(Visit to the Cousins).—Mary Lamb.
The blinds had been drawn2 down for some time in the back parlour behind Mr. Fairchild's shop in Pier3 Street, the principal street in the little town of Seacove. And the gas was lighted, though it was not turned up very high. It was a great thing to have gas; it had not been known at Seacove till recently. For the time of which I am writing is now a good many years ago, thirty or forty at least.
Seacove, though a small place, was not so out-of-[2]the-way in some respects as many actually larger towns, for it was a seaport4, though not a very important one. Ships came in from all parts of the globe, and sailed away again in due course to the far north, and still farther off south; to the great other world of America, too, no doubt, and to the ancient eastern lands. But it was the vessels5 going to or coming from the strange mysterious north—the land of everlasting6 snow, where the reindeer7 and, farther north still, the white bear have their home, and where the winter is one long, long night—it was somehow the thought of the north that had the most fascination8 for the little girl who was sitting alone in the dull parlour behind the shop this late November evening. And among the queer outlandish-looking sailors who from time to time were to be seen on the wharf9 or about the Seacove streets, now and then looking in to buy a sheet of paper and an envelope in her father's shop, it was the English ones belonging to the whalers or to the herring smacks11 bound for the north who interested Celestina by far the most.
This evening she was not thinking of sailors or ships or anything like that; her mind was full of her own small affairs. She had got two new dolls, [3]quite tiny ones—Celestina did not care for big dolls—and long as the daylight lasted she had been perfectly12 happy dressing13 them. But the daylight was gone now—it was always rather in a hurry to say good-night to the back parlour—and the gas was too dim for her to see clearly by, even if she had had anything else to do, which she had not, till mother could give her a scrap14 or two for the second dolly's frock. It was mother she was longing10 for. She wanted to show her the hats and cloaks she had made out of some tiny bits for both the dollies—the cloaks, that is to say, for the hats were crochet15-work, crocheted16 in pink cotton. Celestina's little fingers were very clever at crochet.
'Oh, mother, mother,' she said half aloud, 'do come.'
She had drawn back the little green baize curtain which hung before the small window between the shop and the parlour, and was peering in, her nose flattened17 against the glass. She was allowed to do this, but she was not allowed to run out and in of the shop without leave, and at this time of the day, or evening, even when there were few customers, she knew that her father and mother were generally busy. There were late parcels to put up for the [4]little errand-boy to leave on his way home; there was the shop to tidy, and always a good many entries to make in the big ledger18. Very often there were letters to write and send off, ordering supplies needed for the shop, or books not in stock, which some customer had asked for.
It was a bookseller's and stationer's shop; the only one worthy19 of the name at Seacove. And Mr. Fairchild did a pretty good business, though certainly, as far as the actual book part of it was concerned, people read and bought far fewer books thirty years ago than now. And books were much dearer. People wrote fewer letters too; paper and envelopes were dearer also. Still, one way and another it was not a bad business of its kind in a modest way, though strict economy and care were required to make a livelihood20 out of it. And some things had made this more difficult than would otherwise have been the case. Delicate health perhaps most of all. Mr. Fairchild was not very strong, and little Celestina had been fragile enough as a baby and a tiny girl, though now she was growing stronger. No wonder that a great share of both work and care fell on Celestina's mother, and this the little girl already understood, and tried always to remember.[5]
But it was dull and lonely sometimes. She had few companions, and for some months past she had not gone to school, as a rather serious illness had made her unable to go out in bad weather. She did not mind this much; she liked to do lessons by herself, for father or mother to correct when they had time, and there was no child at school she cared for particularly. Still poor Celestina was pining for companionship without knowing it. Perhaps, though mother said little, she understood more about it than appeared.
And 'Oh, mother, mother, do come,' the child repeated, as she peered through the glass.
There were one or two customers in the shop still. One of them Celestina knew by sight. It was Mr. Redding, the organist of the church. He was choosing some music-paper, and talking as he did so, but the pair of ears behind the window could not hear what he said, though by his manner it seemed something not only of interest to himself but to his hearers also.
'I wish I could hear what he's saying,' thought the little maiden21, 'or most of all, I wish he'd go and that other man too—oh, he's going, but Mr. Redding is asking for something else now! Oh, if only mother [6]would come, or if I might turn on the gas higher. I think it would be nicer to have candles, like Fanny Wells has in her house. Gas is only nice when it's very high turned on, and mother says it costs such a lot then. I do so want to show mother the cloaks and hats.'
She turned back at last, wearied of waiting and watching. The fire was burning brightly, that was some comfort, and Celestina sat down on the rug in front of it, propping22 her two little dolls against the fender.
'To-morrow,' she said to herself, 'as soon as I've made a frock for Eleanor, I'll have a tea-party. Eleanor and Amy shall be new friends coming to tea for the first time—if only the parlour chairs weren't too big for the table!' she sighed deeply. 'They can't look nice and real, when they're so high up that their legs won't go underneath23. People don't make our tables and chairs like that—I don't see why they can't make doll-house ones properly. Now, if I was a carpenter I'd make a doll-house just like a real house—I could make it so nice.'
She began building doll-houses—her favourite castles in the air—in imagination. But now and then she wanted another opinion, there were knotty24 [7]points to decide. As 'all roads,' according to the old proverb, 'lead to Rome,' so all Celestina's meditations25 ended in the old cry, 'If only mother would come.'
The door opened at last—gently, so gently that the little girl knew it could be no one else but mother. She sprang up.
'Oh, mother, I am so glad you've come. I've been so tired waiting. I do so want to show you the cloaks and hats, and can you give me a bit to make Amy's frock? She looks so funny with a cloak and hat and no frock.'
'I will try to find you a scrap of something when I go upstairs,' mother replied. 'But just now I must see about getting tea ready. Father is tired already, and he has a good deal to do this evening still. Yes, you have made the cloaks very nice, and the little hats too. I'll turn up the gas so as to see better.'
Celestina gave in without a murmur26 to waiting till after tea for the piece of stuff she longed for so ardently27, and she set to work in a neat, handy way to help her mother with the tea-table. They understood each other perfectly, these two, though few words of endearment28 passed between them, and caresses29 were rare. People were somewhat colder [8]in manner at that time than nowadays perhaps; much petting of children was not thought good for them, and especially in the case of an only child, parents had great fear of 'spoiling.' But no one who looked at Mrs. Fairchild's sweet face as her eyes rested lovingly on her little girl could have doubted for a moment her intense affection. She had a very sweet face; Celestina thought there never could be anybody prettier than mother, and I don't know that she was far wrong. If she ever thought of herself at all—of her looks especially—it was to hope that some day she might grow up to be 'like mother.'
Tea was ready—neatly arranged on the table, though all was of the plainest, a little carefully-made toast to tempt30 father's uncertain appetite the only approach to luxury—when Mr. Fairchild came in and sat down in the one arm-chair rather wearily. He was a tall thin man, and he stooped a good deal. He had a kindly31 though rather nervous and careworn32 face and bright intelligent eyes.
'Redding is full of news as usual,' he said, as Mrs. Fairchild handed him his tea. 'He is a good-natured man, but I wish he wouldn't talk quite so much.'[9]
'He had some excuse for talking this evening,' said Celestina's mother; 'it is news of importance for every one at Seacove, and of course it must affect Mr. Redding a good deal. I shall be glad if the new clergyman is more hearty33 about improving the music.'
Celestina so far had heard without taking in the drift of the conversation, but at the last words she pricked34 up her ears.
'Is there going to be a new clergyman—is old Dr. Bunton going away, mother?' she asked eagerly, though the moment after she reddened slightly, not at all sure that she was not going to be told that 'little girls should not ask questions.' But both Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild were interested in the subject—I think for once they forgot that Celestina was only 'a little girl.'
'Yes,' the mother replied; 'he is giving up at last. That has been known for some weeks, but it is only to-day that it has been known who is to succeed him. Mr. Vane, that is the name, is it not?' she added, turning to her husband.
'The Reverend Bernard Vane, at present vicar of St. Cyprian's, somewhere in the west end of London—that is Redding's description of him,' Mr. Fairchild [10]replied. 'I don't know how a fashionable London clergyman will settle down at Seacove, nor what his reasons are for coming here, I'm sure. I hope the change will be for good.'
But his tone showed that he was not at all certain that it would prove so.
'Is he married?' asked Celestina's mother. 'Oh yes, by the bye, I remember Mr. Redding spoke35 of children, but old Captain Deal came in just as he was telling more and I could not hear the rest.'
'There are several children and Mrs. Vane a youngish lady still, he said. The old Rectory will want some overhauling36 before they come to it, I should say,' remarked Mr. Fairchild. 'It must be nigh upon forty years since Dr. Bunton came there, and there's not much been done in the way of repairs, save a little whitewashing37 now and then. The doctor and Mrs. Bunton haven't needed much just by themselves—but a family's different; they'll be needing nurseries and schoolrooms and what not, especially if they have been used to grand London ways.'
Celestina had been turning her bright brown eyes from one parent to another in turn as they spoke.[11]
'Is London much grander than Seacove?' she asked. 'I thought the Rectory was such a fine house.'
Mrs. Fairchild smiled.
'It might be made very nice. There's plenty of room any way. And many clergymen's families are very simple and homely38.'
'I wonder if there are any little girls,' said Celestina. 'And do you think they'll go to Miss Peters's to school, mother?'
Her father turned on her rather sharply.
'Dear me, no, child. Of course not,' he said. 'Miss Peters's is well enough for plain Seacove folk, but don't you be getting any nonsense in your head of setting up to be the same as ladies' children. Mrs. Vane comes of a high family, I hear; there will be a French ma'amselle of a governess as like as not.'
Celestina looked at her father with a world of puzzle in her eyes, her little pale face with a red spot of excitement on each cheek. But she was not the least hurt by her father's words. She simply did not understand them: what are called 'class distinctions' were quite unknown to her innocent mind. Had she been alone with her mother she [12]might have asked for some explanation, but she was too much in awe39 of her father to question him.
'I want some more water; the kettle, Celestina love,' she said; and as the little girl brought it, 'I will explain to you afterwards, but don't say any more. Father is tired,' she whispered.
And Celestina quickly forgot all about it; the sight of Eleanor and Amy still reposing41 on the hearthrug as she replaced the kettle drove out of her mind all thoughts of the possible little Misses Vane.
After tea, when the things were cleared away and Celestina had helped her mother to make the room look neat and comfortable again, for the little servant in the kitchen was seldom seen in the parlour, as she fidgeted Mr. Fairchild by her awkward clattering42 ways, Mrs. Fairchild went upstairs to fetch some sewing that needed seeing to.
'I will look for a scrap or two for you,' she said to Celestina as she went. 'But I'm not sure that you should sew any more to-night. It's trying for your eyes.'
'And what about your sums, child?' said her father. 'Have you done all I set you?'[13]
'Yes, father, and I've read the chapter of Little Arthur's History too,' Celestina replied.
'Well, then,' said Mr. Fairchild, drawing his chair nearer to the table again—he had pushed it close to the fire—'bring your slate43 and your books. I'll correct the sums and set you some more, and then we'll have a little history. I will question you first on the chapter you have read to yourself.'
Celestina could not help an appealing glance at her mother—she had the two little dolls in her hand, poor Amy still looking very deplorable in her skirt-less condition. Mrs. Fairchild understood her though no word was spoken.
'I thought you were going back to write in the shop,' she said gently to her husband. 'The stove is still hot.'
'I am too tired,' he replied, and indeed he looked so. 'There is nothing so very pressing, and it's too late for the London post. No—I would rather take Celly's lessons; it will be a change.'
Mrs. Fairchild said no more, nor did Celestina—father's word was law. The little girl did not even look cross or doleful, though she gave a tiny sigh as she fetched her books. She was a docile44 pupil, thoughtful and attentive45, though not peculiarly quick, [14]and Mr. Fairchild, in spite of his rather nervously46 irritable47 temper, was an earnest and intelligent teacher. The sums were fairly correct and the multiplication48 table was repeated faultlessly. But when it came to the history Celestina was less ready and accurate in her replies.
'My dear,' said her mother, who had sat down beside them with her sewing by this time, 'you are not giving your full attention. I can see you are thinking of something else. If it is anything you do not understand ask father to explain it.'
'Certainly,' Mr. Fairchild agreed. 'There is nothing worse than giving half attention. What are you thinking about, child?'
Celestina looked up timidly.
'It wasn't anything in the lesson—at least not exactly,' she said. 'But when father asked me who was the king of France then, it made me think of what father said about a French ma'amselle, and I wondered what it meant.'
'Ma'amselle,' said her father, 'is only our English way of saying "mademoiselle," which means a miss, a young lady.'
'But those young ladies, the Rectory young ladies, aren't French,' Celestina said.[15]
'Of course not. What I meant was that very likely they have a French governess. It's the mode nowadays when every one wants to speak French well.'
'Oh,' said Celestina, 'I didn't understand. I'd like to hear somebody speak French,' she added. 'Did you ever hear it, mother?'
'Yes,' Mrs. Fairchild replied. 'When I was a girl there was a French lady came to live near us that I was very fond of; and she was very kind to us. She sent me a beautiful present when I married. I called you after her, you know, Celestina—I'm sure I've told you that before. Her name was Célestine.'
'I remember,' the little girl replied; 'but I forgot about her being French. I would like to see her, mother.'
'I do not know if she is still alive,' said Mrs. Fairchild. 'She must be an old lady by now, if so. She went back to France many years ago; she was in England with her husband, who had some business here. They had no children, and she was always asking mother to let her adopt me. But though there were so many of us, mother couldn't make up her mind to spare one.'[16]
'Things would have turned out pretty different for you, Mary, if she had. You'd have been married to a French "mounseer" by now,' and he laughed a little, as if there was something exceedingly funny in the idea. Mr. Fairchild did not often laugh.
'Maybe,' his wife replied, smiling.
'I do hope they'll have a French governess,' said Celestina.
'Who? oh, the Miss Vanes,' said her father. 'Why, you are putting the cart before the horse, child! We don't even know that the new clergyman has any daughters—his family may be all boys. Besides, I don't know when you'd be likely to see them or their governess either.'
'They'd be sure to come to the shop sometimes, father,' Celestina replied eagerly. 'Even old Mrs. Bunton does—I've often seen her. And there's no other shop for books and stationery49 at Seacove.'
Mr. Fairchild smiled at the pride with which she said this.
'It would be a bad job for me if there were,' he said, 'for as it is there's barely custom for a shop of the kind,' and an anxious look came over his face.[17] But Mrs. Fairchild reminded him that if they did not finish the chapter of Little Arthur quickly, it would be Celestina's bedtime, so the talk changed to the Black Prince and his exploits.
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1
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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seaport
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| n.海港，港口，港市 | |
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vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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7
reindeer
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| n.驯鹿 | |
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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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wharf
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| n.码头，停泊处 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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smacks
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| 掌掴（声）( smack的名词复数 )； 海洛因； （打的）一拳； 打巴掌 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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crochet
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| n.钩针织物；v.用钩针编制 | |
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crocheted
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| v.用钩针编织( crochet的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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17
flattened
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| [医]（水）平扁的，弄平的 | |
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ledger
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| n.总帐，分类帐；帐簿 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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propping
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| 支撑 | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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knotty
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| adj.有结的，多节的，多瘤的，棘手的 | |
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meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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endearment
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| n.表示亲爱的行为 | |
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caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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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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careworn
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| adj.疲倦的，饱经忧患的 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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34
pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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36
overhauling
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| n.大修；拆修；卸修；翻修v.彻底检查( overhaul的现在分词 )；大修；赶上；超越 | |
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whitewashing
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的现在分词 )； 喷浆 | |
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38
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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40
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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41
reposing
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的现在分词 ) | |
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42
clattering
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的现在分词形式） | |
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43
slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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44
docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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45
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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46
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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47
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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48
multiplication
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| n.增加，增多，倍增；增殖，繁殖；乘法 | |
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49
stationery
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| n.文具；(配套的)信笺信封 | |
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