So pale and low-spirited did she appear during the rest of the evening, that Mr. Venning strongly urged her to remain at home that night, and to return to Highbury in the morning. He even offered to walk to Holly10 Cottage himself, in order to explain to Miss Norman the cause of her absence. But Lucy resisted these propositions with an eagerness which showed her father that it would but make her unhappy to insist upon her staying. He proposed that they should sing together as they were accustomed to do on Sunday evening; but Lucy, the tears rising afresh to her eyes, begged that he would allow her to refuse; she did not feel well enough to sing. So they sat together in scarcely-broken silence, both occupied with strange and unpleasant thoughts, till the clock struck ten. Then Lucy rose as usual, and was on the point of going upstairs to dress for her walk, when the outer door opened, and a step which they knew was Golding’s followed in the passage. Both dreaded11 lest Arthur should knock at the parlour door, as he not unfrequently did; but happily he passed without doing so, and went directly up to his room. As soon as they had heard his door close, Lucy ran softly up, and in a few minutes was ready to start.
Her father insisted upon accompanying her, and would not be refused. So they walked side by side, scarcely exchanging a word, as far as the gate of Holly Cottage. Here Mr. Venning kissed his child quietly, and, after exacting12 from her a promise that she would let him know if she were not better in the morning, turned back homewards.
Lucy passed through the gate into the holly-circled garden, but did not ascend14 the steps to the door. There was but one light in the front of the house, that from Mrs. Cumberbatch’s bedroom. The two front rooms were dark. Helen, most probably, was in her study, the window of which looked out upon the back. Under these circumstances the little lawn was perfectly15 dark, for it was a moonless night, and no glimmer16 from the road could pierce the hedges of holly. For nearly half-an-hour Lucy paced up and down here, engaged in an internal struggle which caused her to cry and sob4, and sometimes to wring18 her hands in the extremity19 of distress. Should she tell Helen what had happened to-night? That was the question which tortured her, driving her mind, so unused to grave doubts and apprehensions20, almost to the verge21 of distraction22. If she told Helen what she had heard, she would be the means of causing her dear friend such suffering that a bitter foe23 could not wish to inflict24 deeper. On the other hand, if she did not tell her, she knew too well that she would fail in her duty towards Helen, to say nothing of destroying from that day forward all trace of her own peace of mind. Yes, yes, clearly it was her duty to tell all she knew. It might be a falsehood the drunken woman had told; if so, and if Helen proved it to be so, no harm would have been done, but great good in the quieting of her own conscience and the confirmation25 of Helen’s confidence in her lover. But if it were true — Lucy covered her face with her hands as if to shut out some terrible sight, when she had thought for a moment upon the consequences of its being true. And so she had her period of bitter inward strife26 out in the cold dark garden — strife such as all of us have to go through one day or another; and, because she possessed27 a good, true and affectionate heart, the result of it was that she conquered, and chose the right path. Doing her best to dry her eyes and calm her nerves, she ascended28 the steps and entered the house, resolved to tell Helen before she slept.
The door of Helen’s study was ajar, and the gleam of light issuing from within alone illuminated29 the hall. As soon as Lucy had entered and closed the front door behind her, she heard Helen’s voice calling to her in a clear, pleasant tone from out of the study.
“Is that you, Lucy?”
“Yes, Miss Norman.”
“Don’t trouble to go upstairs, dear,” she continued. “Come here; I have something to show you.”
Lucy’s heart beat so fiercely as to cause her pain. She walked slowly along the hall, feeling as if she were about to commit a crime. She knew only too well that she bore a message which would turn the glad tones of her dear friend’s voice into those of suffering and woe30. She entered the study. Helen was sitting near the fire, with a large book open upon her knees. She did not turn round as Lucy approached her, but, without looking round, held out her hand, and, when Lucy clasped it, drew the latter’s arm over her shoulder.
“Look at this, Lucy,” she said. “I happened, quite by chance, to open this old book about half-an-hour ago. It used to stand in my father’s library at Bloomford, and, when I was quite a child, was rather a favourite of mine; you see, there are such a lot of pictures in it. I think it cannot have been opened for more than ten or twelve years. Well, I was turning over the pages quietly, recalling all manner of strange old recollections, when all at once I came upon this piece of paper, in between two pages. Look! Can you guess what it is?”
Lucy looked and saw an old yellowish scrap31 of writing paper, on which were written, between ruled pencil lines, several words in a large, tremulous child’s hand. Looking closer, she saw that they were names. First came “Arthur Golding,” then “Helen Norman.” Lucy did her best to make some suitable remark or inquiry32, but she could not speak. Her mind was distracted with thoughts as to how she should break her painful news.
“Isn’t it strange?” pursued Helen, in a voice of almost childish delight. “It is Arthur’s own writing, when he was being taught at Bloomford by Mr. Whiffle — you remember, I told you of Mr. Whiffle, our curate. And it has lain there all these years unnoticed, as it would seem merely for the purpose of giving me delight, now that I am becoming aged17. No doubt it was Arthur himself who put it there. You know he was always fond of looking at pictures, and he must have been looking at these one day and left the paper there by chance. And both our names! Oh, how I shall prize that piece of paper!”
Lucy maintained absolute silence. Her face had become pale as death. Her hand was chilled in Helen’s warm grasp. Her breath came in pants. She felt as though about to faint. Suddenly Helen turned her head round and looked into her face.
“Whatever is the matter, Lucy?” she asked. “Are you not well, dear? What is it?”
Instead of replying, Lucy covered her face with her hands, and once more burst into bitter tears. For a moment Helen stood in speechless astonishment33, then she drew the suffering girl close to her, passing one arm round her, and with the other fondling her as she would have fondled a distressed34 child.
“What does it all mean, dear?” she asked, in a caressing35 voice. “Won’t you tell me? Won’t you let me share your trouble? Your grief shocks me, Lucy. What can have occasioned it?”
“It is not on my own account, Miss Norman,” sobbed36 the poor girl; “not on my own account, but yours.”
“On mine, Lucy?” asked Helen, in astonishment. “You are crying for me? And when I never was so happy in my life? What strange fancy has taken possession of you?”
“Oh, something has happened to-night which I must tell you of, though it will almost kill me to do so! Say you will forgive me, Miss Norman, for the pain I shall cause you? Oh, how I wish some one else could have told you! I cannot bear to make you suffer!”
Consternation37 had taken the place of mere surprise on Helen’s countenance38. With a lover’s instinct her heart foreboded some evil connected with Arthur. She grew almost as pale as Lucy, and pressed her hand against her heart.
“Lucy,” she said, doing her utmost to speak composedly, “whatever it is, you must tell me at once. Now, indeed, you are causing me unnecessary pain, though you do not mean to do so. At once, at once! What have you to tell me?”
Forcing back her tears, Lucy clasped Helen’s hands tightly in her own, and forthwith told her, in few and simple words, all that had happened. She neither softened39 nor exaggerated a single feature of the event, nor did she draw any conclusion from it. She could not attempt consolation41, since it was impossible for her to know what faith was to be reposed42 in the strange woman’s assertions. Much as she yearned43 to lighten the effect of her story, she could do nothing but wait and see how Helen would receive it.
The latter listened with forced calm to the end of the relation, but Lucy felt the hands she held clasp convulsively and become moist. A single twinge of acutest agony found expression upon Helen’s features, then they became pale as death, but otherwise undisturbed. The story done, she turned from the reciter, and walked once or twice up and down the room. When she faced Lucy again she was smiling, a strange, weird44 smile, more trouble to Lucy than a burst of agonised tears.
“The woman lied!” she exclaimed, with a violence of tone and expression most strange to her lips. “Of course she lied! Surely you don’t believe her, Lucy!”
The other kept silence, not knowing how to reply.
“You foolish child!” pursued Helen, with a forced, unnatural45 laugh. “Who can tell what miserable46 notion the wretched creature has for saying such a thing? She was drunk, you say — so drunk she could scarcely stand?”
“Oh, yes, I am sure she was,” replied Lucy. “Yet she did not speak much like — like that.”
“What was her face like?”
“I can’t remember; I scarcely dared to look at her. I can only remember that her eyes glared fearfully.”
Again Helen paced the room, smiling in this same strange way.
“We mustn’t think any more of this, Lucy,” she said at length. “I feel sure it can be explained. Arthur will explain it to me. No, no; we mustn’t think of it. Poor girl! you were frightened almost to death by the woman’s violence, dear. You may even have misunderstood what she said. Come, you are tired out, and your eyes are quite red with crying. Give me a kiss, Lucy, and get off to bed. Upon my word, it is half-past eleven. Off with you!”
Lucy drew near to kiss her, but having done so, instead of at once departing, she clasped Helen to her arms, and sobbed against her bosom47. The sight of the poor child’s suffering was too much for Helen, and for some minutes they mingled48 their tears, only the sound of sobs49 breaking the silence. Then Helen gently freed herself from her friend’s embrace, and, kissing her on the forehead, whispered a good-night.
Lucy soon slept, worn out by her unwonted emotions, but for Helen there was no rest that night. Though the nobility of her nature bade her keep up a good heart and refuse to believe anything that could taint50 the honour of him at whose feet she had laid the priceless treasure of her love; nay51, though forcibly withheld52 from believing by a vague and terrible fear which, like a shapeless shadow from the realms of darkness, stood menacing her with ghastly vengeance53 if she dared to approach, in this long night of anguish54 there were moments when her soul knew for the first time all the bitterness of despair. When midnight was long past, and the fierce beating of a hail-storm against the window was the only sound which could be heard, in one such moment she flung herself upon her knees by the bedside and, with hands clasped above her bead55, gave vent40 to the anguish of her soul in a wild prayer. She had not prayed since those old days of religious fervour when she had almost become a Roman Catholic, and this act was now no off-spring of her reason, merely the result of passionate56 yearnings for comfort in suffering so terrible that human aid seemed vain. Thus she passed one of those nights which work upon the human body and mind with the effect of years.
She made her appearance at breakfast outwardly calm; only Lucy could distinguish upon her features traces of the suffering she had endured. It was Mrs. Cumberbatch’s habit to maintain throughout this early meal an almost absolute silence, smiling to herself unceasingly the while. In all probability she was discussing in her own mind the probable events of the day, dwelling57 now and then, by way of diversion, upon some incident of yesterday. Mrs. Cumberbatch had still the delight of reigning58 as supreme59 mistress in the house, for, well knowing her powers in that direction, Helen had given into her hands the whole direction of household affairs. This silent habit of hers at breakfast was always grateful to Helen, this morning especially so. The poor girl’s mind was in no humour for trivial conversation.
Before any one else in the house had risen, Helen had been out and posted a letter, the contents of which were urgent. During the morning she passed an hour or two in reading as usual with Lucy, but did not speak a word of last night’s matter. Her companion was surprised at this calmness; it distressed her because it seemed so unnatural. About twelve o’clock, when they had partaken together of lunch, Helen entrusted60 Lucy with several little commissions, some of which would take her to a considerable distance. As soon as she was once more alone, she repaired to the front sitting-room61 and sat down by the fire. She had no book in her hands, no occupation of any kind; only she kept glancing impatiently at the clock upon the mantel-piece, as if in expectation of some arrival.
At one o’clock exactly, she heard the door bell ring. At once she became rigid62 upon her seat, and her features, in their endeavour to be composed, assumed a sternness of expression very little in accordance with the emotions struggling within her heart. Then there was a knock at the door, and the servant made an announcement. She endeavoured to rise upon her feet, but her strength seemed utterly63 to have failed her. A few quick steps across the carpet, and Arthur Golding was bending over her.
Then she arose, and gave him her hand, but with so little of her usual fervour that Arthur was amazed, and fell back a step or two. He did not speak, for her face forewarned him of some evil, and alarmed him into silence. He stood still, interrogating64 her with his countenance.
“You were surprised at my urgent note?” asked Helen, breaking the silence with a voice which was low, uncertain, and somewhat sad. “When a difficulty occurs to me, Arthur, it is my habit to go at once to the root of it, as it were, to dig it up out of my path, if my strength suffice to the task. I am face to face with such a difficulty at present, but I cannot remove it without your help. And so I have sent for you.”
A load seemed lifted from Arthur’s breast. Surely she could not speak thus calmly of anything serious affecting the relations between them. Ever since he had received her brief note summoning him immediately, he had been haunted by all manner of horrible fears and suspicions. He felt now that he had been mistaken.
“Whatever the task be,” he replied, smiling, “you know you can depend upon my best efforts.”
“Yes, Arthur,” she continued, “I have absolute confidence in you; but at present I have no difficult achievements to impose upon you. I have sent for you to ask a question, and because I absolutely trust you. I shall require nothing beyond a mere negative or affirmative for my answer.”
His face paled, sure token that the pressure had resumed its place within his heart. Her eyes were fixed65 unwaveringly upon his, and he forced himself to return the gaze with equal steadiness.
“You know,” she pursued, “that it is Lucy Venning’s custom to spend Sunday evening with her father. When she returned to me last night, she was in sad distress, the result of something that had happened at home. What this was she told me, thinking, and rightly thinking, it her duty to do so. It seems that she and her father were sitting quietly together, when a loud knock came at the door, and Lucy went to answer it, and was alarmed by finding it to be a drunken woman, who asked to see Mr. Golding. Lucy replied that you were not at home, but the woman would not be satisfied, disbelieving the reply. She said that her name was Carrie, and that you would see her if you knew she was there. Then she forced her way into the house, she behaved violently, crying that she would see Arthur, that she was — his wife and insisted upon seeing him. With difficulty she was removed from the house, and did not return. Well, this is the whole story, as Lucy told it to me; and I ask you, Arthur, to tell me whether you can explain this assertion which the woman made, that she was your wife.”
Arthur’s eyes, whilst she spoke66, had wandered from her face to the pictures upon the walls, and, resting on one in particular, had endeavoured, for the space of a minute, to discern some object in it which the light rendered obscure. Failing in this, he had looked towards the window, out upon the holly-bushes, which were glistening67 in the sunshine which had followed upon a sharp shower of rain. Thence his eyes returned for a moment to Helen’s face, and, as he looked at her, she trembled slightly, and resumed the seat from which she had risen at his entrance. Then his face fell, and for more than a minute, he stood in silence, his brows bent68, gazing down at the floor. Helen no longer looked at him. She, too, was now looking through the window at the holly-bushes, and thinking how beautiful they were in the sunshine. Words at length broke the silence, uttered in a low, but firm, voice.
“I can explain it perfectly. The woman spoke the truth. She is my wife.”
Had his life depended upon it he could not have lied to her. Indeed, at this moment, the renunciation of her love, of all the endless joy which that love guaranteed to him in the future, was far more bitter to him than mere loss of life could have been; but still the truth was forced from him by her presence, by the sound of her voice which still seemed in his ears, by the expression of her marble-pale face, illuminated by a beam of sunshine, and, as it was turned upwards69, resembling that of a grief-shaken Niobe. When he had ceased speaking, she rose, and for a moment seemed to hesitate. Then she addressed him, and her voice had no trace of feebleness.
“In many respects,” she said, “I think I am not like ordinary women. My life has been one of quiet study, and practical work which few hear of, and perhaps I have learned to weigh my own actions and those of others more in the scale of reason, and less in that of mere emotion, than those of my sex usually do. You need not fear passionate reproaches from me, Arthur. They would be unavailing, and only cause both of us needless suffering. I think I can still be just to you, though you have failed in the full measure of confidence towards me. I have experienced enough of life to divine what misery70 lies hidden beneath this confession71 of yours, and my own heart tells me well enough the strength of the temptation to which you have yielded. Let us be glad that the discovery has come so soon; how infinitely72 better than that we should have been allowed to become indispensable to each other, and then be forced to undergo the death-agony of parting. Good-bye.”
She held her hand to him; he took it, held it a moment, and dropped it. His tongue had not the power to utter a word, only his eyes followed her, fixed in an unintelligent stare, as she walked towards the door. She turned the handle, and was on the point of passing out, when suddenly she staggered, reeled, and fell heavily to the ground.
In a moment Arthur had encircled her in his arms, and, as easily as though she were a child, had lifted her on to the couch. He would not call help, the joy of having her alone with him, wholly dependent upon his assistance, was too great to be relinquished73, especially when his brain kept repeating to itself with fierce persistency75 the words, “For the last time. For the last time.” There was water in a decanter upon the side-board, and with this he sprinkled her forehead. One long, passionate kiss he had pressed upon her lips, when consciousness returned, and her eyes opened.
She seemed at once to realise all that had happened, and lay quite still, her eyes straying round the walls, and at length becoming fixed upon the ceiling. As Arthur stood bending over her, anguish rendering76 him mute, he saw great tears start from beneath her eyelids77, fill her eye, and fall slowly on to her cheeks. The sight of her tears seemed to loosen his tongue. Clasping her hand he fell upon his knees beside her and broke into passionate exclamations78 —
“Helen! — My own love! — Dear, dear Helen! — Let me hear you speak one word — one word of forgiveness, one last word of affection. I cannot, I will not leave you without one word! Oh, if you knew all that I have suffered; if you knew my motives79; if you knew my heart! — Before you, Helen, I am a monster of imperfection; who is not? But I cannot bear that you should think ill of me, that you should confound my act with the coarse brutalities of vulgar natures. No, no, for my insincerity to yourself I have no excuse to offer; no judgment80 upon it can be too severe. But if I might explain how it arose, if I could lay before you the dark places through which the current of my life has flowed, Oh, you would not send me away unforgiven, you would not think me unworthy of a last kind look, of one last affectionate word, to assure me that you will sometimes think of me. Speak to me, dearest! — One word!”
With a sigh she raised herself to a sitting position, and looked at him with wide, sad eyes.
“I thought you would understand from what I said,” she replied, “that I had forgiven you; or rather, that I did not presume to judge you, and so could scarcely presume to offer forgiveness. I am no bigoted81 upholder of conventional forms, Arthur; no worshipper of the gods of society. But still how can I act otherwise than I do? You confess to me that you are married, that you have undertaken to devote yourself to one woman for the rest of your life; and how is it possible that you can offer me such devotion? Your conduct towards me may have been dictated82 by the purest and highest feelings, but necessarily it was mistaken conduct. You should have reflected how easily it might bring both of us into the extremity of wretchedness. It was terribly unwise.”
“I was not responsible for my actions, Helen,” he returned. “Love for you had maddened me, and I could not behave otherwise than I did. But perhaps I was not so culpable83 as I may appear, in leading you to believe that I was free. You must not think me cowardly to justify84 myself at the expense of another. Let me lay before you the plain truth; let me show you how my error was brought on. You must hear me, Helen; justice requires it. Noble, high-minded, good as you are beyond any living creature, you yet cannot help feeling some bitterness against me in your heart.”
“You attribute high qualities to me,” she said, smiling faintly; “but I feel only too well that I am a weak woman, very, very far from a heroic one. I have suffered terribly since I heard of this from Lucy last night; and I feel that my nature will not bear much more. Why should you enter upon a narration85 which can only be excessively painful to both of us?”
“I will spare you all details,” he urged. “You shall hear nothing but what is necessary to understand the circumstances. But so much I must beg you to hear! You will not refuse, Helen? It is perhaps my last prayer.”
She sighed, but bent her head in assent86. Then Arthur forthwith related to her, in few and simple words, the circumstances which had led to his first connection with Carrie, showed how the influences which at that time ruled his life had irresistibly87 bidden him exert himself on the sufferer’s behalf, and how excess of compassion88 had by degrees developed into a feeling which he had mistaken for love. Very briefly89 he described his married life, the efforts he had made to raise Carrie from her degraded state, the terrible struggles he had carried on with her besetting90 vice91. Then he passed quickly to her sudden disappearance92, and to the life of intolerable misery which had succeeded for him.
“During all this time,” he continued, “I never saw my wife. I had no idea where to seek for her, even had I desired to renew the old life; and can you blame me, Helen, when I say I could not desire to do so? Only on returning home from here a week ago did I for the first time see her again. She was in a state of wretched poverty and in great mental suffering; she protested her desire to return to a better life, and begged me to give her a little help. I gave her all the money I had. Less than that I could not do; and, with your confession of love still ringing within my soul — how could I do more? Nay, I dare to say it — it would not have been right to do more! What had I to do with her, any more than with any beggar whose story might touch me and make me pity her? It would have been blasphemy93 against true love to have spoken to her one word of affection; it would have been unjust to you, Helen; for to you my heart belongs, not to her. — My wife? My wife? — What does it mean, this word — wife? Does it signify a relationship which can be made or sundered94 by laws and idle ceremonies? Never! She was never my wife, for I never truly loved her. What right has she to come and put forward such a claim, when even the slight validity which her dependence95 upon me might have given it had been long ago annulled96 by her own deliberate act. — My wife? — This degraded, horrible, brutalised creature to call herself my wife! If the word means anything at all, it is you, Helen, to whom it should apply. Yes, you are indeed my wife, have been my wife from the moment when our lips first met, when we breathed to each other the first utterance97 of love, the first vow98 of constancy. The law may recognise that other one as wife; but I, never — never!”
As he spoke he had gradually become more and more passionate, overcome by the violence of his love, which seemed to increase in strength at the moment of its bidding farewell to hope. As he ceased, he flung himself on his knees by Helen’s side, grasping her hand, and pressed it wildly to his lips. Almost immediately it was withdrawn99 with an effort which his strength could indeed have rendered useless, but which respect would not allow him to resist.
“I cannot have you speak so wildly, Arthur,” she replied, becoming calmer in proportion as he lost self-control. “I pity you profoundly, but my conscience will not permit me to grant the truth of what you say. Such theories would result in the destruction of society, and we, who pretend to have the welfare of society in a more than ordinary degree at heart, should be the last to allow passion to blind our reason in a matter such as this. But your confession has relieved me; the fact that your wife had left you voluntarily, and had remained so long out of your sight, renders your conduct as concerns myself less morally culpable. Your graver faults began when she appeared before you and begged your assistance. Then you should have recognised the course which duty clearly pointed100 out to you. Her behaviour then showed that you might perhaps still have exerted some influence upon her, and it was a grave error to neglect the opportunity. I was no good angel to you when my image induced you to shut your ears to the voice of conscience and let your wife once more go her way.
“But what do you bid me do?” he exclaimed, in a choking voice. “Must I renounce101 you? After enjoying the greatest, the only bliss102 of existence for a few poor days, must I relinquish74 it for ever? Better bid me end my life at once, for what use will there be in living?”
“You do not mean — you do not know what you say,” returned Helen, looking down at him with infinite compassion as he still knelt by her side. “You must leave me, Arthur, and think over all this in solitude103, when your mind has become calm. Then you will be compelled to acknowledge the justice of what I have said; you will see that we must forget each other.”
“Then you do not love me,” he cried, starting to his feet. “You have never loved me, Helen! Why did you feign104 passion and lead me to think myself happy in your priceless affection? What cruel jest was it? No, no, you have never loved me, or you could not speak so calmly of our forgetting each other!”
“Arthur, you are cruelly unjust!” she replied, the tears starting to her eyes. “You are cruelly unjust, and you will see it when you become calmer.”
“Then you do love me?” he asked, again approaching. “You do love me, Helen? Ah! But it cannot be such love as mine. Your love is but little more than mere friendship, a cool, calculating feeling, looking to means and results, and capable of denying its object when the possession of it might prove dangerous to self-interest. My love is not of that nature. It reigns105 supreme in me, subduing106 all considerations, rendering all objections futile107. To deny its omnipotence108 would be blasphemy. It is a sacred passion, and all its promptings must be lawful109!”
“But how am I to understand you?” exclaimed Helen, with sudden animation110. “If you deny my love with such violence, it can only be that you wish me to prove it. How would you have me do so? Do you wish me to be your mistress? Nay, don’t start at the word and look terrified; my modesty111 is not of such trivial nature that it shames to be put face to face with truths. What else can you mean by this talk of the supremacy112 of love, of the lawfulness113 of all its promptings? You know that marriage between us is impossible as long as she who is already your wife can come forward at any moment and prove her claims upon you. Am I not a human being? Have I not passions like your own, the thwarting114 of which causes me pangs115 as keen as those you suffer from? What, then, am I to understand?”
He stood absorbed before her, unable to reply a word.
“I repeat, Arthur,” she resumed, more calmly, “you do me cruel wrong when you deny that I do love, or have ever loved you. Your own passion cannot be greater than mine, but my sight is the clearer. I know perfectly well you would never make a degrading proposition to me, that you would suffer your whole life through rather than inflict on me a moment’s pain. I know that, because it is how I also feel towards you. Shall I not suffer in parting from you? Will it not be a lifelong regret that I gave my soul to you for so short a time, only to lose you for ever? And in acting13 as I do, I spare you pain; if you suffer for the moment you will quickly see how preferable this was to unending remorse116. For such could not but be your fate if you neglected the commands of your conscience. Understand me, I am not speaking of your duty towards myself, but towards her who is your wife. Degraded and miserable as she is, she has still claims upon you; nay, all the greater claims in proportion as she is degraded and miserable. How can you, who have been so strongly impressed with the sufferings inflicted117 by society upon the poor and outcast, permit yourself to altogether forget this wretched woman, careless of what becomes of her? How can you think that I, who make it the work of my life to relieve all the misery I can, could be happy in the perpetual consciousness that I was robbing her of the care you might otherwise extend to her? Even if you would, Arthur, I know that you cannot be altogether indifferent to her fate. Those whose fates cross our own with any great influence, either for good or for evil, we can never altogether forget. Nor is it right we should. What other bonds are there so effective in the progress of the world as those knit by Fate, which we are often tempted118 to call chance, between those who have nothing else in common save their humanity? Upon the conduct of the individual in cases such as these, upon his greater or less degree of honour; upon his more or less clear perception of the principles of duty, depend issues which, if we look upon the world as of any consequence at all, it is impossible to over-rate. Oh, Arthur, you place me in a false position; you force me to become your counsellor and strengthener, when I am so sorely in need of such a comforter myself. Spare me, I beg you to spare me, further pain.”
Whilst she spoke Arthur continued to stand with his eyes fixed upon the ground, when she ceased he turned away and walked to the window. For some minutes he stood here, engaged in a fierce conflict with himself. At length he turned, and again advanced towards her, his face pale, but less disturbed.
“Helen,” he said, “you are indeed my good angel. Now for the second time you decide an all-important point in my life If I am by nature passionate and too little disposed to reflect, I am also capable of recognising the good and the true when they are set before me. You have spoken no word but what is the essence of truth and honour, and I promise you solemnly to act upon what you have said. It only remains119 for you to forget me as quickly as possible.”
“When I used that word, Arthur,” replied Helen, “I scarcely knew what I said. I can never forget you; your memory will be a part of my nature, and will last till I die. But I shall endeavour to think of you as a dear friend, as the brother you might perhaps have been to me if Fate had permitted it. Try to think of me, too, as a sister.”
“Do not mock me, Helen. My love is not capable of such transformations120, I fear, however much I may resolve to make it so. I cannot promise to forget you; that would be beyond my power. You shall lie in my heart as the good-genius of my life; and your voice, the tone of which will never quit my ear, shall be an inward monitor to me, a conscience louder than my own. Neither can I promise you to relinquish all hope. If ever ——”
Helen held up her hands warningly. He bent his head, and was silent.
“If you grant to me such a high place as the guiding spirit in your thoughts,” she said, solemnly, “let my voice be always exerted in the name of duty. Duty must rule in every act of your life, not only in the one circumstance to which you will first apply yourself. If you neglect that highest gift of nature, that genius which should have power to raise you above so many every-day troubles, you will be grievously neglecting that duty. For some time we must not see each other, perhaps only after years ought we to permit ourselves to meet again; but in the meantime I shall not lose sight of you. I shall see your name becoming famous, I shall hear it spoken with praise, I shall see your pictures and rejoice at the thought that no one can understand them so well as myself. Promise me that it shall be so, Arthur; that you will strain every nerve to fulfil your part in the world’s work, that this brief passion of ours shall have for its result only a higher degree of activity, the striving after higher ends. With me, it will be so. Let me cherish the hope that it will also be with you.”
“I shall always remember this as your last wish,” replied Arthur. “It shall be inviolable to me.”
She stepped towards him, and gave him her hand, smiling with a content such as only noble natures are capable of experiencing. To Arthur’s eyes, dimmed as they were with moisture, her countenance appeared radiant, a halo seemed to play around her head and glorify121 her. It was in vain he tried to say farewell. Neither did Helen pronounce the word, but, murmuring, “For your sister, Arthur,” she offered him her lips. Then he relinquished her hand, and first the room-door, then the house-door, closed behind him. Before he had stepped off the holly-circled lawn out into the road, Helen had sunk upon the couch, once more in unconsciousness.
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1
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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4
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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holly
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| n.[植]冬青属灌木 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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12
exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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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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14
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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21
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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24
inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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30
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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31
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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32
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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36
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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37
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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39
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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40
vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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41
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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42
reposed
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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43
yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
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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45
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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46
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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47
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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48
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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49
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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50
taint
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| n.污点；感染；腐坏；v.使感染；污染 | |
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51
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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52
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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53
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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54
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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55
bead
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| n.念珠；(pl.)珠子项链；水珠 | |
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56
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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57
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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58
reigning
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| adj.统治的，起支配作用的 | |
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59
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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60
entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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62
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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63
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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64
interrogating
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| n.询问技术v.询问( interrogate的现在分词 )；审问；（在计算机或其他机器上）查询 | |
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65
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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66
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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67
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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68
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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69
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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70
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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71
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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72
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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73
relinquished
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的过去式和过去分词 )； 放弃 | |
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74
relinquish
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| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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75
persistency
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| n. 坚持(余辉, 时间常数) | |
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76
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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77
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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78
exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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79
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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80
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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81
bigoted
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| adj.固执己见的，心胸狭窄的 | |
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82
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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83
culpable
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| adj.有罪的，该受谴责的 | |
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84
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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85
narration
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| n.讲述，叙述；故事；记叙体 | |
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86
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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87
irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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88
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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89
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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90
besetting
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| adj.不断攻击的v.困扰( beset的现在分词 )；不断围攻；镶；嵌 | |
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91
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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92
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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93
blasphemy
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| n.亵渎，渎神 | |
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94
sundered
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| v.隔开，分开( sunder的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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95
dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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96
annulled
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| v.宣告无效( annul的过去式和过去分词 )；取消；使消失；抹去 | |
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97
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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98
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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99
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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100
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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101
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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102
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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103
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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104
feign
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| vt.假装，佯作 | |
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105
reigns
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| n.君主的统治( reign的名词复数 )；君主统治时期；任期；当政期 | |
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106
subduing
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| 征服( subdue的现在分词 )； 克制； 制服； 色变暗 | |
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107
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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108
omnipotence
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| n.全能，万能，无限威力 | |
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109
lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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110
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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111
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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112
supremacy
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| n.至上；至高权力 | |
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113
lawfulness
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| 法制，合法 | |
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114
thwarting
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| 阻挠( thwart的现在分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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115
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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116
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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117
inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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118
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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119
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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120
transformations
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| n.变化( transformation的名词复数 )；转换；转换；变换 | |
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121
glorify
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| vt.颂扬，赞美，使增光，美化 | |
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