But though I felt no anxiety on that account, I was considerably2 worried on another. I could not fail to see that the fact that I had been used as God's instrument in restoring my darling to health had greatly exaggerated my importance in her eyes. Although I tried my utmost to convince her that it was all God's doing and not mine in the least, I could not quell3 the uprush of undeserved gratitude4 to me which filled her dear heart. Also, perhaps, the appeal of her weakness loosened the armour5 of reserve which I had once buckled6 on so tightly, and, strive as I might, I could no longer keep my love for her out of my eyes and voice. It would work through, in spite of all my efforts to suppress it.
I knew by now that Fay loved me: I knew that she knew that I loved her. Then what was I to do?
I could never be grateful enough to God that He had used me as His instrument in bringing my Beloved back to life and health, but of what avail would that restored life be to her if I marred8 it by allowing her to mate the fulness of her youth with crabbed9 age? Should I, who had been granted, under God, the inestimable blessing10 of saving her life, be the one to spoil it for her? Was it for me to mar7 what I had been permitted to make: to destroy what I had been allowed to restore?
Yet how I loved her! Only God and my own soul knew how I loved her! Surely no young man, however worthier11 of her he might be in every other respect, could ever love her as much as I did.
In my perplexity I consulted Arthur. The advice of my parish priest—or, as the Prayer Book puts it, of any discreet13 and learned minister—ought to be of help to me in a perplexity such as this. Being a clergyman, Arthur would know so much more about human nature than I knew; for then—as always—I had no confidence in my own judgment14.
I put the case to Blathwayte as tersely15 as I could, begging him not to allow his friendship for me to lure17 him into setting my happiness before my duty.
"I am not thinking about your happiness," he replied in his blunt way, "I'm thinking about Fay's."
"That is all I try to think about," I said, "and that is why I have appealed to you. But I see, old man, you agree with me that I have no right to set my happiness before hers by asking her to marry me and link her young life with mine."
"I certainly don't think you have any right to sacrifice Fay's happiness to your own."
"Then that settles it," I said.
"Or to a false idea of what your conscience conceives to be your duty," he went on, as if I had not spoken.
This gave me pause. "How do you mean?" I asked.
"I mean that if you love Fay, as I know you do, and if she loves you, as I believe she does, you have no right to throw away this good and perfect gift for the sake of some home-made scruple19 of yours. I mean that you are not justified20 in spoiling Fay's life, even for the pleasure of spoiling your own at the same time.
"Then what should you advise me to do?"
"I should advise you to tell Fay that you love her and to ask her to marry you, and to abide21 by her decision whatever it is."
"But she is so young," I pleaded—against my own cause.
"If she is old enough to receive the gift of a good man's love, she is old enough to know she has received it, and to thank Heaven fasting for it."
"But I am so old—compared with her."
"That is her business—at least, so it seems to me," replied Blathwayte. "If she thinks you are too old, she can refuse you. It is a thing that has been done. But I do think that she is old enough to choose for herself, and not to have things settled for her as if she were a child or an imbecile. She has plenty of common sense."
"But I doubt if she is old enough and experienced enough to choose in a thing like this. It would break my heart if she chose wrongly and regretted it afterwards."
"Hearts run the risk of getting broken in this work-a-day world, and they had better run that risk than remain wrapped up in cotton wool until they stifle22 and suffocate23. If you'll excuse my saying so, Reggie, you are too fond of transferring personal responsibilities. You let Miss Kingsnorth make up your mind for you, and in return you propose to make up Fay's. For my part, I think it is best for people to make up their own minds, and to be prepared to take the consequences. It is in acting24 for oneself and in bearing the consequences of one's actions that the education of life consists, also the saving dogma of Free Will."
Thus inspired by Arthur I was tempted25 to put my scruples26 on one side and my fate to the test; but even yet I was haunted by doubts as to whether my doing so would be fair to Fay. I gave Arthur's counsel the consideration that it deserved: as a clergyman he was, so to speak, a specialist in the diagnosis27 of right and wrong, and also in all matters connected with the human soul. But—when all was said and done—he was a man and not a woman, and no episcopal laying on of hands can convey the power rightly to discern the workings of the female heart. So I decided28 that the person to help and advise me was not Blathwayte at all, but Annabel, as she was a woman herself and therefore the best judge as to how a woman would feel. I felt that my sister would necessarily understand Fay far better than either Arthur or I could. So I took Annabel into my confidence.
She listened to me carefully and sympathetically, just as she used to listen to a category of my physical symptoms when I was a little boy, and she feared I had caught some childish complaint.
"I am not surprised," she said, when I had finished; "I was afraid there would be some trouble of this kind after Fay's most remarkable29 recovery and your queer part in it." Annabel was one of the people who would always describe any direct answer to prayer as "remarkable." But "no offence meant," as the servants say. She absolutely believed in the God of Revelation; she stringently30 urged the imperative31 duty of prayer; yet when any obvious connection displayed itself between the human request and the Divine Response, she at once relegated32 the phenomenon to the realm of accidental coincidence, if not to that of hysterical33 imagination.
"I shouldn't describe it exactly as 'trouble,'" I remonstrated34.
"I felt sure you'd fall in love with her, as you call it after her recovery seemed to be the result of your praying for her. Any man would," continued my sister, just in the same tone as thirty years ago she would have said, "I felt sure you would catch measles35 after having been exposed to the infection. Any child would." Evidently, now as then, Annabel pitied rather than blamed me. Her blame would be reserved for those who had exposed me to the infection.
"I'm not asking you why I fell in love with her, Annabel; I shouldn't be such an ass36 as to ask that. If you can tell me the reason why any man falls in love with any woman, you have solved the riddle37 of the ages. The Sphinx herself could not baffle you."
"The reason is generally looks or money," replied the undaunted Annabel.
"The reason for marriage, perhaps, but not for falling in love. Love is beyond all reason, or it wouldn't be love."
"Then what are you asking me? How you can get over it?"
"Good heavens, no!" I cried. "I shall never 'get over it,' as you say, and I never want to. What I am asking you is, do you think I am justified in asking Fay to marry me?"
"I am very pleased you have consulted me in this way, Reggie, very much pleased indeed. It shows a very proper feeling on your part, and is a fresh proof of your unchanging affection for me, and of your confidence in my judgment. As I have told you, I have seen this coming on ever since Fay took that remarkable turn for the better, and I have tried to face it in the proper spirit."
"And so you will," I exclaimed. "I have never known anything happen that you haven't faced in the proper spirit."
Annabel looked pleased. "Of course, Reggie, I cannot deny that it is a bit of a shock to me—especially after all these years; but on the other hand papa always wished you to marry, and it does seem a pity for the title to die out. I try to look at the matter from all sides."
"Yes, yes," I said impatiently, getting up from my seat and walking about the great hall, where we had been sitting in the firelight after tea. "But what we are discussing now is not whether I am justified in marrying at all, but whether I am justified in marrying Fay."
Annabel shook her head. "That is what I am not sure about. I wish to look at the question dispassionately, but I very much doubt if you are."
My heart fell fathoms38 deep; yet I felt how wise I had been to consult Annabel before speaking to Fay. Arthur, looking at the matter from the man's point of view, did not see the injustice39 of tying a young woman to an old man; but Annabel, looking at it from the woman's standpoint, evidently did.
"She is so young," I said.
"And so inexperienced," my sister added.
"That is what I feel. She has seen no society of her own class, except Blathwayte and ourselves."
"Exactly, Reggie, and nothing but good society teaches a girl savoir faire. Of course, even a girl as young as Fay who had seen more of the world would be different; but she came here straight out of the schoolroom."
How well Annabel understood, I thought to myself, and how exactly she looked at the matter from my point of view! She really was a wonderful woman. "Then you think even at her age—if she had seen more of the world and had had more experience of life—I might have asked her to marry me without making a mistake which would spoil both our lives?"
"I do indeed, Reggie. But as it is she is so very ignorant and unsophisticated."
There was a pause, which I filled up by spoiling my right boot through poking40 the fire with it. Then Annabel said, apparently41 à propos of nothing: "Fay hasn't any money—at least, not any to speak of."
How well my sister read my thoughts, I said to myself. It was Fay's lack of wealth—if she did not marry me—that weighed on my mind. Wildacre had left his children about eight hundred a year apiece, but that was not enough to keep my darling as she ought to be kept. Still I admit I was surprised that this should have occurred to Annabel.
"But anyhow you have enough," she went on. "Papa left an adequate fortune to endow a baronetage."
I admitted he did, though I could not see what on earth that had to do with the question. "Still, I couldn't share it with Fay unless she were my wife," I added.
Annabel looked puzzled. "Of course not. Whoever suggested such a thing?"
"I thought you did."
"Good gracious, no! such an absurd idea never entered my head. I was only thinking about your marrying Fay."
"I spoke18 to Arthur on the matter, as he is Fay's guardian42," I continued, "and also my own parish priest."
"It was quite right to consult him as Fay's guardian, but I do not see what being a parish priest, as you call it, has to do with the question. And I must say I very much hope, Reggie, that you did not use that ridiculous expression in speaking to Arthur. He is too much inclined to Romanism as it is, and expressions like that are apt to give him false and popish notions of his own importance."
"And he said," I went on, "that I ought to tell Fay that I love her, and to let the decision of accepting or refusing me lie with her."
"What ridiculous advice! Of course she would accept you at once."
Again I was grateful to Annabel for seeing my darling as I saw her. She evidently realised, as I did, that Fay was far too unselfish to consider her own happiness in comparison with mine. If Fay knew I loved her, she would accept me, whatever the sacrifice to herself.
"Then you think Arthur was wrong?" I asked.
"Absolutely. He nearly always is when he acts or speaks on his own judgment, though in other respects he is a most excellent man, and one for whom I have the greatest regard. But he is like you, Reggie, in requiring some one at his elbow to give him good advice, though I do not think he is always as ready as you are to follow it."
My heart felt like lead. "And you think I am not justified in asking a girl of eighteen to marry me?"
"Certainly not. How can there be any real and satisfactory companionship between a girl of that age and a man of yours!"
I made one final appeal for happiness. "Not even if they love each other very much?"
"I don't see what that has to do with it. Parents love their children very much, but that doesn't prevent them from looking at things from the different points of view of their different generations. And it is natural that they should. I am sure I loved papa very much, but we did not see eye to eye in heaps of things, because the ideas of his generation were quite different from the ideas of ours. He was very narrow in some things. But differences which are quite allowable between parents and children seem to me to be unnatural43 between a husband and wife, and even more aggravating44."
"Then that finally settles the matter," I said, walking out of the hall to the library, for fear that even the subdued45 glow of the firelight should reveal the misery46 that I knew must be written on my face. Arthur had opened the door of hope to me just a little; but Annabel had firmly shut it again, and naturally I was more influenced by Annabel than by Arthur—especially as her opinion coincided with my own.
But the matter was not finally closed after all.
After two bitter-sweet days—days when the happiness of my short visits to Fay was clouded by the iron self-restraint I was forced to exercise in her dear presence, and when love and duty waged their mortal combat in my soul—Annabel came to me as I was smoking in the library. She had just returned from the Rectory, and I noticed that the wintry wind must have caught her eyes, they looked so red and swollen47. There certainly was a bitter wind that day.
"I have been talking to Arthur," she abruptly48 began, standing49 in front of the table and resting her two hands upon it, "and I have come to the conclusion that he was right and I was wrong."
I was surprised. It was so very unlike Annabel to own that she had been wrong about anything, I feared she must be ill.
"But it really was not altogether my fault," she continued; "it really was yours in not making things plainer to me."
I felt relieved: there was evidently nothing serious the matter with my sister. It was absolutely normal for things to be my fault and not hers. Annabel was herself again.
"What things didn't I make plain?" I asked.
"You didn't make it plain to me how much your feelings were involved in this sort of affair with Fay Wildacre."
"But, my dear girl, I told you that I wanted to marry Fay, and what better proof could I have given you of the depth of my feelings for her?"
"Oh yes, you said you wanted to marry her, but I didn't understand that you cared for her as much as Arthur says you do," persisted Annabel, as if asking for a woman's hand in marriage was merely a sign of transitory admiration51, such as asking for her hand in a dance. "Of course, that makes all the difference."
"All what difference?" I asked in bewilderment. "I am no orator52 as Blathwayte is, and therefore I cannot express my feelings as he seems able to express them; but I wish you to be under no delusion53 as to the state of my feelings towards Fay. To me she is and always will be the only woman I could possibly marry—the only woman with whom I could ever fall in love. I love her to the very depths of my being and always shall, and it is because I love her so much that I refuse to take my happiness at the expense of hers, and to tie her for life to a man old enough to be her father. There now, you have it. If I wasn't clear enough before, surely I am now."
"That's you all over, Reggie, always ready to sacrifice yourself to other people! I never knew anybody as absolutely unselfish as you are—except, of course, mamma."
I was astonished, and showed it. "But you agreed with me, Annabel. You said it wouldn't be fair to Fay to ask her to marry me."
It was now Annabel's turn to look surprised. "What nonsense, Reggie! I don't know what you are talking about."
"You said I was too old to make her happy."
"I couldn't possibly have ever said anything so utterly54 idiotic55. You must be going off your head! Why, I think that to marry you would be the greatest happiness any woman could possibly have, and I don't believe that any woman living is worthy56 of it."
This, of course, was ridiculous sisterly exaggeration, and needed nipping in the bud. But I was too busy just then thinking about Fay to have time to nip Annabel. "You said I was too old for her," I persisted.
"I didn't. I said she was too young for you, which is quite a different thing. But I'll withdraw even that if you think she is necessary to your happiness."
"There is no doubt of that. The only question that matters is whether I am necessary to hers."
Annabel smiled her old, indulgent smile. "Oh, Reggie, how absurd you are. You don't seem to realise that the woman who marries you will be the luckiest woman on the face of the earth. And you really ought to marry; papa would have wished it; I am sure it would have been a dreadful disappointment to him if the baronetcy had died out. He had great ideas of founding a family."
"He would have adored Fay. I wish he could have lived to see her," I said softly, so softly that Annabel did not hear me.
"I know papa would have been pleased at your marrying; it is a great support to me to feel sure of that. But the thing that I care most for is your happiness, Reggie; I could never bear to feel that any words of mine have ever stood between you and your heart's desire, and if you feel certain that Fay will make you happy, by all means ask her to marry you."
"I do feel certain of that. She will make me happier than my wildest dreams."
Annabel turned to leave the room. "Had I been in your place," she remarked thoughtfully, "I should have selected a woman of my own age who would have known how to manage a large household and would have been an agreeable and sympathetic companion, looking at life from my own standpoint. But people know their own business best. And of course there are other considerations," she added, opening the door. "There's something to everything," she concluded, summing up with one terse16 and enigmatical sentence the great law of compensation as she closed the door behind her.
As soon as Annabel left me I rushed across to the Rectory. Now that my sister had gone over to the beneficent enemy, and had joined forces against my struggle to do what I considered to be my duty at the cost of what I knew to be my happiness, there was no more fight left in me. I capitulated at once, and decided to follow Blathwayte's advice and leave the matter in my darling's hands. She was my queen, and it was for her to rule and order my fate.
I found her, as usual, lying on a chintz-covered sofa by the fire in the beautifully proportioned drawing-room.
"I am so glad you have come," said Fay, after I had greeted her and sat down beside her sofa. "You are one of the tiresome57 people who make things dreadfully dull by not being there."
"I'm sorry," I replied, "or rather, I'm glad."
"You have spoilt a lot of pleasure for me in that way," Fay continued, "and I find it rather hard to forgive you. I used to enjoy myself always, and now I only enjoy myself when you are about. It proves you have a rather narrowing influence, don't you think?"
"It does seem to point that way," I agreed.
"And not an influence that makes for universal happiness, either, Sir Reggie," Fay went on. "As you can only be in one place at once, there can only be one cheerful place in the world at a time, while the number of places you can't be at is unlimited58, therefore the number of places you make miserable59 are unlimited. I've come to the conclusion that the really benevolent60 people are those who make a hell of whatever place they are in, and a heaven of every other place because they aren't in it. When you come to think of it, the amount of joy that these people scatter61 about is simply enormous. Think of the countless62 little heavens below that they create!"
"It is a beautiful thought, and shows how nous autres ought to follow their example. I say nous autres advisedly, as you are made on the same lines as I am—at least, as you say I am. In fact, I regret to state that I never met anybody who had the knack63 of creating—by your mere50 absence—such illimitable and chaotic64 blanks as you do."
I loved talking nonsense with Fay. As a matter of fact I have always loved talking nonsense. I belong to the generation to which nonsense appeals. The past generation is too serious for it, and the rising generation is too strenuous65: it was the prerogative66 of the last quarter of the nineteenth century to bring nonsense to the level of a fine art. And of all kinds of nonsense, the nonsense which is at the same time a curtain and a channel for love-making is to me the most delightful67.
When our parents made love, they discussed the intellectual questions of the day; when their grandchildren make love, they discuss the social problems of theirs; but in the middle ages that came between these two eras, love-making belonged neither to the realm of mind nor to the realm of morals, but rather to that of manners alone. Of course, love was and is the same in all ages—and in all centuries: it is eternal, and therefore has nothing to do with time. But the art of love-making varies with each generation, and every period has its own particular style. I am quite aware that by reason of her youth Fay had the right to a lover who would discuss with her the origin of Sex-antagonism or the economic relations of Capital and Labour; but Annabel and Arthur robbed her of that right when they overthrew68 my scruples and bade me go forth69 to woo the woman that I loved.
"You make places much more loathsome70 by not being there than I do," said Fay.
"Pardon me, that is the one subject on which I am more competent to form a judgment than you are, as you have never been into those abominations of desolation where you are not present, and can therefore form no idea of their ghastly vacuity71. But consciousness of sin should result in amendment72 of life, and now that we know our faults the next question is how are we to cure them?"
"We'll cure yours first, Sir Reggie. It seems to me that all you have got to do is to go to all places and parties that I go to, so that I shall never know how horrible they would have been if you hadn't been there. Of course, if you could have been everywhere at once it would have been best, as in that case there would have been no dull parties or empty places—no abominations of desolations, that is to say—for anybody. But that would be so difficult and trying for you, as it is most fatiguing73 to be in even two places at once. Please notice what self-restraint I am exercising in not quoting Sir Boyle Roche and his bird. Ninety-nine persons out of every hundred would have done so at the present point of the conversation."
"But you are always the hundredth," I explained.
"But not the Old Hundredth as yet! that is a pleasure still to come."
"Not in my time," I said, and though I smiled there was a sigh at the back of the smile. How glorious it would have been if I had been young too, so that Fay and I might have grown old together! But that could never be.
"So, as you can't be in two, much less in two hundred places at once, the only thing is for you to be in the same place as I am. That will come to the same thing, as far as I am concerned, and beyond that I really cannot manage matters. I have a most provincial74 mind, and the world isn't my province, as it was Bacon's or Shakspere's or somebody's. Whoever it was, he must have been a very interfering75 person if he acted up to his principles, which I expect he didn't, as nobody does, except Miss Kingsnorth and Mr. Blathwayte."
"They do," I agreed.
"Don't they, fearfully?"
I let this pass, as I was intent on other matters. "But about curing this fault of mine," I went on; "if one person can't always be in two places at once, two people can always be in one place at once, and that—as you remark—practically amounts to the same thing in the long run. That I could manage, I think—with, of course, a little help from you. And, strange to say, it was about this arrangement that I came to see you to-day."
"I saw you came about something. You hadn't the loose-endy sort of a look you generally have."
"What sort of a look had I?"
Fay shrugged76 her shoulders airily. "Oh, a 'life-is-real, life-is-earnest,' and 'England-expects-every-man-this-day-to-do-his-duty' sort of look. But don't mind my mentioning it. It was rather a becoming look, as a matter of fact, and nothing for you to worry about."
I took the little hand that was lying over the edge of the sofa. "Fay, do you know what I came to say?" I said softly.
"Yes; but all the same, I'd rather you said it. I shan't take it as read."
"It is so hard for me to put into words."
"But so nice for me to hear the words into which it is put."
"You vain child!" I whispered, stroking her curly hair.
The lovely eyes lifted to mine were full of laughter. But there was something in them behind the laughter—that something which for weeks and weeks I had been trying so hard not to see. "If I'm vain, you are idle; so one is as bad as the other."
There were a few seconds of silence, then Fay said: "Go on, I'm waiting."
"Well, then, it is no good my telling you that I love you, for you know that already. And it is no good my attempting to tell you how much I love you, because I could never do that if I talked from now till doomsday."
"Still, it wouldn't be a bad way of passing the time from now till then," Fay remarked.
"Then we'll pass it so, my darling," I said, kneeling down beside her sofa and taking her in my arms, "and eternity77 shall be passed in the same way, after doomsday is over. And even then I shan't have half told you how much I love you." And I kissed her full on the lips, and for the first time in my life knew the ecstasy78 of human love.
After a few minutes of blissful silence, Fay remarked: "If I try to tell you how much I love you, I shall have my work cut out for me too; and if I have to do it between now and doomsday it will take me all I know to get it done in the time."
"Do you love me so very much, my little Fay?"
"Frightfully much, ridiculously much, far, far more than you deserve."
"But I am so old, sweetheart—so much too old for you. That is what is worrying me."
Fay cuddled up to me, laughing contentedly79. "I know. I have watched it worrying you for ages. I have seen you for months now trying to work out a sum that if you take away eighteen from forty-two nothing remains80, and you couldn't get it right."
"Still nothing did remain when there seemed a chance of eighteen being taken away from forty-two; absolutely nothing at all."
Fay laughed again, a little gurgling laugh of pure delight. "How dreadfully clever you are! If you go on being as clever as that you'll have a headache, or softening81 of the brain, or something of that kind. You make me quite anxious about you."
"But though I know that if eighteen were taken away from forty-two nothing could remain—at least, nothing that would make life worth living—I still can't make forty-two equal to eighteen. Eighteen is so much more than forty-two in every dimension that matters—in youth and health and joy and vigour82 and everything else that counts."
"Your language is charming, Sir Reggie, but your arithmetic leaves much to be desired."
"Sir me no sirs, if you love me. Reggie, plain Reggie, an' it please you. But, sweetheart, I have been struggling for months not to let you know that I love you, as I felt it was not fair to ask a young girl like you to marry a stuffy83 old fogey like me."
"Very thoughtful of you! As I said, I have noticed concealment84 like a worm i' the bud feeding on your damask cheek for some time, but it didn't bluff85 me. When did you fall in love with me?"
"The first moment that I saw you."
Fay nodded her head—as well as circumstances would permit it. "I'm not surprised. That large black hat is very becoming."
"And when did you fall in love with me, my darling?" I asked.
"Not the first moment that I saw you."
I laughed. "I didn't expect you would."
"Long, long before that: from Frankie's description of you."
My face fell. "Oh, sweetheart, what a horrid86 way of falling in love."
"It wasn't horrid at all, silly—and anyway it was my way. From Frankie's letters I had built up a sort of combination of King Arthur and Sir Philip Sidney and Henry Esmond and the Scarlet87 Pimpernel, and had called it You and fallen in love with it. And of course I felt sure that when I met you you would fall far short of what I had imagined, and so the rest of my life would be one bitter regret and longing88 for a lost ideal. You know the sort of thing: just what a girl would thoroughly89 enjoy. And then when I got to know the real You, you were so much nicer than anything I had ever imagined that all my unfulfilled plans were quite upset. And so instead of breaking my heart, as I had intended, I lost it."
"You darling!" I whispered, covering her pretty curls with kisses.
"And now, since we are on the catechising task, would you mind telling me what stopped concealment's meal, and why your damask cheek was suddenly, as you might say, 'off' the menu?" Fay asked.
I told her the simple truth. "Because both Annabel and Arthur said that you had a right to know that I loved you, and that it was for you to decide whether I was too old for you."
Fay drew herself slightly out of my arms. "How very interfering of them!" she said shortly.
I hastened to explain. "No, no, my darling, you mustn't think that. You will be doing them both a grave injustice if you do. I asked for their advice, they would never have offered it otherwise."
"I can't see that it was any business of theirs."
"But of course it was," I urged; I could not bear for there to be any misunderstanding between Fay and Annabel. "Don't you see, sweetheart, that it was certainly Arthur's business, because your father appointed him your guardian? And Annabel has been more than a sister—almost more than a mother—to me, so that everything which concerns me is her business par12 excellence90."
"I see," said Fay. But somehow—I do not know why—a cloud seemed to have come over the full sunshine of our new happiness.
"And they were right," I continued in further exculpation91 of the two who, next to Fay, were dearest to me in the world. "It is owing to their advice that I have dared to ask you to marry me. Otherwise I shouldn't have felt I was worthy to ask such a thing."
"Well, you haven't asked it—at least, not in my hearing," laughed Fay, the sunshine breaking out once more after the passing cloud.
"Dearest, will you marry me?"
Fay's answer was characteristic. "Miss Wildacre begs to thank Sir Reginald Kingsnorth for his kind invitation, and has much pleasure in accepting it. Oh no, that wasn't quite right. Miss Wildacre begs to thank Sir Reginald and Miss Kingsnorth for their kind invitation, and has much pleasure in accepting it. That is better."
It pleased me to find her coupling my sister's name with mine in this fashion, and I approved her amendment. I wanted her to recognise how much my marriage meant to Annabel.
I sealed our compact with a kiss.
"I believe you really love me," said Fay.
"Rather! But I am afraid it is 'Love among the Ruins,' sweetheart: the ruins being represented by Arthur and Annabel and myself."
Fay ran her fingers through my still bushy hair. "Not ruins—not exactly ruins, my Reggie: say rather ancient monuments in the most perfect state of preservation92." And that was all the comfort she would give me—at least, just then.
But after some further conversation, with no reporter present, she looked up into my face and said: "So Love has performed the miracle after all which you said could never be performed again. Love has made us one at last, and has set the dial ten degrees backward. There is nothing between us now, Reggie—not even those tiresome ten degrees."
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considerably
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3
quell
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| v.压制，平息，减轻 | |
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4
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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6
buckled
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| a. 有带扣的 | |
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7
mar
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| vt.破坏，毁坏，弄糟 | |
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8
marred
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| adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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9
crabbed
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| adj.脾气坏的；易怒的；（指字迹）难辨认的；（字迹等）难辨认的v.捕蟹( crab的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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10
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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11
worthier
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| 应得某事物( worthy的比较级 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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12
par
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| n.标准，票面价值，平均数量；adj.票面的，平常的，标准的 | |
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13
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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15
tersely
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| adv. 简捷地, 简要地 | |
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terse
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| adj.(说话，文笔)精炼的，简明的 | |
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17
lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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18
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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19
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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20
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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21
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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22
stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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23
suffocate
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| vt.使窒息，使缺氧，阻碍；vi.窒息，窒息而亡，阻碍发展 | |
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24
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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25
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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26
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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27
diagnosis
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| n.诊断，诊断结果，调查分析，判断 | |
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28
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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29
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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30
stringently
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| adv.严格地，严厉地 | |
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31
imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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32
relegated
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| v.使降级( relegate的过去式和过去分词 )；使降职；转移；把…归类 | |
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33
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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35
measles
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| n.麻疹，风疹，包虫病，痧子 | |
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36
ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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37
riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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38
fathoms
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| 英寻( fathom的名词复数 ) | |
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39
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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40
poking
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| n. 刺，戳，袋 vt. 拨开，刺，戳 vi. 戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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41
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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42
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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43
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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44
aggravating
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| adj.恼人的，讨厌的 | |
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45
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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46
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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47
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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48
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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49
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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50
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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51
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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52
orator
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| n.演说者，演讲者，雄辩家 | |
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53
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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54
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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55
idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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56
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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57
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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58
unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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59
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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60
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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61
scatter
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| vt.撒，驱散，散开；散布/播；vi.分散，消散 | |
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62
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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63
knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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64
chaotic
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| adj.混沌的，一片混乱的，一团糟的 | |
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65
strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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66
prerogative
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| n.特权 | |
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67
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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68
overthrew
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| overthrow的过去式 | |
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69
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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70
loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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71
vacuity
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| n.(想象力等)贫乏，无聊，空白 | |
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72
amendment
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| n.改正，修正，改善，修正案 | |
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73
fatiguing
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| a.使人劳累的 | |
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74
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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75
interfering
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| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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76
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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77
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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78
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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79
contentedly
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| adv.心满意足地 | |
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80
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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81
softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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82
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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83
stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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84
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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85
bluff
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| v.虚张声势，用假象骗人；n.虚张声势，欺骗 | |
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86
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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87
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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88
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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89
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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90
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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91
exculpation
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| n.使无罪，辩解 | |
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92
preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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