“Why, Willie, what is the matter?” inquired Edward Langley, entering his father’s office one evening after business hours, and finding its sole tenant1, a boy of fourteen or fifteen, leaning both arms on one of the high desks, and hiding his face within them, whilst his slight figure shook with uncontrollable sobs2. “And how came that drawer open?” he continued, more sternly, perceiving a bureau drawer half open, so as to display its glittering contents, which looked disturbed. “I hope you have not been doing anything wrong, Willie.”
“Oh, sir, indeed—indeed I have not! Count the money, Mr. Edward; pray count it; see that it is all right, or I can never hold up my head again. The temptation was misery4 enough,” returned the boy, as well as his sobs would permit, and displaying such a countenance5 of suffering, as to enlist6 all Edward’s sympathy at once.
“But, my good boy, what could have tempted7 you? You seem so to feel the enormity of the sin, that I cannot imagine what thought came into your head.”
“I only thought of my poor father, sir. Oh, Mr. Edward, he is in prison, and my mother is too ill to work; and she and my poor little sisters are starving,” he replied, bursting again into tears. “I did not know what to do to help them; I give them all I earn, but that is so very little it only gives them a meal now and then; and then, when I saw that drawer accidently left open, and remembered twelve pounds, only twelve pounds, would get my father out of prison, and he could work for us again, the horrid8 thought came into my head to take them: they would never be missed out of so many; and I had them in my hand. But then I thought what could I tell them at home? It would break my poor mother’s heart to think her Willie was dishonest; she could better bear hunger and grief than that, sir; and I knew I could not hide it from her; and so I dashed them back! They seemed to scorch9 me! Oh, Mr. Edward, indeed, indeed I speak the truth!”
Edward did believe him, and he told him so. There was little need to speak harshly; the boy’s own conscience had been his judge. To satisfy him, however, he counted the money, found it correct, and after talking to him a little while, kindly10 yet impressively, promised to do what he could for his father, and left him, indelibly impressing that evening upon Willie’s mind, by never reverting11 to it again.
The tale, which his inquiries12 elicited13, was a very common one. Willie’s father had been an artificer in one of the manufacturing towns; but too eager for advancement14, he imprudently threw up his situation and tried independent business. Matters grew worse and worse; his family increased and his means diminished. Hearing of an excellent opening at New York, for an artificer like himself, he worked day and night to obtain sufficient means to transport himself and family across the Atlantic, and support them till a business could be established. His wife ably aided him, when unhappily he was tempted to embark15 all his little savings16 in one of the bubbles of the day, which he was confidently assured would be so successful as to permit his embarking17 for America at once, and so seize the opening offered. Few speculators had, perhaps, a better excuse; but fortune did not favour him more than others; it failed, and he was ruined. Three months afterwards he was thrown into prison for the only debt he had ever incurred18, and though he had friends to persuade him to his ruin, he had none to liquidate19 his debt. His wife’s health, already overworked, sunk under privation and sorrow; and though she toiled20 even from her fevered pallet, her feeble earnings22 were not sufficient to give her children bread.
Edward Langley was a creature of impulse; but in him impulse was the offspring of high principle, and, therefore, though the following it often caused him unlooked-for annoyance23, it never led him wrong; and Willie’s tale called forth24 sympathies impossible to be withstood.
“Edward,” said one of his numerous sisters one evening, about three weeks afterwards, as they were sitting at tea—a meal which, bringing them all together, was universally enjoyed, “what have you done with grandpapa’s birthday present? You were to do so many things with that money; and I have not heard you speak of it since my return.”
“Because wonderful things have occurred since you left, Fanny,” said another slily. “He is going to accompany Mr. Morison’s family to Italy and Paris; and bring us such splendid presents. His fair Julia cannot go without him, and he has promised to join them.”
“Wrong, Miss Ellen, I am not going,” was the reply, with rather more brusquerie than usual.
“Why, have you quarrelled?”
“Not exactly.”
“But she will be offended, Ned; I am sure I should be.”
“No, you would not, Annie, if you knew my reasons.”
“What are they, Edward, dear? Do tell me, I am so curious.”
“Of course, or you would not be a woman!”
Against this all his sisters expostulated at once; and even his mother expressed curiosity, adding, that he had talked of this continental25 trip so long, and with so much glee, it must be a disappointment to give it up.
“It is; but I do not regret it.”
“But you must have a reason.”
“The very best of all reasons; I cannot afford it.”
“Come to me for the needful, Edward,” said his father. “I cannot give you luxuries; but this is for your improvement.”
“Thank you most heartily26, my dear father, but I am, rather I was, richer than any of you know. I earned so much for my last engraving27.”
“And you never told us,” said his mother and sisters, reproachfully.
“I did not, because it was already appropriated. I wanted exactly that sum to add to my grandfather’s gift; and that was what I worked so hard for.”
“To purchase some bridal gift,” said Fanny, archly.
“No, Fan, I never mean to purchase love.”
“But if the lady requires to be so conciliated?”
“Then she is not worth having.”
“Of course not,” rejoined Annie. “But come, Edward, you have never kept anything from us before. What is this mystery?”
“Out with it,” laughingly pursued Ellen. “Julia Morison will not thank you for preferring anything to accompanying her, I can tell you; so, as Annie says, what is this mystery?”
“No mystery at all, girls. You will all be disappointed when I tell you; so you had better let it alone.”
But beset28 on all sides, even by his father and mother, Edward told the simple truth, which our readers no doubt have already guessed. His money had been applied29 in releasing Willie’s father from prison; restoring his mother to health, by giving her and her children nourishing food, securing a passage for them all to New York, and investing the trifling30 surplus for their use on their arrival. He told his tale hurriedly, as if he feared to be accused of folly31, and his father did somewhat blame him. He was provoked that the little scheme of pleasure and improvement, which Edward had anticipated so many weeks, should be frustrated32; and annoyed that he should be disappointed, though the disappointment was perfectly33 voluntary. How could he tell that the man’s story was true? How was he sure the money would produce the good effect he hoped? He must say he thought it a pity, a very great pity; a visit to Paris would be so improving; Mr. Morison’s family such a desirable connection—and other regrets, which, without being a very worldly parent, were not perhaps unnatural34.
“My dear father,” was Edward’s earnest and affectionate rejoinder, “do not be vexed35 for my sake. A visit to the Continent would no doubt have been improving; but I will work doubly hard in dear old England, and that, though it may not be as much pleasure, will be just as serviceable. With regard to Miss Morison,” his cheek slightly flushed, “if her affections are only to be secured by being constantly at her side, and always playing the lover, there could be no happiness in a nearer connection for either. A separation for three or four months can surely have no effect on real regard, and I am quite willing to subject both myself and Julia to the ordeal36. As to not being sure of doing the good I hope—who can be? I do believe that poor fellow’s story, I confess, and strongly believe he will do well; but I do not mean to give the subject another thought, except to work the harder. The money is as much gone as freely given, and I expect as little reward as if I had thrown it on the waters—”
“Where thou shall find it after many days,” continued his mother, so affectionately and approvingly, that Edward threw his arm round her and kissed her tenderly. “You have done right, my dear boy; and if Julia Morison does not think so, she is not worthy37 of your love.”
How quick is woman’s, above all, a mother’s penetration38. From the first allusion39 to Miss Morison in the preceding conversation, she knew that something had occurred between them to annoy, if it did not wound her son; and the moment she heard the story she guessed the actual fact. Perhaps her penetration in this instance was aided by previous observation. She had never liked Miss Morison, desirable as from worldly motives40 the connection might be. Edward, youth-like, had been captivated by her beauty and vivacity41, and gratified by her very marked preference for himself. His complete unconsciousness that he really was the handsomest and most engaging young man of the town of L——, by depriving him of all conceit42, increased Miss Julia’s fascination43. Mr. Morison was member for the county, and had made himself universally popular; and certainly took marked notice of Edward. The good people of L—— were too simple-minded to discover that their member’s attractions were merely graces of manner; and that he noticed Edward only because he was perfectly secure that his daughter would never do such a foolish thing as to promise her hand to the son of a country attorney, however agreeable he might be.
Edward’s wish to accompany them to the Continent met with decided44 approval. Mr. Morison thought the young man would save him a great deal of trouble, as a kind of gentleman valet, without a salary; and Miss Julia was delighted at this unequivocal proof of his devotion, and at the amusement she promised herself in playing off her country beau on the Continent, his simplicity45 being the shield to cover her man?uvres; besides, he would be such an excellent pis aller, that she need never be without a worshipper.
That such a person could appreciate Edward’s real character, or enter into his motives for, and his disappointment in, not accompanying her, was impossible. For regret, even for anger, he had prepared himself, nay46, might have been disappointed had she evinced no emotion; but for the cold sneer47, first of doubt, then of unequivocal contempt, which was her sole rejoinder to his agitated48 confession49, he was not prepared, and it chilled his very heart. Still he tried to deceive himself, and believe that all she said of benevolence50, disinterestedness51, and a long et-cetera, was the sympathy he yearned52 for; but the tone and manner with which she informed her father in his presence of his change of purpose, and its praiseworthy cause, could not, even by a lover more infatuated than Edward, have been misunderstood; his spirit rose, and with it his self-respect. He said very little, but that little convinced both Julia and her father that he was not quite the simpleton which they had supposed him.
He left them, wounded to the core; to his warm, generous nature, worldliness was abhorrent53 even in a man, and in a woman it seemed to him something so unnatural, so revolting, that it dispersed54 at once the bright creation of his enthusiastic fancy, and displayed Miss Morison almost in her true character.
Still, notwithstanding all this pain and disappointment, Edward never once regretted the impulse he had followed; and when, about six or seven months afterwards, he received the most grateful letters from Willie and his father, informing him that the opening offered, though attended with many difficulties, promised fair, he felt the sacrifice was more than recompensed, and from that hour never thought of it himself again. But his assertion, that he would work the harder to make up for those continental advantages which he had lost, was no idle boast; he did so well, that even his father forgot his vexation; and his industry united with great personal economy, enabled him to give his sisters richer and more useful presents than the bijouterie which he had laughingly promised to bring them from France.
The marriage of Miss Julia Morison with some foreign Count, before six months elapsed, had happily no effect on Edward’s equanimity57; it might, nay, it did cause a transient pang58, but he recovered it much sooner than his father did the loss of so desirable a connection.
“Never mind it, sir,” was Edward’s laughing entreaty59; “I would rather earn my own independence, and make a connection through my own exertions60 than by the richest marriage I could make.”
“That’s just like your mother, boy,” said his father, somewhat pettishly62, “as if all depended on one’s self.”
“Thank you for the likeness63, father. When I can bring you a daughter to be to me what my mother is to you, I shall have formed a desirable connection, though my wife be not set in gold.”
And this even his father acknowledged, when, two years afterwards, Edward married the daughter of their vicar, who proved in his own person that influence is not always inseparable from wealth, but may be found with worth as well. Time rolled on; twenty, thirty years. In the multitude of great and trifling events, which make up the sum of human life, during those years Edward Langley had so entirely64 forgotten the generous deed of his early youth, that he would have found it difficult to recall even the name of Willie’s parents. His perseverance65 and talent had been crowned with such success, that when only eight-and-twenty he was taken into partnership66 by one of the first engravers of the metropolis67. For twenty more years the business so flourished as to make all the principals very wealthy men; and Edward looked forward in two or three more years to resign in favour of his son and retire himself from active business. He had never been ambitious, and a series of domestic trials in the loss of six children out of nine, all of that most interesting age when childhood is giving place to youth, caused him to turn with clinging love to those who remained, longing68 more to enjoy an Englishman’s home than to continue amassing69 wealth.
Greatly against his wishes and advice, engagements and speculations70 had been entered into by the firm to an immense extent, more especially with establishments abroad. The dishonesty of distant agents, and the careless supineness, if not equal dishonour71, of one of the principals at home, occasioned ruin to all, of course including Langley, though he had been most unjustifiably kept in ignorance of the real extent of their speculating schemes. Yet his high integrity enabled him to bear up against this sudden change of circumstances with more fortitude72 than any of his companions.
His wife’s little property had never been touched, and he was therefore enabled to retire to a very small cottage in Cheshire, which soon displayed the refined taste and artistic73 skill of its gentle-minded inmates74, to an extent that completely concealed75 their very humble77 means. Not that they were ashamed of their poverty; but the same self-respect that prompted their horror of all pretension78, and resolution to live strictly79 within their means, threw a comfort and refinement80 around and within their lowly home, which the wealthiest might have envied.
For himself, Edward Langley would have been as happy as in the height of his prosperity; but he could not help feeling a very pardonable pang at this sad change in the prospects82 of his children. His son, emulating83 his firmness, sought and obtained an excellent situation in a thriving engraving establishment in Edinburgh, where his father’s name and character spoke84 for him more forcibly than the highest premium85. It was on Helen Langley the blow had fallen heaviest; the only one of his daughters who had reached the age of nineteen (for Fanny was still a child), frail86, delicate in seeming as a beautiful flower. She had been nursed in luxury and affection, and guarded from even the approach of a storm; the deserved darling of all who knew her, rich and poor, her parents’ love for her amounted almost to idolatry. Engaged to the son of one of her father’s partners, then studying as a physician, a bright and happy future shone before them, when the thunderbolt fell before either had seen a cloud. George Ashley was summoned from Paris just as his diploma was obtained, and he was weaving fairy dreams of a speedy union with his Helen; recalled, not as he believed, still to study and gradually attain88 eminence89, but to give up all ambitious dreams, and work as a general practitioner90 for actual subsistence. To marry before he had even the prospect81 of a connection and employment was absolute madness; to live any distance from Helen he felt was quite as impossible; so he settled himself in the old town of Chester, about three miles from her home, and for her sake exerted himself more than he had once believed was in his nature. At first, youth and excitement beheld91 only the brighter side; but after six months’ trial, so endless and little remunerating seemed his toil21, that he sunk into the deepest despondency, which neither Mr. and Mrs. Langley’s kind advice, nor Helen’s sweet counsels could remove.
Fearfully would Mr. Langley look on his darling, dreading93 that this constant pressure of anxiety and suspense94 would be as fatal to her as disease had been to her sisters; but though more serious than had been her disposition95 before, it was not the seriousness of gloom, but rather of a firm yet gentle spirit, forming internally some resolution which required thought and time for development. Her smile was as joyous96, her voice as gleeful, as in happier years; her pursuits continued with the same zeal97, if not with deeper earnestness. To persuade her to annul98 her engagement never entered either parent’s mind, but the long vista99 of dreary100 years which they believed must intervene ere it could be fulfilled, was literally101 their only thought of anxious and unmitigated gloom.
“Give me up, Helen! I have no right to fetter102 your young life with an engagement which heaven only knows when we shall fulfil,” passionately103 exclaimed young Ashley, about seven months after their misfortunes. “Your sweet face, and sweeter temper, and lovely mind must win you a position in life far higher than I can ever offer. You were only seen at the ball the other night to be admired.”
“That unfortunate ball! I only went to gratify papa; and you are jealous, George, that your poor Helen was admired.”
“No, Helen, no! I gloried in it; for I knew you were mine, mine in heart, faith, all but name. But then I thought how selfish, how utterly105 selfish I was still to claim you; to behold106 you wearing out your young life in all the sickness of hope deferred107; when, by resigning you, you might be rich, admired, followed, occupy the station you deserve, and—”
“Be very happy, dearest George? This is a strange mood,” she said, half reproachfully, half playfully. “Come, send it away, for it is not like you. I am very sorry I cannot oblige you; but as I consider myself as much yours as if the sacred words had actually been said, you may divorce me if you will, but I will never give you up.”
“Helen, darling Helen! forgive me,” he replied, his repentance108 as impetuous as all his other feelings. “Oh! if you would but be mine at once, I am sure I should succeed; with such a comforter, such a cheerer, work would be welcome. I would never despond again, dearest; loving as we do, why should we not wed56 at once? We must then do well.”
“Must do well because we love, George? Yes, and so we shall, but not if we wed now. Ah, now you look reproachfully again. Dearest, you know I would not shrink from any hardship shared with you. I will work with you, work for you, if needed; but, young as we both are, is it not better to work apart a few years, that we may rest together? Think what five years may do for both, it may be less; I put it only to the extent. You are succeeding, and will succeed still more, the more you are known; but had you a wife and an establishment to support now, even with my very hardest exertions, we could not keep free from debt; and love, potent109 as it is, could not then guard sorrow from our dwelling110. When wedded111, if unlooked-for misfortunes come, we will bear them, and comfort and strengthen each other; but would it be right, would it be wise to invite them by a too early marriage? My own dear George, let us work while we have youth and hope, and trust me we shall be very happy yet.”
It was scarcely possible to remain unconvinced by such fond reasoning; but still Ashley referred with deep despondency to the long, long interval112 which must elapse ere that happiness could be obtained.
“Not so long as you fancy, George. I never mean to be a rich man’s wife, though you invited me to be so just now. I do not even intend to wait for comforts, but only just for that competency which will prevent those evil spirits, care and irritation113, from entering our home; and to forward this, listen to my plan, dearest George.” And with some little tremour, for she dreaded114 his disapproval115, she told him that she had accepted an engagement as governess, in a family at Manchester; a Dr. Murray, who was a widower116, with four or five children: she had been mentioned by a mutual117 friend, and the Doctor was so pleased with Mrs. Norton’s account, that he agreed even to give the high salary Helen required, without seeing her. He had said that his mother, who lived with him, was too infirm to bear his children much with her, and he therefore wanted more from his governess than merely to teach; he was quite willing to pay for it, but a lady he must have.
“To bear with all his whims118 and fancies; to be tormented119 with spoiled children; put up with the old woman’s infirmities; be insulted by pampered120 servants. Helen, you shall not go!” exclaimed George.
“Now, George, don’t be foolish. I do not expect one of these evils; and if I meet with them I can bear them, with such a hope before me,” she continued, fondly looking in his face.
“But governesses are so insulted, so degraded.”
“Not insulted, if they respect themselves; not degraded, if those they love do not think so. But perhaps, George, you are too proud to marry a governess.”
A passionate104 reproach was his reply.
“Well then, love, listen to me a little longer. Mamma still means to allow me enough for my quiet dress, so that I can put by every shilling that I earn; and only think what that may come to in a few years. Then I have a reason for choosing Manchester as a temporary home; you know I can draw, but do you not know that I can design—William took so much pleasure in teaching me—and, in a manufacturing town like Manchester, I may not only be able to use this knowledge, but perhaps gradually get introductions which will allow my successful pursuit of the art even as—as your wife, dearest George; and then, what with our mutual economy and mutual savings beforehand, and mutual work afterwards—oh, our future will shine as bright as it did before this storm!”
“God for ever bless you, Helen, my own darling! you are indeed my best hope, my best comforter already,” murmured George, half choked with strong emotion, which he tried to conceal76 by pressing her to his bosom121, and kissing her cheek. “How can your parents part with you, and what will drive away my fits of gloom, when I cannot come to you for comfort?”
“Hope!” was her instant reply, in a tone so glad, so thrilling, that it pervaded122 his whole being ever afterwards like a spell. “Think, dearest George, of the hundreds who have to labour on, through lonely years, uncheered by either love or hope; who must work, wearily and unceasingly, only for means of existence. We have health and youth and love, and, above all, mutual faith to sustain us; and therefore we must be happy. You do not know how powerful is a woman’s will.”
“Not more so than man’s,” replied Ashley, more cheerfully than he had yet spoken. “Helen, you have shamed me. I will become more worthy of such love.”
Helen looked very much as if she thought that was impossible, but she did not say so.
It was no light task this gentle girl had undertaken. Hopefully as she had spoken and felt, her resolution had neither been formed nor matured without suffering, nor had it been the least portion of the trial to win over her parents to her wishes; but the wisdom of her plan was so evident, that they conquered all selfish feeling for their child’s sake, and tried to be comforted by Mrs. Norton’s assurance, that in Dr. Murray’s family Helen would be as comfortable as she could be away from home.
And so she was. In fact, so kindly was she welcomed and treated, that she could scarcely understand it. Dr. Murray was a man in reality under fifty, but looking much older, from a life of some hardship and much labour, the fruits of which he now enjoyed in the possession of a comfortable income. His manner, in general blunt and rough, always softened123 towards Helen, whom he ever addressed with such respect, as well as kindness, that all George’s terror of her encountering insolence124 very speedily dispersed. Mrs. Murray had evidently not been born a lady, but her regard for Helen was shown in such a multiplicity of little kindnesses, that no feeling could be excited towards her but gratitude125 and love. Constantly as she was occupied with her pupils, Helen’s careful economy of time yet enabled her actually to accomplish the purpose she had in her mind when she chose Manchester for her residence. The idle, nay even the less energetic, would have declared it was impossible for any one person to do what she did; but not even the Doctor or his mother knew how her moments of made leisure were employed.
So nearly three years glided126 by; Helen’s health, instead of failing, as her friends had feared, actually improved; and George declared there must have been some spell in her words or her example, for his prospects were brightening every year. Helen only smiled, and told him that the spell was simply in his own more hopeful exertions.
Dr. Murray’s house was the frequent resort not only of men of talent from the higher ranks, but frequently of clever manufacturers and artificers, in whose works the Doctor and his mother were always particularly interested. It happened that Helen was present one evening when one of these gentlemen was regretting his inability to procure127 an appropriate design for some window curtains, of a new material, which he had invented; being no artist himself, he could not perhaps define his wishes with sufficient technicality, but all which he had seen were either so small as to have no effect, or so large as to look coarse and common. Before he departed the conversation changed, and Dr. Murray thought no more about it, until at a very early hour the next morning Helen entered his study with a roll of paper, which she asked him to examine, and tell her if he thought it the kind of thing Mr. Grey required. His astonishment128 that she should remember any thing about it was only equalled by his admiration129 of her work. So great was his delight, that he declared he would convey it to Mr. Grey himself, and get her something handsome for it. He was not disappointed. Mr. Grey seized it with rapture130, declared it was the very thing he meant; offered to pay any sum for it, and was struck dumb with astonishment, when told it was designed by the elegant young lady to whom he had been introduced the previous night, and whom he had scarcely deigned131 to notice, believing her the same as most young ladies—a very pretty but a very useless piece of goods. One of his young men, who had been eagerly examining it, said he was sure it was by the same hand as several other elegant designs which they had been in the habit of purchasing the last two years, but the name of whose inventor they had never been able to discover. He brought some, and compared them, and even the Doctor’s unpractised eye could discern the same hand throughout. But how could Miss Langley have accomplished132 all this, and yet so done her duty to his children? It was incomprehensible; and the good Doctor hurried home to have the mystery solved. Helen speedily explained it, adding ingenuously133, that she had worked in secret, only because she feared the Doctor or his friends might think she must neglect her duty to her charge to pursue this employment; but since he had expressed such perfect satisfaction, she had resolved on taking the first opportunity to tell him all.
“But my good young lady, you must have some very strong incentive134 for all this exertion61.” Blushing deeply, Helen acknowledged that she had. “Is it a secret, my dear child?”
For a minute she hesitated, then frankly135 told her story. The Doctor was so much affected136 by it as to surprise her, and expressed the most unfeigned regret that he had not known it before.
Not a fortnight afterwards, Mr. Grey sought an interview with Miss Langley: he wished, he said, to monopolize137 her talents, and offered, in consequence, with sufficient liberality as to tempt3 her to adhere to his employment, instead of taking the chance of larger remuneration for occasional designs. It was for this Helen had worked and prayed and hoped—this which she had looked to, to follow even as a wife, and in her husband’s house; and therefore we leave to our reader’s imagination the gratitude with which it was accepted, the joy with which she wrote to her parents, to George, to whom her woman’s heart so yearned in that moment of rejoicing, that for the first time since she had loved him she could scarcely write for tears. But the letters she received in reply sadly alloyed this dawning happiness. Her sister Fanny was dangerously ill; the same age, the same disease which had been so fatal to her family. All George’s skill, and it was great, had been ineffectual; nothing could save her, the distracted father wrote; she was doomed139 like all the rest. But to Helen there was no such word as doom138. She flew to the Doctor, repeated to him as well as she could the symptoms, and the remedies applied, conjuring140 him to think of something which would alleviate141, if it could not cure. What could she write?
“Write, my dear child! that will be of little use; we will go together.” And though there were no railroads in that direction, man’s omnipotent142 will carried Helen and the Doctor to Mr. Langley’s cottage in so short a space, that it seemed to Helen like the transfigurations of a dream.
For four days fearful were the alternations of hope and dread92; the fifth, hope predominated, and by the end of the week, promptness and skill in the adoption143 of an entirely new mode of treatment were so successful, that Dr. Murray was blessed again and again by the enraptured144 parents as, under heaven, the preserver of their child. But, though all danger was over, the Doctor did not offer to quit the cottage for another week, which time he spent mostly in his patient’s room, and in earnest conversation with young Ashley. Helen had intended to remain in his family till he could meet with some one to supply her place; but this he now declared should not be. She must be wanted at home, at least till she could finish her preparations for entering another; for, if he were George, he would not wait another month; she had had her own will too long already, and the future was bright enough now to permit him to have his. Helen’s hand was clasped in her young sister’s as the good Doctor spoke, but George’s arm was round her, and her reply seemed to satisfy all parties.
All Mr. Langley’s attempts to obtain a private interview with his guest were ineffectual until the day of his intended departure, when, with trembling hands and swimming eyes, he tried to press a pocket-book into the Doctor’s hand. “It is inadequate145, wholly inadequate,” he said, with emotion. “You have saved my child; so restored her, that she is better than she has been since her birth. You have given us your time, your skill, and you shrink even from my thanks. Were I a rich man, I should feel as I do now, that a fortune could not repay you; but, as a poor man, do not insult me by refusing the fee I can bestow146.”
“Mr. Langley,” was the reply, “I tell you truth, when I assure you that you owe me nothing. I am in your debt far more, far more than my professional skill ever could repay.”
“In my debt, Doctor? Ah, you mean my Helen’s services; but those you have so liberally remunerated, and treated her with such kindness, that you have made me your debtor147 even there. No, no, I cannot allow Helen, precious as she is, to come between me and justice.”
“I do not allude148 to Miss Langley, sir,” and the Doctor spoke as if addressing a superior. “Her inestimable services to me and mine, indeed nothing can repay; but it was not for her sake I came to you. The debt I allude to is of more than thirty years’ standing55, and is due to you alone. On my first return to England, your position was higher, your fortune far superior to mine; and had I then sought you, it might still have been to receive benefits at your hand. In your noble endurance of misfortune, it would have been an insult to have discharged my debt, and therefore I waited and prayed for some opportunity not only to do justice, but to evince gratitude. If I have made your child happy, and shortened the term of her heroic exertions, you owe it to yourself. I could not take from you even the full amount of this visit, regarding it merely as professional, for I owe you in actual money more than that.” Mr. Langley looked and expressed bewilderment; the Doctor’s manner was too earnest to permit a doubt; but he tried in vain to recall to what he could allude.
“Have you so completely forgotten Willie Murray, Mr. Edward?” continued his companion, much agitated. “Willie Murray, the poor boy you not only saved from sin, but made so happy by your generous kindness to his family. Mr. Langley, I am that boy; my character, my success I owe to you. How can such a debt ever be repaid?”
Mr. Langley’s astonishment was so great, as literally to deprive him for the moment of words. He only remembered Willie Murray as a pale, thin, intellectual boy of fifteen. To recognise him in the tall, stout149, somewhat aged87-looking man before him, required more imagination than he chanced to possess; but to doubt the identity was impossible. He grasped his hand warmly, and insisted on his giving him that very hour the history of his life. Our readers, however, must be contented150 with a very brief sketch151 of these details. Suffice it, that neither Willie nor his father rose to independence without constant toil and unwearying perseverance. Profiting by the trials of earlier years, the elder Murray laboured with an energy and skill which, until his timely release from prison, had appeared foreign to his character. Many difficulties he had to encounter; but once the manufactory established, competence152 was secured; and as his labour rather increased than slackened, fortune followed. His son’s marked preference for the medical profession grieved him at first, but he lived long enough to see that he had chosen wisely, and at his death left all his children comfortably provided for, each possessing a share in the manufactory which his energy had established. Willie had always yearned to return to England, and did so directly he became a widower, his mother gladly accompanying him. He had finished his medical education in France, had a large practice in America, and, from his general intelligence, proved skill, and wide-handed benevolence, very speedily became popular in England. But amid all the chances and changes of his busy life, neither the fearful temptation of his boyhood nor Edward Langley’s generous kindness had ever been forgotten.
Joyous indeed, and full of hope, was Helen Langley’s bridal morn, though neither pomp nor fashion attended it, such as might have been the case some few years before. On retiring to change her dress, Helen found a heavy packet, directed to Mrs. George Ashley, on her table. It was a purse, containing three hundred sovereigns, with the following brief lines:—
“This is your father’s gift, though it comes through me. I do but return a sum lent by him to me and mine, with the accumulated interest of three-and-thirty years. It is now added to the store earned by Helen Langley’s meritorious153 exertions.”
“William Murray.”
“Mother!” exclaimed Mr. Langley, after perusing154 this note, and turning to his now aged parent with some emotion, “do you remember your words, when I told you the money was as freely given, and I expected as little reward as if I had thrown it on the waters, ‘that I should find it after many days?’ You were right, I have found it indeed!”
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1
tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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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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enlist
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| vt.谋取(支持等)，赢得；征募；vi.入伍 | |
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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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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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scorch
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| v.烧焦，烤焦；高速疾驶；n.烧焦处，焦痕 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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reverting
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| 恢复( revert的现在分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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12
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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elicited
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| 引出，探出( elicit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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advancement
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| n.前进，促进，提升 | |
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embark
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| vi.乘船，着手，从事，上飞机 | |
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savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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embarking
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| 乘船( embark的现在分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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19
liquidate
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| v.偿付，清算，扫除；整理，破产 | |
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20
toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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21
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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22
earnings
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| n.工资收人；利润，利益，所得 | |
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23
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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24
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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27
engraving
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| n.版画；雕刻（作品）；雕刻艺术；镌版术v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的现在分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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32
frustrated
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| adj.挫败的，失意的，泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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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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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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36
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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38
penetration
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| n.穿透，穿人，渗透 | |
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39
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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40
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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41
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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42
conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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43
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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44
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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45
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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46
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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47
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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48
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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49
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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50
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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51
disinterestedness
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52
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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53
abhorrent
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| adj.可恶的，可恨的，讨厌的 | |
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54
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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55
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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56
wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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57
equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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58
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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59
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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60
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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61
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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62
pettishly
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63
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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64
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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65
perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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66
partnership
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| n.合作关系，伙伴关系 | |
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67
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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68
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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69
amassing
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| v.积累，积聚( amass的现在分词 ) | |
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70
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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71
dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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72
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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73
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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74
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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75
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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76
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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77
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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78
pretension
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| n.要求；自命，自称；自负 | |
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79
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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80
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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81
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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82
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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83
emulating
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| v.与…竞争( emulate的现在分词 )；努力赶上；计算机程序等仿真；模仿 | |
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84
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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85
premium
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| n.加付款；赠品；adj.高级的；售价高的 | |
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86
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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87
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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88
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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89
eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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90
practitioner
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| n.实践者，从事者；(医生或律师等)开业者 | |
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91
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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92
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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93
dreading
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| v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的现在分词 ) | |
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94
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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95
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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96
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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97
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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98
annul
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| v.宣告…无效，取消，废止 | |
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99
vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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100
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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101
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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102
fetter
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| n./vt.脚镣，束缚 | |
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103
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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104
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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105
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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106
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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107
deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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108
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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109
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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110
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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111
wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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112
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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113
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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114
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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disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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116
widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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117
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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118
WHIMS
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| 虚妄，禅病 | |
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tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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pampered
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| adj.饮食过量的，饮食奢侈的v.纵容，宠，娇养( pamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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121
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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124
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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127
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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128
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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130
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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131
deigned
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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ingenuously
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| adv.率直地，正直地 | |
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134
incentive
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| n.刺激；动力；鼓励；诱因；动机 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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monopolize
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| v.垄断，独占，专营 | |
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138
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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139
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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140
conjuring
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| n.魔术 | |
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141
alleviate
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| v.减轻，缓和，缓解(痛苦等) | |
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omnipotent
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| adj.全能的，万能的 | |
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143
adoption
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| n.采用，采纳，通过；收养 | |
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144
enraptured
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| v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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debtor
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| n.借方，债务人 | |
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allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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150
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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151
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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152
competence
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| n.能力，胜任，称职 | |
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meritorious
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| adj.值得赞赏的 | |
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154
perusing
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的现在分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
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