As there was no immediate1 repetition of the offence the forgiveness soon became complete, and Lucy found the interest of her life in her endeavours to be good to this weak child whom chance had thrown in her way. For Sophy Wilson was but a weak child. She was full of Alec Murray for awhile, and induced Lucy to make the young man’s acquaintance. The lad was earning twelve shillings a week, and if these two poor young creatures chose to love each other and get themselves married, it would be respectable, though it might be unfortunate. It would at any rate be the way of the world, and was a natural combination with which she would have no right to interfere2. But she found that Alec was a mere3 boy, and with no idea beyond the enjoyment4 of a bright scarf and a penny cigar, with a girl by his side at a Music Hall. “I don’t think it can be worth your while to go much out of your way for his sake,” said Lucy.
“Who is going out of her way? Not I. He’s as good as anybody else, I suppose. And one must have somebody to talk to sometimes.” These last words she uttered so plaintively5, showing so plainly that she was unable to endure the simple unchanging dulness of a life of labour, that Lucy’s heart was thoroughly6 softened7 towards her. She had the great gift of being not the less able to sympathize with the weakness of the weak{276} because of her own abnormal strength. And so it came to pass that she worked for her friend,—stitching and mending when the girl ought to have stitched and mended for herself,—reading to her, even though but little of what was read might be understood,—yielding to her and assisting her in all things, till at last it came to pass that in truth she loved her. And such love and care were much wanted, for the elder girl soon found that the younger was weak in health as well as weak in spirit. There were days on which she could not,—or at any rate did not go to her office. When six months had passed by Lucy had not once been absent since she had begun her new life.
“Have you seen that man who has come to look at our house?” asked Sophy one day as they were walking down to the office. Lucy had seen a strange man, having met him on the stairs. “Isn’t he a fine fellow?”
“For anything that I know. Let us hope that he is very fine,” said Lucy laughing.
“He’s about as handsome a chap as I think I ever saw.”
“As for being a chap the man I saw must be near forty.”
“He is a little old I should say, but not near that. I don’t think he can have a wife or he wouldn’t come here. He’s an engineer, and he has the care of a steam-engine in the City Road,—that great printing place. His name is Abraham Hall, and he’s earning three or four pounds a week. A man like that ought to have a wife.{277}”
“How did you learn all about him?”
“It’s all true. Sally heard it from Mrs. Green.” Mrs. Green was the keeper of the lodging-house and Sally was the maid. “I couldn’t help speaking to him yesterday because we were both at the door together. He talked just like a gentleman although he was all smutty and greasy8.”
“I am glad he talked like a gentleman.”
“I told him we lodged9 here and that we were telegraph girls, and that we never got home till half-past eight. He would be just the beau for you because he is such a big steady-looking fellow.”
“I don’t want a beau,” said Lucy angrily.
“Then I shall take him myself,” said Sophy as she entered the office.
Soon after that it came to pass that there did arise a slight acquaintance between both the girls and Abraham Hall, partly from the fact of their near neighbourhood, partly perhaps from some little tricks on Sophy’s part. But the man seemed to be so steady, so solid, so little given to lightnesses of flirtation10 or to dangerous delights, that Lucy was inclined to welcome the accident. When she saw him on a Sunday morning free from the soil of his work, she could perceive that he was still a young man, probably not much over thirty;—but there was a look about him as though he were well inured11 to the cares of the world, such as is often produced by the possession of a wife and family,—not a look of depression by any means, but seeming to betoken12 an appreciation13 of the seriousness of life.{278} From all this Lucy unconsciously accepted an idea of security in the man, feeling that it might be pleasant to have some strong one near her, from whom in case of need assistance might be asked without fear. For this man was tall and broad and powerful, and seemed to Lucy’s eyes to be a very pillar of strength when he would stand still for a moment to greet her in the streets.
But poor Sophy, who had so graciously offered the man to her friend at the beginning of their intercourse14, seemed soon to change her mind and to desire his attention for herself. He was certainly much more worthy15 than Alec Murray. But to Lucy, to whom it was a rule of life as strong as any in the commandments that a girl should not throw herself at a man, but should be sought by him, it was a painful thing to see how many of poor Sophy’s much-needed sixpences were now spent in little articles of finery by which it was hoped that Mr. Hall’s eyes might be gratified, and how those glossy16 ringlets were brushed and made to shine with pomatum, and how the little collars were washed and re-washed and starched17 and re-starched, in order that she might be smart for him. Lucy, who was always neat, endeavoured to become browner and browner. This she did by way of reproach and condemnation18, not at all surmising19 that Mr. Hall might possibly prefer a good solid wearing colour to glittering blue and pink gewgaws.
At this time Sophy was always full of what Mr. Hall had last said to her; and after awhile broached{279} an idea that he was some gentleman in disguise. “Why in disguise? Why not a gentleman not in disguise?” asked Lucy, who had her own ideas, perhaps a little exaggerated, as to Nature’s gentlemen. Then Sophy explained herself. A gentleman, a real gentleman, in disguise would be very interesting;—one who had quarrelled with his father, perhaps, because he would not endure paternal20 tyranny, and had then determined21 to earn his own bread till he might happily come into the family honours and property in a year or two. Perhaps instead of being Abraham Hall he was in reality the Right Honourable22 Russell Howard Cavendish; and if, during his temporary abeyance23, he should prove his thorough emancipation24 from the thraldom25 of his aristocracy by falling in love with a telegraph girl, how fine it would be! When Lucy expressed an opinion that Mr. Hall might be a very fine fellow though he were fulfilling no more than the normal condition of his life at the present moment, Sophy would not be contented26, declaring that her friend, with all her reading, knew nothing of poetry. In this way they talked very frequently about Abraham Hall, till Lucy would often feel that such talking was indecorous. Then she would be silent for awhile herself, and rebuke27 the other girl for her constant mention of the man’s name. Then again she would be brought back to the subject;—for in all the little intercourse which took place between them and the man, his conduct was so simple and yet so civil, that she could not really feel him to be unworthy{280} of a place in her thoughts. But Sophy soon declared frankly28 to her friend that she was absolutely in love with the man. “You wouldn’t have him, you know,” she said when Lucy scolded her for the avowal29.
“Have him! How can you bring yourself to talk in such a way about a man? What does he want of either of us?”
“Men do marry you know,—sometimes,” said Sophy; “and I don’t know how a young man is to get a wife unless some girl will show that she is fond of him.”
“He should show first that he is fond of her.”
“That’s all very well for talkee-talkee,” said Sophy; “but it doesn’t do for practice. Men are awfully30 shy. And then though they do marry sometimes, they don’t want to get married particularly,—not as we do. It comes like an accident. But how is a man to fall into a pit if there’s no pit open?”
In answer to this Lucy used many arguments and much scolding. But to very little effect. That the other girl should have thought so much about it and be so ready with her arguments was horrid31 to her. “A pit open!” ejaculated Lucy; “I would rather never speak to a man again than regard myself in such a light.” Sophy said that all that might be very well, but declared that it “would not wash.”
The elder girl was so much shocked by all this that there came upon her gradually a feeling of doubt whether their joint32 life could be continued. Sophy declared her purpose openly of entrapping33 Abraham{281} Hall into a marriage, and had absolutely induced him to take her to the theatre. He had asked Lucy to join them; but she had sternly refused, basing her refusal on her inability to bear the expense. When he offered to give her the treat, she told him with simple gravity that nothing would induce her to accept such a favour from any man who was not either a very old friend or a near relation. When she said this he so looked at her that she was sure that he approved of her resolve. He did not say a word to press her;—but he took Sophy Wilson, and, as Lucy knew, paid for Sophy’s ticket.
All this displeased34 Lucy so much that she began to think whether there must not be a separation. She could not continue to live on terms of affectionate friendship with a girl whose conduct she so strongly disapproved35. But then again, though she could not restrain the poor light thing altogether, she did restrain her in some degree. She was doing some good by her companionship. And then, if it really was in the man’s mind to marry the girl, that certainly would be a good thing,—for the girl. With such a husband she would be steady enough. She was quite sure that the idea of preparing a pit for such a one as Abraham Hall must be absurd. But Sophy was pretty and clever, and if married would at any rate love her husband. Lucy thought she had heard that steady, severe, thoughtful men were apt to attach themselves to women of the butterfly order. She did not like the way in which Sophy was doing this; but then, who{282} was she that she should be a judge? If Abraham Hall liked it, would not that be much more to the purpose? Therefore she resolved that there should be no separation at present;—and, if possible, no quarrelling.
But soon it came to pass that there was another very solid reason against separation. Sophy, who was often unwell, and would sometimes stay away from the office for a day or two on the score of ill-health, though by doing so she lost one of her three shillings on each such day, gradually became worse. The superintendent36 at her department had declared that in case of further absence a medical certificate must be sent, and the doctor attached to the office had called upon her. He had looked grave, had declared that she wanted considerable care, had then gone so far as to recommend rest,—which meant absence from work,—for at least a fortnight, and ordered her medicine. This of course meant the loss of a third of her wages. In such circumstances and at such a time it was not likely that Lucy should think of separation.
While Sophy was ill Abraham Hall often came to the door to inquire after her health;—so often that Lucy almost thought that her friend had succeeded. The man seemed to be sympathetic and anxious, and would hardly have inquired with so much solicitude37 had he not really been anxious as to poor Sophy’s health. Then, when Sophy was better, he would come in to see her, and the girl would deck herself out with some little ribbon and would have her collar always starched{283} and ironed, ready for his reception. It certainly did seem to Lucy that the man was becoming fond of her foolish little friend.
During this period Lucy of course had to go to the office alone, leaving Sophy to the care of the lodging-house keeper. And, in her solitude38, troubles were heavy on her. In the first place Sophy’s illness had created certain necessarily increased expenses; and at the same time their joint incomes had been diminished by one shilling a week out of six. Lucy was in general matters allowed to be the dispenser of the money; but on occasions the other girl would assert her rights,—which always meant her right to some indulgence out of their joint incomes which would be an indulgence to her and her alone. Even those bright ribbons could not be had for nothing. Lucy wanted no bright ribbons. When they were fairly prosperous she had not grudged39 some little expenditure40 in this direction. She had told herself that young girls like to be bright in the eyes of men, and that she had no right even to endeavour to make her friend look at all these things with her eyes. She even confessed to herself some deficiency on her own part, some want of womanliness in that she did not aspire41 to be attractive,—still owning to herself, vehemently42 declaring to herself, that to be attractive in the eyes of a man whom she could love would of all delights be the most delightful43. Thinking of all this she had endeavoured not to be angry with poor Sophy; but when she became pinched for shillings and sixpences and to feel doubtful whether{284} at the end of each fortnight there would be money to pay Mrs. Green for lodgings44 and coal, then her heart became sad within her, and she told herself that Sophy, though she was ill, ought to be more careful.
And there was another trouble which for awhile was very grievous. Telegraphy is an art not yet perfected among us and is still subject to many changes. Now it was the case at this time that the pundits45 of the office were in favour of a system of communicating messages by ear instead of by eye. The little dots and pricks46 which even in Lucy’s time had been changed more than once, had quickly become familiar to her. No one could read and use her telegraphic literature more rapidly or correctly than Lucy Graham. But now that this system of little tinkling47 sounds was coming up,—a system which seemed to be very pleasant to those females who were gifted with musical aptitudes,—she found herself to be less quick, less expert, less useful than her neighbours. This was very sad, for she had always been buoyed48 up by an unconscious conviction of her own superior intelligence. And then, though there had been neither promises nor threats, she had become aware,—at any rate had thought that she was aware,—that those girls who could catch and use the tinkling sounds would rise more quickly to higher pay than the less gifted ones. She had struggled therefore to overcome the difficulty. She had endeavoured to force her ears to do that which her ears were not capable of accomplishing. She had failed, and to-day had owned to herself that she must fail. But Sophy{285} had been one of the first to catch the tinkling sounds. Lucy came back to her room sad and down at heart and full of troubles. She had a long task of needlework before her, which had been put by for awhile through causes consequent on Sophy’s illness. “Now she is better perhaps he will marry her and take her away, and I shall be alone again,” she said to herself, as though declaring that such a state of things would be a relief to her, and almost a happiness.
“He has just been here,” said Sophy to her as soon as she entered the room. Sophy was painfully, cruelly smart, clean and starched, and shining about her locks,—so prepared that, as Lucy thought, she must have evidently expected him.
“Well;—and what did he say?”
“He has not said much yet, but it was very good of him to come and see me,—and he was looking so handsome. He is going out somewhere this evening to some political meeting with two or three other men, and he was got up quite like a gentleman. I do like to see him look like that.”
“I always think a working man looks best in his working clothes,” said Lucy. “There’s some truth about him then. When he gets into a black coat he is pretending to be something else, but everybody can see the difference.”
There was a severity, almost a savageness49 in this, which surprised Sophy so much that at first she hardly knew how to answer it. “He is going to speak at the meeting,” she said after a pause. “And of course he{286} had to make himself tidy. He told me all that he is going to say. Should you not like to hear him speak?”
“No,” said Lucy very sharply, setting to work instantly upon her labours, not giving herself a moment for preparation or a moment for rest. Why should she like to hear a man speak who could condescend50 to love so empty and so vain a thing as that? Then she became gradually ashamed of her own feelings. “Yes,” she said; “I think I should like to hear him speak;—only if I were not quite so tired. Mr. Hall is a man of good sense, and well educated, and I think I should like to hear him speak.”
“I should like to hear him say one thing I know,” said Sophy. Then Lucy in her rage tore asunder51 some fragment of a garment on which she was working.
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1
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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plaintively
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| adv.悲哀地，哀怨地 | |
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6
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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7
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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9
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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inured
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| adj.坚强的，习惯的 | |
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betoken
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| v.预示 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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15
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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starched
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| adj.浆硬的，硬挺的，拘泥刻板的v.把（衣服、床单等）浆一浆( starch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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surmising
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的现在分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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abeyance
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| n.搁置，缓办，中止，产权未定 | |
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emancipation
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| n.（从束缚、支配下）解放 | |
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thraldom
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| n.奴隶的身份，奴役，束缚 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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entrapping
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| v.使陷入圈套，使入陷阱( entrap的现在分词 ) | |
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34
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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disapproved
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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superintendent
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| n.监督人，主管，总监；(英国)警务长 | |
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solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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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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39
grudged
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| 怀恨（grudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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41
aspire
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| vi.(to，after)渴望，追求，有志于 | |
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vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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43
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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44
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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pundits
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| n.某一学科的权威，专家( pundit的名词复数 ) | |
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46
pricks
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| 刺痛( prick的名词复数 )； 刺孔； 刺痕； 植物的刺 | |
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47
tinkling
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| n.丁当作响声 | |
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48
buoyed
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| v.使浮起( buoy的过去式和过去分词 )；支持；为…设浮标；振奋…的精神 | |
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49
savageness
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| 天然，野蛮 | |
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50
condescend
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| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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51
asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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