She had described herself once or twice as a great friend of Lady Blanche Moffatt. Was it possible?
But if Lady Blanche, whose habits of sentimental6 indiscretion were ingrained, had gossiped to this lady, what then? Why should he be frowned on by Miss Lawrence, or anybody else? That malicious7 talk at Simla had soon exhausted8 itself. His present appointment was a triumphant9 answer to it all. His slanderers--including Aileen's ridiculous guardians--could only look foolish if they pursued the matter any further. What "trap" was there--what mésalliance? A successful soldier was good enough for anybody. Look at the first Lord Clyde, and scores besides.
The Duchess, too. Why had she treated him so well at first, and so cavalierly after dinner? Her manners were really too uncertain.
What was the matter, and why did she dislike him? He pondered over it a good deal, and with much soreness of spirit. Like many men capable of very selfish or very cruel conduct, he was extremely sensitive, and took keen notice of the fact that a person liked or disliked him.
If the Duchess disliked him it could not be merely on account of the Simla story, even though the old maid might conceivably have given her a jaundiced account. The Duchess knew nothing of Aileen, and was little influenced, so far as he had observed her, by considerations of abstract justice or propriety10, affecting persons whom she had never seen.
No, she was Julie's friend, the little wilful11 lady, and it was for Julie she ruffled12 her feathers, like an angry dove.
So his thoughts had come back to Julie, though, indeed, it seemed to him that they were never far from her. As he looked absently from the train windows on the flying landscape, Julie's image hovered13 between him and it--a magic sun, flooding soul and senses with warmth. How unconsciously, how strangely his feelings had changed towards her! That coolness of temper and nerve he had been able to preserve towards her for so long was, indeed, breaking down. He recognized the danger, and wondered where it would lead him. What a fascinating, sympathetic creature!--and, by George! what she had done for him!
Aileen! Aileen was a little sylph, a pretty child-angel, white-winged and innocent, who lived in a circle of convent thoughts, knowing nothing of the world, and had fallen in love with him as the first man who had ever made love to her. But this intelligent, full-blooded woman, who could understand at a word, or a half word, who had a knowledge of affairs which many a high-placed man might envy, with whom one never had a dull moment--this courted, distinguished14 Julie Le Breton--his mind swelled15 with half-guilty pride at the thought that for six months he had absorbed all her energies, that a word from him could make her smile or sigh, that he could force her to look at him with eyes so melting and so troubled as those with which she had given him her hands--her slim, beautiful hands--that night in Grosvenor Square.
How freedom became her! Dependency had dropped from her, like a cast-off cloak, and beside her fresh, melancholy16 charm, the airs and graces of a child of fashion and privilege like the little Duchess appeared almost cheap and trivial. Poor Julie! No doubt some social struggle was before her. Lady Henry was strong, after all, in this London world, and the solider and stupider people who get their way in the end were not, she thought, likely to side with Lady Henry's companion in a quarrel where the facts of the story were unquestionably, at first sight, damaging to Miss Le Breton. Julie would have her hours of bitterness and humiliation18; and she would conquer by boldness, if she conquered at all--by originality19, by determining to live her own life. That would preserve for her the small circle, if it lost her the large world. And the small circle was what she lived for, what she ought, at any rate, to live for.
It was not likely she would marry. Why should she desire it? From any blundering tragedy a woman of so acute a brain would, of course, know how to protect herself. But within the limits of her life, why should she refuse herself happiness, intimacy20, love?
His heart beat fast; his thoughts were in a whirl. But the train was nearing Portsmouth, and with an effort he recalled his mind to the meeting with his mother, which was then close upon him.
He spent nearly a week in the little cottage at Sea View, and Mrs. Warkworth got far more pleasure than usual, poor lady, out of his visit. She was a thin, plain woman, not devoid21 of either ability or character. But life had gone hardly with her, and since her husband's death what had been reserve had become melancholy. She had always been afraid of her only son since they had sent him to Charterhouse, and he had become so much "finer" than his parents. She knew that he must consider her a very ignorant and narrow-minded person; when he was with her she was humiliated22 in her own eyes, though as soon as he was gone she resumed what was in truth a leading place among her own small circle.
She loved him, and was proud of him; yet at the bottom of her heart she had never absolved23 him from his father's death. But for his extravagance, and the misfortunes he had brought upon them, her old general would be alive still--pottering about in the spring sunshine, spudding the daisies from the turf, or smoking his pipe beneath the thickening trees. Silently her heart still yearned25 and hungered for the husband of her youth; his son did not replace him.
Nevertheless, when he came down to her with this halo of glory upon him, and smoked up and down her small garden through the mild spring days, gossiping to her of all the great things that had befallen him, repeating to her, word for word, his conversation with the Prime Minister, and his interview with the Commander-in-Chief, or making her read all the letters of congratulation he had received, her mother's heart thawed26 within her as it had not done for long. Her ears told her that he was still vain and a boaster; her memory held the indelible records of his past selfishness; but as he walked beside her, his fair hair blown back from his handsome brow, and eyes that were so much younger than the rest of the face, his figure as spare and boyish now as when he had worn the colors of the Charterhouse eleven, she said to herself, in that inward and unsuspected colloquy27 she was always holding with her own heart about him, that if his father could have seen him now he would have forgiven him everything. According to her secret Evangelical faith, God "deals" with every soul he has created--through joy or sorrow, through good or evil fortune. He had dealt with herself through anguish28 and loss. Henry, it seemed, was to be moulded through prosperity. His good fortune was already making a better man of him.
Certainly he was more affectionate and thoughtful than before. He would have liked to give her money, of which he seemed to have an unusual store; but she bade him keep what he had for his own needs. Her own little bit of money, saved from the wreck29 of their fortunes, was enough for her. Then he went into Ryde and brought her back a Shetland shawl and a new table-cloth for her little sitting-room30, which she accepted with a warmer kiss than she had given him for years.
He left her on a bright, windy morning which flecked the blue Solent with foam31 and sent the clouds racing32 to westward33. She walked back along the sands, thinking anxiously of the African climate and the desert hard-ships he was going to face. And she wondered what significance there might be in the fact that he had written twice during his stay with her to a Miss Le Breton, whose name, nevertheless, he had not mentioned in their conversations. Well, he would marry soon, she supposed, and marry well, in circles out of her ken24. With the common prejudice of the English middle class, she hoped that if this Miss Le Breton were his choice, she might be only French in name and not in blood.
Meanwhile, Warkworth sped up to London in high spirits, enjoying the comforts of a good conscience.
He drove first to his club, where a pile of letters awaited him--some letters of congratulation, others concerned with the business of his mission. He enjoyed the first, noticing jealously who had and who had not written to him; then he applied34 himself to the second. His mind worked vigorously and well; he wrote his replies in a manner that satisfied him. Then throwing himself into a chair, with a cigar, he gave himself up to the close and shrewd planning of the preparations necessary for his five weeks' march, or to the consideration of two or three alternative lines of action which would open before him as soon as he should find himself within the boundaries of Mokembe. Some five years before, the government of the day had sent a small expedition to this Debatable Land, which had failed disastrously35, both from the diplomatic and the military points of view. He went backward and forward to the shelves of the fine "Service" library which surrounded him, taking down the books and reports which concerned this expedition. He buried himself in them for an hour, then threw them aside with contempt. What blunders and short-sight everywhere! The general public might well talk of the stupidity of English officers. And blunders so easily avoided, too! It was sickening. He felt within himself a fulness of energy and intelligence, a perspicacity36 of brain which judged mistakes of this kind unpardonable.
As he was replacing some of the books he had been using in the shelves, the club began to fill up with men coming in to lunch. A great many congratulated him; and a certain number who of old had hardly professed37 to know him greeted him with cordiality. He found himself caught in a series of short but flattering conversations, in which he bore himself well--neither over-discreet nor too elate. "I declare that fellow's improved," said one man, who might certainly have counted as Warkworth's enemy the week before, to his companion at table. "The government's been beastly remiss38 so far. Hope he'll pull it off. Ripping chance, anyway. Though what they gave it to him for, goodness knows! There were a dozen fellows, at least, did as well as he in the Mahsud business. And the Staff-College man had a thousand times more claim."
Nevertheless, Warkworth felt the general opinion friendly, a little surprised, no doubt, but showing that readiness to believe in the man coming to the front, which belongs much more to the generous than to the calculating side of the English character. Insensibly his mental and moral stature39 rose. He exchanged a few words on his way out with one of the most distinguished members of the club, a man of European reputation, whom he had seen the week before in the Commander-in-Chief's room at the War Office. The great man spoke40 to him with marked friendliness41, and Warkworth walked on air as he went his way. Potentially he felt himself the great man's equal; the gates of life seemed to be opening before him.
And with the rise of fortune came a rush of magnanimous resolution. No more shady episodes; no more mean devices; no more gambling42, and no more debt. Major Warkworth's sheet was clean, and it should remain so. A man of his prospects43 must run straight.
He felt himself at peace with all the world. By-the-way, just time to jump into a cab and get to Park Crescent in time for his sister's luncheon44. His last interview with his brother-in-law had not been agreeable. But now--he felt for the check-book in his pocket--he was in a position to repay at least half the last sum of money which Bella had lent him. He would go and give it her now, and report news of the mother. And if the two chicks were there--why, he had a free hour and he would take them to the Zoo--he vowed45 he would!--give them something pleasant to remember their uncle by.
And a couple of hours later a handsome, soldierly man might have been seen in the lion-house at the Zoo, leading a plump little girl by either hand. Rose and Katie Mullins enjoyed a golden time, and started a wholly new adoration47 for the uncle who had so far taken small notice of them, and was associated in their shrewd, childish minds rather with tempests at home than buns abroad. But this time buns, biscuits, hansom-drives and elephant-rides were showered upon them by an uncle who seemed to make no account of money, while his gracious and captivating airs set their little hearts beating in a common devotion.
"Now go home--go home, little beggars!" said that golden gentleman, as he packed them into a hansom and stood on the step to accept a wet kiss on his mustache from each pink mouth. "Tell your mother all about it, and don't forget your uncle Harry48. There's a shilling for each of you. Don't you spend it on sweets. You're quite fat enough already. Good-bye!"
"That's the hardest work I've done for many a long day," he said to himself, with a sigh of relief, as the hansom drove away. "I sha'n't turn nurse-maid when other trades fail. But they're nice little kids all the same.
"Now, then, Cox's--and the City"--he ran over the list of his engagements for the afternoon--"and by five o'clock shall I find my fair lady--at home--and established? Where on earth is Heribert Street?"
He solved the question, for a few minutes after five he was on Miss Le Breton's doorstep. A quaint49 little house--and a strange parlor-maid! For the door was opened to him by a large-eyed, sickly child, who looked at him with the bewilderment of one trying to follow out instructions still strange to her.
"HE ENTERED UPON A MERRY SCENE"
"Yes, sir, Miss Le Breton is in the drawing-room," she said, in a sweet, deliberate voice with a foreign accent, and she led the way through the hall.
Poor little soul--what a twisted back, and what a limp! She looked about fourteen, but was probably older. Where had Julie discovered her?
Warkworth looked round him at the little hall with its relics50 of country-house sports and amusements; his eye travelled through an open door to the little dining-room and the Russell pastels of Lady Mary's parents, as children, hanging on the wall. The character of the little dwelling51 impressed itself at once. Smiling; he acknowledged its congruity52 with Julie. Here was a lady who fell on her feet!
The child, leading him, opened the door to the left.
"Please walk in, sir," she said, shyly, and stood aside.
As the door opened, Warkworth was conscious of a noise of tongues.
So Julie was not alone? He prepared his manner accordingly.
He entered upon a merry scene. Jacob Delafield was standing53 on a chair, hanging a picture, while Dr. Meredith and Julie, on either side, directed or criticised the operation. Meredith carried picture-cord and scissors; Julie the hammer and nails. Meredith was expressing the profoundest disbelief in Jacob's practical capacities; Jacob was defending himself hotly; and Julie laughed at both.
Towards the other end of the room stood the tea-table, between the fire and an open window. Lord Lackington sat beside it, smiling to himself, and stroking a Persian kitten. Through the open window the twinkling buds on the lilacs in the Cureton House garden shone in the still lingering sun. A recent shower had left behind it odors of earth and grass. Even in this London air they spoke of the spring--the spring which already in happier lands was drawing veils of peach and cherry blossom, over the red Sienese earth or the green terraces of Como. The fire crackled in the grate. The pretty, old-fashioned room was fragrant54 with hyacinth and narcissus; Julie's books lay on the tables; Julie's hand and taste were already to be felt everywhere. And Lord Lackington with the kitten, beside the fire, gave the last touch of home and domesticity.
"So I find you established?" said Warkworth, smiling, to the lady with the nails, while Delafield nodded to him from the top of the steps and Meredith ceased to chatter55.
"I haven't a hand, I fear," said Julie. "Will you have some tea? Ah, Léonie, tu vas en faire de nouveau, n'est-ce pas, pour ce monsieur?"
A little woman in black, with a shawl over her shoulders, had just glided56 into the room. She had a small, wrinkled face, bright eyes, and a much-flattened nose.
"Tout57 de suite58, monsieur," she said, quickly, and disappeared with the teapot. Warkworth guessed, of course, that she was Madame Bornier, the foster-sister--the "Propriety" of this ménage.
"Can't I help?" he said to Julie, with a look at Delafield.
"It's just done," she said, coldly, handing a nail to Delafield. "Just a trifle more to the right. Ecco! Perfection!"
"Oh, you spoil him," said Meredith, "And not one word of praise for me!"
"What have you done?" she said, laughing. "Tangled59 the cord--that's all!"
Warkworth turned away. His face, so radiant as he entered, had settled into sharp, sudden lines. What was the meaning of this voice, this manner? He remembered that to his three letters he had received no word of reply. But he had interpreted that to mean that she was in the throes of moving and could find no time to write.
As he neared the tea-table, Lord Lackington looked up. He greeted the new-comer with the absent stateliness he generally put on when his mind was in a state of confusion as to a person's identity.
"Well, so they're sending you to D----? There'll be a row there before long. Wish you joy of the missionaries60!"
"No, not D----," said Warkworth, smiling. "Nothing so amusing. Mokembe's my destination."
"Oh, Mokembe!" said Lord Lackington, a little abashed61. "That's where Cecil Ray, Lord R's second son, was killed last year--lion-hunting? No, it was of fever that he died. By-the-way, a vile17 climate!"
"In the plains, yes," said Warkworth, seating himself. "As to the uplands, I understand they are to be the Switzerland of Africa."
Lord Lackington did not appear to listen.
"Are you a homoeopath?" he said, suddenly, rising to his full and immense stature and looking down with eagerness on Warkworth.
"No. Why?"
"Because it's your only chance, for those parts. If Cecil Ray had had their medicines with him he'd be alive now. Look here; when do you start?" The speaker took out his note-book.
"In rather less than a month I start for Denga."
"All right. I'll send you a medicine-case--from Epps. If you're ill, take 'em."
"You're very good."
"Not at all. It's my hobby--one of the last." A broad, boyish smile flashed over the handsome old face. "Look at me; I'm seventy-five, and I can tire out my own grandsons at riding and shooting. That comes of avoiding all allopathic messes like the devil. But the allopaths are such mean fellows they filch62 all our ideas."
The old man was off. Warkworth submitted to five minutes' tirade63, stealing a glance sometimes at the group of Julie, Meredith, and Delafield in the farther window--at the happy ease and fun that seemed to prevail in it. He fiercely felt himself shut out and trampled64 on.
Suddenly, Lord Lackington pulled up, his instinct for declamation65 qualified66 by an equally instinctive67 dread68 of boring or being bored. "What did you think of Montresor's statement?" he said, abruptly69, referring to a batch70 of army reforms that Montresor the week before had endeavored to recommend to a sceptical House of Commons.
"All very well, as far as it goes," said Warkworth, with a shrug71.
"Precisely72! We English want an army and a navy; we don't like it when those fellows on the Continent swagger in our faces, and yet we won't pay either for the ships or the men. However, now that they've done away with purchase--Gad! I could fight them in the streets for the way in which they've done it!--now that they've turned the army into an examination-shop, tempered with jobbery, whatever we do, we shall go to the deuce. So it don't matter."
"You were against the abolition73?"
"I was, sir--with Wellington and Raglan and everybody else of any account. And as for the violence, the disgraceful violence with which it was carried--"
"Oh no, no," said Warkworth, laughing. "It was the Lords who behaved abominably75, and it'll do a deal of good."
Lord Lackington's eyes flashed.
"I've had a long life," he said, pugnaciously76. "I began as a middy in the American war of 1812, that nobody remembers now. Then I left the sea for the army. I knocked about the world. I commanded a brigade in the Crimea--"
"Who doesn't remember that?" said Warkworth, smiling.
The old man acknowledged the homage77 by a slight inclination78 of his handsome head.
"And you may take my word for it that this new system will not give you men worth a tenth part of those fellows who bought and bribed79 their way in under the old. The philosophers may like it, or lump it, but so it is."
Warkworth dissented80 strongly. He was a good deal of a politician, himself a "new man," and on the side of "new men." Lord Lackington warmed to the fight, and Warkworth, with bitterness in his heart--because of that group opposite--was nothing loath81 to meet him. But presently he found the talk taking a turn that astonished him. He had entered upon a drawing-room discussion of a subject which had, after all, been settled, if only by what the Tories were pleased to call the coup46 d'état of the Royal Warrant, and no longer excited the passions of a few years back. What he had really drawn82 upon himself was a hand-to-hand wrestle83 with a man who had no sooner provoked contradiction than he resented it with all his force, and with a determination to crush the contradictor.
Warkworth fought well, but with a growing amazement84 at the tone and manner of his opponent. The old man's eyes darted85 war-flames under his finely arched brows. He regarded the younger with a more and more hostile, even malicious air; his arguments grew personal, offensive; his shafts87 were many and barbed, till at last Warkworth felt his face burning and his temper giving way.
"What are you talking about?" said Julie Le Breton, at last, rising and coming towards them.
Lord Lackington broke off suddenly and threw himself into his chair.
Warkworth rose from his.
"We had better have been handing nails," he said, "but you wouldn't give us any work." Then, as Meredith and Delafield approached, he seized the opportunity of saying, in a low voice:
"Am I not to have a word?"
She turned with composure, though it seemed to him she was very pale.
"Have you just come back from the Isle of Wight?"
"This morning." He looked her in the eyes. "You got my letters?"
"Yes, but I have had no time for writing. I hope you found your mother well."
"Very well, thank you. You have been hard at work?"
"Yes, but the Duchess and Mr. Delafield have made it all easy."
And so on, a few more insignificant questions and answers.
"I must go," said Delafield, coming up to them, "unless there is any more work for me to do. Good-bye, Major, I congratulate you. They have given you a fine piece of work."
Warkworth made a little bow, half ironical88. Confound the fellow's grave and lordly ways! He did not want his congratulations.
He lingered a little, sorely, full of rage, yet not knowing how to go.
Lord Lackington's eyes ceased to blaze, and the kitten ventured once more to climb upon his knee. Meredith, too, found a comfortable arm-chair, and presently tried to beguile89 the kitten from his neighbor. Julie sat erect90 between them, very silent, her thin, white hands on her lap, her head drooped91 a little, her eyes carefully restrained from meeting Warkworth's. He meanwhile leaned against the mantel-piece, irresolute92.
Meredith, it was clear, made himself quite happy and at home in the little drawing-room. The lame86 child came in and took a stool beside him. He stroked her head and talked nonsense to her in the intervals93 of holding forth94 to Julie on the changes necessary in some proofs of his which he had brought back. Lord Lackington, now quite himself again, went back to dreams, smiling over them, and quite unaware95 that the kitten had been slyly ravished from him. The little woman in black sat knitting in the background. It was all curiously96 intimate and domestic, only Warkworth had no part in it.
"Good-bye, Miss Le Breton," he said, at last, hardly knowing his own voice. "I am dining out."
She rose and gave him her hand. But it dropped from his like a thing dead and cold. He went out in a sudden suffocation97 of rage and pain; and as he walked in a blind haste to Cureton Street, he still saw her standing in the old-fashioned, scented98 room, so coldly graceful74, with those proud, deep eyes.
When he had gone, Julie moved to the window and looked out into the gathering99 dusk. It seemed to her as if those in the room must hear the beating of her miserable100 heart.
When she rejoined her companions, Dr. Meredith had already risen and was stuffing various letters and papers into his pockets with a view to departure.
"Going?" said Lord Lackington. "You shall see the last of me, too, Mademoiselle Julie."
And he stood up. But she, flushing, looked at him with a wistful smile.
"Won't you stay a few minutes? You promised to advise me about Thérèse's drawings."
"By all means."
Lord Lackington sat down again. The lame child, it appeared, had some artistic101 talent, which Miss Le Breton wished to cultivate. Meredith suddenly found his coat and hat, and, with a queer look at Julie, departed in a hurry.
"Thérèse, darling," said Julie, "will you go up-stairs, please, and fetch me that book from my room that has your little drawings inside it?"
The child limped away on her errand. In spite of her lameness102 she moved with wonderful lightness and swiftness, and she was back again quickly with a calf-bound book in her hand.
"Léonie!" said Julie, in a low voice, to Madame Bornier.
The little woman looked up startled, nodded, rolled up her knitting in a moment, and was gone.
"Take the book to his lordship, Thérèse," she said, and then, instead of moving with the child, she again walked to the window, and, leaning her head against it, looked out. The hand hanging against her dress trembled violently.
"What did you want me to look at, my dear?" said Lord Lackington, taking the book in his hand and putting on his glasses.
But the child was puzzled and did not know. She gazed at him silently with her sweet, docile103 look.
"Run away, Thérèse, and find mother," said Julie, from the window.
The child sped away and closed the door behind her.
Lord Lackington adjusted his glasses and opened the book. Two or three slips of paper with drawings upon them fluttered out and fell on the table beneath. Suddenly there was a cry. Julie turned round, her lips parted.
Lord Lackington walked up to her.
"Tell me what this means," he said, peremptorily104. "How did you come by it?"
It was a volume of George Sand. He pointed105, trembling, to the name and date on the fly-leaf--"Rose Delaney, 1842."
"It is mine," she said, softly, dropping her eyes.
"But how--how, in God's name, did you come by it?"
"My mother left it to me, with all her other few books and possessions."
There was a pause. Lord Lackington came closer.
"Who was your mother?" he said, huskily.
The words in answer were hardly audible. Julie stood before him like a culprit, her beautiful head humbly106 bowed.
Lord Lackington dropped the book and stood bewildered.
"Rose's child?" he said--"Rose's child?"
Then, approaching her, he placed his hand on her arm.
"Let me look at you," he commanded.
Julie raised her eyes to him, and at the same time dumbly held out to him a miniature she had been keeping hidden in her hand. It was one of the miniatures from the locked triptych.
He took it, looked from the pictured to the living face, then, turning away with a groan107, he covered his face with his hands and fell again into the chair from which he had risen.
Julie hurried to him. Her own eyes were wet with tears. After a moment's hesitation108 she knelt down beside him.
"I ought to ask your pardon for not having told you before," she murmured.
It was some time before Lord Lackington looked up. When at last his hands dropped, the face they uncovered was very white and old.
"So you," he said, almost in a whisper, "are the child she wrote to me about before she died?"
Julie made a sign of assent109.
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-nine."
"She was thirty-two when I saw her last."
There was a silence. Julie lifted one of his hands and kissed it. But he took no notice.
"You know that I was going to her, that I should have reached her in time"--the words seemed wrung110 from him--"but that I was myself dangerously ill?"
"I know. I remember it all."
"Did she speak of me?"
"Not often. She was very reserved, you remember. But not long before she died--she seemed half asleep--I heard her say, 'Papa!--Blanche!' and she smiled."
Lord Lackington's face contracted, and the slow tears of old age stood in his eyes.
"You are like her in some ways," he said, brusquely, as though to cover his emotion; "but not very like her."
"She always thought I was like you."
A cloud came over Lord Lackington's face. Julie rose from her knees and sat beside him. He lost himself a few moments amid the painful ghosts of memory. Then, turning to her abruptly, he said:
"You have wondered, I dare say, why I was so hard--why, for seventeen years, I cast her off?"
"Yes, often. You could have come to see us without anybody knowing. Mother loved you very much."
Her voice was low and sad. Lord Lackington rose, fidgeted restlessly with some of the small ornaments111 on the mantel-piece, and at last turned to her.
"She brought dishonor," he said, in the same stifled112 voice, "and the women of our family have always been stainless113. But that I could have forgiven. After a time I should have resumed relations--private relations--with her. But it was your father who stood in the way. I was then--I am now--you saw me with that young fellow just now--quarrelsome and hot-tempered. It is my nature." He drew himself up obstinately114. "I can't help it. I take great pains to inform myself, then I cling to my opinions tenaciously115, and in argument my temper gets the better of me. Your father, too, was hot-tempered. He came, with my consent, once to see me--after your mother had left her husband--to try and bring about some arrangement between us. It was the Chartist time. He was a Radical116, a Socialist117 of the most extreme views. In the course of our conversation something was said that excited him. He went off at score. I became enraged118, and met him with equal violence. We had a furious argument, which ended in each insulting the other past forgiveness. We parted enemies for life. I never could bring myself to see him afterwards, nor to run the risk of seeing him. Your mother took his side and espoused119 his opinions while he lived. After his death, I suppose, she was too proud and sore to write to me. I wrote to her once--it was not the letter it might have been. She did not reply till she felt herself dying. That is the explanation of what, no doubt, must seem strange to you."
"'FOR MY ROSE'S CHILD,' HE SAID, GENTLY"
He turned to her almost pleadingly. A deep flush had replaced the pallor of his first emotion, as though in the presence of these primal120 realities of love, death, and sorrow which she had recalled to him, his old quarrel, on a political difference, cut but a miserable figure.
"No," she said, sadly, "not very strange. I understood my father--my dear father," she added, with soft, deliberate tenderness.
Lord Lackington was silent a little, then he threw her a sudden, penetrating121 look.
"You have been in London three years. You ought to have told me before."
It was Julie's turn to color.
"Lady Henry bound me to secrecy122."
"Lady Henry did wrong," he said, with emphasis. Then he asked, jealously, with a touch of his natural irascibility, "Who else has been in the secret?"
"Four people, at most--the Duchess, first of all. I couldn't help it," she pleaded. "I was so unhappy with Lady Henry."
"You should have come to me. It was my right."
"But"--she dropped her head--"you had made it a condition that I should not trouble you."
He was silenced; and once more he leaned against the mantel-piece and hid his face from her, till, by a secret impulse, both moved. She rose and approached him; he laid his hands on her arms. With his persistent123 instinct for the lovely or romantic he perceived, with sudden pleasure, the grave, poetic124 beauty of her face and delicate form. Emotion had softened125 away all that was harsh; a quivering charm hovered over the features. With a strange pride, and a sense of mystery, he recognized his daughter and his race.
"For my Rose's child," he said, gently, and, stooping, he kissed her on the brow. She broke out into weeping, leaning against his shoulder, while the old man comforted and soothed126 her.
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1
isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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2
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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3
spurts
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| 短暂而突然的活动或努力( spurt的名词复数 )； 突然奋起 | |
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4
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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5
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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6
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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7
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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8
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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9
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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10
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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11
wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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12
ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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13
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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14
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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15
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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16
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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17
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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18
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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19
originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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20
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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21
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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22
humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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23
absolved
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| 宣告…无罪，赦免…的罪行，宽恕…的罪行( absolve的过去式和过去分词 )； 不受责难，免除责任 [义务] ,开脱（罪责） | |
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24
ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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25
yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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26
thawed
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| 解冻 | |
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27
colloquy
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| n.谈话，自由讨论 | |
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28
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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29
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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30
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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31
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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32
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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33
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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34
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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35
disastrously
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| ad.灾难性地 | |
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36
perspicacity
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| n. 敏锐, 聪明, 洞察力 | |
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37
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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38
remiss
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| adj.不小心的，马虎 | |
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39
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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40
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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41
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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42
gambling
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| n.赌博；投机 | |
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43
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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44
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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45
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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46
coup
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| n.政变；突然而成功的行动 | |
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47
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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48
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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49
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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50
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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51
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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52
congruity
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| n.全等，一致 | |
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53
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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54
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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55
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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56
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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57
tout
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| v.推销，招徕；兜售；吹捧，劝诱 | |
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58
suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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59
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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60
missionaries
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| n.传教士( missionary的名词复数 ) | |
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61
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
filch
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| v.偷窃 | |
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63
tirade
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| n.冗长的攻击性演说 | |
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64
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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65
declamation
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| n. 雄辩，高调 | |
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66
qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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67
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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68
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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69
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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70
batch
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| n.一批(组，群)；一批生产量 | |
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71
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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72
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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73
abolition
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| n.废除，取消 | |
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74
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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75
abominably
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| adv. 可恶地，可恨地，恶劣地 | |
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76
pugnaciously
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77
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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78
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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79
bribed
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| v.贿赂( bribe的过去式和过去分词 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂 | |
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80
dissented
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| 不同意，持异议( dissent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81
loath
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| adj.不愿意的；勉强的 | |
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82
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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83
wrestle
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| vi.摔跤，角力；搏斗；全力对付 | |
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84
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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85
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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86
lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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87
shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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88
ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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89
beguile
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| vt.欺骗，消遣 | |
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90
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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91
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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92
irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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93
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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94
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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95
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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96
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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97
suffocation
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| n.窒息 | |
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98
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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99
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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100
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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101
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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102
lameness
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| n. 跛, 瘸, 残废 | |
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103
docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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104
peremptorily
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| adv.紧急地，不容分说地，专横地 | |
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105
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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106
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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107
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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108
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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109
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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110
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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111
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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112
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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113
stainless
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| adj.无瑕疵的，不锈的 | |
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114
obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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115
tenaciously
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| 坚持地 | |
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116
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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117
socialist
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| n.社会主义者；adj.社会主义的 | |
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118
enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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119
espoused
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| v.（决定）支持，拥护（目标、主张等）( espouse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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120
primal
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| adj.原始的；最重要的 | |
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121
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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122
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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123
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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124
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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125
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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126
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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