I have a vast respect for my grandfather. He was a man of forethought. He left me a modest little income of seven hundred a-year, well invested. Now, seven hundred a-year is not exactly wealth; but it is an unobtrusive competence1; it permits a bachelor to move about the world and choose at will his own profession. I chose medicine; but I was not wholly dependent upon it. So I honoured my grandfather's wise disposition2 of his worldly goods; though, oddly enough, my cousin Tom (to whom he left his watch and five hundred pounds) speaks MOST disrespectfully of his character and intellect.
Thanks to my grandfather's silken-sailed barque, therefore, when I found myself practically dismissed from Nathaniel's I was not thrown on my beam-ends, as most young men in my position would have been; I had time and opportunity for the favourite pastime of looking about me. Of course, had I chosen, I might have fought the case to the bitter end against Sebastian; he could not dismiss me—that lay with the committee. But I hardly cared to fight. In the first place, though I had found him out as a man, I still respected him as a great teacher; and in the second place (which is always more important), I wanted to find and follow Hilda.
To be sure, Hilda, in that enigmatic letter of hers, had implored4 me not to seek her out; but I think you will admit there is one request which no man can grant to the girl he loves—and that is the request to keep away from her. If Hilda did not want ME, I wanted Hilda; and, being a man, I meant to find her.
My chances of discovering her whereabouts, however, I had to confess to myself (when it came to the point) were extremely slender. She had vanished from my horizon, melted into space. My sole hint of a clue consisted in the fact that the letter she sent me had been posted at Basingstoke. Here, then, was my problem: given an envelope with the Basingstoke postmark, to find in what part of Europe, Asia, Africa, or America the writer of it might be discovered. It opened up a fine field for speculation5.
When I set out to face this broad puzzle, my first idea was: “I must ask Hilda.” In all circumstances of difficulty, I had grown accustomed to submitting my doubts and surmises6 to her acute intelligence; and her instinct almost always supplied the right solution. But now Hilda was gone; it was Hilda herself I wished to track through the labyrinth7 of the world. I could expect no assistance in tracking her from Hilda.
“Let me think,” I said to myself, over a reflective pipe, with feet poised8 on the fender. “How would Hilda herself have approached this problem? Imagine I'm Hilda. I must try to strike a trail by applying her own methods to her own character. She would have attacked the question, no doubt,”—here I eyed my pipe wisely,—“from the psychological side. She would have asked herself”—I stroked my chin—“what such a temperament9 as hers was likely to do under such-and-such circumstances. And she would have answered it aright. But then”—I puffed10 away once or twice—“SHE is Hilda.”
When I came to reconnoitre the matter in this light, I became at once aware how great a gulf11 separated the clumsy male intelligence from the immediate12 and almost unerring intuitions of a clever woman. I am considered no fool; in my own profession, I may venture to say, I was Sebastian's favourite pupil. Yet, though I asked myself over and over again where Hilda would be likely to go—Canada, China, Australia—as the outcome of her character, in these given conditions, I got no answer. I stared at the fire and reflected. I smoked two successive pipes, and shook out the ashes. “Let me consider how Hilda's temperament would work,” I said, looking sagacious. I said it several times—but there I stuck. I went no further. The solution would not come. I felt that in order to play Hilda's part, it was necessary first to have Hilda's head-piece. Not every man can bend the bow of Ulysses.
As I turned the problem over in my mind, however, one phrase at last came back to me—a phrase which Hilda herself had let fall when we were debating a very similar point about poor Hugo Le Geyt: “If I were in his place, what do you think I would do?—why, hide myself at once in the greenest recesses13 of our Carnarvonshire mountains.”
She must have gone to Wales, then. I had her own authority for saying so.... And yet—Wales? Wales? I pulled myself up with a jerk. In that case, how did she come to be passing by Basingstoke?
Was the postmark a blind? Had she hired someone to take the letter somewhere for her, on purpose to put me off on a false track? I could hardly think so. Besides, the time was against it. I saw Hilda at Nathaniel's in the morning; the very same evening I received the envelope with the Basingstoke postmark.
“If I were in his place.” Yes, true; but, now I come to think on it, WERE the positions really parallel? Hilda was not flying for her life from justice; she was only endeavouring to escape Sebastian—and myself. The instances she had quoted of the mountaineer's curious homing instinct—the wild yearning15 he feels at moments of great straits to bury himself among the nooks of his native hills—were they not all instances of murderers pursued by the police? It was abject16 terror that drove these men to their burrows17. But Hilda was not a murderer; she was not dogged by remorse18, despair, or the myrmidons of the law; it was murder she was avoiding, not the punishment of murder. That made, of course, an obvious difference. “Irrevocably far from London,” she said. Wales is a suburb. I gave up the idea that it was likely to prove her place of refuge from the two men she was bent19 on escaping. Hong-Kong, after all, seemed more probable than Llanberis.
That first failure gave me a clue, however, as to the best way of applying Hilda's own methods. “What would such a person do under the circumstances?” that was her way of putting the question. Clearly, then, I must first decide what WERE the circumstances. Was Sebastian speaking the truth? Was Hilda Wade21, or was she not, the daughter of the supposed murderer, Dr. Yorke-Bannerman?
I looked up as much of the case as I could, in unobtrusive ways, among the old law-reports, and found that the barrister who had had charge of the defence was my father's old friend, Mr. Horace Mayfield, a man of elegant tastes, and the means to gratify them.
I went to call on him on Sunday evening at his artistically22 luxurious23 house in Onslow Gardens. A sedate24 footman answered the bell. Fortunately, Mr. Mayfield was at home, and, what is rarer, disengaged. You do not always find a successful Q.C. at his ease among his books, beneath the electric light, ready to give up a vacant hour to friendly colloquy25.
“Remember Yorke-Bannerman's case?” he said, a huge smile breaking slowly like a wave over his genial26 fat face—Horace Mayfield resembles a great good-humoured toad27, with bland28 manners and a capacious double chin—“I should just say I DID! Bless my soul—why, yes,” he beamed, “I was Yorke-Bannerman's counsel. Excellent fellow, Yorke-Bannerman—most unfortunate end, though—precious clever chap, too! Had an astounding29 memory. Recollected30 every symptom of every patient he ever attended. And SUCH an eye! Diagnosis31? It was clairvoyance32! A gift—no less. Knew what was the matter with you the moment he looked at you.”
That sounded like Hilda. The same surprising power of recalling facts; the same keen faculty33 for interpreting character or the signs of feeling. “He poisoned somebody, I believe,” I murmured, casually34. “An uncle of his, or something.”
Mayfield's great squat35 face wrinkled; the double chin, folding down on the neck, became more ostentatiously double than ever. “Well, I can't admit that,” he said, in his suave36 voice, twirling the string of his eye-glass. “I was Yorke-Bannerman's advocate, you see; and therefore I was paid not to admit it. Besides, he was a friend of mine, and I always liked him. But I WILL allow that the case DID look a trifle black against him.”
“Ha? Looked black, did it?” I faltered37.
The judicious38 barrister shrugged39 his shoulders. A genial smile spread oilily once more over his smooth face. “None of my business to say so,” he answered, puckering40 the corners of his eyes. “Still, it was a long time ago; and the circumstances certainly WERE suspicious. Perhaps, on the whole, Hubert, it was just as well the poor fellow died before the trial came off; otherwise”—he pouted41 his lips—“I might have had my work cut out to save him.” And he eyed the blue china gods on the mantelpiece affectionately.
“I believe the Crown urged money as the motive42?” I suggested.
Mayfield glanced inquiry43 at me. “Now, why do you want to know all this?” he asked, in a suspicious voice, coming back from his dragons. “It is irregular, very, to worm information out of an innocent barrister in his hours of ease about a former client. We are a guileless race, we lawyers; don't abuse our confidence.”
He seemed an honest man, I thought, in spite of his mocking tone. I trusted him, and made a clean breast of it. “I believe,” I answered, with an impressive little pause, “I want to marry Yorke-Bannerman's daughter.”
He gave a quick start. “What, Maisie?” he exclaimed.
I shook my head. “No, no; that is not the name,” I replied.
He hesitated a moment. “But there IS no other,” he hazarded cautiously at last. “I knew the family.”
“I am not sure of it,” I went on. “I have merely my suspicions. I am in love with a girl, and something about her makes me think she is probably a Yorke-Bannerman.”
“But, my dear Hubert, if that is so,” the great lawyer went on, waving me off with one fat hand, “it must be at once apparent to you that I am the last person on earth to whom you ought to apply for information. Remember my oath. The practice of our clan46: the seal of secrecy47!”
I was frank once more. “I do not know whether the lady I mean is or is not Yorke-Bannerman's daughter,” I persisted. “She may be, and she may not. She gives another name—that's certain. But whether she is or isn't, one thing I know—I mean to marry her. I believe in her; I trust her. I only seek to gain this information now because I don't know where she is—and I want to track her.”
He crossed his big hands with an air of Christian48 resignation, and looked up at the panels of the coffered ceiling. “In that,” he answered, “I may honestly say, I can't help you. Humbug49 apart, I have not known Mrs. Yorke-Bannerman's address—or Maisie's either—ever since my poor friend's death. Prudent50 woman, Mrs. Yorke-Bannerman! She went away, I believe, to somewhere in North Wales, and afterwards to Brittany. But she probably changed her name; and—she did not confide44 in me.”
I went on to ask him a few questions about the case, premising that I did so in the most friendly spirit. “Oh, I can only tell you what is publicly known,” he answered, beaming, with the usual professional pretence51 of the most sphinx-like reticence52. “But the plain facts, as universally admitted, were these. I break no confidence. Yorke-Bannerman had a rich uncle from whom he had expectations—a certain Admiral Scott Prideaux. This uncle had lately made a will in Yorke-Bannerman's favour; but he was a cantankerous53 old chap—naval, you know autocratic—crusty—given to changing his mind with each change of the wind, and easily offended by his relations—the sort of cheerful old party who makes a new will once every month, disinheriting the nephew he last dined with. Well, one day the Admiral was taken ill, at his own house, and Yorke-Bannerman attended him. OUR contention54 was—I speak now as my old friend's counsel—that Scott Prideaux, getting as tired of life as we were all tired of him, and weary of this recurrent worry of will-making, determined55 at last to clear out for good from a world where he was so little appreciated, and, therefore, tried to poison himself.”
“With aconitine?” I suggested, eagerly.
“Unfortunately, yes; he made use of aconitine for that otherwise laudable purpose. Now, as ill luck would have it”—Mayfield's wrinkles deepened—“Yorke-Bannerman and Sebastian, then two rising doctors engaged in physiological56 researches together, had just been occupied in experimenting upon this very drug—testing the use of aconitine. Indeed, you will no doubt remember”—he crossed his fat hands again comfortably—“it was these precise researches on a then little-known poison that first brought Sebastian prominently before the public. What was the consequence?” His smooth, persuasive57 voice flowed on as if I were a concentrated jury. “The Admiral grew rapidly worse, and insisted upon calling in a second opinion. No doubt he didn't like the aconitine when it came to the pinch—for it DOES pinch, I can tell you—and repented58 him of his evil. Yorke-Bannerman suggested Sebastian as the second opinion; the uncle acquiesced59; Sebastian was called in, and, of course, being fresh from his researches, immediately recognised the symptoms of aconitine poisoning.”
“What! Sebastian found it out?” I cried, starting.
“Oh, yes! Sebastian. He watched the case from that point to the end; and the oddest part of it all was this—that though he communicated with the police, and himself prepared every morsel60 of food that the poor old Admiral took from that moment forth61, the symptoms continually increased in severity. The police contention was that Yorke-Bannerman somehow managed to put the stuff into the milk beforehand; my own theory was—as counsel for the accused”—he blinked his fat eyes—“that old Prideaux had concealed62 a large quantity of aconitine in the bed, before his illness, and went on taking it from time to time—just to spite his nephew.”
“And you BELIEVE that, Mr. Mayfield?”
The broad smile broke concentrically in ripples63 over the great lawyer's face. His smile was Mayfield's main feature. He shrugged his shoulders and expanded his big hands wide open before him. “My dear Hubert,” he said, with a most humorous expression of countenance64, “you are a professional man yourself; therefore you know that every profession has its own little courtesies—its own small fictions. I was Yorke-Bannerman's counsel, as well as his friend. 'Tis a point of honour with us that no barrister will ever admit a doubt as to a client's innocence—is he not paid to maintain it?—and to my dying day I will constantly maintain that old Prideaux poisoned himself. Maintain it with that dogged and meaningless obstinacy65 with which we always cling to whatever is least provable.... Oh, yes! He poisoned himself; and Yorke-Bannerman was innocent.... But still, you know, it WAS the sort of case where an acute lawyer, with a reputation to make, would prefer to be for the Crown rather than for the prisoner.”
“But it was never tried,” I ejaculated.
“No, happily for us, it was never tried. Fortune favoured us. Yorke-Bannerman had a weak heart, a conveniently weak heart, which the inquest sorely affected66; and besides, he was deeply angry at what he persisted in calling Sebastian's defection. He evidently thought Sebastian ought to have stood by him. His colleague preferred the claims of public duty—as he understood them, I mean—to those of private friendship. It was a very sad case—for Yorke-Bannerman was really a charming fellow. But I confess I WAS relieved when he died unexpectedly on the morning of his arrest. It took off my shoulders a most serious burden.”
“You think, then, the case would have gone against him?”
“My dear Hubert,” his whole face puckered67 with an indulgent smile, “of course the case must have gone against us. Juries are fools; but they are not such fools as to swallow everything—like ostriches68: to let me throw dust in their eyes about so plain an issue. Consider the facts, consider them impartially69. Yorke-Bannerman had easy access to aconitine; had whole ounces of it in his possession; he treated the uncle from whom he was to inherit; he was in temporary embarrassments—that came out at the inquest; it was known that the Admiral had just made a twenty-third will in his favour, and that the Admiral's wills were liable to alteration71 every time a nephew ventured upon an opinion in politics, religion, science, navigation, or the right card at whist, differing by a shade from that of the uncle. The Admiral died of aconitine poisoning; and Sebastian observed and detailed72 the symptoms. Could anything be plainer—I mean, could any combination of fortuitous circumstances”—he blinked pleasantly again—“be more adverse73 to an advocate sincerely convinced of his client's innocence—as a professional duty?” And he gazed at me comically.
The more he piled up the case against the man who I now felt sure was Hilda's father, the less did I believe him. A dark conspiracy74 seemed to loom75 up in the background. “Has it ever occurred to you,” I asked, at last, in a very tentative tone, “that perhaps—I throw out the hint as the merest suggestion—perhaps it may have been Sebastian who—”
He smiled this time till I thought his smile would swallow him.
“If Yorke-Bannerman had NOT been my client,” he mused76 aloud, “I might have been inclined to suspect rather that Sebastian aided him to avoid justice by giving him something violent to take, if he wished it: something which might accelerate the inevitable77 action of the heart-disease from which he was suffering. Isn't THAT more likely?”
I saw there was nothing further to be got out of Mayfield. His opinion was fixed78; he was a placid79 ruminant. But he had given me already much food for thought. I thanked him for his assistance, and returned on foot to my rooms at the hospital.
I was now, however, in a somewhat different position for tracking Hilda from that which I occupied before my interview with the famous counsel. I felt certain by this time that Hilda Wade and Maisie Yorke-Bannerman were one and the same person. To be sure, it gave me a twinge to think that Hilda should be masquerading under an assumed name; but I waived80 that question for the moment, and awaited her explanations. The great point now was to find Hilda. She was flying from Sebastian to mature a new plan. But whither? I proceeded to argue it out on her own principles; oh, how lamely81! The world is still so big! Mauritius, the Argentine, British Columbia, New Zealand!
The letter I had received bore the Basingstoke postmark. Now a person may be passing Basingstoke on his way either to Southampton or Plymouth, both of which are ports of embarcation for various foreign countries. I attached importance to that clue. Something about the tone of Hilda's letter made me realise that she intended to put the sea between us. In concluding so much, I felt sure I was not mistaken. Hilda had too big and too cosmopolitan82 a mind to speak of being “irrevocably far from London,” if she were only going to some town in England, or even to Normandy, or the Channel Islands. “Irrevocably far” pointed83 rather to a destination outside Europe altogether—to India, Africa, America: not to Jersey84, Dieppe, or Saint-Malo.
Was it Southampton or Plymouth to which she was first bound?—that was the next question. I inclined to Southampton. For the sprawling85 lines (so different from her usual neat hand) were written hurriedly in a train, I could see; and, on consulting Bradshaw, I found that the Plymouth expresses stop longest at Salisbury, where Hilda would, therefore, have been likely to post her note if she were going to the far west; while some of the Southampton trains stop at Basingstoke, which is, indeed, the most convenient point on that route for sending off a letter. This was mere45 blind guesswork, to be sure, compared with Hilda's immediate and unerring intuition; but it had some probability in its favour, at any rate. Try both: of the two, she was likelier to be going to Southampton.
My next move was to consult the list of outgoing steamers. Hilda had left London on a Saturday morning. Now, on alternate Saturdays, the steamers of the Castle line sail from Southampton, where they call to take up passengers and mails. Was this one of those alternate Saturdays? I looked at the list of dates: it was. That told further in favour of Southampton. But did any steamer of any passenger line sail from Plymouth on the same day? None, that I could find. Or from Southampton elsewhere? I looked them all up. The Royal Mail Company's boats start on Wednesdays; the North German Lloyd's on Wednesdays and Sundays. Those were the only likely vessels86 I could discover. Either, then, I concluded, Hilda meant to sail on Saturday by the Castle line for South Africa, or else on Sunday by North German Lloyd for some part of America.
How I longed for one hour of Hilda to help me out with her almost infallible instinct. I realised how feeble and fallacious was my own groping in the dark. Her knowledge of temperament would have revealed to her at once what I was trying to discover, like the police she despised, by the clumsy “clues” which so roused her sarcasm87.
However, I went to bed and slept on it. Next morning I determined to set out for Southampton on a tour of inquiry to all the steamboat agencies. If that failed, I could go on to Plymouth.
But, as chance would have it, the morning post brought me an unexpected letter, which helped me not a little in unravelling88 the problem. It was a crumpled90 letter, written on rather soiled paper, in an uneducated hand, and it bore, like Hilda's, the Basingstoke postmark.
“Charlotte Churtwood sends her duty to Dr. Cumberledge,” it said, with somewhat uncertain spelling, “and I am very sorry that I was not able to Post the letter to you in London, as the lady ast me, but after her train ad left has I was stepping into mine the Ingine started and I was knocked down and badly hurt and the lady gave me a half-sovering to Post it in London has soon as I got there but bein unable to do so I now return it dear sir not knowing the lady's name and adress she having trusted me through seeing me on the platform, and perhaps you can send it back to her, and was very sorry I could not Post it were she ast me, but time bein an objeck put it in the box in Basingstoke station and now inclose post office order for ten Shillings whitch dear sir kindly91 let the young lady have from your obedient servant,
“CHARLOTTE CHURTWOOD.”
In the corner was the address: “11, Chubb's Cottages, Basingstoke.”
The happy accident of this letter advanced things for me greatly—though it also made me feel how dependent I was upon happy accidents, where Hilda would have guessed right at once by mere knowledge of character. Still, the letter explained many things which had hitherto puzzled me. I had felt not a little surprise that Hilda, wishing to withdraw from me and leave no traces, should have sent off her farewell letter from Basingstoke—so as to let me see at once in what direction she was travelling. Nay92, I even wondered at times whether she had really posted it herself at Basingstoke, or given it to somebody who chanced to be going there to post for her as a blind. But I did not think she would deliberately93 deceive me; and, in my opinion, to get a letter posted at Basingstoke would be deliberate deception94, while to get it posted in London was mere vague precaution. I understood now that she had written it in the train, and then picked out a likely person as she passed to take it to Waterloo for her.
Of course, I went straight down to Basingstoke, and called at once at Chubb's Cottages. It was a squalid little row on the outskirts95 of the town. I found Charlotte Churtwood herself exactly such a girl as Hilda, with her quick judgment96 of character, might have hit upon for such a purpose. She was a conspicuously97 honest and transparent98 country servant, of the lumpy type, on her way to London to take a place as housemaid. Her injuries were severe, but not dangerous. “The lady saw me on the platform,” she said, “and beckoned99 to me to come to her. She ast me where I was going, and I says, 'To London, miss.' Says she, smiling kind-like, 'Could you post a letter for me, certain sure?' Says I, 'You can depend upon me.' An' then she give me the arf-sovering, an' says, says she, 'Mind, it's VERY par-tickler; if the gentleman don't get it, 'e'll fret100 'is 'eart out.' An' through 'aving a young man o' my own, as is a groom101 at Andover, o' course I understood 'er, sir. An' then, feeling all full of it, as yu may say, what with the arf-sovering, and what with one thing and what with another, an' all of a fluster102 with not being used to travelling, I run up, when the train for London come in, an' tried to scramble103 into it, afore it 'ad quite stopped moving. An' a guard, 'e rushes up, an' 'Stand back!' says 'e; 'wait till the train stops,' says 'e, an' waves his red flag at me. But afore I could stand back, with one foot on the step, the train sort of jumped away from me, and knocked me down like this; and they say it'll be a week now afore I'm well enough to go on to London. But I posted the letter all the same, at Basingstoke station, as they was carrying me off; an' I took down the address, so as to return the arf-sovering.” Hilda was right, as always. She had chosen instinctively104 the trustworthy person,—chosen her at first sight, and hit the bull's-eye.
“Do you know what train the lady was in?” I asked, as she paused. “Where was it going, did you notice?”
“It was the Southampton train, sir. I saw the board on the carriage.”
That settled the question. “You are a good and an honest girl,” I said, pulling out my purse; “and you came to this misfortune through trying—too eagerly—to help the young lady. A ten-pound note is not overmuch as compensation for your accident. Take it, and get well. I should be sorry to think you lost a good place through your anxiety to help us.”
The rest of my way was plain sailing now. I hurried on straight to Southampton. There my first visit was to the office of the Castle line. I went to the point at once. Was there a Miss Wade among the passengers by the Dunottar Castle?
No; nobody of that name on the list.
Had any lady taken a passage at the last moment?
The clerk perpended. Yes; a lady had come by the mail train from London, with no heavy baggage, and had gone on board direct, taking what cabin she could get. A young lady in grey. Quite unprepared. Gave no name. Called away in a hurry.
What sort of lady?
Youngish; good-looking; brown hair and eyes, the clerk thought; a sort of creamy skin; and a—well, a mesmeric kind of glance that seemed to go right through you.
“That will do,” I answered, sure now of my quarry105. “To which port did she book?”
“To Cape14 Town.”
“Very well,” I said, promptly106. “You may reserve me a good berth107 in the next outgoing steamer.”
It was just like Hilda's impulsive108 character to rush off in this way at a moment's notice; and just like mine to follow her. But it piqued109 me a little to think that, but for the accident of an accident, I might never have tracked her down. If the letter had been posted in London as she intended, and not at Basingstoke, I might have sought in vain for her from then till Doomsday.
Ten days later, I was afloat on the Channel, bound for South Africa.
I always admired Hilda's astonishing insight into character and motive; but I never admired it quite so profoundly as on the glorious day when we arrived at Cape Town. I was standing110 on deck, looking out for the first time in my life on that tremendous view—the steep and massive bulk of Table Mountain,—a mere lump of rock, dropped loose from the sky, with the long white town spread gleaming at its base, and the silver-tree plantations111 that cling to its lower slopes and merge112 by degrees into gardens and vineyards—when a messenger from the shore came up to me tentatively.
“Dr. Cumberledge?” he said, in an inquiring tone.
I nodded. “That is my name.”
“I have a letter for you, sir.”
I took it, in great surprise. Who on earth in Cape Town could have known I was coming? I had not a friend to my knowledge in the colony. I glanced at the envelope. My wonder deepened. That prescient brain! It was Hilda's handwriting.
I tore it open and read:
“MY DEAR HUBERT,—I KNOW you will come; I KNOW you will follow me. So I am leaving this letter at Donald Currie & Co.'s office, giving their agent instructions to hand it to you as soon as you reach Cape Town. I am quite sure you will track me so far at least; I understand your temperament. But I beg you, I implore3 you, to go no further. You will ruin my plan if you do. And I still adhere to it. It is good of you to come so far; I cannot blame you for that. I know your motives113. But do not try to find me out. I warn you, beforehand, it will be quite useless. I have made up my mind. I have an object in life, and, dear as you are to me—THAT I will not pretend to deny—I can never allow even YOU to interfere114 with it. So be warned in time. Go back quietly by the next steamer.
“Your ever attached and grateful,
“HILDA.”
I read it twice through with a little thrill of joy. Did any man ever court so strange a love? Her very strangeness drew me. But go back by the next steamer! I felt sure of one thing: Hilda was far too good a judge of character to believe that I was likely to obey that mandate115.
I will not trouble you with the remaining stages of my quest. Except for the slowness of South African mail coaches, they were comparatively easy. It is not so hard to track strangers in Cape Town as strangers in London. I followed Hilda to her hotel, and from her hotel up country, stage after stage—jolted116 by rail, worse jolted by mule-waggon—inquiring, inquiring, inquiring—till I learned at last she was somewhere in Rhodesia.
That is a big address; but it does not cover as many names as it covers square miles. In time I found her. Still, it took time; and before we met, Hilda had had leisure to settle down quietly to her new existence. People in Rhodesia had noted117 her coming, as a new portent118, because of one strange peculiarity119. She was the only woman of means who had ever gone up of her own free will to Rhodesia. Other women had gone there to accompany their husbands, or to earn their livings; but that a lady should freely select that half-baked land as a place of residence—a lady of position, with all the world before her where to choose—that puzzled the Rhodesians. So she was a marked person. Most people solved the vexed120 problem, indeed, by suggesting that she had designs against the stern celibacy121 of a leading South African politician. “Depend upon it,” they said, “it's Rhodes she's after.” The moment I arrived at Salisbury, and stated my object in coming, all the world in the new town was ready to assist me. The lady was to be found (vaguely speaking) on a young farm to the north—a budding farm, whose general direction was expansively indicated to me by a wave of the arm, with South African uncertainty122.
I bought a pony123 at Salisbury—a pretty little seasoned sorrel mare124—and set out to find Hilda. My way lay over a brand-new road, or what passes for a road in South Africa—very soft and lumpy, like an English cart-track. I am a fair cross-country rider in our own Midlands, but I never rode a more tedious journey than that one. I had crawled several miles under a blazing sun along the shadeless new track, on my African pony, when, to my surprise I saw, of all sights in the world, a bicycle coming towards me.
I could hardly believe my eyes. Civilisation125 indeed! A bicycle in these remotest wilds of Africa!
I had been picking my way for some hours through a desolate126 plateau—the high veldt—about five thousand feet above the sea level, and entirely127 treeless. In places, to be sure, a few low bushes of prickly aspect rose in tangled128 clumps129; but for the most part the arid130 table-land was covered by a thick growth of short brown grass, about nine inches high, burnt up in the sun, and most wearisome to look at. The distressing131 nakedness of a new country confronted me. Here and there a bald farm or two had been literally132 pegged133 out—the pegs134 were almost all one saw of them as yet; the fields were in the future. Here and there, again, a scattered135 range of low granite136 hills, known locally as kopjes—red, rocky prominences137, flaunting138 in the sunshine—diversified the distance. But the road itself, such as it was, lay all on the high plain, looking down now and again into gorges139 or kloofs, wooded on their slopes with scrubby trees, and comparatively well-watered. In the midst of all this crude, unfinished land, the mere sight of a bicycle, bumping over the rubbly140 road, was a sufficient surprise; but my astonishment141 reached a climax142 when I saw, as it drew near, that it was ridden by a woman!
One moment later I had burst into a wild cry, and rode forward to her hurriedly. “Hilda!” I shouted aloud, in my excitement: “Hilda!”
She stepped lightly from her pedals, as if it had been in the park: head erect143 and proud; eyes liquid, lustrous144. I dismounted, trembling, and stood beside her. In the wild joy of the moment, for the first time in my life, I kissed her fervently145. Hilda took the kiss, unreproving. She did not attempt to refuse me.
“So you have come at last!” she murmured, with a glow on her face, half nestling towards me, half withdrawing, as if two wills tore her in different directions. “I have been expecting you for some days; and, somehow, to-day, I was almost certain you were coming!”
“Then you are not angry with me?” I cried. “You remember, you forbade me!”
“Angry with you? Dear Hubert, could I ever be angry with you, especially for thus showing me your devotion and your trust? I am never angry with you. When one knows, one understands. I have thought of you so often; sometimes, alone here in this raw new land, I have longed for you to come. It is inconsistent of me, of course; but I am so solitary146, so lonely!”
“And yet you begged me not to follow you!”
She looked up at me shyly—I was not accustomed to see Hilda shy. Her eyes gazed deep into mine beneath the long, soft lashes147. “I begged you not to follow me,” she repeated, a strange gladness in her tone. “Yes, dear Hubert, I begged you—and I meant it. Cannot you understand that sometimes one hopes a thing may never happen—and is supremely148 happy because it happens, in spite of one? I have a purpose in life for which I live: I live for it still. For its sake I told you you must not come to me. Yet you HAVE come, against my orders; and—” she paused, and drew a deep sigh—“oh, Hubert, I thank you for daring to disobey me!”
I clasped her to my bosom149. She allowed me, half resisting. “I am too weak,” she murmured. “Only this morning, I made up my mind that when I saw you I would implore you to return at once. And now that you are here—” she laid her little hand confidingly150 in mine—“see how foolish I am!—I cannot dismiss you.”
“Which means to say, Hilda, that, after all, you are still a woman!”
“A woman; oh, yes; very much a woman! Hubert, I love you; I half wish I did not.”
“Why, darling?” I drew her to me.
“Because—if I did not, I could send you away—so easily! As it is—I cannot let you stop—and... I cannot dismiss you.”
“Then divide it,” I cried gaily151; “do neither; come away with me!”
“No, no; nor that, either. I will not stultify152 my whole past life. I will not dishonour153 my dear father's memory.”
I looked around for something to which to tether my horse. A bridle154 is in one's way—when one has to discuss important business. There was really nothing about that seemed fit for the purpose. Hilda saw what I sought, and pointed mutely to a stunted155 bush beside a big granite boulder156 which rose abruptly157 from the dead level of the grass, affording a little shade from that sweltering sunlight. I tied my mare to the gnarled root—it was the only part big enough—and sat down by Hilda's side, under the shadow of a great rock in a thirsty land. I realised at that moment the force and appropriateness of the Psalmist's simile158. The sun beat fiercely on the seeding grasses. Away on the southern horizon we could faintly perceive the floating yellow haze159 of the prairie fires lit by the Mashonas.
“Then you knew I would come?” I began, as she seated herself on the burnt-up herbage, while my hand stole into hers, to nestle there naturally.
She pressed it in return. “Oh, yes; I knew you would come,” she answered, with that strange ring of confidence in her voice. “Of course you got my letter at Cape Town?”
“I did, Hilda—and I wondered at you more than ever as I read it. But if you KNEW I would come, why write to prevent me?”
Her eyes had their mysterious far-away air. She looked out upon infinity160. “Well, I wanted to do my best to turn you aside,” she said, slowly. “One must always do one's best, even when one feels and believes it is useless. That surely is the first clause in a doctor's or a nurse's rubric.”
“But WHY didn't you want me to come?” I persisted. “Why fight against your own heart? Hilda, I am sure—I KNOW you love me.”
Her bosom rose and fell. Her eyes dilated161. “Love you?” she cried, looking away over the bushy ridges162, as if afraid to trust herself. “Oh, yes, Hubert, I love you! It is not for that that I wish to avoid you. Or, rather, it is just because of that. I cannot endure to spoil your life—by a fruitless affection.”
“Why fruitless?” I asked, leaning forward.
She crossed her hands resignedly. “You know all by this time,” she answered. “Sebastian would tell you, of course, when you went to announce that you were leaving Nathaniel's. He could not do otherwise; it is the outcome of his temperament—an integral part of his nature.”
“Hilda,” I cried, “you are a witch! How COULD you know that? I can't imagine.”
She smiled her restrained, Chaldean smile. “Because I KNOW Sebastian,” she answered, quietly. “I can read that man to the core. He is simple as a book. His composition is plain, straightforward163, quite natural, uniform. There are no twists and turns in him. Once learn the key, and it discloses everything, like an open sesame. He has a gigantic intellect, a burning thirst for knowledge; one love, one hobby—science; and no moral instincts. He goes straight for his ends; and whatever comes in his way,” she dug her little heel in the brown soil, “he tramples165 on it as ruthlessly as a child will trample164 on a worm or a beetle166.”
“And yet,” I said, “he is so great.”
“Yes, great, I grant you; but the easiest character to unravel89 that I have ever met. It is calm, austere167, unbending, yet not in the least degree complex. He has the impassioned temperament, pushed to its highest pitch; the temperament that runs deep, with irresistible168 force; but the passion that inspires him, that carries him away headlong, as love carries some men, is a rare and abstract one—the passion of science.”
I gazed at her as she spoke169, with a feeling akin20 to awe170. “It must destroy the plot-interest of life for you, Hilda,” I cried—out there in the vast void of that wild African plateau—“to foresee so well what each person will do—how each will act under such given circumstances.”
She pulled a bent of grass and plucked off its dry spikelets one by one. “Perhaps so,” she answered, after a meditative171 pause; “though, of course, all natures are not equally simple. Only with great souls can you be sure beforehand like that, for good or for evil. It is essential to anything worth calling character that one should be able to predict in what way it will act under given circumstances—to feel certain, 'This man will do nothing small or mean,' 'That one could never act dishonestly, or speak deceitfully.' But smaller natures are more complex. They defy analysis, because their motives are not consistent.”
“Most people think to be complex is to be great,” I objected.
She shook her head. “That is quite a mistake,” she answered. “Great natures are simple, and relatively172 predictable, since their motives balance one another justly. Small natures are complex, and hard to predict, because small passions, small jealousies173, small discords174 and perturbations come in at all moments, and override175 for a time the permanent underlying176 factors of character. Great natures, good or bad, are equably poised; small natures let petty motives intervene to upset their balance.”
“Then you knew I would come,” I exclaimed, half pleased to find I belonged inferentially to her higher category.
Her eyes beamed on me with a beautiful light. “Knew you would come? Oh, yes. I begged you not to come; but I felt sure you were too deeply in earnest to obey me. I asked a friend in Cape Town to telegraph your arrival; and almost ever since the telegram reached me I have been expecting you and awaiting you.”
“So you believed in me?”
“Implicitly—as you in me. That is the worst of it, Hubert. If you did NOT believe in me, I could have told you all—and then, you would have left me. But, as it is, you KNOW all—and yet, you want to cling to me.”
“You know I know all—because Sebastian told me?”
“Yes; and I think I even know how you answered him.”
“How?”
She paused. The calm smile lighted up her face once more. Then she drew out a pencil. “You think life must lack plot-interest for me,” she began, slowly, “because, with certain natures, I can partially70 guess beforehand what is coming. But have you not observed that, in reading a novel, part of the pleasure you feel arises from your conscious anticipation177 of the end, and your satisfaction in seeing that you anticipated correctly? Or part, sometimes, from the occasional unexpectedness of the real denouement178? Well, life is like that. I enjoy observing my successes, and, in a way, my failures. Let me show you what I mean. I think I know what you said to Sebastian—not the words, of course, but the purport179; and I will write it down now for you. Set down YOUR version, too. And then we will compare them.”
It was a crucial test. We both wrote for a minute or two. Somehow, in Hilda's presence, I forgot at once the strangeness of the scene, the weird180 oddity of the moment. That sombre plain disappeared for me. I was only aware that I was with Hilda once more—and therefore in Paradise. Pison and Gihon watered the desolate land. Whatever she did seemed to me supremely right. If she had proposed to me to begin a ponderous181 work on Medical Jurisprudence, under the shadow of the big rock, I should have begun it incontinently.
She handed me her slip of paper; I took it and read: “Sebastian told you I was Dr. Yorke-Bannerman's daughter. And you answered, 'If so, Yorke-Bannerman was innocent, and YOU are the poisoner.' Is not that correct?”
I handed her in answer my own paper. She read it with a faint flush. When she came to the words: “Either she is not Yorke-Bannerman's daughter; or else, Yorke-Bannerman was not a poisoner, and someone else was—I might put a name to him,” she rose to her feet with a great rush of long-suppressed feeling, and clasped me passionately182. “My Hubert!” she cried, “I read you aright. I knew it! I was sure of you!”
I folded her in my arms, there, on the rusty-red South African desert. “Then, Hilda dear,” I murmured, “you will consent to marry me?”
The words brought her back to herself. She unfolded my arms with slow reluctance183. “No, dearest,” she said, earnestly, with a face where pride fought hard against love. “That is WHY, above all things, I did not want you to follow me. I love you; I trust you: you love me; you trust me. But I never will marry anyone till I have succeeded in clearing my father's memory. I KNOW he did not do it; I KNOW Sebastian did. But that is not enough. I must prove it, I must prove it!”
“I believe it already,” I answered. “What need, then, to prove it?”
“To you, Hubert? Oh, no; not to you. There I am safe. But to the world that condemned184 him—condemned him untried. I must vindicate185 him; I must clear him!”
I bent my face close to hers. “But may I not marry you first?” I asked—“and after that, I can help you to clear him.”
She gazed at me fearlessly. “No, no!” she cried, clasping her hands; “much as I love you, dear Hubert, I cannot consent to it. I am too proud!—too proud! I will not allow the world to say—not even to say falsely”—her face flushed crimson186; her voice dropped low—“I will not allow them to say those hateful words, 'He married a murderer's daughter.'”
I bowed my head. “As you will, my darling,” I answered. “I am content to wait. I trust you in this, too. Some day, we will prove it.”
And all this time, preoccupied187 as I was with these deeper concerns, I had not even asked where Hilda lived, or what she was doing!
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1
competence
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| n.能力，胜任，称职 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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3
implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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surmises
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的第三人称单数 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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11
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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14
cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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burrows
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| n.地洞( burrow的名词复数 )v.挖掘（洞穴），挖洞( burrow的第三人称单数 )；翻寻 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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wade
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| v.跋涉，涉水；n.跋涉 | |
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artistically
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| adv.艺术性地 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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sedate
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| adj.沉着的，镇静的，安静的 | |
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colloquy
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| n.谈话，自由讨论 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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toad
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| n.蟾蜍，癞蛤蟆 | |
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bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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diagnosis
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| n.诊断，诊断结果，调查分析，判断 | |
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clairvoyance
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| n.超人的洞察力 | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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suave
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| adj.温和的；柔和的；文雅的 | |
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faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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puckering
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| v.（使某物）起褶子或皱纹( pucker的现在分词 )；小褶纹；小褶皱 | |
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41
pouted
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| v.撅（嘴）( pout的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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43
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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44
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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45
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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46
clan
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| n.氏族，部落，宗族，家族，宗派 | |
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47
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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48
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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49
humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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50
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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51
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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52
reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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53
cantankerous
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| adj.爱争吵的，脾气不好的 | |
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54
contention
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| n.争论，争辩，论战；论点，主张 | |
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55
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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56
physiological
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| adj.生理学的，生理学上的 | |
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57
persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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58
repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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63
ripples
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| 逐渐扩散的感觉( ripple的名词复数 ) | |
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64
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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65
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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67
puckered
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| v.（使某物）起褶子或皱纹( pucker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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68
ostriches
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| n.鸵鸟( ostrich的名词复数 )；逃避现实的人，不愿正视现实者 | |
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69
impartially
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| adv.公平地，无私地 | |
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70
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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71
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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72
detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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73
adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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74
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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75
loom
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| n.织布机，织机；v.隐现，(危险、忧虑等)迫近 | |
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mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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77
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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78
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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79
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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80
waived
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| v.宣布放弃( waive的过去式和过去分词 )；搁置；推迟；放弃（权利、要求等） | |
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81
lamely
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| 一瘸一拐地，不完全地 | |
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82
cosmopolitan
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| adj.世界性的，全世界的，四海为家的，全球的 | |
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83
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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84
jersey
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| n.运动衫 | |
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85
sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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86
vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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87
sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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88
unravelling
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| 解开，拆散，散开( unravel的现在分词 )； 阐明； 澄清； 弄清楚 | |
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89
unravel
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| v.弄清楚（秘密）；拆开，解开，松开 | |
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90
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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91
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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92
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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93
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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94
deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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95
outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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96
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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97
conspicuously
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| ad.明显地，惹人注目地 | |
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98
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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99
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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100
fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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101
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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102
fluster
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| adj.慌乱，狼狈，混乱，激动 | |
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103
scramble
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| v.爬行，攀爬，杂乱蔓延，碎片，片段，废料 | |
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104
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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105
quarry
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| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
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106
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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107
berth
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| n.卧铺，停泊地，锚位；v.使停泊 | |
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108
impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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109
piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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110
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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111
plantations
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| n.种植园，大农场( plantation的名词复数 ) | |
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112
merge
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| v.(使)结合，(使)合并，(使)合为一体 | |
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113
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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114
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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115
mandate
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| n.托管地；命令，指示 | |
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116
jolted
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| （使）摇动， （使）震惊( jolt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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117
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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118
portent
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| n.预兆；恶兆；怪事 | |
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119
peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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120
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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121
celibacy
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| n.独身(主义) | |
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122
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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123
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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124
mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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125
civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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126
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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127
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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128
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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129
clumps
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| n.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的名词复数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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130
arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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131
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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132
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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133
pegged
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| v.用夹子或钉子固定( peg的过去式和过去分词 )；使固定在某水平 | |
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134
pegs
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| n.衣夹( peg的名词复数 )；挂钉；系帐篷的桩；弦钮v.用夹子或钉子固定( peg的第三人称单数 )；使固定在某水平 | |
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135
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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136
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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137
prominences
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| n.织物中凸起的部分；声望( prominence的名词复数 )；突出；重要；要事 | |
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138
flaunting
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| adj.招摇的，扬扬得意的，夸耀的v.炫耀，夸耀( flaunt的现在分词 )；有什么能耐就施展出来 | |
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139
gorges
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| n.山峡，峡谷( gorge的名词复数 )；咽喉v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的第三人称单数 )；作呕 | |
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140
rubbly
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| 碎裂 | |
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141
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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142
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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143
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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144
lustrous
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| adj.有光泽的；光辉的 | |
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145
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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146
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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147
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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148
supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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149
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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150
confidingly
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| adv.信任地 | |
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151
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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152
stultify
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| v.愚弄；使呆滞 | |
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153
dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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154
bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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155
stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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156
boulder
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| n.巨砾；卵石，圆石 | |
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157
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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158
simile
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| n.直喻，明喻 | |
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159
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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160
infinity
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| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
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161
dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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162
ridges
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| n.脊( ridge的名词复数 )；山脊；脊状突起；大气层的)高压脊 | |
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163
straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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164
trample
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| vt.踩，践踏；无视，伤害，侵犯 | |
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165
tramples
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| 踩( trample的第三人称单数 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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166
beetle
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| n.甲虫，近视眼的人 | |
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167
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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168
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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169
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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170
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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171
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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172
relatively
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| adv.比较...地，相对地 | |
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173
jealousies
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| n.妒忌( jealousy的名词复数 )；妒羡 | |
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174
discords
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| 不和（discord的复数形式） | |
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175
override
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| vt.不顾，不理睬，否决；压倒，优先于 | |
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176
underlying
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| adj.在下面的，含蓄的，潜在的 | |
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177
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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178
denouement
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| n.结尾，结局 | |
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179
purport
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| n.意义，要旨，大要；v.意味著，做为...要旨，要领是... | |
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180
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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181
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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182
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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183
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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184
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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185
vindicate
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| v.为…辩护或辩解，辩明；证明…正确 | |
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186
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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187
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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