Under the pretence6 of requesting her to read to him, Mr. Gresham continued to engross7 much of his ward’s leisure. Indeed, so strong was his infatuation becoming, that he could hardly bear her to be out of his sight. In the afternoons he always waited for her return home with childish impatience8, and called her into his presence on some trivial pretext9 almost as soon as she had entered the house. His jealousy10 of a hundred imaginary rivals well-nigh drove him to madness, he plotted and schemed for hours how to put an end to her long daily absences. For all this he had not the courage openly to break his secret to her, and know his fate. Indeed, he felt that he already knew his fate only too well. He saw that Helen still behaved to him with the most perfect frankness, without a trace of embarrassment11, in every respect treating him like a friend — and no more. At times he was driven into paroxysms of rage when he thought of the mean acts he had committed, the perpetual torture from which he suffered, all in consequence of this ill-advised but involuntary passion. He mocked at himself, he attacked himself with the fiercest sarcasms12 and ironies13; a thousand times he went to bed at night saying that in the morning he would rise calm and indifferent to the whole race of womankind, as he had been but a few months ago. And yet the morning found the invincible14 worm eating still deeper into his heart. He was beginning to despise himself as a coward, a creature devoid15 alike of honour and of courage.
He asked himself whether there was any real obstacle in the way of his offering his hand to Helen, and being either accepted or refused as the case might be. He could see none. He knew cases of men older than himself who had married wards16 of their own, under far less creditable circumstances. At least no one could think that he was actuated by a mercenary spirit; his own independent position forbade that. What, then, stood in his way? He knew very well that it was that stiff-necked pride, that empty vanity which had been the guiding spirit of his life. Could he, who had scoffed17 at all the passions, the sentiments, the principles which ordinarily rule the existence of men, who had trained himself into an affected18 cynicism which all his friends imagined to be real, could he now confess himself a convert to the gentle teaching of love, humble19 himself to entreat20 the favour of a girl? The thought was intolerable to him.
Helen’s portrait was proceeding21 very slowly. Mr. Gresham lingered over it purposely; partly because he had an actual pleasure in the work, partly because it afforded him a good opportunity of frequently enjoying his ward’s society; partly, again, because he felt that the completion of the picture would be the most appropriate occasion for opening his heart; and he dreaded22 the approach of the time. Soon it had been in hand nearly six weeks, and was all but finished. One morning he had requested Helen to sit, and had lingered for a couple of hours before the canvas, now and then adding a touch, but for the most part only pretending to paint, and keeping his eyes fixed23 upon the girl’s face. At last he laid down his pallet, and threw himself with a careless air into a seat by Helen’s side.
“And how goes the missionary24 work in the Oriental regions?” he asked, with a forced assumption of his wonted sceptical tone and look.
“As well as I could hope, I think,” replied Helen.
“Then let us have statistics. How many have you converted to the doctrine25 of soap and water, say during the last week?”
“I wish the process of conversion26 were capable of being represented by statistics,” said Helen. “We can only venture to look for decided27 results at the end of a comparatively long period. Ask me when I have been at work a year, Mr. Gresham, and I hope to be able to give you something tangible28.”
“A year! And you mean to say that your whim29 will last so long? Why, I was calculating that our Christmas festivities, at the latest, would celebrate its burial.”
“You credit me with very little stability of character, Mr. Gresham.”
“On the contrary, in giving you till Christmas I conceived I was crediting you with a most astonishing stability.”
“I have already said that this will be the work of my life, and I say so in seriousness.”
“Your life? And when you are married do you suppose your husband will allow you to spend your days in slums and ragged30 schools?”
“I think there is little prospect31 of my ever marrying,” replied Helen, with a quiet smile.
“Indeed? Not Mr. Heatherley? You would make an admirable parson’s wife, Helen.”
Helen looked curiously32 at him as he spoke33 thus, and he met her gaze with one which conveyed much more earnestness than his words.
“Mr. Heatherley and I are, I hope, very good friends,” she replied, “but the idea of our ever becoming more to each other than that is one for which you must yourself take credit, Mr. Gresham.”
“But how and where will you live? I have been very seriously thinking of late of the Dorsetshire farm. Suppose I sell this house and go to live in the country; what will become of you then, Helen?”
“I shall take a lodging34 somewhere near to the scene of my occupation,” replied the girl, calmly. “By so doing I should save much time and expense.”
“Possibly you would like to do that at once?”
“I should only do so if I had no near friends in London. At present I enjoy living in your house, Mr. Gresham. I should lose your society with regret.”
“And yet there is not much similarity between us, Helen, is there?”
“We often agree in our literary tastes.”
“So we do. But then you take the world so terribly au sérieux; I look upon it as a farce35, and amuse myself with the spectacle.”
“That I am sorry for,” said Helen.
There was silence for a while.
“Do you ever think about my character, Helen?” asked the artist then.
“I have naturally sometimes thought of it, Mr. Gresham,” returned his ward, with some little hesitation36. “Not to have done so would argue want of friendship.”
“And what were your conclusions with regard to me? Is it indiscreet to ask such a question?”
“Rather indiscreet, perhaps.”
“You decline to make any comments?”
“Would any useful end be served if I consented?”
“Possibly by regarding my image in your clear mind, I might learn to know myself better than I now do.”
“In that case I will venture to mention one thought which has sometimes occurred to me. It is my belief, Mr. Gresham, that people are not so sincere with each other as they might, with great advantage, be. As you have invited me to speak, you will not be offended at what I say?”
“In no case.”
“I have sometimes thought, then,” said the girl, looking into her guardian37’s face with frank simplicity38, “that it is a pity you do not try to divest39 your words and your manner of a certain unreality, insincerity — what shall I call it? — which they possess. I sometimes fancy that you are not naturally so sceptical regarding the seriousness of life as you would pretend to be. I have noticed indications of this more particularly during the last few weeks.”
Mr. Gresham smiled. He seemed to experience a real pleasure in hearing these words.
“And why is it a pity that I am what I am?” he asked. “Should I be more amiable41 do you think — should I seem more agreeable, say to you, if I were otherwise?”
“I am sure you would.”
“But what would you have me do? How can I evince sincerity40? Shall I turn Ranter, and harangue42 a crowd next evening from the top of the nearest lamp-post?”
“I fear you are incorrigible43, Mr. Gresham,” said Helen, shaking her head and smiling.
“But, in sober earnest, what shall I do? I am willing — I am willing to be savagely44 serious, indeed I am. There shall be a proof of it.”
He took out his pocket-book, and released from it a ten-pound bank-note.
“There,” he continued, “take this, Helen, and spend it for me upon your unspeakable protégés.”
Helen shook her head.
“But why not?” he pursued. “Take it, I beg of you. Shall I go down on my knees? Take it, Helen, and buy somebody a ton of soap with it — the very best brown Windsor!”
“You do not mean what you say, Mr. Gresham. You would regret it the moment the money had left your hands.”
“Upon my word, no! I am in terrific earnest. Won’t you take me at my word?”
“It is always so difficult for me to understand whether you mean what you say.”
“But in this case I do. Take the ten-pound note, Helen. I mean it. Take it, and when it is spent, ask me for another. I wish to be serious. I wish to be amiable. I wish to please you, Helen.”
“Indeed you do please me, Mr. Gresham, if you really mean this. I will take you literally46.” As she spoke she put the note in her purse. “You shall have an exact account of how this money has been spent. I think I have already a purpose for it in my mind. It is very good of you to make me your agent.”
Mr. Gresham suddenly took one of her hands in both his own, and looked full into her face. Just as he was opening his lips to speak, the door creaked, and Mrs. Cumberbatch entered. Mr. Gresham rose with a savage45 look, which he vainly endeavoured to conceal47, and walked to his easel.
“The picture near completion — h’m?” asked the intruder, turning first to Helen, who sat perfectly48 composed, then to the artist, who was leaning over his pallet.
“Almost finished,” said the latter, in a low tone, and continued to paint.
Shortly, Mrs. Cumberbatch withdrew, and Helen at the same time. As the latter was leaving the room, Mr. Gresham recalled her for a moment.
“I shall add to it the last touches,” he said, “before I go out, but in the afternoon I have an engagement which will keep me away till nearly nine to-night. Will you come up here when you return from the school and have a look at it? I shall be here then.”
“Gladly,” said Helen.
It was Saturday, and at eight o’clock Helen opened her classes as usual. Her new assistant, Lucy Venning, was punctual, and the room was soon a scene of assiduous study. Lucy, when she succeeded in overcoming her extreme diffidence, made a capital teacher. Her patience equalled that of Helen’s, and her comprehension of, and sympathy with the pupils was perfect. From the first, Helen had regarded Lucy with much interest, and, now that she came to know her better, the interest began to develop into attachment49. There was an excessive charm for her in Lucy’s perfect simplicity of manner, her low, gentle voice, and her uniform sweetness of temper. As yet there had not been much opportunity of winning the girl’s confidence, but each time she saw her, Helen felt more desirous of doing so. At present she felt that Lucy regarded her with somewhat of awe50, knowing her to be wealthy, and in a high social position compared with herself. Despite this, she hoped before long to make a friend of Lucy.
Whilst Helen was thus engaged, Mr. Gresham was at his Club. His engagement, which was a real one, had terminated sooner than he had anticipated; and feeling by no means disposed for an evening in the company of Mrs. Cumberbatch — from whose invasions he knew no apartment was safe — he had dined at his Club, and proceeded to amuse himself for an hour or two with periodicals. He was almost alone there, for most of the other members were then out of town. Having finished his dinner, he retained a bottle of wine, out of which he hoped to imbibe51 something more than the mere52 juice of the grape. In fact he wanted courage. Helen had promised to visit the studio when she returned, which would be about eleven. At that hour Mrs. Cumberbatch would be, it was to be presumed, fast asleep; and the artist had resolved that tonight should decide his fate.
His attempt to read resulted in failure. He threw the paper away from him, and resolved to fight it out manfully with his thoughts. By degrees he finished the wine, and ordered another bottle. When he had also finished this, it was ten o clock. He left the Club, called a hansom, and was driven home.
With a hand and head feverishly53 hot, he entered the studio. He knew it was too early to expect Helen yet, but he felt relieved when he saw that the studio was dark and empty. Having lit two or three large tapers54, he began to pace the room in impatience. He thought over the morning’s conversation, and succeeded in persuading himself that there had been something in Helen’s manner towards him which he had not before observed, something more gracious, more affectionate even. He was determined55 to look on nothing but the bright side of things, and the most unusual quantity of wine which he had drunk doubtless aided him in his attempt. By degrees he lost himself in glowing hopes and fancies, and was at length startled at suddenly perceiving Helen by his side.
“Ah! you are here!” he exclaimed. “Did you come down the chimney?”
“In a far more prosaic56 manner. I came through the door, as I usually do.”
“And you have come to look at the finished picture?”
“I promised that I would.”
“There it is, then. Are you satisfied with it?”
“Mrs. Cumberbatch told me it is a very good likeness57. As a painting, I think it admirable.”
“And now what are we to do with it, Helen?”
“I have no idea, Mr. Gresham, what your intentions are with regard to it. I should myself suggest that it be put away into some corner till you take your threatened departure for the farm in Dorsetshire, then taken with you, and hung up in a shady corner of some quiet room.”
“Is there no one you would like to give it to?”
“It is not mine to give, Mr. Gresham.”
“But say it were yours. Is there no one you would give it to, in preference to all the rest of the world? Tell me seriously, Helen.”
The girl looked at him with some surprise, he spoke so earnestly.
“I should give it to you, Mr. Gresham,” she said. “There is certainly no one to whom I should give it in preference to you.”
“You mean that, Helen?” he asked eagerly.
“Certainly. I should like you to keep it as a memento58 of my friendship.”
Helen still gazed into his face. The unusual brilliancy of his face struck her. She made as though she would say good. night and depart.
“Stay, Helen!” he said, catching59 her by the hands, the fierce beating of his heart almost choking his words. “It is mine, then. I thank you for the present, but grant me one more favour. Let me have it framed and hung up in my drawing. room as the portrait — of my wife!”
He was almost stunned60 by the word as it left his lips. It seemed to him to echo throughout the whole house. He appeared to himself to have shouted, rather than whispered it. At all events, the word was uttered, and he stood holding Helen’s hands, waiting for her reply.
She said nothing, but replied to his burning gaze with one of amazement61, almost of fright. He continued to speak, using tones such as, perhaps, had never before passed his lips.
“Yes, as my wife, Helen! I mean it. In this I am serious — in this, at least! Cannot you believe it? You have spoken to me of friendship, Helen, but it is with far more than friendship that I have long regarded you, rather with affection which I feel is sincere and true, affection such as I have never before felt for living creature. Speak Helen! Have you any such affection for me? Could you accept me for your husband? Do you believe in my affection?”
“You cannot mean what you say, Mr. Gresham,” Helen replied at length, drawing her hands away.
“Every word. I love you devotedly62, Helen! Quick; free me from this wretched suffering. I can endure it no longer. Will you be my wife?”
“I cannot,” replied the girl, in firm, but gentle tones. “It would be impossible for me to accept your offer, Mr. Gresham. I entertain the sincerest friendship for you; I regard you always as my adopted father; I could not be your wife.”
The answer fell with a calming effect on Mr. Gresham. He took one turn up and down the room, then suddenly stopped before her with the old ironical63 smile on his face.
“Why, so I anticipated, Helen,” he said. “And the picture has been painted in vain — not an unusual thing in this world. And so we may say good-night, I suppose, may we not?”
“Was this a jest, Mr. Gresham?” asked the girl, with something of indignation in her tone.
“By no means,” he replied, grinding with his teeth. “Oh no, not a jest, by no means. But yet it would be best to think of it as such. Do you know what I am going to do now, Helen?”
She looked at him in doubt, for a moment in fear, but reflection told her that the latter feeling was groundless.
“On Monday I shall begin the task of settling all my business affairs, and as soon as they are all settled, I shall leave England for a year, perhaps for longer. Do you approve of that?”
“It grieves me extremely that I should be the cause of it, Mr. Gresham.”
“You the cause of it?” he exclaimed, with affected surprise. “My good child! not in the least. You the cause of it!”
“Then why impart this purpose of yours to me under such very strange circumstances?”
“You think them strange, eh? Ah! perhaps they are rather so. Never mind. My purpose holds good for all that. You can do very well without me for a year?”
Helen began to be convinced that her guardian had partaken of too much wine. She stepped towards the door.
“It is getting very late, Mr. Gresham,” she said. “I must wish you good-night.”
Suddenly he started to her, and seized her arm.
“You are not a chatterbox, are you?” he asked, in a low and rather fierce tone.
“I hope not,” replied Helen, relieving herself from his grasp, and opening the door.
“Then you won’t go and boast to people what a damned fool I have made of myself to you to-night?”
“I shall not speak a word of it, Mr. Gresham,” replied his ward, regarding him with concern; “and I hope by the morning it will all have passed from your mind.”
“Amen! Good-night, Helen.”
“Good-night, Mr. Gresham.”
The artist was absent from home all the next day, and also the whole of Monday. During that time Helen did not see him. On Tuesday they met at meals only, during which Mr. Gresham behaved quite in his ordinary manner, except that perhaps he spoke rather less than usual. Helen also did her best to show no sign of remembering what had happened, and succeeded in appearing quite at her ease. At dinner on Tuesday, Mr. Gresham announced his departure at the end of the week for the Continent.
“Do you propose to be long away, Gilbert, — h’m?” asked Mrs. Cumberbatch.
“Probably a month or two,” was the reply. “I shall write to you, aunt, and tell you of my plans.”
Mrs. Cumberbatch glanced from her nephew to Helen. She suspected something. For a wonder, however, she did not pursue her interrogations, and the subject dropped.
Mr. Gresham and his ward alike took care to avoid a private interview. On Saturday morning the artist was ready to depart, apparently64 in quite a cheerful mood. He shook hands with his aunt and with Helen, bestowing65 no more pressure in the one case than in the other, and stepped into his carriage. Helen sighed as she saw him depart, but whether with relief or not she scarcely knew. The incident which had apparently given rise to this departure affected her much; even yet she scarcely knew what to think of it. In any case, she did not see how she could have adopted any other course than that she had chosen. Nothing remained but to settle down to the companionship of Mrs. Cumberbatch, and to see whether Mr. Gresham would really fulfil his purpose of being away a year.
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1
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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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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persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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engross
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| v.使全神贯注 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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sarcasms
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，挖苦( sarcasm的名词复数 ) | |
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ironies
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| n.反语( irony的名词复数 )；冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事；嘲弄 | |
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invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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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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scoffed
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| 嘲笑，嘲弄( scoff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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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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missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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doctrine
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conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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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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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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divest
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| v.脱去，剥除 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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harangue
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| n.慷慨冗长的训话，言辞激烈的讲话 | |
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incorrigible
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| adj.难以纠正的，屡教不改的 | |
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savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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imbibe
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| v.喝，饮；吸入，吸收 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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tapers
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| （长形物体的）逐渐变窄( taper的名词复数 )； 微弱的光； 极细的蜡烛 | |
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55
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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57
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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memento
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| n.纪念品，令人回忆的东西 | |
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59
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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60
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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62
devotedly
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| 专心地； 恩爱地； 忠实地； 一心一意地 | |
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ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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65
bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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