This was brought to an end by Mrs. Tracy’s letter. Such a plunge17 into dead fact after the wild heat of his excitement was enough to have brought any man to his wits. He read it over and over in his consternation18. At first there shot across him a pang19 of disappointment, a sinking of heart, such as comes inevitably20 to those who are thrown{137} back upon themselves out of a roused state of expectation. And then he re-read it till the words lost their meaning. But there was something else which could not fail of expressiveness21, and that was the silence which had succeeded so much movement and commotion22 up-stairs. For half-an-hour he refused to believe, even with the sudden stillness above and the letter in his hand to prove it, that all possibility of further intercourse23 was over for the night. He could not believe it. They were only stiller than usual. The note should have come to him earlier. There was still time to call him to them. He took out his watch and placed it on the table before him. Eleven o’clock, and every thing so quiet. Then he went out and listened in the dingy24 little hall, where a faint lamp was burning; then, half mad, opened the outer door, and rushed into the street to make sure. There, indeed, he was convinced of the fact which had been evident to all his faculties25 before. The dining-room was quite dark, evidently vacant, and above, in the higher storey, was the glimmer26 of Mrs. Tracy’s candles. She was going to bed, respectable, virtuous27 woman that she was, with the hundred pounds accepted as a loan under her pillow, too virtuous to think of rewarding the giver even by a smile from Millicent’s lips, which would have cost nothing. The poor young fellow came in with his heart bleeding and palpitating, one knows how, and then seized his hat and went out again for a long, agitated28 walk in the dark, not caring nor knowing{138} where he went. Yes; this was how it was to be. They had accepted his offering, but they had not a word to give him, nor a look, nor a smile; nothing but the formal acknowledgment of his ‘kindness,’ and Mrs. Tracy’s I. O. U.,—which was worth so much! Ben walked on and on through the dreary29, half-lighted streets, thinking, he supposed; but he was not in the least thinking. He was but going over and over the fact that there was nothing for him that night, that all hope was over, that the exquisite30 moment he had been expecting,—and it was only now that he knew how he had been expecting it,—was not to be. When some long-desired and promised meeting has failed to take place, and the watcher, obstinately31 believing to the last, has to confess that the day is over, the possibility gone, that the hour is never to be won out of the hands of time,—then he or she knows how Ben felt. And most of us have had some experience of such feelings. Thrills came over him, as he walked, of wild suggestion,—how she might, after all, have stolen down-stairs to say the fault was not hers; how she might have tapped at his door after he was gone. Ah! no, never that! Millicent would never have done that. And it was over for to-night, absolutely over! A hot dew of mortification32 and disappointment forced itself into his eyes as he marched along, nobody seeing him. Those dark London streets, wet pavements, gleams of dreary lamplight, miserable33 creatures here and there huddled34 up at corners, here and there loud{139} in miserable gaiety, danced before his eyes, a kind of grey phantasmagoria. What had he done? what was he doing? What would life be with all its inconceivable chances missed, and the golden moments gone away into darkness like this? For the moment Ben was ready to have recognised the claim of fellowship with the most pitiable wreck35 upon that stony36 strand37. Like every real pang of the heart, his sudden ache went beyond its momentary38 cause. It struck out from that small misery,—as anybody in their senses would have thought it,—into the wide ocean of suffering beyond. The thrill that shook his being cast off echoes into the awful depths around him, of which he was but vaguely39 conscious. Such fooling,—because a young man had been disappointed of an hour’s talk with his love! But these fantastic pangs40 are not the least sharp that humanity has to bear, though even the sufferer may get to smile at them afterwards; and any pain, if it is keen enough, brings the sufferer into the comprehension of pain; just as nature, it is said, makes the whole world kin1. He walked for hours, forgetful of the poor maid-of-all-work in No. 10, Guildford Street, who was nodding with her head against the wall, and her arms wrapped up in her apron41, waiting up for his return; and yet during all this time not one rational thought about the real position of Millicent Tracy and her mother, not one sensible reflection about his lost money, presented themselves to the young man’s mind. He had not{140} seen her, could not see her now till the morning of another day,—most probably was going to lose her altogether. Such were the vain things that occupied his thoughts.
Next morning, however, Ben was desperate. The day went on till past its height and no further notice was taken of him,—perhaps intentionally42, perhaps only because the ladies were packing, and had no time for visitors. When he could stand it no longer he went boldly up-stairs, and knocked at their door. To tell the truth, they had forgotten him,—even Millicent had forgotten him, having given him but too much of her thoughts the night before, and exhausted43 the subject. They were in full discussion of the black grenadine when he went to the door, and bade him ‘Come in,’ calmly, expecting the maid, or the landlady44, or some other unimportant visitor. ‘I must have something decent for evenings,’ Millicent was saying, with quiet decision, absorbed in her subject, and not thinking it worth while to raise her eyes; and then, suddenly feeling a presence of some sort in the room, she started and looked up, and gave a little scream. ‘Oh! it is Mr. Renton, mamma!’ she said, with sudden bewilderment. She had thought he could be kept off,—kept at arm’s-length,—and she had forgotten the important part he played in all this preparation, and the new start which was coming. She dropped her work, and her hands trembled a{141} little. ‘Mr. Renton!’ There was dissatisfaction, annoyance45, surprise, in every inflection of her tone.
‘How glad I am to see you so early!’ said Mrs. Tracy, with the ‘tact’ which distinguished46 her, rising and coming up to him with outstretched hands. She gave her daughter a reproving glance, which was not lost upon poor Ben. ‘Do come in. We had hoped to see you this evening; but this is quite an unlooked-for pleasure. You gentlemen are generally so much engaged in the day.’
‘I have not much to engage me,’ said Ben; and then he stopped short, with his heart aching, and gave a piteous look at Millicent, who was not paying the least attention to him. ‘If I have come too soon,’ he said, ‘let me return in the evening. I did not mean to disturb you.’
‘You could not disturb us,’ said Mrs. Tracy, with her most gracious smile. ‘If Millicent is too busy to talk, she shall go away and look after her chiffons, and come back to us when her mind is at rest. As we are going so soon, I shall be very glad of a little talk with our kindest friend.’
‘Oh, very well, mamma,’ said Millicent; and she got up, with no softening47 of her looks. She was vexed48 that he had come; yet vexed to go away and leave him with her mother,—vexed to see him, with a feeling of doing him wrong, with which Mrs. Tracy’s obtuse49 faculties were not troubled. She{142} swept out of the room without so much as looking at him, and then stood outside with a thousand minds to go back. She was not callous50, nor cruel, nor without heart, though she had been brought up to one debasing trade. If she had never seen him after, it would have made the whole matter practicable; but to know all he had done, and why he had done it; to see the love,—such love!—in his eyes; and to be obliged to be polite and grateful, and no more! Nature rebelled to such an extent in the young woman’s mind that it woke her to sudden alarm! Could she be falling in love with Ben? as her mother said. When that absurd idea entered her thoughts she turned quickly away, and ran up-stairs to her room, and went to her packing, leaving her mother to deal with him. No, not quite;—not so ridiculous as that!
‘Have I offended her?’ said Ben. ‘Is she angry with me for my—presumption? What have I done to make her go away?’
‘Nothing, my dear friend,’ said Mrs. Tracy, taking his hand, and pressing it; ‘nothing but the kindest, the noblest action. Oh, Mr. Renton, you must not be hard upon my poor child! She feels your generosity51 so much, and she feels our miserable position so much,—and, in short, it is a conflict of pride and gratitude52——’
‘Gratitude!’ said Ben, sadly. ‘Ah, how ill you judge me;—as if I wanted gratitude! I wish I had{143} wealth to pour at her feet. I wish I could give her—— But that is folly53. Has she not a word to say to me, after all?’
What he meant by ‘after all,’ was, after the opening of his heart,—after the pouring forth54 of his love. But to Mrs. Tracy it meant after the hundred pounds; and here was a way of making an end of him very ready to her hands.
‘Mr. Renton,’ she said, with an assumption of dignity which sat very well, and looked natural enough, ‘it was my doing, accepting it,—it was not Millicent’s doing. I thought it was offered out of kindness and friendship. Any one, almost, would pity two women left alone as we were; and I accepted it, as I thought, in the spirit it was offered; but if I had thought it was a price for my child’s affections——’
Ben turned away, sickening at her, as she spoke55 to him. ‘Bah!’ he said, half aloud in his disgust. He would not condescend56 to explain. He turned half round to the door, and gazed at it in an uncertain pause. Millicent might come back. When he thought of it, mothers were,—or books were liars,—all miserable, bargaining creatures like this. He would not take the trouble to discuss it with her. If he had not been so weary and worn-out and sick at heart he would not have been thus incivil. But he said to himself that he could not help it, and turned impatiently away.
‘Ah, I thought it was not so,—I felt sure it was{144} not so!’ cried Mrs. Tracy, recovering herself as her mistake became apparent. ‘Dear Mr. Renton, sit down, and let us talk it over. Forgive a mother’s jealous care. But let me thank you first——’
‘I don’t want any thanks,’ said Ben, with a certain sullenness57, as he sat down at her bidding on the nearest chair.
‘For my life,’ said Mrs. Tracy, looking him calmly in the face. ‘Yes, it was as serious as that. Not that I care much for my life, except for Millicent’s sake. It has no more charms nor hopes for me, Mr. Renton! But I could not die until I see her in better hands than mine. Don’t be angry with me. You asked her,—you offered her—— What was it, in reality, that passed between you yesterday? My darling child was too much agitated to know.’
‘I had nothing to offer,’ said Ben, with sullen58 disgust. To pour out his heart to Millicent, and to make his confession59 thus to her mother, were two very different things. ‘I am penniless, and disinherited. I had to tell her so. Nothing but what I might be able to make as a day-labourer, perhaps,’ he went on, with angry vehemence60. ‘Whatever folly said, she has apparently61 no answer to give.’
‘In such a case, Mr. Renton,’ said Mrs. Tracy, facing him, ‘it is not my daughter who has to be consulted, but me.’ He had given her an advantage by his ill-breeding, and now he had to rouse himself, and turn round to her and mutter some prayer for par{145}don. He was in the wrong. As this flashed upon him his colour rose. Had he spoken as he now said he had it would have been an insult. It was an insult, the way in which he was addressing her mother now. ‘Mr. Renton,’ she said, ‘I have put myself into a false position by taking your money; and what is life itself in comparison with one’s true character? I cannot let you despise Millicent’s mother. Here it is; you shall have it back.’
‘Mrs. Tracy, forgive me, for heaven’s sake! I did not know what I was saying,’ cried Ben.
‘There it is,’ said his opponent, laying the pocket-book on the table between them. ‘Now I can speak. Millicent is an innocent girl, Mr. Renton. She is not one of the kind who fall in love without being asked. Probably, now that she knows you love her, she might learn to love you if you were thrown together. But after the honourable62 way in which you have told me what your position is, I cannot permit that. I will speak to you frankly63. If things had been different I should have been on your side; but I cannot let my child marry a man with nothing. She is too sensitive, too finely organised, too—— I cannot suffer it, Mr. Renton. That is the honest truth. We are going away, and you may not meet again, perhaps.’
‘That is impossible,’ said Ben, with a firmness of resolution which made her pause in her speech. He{146} spoke so low that it might have been to himself, but she heard it, and it startled her much.
‘I will not let her marry a poor man,’ cried Mrs. Tracy with the violence of alarm, ‘whatever comes of it. She is not a girl who may marry anybody! She must make a good marriage. She must have comfort. She must have what she has been used to,’ the woman cried in agitation64, with a certain gloomy irony65. She was afraid of him, not knowing that he might not put his hand across the table, and clutch his money back.
‘Good; I will work for that,’ said Ben. ‘She shall have it. It is only a question of time. What more? What do you want more?’
‘What do I want?’ cried Mrs. Tracy. ‘Is that how you speak to a lady, Mr. Renton? I want a good deal more. I want position and respect for my Millicent, and civility, at least, for myself.’
Ben got up and went and made a gloomy survey of the room, round and round, after the fashion of men, and then he came back to the point he had started from. ‘I did not mean to be rude,’ he said; ‘I beg your pardon. I have spoken to you like an ass15. I feel I have; but it is you who have the better of me. Put away that rubbish, for heaven’s sake, if you would not drive me mad! I don’t suppose she cares for me,—how should she? I’ll go to work and take myself out of the way to-morrow. Only promise{147} me to wait,—wait till you see how I get on. You can’t tell what progress I may make. If I do well you have nothing against me. You said so this minute. Wait and see.’
‘And let my child sacrifice her youth,—for what?’ cried Mrs. Tracy. ‘Oh, my dear Mr. Renton, things are harder than you think! You don’t know what you say.’
‘Perhaps I don’t,’ said Ben; ‘perhaps I do. Neither of us know. Give me your word to this, at least,—that nothing shall be done without telling me; nothing shall happen before I know.’
‘Oh, what am I to do?’ said Mrs. Tracy. ‘How can I make such an engagement? As if I should be sure to know even before—anything happened! I will do what I can. You know I wish you well.’
‘You will promise to let me know before—you bind66 her to any other,’ Ben repeated, bending over the little table which stood between them, to look into her face. She thought it was to take up the famous pocket-book upon which everything depended, and uttered a little scream.
‘I will do whatever I can,’ she said. ‘I will plead your cause all I can. I will promise,—oh, yes! Mr. Renton, I promise,’ she cried, eagerly. He had even, as he stooped towards her, touched the price,—as she thought,—of the promise with his sleeve.
And then, utterly67 to Mrs. Tracy’s bewilderment, Ben dropped into his chair, and covered his face with{148} his hands, and sighed. The sigh was so deep, and heavy, and full of care that it startled her. Had he not just got what he had been struggling for? She had given him her promise,—a reluctant, and perhaps not very certain bond,—and yet he gave but a sigh over it,—the sigh of a man ruined and broken. She looked at his bowed head, at the curious strain of the hands into which his face was bent68. What a strange, unsatisfactory, ungracious way of receiving a favour! What a highflown, exaggerated sort of a young man! She was thinking so, gazing across the table at him, sometimes letting her eye stray a little anxiously to the pocket-book, with a pucker69 on her forehead and a cold dread70 in her heart, when the unaccountable fellow as suddenly unveiled his cloudy countenance71 and looked straight up into her face. Probably he caught her glance retreating from the pocket-book, for he laughed, and all at once, to her amaze and consternation, took that up.
‘You must take care of your health,’ he said,—and whether he was speaking in mockery or in kindness Mrs. Tracy could not make out,—‘and when this is done let me know,’ he added, dropping it softly without any warning into her lap. ‘I may be rich by that time; and when I am rich, you know, you are to be on my side.’
‘Oh my dear, I am on your side now!’ she cried with a half-sob, and stretched out to take his hand, and would have kissed it, in the relief of getting what{149} she wanted. She did not understand the glow of shame that came over Ben’s face, the stern clasp he gave to her hand, almost hurting her, resisting her soft attempt to draw it to her. And he held her thus, as in a vice72, and looked down upon her stormily, keenly, as if asking himself whether he could believe her or not. ‘And I will see her, too, before you go,’ he said, with an abruptness73 she had never seen in him before; and then suddenly left her, without another word, closing the door behind him, and audibly, with heavy, rude footsteps, descending74 the stairs.
Mrs. Tracy sat motionless, with her fingers all white and crumpled75 together, and the pocket-book lying in her lap, and heard the street-door shut behind him, and his steps echo along the street. Then only did she draw breath. It had been a tough moment, but she could flatter herself she had won the victory. And yet she had a cry to herself, as she sat alone awaking out of her stupefaction. What a brute76 he was! Her fingers were crushed, her nerves quite shaken. But then she had the hundred pounds in her lap, and had given only the vaguest general promise by way of paying for it,—a promise which might be forgotten or not as it should happen when there were a thousand miles of land and water between the two.
‘Of course I shall see him,’ Millicent said, when she came down-stairs and heard a kind of report of the interview,—a very partial report given to suit the{150} exigencies77 of the moment. ‘I would not be so ungrateful,’ she said; and there was a little flutter of colour and light about her, which looked like excitement, the anxious mother thought. Could she be such a fool as to have fallen in love with him? was the painful idea which flashed again across Mrs. Tracy’s mind. Surely, surely, not anything so ridiculous as that. And the best thing in the circumstances was to fall back upon the black grenadine, which indeed was a matter of the first importance. It was not quite so pretty as tulle, nor so light: but then it would be cheaper and wear better, and at those summer dinners in daylight, which are always so trying, would probably look even better than tulle. ‘It must be put in hand at once,’ Mrs. Tracy said, ‘for we have no time to lose.’ And it was a great relief to her when Millicent settled down quietly to try a new trimming, which she thought would be pretty for the sleeve. After all, she was a very good girl, with no nonsense about her; and her mother’s blessing78, could it have secured her the best reward a good girl can have,—the conventional reward for all exemplary young women,—fell upon Millicent on the spot. A good husband, a rich husband,—a very rich, very grand, very noble mate; if that were but attained79 what more could the round world give? Mrs. Tracy went and locked up her pocket-book, and got through an endless amount of arrangements that very afternoon. She had been in haste before, but now{151} she was in a hurry. It occurred to her even that it would be better to get the black grenadine in Paris, though it might be a little dearer. Anything rather than another such interview! On that point her mind was made up.
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kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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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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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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6
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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complacent
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| adj.自满的；自鸣得意的 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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expressiveness
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| n.富有表现力 | |
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commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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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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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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intentionally
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| ad.故意地，有意地 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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48
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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49
obtuse
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| adj.钝的；愚钝的 | |
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50
callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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51
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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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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condescend
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| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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sullenness
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| n. 愠怒, 沉闷, 情绪消沉 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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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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pucker
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| v.撅起，使起皱；n.（衣服上的）皱纹，褶子 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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abruptness
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| n. 突然，唐突 | |
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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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exigencies
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| n.急切需要 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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