There was a low knock on the door.
She opened it. Warkworth appeared on the threshold, and the high moon behind him threw a bright ray into the dim hall, where all but one faint light had been extinguished. She pointed1 to the drawing-room.
"I will come directly. Let me just go and ask Léonie to sit up."
Warkworth went into the drawing-room. Julie opened the dining-room door. Madame Bornier was engaged in washing and putting away the china and glass which had been used for Julie's modest refreshments3.
"Léonie, you won't go to bed? Major Warkworth is here."
Madame Bornier did not raise her head.
"How long will he be?"
"Perhaps half an hour."
"It is already past midnight."
"Léonie, he goes to-morrow."
"Très bien. Mais--sais-tu, ma chère, ce n'est pas convenable4, ce que tu fais là!"
And the older woman, straightening herself, looked her foster-sister full in the face. A kind of watch-dog anxiety, a sulky, protesting affection breathed from her rugged5 features.
Julie went up to her, not angrily, but rather with a pleading humility6.
The two women held a rapid colloquy7 in low tones--Madame Bornier remonstrating8, Julie softly getting her way.
Then Madame Bornier returned to her work, and Julie went to the drawing-room.
Warkworth sprang up as she entered. Both paused and wavered. Then he went up to her, and roughly, irresistibly9, drew her into his arms. She held back a moment, but finally yielded, and clasping her hands round his neck she buried her face on his breast.
They stood so for some minutes, absolutely silent, save for her hurried breathing, his head bowed upon hers.
"Julie, how can we say good-bye?" he whispered, at last.
She disengaged herself, and, seeing his face, she tried for composure.
"Come and sit down."
She led him to the window, which he had thrown open as he entered the room, and they sat beside it, hand in hand. A mild April night shone outside. Gusts10 of moist air floated in upon them. There were dim lights and shadows in the garden and on the shuttered facade11 of the great house.
"Is it forever?" said Julie, in a low, stifled12 voice. "Good-bye--forever?"
She felt his hand tremble, but she did not look at him. She seemed to be reciting words long since spoken in the mind.
"You will be away--perhaps a year? Then you go back to India, and then--"
She paused.
Warkworth was physically14 conscious, as it were, of a letter he carried in his coat-pocket--a letter from Lady Blanche Moffatt which had reached him that morning, the letter of a grande dame2, reduced to undignified remonstrance15 by sheer maternal16 terror--terror for the health and life of a child as fragile and ethereal as a wild rose in May. Reports had reached her; but no--they could not be true! She bade him be thankful that not a breath of suspicion had yet touched Aileen. As for herself, let him write and reassure17 her at once. Otherwise--
And the latter part of the letter conveyed a veiled menace that Warkworth perfectly18 understood.
No--in that direction, no escape; his own past actions closed him in. And henceforth, it was clear, he must walk more warily19.
But how blame himself for these feelings of which he was now conscious towards Julie Le Breton--the strongest, probably, that a man not built for passion would ever know. His relation towards her had grown upon him unawares, and now their own hands were about to cut it at the root. What blame to either of them? Fate had been at work; and he felt himself glorified20 by a situation so tragically21 sincere, and by emotions of which a month before he would have secretly held himself incapable23.
Resolutely24, in this last meeting with Julie, he gave these emotions play. He possessed25 himself of her cold hands as she put her desolate26 question--"And then?"--and kissed them fervently27.
"Julie, if you and I had met a year ago, what happened in India would never have happened. You know that!"
"Do I? But it only hurts me to think it away like that. There it is--it has happened."
She turned upon him suddenly.
"Have you any picture of her?"
He hesitated.
"Yes," he said, at last.
"Have you got it here?"
"Why do you ask, dear one? This one evening is ours."
And again he tried to draw her to him. But she persisted.
"I feel sure you have it. Show it me."
"Julie, you and you only are in my thoughts!"
"Then do what I ask." She bent28 to him with a wild, entreating29 air; her lips almost touched his cheek. Unwillingly30 he drew out a letter-case from his breast-pocket, and took from it a little photograph which he handed to her.
She looked at it with eager eyes. A face framed, as it were, out of snow and fire lay in her hand, a thing most delicate, most frail31, yet steeped in feeling and significance--a child's face with its soft curls of brown hair, and the upper lip raised above the white, small teeth, as though in a young wonder; yet behind its sweetness, what suggestions of a poetic32 or tragic22 sensibility! The slender neck carried the little head with girlish dignity; the clear, timid eyes seemed at once to shrink from and trust the spectator.
Julie returned the little picture, and hid her face with her hands. Warkworth watched her uncomfortably, and at last drew her hands away.
"What are you thinking of?" he said, almost with violence. "Don't shut me out!"
"I am not jealous now," she said, looking at him piteously. "I don't hate her. And if she knew all--she couldn't--hate me."
"No one could hate her. She is an angel. But she is not my Julie!" he said, vehemently33, and he thrust the little picture into his pocket again.
"Tell me," she said, after a pause, laying her hand on his knee, "when did you begin to think of me--differently? All the winter, when we used to meet, you never--you never loved me then?"
"How, placed as I was, could I let myself think of love? I only knew that I wanted to see you, to talk to you, to write to you--that the day when we did not meet was a lost day. Don't be so proud!" He tried to laugh at her. "You didn't think of me in any special way, either. You were much too busy making bishops34, or judges, or academicians. Oh, Julie, I was so afraid of you in those early days!"
"The first night we met," she said, passionately35, "I found a carnation37 you had worn in your button-hole. I put it under my pillow, and felt for it in the dark like a talisman38. You had stood between me and Lady Henry twice. You had smiled at me and pressed my hand--not as others did, but as though you understood me, myself--as though, at least, you wished to understand. Then came the joy of joys, that I could help you--that I could do something for you. Ah, how it altered life for me! I never turned the corner of a street that I did not count on the chance of seeing you beyond--suddenly--on my path. I never heard your voice that it did not thrill me from head to foot. I never made a new friend or acquaintance that I did not ask myself first how I could thereby39 serve you. I never saw you come into the room that my heart did not leap. I never slept but you were in my dreams. I loathed40 London when you were out of it. It was paradise when you were there."
Straining back from him as he still held her hands, her whole face and form shook with the energy of her confession41. Her wonderful hair, loosened from the thin gold bands in which it had been confined during the evening, fell in a glossy42 confusion about her brow and slender neck; its black masses, the melting brilliance43 of the eyes, the tragic freedom of the attitude gave both to form and face a wild and poignant44 beauty.
Warkworth, beside her, was conscious first of amazement45, then of a kind of repulsion--a kind of fear--till all else was lost in a hurry of joy and gratitude46.
The tears stood on his cheek. "Julie, you shame me--you trample47 me into the earth!"
He tried to gather her in his arms, but she resisted, Caresses48 were not what those eyes demanded--eyes feverishly49 bright with the memory of her own past dreams, Presently, indeed, she withdrew herself from him. She rose and closed the window; she put the lamp in another place; she brought her rebellious50 hair into order.
"We must not be so mad," she said, with a quivering smile, as she again seated herself, but at some distance from him. "You see, for me the great question is "--her voice became low and rapid--"What am I going to do with the future? For you it is all plain. We part to-night. You have your career, your marriage. I withdraw from your life--absolutely. But for me--"
She paused. It was the manner of one trying to see her way in the dark.
"Your social gifts," said Warkworth, in agitation51, "your friends, Julie--these will occupy your mind. Then, of course, you will, you must marry! Oh, you'll soon forget me, Julie! I pray you may!"
"My social gifts?" she repeated, disregarding the rest of his speech. "I have told you already they have broken down. Society sides with Lady Henry. I am to be made to know my place--I do know it!"
"The Duchess will fight for you."
She laughed.
"The Duke won't let her--nor shall I."
"You'll marry," he repeated, with emotion. "You'll find some one worthy52 of you--some one who will give you the great position for which you were born."
"I could have it at any moment," she said, looking him quietly in the eyes.
Warkworth drew back, conscious of a disagreeable shock. He had been talking in generalities, giving away the future with that fluent prodigality53, that easy prophecy which costs so little. What did she mean?
"Delafield?" he cried.
And he waited for her reply--which lingered--in a tense and growing eagerness. The notion had crossed his mind once or twice during the winter, only to be dismissed as ridiculous. Then, on the occasion of their first quarrel, when Julie had snubbed him in Delafield's presence and to Delafield's advantage, he had been conscious of a momentary54 alarm. But Julie, who on that one and only occasion had paraded her intimacy55 with Delafield, thenceforward said not a word of him, and Warkworth's jealousy56 had died for lack of fuel. In relation to Julie, Delafield had been surely the mere57 shadow and agent of his little cousin the Duchess--a friendly, knight-errant sort of person, with a liking58 for the distressed59. What! the heir-presumptive of Chudleigh Abbey, and one of the most famous of English dukedoms, when even he, the struggling, penurious60 officer, would never have dreamed of such a match?
Julie, meanwhile, heard only jealousy in his exclamation61, and it caressed62 her ear, her heart. She was tempted63 once more, woman-like, to dwell upon the other lover, and again something compelling and delicate in her feeling towards Delafield forbade.
"No, you mustn't make me tell you any more," she said, putting the name aside with a proud gesture. "It would be poor and mean. But it's true. I have only to put out my hand for what you call 'a great position,' I have refused to put it out. Sometimes, of course, it has dazzled me. To-night it seems to me--dust and ashes. No; when we two have said good-bye, I shall begin life again. And this time I shall live it in my own way, for my own ends. I'm very tired. Henceforth 'I'll walk where my own nature would be leading--it vexes64 me to choose another guide.'"
And as she spoke13 the words of one of the chainless souls of history, in a voice passionately full and rich, she sprang to her feet, and, drawing her slender form to its full height, she locked her hands behind her, and began to pace the room with a wild, free step.
Every nerve in Warkworth's frame was tingling65. He was carried out of himself, first by the rebellion of her look and manner, then by this fact, so new, so astounding66, which her very evasion67 had confirmed. During her whole contest with Lady Henry, and now, in her present ambiguous position, she had Delafield, and through Delafield the English great world, in the hollow of her hand? This nameless woman--no longer in her first youth. And she had refused? He watched her in a speechless wonder and incredulity.
The thought leaped. "And this sublime68 folly--this madness--was for me?"
It stirred and intoxicated69 him. Yet she was not thereby raised in his eyes. Nay70, the contrary. With the passion which was rapidly mounting in his veins71 there mingled--poor Julie!--a curious diminution72 of respect.
"Julie!" He held out his hand to her peremptorily73. "Come to me again. You are so wonderful to-night, in that white dress--like a wild muse74. I shall always see you so. Come!"
She obeyed, and gave him her hands, standing75 beside his chair. But her face was still absorbed.
"To be free," she said, under her breath--"free, like my parents, from all these petty struggles and conventions!"
Then she felt his kisses on her hands, and her expression changed.
"How we cheat ourselves with words!" she whispered, trembling, and, withdrawing one hand, she smoothed back the light-brown curls from his brow with that protecting tenderness which had always entered into her love for him. "To-night we are here--together--this one last night! And to-morrow, at this time, you'll be in Paris; perhaps you'll be looking out at the lights--and the crowds on the Boulevard--and the chestnut-trees. They'll just be in their first leaf--I know so well!--and the little thin leaves will be shining so green under the lamps--and I shall be here--and it will be all over and done with--forever. What will it matter whether I am free or not free? I shall be alone! That's all a woman knows."
Her voice died away. Warkworth rose. He put his arms round her, and she did not resist.
"Julie," he said in her ear, "why should you be alone?"
A silence fell between them.
"I--I don't understand," she said, at last.
"Julie, listen! I shall be three days in Paris, but my business can be perfectly done in one. What if you met me there after to-morrow? What harm would it be? We are not babes, we two. We understand life. And who would have any right to blame or to meddle76? Julie, I know a little inn in the valley of the Bièvre, quite near Paris, but all wood and field. No English tourists ever go there. Sometimes an artist or two--but this is not the time of year. Julie, why shouldn't we spend our last two days there--together--away from all the world, before we say good-bye? You've been afraid here of prying77 people--of the Duchess even--of Madame Bornier--how she scowls78 at me sometimes! Why shouldn't we sweep all that away--and be happy! Nobody should ever--nobody could ever know." His voice dropped, became still more hurried and soft. "We might go as brother and sister--that would be quite simple. You are practically French. I speak French well. Who is to have an idea, a suspicion of our identity? The spring there is mild and warm. The Bois de Verrières close by is full of flowers. When my father was alive, and I was a child, we went once, to economize79, for a year, to a village a mile or two away. But I knew this place quite well. A lovely, green, quiet spot! With your poetical80 ideas, Julie, you would delight in it. Two days--wandering in the woods--together! Then I put you into the train for Brussels, and I go my way. But to all eternity81, Julie, those days will have been ours!"
At the first words, almost, Julie had disengaged herself. Pushing him from her with both hands, she listened to him in a dumb amazement. The color first deserted82 her face, then returned in a flood.
"So you despise me?" she said, catching83 her breath.
"No. I adore you."
She fell upon a chair and hid her eyes. He first knelt beside her, arguing and soothing84; then he paced up and down before her, talking very fast and low, defending and developing the scheme, till it stood before them complete and tempting85 in all its details.
Julie did not look up, nor did she speak. At last, Warkworth, full of tears, and stifled with his own emotions, threw open the window again in a craving86 for air and coolness. A scent87 of fresh leaves and moistened earth floated up from the shrubbery beneath the window. The scent, the branching trees, the wide, mild spaces of air brought relief. He leaned out, bathing his brow in the night. A tumult88 of voices seemed to be echoing through his mind, dominated by one which held the rest defiantly89 in check.
"Is she a mere girl, to be 'led astray'? A moment of happiness--what harm?--for either of us?"
Then he returned to Julie.
"Julie!" He touched her shoulder, trembling. Had she banished90 him forever? It seemed to him that in these minutes he had passed through an infinity91 of experience. Was he not the nobler, the more truly man? Let the moralists talk.
"Julie!" he repeated, in an anguish92.
She raised her head, and he saw that she had been crying. But there was in her face a light, a wildness, a yearning93 that reassured94 him. She put her arm round him and pressed her cheek to his. He divined that she, too, had lived and felt a thousand hours in one. With a glow of ecstatic joy he began to talk to her again, her head resting on his shoulder, her slender hands crushed in his.
And Julie, meanwhile, was saying to herself, "Either I go to him, as he asks, or in a few minutes I must send him away--forever."
And then as she clung to him, so warm and near, her strength failed her. Nothing in the world mattered to her at that moment but this handsome, curly head bowed upon her own, this voice that called her all the names of love, this transformation95 of the man's earlier prudence96, or ambition, or duplicity, into this eager tenderness, this anguish in separation....
"Listen, dear!" He whispered to her. "All my business can be got through the day before you come. I have two men to see. A day will be ample. I dine at the Embassy to-morrow night--that is arranged; the day after I lunch with the Military Secretary; then--a thousand regrets, but I must hurry on to meet some friends in Italy. So I turn my back on Paris, and for two days I belong to Julie--and she to me. Say yes, Julie--my Julie!"
He bent over her, his hands framing her face.
"Say yes," he urged, "and put off for both of us that word--alone!"
His low voice sank into her heart. He waited, till his strained sense caught the murmured words which conveyed to him the madness and the astonishment97 of victory.
Léonie had shut up the house, in a grim silence, and had taken her way up-stairs to bed.
Julie, too, was in her room. She sat on the edge of her bed, her head drooped98, her hands clasped before her absently, like Hope still listening for the last sounds of the harp99 of life. The candle beside her showed her, in the big mirror opposite, her grace, the white confusion of her dress.
She had expected reaction, but it did not come. She was still borne on a warm tide of will and energy. All that she was about to do seemed to her still perfectly natural and right. Petty scruples100, conventional hesitations101, the refusal of life's great moments--these are what are wrong, these are what disgrace!
Romance beckoned102 to her, and many a secret tendency towards the lawless paths of conduct, infused into her by the associations and affections of her childhood. The horror naturalis which protects the great majority of women from the wilder ways of passion was in her weakened or dormant103. She was the illegitimate child of a mother who had defied law for love, and of that fact she had been conscious all her life.
A sharp contempt, indeed, arose within her for the interpretation104 that the common mind would be sure to place upon her action.
"What matter! I am my own mistress--responsible to no one. I choose for myself--I dare for myself!"
And when at last she rose, first loosening and then twisting the black masses of her hair, it seemed to her that the form in the glass was that of another woman, treading another earth. She trampled105 cowardice106 under foot; she freed herself from--"was uns alle b?ndigt, das Gemeine!"
Then as she stood before the oval mirror in a classical frame, which adorned107 the mantel-piece of what had once been Lady Mary Leicester's room, her eye was vaguely108 caught by the little family pictures and texts which hung on either side of it. Lady Mary and her sister as children, their plain faces emerging timidly from their white, high-waisted frocks; Lady 'Mary's mother, an old lady in a white coif and kerchief, wearing a look austerely109 kind; on the other side a clergyman, perhaps the brother of the old lady, with a similar type of face, though gentler--a face nourished on the Christian110 Year; and above and below them two or three card-board texts, carefully illuminated111 by Lady Mary Leicester herself:
"Thou, Lord, knowest my down-sitting and my uprising."
"Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow."
"Fear not, little flock. It is your Father's good pleasure to give you the kingdom."
Julie observed these fragments, absently at first, then with repulsion. This Anglican pietism, so well fed, so narrowly sheltered, which measured the universe with its foot-rule, seemed to her quasi-Catholic eye merely fatuous112 and hypocritical. It is not by such forces, she thought, that the true world of men and women is governed.
As she turned away she noticed two little Catholic pictures, such as she had been accustomed in her convent days to carry in her books of devotion, carefully propped113 up beneath the texts.
"Ah, Thérèse!" she said to herself, with a sudden feeling of pain. "Is the child asleep?"
She listened. A little cough sounded from the neighboring room. Julie crossed the landing.
"Thérèse! tu ne dors pas encore?"
A voice said, softly, in the darkness, "Je t'attendais, mademoiselle."
Julie went to the child's bed, put down her candle, and stooped to kiss her.
The child's thin hand caressed her cheek.
"Ah, it will be good--to be in Bruges--with mademoiselle."
Julie drew herself away.
"I sha'n't be there to-morrow, dear."
"Not there! Oh, mademoiselle!"
The child's voice was pitiful.
"I shall join you there. But I find I must go to Paris first. I--I have some business there."
"But maman said--"
"Yes, I have only just made up my mind. I shall tell maman to-morrow morning,"
"You go alone, mademoiselle?"
"Why not, dear goose?"
"Vous êtes fatiguée. I would like to come with you, and carry your cloak and the umbrellas."
"You, indeed!" said Julie. "It would end, wouldn't it, in my carrying you--besides the cloak and the umbrellas?"
Then she knelt down beside the child and took her in her arms.
"Do you love me, Thérèse?"
The child drew a long breath. With her little, twisted hands she stroked the beautiful hair so close to her.
"Do you, Thérèse?"
A kiss fell on Julie's cheek.
"Ce soir, j'ai beaucoup prié la Sainte Vierge pour vous!" she said, in a timid and hurried whisper.
Julie made no immediate114 reply. She rose from her knees, her hand still clasped in that of the crippled girl.
"Did you put those pictures on my mantel-piece, Thérèse?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
The child hesitated.
"It does one good to look at them--n'est-ce pas?--when one is sad?"
"Why do you suppose I am sad?"
Thérèse was silent a moment; then she flung her little skeleton arms round Julie, and Julie felt her crying.
"Well, I won't be sad any more," said Julie, comforting her. "When we're all in Bruges together, you'll see."
And smiling at the child, she tucked her into her white bed and left her.
Then from this exquisite115 and innocent affection she passed back into the tumult of her own thoughts and plans. Through the restless night her parents were often in her mind. She was the child of revolt, and as she thought of the meeting before her she seemed to be but entering upon a heritage inevitable116 from the beginning. A sense of enfranchisement117, of passionate36 enlargement, upheld her, as of a life coming to its fruit.
"Creil!"
A flashing vision of a station and its lights, and the Paris train rushed on through cold showers of sleet118 and driving wind, a return of winter in the heart of spring.
On they sped through the half-hour which still divided them from the Gare du Nord. Julie, in her thick veil, sat motionless in her corner. She was not conscious of any particular agitation. Her mind was strained not to forget any of Warkworth's directions. She was to drive across immediately to the Gare de Sceaux, in the Place Denfert-Rochereau, where he would meet her. They were to dine at an obscure inn near the station, and go down by the last train to the little town in the wooded valley of the Bièvre, where they were to stay.
She had her luggage with her in the carriage. There would be no custom-house delays.
Ah, the lights of Paris beginning! She peered into the rain, conscious of a sort of home-coming joy. She loved the French world and the French sights and sounds--these tall, dingy119 houses of the banlieue, the dregs of a great architecture; the advertisements; the look of the streets.
The train slackened into the Nord Station. The blue-frocked porters crowded into the carriages.
"C'est tout120, madame? Vous n'avez pas de grands bagages?"
"No, nothing. Find me a cab at once."
There was a great crowd outside. She hurried on as quickly as she could, revolving121 what was to be said if any acquaintance were to accost122 her. By great good luck, and by travelling second class both in the train and on the boat, she had avoided meeting anybody she knew. But the Nord Station was crowded with English people, and she pushed her way through in a nervous terror.
"Miss Le Breton!"
She turned abruptly123. In the white glare of the electric lights she did not at first recognize the man who had spoken to her. Then she drew back. Her heart beat wildly. For she had distinguished124 the face of Jacob Delafield.
He came forward to meet her as she passed the barrier at the end of the platform, his aspect full of what seemed to her an extraordinary animation125, significance, as though she were expected.
"Miss Le Breton! What an astonishing, what a fortunate meeting! I have a message for you from Evelyn."
"From Evelyn?" She echoed the words mechanically as she shook hands.
"Wait a moment," he said, leading her aside towards the waiting-room, while the crowd that was going to the douane passed them by. Then he turned to Julie's porter.
"Attendez un instant."
The man sulkily shook his head, dropped Julie's bag at their feet, and hurried off in search of a more lucrative126 job.
"I am going back to-night," added Delafield, hurriedly. "How strange that I should have met you, for I have very sad news for you! Lord Lackington had an attack this morning, from which he cannot recover. The doctors give him perhaps forty-eight hours. He has asked for you--urgently. The Duchess tells me so in a long telegram I had from her to-day. But she supposed you to be in Bruges. She has wired there. You will go back, will you not?"
"Go back?" said Julie, staring at him helplessly. "Go back to-night?"
"The evening train starts in little more than an hour. You would be just in time, I think, to see the old man alive."
She still looked at him in bewilderment, at the blue eyes under the heavily moulded brows, and the mouth with its imperative127, and yet eager--or tremulous?--expression. She perceived that he hung upon her answer.
She drew her hand piteously across her eyes as though to shut out the crowds, the station, and the urgency of this personality beside her. Despair was in her heart. How to consent? How to refuse?
"But my friends," she stammered--"the friends with whom I was going to stay--they will be alarmed."
"Could you not telegraph to them? They would understand, surely. The office is close by."
She let herself be hurried along, not knowing what to do. Delafield walked beside her. If she had been able to observe him, she must have been struck afresh by the pale intensity128, the controlled agitation of his face.
"Is it really so serious?" she asked, pausing a moment, as though in resistance.
"It is the end. Of that there can be no question. You have touched his heart very deeply. He longs to see her, Evelyn says. And his daughter and granddaughter are still abroad--Miss Moffatt, indeed, is ill at Florence with a touch of diphtheria. He is alone with his two sons. You will go?"
Even in her confusion, the strangeness of it all was borne in upon her--his insistence129, the extraordinary chance of their meeting, his grave, commanding manner.
"How could you know I was here?" she said, in bewilderment.
"I didn't know," he said, slowly. "But, thank God, I have met you. I dread130 to think of your fatigue131, but you will be glad just to see him again--just to give him his last wish--won't you?" he said, pleadingly. "Here is the telegraph-office. Shall I do it for you?"
"No, thank you. I--I must think how to word it. Please wait."
She went in alone. As she took the pencil into her hands a low groan132 burst from her lips. The man writing in the next compartment133 turned round in astonishment. She controlled herself and began to write. There was no escape. She must submit; and all was over.
She telegraphed to Warkworth, care of the Chef de Gare, at the Sceaux Station, and also to the country inn.
"Have met Mr. Delafield by chance at Nord Station. Lord Lackington dying. Must return to-night. Where shall I write? Good-bye."
When it was done she could hardly totter134 out of the office. Delafield made her take his arm.
"You must have some food. Then I will go and get a sleeping-car for you to Calais. There will be no crowd to-night. At Calais I will look after you if you will allow me."
"You are crossing to-night?" she said, vaguely. Her lips framed the words with difficulty.
"Yes. I came over with my cousins yesterday."
She asked nothing more. It did not occur to her to notice that he had no luggage, no bag, no rug, none of the paraphernalia135 of travel. In her despairing fatigue and misery136 she let him guide her as he would.
He made her take some soup, then some coffee, all that she could make herself swallow. There was a dismal137 period of waiting, during which she was hardly conscious of where she was or of what was going on round her.
Then she found herself in the sleeping-car, in a reserved compartment, alone. Once more the train moved through the night. The miles flew by--the miles that forever parted her from Warkworth.
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pointed
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dame
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refreshments
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convenable
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rugged
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humility
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colloquy
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| n.谈话，自由讨论 | |
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8
remonstrating
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的现在分词 )；告诫 | |
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irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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facade
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| n.(建筑物的)正面，临街正面；外表 | |
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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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13
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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14
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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15
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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16
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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17
reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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18
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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19
warily
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| adv.留心地 | |
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20
glorified
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| 美其名的，变荣耀的 | |
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21
tragically
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| adv. 悲剧地，悲惨地 | |
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22
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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23
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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24
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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25
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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26
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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28
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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29
entreating
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
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30
unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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31
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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32
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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vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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34
bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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35
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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36
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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37
carnation
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| n.康乃馨（一种花） | |
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38
talisman
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| n.避邪物，护身符 | |
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39
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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40
loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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41
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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42
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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43
brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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44
poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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45
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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46
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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47
trample
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| vt.踩，践踏；无视，伤害，侵犯 | |
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48
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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49
feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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50
rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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51
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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52
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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53
prodigality
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| n.浪费，挥霍 | |
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54
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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55
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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56
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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57
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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58
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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59
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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60
penurious
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| adj.贫困的 | |
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61
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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62
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
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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64
vexes
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| v.使烦恼( vex的第三人称单数 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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65
tingling
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
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66
astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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67
evasion
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| n.逃避，偷漏(税) | |
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68
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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69
intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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70
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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71
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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72
diminution
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| n.减少；变小 | |
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73
peremptorily
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| adv.紧急地，不容分说地，专横地 | |
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74
muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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75
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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76
meddle
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| v.干预，干涉，插手 | |
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77
prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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78
scowls
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| 不悦之色，怒容( scowl的名词复数 ) | |
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79
economize
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| v.节约，节省 | |
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80
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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81
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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82
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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83
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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84
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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85
tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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86
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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87
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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88
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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89
defiantly
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| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
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90
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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91
infinity
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| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
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92
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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93
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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94
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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95
transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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96
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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97
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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98
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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99
harp
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| n.竖琴；天琴座 | |
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100
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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101
hesitations
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| n.犹豫( hesitation的名词复数 )；踌躇；犹豫（之事或行为）；口吃 | |
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102
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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104
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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105
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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106
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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107
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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108
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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109
austerely
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| adv.严格地，朴质地 | |
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110
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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111
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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112
fatuous
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| adj.愚昧的；昏庸的 | |
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113
propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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114
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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115
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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116
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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117
enfranchisement
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| 选举权 | |
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118
sleet
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| n.雨雪；v.下雨雪，下冰雹 | |
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119
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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120
tout
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| v.推销，招徕；兜售；吹捧，劝诱 | |
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121
revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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122
accost
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| v.向人搭话，打招呼 | |
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123
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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124
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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125
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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126
lucrative
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| adj.赚钱的，可获利的 | |
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127
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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128
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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129
insistence
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| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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130
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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131
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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132
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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133
compartment
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| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
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134
totter
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| v.蹒跚， 摇摇欲坠；n.蹒跚的步子 | |
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135
paraphernalia
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| n.装备；随身用品 | |
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136
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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137
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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