Oh, a most unsavoury sort of a place, a most objectionable kind of a wharf, at which to pass a night.
Tandy sends Babs and Bob below again; for a language is spoken here he does not wish the child to listen to, sights may be seen he would not that her eyes should dwell upon. Yonder is an ugly public-house with broken windows in it, and a bloated-faced, bare-armed woman, the landlady, standing with arms akimbo defiantly in the doorway. Ah! there was a time when Tandy used to spend hours in that very house. He shudders to think of it now.
There is one dead tree at the gable of this inn, which—half a century ago, perhaps—may have been a country hostelry surrounded by meadows and hedges. That tree would then be green, the air fresh and sweet around it, the mavis singing in its leafy shade. Now the sky is lurid, the air is tainted, and there is smoke everywhere. Not even the bark is left on the ghastly tree. It looks as if it had died of leprosy.
But the work is hurried through, and in a comparatively short time the Merry Maiden is away out in the green quiet country.
What a blessed change from the awful town they have just left!
The sun has already gone down in such a glory of crimson, bronze, and orange, as we in this country seldom see.
This soon fades away, however, as everything that is beautiful to behold must fade.
The stars come out now in the east, and just as gloaming is merging into night the boat draws near to a little canal-side inn, and Jim, the horse, who is wiser far than many a professed Christian, stops of his own accord.
For Ransey had gone to sleep—oh, he often rode thus and never fell. He awakes now, however, with a start, and gazes wonderingly around him. His eyes fall upon the sign. And there, in large white letters, the boy can read easily enough though the light is fading—the “Bargee’s Chorus.”
And not only could he read, but he could remember: it was here they lay that sad, sad night—what a long time ago it seemed—when mother died.