"Like everything connected with the Moon-man's bride. However, my aerial expedition has not been fruitless; if I have not brought you a member from the clouds, at least we know how right I was to pluck Clorinda Bell."
"Yes, and how right I was to appoint you Honorary Trier!" said Lillie. "I have several more candidates for you, chosen from my last batch4 of applications. While you were in the clouds, I was working. I have already interviewed them. They fulfil all the conditions. It only remains5 for you to do your part."
"Have they given good reasons for their refusal to marry their lovers?"
"Excellent reasons. Reasons so strange as to bear the stamp of truth. Here is the first reduced to writing. It is compounded of what Miss Ellaline Rand said to me and of what she left unsaid. Read it, while I put another of these love stories into shape. I am so glad I founded the Old Maids' Club. It has enlarged my experience incalculably."
Lord Silverdale took the manuscript and read.
When John Beveridge went to nurse his misanthropy in the obscure fishing village of Trepolpen, he had not bargained for the presence of Ellaline Rand. And yet there she was, living in a queer little cottage on the very top of the steep hill which constituted Trepolpen, and sloped down to a pebbly6 beach where the dark nets dried and the trawl boats were drawn7 up. The people she was staying with were children of the soil and the sea—the man, a rugged8 old fish-dealer who had been a smuggler9 in his time; the woman, a chirpy grandame whose eyes were still good enough to allow her to weave lace by lamplight. The season was early June, and the glittering smile on the broad face of the Atlantic made the roar of the breakers sound like stentorian10 laughter. There was always a whiff of fish—a blend of mackerel and crabs11 and mullet—striking up from the beach, but the salt in the air kept the odoriferous atoms fairly fresh. Everything in Trepolpen was delightfully13 archaic14, and even the far-away suggestions of antiquity15 about the prevailing16 piscine flavor seemed in poetic17 keeping with the spirit of the primitive18 little spot.
In a village of one street it is impossible not to live in it, unless you are a coastguard, and then you don't live in the village. This was why John Beveridge was a neighbor of Ellaline's. He lived much lower down, where the laugh of the Atlantic was louder and the scent19 of the fish was stronger, and before he knew of Ellaline's existence he used to go down hill (which is easy), smoke his pipe and chat with the trawlers, and lie on his back in the sun. After they had met, he grew less lazy and used to take exercise by walking up to the top of the hill. Probably by this time the sea-breezes had given him strength. Sometimes he met Ellaline coming down; which was accident. Then he would turn and walk down with her; which was design. The manner of their first meeting was novel, but in such a place it could not be long delayed. Beveridge had obeyed a call from the boatmen to come and help them drag in the seine. He was tugging20 with all his might at the section of the netting, for the fishers seemed to be in luck and the fish unfortunate. Suddenly he heard the pit-pat of light feet running down the hill, and the next moment two little white hands peeping out of white cuffs21 were gripping the net at the side of his own fleshy brown ones. For some thirty seconds he was content to divine the apparition22 from the hands. There was a flutter of sweet expectation about his heart, a stirring of the sense of romance.
The day was divine. The sky was a brooding blue; the sea was a rippling23 play of light on which the seine-boat danced lightly. One little brown sail was visible far out in the bay, the sea-gulls hovering24 about it. It seemed to Beveridge that the scene had only been waiting for those gentle little hands, whose assistance in the operation of landing the spoil was such a delicious farce25. They could be no native lass's, these soft fingers with their pink little nails like pretty sea-pearls. They were fingers that spoke26 (in their mute digital dialect) of the crayon and the violin-bow, rather than of the local harmonium. There was something, too, about the coquettish cuffs, irresistibly27 at variance28 with the village Wesleyanism. Gradually, as the net came in, Beveridge let his eyes steal towards her face. The prevision of romance became a certainty. It was a charming little face, as symmetrically proportioned to the hands as the face of a watch is. The nose was retroussé and piquant30, but the eyes contradicted it, being demure31 and dreamy. There was a little Cupid's bow of a mouth, and between the half-parted rosy32 lips a gleam of white teeth clenched33 with the exertion34 of hauling in the seine. A simple sailor's hat crowned a fluff of flaxen hair, and her dress was of airy muslin.
She was so absorbed in the glee of hauling in the fish that it was some moments before she seemed to notice that her neighbor's eyes were fixed35 upon her, and that they were not set in the rugged tan of the local masculine face. A little blush leapt into the rather pale cheeks and went out again like a tiny spurt36 of rosy flame. Then she strained more desperately37 than ever at the net. It was soon ashore38, with its wild and whirling mixture of mackerel, soles, dabs39, squids, turbot—John Beveridge was not certain but what his heart was already among the things fluttering there in the net at her feet.
While the trawlers were sorting out the fish, spreading some on the beach and packing the mackerel in baskets, Ellaline looked on, patently interested in everything but her fellow amateur. After all, despite his shaggy coat and the clay pipe in his mouth, he was of the town, towny; some solicitor40, artist, stockbroker41, doctor, on a holiday; perhaps, considering the time of year, only a clerk. What she had come to Trepolpen for was something more primitive. And he! Surely he had seen and loved pretty women enough, not to stir an inch nearer this dainty vision. For what but to forget the wiles42 and treacheries of women of the town had he buried himself here? And yet was it the unexpectedness, was it that while bringing back the atmosphere of great cities she yet seemed a creature of the woods and waters, he felt himself drawn to her? He wanted to talk to her, to learn who she was and what she was doing here, but he did not know how to begin, though he had the gift of many tongues. Not that he deemed an introduction necessary—in Trepolpen, where not to give everybody you met "good-morning" was to court a reputation for surliness. And it would have been easy enough to open on the weather, or the marine43 harvest they had both helped to gather in. But somehow John Beveridge learnt embarrassment44 in the presence of this muslined mermaiden, who seemed half of the world and half of the sea. And so, amid the bustle46 of the beach, the minutes slipped away, and Beveridge spoke no word but leaned against the cliff, content to drowse in the light of the sun and Ellaline.
The dealers47 came down to the beach—men and women—among them a hale, grizzly48 old fellow who clasped Ellaline's hand in his huge, gnarled fist. The auction49 began. John Beveridge joined the crowd at a point behind the strangely assorted50 couple. Of a sudden Ellaline turned to him with her great limpid51 eyes looking candidly52 into his, and said, "Some of those poor mackerel are not quite dead yet—I wonder if they suffer." John Beveridge was taken aback. The last vestiges53 of his wonted assurance were swept away before her sweet simplicity54.
"Men never do," said Ellaline with a gentle reproachful look. "They think only of their own pain. I do hope fish have no feelings."
"They are cold-blooded," he reminded her, beginning to recover himself.
"Ah!" she said musingly57. "But what right have we to take away their lives? They must be—oh so happy!—in the beautiful wide ocean! I am sorry I had a hand in destroying them. I shall never do it again."
"You have very little to reproach yourself with," he said, smiling.
"Ah! now you are laughing at me. I know I'm not big and strong, and that my muscles could have been dispensed58 with. But the will was there, the intention was there," she said with her serious air.
"Oh, of course, you are a piscicide in intention," he admitted. "But you will enjoy the mackerel all the same."
"No, I won't," she said with a charming little shake of the head, "I won't eat any."
"What! you will nevermore eat fish?"
"Never," she said emphatically. "I love fish, but I won't eat 'em! only tinned things, like sardines59. Oh, what a little stupid I am! Don't laugh at me again, please. I forgot the sardines must be caught first, before they are tinned, mustn't they?"
"Not necessarily," he said. "It often suffices if sprats are caught."
She laughed. Her laugh was a low musical ripple60, like one of the little sunlit waves translated into sound.
"Twenty-two shillings!" cried the owner of a lot.
"I'll give 'ee eleven!" said Ellaline's companion, and the girl turned her head to listen to the violent chaffering that ensued, and when she went away she only gave John Beveridge a nod and a smile. But he followed her with his eyes as she toiled61 up the hill, growing ever smaller and daintier against the horizon. The second time he met her was at the Cove56, a little way from the village, where great foliage-crowned cliffs came crescent-wise round a space of shining sand, girdled at its outer margin62 by tumbling green, foam-crested surges. Huge mammoth-like boulders63 stood about, bathing their feet in the incoming tide, the cormorants64 perching cautiously down the precipitous half-worn path that led to the sands. There was a point at which the landward margin of the shore beneath first revealed itself to the descending65 pedestrian, and it was a point so slippery that it was thoughtless of Fate to have included Ellaline in the area of vision. She was lying, sheltered by a blue sunshade, on the golden sand, with her head on the base of the cliff, abstractedly tearing a long serpentine66 weed to dark green ribbons, and gazing out dreamily into the throbbing67 depths of sea and sky. There was an open book before her, but she did not seem to be reading. John Beveridge saved himself by grasping a stinging bush, and he stole down gently towards her, forgetting to swear.
He came to her with footsteps muffled68 by the soft sand, and stood looking down at her, admiring the beauty of the delicate flushed young face and the flaxen hair against the sober background of the aged69 cliff with its mellow70 subtly-fused tints71.
"Thinking of the little fishes—or of the gods?" he said at last in a loud pleasant voice.
"Oh, where did you spring from?" she said, half raising herself.
"Not from the clouds," he said.
"Of course not. I was not thinking of the gods," said Ellaline.
He laughed. "I am not even a Perseus," he said, "for the tide though coming in is not yet dangerous enough to be likened to the sea-monster, though you might very well pass for Andromeda."
Ellaline blushed and rose to her feet, adjusting a wrap round her shoulders. "I do not know," she said with dignity, "what I have done to encourage such a comparison."
John Beveridge saw he had slipped. This time there was not even a stinging bush to cling to.
"You are beautiful, that is all I meant," he said apologetically.
"Is it worth while saying such commonplace things?" she said a little mollified.
It was an ambiguous remark. From her it could only mean that he had been guilty of compliment.
"I am very sorry. A thousand pardons. But, pray, do not let me drive you away. You seemed so happy here. I will go back." He made a half turn.
"Yes, I was happy," she said simply. "In my foolish little way I thought I had discovered this spot—as if anything so beautiful could have escaped the attention of those who have been near it all their lives."
"And you, too, seemed to have discovered it," she went on. "Doubtless you know all the coast well, for you were here before me. Do you know," she said, looking up at his face with her candid1 gray eyes, "this is the first time in my life I have seen the sea, so you must not laugh if I seem ignorant, but oh! how I love to lie and hear it roar, tossing its mane like some great wild animal that I have tamed and that will not harm me."
"There are other wild animals that you may tame, here by the sea," he said.
She considered for a moment gravely.
"That is rather pretty," she announced. "I shall re-remember that. But please do not tell me again I am beautiful." She sat down on the sand, with her back to the cliff, re-adjusting her parasol.
"Very well. I sit reproved," he replied, taking up his position by her side. "What book is that you are reading?"
She handed him the little paper-covered, airily-printed volume, suggesting summer in every leaf.
"Ah, it is The Cherub76 That Sits Up Aloft!" he said, with a shade of superciliousness77 blent with amusement.
"Yes, have you read it?" she asked.
"No," he said, "I have heard of it. It's by that new woman who came out last year and calls herself Andrew Dibdin, isn't it?"
"Yes," said Ellaline. "It's made an enormous hit, don't you know."
"Oh, yes, I know," he said, laughing. "It's a lot of sentimental78 rot, isn't it? Do you like it?"
"I think it is sweetly pretty," she said, a teardrop of vexation gathering80 on her eyelid81. "If you haven't read it, why should you abuse it?"
"Oh, one can't read everything," he said. "But one gets to pick up enough about a book to know whether he cares to read it. Of course, I am aware it is about a little baby on board a ship that makes charming inarticulate orations82 and is worshipped by everybody, from the captain to the little stowaway83, and is regarded by the sailors as the sweet little cherub that sits up aloft, etc., and that there is a sensational84 description of a storm at sea—which is Clarke Russell and water, or rather Clarke Russell and more water."
"Ah, I see you're a cynic," said Ellaline. "I don't like cynics."
"No, indeed, I am not," he pleaded. "It is false, not true, sentiment I object to."
"And how do you know this is false sentiment?" she asked in honest indignation. "When you haven't read it?"
"What does it matter?" he murmured, overwhelmed by her sense of duty. She was evidently unaccustomed to the light flippancies of elegant conversation.
"Oh, nothing. To some people nothing matters. Will you promise to read the book if I lend it you?"
"Of course I will," he said, delighted at the establishment of so permanent a link. "Only I don't want to deprive you of it—I can wait till you have finished with it."
"I have finished. I have read it over and over again. Take it." She handed it to him. Their finger-tips met.
"I recant already," he said. "It must have something pure and good in it to take captive a soul like yours."
And indeed the glamour85 of Ellaline was over every page of it. As he read, he found tears of tenderness in his eyes, when otherwise they might have sprung from laughter. He adored the little cherub who sat up aloft on the officers' table and softened86 these crusty sea-dogs whose hearts were become as ship's-biscuits. He could not tell what had come over himself, that his own sere87 heart should be so quick again to the beauties of homely88 virtue89 and duty, to the engaging simplicity and pathos90 of childhood, to the purity of womanhood. Was it that Ellaline was all these things incarnate91?
He avowed92 his error and his conversion93, and gradually they came to meet often in the solitary94 creek95, as was but right for the only two intellectual people in Trepolpen. Sometimes, too, they wandered further afield, amid the ferny lanes. But the Cove was their favorite trysting place, and there lying with his head in her lap, he would talk to her of books and men and one woman.
He found her tastes were not limited to The Cherub That Sits Up Aloft, for she liked Meredith. "Really," he said, "if you had not been yourself, I should have doubted whether your admiration96 was genuine."
"Yes, his women are so real. But I do not pretend to care for the style."
"Style!" he said, "I call it a five-barred fence. To me style is everything. Style alone is literature, whether it be the man or not."
"Oh, then you are of the school of Addiper?"
"Ah, have you heard of that? I am. I admire Addiper and agree with him. Form is everything—literature is only a matter of form. And a book is only a form of matter."
"I see," she said, smiling. "But I adore Addiper myself, though I regret the future seems likely to be his. I have read all he has written. Every line is so lucid97. The form is exquisite98. But as for the matter——!"
"I am so glad you agree with me sometimes," said Ellaline. "Because it shows you don't think I am so very stupid after all."
"Of course I don't—except when you get so enthusiastic about literary people and rave75 about Dibdin and Addiper and Blackwin and the rest. If you mixed with them, my little girl, as I have done, you would soon lose your rosy illusions. Although perhaps you are better with them."
"Ah, then you're not a novelist yourself?" she said anxiously.
"No, I am not. What makes you ask?"
"Nothing. Only sometimes, from your conversation, I suspected you might be."
"Thank you, Ellaline," he said, "for a very dubious100 compliment. No, I am afraid I must forego that claim upon your admiration. Unless I tell a lie and become a novelist by doing so. But then wouldn't it be the truth?"
"Are you, then, a painter or a musician?"
He shook his head. "No, I do not get my living by art."
"Not of any kind?"
"Not of any kind."
"How do you get it?" she asked simply, a candid light shining in the great gray eyes.
"My father was a successful saddle-maker. He is dead."
"Oh!" she said.
"Leather has made me, from childhood up—it has chastised101, supported, educated me, and given me the entrée everywhere. So you see I cannot hold a candle to your demigods."
"Ah, but there is nothing like leather," said Ellaline, and stroked the head in her lap reassuringly102.
The assurance permeated103 John Beveridge's frame like a pleasant cordial. All that was hard and leathery in him seemed to be soaked soft. Here, at last, was a woman who loved him for himself—an innocent, trusting woman in whose weakness a man might find strength. Her pure lips were like the wayside well at which the wearied wanderer from great stony104 cities might drink and be refreshed. And yet, delightful12 as her love would be in his droughty life, he felt that his could not prove less delightful to her. That he, John Beveridge, with the roses thrusting themselves into his eyes, should stoop to pick the simple little daisy at his feet, could not fail to fill her with an admiring gratitude105 that would add the last charm to her passion for him.
But it was not till a week afterwards that the formal proposal, so long impending106, broke. They were resting in a lane and discussing everything they didn't want to discuss, the unspoken playing with subtle sweetness about the spoken.
"Have you read Mr. Gladstone's latest?" she asked at last.
"No," he said; "has Mr. Gladstone ever a latest?"
"Oh, yes, take him day by day, like an evening paper. I'm referring to his article on 'Ancient Beliefs in a Future State.'"
"What's that—the belief of old maids that they'll get married?"
"How? Are old maids a sacred subject?"
"Everything old should be sacred to us," she said simply. "But you know that is not what I mean."
"Then why do you say it?" he asked.
"Oh, what a tease you are!" she cried. "I shan't be sorry to be quit of you. Your flippancy108 is quite dreadful."
"Why, do you believe in a future state?" he said.
"Of course I do. If we had only one life, it would not be worth living."
"But nine times one life would be worth living. Is that the logic109? If so, happy cats! I wonder," he added irrelevantly110, "why the number nine always goes with cats—nine lives, nine tails, nine muses111?"
Ellaline made a moue and shrank petulantly112 away from him. "I will not discuss our future state, unless you are prepared to do it seriously," she said.
"I am," he replied with sudden determination. "Let us enter it together. I am tired of the life I've been leading, and I love you."
"No, no—matrimony. I cannot do it alone—I have never had the courage to do it at all. With you at my side, I should go forward, facing the hereafter cheerfully, with faith and trust."
"I—I—am—afraid—I——" she stammered.
"Why should you be afraid?" he interrupted. "Have you no faith and trust in me?"
"Oh, yes," she said with a frank smile, "if I had not confidence in you, I should not be here with you."
"You angel!" he said, his eyes growing wet under her clear, limpid gaze. "But you love me a little, too?"
John Beveridge groaned115. After so decisive an avowal116 from the essence of candor117, what remained to be said? Nothing but to bid her and his hopes farewell—the latter at once, the former as soon as she was escorted back to Trepolpen. His affection had grown so ripe, he could not exchange it for the green fruit of friendship. And yet, was this to be the end of all that sweet idyllic118 interlude, a jarring note and then silence for evermore?
"But could you never learn to love me?"
She laughed her girlish, ringing laugh.
"I am not so backward as all that," she said. "I mastered it in a dozen lessons."
He stared at her, a wild hope kindling119 in his eyes. "Did I hear aright?" he asked in a horse tone.
She nodded, still smiling.
"Then I did not hear aright before?"
"Oh, yes, you did. I said I did not love you a little. I love you a great deal."
There were tears in the gray eyes now, but they smiled on. He caught her in his arms and the Devonshire lane was transformed to Eden. How exquisite this angelic frankness, when the words pleased! How delicious the frankness of her caress120 when words were de trop!
But at last she spoke again. "And now that I know you love me for myself, I will tell you a secret." The little hands that had first clasped his attention were laid on his shoulders, the dreamy face looked up tenderly and proudly into his. "They say a woman cannot keep a secret," she said. "But you will never believe that again, when I tell you mine?"
"I never believed it," he said earnestly. "Consider how every woman keeps the great secret of her age."
"Ah, that is not what I am going to tell you," she said archly. "It is another of the great secrets of my age. You remember that book you liked so much—The Cherub That Sits Up Aloft?"
"Yes!" he said wonderingly.
"Well, I wrote it!"
"You!" he exclaimed, startled. His image of her seemed a pillar of sand upon which the simoom had burst. This fresh, simple maiden45 a complex literary being, a slave of the midnight lamp.
"Yes, I—I am Andrew Dibdin—the authoress who drew tears from your eyes."
"You, Andrew Dibdin!" he repeated mechanically.
She nodded her head with a proud and happy smile. "I knew you would be pleased—but I wanted you to love me, not my book."
"I love both," he exclaimed. The new conceptions had fitted themselves into the old. He saw now what the charm of the little novel was—the book was Ellaline between covers. He wondered he had not seen it before. The grace, the purity, the pathos, the sweet candor, the recollections of a childhood spent on the great waters in the company of kindly121 mariners—all had flowed out at the point of her pen. She had put herself into her work. He felt a subtle jealousy of the people who bought her on the bookstalls for a shilling—or even for ninepence at the booksellers'. He wanted to have her all to himself. He experienced a mad desire to buy up the edition. But there would be a new one. He realized the feelings of Othello. Oh, if he could but arrest her circulation!
"If you knew how happy it made me to hear you say you love my book!" she replied. "At first I hated you because you sneered122 at it. All my friends love my books—and I wanted you to be a friend of mine."
"I am more than that," he said exultantly123. "And I want to love all your books. What else have you written?"
"Only two others," she said apologetically. "You see I have only been in literature six months and I only write straight from the heart."
"Yes, indeed!" he said. "You wear your heart upon your leaves."
Jealous as he was of her readers, he felt that there was balm in Gilead. She was not a hack-writer, turning out books for the market of malice124 aforethought; not the complex being he had figured in the first moment of consternation125, the literary quack126 with finger on the pulse of the public. She did but write as the birds carolled—not the slave, but the genius of the midnight lamp.
"But I must not wear my heart out," she replied, laughingly. "So I came down here for a month to get fresh material. I am writing a novel of Cornish peasant life—I want to photograph the people with all their lights and shades, all their faiths and superstitions127, all their ways of speech and thought—the first thorough study ever made of a fast-fading phase of Old English life. You see, I didn't know what to do; I feared the public would be tired of my sailor-stories and I thought I'd locate my next story on land. Accident determined128 its environment. I learnt, by chance, that we had some poor relatives in Trepolpen, whom my people had dropped, and so I thought I'd pick them up again, and turn them into 'copy,' and I welcomed the opportunity of making at the same time the acquaintance of the sea, which, as I think I told you, I have never seen before. You see I was poor myself till The Cherub That Sits Up Aloft showered down the gold, and, being a Cockney, had never been able to afford a trip to the seaside."
"My poor Ellaline!" he said, kissing her candid lips. She was such an inveterate129 truth-teller that he could only respect and admire and adore—though she fell from heaven. Her candor infected him. He felt an overwhelming paroxysm of veracity130.
The mask could be dropped now. Did she not love John Beveridge?
"Now I see why you rave so over literary people!" he said. "You are dipped in ink yourself."
"Yes," she said with a happy smile, "there is nobody I admire so much as our great writers."
"But you would not love me more, if I were a great writer?" he said anxiously.
"No, certainly not. I couldn't," she said decisively.
He stooped and kissed her gratefully. "Thank you for that, my sweet Ellaline. And now I think I can safely confess that I am Addiper."
She gave a little shriek. Her face turned white. "Addiper!" she breathed.
"Yes, dearest, it is my nom de guerre. I am Addiper, the writer you admire so much, the man with whose school, you were pleased to say, the future lies."
"Addiper!" she said again. "Impossible! why you said you did not get your living by art of any kind."
"Of course I don't!" he said. "Books like mine—all style, no sentiment, morals or theology—never pay. Fortunately I am able to publish them at my own expense. I write only for writers. That is why you like me. Successful writers are those who write for readers, just as popular painters are those who paint for spectators."
The poor little face was ashen131 gray now. The surprise was too much for the fragile little beauty. "Then you really are Addiper!" she said in low, slow tones.
"Yes, dearest," he said not without a touch of pride. "I am Addiper—and in you, love, I have found a fresh fount of inspiration. You shall be the guiding star of my work, my rare Ellaline, my pearl, my beryl. Ah, this is a great turning-point in my life. To-day I enter into my third manner."
"This is not one of your teasing jokes?" she said appealingly, her piteous eyes looking up into his.
"Then," she said slowly and painfully, "then I can never marry you. We must say 'good-bye.'"
Her lover gazed at her in dazed silence. The butterflies floated in the summer air, a bee buzzed about a wayside flower, from afar came the tinkle134 of a brook135. A deep peace was on all things—only in the hearts of the two littérateurs was pain and consternation.
"You can never marry me!" repeated John Beveridge at last. "And why not?"
"I have told you. Because you are Addiper."
"But that is no reason."
"Is it not?" she said. "I thought Addiper would have a subtler apprehension136."
"But what is it you object to in me?"
"To your genius, of course."
"To my genius!"
"Yes, no mock modesty137. Between augurs138 it won't do. Every author must know very well he stands apart from the world, or he would not set himself to paint it. I know quite well I am not as other women. What is the use of paltering with one's consciousness!"
Still the same delicious candor shone in the gray eyes. John Beveridge, not at all grasping his dismissal, felt an unreasoning impulse to kiss them.
"Well, supposing I am a genius," he said instead. "Where's the harm?"
"Oh, don't be so absurd, Ellaline!" he said. "You've been reading the foolish nonsense about the geniuses necessarily making bad husbands. No doubt in some prominent instances geniuses have not been working models of the domestic virtues140, but on the other hand there are scores of instances to the contrary. And blockheads make quite as bad husbands as your Shelleys and your Byrons. Besides it was only in the past that geniuses were blackguards; to-day it is the correct thing to be correct. Respectability nowadays adds chastity to the studies from the nude; marital141 fidelity142 enhances the force of poems of passion: and philanthropy adds the last touch to tragic143 acting144. So why should I suffer for the sins of my predecessors145? If I may judge myself by my present sensations, what I am gifted with is a genius for domesticity. Do not sacrifice me, dearest, to an unproved and unscientific generalization146."
"It is not of that I am thinking," Ellaline replied, shaking her head sadly. "In my opinion the woman who refused Shakespeare merely on the ground that he wrote Shakespeare's works, should be sent to Coventry as a coward. No, do not fancy I am that. I may not be strong, but I have courage enough to marry you if that were all. It is not because I am afraid you would make me unhappy."
"Ah, there is something you are hiding from me," he said anxiously, impressed by the gravity and sincerity147 of her tones.
"No, there is nothing. I cannot marry you, because you are a genius."
"Ah, you think me mad!" he cried.
"Mad—when you love me?" she said, with a melancholy149 smile.
"You know what I mean. You think that 'great wits to madness nearly are allied,' that sane150 as I appear, there is in me a hidden vein151 of madness. And yet, if anything, the generalization connecting genius with insanity is more unsound than that connecting it with domestic infelicity. It would require a genius to really prove such a connection, and as he would, on his own theory, be a lunatic, what becomes of his theory?"
"Your argument involves a fallacy," replied Ellaline quietly. "It does not follow that if a man is a lunatic everything he says or does has the taint29 of madness. A genius who held that genius meant insanity might be sane just on this one point."
"Or insane just on the one point. Seriously, Ellaline," said John Beveridge, beginning to lose his temper, "you don't mean to say that you believe that genius is really 'a psychical152 neurosis of the epileptoid order.' If you do you must be mad yourself, that's all I can say."
"Of course I should have to admit I am mad myself if I held the theory that genius meant insanity. But I don't."
"You don't!" he said, staring blankly at her. "You don't believe I'm insane, and you don't believe I'll make a bad husband—I should be insane if I did, my sweet little Ellaline. And you still wish to cry off?"
"I must."
"Then you no longer love me!"
"Oh, I beg of you, do not say that! You do not know how hard it is for me to give you up—do not make our parting harder."
"Ellaline, in heaven's name vex79 me no further. What is this terrible mystery? Why can you no longer think of me?"
"If you only thought of me a little you would guess. But men are so selfish. If it were only you that had genius the thing would be simple. But you forget that I, too——" She paused; a little modest blush completed the sentence.
"Yes, I know you are a genius, my rare Ellaline. But what then?" he cried. "I only love you the more for it."
"Yes, but if we marry," said Ellaline, "we two geniuses, look what will happen."
He stared at her afresh—she met his gaze unflinchingly. "What new scientific bogie have you been conjuring153 up." he murmured.
"Oh, I wish you would drive science out of your head," she replied pettishly154. "What have I to do with science? Really, if you go on so stupidly I shall believe you're not a genius after all."
"And then you will marry me?" he said eagerly.
"Don't be so stupid! To speak plainly, for you seem as dull as a clod-hopper to-day, I cannot afford to marry a genius, and a recognized genius to boot. I am only a struggling young authoress, with a considerable following, it is true, but still without an unquestioned position. The high-class organs that review you all to yourself still take me as one of a batch and are not always as complimentary155 as they might be. The moment I marry you and my rushlight is hidden in your bushel, out it goes. I become absorbed simply in you, a little satellite circling round your planetary glory. I shall have no independent existence—the fame I have toiled and struggled for will be eclipsed in yours. 'Mrs. Addiper—the wife of the celebrated156 writer, scribbles157 a little herself, don't you know! Wonder what he could see in her!' That's how people will talk of me. When I go into a room we shall be announced, 'Mr. and Mrs. Addiper'—and everybody will rush round you and hang on your words, and I shall be talked to only by the way of getting you at second-hand158, as a medium through which your personality is partially159 radiated. And parties will be given 'To meet Mr. Addiper,' and I shall accompany you for the same reason that your dress-coat will—because it is the etiquette160."
"But, Ellaline——" he protested.
"Let me finish. I could not even afford to marry you, if my literary position were equal to yours. Such a union would do nothing to enhance my reputation. No woman of genius should marry a man of genius—were she even the greater of the two she would become merged161 in him, even as she would take his name. The man I must marry, the man I have been waiting to fall in love with and be loved by, is a plain honest gentleman, unknown to fame and innocent of all aspiration162 but that of making me happy. He must devote his life to mine, sink himself in me, sacrifice himself on the altar of my fame, live only for the enhancement of my reputation. Such a man I thought I had found in you—but you deceived me. I thought here is a man who loves me only for myself, but whose love will increase tenfold when he learns that I stand on a pedestal of glory, and who will rejoice at the privilege of passing the rest of his days uplifting that pedestal to the gaze of the world, a man who will say of me what I can hardly say of myself, who will drive the bargains with my publishers, wrap me up against the knowledge of malicious163 criticisms, conduct my correspondence, receive inconvenient164 callers, arrange my interviews, and send incessant165 paragraphs to the papers about me, commencing Mrs. John Beveridge (Andrew Dibdin), varied166 by Andrew Dibdin (Mrs. John Beveridge). Here is a man who will be a living gratuitous167 advertisement, inserted daily in the great sheets of the times, a steadfast168 column of eulogy169, a pillar of praise. Here is a man who will be as much a halo as a husband. When I enter a drawing-room with him (so ran my innocent, maiden dream) there will be a thrill of excitement, everybody will cluster round me, he will efface170 himself or be effaced171, and, even if he finds anybody to talk to, it is about me he will talk. Invitations to our own 'At Homes' will be eagerly sought for—not for his sake, but for mine. All that is famous in literature and art will crowd our salon—not for his sake, but for mine. And while I shall be the cynosure172 of every eye, it will be his to note down the names of the illustrious gazers in society paragraphs beginning Mrs. John Beveridge (Andrew Dibdin), alternating with Andrew Dibdin (Mrs. John Beveridge). And am I to give up all this, merely because I love you?"
So ran my Innocent Maiden Dream.
"Yes, why not!" he said passionately173. "What is fame,reputation, weighed against love? What is it to be on the World's lips, if the lips we love are to be taken away?"
"How pretty!" she said with simple admiration. "If you will not claim the phrase, I should like to give it to my next heroine."
"Claim it!" he said bitterly. "I do not want any phrases. I want you."
"Do you not see it is impossible? If you could become obscure again, it might be. You say fame is nothing weighed against love. Come now, would you give up your genius, your reputation, just to marry me?"
He was silent.
"Come!" she repeated. "I have been frank with you, have I not!"
"Well, be equally frank with me. Would you sacrifice these things to your love for me?"
"I could not if I would."
"But would you, if you could?"
He did not answer.
"Of course you wouldn't," she said. "I know you as I know myself."
"What is the use of thinking of what can never be!" he said impatiently.
"Just so. That is what I say. I can never give you my hand; so give me yours and we'll turn homewards."
He gave her his hand and she jumped lightly to her feet. Then he got up and shook himself, and looked still in a sort of daze133, at the gentle face and the dainty figure.
He seized her passionately by the arms.
"Finis," she said decisively, though the renewed pallor of her face showed what it cost her to complete the idyl.
"An unhappy ending?" he said in hopeless interrogation.
"It is not my style," she said simply, "but, after all, this is only real life."
He burst forth176 in a torrent177 of half reproachful regrets—he, Addiper, the chaste178, the severe, the self-contained.
"And you the sweet, innocent girl who won the heart I no longer hoped to feel living, you would coldly abandon the love for whose existence you are responsible! You, who were to be so fresh and pure an influence on my work, are content to deprive literature of those masterpieces our union would have called into being! Oh, but you cannot unshackle yourself thus from my life—for good or evil your meeting with me determined my third manner. Hitherto I thought it was for good; now I fear it will be for evil."
"You seem to have forgotten all your manners," she said, annoyed. "And if our meeting was for evil, at least our parting shall be for good."
John Beveridge and Ellaline Rand spake no more, but walked home in silence through the country lanes on which the sunlight seemed to lie cold. The past was but a dream—not for these two the simple emotions which cross with joy or sorrow the web of common life. At the cottage near the top of the hill, where the sounds and scents179 of the sea were faintest, they parted. The idyl of Trepolpen was ended.
And John Beveridge went downhill.
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1
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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advantageous
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| adj.有利的；有帮助的 | |
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questionable
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| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
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batch
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| n.一批(组，群)；一批生产量 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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pebbly
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| 多卵石的，有卵石花纹的 | |
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7
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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smuggler
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| n.走私者 | |
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stentorian
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| adj.大声的，响亮的 | |
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11
crabs
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| n.蟹( crab的名词复数 )；阴虱寄生病；蟹肉v.捕蟹( crab的第三人称单数 ) | |
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12
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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13
delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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14
archaic
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| adj.(语言、词汇等)古代的，已不通用的 | |
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15
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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16
prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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17
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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18
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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19
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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20
tugging
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| n.牵引感v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的现在分词 ) | |
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cuffs
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| n.袖口( cuff的名词复数 )v.掌打，拳打( cuff的第三人称单数 ) | |
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22
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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23
rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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24
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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25
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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26
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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27
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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28
variance
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| n.矛盾，不同 | |
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29
taint
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| n.污点；感染；腐坏；v.使感染；污染 | |
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30
piquant
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| adj.辛辣的，开胃的，令人兴奋的 | |
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31
demure
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| adj.严肃的；端庄的 | |
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32
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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33
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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34
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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35
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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36
spurt
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| v.喷出；突然进发；突然兴隆 | |
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37
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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38
ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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39
dabs
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| 少许( dab的名词复数 )； 是…能手； 做某事很在行； 在某方面技术熟练 | |
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40
solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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41
stockbroker
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| n.股票（或证券），经纪人（或机构） | |
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42
wiles
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| n.（旨在欺骗或吸引人的）诡计，花招；欺骗，欺诈( wile的名词复数 ) | |
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43
marine
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| adj.海的；海生的；航海的；海事的；n.水兵 | |
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44
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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45
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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46
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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47
dealers
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| n.商人( dealer的名词复数 )；贩毒者；毒品贩子；发牌者 | |
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48
grizzly
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| adj.略为灰色的，呈灰色的；n.灰色大熊 | |
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49
auction
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| n.拍卖；拍卖会；vt.拍卖 | |
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50
assorted
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| adj.各种各样的，各色俱备的 | |
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51
limpid
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| adj.清澈的，透明的 | |
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52
candidly
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| adv.坦率地，直率而诚恳地 | |
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53
vestiges
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| 残余部分( vestige的名词复数 )； 遗迹； 痕迹； 毫不 | |
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54
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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55
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
cove
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| n.小海湾，小峡谷 | |
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57
musingly
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| adv.沉思地，冥想地 | |
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58
dispensed
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| v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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59
sardines
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| n. 沙丁鱼 | |
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60
ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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61
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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62
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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63
boulders
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| n.卵石( boulder的名词复数 )；巨砾；（受水或天气侵蚀而成的）巨石；漂砾 | |
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64
cormorants
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| 鸬鹚，贪婪的人( cormorant的名词复数 ) | |
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65
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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66
serpentine
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| adj.蜿蜒的，弯曲的 | |
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67
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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68
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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69
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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70
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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71
tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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72
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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74
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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75
rave
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| vi.胡言乱语；热衷谈论；n.热情赞扬 | |
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76
cherub
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| n.小天使，胖娃娃 | |
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superciliousness
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| n.高傲，傲慢 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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vex
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| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
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80
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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81
eyelid
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| n.眼睑，眼皮 | |
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82
orations
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| n.（正式仪式中的）演说，演讲( oration的名词复数 ) | |
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83
stowaway
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| n.（藏于轮船，飞机中的）偷乘者 | |
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84
sensational
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| adj.使人感动的，非常好的，轰动的，耸人听闻的 | |
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85
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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86
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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87
sere
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| adj.干枯的；n.演替系列 | |
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88
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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89
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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90
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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91
incarnate
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| adj.化身的，人体化的，肉色的 | |
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92
avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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93
conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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94
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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95
creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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96
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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97
lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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98
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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99
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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100
dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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101
chastised
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| v.严惩（某人）（尤指责打）( chastise的过去式 ) | |
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102
reassuringly
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| ad.安心，可靠 | |
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103
permeated
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| 弥漫( permeate的过去式和过去分词 )； 遍布； 渗入； 渗透 | |
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104
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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105
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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106
impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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107
pout
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| v.撅嘴；绷脸；n.撅嘴；生气，不高兴 | |
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108
flippancy
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| n.轻率；浮躁；无礼的行动 | |
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109
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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110
irrelevantly
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| adv.不恰当地，不合适地；不相关地 | |
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111
muses
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的第三人称单数 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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112
petulantly
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113
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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114
demurely
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| adv.装成端庄地，认真地 | |
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115
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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116
avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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117
candor
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| n.坦白，率真 | |
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118
idyllic
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| adj.质朴宜人的，田园风光的 | |
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119
kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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120
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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121
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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122
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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123
exultantly
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| adv.狂欢地，欢欣鼓舞地 | |
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124
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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125
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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126
quack
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| n.庸医；江湖医生；冒充内行的人；骗子 | |
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127
superstitions
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| 迷信，迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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128
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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129
inveterate
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| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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130
veracity
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| n.诚实 | |
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131
ashen
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| adj.灰的 | |
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132
hoax
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| v.欺骗，哄骗，愚弄；n.愚弄人，恶作剧 | |
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133
daze
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| v.(使)茫然，(使)发昏 | |
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134
tinkle
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| vi.叮当作响；n.叮当声 | |
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135
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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136
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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137
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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138
augurs
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| n.（古罗马的）占兆官( augur的名词复数 )；占卜师，预言者v.预示，预兆，预言( augur的第三人称单数 )；成为预兆；占卜 | |
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139
yoke
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| n.轭；支配；v.给...上轭，连接，使成配偶 | |
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140
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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141
marital
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| adj.婚姻的，夫妻的 | |
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142
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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143
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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144
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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145
predecessors
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| n.前任( predecessor的名词复数 )；前辈；（被取代的）原有事物；前身 | |
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146
generalization
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| n.普遍性，一般性，概括 | |
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147
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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148
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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149
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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150
sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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151
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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152
psychical
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| adj.有关特异功能现象的；有关特异功能官能的；灵魂的；心灵的 | |
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153
conjuring
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| n.魔术 | |
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154
pettishly
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155
complimentary
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| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
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156
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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157
scribbles
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| n.潦草的书写( scribble的名词复数 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下v.潦草的书写( scribble的第三人称单数 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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158
second-hand
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| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
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159
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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160
etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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161
merged
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| （使）混合( merge的过去式和过去分词 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
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162
aspiration
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| n.志向，志趣抱负；渴望；(语)送气音；吸出 | |
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163
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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164
inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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165
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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166
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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167
gratuitous
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| adj.无偿的，免费的；无缘无故的，不必要的 | |
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168
steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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169
eulogy
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| n.颂词；颂扬 | |
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170
efface
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| v.擦掉，抹去 | |
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171
effaced
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| v.擦掉( efface的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；超越；使黯然失色 | |
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172
cynosure
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| n.焦点 | |
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173
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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174
grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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175
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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176
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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177
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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178
chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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179
scents
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| n.香水( scent的名词复数 )；气味；（动物的）臭迹；（尤指狗的）嗅觉 | |
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