Remote as he appeared from vulgar anxiety, he was the first to speak and betray his state.
“Pray, put up that watch. Impatience6 serves nothing,” he said, half-turning hastily to his brother behind him.
Hippias relinquished8 his pulse and mildly groaned9: “It’s no nightmare, this!”
His remark was unheard, and the bearing of it remained obscure. Adrian’s pen made a louder flourish on his manuscript; whether in commiseration11 or infernal glee, none might say.
“What are you writing?” the baronet inquired testily12 of Adrian, after a pause; twitched13, it may be, by a sort of jealousy14 of the wise youth’s coolness.
“Do I disturb you, sir?” rejoined Adrian. “I am engaged on a portion of a Proposal for uniting the Empires and Kingdoms of Europe under one Paternal15 Head, on the model of the ever-to-beadmired and lamented16 Holy Roman. This treats of the management of Youths and Maids, and of certain magisterial17 functions connected therewith. ‘It is decreed that these officers be all and every men of science,’ etc.” And Adrian cheerily drove his pen afresh.
Mrs. Doria took Lucy’s hand, mutely addressing encouragement to her, and Lucy brought as much of a smile as she could command to reply with.
“I fear we must give him up to-night,” observed Lady Blandish.
“If he said he would come, he will come,” Sir Austin interjected. Between him and the lady there was something of a contest secretly going on. He was conscious that nothing save perfect success would now hold this self-emancipating mind. She had seen him through.
“He declared to me he would be certain to come,” said Ripton; but he could look at none of them as he said it, for he was growing aware that Richard might have deceived him, and was feeling like a black conspirator18 against their happiness. He determined19 to tell the baronet what he knew, if Richard did not come by twelve.
“What is the time?” he asked Hippias in a modest voice.
“Time for me to be in bed,” growled20 Hippias, as if everybody present had been treating him badly.
Mrs. Berry came in to apprise21 Lucy that she was wanted above. She quietly rose. Sir Austin kissed her on the forehead, saying: “You had better not come down again, my child.” She kept her eyes on him. “Oblige me by retiring for the night,” he added. Lucy shook their hands, and went out, accompanied by Mrs. Doria.
“This agitation22 will be bad for the child,” he said, speaking to himself aloud.
Lady Blandish remarked: “I think she might just as well have returned. She will not sleep.”
“She will control herself for the child’s sake.”
“You ask too much of her.”
“Of her, not,” he emphasized.
It was twelve o’clock when Hippias shut his watch, and said with vehemence23: “I’m convinced my circulation gradually and steadily24 decreases!”
“Going back to the preHarvey period?” murmured Adrian as he wrote.
Sir Austin and Lady Blandish knew well that any comment would introduce them to the interior of his machinery25, the external view of which was sufficiently26 harrowing; so they maintained a discreet27 reserve. Taking it for acquiescence28 in his deplorable condition, Hippias resumed despairingly: “It’s a fact. I’ve brought you to see that. No one can be more moderate than I am, and yet I get worse. My system is organically sound — I believe: I do every possible thing, and yet I get worse. Nature never forgives! I’ll go to bed.”
The Dyspepsy departed unconsoled.
Sir Austin took up his brother’s thought: “I suppose nothing short of a miracle helps us when we have offended her.”
“Nothing short of a quack29 satisfies us,” said Adrian, applying wax to an envelope of official dimensions.
Ripton sat accusing his soul of cowardice30 while they talked; haunted by Lucy’s last look at him. He got up his courage presently and went round to Adrian, who, after a few whispered words, deliberately31 rose and accompanied him out of the room, shrugging. When they had gone, Lady Blandish said to the baronet: “He is not coming.”
“To-morrow, then, if not to-night,” he replied. “But I say he will come to-night.”
“You do really wish to see him united to his wife?”
The question made the baronet raise his brows with some displeasure.
“Can you ask me?”
“I mean,” said the ungenerous woman, “your System will require no further sacrifices from either of them?”
When he did answer, it was to say: “I think her altogether a superior person. I confess I should scarcely have hoped to find one like her.”
“Admit that your science does not accomplish everything.”
“No: it was presumptuous32 — beyond a certain point,” said the baronet, meaning deep things.
Lady Blandish eyed him. “Ah me!” she sighed, “if we would always be true to our own wisdom!”
“You are very singular to-night, Emmeline,” Sir Austin stopped his walk in front of her.
In truth, was she not unjust? Here was an offending son freely forgiven. Here was a young woman of humble34 birth freely accepted into his family and permitted to stand upon her qualities. Who would have done more — or as much? This lady, for instance, had the case been hers, would have fought it. All the people of position that he was acquainted with would have fought it, and that without feeling it so peculiarly. But while the baronet thought this, he did not think of the exceptional education his son had received. He took the common ground of fathers, forgetting his System when it was absolutely on trial. False to his son it could not be said that he had been: false to his System he was. Others saw it plainly, but he had to learn his lesson by and by.
Lady Blandish gave him her face; then stretched her hand to the table, saying, “Well! well!” She fingered a half-opened parcel lying there, and drew forth35 a little book she recognized. “Ha! what is this?” she said.
“Benson returned it this morning,” he informed her. “The stupid fellow took it away with him — by mischance, I am bound to believe.”
It was nothing other than the old Note-book. Lady Blandish turned over the leaves, and came upon the later jottings.
She read: “A maker36 of Proverbs — what is he but a narrow mind with the mouthpiece of narrower?”
“I do not agree with that,” she observed. He was in no humour for argument.
“Was your humility37 feigned38 when you wrote it?”
He merely said: “Consider the sort of minds influenced by set sayings. A proverb is the half-way-house to an Idea, I conceive; and the majority rest there content: can the keeper of such a house be flattered by his company?”
She felt her feminine intelligence swaying under him again. There must be greatness in a man who could thus speak of his own special and admirable aptitude39.
Further she read, “Which is the coward among us? —He who sneers40 at the failings of Humanity!”
“Oh! that is true! How much I admire that!” cried the dark-eyed dame41 as she beamed intellectual raptures42.
Another Aphorism43 seemed closely to apply to him: “There is no more grievous sight, as there is no greater perversion44, than a wise man at the mercy of his feelings.”
“He must have written it,” she thought, “when he had himself for an example — strange man that he is!”
Lady Blandish was still inclined to submission45, though decidedly insubordinate. She had once been fairly conquered: but if what she reverenced46 as a great mind could conquer her, it must be a great man that should hold her captive. The Autumn Primrose47 blooms for the loftiest manhood; is a vindictive48 flower in lesser49 hands. Nevertheless Sir Austin had only to be successful, and this lady’s allegiance was his for ever. The trial was at hand.
She said again: “He is not coming to-night,” and the baronet, on whose visage a contemplative pleased look had been rising for a minute past, quietly added: “He is come.”
Richard’s voice was heard in the hall.
There was commotion50 all over the house at the return of the young heir. Berry, seizing every possible occasion to approach his Bessy now that her involuntary coldness had enhanced her value —“Such is men!” as the soft woman reflected — Berry ascended51 to her and delivered the news in pompous52 tones and wheedling53 gestures. “The best word you’ve spoke54 for many a day,” says she, and leaves him unfee’d, in an attitude, to hurry and pour bliss55 into Lucy’s ears.
“Lord be praised!” she entered the adjoining room exclaiming, “we’re goin’ to be happy at last. They men have come to their senses. I could cry to your Virgin56 and kiss your Cross, you sweet!”
“Hush!” Lucy admonished57 her, and crooned over the child on her knees. The tiny open hands, full of sleep, clutched; the large blue eyes started awake; and his mother, all trembling and palpitating, knowing, but thirsting to hear it, covered him with her tresses, and tried to still her frame, and rocked, and sang low, interdicting58 even a whisper from bursting Mrs. Berry.
Richard had come. He was under his father’s roof, in the old home that had so soon grown foreign to him. He stood close to his wife and child. He might embrace them both; and now the fulness of his anguish59 and the madness of the thing he had done smote60 the young man: now first he tasted hard earthly misery61.
Had not God spoken to him in the tempest? Had not the finger of heaven directed him homeward? And he had come: here he stood: congratulations were thick in his ears: the cup of happiness was held to him, and he was invited to drink of it. Which was the dream? his work for the morrow, or this? But for a leaden load that he felt like a bullet in his breast, he might have thought the morrow with death sitting on it was the dream. Yes; he was awake. Now first the cloud of phantasms cleared away: he beheld62 his real life, and the colours of true human joy: and on the morrow perhaps he was to close his eyes on them. That leaden bullet dispersed63 all unrealities.
They stood about him in the hall, his father, Lady Blandish, Mrs. Doria, Adrian, Ripton; people who had known him long. They shook his hand: they gave him greetings he had never before understood the worth of or the meaning. Now that he did they mocked him. There was Mrs. Berry in the background bobbing, there was Martin Berry bowing, there was Tom Bakewell grinning. Somehow he loved the sight of these better.
“Ah, my old Penelope!” he said, breaking through the circle of his relatives to go to her. “Tom! how are you?”
“Bless ye, my Mr. Richard,” whimpered Mrs. Berry, and whispered rosily64, “all’s agreeable now. She’s waiting up in bed for ye, like a new-born.”
The person who betrayed most agitation was Mrs. Doria. She held close to him, and eagerly studied his face and every movement, as one accustomed to masks. “You are pale, Richard?” He pleaded exhaustion65. “What detained you, dear?” “Business,” he said. She drew him imperiously apart from the others. “Richard! is it over?” He asked what she meant. “The dreadful duel67, Richard.” He looked darkly. “Is it over? is it done, Richard?” Getting no immediate68 answer, she continued — and such was her agitation that the words were shaken by pieces from her mouth: “Don’t pretend not to understand me, Richard! Is it over? Are you going to die the death of my child — Clare’s death? Is not one in a family enough? Think of your dear young wife — we love her so! — your child! — your father! Will you kill us all?”
Mrs. Doria had chanced to overhear a trifle of Ripton’s communication to Adrian, and had built thereon with the dark forces of a stricken soul.
Wondering how this woman could have divined it, Richard calmly said: “It’s arranged — the matter you allude69 to.”
“Indeed! truly, dear?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me”— but he broke away from her, saying: “You shall hear the particulars tomorrow,” and she, not alive to double meaning just then, allowed him to leave her.
He had eaten nothing for twelve hours, and called for food, but he would take only dry bread and claret, which was served on a tray in the library. He said, without any show of feeling, that he must eat before he saw the younger hope of Raynham: so there he sat, breaking bread, and eating great mouthfuls, and washing them down with wine, talking of what they would. His father’s studious mind felt itself years behind him, he was so completely altered. He had the precision of speech, the bearing of a man of thirty. Indeed he had all that the necessity for cloaking an infinite misery gives. But let things be as they might he was there. For one night in his life Sir Austin’s perspective of the future was bounded by the night.
“Will you go to your wife now?” he had asked, and Richard had replied with a strange indifference70. The baronet thought it better that their meeting should be private, and sent word for Lucy to wait upstairs. The others perceived that father and son should now be left alone. Adrian went up to him, and said: “I can no longer witness this painful sight, so Good-night, Sir Famish! You may cheat yourself into the belief that you’ve made a meal, but depend upon it your progeny71 — and it threatens to be numerous — will cry aloud and rue33 the day. Nature never forgives! A lost dinner can never be replaced! Good-night, my dear boy. And here — oblige me by taking this,” he handed Richard the enormous envelope containing what he had written that evening. “Credentials!” he exclaimed humorously, slapping Richard on the shoulder. Ripton heard also the words “propagator — species,” but had no idea of their import. The wise youth looked: You see we’ve made matters all right for you here, and quitted the room on that unusual gleam of earnestness.
Richard shook his hand, and Ripton’s. Then Lady Blandish said her good-night, praising Lucy, and promising72 to pray for their mutual73 happiness. The two men who knew what was hanging over him, spoke together outside. Ripton was for getting a positive assurance that the duel would not be fought, but Adrian said: “Time enough tomorrow. He’s safe enough while he’s here. I’ll stop it tomorrow:” ending with banter74 of Ripton and allusions75 to his adventures with Miss Random76, which must, Adrian said, have led him into many affairs of the sort. Certainly Richard was there, and while he was there he must be safe. So thought Ripton, and went to his bed. Mrs. Doria deliberated likewise, and likewise thought him safe while he was there. For once in her life she thought it better not to trust to her instinct, for fear of useless disturbance77 where peace should be. So she said not a syllable78 of it to her brother. She only looked more deeply into Richard’s eyes, as she kissed him, praising Lucy. “I have found a second daughter in her, dear. Oh! may you both be happy!”
They all praised Lucy, now. His father commenced the moment they were alone. “Poor Helen! Your wife has been a great comfort to her, Richard. I think Helen must have sunk without her. So lovely a young person, possessing mental faculty79, and a conscience for her duties, I have never before met.”
He wished to gratify his son by these eulogies80 of Lucy, and some hours back he would have succeeded. Now it had the contrary effect.
“You compliment me on my choice, sir?”
Richard spoke sedately81, but the irony82 was perceptible, and he could speak no other way, his bitterness was so intense.
“I think you very fortunate,” said his father.
Sensitive to tone and manner as he was, his ebullition of paternal feeling was frozen. Richard did not approach him. He leaned against the chimney-piece, glancing at the floor, and lifting his eyes only when he spoke. Fortunate! very fortunate! As he revolved83 his later history, and remembered how clearly he had seen that his father must love Lucy if he but knew her, and remembered his efforts to persuade her to come with him, a sting of miserable84 rage blackened his brain. But could he blame that gentle soul? Whom could he blame? Himself? Not utterly85. His father? Yes, and no. The blame was here, the blame was there: it was everywhere and nowhere, and the young man cast it on the Fates, and looked angrily at heaven, and grew reckless.
“Richard,” said his father, coming close to him, “It is late to-night. I do not wish Lucy to remain in expectation longer, or I should have explained myself to you thoroughly86, and I think — or at least hope — you would have justified87 me. I had cause to believe that you had not only violated my confidence, but grossly deceived me. It was not so, I now know. I was mistaken. Much of our misunderstanding has resulted from that mistake. But you were married — a boy: you knew nothing of the world, little of yourself. To save you in after-life — for there is a period when mature men and women who have married young are more impelled88 to temptation than in youth — though not so exposed to it — to save you, I say, I decreed that you should experience self-denial and learn something of your fellows of both sexes, before settling into a state that must have been otherwise precarious89, however excellent the woman who is your mate. My System with you would have been otherwise imperfect, and you would have felt the effects of it. It is over now. You are a man. The dangers to which your nature was open are, I trust, at an end. I wish you to be happy, and I give you both my blessing90, and pray God to conduct and strengthen you both.”
Sir Austin’s mind was unconscious of not having spoken devoutly91. True or not, his words were idle to his son: his talk of dangers over, and happiness, mockery.
Richard coldly took his father’s extended hand.
“We will go to her,” said the baronet. “I will leave you at her door.”
Not moving: looking fixedly92 at his father with a hard face on which the colour rushed, Richard said: “A husband who has been unfaithful to his wife may go to her there, sir?”
It was horrible, it was cruel: Richard knew that. He wanted no advice on such a matter, having fully93 resolved what to do. Yesterday he would have listened to his father, and blamed himself alone, and done what was to be done humbly94 before God and her: now in the recklessness of his misery he had as little pity for any other soul as for his own. Sir Austin’s brows were deep drawn95 down.
“What did you say, Richard?”
Clearly his intelligence had taken it, but this — the worst he could hear — this that he had dreaded96 once and doubted, and smoothed over, and cast aside — could it be?
Richard said: “I told you all but the very words when we last parted. What else do you think would have kept me from her?”
Angered at his callous97 aspect, his father cried: “What brings you to her now?”
“That will be between us two,” was the reply.
Sir Austin fell into his chair. Meditation98 was impossible. He spoke from a wrathful heart: “You will not dare to take her without”——
“No, sir,” Richard interrupted him, “I shall not. Have no fear.”
“Then you did not love your wife?”
“Did I not?” A smile passed faintly over Richard’s face.
“Did you care so much for this — this other person?”
“So much? If you ask me whether I had affection for her, I can say I had none.”
O base human nature! Then how? then why? A thousand questions rose in the baronet’s mind. Bessy Berry could have answered them every one.
“Poor child! poor child!” he apostrophized Lucy, pacing the room. Thinking of her, knowing her deep love for his son — her true forgiving heart — it seemed she should be spared this misery.
He proposed to Richard to spare her. Vast is the distinction between women and men in this one sin, he said, and supported it with physical and moral citations99. His argument carried him so far, that to hear him one would have imagined he thought the sin in men small indeed. His words were idle.
“She must know it,” said Richard, sternly. “I will go to her now, sir, if you please.”
Sir Austin detained him, expostulated, contradicted himself, confounded his principles, made nonsense of all his theories. He could not induce his son to waver in his resolve. Ultimately, their good-night being interchanged, he understood that the happiness of Raynham depended on Lucy’s mercy. He had no fears of her sweet heart, but it was a strange thing to have come to. On which should the accusation100 fall — on science, or on human nature?
He remained in the library pondering over the question, at times breathing contempt for his son, and again seized with unwonted suspicion of his own wisdom: troubled, much to be pitied, even if he deserved that blow from his son which had plunged101 him into wretchedness.
Richard went straight to Tom Bakewell, roused the heavy sleeper102, and told him to have his mare10 saddled and waiting at the park gates East within an hour. Tom’s nearest approach to a hero was to be a faithful slave to his master, and in doing this he acted to his conception of that high and glorious character. He got up and heroically dashed his head into cold water. “She shall be ready, sir,” he nodded.
“Tom! if you don’t see me back here at Raynham, your money will go on being paid to you.”
“Rather see you than the money, Mr. Richard,” said Tom.
“And you will always watch and see no harm comes to her, Tom.”
“Mrs. Richard, sir?” Tom stared. “God bless me, Mr. Richard”——
“No questions. You’ll do what I say.”
“Ay, sir; that I will. Did’n Isle103 o’ Wight.”
The very name of the Island shocked Richard’s blood, and he had to walk up and down before he could knock at Lucy’s door. That infamous104 conspiracy105 to which he owed his degradation106 and misery scarce left him the feelings of a man when he thought of it.
The soft beloved voice responded to his knock. He opened the door, and stood before her. Lucy was half-way toward him. In the moment that passed ere she was in his arms, he had time to observe the change in her. He had left her a girl: he beheld a woman — a blooming woman: for pale at first, no sooner did she see him than the colour was rich and deep on her face and neck and bosom107 half shown through the loose dressing-robe, and the sense of her exceeding beauty made his heart thump108 and his eyes swim.
“My darling!” each cried, and they clung together, and her mouth was fastened on his.
They spoke no more. His soul was drowned in her kiss. Supporting her, whose strength was gone, he, almost as weak as she, hung over her, and clasped her closer, closer, till they were as one body, and in the oblivion her lips put upon him he was free to the bliss of her embrace. Heaven granted him that. He placed her in a chair and knelt at her feet with both arms around her. Her bosom heaved; her eyes never quitted him: their light as the light on a rolling wave. This young creature, commonly so frank and straightforward109, was broken with bashfulness in her husband’s arms — womanly bashfulness on the torrent110 of womanly love; tenfold more seductive than the bashfulness of girlhood. Terrible tenfold the loss of her seemed now, as distantly — far on the horizon of memory — the fatal truth returned to him.
Lose her? lose this? He looked up as if to ask God to confirm it.
The same sweet blue eyes! the eyes that he had often seen in the dying glories of evening; on him they dwelt, shifting, and fluttering, and glittering, but constant: the light of them as the light on a rolling wave.
And true to him! true, good, glorious, as the angels of heaven! And his she was! a woman — his wife! The temptation to take her, and be dumb, was all powerful: the wish to die against her bosom so strong as to be the prayer of his vital forces. Again he strained her to him, but this time it was as a robber grasps priceless treasure — with exultation111 and defiance112. One instant of this. Lucy, whose pure tenderness had now surmounted113 the first wild passion of their meeting, bent114 back her head from her surrendered body, and said almost voicelessly, her underlids wistfully quivering: “Come and see him — baby;” and then in great hope of the happiness she was going to give her husband, and share with him, and in tremour and doubt of what his feelings would be, she blushed, and her brows worked: she tried to throw off the strangeness of a year of separation, misunderstanding, and uncertainty115.
“Darling! come and see him. He is here.” She spoke more clearly, though no louder.
Richard had released her, and she took his hand, and he suffered himself to be led to the other side of the bed. His heart began rapidly throbbing116 at the sight of a little rosy-curtained cot covered with lace like milky117 summer cloud.
It seemed to him he would lose his manhood if he looked on that child’s face.
“Stop!” he cried suddenly.
Lucy turned first to him, and then to her infant, fearing it should have been disturbed.
“Lucy, come back.”
“What is it, darling?” said she, in alarm at his voice and the grip he had unwittingly given her hand.
O God! what an Ordeal118 was this! that tomorrow he must face death, perhaps die and be torn from his darling — his wife and his child; and that ere he went forth, ere he could dare to see his child and lean his head reproachfully on his young wife’s breast — for the last time, it might be-he must stab her to the heart, shatter the image she held of him.
“Lucy!” She saw him wrenched119 with agony, and her own face took the whiteness of his — she bending forward to him, all her faculties120 strung to hearing.
He held her two hands that she might look on him and not spare the horrible wounds he was going to lay open to her eyes.
“Lucy. Do you know why I came to you to-night?”
She moved her lips repeating his words.
“Lucy. Have you guessed why I did not come before?”
Her head shook widened eyes.
“Lucy. I did not come because I was not worthy121 of my wife! Do you understand?”
“Darling,” she faltered122 plaintively123, and hung crouching124 under him, “what have I done to make you angry with me?”
“O beloved!” cried he, the tears bursting out of his eyes. “O beloved!” was all he could say, kissing her hands passionately125.
She waited, reassured126, but in terror.
“Lucy. I stayed away from you — I could not come to you, because . . . I dared not come to you, my wife, my beloved! I could not come because I was a coward: because — hear me — this was the reason: I have broken my marriage oath.”
Again her lips moved. She caught at a dim fleshless meaning in them. “But you love me? Richard! My husband! you love me?”
“Yes. I have never loved, I never shall love, woman but you.”
“Darling! Kiss me.”
“Have you understood what I have told you?”
“Kiss me,” she said.
He did not join lips. “I have come to you to-night to ask your forgiveness.”
Her answer was: “Kiss me.”
“Can you forgive a man so base?”
“But you love me, Richard?”
“Yes: that I can say before God. I love you, and I have betrayed you, and am unworthy of you — not worthy to touch your hand, to kneel at your feet, to breathe the same air with you.”
Her eyes shone brilliantly. “You love me! you love me, darling!” And as one who has sailed through dark fears into daylight, she said: “My husband! my darling! you will never leave me? We never shall be parted again?”
He drew his breath painfully. To smooth her face growing rigid127 with fresh fears of his silence, he met her mouth. That kiss in which she spoke what her soul had to say, calmed her, and she smiled happily from it, and in her manner reminded him of his first vision of her on the summer morning in the field of the meadow-sweet. He held her to him, and thought then of a holier picture: of Mother and Child: of the sweet wonders of the life she had made real to him.
Had he not absolved128 his conscience? At least the pangs129 to come made him think so. He now followed her leading hand. Lucy whispered: “You mustn’t disturb him — mustn’t touch him, dear!” and with dainty fingers drew off the covering to the little shoulder. One arm of the child was out along the pillow; the small hand open. His baby-mouth was pouted130 full; the dark lashes131 of his eyes seemed to lie on his plump cheeks. Richard stooped lower down to him, hungering for some movement as a sign that he lived. Lucy whispered. “He sleeps like you, Richard — one arm under his head.” Great wonder, and the stir of a grasping tenderness was in Richard. He breathed quick and soft, bending lower, till Lucy’s curls, as she nestled and bent with him, rolled on the crimson132 quilt of the cot. A smile went up the plump cheeks: forthwith the bud of a mouth was in rapid motion. The young mother whispered, blushing: “He’s dreaming of me,” and the simple words did more than Richard’s eyes to make him see what was. Then Lucy began to hum and buzz sweet baby-language, and some of the tiny fingers stirred, and he made as if to change his cosy133 position, but reconsidered, and deferred134 it, with a peaceful little sigh. Lucy whispered: “He is such a big fellow. Oh! when you see him awake he is so like you, Richard.”
He did not hear her immediately: it seemed a bit of heaven dropped there in his likeness135: the more human the fact of the child grew the more heavenly it seemed. His son! his child! should he ever see him awake? At the thought, he took the words that had been spoken, and started from the dream he had been in. “Will he wake soon, Lucy?”
“Oh no! not yet, dear: not for hours. I would have kept him awake for you, but he was so sleepy.”
Richard stood back from the cot. He thought that if he saw the eyes of his boy, and had him once on his heart, he never should have force to leave him. Then he looked down on him, again struggled to tear himself away. Two natures warred in his bosom, or it may have been the Magian Conflict still going on. He had come to see his child once and to make peace with his wife before it should be too late. Might he not stop with them? Might he not relinquish7 that devilish pledge? Was not divine happiness here offered to him? — If foolish Ripton had not delayed to tell him of his interview with Mountfalcon all might have been well. But pride said it was impossible. And then injury spoke. For why was he thus base and spotted136 to the darling of his love? A mad pleasure in the prospect137 of wreaking138 vengeance139 on the villain140 who had laid the trap for him, once more blackened his brain. If he would stay he could not. So he resolved, throwing the burden on Fate. The struggle was over, but oh, the pain!
Lucy beheld the tears streaming hot from his face on the child’s cot. She marvelled141 at such excess of emotion. But when his chest heaved, and the extremity142 of mortal anguish appeared to have seized him, her heart sank, and she tried to get him in her arms. He turned away from her and went to the window. A half-moon was over the lake.
“Look!” he said, “do you remember our rowing there one night, and we saw the shadow of the cypress143? I wish I could have come early to-night that we might have had another row, and I have heard you sing there!”
“Darling!” said she, “will it make you happier if I go with you now? I will.”
“No, Lucy. Lucy, you are brave!”
“Oh, no! that I’m not. I thought so once. I know I am not now.”
“Yes! to have lived — the child on your heart — and never to have uttered a complaint! — you are brave. O my Lucy! my wife! you that have made me man! I called you a coward. I remember it. I was the coward —I the wretched vain fool! Darling! I am going to leave you now. You are brave, and you will bear it. Listen: in two days, or three, I may be back — back for good, if you will accept me. Promise me to go to bed quietly. Kiss the child for me, and tell him his father has seen him. He will learn to speak soon. Will he soon speak, Lucy?”
Dreadful suspicion kept her speechless; she could only clutch one arm of his with both her hands.
“Going?” she presently gasped144.
“For two or three days. No more — I hope.”
“To-night?”
“Yes. Now.”
“Going now? my husband!” her faculties abandoned her.
“You will be brave, my Lucy!”
“Richard! my darling husband! Going? What is it takes you from me?” But questioning no further, she fell on her knees, and cried piteously to him to stay — not to leave them. Then she dragged him to the little sleeper, and urged him to pray by his side, and he did, but rose abruptly145 from his prayer when he had muttered a few broken words — she praying on with tight-strung nerves, in the faith that what she said to the interceding146 Mother above would be stronger than human hands on him. Nor could he go while she knelt there.
And he wavered. He had not reckoned on her terrible suffering. She came to him, quiet. “I knew you would remain.” And taking his hand, innocently fondling it: “Am I so changed from her he loved? You will not leave me, dear?” But dread66 returned, and the words quavered as she spoke them.
He was almost vanquished147 by the loveliness of her womanhood. She drew his hand to her heart, and strained it there under one breast. “Come: lie on my heart,” she murmured with a smile of holy sweetness.
He wavered more, and drooped148 to her, but summoning the powers of hell, kissed her suddenly, cried the words of parting, and hurried to the door. It was over in an instant. She cried out his name, clinging to him wildly, and was adjured149 to be brave, for he would be dishonoured150 if he did not go. Then she was shaken off.
Mrs. Berry was aroused by an unusual prolonged wailing151 of the child, which showed that no one was comforting it, and failing to get any answer to her applications for admittance, she made bold to enter. There she saw Lucy, the child in her lap, sitting on the floor senseless:— she had taken it from its sleep and tried to follow her husband with it as her strongest appeal to him, and had fainted.
“Oh my! oh my!” Mrs. Berry moaned, “and I just now thinkin’ they was so happy!”
Warming and caressing152 the poor infant, she managed by degrees to revive Lucy, and heard what had brought her to that situation.
“Go to his father,” said Mrs. Berry. “Ta-te-tiddle-te-heighty-O! Go, my love, and every horse in Raynham shall be out after ‘m. This is what men brings us to! Heighty-oighty-iddlety-Ah! Or you take blessed baby, and I’ll go.”
The baronet himself knocked at the door. “What is this?” he said. “I heard a noise and a step descend153.”
“It’s Mr. Richard have gone, Sir Austin! have gone from his wife and babe! Rum-te-um-te-iddledy — Oh, my goodness! what sorrow’s come on us!” and Mrs. Berry wept, and sang to baby, and baby cried vehemently154, and Lucy, sobbing155, took him and danced him and sang to him with drawn lips and tears dropping over him. And if the Scientific Humanist to the day of his death forgets the sight of those two poor true women jigging156 on their wretched hearts to calm the child, he must have very little of the human in him.
There was no more sleep for Raynham that night.
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1
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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2
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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3
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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4
speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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5
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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6
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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7
relinquish
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| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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relinquished
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的过去式和过去分词 )； 放弃 | |
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groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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10
mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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11
commiseration
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| n.怜悯，同情 | |
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12
testily
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| adv. 易怒地, 暴躁地 | |
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13
twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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14
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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15
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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16
lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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17
magisterial
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| adj.威风的，有权威的；adv.威严地 | |
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18
conspirator
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| n.阴谋者，谋叛者 | |
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19
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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20
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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21
apprise
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| vt.通知，告知 | |
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22
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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23
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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24
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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25
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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26
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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27
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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28
acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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29
quack
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| n.庸医；江湖医生；冒充内行的人；骗子 | |
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30
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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31
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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32
presumptuous
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| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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33
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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34
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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35
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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36
maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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37
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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38
feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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39
aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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40
sneers
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| 讥笑的表情（言语）( sneer的名词复数 ) | |
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41
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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42
raptures
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| 极度欢喜( rapture的名词复数 ) | |
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43
aphorism
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| n.格言，警语 | |
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44
perversion
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| n.曲解；堕落；反常 | |
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45
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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46
reverenced
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| v.尊敬，崇敬( reverence的过去式和过去分词 )；敬礼 | |
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47
primrose
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| n.樱草，最佳部分， | |
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48
vindictive
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| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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49
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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50
commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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51
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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53
wheedling
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| v.骗取（某物），哄骗（某人干某事）( wheedle的现在分词 ) | |
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54
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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55
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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56
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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57
admonished
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| v.劝告( admonish的过去式和过去分词 )；训诫；（温和地）责备；轻责 | |
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58
interdicting
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| v.禁止（行动）( interdict的现在分词 )；禁用；限制 | |
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59
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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60
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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61
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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62
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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63
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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64
rosily
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| adv.带玫瑰色地，乐观地 | |
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65
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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66
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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67
duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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68
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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69
allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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70
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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71
progeny
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| n.后代，子孙；结果 | |
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72
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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73
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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74
banter
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| n.嘲弄，戏谑；v.取笑，逗弄，开玩笑 | |
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75
allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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76
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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77
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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78
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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79
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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80
eulogies
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| n.颂词，颂文( eulogy的名词复数 ) | |
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81
sedately
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| adv.镇静地，安详地 | |
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82
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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83
revolved
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| v.（使）旋转( revolve的过去式和过去分词 )；细想 | |
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84
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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85
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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86
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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87
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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88
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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89
precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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90
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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91
devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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92
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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93
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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94
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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95
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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96
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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97
callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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98
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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99
citations
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| n.引用( citation的名词复数 )；引证；引文；表扬 | |
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100
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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101
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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102
sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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103
isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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104
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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105
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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106
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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107
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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108
thump
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| v.重击，砰然地响；n.重击，重击声 | |
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109
straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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110
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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111
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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112
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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113
surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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114
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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115
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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116
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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117
milky
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| adj.牛奶的，多奶的；乳白色的 | |
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118
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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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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120
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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122
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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123
plaintively
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| adv.悲哀地，哀怨地 | |
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crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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125
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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126
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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127
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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128
absolved
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| 宣告…无罪，赦免…的罪行，宽恕…的罪行( absolve的过去式和过去分词 )； 不受责难，免除责任 [义务] ,开脱（罪责） | |
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129
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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130
pouted
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| v.撅（嘴）( pout的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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131
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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132
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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133
cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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134
deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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135
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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137
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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138
wreaking
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| 诉诸（武力），施行（暴力），发（脾气）( wreak的现在分词 ) | |
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139
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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140
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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141
marvelled
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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142
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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143
cypress
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| n.柏树 | |
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144
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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146
interceding
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| v.斡旋，调解( intercede的现在分词 )；说情 | |
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147
vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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148
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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149
adjured
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| v.（以起誓或诅咒等形式）命令要求( adjure的过去式和过去分词 )；祈求；恳求 | |
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150
dishonoured
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| a.不光彩的，不名誉的 | |
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151
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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152
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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153
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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154
vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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155
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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156
jigging
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| n.跳汰选，簸选v.（使）上下急动( jig的现在分词 ) | |
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