It was an unprecedented3 occurrence. During the twelve years that she had kept house for him, his youngest sister had never known him a second behind his time. She sat now in front of the high silver coffee-pot, uncertain whether to order the gong to be resounded4 or to wait on in silence. Either course might be a mistake. Her brother was not a man who permitted mistakes.
Miss Ainslie Grey was rather above the middle height, thin, with peering, puckered5 eyes, and the rounded shoulders which mark the bookish woman. Her face was long and spare, flecked with colour above the cheek-bones, with a reasonable, thoughtful forehead, and a dash of absolute obstinacy6 in her thin lips and prominent chin. Snow white cuffs7 and collar, with a plain dark dress, cut with almost Quaker-like simplicity8, bespoke9 the primness11 of her taste. An ebony cross hung over her flattened12 chest. She sat very upright in her chair, listening with raised eyebrows13, and swinging her eye-glasses backwards14 and forwards with a nervous gesture which was peculiar15 to her.
Suddenly she gave a sharp, satisfied jerk of the head, and began to pour out the coffee. From outside there came the dull thudding sound of heavy feet upon thick carpet. The door swung open, and the Professor entered with a quick, nervous step. He nodded to his sister, and seating himself at the other side of the table, began to open the small pile of letters which lay beside his plate.
Professor Ainslie Grey was at that time forty-three years of age—nearly twelve years older than his sister. His career had been a brilliant one. At Edinburgh, at Cambridge, and at Vienna he had laid the foundations of his great reputation, both in physiology16 and in zoology17.
His pamphlet, On the Mesoblastic Origin of Excitomotor Nerve Roots, had won him his fellowship of the Royal Society; and his researches, Upon the Nature of Bathybius, with some Remarks upon Lithococci, had been translated into at least three European languages. He had been referred to by one of the greatest living authorities as being the very type and embodiment of all that was best in modern science. No wonder, then, that when the commercial city of Birchespool decided18 to create a medical school, they were only too glad to confer the chair of physiology upon Mr. Ainslie Grey. They valued him the more from the conviction that their class was only one step in his upward journey, and that the first vacancy19 would remove him to some more illustrious seat of learning.
In person he was not unlike his sister. The same eyes, the same contour, the same intellectual forehead. His lips, however, were firmer, and his long, thin, lower jaw20 was sharper and more decided. He ran his finger and thumb down it from time to time, as he glanced over his letters.
“Those maids are very noisy,” he remarked, as a clack of tongues sounded in the distance.
“It is Sarah,” said his sister; “I shall speak about it.”
She had handed over his coffee-cup, and was sipping21 at her own, glancing furtively22 through her narrowed lids at the austere23 face of her brother.
“The first great advance of the human race,” said the Professor, “was when, by the development of their left frontal convolutions, they attained24 the power of speech. Their second advance was when they learned to control that power. Woman has not yet attained the second stage.”
He half closed his eyes as he spoke10, and thrust his chin forward, but as he ceased he had a trick of suddenly opening both eyes very wide and staring sternly at his interlocutor.
“I am not garrulous25, John,” said his sister.
“No, Ada; in many respects you approach the superior or male type.”
The Professor bowed over his egg with the manner of one who utters a courtly compliment; but the lady pouted26, and gave an impatient little shrug27 of her shoulders.
“You were late this morning, John,” she remarked, after a pause.
“Yes, Ada; I slept badly. Some little cerebral28 congestion29, no doubt due to over-stimulation30 of the centers of thought. I have been a little disturbed in my mind.”
His sister stared across at him in astonishment31. The Professor’s mental processes had hitherto been as regular as his habits. Twelve years’ continual intercourse32 had taught her that he lived in a serene33 and rarefied atmosphere of scientific calm, high above the petty emotions which affect humbler minds.
“You are surprised, Ada,” he remarked. “Well, I cannot wonder at it. I should have been surprised myself if I had been told that I was so sensitive to vascular34 influences. For, after all, all disturbances35 are vascular if you probe them deep enough. I am thinking of getting married.”
“Not Mrs. O’James” cried Ada Grey, laying down her egg-spoon.
“My dear, you have the feminine quality of receptivity very remarkably36 developed. Mrs. O’James is the lady in question.”
“But you know so little of her. The Esdailes themselves know so little. She is really only an acquaintance, although she is staying at The Lindens. Would it not be wise to speak to Mrs. Esdaile first, John?”
“I do not think, Ada, that Mrs. Esdaile is at all likely to say anything which would materially affect my course of action. I have given the matter due consideration. The scientific mind is slow at arriving at conclusions, but having once formed them, it is not prone37 to change. Matrimony is the natural condition of the human race. I have, as you know, been so engaged in academical and other work, that I have had no time to devote to merely personal questions. It is different now, and I see no valid38 reason why I should forego this opportunity of seeking a suitable helpmate.”
“And you are engaged?”
“Hardly that, Ada. I ventured yesterday to indicate to the lady that I was prepared to submit to the common lot of humanity. I shall wait upon her after my morning lecture, and learn how far my proposals meet with her acquiescence39. But you frown, Ada!”
His sister started, and made an effort to conceal40 her expression of annoyance41. She even stammered42 out some few words of congratulation, but a vacant look had come into her brother’s eyes, and he was evidently not listening to her.
“I am sure, John, that I wish you the happiness which you deserve. If I hesitated at all, it is because I know how much is at stake, and because the thing is so sudden, so unexpected.” Her thin white hand stole up to the black cross upon her bosom43. “These are moments when we need guidance, John. If I could persuade you to turn to spiritual——”
The Professor waved the suggestion away with a deprecating hand.
“It is useless to reopen that question,” he said. “We cannot argue upon it. You assume more than I can grant. I am forced to dispute your premises44. We have no common basis.”
His sister sighed.
“You have no faith,” she said.
“I have faith in those great evolutionary45 forces which are leading the human race to some unknown but elevated goal.”
“You believe in nothing.”
“On the contrary, my dear Ada, I believe in the differentiation46 of protoplasm.”
She shook her head sadly. It was the one subject upon which she ventured to dispute her brother’s infallibility.
“This is rather beside the question,” remarked the Professor, folding up his napkin. “If I am not mistaken, there is some possibility of another matrimonial event occurring in the family. Eh, Ada? What!”
His small eyes glittered with sly facetiousness47 as he shot a twinkle at his sister. She sat very stiff, and traced patterns upon the cloth with the sugar-tongs.
“Dr. James M’Murdo O’Brien——” said the Professor, sonorously48.
“Don’t, John, don’t!” cried Miss Ainslie Grey.
“Dr. James M’Murdo O’Brien,” continued her brother inexorably, “is a man who has already made his mark upon the science of the day. He is my first and my most distinguished49 pupil. I assure you, Ada, that his ‘Remarks upon the Bile-Pigments, with special reference to Urobilin,’ is likely to live as a classic. It is not too much to say that he has revolutionised our views about urobilin.”
He paused, but his sister sat silent, with bent50 head and flushed cheeks. The little ebony cross rose and fell with her hurried breathings.
“Dr. James M’Murdo O’Brien has, as you know, the offer of the physiological51 chair at Melbourne. He has been in Australia five years, and has a brilliant future before him. To-day he leaves us for Edinburgh, and in two months’ time, he goes out to take over his new duties. You know his feeling towards you. It, rests with you as to whether he goes out alone. Speaking for myself, I cannot imagine any higher mission for a woman of culture than to go through life in the company of a man who is capable of such a research as that which Dr. James M’Murdo O’Brien has brought to a successful conclusion.”
“He has not spoken to me,” murmured the lady.
“Ah, there are signs which are more subtle than speech,” said her brother, wagging his head. “But you are pale. Your vasomotor system is excited. Your arterioles have contracted. Let me entreat52 you to compose yourself. I think I hear the carriage. I fancy that you may have a visitor this morning, Ada. You will excuse me now.”
With a quick glance at the clock he strode off into the hall, and within a few minutes he was rattling53 in his quiet, well-appointed brougham through the brick-lined streets of Birchespool.
His lecture over, Professor Ainslie Grey paid a visit to his laboratory, where he adjusted several scientific instruments, made a note as to the progress of three separate infusions54 of bacteria, cut half-a-dozen sections with a microtome, and finally resolved the difficulties of seven different gentlemen, who were pursuing researches in as many separate lines of inquiry55. Having thus conscientiously56 and methodically completed the routine of his duties, he returned to his carriage and ordered the coachman to drive him to The Lindens. His face as he drove was cold and impassive, but he drew his fingers from time to time down his prominent chin with a jerky, twitchy movement.
The Lindens was an old-fashioned, ivy-clad house which had once been in the country, but was now caught in the long, red-brick feelers of the growing city. It still stood back from the road in the privacy of its own grounds. A winding57 path, lined with laurel bushes, led to the arched and porticoed entrance. To the right was a lawn, and at the far side, under the shadow of a hawthorn58, a lady sat in a garden-chair with a book in her hands. At the click of the gate she started, and the Professor, catching59 sight of her, turned away from the door, and strode in her direction.
“What! won’t you go in and see Mrs. Esdaile?” she asked, sweeping60 out from under the shadow of the hawthorn.
She was a small woman, strongly feminine, from the rich coils of her light-coloured hair to the dainty garden slipper61 which peeped from under her cream-tinted dress. One tiny well-gloved hand was outstretched in greeting, while the other pressed a thick, green-covered volume against her side. Her decision and quick, tactful manner bespoke the mature woman of the world; but her upraised face had preserved a girlish and even infantile expression of innocence63 in its large, fearless, grey eyes, and sensitive, humorous mouth. Mrs. O’James was a widow, and she was two-and-thirty years of age; but neither fact could have been deduced from her appearance.
“You will surely go in and see Mrs. Esdaile,” she repeated, glancing up at him with eyes which had in them something between a challenge and a caress64.
“I did not come to see Mrs. Esdaile,” he answered, with no relaxation65 of his cold and grave manner; “I came to see you.”
“I am sure I should be highly honoured,” she said, with just the slightest little touch of brogue in her accent. “What are the students to do without their Professor?”
“I have already completed my academic duties. Take my arm, and we shall walk in the sunshine. Surely we cannot wonder that Eastern people should have made a deity66 of the sun. It is the great beneficent force of Nature—man’s ally against cold, sterility67, and all that is abhorrent68 to him. What were you reading?”
“Hale’s Matter and Life.”
The Professor raised his thick eyebrows.
“Hale!” he said, and then again in a kind of whisper, “Hale!”
“You differ from him?” she asked.
“It is not I who differ from him. I am only a monad—a thing of no moment. The whole tendency of the highest plane of modern thought differs from him. He defends the indefensible. He is an excellent observer, but a feeble reasoner. I should not recommend you to found your conclusions upon Hale.”
“I must read Nature’s Chronicle to counteract69 his pernicious influence,” said Mrs. O’James, with a soft, cooing laugh.
Nature’s Chronicle was one of the many books in which Professor Ainslie Grey had enforced the negative doctrines70 of scientific agnosticism.
“It is a faulty work,” said he; “I cannot recommend it. I would rather refer you to the standard writings of some of my older and more eloquent71 colleagues.”
There was a pause in their talk as they paced up and down on the green, velvet-like lawn in the genial72 sunshine.
“Have you thought at all,” he asked at last, “of the matter upon which I spoke to you last night?”
She said nothing, but walked by his side with her eyes averted73 and her face aslant74.
“I would not hurry you unduly,” he continued. “I know that it is a matter which can scarcely be decided off-hand. In my own case, it cost me some thought before I ventured to make the suggestion. I am not an emotional man, but I am conscious in your presence of the great evolutionary instinct which makes either sex the complement75 of the other.”
“You believe in love, then?” she asked, with a twinkling, upward glance.
“I am forced to.”
“And yet you can deny the soul?”
“How far these questions are psychic76 and how far material is still sub judice,” said the Professor, with an air of toleration. “Protoplasm may prove to be the physical basis of love as well as of life.”
“How inflexible77 you are!” she exclaimed; “you would draw love down to the level of physics.”
“Or draw physics up to the level of love.”
“Come, that is much better,” she cried, with her sympathetic laugh. “That is really very pretty, and puts science in quite a delightful78 light.”
Her eyes sparkled, and she tossed her chin with the pretty, wilful79 air of a woman who is mistress of the situation.
“I have reason to believe,” said the Professor, “that my position here will prove to be only a stepping-stone to some wider scene of scientific activity. Yet, even here, my chair brings me in some fifteen hundred pounds a year, which is supplemented by a few hundreds from my books. I should therefore be in a position to provide you with those comforts to which you are accustomed. So much for my pecuniary80 position. As to my constitution, it has always been sound. I have never suffered from any illness in my life, save fleeting81 attacks of cephalalgia, the result of too prolonged a stimulation of the centres of cerebration. My father and mother had no sign of any morbid82 diathesis, but I will not conceal from you that my grandfather was afflicted83 with podagra.”
Mrs. O’James looked startled.
“Is that very serious?” she asked.
“It is gout,” said the Professor.
“Oh, is that all? It sounded much worse than that.”
“It is a grave taint84, but I trust that I shall not be a victim to atavism. I have laid these facts before you because they are factors which cannot be overlooked in forming your decision. May I ask now whether you see your way to accepting my proposal?”
He paused in his walk, and looked earnestly and expectantly down at her.
A struggle was evidently going on in her mind. Her eyes were cast down, her little slipper tapped the lawn, and her fingers played nervously85 with her chatelain. Suddenly, with a sharp, quick gesture which had in it something of ABANDON and recklessness, she held out her hand to her companion.
“I accept,” she said.
They were standing86 under the shadow of the hawthorn. He stooped gravely down, and kissed her glove-covered fingers.
“I trust that you may never have cause to regret your decision,” he said.
“I trust that you never may,” she cried, with a heaving breast.
There were tears in her eyes, and her lips twitched87 with some strong emotion.
“Come into the sunshine again,” said he. “It is the great restorative. Your nerves are shaken. Some little congestion of the medulla and pons. It is always instructive to reduce psychic or emotional conditions to their physical equivalents. You feel that your anchor is still firm in a bottom of ascertained88 fact.”
“But it is so dreadfully unromantic,” said Mrs. O’James, with her old twinkle.
“Romance is the offspring of imagination and of ignorance. Where science throws her calm, clear light there is happily no room for romance.”
“But is not love romance?” she asked.
“Not at all. Love has been taken away from the poets, and has been brought within the domain89 of true science. It may prove to be one of the great cosmic elementary forces. When the atom of hydrogen draws the atom of chlorine towards it to form the perfected molecule90 of hydrochloric acid, the force which it exerts may be intrinsically similar to that which draws me to you. Attraction and repulsion appear to be the primary forces. This is attraction.”
“And here is repulsion,” said Mrs. O’James, as a stout91, florid lady came sweeping across the lawn in their direction. “So glad you have come out, Mrs. Esdaile! Here is Professor Grey.”
“How do you do, Professor?” said the lady, with some little pomposity92 of manner. “You were very wise to stay out here on so lovely a day. Is it not heavenly?”
“It is certainly very fine weather,” the Professor answered.
“Listen to the wind sighing in the trees!” cried Mrs. Esdaile, holding up one finger. “It is Nature’s lullaby. Could you not imagine it, Professor Grey, to be the whisperings of angels?”
“The idea had not occurred to me, madam.”
“Ah, Professor, I have always the same complaint against you. A want of rapport93 with the deeper meanings of nature. Shall I say a want of imagination. You do not feel an emotional thrill at the singing of that thrush?”
“I confess that I am not conscious of one, Mrs. Esdaile.”
“Or at the delicate tint62 of that background of leaves? See the rich greens!”
“Chlorophyll,” murmured the Professor.
“Science is so hopelessly prosaic94. It dissects95 and labels, and loses sight of the great things in its attention to the little ones. You have a poor opinion of woman’s intellect, Professor Grey. I think that I have heard you say so.”
“It is a question of avoirdupois,” said the Professor, closing his eyes and shrugging his shoulders. “The female cerebrum averages two ounces less in weight than the male. No doubt there are exceptions. Nature is always elastic96.”
“But the heaviest thing is not always the strongest,” said Mrs. O’James, laughing. “Isn’t there a law of compensation in science? May we not hope to make up in quality for what we lack in quantity?”
“I think not,” remarked the Professor, gravely. “But there is your luncheon-gong. No, thank you, Mrs. Esdaile, I cannot stay. My carriage is waiting. Good-bye. Good-bye, Mrs. O’James.”
He raised his hat and stalked slowly away among the laurel bushes.
“He has no taste,” said Mrs. Esdaile—“no eye for beauty.”
“On the contrary,” Mrs. O’James answered, with a saucy97 little jerk of the chin. “He has just asked me to be his wife.”
As Professor Ainslie Grey ascended98 the steps of his house, the hall-door opened and a dapper gentleman stepped briskly out. He was somewhat sallow in the face, with dark, beady eyes, and a short, black beard with an aggressive bristle99. Thought and work had left their traces upon his face, but he moved with the brisk activity of a man who had not yet bade good-bye to his youth.
“I’m in luck’s way,” he cried. “I wanted to see you.”
“Then come back into the library,” said the Professor; “you must stay and have lunch with us.”
The two men entered the hall, and the Professor led the way into his private sanctum. He motioned his companion into an arm-chair.
“I trust that you have been successful, O’Brien,” said he. “I should be loath100 to exercise any undue101 pressure upon my sister Ada; but I have given her to understand that there is no one whom I should prefer for a brother-in-law to my most brilliant scholar, the author of Some Remarks upon the Bile-Pigments, with special reference to Urobilin.”
“You are very kind, Professor Grey—you have always been very kind,” said the other. “I approached Miss Grey upon the subject; she did not say No.”
“She said Yes, then?”
“No; she proposed to leave the matter open until my return from Edinburgh. I go to-day, as you know, and I hope to commence my research to-morrow.”
“On the comparative anatomy102 of the vermiform appendix, by James M’Murdo O’Brien,” said the Professor, sonorously. “It is a glorious subject—a subject which lies at the very root of evolutionary philosophy.”
“Ah! she is the dearest girl,” cried O’Brien, with a sudden little spurt103 of Celtic enthusiasm—“she is the soul of truth and of honour.”
“The vermiform appendix——” began the Professor.
“She is an angel from heaven,” interrupted the other. “I fear that it is my advocacy of scientific freedom in religious thought which stands in my way with her.”
“You must not truckle upon that point. You must be true to your convictions; let there be no compromise there.”
“My reason is true to agnosticism, and yet I am conscious of a void—a vacuum. I had feelings at the old church at home between the scent104 of the incense105 and the roll of the organ, such as I have never experienced in the laboratory or the lecture-room.”
“Sensuous-purely sensuous,” said the Professor, rubbing his chin. “Vague hereditary106 tendencies stirred into life by the stimulation of the nasal and auditory nerves.”
“Maybe so, maybe so,” the younger man answered thoughtfully. “But this was not what I wished to speak to you about. Before I enter your family, your sister and you have a claim to know all that I can tell you about my career. Of my worldly prospects107 I have already spoken to you. There is only one point which I have omitted to mention. I am a widower108.”
The Professor raised his eyebrows.
“This is news indeed,” said he.
“I married shortly after my arrival in Australia. Miss Thurston was her name. I met her in society. It was a most unhappy match.”
Some painful emotion possessed109 him. His quick, expressive110 features quivered, and his white hands tightened111 upon the arms of the chair. The Professor turned away towards the window.
“You are the best judge,” he remarked “but I should not think that it was necessary to go into details.”
“You have a right to know everything—you and Miss Grey. It is not a matter on which I can well speak to her direct. Poor Jinny was the best of women, but she was open to flattery, and liable to be misled by designing persons. She was untrue to me, Grey. It is a hard thing to say of the dead, but she was untrue to me. She fled to Auckland with a man whom she had known before her marriage. The brig which carried them foundered112, and not a soul was saved.”
“This is very painful, O’Brien,” said the Professor, with a deprecatory motion of his hand. “I cannot see, however, how it affects your relation to my sister.”
“I have eased my conscience,” said O’Brien, rising from his chair; “I have told you all that there is to tell. I should not like the story to reach you through any lips but my own.”
“You are right, O’Brien. Your action has been most honourable113 and considerate. But you are not to blame in the matter, save that perhaps you showed a little precipitancy in choosing a life-partner without due care and inquiry.”
O’Brien drew his hand across his eyes.
“Poor girl!” he cried. “God help me, I love her still! But I must go.”
“You will lunch with us?”
“No, Professor; I have my packing still to do. I have already bade Miss Grey adieu. In two months I shall see you again.”
“You will probably find me a married man.”
“Married!”
“Yes, I have been thinking of it.”
“My dear Professor, let me congratulate you with all my heart. I had no idea. Who is the lady?”
“Mrs. O’James is her name—a widow of the same nationality as yourself. But to return to matters of importance, I should be very happy to see the proofs of your paper upon the vermiform appendix. I may be able to furnish you with material for a footnote or two.”
“Your assistance will be invaluable114 to me,” said O’Brien, with enthusiasm, and the two men parted in the hall. The Professor walked back into the dining-room, where his sister was already seated at the luncheon-table.
“I shall be married at the registrar’s,” he remarked; “I should strongly recommend you to do the same.”
Professor Ainslie Grey was as good as his word. A fortnight’s cessation of his classes gave him an opportunity which was too good to let pass. Mrs. O’James was an orphan115, without relations and almost without friends in the country. There was no obstacle in the way of a speedy wedding. They were married, accordingly, in the quietest manner possible, and went off to Cambridge together, where the Professor and his charming wife were present at several academic observances, and varied116 the routine of their honeymoon117 by incursions into biological laboratories and medical libraries. Scientific friends were loud in their congratulations, not only upon Mrs. Grey’s beauty, but upon the unusual quickness and intelligence which she displayed in discussing physiological questions. The Professor was himself astonished at the accuracy of her information. “You have a remarkable118 range of knowledge for a woman, Jeannette,” he remarked upon more than one occasion. He was even prepared to admit that her cerebrum might be of the normal weight.
One foggy, drizzling119 morning they returned to Birchespool, for the next day would re-open the session, and Professor Ainslie Grey prided himself upon having never once in his life failed to appear in his lecture-room at the very stroke of the hour. Miss Ada Grey welcomed them with a constrained120 cordiality, and handed over the keys of office to the new mistress. Mrs. Grey pressed her warmly to remain, but she explained that she had already accepted an invitation which would engage her for some months. The same evening she departed for the south of England.
A couple of days later the maid carried a card just after breakfast into the library where the Professor sat revising his morning lecture. It announced the re-arrival of Dr. James M’Murdo O’Brien. Their meeting was effusively121 genial on the part of the younger man, and coldly precise on that of his former teacher.
“You see there have been changes,” said the Professor.
“So I heard. Miss Grey told me in her letters, and I read the notice in the British Medical Journal. So it’s really married you are. How quickly and quietly you have managed it all!”
“I am constitutionally averse122 to anything in the nature of show or ceremony. My wife is a sensible woman—I may even go the length of saying that, for a woman, she is abnormally sensible. She quite agreed with me in the course which I have adopted.”
“And your research on Vallisneria?”
“This matrimonial incident has interrupted it, but I have resumed my classes, and we shall soon be quite in harness again.”
“I must see Miss Grey before I leave England. We have corresponded, and I think that all will be well. She must come out with me. I don’t think I could go without her.”
The Professor shook his head.
“Your nature is not so weak as you pretend,” he said. “Questions of this sort are, after all, quite subordinate to the great duties of life.”
O’Brien smiled.
“You would have me take out my Celtic soul and put in a Saxon one,” he said. “Either my brain is too small or my heart is too big. But when may I call and pay my respects to Mrs. Grey? Will she be at home this afternoon?”
“She is at home now. Come into the morning-room. She will be glad to make your acquaintance.”
They walked across the linoleum-paved hall. The Professor opened the door of the room, and walked in, followed by his friend. Mrs. Grey was sitting in a basket-chair by the window, light and fairy-like in a loose-flowing, pink morning-gown. Seeing a visitor, she rose and swept towards them. The Professor heard a dull thud behind him. O’Brien had fallen back into a chair, with his hand pressed tight to his side.
“Jinny!” he gasped—“Jinny!”
Mrs. Grey stopped dead in her advance, and stared at him with a face from which every expression had been struck out, save one of astonishment and horror. Then with a sharp intaking of the breath she reeled, and would have fallen had the Professor not thrown his long, nervous arm round her.
“Try this sofa,” said he.
She sank back among the cushions with the same white, cold, dead look upon her face. The Professor stood with his back to the empty fireplace and glanced from the one to the other.
“So, O’Brien,” he said at last, “you have already made the acquaintance of my wife!”
“Your wife,” cried his friend hoarsely124. “She is no wife of yours. God help me, she is MY wife.”
The Professor stood rigidly125 upon the hearthrug. His long, thin fingers were intertwined, and his head sunk a little forward. His two companions had eyes only for each other.
“Jinny!” said he.
“James!”
“How could you leave me so, Jinny? How could you have the heart to do it? I thought you were dead. I mourned for your death—ay, and you have made me mourn for you living. You have withered127 my life.”
She made no answer, but lay back among her cushions with her eyes still fixed128 upon him.
“Why do you not speak?”
“Because you are right, James. I HAVE treated you cruelly—shamefully. But it is not as bad as you think.”
“You fled with De Horta.”
“No, I did not. At the last moment my better nature prevailed. He went alone. But I was ashamed to come back after what I had written to you. I could not face you. I took passage alone to England under a new name, and here I have lived ever since. It seemed to me that I was beginning life again. I knew that you thought I was drowned. Who could have dreamed that fate would throw us together again! When the Professor asked me——”
She stopped and gave a gasp123 for breath.
“You are faint,” said the Professor—“keep the head low; it aids the cerebral circulation.” He flattened down the cushion. “I am sorry to leave you, O’Brien; but I have my class duties to look to. Possibly I may find you here when I return.”
With a grim and rigid126 face he strode out of the room. Not one of the three hundred students who listened to his lecture saw any change in his manner and appearance, or could have guessed that the austere gentleman in front of them had found out at last how hard it is to rise above one’s humanity. The lecture over, he performed his routine duties in the laboratory, and then drove back to his own house. He did not enter by the front door, but passed through the garden to the folding glass casement129 which led out of the morning-room. As he approached he heard his wife’s voice and O’Brien’s in loud and animated130 talk. He paused among the rose-bushes, uncertain whether to interrupt them or no. Nothing was further from his nature than play the eavesdropper131; but as he stood, still hesitating, words fell upon his ear which struck him rigid and motionless.
“You are still my wife, Jinny,” said O’Brien; “I forgive you from the bottom of my heart. I love you, and I have never ceased to love you, though you had forgotten me.”
“No, James, my heart was always in Melbourne. I have always been yours. I thought that it was better for you that I should seem to be dead.”
“You must choose between us now, Jinny. If you determine to remain here, I shall not open my lips. There shall be no scandal. If, on the other hand, you come with me, it’s little I care about the world’s opinion. Perhaps I am as much to blame as you. I thought too much of my work and too little of my wife.”
The Professor heard the cooing, caressing132 laugh which he knew so well.
“I shall go with you, James,” she said.
“And the Professor——?”
“The poor Professor! But he will not mind much, James; he has no heart.”
“We must tell him our resolution.”
“There is no need,” said Professor Ainslie Grey, stepping in through the open casement. “I have overheard the latter part of your conversation. I hesitated to interrupt you before you came to a conclusion.”
O’Brien stretched out his hand and took that of the woman. They stood together with the sunshine on their faces. The Professor paused at the casement with his hands behind his back, and his long black shadow fell between them.
“You have come to a wise decision,” said he. “Go back to Australia together, and let what has passed be blotted133 out of your lives.”
“But you—you——” stammered O’Brien.
The Professor waved his hand.
“Never trouble about me,” he said.
The woman gave a gasping134 cry.
“What can I do or say?” she wailed135. “How could I have foreseen this? I thought my old life was dead. But it has come back again, with all its hopes and its desires. What can I say to you, Ainslie? I have brought shame and disgrace upon a worthy136 man. I have blasted your life. How you must hate and loathe137 me! I wish to God that I had never been born!”
“I neither hate nor loathe you, Jeannette,” said the Professor, quietly. “You are wrong in regretting your birth, for you have a worthy mission before you in aiding the life-work of a man who has shown himself capable of the highest order of scientific research. I cannot with justice blame you personally for what has occurred. How far the individual monad is to be held responsible for hereditary and engrained tendencies, is a question upon which science has not yet said her last word.”
He stood with his finger-tips touching138, and his body inclined as one who is gravely expounding139 a difficult and impersonal140 subject. O’Brien had stepped forward to say something, but the other’s attitude and manner froze the words upon his lips. Condolence or sympathy would be an impertinence to one who could so easily merge141 his private griefs in broad questions of abstract philosophy.
“It is needless to prolong the situation,” the Professor continued, in the same measured tones. “My brougham stands at the door. I beg that you will use it as your own. Perhaps it would be as well that you should leave the town without unnecessary delay. Your things, Jeannette, shall be forwarded.”
O’Brien hesitated with a hanging head.
“I hardly dare offer you my hand,” he said.
“On the contrary. I think that of the three of us you come best out of the affair. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”
“Your sister——”
“I shall see that the matter is put to her in its true light. Good-bye! Let me have a copy of your recent research. Good-bye, Jeannette!”
“Good-bye!”
Their hands met, and for one short moment their eyes also. It was only a glance, but for the first and last time the woman’s intuition cast a light for itself into the dark places of a strong man’s soul. She gave a little gasp, and her other hand rested for an instant, as white and as light as thistle-down, upon his shoulder.
“James, James!” she cried. “Don’t you see that he is stricken to the heart?”
He turned her quietly away from him.
“I am not an emotional man,” he said. “I have my duties—my research on Vallisneria. The brougham is there. Your cloak is in the hall. Tell John where you wish to be driven. He will bring you anything you need. Now go.”
His last two words were so sudden, so volcanic142, in such contrast to his measured voice and mask-like face, that they swept the two away from him. He closed the door behind them and paced slowly up and down the room. Then he passed into the library and looked out over the wire blind. The carriage was rolling away. He caught a last glimpse of the woman who had been his wife. He saw the feminine droop143 of her head, and the curve of her beautiful throat.
Under some foolish, aimless impulse, he took a few quick steps towards the door. Then he turned, and throwing himself into his study-chair he plunged144 back into his work.
There was little scandal about this singular domestic incident. The Professor had few personal friends, and seldom went into society. His marriage had been so quiet that most of his colleagues had never ceased to regard him as a bachelor. Mrs. Esdaile and a few others might talk, but their field for gossip was limited, for they could only guess vaguely145 at the cause of this sudden separation.
The Professor was as punctual as ever at his classes, and as zealous146 in directing the laboratory work of those who studied under him. His own private researches were pushed on with feverish147 energy. It was no uncommon148 thing for his servants, when they came down of a morning, to hear the shrill149 scratchings of his tireless pen, or to meet him on the staircase as he ascended, grey and silent, to his room. In vain his friends assured him that such a life must undermine his health. He lengthened150 his hours until day and night were one long, ceaseless task.
Gradually under this discipline a change came over his appearance. His features, always inclined to gauntness, became even sharper and more pronounced. There were deep lines about his temples and across his brow. His cheek was sunken and his complexion151 bloodless. His knees gave under him when he walked; and once when passing out of his lecture-room he fell and had to be assisted to his carriage.
This was just before the end of the session and soon after the holidays commenced the professors who still remained in Birchespool were shocked to hear that their brother of the chair of physiology had sunk so low that no hopes could be entertained of his recovery. Two eminent152 physicians had consulted over his case without being able to give a name to the affection from which he suffered. A steadily153 decreasing vitality154 appeared to be the only symptom—a bodily weakness which left the mind unclouded. He was much interested himself in his own case, and made notes of his subjective155 sensations as an aid to diagnosis156. Of his approaching end he spoke in his usual unemotional and somewhat pedantic157 fashion. “It is the assertion,” he said, “of the liberty of the individual cell as opposed to the cell-commune. It is the dissolution of a co-operative society. The process is one of great interest.”
And so one grey morning his co-operative society dissolved. Very quietly and softly he sank into his eternal sleep. His two physicians felt some slight embarrassment158 when called upon to fill in his certificate.
“It is difficult to give it a name,” said one.
“Very,” said the other.
“If he were not such an unemotional man, I should have said that he had died from some sudden nervous shock—from, in fact, what the vulgar would call a broken heart.”
“I don’t think poor Grey was that sort of a man at all.”
“Let us call it cardiac, anyhow,” said the older physician.
So they did so.
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1
busts
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| 半身雕塑像( bust的名词复数 )； 妇女的胸部； 胸围； 突击搜捕 | |
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verging
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| 接近，逼近（verge的现在分词形式） | |
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unprecedented
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| adj.无前例的，新奇的 | |
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resounded
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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5
puckered
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| v.（使某物）起褶子或皱纹( pucker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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cuffs
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| n.袖口( cuff的名词复数 )v.掌打，拳打( cuff的第三人称单数 ) | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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bespoke
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| adj.（产品）订做的；专做订货的v.预定( bespeak的过去式 )；订（货）；证明；预先请求 | |
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10
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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11
primness
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| n.循规蹈矩，整洁 | |
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12
flattened
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| [医]（水）平扁的，弄平的 | |
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13
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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14
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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15
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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16
physiology
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| n.生理学，生理机能 | |
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zoology
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| n.动物学，生态 | |
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18
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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19
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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20
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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21
sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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22
furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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23
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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24
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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25
garrulous
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| adj.唠叨的，多话的 | |
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26
pouted
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| v.撅（嘴）( pout的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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27
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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28
cerebral
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| adj.脑的，大脑的；有智力的，理智型的 | |
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29
congestion
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| n.阻塞，消化不良 | |
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30
stimulation
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| n.刺激，激励，鼓舞 | |
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31
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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32
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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33
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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34
vascular
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| adj.血管的，脉管的 | |
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35
disturbances
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| n.骚乱( disturbance的名词复数 )；打扰；困扰；障碍 | |
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36
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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37
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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38
valid
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| adj.有确实根据的；有效的；正当的，合法的 | |
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39
acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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40
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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41
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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42
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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43
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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44
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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45
evolutionary
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| adj.进化的；演化的，演变的；[生]进化论的 | |
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46
differentiation
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| n.区别，区分 | |
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47
facetiousness
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| n.滑稽 | |
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48
sonorously
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| adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；堂皇地；朗朗地 | |
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49
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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50
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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51
physiological
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| adj.生理学的，生理学上的 | |
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52
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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53
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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54
infusions
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| n.沏或泡成的浸液（如茶等）( infusion的名词复数 )；注入，注入物 | |
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55
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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56
conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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57
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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58
hawthorn
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| 山楂 | |
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59
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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60
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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61
slipper
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| n.拖鞋 | |
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62
tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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63
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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64
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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65
relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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66
deity
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| n.神，神性；被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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67
sterility
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| n.不生育，不结果，贫瘠，消毒，无菌 | |
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68
abhorrent
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| adj.可恶的，可恨的，讨厌的 | |
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69
counteract
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| vt.对…起反作用，对抗，抵消 | |
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70
doctrines
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| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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71
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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72
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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73
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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74
aslant
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| adv.倾斜地；adj.斜的 | |
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75
complement
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| n.补足物，船上的定员；补语；vt.补充，补足 | |
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76
psychic
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| n.对超自然力敏感的人；adj.有超自然力的 | |
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77
inflexible
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| adj.不可改变的，不受影响的，不屈服的 | |
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78
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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79
wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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80
pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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81
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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82
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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83
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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84
taint
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| n.污点；感染；腐坏；v.使感染；污染 | |
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85
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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86
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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87
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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88
ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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89
domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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90
molecule
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| n.分子，克分子 | |
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92
pomposity
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| n.浮华；虚夸；炫耀；自负 | |
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93
rapport
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| n.和睦，意见一致 | |
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94
prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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95
dissects
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| v.解剖（动物等）( dissect的第三人称单数 )；仔细分析或研究 | |
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96
elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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97
saucy
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| adj.无礼的；俊俏的；活泼的 | |
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98
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
bristle
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| v.（毛发）直立，气势汹汹，发怒；n.硬毛发 | |
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100
loath
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| adj.不愿意的；勉强的 | |
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101
undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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102
anatomy
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| n.解剖学，解剖；功能，结构，组织 | |
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103
spurt
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| v.喷出；突然进发；突然兴隆 | |
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104
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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105
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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106
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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107
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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108
widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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109
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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111
tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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foundered
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| v.创始人( founder的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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drizzling
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| 下蒙蒙细雨，下毛毛雨( drizzle的现在分词 ) | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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effusively
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| adv.变溢地，热情洋溢地 | |
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averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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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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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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casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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eavesdropper
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| 偷听者 | |
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caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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loathe
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| v.厌恶，嫌恶 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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expounding
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| 论述，详细讲解( expound的现在分词 ) | |
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140
impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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merge
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| v.(使)结合，(使)合并，(使)合为一体 | |
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volcanic
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| adj.火山的；象火山的；由火山引起的 | |
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droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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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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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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153
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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subjective
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| a.主观(上)的，个人的 | |
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diagnosis
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| n.诊断，诊断结果，调查分析，判断 | |
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pedantic
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| adj.卖弄学问的；迂腐的 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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