Eleven years had passed lightly enough over the glossy1 raven2 locks of Mr. Philip Sheldon. There are some men with whom Time deals gently, and he was one of them. The hard black eyes had lost none of their fierce brightness; the white teeth flashed with all their old brilliancy; the complexion3, which had always been dusky of hue4, was perhaps a shade or two darker; and the fierce black eyes seemed all the blacker by reason of the purple tinge5 beneath them. But the Philip Sheldon of to-day was, taken altogether, a handsomer man than the Philip Sheldon of eleven years ago.
Within those eleven years the Bloomsbury dentist had acquired a higher style of dress and bearing, and a certain improvement of tone and manner. He was still an eminently6 respectable man, and a man whose chief claim to the esteem7 of his fellows lay in the fact of his unimpeachable8 respectability; but his respectability of to-day, as compared with that of eleven years before, was as the respectability of Tyburnia when contrasted with that of St. Pancras. He was not an aristocratic-looking man, or an elegant man; but you felt, as you contemplated9 him, that the bulwarks10 of the citadel11 of English respectability are defended by such as he.
Mr. Sheldon no longer experimentalised with lumps of beeswax and plaster-of-paris. All the appalling12 paraphernalia13 of his cruel art had long since been handed over to an aspiring14 young dentist, together with the respectable house in Fitzgeorge-street, the furniture, and — the connexion. And thus had ended Philip Sheldon’s career as a surgeon-dentist. Within a year of Tom Halliday’s death his disconsolate15 widow had given her hand to her first sweetheart, not forgetful of her dead husband or ungrateful for much kindness and affection experienced at his hands, but yielding rather to Philip’s suit because she was unable to advance any fair show of reason whereby she might reject him.
“I told you, she’d be afraid to refuse you,” said George Sheldon, when the dentist came home from Barlingford, where Tom Halliday’s widow was living with her mother.
Philip had answered his brother’s questions rather ambiguously at first, but in the end had been fain to confess that he had asked Mrs. Halliday to marry him, and that his suit had prospered16.
“That way of putting it is not very complimentary17 to me,” he said, drawing himself up rather stiffly. “Georgy and I were attached to each other long ago, and it is scarcely strange if ——”
“If you should make a match of it, Tom being gone. Poor old Tom! He and I were such cronies. I’ve always had an idea that neither you nor the other fellow quite understood that low fever of his. You did your best, no doubt; but I think you ought to have pulled him through somehow. However, that’s not a pleasant subject to talk of just now; so I’ll drop it, and wish you joy, Phil. It’ll be rather a good match for you, I fancy,” added George, contemplating18 his brother with a nervous twitching19 of his lips, which suggested that his mouth watered as he thought of Philip’s good fortune.
“It’s a very nice thing you drop into, old fellow, isn’t it?” he asked presently, seeing that his brother was rather disinclined to discuss the subject.
“You know the state of my affairs well enough to be sure that I couldn’t afford to marry a poor woman,” answered Philip.
“And that it has been for a long time a vital necessity with you to marry a rich one,” interjected his brother.
“Georgy will have a few hundreds, and ——”
“A few thousands, you mean, Phil,” cried Sheldon the younger with agreeable briskness20; “shall I tot it up for you?”
He was always eager to “tot” things up, and would scarcely have shrunk from setting down the stars of heaven in trim double columns of figures, had it seemed to his profit to do so.
“Let us put it in figures, Phil,” he said, getting his finger-tips in order for the fray21. “There’s the money for Hyley Farm — twelve thousand three hundred and fifty, I had it from poor Tom’s own lips. Then there’s that little property on Sheepfield Common — say seven-fifty, eh? — well, say seven hundred, if you like to leave a margin22; and then there are the insurances — three thou’ in the Alliance, fifteen hundred in the Phoenix23, five hundred in the Suffolk Friendly; the total of which, my dear boy, is eighteen thousand five hundred pounds; and a very nice thing for you to drop into, just as affairs were looking about as black as they could look.” “Yes,” answered Mr. Sheldon the elder, who appeared by on means to relish24 this “totting-up” of his future wife’s fortune; “I have no doubt I ought to consider myself a very lucky man.”
“So Barlingford folks will say when they hear of the business. And now I hope you’re not going to forget your promise to me.”
“What promise?”
“That if you ever did get a stroke of luck, I should have a share of it — eh, Phil?”
Mr. Sheldon caressed25 his chin, and looked thoughtfully at the fire.
“If my wife lets me have the handling of any of her money, you may depend upon it I’ll do what I can for you,” he said, after a pause.
“Don’t say that, Phil,” remonstrated26 George. “When a man says he’ll do what he can for you, it’s a sure sign he means to do nothing. Friendship and brotherly feeling are at an end when it comes to a question of ‘ifs’ and ‘cans.’ If your wife lets you have the handling of any of her money!” cried the lawyer, with unspeakable derision; “that’s too good a joke for you to indulge in with me. Do you think I believe you will let that poor little woman keep custody27 of her money a day after she is your wife, or that you will let her friends tie it up for her before she marries you?”
“No, Phil, you didn’t lay your plans for that.”
“What do you mean by my laying plans?” asked the dentist.
“That’s a point we won’t discuss, Philip,” answered the lawyer coolly. “You and I understand each other very well without entering into unpleasant details. You promised me a year ago — before Tom Halliday’s death — that if you ever came into a good thing, I should share in it. You have come into an uncommonly28 good thing, and I shall expect you to keep your promise.”
“Who says I am going to break it?” demanded Philip Sheldon with an injured air. “You shouldn’t be in such a hurry to cry out, George. You take the tone of a social Dick Turpin, and might as well hold a pistol to my head while you’re about it. Don’t alarm yourself. I have told you I will do what I can for you. I cannot, and I shall not, say more.”
The two men looked at each other. They were in the habit of taking the measure of all creation in their own eminently practical way, and each took the other’s measure now. After having done which, they parted with all cordial expressions of good-will and brotherly feeling. George went back to his dusty chambers29 in Gray’s Inn, and Philip prepared for his return to Barlingford and his marriage with Georgina Halliday.
For ten years Georgy had been Philip Sheldon’s wife, and she had found no reason to complain of her second choice. The current of her life had flowed smoothly30 enough since her first lover had become her husband. She still wore moire-antique dresses and gold chains; and if the dresses were of more simple fashion, and the chains were less obtrusively31 displayed, she had to thank Mr. Sheldon for the refinement32 in her taste. Her views of life in general had expanded under Mr. Sheldon’s influence. She no longer thought a high-wheeled dog-cart and a skittish33 mare34 the acme35 of earthly splendour; for she had a carriage and pair at her service, and a smart little page-boy to leap off the box in attendance on her when she paid visits or went shopping. Instead of the big comfortable old-fashioned farmhouse36 at Hyley, with its mysterious passages and impenetrable obscurities in the way of cupboards, she occupied an intensely new detached villa37 in Bayswater, in which the eye that might chance to grow weary of sunshine and glitter would have sought in vain for a dark corner wherein to repose38 itself.
Mr. Sheldon’s fortunes had prospered since his marriage with his friend’s widow. For a man of his practical mind and energetic temperament39, eighteen thousand pounds was a strong starting-point. His first step was to clear off all old engagements with Jews and Gentiles, and to turn his back on the respectable house in Fitzgeorge-street. The earlier months of his married life he devoted40 to a pleasant tour on the Continent; not wasting time in picturesque41 by-ways, or dawdling42 among inaccessible43 mountains, or mooning about drowsy44 old cathedrals, where there were pictures with curtains hanging before them, and prowling vergers who expected money for drawing aside the curtains; but rattling45 at the highest continental46 speed from one big commercial city to another, and rubbing off the rust47 of Bloomsbury in the exchanges and on the quays48 of the busiest places in Europe. The time which Mr. Sheldon forbore to squander49 in shadowy gothic aisles50 and under the shelter of Alpine51 heights, he accounted well bestowed52 in crowded cafés, and at the public tables of noted53 hotels, where commercial men were wont54 to congregate55; and as Georgy had no aspirings for the sublimity56 of Vandyke and Raphael, or the gigantic splendours of Alpine scenery, she was very well pleased to see continental life with the eyes of Philip Sheldon. How could a half-educated little woman, whose worldly experience was bounded by the suburbs of Barlingford, be otherwise than delighted by the glare and glitter of foreign cities? Georgy was childishly enraptured57 with everything she saw, from the sham58 diamonds and rubies59 of the Palais Royal, to the fantastical bonbons60 of Berlin.
Her husband was very kind to her — after his own particular fashion, which was very different from blustering61 Tom Halliday’s weak indulgence. He allotted62 and regulated her life to suit his own convenience, it is true; but he bought her handsome dresses, and took her with him in hired carriages when he drove about the strange cities. He was apt to leave Georgy and the hired carriage at the corner of some street, or before the door of some cafe, for an hour at a time, in the course of his peregrinations; but she speedily became accustomed to this, and provided herself with the Tauchnitz edition of a novel, wherewith to beguile63 the tedium64 of these intervals65 in the day’s amusement. If Tom Halliday had left her for an hour at a street-corner, or before the door of a café, she would have tortured herself and him by all manner of jealous suspicions and vague imaginings. But there was a stern gravity in Mr. Sheldon’s character which precluded66 the possibility of any such shadowy fancies. Every action of his life seemed to involve such serious motives67, the whole tenor68 of his existence was so orderly and business-like, that his wife was fain to submit to him, as she would have submitted to some ponderous69 infallible machine, some monster of modern ingenuity70 and steam power, which cut asunder71 so many bars of iron, or punched holes in so many paving-stones in a given number of seconds, and was likely to go on dividing iron or piercing paving-stones for ever and ever.
She obeyed him, and was content to fashion her life according to his will, chiefly because she had a vague consciousness that to argue with him, or to seek to influence him, would be to attempt the impossible. Perhaps there was something more than this in her mind — some half-consciousness that there was a shapeless and invertebrate72 skeleton lurking73 in the shadowy background of her new life, a dusky and impalpable creature which it would not be well for her to examine or understand. She was a cowardly little woman, and finding herself tolerably happy in the present, she did not care to pierce the veil of the future, or to cast anxious glances backward to the past. She thought it just possible that there might be people in the world base enough to hint that Philip Sheldon had married her for love of her eighteen thousand pounds, rather than from pure devotion to herself. She knew that certain prudent74 friends and kindred in Barlingford had elevated their hands and eyebrows75 in speechless horror when they discovered that she had married her second husband without a settlement; while one grim and elderly uncle had asked her whether she did not expect her father to turn in his grave by reason of her folly76.
Georgy had shrugged77 her shoulders peevishly78 when her Barlingford friends remonstrated with her, and had declared that people were very cruel to her, and that it was a hard thing she could not choose for herself for once in her life. As to the settlements that people talked of, she protested indignantly that she was not so mean as to fancy her future husband a thief, and that to tie up her money in all sorts of ways would be to imply as much. And then, as it was only a year since poor dear Tom’s death, she had been anxious to marry without fuss or parade. In fact, there were a hundred reasons against legal interference, and legal tying-up of the money, with all that dreadful jargon79 about “whereas,” and “hereinafter,” and “provided always,” and “nothing herein contained,” which seems to hedge round a sum of money so closely, that it is doubtful whether the actual owner will ever be free to spend a sixpence of it after the execution of that formidable document intended to protect it from possible marauders.
George Sheldon had said something very near the truth when he had told Philip that Mrs. Halliday would be afraid to refuse him. The fair-haired, fair-faced little woman did in some manner fear the first lover of her girlhood. She had become his wife, and so far all things had gone well with her; but if misery80 and despair had been the necessary consequences of her union with him, she must have married him all the same, so dominant81 was the influence by which he ruled her. Of course Georgy was not herself aware of her own dependence82. She accepted all things as they were presented to her by a stronger mind than her own. She wore her handsome silk dresses, and was especially particular as to the adjustment of her bonnet-strings, knowing that the smallest impropriety of attire83 was obnoxious84 to the well-ordered mind of her second husband. She obeyed him very much as a child obeys a strict but not unkind schoolmaster. When he took her to a theatre or a racecourse, she sat by his side meekly85, and felt like a child who has been good and is reaping the reward of goodness. And this state of things was in nowise disagreeable to her. She was perhaps quite as happy as it was in her nature to be; for she had no exalted86 capacity for happiness or misery. She felt that it was pleasant to have a handsome man, whose costume was always irreproachable87, for her husband. Her only notion of a bad husband was a man who stayed out late, and came home under the influence of strong liquors consumed in unknown localities and amongst unknown people. So, as Mr. Sheldon rarely went out after dinner, and was on all occasions the most temperate88 of men, she naturally considered her second husband the very model of conjugal89 perfection. Thus it was that domestic life had passed smoothly enough for Mr. Sheldon and his wife during the ten years which had elapsed since their marriage.
As to the eighteen thousand pounds which she had brought Philip Sheldon, Georgy asked no questions. She knew that she enjoyed luxuries and splendours which had never been hers in Tom Halliday’s lifetime, and she was content to accept the goods which her second husband provided. Mr. Sheldon had become a stockbroker90, and occupied an office in some dusky court within a few hundred yards of the Stock Exchange. He had, according to his own account, trebled Georgy’s thousands since they had been in his hands. How the unsuccessful surgeon-dentist had blossomed all at once into a fortunate speculator was a problem too profound for Georgy’s consideration. She knew that her husband had allied91 himself to a certain established firm of stockbrokers92, and that the alliance had cost him some thousands of Tom Halliday’s money. She had heard of preliminary steps to be taken to secure his admission as a member of some mysterious confraternity vaguely93 spoken of as “the House;” and she knew that Tom Halliday’s thousands had been the seed from which had sprung other thousands, and that her husband had been altogether triumphant95 and successful.
It may be that it is easier to rig the market than to induce a given number of people to resort to a certain dull street in Bloomsbury for the purpose of having teeth extracted by an unknown practitioner96. It is possible that the stockbroker is like the poet, a creature who is born, and not made; a gifted and inspired being, not to be perfected by any specific education; a child of spontaneous instincts and untutored faculties97. Certain it is that the divine afflatus98 from the nostrils99 of the god Plutus seemed to have descended100 upon Philip Sheldon; for he had entered the Stock Exchange an inexperienced stranger, and he held his place there amongst men whose boyhood had been spent in the offices of Capel-court, and whose youthful strength had been nourished in the chop-houses of Pinch-lane and Thread-needle-street.
Mrs. Sheldon was satisfied with the general knowledge that Mr. Sheldon had been fortunate, and had never sought any more precise knowledge of her husband’s affairs. Nor did she seek such knowledge even now, when her daughter was approaching womanhood, and might ere long need some dower out of her mother’s fortune. Poor Tom, trusting implicitly101 in the wife he loved, and making his will only as a precautionary measure, at a time when he seemed good for fifty years of life and strength, had not troubled himself about remote contingencies102, and had in no wise foreseen the probability of a second husband for Georgy and-a stepfather for his child.
Two children had been born to Mr. Sheldon since his marriage, and both had died in infancy103. The loss of these children had fallen very heavily on the strong hard man, though he had never shed a tear or uttered a lamentation104, or wasted an hour of his business-like existence by reason of his sorrow. Georgy had just sufficient penetration105 to perceive that her husband was bitterly disappointed when no more baby-strangers came to replace those poor frail106 little lives which had withered107 away and vanished in spite of his anxiety to hold them.
“It seems as if there was a blight108 upon my children,” he once said bitterly; and this was the only occasion on which his wife heard him complain of his evil fortune.
But one day, when he had been particularly lucky in some speculation109, when he had succeeded in achieving what his brother George spoke94 of as the “biggest line he had ever done,” Philip Sheldon came home to the Bayswater villa in a particularly bad humour, and for the first time since her marriage Georgy heard him quote a line of Scripture110.
“Heaping up riches,” he muttered, as he paced up and down the room; “heaping up riches, and ye cannot tell who shall gather them.”
His wife knew then that he was thinking of his children. During the brief lives of those two fragile boy-babies the stockbroker had been wont to talk much of future successes in the way of money-making to be achieved by him for the enrichment and exaltation of these children. They were gone now, and no more came to replace them. And though Philip Sheldon still devoted himself to the sublime111 art of money-making, and still took delight in successful time-bargains and all the scientific combinations of the money-market, the salt of life had lost something of its savour, and the chink of gold had lost somewhat of its music.
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glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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raven
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| n.渡鸟，乌鸦；adj.乌亮的 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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unimpeachable
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| adj.无可指责的；adv.无可怀疑地 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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bulwarks
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| n.堡垒( bulwark的名词复数 )；保障；支柱；舷墙 | |
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citadel
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| n.城堡；堡垒；避难所 | |
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appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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paraphernalia
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| n.装备；随身用品 | |
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aspiring
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| adj.有志气的；有抱负的；高耸的v.渴望；追求 | |
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disconsolate
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| adj.忧郁的，不快的 | |
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prospered
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| 成功，兴旺( prosper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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complimentary
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| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
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contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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briskness
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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fray
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| v.争吵；打斗；磨损，磨破；n.吵架；打斗 | |
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margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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phoenix
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| n.凤凰，长生(不死)鸟；引申为重生 | |
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relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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custody
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| n.监护，照看，羁押，拘留 | |
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uncommonly
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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obtrusively
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| adv.冒失地，莽撞地 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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skittish
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| adj.易激动的，轻佻的 | |
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mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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acme
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farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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dawdling
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| adj.闲逛的，懒散的v.混（时间）( dawdle的现在分词 ) | |
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inaccessible
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| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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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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rust
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| n.锈；v.生锈；(脑子)衰退 | |
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quays
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| 码头( quay的名词复数 ) | |
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squander
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| v.浪费，挥霍 | |
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aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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alpine
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| adj.高山的；n.高山植物 | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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congregate
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| v.(使)集合，聚集 | |
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sublimity
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| 崇高，庄严，气质高尚 | |
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enraptured
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| v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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rubies
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| 红宝石( ruby的名词复数 )； 红宝石色，深红色 | |
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bonbons
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| n.小糖果( bonbon的名词复数 ) | |
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blustering
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| adj.狂风大作的，狂暴的v.外强中干的威吓( bluster的现在分词 )；咆哮；（风）呼啸；狂吹 | |
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allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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beguile
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| vt.欺骗，消遣 | |
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tedium
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| n.单调；烦闷 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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precluded
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| v.阻止( preclude的过去式和过去分词 )；排除；妨碍；使…行不通 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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invertebrate
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| n.无脊椎动物 | |
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lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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peevishly
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| adv．暴躁地 | |
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jargon
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| n.术语，行话 | |
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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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dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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obnoxious
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| adj.极恼人的，讨人厌的，可憎的 | |
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meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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irreproachable
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| adj.不可指责的，无过失的 | |
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temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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conjugal
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| adj.婚姻的，婚姻性的 | |
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stockbroker
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| n.股票（或证券），经纪人（或机构） | |
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allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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stockbrokers
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| n.股票经纪人( stockbroker的名词复数 ) | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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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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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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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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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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afflatus
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| n.灵感，神感 | |
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nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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100
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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implicitly
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| adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
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contingencies
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| n.偶然发生的事故，意外事故( contingency的名词复数 )；以备万一 | |
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103
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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104
lamentation
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| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
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penetration
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| n.穿透，穿人，渗透 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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107
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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108
blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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109
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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110
scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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111
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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