Oh, was it not cruel of her to act so towards him? Surely, surely it was only some momentary1 whim2 that had taken possession of her. He could not think she would deliberately3 plan to deceive him.
But then came the hot blast of jealousy4 to keep up the fire of indignation. She had gone out on Saturday night, and, above all places, to a music-hall, the resort of the most abandoned of both sexes, a place in which no woman who valued her reputation would care to be seen. Was it she who had proposed to go, or was it her companion, the landlady’s daughter, who had persuaded her? In either case she was culpable5.
But this mood soon spent itself, giving way to one of apprehension6 and self-reproach. He had allowed her to leave him in anger, and who could tell what step she might take? The suddenness with which she had departed disclosed a hasty, impulsive7 temper, such a one as might lead to all manner of unconsidered follies8.
Perhaps she would forthwith leave her lodgings9 and go where he had no means of discovering her. Clearly he must follow her to the house and see her there. Impossible to wait till tomorrow on the chance of her meeting him as usual. The anguish10 would be too unendurable.
He had turned in that direction, and was just entering Huntley Street, when, as he hurried on with his eyes on the pavement, he was stopped by a sudden hand upon his shoulder.
Looking up, he saw the short, stout11 figure of Mark Challenger before him.
“Where on earth have you been, Arthur?” he asked. “Why, I have been hunting for you all the morning. Are you ill, boy? Whatever is the matter with you?”
This sudden encounter seemed to recall Arthur to a sense of his physical suffering. He was wet to the skin, and exhausted12 with hunger. His eyes wandered over Mark’s face as if he had not yet clearly recognised him.
The latter quickly seized his arm, and, in spite of a feeble resistance, forced him to walk quickly home. In their room Arthur found a bright fire burning, and the table spread with the simple breakfast they were in the habit of taking together on Sundays. Mark compelled him to change his clothes, after which the warmth of the fire, combined with the internal action of a strong cup of coffee, soon restored him to physical strength.
As soon as he felt once more master of his faculties13 he rose and was going out again, with some muttered excuse, when Mark once more caught him by the arm and detained him.
“Now look here, Arthur,” he said, “for the present you don’t budge14. Dash my buttons! What’s the good of my being something approaching three times your age, if I’m not to exert a little friendly authority now and then? There’s something amiss, I can see. Now can’t you just tell me what it is, and ease your mind?”
Arthur felt it would indeed ease him, but he hesitated.
“Have you and Carrie been quarrelling?” pursued Mark. “That must be it. Now, tell me what’s the matter, there’s a good lad.”
Thus pressed, Arthur did at length confess that there had been a little disagreement. To confess the whole, even to Mark, he felt to be impossible. Though the object of his love might be lowered in his own eyes, he could not bear that others should see her faults. But he said enough to make Mark partly suspect the truth, and the latter shook his head and looked grave.
Then, by dint15 of questioning, he got Arthur to reveal the greater part of the circumstances, proceeding16 after that to reason with him, and to try to show how great a need of caution and deliberation there was in a matter which probably concerned the happiness of two lives.
But Arthur was an impatient listener, and scarcely replied to his friend’s words. It was impossible for him to rest whilst he was yet uncertain about Carrie’s movements. Very shortly he found an opportunity of leaving the room, this time unopposed by his friend, and hurrying into the street, he took the direction of Carrie’s abode17. Arrived opposite to it, he was rejoiced to see her face at the window. He motioned with his hand, and the face disappeared. A few minutes afterwards she herself appeared at the door, and walked across the street to join him.
It had now ceased raining, though the day continued as dark as ever. As Carrie drew near him, Arthur saw that her eyes were red, as if from crying, and immediately his heart went out to her in a gush18 of forgiving tenderness.
He took her hand as though they had not already met that morning, and together they walked on in silence.
“Will you forgive me for my angry words this morning?” asked Arthur, first breaking the silence in a timid voice, and without venturing to look into his companion’s face. “I did not know what I was saying.”
“Will you forgive me for doing what you didn’t wish me to?” was Carrie’s low-voiced reply. “I am very sorry. I will not do it again.”
They were near their favourite place of meeting in Torrington Square. At the moment only one or two people were in sight at the farthest end of the square, and the distant roll of vehicles was the only sound which broke the stillness of the dull January afternoon.
“Carrie!” whispered Arthur, grasping her hand as he walked on, and feeling that it trembled.
She looked into his face with a sweet smile and a questioning expression. He went on in low and eager tones —
“Will you give me the right to guard and protect you, not only from a distance, as a friend, but by your side, for the rest of your life? Will you be my wife?”
“Do you care so much for me?” asked Carrie, the sweet smile mingling19 with a light blush, so that she looked yet more beautiful.
“I have loved you ever since I knew you, dearest,” he returned. “Can you care for me a little?”
“I can love you with all the love I have,” she replied. “Is that enough?”
The word “love,” uttered for the first time by her lips, smote20 upon the finest chords of Arthur’s being, and left them throbbing21 with an intensity22 that almost deprived him of consciousness. He could only once more press her hand, when several people appeared turning the corner of the square, and coming towards them.
What had these innocent strangers done that Arthur should curse them in his heart with the bitterest of curses?
All the afternoon, all the dull, sad, dripping afternoon, till the lamplighter began to hurry on his blessed mission along the sloppy23 streets, did the two wander side by side, absolutely ignorant of the places they passed; listening to nothing but the sweet utterances25 of each other’s lips, seeing nothing but the glad looks upon each other’s faces. The day of unutterable gloom and misery26 had set in such an outbreak of glorious light as neither had ever known. What was it to them that the rain had recommenced with the coming night, that a chill, bitter wind had begun to rock the leafless boughs27 in the middle of the square? Other pedestrians28 hurried by with nipped faces and wet clothes, eager to reach the warmth and comfort of home; but for these two there was no home possessing anything like the attraction of these hideous29 streets. When it rained they opened their umbrellas; but, finding them inconvenient30, Carrie soon closed hers and made Arthur’s suffice for both, availing herself of the chance to slip her little gloved hand delicately through Arthur’s arm, where it was immediately pressed warm and tight against his throbbing heart.
Consideration for his companion was the only feeling capable of arousing Arthur from his delicious trance. At length he insisted upon her going home, and she, after much resistance, consented.
They were close to Huntley Street and to Carrie’s abode when they passed the pitch-dark entrance to some mews.
“We had better say good-bye here,” said Arthur. “Then you must run on home quickly.”
He drew her gently beneath the archway, pressed her closely to his heart and kissed her.
“Will you always love me so, Arthur?” whispered Carrie, sighing with fulness of joy.
“Always, darling,” he replied, fervently31; “as long as I have breath.”
They then parted, Carrie running quickly home, Arthur turning to walk by a roundabout way. He did not feel ready to face his friend Mark at once. It was nearly eight o’clock when he at length entered, and he was glad to find Mark absent. In his excitement he had forgotten that the latter would be at the club as usual.
That night Arthur said not a word of his happiness. On the following day he found time, however, to visit the Registrar’s Office and to give notice of an intended marriage between himself and Carrie. Neither of them had parent or guardian32, so the fact that they were both under age was of no consequence. At the end of three weeks the marriage could be performed.
Wholly wrapped up as he was in one subject, Arthur would have been in danger of entirely33 forgetting the aims and aspirations34 which had so lately been the sole guides of his life, had it not been for the friendship of William Noble. Greatly as Arthur could not but admire the latter, he had grown of late almost to dread35 the frequent meetings with him and the long, earnest conversations into which Noble never failed to draw him. The secret of this uneasiness lay in the feeling that Noble’s daily life contained a reproach, a protest against the habit of mind into which his friend had fallen of late, though Noble’s own words and manner implied nothing less than a reproachful feeling. William’s life was one of steady, patient, unremitting toil36; toil, moreover, thoroughly37 fruitful for himself and those with whom he came into connection. The son of parents who had earned their daily bread by the coarsest manual labour, and who had been unable to give him any education beyond mere38 reading and writing, he had so wrought39 his way upwards40 by virtue41 of persistent42 labour, vitalised by a source of innate43 ability, that now, at the age of twenty-four, he found himself possessed44 of knowledge quite wonderful for a man in his position of life, and, what is better still, of an unflagging energy ever ready to operate in obedience45 to the dictates46 of a sound, healthy judgment47, and a most tender, sympathetic, charitable heart. In the presence of this man Arthur felt his genius rebuked48.
On the Saturday preceding his last week of surprise, Noble proposed that they should spend the following afternoon in a visit to the house of the young lady whom he had spoken of as “Lucy.”
“But shall I be a, welcome visitor?” asked Arthur, who could not help regretting a walk with Carrie. “A perfect stranger, you see ——”
“Oh, you don’t know them,” interposed Noble, with a smile. “Mr. Venning, that’s Lucy’s father”, is always glad to see me and any friend of mine. I have often spoken to him of you, and he is anxious to see you.
“But shall I not be in your way?”
“If you were likely to be, Golding, I shouldn’t ask you,” replied Noble, calmly. “As I have told you, Lucy regards me — as yet — with nothing but friendship, and I always go there as a mere friend. Do you care to come?”
“Oh, yes, I shall be very glad indeed to come,” replied Arthur, ashamed of his hesitation51 as soon as he saw that a refusal would really pain his friend.
So the same evening he was obliged to inform Carrie that he should only be able to spend the Sunday morning with her, and not the whole day, the reason being that he was obliged to visit a friend.
“A friend! What friend?” asked Carrie, sharply.
Arthur, to avoid further questioning, explained the circumstances in detail.
“And you would rather go to see strange people that you know nothing about than spend the time with me?” said Carrie, in a tone of annoyance52.
“You know I would not rather do so, Carrie,” replied Arthur. “I have explained the case to you. You must see that it is impossible for me to refuse.”
“I don’t see that it is. You could say that you were engaged. I can’t do without you all day tomorrow. You must write and say you find you have another engagement.”
“It is impossible to do so, Carrie,” urged Arthur, in his quietest tone. “It would be unkind, it would be rude to do so.”
“I’m sure I think it’s much ruder to leave me,” retorted the girl, separating herself some feet from his side as they walked along together. “You are getting not to care about me at all. That’s the second thing you’ve refused me in one day. I asked you to take me to the theatre to-night, and you refused, and now you refuse to see me for a whole day.”
“You shouldn’t speak so, dearest,” urged Arthur, drawing close to her again. “I don’t refuse to see you for a whole day. I shall be with you all the morning, if it’s fine; and then, if you like, I will see you when I come back at night. And as to the theatre, you know why I don’t wish to take you. I can’t afford to pay for a good place, and I don’t choose that you should crowd in with a lot of vulgar people; it isn’t nice.”
It was not the first time that Arthur had adopted this tone in speaking to Carrie. In his attempt to exalt53 her nature above the level on which it had hitherto moved, he, the democratic agitator54, the ardent55 sympathiser with the most miserable56 of poverty’s victims, waxed quite aristocratic in his conversation. In his heart he would rather have seen Carrie fall into the most complete snobbishness57 on the subject of riches and rank than continue at rest among the sympathies with vulgar life with which she had grown up. At present his passion was too earnest to permit of his playing the pedant58, but already he looked forward to their marriage as affording him an opportunity of educating Carrie and rendering59 her, from an intellectual point of view, more worthy60 of his devotion.
After the above conversation they parted with rather less of their usual fervour.
“When shall I see you tomorrow morning, Carrie?” asked Arthur.
“Oh, I don’t know,” replied the girl. “The usual time, I suppose.”
“Of course if it isn’t fine you mustn’t expect me.”
“Very well. You will have all the more time with, your friend.”
So saying, Carrie walked off, and Arthur returned home miserable to the heart’s core. Luckily it was fine on the following morning, and something like a reconciliation61 was patched up between them, but still Carrie could not part from her lover at noon without speaking with some bitterness of his “friends,” and Arthur was not sorry to look forward to Will Noble’s society as a relief from these petty troubles which yet gave him such exquisite62 pain.
As it was a clear, frosty afternoon the walk towards the East End was agreeable. Noble was in excellent spirits, probably because he was about to see Lucy, and talked in his most cheerful vein63 all the way. In reply to Arthur’s request for some information with regard to Mr. Venning, he told him that the latter was by trade a flute64 manufacturer, but not in very flourishing circumstances. His wife had been long dead and he had one child, Lucy, who was employed as a “fitter-on,” or in some such capacity, in the show-rooms of a large East End millinery establishment. Hereupon he diverged65 into a eulogy66 of Lucy, speaking with delicate appreciation67 of her beauty, her modesty68, her cleverness. Arthur was rather amused to see his friend under this new aspect, but at the same time it gave him pain. How unlike was his own passion to this calm, deep, persevering69 affection.
On arriving at the shop they of course found it closed, and knocked for admission at a side door. Mr. Venning himself replied to the summons, and forthwith led them into a small parlour. He was a middle-aged70 man, short in stature71 and with his left foot distorted, so that he walked very lame72. In face he was somewhat care-worn, but his features wore a singularly sweet and amiable73 expression. In his eyes was a rather absent look, indicating that he was addicted74 to reverie. When he spoke50 his voice was low and musical. He wore neither beard nor moustache, the absence of these increasing the female cast of his countenance75. His dress, though very plain and showing signs of poverty, was fastidiously neat, and Arthur observed that his hands were of a wonderful delicacy76.
“Mr. Golding,” said Noble, as they all took seats in the little parlour, “is an intimate friend of mine, and I felt sure you would thank me for bringing him to see you. He has the same interests at heart as ourselves, Mr. Venning.”
“I am always rejoiced to see any of William Noble’s friends,” returned Mr. Venning, looking at Arthur with his captivating smile, and speaking in a very quiet tone, which was still cordial. “And especially on Sunday afternoon when I have leisure to sit quietly at home. Next to the society of my good friends, Mr. Golding, I have no pleasure so great as that of sitting quite still and in perfect silence. Since two o’clock I have been holding a very pleasant conversation with the fire, its cracking seemed to make answers to my thoughts. How fond I am of the stillness of the Sunday! This street is never noisy, but on Sunday not a sound reaches this parlour.”
In the low, sweet tones of the speaker’s voice there was something singularly soothing77, something which invited irresistibly78 to the same perfect calm of which he spoke. In making a reply, Arthur insensibly lowered his voice to the same pitch. Loud speech in this silent little room would have appeared profanation79.
“It is wonderfully quiet, indeed,” he replied. “One could almost imagine he was in a little country town, such remote, peaceful places as I have read of, but, I am’ sorry to say, have never seen.”
“Does it make you think of that?” inquired Mr. Venning, with a quick look almost of gratitude80. “Now that is the very feeling it awakens81 in me. And that is why I love it so, this Sabbath stillness, for it reminds me of the village I was born in. That was a little place close by the River Don in Yorkshire. You have read Scott’s ‘Ivanhoe,’ Mr. Golding?”
“Yes, 0 yes!” replied Arthur. It was one of the first books he had read with Mr. Tollady, and the mention of it awakened82 pleasant thoughts.
“Then you will remember Conisboro’ Castle. It is now a grey old ruin, and within sight of that I was born. Our house was a very small one, and was quite overshadowed by a huge elm. Hush83! I can almost fancy that I hear the low whistling of its leaves on a midsummer afternoon, when (lazy boy that I was) I used to lie at full length in the warm sunshine on the floor of my little bedroom, and read. I think it must have been those afternoons that gave me my liking84 for quiet solitude85.”
He sighed slightly, but the next moment broke into a quiet laugh.
“It is a happy thing for me,” he said, without looking at either of his companions, “that I can think of those dear old times with nothing but pure delight, though I know so well that I shall never leave London again. It used to be my ambition to work hard and make money — just enough to live upon, no more — and then to go back to my native place with Lucy and, in our Father’s good time, be buried in the dear old church-yard. But now I know it is impossible, and, as I am sure that everything that happens to us is for the best, I do not sorrow over it.”
There was silence for a few moments, broken at length by Noble.
“I suppose Lucy has not returned yet?” he asked.
“No,” returned Mr. Venning, looking up with a smile. “She is still at the Sunday-school. But she cannot be more than a quarter of an hour now. How does the club get on, William?”
Noble shook his head with a rather sad smile.
“There are only five of us left,” he replied. “Several have left of late from unavoidable causes, but others, I am afraid, have grown tired of the work. The other societies, which have amusement and politics for their chief aims, have attracted several.”
“Well, well,” said Mr. Venning, “perhaps it is too much to expect. There are not many that have your steady courage, William.”
“Or perhaps it would be more correct to say,” remarked Noble, “that the others are not so strongly impressed with the necessity of the work as I am.”
As he spoke a light knock was heard at the outer door. Mr. Venning was to his feet.
“You recognise her hand, William?” he said, smiling. “She is so gentle, I don’t think she could reconcile herself to strike even the door hard.”
And he left the room, laughing in his quiet way. The next moment a light step sounded in the passage, and Lucy Venning entered the parlour. Very charming she looked in her simple walking attire86, and the start and blush with which she noticed the presence of strangers were delightfully87 natural.
“You didn’t tell me you had company, father,” she said, turning to Mr. Venning with a tone of playful reproach.
“I quite forgot to mention it,” replied her father, with a smile to the two young men. “One of my visitors, I fancy, is known to you, Lucy. This is Mr. Golding, a friend of William’s.”
Lucy offered her hand to Noble, and bowed to Arthur in a pleasant way.
“It is a very long time since we have seen you, Mr. Noble,” she said, without venturing, however, to meet his eye directly.
“I do not venture to disturb your Sundays too often,” was Noble’s reply, whilst the accession of colour to his cheek bespoke89 the pleasure with which he heard Lucy’s regret.
“I’m sure it is anything but disturbing us,” returned Lucy, affecting to have trouble in unbuttoning her glove. “We have scarcely another friend who comes to see us. You have of course asked these gentlemen to take a cup of tea with us, father?”
“I omitted to ask them, I am afraid, dear,” replied Mr. Venning, whose eyes had been wandering with something of troubled interest between his daughter’s face and that of William Noble. “But it was only because I took that for granted.”
Noble and Arthur exchanged glances.
“We mustn’t ask too much of your good nature, Miss Venning,” said Noble.
“No, and therefore you mustn’t ask Lucy to excuse you,” put in Mr. Venning, with a quiet laugh. “Run up and take off your hat and cloak, Lucy, and I will see that the kettle boils.”
With a smile at the visitors and a glance of affection at her father, Lucy left the room. In a very few minutes she returned, and proceeded to cover the round table with a white cloth. As she was engaged in placing the tea things, the ringing of a bell in the street outside broke the silence.
“There is the crumpet-man,” said Mr. Venning; “we must levy90 a contribution upon him this evening, Lucy.”
A few minutes after Lucy was engaged in toasting crumpets, and, when they were done, all drew up to the table. The room was now the image of home comfort. The heavy green curtains had been drawn91 close before the window, and though the bright blaze of the fire rendered it almost needless, a large oil lamp stood in the centre of the tea-table. The furniture of the room was extremely simple, but Arthur had already noticed that in one corner stood a small piano, and he wondered whether father or daughter played. On the side over against the fire-place stood a very high, old-fashioned chest of drawers, the top covered with a white cloth, upon which were ranged a few carefully-kept volumes. On the mantel-piece, which was also high and old-fashioned, stood several quaint92 figures of wood. On the walls were several pictures, all representing quiet country scenes — without doubt the choice of Mr. Venning. As Arthur seated himself at the table, he experienced a sense of delightful88 comfort such as he had never known. It was the first time in his life that he had enjoyed the sight of such a truly home-like picture.
“A good class this afternoon, Lucy?” asked Mr. Venning, as he passed the cups of tea to his visitors.
“Better than usual, father,” replied Lucy. “I hadn’t the least trouble with any of the children. Poor Nellie Wick was unable to come again. Her mother sent a note to say her cough was much worse today.”
“Poor child! you must go and see her, Lucy.”
“I did as I came from school, and Mr. Heatherley walked with me. Mr. Heatherley says he is very much afraid there is no hope for her. I fancy, father, if it were not for him, poor Mrs. Wick would have been in the workhouse long since.”
“Mr. Heatherley is the clergyman whose chapel93 we attend, Mr. Golding,” said her father. “He is a most excellent man, a man who does endless good in the neighbourhood, and all in the quietest way.”
William Noble kept his eyes fixed94 on Lucy’s face whilst her father was speaking, and for a moment she met his glance. Her face reddened slightly, and she turned away under the pretence95 of filling the tea-pot. There was a short silence which Noble himself broke.
“Does the lady you told me of — I forget her name — still continue to teach her evening school?” he asked, addressing himself to Mr. Venning.
“Miss Norman?” returned the latter. “Oh, yes. And what is more, she has taken quite a fancy to Lucy. She makes quite a friend of her.”
Arthur started as he heard the name pronounced, and with difficulty concealed96 his surprise. Mr. Venning noticed something of it, and interpreted it into a desire for explanation.
“Miss Norman,” he said, accordingly, “is a very wealthy young lady, who spends nearly all her time in efforts to help the poor, Mr. Golding. She is a friend of Mr. Heatherley’s, and I think it was very likely at his suggestion that she began free evening-classes for young girls who have never been taught anything in their lives. She has nearly twenty pupils, hasn’t she, Lucy?”
“Twenty-one, father.”
“And Lucy is her assistant teacher,” went on Mr. Venning. “I should like you to hear Lucy speak of her as she sometimes does to me. You would both be as curious to see her as I am.”
“Indeed, father,” said the girl, earnestly, “she deserves everything I say, and much more. I am sure there can be very few rich ladies like Miss Norman. If there were, there would not be half so many poor. And she is so unpretending, you would think she was not at all above the poor girls she teaches. They are all passionately97 fond of her.”
Lucy paused suddenly, and blushed to find the eyes of all three fixed upon her. In her enthusiasm she had spoken with a boldness very unusual in her. Arthur, who listened with eagerness to every word that was said, feared lest the conversation might turn to another topic, and was the first to speak.
“Does this lady live in the neighbourhood?” he asked, addressing Lucy.
“Oh, no,” replied the latter, “she lives somewhere in the West End, and comes to this part nearly every day. I am afraid, father, she is doing too much. I have noticed her growing paler and more worn-looking of late. She has worked for half a year now without any rest. But nothing will keep her back when she thinks she can do good. You know, father, one of Mrs. Willing’s children has got the small-pox, and all the neighbours are afraid to go into the house; but Miss Norman goes every day. I heard Mr. Heatherley begging her to leave the care of Mrs. Willing to him, but she said that her visits seemed to cheer the poor woman, and she could not bear to keep away.
“She would make Mr. Heatherley a good wife, wouldn’t she, Lucy?” asked her father, smiling.
Lucy was then putting a piece of sugar into her father’s teacup, and it suddenly dropped from the sugar-tongs into the saucer. She blushed and seemed embarrassed for a reply. Noble, whom none could exceed in delicacy of apprehension, relieved her by introducing some other subject. Tea over, all made a circle round the fire, and Mr. Venning rendered the little circle cheerful with his conversation. He kept up a quiet, genial98 flow of talk which pleased at once by its agreeable na?veté and the unmistakable desire to please which manifested itself in every word. At times he was witty99, at others he showed a sincere spirit of piety100 which excited involuntary reverence101 in his hearers. But of whatever he spoke, his words indicated the calm, clear mind, a sweet resignation flowing from the belief that everything in this world is arranged for the best, though the reason for so much suffering and wrong is often difficult to acknowledge.
“You are not going to send us away without any music, Mr. Venning?” asked Noble, when the clock upon the mantelpiece showed that it was nearly nine.
Mr. Venning looked with a smile towards his daughter, then turned to Arthur.
“You must not think, Mr. Golding,” he said, “that because I earn my living by making musical instruments, I am a skilled musician. I now and then play a little, however, on the piano there, and Lucy sings to my accompaniment. William always tells us he has pleasure in our music, and with him we have no feeling of hesitation. But I scarcely know whether you ——”
Arthur interposed with a request that they by all means give him the pleasure of hearing them, and Mr. Venning accordingly took his seat at the piano. Lucy took a place at his side, and sang several simple hymns102, compositions which, like the overwhelming majority of English devotional hymns, had no special merit, but which acquired the interest they naturally lacked by virtue of Lucy’s sweet voice and earnest feeling. Neither she nor her father used a book, and the performance had a perfectly103 spontaneous character which removed it altogether from the reach of criticism. William Noble’s face, as he listened to Lucy’s singing, expressed deep emotion. Arthur noticed that, after watching the girl’s features for a few minutes, he turned his eyes away and appeared to suffer keenly.
Very shortly after this the two friends left, Arthur receiving a warm invitation from Mr. Venning to repeat his visit as soon as possible. He walked on by Noble’s side in silence for some time; both too occupied with their very different thoughts to exchange words. Noble was the first to break the silence.
“I never can say whether these visits give me more pleasure or pain,” he said. “If I were to act upon my present feelings I should never go there again; but I know very well that tomorrow I shall have nothing but pleasant remembrances, and desires to see them both as soon as possible.”
“But why do you feel otherwise at present?” asked Arthur. “I really could see nothing but the utmost friendliness104 in Miss Venning’s manner to you.”
“Friendliness; aye, that is just it, Golding! It is real friendliness — but nothing more.”
“Do you suppose, then, that she is attached to anyone else?”
“I will ask you another question,” returned Noble. “Do you remember her dropping the lump of sugar at tea?”
“Yes! but what has that to do with the matter?”
“Ha, ha! You need a lover’s eyes and ears to note those things, Golding. Why, it was at the moment when her father had said that Miss Norman would make the clergyman a good wife.”
“And — you suppose she is in love with the clergyman?” asked Arthur, in surprise.
“I feel sure of it. I have noticed her too closely and too frequently to doubt it.”
“But what sort of a man is this Mr. Heatherley?”
“I never saw him, but I understand that he is young, handsome, energetic, good-hearted; all, in short, that a man can be to please a girl of Lucy’s disposition105.”
“But — excuse the question, Noble — wouldn’t he consider Miss Venning rather below his station?”
“Lucy is below no one,” said Noble, decisively; “and what’s more, Heatherley is the man to recognise that. He is a Radical106 in politics and social views, and if he fell in love with the poorest girl on earth he would see nothing to prevent his marrying her.”
“But this Miss Norman,” urged Arthur — “isn’t that her name? — Mr. Venning seemed to hint at some connection with her? Do you think it possible?”
“I have not the least idea. Neither Miss Norman nor Mr. Heatherley is known to me. But I suppose it is not unlikely that a girl of her sympathies should make such a man her ideal. However, as I tell you, I know nothing of the matter.”
“I dare say you wouldn’t be sorry,” said Arthur, “to hear that Heatherley was disposed of in that direction?”
“I cannot say,” returned Noble, holding his head up as he walked. “I love Lucy Venning with all my heart, and should be glad to make her my wife because I feel sure she could marry no one who would be more devoted107 to her happiness. But if I find that her love for Heatherley continues, and that my position is hopeless, then I shall be glad if her love is returned. It would be selfish to feel otherwise.”
There were thoughts at that moment in Arthur’s heart which made this high-minded utterance24 sound to him like a rebuke49. Their talk was on other matters during the rest of the walk, and when at length they separated, Arthur said —
“Bye-the-by, I think I haven’t told you that I am to be married tomorrow?”
“Told me!” returned his friend, in astonishment108. “Of course you never did! What the deuce do you mean, Golding, by stealing a march on me in that way?”
Arthur laughed and held out his hand.
“Where is it to be?” asked Noble, who returned the other’s grasp.
“Oh, at the Registry Office, of course. As you know, I am no great friend to the Church.”
“And when will you introduce me to your wife?”
“When you like,” said Arthur, carelessly. “We shall live in my present quarters, as Challenger insists on turning out and getting another place. He’s always a good-hearted fellow.”
“Well, every wish for your happiness, Golding,” said Noble; you deserve the utmost.
Upon this they parted, and Arthur walked slowly homewards with a vague heaviness at his heart.
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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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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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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4
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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culpable
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| adj.有罪的，该受谴责的 | |
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6
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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8
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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9
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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13
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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14
budge
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| v.移动一点儿；改变立场 | |
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15
dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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16
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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17
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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18
gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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19
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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20
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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21
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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22
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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23
sloppy
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| adj.邋遢的，不整洁的 | |
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24
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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25
utterances
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| n.发声( utterance的名词复数 )；说话方式；语调；言论 | |
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26
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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27
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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28
pedestrians
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| n.步行者( pedestrian的名词复数 ) | |
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29
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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30
inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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31
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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32
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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33
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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34
aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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35
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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36
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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38
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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39
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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40
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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41
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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42
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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43
innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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44
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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45
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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46
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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47
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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48
rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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50
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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51
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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52
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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53
exalt
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| v.赞扬，歌颂，晋升，提升 | |
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54
agitator
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| n.鼓动者；搅拌器 | |
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55
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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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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57
snobbishness
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| 势利； 势利眼 | |
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58
pedant
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| n.迂儒；卖弄学问的人 | |
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59
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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60
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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61
reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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62
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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63
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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64
flute
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| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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65
diverged
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| 分开( diverge的过去式和过去分词 )； 偏离； 分歧； 分道扬镳 | |
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66
eulogy
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| n.颂词；颂扬 | |
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67
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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68
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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69
persevering
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| a.坚忍不拔的 | |
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70
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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71
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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72
lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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73
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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74
addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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75
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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76
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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77
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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78
irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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79
profanation
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| n.亵渎 | |
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80
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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81
awakens
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的第三人称单数 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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82
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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83
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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84
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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85
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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86
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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87
delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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88
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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89
bespoke
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| adj.（产品）订做的；专做订货的v.预定( bespeak的过去式 )；订（货）；证明；预先请求 | |
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90
levy
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| n.征收税或其他款项，征收额 | |
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91
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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92
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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93
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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94
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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95
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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96
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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97
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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98
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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99
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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100
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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101
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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102
hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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103
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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104
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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105
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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106
radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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107
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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108
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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