We have again to introduce the reader to Gilbert Carraways. The circumstances under which the reader and he last met were so very different, so opposite to the present condition of the worthy1 gentleman,—that we may be justified2 in treating the old man with something of the deference3 due to a stranger. In one of the Primrose4 Places to be found selvaging London—for we care not to be a whit5 more definite in the whereabout—Carraways, his wife and daughter, had taken refuge from the storm that had broken over their heads; a storm that had made clear work of every stick of their property. No hurricane could more completely sweep away a field of sugar-cane. In a small, neat, comfortable room sat the ruined family. The old man was reading, or thought he read. In a few weeks, the snow had come down upon his head with a heavy fall. In a few weeks, his cheeks were lined and lengthened6. He had been held—so ruthlessly held—face to face with misery7, that his smile, that was constant as the red in his cheek, had well nigh vanished. Now and then, as he exchanged looks with his daughter, it glimmered8 a little; played about his mouth, to leave it only in utter blankness. Still he went on reading; still he turned page after page; and believed that he was laying in a stock of knowledge for his future life. For he had again—he would tell his daughter with a bright look—he had again to begin the world. Hard beginning! Dreary10 voyage, with neither youth to fight the storm; nor the hope of youth to wile11 away the long, dark, dreary, watch—to sing the daylight in. But this he would not think of. At least he thought he would not. He felt himself as strong as ever; yes, even stronger. He could not have hoped to have borne the blow so well. He was never better; never. His glorious health was left him; and therefore, why despair? In this way will the brain of the stout man cheat itself. It will feel whole, and strong; and for the viler[Pg 125] cracks and flaws, they are not to be heeded12. Mere9 trifles. And then some day, some calm and sunny time, that peace has seemed to choose for itself, for a soft, sweet pause—with the tyrant13 brain secure and all vain-glorious,—the trifle kills. In this way do strong men die upwards14.
Gilbert Carraways was, at our first meeting, set about by all the creature delights of life. He was the lord of abundance. The man who had nothing to do with want and misery, but to exercise the noblest prerogative15 of happy humanity—namely, to destroy them wheresoever he found them preying16 upon his fellows. Wealth was gone. He was a beggar; but in his poverty were thoughts that might glorify17 his fireside. He had used his means for good; and, at least, might feel enriched by the harvest of his recollections. With his face anxious, lengthened, and dim, there was a dignity in the old man that we do not think we ever recognised at the Hall. For he had to bear a load of misery; and he sat erect19, and with his spirit conquering, looked serenely20 about him.
Bessy and her mother sat at work, and to see them for the first time, they seemed as though they had never had a finer room to sit in. Already were they so self-accommodated to the place. In their days of fortune, Mrs. Carraways—good, kind creature ever!—nevertheless loved to show to folks the finest outside. She confessed to a pride in exhibiting to the world the best holiday proofs of worldly prosperity. Her husband would call her his old butterfly. And, in a few weeks, she had cast all such thoughts, even as the butterfly its wings, never again to be enjoyed, or dreamt of. She looked the good wife of one of Carraways’ late clerks, at some hundred and fifty pounds a year; with those sixty shillings a week—to provide home and food, and raiment; the worldly all-in-all. And if at times she was a little, just a little wayward, in the full blaze of fortune—as the best-tempered folks are sometimes apt to be tetchy in over-warm weather—now, she sat in the shade all gentleness, and smiles, and patience; as though she, perhaps, remembered those little breaks of temper, to be afforded when at ease with the world,[Pg 126] but all too serious, too wilful21 an extravagance for a poor man’s home.
Bessy was at first astonished, broken-hearted that she had never seen, scarcely heard, and that coldly, ceremoniously, of many of her friends. She could not for a long time comprehend the cause. And then, she speedily agreed with her mother that, possibly, an extreme sense of delicacy22 kept them absent—silent. “They may not like to intrude23 upon our misfortune,” said Mrs. Carraways very sadly. Bessy at once acknowledged it must be so with Miss Candituft. She recollected24 that with that young lady it was a favourite phrase—“the sacredness of adversity.” And then Bessy could not but think—“She might have written more than once.” But Bessy was young and hopeful. The tempest had blown over her; and once passed, she was again smiling and erect. A lily after a thunder-storm.
Such the group at the fireside. There is, however, a person at the street-door well-known to the reader. We have tried, with all his faults, to make him a sort of favourite. This outside person is Basil Pennibacker. He has galloped25 to London, and straightway taken the road to Primrose Row. He has hardly shaped his thoughts into the roughest form of speech; but he feels that he has something to say: nay26, his heart is full of it—and it shall out before he sleeps. And with this brave determination, he marches to the door; feeling, nevertheless, as though with all his courage, he was walking up to a cannon27. He stops short at the step. The next moment he mounts it, and the next he raises the knocker. And the next, as softly, tenderly as ever human fingers touched a human wound, he lays the knocker down. He is much relieved, and gently descends28 the step. It is too late—much too late to call. Hush29! The clock of St. Asphodel’s strikes nine—it is unreasonable30, unmannerly to think of it. Basil crosses the road, and much comforts himself looking at an upper window. There is a light; and now a female figure moves to and fro. It is Bessy! Her light, active form; the turn of her head, so like a wood-nymph’s! Now, she comes to the window; and now the light is gone and the room is[Pg 127] dark. For a moment, the hope of Basil is quenched—dead. And the next instant, raising his hat, and gazing at the window, he cries—“God bless you!” and takes to his heels, as though he had done something wrong, unmannerly.
Now, as it must be evident to the well-meaning few who read these pages, that we propose to set down nothing but truth, let us clear up as we go. It was not Bessy, as believed by Basil. It was a solitary31, pale young thing—one of the cloud of genteel phantoms32 that flit across our daily path—who compliment life, by endeavouring to live by needle and thread. It was not Bessy, upon whom Basil called down a benison33. But let it rest upon the stranger’s head. Who so spiritually rich as not to need it?
“And do you think, Bessy”—said her father, for having disposed of Basil for the night, we return to the fireside—“and do you think, my wench, that you’ll make a good sailor?”
“I don’t know,” said Bessy, “but I’ll try.”
“Well said. It’s the most we can promise against sea-sickness. A long voyage, wench,” said Carraways.
“My dear Gilbert,” said the wife with anxious looks. “Are you resolved—are you really resolved?”
“I have looked at it every way, lass: I have turned the matter on every side. Weighed the risks with the good chances. And I am resolute34.” A deep sigh escaped the wife. “Why, what’s the matter?” asked her husband.
“Nothing. I meant nothing—at least, nothing, if you are resolved. And yet, Gilbert, we are old”—
“Aye, that’s it; old to move. But, my good dame35, what will our years bring us if we stop? I tell you, I can’t bear to think of it. I should die a thousand deaths here in London. I couldn’t go into the City—and somehow, I know myself, I should be sure to be going there if I was near it—I couldn’t go there, that every other face wouldn’t seem to stab me. Oh! I have seen the sight myself,—and I won’t provide the show.”
“What sight, father?” asked Bessy, almost heedless of the question.
“The sight of a ruined man. An old man broken to bits,[Pg 128] with, no hope, no chance of patching. A piece of utter ruin with grey hairs upon it. The ghost of one who was ‘a good man.’ I’ve seen it. And I know what follows. I should pass people, and hear ’em talk—yes, feel ’em point at me. ‘There, sir’—says one to a country friend—‘do you see that old man? Once one of the proudest fellows in the City, sir. One who held his head above everybody. One who was as high as Lucifer’”—
“Oh, father! they never, never, could say that of you,” cried Bessy, and her face coloured, and her eyes filled with tears.
“Ha! ten to one but they would say it though. ’Tis hard for a man to tumble, and not get dirt about him, deserve it or not. ‘As proud as Lucifer’ they’d say; ‘and now look at him—poor fellow!’ Yes they’d call me—‘poor fellow; not a penny, sir; not a farthing.’ Now, I won’t endure this. I’ve talked to myself. I’ve had a little conversation with this Gilbert Carraways—old fellow!—he and I were not such intimate acquaintance as we ought to have been in fair weather times—but I’ve talked to him since we’ve been in trouble, and the end of it is, wife, he won’t suffer it. He won’t,” and Carraways struck the table.
“My dear Gilbert, do as you will—go where you will. Anywhere”—said the wife, and at length her heart loosened, and she fell upon her husband’s neck—“so that we go all together.”
Bessy laid down her work, and silently crept round her father’s chair, and without a word, mingled36 her arms with her mother’s. The old man felt the pressure of his daughter, and hugging wife and child close at his heart, he cried—“Yes; all together—all together.” And in a minute, in a gay voice, and his eyes sparkling through their mist, Carraways said—“Come, it’s time to go to bed. Good night,” and he kissed his daughter. “I shall not be up long; but I want to finish these few pages.” And Carraways was left alone; trying with all his might to see a Land of Promise for his old age in a golden book, written for the hopes of emigrants37.
The next morning, Basil Pennibacker—for we must for a page or two return to him—rose, determined38 to see Primrose Row by[Pg 129] daylight. As he took his breakfast, his looks fell with peculiar39 satisfaction upon a large bunch of heartsease that, ere he slept, with his own hands he had placed in water; that, ere he had sat down to begin his meal, he had examined with an eye more curious than was his wont40 in the small matter of flowers. Indeed, he was himself a little surprised at the interest hanging about his heart for those few bits of purple and yellow “freaked with jet.” However, he was satisfied of their beauty and freshness; and therefore breakfasted as heartily41 as man with cheerful conscience may.
It was about mid-day when Bessy was broken in upon by the servant girl, who came almost in a bunch into the room—so hurried, so anxious, and withal so pleased seemed she to deliver her tidings—to proclaim with scarlet42 face, and panting breath that—“there was a gentleman below that wanted Miss.” Now, neither Mr. nor Mrs. Carraways were in. This circumstance the girl observed, she knew, and had already acquainted the gentleman with the fact; a fact that, in truth, had in no way disconcerted him. Bessy was finally stopt in her inquiries43 by the girl, who remembered she had a card.
“Mr. Basil Pennibacker.”—
Bessy reddened as she took it. “Yes, Miss, I’ll show him up directly,” said the girl.
“Stay, Susan—I—yes; you are quite right. Pray show the gentleman in,” said Bessy; and, as she heard the foot of Basil on the stairs, her heart kept count with every step, and she felt cold as a stone.
Basil entered the room. We verily believe his own mother—doting parent that she was—would not have known him. He was almost awkward in his bashfulness; his eyes wandered; he feebly smiled; and deeply blushed. Bessy, somehow, showed most courage of the two.
“I’m very sorry, Mr. Pennibacker, that there is no one but myself at home. Very sorry that”—
“Pray don’t mention it, Miss Carraways; I assure you I—that is—I hope Mr. and Mrs. Carraways are well; as well, my[Pg 130] dear madam”—and Basil began to feel his ground—“as well as I could wish them.”
“Quite well,” said Bessy, “I do not think my mother can be long. And I’m sure she’ll be glad to see you. We do not see many friends now,” said Bessy; and then she could have bitten her tongue that she had said it; he might believe that she hinted at his mother and sisters.
“After all, Miss Carraways,” said Basil, “how very few people there are worth thinking friends.”
“It may be so, sir; I fear it is so; but,” said Bessy, “it is a hard truth to learn, learn it when we may.”
Basil was again at fault; again his tongue hung fire; and he wondered, and was a little piqued44 at the self-possession of Bessy, when he—a man—was in such a tremor45. His brain was wandering for new words, when happily, his eyes fell upon the superb bunch of heartsease idly grasped by his hand. “Happily, Miss Carraways,” said Basil, suddenly supported, “happily there are friends that will smile upon us till death.”
“Oh dear, yes! Life, indeed, would be a sad lot could we not think so,” and Bessy’s eyes glistened46; and glistening47, made Basil wince48.
She never looked so beautiful. Heaped about with luxury; a little rose-bud queen in a golden palace, with fairy birds singing to her, and happiness like an atmosphere around her—she never looked so beautiful as in that bit of tenpenny muslin—standing upon Kidderminster, at the rate of eighteen shillings a-week, boots included. (Now all this went jumbling49, jostling through the brain of Basil, as he caught the dewy flash of Bessy’s innocent blue eyes.)
“There are friends, Miss Carraways, whom you have been kind to, who still have grateful looks. There are friends, I saw thousands of them yesterday, looking all the happier for your care. I was told of some, for whom you had a particular regard. I”—here Basil began again to feel abashed50 and tongue-tied. “I mean friends by the outer wall, opposite the summer-house with—with Diana in it”—
[Pg 131]
“Of course. I was sure you would. Well, the truth is, my dear lady—pardon me, Miss Carraways—I was there, and I thought you would like to see some of these friends, and—the fact is,—my dear Bessy—ten million pardons, madam, I—the fact is, as I said, thinking you would like to see them, I gave them a—a general invitation,—have brought ’em here, and here they are.”
Basil held the heartsease towards Bessy. She curtseyed, held her trembling hand to take them. “Thank you! A thousand thanks!” she smiled. And then she fell in a chair, and burying her face among the flowers, gave up her heart to weeping.
Poor Basil! he felt awe-struck by the passion he had roused. He wished the floor to open, and himself—to use his own afterphrase—to be repealed51 for ever. “If I had thought”—he stammered52.
“Oh thank you, sir—a thousand thanks,” cried Bessy, and she wept anew.
“My dear madam,” said Basil, “I am a foolish person; a very foolish person. Another time I hope to be permitted to assure you that I meant no folly53; upon my soul, I mean truth—earnest, honest, eternal truth, if truth be in this world. I”—And here Basil distressed54, discomfited55, rushed from the room.
In another hour, Bessy was calm and sad—yet not altogether sad. The heartsease were placed in a glass, and again and again Bessy would go to them, and, as though putting her finger under the chin of baby loveliness, as though the flower were a sentient56 thing, she would lift the curl of the blossom as it hung over the vessel57. She was gazing at the heartsease when Jenny Topps was shown into the room.
“Well, Mrs. Topps,” said Bessy with a melancholy58 smile.
“Now, not that I’m ashamed of Topps’s name, why should I be?”—said the young wife, looking very proud of it,—“but do call me Jenny, Miss, as afore. Do, please.”
“Well, then, Jenny”—
[Pg 132]
“Well, then, what do you think Miss? We went to the Hall yesterday. Ha, you should only see it now! No; I didn’t mean that. I wouldn’t have you see it for any money. We’ve brought away what you wanted. But that’s not it. What do you think? Now, don’t cry—promise me, you won’t cry.”
“Well, then, Jenny, I promise you,” and somehow Bessy made the promise with better self-assurance than she could have boasted a little more than an hour ago.
“Well, then, them nasty Jerichos—for I hate ’em”—
“You should hate nobody, Jenny,” said Bessy.
“Perhaps not, ma’am. But nature that makes us love, makes us hate, and we can’t help it. Them Jerichos is going to take the Hall.”
“Is it possible?” asked Bessy, with strange calmness.
“Very well. Somebody must live there,” said Bessy. And then, strangely perplexed60, she looked at the heartsease, and knew not what to think.
Basil, on his hurried way home, was no less perplexed. He accused himself of folly, cruelty. He had torn open the girl’s heart with his clumsy blunder; and of what avail was it, that he would die to dry her tears?
“Why, my dear fellow,” said an acquaintance, stopping Basil, fuming61 with remorse62, “My dear fellow, what is the matter with you? Anything wrong? Anything I can do to help you?”
“Yes,” exclaimed Basil. “Bind me to you for life, and get me a coalheaver.”
“A coalheaver!” cried his friend.
“A coalheaver,” repeated Basil. “In my present state of feeling, nothing—I know it—nothing can restore me to tranquillity63 till I’ve licked a coalheaver.”
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1
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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primrose
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| n.樱草，最佳部分， | |
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whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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wile
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| v.诡计，引诱；n.欺骗，欺诈 | |
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heeded
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 )；变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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prerogative
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| n.特权 | |
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preying
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| v.掠食( prey的现在分词 )；掠食；折磨；（人）靠欺诈为生 | |
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glorify
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| vt.颂扬，赞美，使增光，美化 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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descends
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| v.下来( descend的第三人称单数 )；下去；下降；下斜 | |
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hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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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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phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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benison
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| n.祝福 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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emigrants
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| n.（从本国移往他国的）移民( emigrant的名词复数 ) | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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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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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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wince
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| n.畏缩，退避，（因痛苦，苦恼等)面部肌肉抽动；v.畏缩，退缩，退避 | |
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jumbling
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| 混杂( jumble的现在分词 )； （使）混乱； 使混乱； 使杂乱 | |
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abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
repealed
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| 撤销，废除( repeal的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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discomfited
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| v.使为难( discomfit的过去式和过去分词)；使狼狈；使挫折；挫败 | |
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sentient
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| adj.有知觉的，知悉的；adv.有感觉能力地 | |
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57
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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58
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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incensed
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| 盛怒的 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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61
fuming
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| 愤怒( fume的现在分词 )； 大怒； 发怒； 冒烟 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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