Hemstead, in contrast, had a mind as ethereal as faith could make it, and a fancy enriched by wide reading. Heretofore he had lived chiefly in the past and future, his studies making him at home in the one, and his hopes leading him forward into the other. But now a silent form near him had a strange power to concentrate his thoughts on the present. The man who had speculated and reasoned about sinners in the abstract, and who had classified and divided them up into well-defined shades and degrees, was now sorely puzzled over two of them, who, in a certain sense, were under his charge. What was also odd, his deepest sympathy and desire to help did not appear drawn5 toward the greater sinner. Indeed, for the tipsy youth he had hardly a sentiment other than contempt. Broad, impartial6 rules of action and feeling seemed perfectly7 correct in the seminary. He forgot that he was not carrying them out. It did not occur to him that he was like a physician who stepped by the sickest patient to a better and more promising8 one. In justice it must be said that he would have put himself to any personal inconvenience, and have made any effort in his power, were the question brought to an issue, in order to work a transformation9 in De Forrest's character. But for some reason it was so perfectly natural to take an absorbing interest in Lottie's moral state that he never asked himself why he had not a similar solicitude10 for Addie or Bel Parton.
Rigid11 and impartial rules are very well till fallible men come to apply them to their most fallible fellow-creatures.
Only God can mercifully apply a perfect law to imperfect humanity, and if He had a "beloved disciple," might not Hemstead have a favorite sinner?
And an oddly related couple were those two young people whom all supposed destined12 for a union, that in the judgment13 of friends would be most fitting, but that in truth would be unnatural14 and productive of wretchedness. Though Hemstead's mind dwelt unwaveringly upon them, he never once looked back during the drive. He would have seen a strange sight if he had,—a beautiful woman, with a face looking almost spirit-like in the pale moonlight, with her arm, for the first time, around a man whom she was beginning in the depths of her soul almost to loathe15. No embrace of affection was that, but a mechanical act prompted by a stern and remorseful16 sense of duty. She shrank from the man whose swaying form she steadied. It was settled that night in her own soul, as if by a decree of fate, that she would never marry Julian De Forrest. And yet it was one of the good traits in her character, that, while she drew back in shuddering17 aversion from any dose personal relation to him, she at the same time bad generous, regretful pity, and, if she could be kind to him at a distance, would be a very faithful friend.
But why did her eyes tarn18 so often and so wistfully up to the tall great-coated form before her? She did not know. She did not even ask herself.
Are we ever guided by reason, will, deliberate choice? Are there not often strong half-recognized instincts that sway us more profoundly, even as the plant unconsciously turns its leaves and blossoms towards the sun, and sends its roots groping unerringly to the moisture?
So absorbed was she in looking at the square, burly form before her, that the sleigh suddenly stopped at Mrs. Marchmont's door, and Hemstead looked around and caught her eye. What was more, he saw her apparently19 loving embrace of De Forrest. He was not versed20 in the conditions of intoxication21, nor did he realize that De Forrest was so far gone as to make the act necessary. But he could see her blush, even in the moonlight.
Without a word he assisted her oat, but had some difficulty with De Forrest, who, from the fumes22 of liquor and the cold air, had grown very drowsy23. But Hemstead's grasp was so strong and masterful, that while he roused, he also steadied and supported him up the steps. Lottie said to the coachman, "Mr. De Forrest is not well, so we came home earlier. You may now return for the others."
The man heard her with a stolid face that might have been mahogany, but when by himself it relaxed into a grim smile as he chuckled24, "I've seen people have such spells afore; but if you was my darter, miss, I'd make you give that chap the mitten25, 'cause sich bad spells is wonderful apt to grow on a feller."
Mrs. Marchmont and Mr. Dimmerly had retired26, and the rather dull servant who admitted them was too sleepy to note anything. Lottie promptly27 dismissed her, and told her she would wait for the others.
Hemstead saw De Forrest to his room. He had become so stupid that he did mechanically what was urged, and the student soon left him sleeping heavily.
But Hemstead's heart was strangely burdened. He had come to the conclusion that under all Lottie's coquetry and cousinly freedom with De Forrest she had hidden a real attachment28, and that perhaps an engagement, or at least an understanding, existed between them. He did not think at the time why this relation should so depress him. He would probably have explained it by his natural regret that such a girl should be mismated to such a man. But it might well have been doubted whether his heart would have become suddenly like lead, had he discovered that his own cousin was engaged, even to Brently, however sincere might have been his regret. But he descended29 to the parlor30 with the unselfish purpose and wish to bring her mind again under the spell of truth, if possible, hoping that the events of the evening would suggest the need of a better philosophy than she had learned in the past.
But he would have no little difficulty in maintaining his disinterestedness31 and general missionary33 spirit in the interview that awaited him.
For a young man but a few years past his majority, with an impressible nature and a warm heart, to watch through the witching hour of midnight with a maiden34 like Lottie Marsden, and all the time have no other thought than her moral improvement, is perhaps asking too much of human nature. With the very best intentions and with the absolute conviction, as he supposed, that the young lady could only be a subject for his missionary zeal35, unconsciously the beautiful picture she made with the firelight flickering36 upon her face, and the snowy opera-cloak thrown around her, stole into his heart that was large and empty, waiting for an occupant.
"I have drawn a chair close up to the fire," she said, "for you must be cold after riding on that high seat with the coachman."
"I am not cold, but I thank you all the same."
"You have been kinder to me than I deserved, Mr. Hemstead."
Truly Lottie's gratitude37 would be a dangerous thing to any man, as she expressed it then; and the disinterested32 student was conscious of a strange thrill at heart. But he said, with a flush of pleasure: "I do not know that I have. At any rate friends should not keep a debit38 and credit account with each other."
"And can you still feel friendly to me after this evening?"
"Do I look savagely39 hostile?" he asked smilingly.
"I feared you would despise me. I certainly despise myself."
"From the fact that you so evidently blame yourself I am less disposed to blame."
"But you rightly think me most worthy40 of blame."
"Do you honestly care what I think, Miss Marsden? My opinions have been formed in what must seem a plain and homely41 world to you, quite devoid42 of the elegance43 and fashion to which you have been accustomed."
"I begin to think it is a better world than mine, and to-night I am sick of elegance and fashion. Yes, I honestly do care now what you do think. I have been flattered and lied to all my life, and you are the first man who ever told me the unvarnished truth."
He rose and paced thoughtfully up and down the room; then looked dubiously44 at her. She was so exquisitely45 beautiful, and seemed in such a kindly46 mood, that he was greatly tempted47 to temporize48 and say smooth things, lest he should offend and drive her away. But conscience whispered, "Now is your opportunity to speak the 'unvarnished truth,' whatever be the consequences"; and conscience with Hemstead was an imperative49 martinet50. She waited in curious and quiet expectancy51. This sincere and unconventional man was delightfully52 odd and interesting to her. She saw the power and fascination53 of her beauty upon him, and at the same time perceived that in his crystal integrity he would give her his honest thought. She interpreted his hesitancy, and said, "You fear that I shall be offended?"
"Yes."
"I promise you to listen patiently—yes, gratefully—to the severest things you can say."
"I may test your promise severely54. I am a plain and awkward man.
Will you permit a plain and homely illustration of my thought?"
"I'm in a mood for plain words to-night. They will be in keeping with the former events of the evening, which were plain enough."
"Well, then, were it possible that I could be the fortunate possessor of a statue by Phidias, I would not use it as a hat-stand. If I possessed55 a painting by Rubens, I would not turn it into a fire-screen."
He hesitated, as he saw the hot blood mount to her face; but she said quietly, "Go on. I think I understand you."
He continued in a tone that was as gentle as his words seemed harsh. "Believe me, I am speaking in kindness, and only because you are brave enough to give me leave. As Phidias might embody56 beauty itself in marble, so God has bestowed57 it on you. When I was looking upon that marvellous scene—that transfigured world—the morning after my arrival, you appeared and seemed a part of it. Do you remember what I said then? I have reluctantly thought to-night that you could wear your coronet of beauty, not Only as a benignant queen, but as a petty tyrant,—that you could put it to ignoble58 uses, and make it a slave to self. It seemed at times that you only sought to lead men to bow in admiration59 to you, instead of inspiring them to stand erect60 in true manhood, with their faces heavenward. A woman endowed as you are can always do with a man one of two things: either fascinate him with her own personality, so that his thought is only of her; or else through her beauty and words and manner, that are in keeping, suggest the diviner loveliness of a noble life and character. I am satisfied that one could not be in Miss Martell's society without being better, or wishing to be better. You might have the same influence, and to a greater degree, because you naturally have more force and quicker sympathies. There is more magnetism61 in your nature, and you could understand and help, if you chose, a wider range of character than she. I doubt very much whether Miss Martell could make herself much at home among the plain country folk that you quite carried by storm the other evening. God has given you the power and beauty. Will you let me ask, in the spirit of kindness, not criticism, Are you using these gifts for Him, or for yourself?"
Lottie's eyes were moist, but her brow was contracted into a thoughtful frown, as she sat lowering at the fire. After a few moments' silence, she said, in a tone of bitterness:
"As I feel and see things to-night, I should say, for neither God nor myself, but solely62 and expressly for the sake of the Evil One. What good, what happiness, do all the compliments, all the attention I ever received, secure to me to-night? I thought I was using all for my own benefit. That was my only purpose and aim, but every flattering thing that I can remember is only a burden to think of now. I am the worse for my beauty, as you regard it. I cannot think of any one that I have made better; but many that I have made worse. I seem to have been receiving all my life, and yet to-night I feel as if I had nothing but a burden upon my heart."
Hemstead's words were not reassuring63. Indeed, Lottie thought them a trifle harsh, though spoken so kindly.
"You cannot feel otherwise, Miss Marsden. You have been seeking to keep and use for yourself what God meant you should use for Him. You feel very much as you would, did you take a large sum of money, left in your hands as a sacred trust, and go on a pleasure trip with it. He has intrusted to you the richest and rarest gifts, and every day that you have misappropriated them is a burden upon your conscience. You will feel the same after a long life of adulation, in which every whim64 has been gratified. Believe me, Miss Marsden, it is a very sad thing to come to the end of one's life with no other possession than a burdened conscience and a heavy, guilty heart. I long to save you from such a fate. That would be a wretchedly poor result of a lifetime for one endowed as you are."
"Your words are very severe, Mr. Hemstead," she said in a low tone, burying her face in her hands.
"Faithful are the wounds of a friend," he replied.
"I never thought I could permit any one to speak to me as you have done, nor would I endure it from you, did I not recognize something like sympathy in the voice with which you speak such cutting words. But I fear they are true, after all. A burdened conscience and a guilty heart seem all there is of me to-night."
He was about to reverse the picture, and portray65 in strong and hopeful terms what she might be, and what she could accomplish, when the sleigh-bells announced the return of the rest of the party. She sprang up and said hastily: "I do not wish to meet them to-night, and so will retire at once. As physician of the 'mind diseased' you dearly believe in what is termed the 'heroic treatment.' Your scalpel is sharp, and you cut deeply. But as proof that I have kept my word, and am not offended, I give you my hand."
He took it in both of his, but did not speak. She looked up at him through the tears that still lingered, and was touched to see that his eyes were as moist as hers. Giving his hand a cordial pressure, she said as she left him: "You cannot look at me in harsh criticism through tears of sympathy. Your face is kinder than your words. I am glad you do not despise me."
Hemstead admitted Harcourt and the young ladies into the shadowy hall, and then bade them good night. He, too, was in no mood for Addie's gossip or Bel's satire66. They had also found Harcourt strangely silent and pre-occupied.
The evident influence of Miss Martell over Harcourt, and their intimate relations require some explanation. He was an orphan67, and his father had been a friend of Mr. Martell. During the last illness of the elder Mr. Harcourt, he had asked his friend to take some interest in his son, and, when possible, to give him friendly counsel. To a man like Mr. Martell such a request was like a sacred obligation; and he had sought to do more than was asked. He wrote the young man almost fatherly letters, and often invited him to his house. Thus it came about that the influence of Mr. Martell and his daughter did more to restrain the wayward tendencies of young Harcourt than all other things combined; and it must be confessed that the little blue-eyed girl had more influence than the wise old father. She seemed to take almost a sisterly interest in him, and occasionally wrote such a sweet little letter that he would reform his college life for a week thereafter. But he seemed to have a dash of wild blood that would break out only too often into indiscretions, the rumors68 of which filled his kind friend Mr. Martell with anxiety. But Alice, his daughter ever insisted that he would "come out all right."
"Tom has a good heart, father," she would say; and so, with woman's faith, she hoped where her father feared.
If Harcourt could have been continually under their influence he would undoubtedly69 have developed into a far better man. But, between absence at college and the law-school and some travel during vacations, he saw less and less of them. Alice also was kept very steadily70 at school, and during the last two years of her studies they had missed each other in vacations, and seldom met.
But something more than maidenly71 modesty72 and pride made Alice shy and reserved when with Harcourt. She would think more about him, but talk less to him than to others when in company. She was a peculiarly sensitive, diffident girl, and instinctively73 shrank from the man who had for her the strongest interest.
On the completion of her studies her father had taken her abroad, and they had spent two or three years in travel. The extraordinary graces of her person were but the reflex of her richly cultivated mind. Even abroad she had many admirers; but with tact74, firmness, and inimitable grace, she ever sought to prevent false hopes, and so had fewer offers than an ordinary coquette. But many who soon learned that they could never establish a dearer relation became strong friends, and also better men; for Alice Martell seemed to have the power of evoking75 all the good there was in a man, and of putting him under a kind of sacred obligation to be true and manly76, as the result of her acquaintance. However deep and lasting77 regret may have been, no man ever left her presence in harsh and bitter contempt for the—very name of woman, as too often had been the case with Lottie Marsden. Those who knew her least said she was cold, and those who knew her true, womanly heart best wondered at her continued indifference78 to every suit. And sometimes she wondered at herself,—how it was that all the attention she received scarcely ever quickened her pulse.
But when after long absence she returned and met the friend and playmate of her childhood—the wayward youth to whom she was accustomed to give sisterly counsel—her pulse was so strangely accelerated, and the blood so quick to mount to her face at his every word and look, that she began to understand herself somewhat.
They had but recently returned to their residence on the banks of the Hudson; and Harcourt was made a welcome visitor.
Having completed his professional studies, the young man had succeeded largely to the practice of his deceased father, and was doing well in a business point of view. He had inherited enough property to secure a good start in life, but not enough to rob him of the wholesome79 stimulus80 which comes from the need of self-exertion. He had an acute, active mind. Abundance of intellect and fire flashed from his dark eyes, and we have seen that he was not without good and generous traits. But in his spiritual life he had become materialistic81 and sceptical. His associates were brilliant, but fast men; and for him also the wine-cup was gaining dangerous fascination.
Mr. Martell, in the spirit of the most friendly interest, soon learned these facts after his return, and also the gossip, which brought a sudden paleness to his daughter's cheek, that he was engaged, or virtually engaged, to Addie Marchmont.
While Alice therefore was kind, she seemed to avoid him; and he found it almost impossible to be alone with her. She had always dwelt in his mind, more as a cherished ideal, a revered82 saint, than as an ordinary flesh-and-blood girl with whom he was fit to associate, and for a time after her return her manner increased this impression. He explained the recognized fact that she shunned83 his society by thinking that she knew his evil tendencies, and that to her believing and Christian84 spirit his faithless and irregular life was utterly85 uncongenial. For a short time he had tried to ignore her opinion and society in reckless indifference; but the loveliness of her person and character daily grew more fascinating, and his evil habits lost in power as she gained. For some little time before Mrs. Byram's company, he had been earnestly wishing that he could become worthy of at least her esteem86 and old friendly regard, not daring to hope for anything more. It never occurred to him that gossip had coupled his name with his cousin Addie, and that this fact influenced Miss Martell's manner as well as his tendencies toward dissipation. He laid it all to the latter cause, and was beginning to feel that he could live the life of an ascetic87, if this lovely saint would only permit his devotion.
And Alice, so sensitive where he was concerned, thought she saw a change in him for the better, and in the spirit of womanly self-sacrifice was resolving to see more of him than was prudent88 for her peace of mind, if by so doing she could regain89 her old power to advise and restrain.
With gladness she recognized her influence over him at Mrs. Byram's company, and, as we have seen, made the most of it. But, with surprise and some strange thrills at heart, she noted90 that he and Addie Marchmont did not act as an engaged couple naturally would; and observed, with disgust, that Miss Marchmont seemed more pleased with Brently's attentions than Lottie Marsden had been.
That a man of Harcourt's force and mind should be captivated by such a girl as Miss Marchmont, had been a mystery; and she thought, when seeing them together in Mrs. Byram's parlors91, "They take it more coolly than any people I ever saw."
Addle92 appeared engrossed93 with the attentions of others, and Harcourt not in the least jealous or annoyed. In brief, they acted like cousins, and not in the least like lovers.
But in the sensitive delicacy94 of her character she would not permit her mind to dwell on the problem of their relations, and bent95 all her thoughts upon her effort to win Harcourt to a better life.
And she had moved him that evening more deeply than she could know. Neither she, nor any finite power, could plant righteous principle within his soul and transform his character; but she had created, for the time at least, an utter distaste for all low and sensual pleasures, and an honest and absorbing wish to become a true, good man. He felt that he could not, in her society, and breathing the pure atmosphere of her life, be his old self.
Never did a man return from a fashionable revel96 in a more serious and thoughtful mood, and equally with Lottie and Hemstead he was glad to escape, from the trifling97 chat and gossip of Addie and Bel Parton, to the solitude98 of his own loom99.
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1
assorted
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| adj.各种各样的，各色俱备的 | |
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stolid
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| adj.无动于衷的，感情麻木的 | |
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oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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animate
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| v.赋于生命，鼓励；adj.有生命的，有生气的 | |
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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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impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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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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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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loathe
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| v.厌恶，嫌恶 | |
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remorseful
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| adj.悔恨的 | |
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shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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tarn
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| n.山中的小湖或小潭 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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versed
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| adj. 精通，熟练 | |
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intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mitten
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| n.连指手套，露指手套 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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disinterestedness
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disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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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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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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debit
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| n.借方，借项，记人借方的款项 | |
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savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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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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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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dubiously
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| adv.可疑地，怀疑地 | |
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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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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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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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temporize
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| v.顺应时势；拖延 | |
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imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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martinet
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| n.要求严格服从纪律的人 | |
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expectancy
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| n.期望，预期，（根据概率统计求得）预期数额 | |
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delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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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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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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embody
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| vt.具体表达，使具体化；包含，收录 | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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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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magnetism
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| n.磁性，吸引力，磁学 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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portray
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| v.描写，描述；画(人物、景象等) | |
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satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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rumors
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| n.传闻( rumor的名词复数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷v.传闻( rumor的第三人称单数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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maidenly
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| adj. 像处女的, 谨慎的, 稳静的 | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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evoking
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| 产生，引起，唤起( evoke的现在分词 ) | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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stimulus
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| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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materialistic
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| a.唯物主义的，物质享乐主义的 | |
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revered
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| v.崇敬，尊崇，敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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parlors
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| 客厅( parlor的名词复数 )； 起居室； （旅馆中的）休息室； （通常用来构成合成词）店 | |
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addle
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| v.使腐坏，使昏乱 | |
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engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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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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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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revel
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| vi.狂欢作乐，陶醉；n.作乐，狂欢 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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loom
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| n.织布机，织机；v.隐现，(危险、忧虑等)迫近 | |
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