It was still early, when fresh from his long walk, and with his faculties all cleared up and awakened9 by the withdrawal10 of the presence which had absorbed him, he went to Hillyard’s rooms to breakfast, as his friend had invited him to do. It was in one of those dingy11 parlours in Jermyn Street, which to so many young men are radiant with that freedom from domestic restraints, and privilege of having things their own way, which makes the long, unlovely street into a succession of palaces. Hillyard was sitting in his dressing-gown, over the same papers which he had carried to the club the night before. He was not less eager, not less excited than Ben,—or, indeed, it would be safe to say he was more excited. It was the end{190} only Ben was looking at; but the means, with which he was so much better acquainted than his assistant was,—the work itself, with its difficulties and obstacles,—had inflamed12 the mind of the adventurer. Of course there would be a great many difficulties,—there would be schemes to lead the line, one way or another, through this man’s grounds or that man’s, by this village or away from that; and Hillyard felt, with a little thrill of delight, that he was the man who could solve all these difficulties. It was not a work of the first importance, and yet he had never had such an opening before. He was to be chief engineer, and have everything in his hands. It was to an American, who had travelled home part of the way with him from Australia, that he owed this preferment; and the new chance was as precious to Hillyard as to Ben, though not perhaps of so much supposed importance in his life.
‘I will run down and see my mother before I go,’ he said; ‘and I suppose, so will you: but we must meet at Liverpool on the 1st, and go out in the Africa. If I do not keep the ball in my hands now I have got the thread, never trust me! Ben, you will think it strange when I say it, but it is this I have been trying for all my life.’
‘I don’t think it the least strange,’ said Ben; ‘though, if I were to say it was the same thing with myself——’
‘Oh, you!’ said Hillyard, ‘you have not been so{191} many weeks on the world as I have been years; and, besides, you don’t know what awaits you at the end of your probation13. The money must come to some one,—and, even if it were divided among the three of you, your share would be more than enough to make a man happy;—whereas, for me this is the only chance in life.’
‘I wonder what made you think of me,’ said Ben, simply. ‘It was very good of you. I was at the end of my resources and my hopes when I came out last night.’ Hillyard looked at him keenly, and in spite of himself a little colour rose to Ben’s face. ‘It was kind of you to think of me,’ he added hastily. ‘I do not know,—had it been me——’
‘That you would have been so forgiving?’ said his friend; ‘but I had done you no injury, Ben,—unless in taking you there. I suppose I must not ask what you have been doing with yourself all this time, nor what they are to you now, these—ladies?’
‘The railway is a safer subject,’ said Ben, clearing up his countenance14 with an effort; and then he added, after a little pause, ‘Mrs. Tracy and her daughter have just gone off to one of the German baths.’
Hillyard eyed his companion with a curious look, restraining with difficulty the whistle of wonder which rose to his lips. He, much-experienced man, had seen through the mother and daughter at a glance; though, to be sure, he had been pre-instructed by his acquaintance with Fitzgerald Tracy. He could not under{192}stand how it was that they had allowed Ben to slip through their finders. ‘If he had but a third of the property he would still be a prize,’ he said to himself, casting a rapid engineering glance, as it were, along the line of his friend’s life, and jumping over the intervening seven years. ‘It was strange they should have let him go.’ But the news of their departure explained how it was that he found Ben so disengaged, so ready to enter into his plans; and curious as he was, he could go no farther. A certain preoccupation that came into the young man’s eyes, a wavering breath of colour on his face, and, at the same time, a strain of the lines about his mouth, his lips shutting, as it were, upon his secret, warned Hillyard off the unprofitable inquiry15. He went back to the paper on the table, and began to describe the new life they would lead,—the voyage,—all the novel circumstances before them. He was himself so much of an adventurer that the sudden change of scene from St. James’s to Ohio excited him, and gave a zest16 to his good fortune. But, curiously17 enough, this did not tell on Ben. His interest was in the work, and nothing else,—the work as a means to his end. The small excitement of the journey, or the new world which he was about to enter, Ben at this moment of exaltation contemplated18 almost with contempt. After all, crossing the Atlantic, except in the mere19 point of duration, was little more than crossing the Channel; and that naturally he would do without even thinking of it.{193} And what was America to him? There was not even the difficulty of a new language to contend with. He was not moved by that; at least, not now. What did excite him was the new profession he was going to enter; the necessity of knowing it and mastering the tool which was to carve out his fortune;—a necessity which Hillyard, to tell the truth, had not realised.
‘I know all that is necessary for both of us,’ he said, with a laugh. ‘As for you, of course I consider it only a momentary20 occupation that will fill up your time while you are waiting. I should never have thought of offering it as more than that.’
‘I am not waiting,’ said Ben,—‘I am beginning. Do you think I am going to build my expectations now upon my father’s will, whatever it may be? How can I tell what it may be? Perhaps I am going about the very best way to disinherit myself completely. That is not my concern. I mean to work my own way. And if you can teach me enough to make me of real use——’
‘I’ll see to that,’ said Hillyard, with a cordial grasp of his hand. But, nevertheless, the chief engineer was not quite so sure that he liked it as well on this ground. What he wanted had been a gentleman-assistant, whom to guide as he pleased, and of whom to boast a little, ‘A fellow with I don’t know how many thousands a-year to fall back upon.’ He had rather intended to dazzle his American acquaintances with Ben; but a man who meant to learn his trade,{194} and practise it, might turn out rather a stumbling-block, and come in his master’s way.
However, all was settled ere they parted, and Ben supplied with lists of books and instruments, and various unthought-of necessities which must be provided for somehow. His face lengthened21 perceptibly, as Hillyard perceived, when he heard of them, and he was for some minutes lost in thought. ‘Considering how to raise the money,’ his friend thought, but did not offer any help, wisely considering that Ben had friends much more able to help him than he—Hillyard—was. Perhaps he was rather pleased, on the whole, that the new-born professional zeal22 of his companion should receive a check in the bud. Ben went away very thoughtful with those lists in his pocket, and not very much more than his uncle’s fifteen pounds to rely upon, but very resolute23 not to be damped in his ardour. It gave him plenty to think of for the rest of that day,—a day which was of feverish24, interminable length, begun, as it was, hours too early. And Guildford Street had a gloom upon it as of the very grave when in the evening he went back to it.
They were to sail in the Africa on the 1st of June, so that he had but ten days for all his preparations. So close an approach to ruin had quickened Ben’s powers, and his return to the realities of practical life, and to reasonable hopes and prospects25, made the business of providing for his new wants less appalling{195} than had been that first tragical26 symptom of destitution27, Mrs. Barton’s little bill. There was no despair in the business now, but hope, and all the possibilities of active life. He had never been addicted28 to ornament29, but yet had a little store of bijouterie which was of some value; and being no longer ashamed of his needs, he had the heart to go back to Messrs. Christie’s, to inquire after his buhl and china, and drive a final bargain. The result of all these proceedings30 was, that Ben found enough in his pocket to stock himself with instruments and books for the profession he had taken up so hastily, substituting them for the pretty toys which had been the luxuries of his youth. To be sure, his Sèvres and his cabinets went for half, or less than half, their value; but of what value were such dainty articles to him at this point of his career? And as the natural spring of feeling came back, no doubt his new theodolite awakened a little pleasure in Ben’s mind, which was still young, and could not but respond to the pleasant thrill of novelty in the long run. The very possession of the implements31 of a trade brought him nearer to practical work. He began to think such work was worth doing, after all, for its own sake; primitive32 work—making roads, building bridges—the first necessities of man. Had it not been the hackneyed iron way—the railroad, on which we have all heard so many big words wasted that its wonders have become a vulgar brag—Ben might actually have been seized with a young ma{196}n’s passion for his work, and thought it superior to every other occupation under the sun. As it was, it loosed his lips, and restored him to the common intercourse33 of men. ‘I am going to make a railway in America,’ he said to the friends whom he no longer avoided at his club, and it was regarded as a very good joke among them. Some of them delivered a decided34 opinion—by Jove, that it was a capital idea. And the announcement of Ben Renton thus taking to work, after having been under a cloud, was like a brisk breeze blowing through the languid, gossiping community for one evening at least. He was able himself to see the humour of it, and discuss the subject freely in the course of a few days. He had touched the earth, like the giant in the story, and got new vigour35. He was even able to go home—to that house which, in his first disgust, he had felt as if he never could enter again. He had found an independent standing36 apart from the past, in which he belonged to his family, and was now no more the embittered37, disappointed, ruined heir of Renton, but a man erect38 in the world by himself, and with a work and life of his own.
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1
poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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2
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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engrossing
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| adj.使人全神贯注的，引人入胜的v.使全神贯注( engross的现在分词 ) | |
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4
muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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prick
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| v.刺伤，刺痛，刺孔；n.刺伤，刺痛 | |
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7
novice
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| adj.新手的，生手的 | |
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8
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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9
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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withdrawal
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| n.取回，提款；撤退，撤军；收回，撤销 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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13
probation
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| n.缓刑(期)，(以观后效的)察看；试用(期) | |
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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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15
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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16
zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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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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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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tragical
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| adj. 悲剧的, 悲剧性的 | |
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destitution
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| n.穷困，缺乏，贫穷 | |
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addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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29
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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31
implements
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| n.工具( implement的名词复数 )；家具；手段；[法律]履行（契约等）v.实现( implement的第三人称单数 )；执行；贯彻；使生效 | |
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32
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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34
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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35
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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36
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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37
embittered
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| v.使怨恨，激怒( embitter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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