He continued to gaze at them, and to add slight touches first to one then to the other, until the early night closed in, and he could no longer see his work. The fit of enthusiasm, which ever comes as the reward on the completion of a work of art, was now upon him. He enjoyed with rapture15 that clear, calm consciousness of superiority to the every-day world, a feeling so distinct from vulgar vanity which it is granted to genius alone to experience. So excessive was his joy that he felt light-headed; he would have been glad to commit some folly16, to plunge17 into a stream of thoughtless gaiety, to sing, to shout his enthusiasm. His room was soon quite dark, but at present he could not have borne to have it otherwise. In the faint flittings hither and thither18 of rays from the fire, and in the motion of the shadows they caused, his excited fancy could picture legions of spirits filling the air about him. Even the physical senses were affected19. He seemed to breathe delicious perfumes, his forehead and cheeks were fanned with cool, scented20 airs, he felt the touch of fairy hands caressing21 his hair. His heart throbbed22 ecstatically painfully; his hands were hot as fire. Seizing the volume of poems which Miss Norman had lent him, he pressed it again and again to his lips, murmuring passionately24, “Helen! Helen!”
The moment passed and he was calmer, but still unable to be at rest. The solitude25 of his room now oppressed him, and he dreaded27 lest Mr. Venning should come, as he often did on Saturday night, and request his company. He resolved to go out. The night was fine, though cold, with a cutting wind, and the firmament28 was thickly sown with stars. The first breath of the keen air, meeting him full in the face as he issued forth29, quickened his pulse, and increased the yearning30 for excitement. It was long since he had visited a theatre, and the thought of an evening there came to him as an irresistible31 temptation. He purchased a newspaper and ran over the list of advertisements. At one of the large houses he found that “Romeo and Juliet” was being played, the heroine’s part by an actress equally celebrated32 for loveliness and talent. The play was congenial to his mood, and he went.
Shaken and bruised33 with emotion in his inmost heart, he hastened home as soon as the play was over, eager now to be alone with his thoughts. A resolve, which had first made its presence known by a timid whisper whilst he was completing the pictures, had been fostered into life and strength by the warm passion of his soul as he listened to the hapless lovers of Verona, and now panted to find utterance34 in louder and more decisive tones than those of reverie. On entering Arthur found his room cold, for the fire had long since gone out. Already the house was wrapt in the silence of sleep, but the morrow was a day of rest, and there was something to be done before he could close his eyes. Whilst the fire was burning quickly up, he again left the house, but only for a few minutes, bringing back a most unwonted luxury, a bottle of wine. But it was the eve of his twenty-first birthday, and he had work to do which called for a stout35 heart.
In a quarter of an hour the fire had reached a clear, strong glow, and the room was again warm and cheerful. Arthur established himself in his arm-chair, and opened a small port folio upon his knees. It was writing-paper that he took from it, for now he was about to use the pen, not the pencil. He drank one or two glasses of wine, and felt his faculties36 freshened and made more acute. At length when a neighbouring church-clock chimed half-past twelve, he dipped his pen in the ink, and began to write, at first slowly and timidly, afterwards with a firmness of purpose and clearness of thought which allowed him no pause till he had finished. It was a letter he had written, and it ran thus:
“Dear Miss Norman — “When you suggested to me the two verses from Tennyson’s ‘Palace of Art’ as good subjects for pictures, though I said nothing of my purpose, I at once resolved to follow the suggestion and to do my utmost to render them worthily37. Working in such intervals38 as my daily employment allows, I have today succeeded in finishing two small drawings. I need scarcely say that the execution of them is far inferior to what I could have wished; perhaps that is the fault which practice will remedy. If there be any merit in the conception, it is wholly due to you, who in reading the verses gave such expression to the idea that no mind endowed with the slightest powers of fancy could have failed to picture to itself the scenes described.
“I have worked hard to finish these today, and for a special reason. To-morrow is my birthday, on which day I wished to offer them to you. Yet not only for their own sake would I offer them, but as a symbol. As it is you whom I have to thank for awakening39 in me the artist’s impulse and enthusiasm, so do I likewise owe to you the consciousness of a yet more powerful instinct. In laying before you these poor pictures, I offer at the same time a devoted40 heart.
“I said that tomorrow was my birthday, but I should have said today, for I am writing in the silence of midnight. What I now write I feel that I could not have spoken, courage would have failed me. I have long wished to give utterance to this strongest feeling of my nature, but today I do so with, I will not say more confidence, but less of misgiving42 than I could have felt in expressing it earlier. To-day I am a man, and, in the eyes of the world, responsible for my actions. To myself, also, I owe duties, and the first of these is to terminate this constant agitation43 in which I live. I will do so, trusting to your infinite goodness if I appear guilty of presumption44.
“Miss Norman, I love you. I cannot know whether that word carries to your ears the same sense which it has for mine, but, as I write it, I wish to express a passion omnipotent45, unending, holy, the voice of which is, in its briefest utterance, a revelation of unknown worlds, an unveiling of the mystery of life. When first I saw you in the studio I was taken captive by your loveliness; since I have been permitted some insight into your mind what I have discovered there has filled me with unspeakable admiration46, has led me to feel that happiness cannot exist except in your presence and in the sight of your smile. I should try vainly to express in words the emotions excited in me by the sound of your voice, by the touch of your hand, by the mere47 thought of your exquisite48 beauty. But, believe me, there is not one among these feelings which is not sanctified by the purity of its object. I can say with truth that my love for you has made me a better man, with higher aims, purer motives49, richer thoughts. For this alone it would be my duty to thank you, as I do momently with the utmost fervour of my being.
“But it is the nature of love to seek for love in return, without that it must fall short of its highest power and lack some portion of its utmost beauty. And it is on this account that I have chosen to write rather than to speak. I could not — no, I could not bear to hear you repel50 me with a cold answer; the agony would be insupportable. To be told by you that I was guilty of unwarrantable boldness, that I had presumed upon your good-natured friendship to insult you by an offer of my love — that I do not think I could hear and live. But yet you would not reply to me in such words, your goodness would forbid it. You would feel for me, and would show me the madness of my conduct in kind, gentle words. And am I not right in supposing that it would give you pain to have to speak even so; you, who think of nothing but how to spare your fellow-creatures suffering? So it is better that I should write. Then if you scorn me you can tell me so in a few brief plainly-written words — and then an end.
“If you scorn me! It is well to be prepared for the worst, and so I have for a moment supposed that you will read my letter with pained surprise and, perhaps pity my folly. But it would be an imputation51 on the sincerity52 of my love if I had in reality no better hope than this. Hope cannot be separated from love, as neither can it from any one of the best impulses of our nature. Yes, I have the boldness to hope! Sincere love is so precious a thing that he who possesses it cannot reckon himself altogether poor, altogether beneath respect. I know but too well that in the eyes of the world I am infinitely53 beneath you, for, though my birth was not mean, my life has been one of toil54 and poverty. But am I not right in thinking that, in the clear mirror of your mind, all these social conventionalities assume their true proportions? I should do you much wrong, I feel sure, if I did not believe you capable of distinguishing the nature from the outward form, if I thought you allowed yourself to be bound in the slightest degree by those bonds of foolish prejudice to which weak and vulgar minds so readily, even joyfully55, submit themselves. I might urge that my father was a most intimate friend of your father, and that thus we are in some degree related; but I had rather you thought of me as I am in myself, of my nature pure and simple in so far as you know it or can read it in these confessions57. As such, then, I once more declare that I love you, truly, passionately, and I ask you whether it is possible for you ever to respond to my affection? Perhaps you may not think so now, but do not, I entreat58 you, do not reply to me with a hasty negative! Could I think that you felt but the least affection for me, my joy would be almost too great to bear; but that I dare not ask for. At some distance of time, in a year, in two years, might I hope by unceasing devotion to win you? I shall labour unwearyingly at art, and such efforts as I shall make, added to a natural disposition59 which I feel that I have, cannot but result in some success. If I made a name, if my pictures came to be acknowledged as worthy60 of attention — should I then be hopelessly below you? Yes, yes, I know too well that I shall always be unspeakably your inferior in the highest qualities of the heart and mind; but shall I be unworthy of your love? Oh, how I will labour to deserve you! As others strive after what they call their salvation61, with just such a passionate23 striving, nay62, with one unspeakably mightier63 and more unfaltering, shall I work upwards64 to the heights where you stand. For will you not indeed be my salvation, in a truer sense than that heaven in which I know neither of us put our trust? If I win you, I shall have won a joy which will alone render life worth living. Your love would give significance to an existence of which I am too often tempted65 to despair. With your hand in mine I could say that I had conquered the world in the attainment66 of perfect happiness.
“I can write no more. The passion with which I thus offer you my soul has made my hands tremble and my mind fail. I shall send this letter to you early in the morning by some messenger, together with the drawings. I shall soon know whether in thus addressing you I have for ever forfeited68 your friendship. If so, I bid you farewell with a thousand blessings69! I have fulfilled my fate.
“Arthur Golding.”
This letter carefully folded in an envelope and directed to Miss Norman, Arthur lay down to rest. Though physically70 weary, his mind was still unusually active, which rendered it impossible for him to sleep. For some hours more he read in Helen’s book, till at length, just as the last ember in the grate was extinguished, he felt drowsiness71 creep over him. His dreams were of Helen, whom he had transformed into Juliet, and whom, as Romeo, he addressed in impassioned verse. He felt the soft warm pressure of her hands clasping his, and thrilled as the delicious fragrance72 of her breath wandered over his hair and his cheeks. Then it seemed to him, still following the play, that he heard the Nurse’s voice calling to Juliet, and it aroused in him a sense of the utmost impatience73. Still the Nurse called, and, just as he was embracing Juliet ere she ran from him, he awoke.
The calling had not been entirely74 imaginary, for as he came to his senses he perceived that some one was knocking loudly at the door, and calling his name. He at once recognised Mr. Venning’s voice, and replied.
“A large parcel has just been left here for you, Mr. Golding,” said Mr. Venning. “I will put it down outside the door. Bye-the-by, do you know what the time is?”
Arthur saw that there was bright sunshine outside; evidently it was broad day.
“I have no idea,” he replied.
“After ten o’clock. Haven’t you had an unusually good night?”
“I went to bed very late,” replied Arthur.
Mr. Venning withdrew, and at once Arthur opened the door, burning with impatience to see what the packet could contain, and wondering extremely whence it had come. It was a large brown-paper parcel, and rather heavy. In a moment he tore it open, and at once his eyes were greeted with a wonderful sight. There was an extremely large box of oil-colours, together with all the appurtenances necessary for painting, including half-a-dozen small canvases. It was a spectacle to make a young artist’s mouth water. Inside the lid of the case was a folded sheet of notepaper, which bore these words:
“A faint acknowledgment of the many beautiful drawings I have received from Mr. Golding.
“Helen Norman.”
Arthur’s heart leaped almost to bursting as he read this at a glance; then he pressed the paper madly to his lips, whilst the room swam before him. For a moment he was obliged to seat himself upon the bed, fearing lest his emotions should deprive him of consciousness. It was many minutes before he recovered calmness enough to thoroughly75 examine his present, and then, as he did so, he kept exclaiming to himself, “She did not forget — she did not forget.”
Should he add any intimation of having received this to the letter he was now about to despatch76? On deliberation he decided77 not to do so. Who could tell what kind of answer he should receive? This delightful78 present had excited hopes in his mind which he had hitherto scarcely dared to harbour. Possibly he might have to thank her with his own mouth; if not, it would not be too late to write.
He was in a slight difficulty as to the means of sending his little parcel, it being Sunday, and no available messenger at hand. But, as it was getting late, he soon determined79 upon the method to be pursued. Hastily completing his toilet, and making a cup of coffee suffice for his breakfast, he left the house, with the drawings and letter in his hand, and walked quickly in the direction of Highbury. When within sight of Helen’s house he had no difficulty in securing the services of a decent-looking child who happened to be passing, and whom he watched as she entered the holly-hid garden. In a few minutes the messenger returned, gave a satisfactory report, and received the promised fee.
And now Arthur looked forward in a state of mind bordering on distraction81 to the hours, perhaps the days, which were to elapse before he could expect to receive an answer. Instead of returning home, where the quietness of the room would have been intolerable to him, he took advantage of the fine sharp morning to have a long walk. Where he went mattered little, but it was necessary for him to be active, to keep pace in bodily exertion82 with the hurrying current of his thoughts. These thoughts were infinitely varied83 in hue84, at times black with the shadow of despair, at times glowing in the full radiance of passionate hope. Once or twice he was checked in the midst of a rapturous portrayal85 of the future by a cold breath of doubt and fear chilling his soul as he remembered that in sending that letter to Helen he had been guilty of a crime. There would arise within him comforters in the shape of hopes and calculations for harbouring which he detested86 himself. From self-loathing was born irritation87, then passionate anger against the decrees of fate. Why should a moment’s folly, long since seen and regretted, compel him to a life of wretchedness, to the renunciation of delights such as it is given to few of earth’s inhabitants to enjoy? He was angry with himself for being so foolish as to find anything wrong in the step he had taken. Long since he had committed the one great error of his life, and was it not right that he should do his utmost to obliterate88 it from his memory, to strike himself free from its miserable89 consequences? Even if he should be so happy as to win some return for his love, he could not hope to attain67 its object for some indefinite time, say, till he had won a name as an artist; and before then what might not happen? And the hopes for which he cursed himself came back in full strength upon him. It was impossible for Carrie to lead her present life long without sinking into the depths of degradation90; if her favourite vice80 continued to grow upon her, as doubtless it did, it would not be long before she drank herself to death. He knew well that, if she desired to do so, nothing would be easier than for her to discover him, and he looked forward with dread26 to a repetition of demands upon him such as that lately made. On the day after he had seen Mrs. Hemp91 he had received a letter from Mark Challenger, stating that an aunt of Carrie’s had called upon Mark and had been directed to Arthur’s abode92. Upon reading this, he had conceived uneasy suspicions, which, however, for the sake of his own peace, he had dismissed from his mind and refused to be troubled by. In youth, and especially when under the power of strong and delightful emotions, we possess a wonderful power of contenting ourselves with the bright face of things, and putting off all gloomier considerations to some indefinite morrow. And this was what Arthur did now, despite the serious nature of his forebodings. He refused to be cast down, he asserted his right to enjoy life, to drink deep of the sweetest joys which the world has to offer. Troubles might come, but they would be dealt with in their time. Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof.
Doubtless the clear sunshine and the sharp air of the March morning had much to do with sustaining this hopeful mood. Scarcely knowing what direction he took, he had walked continuously westward93 as far as Hampstead Road, and then, following the track which had grown familiar to him from walks with Mr. Tollady, he pressed on as far as Hampstead Heath. Thence he went round by Highgate. As he passed the cemetery94, he did not even think of the friend who lay there. His thoughts were with the future today, not with the past; life had more to teach him now than death. Already the afternoon was far advanced when he began once more to draw near to the city. It was his custom on Sunday to dine with the Vennings, but their dinner-hour was one o’clock, and he was glad to have missed it. But as the brisk walk had given him a keen appetite, he turned into a coffee-house, and there satisfied his hunger before going home.
As he had hoped to do, he gained his room without being met or questioned. Here he again began to gloat over his beautiful present, again pressed the note a thousand times to his lips, repeating Helen’s name in every variety of low impassioned tone. Thus he whiled away the hour which remained before the approach of darkness. When at length the shadows began to deepen in the room, and the rays from the fire began to play upon the ceiling with a warmer glow, he lit his lamp and drew down his blind, and sat down with the intention of forcing himself to read.
Scarcely had he done so when he heard footsteps ascending95 the stairs. As if in obedience96 to a mysterious impulse he started to his feet. The steps paused, and a gentle knock came at his door. In a moment he had opened it. Lucy Venning stood there holding a letter in her hand.
“This has been left for you, Mr. Golding,” she said.
Arthur looked hastily at the envelope. It had no address.
“Was any message left with it?” he asked, playing with the letter, and affecting to speak calmly.
“No. Some stranger left it.”
He was left alone, and could read the letter at his ease. Aye, but it must first be opened, and to do so demanded a firmness of resolution which he could not at once command. He never doubted from whom it came, but the contents — what might they be? Was he to be exalted97 to a heaven of delight, or plunged98 into a hell of anguish99 and despair? The conflict lasted two minutes, and appeared to him to have endured almost an hour. Then he tore the envelope violently open, read at a glance all that it contained, and threw up his arms with a cry of joy.
“Come to me at once. I am alone this evening.”
That was all, but it said more than all the eloquence100 which tongue of orator101 ever poured forth. In a moment Arthur was ready. His was no dandy love. He could not pose for half-an-hour before a glass before venturing to present himself to his mistress. He flew rather than walked over the distance between his home and Helen’s, and, on arriving before the house, was obliged to pause before he could approach the door and ring. For a moment he endured intolerable agony — a physical pain which scarcely left him strength to stand. The next he pressed both hands firmly against his heart, breathed less quickly, and rang the bell.
He was conscious of nothing till he found himself standing102 in the drawing-room, where the lustre103 of the modest chandelier seemed to dazzle him, and render him incapable104 of seeing. He heard the door closed behind him, and, as his senses undazzled, he at length saw Helen walking towards him, with her hand extended. He took it, pressed it slightly, and released it.
“I feel rather tired and not quite well this evening,” she said, in a very low tone. “Take this chair by me and let us talk quietly.”
For the first time he looked into her face, and saw that it was deadly pale. She trembled, too, and he could see her bosom105 heaving as though it cost her efforts to breathe.
“You are ill!” he exclaimed anxiously. “Miss Norman, why are you so disturbed? Am I the cause of this suffering?”
“No, no!” she panted, whilst her eyes suddenly filled with tears, and the colour came and went in her cheeks. “I am not ill — it is nothing — you have made me too happy!”
The last words were broken by hysterical106 sobs107. She took one step towards him, and faltered108 as if about to faint. He held out his arms to support her, and the next moment she was pressed to his heart.
“Is it true? Is it true?” he whispered passionately. “Can you love me? — Helen, dear Helen!”
“Yes, Arthur, it is true!” she whispered in reply, and, raising her head from his bosom with a motion of exquisite grace and simplicity109 which no words can describe, offered him her lips.
They sat down side by side upon the sofa, and for many minutes neither spoke41. For Arthur there was no consciousness save of the pressure of her head upon his shoulder, save of the beating of her heart against his side. For him there was no outer world; they two in themselves formed a universe — two all-embracing souls melting into one. It was as though he had been smitten110 blind by looking too closely in a wondrous111 sun of joy, he could see nothing save a shapeless glow of warm light, not even the face of his beloved. It was her voice which first broke the silence, and his heart throbbed to the tones as if in echo to celestial112 music.
“You have made me too, too happy,” she said, raising herself, and looking into his face with a ravishing smile. “And yet you have made me feel my weaknesses, feel that I have a woman’s heart which naturally yearns113 for the support of one stronger than itself. I cannot understand it. Since I read your letter I have felt as I never did before. Till now I have lived a very lonely life, dependent upon no one but myself, since I had no one to whom I could appeal in troubles of the mind or heart. I had come to regard myself as destined114 to this perpetual loneliness, and had almost succeeded in strengthening myself to face the prospect115; but how often have I passionately wished that my fate had been a different one, more like the lot of ordinary women, who from their earliest years regard themselves as dependent upon the protection and subject to the guidance of stronger natures. And when I read your, oh how welcome letter, it was as though I had renounced116 self-guidance for ever. I was weaker than water, in both mind and body. Scarcely had I strength to write you the reply. My whole being seemed at once concentrated in one desire — to fall before your feet and call you my master. Can you understand this entire abnegation of self, this passion to annihilate117 one’s own being in that of another?”
“Can I understand, dearest?” he replied. “It is as though you asked me whether I really love you. All that you express I have myself felt. In future I would have no independent life. I would exist only in you.”
“Arthur,” she continued, after a pause, “confess that you have read my love long since; that you knew I was yours if you asked me to be so; that the doubt in your letter was only feigned118. Since the morning I have been distressed119 with all manner of fears. I feared that you should think me too open in my behaviour towards you; that I took too little pains to conceal120 what I felt; that I too boldly encouraged you. Have you ever conceived such thoughts, Arthur? Another would have stood more upon her dignity, would have been more careful of conventionalities than I. But I am not conscious of having done anything immodest. I loved you, daily more and more loved you, and feared — oh, how I feared! — lest you should never return my love, lest you should fail to see what I felt for you. Could I do otherwise than I did? How could I gain my end otherwise than by showing you what interest I took in your work, your hopes, your doubts? Do you think even this confession56 too unmaidenly? No, no; you cannot think so, Arthur! If a woman loves, why should she submit to have her heart rent by despair rather than permit herself to take one step towards the attainment of her end? To such social codes I can owe no allegiance. In so much I have dared to think for myself, and why not in this?”
“Oh, I know but too well,” replied Arthur, “that you never overpassed the boundaries of friendship. For your friendship I was infinitely grateful; but, believe me, I did not dare to hope that it could conceal a warmer feeling.”
“Not even when you received my present this morning?” asked Helen, smiling; “for I suppose you did receive it?”
“I did, and felt a joy only less than that your summons caused me. But no, upon that I did not dare to build hopes, for I knew that your goodness was inexhaustible, and that you would lose no opportunity of giving pleasure even to your humblest friend. But now I know that only a heart which beat as one with mine could have divined the gift which would give me the most delight.”
Again their lips met, and again ensued a period of silent happiness.
“Helen,” said Arthur, at length, “in one thing alone you displease121 me. Can you guess what that is?”
She looked up at him with pained surprise.
“Oh,” he resumed, “how I wish that you were poor! Could I have taken you to my heart with all your perfections, but lacking this burden of wealth, how perfectly122 happy should I be! What would I give to know the joy of working for you, the delight, which every poor man can experience, of feeling his wife dependent upon him, of doing everything for her sake! But for you I can do nothing. Who can tell how long I must wait before I can ask you to be my wife, and at the same time offer you a worthy home?”
“You are unjust to me, Arthur!” she replied. “You wish to have all the pleasure to yourself. Do you think I regard this wealth of mine as any hindrance123 to our union? Surely, surely you see the world with clearer eyes than that. Because chance has given me wealth, whilst the same chance has made you poor, should that be a barrier between us? But for your unhappy lot you might at this moment have been sharing it all as my brother. I am three months younger than you, Arthur. In three months I shall be free from my guardian124, and mistress of my own conduct. When that day comes, whether you are rich or poor is nothing to me; if you will take me for your wife, I am yours.”
“I dare not look forward to it!” exclaimed Arthur. “I must grow accustomed to your love to believe that it is real. But shall I not often see you? No, no; it will be impossible. Though we may scorn the world’s opinion, we must still fear its tongue. I must guard you against all manner of foolish or malicious125 misconstruction.”
“We must be prudent126, dearest,” she returned, “for both our sakes. If we cannot see each other as often as we wish, we can at least write. Yes, I will write you often, send you my whole heart in letters. It will be a new experience for me, a fresh, inexhaustible, life-giving delight! Oh, I shall tire you with my confidences!”
“Never, dearest!” he replied, whilst deep earnestness of love flashed out of his fair eyes as they met hers. “I, too, shall have an infinity127 of things to tell you. There is within me a whole world of thought and feeling which I had never suspected till love made me conscious of it. What exquisite joy will it be to share with you all my hopes and achievements! If anything can make me an artist, Helen, your love will do so.”
A peculiar128 smile rose to her face as she heard these words.
“Shall I tell you,” she asked, “of a discovery I made long ago, not so very long after we first saw each other in London, something which startled me not disagreeably at the time, and to which my thoughts have frequently recurred129 for consolation130, though a slight one, when I have feared lest you regarded me in no other light than as a friend?”
He looked at her questioningly, wondering much what she could refer to.
“You would never guess,” she continued, “so I must tell you. One day I paid a visit to Mr. Tollady, and he showed me a great number of your drawings. They astonished me, Arthur, for indeed many of them were extremely beautiful, and wonderful as the production of a self-trained artist. We must look over them all, both together, and you will tell me how they were suggested, and when they were done. But among them, though carefully put in a portfolio131 by itself, was a portrait. How and when the portrait was drawn132 I could have no idea, but I thought I knew the face, and Mr. Tollady, who seemed as surprised as myself, recognised it too.”
“You saw it!” exclaimed Arthur, eagerly. “Oh, it was not worthy to be seen by you, so infinitely less beautiful than the original! I drew it from memory, because your image even then haunted me in my room as I sat drawing, and I could not rest till I had made a feeble copy. But such as it was I prized it more dearly than any other possession. Now I never sit down to work without having it hanging before me. As I look into its eyes I feel they speak encouragement to me. Oh, dearest, I should be ashamed to repeat to you all the fond, passionate, endearing words which I have addressed to your picture. Had I never had courage to tell you of my love I should yet have continued to worship before that idol133 to the end of my life.”
“I am not worthy of such devotion, Arthur,” replied Helen, blushing deeply, whilst delight mirrored itself in her moist eyes. “How shall I ever repay it?”
“One word of affection, one slight look of tenderness from you, love,” whispered Arthur, passionately, “would repay the devotion of my life. Oh, I am too happy! I cannot believe it! Helen, Helen!”
He sank back pale and exhausted134 with emotion, and, in the excess of her happiness, Helen’s tears fell fast upon his hand which she held pressed against her heart. After a long silence she looked round at the clock upon the mantel-piece, and a shadow passed over her face.
“You must leave me, Arthur,” she said, rising. “Any moment now we may be disturbed. I must have time, too, to bring back the wonted common-place expression to my features, for I am sure my eyes betray my happiness. You will write to me, Arthur? Soon?”
“And you to me, dearest?” he replied, rising with a sigh. “It is dreadful to have to leave you so soon. But shall I never see you? I cannot live without seeing you, now that I have once tasted the sweetness of your love. I must see you sometimes!”
Helen stood with her eyes fixed135 upon the floor, and a slight blush rose to her cheek when she at length spoke.
“You know me better, Arthur,” she said, “than to misjudge my motives in wishing to preserve secrecy136 for the present? All my nearest connections are in reality strangers to me; I have no sympathy with them, nor they with me. In particular the lady who lives with me here, as a sort of guardian for me, is possessed137 of the greatest share of curiosity and meddlesomeness138 that is possible for human being to have. But there is one friend in whom I can place full confidence, and whose true and simple heart is the most natural repository for a secret such as ours. If I told Lucy Venning, she might enable us to see each other sometimes at her father’s house.”
“Yes,” exclaimed Arthur, “no one could help us more than Lucy.”
“I will tell her to-night when she returns,” said Helen, blushing and smiling. “Confession is notoriously good for the soul, and it would be well if no one ever confessed to a less guileless being than Lucy.”
Arthur took both her hands, and strove to find words in which to say adieu.
“I have forgotten to thank you for your pictures,” said Helen; “that which accompanied them at once drove them from my mind. But they are admirable. I am proud of you, Arthur.”
She raised her lips to his with an expression of the sweetest simplicity and devotion, and, as they met, she felt herself drawn towards him and pressed in a long, silent embrace.
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dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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feigning
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| 假装，伪装( feign的现在分词 )； 捏造（借口、理由等） | |
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stratagem
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| n.诡计，计谋 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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5
rein
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| n.疆绳，统治，支配；vt.以僵绳控制，统治 | |
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6
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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7
dexterity
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| n.(手的)灵巧，灵活 | |
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8
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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9
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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10
lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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11
glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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12
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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13
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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14
embody
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| vt.具体表达，使具体化；包含，收录 | |
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15
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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16
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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17
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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18
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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19
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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20
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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21
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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22
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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23
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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24
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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25
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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26
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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27
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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28
firmament
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| n.苍穹；最高层 | |
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29
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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30
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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31
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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32
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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33
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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34
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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36
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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37
worthily
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| 重要地，可敬地，正当地 | |
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38
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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39
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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40
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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41
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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42
misgiving
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
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43
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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44
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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45
omnipotent
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| adj.全能的，万能的 | |
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46
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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47
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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48
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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49
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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50
repel
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| v.击退，抵制，拒绝，排斥 | |
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51
imputation
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| n.归罪，责难 | |
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52
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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53
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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54
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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55
joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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56
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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57
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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58
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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59
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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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
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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62
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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63
mightier
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| adj. 强有力的，强大的，巨大的 adv. 很，极其 | |
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64
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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65
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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66
attainment
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| n.达到，到达；［常pl.］成就，造诣 | |
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67
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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68
forfeited
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| （因违反协议、犯规、受罚等）丧失，失去( forfeit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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69
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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70
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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71
drowsiness
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| n.睡意；嗜睡 | |
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72
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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73
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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74
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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75
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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76
despatch
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| n./v.(dispatch)派遣；发送；n.急件；新闻报道 | |
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77
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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78
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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79
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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80
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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81
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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82
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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83
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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84
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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85
portrayal
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| n.饰演；描画 | |
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86
detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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87
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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88
obliterate
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| v.擦去，涂抹，去掉...痕迹，消失，除去 | |
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89
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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90
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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91
hemp
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| n.大麻；纤维 | |
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92
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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93
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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94
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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95
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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96
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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97
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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98
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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99
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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100
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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101
orator
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| n.演说者，演讲者，雄辩家 | |
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102
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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103
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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104
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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105
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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106
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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107
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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108
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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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
smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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111
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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112
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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113
yearns
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的第三人称单数 ) | |
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114
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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115
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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116
renounced
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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117
annihilate
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| v.使无效；毁灭；取消 | |
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118
feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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119
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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120
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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121
displease
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| vt.使不高兴，惹怒；n.不悦，不满，生气 | |
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122
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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123
hindrance
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| n.妨碍，障碍 | |
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124
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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125
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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126
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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127
infinity
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| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
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128
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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129
recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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130
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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131
portfolio
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| n.公事包；文件夹；大臣及部长职位 | |
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132
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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133
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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134
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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135
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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136
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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137
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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138
meddlesomeness
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