It turned out not so badly, yet pretty badly. Uncle Jenico took cheap lodgings1 for us in the town, and for two or three months was busy flitting between Ipswich and London winding2 up my father’s estate. At the end, when the value of every lot, stick, and warrant had been realised, and the creditors3 satisfied, a sum representing perhaps £150 a year was secured to us, and with this, and the despatch-box, we committed ourselves to the future.
It appeared that my Uncle Jenico’s inventions had always been more creditable than profitable to him, and this for the reason that unattainable capital was necessary to their working. Given a few hundreds, he was confident that he could make thousands out of any one of them. It was hard, for the lack of a little fuel, so to speak, to have so much power spoiling on one’s hands. I would have had him, when once I understood, invest our own capital in some of them; but, though I could see he loved me for the suggestion, he had the better strength of affection to keep loyal to his trust, which he administered scrupulously5 according to the law. Afterwards, when I came to know him better, I could not but be thankful that he had shown this superior genius for honesty; for his faith in his own concerns was so complete, and at the same time so naïve, that he might otherwise have lacked nothing but the guilt6 to be a defaulter.
As to the patents themselves, they represented a hundred phases of craft, every one of which delighted and convinced me by its originality7. There was a design amongst them for an automatic dairy-maid, a machine which, by exhausting the air in a number of flexible tubes, could milk twenty cows at once. There was a design for making little pearls large, by inserting them like setons in the shells of living oysters8. There was a plan for a ship to be driven by a portable windmill, which set a turbine spinning under the stern. Uncle Jenico’s contrivances were mostly on an heroic scale, and covered every form of enterprise—from the pill which was to eliminate dyspepsia from the land, to a scheme for liquidating9 the National Debt by pawning10 all England for a term of years to an International Trust. At the same time, there was no human need too mean for his consideration. He was for ever striving to economise labour for the betterment of his poorer fellow-creatures. His inventiveness was a great charity, which did not even begin at home. His patents, from being designed to improve any condition but his own, suffered the neglect of a world to which selfishness is the first principle of business competence11. His “Napina,” a liquid composition from which old clothes, after having been dipped therein, re-emerged as new, could find no market. His “Labour-of-Love Spit,” which was turned by a rocking-chair moving a treadle, like that on a knife-grinder’s machine, so that the cook could roast her joint12 in great comfort while dozing13 over her paper, could make no headway against the more impersonal14 clock-work affair. And so it was with most of his designs, but a few of which had been actually tested before being condemned15 on insufficient16 evidence. What more ridiculous, for instance, than to denounce his “Burglar’s Trap” on the score that one single idiot of a householder had blundered into his own snare17 and been kept there while the robbers were rifling his premises18? What more scandalous than to convict his Fire-Derrick—a noble invention, like a crane dangling19 a little cabin, for saving life at conflagrations—because the first time it was tested the box would not descend20, but kept the insurance gentlemen swinging in the air for an hour or two; or his Infallible Lifebelt, which turned upside-down in the water for the single reason that they tried it on a revenue officer who had lost his legs in an explosion? No practical innovation was surely ever started without a stumble. But Uncle Jenico had no luck. He sunk all his capital in his own patents without convincing a soul, or—and this is the notable thing—losing his temper. That one only of his possessions remained to him, fresh and sound as when, as a little boy, he had invented a flying top, which broke his grandmother’s windows. No neglect had impaired21 it, nor adversity ruffled22 for more than a moment. If he had patented it and nothing else, he could have made his fortune, I am certain.
Still, when we came to be comrades—or partners, as he loved to call us—his restless brain was busy as ever with ideas. Nothing was too large or small for him to touch. He showed me, on an early occasion, how his hat—not the black one he had worn at the funeral, but the big beaver23 article that came over his eyes—explained its own proportions in a number of little cupboards or compartments24 in the lining25, which were designed to carry one’s soap, toothbrush, razor, etc., when on a short visit. He had the most delightful26 affection for his own ingenuities27, and the worldliest axioms for explaining the secret of their success. On the afternoon when Mr. Quayle, after the kindest of partings with me, had left us, and while he was yet on the stairs, Uncle Jenico had bent28 to me and whispered: “Make it a business principle, my boy, never to confess to insolvency29. You heard the way I assured the gentleman? Well, Richard, we may have in our despatch-box there all Ophir lying fallow for the lack of a little cash to work it; but we mustn’t tell our commercial friends so—no, no. We must let them believe it is their privilege to back us. Necessity is a bad recommendation.”
It may be. But I was not a commercial gent; and Uncle Jenico had all my faith, and should have had all my capital if it had rested with me to dispose of it as I liked.
During the time my uncle was engaged in London, George, good man, remained at Ipswich to look after me, though we were forced reluctantly to dismiss him as soon as things were settled. It was impossible, however, on a hundred and fifty pounds a year to keep a man-servant; and so presently he went, and with him my last connection with the old life. Not more of the past than the clothes I stood in now remained to me. It was as if I had been shipwrecked and adopted by a stranger. But the final severance30 seemed a relief to Uncle Jenico, who, when it was accomplished31, drew a long breath, and adjusted his glasses and looked at me rosily32.
“Now, Richard,” he said, “with nobody any longer to admonish33 us, comes the question of our home, and where to make it. Have you any choice?”
Dear me; what did I know of the world’s dwelling-places? I answered that I left it all to him.
“Very well,” he said, with a happy sigh; “then I have an original plan. Suppose we make it nowhere?”
He paused to note how the surprise struck home.
“You mean——” I began, hesitating.
“I mean,” said he, “supposing we have no fixed34 abode35, but go from place to place as it suits us?”
“You see,” said Uncle Jenico, “moving about, I get ideas; and in ideas lies our future prosperity. Let’s look at the map.”
It was a lovely proposal. To enter, in actual being, the mysterious regions of pictures-on-the-wall; to breathe the real atmosphere, so long felt in romance, of tinted37 lithographs38 and coloured prints; to find roads and commons and phantom39 distances, wistful, unattainable dreams hitherto, made suddenly accessible to me—it was thrilling, it was rapturous. My uncle humoured the thought so completely as to leave to me the fanciful choice of our first resting-place.
“Only don’t let it be too far,” he said. “Just at present we must go moderate, and until I can realise on the sale of a little patent, which I am on the point of parting with for an inadequate40 though considerable sum.”
I spent a delightful hour in poring over the county map. It was patched with verdant41 places—big farms and gentlemen’s estates—and reminded me somehow of those French green-frilled sugarplums which crunch42 liqueur and are shaped like little vegetables. One could feel the cosy43 shelter of the woods, marked in groves44 of things that looked like tiny cabbages, and gaze down in imagination from the hills meandering45 like furry46 caterpillars47 with a miniature windmill here and there to turn them from their course. The yellow roads were rich in suggestion of tootling coaches, and milestones48, and inns revealing themselves round corners, with troughs in front and sign-boards, and perhaps a great elm shadowed with caves of leafiness at unattainable heights. But the red spit of railway which came up from the bottom of the picture as far as Colchester, and was thence extended, in a dotted line only, to Ipswich, gave me a thrill of memory half sad and half beautiful. For it was by that wonderful crimson49 track that my father and I had travelled our last road together as far as the old Essex town, where, since it ended there for the time being, we had taken coach for Suffolk.
“Can’t we—mayn’t we go to the sea? I’ve never been there yet; and we’re so close; and papa promised.”
“The sea?” he echoed. “Why, to be sure. I’ve long had an idea that seaweed might be used for water-proofing. It’s an inspiration, Richard. We’ll beat Mr. Macintosh on his own ground. But whereabouts to the sea, now?”
I could not suggest a direction, however; so he borrowed for me a local guide-book, which dealt with places of interest round the coast, and left me to study it while he went out for a walk to get ideas.
I had no great education; but I could read glibly52 enough for my eight years. When Uncle Jenico returned in an hour or two, our choice, so far as I was concerned, was made. I brought the book, and, laying it before him, pointed53 to a certain description.
“Dunberry,” he read, skipping, so as to take the gist54 of it—“the Sitomagus of the Roman occupation, and later the Dunmoc of East Anglia. Population, 694. (H’m, h’m!) Disfranchised by the Reform Act of ’32. (H’m!) Formerly55 a place of importance, owning a seaport56, fortifications, seven churches and an abbey. In the twelfth century the sand, silting57 up, destroyed its harbour and admitted the encroachments of the sea, from which date its prosperity was gradually withdrawn58. (H’m, h’m!) Since, century by century, made the devouring59 sport of the ocean, until, at the present date, but a few crumbling60 ruins, toppling towards their final extinction61 in the waves below, remain the sole sad relics62 of an ancient glory which once proudly dominated the element under which it was doomed63 later to lie ’whelmed.”
Uncle Jenico stopped reading, and looked up at me a little puzzled.
“There’s better to come,” I murmured, blushing.
He nodded, and went on—
“A hill, called the Abbot’s Mitre, as much from its associations, perhaps, as from its peculiar64 conformation, overlooks the modern village, and is crowned on its seaward edge by the remains65 of the ancient foundation from which it takes its name. Some business is done in the catching66 and curing of sprats and herrings. There is an annual fair. Morant states that after violent storms, when the shingle67-drifts are overturned, bushels of coins, Roman and other, and many of considerable value, may be picked up for the seeking.”
Uncle Jenico’s face came slowly round to stare into mine. His hair seemed risen; his jaw68 was a little dropped.
“Richard!” he whispered, “our fortune is made.”
“Yes,” I thrilled back, delighted. “That’s why I chose it. I thought you’d be pleased.”
He looked out the direction eagerly on the map. It was distant, by road, some twenty-five miles north-east by north from Ipswich; by sea, perhaps ten miles further. But the weather was fine, and water-transport more suited to our finances. So two days later we had started for Dunberry, in one of the little coasting ketches that ply69 between Harwich and Yarmouth carrying farm produce and such chance passengers as prefer paying cheap for a risk too dear for security.
It was lovely April weather, and a light wind blowing up the shores from the south-east bowled us gaily70 on our way. I never so much as thought of sickness, and if I had, Uncle Jenico, looking in his large Panama hat like a benevolent71 planter, would have shamed me, with his rubicund72 serenity73, back to confidence again. Our sole property, for all contingencies74, was contained in the despatch-box and a single carpet bag; and with no more sense of responsibility than these engendered75, we were committing ourselves to a future of ravishing possibilities.
Throughout the pleasant journey we hugged the coast, never being more than a mile or two distant from it, so that its features, wild or civilized76, were always plain to us. It showed ever harsher and more desolate77 the farther we ran north, and the tearing and hollowing effect of waves upon its sandy cliffs more evident. All the way it was fretted78, near and far, with towers—a land of churches. They stood grey in the gaps of hills; brown and gaunt on solitary79 headlands. Sometimes they were dismantled80; and once, on a deserted81 shore, we saw a belfry and part of a ruined chancel footing the tide itself. It was backed by a great heaped billow of sand, which—so our skipper told us—had stood between it and the sea till storms flung it all over and behind, leaving the walls it had protected exposed to destruction.
As evening came on I must confess my early jubilation82 waned83 somewhat. The thin, harsh air, the melancholy84 cry of the birds, the eternal desolation of the coast, chilled me with a creeping terror of our remoteness from all that friendly warmth and comfort we had rashly deserted. Not a light greeted us from the shore but such as shone ghastly in the lifeless wastes of foam85. The last coast town, miles behind, seemed to have passed us beyond the final bounds of civilization. So that it was with something like a whimper of joy that I welcomed the sudden picture of a hill notched86 oddly far ahead against the darkening sky. I ran hurriedly to Uncle Jenico.
“Uncle!” I cried. “Uncle, look! The Abbot’s Mitre!”
The skipper heard me, and answered.
There was something queer in his tone. He rolled his quid in his cheek.
“And like enow, by all they say,” he added, looking at Uncle Jenico, “to figure agen for godliness.”
“Eh?” said my uncle; “I beg your pardon?”
“Granted,” answered the skipper shortly; and that was all.
There was an uneasy atmosphere of enigma87 here. But we were abroad after adventure, when all was said, and had no cause to complain.
I stood holding my uncle’s hand, while we ran our last knot for home in the twilight88. As we neared the hill its peculiar shape was gradually lost, and instead, looking up from below, we saw the cap of a broken tower showing over its swell89. Then hill and ruin dropped behind us, a shadowy bulk, and of a sudden we were come opposite a sandy cleft90 cutting up into the cliff, and below on the shingle a ghostly group of boats and shore-loafers, though still no light or sign of houses.
We brought to, the sails flapping, and the skipper sent a long melancholy boom sounding over the water from a horn. It awoke a stir on the beach, and presently we saw a boat put off, and come curtseying towards us. It was soon alongside, revealing three men, of whom the one who sat steering91 was a little remarkable92. He was immensely tall and slouching, with a lank93 bristled94 jaw, a swarthy skin, and, in spectral95 contrast, eye-places of such an odd sick pallor as to give him the appearance, at least in this gloaming, of wearing huge spectacles. However, he was the authoritative96 one of the three, and welcomed us civilly enough for early visitors to Dunberry, hoping we should favour the place.
There followed a chuckle of laughter from the ketch, and I noticed even that the two men pulling us creased98 their cheeks. Their companion, unmoving, clipped out something like an oath, which he gruffly and hastily coughed over.
“The Lord in His wrath99 visit not the scoffer,” he said aloud, “nor waft100 him blindfold101 this night upon the Weary Sands!”
In a few minutes we slid up the beach on the comb of a breaker, and half a dozen arms were stretched to help us out. One seized the carpet-bag, another—our tall coxswain’s itself—the despatch-box; and thereby102, by that lank arm, hangs this tale. For my uncle, who was jealous of nothing in the world but his box, in scrambling103 to resecure it from its ravisher, slipped on the wet thwarts104, and, falling with his head against a corner of the article itself, rolled out bleeding and half-stunned upon the sand.
I was terribly frightened, and for a moment general consternation105 reigned106. But my uncle was not long in recovering himself, though to such a dazed condition that a strong arm was needed in addition to his stick to help him towards the village. We started, a toilful procession, up the sandy gully (Dunberry Gap its name), I carrying the precious case, and presently, reaching the top, saw the village going in a long gentle sweep below us, the scoop107 of the land covering it seawards, which was the reason we had seen no lights.
It had been Uncle Jenico’s intention to look for reasonable lodgings; but this being from his injury impracticable, we let ourselves be conducted to the Flask108 Inn, the most important in the place, where we were no sooner arrived than he consented to be put to bed, with me in a little closet giving off his room. It was near dark by the time we were settled, and feeling forlorn and bewildered I was glad enough, after a hasty supper, to tuck my troubles between the sheets and forget everything in sleep. But how little I guessed, as I did so, that Uncle Jenico had, in falling, taken possession, like William the Conqueror109, of this new land of our adoption110.
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1
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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oysters
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| 牡蛎( oyster的名词复数 ) | |
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liquidating
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| v.清算( liquidate的现在分词 )；清除（某人）；清偿；变卖 | |
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pawning
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| v.典当，抵押( pawn的现在分词 )；以（某事物）担保 | |
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competence
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| n.能力，胜任，称职 | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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dozing
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| v.打瞌睡,假寐 n.瞌睡 | |
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impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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snare
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| n.陷阱，诱惑，圈套；（去除息肉或者肿瘤的）勒除器；响弦，小军鼓；vt.以陷阱捕获，诱惑 | |
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premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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impaired
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| adj.受损的；出毛病的；有（身体或智力）缺陷的v.损害，削弱( impair的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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beaver
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| n.海狸，河狸 | |
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compartments
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| n.间隔( compartment的名词复数 )；（列车车厢的）隔间；（家具或设备等的）分隔间；隔层 | |
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lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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ingenuities
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| 足智多谋，心灵手巧( ingenuity的名词复数 ) | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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insolvency
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| n.无力偿付，破产 | |
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severance
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| n.离职金；切断 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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rosily
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| adv.带玫瑰色地，乐观地 | |
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admonish
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| v.训戒；警告；劝告 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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ecstasies
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| 狂喜( ecstasy的名词复数 )； 出神； 入迷； 迷幻药 | |
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tinted
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| adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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lithographs
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| n.平版印刷品( lithograph的名词复数 ) | |
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phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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verdant
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| adj.翠绿的，青翠的，生疏的，不老练的 | |
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crunch
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| n.关键时刻；艰难局面；v.发出碎裂声 | |
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cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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meandering
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| 蜿蜒的河流，漫步，聊天 | |
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furry
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| adj.毛皮的；似毛皮的；毛皮制的 | |
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caterpillars
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| n.毛虫( caterpillar的名词复数 )；履带 | |
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milestones
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| n.重要事件( milestone的名词复数 )；重要阶段；转折点；里程碑 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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51
wriggled
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| v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的过去式和过去分词 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等） | |
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52
glibly
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| adv.流利地，流畅地；满口 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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gist
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| n.要旨；梗概 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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seaport
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| n.海港，港口，港市 | |
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57
silting
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| n.淤积，淤塞，充填v.（河流等）为淤泥淤塞( silt的现在分词 )；（使）淤塞 | |
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withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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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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crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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extinction
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| n.熄灭，消亡，消灭，灭绝，绝种 | |
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relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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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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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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shingle
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| n.木瓦板；小招牌(尤指医生或律师挂的营业招牌)；v.用木瓦板盖（屋顶）；把（女子头发）剪短 | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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ply
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| v.(搬运工等)等候顾客，弯曲 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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rubicund
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| adj.(脸色)红润的 | |
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serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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contingencies
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| n.偶然发生的事故，意外事故( contingency的名词复数 )；以备万一 | |
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engendered
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| v.产生（某形势或状况），造成，引起( engender的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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dismantled
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| 拆开( dismantle的过去式和过去分词 )； 拆卸； 废除； 取消 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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jubilation
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| n.欢庆，喜悦 | |
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waned
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| v.衰落( wane的过去式和过去分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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notched
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| a.有凹口的，有缺口的 | |
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enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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cleft
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| n.裂缝；adj.裂开的 | |
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steering
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| n.操舵装置 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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lank
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| adj.瘦削的；稀疏的 | |
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bristled
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| adj. 直立的，多刺毛的 动词bristle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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spectral
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| adj.幽灵的，鬼魂的 | |
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authoritative
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| adj.有权威的，可相信的；命令式的；官方的 | |
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bellowed
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| v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的过去式和过去分词 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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creased
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| （使…）起折痕，弄皱( crease的过去式和过去分词 )； （皮肤）皱起，使起皱纹； 皱皱巴巴 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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waft
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| v.飘浮，飘荡；n.一股；一阵微风；飘荡 | |
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blindfold
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| vt.蒙住…的眼睛；adj.盲目的；adv.盲目地；n.蒙眼的绷带[布等]； 障眼物，蒙蔽人的事物 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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scrambling
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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thwarts
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| 阻挠( thwart的第三人称单数 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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107
scoop
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| n.铲子，舀取，独家新闻；v.汲取，舀取，抢先登出 | |
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108
flask
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| n.瓶，火药筒，砂箱 | |
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conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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adoption
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| n.采用，采纳，通过；收养 | |
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