Martin Warricombe was reconciled to the prospect1 of a metropolitan2 winter by the fact that his old friend Thomas Gale3, formerly4 Geological Professor at Whitelaw College, had of late returned from a three years’ sojourn5 in North America, and now dwelt in London. The breezy man of science was welcomed back among his brethren with two-fold felicitation; his book on the Appalachians would have given no insufficient6 proof of activity abroad, but evidence more generally interesting accompanied him in the shape of a young and beautiful wife. Not every geologist7 whose years have entered the fifties can go forth8 and capture in second marriage a charming New England girl, thirty years his junior. Yet those who knew Mr. Gale—his splendid physique, his bluff9 cordiality, the vigour10 of his various talk—were scarcely surprised. The young lady was no heiress; she had, in fact, been a school teacher, and might have wearied through her best years in that uncongenial pursuit. Transplanted to the richest English soil, she developed remarkable11 aptitudes12. A month or two of London exhibited her as a type of all that is most attractive in American womanhood.
Between Mrs. Gale and the Warricombes intimacy13 was soon established. Sidwell saw much of her, and liked her. To this meditative14 English girl the young American offered an engrossing15 problem, for she avowed16 her indifference17 to all religious dogmas, yet was singularly tolerant and displayed a moral fervour which Sidwell had believed inseparable from Christian18 faith. At the Gales’ house assembled a great variety of intellectual people, and with her father’s express approval (Martin had his reasons) Sidwell made the most of this opportunity of studying the modern world. Only a few days after her arrival in London, she became acquainted with a Mr. Walsh, a brother of that heresiarch, the Whitelaw Professor, whose name was still obnoxious19 to her mother. He was a well-favoured man of something between thirty and forty, brilliant in conversation, personally engaging, and known by his literary productions, which found small favour with conservative readers. With surprise, Sidwell in a short time became aware that Mr. Walsh had a frank liking20 for her society. He was often to be seen in Mrs. Warricombe’s drawing-room, and at Mrs Gale’s he yet more frequently obtained occasions of talking with her. The candour with which he expressed himself on most subjects enabled her to observe a type of mind which at present had peculiar21 interest for her. Discretion22 often put restraint upon her curiosity, but none the less Mr. Walsh had plausible23 grounds for believing that his advances were not unwelcome. He saw that Sidwell’s gaze occasionally rested upon him with a pleasant gravity, and noted24 the mood of meditation25 which sometimes came upon her when he had drawn26 apart. The frequency of these dialogues was observed by Mrs Warricombe, and one evening she broached27 the subject to her daughter rather abruptly29.
‘I am surprised that you have taken such a liking to Mr. Walsh.’
Sidwell coloured, and made answer in the quiet tone which her mother had come to understand as a reproof30, a hint of defective31 delicacy32:
‘I don’t think I have behaved in a way that should cause you surprise.’
‘It seemed to me that you were really very—friendly with him.’
‘Yes, I am always friendly. But nothing more.’
‘Don’t you think there’s a danger of his misunderstanding you, Sidwell?’
‘I don’t, mother. Mr. Walsh understands that we differ irreconcilably33 on subjects of the first importance. I have never allowed him to lose sight of that.’
Intellectual differences were of much less account to Mrs. Warricombe than to her daughter, and her judgment34 in a matter such as this was consequently far more practical.
‘If I may advise you, dear, you oughtn’t to depend much on that. I am not the only one who has noticed something—I only mention it, you know.’
Sidwell mused35 gravely. In a minute or two she looked up and said in her gentlest voice:
‘Thank you, mother. I will be more careful.’
Perhaps she had lost sight of prudence36, forgetting that Mr. Walsh could not divine her thoughts. Her interest in him was impersonal37; when he spoke38 she was profoundly attentive39, only because her mind would have been affected40 in the same way had she been reading his words instead of listening to them. She could not let him know that another face was often more distinct to her imagination than his to her actual sight, and that her thoughts were frequently more busy with a remembered dialogue than with this in which she was engaged. She had abundantly safe-guarded herself against serious misconstruction, but if gossip were making her its subject, it would be inconsiderate not to regard the warning.
It came, indeed, at a moment when she was very willing to rest from social activity. At the time of her last stay in London, three years ago, she had not been ripe for reflection on what she saw. Now her mind was kept so incessantly41 at strain, and her emotions answered so intensely to every appeal, that at length she felt the need of repose42. It was not with her as with the young women who seek only to make the most of their time in agreeable ways. Sidwell’s vital forces were concentrated in an effort of profound spiritual significance. The critical hour of her life was at hand, and she exerted every faculty43 in the endeavour to direct herself aright.
Having heard from his brother that Sidwell had not been out for several days, Buckland took an opportunity of calling at the house early one morning. He found her alone in a small drawing-room, and sat down with an expression of weary discontent. This mood had been frequent in the young man of late. Sidwell remarked a change that was coming over him, a gloominess unnatural44 to his character.
‘Seen the Walworths lately?’ he asked, when his sister had assured him that she was not seriously ailing45.
‘We called a few days ago.’
‘Meet anyone there?’
‘Two or three people. No one that interested me.’
‘You haven’t come across some friends of theirs called Moxey?’
‘Oh yes! Miss Moxey was there one afternoon about a fortnight ago.’
‘Did you talk to her at all?’ Buckland asked.
‘Yes; we hadn’t much to say to each other, though. How do you know of her? Through Sylvia, I daresay.’
‘Met her when I was last down yonder.’
Sidwell had long since heard from her friend of Miss Moxey’s visit to Budleigh Salterton, but she was not aware that Buckland had been there at the same time. Sylvia had told her, however, of the acquaintance existing between Miss Moxey and Peak, a point of much interest to her, though it remained a mere46 unconnected fact. In her short conversation with Marcella, she had not ventured to refer to it.
‘Do you know anything of the family?’
‘I was going to ask you the same,’ returned Buckland. ‘I thought you might have heard something from the Walworths.’
Sidwell had in fact sought information, but, as her relations with the Walworths were formal, such inquiry47 as she could make from them elicited48 nothing more than she already knew from Sylvia.
‘Are you anxious to discover who they are?’ she asked.
Buckland moved uneasily, and became silent.
‘Oh, not particularly.’
‘I dined with Walsh yesterday,’ he said, at length, struggling to shake off the obvious dreariness49 that oppressed him. ‘He suits me; we can get on together.’
‘No doubt.’
‘But you don’t dislike him, I think?’
‘Implying that I dislike you,’ said Sidwell, lightsomely.
‘You have no affection for my opinions.—Walsh is an honest man.’
‘I hope so.’
‘He says what he thinks. No compromise with fashionable hypocrisy50.’
‘I despise that kind of thing quite as much as you do.’
They looked at each other. Buckland had a sullen51 air.
‘Yes, in your own way,’ he replied, ‘you are sincere enough, I have no doubt. I wish all women were so.
‘What exception have you in mind?’
He did not seem inclined to answer.
‘Perhaps it is your understanding of them that’s at fault,’ added Sidwell, gently.
‘Not in one case, at all events,’ he exclaimed. ‘Supposes you were asked to define Miss Moorhouse’s religious opinions, how would you do it?’
‘I am not well enough acquainted with them.’
‘Do you imagine for a moment that she has any more faith in the supernatural than I have?’
‘I think there is a great difference between her position and yours.’
‘Because she is hypocritical!’ cried Buckland, angrily. ‘She deceives you. She hasn’t the courage to be honest.’
Sidwell wore a pained expression.
‘You judge her,’ she replied, ‘far too coarsely. No one is called upon to make an elaborate declaration of faith as often as such subjects are spoken of. Sylvia thinks so differently from you about almost everything that, when she happens to agree with you, you are misled and misinterpret her whole position.’
‘I understand her perfectly52,’ Buckland went on, in the same irritated voice. ‘There are plenty of women like her—with brains enough, but utter and contemptible53 cowards. Cowards even to themselves, perhaps. What can you expect, when society is based on rotten shams54?’
For several minutes he pursued this vein55 of invective56, then took an abrupt28 leave. Sidwell had a piece of grave counsel ready to offer him, but he was clearly in no mood to listen, so she postponed57 it.
A day or two after this, she received a letter from Sylvia. Miss Moorhouse was anything but a good correspondent; she often confessed her inability to compose anything but the briefest and driest statement of facts. With no little surprise, therefore, Sidwell found that the envelope contained two sheets all but covered with her friend’s cramped58 handwriting. The letter began with apology for long delay in acknowledging two communications.
‘But you know well enough my dilatory59 disposition60. I have written to you mentally at least once a day, and I hope you have mentally received the results—that is to say, have assured yourself of my goodwill61 to you, and I had nothing else to send.’
At this point Sylvia had carefully obliterated62 two lines, blackening the page into unsightliness. In vain Sidwell pored over the effaced63 passage, led to do so by a fancy that she could discern a capital P, which looked like the first letter of a name. The writer continued:
‘Don’t trouble yourself so much about insoluble questions. Try to be more positive—I don’t say become a Positivist. Keep a receptive mind, and wait for time to shape your views of things. I see that London has agitated64 and confused you; you have lost your bearings amid the maze65 of contradictory66 finger-posts. If you were here I could soothe67 you with Sylvian (much the same as sylvan) philosophy, but I can’t write.’
Here the letter was to have ended, for on the line beneath was legible ‘Give my love to Fanny’, but this again had been crossed out, and there followed a long paragraph:
I have been reading a book about ants. Perhaps you know all the wonderful things about them, but I had neglected that branch of natural history. Their doings are astonishingly like those of an animal called man, and it seems to me that I have discovered one point of resemblance which perhaps has never been noted. Are you aware that at an early stage of their existence ants have wings? They fly—how shall I express it?—only for the brief time of their courtship and marriage and when these important affairs are satisfactorily done with their wings wither68 away, and thenceforth they have to content themselves with running about on the earth. Now isn’t this a remarkable parallel to one stage of human life? Do not men and women also soar and flutter—at a certain time? And don’t their wings manifestly drop off as soon as the end of that skyward movement has been achieved? If the gods had made me poetical69, I would sonnetise on this idea. Do you know any poet with a fondness for the ant-philosophy? If so, offer him this suggestion with liberty to “make any use of it he likes”.
‘But the fact of the matter is that some human beings are never winged at all. I am decidedly coming to the conclusion that I am one of those. Think of me henceforth as an apteryx—you have a dictionary at hand? Like the tailless fox, I might naturally maintain that my state is the more gracious, but honestly I am not assured of that. It may be (I half believe it is) a good thing to soar and flutter, and at times I regret that nature has forbidden me that experience. Decidedly I would never try to persuade anyone else to forego the use of wings. Bear this in mind, my dear girl. But I suspect that in time to come there will be an increasing number of female human creatures who from their birth are content with walking. Not long ago, I had occasion to hint that—though under another figure—to your brother Buckland. I hope he understood me—I think he did—and that he wasn’t offended.
‘I had something to tell you. I have forgotten it—never mind.’
And therewith the odd epistle was concluded. Sidwell perused70 the latter part several times. Of course she was at no loss to interpret it. Buckland’s demeanour for the past two months had led her to surmise71 that his latest visit to Budleigh Salterton had finally extinguished the hopes which drew him in that direction. His recent censure72 of Sylvia might be thus explained. She grieved that her brother’s suit should be discouraged, but could not persuade herself that Sylvia’s decision was final. The idea of a match between those two was very pleasant to her. For Buckland she imagined it would be fraught73 with good results, and for Sylvia, on the whole, it might be the best thing.
Before she replied to her friend nearly a month passed, and Christmas was at hand. Again she had been much in society. Mr. Walsh had renewed his unmistakable attentions, and, when her manner of meeting them began to trouble him with doubts, had cleared the air by making a formal offer of marriage. Sidwell’s negative was absolute, much to her mother’s relief. On the day of that event, she wrote rather a long letter to Sylvia, but Mr. Walsh’s name was not mentioned in it.
‘Mother tells me [it began] that your mother has written to her from Salisbury, and that you yourself are going there for a stay of some weeks. I am sorry, for on the Monday after Christmas Day I shall be in Exeter, and hoped somehow to have seen you. We—mother and I—are going to run down together, to see after certain domestic affairs; only for three days at most.
‘Your ant-letter was very amusing, but it saddened me, dear Sylvia. I can’t make any answer. On these subjects it is very difficult even for the closest friends to open their minds to each other. I don’t—and don’t wish to—believe in the apteryx profession; that’s all I must say.
‘My health has been indifferent since I last wrote. We live in all but continuous darkness, and very seldom indeed breathe anything that can be called air. No doubt this state of things has its effect on me. I look forwards, not to the coming of spring, for here we shall see nothing of its beauties, but to the month which will release us from London. I want to smell the pines again, and to see the golden gorse in our road.
‘By way of being more “positive”, I have read much in the newspapers, supplementing from them my own experience of London society. The result is that I am more and more confirmed in the fears with which I have already worried you. Two movements are plainly going on in the life of our day. The decay of religious belief is undermining morality, and the progress of Radicalism74 in politics is working to the same end by overthrowing75 social distinctions. Evidence stares one in the face from every column of the papers. Of course you have read more or less about the recent “scandal”—I mean the most recent.—It isn’t the kind of thing one cares to discuss, but we can’t help knowing about it, and does it not strongly support what I say? Here is materialism76 sinking into brutal77 immorality78, and high social rank degrading itself by intimacy with the corrupt79 vulgar. There are newspapers that make political capital out of these “revelations”.
I have read some of them, and they make me so fiercely aristocratic that I find it hard to care anything at all even for the humanitarian80 efforts of people I respect. You will tell me, I know, that this is quite the wrong way of looking at it. But the evils are so monstrous81 that it is hard to fix one’s mind on the good that may long hence result from them.
‘I cling to the essential (that is the spiritual) truths of Christianity as the only absolute good left in our time. I would say that I care nothing for forms, but some form there must be, else one’s faith evaporates. It has become very easy for me to understand how men and women who know the world refuse to believe any longer in a directing Providence82. A week ago I again met Miss Moxey at the Walworths’, and talked with her more freely than before. This conversation showed me that I have become much more tolerant towards individuals. But though this or that person may be supported by moral sense alone, the world cannot dispense83 with religion. If it tries to—and it will—there are dreadful times before us.
‘I wish I were a man! I would do something, however ineffectual. I would stand on the side of those who are fighting against mob-rule and mob-morals. How would you like to see Exeter Cathedral converted into a “coffee music-hall”? And that will come.’
Reading this, Sylvia had the sense of listening to an echo. Some of the phrases recalled to her quite a different voice from Sidwell’s. She smiled and mused.
On the morning appointed for her journey to Exeter Sidwell rose early, and in unusually good spirits. Mrs. Warricombe was less animated84 by the prospect of five hours in a railway carriage, for London had a covering of black snow, and it seemed likely that more would fall. Martin suggested postponement85, but circumstances made this undesirable86.
‘Let Fanny go with me,’ proposed Sidwell, just after breakfast. ‘I can see to everything perfectly well, mother.’
But Fanny hastened to decline. She was engaged for a dance on the morrow.
‘Then I’ll run down with you myself, Sidwell,’ said her father.
Mrs. Warricombe looked at the weather and hesitated. There were strong reasons why she should go, and they determined87 her to brave discomforts88.
It chanced that the morning post had brought Mr. Warricombe a letter from Godwin Peak. It was a reply to one that he had written with Christmas greetings; a kindness natural in him, for he had remembered that the young man was probably hard at work in his lonely lodgings89. He spoke of it privately90 to his wife.
‘A very good letter—thoughtful and cheerful. You’re not likely to see him, but if you happen to, say a pleasant word.’
‘I shouldn’t have written, if I were you,’ remarked Mrs. Warricombe.
‘Why not? I was only thinking the other day that he contrasted very favourably91 with the younger generation as we observe it here. Yes, I have faith in Peak. There’s the right stuff in him.’
‘Oh, I daresay. But still’——
And Mrs. Warricombe went away with an air of misgiving92.
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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metropolitan
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| adj.大城市的，大都会的 | |
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gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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geologist
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| n.地质学家 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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bluff
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| v.虚张声势，用假象骗人；n.虚张声势，欺骗 | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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aptitudes
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| （学习方面的）才能，资质，天资( aptitude的名词复数 ) | |
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intimacy
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meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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engrossing
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| adj.使人全神贯注的，引人入胜的v.使全神贯注( engross的现在分词 ) | |
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avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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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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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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meditation
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drawn
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broached
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| v.谈起( broach的过去式和过去分词 )；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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abrupt
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abruptly
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reproof
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defective
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| adj.有毛病的，有问题的，有瑕疵的 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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irreconcilably
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| （观点、目标或争议）不可调和的，不相容的 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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mused
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prudence
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impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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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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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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ailing
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| v.生病 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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elicited
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| 引出，探出( elicit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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dreariness
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| 沉寂，可怕，凄凉 | |
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hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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shams
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| 假象( sham的名词复数 )； 假货； 虚假的行为（或感情、言语等）； 假装…的人 | |
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vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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invective
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| n.痛骂，恶意抨击 | |
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postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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dilatory
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| adj.迟缓的，不慌不忙的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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goodwill
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| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
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obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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effaced
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| v.擦掉( efface的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；超越；使黯然失色 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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contradictory
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| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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wither
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| vt.使凋谢，使衰退，(用眼神气势等)使畏缩；vi.枯萎，衰退，消亡 | |
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poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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perused
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的过去式和过去分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
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surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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fraught
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| adj.充满…的，伴有(危险等)的；忧虑的 | |
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radicalism
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| n. 急进主义, 根本的改革主义 | |
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overthrowing
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| v.打倒，推翻( overthrow的现在分词 )；使终止 | |
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materialism
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| n.［哲］唯物主义，唯物论；物质至上 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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immorality
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| n. 不道德, 无道义 | |
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corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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humanitarian
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| n.人道主义者，博爱者，基督凡人论者 | |
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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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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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dispense
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| vt.分配，分发；配(药)，发(药)；实施 | |
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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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postponement
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| n.推迟 | |
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undesirable
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| adj.不受欢迎的，不良的，不合意的，讨厌的；n.不受欢迎的人，不良分子 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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discomforts
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| n.不舒适( discomfort的名词复数 )；不愉快，苦恼 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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favourably
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| adv. 善意地，赞成地 =favorably | |
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misgiving
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
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