“THIS was my college, you know,” he would almost anywhere break out, applying the words wherever we stood —“the sweetest and noblest in the whole place. How often have I strolled in this cloister with my intimates of the other world! They are all dead and buried, but many a young fellow as we meet him, dark or fair, tall or short, reminds me of the past age and the early attachment32. Even as we stand here, they say, the whole thing feels about its massive base the murmurs33 of the tide of time; some of the foundation-stones are loosened, some of the breaches34 will have to be repaired. Mine was the old unregenerate Oxford, the home of rank abuses, of distinctions and privileges the most delicious and invidious. What cared I, who was a perfect gentleman and with my pockets full of money? I had an allowance of a thousand a year.”
It was at once plain to me that he had lost the little that remained of his direct grasp on life and was unequal to any effort of seeing things in their order. He read my apprehension35 in my eyes and took pains to assure me I was right. “I’m going straight down hill. Thank heaven it’s an easy slope, coated with English turf and with an English churchyard at the foot.” The hysterical36 emotion produced by our late dire16 misadventure had given place to an unruffled calm in which the scene about us was reflected as in an old-fashioned mirror. We took an afternoon walk through Christ–Church meadow and at the river-bank procured37 a boat which I pulled down the stream to Iffley and to the slanting38 woods of Nuneham — the sweetest flattest reediest stream-side landscape that could be desired. Here of course we encountered the scattered39 phalanx of the young, the happy generation, clad in white flannel40 and blue, muscular fair-haired magnificent fresh, whether floated down the current by idle punts and lounging in friendly couples when not in a singleness that nursed ambitions, or straining together in rhythmic41 crews and hoarsely42 exhorted43 from the near bank. When to the exhibition of so much of the clearest joy of wind and limb we added the great sense of perfumed protection shed by all the enclosed lawns and groves44 and bowers45, we felt that to be young in such scholastic46 shades must be a double, an infinite blessing47. As my companion found himself less and less able to walk we repaired in turn to a series of gardens and spent long hours sitting in their greenest places. They struck us as the fairest things in England and the ripest and sweetest fruit of the English system. Locked in their antique verdure, guarded, as in the case of New College, by gentle battlements of silver-grey, outshouldering the matted leafage of undisseverable plants, filled with nightingales and memories, a sort of chorus of tradition; with vaguely48-generous youths sprawling49 bookishly on the turf as if to spare it the injury of their boot-heels, and with the great conservative college countenance50 appealing gravely from the restless outer world, they seem places to lie down on the grass in for ever, in the happy faith that life is all a green old English garden and time an endless summer afternoon. This charmed seclusion51 was especially grateful to my friend, and his sense of it reached its climax52, I remember, on one of the last of such occasions and while we sat in fascinated flanerie over against the sturdy back of Saint John’s. The wide discreetly-windowed wall here perhaps broods upon the lawn with a more effective air of property than elsewhere. Searle dropped into fitful talk and spun53 his humour into golden figures. Any passing undergraduate was a peg54 to hang a fable55, every feature of the place a pretext56 for more embroidery57.
“Isn’t it all a delightful58 lie?” he wanted to know. “Mightn’t one fancy this the very central point of the world’s heart, where all the echoes of the general life arrive but to falter59 and die? Doesn’t one feel the air just thick with arrested voices? It’s well there should be such places, shaped in the interest of factitious needs, invented to minister to the book-begotten longing60 for a medium in which one may dream unwaked and believe unconfuted; to foster the sweet illusion that all’s well in a world where so much is so damnable, all right and rounded, smooth and fair, in this sphere of the rough and ragged61, the pitiful unachieved especially, and the dreadful uncommenced. The world’s made — work’s over. Now for leisure! England’s safe — now for Theocritus and Horace, for lawn and sky! What a sense it all gives one of the composite life of the country and of the essential furniture of its luckier minds! Thank heaven they had the wit to send me here in the other time. I’m not much visibly the braver perhaps, but think how I’m the happier! The misty62 spires63 and towers, seen far off on the level, have been all these years one of the constant things of memory. Seriously, what do the spires and towers do for these people? Are they wiser, gentler, finer, cleverer? My diminished dignity reverts64 in any case at moments to the naked background of our own education, the deadly dry air in which we gasp65 for impressions and comparisons. I assent66 to it all with a sort of desperate calmness; I accept it with a dogged pride. We’re nursed at the opposite pole. Naked come we into a naked world. There’s a certain grandeur67 in the lack of decorations, a certain heroic strain in that young imagination of ours which finds nothing made to its hands, which has to invent its own traditions and raise high into our morning-air, with a ringing hammer and nails, the castles in which we dwell. Noblesse oblige — Oxford must damnably do so. What a horrible thing not to rise to such examples! If you pay the pious68 debt to the last farthing of interest you may go through life with her blessing; but if you let it stand unhonoured you’re a worse barbarian69 than we! But for the better or worse, in a myriad70 private hearts, think how she must be loved! How the youthful sentiment of mankind seems visibly to brood upon her! Think of the young lives now taking colour in her cloisters71 and halls. Think of the centuries’ tale of dead lads — dead alike with the end of the young days to which these haunts were a present world, and the close of the larger lives which the general mother-scene has dropped into less bottomless traps. What are those two young fellows kicking their heels over on the grass there? One of them has the Saturday Review; the other — upon my soul — the other has Artemus Ward14! Where do they live, how do they live, to what end do they live? Miserable72 boys! How can they read Artemus Ward under those windows of Elizabeth? What do you think loveliest in all Oxford? The poetry of certain windows. Do you see that one yonder, the second of those lesser73 bays, with the broken cornice and the lattice? That used to be the window of my bosom74 friend a hundred years ago. Remind me to tell you the story of that broken cornice. Don’t pretend it’s not a common thing to have one’s bosom friend at another college. Pray was I committed to common things? He was a charming fellow. By the way, he was a good deal like you. Of course his cocked hat, his long hair in a black ribbon, his cinnamon velvet75 suit and his flowered waistcoat made a difference. We gentlemen used to wear swords.”
There was really the touch of grace in my poor friend’s divagations — the disheartened dandy had so positively76 turned rhapsodist and seer. I was particularly struck with his having laid aside the diffidence and self-consciousness of the first days of our acquaintance. He had become by this time a disembodied observer and critic; the shell of sense, growing daily thinner and more transparent77, transmitted the tremor78 of his quickened spirit. He seemed to pick up acquaintances, in the course of our contemplations, merely by putting out his hand. If I left him for ten minutes I was sure to find him on my return in earnest conversation with some affable wandering scholar. Several young men with whom he had thus established relations invited him to their rooms and entertained him, as I gathered, with rather rash hospitality. For myself, I chose not to be present at these symposia80; I shrank partly from being held in any degree responsible for his extravagance, partly from the pang81 of seeing him yield to champagne82 and an admiring circle. He reported such adventures with less keen a complacency than I had supposed he might use, but a certain method in his madness, a certain dignity in his desire to fraternise, appeared to save him from mischance. If they didn’t think him a harmless lunatic they certainly thought him a celebrity83 of the Occident84. Two things, however, grew evident — that he drank deeper than was good for him and that the flagrant freshness of his young patrons rather interfered85 with his predetermined sense of the element of finer romance. At the same time it completed his knowledge of the place. Making the acquaintance of several tutors and fellows, he dined in hall in half a dozen colleges, alluding86 afterwards to these banquets with religious unction. One evening after a participation87 indiscreetly prolonged he came back to the hotel in a cab, accompanied by a friendly undergraduate and a physician and looking deadly pale. He had swooned away on leaving table and remained so rigidly88 unconscious as much to agitate89 his banqueters. The following twenty-four hours he of course spent in bed, but on the third day declared himself strong enough to begin afresh. On his reaching the street his strength once more forsook90 him, so that I insisted on his returning to his room. He besought91 me with tears in his eyes not to shut him up. “It’s my last chance — I want to go back for an hour to that garden of Saint John’s. Let me eat and drink — tomorrow I die.” It seemed to me possible that with a Bath-chair the expedition might be accomplished92. The hotel, it appeared, possessed93 such a convenience, which was immediately produced. It became necessary hereupon that we should have a person to propel the chair. As there was no one on the spot at liberty I was about to perform the office; but just as my patient had got seated and wrapped — he now had a perpetual chill — an elderly man emerged from a lurking-place near the door and, with a formal salute94, offered to wait upon the gentleman. We assented95, and he proceeded solemnly to trundle the chair before him. I recognised him as a vague personage whom I had observed to lounge shyly about the doors of the hotels, at intervals96 during our stay, with a depressed97 air of wanting employment and a poor semblance98 of finding it. He had once indeed in a half-hearted way proposed himself as an amateur cicerone for a tour through the colleges; and I now, as I looked at him, remembered with a pang that I had too curtly99 declined his ministrations. Since then his shyness, apparently100, had grown less or his misery101 greater, for it was with a strange grim avidity that he now attached himself to our service. He was a pitiful image of shabby gentility and the dinginess103 of “reduced circumstances.” He would have been, I suppose, some fifty years of age; but his pale haggard unwholesome visage, his plaintive105 drooping106 carriage and the irremediable disarray107 of his apparel seemed to add to the burden of his days and tribulations108. His eyes were weak and bloodshot, his bold nose was sadly compromised, and his reddish beard, largely streaked109 with grey, bristled110 under a month’s neglect of the razor. In all this rusty111 forlornness lurked112 a visible assurance of our friend’s having known better days. Obviously he was the victim of some fatal depreciation113 in the market value of pure gentility. There had been something terribly affecting in the way he substituted for the attempt to touch the greasy114 rim102 of his antiquated115 hat some such bow as one man of the world might make another. Exchanging a few words with him as we went I was struck with the decorum of his accent. His fine whole voice should have been congruously cracked.
“Take me by some long roundabout way,” said Searle, “so that I may see as many college-walls as possible.”
“You know,” I asked of our attendant, “all these wonderful ins and outs?”
“I ought to, sir,” he said, after a moment, with pregnant gravity. And as we were passing one of the colleges, “That used to be my place,” he added.
At these words Searle desired him to stop and come round within sight. “You say that’s YOUR college?”
“The place might deny me, sir; but heaven forbid I should seem to take it ill of her. If you’ll allow me to wheel you into the quad13 I’ll show you my windows of thirty years ago.”
Searle sat staring, his huge pale eyes, which now left nothing else worth mentioning in his wasted face, filled with wonder and pity. “If you’ll be so kind,” he said with great deference116. But just as this perverted117 product of a liberal education was about to propel him across the threshold of the court he turned about, disengaged the mercenary hands, with one of his own, from the back of the chair, drew their owner alongside and turned to me. “While we’re here, my dear fellow,” he said, “be so good as to perform this service. You understand?” I gave our companion a glance of intelligence and we resumed our way. The latter showed us his window of the better time, where a rosy118 youth in a scarlet119 smoking-fez now puffed120 a cigarette at the open casement121. Thence we proceeded into the small garden, the smallest, I believe, and certainly the sweetest, of all the planted places of Oxford. I pushed the chair along to a bench on the lawn, turned it round, toward the front of the college and sat down by it on the grass. Our attendant shifted mournfully from one foot to the other, his patron eyeing him open-mouthed. At length Searle broke out: “God bless my soul, sir, you don’t suppose I expect you to stand! There’s an empty bench.”
“Thank you,” said our friend, who bent122 his joints123 to sit.
“You English are really fabulous124! I don’t know whether I most admire or most abominate125 you! Now tell me: who are you? what are you? what brought you to this?”
The poor fellow blushed up to his eyes, took off his hat and wiped his forehead with an indescribable fabric126 drawn127 from his pocket. “My name’s Rawson, sir. Beyond that it’s a long story.”
“I ask out of sympathy,” said Searle. “I’ve a fellow-feeling. If you’re a poor devil I’m a poor devil as well.”
“I’m the poorer devil of the two,” said the stranger with an assurance for once presumptuous128.
“Possibly. I suppose an English poor devil’s the poorest of all poor devils. And then you’ve fallen from a height. From a gentleman commoner — is that what they called you? — to a propeller129 of Bath-chairs. Good heavens, man, the fall’s enough to kill you!”
“I didn’t take it all at once, sir. I dropped a bit one time and a bit another.”
“That’s me, that’s me!” cried Searle with all his seriousness.
“And now,” said our friend, “I believe I can’t drop any further.”
“My dear fellow”— and Searle clasped his hand and shook it —“I too am at the very bottom of the hole.”
Mr. Rawson lifted his eyebrows130. “Well, sir, there’s a difference between sitting in such a pleasant convenience and just trudging131 behind it!”
“Yes — there’s a shade. But I’m at my last gasp, Mr. Rawson.”
“I’m at my last penny, sir.”
“Literally, Mr. Rawson?”
Mr. Rawson shook his head with large loose bitterness. “I’ve almost come to the point of drinking my beer and buttoning my coat figuratively; but I don’t talk in figures.”
Fearing the conversation might appear to achieve something like gaiety at the expense of Mr. Rawson’s troubles, I took the liberty of asking him, with all consideration, how he made a living.
“I don’t make a living,” he answered with tearful eyes; “I can’t make a living. I’ve a wife and three children — and all starving, sir. You wouldn’t believe what I’ve come to. I sent my wife to her mother’s, who can ill afford to keep her, and came to Oxford a week ago, thinking I might pick up a few half-crowns by showing people about the colleges. But it’s no use. I haven’t the assurance. I don’t look decent. They want a nice little old man with black gloves and a clean shirt and a silver-headed stick. What do I look as if I knew about Oxford, sir?”
“Mercy on us,” cried Searle, “why didn’t you speak to us before?”
“I wanted to; half a dozen times I’ve been on the point of it. I knew you were Americans.”
“And Americans are rich!” cried Searle, laughing. “My dear Mr. Rawson, American as I am I’m living on charity.”
“And I’m exactly not, sir! There it is. I’m dying for the lack of that same. You say you’re a pauper132, but it takes an American pauper to go bowling133 about in a Bath-chair. America’s an easy country.”
“Ah me!” groaned135 Searle. “Have I come to the most delicious corner of the ancient world to hear the praise of Yankeeland?”
“Delicious corners are very well, and so is the ancient world,” said Mr. Rawson; “but one may sit here hungry and shabby, so long as one isn’t too shabby, as well as elsewhere. You’ll not persuade me that it’s not an easier thing to keep afloat yonder than here. I wish I were in Yankeeland, that’s all!” he added with feeble force. Then brooding for a moment on his wrongs: “Have you a bloated brother? or you, sir? It matters little to you. But it has mattered to me with a vengeance136! Shabby as I sit here I can boast that advantage — as he his five thousand a year. Being but a twelvemonth my elder he swaggers while I go thus. There’s old England for you! A very pretty place for HIM!”
“Poor old England!” said Searle softly.
“Has your brother never helped you?” I asked.
“A five-pound note now and then! Oh I don’t say there haven’t been times when I haven’t inspired an irresistible137 sympathy. I’ve not been what I should. I married dreadfully out of the way. But the devil of it is that he started fair and I started foul138; with the tastes, the desires, the needs, the sensibilities of a gentleman — and not another blessed ‘tip.’ I can’t afford to live in England.”
“THIS poor gentleman fancied a couple of months ago that he couldn’t afford to live in America,” I fondly explained.
“I’d ‘swap’— do you call it? — chances with him!” And Mr. Rawson looked quaintly139 rueful over his freedom of speech.
Searle sat supported there with his eyes closed and his face twitching140 for violent emotion, and then of a sudden had a glare of gravity. “My friend, you’re a dead failure! Be judged! Don’t talk about ‘swapping.’ Don’t talk about chances. Don’t talk about fair starts and false starts. I’m at that point myself that I’ve a right to speak. It lies neither in one’s chance nor one’s start to make one a success; nor in anything one’s brother — however bloated — can do or can undo141. It lies in one’s character. You and I, sir, have HAD no character — that’s very plain. We’ve been weak, sir; as weak as water. Here we are for it — sitting staring in each other’s faces and reading our weakness in each other’s eyes. We’re of no importance whatever, Mr. Rawson!”
Mr. Rawson received this sally with a countenance in which abject142 submission143 to the particular affirmed truth struggled with the comparative propriety144 of his general rebellion against fate. In the course of a minute a due self-respect yielded to the warm comfortable sense of his being relieved of the cares of an attitude. “Go on, sir, go on,” he said. “It’s wholesome104 doctrine145.” And he wiped his eyes with what seemed his sole remnant of linen146.
“Dear, dear,” sighed Searle, “I’ve made you cry! Well, we speak as from man to man. I should be glad to think you had felt for a moment the side-light of that great undarkening of the spirit which precedes — which precedes the grand illumination of death.”
Mr. Rawson sat silent a little, his eyes fixed147 on the ground and his well-cut nose but the more deeply dyed by his agitation148. Then at last looking up: “You’re a very good-natured man, sir, and you’ll never persuade me you don’t come of a kindly149 race. Say what you please about a chance; when a man’s fifty — degraded, penniless, a husband and father — a chance to get on his legs again is not to be despised. Something tells me that my luck may be in your country — which has brought luck to so many. I can come on the parish here of course, but I don’t want to come on the parish. Hang it, sir, I want to hold up my head. I see thirty years of life before me yet. If only by God’s help I could have a real change of air! It’s a fixed idea of mine. I’ve had it for the last ten years. It’s not that I’m a low radical150. Oh I’ve no vulgar opinions. Old England’s good enough for me, but I’m not good enough for old England. I’m a shabby man that wants to get out of a room full of staring gentlefolk. I’m for ever put to the blush. It’s a perfect agony of spirit; everything reminds me of my younger and better self. The thing for me would be a cooling cleansing151 plunge152 into the unknowing and the unknown! I lie awake thinking of it.”
Searle closed his eyes, shivering with a long-drawn tremor which I hardly knew whether to take for an expression of physical or of mental pain. In a moment I saw it was neither. “Oh my country, my country, my country!” he murmured in a broken voice; and then sat for some time abstracted and lost. I signalled our companion that it was time we should bring our small session to a close, and he, without hesitating, possessed himself of the handle of the Bath-chair and pushed it before him. We had got halfway153 home before Searle spoke154 or moved. Suddenly in the High Street, as we passed a chop-house from whose open doors we caught a waft155 of old-fashioned cookery and other restorative elements, he motioned us to halt. “This is my last five pounds”— and he drew a note from his pocket-book. “Do me the favour, Mr. Rawson, to accept it. Go in there and order the best dinner they can give you. Call for a bottle of Burgundy and drink it to my eternal rest!”
Mr. Rawson stiffened156 himself up and received the gift with fingers momentarily irresponsive. But Mr. Rawson had the nerves of a gentleman. I measured the spasm157 with which his poor dispossessed hand closed upon the crisp paper, I observed his empurpled nostril158 convulsive under the other solicitation159. He crushed the crackling note in his palm with a passionate160 pressure and jerked a spasmodic bow. “I shall not do you the wrong, sir, of anything but the best!” The next moment the door swung behind him.
Searle sank again into his apathy161, and on reaching the hotel I helped him to get to bed. For the rest of the day he lay without motion or sound and beyond reach of any appeal. The doctor, whom I had constantly in attendance, was sure his end was near. He expressed great surprise that he should have lasted so long; he must have been living for a month on the very dregs of his strength. Toward evening, as I sat by his bedside in the deepening dusk, he roused himself with a purpose I had vaguely felt gathering162 beneath his stupor163. “My cousin, my cousin,” he said confusedly. “Is she here?” It was the first time he had spoken of Miss Searle since our retreat from her brother’s house, and he continued to ramble164. “I was to have married her. What a dream! That day was like a string of verses — rhymed hours. But the last verse is bad measure. What’s the rhyme to ‘love’? ABOVE! Was she a simple woman, a kind sweet woman? Or have I only dreamed it? She had the healing gift; her touch would have cured my madness. I want you to do something. Write three lines, three words: ‘Good-bye; remember me; be happy.’” And then after a long pause: “It’s strange a person in my state should have a wish. Why should one eat one’s breakfast the day one’s hanged? What a creature is man! What a farce165 is life! Here I lie, worn down to a mere79 throbbing166 fever-point; I breathe and nothing more, and yet I DESIRE! My desire lives. If I could see her! Help me out with it and let me die.”
Half an hour later, at a venture, I dispatched by post a note to Miss Searle: “Your cousin is rapidly sinking. He asks to see you.” I was conscious of a certain want of consideration in this act, since it would bring her great trouble and yet no power to face the trouble; but out of her distress167 I fondly hoped a sufficient force might be born. On the following day my friend’s exhaustion168 had become so great that I began to fear his intelligence altogether broken up. But toward evening he briefly169 rallied, to maunder about many things, confounding in a sinister170 jumble171 the memories of the past weeks and those of bygone years. “By the way,” he said suddenly, “I’ve made no will. I haven’t much to bequeath. Yet I have something.” He had been playing listlessly with a large signet-ring on his left hand, which he now tried to draw off. “I leave you this”— working it round and round vainly —“if you can get it off. What enormous knuckles172! There must be such knuckles in the mummies of the Pharaohs. Well, when I’m gone —! No, I leave you something more precious than gold — the sense of a great kindness. But I’ve a little gold left. Bring me those trinkets.” I placed on the bed before him several articles of jewellery, relics173 of early foppery: his watch and chain, of great value, a locket and seal, some odds174 and ends of goldsmith’s work. He trifled with them feebly for some moments, murmuring various names and dates associated with them. At last, looking up with clearer interest, “What has become,” he asked, “of Mr. Rawson?”
“You want to see him?”
“How much are these things worth?” he went on without heeding175 me. “How much would they bring?” And he weighed them in his weak hands. “They’re pretty heavy. Some hundred or so? Oh I’m richer than I thought! Rawson — Rawson — you want to get out of this awful England?”
I stepped to the door and requested the servant whom I kept in constant attendance in our adjacent sitting-room176 to send and ascertain177 if Mr. Rawson were on the premises178. He returned in a few moments, introducing our dismal179 friend. Mr. Rawson was pale even to his nose and derived180 from his unaffectedly concerned state an air of some distinction. I led him up to the bed. In Searle’s eyes, as they fell on him, there shone for a moment the light of a human message.
“Lord have mercy!” gasped181 Mr. Rawson.
“My friend,” said Searle, “there’s to be one American the less — so let there be at the same time one the more. At the worst you’ll be as good a one as I. Foolish me! Take these battered relics; you can sell them; let them help you on your way. They’re gifts and mementoes, but this is a better use. Heaven speed you! May America be kind to you. Be kind, at the last, to your own country!”
“Really this is too much; I can’t,” the poor man protested, almost scared and with tears in his eyes. “Do come round and get well and I’ll stop here. I’ll stay with you and wait on you.”
“No, I’m booked for my journey, you for yours. I hope you don’t mind the voyage.”
Mr. Rawson exhaled182 a groan134 of helpless gratitude183, appealing piteously from so strange a windfall. “It’s like the angel of the Lord who bids people in the Bible to rise and flee!”
Searle had sunk back upon his pillow, quite used up; I led Mr. Rawson back into the sitting-room, where in three words I proposed to him a rough valuation of our friend’s trinkets. He assented with perfect good-breeding; they passed into my possession and a second bank-note into his.
From the collapse184 into which this wondrous185 exercise of his imagination had plunged186 him my charge then gave few signs of being likely to emerge. He breathed, as he had said, and nothing more. The twilight187 deepened; I lighted the night-lamp. The doctor sat silent and official at the foot of the bed; I resumed my constant place near the head. Suddenly our patient opened his eyes wide. “She’ll not come,” he murmured. “Amen! she’s an English sister.” Five minutes passed; he started forward. “She’s come, she’s here!” he confidently quavered. His words conveyed to my mind so absolute an assurance that I lightly rose and passed into the sitting-room. At the same moment, through the opposite door, the servant introduced a lady. A lady, I say; for an instant she was simply such — tall pale dressed in deep mourning. The next instant I had uttered her name —“Miss Searle!” She looked ten years older.
She met me with both hands extended and an immense question in her face. “He has just announced you,” I said. And then with a fuller consciousness of the change in her dress and countenance: “What has happened?”
“Oh death, death!” she wailed188. “You and I are left.”
There came to me with her words a sickening shock, the sense of poetic189 justice somehow cheated, defeated. “Your brother?” I panted.
She laid her hand on my arm and I felt its pressure deepen as she spoke. “He was thrown from his horse in the park. He died on the spot. Six days have passed. Six months!”
She accepted my support and a moment later we had entered the room and approached the bedside, from which the doctor withdrew. Searle opened his eyes and looked at her from head to foot. Suddenly he seemed to make out her mourning. “Already!” he cried audibly and with a smile, as I felt, of pleasure.
She dropped on her knees and took his hand. “Not for you, cousin,” she whispered. “For my poor brother.”
He started, in all his deathly longitude190, as with a galvanic shock. “Dead! HE dead! Life itself!” And then after a moment and with a slight rising inflexion: “You’re free?”
“Free, cousin. Too sadly free. And now — NOW— with what use for freedom?”
He looked steadily191 into her eyes, dark in the heavy shadow of her musty mourning-veil. “For me wear colours!”
In a moment more death had come, the doctor had silently attested192 it, and she had burst into sobs193.
We buried him in the little churchyard in which he had expressed the wish to lie; beneath one of the blackest and widest of English yews194 and the little tower than which none in all England has a softer and hoarier grey. A year has passed; Miss Searle, I believe, has begun to wear colours.
The End
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coherence
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| n.紧凑；连贯；一致性 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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pieties
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| 虔诚，虔敬( piety的名词复数 ) | |
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kindles
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的第三人称单数 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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oblique
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| adj.斜的，倾斜的，无诚意的，不坦率的 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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dignified
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corporate
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| adj.共同的，全体的；公司的，企业的 | |
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throbs
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| 体内的跳动( throb的名词复数 ) | |
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bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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perpendicular
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| adj.垂直的，直立的；n.垂直线，垂直的位置 | |
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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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13
quad
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| n.四方院；四胞胎之一；v.在…填补空铅 | |
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14
ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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15
wardens
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| n.看守人( warden的名词复数 )；管理员；监察员；监察官 | |
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16
dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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17
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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18
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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19
fluted
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| a.有凹槽的 | |
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20
temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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21
monkish
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| adj.僧侣的，修道士的，禁欲的 | |
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22
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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23
niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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24
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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25
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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26
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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27
cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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28
arcade
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| n.拱廊；(一侧或两侧有商店的)通道 | |
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29
vibrations
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| n.摆动( vibration的名词复数 )；震动；感受；（偏离平衡位置的）一次性往复振动 | |
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30
clement
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| adj.仁慈的；温和的 | |
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31
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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32
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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33
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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34
breaches
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| 破坏( breach的名词复数 )； 破裂； 缺口； 违背 | |
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35
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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36
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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37
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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38
slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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39
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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40
flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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41
rhythmic
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| adj.有节奏的，有韵律的 | |
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42
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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43
exhorted
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| v.劝告，劝说( exhort的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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45
bowers
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| n.（女子的）卧室( bower的名词复数 )；船首锚；阴凉处；鞠躬的人 | |
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46
scholastic
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| adj.学校的，学院的，学术上的 | |
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47
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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48
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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49
sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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50
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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51
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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52
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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53
spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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54
peg
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| n.木栓，木钉；vt.用木钉钉，用短桩固定 | |
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55
fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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56
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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57
embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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58
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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59
falter
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| vi.(嗓音)颤抖，结巴地说；犹豫；蹒跚 | |
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60
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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61
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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62
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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63
spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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64
reverts
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| 恢复( revert的第三人称单数 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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65
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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66
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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67
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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68
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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69
barbarian
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| n.野蛮人；adj.野蛮(人)的；未开化的 | |
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70
myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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71
cloisters
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| n.（学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的）走廊( cloister的名词复数 )；回廊；修道院的生活；隐居v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
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72
miserable
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|
| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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73
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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74
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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75
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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76
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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77
transparent
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|
| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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78
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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79
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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80
symposia
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| 座谈会，评论集； 讨论会( symposium的名词复数 )； 专题讨论会； 研讨会； 小型讨论会 | |
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81
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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82
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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83
celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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84
occident
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| n.西方；欧美 | |
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85
interfered
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|
| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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86
alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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87
participation
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| n.参与，参加，分享 | |
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88
rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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89
agitate
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|
| vi.(for,against)煽动，鼓动；vt.搅动 | |
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90
forsook
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| forsake的过去式 | |
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91
besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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92
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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93
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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94
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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95
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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96
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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97
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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98
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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99
curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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100
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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101
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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102
rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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103
dinginess
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| n.暗淡，肮脏 | |
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104
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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105
plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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106
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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107
disarray
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| n.混乱，紊乱，凌乱 | |
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108
tribulations
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| n.苦难( tribulation的名词复数 )；艰难；苦难的缘由；痛苦 | |
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109
streaked
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| adj.有条斑纹的，不安的v.快速移动( streak的过去式和过去分词 )；使布满条纹 | |
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110
bristled
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| adj. 直立的，多刺毛的 动词bristle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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111
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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112
lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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113
depreciation
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| n.价值低落，贬值，蔑视，贬低 | |
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114
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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115
antiquated
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| adj.陈旧的，过时的 | |
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116
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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117
perverted
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| adj.不正当的v.滥用( pervert的过去式和过去分词 )；腐蚀；败坏；使堕落 | |
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118
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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119
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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120
puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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121
casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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122
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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123
joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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124
fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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125
abominate
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| v.憎恨，厌恶 | |
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126
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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127
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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128
presumptuous
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| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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129
propeller
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| n.螺旋桨，推进器 | |
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130
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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131
trudging
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的现在分词形式） | |
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132
pauper
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| n.贫民，被救济者，穷人 | |
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133
bowling
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| n.保龄球运动 | |
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134
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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135
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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136
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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137
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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138
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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139
quaintly
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| adv.古怪离奇地 | |
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140
twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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141
undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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142
abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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143
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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144
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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145
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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146
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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147
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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148
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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149
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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150
radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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151
cleansing
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| n. 净化(垃圾) adj. 清洁用的 动词cleanse的现在分词 | |
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152
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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153
halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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154
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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155
waft
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| v.飘浮，飘荡；n.一股；一阵微风；飘荡 | |
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156
stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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157
spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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158
nostril
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| n.鼻孔 | |
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159
solicitation
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| n.诱惑；揽货；恳切地要求；游说 | |
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160
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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161
apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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162
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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163
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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164
ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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165
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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166
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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167
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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168
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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169
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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170
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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171
jumble
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| vt.使混乱，混杂；n.混乱；杂乱的一堆 | |
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172
knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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173
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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174
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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175
heeding
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的现在分词 ) | |
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176
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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177
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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178
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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179
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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180
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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181
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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182
exhaled
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的过去式和过去分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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183
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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184
collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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185
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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186
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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187
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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188
wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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189
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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190
longitude
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| n.经线，经度 | |
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191
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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192
attested
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| adj.经检验证明无病的，经检验证明无菌的v.证明( attest的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；声称…属实；使宣誓 | |
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193
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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194
yews
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| n.紫杉( yew的名词复数 ) | |
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