking from one to the other of us through the hanging smoke, “to test his wisdom by two things: the face of a good woman, and the ear of a child—I beg your pardon, Paul—of a young man. A good woman's face is the white sunlight. Under the gas-lamps who shall tell diamond from paste? Bring it into the sunlight: does it stand that test? Then it is good. And the children! they are the waiting earth on which we fling our store. Is it chaff75 and dust or living seed? Wait and watch. I shower my thoughts over our Paul, Mrs. Kelver. They seem to me brilliant, deep, original. The young beggar swallows them, forgets them. They were rubbish. Then I say something that dwells with him, that grows. Ah, that was alive, that was a seed. The waiting earth, it can make use only of what is true.”
“I would, Mrs. Kelver,” he answered her on one occasion, “I would to-morrow if I could marry half a dozen women. I should make an ideal husband for half a dozen wives. One I should neglect for five days, and be a burden to upon the sixth.”
From any other than Hal my mother would have taken such a remark, made even in jest, as an insult to her sex. But Hal's smile was a coating that could sugar any pill.
“I am not one man, Mrs. Kelver, I am half a dozen. If I were to marry one wife she would be married to six husbands. It is too many for any woman to manage.”
“Have you never fallen in love?” asked my mother.
“Three of me have, but on each occasion the other five of me out-voted him.”
“Just the right number, Mrs. Kelver. There is one of me must worship, adore a woman madly, abjectly78; grovel79 before her like the Troubadour before his Queen of Song, eat her slipper80, drink the water she has washed in, scourge81 himself before her window, die for a kiss of her glove flung down with a laugh. She must be scornful, contemptuous, cruel. There is another I would cherish, a tender, yielding creature, one whose face would light at my coming, cloud at my going; one to whom I should be a god. There is a third I, a child of Pan—an ugly little beast, Mrs. Kelver; horns on head and hoofs82 on feet, leering through the wood, seeking its fit mate. And a fourth would wed13 a wholesome83, homely wench, deep of bosom, broad of hip1; fit mother of a sturdy brood. A fifth could only be content with a true friend, a comrade wise and witty84, a sharer and understander of all joys and thoughts and feelings. And a last, Mrs. Kelver, yearns85 for a woman pure and sweet, clothed in love and crowned with holiness. Shouldn't we be a handful, Mrs. Kelver, for any one woman in an eight-roomed house?”
But my mother was not to be discouraged. “You will find the woman one day, Hal, who will be all of them to you—all of them that are worth having, that is. And your eight-roomed house will be a kingdom!”
“A man is many, and a woman but one,” answered Hal.
“That is what men say who are too blind to see more than one side of a woman,” retorted my mother, a little sharply; for the honour and credit of her own sex in all things was very dear to my mother. And indeed this I have learned, that the flag of Womanhood you shall ever find upheld by all true women, flouted86 only by the false. For a judge in petticoats is ever but a witness in a wig87.
Hal laid aside his pipe and leant forward in his chair. “Now tell us, Mrs. Kelver, for our guidance, we two young bachelors, what must the lover of a young girl be?”
Always very serious on this subject of love, my mother answered gravely: “She asks for the whole of a man, Hal, not merely for a sixth, nor any other part of him. She is a child asking for a lover to whom she can look up, who will teach her, guide her, protect her. She is a queen demanding homage89, and yet he is her king whom it is her joy to serve. She asks to be his partner, his fellow-worker, his playmate, and at the same time she loves to think of him as her child, her big baby she must take care of. Whatever he has to give she has also to respond with. You need not marry six wives, Hal; you will find your six in one.
“'As the water to the vessel90, woman shapes herself to man;' an old heathen said that three thousand years ago, and others have repeated him; that is what you mean.”
“I don't like that way of putting it,” answered my mother. “I mean that as you say of man, so in every true woman is contained all women. But to know her completely you must love her with all love.”
Sometimes the talk would be of religion, for my mother's faith was no dead thing that must be kept ever sheltered from the air, lest it crumble91.
One evening “Who are we that we should live?” cried Hal. “The spider is less cruel; the very pig less greedy, gluttonous92 and foul93; the tiger less tigerish; our cousin ape less monkeyish. What are we but savages95, clothed and ashamed, nine-tenths of us?”
“But Sodom and Gomorrah,” reminded him my mother, “would have been spared for the sake of ten just men.”
“Much more sensible to have hurried the ten men out, leaving the remainder to be buried with all their abominations under their own ashes,” growled96 Hal.
“And we shall be purified,” continued my mother, “the evil in us washed away.”
“Why have made us ill merely to mend us? If the Almighty97 were so anxious for our company, why not have made us decent in the beginning?” He had just come away from a meeting of Poor Law Guardians99, and was in a state of dissatisfaction with human nature generally.
“It is His way,” answered my mother. “The precious stone lies hid in clay. He has His purpose.”
“Is the stone so very precious?”
“Would He have taken so much pains to fashion it if it were not? You see it all around you, Hal, in your daily practice—heroism, self-sacrifice, love stronger than death. Can you think He will waste it, He who uses again even the dead leaf?”
“Shall the new leaf remember the new flower?”
“Yes, if it ever knew it. Shall memory be the only thing to die?”
Often of an evening I would accompany Hal upon his rounds. By the savage94 tribe he both served and ruled he had come to be regarded as medicine man and priest combined. He was both their tyrant100 and their slave, working for them early and late, yet bullying101 them unmercifully, enforcing his commands sometimes with vehement103 tongue, and where that would not suffice with quick fists; the counsellor, helper, ruler, literally104 of thousands. Of income he could have made barely enough to live upon; but few men could have enjoyed more sense of power; and that I think it was that held him to the neighbourhood.
“Nature laid me by and forgot me for a couple of thousand years,” was his own explanation of himself. “Born in my proper period, I should have climbed to chieftainship upon uplifted shields. I might have been an Attila, an Alaric. Among the civilised one can only climb by crawling, and I am too impatient to crawl. Here I am king at once by force of brain and muscle.” So in Poplar he remained, poor in fees but rich in honour.
The love of justice was a passion with him. The oppressors of the poor knew and feared him well. Injustice105 once proved before him, vengeance106 followed sure. If the law would not help, he never hesitated to employ lawlessness, of which he could always command a satisfactory supply. Bumble might have the Board of Guardians at his back, Shylock legal support for his pound of flesh; but sooner or later the dark night brought punishment, a ducking in dock basin or canal, “Brutal107 Assault Upon a Respected Resident” (according to the local papers), the “miscreants” always making and keeping good their escape, for he was an admirable organiser.
One night it seemed to him necessary that a child should go at once into the Infirmary.
“It ain't no use my taking her now,” explained the mother, “I'll only get bullyragged for disturbing 'em. My old man was carried there three months ago when he broke his leg, but they wouldn't take him in till the morning.”
“Oho! oho! oho!” sang Hal, taking the child up in his arms and putting on his hat. “You follow me; we'll have some sport. Tally108 ho! tally ho!” And away we went, Hal heading our procession through the streets, shouting a rollicking song, the baby staring at him openmouthed.
“Now ring,” cried Hal to the mother on our reaching the Workhouse gate. “Ring modestly, as becomes the poor ringing at the gate of Charity.” And the bell tinkled109 faintly.
“Ring again!” cried Hal, drawing back into the shadow; and at last the wicket opened.
“Oh, if you please, sir, my baby—”
“Blast your baby!” answered a husky voice, “what d'ye mean by coming here this time of night?”
“Please, sir, I'm afraid it's dying, and the Doctor—”
The man was no sentimentalist, and to do him justice made no hypocritical pretence110 of being one. He consigned111 the baby and its mother and the doctor to Hell, and the wicket would have closed but for the point of Hal's stick.
“Open the gate!” roared Hal. It was idle pretending not to hear Hal anywhere within half a mile of him when he filled his lungs for a cry. “Open it quick, you blackguard! You gross vat-load of potato spirit, you—”
That the Governor should speak a language familiar to the governed was held by the Romans, born rulers of men, essential to authority. This theory Hal also maintained. His command of idiom understanded by his people was one of his rods of power. In less time than it took the trembling porter to loosen the bolts, Hal had presented him with a word picture of himself, as seen by others, that must have lessened112 his self-esteem.
“I didn't know as it was you, Doctor,” explained the man.
“No, you thought you had only to deal with some helpless creature you could bully102. Stir your fat carcass, you ugly cur! I'm in a hurry.”
The House Surgeon was away, but an attendant or two were lounging about, unfortunately for themselves, for Hal, being there, took it upon himself to go round the ward4 setting crooked113 things straight; and a busy and alarming time they had of it. Not till a couple of hours later did he fling himself forth again, having enjoyed himself greatly.
A gentleman came to reside in the district, a firm believer in the wisdom of the couplet: “A woman, a spaniel and a walnut114 tree, The more you beat them the better they be.” The spaniel and the walnut tree he did not possess, so his wife had the benefit of his undivided energies. Whether his treatment had improved her morally, one cannot say; her evident desire to do her best may have been natural or may have been assisted; but physically it was injuring her. He used to beat her about the head with his strap115, his argument being that she always seemed half asleep, and that this, for the time being, woke her up. Sympathisers brought complaint to Hal, for the police in that neighbourhood are to keep the streets respectable. With the life in the little cells that line them they are no more concerned than are the scavengers of the sewers116 with the domestic arrangements of the rats.
“What's he like?” asked Hal.
“He's a big 'un,” answered the woman who had come with the tale, “and he's good with his fists—I've seen him. But there's no getting at him. He's the sort to have the law on you if you interfere117 with him, and she's the sort to help him.”
“Any likely time to catch him at it?” asked Hal.
“Saturdays it's as regular as early closing,” answered the woman, “but you might have to wait a bit.”
“I'll wait in your room, granny, next Saturday,” suggested Hal.
So that week end we sat very still on two rickety chairs listening to a long succession of sharp, cracking sounds that, had one not known, one might have imagined produced by some child monotonously119 exploding percussion120 caps, each one followed by an answering groan121. Hal never moved, but sat smoking his pipe, an ugly smile about his mouth. Only once he opened his lips, and then it was to murmur122 to himself: “And God blessed them and said unto them, Be fruitful and multiply.”
The horror ceased at last, and later we heard the door unlock and a man's foot upon the landing above. Hal beckoned123 to me, and swiftly we slipped out and down the creaking stairs. He opened the front door, and we waited in the evil-smelling little passage. The man came towards us whistling. He was a powerfully built fellow, rather good-looking, I remember. He stopped abruptly124 upon catching125 sight of Hal, who stood crouching126 in the shadow of the door.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded.
“Waiting to pull your nose!” answered Hal, suiting the action to the word. And then laughing he ran down the street, I following.
The man gave chase, calling to us with a string of imprecations to stop. But Hal only ran the faster, though after a street or two he slackened, and the man gained on us a little.
So we continued, the distance between us and our pursuer now a little more, now a little less. People turned and stared at us. A few boys, scenting127 grim fun, followed shouting for awhile; but these we soon out-paced, till at last in deserted128 streets, winding129 among warehouses130 bordering the river, we three ran alone, between long, lifeless walls. I looked into Hal's face from time to time, and he was laughing; but every now and then he would look over his shoulder at the man behind him still following doggedly131, and then his face would be twisted into a comically terrified grimace132. Turning into a narrow cul-de-sac, Hal suddenly ducked behind a wide brick buttress133, and the man, still running, passed us. And then Hal stood up and called to him, and the man turned, looked into Hal's eyes, and understood.
He was not a coward. Besides, even a rat when cornered will fight for its life. He made a rush at Hal, and Hal made no attempt to defend himself. He stood there laughing, and the man struck him full in the face, and the blood spurted134 out and flowed down into his mouth. The man came on again, though terror was in every line of his face, all his desire being to escape. But this time Hal drove him back again. They fought for awhile, if one can call it fighting, till the man, mad for air, reeled against the wall, stood there quivering convulsively, his mouth wide open, resembling more than anything else some huge dying fish. And Hal drew away and waited.
I have no desire to see again the sight I saw that quiet, still evening, framed by those high, windowless walls, from behind which sounded with ceaseless regularity135 the gentle swish of the incoming tide. All sense of retribution was drowned in the sight of Hal's evident enjoyment136 of his sport. The judge had disappeared, leaving the work to be accomplished137 by a savage animal loosened for the purpose.
The wretched creature flung itself again towards its only door of escape, fought with the vehemence138 of despair, to be flung back again, a hideous15, bleeding mass of broken flesh. I tried to cling to Hal's arm, but one jerk of his steel muscles flung me ten feet away.
“Keep off, you fool!” he cried. “I won't kill him. I'm keeping my head. I shall know when to stop.” And I crept away and waited.
Hal joined me a little later, wiping the blood from his face. We made our way to a small public-house near the river, and from there Hal sent a couple of men on whom he could rely with instructions how to act. I never heard any more of the matter. It was a subject on which I did not care to speak to Hal. I can only hope that good came of it.
There was a spot—it has been cleared away since to make room for the approach to Greenwich Tunnel—it was then the entrance to a grain depot139 in connection with the Milwall Docks. A curious brick well it resembled, in the centre of which a roadway wound downward, corkscrew fashion, disappearing at the bottom into darkness under a yawning arch. The place possessed140 the curious property of being ever filled with a ceaseless murmur, as though it were some aerial maelstrom141, drawing into its silent vacuum all wandering waves of sound from the restless human ocean flowing round it. No single tone could one ever distinguish: it was a mingling142 of all voices, heard there like the murmur of a sea-soaked shell.
We passed through it on our return. Its work for the day was finished, its strange, weary song uninterrupted by the mighty98 waggons143 thundering up and down its spiral way. Hal paused, leaning against the railings that encircled its centre, and listened.
“Hark, do you not hear it, Paul?” he asked. “It is the music of Humanity. All human notes are needful to its making: the faint wail7 of the new-born, the cry of the dying thief; the beating of the hammers, the merry trip of dancers; the clatter144 of the teacups, the roaring of the streets; the crooning of the mother to her babe, the scream of the tortured child; the meeting kiss of lovers, the sob145 of those that part. Listen! prayers and curses, sighs and laughter; the soft breathing of the sleeping, the fretful feet of pain; voices of pity, voices of hate; the glad song of the strong, the foolish complaining of the weak. Listen to it, Paul! Right and wrong, good and evil, hope and despair, it is but one voice—a single note, drawn by the sweep of the Player's hand across the quivering strings146 of man. What is the meaning of it, Paul? Can you read it? Sometimes it seems to me a note of joy, so full, so endless, so complete, that I cry: 'Blessed be the Lord whose hammers have beaten upon us, whose fires have shaped us to His ends!' And sometimes it sounds to me a dying note, so that I could curse Him who in wantonness has wrung147 it from the anguish148 of His creatures—till I would that I could fling myself, Prometheus like, between Him and His victims, calling: 'My darkness, but their light; my agony, O God; their hope!'”
The faint light from a neighbouring gas-lamp fell upon his face that an hour before I had seen the face of a wild beast. The ugly mouth was quivering, tears stood in his great, tender eyes. Could his prayer in that moment have been granted, could he have pressed against his bosom all the pain of the world, he would have rejoiced.
He shook himself together with a laugh. “Come, Paul, we have had a busy afternoon, and I'm thirsty. Let us drink some beer, my boy, good sound beer, and plenty of it.”
My mother fell ill that winter. Mountain born and mountain bred, the close streets had never agreed with her, and scolded by all of us, she promised, “come the fine weather,” to put sentiment behind her, and go away from them.
“I'm thinking she will,” said Hal, gripping my shoulder with his strong hand, “but it'll be by herself that she'll go, lad. My wonder is,” he continued, “that she has held out so long. If anything, it is you that have kept her alive. Now that you are off her mind to a certain extent, she is worrying about your father, I expect. These women, they never will believe a man can take care of himself, even in Heaven. She's never quite trusted the Lord with him, and never will till she's there to give an eye to things herself.”
Hal's prophecy fell true. She left “come the fine weather,” as she had promised: I remember it was the first day primroses149 were hawked150 in the street. But another death had occurred just before; which, concerning me closely as it does, I had better here dispose of; and that was the death of old Mr. Stillwood, who passed away rich in honour and regret, and was buried with much ostentation151 and much sincere sorrow; for he had been to many of his clients, mostly old folk, rather a friend than a mere88 man of business, and had gained from all with whom he had come in contact, respect, and from many real affection.
In conformity152 with the old legal fashions that in his life he had so fondly clung to, his will was read aloud by Mr. Gadley after the return from the funeral, and many were the tears its recital153 called forth. Written years ago by himself and never altered, its quaint154 phraseology was full of kindly155 thought and expression. No one had been forgotten. Clerks, servants, poor relations, all had been treated with even-handed justice, while for those with claim upon him, ample provision had been made. Few wills, I think, could ever have been read less open to criticism.
Old Gadley slipped his arm into mine as we left the house. “If you've nothing to do, young 'un,” he said, “I'll get you to come with me to the office. I have got all the keys in my pocket, and we shall be quiet. It will be sad work for me, and I had rather we were alone. A couple of hours will show us everything.”
We lighted the wax candles—old Stillwood could never tolerate gas in his own room—and opening the safe took out the heavy ledgers157 one by one, and from them Gadley dictated158 figures which I wrote down and added up.
“Thirty years I have kept these books for him,” said old Gadley, as we laid by the last of them, “thirty years come Christmas next, he and I together. No other hands but ours have ever touched them, and now people to whom they mean nothing but so much business will fling them about, drop greasy159 crumbs160 upon them—I know their ways, the brutes161!—scribble all over them. And he who always would have everything so neat and orderly!”
We came to the end of them in less than the time old Gadley had thought needful: in such perfect order had everything been maintained. I was preparing to go, but old Gadley had drawn a couple of small keys from his pocket, and was shuffling162 again towards the safe.
“Only one more,” he explained in answer to my look, “his own private ledger156. It will merely be in the nature of a summary, but we'll just glance through it.”
He opened an inner drawer and took from it a small thick volume bound in green leather and closed with two brass163 locks. An ancient volume, it appeared, its strong binding164 faded and stained. Old Gadley sat down with it at the dead man's own desk, and snuffing the two shaded candles, unlocked and opened it. I was standing165 opposite, so that the book to me was upside down, but the date on the first page, “1841,” caught my eye, as also the small neat writing now brown with age.
“So neat, so orderly he always was,” murmured old Gadley again, smoothing the page affectionately with his hand, and I waited for his dictation.
But no glib166 flow of figures fell from him. His eyebrows167 suddenly contracted, his body stiffened168 itself. Then for the next quarter of an hour nothing sounded in the quiet room but his turning of the creakling pages. Once or twice he glanced round swiftly over his shoulder, as though haunted by the idea of some one behind him; then back to the neat, closely written folios, his little eyes, now exhibiting a comical look of horror, starting out of his round red face. First slowly, then quickly with trembling hands he turned the pages, till the continual ratling of the leaves sounded like strange, mocking laughter through the silent, empty room; almost one could imagine it coming from some watching creature hidden in the shadows.
The end reached, he sat staring before him, his whole body quivering, great beads169 of sweat upon his shiny bald head.
“Am I mad?” was all he could find to say. “Kelver, am I mad?”
He handed me the book. It was a cynically170 truthful171 record of fraud, extending over thirty years. Every client, every friend, every relative that had fallen into his net he had robbed: the fortunate ones of a part, the majority of their all. Its very first entry debited172 him with the proceeds of his own partner's estate. Its last ran—“Re Kelver—various sales of stock.” To his credit were his payments year after year of imaginary interests on imaginary securities, the surplus accounted for with simple brevity: “Transferred to own account.” No record could have been more clear, more frank. Beneath each transaction was written its true history; the actual investments, sometimes necessary, carefully distinguished173 from the false. In neat red ink would occur here and there a note for his own guidance: “Eldest child comes of age August, '73. Be prepared for trustees desiring production.” Turning to “August, '73,” one found that genuine investment had been made, to be sold again a few months later on. From beginning to end not a single false step had he committed. Suspicious clients had been ear-marked: the trusting discriminated174 with gratitude175, and milked again and again to meet emergency.
As a piece of organisation176 it was magnificent. No one but a financial genius could have picked a dozen steps through such a network of chicanery177. For half a lifetime he had moved among it, dignified178, respected and secure.
Whether even he could have maintained his position for another month was doubtful. Suicide, though hinted at, was proved to have been impossible. It seemed as though with his amazing audacity179 he had tricked even Death into becoming his accomplice180.
“But it is impossible, Kelver!” cried Gadley, “this must be some dream. Stillwood, Waterhead and Royal! What is the meaning of it?”
He took the book into his hands again, then burst into tears. “You never knew him,” wailed181 the poor little man. “Stillwood, Waterhead and Royal! I came here as office boy fifty years ago. He was more like a friend to me than—” and again the sobs182 shook his little fat body.
I locked the books away and put him into his hat and coat. But I had much difficulty in getting him out of the office.
“I daren't, young 'un,” he cried, drawing back. “Fifty years I have walked out of this office, proud of it, proud of being connected with it. I daren't face the street!”
All the way home his only idea was: Could it not be hidden? Honest, kindly little man that he was, he seemed to have no thought for the unfortunate victims. The good name of his master, of his friend, gone! Stillwood, Waterhead and Royal, a by-word! To have avoided that I believe he would have been willing for yet another hundred clients to be ruined.
I saw him to his door, then turned homeward; and to my surprise in a dark by-street heard myself laughing heartily183. I checked myself instantly, feeling ashamed of my callousness184, of my seeming indifference185 to the trouble even of myself and my mother. Yet as there passed before me the remembrance of that imposing186 and expensive funeral with its mournful following of tearful faces; the hushed reading of the will with its accompaniment of rustling187 approval; the picture of the admirably sympathetic clergyman consoling with white hands Mrs. Stillwood, inclined to hysteria, but anxious concerning her two hundred pounds' worth of crape which by no possibility of means could now be paid for—recurred to me the obituary188 notice in “The Chelsea Weekly Chronicle”: the humour of the thing swept all else before it, and I laughed again—I could not help it—loud and long. It was my first introduction to the comedy of life, which is apt to be more brutal than the comedy of fiction.
But nearing home, the serious side of the matter forced itself uppermost. Fortunately, our supposed dividends189 had been paid to us by Mr. Stillwood only the month before. Could I keep the thing from troubling my mother's last days? It would be hard work. I should have to do it alone, for a perhaps foolish pride prevented my taking Hal into my confidence, even made his friendship a dread190 to me, lest he should come to learn and offer help. There is a higher generosity191, it is said, that can receive with pleasure as well as bestow192 favour; but I have never felt it. Could I be sure of acting my part, of not betraying myself to her sharp eyes, of keeping newspapers and chance gossip away from her? Good shrewd Amy I cautioned, but I shrank from even speaking on the subject to Hal, and my fear was lest he should blunder into the subject, which for the usual nine days occupied much public attention. But fortunately he appeared not even to have heard of the scandal.
Possibly had the need lasted longer I might have failed, but as it was, a few weeks saw the end.
“Don't leave me to-day, Paul,” whispered my mother to me one morning. So I stayed, and in the evening my mother put her arms around my neck and I lay beside her, my head upon her breast, as I used to when a little boy. And when the morning came I was alone.
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1
hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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2
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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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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4
ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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shrilly
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| 尖声的； 光亮的，耀眼的 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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7
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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8
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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9
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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11
beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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12
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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13
wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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14
hideousness
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15
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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16
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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17
scrunched
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| v.发出喀嚓声( scrunch的过去式和过去分词 )；蜷缩；压；挤压 | |
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18
ghetto
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| n.少数民族聚居区，贫民区 | |
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dreariness
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| 沉寂，可怕，凄凉 | |
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20
reek
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| v.发出臭气；n.恶臭 | |
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21
reeking
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的现在分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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22
herds
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| 兽群( herd的名词复数 )； 牧群； 人群； 群众 | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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24
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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domes
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| n.圆屋顶( dome的名词复数 )；像圆屋顶一样的东西；圆顶体育场 | |
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26
spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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27
wrench
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| v.猛拧；挣脱；使扭伤；n.扳手；痛苦，难受 | |
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28
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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30
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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31
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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32
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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34
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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35
grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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36
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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38
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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39
cantankerous
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| adj.爱争吵的，脾气不好的 | |
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40
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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41
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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42
despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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43
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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44
advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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45
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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46
shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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47
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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48
collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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49
horde
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| n.群众，一大群 | |
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50
needy
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的，生活艰苦的 | |
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51
blustering
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| adj.狂风大作的，狂暴的v.外强中干的威吓( bluster的现在分词 )；咆哮；（风）呼啸；狂吹 | |
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52
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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53
refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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54
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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55
blase
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| adj.厌烦于享乐的 | |
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56
verging
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| 接近，逼近（verge的现在分词形式） | |
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57
gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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58
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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59
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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60
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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61
solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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62
retail
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| v./n.零售；adv.以零售价格 | |
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63
grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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64
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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65
rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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66
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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67
deteriorates
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| 恶化，变坏( deteriorate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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68
transgression
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| n.违背；犯规；罪过 | |
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69
synonym
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| n.同义词，换喻词 | |
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70
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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71
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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72
entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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73
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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74
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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75
chaff
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| v.取笑，嘲笑；n.谷壳 | |
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76
panacea
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| n.万灵药；治百病的灵药 | |
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77
queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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78
abjectly
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| 凄惨地； 绝望地； 糟透地； 悲惨地 | |
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79
grovel
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| vi.卑躬屈膝，奴颜婢膝 | |
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80
slipper
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| n.拖鞋 | |
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81
scourge
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| n.灾难，祸害；v.蹂躏 | |
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82
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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83
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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84
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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85
yearns
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的第三人称单数 ) | |
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86
flouted
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| v.藐视，轻视( flout的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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87
wig
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| n.假发 | |
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88
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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90
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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91
crumble
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| vi.碎裂，崩溃；vt.弄碎，摧毁 | |
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92
gluttonous
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| adj.贪吃的，贪婪的 | |
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93
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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94
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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95
savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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96
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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97
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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98
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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99
guardians
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| 监护人( guardian的名词复数 )； 保护者，维护者 | |
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100
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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101
bullying
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| v.恐吓，威逼( bully的现在分词 )；豪；跋扈 | |
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102
bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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103
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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104
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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105
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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106
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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107
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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108
tally
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| n.计数器，记分，一致，测量；vt.计算，记录，使一致；vi.计算，记分，一致 | |
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109
tinkled
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| （使）发出丁当声，（使）发铃铃声( tinkle的过去式和过去分词 )； 叮当响着发出，铃铃响着报出 | |
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110
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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111
consigned
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的过去式和过去分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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112
lessened
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| 减少的，减弱的 | |
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113
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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114
walnut
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| n.胡桃，胡桃木，胡桃色，茶色 | |
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115
strap
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| n.皮带，带子；v.用带扣住，束牢；用绷带包扎 | |
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116
sewers
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| n.阴沟，污水管，下水道( sewer的名词复数 ) | |
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117
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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118
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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119
monotonously
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| adv.单调地，无变化地 | |
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120
percussion
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| n.打击乐器；冲突，撞击；震动，音响 | |
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121
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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122
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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123
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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124
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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125
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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126
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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127
scenting
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| vt.闻到（scent的现在分词形式） | |
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128
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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129
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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130
warehouses
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| 仓库，货栈( warehouse的名词复数 ) | |
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131
doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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132
grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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133
buttress
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| n.支撑物；v.支持 | |
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134
spurted
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| （液体，火焰等）喷出，（使）涌出( spurt的过去式和过去分词 )； （短暂地）加速前进，冲刺 | |
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135
regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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136
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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137
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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138
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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139
depot
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| n.仓库，储藏处；公共汽车站；火车站 | |
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140
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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141
maelstrom
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| n.大乱动；大漩涡 | |
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142
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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143
waggons
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| 四轮的运货马车( waggon的名词复数 )； 铁路货车； 小手推车 | |
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144
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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145
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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146
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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147
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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148
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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149
primroses
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| n.报春花( primrose的名词复数 )；淡黄色；追求享乐（招至恶果） | |
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150
hawked
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| 通过叫卖主动兜售（hawk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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151
ostentation
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| n.夸耀，卖弄 | |
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152
conformity
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| n.一致，遵从，顺从 | |
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153
recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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154
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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155
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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156
ledger
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| n.总帐，分类帐；帐簿 | |
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157
ledgers
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| n.分类账( ledger的名词复数 ) | |
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158
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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159
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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160
crumbs
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| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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161
brutes
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| 兽( brute的名词复数 )； 畜生； 残酷无情的人； 兽性 | |
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162
shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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163
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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164
binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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165
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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166
glib
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| adj.圆滑的，油嘴滑舌的 | |
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167
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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168
stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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169
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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170
cynically
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| adv.爱嘲笑地，冷笑地 | |
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171
truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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172
debited
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| v.记入（账户）的借方( debit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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173
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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174
discriminated
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| 分别，辨别，区分( discriminate的过去式和过去分词 )； 歧视，有差别地对待 | |
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175
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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176
organisation
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| n.组织，安排，团体，有机休 | |
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177
chicanery
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| n.欺诈，欺骗 | |
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178
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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179
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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180
accomplice
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| n.从犯，帮凶，同谋 | |
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181
wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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182
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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183
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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184
callousness
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185
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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186
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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187
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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188
obituary
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| n.讣告，死亡公告；adj.死亡的 | |
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189
dividends
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| 红利( dividend的名词复数 )； 股息； 被除数； （足球彩票的）彩金 | |
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190
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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191
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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192
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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