Arthur arrived in town in a melancholy1 condition. His was a temperament2 peculiarly liable to suffer from attacks of depression, and he had, with some excuse, a sufficiently4 severe one on him now. Do what he would he could not for a single hour free his mind from the sick longing5 to see or hear from Angela, that, in addition to the mental distress6 it occasioned him, amounted almost to a physical pain. After two or three days of lounging about his club — for he was in no mood for going out — he began to feel that this sort of thing was intolerable, and that it was absolutely necessary for him to go somewhere or do something.
It so happened that, just after he had come to this decision, he overheard two men, who were sitting at the next table to him in the club dining-room, talking of the island of Madeira, and speaking of it as a charming place. He accepted this as an omen7, and determined8 that to Madeira he would go. And, indeed, the place would suit him as well as any other to get through a portion of his year of probation9 in, and, whilst affording a complete change of scene, would not be too far from England.
And so it came to pass that on the morrow Arthur found himself in the office of Messrs. Donald Currie, for the purpose of booking his berth10 in the vessel11 that was due to sail on the 14th. There he was informed by the very affable clerk, who assisted him to choose his cabin, that the vessel was unusually empty, and that, up to the present time, berths12 had been taken for only five ladies, and two of them Jewesses.
“However,” the clerk added, by way of consolation13, “this one,” pointing to Mrs. Carr’s name on the list, “is as good as a cargo,” and he whistled expressively14.
“What do you mean?” asked Arthur, his curiosity slightly excited.
“I mean — my word, here she comes.”
At that moment the swing doors of the office were pushed open, and there came through them one of the sweetest, daintiest little women Arthur had ever seen. She was no longer quite young, she might be eight and twenty or thirty, but, on the other hand, maturity15 had but added to the charms of youth. She had big, brown eyes that Arthur thought could probably look languishing16, if they chose, and that even in repose17 were full of expression, a face soft and blooming as a peach, and round as a baby’s, surmounted18 by a quantity of nut-brown hair, the very sweetest mouth, the lips rather full, and just showing a line of pearl, and lastly, what looked rather odd on such an infantile countenance19, a firm, square, and very determined, if very diminutive20 chin. For the rest, it was difficult to say which was the most perfect, her figure or her dress.
All of which, of course, had little interest for Arthur, but what did rather startle him was her voice, when she spoke21. From such a woman one would naturally have expected a voice of a corresponding nature, namely, one of the soft and murmuring order. But hers, on the contrary, though sweet, was decided22, and clear as a bell, and with a peculiar3 ring in it that he would have recognized amongst a thousand others.
On her entrance, Arthur stepped on one side.
“I have come to say,” she said, with a slight bow of recognition to the clerk; “that I have changed my mind about my berth, instead of the starboard deck cabin, I should like to have the port. I think that it will be cooler at this time of year, and also will you please make arrangements for three horses.”
“I am excessively sorry, Mrs. Carr,” the clerk answered; “but the port cabin is engaged — in fact, this gentleman has just taken it.”
“Oh, in that case”— with a little blush —“there is an end of the question.”
“By no means,” interrupted Arthur. “It is a matter of perfect indifference23 to me where I go. I beg that you will take it.”
“Oh, thank you. You are very good, but I could not think of robbing you of your cabin.”
“I must implore24 you to do so. Rather than there should be any difficulty, I will go below.” And then, addressing the clerk, “Be so kind as to change the cabin.”
“I owe you many thanks for your courtesy,” said Mrs. Carr, with a little curtsey.
Arthur took off his hat.
“Then we will consider that settled. Good morning, or perhaps I should say au revoir;” and, bowing again, he left the office.
“What is that gentleman’s name?” Mrs. Carr asked, when he was gone.
“Here it is, madam, on the list. ‘Arthur Preston Heigham, passenger to Madeira.’”
“Arthur Preston Heigham!” Mrs. Carr said to herself, as she made her way down to her carriage in Fenchurch Street. “Arthur is pretty, and Preston is pretty, but I don’t much like Heigham. At any rate, there is no doubt about his being a gentleman. I wonder what he is going to Madeira for? He has an interesting face. I think I am glad we are going to be fellow-passengers.”
The two days that remained to him in town, Arthur spent in making his preparations for departure; getting money, buying, after the manner of young Englishmen starting on a voyage to foreign parts, a large and fearfully sharp hunting-knife, as though Madeira were the home of wild beasts, and laying in a stock of various other articles of a useless description, such as impenetrable sun-helmets and leather coats.
The boat was to sail at noon on Friday, and on the Thursday evening he left Paddington by the mail that reaches Dartmouth about midnight. On the pier25, he and one or two other fellow-passengers found a boat waiting to take them to the great vessel, that, painted a dull grey, lay still and solemn in the harbour as they were rowed up to her, very different from the active, living thing that she was destined26 to become within the next twenty-four hours. The tide ebbing27 past her iron sides, the fresh, strong smell of the sea, the tall masts pointing skywards like gigantic fingers, the chime of the bell upon the bridge, the sleepy steward28, and the stuffy29 cabin, were all a pleasant variation from the every-day monotony of existence, and contributed towards the conclusion that life was still partially30 worth living, even when it could not be lived with Angela. Indeed, so much are we the creatures of circumstance, and so liable to be influenced by surroundings, that Arthur, who, a few hours before, had been plunged31 into the depths of depression, turned into his narrow berth, after a tremendous struggle with the sheets — which stewards32 arrange on a principle incomprehensible to landlubbers, and probably only partially understood by themselves — with considerable satisfaction and a pleasurable sense of excitement.
The next morning, or rather the earlier part of it, he devoted33, when he was not thinking about Angela, to arranging his goods and chattels34 in his small domain35, to examining the lovely scenery of Dartmouth harbour — the sight of which is enough to make any outward-bound individual bitterly regret his determination to quit his native land — and to inspecting the outward man of his fellow-passengers with that icy stolidity36 which characterizes the true-born Briton. But the great event of the morning was the arrival of the mail-train, bringing the bags destined for various African ports, loose letters for the passengers, and a motley contingent37 of the passengers themselves. Amongst these latter, he had no difficulty in recognizing the two Jewesses, of whom the clerk in the office had spoken, who were accompanied by individuals, presumably their husbands, and very remarkable38 for the splendour of their diamond studs and the dirtiness of their nails. The only other specimen39 of saloon-passenger womankind that he could see was a pretty, black-eyed girl of about eighteen, who was, as he afterwards discovered, going out under the captain’s care to be a governess at the Cape40, and who, to judge from the intense melancholy of her countenance, did not particularly enjoy the prospect41. But, with the exception of some heavy baggage that was being worked up from a cargo-boat by the donkey-engine, and a luxurious42 cane-chair on the deck that bore her name, no signs were there of Mrs. Carr.
Presently the purser sent round the head-steward, a gentleman whom Arthur mistook for the first mate, so smart was his uniform, to collect the letters, and it wrung43 him not a little to think that he alone could send none. The bell sounded to warn all not sailing to hurry to their boats, but still there was nothing to be seen of his acquaintance of the office; and, to speak the truth, he was just a little disappointed, for what he had seen of her had piqued44 his curiosity, and made him anxious to see more.
“I can’t wait any longer,” he heard the captain say; “she must come on by the Kinfauns.”
It was full twelve o’clock, and the last rope was being loosed from the moorings. “Ting-ting,” went the engine-room bell. “Thud-thud,” started the great screw that would not stop again for so many restless hours. The huge vessel shuddered45 throughout her frame like an awakening46 sleeper47, and growing quick with life, forged an inch or two a-head. Next, a quartermaster, came with two men to hoist48 up the gangway, when suddenly a boat shot alongside and hooked on, amongst the occupants of which Arthur had no difficulty in recognizing Mrs. Carr, who sat laughing, like Pleasure, at the helm. The other occupants of the boat, who were not laughing, he guessed to be her servants and the lady who figured on the passenger-list as Miss Terry, a stout49, solemn-looking person in spectacles.
“Now, then, Agatha,” called out Mrs. Carr from the stern-sheets, “be quick and jump up.”
“My dear Mildred, I can’t go up there; I can’t, indeed. Why, the thing’s moving.”
“But you must go up, or else be pulled up with a rope. Here, I will show the way,” and, moving down the boat, she sprang boldly, as it rose with the swell50, into the stalwart arms of the sailor who was waiting on the gangway landing-stage, and thence ran up the steps to the deck.
“Very well, I am going to Madeira. I don’t know what you are going to do; but you must make up your mind quick.”
“Can’t hold on much longer, mum,” said the boatman, “she’s getting way on now.”
“Come on, mum; I won’t let you in,” said the man of the ladder, seductively.
“Oh, dear, oh, dear, what shall I do?” groaned51 Miss Terry, wringing52 the hand that was not employed in holding on.
“John,” called Mrs. Carr to a servant who was behind Miss Terry, and looking considerably53 alarmed, “don’t stand there like a fool; put Miss Terry on to that ladder.”
Mrs. Carr was evidently accustomed to be obeyed, for, thus admonished54, John seized the struggling and shrieking55 Miss Terry, and bore her to the edge of the boat, where she was caught by two sailors, and, amidst the cheers of excited passengers, fairly dragged on to the deck.
“Oh! Mrs. Carr,” said the chief officer, reproachfully, when Miss Terry had been satisfactorily deposited on a bench, “you are late again; you were late last voyage.”
“Not at all, Mr. Thompson. I hate spending longer than is necessary aboard ship, so, when the train got in, I took a boat and went for a row in the harbour. I knew that you would not go without me.”
“Oh, yes, we should have, Mrs. Carr; the skipper heard about it because he waited for you before.”
“Well, here I am, and I promise that I won’t do it again.”
Mr. Thompson laughed, and passed on. At this moment Mrs. Carr perceived Arthur, and, bowing to him, they fell into conversation about the scenery through which the boat was passing on her way to the open sea. Before very long, indeed, as soon as the vessel began to rise and fall upon the swell, this talk was interrupted by a voice from the seat where Miss Terry had been placed.
“Mildred,” it said, “I do wish you would not come to sea; I am beginning to feel ill.”
“And no wonder, if you will insist upon coming up ladders head downwards56. Where’s John? He will help you to your cabin; the deck one, next to mine.”
But John had vanished with a parcel.
“Mildred, send some one quick, I beg of you,” remarked Miss Terry, in the solemn tones of one who feels that a crisis is approaching.
“I can’t see anybody except a very dirty sailor.”
“Permit me,” said Arthur, stepping to the rescue.
“You are very kind; but she can’t walk. I know her ways; she has got to the stage when she must be carried. Can you manage her?”
“I think so,” replied Arthur, “if you don’t mind holding her legs, and provided that the vessel does not roll,” and, with an effort, he hoisted57 Miss Terry baby-fashion into his arms, and staggered off with her towards the indicated cabin, Mrs. Carr, as suggested, holding the lower limbs of the prostrate58 lady. Presently she began to laugh.
“If you only knew how absurd we look,” she said.
“Don’t make me laugh,” answered Arthur, puffing59; for Miss Terry was by no means light, “or I shall drop her.”
“If you do, young man,” ejaculated his apparently60 unconscious burden with wonderful energy, “I will never forgive you.”
A remark, the suddenness of which so startled him, that he very nearly did.
“Thank you. Now lay her quite flat, please. She won’t get up again till we drop anchor at Madeira.”
“If I live so long,” murmured the invalid61.
Arthur now made his bow and departed, wondering how two women so dissimilar as Mrs. Carr and Miss Terry came to be living together. As it is a piece of curiosity that the reader may share, perhaps it had better be explained.
Miss Terry was a middle-aged62 relative of Mrs. Carr’s late husband, who had by a series of misfortunes been left quite destitute63. Her distress having come to the knowledge of Mildred Carr, she, with the kind-hearted promptitude that distinguished64 her, at once came to her aid, paid her debts, and brought her to her own house to stay, where she had remained ever since under the title of companion. These two women, living thus together, had nothing whatsoever65 in common, save that Miss Terry took some reflected interest in beetles66. As for travelling, having been brought up and lived in the same house of the same county town until she reached the age of forty-five, it was, as may be imagined, altogether obnoxious67 to her. Indeed, it is more than doubtful if she retained any clear impression whatsoever of the places she visited. “A set of foreign holes!” as she would call them, contemptuously. Miss Terry was, in short, neither clever nor strong minded, but so long as she could be in the company of her beloved Mildred, whom she regarded with mingled68 reverence69 and affection, she was perfectly70 happy. Oddly enough, this affection was reciprocated71, and there probably was nobody in the world for whom Mrs. Carr cared so much as her cousin by marriage, Agatha Terry. And yet it would be impossible to imagine two women more dissimilar.
Not long after they had left Dartmouth, the afternoon set in dull, and towards evening the sea freshened sufficiently to send most of the passengers below, leaving those who remained to be finally dispersed72 by the penetrating73 drizzle74 that is generally to be met with off the English coast. Arthur, left alone on the heaving deck, surveyed the scene, and thought it very desolate75. Around was a grey waste of tossing waters, illumined here and there by the setting rays of an angry sun, above, a wild and windy sky, with not even a sea-gull in all its space, and in the far distance a white and fading line, which was the shore of England.
Faint it grew, and fainter yet, and, as it disappeared, he thought of Angela, and a yearning76 sorrow fell upon him. When, he wondered sadly, should he again look into her eyes, and hold that proud beauty in his arms; what fate awaited them in the future that stretched before them, dim as the darkening ocean, and more uncertain. Alas77! he could not tell, he only felt that it was very bitter to be parted thus from her to whom had been given his whole heart’s love, to know that every fleeting78 moment widened a breach79 already far too wide, and not to know if it would again be narrowed, or if this farewell would be the last. Then he thought, if it should be the last, if she should die or desert him, what would his life be worth to him? A consciousness within him answered, “nothing.” And, in a degree, his conclusion was right; for, although it is, fortunately, not often in the power of any single passion to render life altogether worthless; it is certain that, when it strikes in youth, there is no sickness so sore as that of the heart; no sorrow more keen, and no evil more lasting80 than those connected with its disappointments and its griefs. For other sorrows, life has salves and consolations81, but a noble and enduring passion is not all of this world, and to cure its sting we must look to something beyond this world’s quackeries. Other griefs can find sympathy and expression, and become absorbed little by little in the variety of love’s issues. But love, as it is, and should be understood — not the faint ghost that arrays itself in stolen robes, and says, “I am love,” but love the strong and the immortal82, the passkey to the happy skies, the angel cipher83 we read, but cannot understand — such love as this, and there is none other true, can find no full solace84 here, not even in its earthly satisfaction.
For still it beats against its mortal bars and rends85 the heart that holds it; still strives like a meteor flaming to its central star, or a new loosed spirit seeking the presence of its God, to pass hence with that kindred soul to the inner heaven whence it came, there to be wholly mingled with its other life and clothed with a divine identity: — there to satisfy the aspirations86 that now vaguely87 throb88 within their fleshly walls, with the splendour and the peace and the full measure of the eternal joys it knows await its coming.
And is it not a first-fruit of this knowledge, that the thoughts of those who are plunged into the fires of a pure devotion fly upwards89 as surely as the sparks? Nothing but the dross90, the grosser earthly part is purged91 away by their ever-chastening sorrow, which is, in truth, a discipline for finer souls. For did there ever yet live the man or woman who, loving truly, has suffered, and the fires burnt out, has not risen Phoenix-like from their ashes, purer and better, and holding in the heart a bright, undying hope? Never; for these have walked bare-footed upon the holy ground, it is the flames from the Altar that have purged them and left their own light within! And surely this holds also good of those who have loved and lost, of those who have been scorned or betrayed; of the suffering army that cry aloud of the empty bitterness of life and dare not hope beyond. They do not understand that having once loved truly it is not possible that they should altogether lose: that there is to their pain and the dry-rot of their hopes, as to everything else in Nature, an end object. Shall the soul be immortal, and its best essence but a thing of air? Shall the one thought by day and the one dream by night, the ethereal star which guides us across life’s mirage92, and which will still shine serene93 at the moment of our fall from the precipice94 of Time: shall this alone, amidst all that makes us what we are, be chosen out to see corruption95, to be cast off and forgotten in the grave? Never! There, by the workings of a Providence96 we cannot understand, that mighty97 germ awaits fruition. There, too, shall we know the wherefore of our sorrow at which, sad-eyed, we now so often wonder: there shall we kiss the rod that smote98 us, and learn the glorious uses and pluck the glowing fruits of an affliction, that on earth filled us with such sick longing, and such an aching pain.
Let the long-suffering reader forgive these pages of speculative99 writing, for the subject is a tempting100 one, and full of interest for us mortals. Indeed, it may chance that, if he or she is more than five-and-twenty, these lines may even have been read without impatience101, for there are many who have the memory of a lost Angela hidden away somewhere in the records of their past, and who are fain, in the breathing spaces of their lives, to dream that they will find her wandering in that wide Eternity102 where “all human barriers fall, all human relations end, and love ceases to be a crime.”
收听单词发音 |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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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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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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probation
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| n.缓刑(期)，(以观后效的)察看；试用(期) | |
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berth
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| n.卧铺，停泊地，锚位；v.使停泊 | |
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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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berths
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| n.（船、列车等的）卧铺( berth的名词复数 )；（船舶的）停泊位或锚位；差事；船台vt.v.停泊( berth的第三人称单数 )；占铺位 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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expressively
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| ad.表示(某事物)地；表达地 | |
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maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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languishing
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| a. 衰弱下去的 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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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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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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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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implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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ebbing
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的现在分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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stewards
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| （轮船、飞机等的）乘务员( steward的名词复数 )； （俱乐部、旅馆、工会等的）管理员； （大型活动的）组织者； （私人家中的）管家 | |
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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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chattels
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| n.动产，奴隶( chattel的名词复数 ) | |
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domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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stolidity
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| n.迟钝，感觉麻木 | |
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contingent
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| adj.视条件而定的；n.一组，代表团，分遣队 | |
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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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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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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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sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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hoist
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| n.升高，起重机，推动；v.升起，升高，举起 | |
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swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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wringing
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| 淋湿的，湿透的 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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admonished
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| v.劝告( admonish的过去式和过去分词 )；训诫；（温和地）责备；轻责 | |
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shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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hoisted
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| 把…吊起，升起( hoist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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beetles
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| n.甲虫( beetle的名词复数 ) | |
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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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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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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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reciprocated
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| v.报答，酬答( reciprocate的过去式和过去分词 )；（机器的部件）直线往复运动 | |
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dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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drizzle
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| v.下毛毛雨；n.毛毛雨，蒙蒙细雨 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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consolations
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| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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cipher
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| n.零；无影响力的人；密码 | |
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solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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rends
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| v.撕碎( rend的第三人称单数 )；分裂；（因愤怒、痛苦等而）揪扯（衣服或头发等）；（声音等）刺破 | |
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aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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90
dross
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| n.渣滓；无用之物 | |
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purged
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| 清除（政敌等）( purge的过去式和过去分词 )； 涤除（罪恶等）； 净化（心灵、风气等）； 消除（错事等）的不良影响 | |
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mirage
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| n.海市蜃楼，幻景 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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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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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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98
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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99
speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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100
tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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101
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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102
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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