bleak house(凄凉的房子)-第208节
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comes to where the woman sits； he has to turn into the road to
pass her。 Looking down at her face； his eye meets hers； and he
stops。
“What is the matter？”
“Nothing sir。”
“Can’t you make them hear？ Do you want to be let in？”
“I’m waiting till they get up at another house—a lodging…
house—not here；” the woman patiently returns。 “I’m waiting here
because there will be sun here presently to warm me。”
“I am afraid you are tired。 I am sorry to see you sitting in the
street。”
“Thank you sir。 It don’t matter。”
A habit in him of speaking to the poor； and of avoiding
patronage or condescension； or childishness （which is the
favourite device； many people deeming it quite a subtlety to talk to
them like little spelling books）； has put him on good terms with the
woman easily。
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“Let me look at your forehead；” he says； bending down。 “I am a
doctor。 Don’t be afraid。 I wouldn’t hurt you for the world。”
He knows that by touching her with his skilful and accustomed
hand； he can soothe her yet more readily。 She makes a slight
objection； saying； “It’s nothing；” but he has scarcely laid his
fingers on the wounded place when she lifts it up to the light。
“Aye！ A bad bruise； and the skin sadly broken。 This must be
very sore。”
“It do ache a little； sir；” returns the woman； with a started tear
upon her cheek。
“Let me try to make it more comfortable。 My handkerchief
won’t hurt you。”
“O dear no； sir； I’m sure of that！”
He cleanses the injured place and dries it； and having carefully
examined it and gently pressed it with the palm of his hand； takes
a small case from his pocket； dresses it； and binds it up。 While he
is thus employed； he says； after laughing at his establishing a
surgery in the street：
“And so your husband is a brickmaker？”
“How you know that； sir？” asked the woman； astonished。
“Why； I suppose so； from the colour of the clay upon your bag
and on your dress。 And I know brickmakers go about working at
piecework in places。 And I am sorry to say I have known them
cruel to their wives too。”
The woman hastily lifts up her eyes； as if she would deny that
her injury is referable to such a cause。 But feeling the hand upon
her forehead； and seeing his busy and composed face； she quietly
drops them again。
“Where is he now？” asks the surgeon。
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“He got into trouble last night； sir； but he’ll look for me at the
lodging…house。”
“He will get into worse trouble if he often misuses his large and
heavy hand as he has misused it here。 But you forgive him； brutal
as he is； and I say no more of him； except that I wish he deserved
it。 You have no young child？”
The woman shakes her head。 “One as I calls mine； sir； but it’s
Liz’s。”
“Your own is dead。 I see！ Poor little thing！”
By this time he has finished； and is putting up his case。 “I
suppose you have some settled home。 Is it far from here？” he asks；
good…humouredly making light of what he has done； as she gets up
and curtseys。
“It’s a good two or three…and…twenty mile from here； sir。 At
Saint Albans。 You know Saint Albans； sir？ I thought you gave a
start like； as if you did？”
“Yes； I know something of it。 And now I will ask you a question
in return。 Have you money for your lodging？”
“Yes； sir；” she says； “really and truly。” And she shows it。 He
tells her； in acknowledgement of her many subdued thanks； that
she is very welcome； gives her good day； and walks away。 Tom…all…
Alone’s is still asleep； and nothing is astir。
Yes； something is！ As he retraces his way to the point from
which he descried the woman at a distance sitting on the step； he
sees a ragged figure coming very cautiously along； crouching close
to the soiled walls—which the wretchedest figure might as well
avoid—and furtively thrusting a hand before it。 It is the figure of a
youth； whose face is hollow； and whose eyes have an emaciated
glare。 He is so intent on getting along unseen； that even the
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apparition of a stranger in whole garments does not tempt him to
look back。 He shades his face with his ragged elbow as he passes
on the other side of the way； and goes shrinking and creeping on；
with his anxious hand before him； and his shapeless clothes
hanging in shreds。 Clothes made for what purpose； or of what
material； it would be impossible to say。 They look； in colour and in
substance； like a bundle of rank leaves of swampy growth； that
rotted long ago。
Allan Woodcourt pauses to look after him and note all this； with
a shadowy belief that he has seen the boy before。 He cannot recall
how； or where； but there is some association in his mind with such
a form。 He imagines that he must have seen it in some hospital or
refuge； still； cannot make out why it comes with any special force
on his remembrance。
He is gradually emerging from Tom…all…Alone’s in the morning
light； thinking about it； when he hears running feet behind him；
and looking round； sees the boy； scouring towards him at great
speed； followed by the woman。
“Stop him； stop him！” cries the woman； almost breathless。
“Stop him； sir！”
He darts across the road into the boy’s path； but the boy is
quicker than he—makes a curve—ducks—dives under his hands—
comes up half…a…dozen yards beyond him； and scours away again。
Still； the woman follows； crying； “Stop him； sir； pray stop him！”
Allan； not knowing but that he has just robbed her of her money；
follows in chase； and runs so hard； that he runs the boy down a
dozen times； but each time he repeats the curve； the duck； the
dive； and scours away again。 To strike at him； on any of these
occasions； would be to fell and disable him； but the pursuer cannot
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resolve to do that； and so the grimly ridiculous pursuit continues。
At last the fugitive； hard…pressed； takes to a narrow passage； and a
court which has no thoroughfare。 Here； against a hoarding of
decaying timber； he is brought to bay； and tumbles down； lying
gasping at his pursuer； who stands and gasps at him until the
woman comes up。
“O you； Jo！” cries the woman。 “What？ I have found you at last！”
“Jo；” repeats Allan； looking at him with attention。 “Jo！ Stay。 To
be sure！ I recollect this lad some time ago being brought before
the coroner。”
“Yes； I see you once afore at the Inkwhich；” whimpers Jo。
“What of that？ Can’t you never let such an unfortnet as me alone？
An’t I unfortnet enough for you yet？ How unfortnet do you want
me for to be？ Iv’e been a…chivied and a…chivied； fust by one on you
and nixt by another on you； till I’m worritted to skins and bones。
The Inkwhich warn’t my fault。 I done nothink。 He wos wery good
to me he wos； he wos the only one I know’d to speak to； as ever
come across my crossing。 It ain’t wery likely I should want him to
be Inkwhich’d。 I only wish I wos； myself。 I don’t know why I don’t
go and make a hole in the water； I’m sure I don’t。
He says it with such a pitiable air； and his grimy tears appear so
real； and he lies in the corner up against the hoarding so like a
growth of fungus or any unwholesome excresence produced there
i
