‘That dolls’ dressmaker,’ said Bradley, ‘is favourable4 neither to me nor to you, Hexam.’
‘A pert crooked5 little chit, Mr Headstone! I knew she would put herself in the way, if she could, and would be sure to strike in with something impertinent. It was on that account that I proposed our going to the City to-night and meeting my sister.’
‘So I supposed,’ said Bradley, getting his gloves on his nervous hands as he walked. ‘So I supposed.’
‘Nobody but my sister,’ pursued Charley, ‘would have found out such an extraordinary companion. She has done it in a ridiculous fancy of giving herself up to another. She told me so, that night when we went there.’
‘Why should she give herself up to the dressmaker?’ asked Bradley.
‘Oh!’ said the boy, colouring. ‘One of her romantic ideas! I tried to convince her so, but I didn’t succeed. However, what we have got to do, is, to succeed to-night, Mr Headstone, and then all the rest follows.’
‘You are still sanguine6, Hexam.’
‘Certainly I am, sir. Why, we have everything on our side.’
‘Except your sister, perhaps,’ thought Bradley. But he only gloomily thought it, and said nothing.
‘Everything on our side,’ repeated the boy with boyish confidence. ‘Respectability, an excellent connexion for me, common sense, everything!’
‘To be sure, your sister has always shown herself a devoted7 sister,’ said Bradley, willing to sustain himself on even that low ground of hope.
‘Naturally, Mr Headstone, I have a good deal of influence with her. And now that you have honoured me with your confidence and spoken to me first, I say again, we have everything on our side.’
And Bradley thought again, ‘Except your sister, perhaps.’
A grey dusty withered9 evening in London city has not a hopeful aspect. The closed warehouses10 and offices have an air of death about them, and the national dread11 of colour has an air of mourning. The towers and steeples of the many houseencompassed churches, dark and dingy12 as the sky that seems descending13 on them, are no relief to the general gloom; a sun-dial on a church-wall has the look, in its useless black shade, of having failed in its business enterprise and stopped payment for ever; melancholy14 waifs and strays of housekeepers15 and porter sweep melancholy waifs and strays of papers and pins into the kennels16, and other more melancholy waifs and strays explore them, searching and stooping and poking17 for anything to sell. The set of humanity outward from the City is as a set of prisoners departing from gaol18, and dismal19 Newgate seems quite as fit a stronghold for the mighty20 Lord Mayor as his own state-dwelling.
On such an evening, when the city grit21 gets into the hair and eyes and skin, and when the fallen leaves of the few unhappy city trees grind down in corners under wheels of wind, the schoolmaster and the pupil emerged upon the Leadenhall Street region, spying eastward22 for Lizzie. Being something too soon in their arrival, they lurked23 at a corner, waiting for her to appear. The bestlooking among us will not look very well, lurking24 at a corner, and Bradley came out of that disadvantage very poorly indeed.
‘Here she comes, Mr Headstone! Let us go forward and meet her.’
As they advanced, she saw them coming, and seemed rather troubled. But she greeted her brother with the usual warmth, and touched the extended hand of Bradley.
‘Why, where are you going, Charley, dear?’ she asked him then.
‘Nowhere. We came on purpose to meet you.’
‘To meet me, Charley?’
‘Yes. We are going to walk with you. But don’t let us take the great leading streets where every one walks, and we can’t hear ourselves speak. Let us go by the quiet backways. Here’s a large paved court by this church, and quiet, too. Let us go up here.’
‘But it’s not in the way, Charley.’
‘Yes it is,’ said the boy, petulantly25. ‘It’s in my way, and my way is yours.’
She had not released his hand, and, still holding it, looked at him with a kind of appeal. He avoided her eyes, under pretence26 of saying, ‘Come along, Mr Headstone.’ Bradley walked at his side — not at hers — and the brother and sister walked hand in hand. The court brought them to a churchyard; a paved square court, with a raised bank of earth about breast high, in the middle, enclosed by iron rails. Here, conveniently and heathfully elevated above the level of the living, were the dead, and the tombstones; some of the latter droopingly inclined from the perpendicular27, as if they were ashamed of the lies they told.
They paced the whole of this place once, in a constrained28 and uncomfortable manner, when the boy stopped and said:
‘Lizzie, Mr Headstone has something to say to you. I don’t wish to be an interruption either to him or to you, and so I’ll go and take a little stroll and come back. I know in a general way what Mr Headstone intends to say, and I very highly approve of it, as I hope — and indeed I do not doubt — you will. I needn’t tell you, Lizzie, that I am under great obligations to Mr Headstone, and that I am very anxious for Mr Headstone to succeed in all he undertakes. As I hope — and as, indeed, I don’t doubt — you must be.’
‘Charley,’ returned his sister, detaining his hand as he withdrew it, ‘I think you had better stay. I think Mr Headstone had better not say what he thinks of saying.’
‘Why, how do you know what it is?’ returned the boy.
‘Perhaps I don’t, but —’
‘Perhaps you don’t? No, Liz, I should think not. If you knew what it was, you would give me a very different answer. There; let go; be sensible. I wonder you don’t remember that Mr Headstone is looking on.’
She allowed him to separate himself from her, and he, after saying, ‘Now Liz, be a rational girl and a good sister,’ walked away. She remained standing29 alone with Bradley Headstone, and it was not until she raised her eyes, that he spoke8.
‘I said,’ he began, ‘when I saw you last, that there was something unexplained, which might perhaps influence you. I have come this evening to explain it. I hope you will not judge of me by my hesitating manner when I speak to you. You see me at my greatest disadvantage. It is most unfortunate for me that I wish you to see me at my best, and that I know you see me at my worst.’
She moved slowly on when he paused, and he moved slowly on beside her.
‘It seems egotistical to begin by saying so much about myself,’ he resumed, ‘but whatever I say to you seems, even in my own ears, below what I want to say, and different from what I want to say. I can’t help it. So it is. You are the ruin of me.’
She started at the passionate30 sound of the last words, and at the passionate action of his hands, with which they were accompanied.
‘Yes! you are the ruin — the ruin — the ruin — of me. I have no resources in myself, I have no confidence in myself, I have no government of myself when you are near me or in my thoughts. And you are always in my thoughts now. I have never been quit of you since I first saw you. Oh, that was a wretched day for me! That was a wretched, miserable31 day!’
A touch of pity for him mingled32 with her dislike of him, and she said: ‘Mr Headstone, I am grieved to have done you any harm, but I have never meant it.’
‘There!’ he cried, despairingly. ‘Now, I seem to have reproached you, instead of revealing to you the state of my own mind! Bear with me. I am always wrong when you are in question. It is my doom33.’
Struggling with himself, and by times looking up at the deserted34 windows of the houses as if there could be anything written in their grimy panes35 that would help him, he paced the whole pavement at her side, before he spoke again.
‘I must try to give expression to what is in my mind; it shall and must be spoken. Though you see me so confounded — though you strike me so helpless — I ask you to believe that there are many people who think well of me; that there are some people who highly esteem36 me; that I have in my way won a Station which is considered worth winning.’
‘Surely, Mr Headstone, I do believe it. Surely I have always known it from Charley.’
‘I ask you to believe that if I were to offer my home such as it is, my station such as it is, my affections such as they are, to any one of the best considered, and best qualified37, and most distinguished38, among the young women engaged in my calling, they would probably be accepted. Even readily accepted.’
‘I do not doubt it,’ said Lizzie, with her eyes upon the ground.
‘I have sometimes had it in my thoughts to make that offer and to settle down as many men of my class do: I on the one side of a school, my wife on the other, both of us interested in the same work.’
‘Why have you not done so?’ asked Lizzie Hexam. ‘Why do you not do so?’
‘Far better that I never did! The only one grain of comfort I have had these many weeks,’ he said, always speaking passionately39, and, when most emphatic40, repeating that former action of his hands, which was like flinging his heart’s blood down before her in drops upon the pavement-stones; ‘the only one grain of comfort I have had these many weeks is, that I never did. For if I had, and if the same spell had come upon me for my ruin, I know I should have broken that tie asunder41 as if it had been thread.’
She glanced at him with a glance of fear, and a shrinking gesture. He answered, as if she had spoken.
‘No! It would not have been voluntary on my part, any more than it is voluntary in me to be here now. You draw me to you. If I were shut up in a strong prison, you would draw me out. I should break through the wall to come to you. If I were lying on a sick bed, you would draw me up — to stagger to your feet and fall there.’
The wild energy of the man, now quite let loose, was absolutely terrible. He stopped and laid his hand upon a piece of the coping of the burial-ground enclosure, as if he would have dislodged the stone.
‘No man knows till the time comes, what depths are within him. To some men it never comes; let them rest and be thankful! To me, you brought it; on me, you forced it; and the bottom of this raging sea,’ striking himself upon the breast, ‘has been heaved up ever since.’
‘Mr Headstone, I have heard enough. Let me stop you here. It will be better for you and better for me. Let us find my brother.’
‘Not yet. It shall and must be spoken. I have been in torments42 ever since I stopped short of it before. You are alarmed. It is another of my miseries43 that I cannot speak to you or speak of you without stumbling at every syllable44, unless I let the check go altogether and run mad. Here is a man lighting45 the lamps. He will be gone directly. I entreat46 of you let us walk round this place again. You have no reason to look alarmed; I can restrain myself, and I will.’
She yielded to the entreaty47 — how could she do otherwise! — and they paced the stones in silence. One by one the lights leaped up making the cold grey church tower more remote, and they were alone again. He said no more until they had regained48 the spot where he had broken off; there, he again stood still, and again grasped the stone. In saying what he said then, he never looked at her; but looked at it and wrenched49 at it.
‘You know what I am going to say. I love you. What other men may mean when they use that expression, I cannot tell; what I mean is, that I am under the influence of some tremendous attraction which I have resisted in vain, and which overmasters me. You could draw me to fire, you could draw me to water, you could draw me to the gallows51, you could draw me to any death, you could draw me to anything I have most avoided, you could draw me to any exposure and disgrace. This and the confusion of my thoughts, so that I am fit for nothing, is what I mean by your being the ruin of me. But if you would return a favourable answer to my offer of myself in marringe, you could draw me to any good — every good — with equal force. My circumstances are quite easy, and you would want for nothing. My reputation stands quite high, and would be a shield for yours. If you saw me at my work, able to do it well and respected in it, you might even come to take a sort of pride in me; — I would try hard that you should. Whatever considerations I may have thought of against this offer, I have conquered, and I make it with all my heart. Your brother favours me to the utmost, and it is likely that we might live and work together; anyhow, it is certain that he would have my best influence and support. I don’t know what I could say more if I tried. I might only weaken what is ill enough said as it is. I only add that if it is any claim on you to be in earnest, I am in thorough earnest, dreadful earnest.’
The powdered mortar52 from under the stone at which he wrenched, rattled53 on the pavement to confirm his words.
‘Mr Headstone —’
‘Stop! I implore54 you, before you answer me, to walk round this place once more. It will give you a minute’s time to think, and me a minute’s time to get some fortitude55 together.’
Again she yielded to the entreaty, and again they came back to the same place, and again he worked at the stone.
‘Is it,’ he said, with his attention apparently56 engrossed57 by it, ‘yes, or no?’
‘Mr Headstone, I thank you sincerely, I thank you gratefully, and hope you may find a worthy58 wife before long and be very happy. But it is no.’
‘Is no short time necessary for reflection; no weeks or days?’ he asked, in the same half-suffocated way.
‘None whatever.’
‘Are you quite decided59, and is there no chance of any change in my favour?’
‘I am quite decided, Mr Headstone, and I am bound to answer I am certain there is none.’
‘Then,’ said he, suddenly changing his tone and turning to her, and bringing his clenched60 hand down upon the stone with a force that laid the knuckles61 raw and bleeding; ‘then I hope that I may never kill him!’
The dark look of hatred62 and revenge with which the words broke from his livid lips, and with which he stood holding out his smeared63 hand as if it held some weapon and had just struck a mortal blow, made her so afraid of him that she turned to run away. But he caught her by the arm.
‘Mr Headstone, let me go. Mr Headstone, I must call for help!’
‘It is I who should call for help,’ he said; ‘you don’t know yet how much I need it.’
The working of his face as she shrank from it, glancing round for her brother and uncertain what to do, might have extorted64 a cry from her in another instant; but all at once he sternly stopped it and fixed65 it, as if Death itself had done so.
‘There! You see I have recovered myself. Hear me out.’
With much of the dignity of courage, as she recalled her selfreliant life and her right to be free from accountability to this man, she released her arm from his grasp and stood looking full at him. She had never been so handsome, in his eyes. A shade came over them while he looked back at her, as if she drew the very light out of them to herself.
‘This time, at least, I will leave nothing unsaid,’ he went on, folding his hands before him, clearly to prevent his being betrayed into any impetuous gesture; ‘this last time at least I will not be tortured with after-thoughts of a lost opportunity. Mr Eugene Wrayburn.’
‘Was it of him you spoke in your ungovernable rage and violence?’ Lizzie Hexam demanded with spirit.
He bit his lip, and looked at her, and said never a word.
‘Was it Mr Wrayburn that you threatened?’
He bit his lip again, and looked at her, and said never a word.
‘You asked me to hear you out, and you will not speak. Let me find my brother.’
‘Stay! I threatened no one.’
Her look dropped for an instant to his bleeding hand. He lifted it to his mouth, wiped it on his sleeve, and again folded it over the other. ‘Mr Eugene Wrayburn,’ he repeated.
‘Why do you mention that name again and again, Mr Headstone?’
‘Because it is the text of the little I have left to say. Observe! There are no threats in it. If I utter a threat, stop me, and fasten it upon me. Mr Eugene Wrayburn.’
A worse threat than was conveyed in his manner of uttering the name, could hardly have escaped him.
‘He haunts you. You accept favours from him. You are willing enough to listen to HIM. I know it, as well as he does.’
‘Mr Wrayburn has been considerate and good to me, sir,’ said Lizzie, proudly, ‘in connexion with the death and with the memory of my poor father.’
‘No doubt. He is of course a very considerate and a very good man, Mr Eugene Wrayburn.’
‘He is nothing to you, I think,’ said Lizzie, with an indignation she could not repress.
‘Oh yes, he is. There you mistake. He is much to me.’
‘What can he be to you?’
‘He can be a rival to me among other things,’ said Bradley.
‘Mr Headstone,’ returned Lizzie, with a burning face, ‘it is cowardly in you to speak to me in this way. But it makes me able to tell you that I do not like you, and that I never have liked you from the first, and that no other living creature has anything to do with the effect you have produced upon me for yourself.’
His head bent66 for a moment, as if under a weight, and he then looked up again, moistening his lips. ‘I was going on with the little I had left to say. I knew all this about Mr Eugene Wrayhurn, all the while you were drawing me to you. I strove against the knowledge, but quite in vain. It made no difference in me. With Mr Eugene Wrayburn in my mind, I went on. With Mr Eugene Wrayburn in my mind, I spoke to you just now. With Mr Eugene Wrayburn in my mind, I have been set aside and I have been cast out.’
‘If you give those names to my thanking you for your proposal and declining it, is it my fault, Mr Headstone?’ said Lizzie, compassionating68 the bitter struggle he could not conceal69, almost as much as she was repelled70 and alarmed by it.
‘I am not complaining,’ he returned, ‘I am only stating the case. I had to wrestle71 with my self-respect when I submitted to be drawn72 to you in spite of Mr Wrayburn. You may imagine how low my self-respect lies now.’
She was hurt and angry; but repressed herself in consideration of his suffering, and of his being her brother’s friend.
‘And it lies under his feet,’ said Bradley, unfolding his hands in spite of himself, and fiercely motioning with them both towards the stones of the pavement. ‘Remember that! It lies under that fellow’s feet, and he treads upon it and exults73 above it.’
‘He does not!’ said Lizzie.
‘He does!’ said Bradley. ‘I have stood before him face to face, and he crushed me down in the dirt of his contempt, and walked over me. Why? Because he knew with triumph what was in store for me to-night.’
‘O, Mr Headstone, you talk quite wildly.’
‘Quite collectedly. I know what I say too well. Now I have said all. I have used no threat, remember; I have done no more than show you how the case stands; — how the case stands, so far.’
At this moment her brother sauntered into view close by. She darted74 to him, and caught him by the hand. Bradley followed, and laid his heavy hand on the boy’s opposite shoulder.
‘Charley Hexam, I am going home. I must walk home by myself to-night, and get shut up in my room without being spoken to. Give me half an hour’s start, and let me be, till you find me at my work in the morning. I shall be at my work in the morning just as usual.’
Clasping his hands, he uttered a short unearthly broken cry, and went his way. The brother and sister were left looking at one another near a lamp in the solitary75 churchyard, and the boy’s face clouded and darkened, as he said in a rough tone: ‘What is the meaning of this? What have you done to my best friend? Out with the truth!’
‘Charley!’ said his sister. ‘Speak a little more considerately!’
‘I am not in the humour for consideration, or for nonsense of any sort,’ replied the boy. ‘What have you been doing? Why has Mr Headstone gone from us in that way?’
‘He asked me — you know he asked me — to be his wife, Charley.’
‘Well?’ said the boy, impatiently.
‘And I was obliged to tell him that I could not be his wife.’
‘You were obliged to tell him,’ repeated the boy angrily, between his teeth, and rudely pushing her away. ‘You were obliged to tell him! Do you know that he is worth fifty of you?’
‘It may easily be so, Charley, but I cannot marry him.’
‘You mean that you are conscious that you can’t appreciate him, and don’t deserve him, I suppose?’
‘I mean that I do not like him, Charley, and that I will never marry him.’
‘Upon my soul,’ exclaimed the boy, ‘you are a nice picture of a sister! Upon my soul, you are a pretty piece of disinterestedness76! And so all my endeavours to cancel the past and to raise myself in the world, and to raise you with me, are to be beaten down by YOUR low whims78; are they?’
‘I will not reproach you, Charley.’
‘Hear her!’ exclaimed the boy, looking round at the darkness. ‘She won’t reproach me! She does her best to destroy my fortunes and her own, and she won’t reproach me! Why, you’ll tell me, next, that you won’t reproach Mr Headstone for coming out of the sphere to which he is an ornament79, and putting himself at YOUR feet, to be rejected by YOU!’
‘No, Charley; I will only tell you, as I told himself, that I thank him for doing so, that I am sorry he did so, and that I hope he will do much better, and be happy.’
Some touch of compunction smote80 the boy’s hardening heart as he looked upon her, his patient little nurse in infancy81, his patient friend, adviser82, and reclaimer83 in boyhood, the self-forgetting sister who had done everything for him. His tone relented, and he drew her arm through his.
‘Now, come, Liz; don’t let us quarrel: let us be reasonable and talk this over like brother and sister. Will you listen to me?’
‘Oh, Charley!’ she replied through her starting tears; ‘do I not listen to you, and hear many hard things!’
‘Then I am sorry. There, Liz! I am unfeignedly sorry. Only you do put me out so. Now see. Mr Headstone is perfectly84 devoted to you. He has told me in the strongest manner that he has never been his old self for one single minute since I first brought him to see you. Miss Peecher, our schoolmistress — pretty and young, and all that — is known to be very much attached to him, and he won’t so much as look at her or hear of her. Now, his devotion to you must be a disinterested77 one; mustn’t it? If he married Miss Peecher, he would be a great deal better off in all worldly respects, than in marrying you. Well then; he has nothing to get by it, has he?’
‘Nothing, Heaven knows!’
‘Very well then,’ said the boy; ‘that’s something in his favour, and a great thing. Then I come in. Mr Headstone has always got me on, and he has a good deal in his power, and of course if he was my brother-in-law he wouldn’t get me on less, but would get me on more. Mr Headstone comes and confides85 in me, in a very delicate way, and says, “I hope my marrying your sister would be agreeable to you, Hexam, and useful to you?” I say, “There’s nothing in the world, Mr Headstone, that I could he better pleased with.” Mr Headstone says, “Then I may rely upon your intimate knowledge of me for your good word with your sister, Hexam?” And I say, “Certainly, Mr Headstone, and naturally I have a good deal of influence with her.” So I have; haven’t I, Liz?’
‘Yes, Charley.’
‘Well said! Now, you see, we begin to get on, the moment we begin to be really talking it over, like brother and sister. Very well. Then YOU come in. As Mr Headstone’s wife you would be occupying a most respectable station, and you would be holding a far better place in society than you hold now, and you would at length get quit of the river-side and the old disagreeables belonging to it, and you would be rid for good of dolls’ dressmakers and their drunken fathers, and the like of that. Not that I want to disparage86 Miss Jenny Wren50: I dare say she is all very well in her way; but her way is not your way as Mr Headstone’s wife. Now, you see, Liz, on all three accounts — on Mr Headstone’s, on mine, on yours — nothing could be better or more desirable.’
They were walking slowly as the boy spoke, and here he stood still, to see what effect he had made. His sister’s eyes were fixed upon him; but as they showed no yielding, and as she remained silent, he walked her on again. There was some discomfiture87 in his tone as he resumed, though he tried to conceal it.
‘Having so much influence with you, Liz, as I have, perhaps I should have done better to have had a little chat with you in the first instance, before Mr Headstone spoke for himself. But really all this in his favour seemed so plain and undeniable, and I knew you to have always been so reasonable and sensible, that I didn’t consider it worth while. Very likely that was a mistake of mine. However, it’s soon set right. All that need be done to set it right, is for you to tell me at once that I may go home and tell Mr Headstone that what has taken place is not final, and that it will all come round by-and-by.’
He stopped again. The pale face looked anxiously and lovingly at him, but she shook her head.
‘Can’t you speak?’ said the boy sharply.
‘I am very unwilling88 to speak, Charley. If I must, I must. I cannot authorize89 you to say any such thing to Mr Headstone: I cannot allow you to say any such thing to Mr Headstone. Nothing remains90 to be said to him from me, after what I have said for good and all, to-night.’
‘And this girl,’ cried the boy, contemptuously throwing her off again, ‘calls herself a sister!’
‘Charley, dear, that is the second time that you have almost struck me. Don’t be hurt by my words. I don’t mean — Heaven forbid! — that you intended it; but you hardly know with what a sudden swing you removed yourself from me.’
‘However!’ said the boy, taking no heed91 of the remonstrance92, and pursuing his own mortified93 disappointment, ‘I know what this means, and you shall not disgrace me.’
‘It means what I have told you, Charley, and nothing more.’
‘That’s not true,’ said the boy in a violent tone, ‘and you know it’s not. It means your precious Mr Wrayburn; that’s what it means.’
‘Charley! If you remember any old days of ours together, forbear!’
‘But you shall not disgrace me,’ doggedly94 pursued the boy. ‘I am determined95 that after I have climbed up out of the mire96, you shall not pull me down. You can’t disgrace me if I have nothing to do with you, and I will have nothing to do with you for the future.’
‘Charley! On many a night like this, and many a worse night, I have sat on the stones of the street, hushing you in my arms. Unsay those words without even saying you are sorry for them, and my arms are open to you still, and so is my heart.’
‘I’ll not unsay them. I’ll say them again. You are an inveterately97 bad girl, and a false sister, and I have done with you. For ever, I have done with you!’
He threw up his ungrateful and ungracious hand as if it set up a barrier between them, and flung himself upon his heel and left her. She remained impassive on the same spot, silent and motionless, until the striking of the church clock roused her, and she turned away. But then, with the breaking up of her immobility came the breaking up of the waters that the cold heart of the selfish boy had frozen. And ‘O that I were lying here with the dead!’ and ‘O Charley, Charley, that this should be the end of our pictures in the fire!’ were all the words she said, as she laid her face in her hands on the stone coping.
A figure passed by, and passed on, but stopped and looked round at her. It was the figure of an old man with a bowed head, wearing a large brimmed low-crowned hat, and a long-skirted coat. After hesitating a little, the figure turned back, and, advancing with an air of gentleness and compassion67, said:
‘Pardon me, young woman, for speaking to you, but you are under some distress98 of mind. I cannot pass upon my way and leave you weeping here alone, as if there was nothing in the place. Can I help you? Can I do anything to give you comfort?’
She raised her head at the sound of these kind words, and answered gladly, ‘O, Mr Riah, is it you?’
‘My daughter,’ said the old man, ‘I stand amazed! I spoke as to a stranger. Take my arm, take my arm. What grieves you? Who has done this? Poor girl, poor girl!’
‘My brother has quarrelled with me,’ sobbed99 Lizzie, ‘and renounced100 me.’
‘He is a thankless dog,’ said the Jew, angrily. ‘Let him go.’ Shake the dust from thy feet and let him go. Come, daughter! Come home with me — it is but across the road — and take a little time to recover your peace and to make your eyes seemly, and then I will bear you company through the streets. For it is past your usual time, and will soon be late, and the way is long, and there is much company out of doors to-night.’
She accepted the support he offered her, and they slowly passed out of the churchyard. They were in the act of emerging into the main thoroughfare, when another figure loitering discontentedly by, and looking up the street and down it, and all about, started and exclaimed, ‘Lizzie! why, where have you been? Why, what’s the matter?’
As Eugene Wrayburn thus addressed her, she drew closer to the Jew, and bent her head. The Jew having taken in the whole of Eugene at one sharp glance, cast his eyes upon the ground, and stood mute.
‘Lizzie, what is the matter?’
‘Mr Wrayburn, I cannot tell you now. I cannot tell you to-night, if I ever can tell you. Pray leave me.’
‘But, Lizzie, I came expressly to join you. I came to walk home with you, having dined at a coffee-house in this neighbourhood and knowing your hour. And I have been lingering about,’ added Eugene, ‘like a bailiff; or,’ with a look at Riah, ‘an old clothesman.’
The Jew lifted up his eyes, and took in Eugene once more, at another glance.
‘Mr Wrayburn, pray, pray, leave me with this protector. And one thing more. Pray, pray be careful of yourself.’
‘Mysteries of Udolpho!’ said Eugene, with a look of wonder. ‘May I be excused for asking, in the elderly gentleman’s presence, who is this kind protector?’
‘A trustworthy friend,’ said Lizzie.
‘I will relieve him of his trust,’ returned Eugene. ‘But you must tell me, Lizzie, what is the matter?’
‘Her brother is the matter,’ said the old man, lifting up his eyes again.
‘Our brother the matter?’ returned Eugene, with airy contempt. ‘Our brother is not worth a thought, far less a tear. What has our brother done?’
The old man lifted up his eyes again, with one grave look at Wrayburn, and one grave glance at Lizzie, as she stood looking down. Both were so full of meaning that even Eugene was checked in his light career, and subsided101 into a thoughtful ‘Humph!’
With an air of perfect patience the old man, remaining mute and keeping his eyes cast down, stood, retaining Lizzie’s arm, as though in his habit of passive endurance, it would be all one to him if he had stood there motionless all night.
‘If Mr Aaron,’ said Eugene, who soon found this fatiguing102, ‘will be good enough to relinquish103 his charge to me, he will be quite free for any engagement he may have at the Synagogue. Mr Aaron, will you have the kindness?’
But the old man stood stock still.
‘Good evening, Mr Aaron,’ said Eugene, politely; ‘we need not detain you.’ Then turning to Lizzie, ‘Is our friend Mr Aaron a little deaf?’
‘My hearing is very good, Christian104 gentleman,’ replied the old man, calmly; ‘but I will hear only one voice to-night, desiring me to leave this damsel before I have conveyed her to her home. If she requests it, I will do it. I will do it for no one else.’
‘May I ask why so, Mr Aaron?’ said Eugene, quite undisturbed in his ease.
‘Excuse me. If she asks me, I will tell her,’ replied the old man. ‘I will tell no one else.’
‘I do not ask you,’ said Lizzie, ‘and I beg you to take me home. Mr Wrayburn, I have had a bitter trial to-night, and I hope you will not think me ungrateful, or mysterious, or changeable. I am neither; I am wretched. Pray remember what I said to you. Pray, pray, take care.’
‘My dear Lizzie,’ he returned, in a low voice, bending over her on the other side; ‘of what? Of whom?’
‘Of any one you have lately seen and made angry.’
He snapped his fingers and laughed. ‘Come,’ said he, ‘since no better may be, Mr Aaron and I will divide this trust, and see you home together. Mr Aaron on that side; I on this. If perfectly agreeable to Mr Aaron, the escort will now proceed.’
He knew his power over her. He knew that she would not insist upon his leaving her. He knew that, her fears for him being aroused, she would be uneasy if he were out of her sight. For all his seeming levity105 and carelessness, he knew whatever he chose to know of the thoughts of her heart.
And going on at her side, so gaily106, regardless of all that had been urged against him; so superior in his sallies and self-possession to the gloomy constraint107 of her suitor and the selfish petulance108 of her brother; so faithful to her, as it seemed, when her own stock was faithless; what an immense advantage, what an overpowering influence, were his that night! Add to the rest, poor girl, that she had heard him vilified109 for her sake, and that she had suffered for his, and where the wonder that his occasional tones of serious interest (setting off his carelessness, as if it were assumed to calm her), that his lightest touch, his lightest look, his very presence beside her in the dark common street, were like glimpses of an enchanted110 world, which it was natural for jealousy111 and malice112 and all meanness to be unable to bear the brightness of, and to gird at as bad spirits might.
Nothing more being said of repairing to Riah’s, they went direct to Lizzie’s lodging113. A little short of the house-door she parted from them, and went in alone.
‘Mr Aaron,’ said Eugene, when they were left together in the street, ‘with many thanks for your company, it remains for me unwillingly114 to say Farewell.’
‘Sir,’ returned the other, ‘I give you good night, and I wish that you were not so thoughtless.’
‘Mr Aaron,’ returned Eugene, ‘I give you good night, and I wish (for you are a little dull) that you were not so thoughtful.’
But now, that his part was played out for the evening, and when in turning his back upon the Jew he came off the stage, he was thoughtful himself. ‘How did Lightwood’s catechism run?’ he murmured, as he stopped to light his cigar. ‘What is to come of it? What are you doing? Where are you going? We shall soon know now. Ah!’ with a heavy sigh.
The heavy sigh was repeated as if by an echo, an hour afterwards, when Riah, who had been sitting on some dark steps in a corner over against the house, arose and went his patient way; stealing through the streets in his ancient dress, like the ghost of a departed Time.
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1
stipulating
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| v.（尤指在协议或建议中）规定，约定，讲明（条件等）( stipulate的现在分词 )；规定，明确要求 | |
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2
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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3
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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4
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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5
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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6
sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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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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8
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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9
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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10
warehouses
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| 仓库，货栈( warehouse的名词复数 ) | |
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11
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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12
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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13
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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14
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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15
housekeepers
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| n.（女）管家( housekeeper的名词复数 ) | |
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16
kennels
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| n.主人外出时的小动物寄养处，养狗场；狗窝( kennel的名词复数 )；养狗场 | |
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17
poking
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| n. 刺，戳，袋 vt. 拨开，刺，戳 vi. 戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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18
gaol
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| n.(jail)监狱；(不加冠词)监禁；vt.使…坐牢 | |
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19
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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20
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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21
grit
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| n.沙粒，决心，勇气；v.下定决心，咬紧牙关 | |
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22
eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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23
lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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24
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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25
petulantly
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26
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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27
perpendicular
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| adj.垂直的，直立的；n.垂直线，垂直的位置 | |
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28
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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29
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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30
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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31
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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32
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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33
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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34
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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35
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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36
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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37
qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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38
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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39
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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40
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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41
asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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42
torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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43
miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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44
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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45
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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46
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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47
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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48
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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49
wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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50
wren
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| n.鹪鹩；英国皇家海军女子服务队成员 | |
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51
gallows
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| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
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52
mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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53
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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54
implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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55
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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56
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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57
engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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58
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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59
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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60
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61
knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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62
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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63
smeared
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| 弄脏； 玷污； 涂抹； 擦上 | |
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64
extorted
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| v.敲诈( extort的过去式和过去分词 )；曲解 | |
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65
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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66
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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67
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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68
compassionating
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| v.同情（compassionate的现在分词形式） | |
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69
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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70
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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71
wrestle
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| vi.摔跤，角力；搏斗；全力对付 | |
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72
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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73
exults
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| 狂喜，欢跃( exult的第三人称单数 ) | |
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74
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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75
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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76
disinterestedness
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77
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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78
WHIMS
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| 虚妄，禅病 | |
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79
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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80
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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81
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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82
adviser
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| n.劝告者，顾问 | |
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83
reclaimer
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| n.回收程序 | |
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84
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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85
confides
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的第三人称单数 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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86
disparage
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| v.贬抑，轻蔑 | |
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87
discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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88
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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89
authorize
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| v.授权，委任；批准，认可 | |
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90
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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91
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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92
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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93
mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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94
doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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95
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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96
mire
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| n.泥沼，泥泞；v.使...陷于泥泞，使...陷入困境 | |
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97
inveterately
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| adv.根深蒂固地，积习地 | |
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98
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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99
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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100
renounced
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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101
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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102
fatiguing
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| a.使人劳累的 | |
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103
relinquish
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| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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104
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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105
levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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106
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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107
constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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108
petulance
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| n.发脾气，生气，易怒，暴躁，性急 | |
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109
vilified
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| v.中伤，诽谤( vilify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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110
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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111
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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112
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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113
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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114
unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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