For her thoughts, as the day progressed, became calm and cheerful, engrossed9 in anticipation10 of the interview she was about to enjoy. Throughout the night and during the early hours of the day she had suffered much, and, instead of the present peace, an expression of trouble, at times even of anguish11, had disturbed her countenance12. After the dread13 waking from the nightmare she had scarcely closed her eyes, but had lain through the long silent hours struggling with a fearful spectre in her thoughts scarcely less terrible than that which had oppressed her dreams. The blood upon her hand and upon her lips she felt that she understood only too well; it brought back recollections of her father’s last years, and reawakened in her a dread to which she had long ago been subject, but which her active life had recently dispelled15 from her mind. Her mother had died very early, if not of consumption, at all events from some trifling17 illness operating upon a most feeble constitution. Her father, as the reader knows, had struggled through long years with his impending18 fate, only keeping himself alive by the exercise of the most scrupulous19 precautions. Helen reflected again on these things during long hours of wakefulness, and the flickering20 night-light became to her the symbol of a miserable22 destiny. What if her life was fated to burn only during a few years of dark striving, of toiling24 in the gloom of misapplied efforts and fallacious hopes, and then, when at length the dawn began to break upon her, when she could see her path more clearly, and the certainty of progress had grown strong within her, should flicker21, and droop25, and become extinguished even as this night-light? In the dim radiance which kept her company during this night of suffering she saw pass by her bed the terrible forms of Disease, Despair and Death, and it seemed as though another ghostly shadow which had taken its place by her side whispered their names to her as they passed, and the name of the shadow itself was Fear. For hours she lay in a cold sweat, her soul writhing26 within her, her body prostrated27 as though already under the crushing hand of sickness; and only towards the morning did she once again sink into troubled slumber29, to be still haunted by the same ghostly shapes. No wonder that she at length arose shattered and feeble, desiring nothing but to sit quietly throughout the day by the fire-side. The cup of coffee which had been brought her at breakfast-time remained beside her at noon, still untouched; then it was exchanged for a cup of tea, after drinking which the calm into which she had gradually been sinking became more perfect, and by degrees she forgot her fears in happy reverie.
As the time for Arthur’s visit drew nigh, Helen paid some attention to her toilet, and descended30 to the library, where she had ordered a fire to be lighted. Into this room she knew Mrs. Cumberbatch very seldom came, and here she gave instructions that Arthur should be shown as soon as he arrived. Taking up a favourite book, she sat down by the fire-side, not to read — for that was impossible — but to subside31 into a state of calm preparation.
Exactly at the hour of seven, she heard the visitor’s bell ring, down in the lower regions of the house, and she knew that he had arrived. She sat and listened. A servant passed quickly through the hall, the front-door opened, there was a momentary32 silence, and almost immediately a tap at the library-door. The servant announced —
“Mr. Golding.”
Helen rose from her seat and advanced to meet him. Now that he was in her presence she had recovered all her self-command, and could even comment to herself upon his appearance. Certainly he was much altered; whether for the better or not it was difficult to say at once. He looked much older. His face was thinner, and bore traces of anxiety, if not of keener suffering. But his eyes still wore the same expression, were still alive with the bright glow of talent and enthusiasm. For the excitement of the visit had also animated34 Arthur, and just now he felt more like his old self than he had for a long time.
On Helen’s part there was no air of condescension35, no restraint, no sense of being engaged in anything unusual. When Arthur stood still and bent36 before her, she advanced yet a step, and held out her hand to him with the perfection of natural grace. He took it, and held it for a moment, gazing into her face with a look before which her eyes fell. Then she pointed37 in silence to a chair, and herself became seated.
Neither had given utterance38 to a word of common-place greeting or politeness, for each felt that the meeting was one which would be fruitful in consequences to them both. As soon as they were seated, Helen looked towards Arthur with a smile of expectation. But she saw the same moment that he was under the influence of feelings which would not allow him to speak at once, and she resolved to relieve his embarrassment39.
“My friend, Miss Venning,” she said, “told me you had expressed a wish to see me, Mr. Golding. I am sorry that you should have hesitated so long before paying me a visit.”
“I was not quite certain, Miss Norman,” he replied, reassured40 completely by her quiet, friendly tone, “whether you would permit me to speak to you if I came. I feared you were offended at the abruptness41 with which I quitted Mr. Gresham’s studio a year ago.”
“Had you any reason to think I was offended?” asked Helen, after a moment’s reflection, her tone being one of simple inquiry42.
Arthur hesitated for an instant, raised his face as if to make a confession43, but apparently44 altered his purpose, and spoke45 in his previous respectful tone.
“No reason,” he replied, “except the consciousness that my behaviour must have appeared strange and even rude to you.” Then, after slightly pausing, he added, in a lower voice, “I had no means of knowing how my absence was explained to you, or, indeed, whether it was explained at all. Possibly it is presumptuous46 in me to think you ever cared to ask the reason.”
An expression of surprise rose to Helen’s face as she listened, frank surprise which she did not in the least try to conceal47. Arthur’s eye caught the look, for a moment they gazed at each other without speaking.
“I am quite unable to understand what you have just said, Mr. Golding,” said Helen at length, a touch of pain making itself evident in her tone. “Your memory must be strangely unretentive. Could I have given better evidence of my being concerned at your sudden departure than by coming to enquire48 for you?”
It was Arthur’s turn to look surprised, and he appeared even more so than Helen had previously49 been. For some moments he struggled desperately50 with his memory in the endeavour to disclose any possible explanation for her words. Helen saw that his astonishment51 was sincere, and smiled as she again spoke.
“When you spoke of my being offended, I certainly thought you could only refer to one circumstance. Can you recall no occasion on which you behaved to me with what I will call severity? I do not use the word impoliteness, for I am sure you were labouring under some strange mistake, as well as suffering from affliction.”
“If you refer,” replied Arthur, “to something that happened after Mr. Tollady’s death, I am quite unable to understand you, Miss Norman.”
“You were not aware that I called at the shop immediately after Mr. Tollady’s burial, and was informed that you declined to see me?”
Arthur started to his feet.
“Who told you so?” he cried; but, at once recollecting52 himself, he resumed his seat, and added, “I beg your pardon, Miss Norman. I am so astonished at what you tell me that I forget myself. May I ask who behaved so rudely in my name? Do you remember ——”
He ceased suddenly, for he remembered it could be but one person, and before Helen could reply, he had solved the mystery in his own mind.
“It was a tall, strange-looking man,” he added, eagerly; “a man with a red stain on one of his cheeks, was it not, Miss Norman?”
“It was,” she replied. “I remember him distinctly. Indeed, at the time I thought him mad.”
“And such he doubtless was,” returned the young man. “He has since died — a maniac53.”
He became silent, for the solution of the doubt which had so long weighed upon his mind, imparted to his thoughts an activity which wholly occupied him.
“And am I to understand,” asked Helen, “that this man spoke without authority from you?”
“Entirely54 so,” returned Arthur, suddenly looking up.
“But that is very extraordinary,” said Helen, looking up keenly into her visitor’s face. “What could be the reason of his putting such words into your mouth?”
“Upon my word, Miss Norman,” exclaimed Arthur, returning her gaze with unflinching candour, “strange as it appears to you, it is true. Till this moment I knew nothing of your visit. You will think me presumptuous when I confess it, but for several days after Mr. Tollady’s sudden death I hoped that you might — that your interest in him might induce you to — visit the shop, as you had frequently done, and make some inquiry with regard to him. I hoped you might do so, for I could not help thinking that all who knew Mr. Tollady must be as much afflicted55 by his death as I was myself. But when a whole week had gone by, and I still thought you had not called, I was forced to conclude that I had been foolish in attributing to you feelings with which you had no concern. Or, as I sometimes feared, Mr. Gresham had so represented the reason of my quitting him, that you did not think it consistent with — with your dignity to visit the house in which I lived.”
“If you knew me better, Mr. Golding,” replied Helen, smiling, “you would know that I held in very little esteem56 that conventional dignity which you hesitate to express. I’m sure I don’t know whether it would have been dignified57 in me to keep away when I heard of Mr. Tollady’s death, but it would certainly have been unfeeling. The fact is, I came to visit Mr. Tollady himself, so little did I know of what had happened, and it was after I had learnt it from the strange man in the shop that I asked to see you, and received the answer you know. Then, perhaps,” she added, smiling, “some question of dignity did act to prevent me repeating my visit, which I was naturally persuaded would be useless.”
A silence ensued, during which both were deeply occupied with their thoughts. Arthur was the first to look up and speak.
“I am not as well acquainted as I should like to be, Miss Norman, with the ways of the society in which you live, and possibly you may regard the question which I ask as grossly rude. If it is so, I hope you will not hesitate to tell me. Might I ask how Mr. Gresham explained to you my sudden departure from his studio?”
“It is your right to know,” replied Helen. “Mr. Gresham spoke of your action as one which had more of folly58 in it than of any more serious fault. He said that your capricious temper rendered you incapable59 of receiving instruction, and that some slight reproof60 which he addressed to you on some occasion when you deserved it, led to your going off in anger, and writing him the rude letter which terminated the connection between you. Excuse the freedom of my expressions. I repeat, as nearly as I can remember, the words Mr. Gresham used.”
Arthur was silent for some minutes from extreme indignation. When he looked up he saw that Helen continued to watch him.
“Will you permit me, Miss Norman,” he asked, restraining himself to speak as calmly as possible, “to tell you my view of this matter, to tell you, in short, the truth?”
Helen lowered her eyes before the emphasis of the last word. “That is also your right,” she answered quietly. “I beg you will do so.”
“Then, Miss Norman,” resumed Arthur, with energy, “as I value your good opinion above anything in this world, but could not stoop to possess myself of it under false pretences61 any more than I could rob you of a sum of money, I declare that there is not one word of truth in what you were told, and what, no doubt, you have hitherto believed. I do not think my temper is capricious, and I certainly never behaved to Mr. Gresham otherwise than with the utmost respect. As to receiving his instruction impatiently, I could not value it highly enough, and listened with the utmost attention to every word he spoke to me. Notwithstanding this, Mr. Gresham all at once began to treat me with the most unaccountable coldness, and then even with harshness. I do not hesitate to affirm that he was unpardonably rude in his manner towards me. I respectfully asked an explanation, but it was haughtily62 refused. That same day, on returning home, I found Mr. Tollady evidently ill, and suffering in mind as much as in body. With great difficulty I succeeded in persuading him to tell me the cause of his depression, which I had observed for a long time, and then I found that necessity had compelled him to mortgage his house under peculiar63 circumstances, that the time had come for the repayment64 of the money, and that, as he was quite unable to meet the debt, he saw no alternative but giving up the house. In my distress65 I would have done anything to spare Mr. Tollady this suffering. Without a thought I came to Mr. Gresham and begged he would advance me out of my legacy66 the sum necessary to pay off this debt. He replied that it was impossible to do so, and almost taunted67 me with the fact that he had already supplied me with money before he was legally obliged to do so. I bore with this indignity68, and begged he would lend Mr. Tollady the money on his own account, for pure pity’s sake. This he altogether refused to do, and at once dismissed me with the utmost harshness. I returned home, and, even now I recall it with irrepressible horror — I found Mr. Tollady dead in his chair. The very next day I wrote a letter to Mr. Gresham, acquainting him with what had happened, and saying, in words which I am sure had nothing of impertinence, that, under the circumstances, I could not continue to receive any kind of favour from him. This is the true story, Miss Norman, strange as it may seem. To this day I cannot account for Mr. Gresham’s changed manner towards me, but I am perfectly69 sure that he wished to bring about the end which actually arrived, and drive me away from him.”
As the narrative70 progressed, Helen sat with her eyes fixed upon the carpet, and once or twice a passing glow had manifested itself in her pale cheeks. A veil seemed to be removed from her eyes by Arthur’s story, and, strange as Mr. Gresham’s conduct might appear to the latter, she had no longer any doubt as to the interpretation71 of it. She remembered her guardian72 forbidding her to speak to Arthur Golding, and she completely recalled his tone and manner on that occasion, which at the time had puzzled her. She could no longer hesitate to recognise jealousy73 as the cause of his conduct towards Arthur, and, strange to say, she felt a hot glow of pleasure fill her veins74 as the certainty forced itself upon her. When Arthur ceased to speak, she did not at once reply, but the former could see in her face that she was convinced of the truth of his story, and that she was not displeased75 at hearing it.
“It was very unfortunate,” she said, at length, without looking up. “Evidently there was some strange misunderstanding between yourself and Mr. Gresham. I cannot comprehend it at all. But,” she added, as if to get rid of an unpleasant subject, “was this explanation the object of your visit, Mr. Golding?”
“Not the main object,” replied Arthur, his voice expressing doubt and hesitation76, “though I certainly had hoped to be permitted this justification77 of my conduct. My desire to see you was caused by — by circumstances and feelings which I now scarcely know how to describe to you. Indeed it would take me long to do so, I should be obliged to go over almost the whole story of my life. But do not be afraid, Miss Norman,” he added with a smile, misinterpreting a look which passed over Helen’s face. “I feel deeply your goodness in giving me this opportunity of freeing myself from disagreeable suspicions; I shall not inflict78 upon you any more of my troublesome confessions79. Once more permit me to thank you earnestly for your goodness.”
He rose as he spoke. Helen rose also, but not with the intention of saying farewell.
“You have said that you are not much acquainted with social forms,” she said, with a smile whose sweetness thrilled through Arthur’s frame, “so you will not be offended at my venturing to instruct you. It is certainly not in accordance with etiquette80 to request an interview, and terminate it with a polite evasion81 of the object for which the interview was granted. Pray take your seat again, Mr. Golding.”
Arthur gazed at the speaker’s pale loveliness till he felt his senses becoming confused and his power of thought fading in a delicious dream. He spoke at length with hardly more consciousness of what he was saying than if his words had been uttered under the influence of some powerful drug.
“Will it indeed interest you, Miss Norman, to hear of my sufferings? Shall I not be intruding82 on your leisure? May I venture to speak freely before you? In your presence all my courage has left me. I can scarcely conceive it possible that you would deign83 to listen patiently to my doubts, and to give me the advice which I need.”
“And I, for my part, Mr. Golding,” replied Helen, her face aglow84 with pleasure, “can scarcely conceive that you should think it worth while to consult me on any important point. It is you who do me honour. I beg you will not hesitate to speak with the utmost freedom. You can say nothing that will not interest me — deeply.”
She added the last word after a pause for breath, occasioned by the inward excitement which she, no less than Arthur, was struggling with, and, as she said it, she sank again upon her chair. Arthur, too, again became seated, his eyes still fixed on Helen. In this moment he knew for the first time the real nature and extent of the feelings her image had created in him. No thought of violated faith came to disturb his inward rapture85. He knew that he had never loved before now, and the voice of nature was louder in his heart than that of violated social laws.
“Then I will indeed speak freely,” he said, “and for once in my life I will disclose the depths of my nature to one capable of understanding what they contain. It is nothing dreadful or shocking that I shall try to disclose to you, Miss Norman, but merely a conflict which has been going on in my own mind for many years, and which was perhaps never fiercer than at present. To you it will perhaps seem trivial, you may smile at the earnestness with which I speak of so slight a matter; but the peace of my life is at stake, and to me that is not unimportant.”
And he forthwith proceeded to relate, in simple yet eloquent86 words, the story of his life from the day on which he had escaped from Bloomford Rectory, dwelling87 more, however, upon his inward experience than on external events. He spoke of his early struggles, aspirations88, sufferings; and showed how, amid them all, there had grown up within his being that passion for art which had been his incentive89 in discouragement, his glory in calmer days. Then he passed to his connection with Mr. Tollady, and told how the latter had striven to make an artist of him, yet how, at the same time, the good man’s daily teachings and example had awakened14 in him a burning spirit of philanthropy, which, exaggerated by subsequent circumstances, ended by crushing the artistic90 impulses and throwing scorn upon them, as an unworthy growth. He explained to his listener how he had suffered in the contest between these two passions, his doubts, his agonies, his vain desire to reconcile their coexistence. Of his connection with Carrie he spoke not a word, and did no more than hint at the period of suffering and deprivation92 which had ensued upon it. Yet the recollection of it all was ever present in his mind, and gave fire to his utterances93. Before proceeding94 to detail the latest phase of his self-questionings, he paused as if to collect his thoughts, and in the pause Helen spoke.
“I wonder whether I am clairvoyant95 enough to divine what remains,” she said. “Shall I try?”
“I have faith in your skill, Miss Norman,” replied Arthur, with a sigh of relief, meeting her kind and sympathetic look.
“What you are going to tell me, then, amounts to this. Your democratic furor96 has in time burnt itself out, and you feel distressed97 at your lack of stability. Is it not so?”
“Partly so.”
“And moreover — I hope I may be right — the old love of art has once more grown strong within you, and you are in doubt whether you ought to harbour it.”
“I am flattered at the accuracy with which you guess my thoughts.”
“And can you doubt for a moment, Mr. Golding,” asked Helen, earnestly, “what course you ought to pursue? Has not the struggle in your mind now received as decisive a termination as it is capable of? Is it not as clear to you as daylight that the artist’s instinct has prevailed, that it would be a sin against your nature to seek once more to destroy it?”
Arthur kept silence. His eyes were fixed sadly upon the fire, and a deep sigh escaped from his bosom98. Helen watched him unceasingly, and her cheeks glowed with the emotions of her heart.
“Have you resumed your painting?” she asked at length.
“I have not touched a pencil for more than a year.”
“But you feel a passionate99 desire to recommence? You feel all your old aspirations stronger than ever? You feel that there can be no real happiness for you save in a life devoted100 to art?”
Arthur suddenly looked up, and Helen fancied that it was moisture which made his eye gleam so brightly.
“All this I feel,” he exclaimed, “but I cannot convince myself that I do right in yielding. When I think of giving up my daily work and living a life of ease — study though I may call it — it seems as though I were committing a sin, as though I were scorning these thousands of poor wretches101 who cry ceaselessly for sympathy and aid. Remember, Miss Norman, that I have been one of them, and that I can realise this misery102 so well! I will confess that I did not expect you to counsel me for this selfish life, a life that can at the best only give pleasure to myself and a few rich people who care for art. I have a friend who has consecrated103 his life to labour in the cause of the poor. I have told him what I have to-night told you, and he has urged me strongly to strive against this fondness for art. He wishes me to use my money to establish a Radical104 paper, to join him in such efforts as men of our position can make to show the people their wrongs and the methods of righting them. He believes that we can do much, for he is enthusiastic, like myself, but far more stable.”
He had risen in the excitement of speaking. Helen likewise rose, and drew nearer to him when he ceased.
“What made you think of coming to ask my advice, Mr. Golding?” she enquired105, regarding him with a seriousness which rendered her sweet face irresistible106. “It is so long since we saw each other that I almost wonder you have remembered me. Could you think my advice worthy91 of consideration after that of your friend — the advice of one with whom you are so slightly acquainted, of whose character and thoughts you know so little?”
“You do well to reprove me, Miss Norman,” replied Arthur, turning slightly away. “It was unpardonable boldness in me to request this interview at all. You do, indeed, know too little of me ——”
“Mr. Golding,” interrupted Helen, “you invert107 what I said, and distort my meaning. After what you have related to me to-night, I flatter myself that I have sufficient insight into your character to venture upon advice, if it is asked. But why have you such confidence in me? Why do you think it probable that my advice may be of use to you?”
“I think so, Miss Norman,” exclaimed Arthur, “because from the first moment that I saw you I have regarded you with the deepest respect. At first I respected you in obedience108 to an instinct, but later I came to know you in some degree, and to find solid grounds for my feeling. I know that you are an exception to the class to which you belong, an exception even to mankind in general. You sacrifice willingly that ease and luxury which wealth might provide for you, and make it your chief work to aid and to instruct the poor. Since I have lived at Mr. Venning’s your name has been constantly in my ears, and always associated with such praises as few can deserve. Is it not most natural that I should come to you to be confirmed in the path which you yourself choose to follow?”
There was silence for a few moments, during which Helen’s eyes were fixed on the ground. At length she spoke, looking into Arthur’s face with frank simplicity109.
“Will you consent to do as I advise?” she asked. “May I consider my word as final?”
“You may!” exclaimed Arthur, every nerve thrilling to the almost tenderness of her tone. “Whatever you say I will do! Whatever you say must be right!”
“Then,” replied Helen, whilst her cheeks flushed, and her whole noble form seemed magnified by her emotion, “I bid you give yourself henceforth solely110 to art, for you are born to be an artist. The feelings of infinite compassion111 for the poor which work so strongly in your mind are most natural, but you must not allow them to lead you astray. Every high-minded man feels the same, in a modified form; the circumstances of your life have brought them into special prominence112 and occasioned the inward struggle you speak of. The example of your enthusiastic friend and of myself can be no law to you. Your friend, from what you say of him, is doubtless as evidently born for active work as you are for art; and for myself, I am merely distinguished113 from the crowd by the possession of money, and if I did not follow this sole road of usefulness which is open to me I should indeed be a wretched creature. You are different from both of us, for from what you tell me, and from what I have myself seen of your work, I am convinced that nature has gifted you with genius. Such a gift carries with it grave responsibilities. That you should have been tempted114 to consider the artist’s work as trivial and useless, I can understand; it was owing to peculiar circumstances acting115 upon a peculiar nature. But it is now time that you saw your error. We who toil23 on from day to day doing our little best to lessen116 the sum of the world’s misery are doing good work, it cannot be denied; but what is this compared with the labour of men of genius, labour the result of which stands as mile-stones on the highway of civilization, each one marking a great and appreciable117 advance? Do you think it is to the benevolent118 monks119 of the Christian120 church, to the army of unknown philanthropists toiling through ages, to the host of men who have struggled throughout history for justice and freedom, that the highest praise is due for our high state of civilisation121? These have only followed the spirit of the age; that spirit itself was created by the great men whose works, howsoever performed, direct the history of the world. Without the works of a Raphael our civilisation could not have been what it now is. You say that a beautiful picture only pleases its painter and a few rich dilettanti. In appearance it may do no more, but in reality its spirit permeates122 every layer of society. Like the lump of leaven123 in the old parable124, it ultimately leavens125 the whole mass. I often read in the papers speeches by men who ought to know better, insisting on the necessity of what they call the useful, from which term they generally exclude everything which cannot be of immediate33 use to their own narrow natures. But nothing in this world is more useful than the beautiful, nothing works so powerfully for the ultimate benefit of mankind. Think of Mr. Tollady, whom you justly admire so much. You say that he never checked you in your passion for art, but that rather he urged you on to the utmost. Certainly he was not deficient126 in sympathy with the poor and with those who endeavour to benefit them. I am sure he would have spoken much as I have done, and have said that in becoming a pure artist you would do far more to advance the ends he had in view than by wearing away your life in petty efforts to do immediate good. Genius has always had, and always will have, laws to itself, laws not applicable to the mass of mankind. If you disobey this natural inclination127 of yours, you will some day bitterly regret it, when it is too late.”
A long silence ensued, during which Arthur reflected, and Helen kept her eyes fixed upon his face. She saw that she had moved him, that his countenance expressed joy as her eager words fell upon his ear, and now she waited till he should make known his resolve. At length he raised his eyes slowly to those which were regarding him, and the bright radiance of his look showed the feelings which had been excited in his breast.
“I promised to obey you,” he said, “and you might have merely commanded. As it is, you have convinced instead. I shall not endeavour to thank you, Miss Norman; spoken thanks are only a fit return for slight benefits. I hope my life will prove my gratitude128.”
“You will begin to work at once?” asked Helen, joyfully129.
“At once. For some months I must, of course, continue to support myself by my work during the day. But every spare hour shall be given to drawing.”
He made a motion as though in preparation to depart. Helen’s brow had contracted as he spoke, as though a sudden thought crossed her mind. For a moment she seemed about to speak, but hesitated; then made up her mind, and said —
“You have done me a kindness, Mr. Golding, in accepting my advice; it is only fair that you should let me do something in return. You know that I am rich. Indeed I have so much money that I scarcely know what to do with it; for, though I am still a ward,” she added, smiling, “my guardian permits me to act as though I were already my own mistress. Will you permit me to lend you some of my superfluity, what you think necessary to enable you to give yourself entirely to study till you obtain possession of your own? Indeed it would be a kindness to me to let me do so,” she continued, quietly, noticing the expression of his face. “It would be such a pleasure for me to know that my money was being of real use! Some day you will be rich, and then you shall repay me.”
As she stood looking up into Arthur’s smiling face, her own features suffused130 with a warm glow, half resulting from the consciousness of doing rather a bold thing, half from the eagerness with which she hoped that her offer would be accepted, her beauty was so maddening that the young man afterwards wondered in himself that he had not fallen prostrate28 at her feet and given vent16 to his anguish of emotion in a passionate declaration of love. As it was, he stood for more than a minute in a state much resembling the ecstasy131 of the old saints, feeding his soul upon her loveliness. At length he saw her eyes droop and her cheeks burn before his passionate gaze, and the change recalled him to himself. He spoke in a very low voice, which yet seemed to him to break too rudely the rapturous silence of the room.
“Miss Norman, you are goodness itself. How I have deserved all your kindness, I cannot tell; I can only be conscious of the happiness it causes me. But you have already laden132 me with benefits, for every one of your encouraging words has been worth more to me than gold. You have restored my peace of mind, and have given me an impulse to labour which will not fail as long as my life lasts. More than this I must not accept from you. I should be unjust to myself if I did so, for I should be depressed133 with the sense of obligations which I could never hope to discharge. It is far better that I should work under difficulties for a short time; too great prosperity might spoil me.”
“I am disappointed,” returned Helen, seeing in his face that it was useless to persist, “though I appreciate your energy. It is such a natural thing that money which is lying useless should be entrusted134 to those who can put it to a good purpose: I should not be conferring an obligation on you, but merely performing a duty.”
“I have no thanks to express my gratitude,” replied Arthur. “Though I cannot accept this kindness, may I beg you to grant me another in its stead? Will you permit me, Miss Norman, to show you now and then the results of my work? If I complete a drawing or a picture which I think worthy of being shown to you, will you allow me to ask for your judgment135 upon it? You have inspired me with more enthusiasm than I have ever yet felt, and I know of no better way than this in which to prove my enduring recollection of your goodness.”
“You grant unasked what I was about to beg as a favour,” replied Helen. “I suppose you will continue to live with the Vennings? I frequently call to spend an hour with Lucy, and so I shall have many opportunities of seeing your work.”
Fearful of saying too much, Helen limited herself to this. She said nothing of her approaching change of residence, thinking it most likely that he would hear of it from the Vennings, when her own proposal with regard to Lucy was discussed. But in her heart she thought with delight of the future, which this one evening had made golden before her imagination. As Arthur took his leave she gave him her hand, and the light touch of his fingers, which she had not dared to press, thrilled through her with a sensation so acute that it resembled pain.
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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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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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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8
beatific
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| adj.快乐的，有福的 | |
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9
engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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10
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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11
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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12
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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13
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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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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15
dispelled
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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16
vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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17
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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18
impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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19
scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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20
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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21
flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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22
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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23
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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24
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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25
droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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26
writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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27
prostrated
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| v.使俯伏，使拜倒( prostrate的过去式和过去分词 )；（指疾病、天气等）使某人无能为力 | |
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28
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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29
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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30
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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31
subside
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| vi.平静，平息；下沉，塌陷，沉降 | |
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32
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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33
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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34
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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35
condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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36
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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37
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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38
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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39
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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40
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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41
abruptness
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| n. 突然，唐突 | |
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42
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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43
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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44
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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45
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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46
presumptuous
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| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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47
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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48
enquire
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| v.打听，询问；调查，查问 | |
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49
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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50
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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51
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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52
recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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53
maniac
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| n.精神癫狂的人；疯子 | |
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54
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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55
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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57
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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58
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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59
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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60
reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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61
pretences
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| n.假装( pretence的名词复数 )；作假；自命；自称 | |
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62
haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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63
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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64
repayment
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| n.偿还，偿还款；报酬 | |
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65
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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66
legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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67
taunted
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| 嘲讽( taunt的过去式和过去分词 )； 嘲弄； 辱骂； 奚落 | |
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68
indignity
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| n.侮辱，伤害尊严，轻蔑 | |
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69
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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70
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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71
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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72
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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73
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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74
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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75
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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76
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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77
justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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78
inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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79
confessions
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| n.承认( confession的名词复数 )；自首；声明；（向神父的）忏悔 | |
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80
etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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81
evasion
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| n.逃避，偷漏(税) | |
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82
intruding
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| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的现在分词)；把…强加于 | |
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83
deign
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| v. 屈尊, 惠允 ( 做某事) | |
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84
aglow
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| adj.发亮的；发红的；adv.发亮地 | |
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85
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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86
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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87
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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88
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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89
incentive
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| n.刺激；动力；鼓励；诱因；动机 | |
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90
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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91
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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92
deprivation
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| n.匮乏；丧失；夺去，贫困 | |
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93
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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94
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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95
clairvoyant
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| adj.有预见的；n.有预见的人 | |
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96
furor
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| n.狂热；大骚动 | |
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97
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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98
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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99
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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100
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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101
wretches
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| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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102
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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103
consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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104
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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105
enquired
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| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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106
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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107
invert
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| vt.使反转，使颠倒，使转化 | |
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108
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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109
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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110
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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111
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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112
prominence
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| n.突出；显著；杰出；重要 | |
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113
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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114
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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115
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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116
lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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117
appreciable
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| adj.明显的，可见的，可估量的，可觉察的 | |
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118
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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119
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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120
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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121
civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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122
permeates
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| 弥漫( permeate的第三人称单数 )； 遍布； 渗入； 渗透 | |
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123
leaven
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| v.使发酵；n.酵母；影响 | |
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124
parable
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| n.寓言，比喻 | |
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125
leavens
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| v.使（面团）发酵( leaven的第三人称单数 )；在…中掺入改变的因素 | |
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126
deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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127
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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128
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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129
joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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130
suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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131
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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132
laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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133
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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134
entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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135
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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