“My dear Helen, “You are positively1 the most wretched correspondent it was ever my lot to encounter. Three months, and not a line. Papa has heard from your papa once or twice I believe during that time, but you had not the grace to enclose a line to your very respectable friend and monitress. Now this morning when I woke at about four o’clock I said to myself: ‘Positively I must get a letter from Helen Norman today, and if I do not — well, I renounce2 her acquaintance till we meet on the shores of Styx, on which occasion I shall certainly find an opportunity of disputing precedence with her in the matter of embarking3 upon old Charon’s boat.’ And why should I be so positive of a letter today? For no less a reason than because it is my birthday! To-day I attain4 the dignity of seventeen! You who are still at the kittenish stage of sixteen, do you not involuntarily bow before my grandeur5, and wonder how you can have been so neglectful of your duty as to leave me ungreeted under such circumstances?
“Yes, I am seventeen. Papa has made me a wonderful present, nothing less than the most delightful6 little pony7 you ever saw in your life, an absolute darling of a pony! When he gave it me he said, in his usual way: ‘Now, Miss Maud, I am not throwing away money on you for nothing, you understand. If I go to the expense of buying you a pony, it is that you may ride about and show yourself.’ ‘And why should I show myself, papa dear?’ ‘Why? To get a husband as quickly as possible, Miss Gresham, of course! You don’t think I’m going to have you upon my hands till you’re an old maid, do you?’
“That is papa’s way of talking, you know. I really am afraid I don’t quite understand papa sometimes. Now when he was saying that to me, he was so serious in face and tone that anyone else could not but have believed that he quite meant it. And yet I know, of course, that he was only in fun. The idea of my being married just yet! Of course I shall be married some day, you know, Helen; that I have very firmly decided8 in my own mind. But who it is to be, I am very far from knowing. Indeed I am not at all sure that I have formed an ideal yet. Let me see. I think the man I shall marry will be rather old; yes, notwithstanding your horror at such an idea; I think he must be oldish. You see I am rather old for my age, myself, and I could never endure a husband who would seem to me younger than myself, as I am quite sure any man would do who was not at least thirty. Then he must be a staid and sober individual. No Romeo or anything of the kind will do for me. For you know, Helen, or you ought to know, that myself and Miss Lydia Languish10 are as unlike as possible. If a suitor wrote a piece of poetry to me, it would ruin his chance for ever. No; he must be, as I said, a grave and sober gentleman, with not less than ten thousand a year, subscribing11 freely to public charities and all such useful institutions, a chairman at numerous committees, a member of Parliament, in short a highly useful man in every sense of the word. Ornamental12 he by no means need be, though of course I should not care to have an absolute Bruin. On the other hand I should detest13 an Antinous. In the first place I should be jealous of every lady he spoke14 to, and secondly15 I should be much too proud of him and make him most horribly conceited16. It is my idea of married life to exist in a perfect calm; all such things as scenes, of any kind, I should avoid to the utmost. All this, I must tell you, is not quite original, for the husband I have sketched17 is just the kind of man that papa has frequently said I ought to choose when the time comes. But, as I said, I have such dreadful difficulty in determining, at times, whether papa is in earnest or not.
“But what a foolish girl I am to be writing on such subjects to a mere18 child. No, Helen, you shall not deceive me. For all that your portrait represents you as being as tall a￡ myself and just about twenty times as good looking, and that your letters read as though written by an experienced novelist of I don’t know how many years old, you shall not persuade me to consider you as more than a child. Remember it is not many months since you were sixteen, think of that and be humble19.
“Talking of portraits, papa has just finished painting mine, and — what do you think? — seriously talks of sending it to the Academy next year! Unfortunately it was too late for the present exhibition. I will describe the picture to you. I am sitting at a solitaire-board, to begin with, my right hand just raised in the act of moving a glass marble from one hole to another. My dress is a very light blue, and, as I am painted in full length, shows my taste in such matters very admirably. I tell papa, too, that, if he exhibits the picture, he ought to charge Mdlle. Gateau, of Regent Street, a handsome sum in return for the advertisement, having it stated in the catalogue by whom the dress was made. I confess I look very creditably. My fingers, to which, of course, special attention is attracted, are of absolutely wonderful delicacy20, almost transparent21. Then my hair is a marvel22 of ingenuity23. I did it up in imitation of Miss E——, the celebrated24 singer, and flatter myself that I improved upon the original. Altogether the picture is, I am assured, and well believe, a highly attractive piece of work. A gentleman last week offered papa two hundred pounds for it! But the gentleman is not after my taste, though my picture seems to suit his. He is a great fop, and only twenty-two!
“Now I know what your first remarks will be when you read all this. You will say: ‘What a dreadful thing to be painted in such a frivolous26 attitude! Why not be represented as drawing, or reading, or at least embroidering27?’ Well, it was papa’s choice. He always says that if women are not ornamental they are nothing, and that they should always be associated with the hours of relaxation28, and not those of work. He has no belief whatever in the heroic woman, laughing to scorn women’s rights, and speaking almost as disrespectfully of that schw?rmerei of which you are yourself such an exalted29 instance.
“But I must conclude, and, as usual, reserve for the last paragraph the little quantity of sense which my letters contain. Be assured, dear Helen, that though papa makes fun of a woman’s enthusiasm, I am, in reality, very far from doing so. Though I consider worldly prudence30 and good sense my strong point, yet I am by no means without moments in which I realise much the same feelings as those that you so admirably express in your, alas31! too short letters. I hope you take it, as I mean it, for one of the truest signs of my friendship that I write to you the first things that come into my head, leaving you to divine the background of serious feeling which they conceal32. But you really must write a line. Surely you are not so absorbed in your French, and your German, and your Italian, and your I-don’t-know-what, that you cannot spare a few minutes to pen a word or two! Now I calculate upon a speedy reply.
“Your loving friend, “Maud Gresham.”
On the morning following the despatch33 of this letter, Maud received a short note from her friend, enclosed in a longer letter to Mr. Gresham
“Mentone.
“Dearest Maud, “I have only time to write a line. Papa has suddenly been taken most seriously ill. He caught a severe cold the other day by an unfortunate accident, and I fear this is the result. He has asked me to write to Mr. Gresham, begging him, if possible, to come to us at once. I am afraid to think why he makes this request. Pray urge your papa to come.
“With love, dear Maud, “Helen Norman.”
The letter to Mr. Gresham was written in most pressing terms, and admitted of no delay. Maud added her entreaties34, and Mr. Gresham set off the same evening for the South of France. On arriving at Mentone he found that he had not come a moment too soon. Mr. Norman, it appeared, had been pursuing his favourite pleasure, that of boating, and had, through some carelessness or other, been capsized. He had saved himself by swimming, but was almost immediately after attacked by a most violent cold, which all precautions had been unable to prevent. This, acting35 upon his already almost worn-out constitution, rapidly laid him prostrate36, with little hope of ever rising from his bed again. In this condition the artist found him, so reduced that he could not stir, and quite unable to speak above a whisper. The sight of his old friend seemed to revive him, and in a private interview he informed the latter that, with characteristic procrastination37, he had put off from time to time the making of his will, but that he desired to perform the duty immediately, being convinced that he was upon his death-bed. Mr. Gresham undertook to fulfil the office of executor, and the will was forthwith made.
Two hours after completing its dictation, Mr. Norman sank into unconsciousness, from which he never revived, save very partially39 for a few moments at a time. Before the end of the third day after his friend’s arrival he died.
The greater part of his property he left, of course, to Helen, who was to become the ward40 of Mr. Gresham, seeing that she had none but distant relatives on her mother’s side, and those in very humble circumstances, whilst on her father’s side absolutely no relation remained living.
Under these circumstances, Helen might very fairly consider herself an heiress. There were also legacies41 to Mr. Gresham and his daughter Maud. Last of all came an item very characteristic of the testator. He made over to his executor the sum of ￡5,000 in the 3 Per Cents., with the following instructions: —
He desired Mr. Gresham to do his best to discover whether Arthur Golding was still living, and, if by any chance he should find him, to pay to him on his attaining42 the age of twenty-one the said sum. Till such date the interest was to be drawn43 by Mr. Gresham, to cover any expenses that might be involved in the search; in the event of Arthur having been already discovered, might, if the executor saw fit, be applied44 to his use. If by the end of the year 1875 (to leave a fair margin), all efforts had met with no success, the sum to be employed for the benefit of any charity to which his executor might think fit to devote it.
Thus did Mr. Norman satisfy his conscience by bequeathing to another the performance of what he had always considered as a duty, and yet had never possessed45 sufficient energy to undertake.
It now remained to decide with regard to Helen’s future. The poor girl was severely46 afflicted47 at her father’s death, and begged to be allowed to remain a few months at least amid scenes which had hitherto possessed such happy, and had now acquired such mournful associations.
As her health seemed to advise this course Mr. Gresham readily acceded48 to the request, and it was arranged that Helen should live in the house of a very agreeable French family with whom she had long been acquainted. In the course of the autumn she was to return to England, when her future movements could be discussed at her guardian’s house.
Early in October Mr. Gresham returned to Mentone to fetch Helen back to England, and this time Maud accompanied him. They remained in the South of France about a fortnight, and then started back.
It was rather more than four years since Helen left her old home, and she had greatly changed in the interval49. If anything, she had slightly the advantage of Maud Gresham in height, and her excessive slimness made her appear even taller than she was. She had never been a robust50 child; but during the last few months grief had wasted her to a shadow. Her face was more beautiful than ever, for hers was a style of beauty which gained rather than lost by a marble paleness.
As she entered Mr. Gresham’s drawing-room in the long black dress which she had travelled in, and, throwing back her veil, disclosed a face suffused51 with tears and smiles, which the excitement of the moment called forth38, no one could have supposed her younger than the very compact yet elegant young lady who stood at her side; when they stood together it was Maud who appeared the child.
Upon Helen’s face rested a sweet seriousness which bespoke52 a nature at once exquisitely53 refined, susceptible55 to keen emotion, and strong in the power of suppressing its outward signs when it appeared most fitting to withhold56 them from observation. Her forehead bore the unmistakable impress of thought superior to her years; her eyes had a clear directness of expression which seemed to pierce to the truth through all barriers of form, and irresistibly57 claimed respect from all upon whom they rested; her lips were rich in the grace of female modesty58 and tenderness. Her walk had not altered; it was, as it had always been, that of a queen. Unconscious dignity was present in every movement.
To a stranger her bearing might at first have appeared haughty59; those who knew her soon learned that this was the mere outward expression of a loftiness of soul which made itself manifest in every word she spoke and every act she performed.
Maud soon discovered that a great change had passed over her friend’s mind in the period since her father’s death. A few minutes’ conversation sufficed to show her that this was not the same Helen who had written such ardent60 letters, brimful of enthusiasm for all that is beautiful, and good, and true. The ardour was now suppressed, and it was something more than grief that had effected the change. Maud was not long in discovering the explanation of this. Helen had become devout61.
In one of our earliest chapters we had an opportunity of seeing the kind of religious instruction which Mr. Norman was in the habit of affording his child as often as her eagerness in questioning compelled him to touch upon the subject. Otherwise, if not compelled by her curiosity, he avoided the subject, fearing somewhat, if the truth must be told, her premature62 power of thought and observation. The result of this was, that up to the time of her father’s death Helen had thought little, if at all, on religious subjects. The fact that she had never known a mother doubtless contributed to make this possible, and the completeness with which her days were occupied in various studies gave her abundance of matter for thought in her leisure hours. But, as might reasonably have been anticipated, the suddenness of her bereavement63 acted as a powerful stimulus64 to those seeds of devotional piety65 which are present in the heart of every woman, and which usually receive numberless impulses by fructification long before the age at which Helen had now arrived.
What sectarian Christians66 would style a conversion68 took place in her mind. Of a sudden she became discontented with the occupations of her life. It came upon her with the force of a revelation that she had hitherto lived in absolute neglect of the veritable end of existence, namely, devout prayer and praise to the all-powerful Being, upon whose existence she had as yet scarcely reflected, but whom she now conceived of, with all the energy of a powerful imagination, as the distinct and personal God.
This attitude of mind was confirmed by the circumstance that the French family with whom she went to live were strictly69 religious. That their religion was Roman Catholic did not prevent Helen from being strongly impressed with their zealous70 fervour, and she forthwith commenced the performance of the duties of her faith with an ardour which marked her conduct whatever she undertook.
Her friends, who had long known her intimately, clearly observed the change, and were inspired with an eager hope that it might be the means of affording them the power of converting her to their own faith. To this end they forthwith began unobtrusively to exert themselves, and also secured the aid of a curé in their self-imposed task.
But the girl remained firm against their persuasions72, which even had the result of rendering73 her more ardent than ever in the cultivation74 of her Protestantism. Her days were passed in the perusal75 of religious books, in self-rebuke for her sins of omission76 and commission in the past, in the contemplation of a future to be devoted77 to charitable deeds; whilst her nights were passed in prayer, the early dawn sometimes finding her still upon her knees, or bending over her Bible.
No wonder, under such circumstances, that she grew thin and pale. The old childlike enthusiasm had by this time well-nigh forsaken78 her; her excess of zeal71 compelled her to look with disapproval79 on the subjects which had occasioned it. The energy of her nature now exhaled80 in ecstasies81 which none were witness of, save her midnight lamp.
Mr. Gresham and his daughter agreed in strongly condemning82 this state of affairs, and before many days had passed began to unite in an attack upon what they esteemed83 Helen’s self-destructive asceticism84. They knew well that to attack it openly would only defeat their own object, so they proceeded by means of distractions85 to which Helen could scarcely refuse to consent without appearing ungrateful.
They arranged excursions into the country, in which they were joined only by one or two quiet friends; they spent mornings all together in the museums and the art-galleries; they induced Helen to read aloud occasionally in the evening from books which Maud knew had once been favourites of hers, and Mr. Gresham began to give her lessons in oil-painting.
Concession86 in these particulars at first caused the pious87 girl acute pain, and many secret hours were spent in tears after some unusual backsliding; but by degrees the remedy began to prove effectual, and those who practised it were rewarded by seeing a very gradual, but still very evident, improvement in Helen’s spirits, an improvement which before long began to affect her bodily health.
Helen had at length become so far weaned from her habits of solitude88 as to voluntarily request that she might pay a visit to Bloomford. She had in reality secretly longed to see the place of her birth ever since she had been in England; and now that the spring had once more come round, she was quite unable to resist the vivifying influence of the fresh west winds and the attractions of all those green country scenes, which the sight of the parks coming into life, again called so strongly to her mind. As the distance was comparatively short, it was arranged that Helen and Maud should undertake the journey alone, going early in the morning and returning the same evening.
At about eleven o’clock they found themselves before the gates of the Rectory. The house had not altered in outward appearance; but a group of young children playing, or rather squabbling, together on the lawn, reminded the visitors of the change in its occupancy. Passing up the walk, they rang the door bell and requested to see Mr. Whiffle.
They were shown into the drawing-room, which was furnished precisely89 as Mr. Norman had left it, but which was scarcely as tidy as it might have been, and as it always was in the days of Mrs. Cope’s dominion90.
Whilst waiting for the rector’s appearance Helen kept her veil down, and Maud could hear her in vain endeavouring to suppress a sob9, occasioned by the memory of old times. She had just time to give her friend’s hand a reassuring91 pressure when Mr. Whiffle entered.
He looked shorter than ever, probably because he had begun to contract a somewhat portly habit of body, and his hair was just as red and just as stubborn as ever. He wore spectacles now, and strutted92 about with a more dignified93 gait than he had previously94 exhibited; but he still retained the old habits of running his fingers through his coarse red hair, and of rising and falling on his toes as he discoursed95. His voice had acquired a slightly nasal twang, probably due to attempting to make his crow-like note subservient96 to the purposes of intonation97.
On entering the room he bowed, and requested to be informed in what way he could serve his visitors.
Maud was somewhat more prepared for a speech than Helen, and accordingly replied —
“We are two old acquaintances, sir, who, I much fear, have outgrown98 your recollection. Of me you had never more than a slight knowledge; but my companion is a very old friend of yours, indeed. Her you will probably recognise.”
The rector gazed in a puzzled manner from the speaker to Helen and back again, and for some moments was entirely100 at a loss. But the sight of Helen’s mourning seemed at length to stimulate101 his memory, and his face gradually brightened as the idea gained power over his mind.
“Upon my word! — Ha! — No! — Yes! It must be. I do believe this is Miss Norman! And this —? Upon my word I cannot recollect99.”
“You are right as far as I am concerned, Mr. Whiffle,” said Helen, who had now recovered her self-possession. “And this is Miss Gresham, whom you several times saw at the Rectory.”
“Upon my word, and so it is! Miss Gresham, I am heartily102 glad to see you. Miss Norman, you have delighted me by this visit! Ladies, I beg you to consider yourselves both heartily welcome to Bloomford Rectory. Upon my word! This is one of my happiest days since that eventful one upon which I entered The Church! You have experienced a sad loss, Miss Norman, a very sad loss; but I feel sure that I need not remind the daughter of my sometime rector, whom I ever loved and revered103, of the consolations104 which The Church offers for those similarly afflicted. And you have come down from Town, I suppose. Ha! I get to Town, myself, more frequently than I used to do, Miss Norman, in the by-gone days. You see, it behoves the pastor105 of a congregation to keep his mind thoroughly106 in contact with the movements of the day. I was in London, in fact, so recently as three weeks ago, when I had a little business in Paternoster Row, concerning the publication of a small pamphlet on the subject of ‘Church Ritual,’ a reply to certain calumnies107 which have of late been circulated with regard to my method of conducting our services in St. Peter’s. I trust, Miss Norman, you favour the High Church form of worship?”
“I have been so long abroad,” replied Helen, after a moment’s hesitation109, “that I doubt whether I am quite aware of the distinctions existing between the different forms of worship in England.”
“Indeed! Ha! We must discuss the whole matter. You will, of course, take dinner with us? We dine at one.”
“We shall have pleasure in doing so,” replied Helen.
“Ha! Delighted! Upon my word, I must call Mrs. Whiffle — and the children. They will all be charmed!”
So saying, the Rector hurried out of the room. In a moment a confused whispering, and shuffling110, and pushing, and whimpering began to be audible in the drawing-room, which seemed to indicate that the whole Whiffle family was already gathered outside in the hall. A moment after a baby set up a terrific screaming, whereupon, as at a signal, Mr. Whiffle again marched into the room, with Mrs. Whiffle leaning on his arm, followed by nine children, the eldest111 girl bearing an infant in her arms. In the midst of agonising yells from this youngest member of the family circle, Mr. Whiffle introduced them all to the visitors.
“This is Master Peter,” he concluded, taking the squalling brat25 in his arms, “so called because born on the day sacred to St. Peter, the patron of the church of which I have the honour to be rector. He is our latest arrival, and as yet somewhat of a care to Mrs. Whiffle. I often pity those people, Miss Norman, who have large families. The care of even a few children is something of which you, happily, can as yet form no conception. Augustus, my eldest, is not here, being at present a student at King’s College, London, where he is preparing for the time when he shall have attained112 the years necessary for ordination113.”
There was something peculiar114 in Mr. Whiffle’s tone, when he spoke of his eldest son, which might have led an acute observer to surmise115 that he was not altogether satisfied with that young gentleman’s progress. But the thoughts of his visitors were elsewhere, and they did not notice this.
All through dinner Mr. Whiffle talked incessantly116, expatiating117 on the details of the discussion going on between himself and a neighbouring vicar on the subject of his ritualism. With merciless detail he described the points at issue in the contest, went back for his authorities to the early ages of the Church, gave citations118 in Latin which he did not take the trouble to translate, described diagrams on the table with knives and forks to represent the Church ornaments119 of which he was speaking, and in short gave the young ladies an insight into the foundations of ritualism calculated to send them back home somewhat wiser than they came. And all this amidst such a hubbub120 of juvenile121 chatter122, such a breaking of plates and overturning of glasses, such a thumping123, and squalling, and threatening, as would inevitably124 have driven anyone but Mr. Whiffle frantic125 when engaged in the discussion of such engrossing126 topics.
Maud and Helen did their best to appear interested in all this talk, and with such success, that Mr. Whiffle was jubilant.
“I must take you into my study,” he exclaimed, as they all rose from the dinner table, “and show you certain works which I have in progress, works which I flatter myself will open the eyes of certain degenerate127 sons of The Church, whom I could name, and may perchance make the name of Orlando Whiffle somewhat more widely known than it at present is. Ahem! I have in contemplation, Miss Norman, amongst other things, a series of Tracts128 not unlike those issued by the Tractarian Party during the years 1833 to 1841. I have likewise pamphlets on hand on very various topics, among them — this way, if you please, Miss Gresham — treatises129 on ‘The Orthodoxy of Stained Glass Windows,’ ‘Pews or Stalls?’ ‘Confession from the Point of View of Expediency,’ ‘Interpretations of the Thirty-nine Articles,’ and many others of a similar description. I really must get you to read a few, Miss Norman, and give me your opinion on them; likewise you Miss Gresham. You can have but little notion of the way in which work accumulates in the hands of a rector, or parson, as perhaps he should be more properly called: persona ecclesi?, the representative of The Church, a proud title, Miss Norman.”
They were now in the study, the room in which Helen had sat day after day at her lessons with her father. In those days it had been always in the most admirable order, at present it was rather in “admired disorder130.” Books of all shapes and sizes were recklessly piled upon the shelves, and heaped upon the tables or the floor. There was scarcely a chair free to sit down upon. Everywhere was a litter of torn manuscript, old numbers of Church magazines, daily and weekly papers, tracts by the thousand, even the backs of books which had been rent off in the struggle for existence. Certainly the dust could never have been once removed during the four years of Mr. Whiffle’s incumbency131. Maud could not repress a smile as she looked round; Helen with difficulty repressed a tear.
“I wish I had an opportunity, Miss Norman, of directing your reading. You intend to remain in England now? Ah! I certainly should advise it. Nowhere have you the benefit of such an enlightened movement in the matter of Church ritual as our country at present enjoys. Now suppose I were to suggest a few books for your perusal, Miss Norman, sterling132 works which you can easily obtain in London, works of sound, practical information. Here is a piece of paper, Miss Norman, and a pencil; possibly you would like to take the names of a few. Now here, for instance is Rogers’s ‘Practical Arrangement of Ecclesiastical Laws,’ containing very much that is absolutely necessary to be known; here is Hook’s ‘Ecclesiastical Biography,’ an extremely interesting work; here, again, is Lathbury on ‘The History of Convocation,’ very needful. You have got Lathbury? Here, now, is Palmer’s ‘Origines Liturgic?,’ which I am sure you will enjoy. Here we have Maskell’s ‘Ancient Liturgy133 of the Church of England,’ very sound. Got Maskell, Miss Norman? Here are the ‘Monumenta Ritualia Ecclesi? Anglican?,’ admirable; don’t omit that. Here is Neale’s ‘Tetralogia Liturgic?.’ Possibly those might be enough to begin with, and when you have perused134 them if you would so far honour me as to intimate the fact by letter, or, still better, by coming down again to see me, I will have another list assorted135. By-the-bye, you might of course add Burn’s ‘Ecclesiastical Law,’ a compendious136 work.”
At this moment Mrs. Whiffle appeared in the doorway137.
“My dear,” she said, “here’s that man Potts come again about the burial of his child. He says he must see you.”
“Ah! Does he? Well, show him in here. A very refractory138 parishioner, young ladies. You shall see how I will deal with him.”
The man thus announced then appeared at the door. He was a rude countryman in labour-stained clothes, and with a sun-burnt face. The latter, however, was marked by signs of suffering, and Helen noticed that the hat he held in his hand was bound with a scrap139 of black ribbon.
“Well, my man?” asked Mr. Whiffle, as he appeared.
“Well, sir,” replied the man, pulling his forelock respectfully, “I’s come to ask whether you won’t be so good as bury our little Tom. It ‘ud be a great kindness, sir, if you only would this one time, an’ we shouldn’t forget it so quick, neither.”
“I told you this morning, Potts,” replied Mr. Whiffle, with dignity, “that it is impossible for me to read the service of the Church of England over your child, seeing that he was never baptized. Is not that enough?”
“Well, sir, if you can’t see your way to do it, would you let Mr. Sykes do it, the one as preaches at t’ chapel140, you know? He’s a Dissenter141 I know, but he’s got no ‘bjections to do this bit o’ kindness for us, and we’d rather have him than no one. I’m sure as it’ll kill his mother if our poor little Tom, as never did no ‘arm to no one, no not a fly, is put into t’ ground like a dog, without Christian67 burial. Would you let Mr. Sykes read over him, sir?”
At the first mention of the obnoxious142 schismatic, Mr. Whiffle’s eyebrows143 had risen, and his eyes actually glared through his spectacles at the audacious speaker.
“Mr. — Mr. — Mr. Sykes!” he stuttered, scarcely able to speak. “Allow him to read a service in a burial ground belonging and appertaining to the English Church as by law established! I’ll see Mr. Sykes in — his pulpit first! I tell you the child must be buried in silence, Potts, so there’s no use in further discussion. The ordinances144 of The Church do not permit me to read the service in such cases. Do I not know the ordinances of the Church in which I am a rector? Do you wish to insult me, man?”
“I’s no wish to hinsult you, sir, or any one else,” returned the man, “but I think it hard, that’s all I’s got to say; I think it hard, I do! It’ll be the death of my poor wife, I know as it will; an’ it’s a blow for me myself. But I s’pose I must bide145 it. Well, sir, it’s a queer Christian Church, that’s all I’s got to say, an’ what’s more ——”
“Now that will do, Potts,” broke in Mr. Whiffle, majestically146, pointing to the door. “You’ve heard my answer, and you may go. Any attempt to infringe147 my rights as rector of the parish of Bloomford will meet with condign148 punishment; that’s all I have to say, Potts. You may go.”
The man retired149 with a terribly downcast look, far too sad at heart to give ear to the scorn with which his rector treated him.
“This seems very hard for these poor people,” said Helen, as soon as he was gone. “Surely the severity of such a rule must sometimes be relaxed.”
“I grant you it is sometimes neglected, Miss Norman,” returned the rector, “by those who have but an imperfect sense of their own dignity and their duty to The Church.”
He was proceeding150 to a long discussion on the subject of Church ordinances when he was again interrupted by the presence of Mrs. Whiffle at the door, who requested to speak with him for a moment. Mr. Whiffle was absent for a few minutes, when he returned and announced that his eldest son, Augustus, had quite unexpectedly made his appearance at the Rectory. His face, when he made this announcement, once more presented the mingled151 expression which it had worn when he first spoke of his son. Immediately after, the young man himself appeared in the study.
The outward aspect of Augustus Whiffle was scarcely that which we are accustomed to associate with a student of divinity. His dress was decidedly “loud” in tone, cut in the extremity152 of the existing fashion, and the ornaments which he wore were in excessively bad taste. In short he precisely resembled the typical counter-man out for a holiday. In person he was very tall, with a face in which it was difficult to determine whether folly153 or vice108 predominated, and his hair, though kept in strict order by means of a liberal allowance of bear’s grease, was of exactly the same hue154 as his father’s. He wore a gold pince-nez, had his hands covered with flashy rings, and carried a demonstrative cane155, with which, as he stood in the doorway, he tapped his shiny boots, as if to draw attention to their exquisite54 finish. Such was Mr. Augustus Whiffle, whom his reverend parent had destined156 to become a shining light in the Establishment. It was far from improbable that he might even yet attain to that distinction.
On being introduced to the young ladies, this young gentleman bowed with a mixture of superciliousness157 and awkwardness generally observable in those men who are wont158 to spend a considerable portion of time in the society of females who neither exact nor receive any great amount of deference159. He muttered a few remarks with regard to the weather, and something to the effect that it was a long time since he had seen either of the visitors, after which he beat an awkward retreat, almost overturning his mother, who had stood behind him with an expression of countenance160 which seemed to indicate that she scarcely knew whether to admire or sigh over her son’s appearance and behaviour.
Augustus having disappeared, Mrs. Whiffle, with a look of intelligence at her husband, invited the young ladies to take a stroll in the garden, which being agreed to, they all three went out on to the lawn, accompanied by the nine young Whiffles. Scarcely were they gone than Augustus Whiffle again made his appearance in the study, where his father had been thoughtfully awaiting him. He closed the door behind him, and assumed the only vacant chair, cocking his hat on one side, and assuming the greatest possible extent of space for his legs, one of which, with an affectation of careless grace, he flung over the other, all the time continuing to tap his boots with his cane.
“Well, sir,” began Mr. Whiffle, with a make-believe severity which his tremulous tones belied161, “I thought I had expressly forbidden you to absent yourself from your duties again before the long vacation?”
“Very possibly,” returned Augustus, drawing a gilt162 toothpick from his waistcoat pocket, and applying it to his teeth, which he smacked163 loudly with his tongue. “But if you tell a fellow to go and live in the society of other fellows, who are gentlemen, you must give a fellow the means to be a gentleman too!”
“What do you mean, sir?” asked the rector, still severely, though his hands were nervously164 twitching165 behind his back.
“I mean what I say. A fellow can’t live like a gentleman unless he has the means!”
“Do you mean to tell me you have again run short of money?”
Augustus smacked each one of his pockets in turn — and he had a great number of them — but did not deign166 to make further reply.
“And what has become of the thirty pounds you had at Easter, sir? Where — where are your accounts? Show me an account of your expenditure167?”
“Don’t keep any,” returned the other, coolly, changing the position of his legs.
“And why not, sir, when I so expressly instructed you to?”
“Devilish ungentlemanly. No fellow that calls himself a gentleman keeps accounts.”
“Indeed! And you swear too, sir! Is that indispensable to a gentleman?”
“Deucedly prevalent habit,” replied Augustus, with a sarcastic168 smile.
Mr. Whiffle turned away from his son and made an attempt to pace the room in thought, but at the first turn he tripped over a folio and had difficulty in recovering himself with dignity. Augustus continued to pick his teeth and smile.
“I tell you what it is, sir!” exclaimed the rector, suddenly, in exasperation169, “you’ll have no more money from me till the long vacation comes — not a penny! And what’s more, if you show your face again at the Rectory before that period, I will give orders that you are not to be admitted. You shall be turned away like a beggar from the door, sir!”
“Very well,” replied Augustus, rising. “Then I shall at once throw up the College, and look out for something that’ll bring in the needful. In the meantime I shall live on tick, and you’ll have the bills.”
“I’ll write to your lodgings170 immediately, sir,” cried Mr. Whiffle, in wrath171, “and warn them to turn you out of doors tomorrow!”
“No difficulty in the world in finding another place. Lots of gentlemanly fellows that will go bail172.”
“I will forbid you to come near the Rectory again, as long as you live! You shall no longer be in any way related to me! I’ll advertise in the newspapers, and warn tradesmen against trusting you!”
“Oh no, you won’t — by no means!”
“Why not, sir?”
“Because you don’t care to make yourself ridiculous. Now what is the good of calling a fellow over the coals in this way? You know a fellow can’t get on without tin, and as long as you’ve got it, why not let a fellow have a reasonable supply?”
Mr. Whiffle wrung173 his hands in desperation.
“What have you done with all your money, Gus?” he asked, in a tragi-comic tone, which he, however, meant to be perfectly174 serious.
“Well, a good lot’s gone in books,” replied Augustus, who, it must be confessed, had very much the air of a studious youth. “They come so devilish high, you see.”
“Don’t swear in my presence, sir!” exclaimed the rector, stamping his foot. “What books have you bought?”
“Oh, I don’t know. All sorts.”
If this was meant to comprise a copious175 collection of very bad novels, it was certainly true.
“Have you got through the ‘Origines Liturgic?’ yet?” asked the rector, after a pause, his wrath, never of long duration, perceptibly cooling.
“Very nearly,” replied Augustus, who had never opened the book.
“You have!” exclaimed the credulous176 father, in delight. “Ha! Let me ask you a few questions.”
“Well, I’m sorry,” returned the young man, pulling out his watch, “but I really haven’t time. I must positively get back to Town to-night. I have a lecture early tomorrow morning.”
“Go back with Miss Norman and Miss Gresham,” said the rector. “They go by the 5.30.”
“Not a bad idea,” replied Augustus, who felt rather uneasy at the prospect177, for all that. “And, by-the-bye — did you write the cheque?”
Mr. Whiffle looked at his son, sighed, paused a moment, then left the room and returned very shortly with a folded cheque in his hand.
“Augustus Whiffle,” he said, solemnly, as he handed it over. “This is the last money I can let you have before the long vacation. As it is, I shall have to pinch myself and the children. There, take it, and make a proper use of it.”
Augustus unfolded the cheque and glanced at it.
“Only twenty!” he exclaimed. “I say, governor, you re getting awfully178 shabby, you know.”
At this moment the tea-bell made its clanging heard in the hall, and Mr. Whiffle, glad of an excuse, hurried away. Augustus followed, inserting the cheque in his pocket-book.
“What the devil’s the good of this?” he muttered to himself. “Won’t pay a twentieth part of a fellow’s debts, let alone keeping a fellow in toggery and cigars. What an old screw the governor is!”
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收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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2
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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embarking
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| 乘船( embark的现在分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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6
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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9
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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languish
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| vi.变得衰弱无力，失去活力，（植物等）凋萎 | |
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11
subscribing
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| v.捐助( subscribe的现在分词 )；签署，题词；订阅；同意 | |
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12
ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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13
detest
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| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
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14
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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15
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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18
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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19
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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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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21
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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22
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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23
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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25
brat
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| n.孩子；顽童 | |
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26
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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27
embroidering
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| v.（在织物上）绣花( embroider的现在分词 )；刺绣；对…加以渲染（或修饰）；给…添枝加叶 | |
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28
relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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29
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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30
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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31
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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32
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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33
despatch
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| n./v.(dispatch)派遣；发送；n.急件；新闻报道 | |
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34
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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35
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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procrastination
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| n.拖延，耽搁 | |
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38
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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39
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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40
ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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41
legacies
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| n.遗产( legacy的名词复数 )；遗留之物；遗留问题；后遗症 | |
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42
attaining
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的现在分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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43
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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44
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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45
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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46
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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47
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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48
acceded
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| v.（正式）加入( accede的过去式和过去分词 )；答应；（通过财产的添附而）增加；开始任职 | |
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49
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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50
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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51
suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
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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53
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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54
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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55
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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56
withhold
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| v.拒绝，不给；使停止，阻挡 | |
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57
irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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58
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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59
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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60
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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61
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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62
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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63
bereavement
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| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
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64
stimulus
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| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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65
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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66
Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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67
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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68
conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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69
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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70
zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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71
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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72
persuasions
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| n.劝说，说服（力）( persuasion的名词复数 )；信仰 | |
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73
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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74
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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75
perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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76
omission
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| n.省略，删节；遗漏或省略的事物，冗长 | |
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77
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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78
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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79
disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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80
exhaled
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的过去式和过去分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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81
ecstasies
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| 狂喜( ecstasy的名词复数 )； 出神； 入迷； 迷幻药 | |
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82
condemning
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| v.（通常因道义上的原因而）谴责( condemn的现在分词 )；宣判；宣布…不能使用；迫使…陷于不幸的境地 | |
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83
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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84
asceticism
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| n.禁欲主义 | |
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85
distractions
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| n.使人分心的事[人]( distraction的名词复数 )；娱乐，消遣；心烦意乱；精神错乱 | |
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86
concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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87
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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88
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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89
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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90
dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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91
reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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92
strutted
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| 趾高气扬地走，高视阔步( strut的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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93
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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94
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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95
discoursed
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| 演说（discourse的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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96
subservient
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| adj.卑屈的，阿谀的 | |
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97
intonation
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| n.语调，声调；发声 | |
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98
outgrown
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| 长[发展] 得超过（某物）的范围( outgrow的过去分词 )； 长[发展]得不能再要（某物）； 长得比…快； 生长速度超过 | |
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99
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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100
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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101
stimulate
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| vt.刺激，使兴奋；激励，使…振奋 | |
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102
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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103
revered
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| v.崇敬，尊崇，敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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104
consolations
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| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
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105
pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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106
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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107
calumnies
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| n.诬蔑，诽谤，中伤（的话）( calumny的名词复数 ) | |
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108
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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109
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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110
shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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111
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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112
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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113
ordination
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| n.授任圣职 | |
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114
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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115
surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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116
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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117
expatiating
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| v.详述，细说( expatiate的现在分词 ) | |
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118
citations
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| n.引用( citation的名词复数 )；引证；引文；表扬 | |
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119
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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120
hubbub
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| n.嘈杂；骚乱 | |
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121
juvenile
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| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
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122
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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123
thumping
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| adj.重大的，巨大的；重击的；尺码大的；极好的adv.极端地；非常地v.重击(thump的现在分词)；狠打；怦怦地跳；全力支持 | |
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124
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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125
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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126
engrossing
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| adj.使人全神贯注的，引人入胜的v.使全神贯注( engross的现在分词 ) | |
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127
degenerate
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| v.退步，堕落；adj.退步的，堕落的；n.堕落者 | |
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128
tracts
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| 大片土地( tract的名词复数 )； 地带； （体内的）道； （尤指宣扬宗教、伦理或政治的）短文 | |
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129
treatises
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| n.专题著作，专题论文，专著( treatise的名词复数 ) | |
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130
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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131
incumbency
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| n.职责，义务 | |
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132
sterling
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| adj.英币的(纯粹的，货真价实的)；n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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133
liturgy
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| n.礼拜仪式 | |
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134
perused
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的过去式和过去分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
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135
assorted
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| adj.各种各样的，各色俱备的 | |
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136
compendious
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| adj.简要的，精简的 | |
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137
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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138
refractory
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| adj.倔强的，难驾驭的 | |
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139
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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140
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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141
dissenter
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| n.反对者 | |
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142
obnoxious
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| adj.极恼人的，讨人厌的，可憎的 | |
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143
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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144
ordinances
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| n.条例，法令( ordinance的名词复数 ) | |
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145
bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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146
majestically
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| 雄伟地； 庄重地； 威严地； 崇高地 | |
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147
infringe
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| v.违反，触犯，侵害 | |
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148
condign
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| adj.应得的，相当的 | |
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149
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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150
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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151
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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152
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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153
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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154
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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155
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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156
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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157
superciliousness
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| n.高傲，傲慢 | |
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158
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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159
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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160
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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161
belied
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| v.掩饰( belie的过去式和过去分词 )；证明（或显示）…为虚假；辜负；就…扯谎 | |
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162
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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163
smacked
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| 拍，打，掴( smack的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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164
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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165
twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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166
deign
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| v. 屈尊, 惠允 ( 做某事) | |
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167
expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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168
sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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169
exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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170
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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171
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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172
bail
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| v.舀（水），保释；n.保证金，保释，保释人 | |
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173
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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174
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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175
copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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176
credulous
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| adj.轻信的，易信的 | |
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177
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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178
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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