‘She told him what passed between us that night,’ Sidney argued inwardly. But it was not so. Hewett had merely abandoned himself to an unreasonable2 resentment3. Notwithstanding his concessions5, he blamed Sidney for the girl’s leaving home, and, as his mood grew more irritable6, the more hopeless it seemed that Clara would return, he nursed the suspicion of treacherous7 behaviour on Sidney’s part. He would not take into account any such thing as pride which could forbid the young man to urge a rejected suit. Sidney had grown tired of Clara, that was the truth, and gladly caught at any means of excusing himself. He had made new friends. Mrs. Peckover reported that he was a constant visitor at the old man Snowdon’s lodgings8; she expressed her belief that Snowdon had come back from Australia with a little store of money, and if Kirkwood had knowledge of that, would it not explain his interest in Jane Snowdon?
‘For shame to listen to such things!’ cried Mrs. Hewett angrily, when her husband once repeated the landlady10’s words, ‘I’d be ashamed of myself, John! If you don’t know him no better than that, you ought to by this time.’
And John did, in fact, take to himself no little shame, but his unsatisfied affection turned all the old feelings to bitterness. In spite of himself, he blundered along the path of perversity11. Sidney, too, had his promptings of obstinate12 humour. When he distinctly recognised Hewett’s feeling it galled13 him; he was being treated with gross injustice14, and temper suggested reprisals15 which could answer no purpose but to torment16 him with self-condemnation. However, he must needs consult his own dignity; he could not keep defending himself against ignoble18 charges. For the present, there was no choice but to accept John’s hints, and hold apart as much as was possible without absolute breach19 of friendly relations. Nor could he bring himself to approach Clara. It was often in his mind to write to her; had he obeyed the voice of his desire he would have penned such letters as only the self-abasement of a passionate20 lover can dictate21. But herein, too, the strain of sternness that marked his character made its influence felt. He said to himself that the only hope of Clara’s respecting him lay in his preservation22 of the attitude he had adopted, and as the months went on he found a bitter satisfaction in adhering so firmly to his purpose. The self-flattery with which no man can dispense23 whispered assurance that Clara only thought the more of him the longer he held aloof24. When the end of July came, he definitely prescribed to his patience a trial of yet one more month. Then he would write Clara a long letter, telling her what it had cost him to keep silence, and declaring the constancy he devoted25 to her.
This resolve he registered whilst at work one morning. The triumphant26 sunshine, refusing to be excluded even from London workshops, gleamed upon his tools and on the scraps27 of jewellery before him; he looked up to the blue sky, and thought with heavy heart of many a lane in Surrey and in Essex where he might be wandering but for this ceaseless necessity of earning the week’s wage. A fly buzzed loudly against the grimy window, and by one of those associations which time and change cannot affect, he mused28 himself back into boyhood. The glimpse before him of St. John’s Arch aided the revival29 of old impressions; his hand ceased from its mechanical activity, and he was absorbed in a waking dream, when a voice called to him and said that he was wanted. He went down to the entrance, and there found Mrs. Hewett. Her coming at all was enough to signal some disaster, and the trouble on her face caused Sidney to regard her with silent interrogation.
‘I couldn’t help comin’ to you,’ she began, gazing at him fixedly30. ‘I know you can’t do anything, but I had to speak to somebody, an’ I know nobody better than you. It’s about Clara.’
‘What about her?’
‘She’s left Mrs. Tubbs. They had words about Bank-holiday last night, an’ Clara went off at once. Mrs. Tubbs thought she’d come ‘ome, but this mornin’ her box was sent for, an’ it was to be took to a house in Islington. An’ then Mrs. Tubbs came an’ told me. An’ there’s worse than that, Sidney. She’s been goin’ about to the theatre an’ such places with a man as she got to know at the bar, an’ Mrs. Tubbs says she believes it’s him has tempted31 her away.’
She spoke32 the last sentences in a low voice, painfully watching their effect.
‘And why hasn’t Mrs. Tubbs spoken about this before?’ Sidney asked, also in a subdued33 voice, but without other show of agitation34.
‘That’s just what, I said to her myself. The girl was in her charge, an’ it was her duty to let us know if things went wrong. But how am I to tell her father? I dursn’t do it, Sidney; for my life, I dursn’t! I’d go an’ see her where she’s lodging9 — see, I’ve got the address wrote down here — but I should do more harm than good; she’d never pay any heed35 to me at the best of times, an’ it isn’t likely she would now.’
‘Look here if she’s made no attempt to hide away, you may be quite sure there’s no truth in what Mrs. Tubbs says. They’ve quarrelled, and of course the woman makes Clara as black as she can. Tell her father everything as soon as he comes home; you’ve no choice.’
Mrs. Hewett averted36 her face in profound dejection. Sidney learnt at length what her desire had been in coming to him; she hoped he would see Clara and persuade her to return home.
‘I dursn’t tell her’ father,’ she kept repeating. ‘But perhaps it isn’t true what Mrs. Tubbs says. Do go an’ speak to her before it’s too late. Say we won’t ask her to come ‘ome, if only she’ll let us know what she’s goin’ to do.’
In the end he promised to perform this service, and to communicate the result that evening. It was Saturday; at half-past one he left the workroom, hastened home to prepare himself for the visit, and, without thinking of dinner, set out to find the address Mrs. Hewett had given him. His steps were directed to a dull street on the north of Pentonville Road; the house at which he mad e inquiry37 was occupied by a drum-manufacturer. Miss Hewett, he learnt, was not at home; she had gone forth38 two hours ago, and nothing was known of her movements. Sidney turned away and began to walk up and down the shadowed side of the street; there was no breath of air stirring, and from the open windows radiated stuffy39 odours. A quarter of an hour sufficed to exasperate40 him with anxiety and physical malaise. He suffered from his inability to do anything at once, from conflict with himself as to whether or not it behoved him to speak with John Hewett; of Clara he thought with anger rather than fear, for her behaviour seemed to prove that nothing had happened save the inevitable41 breach with Mrs. Tubbs. Just as he had said to himself that it was no use waiting about all the afternoon, he saw Clara approaching. At sight of him she manifested neither surprise nor annoyance42, but came forward with eyes carelessly averted. Not having seen her for so long, Sidney was startled by the change in her features; her cheeks had sunk, her eyes were unnaturally43 dark, there was something worse than the familiar self-will about her lips.
‘I’ve been waiting to see you,’ he said. ‘Will you walk along here for a minute or two?’
‘What do you want to say? I’m tired.’
‘Mrs. Tubbs has told your mother what has happened, and she came to me. Your father doesn’t know yet.’
‘It’s nothing to me whether he knows or not. I’ve left the place, that’s all, and I’m going to live here till I’ve got another.’
‘Why not go home?’
‘Because I don’t choose to. I don’t see that it concerns you, Mr. Kirkwood.’
Their eyes met, and Sidney felt how little fitted he was to reason with the girl, even would she consent to hear him. His mood was the wrong one; the torrid sunshine seemed to kindle44 an evil fire in him, and with difficulty he kept back words of angry unreason; he even — strangest of inconsistencies — experienced a kind of brutal45 pleasure in her obvious misery46. Already she was reaping the fruit of obstinate folly47. Clara read what his eyes expressed; she trembled with responsive hostility48.
‘No, it doesn’t concern me,’ Sidney replied, half turning away. ‘But it’s perhaps as well you should know that Mrs. Tubbs is doing her best to take away your good name. However little we are to each other, it’s my duty to tell you that, and put you on your guard. I hope your father mayn’t hear these stories before you have spoken to him yourself.’
Clara listened with a contemptuous smile.
‘What has she been saying?’
‘I shan’t repeat it.’
As he gazed at her, the haggardness of her countenance49 smote50 like a sword-edge through all the black humours about his heart, piercing the very core of love and pity. He spoke in a voice of passionate appeal.
‘Clara, come home before it is too late! Come with me — now — come at once? Thank heaven you have got out of that place! Come home, and stay there quietly till we can find you something better.’
‘I’ll die rather than go home!’ was her answer, flung at him as if in hatred51. ‘Tell my father that, and tell him anything else you like. I want no one to take any thought for me; and I wouldn’t do as you wish, not to save my soul!’
How often, in passing along the streets, one catches a few phrases of discord52 such as this! The poor can seldom command privacy; their scenes alike of tenderness and of anger must for the most part be enacted53 on the peopled ways. It is one of their misfortunes, one of the many necessities which blunt feeling, which balk54 reconciliation55, which enhance the risks of dialogue at best semi-articulate.
Clara, having uttered the rancour which had so long poisoned her mind, straightway crossed the street and entered the house where she was lodging. She had just returned from making several applications for employment — futile56, as so many were likely to be, if she persevered57 in her search for a better place than the last. The wages due to her for the present week she had of course sacrificed; her purchases of clothing — essential and superfluous58 — had left only a small sum out of her earnings59. Food, fortunately, would cost her little; the difficulty, indeed, was to eat anything at all.
She was exhausted60 after her long walk, and the scene with Sidney had made her tremulous. In thrusting open the windows, as soon as she entered, she broke a pane61 which was already cracked; the glass cut into her palm, and blood streamed forth. For a moment she watched the red drops falling to the floor, then began to sob62 miserably63, almost as a child might have done. The exertion64 necessary for binding65 the wound seemed beyond her strength; sobbing66 and moaning, she stood in the same attitude until the blood began to congeal67. The tears, too, she let dry unneeded upon her eyelashes and her cheeks; the mist with which for a time they obscured her vision was nothing amid that cloud of misery which blackened about her spirit as she brooded. The access of self-pity was followed, as always, by a persistent68 sense of intolerable wrong, and that again by a fierce desire to plunge69 herself into ruin, as though by such act she could satiate her instincts of defiance70. It is a phase of exasperated71 egotism common enough in original natures frustrated72 by circumstance — never so pronounced as in those who suffer from the social disease. Such mood perverts73 everything to cause of bitterness. The very force of sincerity74, which Clara could not but recognise in Kirkwood’s appeal, inflamed75 the resentment she nourished against him; she felt that to yield would be salvation76 and happiness, yet yield she might not, and upon him she visited the anger due to the evil impulses in her own heart. He spoke of her father, and in so doing struck the only nerve in her which conveyed an emotion of tenderness; instantly the feeling begot77 self-reproach, and of self-reproach was born as quickly the harsh self-justification with which her pride ever answered blame. She had made her father’s life even more unhappy than it need have been, and to be reminded of that only drove her more resolutely78 upon the recklessness which would complete her ingratitude79.
The afternoon wore away, the evening, a great part of the night. She ate a few mouthfuls of bread, but could not exert herself to make tea. It would be necessary to light a fire, and already the air of the room was stifling80.
After a night of sleeplessness81, she could only lie on her bed through the Sunday morning, wretched in a sense of abandonment. And then began to assail82 her that last and subtlest of temptations, the thought that already she had taken an irrevocable step, that an endeavour to return would only be trouble spent in vain, that the easy course was, in truth, the only one now open to her. Mrs. Tubbs was busy circulating calumnies83; that they were nothing more than calumnies could never be proved; all who heard them would readily enough believe. Why should she struggle uselessly to justify84 herself in the eyes of people predisposed to condemn17 her? Fate was busy in all that had happened during the last two days. Why had she quitted her situation at a moment’s notice? Why on this occasion rather than fifty times previously85? It was not her own doing; something impelled86 her, and the same force — call it chance or destiny — would direct the issue once more. All she could foresee was the keeping of her appointment with Scawthorne tomorrow morning; what use to try and look further, when assuredly a succession of circumstances impossible to calculate would in the end constrain87 her? The best would be if she could sleep out the interval88.
At mid-day she rose, ate and drank mechanically, then contemplated89 the hours that must somehow be killed. There was sunlight in the sky, but to what purpose should she go out? She went to the window, and surveyed the portion of street that was visible. On the opposite pavement, at a little distance, a man was standing4; it was Sidney Kirkwood. The sight of him roused her from apathy90; her blood tingled91, rushed into her cheeks and throbbed92 at her temples. So, for all she had said, he was daring to act the spy! He suspected her; he was lurking93 to surprise visitors, to watch her outgoing and coming in. Very well; at least he had provided her with occupation.
Five minutes later she saw that he had gone away. Thereupon — having in the meantime clad herself — she left the house and walked at a quick step towards a region Of North London with which she had no acquaintance. In an hour’s time she had found another lodging, which she took by the day only. Then back again to Islington. She told her landlady that a sudden necessity compelled her to leave; she would have a cab and remove her box at once. There was the hazard that Sidney might return just as she was leaving; she braved it, and in another ten minutes was out of reach. .
Let his be the blame. She had warned him, and he chose to disregard her wish. Now she had cut the last bond that fretted94 her, and the hours rushed on like a storm-wind driving her whither they would.
Her mind was relieved from the stress of conflict; despair had given place to something that made her laugh at all the old scruples95. So far from dreading96 the judgments97 that would follow her disappearance98, she felt a pride in evil repute. Let them talk of her! If she dared everything, it would be well understood that she had not done so without a prospect99 worthy100 of herself. If she broke away from the obligations of a life that could never be other than poor and commonplace, those who knew her would estimate the compensation she had found. Sidney Kirkwood was aware of her ambitions; for his own sake he had hoped to keep her on the low level to which she was born; now let him recognise his folly! Some day she would present herself before him:—‘Very sorry that I could not oblige you, my dear sir, but you see that my lot was to be rather different from that you kindly101 planned for me.’ Let them gossip and envy!
It was a strange night that followed. Between one and two o’clock the heavens began to be overflashed with summer lightning; there was no thunder, no rain. The blue gleams kept illuminating102 the room for more than an hour. Clara could not lie in bed. The activity of her brain became all but delirium103; along her nerves, through all the courses of her blood, seemed to run fires which excited her with an indescribable mingling104 of delight and torment. She walked to and fro, often speaking aloud, throwing up her arms. She leaned from the open window and let the lightning play freely upon her face: she fancied it had the effect of restoring her wasted health. Whatever the cause, she felt stronger and more free from pain than for many months.
At dawn she slept. The striking of a church-clock woke her at nine, giving her just time to dress with care and set forth to keep her appointment.
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1
subsisting
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| v.（靠很少的钱或食物）维持生活，生存下去( subsist的现在分词 ) | |
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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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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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5
concessions
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| n.（尤指由政府或雇主给予的）特许权( concession的名词复数 )；承认；减价；（在某地的）特许经营权 | |
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irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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7
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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8
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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galled
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| v.使…擦痛( gall的过去式和过去分词 )；擦伤；烦扰；侮辱 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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15
reprisals
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| n.报复（行为）( reprisal的名词复数 ) | |
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16
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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17
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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21
dictate
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| v.口授；(使)听写；指令，指示，命令 | |
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preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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dispense
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| vt.分配，分发；配(药)，发(药)；实施 | |
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aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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26
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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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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32
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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33
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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37
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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38
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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39
stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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40
exasperate
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| v.激怒，使（疾病）加剧，使恶化 | |
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41
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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42
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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43
unnaturally
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| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
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44
kindle
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| v.点燃，着火 | |
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45
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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46
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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47
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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48
hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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49
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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50
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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51
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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52
discord
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| n.不和，意见不合，争论，（音乐）不和谐 | |
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53
enacted
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
balk
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| n.大方木料；v.妨碍；不愿前进或从事某事 | |
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55
reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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56
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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57
persevered
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| v.坚忍，坚持( persevere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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59
earnings
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| n.工资收人；利润，利益，所得 | |
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60
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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61
pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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62
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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63
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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64
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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congeal
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| v.凝结，凝固 | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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frustrated
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| adj.挫败的，失意的，泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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perverts
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| n.性变态者( pervert的名词复数 )v.滥用( pervert的第三人称单数 )；腐蚀；败坏；使堕落 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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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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salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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begot
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| v.为…之生父( beget的过去式 )；产生，引起 | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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sleeplessness
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| n.失眠，警觉 | |
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assail
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| v.猛烈攻击，抨击，痛斥 | |
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calumnies
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| n.诬蔑，诽谤，中伤（的话）( calumny的名词复数 ) | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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constrain
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| vt.限制，约束；克制，抑制 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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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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apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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tingled
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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dreading
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| v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的现在分词 ) | |
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judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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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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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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illuminating
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| a.富于启发性的，有助阐明的 | |
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delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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