“Could you sit in the parlour for about an hour, Arthur?” he asked; “I have to go into the City.”
Arthur looked up and saw that the old man’s face was much paler than usual and wore a haggard look. As he took out his watch to see the time his hand trembled perceptibly. He had the appearance of a man just risen from a bed of sickness.
“Isn’t the business such that I could see to for you?” asked Arthur. “You don’t look well, Mr. Tollady. It is too far for you to go this hot day.”
“No, my dear boy; no, thank you,” replied the old man, with a forced smile. “I must see to it myself — myself. I hope not to be long. Have dinner as usual, of course. I have just had a mouthful of lunch and that will serve me till tea-time.”
Arthur brought down his drawing-board to the back parlour, and tried to get on with his work. But reflection upon his own sources of annoyance3 and on Mr. Tollady’s evident suffering, the cause of which the old man persisted in keeping a secret, held his thoughts from the subject in hand. The time went very slowly; it seemed as though the printer would never return. When, at length, Mr. Tollady reentered the shop, about three o’clock, it was in a state of exhaustion4 which he in vain endeavoured to conceal5. Dropping his trembling limbs into the wonted chair, he let his head fall backwards6, and sat gazing at the ceiling in a manner which seemed to bespeak8 lethargy both of mind and of body. Arthur walked to his side, when he had sat thus for a few minutes, and laid his hand upon his shoulder.
“Let me persuade you to lie down upon the bed for an hour,” he said, in an affectionate tone. “It pains me to see you like this, Mr. Tollady. Have you no regard for me that you refuse to pay more attention to your health, though I every day beg you to? Your face is as pale as death; I can see you are suffering. I am neglecting my duty in allowing you to remain without advice. Will you let me go and ask a doctor to see you? I am determined10 to do so on my own account if you leave it later than to-night.”
“You shall have your way, Arthur,” replied the old man, smiling feebly. “I have such pains here on my left side; just now they are very severe. I will go to the hospital tomorrow morning; I shall have better advice there. Let me rest a little now. Can you continue to draw here?”
“No, I cannot, Mr. Tollady!” exclaimed Arthur, as he saw the other pressing his hand against his side, and turning his face away to conceal its expression. “I cannot do anything whilst I see you suffer so! I am sure that you are suffering in your mind as well as in your body. This business you have been seeing to has distressed11 you, it has been burdening you for a long time. Are you sure that you do wisely in keeping it from me? Are you sure I could not help you in it? You do not still consider me a boy, in whom you cannot confide12?”
Mr. Tollady held down his head in reflection for some moments, then he took Arthur’s hand and pressed it.
“I believe you are right, Arthur,” he said. “It is not because I have not the fullest confidence in you that I have hidden from you this burden on my life; I kept it to myself to spare you needless trouble. But, perhaps, it was not wise to do so; sooner or later you must know, and I have several times been on the point of telling you lately. Go upstairs to your work as usual, Arthur, for the present. After tea we will have an hour’s talk together. The pain has gone for the present; I feel better.”
Accordingly, when tea was over, Arthur remained downstairs in the parlour, where Mr. Tollady also sat, the door being left open in case of customers entering the shop. For a long time the old man remained buried in deep reverie, the expression of his face changing as it was in turn lit by a gleam of pleasure or darkened by the shadow of gloomy recollections. Unfortunately the shadows predominated, and from time to time a slight sigh broke from between his lips. At length the entrance of a customer called Arthur away for a moment, and when he returned Mr. Tollady had roused himself from his abstraction, and was prepared to speak.
“I have been thinking, Arthur,” he commenced, “that it would not be amiss for me to tell you the complete story of my life, now that I have made up my mind to let you know the trouble that has weighed upon me for the last few years. For very nearly forty years it has been a far from eventful life; during that time I have always lived very much as you have seen me. But my early years were neither so quiet nor, I think I may say, so profitably spent. As I look back from my sixty-fifth year upon those far-off memories, I can, at times, hardly believe that it is my own history I am reviewing, so utterly14 do I now find myself out of accord with all the impulses which then guided me. It is not, then, from any sense of pleasure that I go back to my early days, but because I think there is a lesson to be learned from them. Every thoughtful man is capable of receiving benefit from the contemplation of other men’s lives, and I feel sure you will see what warning may be derived15 from mine. It is, indeed, little less than a homily against a special vice9 that I am about to recite to you.”
Arthur gazed at the speaker in surprise as he heard these words. It seemed so impossible to him to conceive of his deeply-respected friend as capable of being under the dominion16 of any vice. It was with a sense of pain at his heart that he listened whilst Mr. Tollady went on.
“I was born,” he said, “at Ipswich, in 1805. It seems a long time ago, doesn’t it, Arthur? In that year Scott published his ‘Lay of the Last Minstrel’; then Byron was still at Cambridge, and Shelley, a boy at Eton. Can you believe that I was nine years old when ‘Waverley’ first appeared, and that I distinctly remember the delight with which my dear father then read it? It is like looking back upon a glorious dream to think of my boyhood, spent amid such wonders, both of peace and war. I remember hearing our friends talk of Wellington’s victories in the Peninsula as matters of yesterday; it may be self-deception17, but I have always been convinced that I could recollect13 my father’s enthusiasm at the result of Bonaparte’s Russian campaign, when I was seven; and Waterloo, with all its wild excitement at home and abroad, is yet vivid in my mind. For you, Arthur, these are all matters of history, for me they seem dear and precious remembrances of a happy time that has gone for ever.
“My father was a bookseller, and, if only he had possessed18 the means, would have been an excellent publisher. With him, his trade was something far more than a mere19 mechanical occupation, the chief end of which was to secure daily bread. Rather, he regarded it as a means for the elevation20 of himself and all those with whom he had business or friendship. There was not a book in his shop of which he did not possess some accurate knowledge, quite distinct from those technicalities of the trade which a bookseller usually possesses. His books were living souls in his eyes, and on me, his only child, he never ceased to impress that to damage a book was to commit a sin. ‘Books are men’s brains’ he would say, and I shall never forget a favourite quotation21 of his from Milton, often uttered to me when I was a child, and intended, of course, to be taken by me in the literal sense: ‘As good almost kill a man as kill a good book. Who kills a man, kills a reasonable creature, God’s image; but he who destroys a good book kills Reason itself; kills the image of God, as it were, in the eye. Many a man lives a burden to the earth; but a good book is the precious life-blood of a master-spirit, embalmed22 and treasured up on purpose to a life beyond life.’ I had to write that passage out ten times for him on one occasion, when I had wantonly torn to pieces an old volume of ‘Don Quixote,’ which had strayed out of its proper place.
“I was sent to a day-school at Ipswich, where, I am sorry to say, that I did not learn much besides Greek and Latin; in those days they were alone thought worthy23 of being seriously taught; but I learned at home what a multitude of other things the world contained of vastly more interest than Virgil and Homer, and I had in after life to add to my education by pursuing such courses of reading as my tastes naturally led me to. For beyond the age of fifteen I did not remain at school. When I was so old my father died.
“He had been far too charitable and too generous to his own family to have saved much money, and one of the first things I learned after the funeral was that I should not return to a school. I cannot say that I was sorry to hear it; in those days the fervour of boyhood was added to a naturally adventurous24 disposition25, and I felt decided26 pleasure in looking forward to so great a change as was involved in beginning to work for my living.
“The sale of the house and business brought my mother a little money, with the aid of which she established herself as a dressmaker, whilst I was apprenticed27 to a printer. When my time was out I became assistant to the same man, and thus I worked on till I reached my twenty-first year.
“Those six years were among the most miserable28 of my life. I detested29 my business, and would gladly have run away if I had had the least idea where to go or what to do. Day after day I made my poor mother wretched with my selfish complainings, whilst she was all the while working hard to keep us both in some degree of comfort. I was but a boy, and had no eyes for my mother’s sufferings.
“I think it would be impossible for any youth to be more selfish than I was during these years. I had no thought but for my own annoyances30, my own wishes and plans, and many an evening did I embitter31 for my mother by spending it in unceasing complaints of our poverty, and descriptions of the indescribably selfish things I would do if I were once rich. All my dear father’s lessons seemed to have passed away from my mind I hate myself when I look back at these years. How heartless, how despicable I must have been!
“But at last came my twenty-first year, and with it came the news from my mother that an uncle of mine, who had died two years before, had left me a thousand pounds. I thought I should have gone mad when I heard this. A thousand pounds was for me a fortune. My visions were realised, and I was rich.
“In vain did my poor mother try to make me sensible, to advise me as to the use I ought to make of this money, to put before me, though in no selfish manner, the help it would be to her if I were to settle down in a business of my own, live with her still, and do my best to thrive. I was utterly deaf to all this. One idea alone possessed me, and that was a desire to see the world. For years this had been my ardent32 wish, and now I had the power of fulfilling it.
“When my mother heard this purpose she sighed and went away to her own room, doubtless to weep. I thought nothing of her grief. I do not believe that even then I was base and hard-hearted. The truth was that I did not realise my mother’s position; I knew nothing of the world, and could not deem it possible that she had serious need of my assistance, though such was indeed the case. She was too fond of me to hold out long against my determination, and so, with many promises to write frequently, and not to be away more than a few months, I set off to see foreign countries. Was there ever such a young madman?
“I was away three whole years. I saw something of most countries of Europe, of India, and of America. Everywhere I lived as cheaply as possible, and in one or two cases I worked my passage from country to country. Often do I retravel in thought over all that I saw in those three years, and, separated from the other circumstances of my life, how delightful33 is the memory of it to me.
“The mountains and the valleys of Switzerland became familiar to me, the grand old Italian cities, the vineyards, the blue Mediterranean34, each place I came to I thought I should stop there for ever; but my eager and restless spirit drove me away. I walked through the streets of Athens, rushing thence to Constantinople, and thence again to the banks of the Ganges. I lived for a month at Benares, and can still see it as well as if I had been there yesterday; its bridge of boats across the river, its ghauts where I lounged and bathed, its numberless mosques35 and temples, its sacred bulls which roamed at will through the streets and bazaars36, and over all that fierce Indian sun which so baked my skin that I often fancy it is still darker than that of most Europeans.
“Many other cities I wandered through, and I even saw the everlasting37 snow on the crests38 of the Himalayas. Thence I came back once more to Europe, passed over into Africa, saw the Nile. In Cairo I lived some weeks. How distinctly I can see its red-and-white minarets39, its dark and narrow streets, and hear the eternal shouting of the hucksters and beggars. And the view from Mount Mokattam! There, as you looked eastward40, stretched the long line of tombs, where the old caliphs sleep. To the west you saw the Nile, like a streak41 of silver, and, far away beyond, the distant Pyramids rising dim and ghostly out of the desert. Oh, the walks and rides at evening around this city, through the groves42 of fig-trees, of tamarisks, and acacias!
“After this the dream seems suddenly to change, and I find myself in Spain, rushing with an enthusiasm, that was almost frenzy43, over the scenes I had learned to love years before in ‘Don Quixote.’ I was now comparatively near home, but I had not as yet been away two years, and not a thought of returning crossed my mind. I wrote occasionally to my mother, but did not expect to hear in return, so uncertain were my movements.
“The Atlantic was now before me, and I crossed it, working my passage in a French vessel44 from Marseilles. On arriving in the States, impatient of towns and all the evidence of civilisation45, I plunged46 at once into the wilderness47. For a long time I lived with an English family which had established itself in a spot nearly two hundred miles distant from any other settlement, and here I worked in the labour of clearing till I got weary of it. Then I visited Niagara, the vision of which still, at the distance of more than forty years, occasionally haunts my sleep; I saw the great lakes, and thence passed into Canada. But already I was growing weary of my mad restlessness.
“Very shortly I made my way back to New York, and arrived there just as my money came to an end. Now the business I had learned, and which I had formerly48 so much despised, stood me in good stead. For nearly half a year I worked as a printer, saving up till I should have enough money to return to England. That day at last came, and I once more crossed the Atlantic.
“I found myself again in Ipswich, after an absence of almost precisely49 three years. During my voyage homewards I had reflected much, and already a change was working in my inward nature; already that repentance50 for my folly51 was beginning which was to last to the end of my life.
“I reached my native town with a heart full of uneasy apprehensions52. Should I find my mother in health? Should I find her well-to-do, or poor? For the first time I reflected seriously upon her position, and asked myself how she had endeavoured to live during these years of my absence. Had it been wise in me to leave her so completely alone? For she had no relative of her own, and my father’s relations all lived in other parts of England. A terrible uneasiness, the beginning of a dreadful self-reproach, seized upon me by degrees. Between my disembarkment at Liverpool and my arrival at Ipswich I neither ate nor slept; and in those days, you must remember, travelling was a very different thing from what it is now.
“I went to our old house, and saw at once that it was inhabited by strangers. I went thence to the house of my father’s most intimate friend, and I found him dead. In an agony of apprehension53 I hurried to the house of another acquaintance, and here at length received intelligence. It was nearly a year and a half since my mother had left Ipswich for London, hoping to earn a better living than she was able to at home. I was told her address, and, after only an hour’s pause for refreshment55, started for London.
“Arthur, may you never suffer in your mind as I suffered during that journey. It is sufficient if I say that my punishment was proportionable to my fault, and that, as you have learned, was almost unpardonable.
“The address I sought was in a poor quarter in the East End, and, when I found it, appeared to be an ordinary lodging-house. A girl who came to the door knew nothing of the name I asked for, but, on my requesting that she would make further inquiry56 in the house, she called down the landlady57. This woman remembered my mother well enough. Mrs. Tollady, she told me, had lived with her about half a year, only occasionally paying her rent, and, to all appearances, making next to nothing out of her sewing. It was now some months since she had suddenly been taken with a serious illness, had been removed to the infirmary — and there had died.”
Mr. Tollady again paused and sat long in silence, struggling with the bitter emotion which his story had awakened59 in himself.
Arthur knew not how to console him, and, a customer entering the shop, he was glad to withdraw from the room for a few minutes. When he returned, the printer roused himself from his depression, and smiled sadly.
“I did not think it would have cost me so much to tell you all this, Arthur,” he said. “I had thought I could speak of it aloud with as much calmness as I have grown accustomed to go over the horrible story in my own mind, for there is not a day passes without its being all acted over afresh before me. Now you know the worst, and I feel relieved. I hope the pain it has given you will be compensated60 by the lesson my conduct teaches.
“I shall not endeavour to describe to you my state of mind during the months, nay61, the years that followed. At first I seriously believe that I was as near suicide as ever man was who did not actually yield to the temptation. I woke night after night from hideous62 dreams, in which the figures of my father and mother appeared to me in all kinds of situations; now on the precipices63 overhanging Niagara, now on the top of one of the Pyramids, now in the dreadful silence of a western prairie, always with angry faces, cursing me for my selfish cruelty.
“How often I have dreamt that I fled before these terrible images, and, as the only means of escape, leaped wildly into the chaos64 of a terrific cataract65 — and then awaken58 only to bitterly regret that the dream was not true, and that I still lived in my agony.
“Well, by degrees my suffering lessened66, as all suffering, sooner or later, must, and I began to think of how I should expiate67 the crime of a mother’s murder, for of that I sincerely accounted myself guilty. At length I came to the resolution simply to do all the good in my power for my fellow-creatures, never to let a day go by without having assisted by word or deed someone who was in suffering and want.
“I was then earning my living as a journeyman printer in this very house. I did not earn very much; but out of that I forced myself to save enough to always have a few coppers68 in my pocket for charity. By degrees, too, I bought myself a few second-hand69 books, among them most of the historians and the poets that you see now on my shelves, and, in what leisure time I could get, worked hard to improve my very defective70 education. And very thankful I am that I did so, as it has enabled me to help you a little, Arthur, in your own self-education.
“Well, well, all that happened a long time ago, long before you were born, and probably there is not a person now living who remembers me in those early days. I shall not trouble you with the story of my life from year to year; it was very quiet and uninteresting, for I never again left London, or this house except for a long country walk now and then on Sunday, when I returned to my dear botanising, and by degrees made the collection we have so often looked over together.
“I must hurry on to the matter which just now most concerns me, the trouble which has led to my telling you the story of my life. You must know that for fifteen years I was employed by the same master, an excellent man, whom I truly loved and honoured, at the end of which time he took me into partnership71 with him. Our business was then a very good one, and seemed to promise constant improvement. Five years after becoming a partner, we were in a position to purchase together the house we worked in. Not two months after the completion of this purchase my dear old friend died — he was then sixty — and by will bequeathed his share in the house to me. So that the house became my own.
“For some years I continued to prosper72 in my business. I used to employ five men and a boy, and I even thought at times of removing to a larger place. But then, almost before I knew it, my profits began to decrease. I don’t know whether it was that I was already growing old and losing my energy, or whether several other large printing-offices that had opened round here took away my customers. At all events, within three or four years I had dropped down to one man and a boy, and had scarcely employment for these. I was obliged to let the top part of the house, and, shortly after, to turn my office here into a shop, and become half news vendor73, half stationer, still, however, continuing to do whatever printing I could get.
“It was very shortly after this that you came to me, and I have no need to tell you how the business went on in succeeding years. One thing, however, happened, that you, of course, know nothing of. Seven years ago exactly I was visited by a man in a wretched state of poverty, who gave as his reason for calling on me the fact that he had had an uncle of my name. A little talk showed me that he was the son of my mother’s brother, who had for many years been dead, but whose name I recognised at once when mentioned to me. He told me that he had been a publican, but had fallen on ill-luck, and had now nothing but the workhouse before him unless I could afford him help of some kind. It was impossible for me to give him any employment, but it was no less impossible to refuse assistance to a relative of my poor mother.
“I felt that I must do something for him; I was not in very good health at the time, and conceived a sort of superstition74 that this man was sent to me as a means of atoning75 in some poor degree for the sins of my younger years. Giving him all the ready-money I then possessed, which was a very paltry76 sum, I requested him to see me again on the following day.
“In the meantime I went to the only wealthy acquaintance I possessed. This was Mr. Henry Waghorn, an elder brother of the Mr. Waghorn who has just married Miss Gresham. I had done a good deal of printing for him from time to time, and had found him a pleasant, straightforward77, generous gentleman. Summoning all my boldness, I went to Mr. Waghorn, stated to him my need and asked him whether he would lend me a hundred pounds on the security of my house. Before he consented, he went on to question me in a most friendly manner about my own business. I told him frankly78 my position, and thereupon he offered to lend me three hundred pounds, so that I might have the advantage of a little capital for myself, with the assistance of which he thought I might revive my business. This I refused, but I was at length persuaded to accept of two hundred. This was secured by a mortgage on my house, by the terms of which it was arranged that the principal should be repaid in five years, during which time I was to pay at stated intervals79 a certain rate of interest.
“With the money I went off rejoicing. I spent half of it in establishing my relative in a coffee-house in Holborn, for he seemed best fitted for this, and he still does an excellent business. For a few weeks after I had so assisted him, he visited me occasionally, then he ceased to come entirely80, and for more than six years he has never been near my shop.”
“The ungrateful fellow!” exclaimed Arthur, indignantly. “And you say he prospers81! I wonder you ever gave away another penny in charity.”
“Not so, my dear boy,” replied the old man, calmly. “Such cases of ingratitude82 are, happily, very rare, and a long life among the poor has convinced me that real gratitude83 is pretty certain to reward the vast majority of one’s efforts to do good. But I must hasten to the end of this miserable business. I continued to pay my interest regularly; but the prospect84 of having to pay the principal lay as a terrible burden night and day upon my mind. Notwithstanding the hundred pounds, my business showed no signs of improvement; I could not imagine how the money was to be paid.
“As the period drew near, I one day visited Mr. Waghorn and told him I feared he must take possession of my house, as I saw now no possibility of paying more than a small portion of the debt. But he behaved to me with noble generosity85: ‘We will say nothing about the principal when the time comes,’ he said. ‘You shall just continue to pay the interest, as you have been doing, and also pay a portion of the principal whenever you are able. Don’t trouble your mind about it. I am rich, and can very well wait for my money.’
“After this he exerted himself to procure86 me customers, and with some success. That was just the time when you were beginning to be of great service to me, Arthur, and you remember our business throve better than it had done for a long time. To cut the tale short, I paid off portions of the principal by degrees, and by the beginning of last April owed only one hundred. But just then Mr. Waghorn died.
“His death has been a serious misfortune to me. Nearly all Mr. Henry Waghorn’s property, it seems, has gone to his brother John, Miss Gresham’s husband, and amongst it this mortgage on my house. Mr. John Waghorn is sadly different from his brother. Though he is now very wealthy, he has taken advantage of the fact that the period for the payment of his principal has gone by without any definite renewal87, and yesterday he announced to me that the whole must be paid within three months from the present date, or, if not, he claims the house. There, you have the secret of my misery88, Arthur. You know that I am utterly unable to pay this money, and ——”
The old man did not finish the sentence, but sank back again into a state of sad reverie.
Arthur sprang to his feet, his blood boiling with indignation.
“The mean rascal89!” he exclaimed. “I felt sure that that was his character, even from the little I knew of him. I knew that his visits here were the cause of your suffering, that that mean face of his could bring nothing else! Will he not wait a year, half a year?”
“Not a moment longer than the three months. And he takes credit to himself for being so generous as to allow that, though I believe the law would compel it.”
“A hundred pounds!” cried Arthur. “Why, it is nothing, after all. The miserable fellow shall have his hundred pounds, with interest and what not in the bargain, and then we will hiss90 him out of the shop. Do you forget that I am a rich man, Mr. Tollady?”
He laughed gaily91 as he spoke92, endeavouring to cheer the old man; but. the latter rose from his chair with a grave expression upon his face, and took Arthur’s hands in his.
“I was prepared for this, Arthur,” he said, “and prepared to resist it. If it had been possible to hide the affair from you completely I should have done so, but it was not. I could not allow you to try and obtain this money. I could not, indeed, Arthur.”
“But why not?” cried the young man. “You know we have agreed that my interest, as Mr. Gresham pays it me quarterly, goes to our common expenses of whatever kind. Where is the harm in forestalling93 two or three quarters in order to keep a roof over our heads? Surely that is a very necessary expense, Mr. Tollady?”
“No, no. It is not just that you should suffer for my debts. We must not speak of it, Arthur.”
“Suffer!” cried the other. “Whether do you think I shall suffer most, of the loss of a little money, or by seeing you driven out of house and home, and having myself to look out for a dwelling94 in a strange place when I love this old house so well? It is you that are unjust, Mr. Tollady! Will you not allow me to do this little service for you? Is it fair or right that you should keep the power of conferring kindnesses to yourself, and not allow me to exercise it when I can? I insist upon seeing Mr. Gresham before I go to bed to-night; you must allow me!”
Mr. Tollady still resisted, but was at length obliged to yield to Arthur’s vehemence95. Without a moment’s delay the latter started out for Portland Place. Once or twice on the way he thought of what had occurred when he last saw Mr. Gresham, but that was a matter of such little importance compared with what he now had in hand that he dismissed all thought of it from his mind. He had not a doubt with regard to the success of his mission. His heart throbbed96 with the pleasure of being able to benefit his old friend.
At the same time Mr. Gresham was sitting alone in the library, in no very pleasant mood. As it was Tuesday night, Helen had gone to her evening school, a circumstance very distasteful to her guardian97, who could now scarcely suffer her to be out of his sight. It irritated him to think that he was of so little account in her daily life, that her principal friends were people entirely strange to him, that her ‘aims were of such a nature as altogether to exclude him from any participation98 in them. Every day, as his own uncontrollable passion continued to grow in vehemence, he clearly perceived that Helen became constantly more distant in her intercourse99 with him. He half suspected that he had betrayed his secret, and that his ward7 was adopting this method of discouraging him. The effect upon his temperament100 of this unceasing agitation101 — agitation all the more severe because he had never hitherto experienced anything of the kind — was to convert his equable cynic’s mood by degrees into harshness and irritability102. He was intensely angry with himself for nourishing a sentiment which he had hitherto ridiculed103 with such persistent104 sarcasm105, and, with the injustice106 of a man whose only philosophy is founded on habitual107 deception of himself and the world, visited his bad temper on whosoever had the misfortune to be a safe object of insult. Love performs very curious metamorphoses on different characters, but perhaps its operations are almost always for the better. In the present case, however, this was not so. Whereas, Mr. Gresham had previously108 been only rather cold in temperament and a good deal affected109, love had now made him mean and despicable.
When Arthur’s visit was announced to him, he first bade the servant say he was from home, but the next moment altered his mind and ordered that he should be admitted. Accordingly Arthur appeared in the library.
“You come at an unusual time, Mr. Golding,” said the artist, in a distant tone. “What can I do for you?”
“A great kindness, Mr. Gresham,” returned Arthur, somewhat abashed110 by his reception, but determined to do his utmost. He then went on to relate the chief circumstances connected with Mr. Tollady’s loan, and to describe the difficulties in which the printer at present found himself. The artist suddenly cut him short as he approached the end of the story —
“And the object of all this, Mr. Golding?” he said, abruptly111. “Excuse me, but your tale is a trifle long and not as interesting as it might be.”
“My object, sir,” returned Arthur, preserving his calmness with a great effort, “is to endeavour to spare Mr. Tollady the severe suffering which is threatening him. It can be done so easily. If you would so deeply oblige me as to allow me the use of the sum I need, advancing it upon the interest which will fall due to me this year and next, this claim could then be satisfied, and a very deserving man would be freed from the danger of being driven out of house and home. Mr. Tollady is sixty-five years old, and in very feeble health. I dread54 to think of the result of his having to seek a new home, and perhaps a new occupation, under such circumstances as these.”
The young man paused, and, keeping his eyes steadily112 fixed113 on Mr. Gresham’s face, waited a reply with a throbbing114 heart.
“I am very sorry, Mr. Golding,” returned the artist, with a rather malicious115 sneer116, “but I am altogether unable to comply with this request. I must beg you to remember that your legacy117 is not, strictly118 speaking, due to you till you become of age, which you will not do for about a year and a half. Thinking the money might be of use to you I took upon myself the responsibility of paying the interest before you could really claim it. I have no objection to continue doing so, but I should not feel justified119 in advancing large sums to you. It is quite impossible.”
A sudden chill passed over the young man’s frame as he heard these words pronounced, but the next moment he flushed hot with righteous anger at the insulting manner in which he had been reminded of his dependent position. Close upon the anger followed intolerable shame. For a moment he turned away, and with difficulty kept back the tears from rushing to his eyes. Then again came the memory of Mr. Tollady, and bitter disappointment took the place of all other feelings.
“I am sorry you cannot d6 this kindness for me, Mr. Gresham,” he suddenly exclaimed, “but perhaps I should not have ventured to ask it, it was requesting too much. But you have it in your power to help us in another way, if you will. I cannot think that you will refuse to do so. Mr. Waghorn is now your son-in-law. Will you ask him to put off his claim for another year? I am sure you will do me this kindness, sir? Mr. Waghorn has no need of this money. A hundred pounds are scarcely as much to him as one pound is to Mr. Tollady. Will you ask him to give us a year longer. I am sure we can pay off the debt in that time. Only a year!”
Arthur forgot everything in the eagerness of his pleading. He felt that this was his last resource. Should this fail him, he knew not what evils might ensue. His impassioned tones and the glow which mantled120 his fine features as he spoke would have vanquished121 any ordinary obduracy122. But Mr. Gresham’s jealousy123 was by no means an ordinary obstacle. It showed no sign of yielding.
“I am really very unfortunate, Mr. Golding,” replied the artist, “in my utter inability to serve you. Though Mr. Waghorn, as you remind me, is now my relative, I have absolutely no concern in his private affairs. He is at present on the Continent, too, and I could not apply to him if I wished. I am sure you will see that it is impossible for me to do what you wish.”
Arthur was beginning to speak again, but Mr. Gresham interrupted him.
“I regret that I have no time at present for further conversation, Mr. Golding,” he said. “Indeed I have already allowed you to detain me too long. I must really say good-night. Bye-the-by, you remember that I am engaged tomorrow?”
Arthur rose to his full height, looked for a moment sternly into the artist’s face with a look before which the latter dropped his eyes, then bowed and left the room without a word, with the same stern expression on his countenance124. With set lips, clenched125 fists, and throbbing veins126, he walked rapidly along the streets homewards. Already he had made up his mind what to do. The very next morning he would say good-bye to his painting for ever and henceforth would devote himself to his dear benefactor127. His exact plan of conduct this was no moment for deciding. Sufficient that he knew his duty and was determined to perform it.
When he reached Charlotte Place he was surprised to find that the shop was not lit up as usual, for by this time it was quite dark. Stepping quickly inside he saw that the parlour at the back was also in darkness. All at once every drop of blood in his body seemed to rush to his heart, he gasped128 for breath. Manning himself with a desperate effort he stepped to the parlour door and called Mr. Tollady’s name. There was no reply. He ran to the foot of the stairs and called repeatedly and loudly, the perspiration129 breaking out upon his body in the intensity130 of his nameless dreads131. Still no reply came. Hurrying back through the darkness into the shop, he groped for the matches in their usual place and hurriedly struck a light. With this burning in his hand he entered the parlour. He had just time to see that Mr. Tollady was sitting in his arm-chair, when the match went out. He struck another, and with it lit a candle that stood on the mantel-piece; then drew near to the printer, and, thinking him asleep, laid his hand upon his shoulder to shake him. As he did so, the old man fell forward into his arms. Arthur hastily raised him, and held the candle close to his face, calling his name the while in loud and rapid tones. But not a breath stirred the flame; there was no intelligence in the clear eyes which seemed to regard their questioner: Mr. Tollady was dead.
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1
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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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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7
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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bespeak
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| v.预定；预先请求 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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10
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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12
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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13
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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14
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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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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16
dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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18
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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19
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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21
quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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22
embalmed
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| adj.用防腐药物保存（尸体）的v.保存（尸体）不腐( embalm的过去式和过去分词 )；使不被遗忘；使充满香气 | |
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23
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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26
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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apprenticed
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| 学徒，徒弟( apprentice的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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29
detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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30
annoyances
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| n.恼怒( annoyance的名词复数 )；烦恼；打扰；使人烦恼的事 | |
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31
embitter
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| v.使苦；激怒 | |
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32
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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33
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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34
Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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35
mosques
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| 清真寺； 伊斯兰教寺院，清真寺； 清真寺，伊斯兰教寺院( mosque的名词复数 ) | |
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36
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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37
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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38
crests
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| v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的第三人称单数 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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39
minarets
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| n.（清真寺旁由报告祈祷时刻的人使用的）光塔( minaret的名词复数 ) | |
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40
eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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41
streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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42
groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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43
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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44
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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45
civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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46
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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47
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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48
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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49
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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50
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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51
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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52
apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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53
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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54
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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55
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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56
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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57
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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58
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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59
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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60
compensated
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| 补偿，报酬( compensate的过去式和过去分词 )； 给（某人）赔偿（或赔款） | |
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61
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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62
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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63
precipices
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| n.悬崖，峭壁( precipice的名词复数 ) | |
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64
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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65
cataract
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| n.大瀑布，奔流，洪水，白内障 | |
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66
lessened
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| 减少的，减弱的 | |
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67
expiate
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| v.抵补，赎罪 | |
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68
coppers
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| 铜( copper的名词复数 )； 铜币 | |
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69
second-hand
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| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
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70
defective
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| adj.有毛病的，有问题的，有瑕疵的 | |
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71
partnership
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| n.合作关系，伙伴关系 | |
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72
prosper
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| v.成功，兴隆，昌盛；使成功，使昌隆，繁荣 | |
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73
vendor
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| n.卖主；小贩 | |
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74
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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75
atoning
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| v.补偿，赎（罪）( atone的现在分词 )；补偿，弥补，赎回 | |
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76
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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77
straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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78
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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79
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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80
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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81
prospers
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| v.成功，兴旺( prosper的第三人称单数 ) | |
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82
ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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83
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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84
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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85
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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86
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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87
renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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88
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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89
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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90
hiss
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| v.发出嘶嘶声；发嘘声表示不满 | |
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91
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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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
forestalling
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| v.先发制人，预先阻止( forestall的现在分词 ) | |
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94
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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95
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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96
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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97
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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98
participation
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| n.参与，参加，分享 | |
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99
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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100
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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101
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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102
irritability
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| n.易怒 | |
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103
ridiculed
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| v.嘲笑，嘲弄，奚落( ridicule的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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104
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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105
sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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106
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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107
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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108
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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109
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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110
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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111
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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112
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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113
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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114
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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115
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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116
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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117
legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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118
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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119
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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120
mantled
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| 披着斗篷的，覆盖着的 | |
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121
vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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122
obduracy
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| n.冷酷无情，顽固，执拗 | |
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123
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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124
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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125
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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126
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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127
benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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128
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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129
perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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130
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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131
dreads
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| n.恐惧，畏惧( dread的名词复数 )；令人恐惧的事物v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的第三人称单数 ) | |
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