He has, however, little reason to complain of the one drawing-room, where he and his wife are sitting, so pleasant has she made it look, in spite of the plainness of the furniture. A bright log-fire is burning on the hearth8. There are a few good books too, and a few handsome prints; while some really valuable nick-nacks are set out, with pardonable ostentation9, on a little table covered with crimson10 velvet11. It is only cotton velvet, if you look close at it; but the things are pretty enough to catch the eye of all visitors; and Mrs. Heale, the Doctor's wife (who always calls Mrs. Vavasour "my lady," though she does not love her), and Mrs. Trebooze, of Trebooze, always finger them over when they have any opportunity, and whisper to each other half contemptuously,—"Ah, poor thing! there's a sign that she has seen better days."
And better days, in one sense, Mrs. Vavasour has seen. I am afraid, indeed, that she has more than once regretted the morning when she ran away in a hack-cab from her brother Lord Scoutbush's house in Eaton Square, to be married to Elsley Vavasour, the gifted author of "A Soul's Agonies and other Poems." He was a lion then, with foolish women running after him, and turning his head once and for all; and Lucia St. Just was a wild Irish girl, new to London society, all feeling and romance, and literally12 all; for there was little real intellect underlying13 her passionate14 sensibility. So when the sensibility burnt itself out, as it generally does; and when children, and the weak health which comes with them, and the cares of a household, and money difficulties were absorbing her little powers, Elsley Vavasour began to fancy that his wife was a very commonplace person, who was fast losing even her good looks and her good temper. So, on the whole, they were not happy. Elsley was an affectionate man, and honourable15 to a fantastic nicety; but he was vain, capricious, over-sensitive, craving16 for admiration17 and distinction; and it was not enough for him that his wife loved him, and bore him children, kept his accounts, mended and moiled all day long for him and his; he wanted her to act the public for him exactly when he was hungry for praise; and that not the actual, but an altogether ideal, public; to worship him as a deity18, "live for him and him alone," "realise" his poetic19 dreams of marriage bliss20, and talk sentiment with him, or listen to him talking sentiment to her, when she would much sooner be safe in bed burying all the petty cares of the day, and the pain in her back too, poor thing! in sound sleep; and so it befell that they often quarrelled and wrangled21, and that they were quarrelling and wrangling22 this very night.
Who cares to know how it began? Who cares to hear how it went on,—the stupid, aimless skirmish of bitter words, between two people who had forgotten themselves? I believe it began with Elsley's being vexed23 at her springing up two or three times, fancying that she heard the children cry, while he wanted to be quiet, and sentimentalise over the roaring of the wind outside. Then—she thought of nothing but those children. Why did she not take a book and occupy her mind? To which she had her pert, though just answer, about her mind having quite enough to do to keep clothes on the children's backs, and so forth24,—let who list imagine the miserable25 little squabble;—till she says,—"I know what has put you out so to-night; nothing but the news of my sister's coming." He answers,—"That her sister is as little to him as to any man; as welcome to come now as she has been to stay away these three years."
"Ah, it's very well to say that; but you have been a different person ever since that letter came." And so she torments26 him into an angry self-justification (which she takes triumphantly28 as a confession29) that "it is very disagreeable to have his thoughts broken in on by one who has no sympathy with him and his pursuits—and who" and at that point he wisely stops short, for he was going to throw down a very ugly gage30 of battle.
Thrown down or not, Lucia snatches at it.
"Ah, I understand; poor Valentia! You always hated her."
"I did not: but she is so brusque, and excited, and—"
"Be so kind as not to abuse my family. You may say what you will of me; but—"
"And what have your family done for me, pray?"
"Why, considering that we are now living rent-free in my brother's house, and—" She stops in her turn; for her pride and her prudence31 also will not let her tell him that Valentia has been clothing her and the children for the last three years. He is just the man to forbid her on the spot to receive any more presents, and to sacrifice her comfort to his own pride. But what she has said is quite enough to bring out a very angry answer, which she expecting, nips in the bud by—
"For goodness' sake, don't speak so loud; I don't want the servants to hear."
"I am not speaking loud"—(he has not yet opened his lips). "That is your old trick to prevent my defending myself, while you are driving one mad. How dare you taunt33 me with being a pensioner34 on your brother's bounty35? I'll go up to town again and take lodgings36 there. I need not be beholden to any aristocrat37 of them all. I have my own station in the real world,—the world of intellect; I have my own friends; I have made myself a name without his help; and I can live without his help, he shall find!"
"Which name were you speaking of?" rejoins she looking up at him, with all her native Irish humour flashing up for a moment in her naughty eyes. The next minute she would have given her hand not to have said it; for, with a very terrible word, Elsley springs to his feet and dashes out of the room.
She hears him catch up his hat and cloak, and hurry out into the rain, slamming the door behind him. She springs up to call him back, but he is gone;—and she dashes herself on the floor, and bursts into an agony of weeping over "young bliss never to return"? Not in the least. Her principal fear is, lest he should catch cold in the rain. She takes up her work again, and stitches away in the comfortable certainty that in half an hour she will have recovered her temper, and he also; that they will pass a sulky night; and to-morrow, by about mid-day, without explanation or formal reconciliation38, have become as good friends as ever. "Perhaps," says she to herself, with a woman's sense of power, "if he be very much ashamed and very wet, I'll pity him and make friends to-night."
Miserable enough are these little squabbles. Why will two people, who have sworn to love and cherish each other utterly39, and who, on the whole, do what they have sworn, behave to each other as they dare for very shame behave to no one else? Is it that, as every beautiful thing has its hideous40 antitype, this mutual41 shamelessness is the devil's ape of mutual confidence? Perhaps it cannot be otherwise with beings compact of good and evil. When the veil of reserve is withdrawn42 from between two souls, it must be withdrawn for evil, as for good, till the two natures, which ought to seek rest, each in the other's inmost depths, may at last spring apart, confronting each other recklessly with,—"There, you see me as I am; you know the worst of me, and I of you; take me as you find me—what care I?"
Elsley and Lucia have not yet arrived at that terrible crisis: though they are on the path toward it,—the path of little carelessnesses, rudenesses, ungoverned words and tempers, and, worst of all, of that half-confidence, which is certain to avenge43 itself by irritation44 and quarrelling; for if two married people will not tell each other in love what they ought, they will be sure to tell each other in anger what they ought not. It is plain enough already that Elsley has his weak point, which must not be touched; something about "a name," which Lucia is to be expected to ignore,—as if anything which really exists could be ignored while two people live together night and day, for better for worse. Till the thorn is out, the wound will not heal; and till the matter (whatever it may be) is set right, by confession and absolution, there will be no peace for them, for they are living in a lie; and, unless it be a very little one indeed, better, perhaps, that they should go on to that terrible crisis of open defiance45. It may end in disgust, hatred46, madness; but it may, too, end in each falling again upon the other's bosom47, and sobbing48 out through holy tears,—"Yes, you do know the worst of me, and yet you love me still. This is happiness, to find oneself most loved when one most hates oneself! God, help us to confess our sins to Thee, as we have done to each other, and to begin life again like little children, struggling hand in hand out of this lowest pit, up the steep path which leads to life, and strength, and peace."
Heaven grant that it may so end! But now Elsley has gone raging out into the raging darkness; trying to prove himself to himself the most injured of men, and to hate his wife as much as possible: though the fool knows the whole time that he loves her better than anything on earth, even than that "fame," on which he tries to fatten49 his lean soul, snapping greedily at every scrap50 which falls in his way, and, in default, snapping at everybody and everything else. And little comfort it gives him. Why should it? What comfort, save in being wise and strong? And is he the wiser or stronger for being told by a reviewer that he has written fine words, or has failed in writing them; or to have silly women writing to ask for his autograph, or for leave to set his songs to music? Nay,—shocking as the question may seem,—is he the wiser and stronger man for being a poet at all, and a genius?—provided, of course, that the word genius is used in its modern meaning, of a person who can say prettier things than his neighbours. I think not. Be it as it may, away goes the poor genius; his long cloak, picturesque51 enough in calm weather, fluttering about uncomfortably enough, while the rain washes his long curls into swabs; out through the old garden, between storm-swept laurels52, beneath dark groaning53 pines, and through a door in the wall which opens into the lane.
The lane leads downward, on the right, into the village. He is in no temper to meet his fellow-creatures,—even to see the comfortable gleam through their windows, as the sailors close round the fire with wife and child; so he turns to the left, up the deep stone-banked lane, which leads towards the cliff, dark now as pitch, for it is overhung, right and left, with deep oak-wood.
It is no easy matter to proceed, though, for the wind pours down the lane as through a funnel54, and the road is of slippery bare slate55, worn here and there into puddles56 of greasy57 clay, and Elsley slips back half of every step, while his wrath58, as he tires, oozes59 out of his heels. Moreover, those dark trees above him, tossing their heads impatiently against the scarcely less dark sky, strike an awe60 into him,—a sense of loneliness, almost of fear. An uncanny, bad night it is; and he is out on a bad errand; and he knows it, and wishes that he were home again. He does not believe, of course, in those "spirits of the storm," about whom he has so often written, any more than he does in a great deal of his fine imagery; but still in such characters as his, the sympathy between the moods of nature and those of the mind is most real and important; and Dame61 Nature's equinoctial night wrath is weird62, gruesome, crushing, and can be faced (if it must be faced) in real comfort only when one is going on an errand of mercy, with a clear conscience, a light heart, a good cigar, and plenty of Mackintosh.
So, ere Elsley had gone a quarter of a mile, he turned back, and resolved to go in, and take up his book once more. Perhaps Lucia might beg his pardon; and if not, why, perhaps he might beg hers. The rain was washing the spirit out of him, as it does out of a thin-coated horse.
Stay! What was that sound above the roar of the gale63? a cannon64?
He listened, turning his head right and left to escape the howling of the wind in his ears. A minute, and another boom rose and rang aloft. It was near, too. He almost fancied that he felt the concussion65 of the air.
Another, and another; and then, in the village below, he could see lights hurrying to and fro. A wreck66 at sea? He turned again up the lane. He had never seen a wreck. What an opportunity for a poet; and on such a night too: it would be magnificent if the moon would but come out! Just the scene, too, for his excited temper! He will work on upward, let it blow and rain as it may. He is not disappointed. Ere he has gone a hundred yards, a mass of dripping oil-skins runs full butt67 against him, knocking him against the bank; and, by the clank of weapons, he recognises the coast-guard watchman.
"Hillo!—who's that? Beg your pardon, sir," as the man recognises
Elsley's voice.
"What is it?—what are the guns?"
"God knows, sir! Overright the Chough and Crow; on 'em, I'm afeard. There they go again!—hard up, poor souls! God help them!" and the man runs shouting down the lane.
Another gun, and another; but long ere Elsley reaches the cliff, they are silent; and nothing is to be heard but the noise of the storm, which, loud as it was below among the wood, is almost intolerable now that he is on the open down.
He struggles up the lane toward the cliff, and there pauses, gasping68, under the shelter of a wall, trying to analyse that enormous mass of sound which fills his ears and brain, and flows through his heart like maddening wine. He can bear the sight of the dead grass on the cliff-edge, weary, feeble, expostulating with its old tormentor69 the gale; then the fierce screams of the blasts as they rush up across the layers of rock below, like hounds leaping up at their prey70; and far beneath, the horrible confused battle-roar of that great leaguer of waves. He cannot see them, as he strains his eyes over the wall into the blank depth,—nothing but a confused welter and quiver of mingled71 air, and rain, and spray, as if the very atmosphere were writhing72 in the clutches of the gale: but he can hear,—what can he not hear? It would have needed a less vivid brain than Elsley's to fancy another Badajos beneath. There it all is:—the rush of columns to the breach73, officers cheering them on,—pauses, breaks, wild retreats, upbraiding74 calls, whispering consultations,—fresh rush on rush, now here, now there,—fierce shouts above, below, behind,—shrieks of agony, choked groans75 and gasps76 of dying men,—scaling-ladders hurled77 down with all their rattling78 freight,—dull mine-explosions, ringing cannon-thunder, as the old fortress79 blasts back its besiegers pell-mell into the deep. It is all there: truly enough there, at least, to madden yet more Elsley's wild angry brain, till he tries to add his shouts to the great battle-cries of land and sea, and finds them as little audible as an infant's wail80.
Suddenly, far below him, a bright glimmer;—and, in a moment, a blue-light reveals the whole scene, in ghastly hues,—blue leaping breakers, blue weltering sheets of foam81, blue rocks, crowded with blue figures, like ghosts, flitting to and fro upon the brink82 of that blue seething83 Phlegethon, and rushing up towards him through the air, a thousand flying blue foam-sponges, which dive over the brow of the hill and vanish, like delicate fairies fleeing before the wrath of the gale:—but where is the wreck? The blue-light cannot pierce the grey veil of mingled mist and spray which hangs to seaward; and her guns have been silent for half an hour and more.
Elsley hurries down, and finds half the village collected on the long sloping point of down below. Sailors wrapped in pilot-cloth, oil-skinned coast-guardsmen, women with their gowns turned over their heads, staggering restlessly up and down, and in and out, while every moment some fresh comer stumbles down the slope, thrusting himself into his clothes as he goes, and asks, "Where's the wreck!" and gets no answer, but a surly advice to "hold his noise," as if they had hope of hearing the wreck which they cannot see; and kind women, with their hearts full of mothers' instincts, declare that they can hear little children crying, and are pooh-poohed down by kind men, who, man's fashion, don't like to believe anything too painful, or, if they believe it, to talk of it.
"What were the guns from, then, Brown?" asks the Lieutenant85 of the head-boatman.
"Off the Chough and Crow, I thought, sir. God grant not!"
"You thought, sir!" says the great man, willing to vent32 his vexation on some one. "Why didn't you make sure?"
"Why, just look, Lieutenant," says Brown, pointing into the "blank height of the dark;" "and I was on the pier84 too, and couldn't see; but the look-out man here says—" A shift of wind, a drift of cloud, and the moon flashes out a moment.—"There she is, sir!"
Some three hundred yards out at sea lies a long curved black line, beautiful, severe, and still, amid those white wild leaping hills. A murmur86 from the crowd, which swells87 into a roar, as they surge aimlessly up and down.
Another moment, and it is cut in two by a white line—covered—lost—all hold their breaths. No; the sea passes on, and still the black curve is there; enduring.
"A terrible big ship!"
"A Liverpool clipper, by the lines of her."
"God help the poor passengers, then!" sobs88 a woman. "They're past our help: she's on her beam ends."
"And her deck upright toward us."
"Silence! Out of the way you loafing long-shores!" shouts the
Lieutenant. "Brown—the rockets!"
What though the Lieutenant be somewhat given to strong liquors, and stronger language? He wears the Queen's uniform; and what is more, he knows his work, and can do it; all make a silent ring while the fork is planted; the Lieutenant, throwing away the end of his cigar, kneels and adjusts the stick; Brown and his mates examine and shake out the coils of line.
Another minute, and the magnificent creature rushes forth with a triumphant27 roar, and soars aloft over the waves in a long stream of fire, defiant89 of the gale.
Is it over her? No! A fierce gust7, which all but hurls90 the spectators to the ground; the fiery91 stream sweeps away to the left, in a grand curve of sparks, and drops into the sea.
"Try it again!" shouts the Lieutenant, his blood now up. "We'll see which will beat, wind or powder."
Again a rocket is fixed92, with more allowance for the wind; but the black curve has disappeared, and he must wait awhile.
"There it is again! Fly swift and sure," cries Elsley, "thou fiery angel of mercy, bearing the saviour-line! It may not be too late yet."
Full and true the rocket went across her; and "three cheers for the
Lieutenant!" rose above the storm.
"Silence, lads! Not so bad, though;" says he, rubbing his wet hands.
"Hold on by the line, and watch for a bite, Brown."
Five minutes pass. Brown has the line in his hand, waiting for any signal touch from the ship: but the line sways limp in the surge.
Ten minutes. The Lieutenant lights a fresh cigar, and paces up and down, smoking fiercely.
A quarter of an hour; and yet no response. The moon is shining clearly now. They can see her hatchways, the stumps93 of her masts, great tangles94 of rigging swaying and lashing down across her deck; but that delicate upper curve is becoming more ragged95 after every wave; and the tide is rising fast.
"There's a pull!" shouts Brown…. "No, there ain't … God have mercy, sir! She's going!"
The black curve boils up, as if a mine had been sprung on board, leaps into arches, jagged peaks, black bars crossed and tangled96; and then all melts away into the white seething waste; while the line floats home helplessly, as if disappointed; and the billows plunge97 more sullenly98 and sadly towards the shore, as if in remorse99 for their dark and reckless deed.
All is over. What shall we do now? Go home, and pray that God may have mercy on all drowning souls? Or think what a picturesque and tragical100 scene it was, and what a beautiful poem it will make, when we have thrown it into an artistic101 form, and bedizened it with conceits102 and analogies stolen from all heaven and earth by our own self-willed fancy?
Elsley Vavasour—through whose spectacles, rather than with my own eyes, I have been looking at the wreck, and to whose account, not to mine, the metaphors103 and similes104 of the last two pages must be laid—took the latter course; not that he was not awed105, calmed, and even humbled106, as he felt how poor and petty his own troubles were, compared with that great tragedy: but in his fatal habit of considering all matters in heaven and earth as bricks and mortar107 for the poet to build with, he considered that he had "seen enough;" as if men were sent into the world to see and not to act; and going home too excited to sleep, much more to go and kiss forgiveness to his sleeping wife, sat up all night, writing "The Wreck," which may be (as the reviewer in "The Parthenon" asserts) an exquisite108 poem; but I cannot say that it is of much importance.
So the delicate genius sate109 that night, scribbling110 verses by a warm fire, and the rough Lieutenant settled himself down in his Mackintoshes, to sit out those weary hours on the bare rock, having done all that he could do, and yet knowing that his duty was, not to leave the place as long as there was a chance of saving—not a life, for that was past all hope—but a chest of clothes, or a stick of timber. There he settled himself, grumbling111, yet faithful; and filled up the time with sleepy maledictions against some old admiral, who had—or had not—taken a spite to him in the West Indies thirty years before, else he would have been a post captain by now, comfortably in bed on board a crack frigate112, instead of sitting all night out on a rock, like an old cormorant113, etc. etc. Who knows not the woes114 of ancient coast-guard lieutenants115?
But as it befell, Elsley Vavasour was justly punished for going home, by losing the most "poetical116" incident of the whole night.
For with the coast-guardsmen many sailors stayed. There was nothing to be earned by staying: but still, who knew but they might be wanted? And they hung on with the same feeling which tempts117 one to linger round a grave ere the earth is filled in, loth to give up the last sight, and with it the last hope. The ship herself, over and above her lost crew, was in their eyes a person to be loved and regretted. And Gentleman Jan spoke118, like a true sailor—
"Ah, poor dear! And she such a beauty, Mr. Brown; as any one might see by her lines, even that way off. Ah, poor dear!"
"And so many brave souls on board; and, perhaps, some of them not ready, Mr. Beer," says the serious elderly chief boatman. "Eh, Captain Willis?"
"The Lord has had mercy on them, I don't doubt." answers the old man, in his quiet sweet voice. "One can't but hope that he would give them time for one prayer before all was over; and having been drowned myself, Mr. Brown, three times, and taken up for dead—that is, once in Gibraltar Bay, and once when I was a total wreck in the old Seahorse, that was in the hurricane in the Indies; after that when I fell over quay-head here, fishing for bass,—why, I know well how quick the prayer will run through a man's heart, when he's a-drowning, and the light of conscience, too, all one's life in one minute, like—"
"It arn't the men I care for," says Gentleman Jan; "they're gone to heaven, like all brave sailors do as dies by wreck and battle: but the poor dear ship, d'ye see, Captain Willis, she ha'n't no heaven to go to, and that's why I feel for her so."
Both the old men shake their heads at Jan's doctrine119, and turn the subject off.
"You'd better go home, Captain, 'fear of the rheumatics. It's a rough night for your years; and you've no call, like me."
"I would, but my maid there; and I can't get her home; and I can't leave her." And Willis points to the schoolmistress, who sits upon the flat slope of rock, a little apart from the rest, with her face resting on her hands, gazing intently out into the wild waste.
"Make her go; it's her duty—we all have our duties. Why does her mother let her out at this time of night? I keep my maids tighter than that, I warrant." And disciplinarian Mr. Brown makes a step towards her.
"Ah, Mr. Brown, don't now! She's not one of us. There's no saying what's going on there in her. Maybe she's praying; maybe she sees more than we do, over the sea there."
"What do you mean? There's no living body in those breakers, be sure!"
"There's more living things about on such a night than have bodies to them, or than any but such as she can see. If any one ever talked with angels, that maid does; and I've heard her, too; I can say I have—certain of it. Those that like may call her an innocent: but I wish I were such an innocent, Mr. Brown. I'd be nearer heaven then, here on earth, than I fear sometimes I ever shall be, even after I'm dead and gone."
"Well, she's a good girl, mazed120 or not; but look at her now! What's she after?"
The girl had raised her head, and was pointing, with one arm stretched stiffly out toward the sea.
Old Willis went down to her, and touched her gently on the shoulder.
"Come home, my maid, then, you'll take cold, indeed;" but she did not move or lower her arm.
The old man, accustomed to her fits of fixed melancholy121, looked down under her bonnet122, to see whether she was "past," as he called it. By the moonlight he could see her great eyes steady and wide open. She motioned him away, half impatiently, and then sprang to her feet with a scream.
"A man! A man! Save him!"
As she spoke, a huge wave rolled in, and shot up the sloping end of the point in a broad sheet of foam.
And out of it struggled, on hands and knees, a human figure. He looked wildly up, and round, and then his head dropped again on his breast; and he lay clinging with outspread arms, like Homer's polypus in the Odyssey123, as the wave drained back, in a thousand roaring cataracts125, over the edge of the rock.
"Save him!" shrieked126 she again, as twenty men rushed forward—and stopped short. The man was fully127 thirty yards from them: but close to him, between them and him, stretched a long ghastly crack, some ten feet wide, cutting the point across. All knew it: its slippery edge, its polished upright sides, the seething cauldrons within it; and knew, too, that the next wave would boil up from it in a hundred jets, and suck in the strongest to his doom128, to fall, with brains dashed out, into a chasm129 from which was no return.
Ere they could nerve themselves for action, the wave had come. Up the slope it went, one half of it burying the wretched mariner130, and fell over into the chasm. The other half rushed up the chasm itself, and spouted131 forth again to the moonlight in columns of snow, in time to meet the wave from which it had just parted, as it fell from above; and then the two boiled up, and round, and over, and swirled132 along the smooth rock to their very feet.
The schoolmistress took one long look; and as the wave retired133, rushed after it to the very brink of the chasm, and flung herself on her knees.
"She's mazed!"
"No, she's not!" almost screamed old Willis, in mingled pride and terror, as he rushed after her. "The wave has carried him across the crack and she's got him!" And he sprang upon her, and caught her round the waist.
"Now, if you be men!" shouted he, as the rest hurried down.
"Now, if you be men; before the next wave comes!" shouted Big Jan. "Hands together, and make a line!" And he took a grip with one hand of the old man's waistband, and held out the other for who would to seize.
Who took it? Frank Headley, the curate, who had been watching all sadly apart, longing134 to do something which no one could mistake.
"Be you man enough?" asked big Jan doubtfully.
"Try," said Frank.
"Really, you ben't, sir," said Jan, civilly enough. "Means no offence, sir; your heart's stout135 enough, I see; but you don't know what'll be." And he caught the hand of a huge fellow next him, while Frank shrank sadly back into the darkness.
Strong hand after hand was clasped, and strong knee after knee dropped almost to the rock, to meet the coming rush of water; and all who knew their business took a long breath,—they might have need of one.
It came, and surged over the man, and the girl, and up to old Willis's throat, and round the knees of Jan and his neighbour; and then followed the returning out-draught, and every limb quivered with the strain: but when the cataract124 had disappeared, the chain was still unbroken.
"Saved!" and a cheer broke from all lips, save those of the girl herself; she was as senseless as he whom she had saved. They hurried her and him up the rock ere another wave could come; but they had much ado to open her hands, so firmly clenched136 together were they round his waist.
Gently they lifted each, and laid them on the rock; while old Willis, having recovered his breath, set to work crying like a child, to restore breath to "his maiden137."
"Run for Dr. Heale, some good Christian138!" But Frank, longing to escape from a company who did not love him, and to be of some use ere the night was out, was already half-way to the village on that very errand.
However, ere the Doctor could be stirred out of his boozy slumbers139, and thrust into his clothes by his wife, the schoolmistress was safe in bed at her mother's house; and the man, weak, but alive, carried triumphantly up to Heale's door; which having been kicked open, the sailors insisted in carrying him right upstairs, and depositing him on the best spare bed.
"If you won't come to your patients, Doctor, your patients shall come to you. Why were you asleep in your liquors, instead of looking out for poor wratches, like a Christian? You see whether his bones be broke, and gi'un his medicines proper; and then go and see after the schoolmistress; she'm worth a dozen of any man, and a thousand of you! We'll pay for 'un like men; and if you don't, we'll break every bottle in your shop."
To which, what between bodily fear and real good-nature, old Heale assented140; and so ended that eventful night.
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quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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turrets
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| （六角）转台( turret的名词复数 )； （战舰和坦克等上的）转动炮塔； （摄影机等上的）镜头转台； （旧时攻城用的）塔车 | |
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lumber
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| n.木材，木料；v.以破旧东西堆满；伐木；笨重移动 | |
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attics
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| n. 阁楼 | |
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lashing
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| n.鞭打；痛斥；大量；许多v.鞭打( lash的现在分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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8
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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9
ostentation
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| n.夸耀，卖弄 | |
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10
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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11
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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12
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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13
underlying
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| adj.在下面的，含蓄的，潜在的 | |
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14
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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15
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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16
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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17
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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18
deity
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| n.神，神性；被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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19
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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20
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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21
wrangled
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| v.争吵，争论，口角( wrangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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22
wrangling
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| v.争吵，争论，口角( wrangle的现在分词 ) | |
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23
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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24
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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25
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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26
torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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27
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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28
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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29
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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30
gage
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| n.标准尺寸，规格；量规，量表 [=gauge] | |
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31
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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32
vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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33
taunt
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| n.辱骂，嘲弄；v.嘲弄 | |
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34
pensioner
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| n.领养老金的人 | |
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35
bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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36
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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37
aristocrat
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| n.贵族，有贵族气派的人，上层人物 | |
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38
reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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39
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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40
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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41
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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42
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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43
avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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44
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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45
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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46
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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47
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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48
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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49
fatten
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| v.使肥，变肥 | |
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50
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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51
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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52
laurels
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| n.桂冠，荣誉 | |
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53
groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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54
funnel
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| n.漏斗；烟囱；v.汇集 | |
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55
slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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56
puddles
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| n.水坑， （尤指道路上的）雨水坑( puddle的名词复数 ) | |
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57
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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58
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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59
oozes
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| v.（浓液等）慢慢地冒出，渗出( ooze的第三人称单数 )；使（液体）缓缓流出；（浓液）渗出，慢慢流出 | |
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60
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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61
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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62
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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63
gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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64
cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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65
concussion
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| n.脑震荡；震动 | |
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66
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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67
butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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68
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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69
tormentor
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| n. 使苦痛之人, 使苦恼之物, 侧幕 =tormenter | |
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70
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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71
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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72
writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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73
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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74
upbraiding
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| adj.& n.谴责（的）v.责备，申斥，谴责( upbraid的现在分词 ) | |
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75
groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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76
gasps
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| v.喘气( gasp的第三人称单数 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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77
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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78
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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79
fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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80
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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81
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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82
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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83
seething
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| 沸腾的，火热的 | |
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84
pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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85
lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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86
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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87
swells
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| 增强( swell的第三人称单数 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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88
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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89
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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90
hurls
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的第三人称单数 )；大声叫骂 | |
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91
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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92
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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93
stumps
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| （被砍下的树的）树桩( stump的名词复数 )； 残肢； （板球三柱门的）柱； 残余部分 | |
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94
tangles
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| （使）缠结， （使）乱作一团( tangle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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95
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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96
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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97
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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98
sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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99
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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100
tragical
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| adj. 悲剧的, 悲剧性的 | |
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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
conceits
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| 高傲( conceit的名词复数 )； 自以为； 巧妙的词语； 别出心裁的比喻 | |
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103
metaphors
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| 隐喻( metaphor的名词复数 ) | |
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104
similes
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| （使用like或as等词语的）明喻( simile的名词复数 ) | |
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105
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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106
humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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107
mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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108
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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109
sate
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| v.使充分满足 | |
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110
scribbling
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| n.乱涂[写]胡[乱]写的文章[作品]v.潦草的书写( scribble的现在分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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111
grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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112
frigate
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| n.护航舰，大型驱逐舰 | |
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113
cormorant
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| n.鸬鹚，贪婪的人 | |
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114
woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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115
lieutenants
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| n.陆军中尉( lieutenant的名词复数 )；副职官员；空军；仅低于…官阶的官员 | |
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116
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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117
tempts
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| v.引诱或怂恿（某人）干不正当的事( tempt的第三人称单数 )；使想要 | |
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118
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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119
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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120
mazed
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| 迷惘的，困惑的 | |
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121
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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122
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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123
odyssey
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| n.长途冒险旅行；一连串的冒险 | |
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124
cataract
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| n.大瀑布，奔流，洪水，白内障 | |
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125
cataracts
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| n.大瀑布( cataract的名词复数 )；白内障 | |
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126
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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127
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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128
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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129
chasm
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| n.深坑，断层，裂口，大分岐，利害冲突 | |
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130
mariner
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| n.水手号不载人航天探测器，海员，航海者 | |
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131
spouted
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| adj.装有嘴的v.（指液体）喷出( spout的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地讲；喋喋不休地说；喷水 | |
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132
swirled
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| v.旋转，打旋( swirl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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133
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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134
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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136
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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137
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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138
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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139
slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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140
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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