‘I don’t know whether it’s worth while,’ she said, after a long silence, as they drew near to York Road Station, whence they were to take train for Clapham Junction4.
‘Not worth while?’ exclaimed Virginia. ‘You don’t think it would be an improvement?’
‘Yes, I suppose it would. I shall see how I feel about it tomorrow morning.’
She spent the evening at Lavender Hill, but without change in the mood thus indicated. A strange inquietude appeared in her behaviour. It was as though she were being urged to undertake something hard and repugnant.
On her return to Walworth Road, just as she came within sight of the shop, she observed a man’s figure some twenty yards distant, which instantly held her attention. The dim gaslight occasioned some uncertainty5, but she believed the figure was that of Widdowson. He was walking on the other side of the street, and away from her. When the man was exactly opposite Scotcher’s establishment he gazed in that direction, but without stopping. Monica hastened, fearing to be seen and approached. Already she had reached the door, when Widdowson — yes, he it was — turned abruptly6 to walk back again. His eye was at once upon her; but whether he recognized her or not Monica could not know. At that moment she opened the door and passed in.
A fit of trembling seized her, as if she had barely escaped some peril7. In the passage she stood motionless, listening with the intensity8 of dread9. She could hear footsteps on the pavement; she expected a ring at the door-bell. If he were so thoughtless as to come to the door, she would on no account see him.
But there was no ring, and after a few minutes’ waiting she recovered her self-command. She had not made a mistake; even his features had been discernible as he turned towards her. Was this the first time that he had come to look at the place where she lived — possibly to spy upon her? She resented this behaviour, yet the feeling was confused with a certain satisfaction.
From one of the dormitories there was a view of Walworth Road. She ran upstairs, softly opened the door of that room, and peeped in. The low burning gas showed her that only one bed had an occupant, who appeared to be asleep. Softly she went to the window, drew the blind aside, and looked down into the street. But Widdowson had disappeared. He might of course be on this side of the way.
‘Who’s that?’ suddenly asked a voice from the occupied bed.
The speaker was Miss Eade. Monica looked at her, and nodded.
‘You? What are you doing here?’
‘I wanted to see if some one was standing10 outside.’
‘You mean him?’
The other nodded.
‘I’ve got a beastly headache. I couldn’t hold myself up, and I had to come home at eight o’clock. There’s such pains all down my back too. I shan’t stay at this beastly place much longer. I don’t want to get ill, like Miss Radford. Somebody went to see her at the hospital this afternoon, and she’s awfully11 bad. Well, have you seen him?’
‘He’s gone. Good-night.’
And Monica left the room.
Next day she notified her intention of leaving her employment. No questions were asked; she was of no particular importance; fifty, or, for the matter of that, five score, young women equally capable could be found to fill her place.
On Tuesday morning there came a letter from Virginia — a few lines requesting her to meet her sisters, as soon as possible after closing time that evening, in front of the shop. ‘We have something very delightful12 to tell you. We do hope you gave notice today, as things are getting so bright in every direction.’
At a quarter to ten she was able to run out, and close at hand were the two eagerly awaiting her.
‘Mrs. Darby has found a place for Alice,’ began Virginia. ‘We heard by the afternoon post yesterday. A lady at Yatton wants a governess for two young children. Isn’t it fortunate?’
‘So delightfully13 convenient for what we were thinking of,’ put in the eldest14, with her croaking15 voice. ‘Nothing could have been better.’
‘You mean about the school?’ said Monica dreamily.
‘Yes, the school,’ Virginia replied, with trembling earnestness. ‘Yatton is convenient both for Clevedon and Weston. Alice will be able to run over to both places and make enquiries, and ascertain16 where the best opening would be.’
Miss Nunn’s suggestion, hitherto but timidly discussed, had taken hold upon their minds as soon as Alice received the practical call to her native region. Both were enthusiastic for the undertaking17. It afforded them a novel subject of conversation, and inspirited them by seeming to restore their self-respect. After all, they might have a mission, a task in the world. They pictured themselves the heads of a respectable and thriving establishment, with subordinate teachers, with pleasant social relations; they felt young again, and capable of indefinite activity. Why had they not thought of this long ago? and thereupon they reverted18 to antistrophic laudation of Rhoda Nunn.
‘Is it a good place?’ their younger sister inquired.
‘Oh, pretty good. Only twelve pounds a year, but nice people, Mrs. Darby says. They want me at once, and it is very likely that in a few weeks I shall go with them to the seaside.’
‘What could have been better?’ cried Virginia. ‘Her health will be established, and in half a year, or less, we shall be able to come to a decision about the great step. Oh, and have you given notice, darling?’
‘Yes, I have.’
Both clapped their hands like children. It was an odd little scene on the London pavement at ten o’clock at night; so intimately domestic amid surroundings the very antithesis19 of domesticity. Only a few yards away, a girl, to whom the pavement was a place of commerce, stood laughing with two men. The sound of her voice hinted to Monica the advisability of walking as they conversed20, and they moved towards Walworth Road Station.
‘We thought at first,’ said Virginia, ‘that when Alice had gone you might like to share my room; but then the distance from Great Portland Street would be a decided21 objection. I might move, but we doubt whether that would be worth while. It is so comfortable with Mrs. Conisbee, and for the short remaining time — Christmas, I should think, would be a very good time for opening. If it were possible to decide upon dear old Clevedon, of course we should prefer it; but perhaps Weston will offer more scope. Alice will weigh all the arguments on the spot. Don’t you envy her, Monica? Think of being there in this summer weather!’
‘Why don’t you go as well?’ Monica asked.
‘I? And take lodgings22, you mean? We never thought of that. But we still have to consider expenditure24 very seriously, you know. If possible, I must find employment for the rest of the year. Remember how very likely it is that Miss Nunn will have something to suggest for me. And when I think it will be of so much practical use for me to see her frequently for a few weeks. Already I have learnt so much from her and from Miss Barfoot. Their conversation is so encouraging. I feel that it is a training of the mind to be in contact with them.’
‘Yes, I quite share that view,’ said Alice, with tremulous earnestness. ‘Virginia can reap much profit from intercourse25 with them. They have the new ideas in education, and it would be so good if our school began with the advantage of quite a modern system.’
Monica became silent. When her sisters had talked in the same strain for a quarter of an hour, she said absently —
‘I wrote to Miss Barfoot last night, so I suppose I shall be able to move to those lodgings next Sunday.’
It was eleven o’clock before they parted. Having taken leave of her sisters near the station, Monica turned to walk quickly home. She had gone about half the way, when her name was spoken just behind her, in Widdowson’s voice. She stopped, and there stood the man, offering his hand.
‘Why are you here at this time?’ she asked in an unsteady voice.
‘Not by chance. I had a hope that I might see you.’
He was gloomy, and looked at her searchingly.
‘I mustn’t wait to talk now, Mr. Widdowson. It’s very late.’
‘Very late indeed. It surprised me to see you.’
‘Surprised you? Why should it?’
‘I mean that it seemed so very unlikely — at this hour.’
‘Then how could you have hoped to see me?’
Monica walked on, with an air of displeasure, and Widdowson kept beside her, incessantly27 eyeing her countenance28.
‘No, I didn’t really think of seeing you, Miss Madden. I wished to be near the place where you were, that was all.’
‘You saw me come out I dare say.’
‘No.’
‘If you had done, you would have known that I came to meet two ladies, my sisters. I walked with them to the station, and now I am going home. You seem to think an explanation necessary —’
‘Do forgive me! What right have I to ask anything of the kind? But I have been very restless since Sunday. I wished so to meet you, if only for a few minutes. Only an hour or two ago I posted a letter to you.’
Monica said nothing.
‘It was to ask you to meet me next Sunday, as we arranged. Shall you be able to do so?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t. At the end of this week I leave my place here, and on Sunday I shall be moving to another part of London.’
‘You are leaving? You have decided to make the change you spoke26 of?’
‘Yes.’
‘And will you tell me where you are going to live?’
‘In lodgings near Great Portland Street. I must say good-night, Mr. Widdowson. I must, indeed.’
‘Please — do give me one moment!’
‘I can’t stay — I can’t — good-night!’
It was impossible for him to detain her. Ungracefully he caught at his hat, made the salute29, and moved away with rapid, uneven30 strides. In less than half an hour he was back again at this spot. He walked past the shop many times without pausing; his eyes devoured31 the front of the building, and noted32 those windows in which there was a glimmer33 of light. He saw girls enter by the private door, but Monica did not again show herself. Some time after midnight, when the house had long been dark and perfectly34 quiet, the uneasy man took a last look, and then sought a cab to convey him home.
The letter of which he had spoken reached Monica’s hands next morning. It was a very respectful invitation to accompany the writer on a drive in Surrey. Widdowson proposed to meet her at Herne Hill railway station, where his vehicle would be waiting. ‘In passing, I shall be able to point out to you the house which has been my home for about a year.’
As circumstances were, it would be hardly possible to accept this invitation without exciting curiosity in her sisters. The Sunday morning would be occupied, probably, in going to the new lodgings and making the acquaintance of her future companion there; in the afternoon, her sisters were to pay her a visit, as Alice had decided to start for Somerset on the Monday. She must write a refusal, but it was by no means her wish to discourage Widdowson altogether. The note which at length satisfied her ran thus:
‘DEAR MR. WIDDOWSON— I am very sorry that it will be impossible for me to see you next Sunday. All day I shall be occupied. My eldest sister is leaving London, and Sunday will be my last day with her, perhaps for a long time. Please do not think that I make light of your kindness. When I am settled in my new life, I hope to be able to let you know how it suits me. — Sincerely yours,
MONICA MADDEN.’
In a postscript35 she mentioned her new address. It was written in very small characters — perhaps an unpurposed indication of the misgiving36 with which she allowed herself to pen the words.
Two days went by, and again a letter from Widdowson was delivered,
‘DEAR MISS MADDEN— My chief purpose in writing again so soon is to apologize sincerely for my behaviour on Tuesday evening. It was quite unjustifiable. The best way of confessing my fault is to own that I had a foolish dislike of your walking in the streets unaccompanied at so late an hour. I believe that any man who had newly made your acquaintance, and had thought as much about you as I have, would have experienced the same feeling. The life which made it impossible for you to see friends at any other time of the day was so evidently unsuited to one of your refinement37 that I was made angry by the thought of it. Happily it is coming to an end, and I shall be greatly relieved when I know that you have left the house of business.
‘You remember that we are to be friends. I should be much less than your friend if I did not desire for you a position very different from that which necessity forced upon you. Thank you very much for the promise to tell me how you like the new employment and your new friends. Shall you not henceforth be at leisure on other days besides Sunday? As you will now be near Regent’s Park, perhaps I may hope to meet you there some evening before long. I would go any distance to see you and speak with you for only a few minutes.
‘Do forgive my impertinence, and believe me, dear Miss Madden. — Ever yours,
EDMUND WIDDOWSON.’
Now this undoubtedly38 might be considered a love-letter, and it was the first of its kind that Monica had ever received. No man had ever written to her that he was willing to go ‘any distance’ for the reward of looking on her face. She read the composition many times, and with many thoughts. It did not enchant39 her; presently she felt it to be dull and prosy — anything but the ideal of a love-letter, even at this early stage.
The remarks concerning Widdowson made in the bedroom by the girl who fancied her asleep had greatly disturbed her conception of him. He was old, and looked still older to a casual eye. He had a stiff dry way, and already had begun to show how precise and exacting40 he could be. A year or two ago the image of such a man would have repelled41 her. She did not think it possible to regard him with warm feelings; yet, if he asked her to marry him — and that seemed likely to happen very soon — almost certainly her answer would be yes. Provided, of course, that all he had told her about himself could be in some satisfactory way confirmed.
Her acquaintance with him was an extraordinary thing. With what amazement42 and rapture43 would any one of her shop companions listen to the advances of a man who had six hundred a year! Yet Monica did not doubt this truthfulness44 and the honesty of his intentions. His life-story sounded credible45 enough, and the very dryness of his manner inspired confidence. As things went in the marriage war, she might esteem46 herself a most fortunate young woman. It seemed that he had really fallen in love with her; he might prove a devoted47 husband. She felt no love in return; but between the prospect48 of a marriage of esteem and that of no marriage at all there was little room for hesitation49. The chances were that she might never again receive an offer from a man whose social standing she could respect.
In the meantime there had come a civil little note from the girl whose rooms she was to share. ‘Miss Barfoot has spoken of you so favourably50 that I did not think it necessary to see you before consenting to what she suggested. Perhaps she has told you that I have my own furniture; it is very plain, but, I think, comfortable. For the two rooms, with attendance, I pay eight and sixpence a week; my landlady51 will ask eleven shillings when there are two of us, so that your share would be five-and-six. I hope you won’t think this is too much. I am a quiet and I think a very reasonable person.’ The signature was ‘Mildred H. Vesper.’
The day of release arrived. As it poured with rain all the morning, Monica the less regretted that she had been obliged to postpone52 her meeting with Widdowson. At breakfast-time she said good-bye to the three or four girls in whom she had any interest. Miss Eade was delighted to see her go. This rival finally out of the way, Mr. Bullivant might perchance turn his attention to the faithful admirer who remained.
She went by train to Great Portland Street, and thence by cab, with her two boxes, to Rutland Street, Hampstead Road — an uphill little street of small houses. When the cab stopped, the door of the house she sought at once opened, and on the threshold appeared a short, prim53, plain-featured girl, who smiled a welcome.
‘You are Miss Vesper?’ Monica said, approaching her.
‘Yes — very pleased to see you, Miss Madden. As London cabmen have a narrow view of their duties, I’ll help you to get the boxes in.’
Monica liked the girl at once. Jehu condescending54 to hand down the luggage, they transferred it to the foot of the staircase, then, the fare having been paid, went up to the second floor, which was the top of the house. Miss Vesper’s two rooms were very humble55, but homely56. She looked at Monica to remark the impression produced by them.
‘Will it do?’
‘Oh, very nicely indeed. After my quarters in Walworth Road! But I feel ashamed to intrude57 upon you.’
‘I have been trying to find someone to share my rent,’ said the other, with a simple frankness that was very agreeable. ‘Miss Barfoot was full of your praises — and indeed I think we may suit each other.’
‘I shall try to be as little disturbance58 to you as possible.’
‘And I to you. The street is a very quiet one. Up above here is Cumberland Market; a hay and straw market. Quite pleasant odours — country odours — reach us on market day. I am country-bred; that’s why I speak of such a trifle.’
‘So am I,’ said Monica. ‘I come from Somerset.’
‘And I from Hampshire. Do you know, I have a strong suspicion that all the really nice girls in London are country girls.’
Monica had to look at the speaker to be sure that this was said in pleasantry. Miss Vesper was fond of making dry little jokes in the gravest tone; only a twinkle of her eyes and a movement of her tight little lips betrayed her.
‘Shall I ask the landlady to help me up with the luggage?’
‘You are rather pale, Miss Madden. Better let me see to that. I have to go down to remind Mrs. Hocking to put salt into the saucepan with the potatoes. She cooks for me only on Sunday, and if I didn’t remind her every week she would boil the potatoes without salt. Such a state of mind is curious, but one ends by accepting it as a fact in nature.’
They joined in merry laughter. When Miss Vesper gave way to open mirth, she enjoyed it so thoroughly59 that it was a delight to look at her.
By the time dinner was over they were on excellent terms, and had exchanged a great deal of personal information. Mildred Vesper seemed to be one of the most contented60 of young women. She had sisters and brothers, whom she loved, all scattered61 about England in pursuit of a livelihood62; it was rare for any two of them to see each other, but she spoke of this as quite in the order of things. For Miss Barfoot her respect was unbounded.
‘She had made more of me than any one else could have done. When I first met her, three years ago, I was a simpleton; I thought myself ill-used because I had to work hard for next to no payment and live in solitude63. Now I should be ashamed to complain of what falls to the lot of thousands of girls.’
‘Do you like Miss Nunn?’ asked Monica.
‘Not so well as Miss Barfoot, but I think very highly of her. Her zeal64 makes her exaggerate a little now and then, but then the zeal is so splendid. I haven’t it myself — not in that form.’
‘You mean —’
‘I mean that I feel a shameful65 delight when I hear of a girl getting married. It’s very weak, no doubt; perhaps I shall improve as I grow older. But I have half a suspicion, do you know, that Miss Barfoot is not without the same weakness.’
Monica laughed, and spoke of something else. She was in good spirits; already her companion’s view of life began to have an effect upon her; she thought of people and things in a more lightsome way, and was less disposed to commiserate66 herself.
The bedroom which both were to occupy might with advantage have been larger, but they knew that many girls of instinct no less delicate than their own had to endure far worse accommodation in London — where poverty pays for its sheltered breathing-space at so much a square foot. It was only of late that Miss Vesper had been able to buy furniture (four sovereigns it cost in all), and thus to allow herself the luxury of two rooms at the rent she previously67 paid for one. Miss Barfoot did not remunerate her workers on a philanthropic scale, but strictly68 in accordance with market prices; common sense dictated69 this principle. In talking over their arrangements, Monica decided to expend23 a few shillings on the purchase of a chair-bedstead for her own use.
‘I often have nightmares,’ she remarked, ‘and kick a great deal. It wouldn’t be nice to give you bruises70.’
A week passed. Alice had written from Yatton, and in a cheerful tone. Virginia, chronically71 excited, had made calls at Rutland Street and at Queen’s Road; she talked like one who had suddenly received a great illumination, and her zeal in the cause of independent womanhood rivalled Miss Nunn’s. Without enthusiasm, but seemingly contented, Monica worked at the typewriting machine, and had begun certain studies which her friends judged to be useful. She experienced a growth of self-respect. It was much to have risen above the status of shop-girl, and the change of moral atmosphere had a very beneficial effect upon her.
Mildred Vesper was a studious little person, after a fashion of her own. She possessed72 four volumes of Maunder’s ‘Treasuries’, and to one or other of these she applied73 herself for at least an hour every evening.
‘By nature,’ she said, when Monica sought an explanation of this study, ‘my mind is frivolous74. What I need is a store of solid information, to reflect upon. No one could possibly have a worse memory, but by persevering75 I manage to learn one or two facts a day.’
Monica glanced at the books now and then, but had no desire to cultivate Maunder’s acquaintance. Instead of reading, she meditated76 the problems of her own life.
Edmund Widdowson, of course, wrote to her at the new address. In her reply she again postponed77 their meeting. Whenever she went out in the evening, it was with expectation of seeing him somewhere in the neighbourhood; she felt assured that he had long ago come to look at the house, and more likely than not his eyes had several times been upon her. That did not matter; her life was innocent, and Widdowson might watch her coming and going as much as he would.
At length, about nine o’clock one evening, she came face to face with him. It was in Hampstead Road; she had been buying at a draper’s, and carried the little parcel. At the moment of recognition, Widdowson’s face so flushed and brightened that Monica could not help a sympathetic feeling of pleasure.
‘Why are you so cruel to me?’ he said in a low voice, as she gave her hand. ‘What a time since I saw you!’
‘Is that really true?’ she replied, with an air more resembling coquetry than any he had yet seen in her.
‘Since I spoke to you, then.’
‘When did you see me?’
‘Three evenings ago. You were walking in Tottenham Court Road with a young lady.’
‘Miss Vesper, the friend I live with.’
‘Will you give me a few minutes now?’ he asked humbly78. ‘Is it too late?’
For reply Monica moved slowly on. They turned up one of the ways parallel with Rutland Street, and so came into the quiet district that skirts Regent’s Park, Widdowson talking all the way in a strain of all but avowed79 tenderness, his head bent80 towards her and his voice so much subdued81 that occasionally she lost a few words.
‘I can’t live without seeing you,’ he said at length. ‘If you refuse to meet me, I have no choice but to come wandering about the places where you are. Don’t, pray don’t think I spy upon you. Indeed, it is only just to see your face or your form as you walk along. When I have had my journey in vain I go back in misery82. You are never out of my thoughts — never.’
‘I am sorry for that, Mr. Widdowson.’
‘Sorry? Are you really sorry? Do you think of me with less friendliness83 than when we had our evening on the river?’
‘Oh, not with less friendliness. But if I only make you unhappy —’
‘In one way unhappy, but as no one else ever had the power to. If you would let me meet you at certain times my restlessness would be at an end. The summer is going so quickly. Won’t you come for that drive with me next Sunday? I will be waiting for you at any place you like to appoint. If you could imagine what joy it would give me!’
Presently Monica assented84. If it were fine, she would be by the southeast entrance to Regent’s Park at two o’clock. He thanked her with words of the most submissive gratitude85, and then they parted.
The day proved doubtful, but she kept her appointment. Widdowson was on the spot with horse and trap. These were not, as he presently informed Monica, his own property, but hired from a livery stable, according to his custom.
‘It won’t rain,’ he exclaimed, gazing at the sky. ‘It shan’t rain! These few hours are too precious to me.’
‘It would be very awkward if it did,’ Monica replied, in merry humour, as they drove along.
The sky threatened till sundown, but Widdowson was able to keep declaring that rain would not come. He took a south-westward course, crossed Waterloo Bridge, and thence by the highways made for Herne Hill. Monica observed that he made a short detour86 to avoid Walworth Road. She asked his reason.
‘I hate the road!’ Widdowson answered, with vehemence87.
‘You hate it?’
‘Because you slaved and suffered there. If I had the power, I would destroy it — every house. Many a time,’ he added, in a lower voice, ‘when you were lying asleep, I walked up and down there in horrible misery.’
‘Just because I had to stand at a counter?’
‘Not only that. It wasn’t fit for you to work in that way — but the people about you! I hated every face of man or woman that passed along the street.’
‘I didn’t like the society.’
‘I should hope not. Of course, I know you didn’t. Why did you ever come to such a place?’
There was severity rather than sympathy in his look.
‘I was tired of the dull country life,’ Monica replied frankly88. ‘And then I didn’t know what the shops and the people were like.’
‘Do you need a life of excitement?’ he asked, with a sidelong glance.
‘Excitement? No, but one must have change.’
When they reached Herne Hill, Widdowson became silent, and presently he allowed the horse to walk.
‘That is my house, Miss Madden — the right-hand one.
Monica looked, and saw two little villas89, built together with stone facings, porches at the doors and ornamented90 gables.
‘I only wanted to show it you,’ he added quickly. ‘There’s nothing pretty or noticeable about it, and it isn’t at all grandly furnished. My old housekeeper91 and one servant manage to keep it in order.’
They passed, and Monica did not allow herself to look back.
‘I think it’s a nice house,’ she said presently.
‘All my life I have wished to have a house of my own, but I didn’t dare to hope I ever should. Men in general don’t seem to care so long as they have lodgings that suit them — I mean unmarried men. But I always wanted to live alone — without strangers, that is to say. I told you that I am not very sociable92. When I got my house, I was like a child with a toy; I couldn’t sleep for satisfaction. I used to walk all over it, day after day, before it was furnished. There was something that delighted me in the sound of my footsteps on the staircases and the bare floors. Here I shall live and die, I kept saying to myself. Not in solitude, I hoped. Perhaps I might meet some one —’
Monica interrupted him to ask a question about some object in the landscape. He answered her very briefly93, and for a long time neither spoke. Then the girl, glancing at him with a smile of apology, said in a gentle tone —
‘You were telling me how the house pleased you. Have you still the same pleasure in living there?’
‘Yes. But lately I have been hoping — I daren’t say more. You will interrupt me again.’
‘Which way are we going now, Mr. Widdowson?’
‘To Streatham, then on to Carshalton. At five o’clock we will use our right as travellers, and get some innkeeper to make tea for us. Look, the sun is trying to break through; we shall have a fine evening yet. May I, without rudeness, say that you look better since you left that abominable94 place.’
‘Oh, I feel better.’
After keeping his look fixed95 for a long time on the horse’s ears, Widdowson turned gravely to his companion.
‘I told you about my sister-inlaw. Would you be willing to make her acquaintance?’
‘I don’t feel able to do that, Mr. Widdowson,’ Monica answered with decision.
Prepared for this reply, he began a long and urgent persuasion96. It was useless; Monica listened quietly, but without sign of yielding. The subject dropped, and they talked of indifferent things.
On the homeward drive, when the dull sky grew dusk about them, and the suburban97 street-lamps began to show themselves in long glimmering98 lines, Widdowson returned with shamefaced courage to the subject which for some hours had been in abeyance99.
‘I can’t part from you this evening without a word of hope to remember. You know that I want you to be my wife. Will you tell me if there is anything I can say or do to make your consent possible? Have you any doubt of me?’
‘No doubt whatever of your sincerity100.’
‘In one sense, I am still a stranger to you. Will you give me the Opportunity of making things between us more regular? Will you allow me to meet some friend of yours whom you trust?’
‘I had rather you didn’t yet.’
‘You wish to know still more of me, personally?’
‘Yes — I think I must know you much better before I can consent to any step of that kind.’
‘But,’ he urged, ‘if we became acquaintances in the ordinary way, and knew each other’s friends, wouldn’t that be most satisfactory to you?’
‘It might be. But you forget that so much would have to be explained. I have behaved very strangely. If I told everything to my friends I should leave myself no choice.’
‘Oh, why not? You would be absolutely free. I could no more than try to recommend myself to you. If I am so unhappy as to fail, how would you be anything but quite free?’
‘But surely you must understand me. In this position, I must either not speak of you at all, or make it known that I am engaged to you. I can’t have it taken for granted that I am engaged to you when I don’t wish to be.’
Widdowson’s head drooped101; he set his lips in a hard gloomy expression.
‘I have behaved very imprudently,’ continued the girl. But I don’t see — I can’t see — what else I could have done. Things are so badly arranged. It wasn’t possible for us to be introduced by any one who knew us both, so I had either to break off your acquaintance after that first conversation, or conduct myself as I have been doing. I think it’s a very hard position. My sisters would call me an immodest girl, but I don’t think it is true. I may perhaps come to feel you as a girl ought to when she marries, and how else can I tell unless I meet you and talk with you? And your position is just the same. I don’t blame you for a moment; I think it would be ridiculous to blame you. Yet we have gone against the ordinary rule, and people would make us suffer for it — or me, at all events.
Her voice at the close was uncertain. Widdowson looked at her with eyes of passionate102 admiration103.
‘Thank you for saying that — for putting it so well, and so kindly104 for me. Let us disregard people, then. Let us go on seeing each other. I love you with all my soul’— he choked a little at this first utterance105 of the solemn word —‘and your rules shall be mine. Give me a chance of winning you. Tell me if I offend you in anything — if there’s anything you dislike in me.’
‘Will you cease coming to look for me when I don’t know of it?’
‘I promise you. I will never come again. And you will meet me a little oftener?’
‘I will see you once every week. But I must still be perfectly free.’
‘Perfectly! I will only try to win you as any man may who loves a woman.’
The tired horse clattered106 upon the hard highway and clouds gathered for a night of storm.
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abode
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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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junction
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| n.连接，接合；交叉点，接合处，枢纽站 | |
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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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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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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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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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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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13
delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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14
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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15
croaking
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| v.呱呱地叫( croak的现在分词 )；用粗的声音说 | |
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16
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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18
reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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19
antithesis
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| n.对立；相对 | |
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conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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21
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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22
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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23
expend
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| vt.花费，消费，消耗 | |
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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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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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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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incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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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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salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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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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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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postscript
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| n.附言，又及；(正文后的)补充说明 | |
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36
misgiving
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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39
enchant
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| vt.使陶醉，使入迷；使着魔，用妖术迷惑 | |
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exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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41
repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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43
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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truthfulness
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| n. 符合实际 | |
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credible
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| adj.可信任的，可靠的 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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49
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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50
favourably
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| adv. 善意地，赞成地 =favorably | |
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51
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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52
postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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53
prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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54
condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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57
intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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58
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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63
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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commiserate
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| v.怜悯，同情 | |
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67
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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68
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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bruises
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| n.瘀伤，伤痕，擦伤( bruise的名词复数 ) | |
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chronically
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| ad.长期地 | |
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72
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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73
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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74
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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75
persevering
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| a.坚忍不拔的 | |
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76
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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78
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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79
avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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80
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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81
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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82
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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83
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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84
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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85
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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86
detour
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| n.绕行的路，迂回路；v.迂回，绕道 | |
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87
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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88
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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89
villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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91
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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92
sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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93
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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94
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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95
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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96
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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97
suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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98
glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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99
abeyance
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| n.搁置，缓办，中止，产权未定 | |
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100
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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101
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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102
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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103
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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104
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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105
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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106
clattered
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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