Rushing through the streets of London, as if he were rushing for his life, went a gentleman in deep mourning. It was Robert Hunter. Very soon after we last saw her, he had followed the hearse that conveyed his wife to her long home in Katterley churchyard.
Putting aside his grief, his regret, his bitter repentance1, her death made every difference to him. Had there been a child, the house and income would have remained his; being none, it all went from him. Of his own money but little remained: he had been extravagant2 during the brief period when he was Lieutenant3 Hunter, had spent right and left. One does not do these things without having to pay for it. Mrs. Chester, going over to offer a condoling4 visit, heard this, and spoke5 out her opinion with her usual want of reserve. She looked upon him as a man lost. "No," said he, "I am saved! I shall go to work now." "Hoping to redeem6 fortune?" she rejoined. "Yes," he said, "and something else besides."
Heavily lay the shadow of the past upon Robert Hunter. The drooping7 form of his loving and neglected wife, bright with hope once, mouldering8 in her grave now, was in his mind always; the years that he had wasted in frivolity9, the money he had recklessly spent. Oh, the simpleton he was--as he thought now, looking back in his repentance. When he had become master of a good profession, why did he abandon it because a little money was left him? To become a gentleman amongst gentlemen, forsooth; to put away the soiling of his hands; to live a life of vanity and indolence. Heaven had recompensed him in its own just way: whatsoever10 a man soweth, that shall he reap. His soldiership was gone; his wife was gone; money, the greater portion of it, was gone. Nothing left to him but remembrance, and the ever-present, bitter sense of his folly11. He was beginning life anew: he must go back to the bottom of the tree of his engineering profession, lower than where he had left off: he would so begin it and take up his work daily, and untiringly persevere12 in it, so as--Heaven helping13 him--to atone14 for the past. Not all the past. The wasted years were gone for ever; the gentle wife, whom he had surely helped to send to the grave, could not be recalled to earth. Not so much on his wife were his musings bent15 as on the career of work lying before him. He had so grieved for her in the days before and immediately after her death, that it seemed as though the sorrow had, in a degree, spent itself, and reaction set in. If his handicraft's best skill, indifference16 to privation, unflagging industry, could redeem the past idleness, he would surely redeem that. Not in a pecuniary17 point of view, it was not of that he thought, but in the far graver one of wasted life. His eyes were opening a little; he saw how offensive on High must be a life of mere18 idle indulgence; a waste of that precious time, short at the best, bestowed19 upon him to use. This, this was what he had resolved to atone for: Heaven helping him, he once more aspirated in the sad but resolute20 earnestness of his heart.
Making an end of his affairs at Katterley, he came to London, presented himself at the office of the firm where he was formerly21 employed, and said he had come to ask for work. They remembered the clever, active, industrious22 young man, and were glad to have him again. And Robert Hunter--dropping his easy life, just as he dropped the name he had borne in it--entered on his career of toil23 and usefulness.
The spring was growing late when his employers intimated to him that he was going to be sent to Spain, to superintend some work there. Anywhere, he answered; he was quite ready, let them send him where they would.
On this morning that we see him splashing through the mud of London improvised24 by the water carts, he was busy making his preparations for departure, and was on his way to call on Professor Macpherson. He wanted some information in regard to the locality for which he was bound, and thought the professor could supply it. The previous night, sitting alone in his lodgings25, he had been surprised, and rather annoyed, by the appearance of Mrs. Chester. That lady was in town on her own business, and found him out. Incautiously he let slip that he was going on the morrow to Dr. Macpherson's. She seized upon the occasion to make a visit also.
At this very moment Mrs. Chester was en route also. Pushing her way along, inquiring her road perpetually, getting into all sorts of odd nooks and turnings, she at length emerged on the more open squares of Bloomsbury, and there she saw her brother, who had been calling at places on his way, in front of her.
"You might have waited for me, Robert, I think."
"I did wait twenty minutes. I came on then. My time is not my own, you know, Penelope."
"Have you seen anything of Lady Ellis since you came to London?" inquired Mrs. Chester, as they walked on together.
"No, I should not be likely to see her."
"She is staying in London; she came to it direct when she left me. At least, she was staying here, but in a letter I had from her she said she thought of going on a visit to Coastdown. Her plans----"
"Excuse me, Penelope, I don't care to hear of Lady Ellis's plans."
"You have grown quite a bear, Robert! That's what work's doing for you."
He laughed pleasantly. "I think it is hurry that is doing it for me this morning, I feel as if I had no time for anything. Number fifteen. Here we are!"
It was a commodious26 house, this one in Bloomsbury, steps leading up to the entrance. He sent in his card, "Mr. Robert Hunter," and they were admitted.
"Lawk a' mercy! Is it you?" exclaimed Mrs. Macpherson, looking first at the card and then at its owner, as they were shown into a handsome room, and the professor's lady, in sky-blue silk, and a scarlet27 Garibaldi body elaborately braided with black, advanced to receive them. She did not wear the bird-of-paradise feather, but she wore something equivalent to it: some people might call it a cap and some a turban, the front ornament28 of which, perching on the forehead, was an artificial bird, with shining wings of green and gold.
Mrs. Macpherson took a hand of each, shaking them heartily29. "And so you have put away your name?" she said.
"Strictly30 speaking, it never was my name," he answered. "It was my wife's. I had to assume it with her property, but when the property left me again, I thought it time to drop the name."
The professor came forward in his threadbare coat, with (it must be owned) a great stream of some sticky red liquid down the front of it, for they had fetched him from his experimenting laboratory. But his smile was bright, his welcome genial31. Mrs. Macpherson, whose first thoughts were always of hospitality, ordered luncheon32 to be got ready. Robert Hunter, sitting down between them, quietly told them he had become a working man again, and where he was going, and what to do. Mrs. Macpherson heard him with a world of sympathy.
"It's just one o' them crosses in life that come to a many of us," remarked she. "Play first and work afterwards! it's out o' the order of things. But take heart. You've got your youth yet, and you'll grow reconciled."
"If you only knew how glad I am to be at work again!" he said, a faint light of earnestness crossing his face. "My years of idleness follow me as a reproach--as a waste of life."
"But for steady attention to my work and studies, I should never have been able to contribute my poor mite33 to further the cause of science," said the professor, meekly34, speaking it as an encouragement to Robert Hunter.
"If he hadn't stuck at it late and early--burning the candle at both ends, as 'twere--he'd not have had his ologies at his fingers' tips," pursued Mrs. Macpherson, who often deemed it necessary to explain more lucidly36 her husband's meaning.
"And so you are about to migrate to Spain?" said the professor. "You----"
"He says he's going off to it by rail," interposed Mrs. Macpherson. "What are the people there? Blacks?"
"No, no, Betsy; they are white, as we are."
"I knew a Spanish man once, professor, and he was olive brown."
"They are dark from the effects of the sun. I thought you alluded37 to the race. The radiation of heat there is excessive; and----"
"That is, it's burning hot in the place," corrected Mrs. Macpherson. "I wish you joy of it, Mr. Hunter. You'll catch it full, a-laying down of your lines of rail."
"I think you have been in Spain?" observed Mr. Hunter to the doctor.
"I once stayed some months there. What do you say?--that you want some information that you think I can supply? I hope I can. What is it? Please to step into my room."
The professor passed out of the door by which he entered, Mr. Hunter following him. A short passage, and then they were in the square back room consecrated38 to the professor and his pursuits. It was not a museum, it was not a laboratory, it was not a library, or an aviary39 of stuffed birds, or an astronomical40 observatory41; but it was something of all. Specimens42 of earth, of rock, of flowers, of plants, of weeds, of antiquarian walls; of animals, birds, fish, insects; books in cases, owls43 in cages; and a vast many more odd things too numerous to mention. Mrs. Macpherson thought it well to follow them.
"Law!" said she to Mrs. Chester, "did living mortal ever see the like o' the place?"
"What a confused mass of things it is!" was the answer, as Mrs. Chester's eyes went roving around in curiosity.
"He says it isn't. He has the face to tell me everything is in its place, and he could find it in the dark. The great beast there with its round eyes, is a owl44 that some of 'em caught and killed when they went out moralizing into Herefordshire."
"Not moralizing, Betsy. One of the excursions of the Geological Society----"
"It's all the same," interrupted Mrs. Macpherson; and the professor meekly turned to Mr. Hunter and continued an explanation he was giving him, a sort of earthenware46 pipe in his hand. The ladies drew near.
"You perceive, Mr. Hunter, there is a small aperture47 for the passing in of the atmospheric48 air?"
"That is, there's a hole where the wind goes out," explained the professor's wife.
"By these means, taking the precautions I have previously49 shown you, the pressure on the valve may be increased to almost any given extent! As a natural consequence----"
"Oh, bother consequences!" cried Mrs. Macpherson; "I'm sure young Robert Hunter don't care to waste his time with that rubbish, when there's cold beef and pickled salmon50 waiting."
"Just two minutes, Betsy, and Mr. Hunter shall be with you. Perhaps you and Mrs. Chester will oblige us by going on."
"Not if I know it," said the lady, resolutely51. "I've had experience of your 'two minutes' before today, prefessor, and seen 'em swell52 into two mortal hours. Come! finish what you've got to say to him, and we'll all go together."
Dr. Macpherson continued his explanations in a low voice, possibly to avoid more interruptions. Five minutes or so, and they moved from the table, the doctor still talking in answer to a question.
"Not yet. I grieve to say we have not any certain clue to it, and opinions are much divided among us. It needs these checks to remind us of our finite nature, Mr. Hunter. So far shalt thou go, but no farther. That is a law of the Divine Creator, and we cannot break it."
Robert Hunter smiled. "The strangest thing of all is to hear one of you learned men acknowledge as much. The philosopher's stone; perpetual motion; the advancing and receding53 tides--do you not live in expectation of making the secret of these marvels54 yours?"
Professor Macpherson shook his head. "If we were permitted: but we never shall be. If. That word has been the arresting point of man in the past ages, as it will be in the future. Archimedes said he could move the world, you know, if he had but an outward spot to rest the fulcrum55 of his lever on."
"It's a lucky thing for us that Archimy didn't," was the comment of Mrs. Macpherson. "It wouldn't be pleasant to be swayed about promiscous, the earth tossing like a ship at sea."
Robert Hunter declined the luncheon; he had many things to do still, and his time in England was growing very short; so he said adieu to them both then, and to his sister.
"Now remember, Robert Hunter," said Mrs. Macpherson, taking both his hands, "when you visit England temporay, and want a friendly bed to put yourself into, come to us. Me and the prefessor took to you when we first saw you at Guild56. You remember that night," she added, turning to Mrs. Chester: "we come up in a carriage and pair; I wore my orange brocade and my bird-o'-paradise; and there was a Lady Somebody there, one o' those folks that put on airs and graces; which isn't pretty in a my lady, any more than it is in a missis. You took our fancies, Mr. Hunter--though it does seem odd to be calling you that, and not Lake--and we'll look upon it as a favour if you'll come to us sometimes. The prefessor knows we shall, but he's never cute at compliments. He was born without gumption57."
The professor's lingering shake of the hand, the welcoming look in his kindly58 eyes, said at least as much as his wife's words; and Robert Hunter went forth59, knowing that they wished to be his friends.
So they sat down to their luncheon and he departed; and the same night went forth on his travels.
Coastdown lay low in the light of the morning sun. The skies were clear, the rippling60 sea was gay with its fishing boats. Spring had been very late that year, but this was a day warm and bright. The birds were singing, the lambs were sporting in the fields, the hedges were bursting into buds of green.
Swinging through the gate of the Red Court Farm, having been making a call there to fetch a newspaper, came Captain Copp: a sailor with a wooden leg, a pea jacket, and a black glazed61 hat. Captain Copp had been a merchant captain of the better class, as his father was before him. After his misfortune--the loss of his leg in an encounter with pirates--he gave up the sea, and settled at Coastdown on his small but sufficient income.
The captain's womenkind--as he was in the habit of calling the inmates62 of his house--consisted of his wife and a maid servant. The former was meek35, yielding, gentle as those gentle lambs in the field; the latter, Sarah Ford45, worth her weight in gold for honest capability63, liked to manage the captain and the world on occasions. There were encounters between them. He was apt to call her a she-pirate and other affectionate names. She openly avowed64 her disbelief in his marvellous reminiscences, especially one that was a standing65 story with him concerning a sea-serpent that he saw with his own eyes in the Pacific Ocean. He had also seen a mermaid66. Like many another sailor, the captain was a simple-minded man in land affairs, only great at sea and its surroundings; with implicit67 faith in all its marvels.
On occasions the captain's mother honoured him with a visit; a resolute, well-to-do lady, who used to voyage with her husband, and had now settled in Liverpool. When she came she ruled the house and the captain, for she thought him (forty, now) and his wife little better than children yet. In solid sense, if you believed herself, nobody could approach her.
Captain Copp came forth from his call at the Red Court Farm, letting the gate swing behind him, and stumped68 along quickly, his stout69 stick and his wooden leg keeping time on the ground. The captain's face was beaming with satisfaction, for he had contrived70 to lay hold of young Cyril Thornycroft, and recount to him (for the fiftieth time) the whole story of the sea-serpent from beginning to end. He was a short, wiry man, with the broad round shoulders of a sailor. The road branched off before him two ways, like an old-fashioned fork; the way on the right led direct to the village and the common beach; the way on the left to his home.
The captain halted. Sociably71 inclined, he was rather fond of taking himself to the Mermaid; that noted-public house where the sailors and the coastguard men congregated72 to watch the omnibus come in from Jutpoint. It must be getting near to the time of its arrival, half-past eleven, and the captain's leg moved a step forward in the direction; on the other hand, he wanted to say a word to that she-serpent Sarah (with whom he had enjoyed an encounter before coming out) about the dinner. The striking of the clock decided73 him, and he bore on for home, past the churchyard. Crossing part of the heath, he came to the houses, red brick, detached, cheerful, his own being the third. At the window of the first sat an old lady. Captain Copp went through the little gate and put his face without ceremony against the pane74, close to Mrs. Connaught's.
"How's the master this morning?" he called out through the glass.
She answered by drawing aside and pointing to the fire. An asthmatical old gentleman, just recovering from a fit of the gout, sat there in a white cotton nightcap and dressing-gown made of yellow flannel75.
"He's come down for the first time, Captain Copp. He looks brave this morning," was Mrs. Connaught's answer.
"Glad to see ye, comrade; I'll come in later," cried the captain through the window, flourishing his stick in token of congratulation. And old Mr. Connaught, who had not heard a word, nodded the tassel76 of the white cap by way of answer.
In the parlour at home, when Captain Copp entered it, sat his wife at work, a faded lady with a thin and fair face. Taking out the newspaper he had brought, he began to open it.
"Did you see the justice, Sam?" asked his wife in her gentle, loving tones.
"No, he was out. I only saw Cyril. There'll be a fine row when he comes home. Mary Anne has run away."
Mrs. Copp dropped her work. "Run away! oh, Sam! Run away from where?"
"From where?--why, from school," said the choleric77 captain, who was just as hot as his wife was calm. "She came bursting in upon them this morning at breakfast, having run home all the eight miles. And she says she won't go back."
Mrs. Samuel Copp, who had never in her life presumed to take a walk without express permission given for it, lifted her hands in dismay. "I feared she would never stay at school; I feared she would not."
"Old Connaught is downstairs today, Amy," observed the captain to her after a long interval78 of silence, as he turned his paper.
"I am glad of that. He suffers sadly, poor man."
"Well, he's getting old, you see; and he's one that has coddled himself all his life, which doesn't answer. I say! who's this?"
A vision of something bright had flashed in at the little garden gate, on its way to the door. Mrs. Copp started up, saying that it was Mary Anne Thornycroft.
"Not a bit of it," said the captain. "Mary Anne Thornycroft would come right in and not stand knocking at the door like a simpleton."
The knocking was very load and decisive, such as, one is apt to fancy in a simple country place, must herald79 the approach of a visitor of consequence. Sarah appeared showing in the stranger.
"Lady Ellis, ma'am," she said to her mistress.
A dress of rich black silk, a handsome India shawl, a girlish straw bonnet80, with a great deal of bright mauve ribbon about it, a white veil, and delicate lavender gloves. My lady had got up herself well for her journey; stylish81, but not too fine to travel. She had discarded her mourning, but it was convenient to wear her black silks. The captain and his wife rose.
Yes, it was Lady Ellis. But she had mistaken the direction given her, and had come to Captain Copp's instead of Mrs. Connaught's. When the explanation came, the gallant82 captain offered to take her in.
"Old Connaught is better today," observed he, volunteering the information. "He's downstairs in a nightcap and flannel gown."
Another minute, and Lady Ellis had the opportunity of making acquaintance with the articles of attire83 mentioned, and the old gentleman they adorned84. Captain Copp, with his nautical85 disregard to ceremony, went into his neighbour's house as usual, without knocking, opened the sitting-room86 door, and sent the visitor in. Mrs. Connaught was not there, and he went to the kitchen in search of her. They were primitive-mannered, these worthy87 people of Coastdown, entering each others' kitchens or parlours at will.
Mr. Connaught, very excessively taken aback at the unexpected apparition88, did nothing but look up with a stolid89 stare, as unable mentally to comprehend what the lady did there, and who she might be, as he was physically90 to rise and receive her. Lady Ellis lost her ready suavity91 for a moment, struck out of it by the curious old figure before her.
Mrs. Connaught was preparing some dainty little dish for her husband; sick people have fancies, and he liked her cooking better than the cook's. She heard the wooden leg coming along the passage.
"Here!" said the captain, "some lady wants you. Came by the omnibus from Jutpoint, I gather; got a white figure-head."
He stumped out the back way as he spoke, and Mrs. Connaught entered the parlour. When Lady Ellis was a girl of fifteen, twenty years before, and she an unmarried woman getting on for forty, they had seen a good deal of each other. Not having met since, each had some little difficulty in making the recognition of the other; but it dawned at last.
"I could not stay any longer from coming to see you," said Lady Ellis. "You seem to be the only link left of my early home and my dear parents. Forgive me for intruding92 on you today; had I waited longer I might not have been able to come at all."
She sat down and untied93 her bonnet, and laid hold of Mrs. Connaught's hand and kept it, letting fall some tears. Old Connaught stared more than ever; Mrs. Connaught, not a demonstrative woman, but simple and kindly, answered in kind.
"How long it seems ago! And you must have grown grand since then, Lady Ellis! But I never knew your people very much, you know."
"Ah, you forget! I grand!"--she went on, with a cheery laugh; "you will soon see how different I am from that. I came home to find nearly all those I cared for dead; you only are left, and I thought I must come down and find you out. Dear Mrs. Connaught, dear old friend, the longing94 for it got irrepressible."
Lady Ellis, it may be remembered, had pencilled down Mrs. Connaught's address at Mrs. Chester's, as supplied by Mr. Thornycroft. It might prove useful, she thought, on some future occasion. And the occasion had come.
The world, as she thought, had not dealt bountifully with her; quite the opposite. Not to mince95 the matter, she had to scheme to live, just as much as Mrs. Chester had, only in a different way. She liked good clothes, she liked ease and good living. Never, save for those few short days of her Indian marriage, had she known what it was to be free from care. Her father had liked play better than work; he and her mother, both, had a propensity96 to live beyond their income, to get into society that was above them, for they were not altogether gentlepeople. Extravagance, struggles, debts, pinching; all sorts of contrivances and care, outside show, meanness at home--such had been the experience of Angeline Finch97, until some lucky chance took her to India as companion to a lady, and a still luckier introduced her to Sir George Ellis, an old man in his dotage98. Two years of her reign99 as my lady--two blessed years; show, ease, life. Looking back upon them now, they seemed like a very haven100. But Sir George died; it came to an end; and she home to Europe again, where she found herself a little embarrassed how to get along in the world.
Whether she had lost sight of her European acquaintances during her stay in India, or whether she had originally not possessed101 many, certain it was they seemed scarce now.
The vision, coming and going almost like a flash of lightning, of Mr. Thornycroft and his daughter, the gentleman's evident admiration102 of her, the tales she heard (perhaps exaggerated) of the style of living and the wealth at the Red Court, had set her mind a-longing. She thought often how desirable would be a visit there: what might it not lead to? The determination to effect it grew into a settled hope. It might almost have been called a prevision, as you will find from what came of it. Of all the ills that can possibly befal this life, Lady Ellis, perhaps from the circumstances of her early experience, regarded poverty as the most fatal. She had grown to dread103 it awfully104. After that short interval of ease and luxury, the thought of having to relapse back to contrivances, debts, duns, difficulties, turned her sick. Ah, what a difference it is!--what a wide gap between!--a shoulder of mutton for dinner one day, cold the next, hashed the third, beer limited, a gown turned and turned again, shabby at the best; and a good dinner of three courses and wines, and the toilette of Madame Elise!
And so, Lady Ellis, working out her own plans, had come swooping106 down today on Coastdown and Mrs. Connaught.
She went up to Mr. Connaught and took his hand; she looked admiringly at him, as if a yellow flannel gown and cotton nightcap were the most charming articles of attire that fashion could produce; she expressed her sorrow for his ailments107 with a gentle voice. Certainly she did her best to win his heart and his wife's, and went three-parts of the way towards doing it.
Meanwhile things were in a commotion108 at the Red Court Farm. On the departure of Miss Derode at Christmas the justice had put his daughter to school, an eligible109 place eight miles only away. She had gone rebelliously110; stayed rebelliously; and now finished up by running home again.
As the justice found when he got home. Mary Anne flatly refused to go back. She refused altogether to leave home.
Mr. Thornycroft, privately111 not knowing in the least what to do with his self-willed daughter, sat in his magisterial112 chair, the young lady carpeted before him. All he could say, and he said a great deal, did not move her in the least; back to school she would not go. It seemed that she had resumed at once old habits; had fed her birds, sang her songs to the grand piano, danced gleefully in and out amid the servants, and finally put on a most charming silk dress of delicate colour, that she would never have been permitted to wear at school, and was too good to have been taken there.
"I shall drive you back in an hour, Mary Anne."
"I will not go, papa."
"What's that, girl? Do you mean to tell me to my face you will not go when I say you shall? That's something new."
"Of course if you make me get into the carriage and drive me there yourself, I cannot help it; but I should ran away again tomorrow."
"It is enough disgrace to you to have run away once."
Mary Anne stood, half in contrition113, half in defiance114. Nearly seventeen now, tall and fair, very handsome, she scarcely looked one to be coerced115 to this step. Her clear blue eyes met those of her father; the very self-same eyes as his, the self-same will in them.
"As to disgrace, papa, I did nothing more than come straight home. It was the same thing as a morning walk, and I have often gone out for that."
"What do you suppose is to become of you?" questioned Mr. Thornycroft, the conviction seating itself within him that she would not be forced from home again. He ran away from school himself, and his father had never been able to get him back to it. Mary Anne had inherited his self-will.
"I can learn at home. Oh, papa, I will be very good and obedient if you let me stay."
"You are too old now to be at home alone. And you would not obey mademoiselle, you know."
"If you had wanted to place me at school, you should have done it when I was young, papa. I am too old to be sent there now, for the first time."
Inwardly the justice acknowledged the truth of this. He began thinking that he must keep her, and engage some strict governess. But he did not want to do this; he objected to having governesses at the Red Court Farm.
"You don't believe me perhaps, papa. Indeed, I will be good and obedient; but you must not send me away!"
He supposed it must be so. He did not see his way clearly out of the dilemma116; she had been indulged always, she must be indulged still. Some signs of relenting in the blue eyes--handsome still as his daughter's--Mary Anne saw it, and flew into his arms with a shower of tears.
What an opportunity for Lady Ellis! She stayed on at Mrs. Connaught's, and went daily to the Red Court, and read with Mary Anne and saw to her studies; and was her charming companion and indulgent governess. Excursions abroad in plenty! Going to Jutpoint in Mr. Thornycroft's high carriage; sailing to sea in Tomlett's boat; here, there, everywhere! The young men happened to be away at this period, and Lady Ellis had the field open.
There were some weeks of it. My lady had made a private arrangement with Mrs. Connaught, insisting upon paying for herself while she stayed. The sea air was doing her so much good, she said. The sea air! My lady would have taken up her permanent abode117 in old Betts's boat rather than have removed herself to a distance from that desirable pile of buildings, the Red Court Farm. Looking at it from her little chamber118 window, that is, at its chimneys, and imagining the charming life underneath119, it appeared to her as a very haven of refuge.
And Justice Thornycroft was becoming fascinated. He began to think there was not such another woman in the world.
Perhaps there was not. Let Harry120 Thornycroft be assured of one thing--that when these clever women set their minds to lay hold of a man, to bend him to their will, in nine cases out of ten they will carry it out, surrounding circumstances aiding and abetting121.
One day when she was dining at the Red Court Farm, she suggested to Mr. Thornycroft that he should take a dame105 de compagnie for Mary Anne. She always appeared to have that young lady's best interest on her mind and heart and tongue. Mary Anne, accustomed to do what she liked, went out with the cheese.
"It is the only thing, as you will not have a governess. Believe me, my dear sir, it is the only thing for that dear child," she urged, her dark eyes going straight out to the honest blue ones of Harry Thornycroft.
He made no reply. He was thinking that a dame de compagnie might be more troublesome at the Red Court than even a governess.
"Mary Anne wants now some one who will train her mind and form her manners, Mr. Thornycroft. It is essential that it should be done. Wanting a mother, wanting a stepmother, I see only one alternative--a gentlewoman, who will be friend, governess, and companion in one. It is a pity, for her sake, that you did not marry again."
Mr. Thornycroft put out a glass of wine with a sudden movement, and drank it. Lady Ellis resumed, piteously.
"Ah, forgive me! I know I ought not to be so free; to say these things. I was but thinking of that dear child. You will forgive me?"
"There's nothing to forgive," said the justice. "I am exceedingly obliged for the interest you take in her, and for any suggestion you may make. The consideration is--what to do for the best? I don't see my way clear."
He sat with his fine head a little bent, the light of the wax chandelier falling on his fair, and still luxuriant, hair; his blue eyes went out to the opposite wall, seeing nothing; his fingers played with the wine glass on the table. Evidently there were considerations to be regarded of which Lady Ellis knew nothing.
"It has been partly out of love to my daughter that I have never given her a stepmother," said he, coming out of his reverie. "Second wives are apt to make the home unhappy for the first children; you often see it."
She smiled sweetly on him. "Dear Mr. Thornycroft! Make the home unhappy! Ah, then, yes, perhaps so! Women with a hard selfish nature. Still I do not see how even they could help loving Mary Anne. She is so----"
What she was, Mr. Thornycroft lost the pleasure of hearing. Sinnett the housekeeper122 came in at this juncture123, and said the landlord of the Mermaid, John Pettipher, had come up, asking to see the justice. "Tomlett has been quarrelling with him, he says, sir," added Sinnett, "and he wants to have the law of him."
"Tomlett's a fool!" burst impulsively124 from the lips of Mr. Thornycroft. "Show him into the justice room, Sinnett."
He went out with a brief word of apology, and he never came back again. My lady sat and waited, and looked and hoped, but he did not return to gladden her with his presence. At length Sinnett came in with some tea.
"Is Mr. Thornycroft gone out?" she asked.
"Yes, my lady. He went out with John Pettipher."
She almost crushed the fragile cup of Sèvres china in her passionate125 fingers. Had Mr. John Pettipher heard the good wishes lavished126 upon him that evening, he might have stared considerably127.
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1
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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2
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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3
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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4
condoling
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| v.表示同情，吊唁( condole的现在分词 ) | |
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5
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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6
redeem
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| v.买回，赎回，挽回，恢复，履行（诺言等） | |
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7
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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8
mouldering
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| v.腐朽( moulder的现在分词 )；腐烂，崩塌 | |
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9
frivolity
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| n.轻松的乐事，兴高采烈；轻浮的举止 | |
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10
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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11
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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12
persevere
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| v.坚持，坚忍，不屈不挠 | |
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13
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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14
atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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15
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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16
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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17
pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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18
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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19
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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20
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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21
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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22
industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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23
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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24
improvised
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| a.即席而作的,即兴的 | |
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25
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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26
commodious
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| adj.宽敞的；使用方便的 | |
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27
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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28
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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29
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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30
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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31
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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32
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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33
mite
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| n.极小的东西；小铜币 | |
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34
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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35
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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36
lucidly
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| adv.清透地，透明地 | |
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37
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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38
consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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39
aviary
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| n.大鸟笼，鸟舍 | |
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40
astronomical
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| adj.天文学的，（数字）极大的 | |
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41
observatory
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| n.天文台，气象台，瞭望台，观测台 | |
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42
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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43
owls
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| n.猫头鹰( owl的名词复数 ) | |
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44
owl
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| n.猫头鹰，枭 | |
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45
Ford
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| n.浅滩，水浅可涉处；v.涉水，涉过 | |
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46
earthenware
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| n.土器，陶器 | |
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47
aperture
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| n.孔，隙，窄的缺口 | |
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48
atmospheric
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| adj.大气的，空气的；大气层的；大气所引起的 | |
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49
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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50
salmon
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| n.鲑，大马哈鱼，橙红色的 | |
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51
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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52
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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53
receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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54
marvels
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| n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 )；令人惊奇的事物（或事例）；不平凡的成果；成就v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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55
fulcrum
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| n.杠杆支点 | |
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56
guild
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| n.行会，同业公会，协会 | |
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57
gumption
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| n.才干 | |
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58
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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59
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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60
rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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61
glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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62
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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63
capability
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| n.能力；才能；(pl)可发展的能力或特性等 | |
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64
avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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65
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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66
mermaid
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| n.美人鱼 | |
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67
implicit
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| a.暗示的，含蓄的，不明晰的，绝对的 | |
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68
stumped
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| 僵直地行走，跺步行走( stump的过去式和过去分词 )； 把（某人）难住； 使为难； （选举前）在某一地区作政治性巡回演说 | |
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70
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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71
sociably
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| adv.成群地 | |
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72
congregated
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| （使）集合，聚集( congregate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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73
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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74
pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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75
flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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76
tassel
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| n.流苏，穗；v.抽穗， （玉米）长穗须 | |
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77
choleric
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| adj.易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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78
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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79
herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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80
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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81
stylish
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| adj.流行的，时髦的；漂亮的，气派的 | |
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82
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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83
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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84
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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85
nautical
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| adj.海上的，航海的，船员的 | |
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86
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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87
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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88
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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89
stolid
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| adj.无动于衷的，感情麻木的 | |
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90
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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91
suavity
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| n.温和；殷勤 | |
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92
intruding
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| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的现在分词)；把…强加于 | |
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93
untied
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| 松开，解开( untie的过去式和过去分词 )； 解除，使自由； 解决 | |
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94
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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95
mince
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| n.切碎物；v.切碎，矫揉做作地说 | |
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96
propensity
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| n.倾向；习性 | |
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97
finch
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| n.雀科鸣禽(如燕雀，金丝雀等) | |
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98
dotage
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| n.年老体衰；年老昏聩 | |
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99
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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100
haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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101
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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102
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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103
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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104
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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105
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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106
swooping
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| 俯冲，猛冲( swoop的现在分词 ) | |
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107
ailments
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| 疾病（尤指慢性病），不适( ailment的名词复数 ) | |
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108
commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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109
eligible
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| adj.有条件被选中的；(尤指婚姻等)合适(意)的 | |
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110
rebelliously
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| adv.造反地，难以控制地 | |
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111
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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112
magisterial
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| adj.威风的，有权威的；adv.威严地 | |
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113
contrition
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| n.悔罪，痛悔 | |
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114
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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115
coerced
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| v.迫使做( coerce的过去式和过去分词 )；强迫；（以武力、惩罚、威胁等手段）控制；支配 | |
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116
dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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117
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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118
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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119
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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120
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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121
abetting
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| v.教唆（犯罪）( abet的现在分词 )；煽动；怂恿；支持 | |
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122
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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123
juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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124
impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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125
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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126
lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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127
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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