Similarly Helen Norman was progressing day by day in the struggle upwards7 and onwards, but in her case there was more consciousness of effort, and less of advance. Though she seemed to have chosen between two paths, resigning the constant care of her own intellect in favour of weary, and often seemingly ungrateful, labour in the cause of others, there was in reality no one of her thousand acts of sweetness, charity, and perseverance9 but reacted with tenfold effect upon her own nature, rendering10 her day by day more patient and enduring, as well as bolder, in the campaign against the mistakes and the vices11 of society upon which she had entered. For her, too, in all likelihood, this was the happiest period of her life, though she was as little conscious of the fact as Arthur. In these days, when the energy of young enthusiasm wrought12 up her strength to the performance of any severe or disgusting toil13, when as yet she could see nothing but the bright results of her efforts, and firmly believed that every new day would add to this brightness, she did indeed experience true happiness. When Mr. Heatherley met her from time to time in the course of her daily visits, and saw her lovely features aglow14 with the fire of boundless15 benevolence16, and that active virtue17, which is so very different a thing from the mere18 passive virtue upon which her sex, for the most part, prides itself, he could not but marvel19 in his mind that any impulse other than that of religion could give the spur to such wonderful exertions20.
On the other hand, the more Helen saw of the clergyman the more she respected him. If he marvelled21 at the inspiration which Helen derived22 from her natural religion, the latter, in her turn, could not but admire Mr. Heatherley’s abounding23 charity. For, with a generous divergence24 from the letter of his creed25, the latter held that the merit of good works was not solely26 dependent upon the faith of their performer; there was such a thing, he maintained, as unconsciously fulfilling the Gospel; and, far from esteeming27 error damnable, he looked upon it as deserving the most tender pity and consideration. So from the first, Helen Norman, with her noble and generous freethinking, had been to Mr. Heatherley an object of wonder at times almost of reverence29. Was it not a truth that the ways of God are not the ways of men, and could he for a moment believe that the eternal law of justice would permit the coexistence in one bosom31 of such heavenly purity of intention with heresy32 in doctrine33 nothing less than blasphemous34? Surely this was but one phase in the life of a soul struggling towards the truth.
Despite all this, Helen was frequently made to feel those other points, besides mere intellectual attitude, upon which there was no contact between them. Whereas her own nature was richly poetical35 — esteeming poetry the perfection of the noble faculty36 of speech, as the highest outward expression of that law of perpetual striving which alone she worshipped — Mr. Heatherley’s, she soon learnt, was only in a very moderate degree appreciative37 of anything apart from the hard details of social life. They agreed in believing that, for the present, their scene of duty was the earth, their work amidst the misery38 with which it abounded39; but whilst Helen idealised everything she looked upon, he viewed all things alike in the light of common day; where she saw higher significances, he saw merely facts. Such was indeed the necessary result of their difference in religious views. The man who convinces himself that he has ever at his elbow the key to the mystery of the universe, whose profession it is to make manifest to the world that he has this key, and to apply it for everyone’s behoof, who conceives that the great laws of duty have long ago been written down in black and white for the use of man, and are not capable of discovery otherwise; such a man cannot but regard the world in a more or less prosaic40 light, compared with the point of view of one who recognises no patent key as in existence, for whom the mystery of life and death begins and ends with a vast doubt, whose every thought is the fruit of, and leads to, boundless conjecture41, and who is compelled at length to confess with the poet, that
Beauty is truth, truth beauty, that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
Some such thoughts as these had occupied Helen’s mind on her way homeward one afternoon early in August, when in body she was fatigued42 almost past endurance, though her reflecting powers were no less vivid than ordinary. On her arrival in Portland Place, instead of mounting to her room she repaired forthwith to the library, which she knew was always empty at this hour, after giving orders that a cup of tea should be brought to her there. Throwing off her hat, she allowed herself to sink into the luxury of an easy chair, and was continuing her reflections, when the door opened suddenly and Maud entered, equipped for riding.
“You here!” she exclaimed to Helen. “I was that moment imagining you in some frightful43 cellar, or else garret, scattering45 your gold like a beneficent fairy to a whole family of destitute46 drunkards. But really, Helen, you are as pale as a ghost. You are working yourself to death, depend upon it. If I were an Irishwoman, I would add that you will acknowledge I am right when you actually are dead. I just came in to have a look at my pistols. I think you haven’t seen them yet?”
With that she proceeded to open one of the drawers in the centre-table, of which she took the key from her pocket, and to take from it two small American revolvers, holding one in each hand, and regarding them with the peculiar47 ironical48 smile which she had learnt from her father.
“They’re both loaded,” she said, calmly.
“Do you say they are yours, Maud?” asked Helen, in surprise.
“Yes; I bought them in the Strand49, last Monday.”
“But whatever for?”
“What for? Why, you know I am on the point of being married.”
“And what is the connection between the two circumstances?” asked Helen.
Maud shrugged50 her shoulders, once more examined the pistols carefully, replaced them in the drawer, and locked them up.
“One can never foresee what may happen,” she said at length. “Supposing robbers broke into one’s room at night. There are a thousand contingencies51 rendering the possession of such little defenders52 very desirable.”
Helen was silent and thoughtful. At this moment a servant brought in her tea.
“Bring me a cup, too, will you, Mary?” said Maud. Then, turning to her friend, “It will strengthen me to endure my ride.”
“Where is your ride to be today?” asked Helen.
“Where, my dear child? Why, in the Row, of course. Where else can a civilised person ride, I should like to know. Waghorn calls for me at four.”
“Do you enjoy your ride in the Row?”
“Enjoy it? My dear Helen, you grow more na?ve every day. Is it meant to be enjoyed, think you? Do you suppose that any soul ever does enjoy it?”
“It is somewhat difficult to account for their persisting in the practice if it brings them no enjoyment,” returned Helen.
“Duty, Helen, duty. Do not suppose that you philanthropists monopolise that article. We go to the Row to show ourselves, and purely53 from a sense of duty. Society requires it of us. Who would venture to question the dictates54 of society?”
“But I suppose the dictates of society are sometimes one with those of pleasure?”
“Give me a single instance in which they are,” returned Maud, “and I’ll — allow you to congratulate me on my wedding-day. Which, bye-the-by, I herewith seriously forbid you to do, Helen Norman.”
“You mean it?”
“I mean it.”
“May I ask why?”
“Because I esteem28 you too highly, my dear girl, to allow you to make a hypocrite of yourself out of deference55 to these same social rules of which we have been speaking.”
There was silence for some time, which Helen was the first to break.
“You could hardly regard the concert last night as disagreeable,” she said. “Mr. Gresham told me that it was admirable.”
“Never trust papa,” returned Maud, “especially when he praises anything or anybody. He does so purely out of deference to your optimistic views; for, you must know, papa is a trifle afraid of you. I assure you the concert was fatiguing56 to the last degree.”
“Do you ever enjoy anything, Maud?”
“Yes, Helen.”
“What, may I ask?”
“Why, talking with you. It seems to do me good to mingle57 my insipid58 ideas with your vigorous, healthy thoughts. It refreshes me to come into contact with your genuine nature, after feeding my littleness upon the affected59 admiration60 of fools. You see I can be severe in a downright manner when I choose, Helen, and upon myself, too.”
Helen did not reply, but enjoyed her tea with gravity.
“Do you know, Helen,” pursued the talkative young lady, “I have only seen one person in my life very much like you. Can you guess who it is?”
“I fear not.”
“You will be surprised. I mean Mr. Golding.”
Helen looked up with a surprised smile.
“What are the points of resemblance?” she asked.
“Many. You are both grave habitually62, and enthusiastic upon occasion You are both furious advocates of what you will permit me to call the canaille, their rights and wrongs. You have both a manner of smiling quite peculiar, and which, to atone63 for the other expression, I may perhaps be permitted to call angelic. Also you are both, in conclusion, extraordinarily64 good-looking.”
“How can you know all this of Mr. Golding?” asked Helen, smiling.
“Oh, I frequently have a little conversation with him in the studio of a morning. I find him rather interesting.”
“Upon what subjects has he waxed enthusiastic to you?”
“Principally upon the merits of an old gentleman with whom, it seems, he has lived for many years, but whose name is a trifle uncouth65, and I forget it. Oh, I know! Tollady — Mr. Tollady. To hear Mr. Golding speak of him, he must be an angel, before whom even you, Helen, must veil your wings. He impoverishes66 himself by giving to the poor, and has been known to walk home shoeless at night that a beggar’s feet might be shod.”
Helen listened with an expression of the most lively interest upon her features, but made no remark.
“But I shall cease my connection with Mr. Golding,” pursued Maud.
“Why?”
“His enthusiasm is contagious67. If I talked to him for an hour every day during a week he would scatter44 my calm philosophy to the winds.”
Helen made no reply.
“It is very unfortunate,” said Maud, “that his position is so ambiguous.”
“In what sense ambiguous?” asked Helen.
“Why, you know, he is not, to begin with, what the world calls a gentleman.”
“Indeed! Has he been rude to you?”
“Far from it.”
“What has he done, then, to forfeit68 the title of a gentleman?”
“He never owned it, Helen. He must have been as poor as a church mouse all his life, and Heaven forbid that he should disclose how he got his living always.”
“Are you speaking seriously, Maud?”
“Quite seriously, Helen, as the mouthpiece of the world, which you know is the character I love to adopt.”
“But as the mouthpiece of your own thoughts?”
“Why, what is your opinion?”
“I never saw him act, or heard him speak otherwise than as a gentleman, on the two occasions I had for speaking to him.”
“Well, when I speak of his ambiguous position, I mean to say one is not quite sure whether one ought to talk to him as an equal or not.”
“That I consider an unworthy doubt, Maud.”
“You have no scruples70 in the matter?”
“I confess that I have not. If I wish to do so, I shall speak with as much freedom to Mr. Golding as to Mr. Gresham.”
“You consider him an equal?”
“In many respects, my superior,” replied Helen, unconsciously straightening herself, as was her habit when desirous of speaking with special force. “As an artist he has shown that he possesses genius, and that is a property I bow to wherever I meet it.”
“The genius Mr. Golding owns is, unfortunately, not always so useful as its namesakes of the ‘Arabian Nights.’ Genius is highly agreeable company in the world’s estimation as long as it is able to keep a carriage; but genius in rags is the most objectionable of mendicants.”
“And can you rank yourself, Maud, on the side of a world with principles such as these?”
“Don’t say can; the proper word is must. Depend upon it, the world is too strong for an individual will to combat. It will conquer, sooner or later. The difference between you and me, Helen, is, that whilst you are determined71 to fight out the struggle to the bitter end, I, rather more sensible, I flatter myself, calculate the chances to begin with, and give in at once.”
“Well,” said Helen, with a sigh, “if I am fated to be beaten, I still think it will be a consolation72 to me to remember that I struggled. But why do you always practise this insincerity with me, Maud? I know quite well you think far other than you speak.”
“You know that?”
“I am sure of it.”
“Well, well. Then you know more of me, Helen, than I do of myself. But here is John. You are very late, sir.”
These words were addressed to Mr. John Waghorn, who just then entered the library, looking, if possible, even more respectable in his riding clothes than he had done in evening dress.
There was, however, today, a certain sallowness in his cheeks, and a slight heaviness about the eyes, which, in any less respectable man, would have awakened73 a strong suspicion that he had been “making a night of it” the evening before, and had but very lately risen from bed. In Mr. John Waghorn’s case this supposition was, of course, inadmissible. Doubtless the “seedy” look could be attributed to undue74 strain in business matters.
“May not we have the pleasure of Miss Norman’s company?” he asked, in an accent of much politeness.
“Thank you,” returned Helen, with a not altogether successful effort to conceal75 the dislike she had of the speaker; “I never ride.”
“Pity, that,” remarked Mr. Waghorn. “The Row is a loser by your absence.”
“I thought you had already learnt that Miss Norman does not care for compliments, put in Maud. “Besides, all your esprit in that direction should be reserved for me. Are you ready?”
“I wait your pleasure,” returned Mr. Waghorn, turning to Maud with a smile of remarkable76 insipidity77, very different from the bold look of genuine admiration with which his eyes had rested upon Helen.
They walked together to the front door, where their horses awaited them, and rode away in silence, with a distance of ten feet between them. Strangers viewing them as they passed took them for man and wife.
Helen, when left alone, took up her hat with a sigh, and ascended78 to her room. As she passed the studio she saw the curtain drawn79 aside from the door, which stood wide open
“Maud!” cried Mr. Gresham’s voice from within.
“It is I, Mr. Gresham,” said Helen, entering the room “Maud has this moment gone for her ride.”
“Ha!” returned the artist, in an abstracted tone. Then added, with an affectation of indifference80, “Did you see Waghorn?”
“For a moment.”
“He — he wasn’t quite well, was he?”
“I didn’t hear him say so,” replied Helen; “but I thought he appeared to have a headache.”
Mr. Gresham was standing81 at his easel, palette and brushes in hand, and between his words he hummed a tune4 carelessly. Suddenly he faced Helen.
“I suppose I shall have to give you away next?” he said, smiling in his old manner.
“I think there is no present prospect82 of that,” returned Helen, with a slight laugh.
“What sort of a man will it be, Helen, when the time does come? — anything like Waghorn?”
He added the last words after a scarcely perceptible pause, and in a slightly lower tone.
“I cannot say that I have ever thought on the point,” returned his ward5, calmly. “I should not be surprised if I never did.”
“Shouldn’t you? But I should. Do you think your beauty should serve no better purpose than to be cast away in drunkards’ dens83 and reeking84 hospital wards8? When do you mean to tire of your silly whim85, Helen?”
The girl looked with surprise into his face. She had never heard him speak with so much energy, with so little of his habitual61 irony86 of tone.
But he seemed to be himself immediately conscious of this, and coloured slightly as he relapsed into indifference.
“Haven’t you had enough of it yet, Helen?”
“It would be a sad thing for me, sir,” she replied, “if I were already weary of the work of my life.”
Mr. Gresham shrugged his shoulders and smiled, continuing to add touches to the picture before him. His ward turned to go, but he recalled her.
“Will you allow me to paint your portrait some day, Helen?” he asked, still keeping his eyes fixed87 upon the picture.
“To exhibit at the Academy, like Maud’s?” she asked in reply, with a touch of irony.
“Psha!” exclaimed the artist. “To hang up in the drawing-room, or, better still, over the mantel-piece, here in the studio.”
“I fear I could not spare the time to sit,” returned Helen. Changing the subject, she added immediately, “I think you know the gentleman with whom Mr. Golding lives, do you not?”
“Know him?” said the artist, in surprise. “What about him?”
“Maud made some remarks with regard to him today which excited my interest. Do you know whether he is a very charitable man?”
“I think I have heard something to that effect from Golding; but I fancy he is not possessed88 of too ample means for the bestowal89 of charity. It must be in a very small way.”
“And therefore the more creditable to him,” said Helen. “You would have no objection to my making myself known to him, with a view to his acquainting me with any particularly deserving case of want which he may not be able to relieve himself?”
“I suppose if I were to refuse my consent you would do so without it?” said the artist, keenly examining Helen from under his heavy eyebrows90.
“Certainly not,” replied his ward. “I trust I shall always have a proper respect for your wishes, Mr. Gresham, as I should for those of my father, were he living.”
Her guardian’s face softened91 wonderfully as she spoke92 these words. He continued to regard her, as she stood with downcast eyes.
“Helen,” he said, in a lower tone, “you must not take everything I say too much au sérieux. I should not like always to be judged by my words.”
“And yet,” returned the girl, simply, “it is generally by that criterion that we judge and are judged.”
And nodding a pleasant adieu she left the studio, closing the door behind her, whilst Mr. Gresham, with an expression upon his countenance93 somewhat strange to it, went on with his painting.
Helen had scarcely had time to doff94 her walking dress and assume that in which she ordinarily sat down to study, when a knock at her door disturbed her, and a servant informed her that she was inquired for by two ladies, who had declined to send their names on the plea that they were perfect strangers.
She descended95 to the drawing-room in some surprise, and, on entering, saw two ladies, one about her own age, one middle-aged96, who rose to meet her. They were both very richly dressed, but rather too showily, and their countenances97 were wonderfully meaningless.
“Oh!” exclaimed the younger lady, before Helen had time to speak. “Oh! you really must excuse our unceremonious call, you know. But we have heard so very much of you, Miss Norman, that we really couldn’t resist the quite too delightful chance of seeing you, you know. Could we, Mrs. Hopper, now?”
“No, indeed, Miss Norman,” put in Mrs. Hopper. “We are only too glad to find you at home. We really hope that you will excuse our freedom, really.”
“Oh, yes, Miss Norman!” exclaimed the voluble young lady. “We have heard so much, so very much of your too beautiful charity, you know. And oh! Miss Norman, what church do you attend?”
“May I ask what your purpose is in asking the question?” said Helen, who had at first been somewhat disconcerted by the enthusiasm of the pair, but soon recovered her calmness, and felt considerably98 indignant at their intrusion.
“Oh, Miss Norman!” exclaimed the young lady. “We do so want to know, if you would tell us, you know. Of course you are high, Miss Norman?”
“I am afraid I do not quite understand you,” said Helen, doing her best to show her distaste for this conversation.
“Miss Pitcher99 means, Miss Norman,” explained the elder lady, “that you are, of course, devoted100 entirely101 to the High Church service?”
“Really, ladies,” said Helen, distantly, “I fail to see how my religious opinions can interest you. May I request that you will state the object of your visit?”
The elderly lady seemed somewhat abashed102 by the speaker’s calm dignity of manner, but the younger returned to the attack, not at all discouraged.
“Oh, Miss Norman, we ask, you know, because we are so awfully103 anxious to get you to attend our Church, St. Abinadab’s, you know. You could be so very useful there, you know, Miss Norman; a person of your too charitable disposition104! There is so much work to be done in the Sunday schools, and with regard to the bazaars105, and the tea-meetings, and — and so awfully many things, you know. And we have got such a delightful new incumbent106, such a quite too dear man, Miss Norman. It is such a pity he is married, and has thirteen children! And his name’s Mr. Whiffle, Miss Norman. Oh, I’m sure you would so like him!”
“Miss Pitcher is quite right,” interposed Mrs. Hopper, the young lady being out of breath. “It would be such a great blessing107 if we could secure your services for St. Abinadab’s. We have heard so much of your indefatigable108 charity. And I’m sure you would so like poor Mr. Whiffle.”
Helen started slightly as she heard the name of the new incumbent of St. Abinadab’s. She could scarcely doubt that it was the Mr. Whiffle with whom she was acquainted. She was about to speak when Miss Pitcher cut her short.
“Oh, yes! Poor Mr. Whiffle, Miss Norman. You can’t think how he has been persecuted109 by that quite too dreadful man, his former bishop110! And all because he was so devotedly111 high, Miss Norman, and altogether refused to become either broad or low! Is it not shocking? But I am so thankful that friends have obtained St. Abinadab’s for him. Oh, what sermons! and oh! what singing, Miss Norman!”
“Mrs. Hopper,” said Helen, as soon as a pause came, turning to the elder lady, “if I rightly understand that is your name — I must really request that you will tell me whether you had any serious object in visiting me. If not, I must tell you that I do not feel justified112 in wasting more of my time in hearing of matters which do not at all interest me.”
“Oh, yes, Miss Norman,” said the elder lady, shrinking a little before Helen’s eyes, “yes, we had a very serious object in view. It is this, Miss Norman. Finding that our new incumbent, Mr. Whiffle, suffers severely113 at times from rheumatism114 in the right leg — poor man! — we have decided115 to raise a subscription116 to purchase him a very handsome leg-rest; and — and, we have really heard so very much of your extreme charity, Miss Norman, that — that we have ventured to call upon you in the hope that you would add your name to the subscription list.”
As she spoke Mrs. Hopper drew out of her pocket a small note-book, which she opened at a page headed, “The Rev30. Mr. Whiffle’s leg-rest,” and handed it to Helen together with a pencil.
“Oh, yes, Miss Norman!” exclaimed the younger lady, “and for something quite handsome, you know. Something worthy69 of you!”
Indignation burned fiercely in Helen’s breast. Stepping to the bell-cord, she pulled it sharply, whilst she spoke in decided tones.
“I see,” she said, “that we scarcely agree in our opinions as to what a serious object is. That which you are pleased to call such, I can only term, with no desire to offend you, frivolous117 and impertinent. I wish you good afternoon, ladies, and hope you may before long find a more worthy occupation for your abundant leisure. Kindly118 let these ladies out, James,” she added, as the footman knocked and entered.
Not even Miss Pitcher’s audacity119 was proof against this. The two departed with blank countenances, and without uttering a word. As soon as she was alone, Helen gave way to irresistible120 laughter, and ran up to her room again.
On the following day, Arthur Golding, entering Mr. Tollady’s shop at two different times, met on the door-step two very different people, both of whom, however, excited surprise in him and one a somewhat different emotion also.
The first of these occasions was about noon. As he was returning from making a few purchases of colours, he met, just issuing from the shop, a gentleman whom he immediately recognised as Mr. John Waghorn. At the same moment he recalled to mind how it was that, on meeting Mr. Waghorn in Mr. Gresham’s dining-room, he had been so strongly impressed with the feeling of having seen him before. He now felt sure that it was here he must have seen him, indeed, thought he remembered the very occasion. In the present instance Mr. Waghorn’s eyes fell upon Arthur for a moment, but were immediately removed. He either did not recognise the young man, or did not wish to appear to do so.
On entering the shop, Arthur found it empty, and, on stepping into the parlour at the back, found the old man sitting with his head leaning forward and his face hidden in his hands. He had not heard Arthur’s approach, and raised his head with a start when the latter spoke.
“Are you ill, Mr. Tollady?” asked Arthur, in an anxious voice.
“No, no, Arthur,” replied the printer, in rather tremulous tones, which he strove to make firm. “No; I was only thinking.”
“Of no pleasant subject, I fear,” returned Arthur, sitting by the other’s side, and looking concernedly into his face.
Mr. Tollady seemed to reflect for a moment, but then his face cleared up, and he smiled in the old benevolent121 way.
“Perhaps I am not quite as well as I might be, Arthur,” he said. “Never mind, we will have a walk into the country on Sunday, if it’s fine. That will set me up.”
“Who was that who just left the shop as I entered?” asked Arthur, not content with this dismissal of the subject.
“Someone I had a little business with, Arthur,” replied the old man, calmly.
Arthur knew the tone in which these words were spoken, and respected Mr. Tollady’s wish to avoid further explanation. But he went up to his work with an uneasy mind.
The second meeting occurred about five o’clock in the evening, when he was returning from an errand in connection with the printing office, for he still insisted on finding time to do much of this work. Just as he had met Mr. Waghorn, he now encountered a tall, veiled lady, whose identity his heart at once revealed to him by a sudden leap. Even had he not discerned her features faintly through the veil, he would have known this lady to be Miss Norman. The form, the bearing, the walk could belong to no other.
She recognised him, bowed, said — “Good-evening, Mr. Golding,” and passed on. It seemed as though she had held a whole conversation with him, so sweet and lingering in his ears was the voice which uttered the commonplace words.
Mr. Tollady was in the shop, and wearing an expression of countenance far other than that he had worn in the morning.
“Why, whatever was Miss Norman doing here?” cried Arthur, as he bounded into the shop.
“She has been here nearly half an hour,” replied Mr. Tollady, smiling.
“And I was away!” exclaimed Arthur, in a tone of disappointment. Then, observing the old man’s clear eye fixed searchingly upon him, he affected to laugh.
“Whatever was her business? Is it rude to ask?” he said.
“Not at all,” replied Mr. Tollady. “She has made me the happiest man in London, bless her kind heart! You remember, Arthur, how bitterly I was regretting only this morning that I was unable to help poor Sarah Thomson, whose husband died last week?”
“Yes.”
“Well; even whilst I was brooding over the poor woman’s lot and making myself quite miserable122, who should come in but an angel with the very succour that was wanted! Upon my word, I shall believe henceforth in angels, Arthur.”
“I don’t quite understand you,” said the young man, amused at Mr. Tollady’s unusual enthusiasm. “Have you known Miss Norman long?”
“Not till half an hour ago. Then she came and introduced herself, saying that you — silly boy! — had been telling tales about my poor efforts to help a few needy123 people, and begging to be allowed to contribute from her purse if ever I should know of a worthy person. I at once told her Mrs. Thomson’s story, and — see the result!”
He held up a five-pound note, with almost childish glee.
“Yes!” he exclaimed. “And more to follow if it be necessary. And sewing for the poor thing to employ herself with, too! Yes, Arthur, I shall believe henceforth in angels. Her very voice has done me good. If there were but more like hers!”
For a moment an unworthy feeling arose in Arthur’s mind — he felt half ashamed that Helen should have seen the poor place in which he lived. It was only for a moment; the next, he had crushed the base thought, as he would have done a poisonous insect beneath his foot. He felt that, for the future, the shop would seem brighter and more cheerful, glorified124 as it was by the reminiscence of her presence. What if it were a poor place? Would not Helen think all the better of him that he had conceived the idea of making himself an artist under such discouraging circumstances? It was but the third time he had set eyes upon Miss Norman, and yet he felt it a matter of inexpressible importance that she should think well of him. The idea that she might not think of him at all did not enter his head; his feelings were not sufficiently125 developed for that. At present the mere thought that she had been beneath this roof invested the whole house with a vague sanctity, as with a perfume. With a day-dream of lovely forms and faces dazzling before his eyes, he mounted the stairs, and once more set eagerly to his work.
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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delightful
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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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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yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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upwards
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wards
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| 区( ward的名词复数 )； 病房； 受监护的未成年者； 被人照顾或控制的状态 | |
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perseverance
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rendering
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vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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aglow
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| adj.发亮的；发红的；adv.发亮地 | |
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boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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19
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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exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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21
marvelled
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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22
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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abounding
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| adj.丰富的，大量的v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的现在分词 ) | |
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divergence
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| n.分歧，岔开 | |
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25
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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esteeming
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| v.尊敬( esteem的现在分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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30
rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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31
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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32
heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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33
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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34
blasphemous
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| adj.亵渎神明的，不敬神的 | |
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poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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appreciative
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| adj.有鉴赏力的，有眼力的；感激的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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abounded
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| v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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41
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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42
fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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43
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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44
scatter
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| vt.撒，驱散，散开；散布/播；vi.分散，消散 | |
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scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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46
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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47
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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48
ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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49
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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50
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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51
contingencies
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| n.偶然发生的事故，意外事故( contingency的名词复数 )；以备万一 | |
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defenders
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| n.防御者( defender的名词复数 )；守卫者；保护者；辩护者 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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54
dictates
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| n.命令，规定，要求( dictate的名词复数 )v.大声讲或读( dictate的第三人称单数 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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55
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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56
fatiguing
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| a.使人劳累的 | |
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57
mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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58
insipid
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| adj.无味的，枯燥乏味的，单调的 | |
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59
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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60
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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61
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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62
habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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63
atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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64
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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66
impoverishes
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| v.使（某人）贫穷( impoverish的第三人称单数 )；使（某物）贫瘠或恶化 | |
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67
contagious
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| adj.传染性的，有感染力的 | |
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68
forfeit
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| vt.丧失；n.罚金，罚款，没收物 | |
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69
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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70
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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71
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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72
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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73
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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74
undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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75
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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76
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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77
insipidity
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| n.枯燥无味，清淡，无精神；无生气状 | |
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78
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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79
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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80
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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81
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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82
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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83
dens
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| n.牙齿，齿状部分；兽窝( den的名词复数 )；窝点；休息室；书斋 | |
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84
reeking
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的现在分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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85
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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86
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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87
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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88
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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89
bestowal
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| 赠与，给与； 贮存 | |
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90
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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91
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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92
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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93
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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94
doff
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| v.脱，丢弃，废除 | |
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95
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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96
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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97
countenances
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| n.面容( countenance的名词复数 )；表情；镇静；道义支持 | |
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98
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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99
pitcher
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| n.(有嘴和柄的)大水罐；(棒球)投手 | |
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100
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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101
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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102
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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104
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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105
bazaars
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| （东方国家的）市场( bazaar的名词复数 )； 义卖； 义卖市场； （出售花哨商品等的）小商品市场 | |
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106
incumbent
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| adj.成为责任的，有义务的；现任的，在职的 | |
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107
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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108
indefatigable
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| adj.不知疲倦的，不屈不挠的 | |
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109
persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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110
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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111
devotedly
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| 专心地； 恩爱地； 忠实地； 一心一意地 | |
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112
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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113
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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114
rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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115
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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116
subscription
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| n.预订，预订费，亲笔签名，调配法，下标（处方） | |
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117
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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118
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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119
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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120
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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121
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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122
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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123
needy
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的，生活艰苦的 | |
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124
glorified
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| 美其名的，变荣耀的 | |
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125
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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