Sidwell had fallen into conversation with Mr. Moorhouse. Miss Moorhouse, Mrs. Warricombe, and Louis were grouped in animated1 talk. Observing that Fanny threw glances towards him from a lonely corner, Peak went over to her, and was pleased with the smile he met. Fanny had watched eyes, much brighter than Sidwell’s; her youthful vivacity2 blended with an odd little fashion of schoolgirl pedantry3 in a very piquant4 way. Godwin’s attempts at conversation with her were rather awkward; he found it difficult to strike the suitable note, something not too formal yet not deficient5 in respect.
‘Do you think,’ he asked presently, ‘that I should disturb your father if I went to him?’
‘Oh, not at all! I often go and sit in the study at this time.’
‘Will you show me the way?’
Fanny at once rose, and together they crossed the hall, passed through a sort of anteroom connecting with a fernery, and came to the study door. A tap was answered by cheerful summons, and Fanny looked in.
‘Well, my ladybird? Ah, you are bringing Mr. Peak; come in, come in!’
It was a large and beautiful room, its wide windows, in a cushioned recess6, looking upon the lawn where the yew7 tree cast solemn shade. One wall presented an unbroken array of volumes, their livery sober but handsome; detached bookcases occupied other portions of the irregular perimeter8. Cabinets, closed and open, were arranged with due regard to convenience. Above the mantelpiece hung a few small photographs, but the wall-space at disposal was chiefly occupied with objects which illustrated9 Mr. Warricombe’s scientific tastes. On a stand in the light of the window gleamed two elaborate microscopes, provocative10 of enthusiasm in a mind such as Godwin’s.
In a few minutes, Fanny silently retired11. Her father, by no means forward to speak of himself and his pursuits, was led in that direction by Peak’s expressions of interest, and the two were soon busied with matters which had a charm for both. A collection of elvans formed the starting-point, and when they had entered upon the wide field of palaeontology it was natural for Mr. Warricombe to invite his guest’s attention to the species of homalonotus which he had had the happiness of identifying some ten years ago—a discovery now recognised and chronicled. Though his sympathy was genuine enough, Godwin struggled against an uneasy sense of manifesting excessive appreciation12. Never oblivious13 of himself, he could not utter the simplest phrase of admiration14 without criticising its justice, its tone. And at present it behoved him to bear in mind that he was conversing15 with no half-bred sciolist. Mr Warricombe obviously had his share of human weakness, but he was at once a gentleman and a student of well-stored mind; insincerity must be very careful if it would not jar upon his refined ear. So Godwin often checked himself in the utterance17 of what might sound too much like flattery. A young man talking with one much older, a poor man in dialogue with a wealthy, must under any circumstances guard his speech; for one of Godwin’s aggressive idiosyncrasy the task of discretion18 had peculiar19 difficulties, and the attitude he had assumed at luncheon20 still further complicated the operations of his mind. Only at moments could he speak in his true voice, and silence meant for the most part a studious repression21 of much he would naturally have uttered.
Resurgent envy gave him no little trouble. On entering the room, he could not but exclaim to himself, ‘How easy for a man to do notable work amid such surroundings! If I were but thus equipped for investigation22!’ And as often as his eyes left a particular object to make a general survey, the same thought burned in him. He feared lest it should be legible on his countenance23.
Taking a pamphlet from the table, Mr. Warricombe, with a humorous twinkle in his eyes, inquired whether Peak read German; the answer being affirmative:
‘Naturally,’ he rejoined, ‘you could hardly have neglected so important a language. I, unfortunately, didn’t learn it in my youth, and I have never had perseverance24 enough to struggle with it since. Something led me to take down this brochure the other day—an old attempt of mine to write about the weathering of rocks. It was printed in ‘76, and no sooner had it seen the light than friends of mine wanted to know what I meant by appropriating, without acknowledgement, certain facts quite recently pointed25 out by Professor Pfaff of Erlangen! Unhappily, Professor Pfaff’s results were quite unknown to me, and I had to get them translated. The coincidences, sure enough, were very noticeable. Just before you came in, I was reviving that old discomfiture26.’
Peak, in glancing over the pages, murmured with a smile:
‘Pereant qui ante nos nostra dixerunt!’
‘Even so!’ exclaimed Mr. Warricombe, laughing with a subdued28 heartiness29 which was one of his pleasant characteristics. And, after a pause, he inquired, ‘Do you find any time to keep up your classics?’
‘By fits and starts. Sometimes I return to them for a month or two.’
‘Why, it’s pretty much the same with me. Here on my table, for instance, lies Tacitus. I found it mentioned not long ago that the first sentence of the Annals is a hexameter—did you know it?—and when I had once got hold of the book I thought it a shabby thing to return it to the dust of its shelf without reading at least a few pages. So I have gone on from day to day, with no little enjoyment30. Buckland, as you probably know, regards these old fellows with scorn.’
‘We always differed about that.’
‘I can’t quite decide whether he is still sincere in all he says about them. Time, I suspect, is mellowing31 his judgment32.’
They moved to the shelves where Greek and Latin books stood in serried33 order, and only the warning dinner-bell put an end to their sympathetic discussion of the place such authors should hold in modern educational systems.
‘Have they shown you your room?’ Mr. Warricombe asked.
But, as he spoke34, the face of his eldest35 son appeared at the door.
‘Your traps have safely arrived, Peak.’
The bedroom to which Godwin was conducted had a delicious fragrance36, of source indeterminable. When he had closed the door, he stood for a few moments looking about him; it was his first experience of the upper chambers37 of houses such as this. Merely to step upon the carpet fluttered his senses: merely to breathe the air was a purification. Luxury of the rational kind, dictated39 by regard for health of body and soul, appeared in every detail. On the walls were water-colours, scenery of Devon and Cornwall; a hanging book-case held about a score of volumes poets, essayists, novelists. Elsewhere, not too prominent, lay a Bible and a Prayer-book.
He dressed, as never before, with leisurely40 enjoyment of the process. When the mirror declared him ready, his eyes returned frequently to an inspection41 of the figure he presented, and it seemed to him that he was not unworthy to take his place at the dinner-table. As for his visage, might he not console himself with the assurance that it was of no common stamp? ‘If I met that man in a room, I should be curious about him; I should see at once that he didn’t belong to the vulgar; I should desire to hear him speak.’ And the Warricombes were not lacking in discernment. He would compare more than favourably43 with Mr. Moorhouse, whose aspect, bright and agreeable enough, made no promise of originality44.—It must be time to go down. He left the room with an air of grave self-confidence.
At dinner he was careful to attempt no repetition of the display which had done very well at luncheon; it must not be thought that he had the habit of talking for effect. Mrs. Warricombe, unless he mistook, had begun to view him more favourably; her remarks made less distinction between him and the other guests. But he could not like his hostess; he thought her unworthy to be the mother of Sidwell and Fanny, of Buckland and Louis; there was a marked strain of the commonplace in her. The girls, costumed for the evening, affected45 him with a return of the awe46 he had all but overcome. Sidwell was exquisite47 in dark colours, her sister in white. Miss Moorhouse (addressed by her friends as ‘Sylvia’) looked older than in the day-time, and had lost something of her animation48; possibly the country routine had begun to weary her a little.
Peak was at a vast distance from the hour which saw him alight at Exeter and begin his ramble49 about the city. He no longer felt himself alone in the world; impossible to revive the mood in which he deliberately50 planned to consume his economies in a year or two of desert wandering; far other were the anticipations51 which warmed his mind when the after-dinner repose52 attuned53 him to unwonted hopefulness. This family were henceforth his friends, and it depended only upon himself to make the connection lasting56, with all manner of benefits easily imagined. Established in the country, the Warricombes stood to him in quite a different relation from any that could have arisen had he met with them in London. There he would have been nothing more than a casual dinner-guest, welcomed for the hour and all but forgotten when he had said good-night. For years he had understood that London offered him no prospect57 of social advancement58. But a night passed under this roof practically raised him to a level whence he surveyed a rich field of possible conquest. With the genial59 geologist60 he felt himself on excellent terms, and much of this was ascribable to a singular chance which had masked his real being, and represented him, with scarce an effort of his own, in a light peculiarly attractive to Mr. Warricombe. He was now playing the conscious hypocrite; not a pleasant thing to face and accept, but the fault was not his—fate had brought it about. At all events, he aimed at no vulgar profit; his one desire was for human fellowship; he sought nothing but that solace61 which every code of morals has deemed legitimate62. Let the society which compelled to such an expedient63 bear the burden of its shame.
That must indeed have been a circle of great intellects amid which Godwin Peak felt himself subordinate. He had never known that impression, and in the Warricombe family was no one whom he could regard even as his equal. Buckland, doubtless, had some knowledge of the world, and could boast of a free mind; but he lacked subtlety64: a psychological problem would easily puzzle him. Mr. Warricombe’s attainments66 were respectable, but what could be said of a man who had devoted67 his life to geology, and still (in the year 1884) remained an orthodox member of the Church of England? Godwin, as he sat in the drawing-room and enjoyed its atmosphere of refinement68, sincerely held himself of far more account as an intellectual being than all the persons about him.
But if his brain must dwell in solitude69 his heart might compass worthy42 alliances—the thing most needful to humanity. One may find the associates of his intellect in libraries—the friend of one’s emotions must walk in flesh and blood. Earwaker, Moxey—these were in many respects admirable fellows, and he had no little love for them, but the world they represented was womanless, and so of flagrant imperfection. Of Marcella Moxey he could not think emotionally; indeed she emphasised by her personality the lack which caused his suffering. Sidwell Warricombe suggested, more completely than any woman he had yet observed, that companionship without which life must to the end taste bitter. His interest in her was not strictly70 personal; she moved and spoke before him as a typical woman, not as the daughter of Martin Warricombe and the sister of Buckland. Here at last opened to his view that sphere of female society which he had known as remotely existing, the desperate aim of ambition.
Conventional women—but was not the phrase tautological71? In the few females who have liberated72 their souls, was not much of the woman inevitably73 sacrificed, and would it not be so for long years to come? On the other hand, such a one as Sidwell might be held a perfect creature, perfect in relation to a certain stage of human development. Look at her, as she sat conversing with Moorhouse, soft candle-light upon her face; compare her on the one hand with an average emancipated74 girl, on the other with a daughter of the people. How unsatisfying was the former; the latter, how repulsive75! Here one had the exquisite mean, the lady as England has perfected her towards the close of this nineteenth century. A being of marvellous delicacy76, of purest instincts, of unsurpassable sweetness. Who could not detail her limitations, obvious and, in certain moods, irritating enough? These were nothing to the point, unless one would roam the world a hungry idealist; and Godwin was weary of the famined pilgrimage.
The murmur27 of amiable77 voices softened78 him to the reception of all that was good in his present surroundings, and justified79 in the light of sentiment his own dishonour80. This English home, was it not surely the best result of civilisation81 in an age devoted to material progress? Here was peace, here was scope for the kindliest emotions. Upon him—the born rebel, the scorner of average mankind, the consummate82 egoist—this atmosphere exercised an influence more tranquillising, more beneficent, than even the mood of disinterested84 study. In the world to which sincerity16 would condemn85 him, only the worst elements of his character found nourishment86 and range; here he was humanised, made receptive of all gentle sympathies. Heroism87 might point him to an unending struggle with adverse88 conditions, but how was heroism possible without faith? Absolute faith he had none; he was essentially89 a negativist, guided by the mere38 relations of phenomena90. Nothing easier than to contemn91 the mode of life represented by this wealthy middle class; but compare it with other existences conceivable by a thinking man, and it was emphatically good. It aimed at placidity92, at benevolence93, at supreme94 cleanliness,—things which more than compensated95 for the absence of higher spirituality. We can be but what we are; these people accepted themselves, and in so doing became estimable mortals. No imbecile pretensions96 exposed them to the rebuke97 of a social satirist98; no vulgarity tainted99 their familiar intercourse101. Their allegiance to a worn-out creed102 was felt as an added grace; thus only could their souls aspire103, and the imperfect poetry of their natures be developed.
He took an opportunity of seating himself by Mrs. Warricombe, with whom as yet he had held no continuous dialogue.
‘Has there been anything of interest at the London theatres lately?’ she asked.
‘I know so little of them,’ Godwin replied, truthfully. ‘It must be several years since I saw a play.’
‘Then in that respect you have hardly become a Londoner.’
‘Nor in any other, I believe,’ said Peak, with a smile. ‘I have lived there ten years, but am far from regarding London as my home. I hope a few months more will release me from it altogether.’
‘Indeed!—Perhaps you think of leaving England?’
‘I should be very sorry to do that—for any length of time. My wish is to settle somewhere in the country, and spend a year or two in quiet study.’
Mrs. Warricombe looked amiable surprise, but corrected herself to approving interest.
‘I have heard some of our friends say that their minds get unstrung, if they are long away from town, but I should have thought that country quietness would be much better than London noise. My husband certainly finds it so.’
‘People are very differently constituted,’ said Godwin. ‘And then it depends much on the nature of one’s work.’
Uttering these commonplaces with an air of reflection, he observed that they did not cost him the self-contempt which was wont54 to be his penalty for concession104 to the terms of polite gossip; rather, his mind accepted with gratitude105 this rare repose. He tasted something of the tranquil83 self-content which makes life so enjoyable when one has never seen a necessity for shaping original remarks. No one in this room would despise him for a platitude106, were it but recommended with a pleasant smile. With the Moxeys, with Earwaker, he durst not thus have spoken.
When the hour of separation was at hand, Buckland invited his guest to retire with him to a part of the house where they could smoke and chat comfortably.
‘Moorhouse and Louis are fagged after their twenty mile stretch this morning; I have caught both of them nodding during the last few minutes. We can send them to bed without apology.’
He led the way upstairs to a region of lumber-rooms, whence a narrow flight of steps brought them into a glass-house, octangular and with pointed tops, out upon the roof. This, he explained, had been built some twenty years ago, at a time when Mr. Warricombe amused himself with photography. A few indications of its original purposes were still noticeable; an easel and a box of oil-colours showed that someone—doubtless of the younger generation—had used it as a painting-room; a settee and deep cane108 chairs made it an inviting109 lounge on a warm evening like the present, when, by throwing open a hinged wall, one looked forth55 into the deep sky and tasted the air from the sea.
‘Sidwell used to paint a little,’ said Buckland, as his companion bent110 to examine a small canvas on which a landscape was roughed in. It lay on a side table, and was half concealed111 by an ordnance112 map, left unfolded. ‘For the last year or two I think she has given it up. I’m afraid we are not strong in matters of art. Neither of the girls can play very well, though of course they both tinkle113 for their own amusement. Maurice—the poor lad who was killed—gave a good deal of artistic114 promise; father keeps some little water-colours of his, which men in that line have praised—perhaps sincerely.’
‘I remember you used to speak slightingly of art,’ said Godwin, as he took an offered cigar.
‘Did I? And of a good many other things, I daresay. It was my habit at one time, I believe, to grow heated in scorn of Euclid’s definitions. What an interesting book Euclid is! Half a year ago, I was led by a talk with Moorhouse to go through some of the old “props”, and you can’t imagine how they delighted me. Moorhouse was so obliging as to tell me that I had an eminently115 deductive mind.’
He laughed, but not without betraying some pleasure in the remark.
‘Surprising,’ he went on, ‘how very little such a mind as Moorhouse’s suggests itself in common conversation. He is really profound in mathematics, a man of original powers, but I never heard him make a remark of the slightest value on any other subject. Now his sister—she has studied nothing in particular, yet she can’t express an opinion that doesn’t bear the stamp of originality.’
Godwin was contented116 to muse107, his eyes fixed117 on a brilliant star in the western heaven.
‘There’s only one inconsistency in her that annoys and puzzles me,’ Buckland pursued, speaking with the cigar in his mouth. ‘In religion, she seems to be orthodox. True, we have never spoken on the subject, but—well, she goes to church, and carries prayer-books. I don’t know how to explain it. Hypocrisy118 is the last thing one could suspect her of. I’m sure she hates it in every form. And such a clear brain!—I can’t understand it.’
The listener was still star-gazing. He had allowed his cigar, after the first few puffs119, to smoulder untasted; his lips were drawn120 into an expression very unlike the laxity appropriate to pleasurable smoking. When the murmur of the pines had for a moment been audible, he said, with a forced smile:
‘I notice you take for granted that a clear brain and religious orthodoxy are incompatible121.’
The other gave him a keen look.
‘Hardly,’ was Buckland’s reply, spoken with less ingenuousness122 of tone than usual. ‘I say that Miss Moorhouse has undeniably a strong mind, and that it is impossible to suspect her of the slightest hypocrisy.’
‘Whence the puzzle that keeps you occupied,’ rejoined Peak, in a voice that sounded like assumption of superiority, though the accent had an agreeable softness.
Warricombe moved as if impatiently, struck a match to rekindle123 his weed, blew tumultuous clouds, and finally put a blunt question:
‘What do you think about it yourself?’
‘From my point of view, there is no puzzle at all,’ Godwin replied, in a very clear voice, smiling as he met the other’s look.
‘How am I to understand that?’ asked Buckland, good-naturedly, though with a knitting of his brows.
‘Not as a doubt of Miss Moorhouse’s sincerity. I can’t see that a belief in the Christian124 religion is excluded by any degree of intellectual clearness.’
‘No—your views have changed, Peak?’
‘On many subjects, this among them.’
‘I see.’
The words fell as if involuntarily from Warricombe’s lips. He gazed at the floor awhile, then, suddenly looking up, exclaimed:
‘It would be civil to accept this without surprise, but it is too much for me. How has it come about?’
‘That would take me a long time to explain.’
‘Then,’ pursued his companion, watching him closely, ‘you were quite in sympathy with that exposition you gave at lunch today?’
‘Quite. I hope there was nothing in my way of speaking that made you think otherwise?’
‘Nothing at all. I couldn’t help wondering what it meant. You seemed perfectly125 in earnest, yet such talk had the oddest sound on your lips—to me, I mean. Of course I thought of you as I used to know you.’
‘Naturally.’ Peak was now in an attitude of repose, his legs crossed, thumb and forefinger126 stroking his chin. ‘I couldn’t very well turn aside to comment on my own mental history.’
Here again was the note of something like genial condescension127. Buckland seemed sensible of it, and slightly raised his eyebrows128.
‘I am to understand that you have become strictly orthodox in matters of religious faith?’
‘The proof is,’ replied Godwin, ‘that I hope before long to take Orders.’
Again there was silence, and again the sea-breath made its whispering in the pines. Warricombe, with a sudden gesture, pointed towards the sky.
‘A shooting star—one of the brightest I ever saw!’
‘I missed it,’ said Peak, just glancing in that direction.
The interruption enabled Buckland to move his chair; in this new position he was somewhat further from Peak, and had a better view of his face.
‘I should never have imagined you a clergyman,’ he said, thoughtfully, ‘but I can see that your mind has been developing powers in that direction.—Well, so be it! I can only hope you have found your true work in life.’
‘But you doubt it?’
‘I can’t say that I doubt it, as I can’t understand you. To be sure, we have been parted for many years. In some respects I must seem much changed’—
‘Greatly changed,’ Godwin put in, promptly129.
‘Yes,’ pursued the other, correctively, ‘but not in a way that would seem incredible to anyone whatever. I am conscious of growth in tolerance130, but my attitude in essentials is unchanged. Thinking of you—as I have often enough done—I always kept the impression you made on me when we were both lads; you seemed most distinctly a modern mind—one of the most modern that ever came under my notice. Now, I don’t find it impossible to understand my father, when he reconciles science with religion; he was born sixty years ago. But Godwin Peak as a—a—’
‘Parson,’ supplied Peak, drily.
‘Yes, as a parson—I shall have to meditate131 much before I grasp the notion.’
‘Perhaps you have dropped your philosophical132 studies?’ said Godwin, with a smile of courteous133 interest.
‘I don’t know. Metaphysics have no great interest for me, but I philosophise in a way. I thought myself a student of human nature, at all events.’
‘But you haven’t kept up with philosophical speculation134 on the points involved in orthodox religion?’
‘I confess my ignorance of everything of the kind—unless you include Bishop135 Blougram among the philosophers?’
Godwin bore the gaze which accompanied this significant inquiry136. For a moment he smiled, but there followed an expression of gravity touched with pain.
‘I hadn’t thought of broaching137 this matter,’ he said, with slow utterance, but still in a tone of perfect friendliness138. ‘Let us put it aside.’
Warricombe seemed to make an effort, and his next words had the accent of well-bred consideration which distinguished139 his ordinary talk.
‘Pray forgive my bad joke. I merely meant that I have no right whatever to argue with anyone who has given serious attention to such things. They are altogether beyond my sphere. I was born an agnostic, and no subtlety of demonstration140 could incline me for a moment to theological views; my intellect refuses to admit a single preliminary of such arguments. You astonish me, and that’s all I am justified in saying.’
‘My dear Warricombe, you are justified in saying whatever your mind suggests. That is one of the principles which I hold unaltered—let me be quite frank with you. I should never have decided141 upon such a step as this, but for the fact that I have managed to put by a small sum of money which will make me independent for two or three years. Till quite lately I hadn’t a thought of using my freedom in this way; it was clear to me that I must throw over the old drudgery142 at Rotherhithe, but this resolve which astonishes you had not yet ripened—I saw it only as one of the possibilities of my life. Well, now, it’s only too true that there’s something of speculation in my purpose; I look to the Church, not only as a congenial sphere of activity, but as a means of subsistence. In a man of no fortune this is inevitable143; I hope there is nothing to be ashamed of. Even if the conditions of the case allowed it, I shouldn’t present myself for ordination144 forthwith; I must study and prepare myself in quietness. How the practical details will be arranged, I can’t say; I have no family influence, and I must hope to make friends who will open a way for me. I have always lived apart from society; but that isn’t natural to me, and it becomes more distasteful the older I grow. The probability is that I shall settle somewhere in the country, where I can live decently on a small income. After all, it’s better I should have let you know this at once. I only realised a few minutes ago that to be silent about my projects was in a way to be guilty of false pretences145.’
The adroitness146 of this last remark, which directed itself, with such show of candour, against a suspicion precisely147 the opposite of that likely to be entertained by the listener, succeeded in disarming148 Warricombe; he looked up with a smile of reassurance149, and spoke encouragingly.
‘About the practical details I don’t think you need have any anxiety. It isn’t every day that the Church of England gets such a recruit. Let me suggest that you have a talk with my father.’
Peak reflected on the proposal, and replied to it with grave thoughtfulness:
‘That’s very kind of you, but I should have a difficulty in asking Mr. Warricombe’s advice. I’m afraid I must go on in my own way for a time. It will be a few months, I daresay, before I can release myself from my engagements in London.’
‘But I am to understand that your mind is really made up?’
‘Oh, quite!’
‘Well, no doubt we shall have opportunities of talking. We must meet in town, if possible. You have excited my curiosity, and I can’t help hoping you’ll let me see a little further into your mind some day. When I first got hold of Newman’s Apologia, I began to read it with the utmost eagerness, flattering myself that now at length I should understand how a man of brains could travel such a road. I was horribly disappointed, and not a little enraged151, when I found that he began by assuming the very beliefs I thought he was going to justify152. In you I shall hope for more logic65.’
‘Newman is incapable153 of understanding such an objection,’ said Peak, with a look of amusement.
‘But you are not.’
The dialogue grew chatty. When they exchanged good-night, Peak fancied that the pressure of Buckland’s hand was less fervent154 than at their meeting, but his manner no longer seemed to indicate distrust. Probably the agnostic’s mood was one of half-tolerant disdain155.
Godwin turned the key in his bedroom door, and strayed aimlessly about. He was fatigued156, but the white, fragrant157 bed did not yet invite him; a turbulence158 in his brain gave warning that it would be long before he slept. He wound up his watch; the hands pointed to twelve. Chancing to come before the mirror, he saw that he was unusually pale, and that his eyes had a swollen159 look.
The profound stillness was oppressive to him; he started nervously160 at an undefined object in a dim corner, and went nearer to examine it; he was irritable161, vaguely162 discontented, and had even a moment of nausea163, perhaps the result of tobacco stronger than he was accustomed to smoke. After leaning for five minutes at the open window, he felt a soothing164 effect from the air, and could think consecutively165 of the day’s events. What had happened seemed to him incredible; it was as though he revived a mad dream, of ludicrous coherence166. Since his display of rhetoric167 at luncheon all was downright somnambulism. What fatal power had subdued him? What extraordinary influence had guided his tongue, constrained168 his features? His conscious self had had no part in all this comedy; now for the first time was he taking count of the character he had played.
Had he been told this morning that—Why, what monstrous169 folly170 was all this? Into what unspeakable baseness had he fallen? Happily, he had but to take leave of the Warricombe household, and rush into some region where he was unknown. Years hence, he would relate the story to Earwaker.
For a long time he suffered the torments171 of this awakening172. Shame buffeted173 him on the right cheek and the left; he looked about like one who slinks from merited chastisement174. Oh, thrice ignoble175 varlet! To pose with unctuous176 hypocrisy before people who had welcomed him under their roof, unquestioned, with all the grace and kindliness177 of English hospitality! To lie shamelessly in the face of his old fellow-student, who had been so genuinely glad to meet him again!
Yet such possibility had not been unforeseen. At the times of his profound gloom, when solitude and desire crushed his spirit, he had wished that fate would afford him such an opportunity of knavish178 success. His imagination had played with the idea that a man like himself might well be driven to this expedient, and might even use it with life-long result. Of a certainty, the Church numbered such men among her priests,—not mere lukewarm sceptics who made religion a source of income, nor yet those who had honestly entered the portal and by necessity were held from withdrawing, though their convictions had changed; but deliberate schemers from the first, ambitious but hungry natures, keen-sighted, unscrupulous. And they were at no loss to defend themselves against the attack of conscience. Life is a terrific struggle for all who begin it with no endowments save their brains. A hypocrite was not necessarily a harm-doer; easy to picture the unbelieving priest whose influence was vastly for good, in word and deed.
But he, he who had ever prided himself on his truth-fronting intellect, and had freely uttered his scorn of the credulous179 mob! He who was his own criterion of moral right and wrong! No wonder he felt like a whipped cur. It was the ancestral vice150 in his blood, brought out by over-tempting circumstance. The long line of base-born predecessors180, the grovelling181 hinds182 and mechanics of his genealogy183, were responsible for this. Oh for a name wherewith honour was hereditary184!
His eyes were blinded by a rush of hot tears. Down, down—into the depths of uttermost despondency, of self-pity and self-contempt! Had it been practicable, he would have fled from the house, leaving its occupants to think of him as they would; even as, ten years ago, he had fled from the shame impending185 over him at Kingsmill. A cowardly instinct, this; having once acted upon it gave to his whole life a taint100 of craven meanness. Mere bluster186, all his talk of mental dignity and uncompromising scorn of superstitions187. A weak and idle man, whose best years were already wasted!
He gazed deliberately at himself in the glass, at his red eyelids188 and unsightly lips. Darkness was best; perhaps he might forget his shame for an hour or two, ere the dawn renewed it. He threw off his garments heedlessly, extinguished the lamp, and crept into the ready hiding-place.
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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pedantry
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| n.迂腐，卖弄学问 | |
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piquant
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| adj.辛辣的，开胃的，令人兴奋的 | |
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deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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yew
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| n.紫杉属树木 | |
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8
perimeter
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| n.周边，周长，周界 | |
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9
illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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provocative
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| adj.挑衅的，煽动的，刺激的，挑逗的 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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12
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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13
oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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14
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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15
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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16
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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17
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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18
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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19
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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20
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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21
repression
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| n.镇压，抑制，抑压 | |
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22
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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23
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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24
perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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25
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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26
discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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27
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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28
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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29
heartiness
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| 诚实，热心 | |
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30
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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31
mellowing
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| 软化，醇化 | |
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32
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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33
serried
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| adj.拥挤的；密集的 | |
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34
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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35
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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36
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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37
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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38
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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39
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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40
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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41
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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42
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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43
favourably
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| adv. 善意地，赞成地 =favorably | |
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44
originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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45
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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46
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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47
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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48
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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49
ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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50
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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51
anticipations
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|
| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
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52
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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53
attuned
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| v.使协调( attune的过去式和过去分词 )；调音 | |
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54
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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55
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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56
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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57
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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58
advancement
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| n.前进，促进，提升 | |
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59
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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60
geologist
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| n.地质学家 | |
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61
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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62
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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63
expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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64
subtlety
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| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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65
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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66
attainments
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| 成就，造诣； 获得( attainment的名词复数 )； 达到； 造诣； 成就 | |
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67
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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68
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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69
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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70
strictly
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|
| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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71
tautological
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|
| adj.重复的；累赘的 | |
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72
liberated
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| a.无拘束的，放纵的 | |
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73
inevitably
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|
| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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74
emancipated
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|
| adj.被解放的，不受约束的v.解放某人（尤指摆脱政治、法律或社会的束缚）( emancipate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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75
repulsive
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|
| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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76
delicacy
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|
| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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77
amiable
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|
| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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78
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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79
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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80
dishonour
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|
| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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81
civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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82
consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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83
tranquil
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|
| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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84
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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85
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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86
nourishment
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| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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87
heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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88
adverse
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|
| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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89
essentially
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|
| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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90
phenomena
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| n.现象 | |
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91
contemn
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| v.蔑视 | |
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92
placidity
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| n.平静，安静，温和 | |
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93
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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94
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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95
compensated
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| 补偿，报酬( compensate的过去式和过去分词 )； 给（某人）赔偿（或赔款） | |
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96
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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97
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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98
satirist
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| n.讽刺诗作者，讽刺家，爱挖苦别人的人 | |
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99
tainted
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|
| adj.腐坏的；污染的；沾污的；感染的v.使变质( taint的过去式和过去分词 )；使污染；败坏；被污染，腐坏，败坏 | |
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100
taint
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| n.污点；感染；腐坏；v.使感染；污染 | |
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101
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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102
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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103
aspire
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| vi.(to，after)渴望，追求，有志于 | |
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104
concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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105
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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106
platitude
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| n.老生常谈，陈词滥调 | |
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107
muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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108
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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109
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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110
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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111
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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112
ordnance
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| n.大炮，军械 | |
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113
tinkle
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| vi.叮当作响；n.叮当声 | |
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114
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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115
eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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116
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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117
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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118
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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119
puffs
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| n.吸( puff的名词复数 )；（烟斗或香烟的）一吸；一缕（烟、蒸汽等）；（呼吸或风的）呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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120
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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121
incompatible
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| adj.不相容的，不协调的，不相配的 | |
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122
ingenuousness
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| n.率直；正直；老实 | |
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123
rekindle
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| v.使再振作；再点火 | |
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124
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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125
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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126
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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127
condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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128
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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129
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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130
tolerance
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| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
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131
meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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132
philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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133
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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134
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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135
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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136
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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137
broaching
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| n.拉削；推削；铰孔；扩孔v.谈起( broach的现在分词 )；打开并开始用；用凿子扩大（或修光）；（在桶上）钻孔取液体 | |
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friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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drudgery
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| n.苦工，重活，单调乏味的工作 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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ordination
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| n.授任圣职 | |
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145
pretences
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| n.假装( pretence的名词复数 )；作假；自命；自称 | |
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146
adroitness
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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disarming
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| adj.消除敌意的，使人消气的v.裁军( disarm的现在分词 )；使息怒 | |
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reassurance
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| n.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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153
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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turbulence
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| n.喧嚣，狂暴，骚乱，湍流 | |
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swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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nausea
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| n.作呕，恶心；极端的憎恶(或厌恶) | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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consecutively
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| adv.连续地 | |
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coherence
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| n.紧凑；连贯；一致性 | |
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rhetoric
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| n.修辞学，浮夸之言语 | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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buffeted
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| 反复敲打( buffet的过去式和过去分词 )； 连续猛击； 打来打去； 推来搡去 | |
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chastisement
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| n.惩罚 | |
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175
ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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unctuous
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| adj.油腔滑调的，大胆的 | |
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kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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knavish
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| adj.无赖（似）的，不正的；刁诈 | |
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credulous
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| adj.轻信的，易信的 | |
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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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grovelling
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| adj.卑下的，奴颜婢膝的v.卑躬屈节，奴颜婢膝( grovel的现在分词 )；趴 | |
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182
hinds
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| n.（常指动物腿）后面的( hind的名词复数 )；在后的；（通常与can或could连用）唠叨不停；滔滔不绝 | |
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genealogy
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| n.家系，宗谱 | |
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184
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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186
bluster
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| v.猛刮；怒冲冲的说；n.吓唬，怒号；狂风声 | |
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187
superstitions
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| 迷信，迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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188
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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