In this antechamber a footman generally sat, awaiting orders from my lady; for she clung to the grand old customs, and despised any bells, except her own little hand-bell, as modern inventions; she would have her people always within summons of this silvery bell, or her scarce less silvery voice. This man had not the sinecure6 you might imagine. He had to reply to the private entrance; what we should call the back door in a smaller house. As none came to the front door but my lady, and those of the county whom she honoured by visiting, and her nearest acquaintance of this kind lived eight miles (of bad road) off, the majority of comers knocked at the nail-studded terrace-door; not to have it opened (for open it stood, by my lady’s orders, winter and summer, so that the snow often drifted into the back-hall, and lay there in heaps when the weather was severe), but to summon some one to receive their message, or carry their request to be allowed to speak to my lady. I remember it was long before Mr. Gray could be made to understand that the great door was only opened on state occasions, and even to the last he would as soon come in by that as the terrace entrance. I had been received there on my first setting foot over my lady’s threshold; every stranger was led in by that way the first time they came; but after that (with the exceptions I have{85} named) they went round by the terrace, as it were by instinct. It was an assistance to this instinct to be aware that from time immemorial, the magnificent and fierce Hanbury wolf-hounds, which were extinct in every other part of the island, had been and still were kept chained in the front quadrangle, where they bayed through a great part of the day and night, and were always ready with their deep, savage7 growl8 at the sight of every person and thing, excepting the man who fed them, my lady’s carriage-and-four, and my lady herself. It was pretty to see her small figure go up to the great, crouching9 brutes10, thumping11 the flags with their heavy, wagging tails, and slobbering in an ecstacy of delight, at her light approach and soft caress12. She had no fear of them; but she was a Hanbury born, and the tale went, that they and their kind knew all Hanburys instantly, and acknowledged their supremacy13, ever since the ancestors of the breed had been brought from the East by the great Sir Urian Hanbury, who lay with his legs crossed on the altar-tomb in the church. Moreover, it was reported that, not fifty years before, one of these dogs had eaten up a child, which had inadvertently strayed within reach of its chain. So you may imagine how most people preferred the terrace-door. Mr. Gray did not seem to care for the dogs. It might be{86} absence of mind, for I have heard of his starting away from their sudden spring when he had unwittingly walked within reach of their chains; but it could hardly have been absence of mind, when one day he went right up to one of them, and patted him in the most friendly manner, the dog meanwhile looking pleased, and affably wagging his tail, just as if Mr. Gray had been a Hanbury. We were all very much puzzled by this, and to this day I have not been able to account for it.
But now let us go back to the terrace-door, and the footman sitting in the antechamber.
One morning we heard a parleying which rose to such a vehemence14, and lasted for so long, that my lady had to ring her hand-bell twice before the footman heard it.
“What is the matter, John?” asked she, when he entered.
“A little boy, my lady, who says he comes from Mr. Horner, and must see your ladyship. Impudent15 little lad!” (this last to himself.)
“What does he want?”
“That’s just what I have asked him, my lady, but he won’t tell me, please your ladyship.”
“It is, probably, some message from Mr. Horner,” said Lady Ludlow, with just a shade of annoyance16 in{87} her manner; for it was against all etiquette17 to send a message to her, and by such a messenger too!
“No! please your ladyship, I asked him if he had any message, and he said no, he had none; but he must see your ladyship for all that.”
“You had better show him in then, without more words,” said her ladyship, quietly, but still, as I have said, rather annoyed.
As if in mockery of the humble18 visitor, the footman threw open both battants of the door, and in the opening their stood a lithe19, wiry lad, with a thick head of hair, standing20 out in every direction, as if stirred by some electrical current, a short, brown face, red now from affright and excitement, wide, resolute21 mouth, and bright, deep-set eyes; which glanced keenly and rapidly round the room, as if taking in everything (and all was new and strange) to be thought and puzzled over at some future time. He knew enough of manners not to speak first to one above him in rank, or else he was afraid.
“What do you want with me?” asked my lady; in so gentle a tone that it seemed to surprise and stun22 him.
“An’t please your ladyship?” said he, as if he had been deaf.
“You come from Mr. Horner’s: why do you want to see me?” again asked she, a little more loudly.{88}
“An’t please your ladyship, Mr. Horner was sent for all on a sudden to Warwick this morning.”
His face began to work; but he felt it, and closed his lips into a resolute form.
“Well?”
“And he went off all on a sudden-like.”
“Well?”
“And he left a note for your ladyship with me, your ladyship.”
“Is that all? You might have given it to the footman.”
“Please your ladyship, I’ve clean gone and lost it.”
He never took his eyes off her face. If he had not kept his look fixed23, he would have burst out crying.
“That was very careless,” said my lady, gently. “But I am sure you are very sorry for it. You had better try and find it. It may have been of consequence.”
“Please, Mum—please your ladyship—I can say it off by heart.”
“You! What do you mean?” I was really afraid now. My lady’s blue eyes absolutely gave out light, she was so much displeased24, and, moreover, perplexed25. The more reason he had for affright, the more his courage rose. He must have seen,—so sharp a lad{89} must have perceived her displeasure, but he went on quickly and steadily26.
“Mr. Horner, my lady, has taught me to read, write, and cast accounts, my lady. And he was in a hurry, and he folded his paper up, but he did not seal it; and I read it, my lady; and now, my lady, it seems like as if I had got it off by heart;” and he went on with a high pitched voice, saying out very loud what, I have no doubt, were the identical words of the letter, date, signature and all: it was merely something about a deed, which required my lady’s signature.
When he had done, he stood almost as if he expected commendation for his accurate memory.
My lady’s eyes contracted till the pupils were as needle-points; it was a way she had when much disturbed. She looked at me, and said,
“Margaret Dawson, what will this world come to?” And then she was silent.
The lad, beginning to perceive he had given deep offence, stood stock still—as if his brave will had brought him into this presence, and impelled27 him to confession28, and the best amends29 he could make, but had now deserted30 him, or was extinct, and left his body motionless, until some one else with word or deed made him quit the room. My lady looked{90} again at him, and saw the frowning, dumb-foundering terror at his misdeed, and the manner in which his confession had been received.
“My poor lad!” said she, the angry look leaving her face, “into whose hands have you fallen?”
The boy’s lips began to quiver.
“Don’t you know what tree we read of in Genesis?—No! I hope you have not got to read so easily as that.” A pause. “Who has taught you to read and write?”
“Please, my lady, I meant no harm, my lady.” He was fairly blubbering, overcome by her evident feeling of dismay and regret, the soft repression31 of which was more frightening to him than any strong or violent words would have been.
“Who taught you, I ask?”
“It were Mr. Horner’s clerk who learned me, my lady.”
“And did Mr. Horner know of it?”
“Yes, my lady. And I am sure I thought for to please him.”
“Well! perhaps you were not to blame for that. But I wonder at Mr. Horner. However, my boy, as you have got possession of edge-tools, you must have some rules how to use them. Did you never hear that you were not to open letters?”{91}
“Please, my lady, it were open. Mr. Horner forgot for to seal it, in his hurry to be off.”
“But you must not read letters that are not intended for you. You must never try to read any letters that are not directed to you, even if they be open before you.”
“Please, my lady, I thought it were good for practice, all as one as a book.”
My lady looked bewildered as to what way she could farther explain to him the laws of honour as regarded letters.
“You would not listen, I am sure,” said she, “to anything you were not intended to hear?”
He hesitated for a moment, partly because he did not fully32 comprehend the question. My lady repeated it. The light of intelligence came into his eager eyes, and I could see that he was not certain if he could tell the truth.
“Please, my lady, I always hearken when I hear folk talking secrets; but I mean no harm.”
My poor lady sighed: she was not prepared to begin a long way off in morals. Honour was, to her, second nature, and she had never tried to find out on what principle its laws were based. So, telling the lad that she wished to see Mr. Horner when he returned from Warwick, she dismissed him with a despondent{92} look; he, meanwhile, right glad to be out of the awful gentleness of her presence.
“What is to be done?” said she, half to herself and half to me. I could not answer, for I was puzzled myself.
“It was a right word,” she continued, “that I used, when I called reading and writing ‘edge-tools.’ If our lower orders have these edge-tools given to them, we shall have the terrible scenes of the French Revolution acted over again in England. When I was a girl, one never heard of the rights of men, one only heard of the duties. Now, here was Mr. Gray, only last night, talking of the right every child had to instruction. I could hardly keep my patience with him, and at length we fairly came to words; and I told him I would have no such thing as a Sunday-school (or a Sabbath-school, as he calls it, just like a Jew) in my village.”
“And what did he say, my lady?” I asked; for the struggle that seemed now to have come to a crisis, had been going on for some time in a quiet way.
“Why, he gave way to temper, and said he was bound to remember he was under the bishop’s authority, not under mine; and implied that he should persevere33 in his designs, notwithstanding my expressed opinion.”
“And your ladyship—” I half inquired.{93}
“I could only rise and curtsy, and civilly dismiss him. When two persons have arrived at a certain point of expression on a subject, about which they differ as materially as I do from Mr. Gray, the wisest course, if they wish to remain friends, is to drop the conversation entirely34 and suddenly. It is one of the few cases where abruptness35 is desirable.”
I was sorry for Mr. Gray. He had been to see me several times, and had helped me to bear my illness in a better spirit than I should have done without his good advice and prayers. And I had gathered, from little things he said, how much his heart was set upon this new scheme. I liked him so much, and I loved and respected my lady so well, that I could not bear them to be on the cool terms to which they were constantly getting. Yet I could do nothing but keep silence.
I suppose my lady understood something of what was passing in my mind; for, after a minute or two, she went on:—
“If Mr. Gray knew all I know,—if he had my experience, he would not be so ready to speak of setting up his new plans in opposition36 to my judgment37. Indeed,” she continued, lashing38 herself up with her own recollections, “times are changed when the parson of a village comes to beard the liege lady in her own{94} house. Why, in my grandfather’s days, the parson was family chaplain too, and dined at the Hall every Sunday. He was helped last, and expected to have done first. I remember seeing him take up his plate and knife and fork, and say, with his mouth full all the time he was speaking: ‘If you please, Sir Urian, and my Lady, I’ll follow the beef into the housekeeper’s room;’ for, you see, unless he did so, he stood no chance of a second helping40. A greedy man, that parson was, to be sure! I recollect39 his once eating up the whole of some little bird at dinner, and by way of diverting attention from his greediness, he told how he had heard that a rook soaked in vinegar and then dressed in a particular way, could not be distinguished41 from the bird he was then eating. I saw by the grim look of my grandfather’s face that the parson’s doing and saying displeased him; and, child as I was, I had some notion what was coming, when, as I was riding out on my little, white pony42, by my grandfather’s side, the next Friday, he stopped one of the gamekeepers, and bade him shoot one of the oldest rooks he could find. I knew no more about it till Sunday, when a dish was set right before the parson, and Sir Urian said: ‘Now, Parson Hemming43, I have had a rook shot, and soaked in vinegar, and dressed as you described last Sunday. Fall to, man, and eat it with{95} as good an appetite as you had last Sunday. Pick the bones clean, or by——, no more Sunday dinners shall you eat at my table!’ I gave one look at poor Mr. Hemming’s face, as he tried to swallow the first morsel44, and make believe as though he thought it very good; but I could not look again, for shame, although my grandfather laughed, and kept asking us all round if we knew what could have become of the parson’s appetite.”
“And did he finish it?” I asked.
“O yes, my dear. What my grandfather said was to be done, was done always. He was a terrible man in his anger! But to think of the difference between Parson Hemming and Mr. Gray! or even of poor, dear Mr. Mountford and Mr. Gray. Mr. Mountford would never have withstood me as Mr. Gray did!”
“And your ladyship really thinks that it would not be right to have a Sunday-school?” I asked, feeling very timid as I put the question.
“Certainly not. As I told Mr. Gray, I consider a knowledge of the Creed45, and of the Lord’s Prayer, as essential to salvation46; and that any child may have, whose parents bring it regularly to church. Then there are the Ten Commandments, which teach simple duties in the plainest language. Of course, if a lad is taught to read and write (as that unfortunate boy has{96} been who was here this morning) his duties become complicated, and his temptations much greater, while, at the same time, he has no hereditary47 principles and honourable48 training to serve as safeguards. I might take up my old simile49 of the race-horse and cart-horse. I am distressed,” continued she, with a break in her ideas, “about that boy. The whole thing reminds me so much of a story of what happened to a friend of mine—Clément de Créquy. Did I ever tell you about him?”
“No, your ladyship,” I replied.
“Poor Clément! more than twenty years ago, Lord Ludlow and I spent a winter in Paris. He had many friends there; perhaps not very good or very wise men, but he was so kind that he liked every one, and every one liked him. We had an apartment, as they call it there, in the Rue50 de Lille; we had the first-floor of a grand h?tel, with the basement for our servants. On the floor above us the owner of the house lived, a Marquise de Créquy, a widow. They tell me that the Créquy coat-of-arms is still emblazoned, after all these terrible years, on a shield above the arched porte-cochère, just as it was then, though the family is quite extinct. Madam de Créquy had only one son, Clément, who was just the same age as my Urian—you may see his portrait in the great hall—Urian’s, I{97} mean.” I knew that Master Urian had been drowned at sea; and often had I looked at the presentment of his bonny hopeful face, in his sailor’s dress, with right hand outstretched to a ship on the sea in the distance, as if he had just said, “Look at her! all her sails are set, and I’m just off.” Poor Master Urian! he went down in this very ship not a year after the picture was taken! But now I will go back to my lady’s story. “I can see those two boys playing now,” continued she, softly, shutting her eyes, as if the better to call up the vision, “as they used to do five-and-twenty years ago in those old-fashioned French gardens behind our h?tel. Many a time have I watched them from my windows. It was, perhaps, a better play-place than an English garden would have been, for there were but few flower-beds, and no lawn at all to speak about; but instead, terraces and balustrades and vases and flights of stone steps more in the Italian style; and there were jets-d’eau, and little fountains that could be set playing by turning water-cocks that were hidden here and there. How Clément delighted in turning the water on to surprise Urian, and how gracefully51 he did the honours, as it were, to my dear, rough, sailor lad! Urian was as dark as a gypsy boy, and cared little for his appearance, and resisted all my efforts at setting off his black eyes and tangled52 curls; but{98} Clément, without ever showing that he thought about himself and his dress, was always dainty and elegant, even though his clothes were sometimes but thread-bare. He used to be dressed in a kind of hunter’s green suit, open at the neck and half-way down the chest to beautiful old lace frills; his long golden curls fell behind just like a girl’s, and his hair in front was cut over his straight dark eyebrows53 in a line almost as straight. Urian learnt more of a gentleman’s carefulness and propriety54 of appearance from that lad in two months than he had done in years from all my lectures. I recollect one day, when the two boys were in full romp—and, my window being open, I could hear them perfectly—and Urian was daring Clément some scrambling55 or climbing, which Clément refused to undertake, but in a hesitating way, as though he longed to do it if some reason had not stood in the way; and at times, Urian, who was hasty and thoughtless, poor fellow, told Clément that he was afraid. ‘Fear!’ said the French boy, drawing himself up; ‘you do not know what you say. If you will be here at six to-morrow morning, when it is only just light, I will take that starling’s nest on the top of yonder chimney.’ ‘But why not now, Clément?’ said Urian, putting his arm round Clément’s neck. ‘Why then, and not now, just when we are in the humour for it?’ ‘Be{99}cause we De Créquys are poor, and my mother cannot afford me another suit of clothes this year, and yonder stone carving56 is all jagged, and would tear my coat and breeches. Now, to-morrow morning I could go up with nothing on but an old shirt.’
“‘But you would tear your legs?’
“‘My race do not care for pain,’ said the boy, drawing himself from Urian’s arm, and walking a few steps away, with a becoming pride and reserve; for he was hurt at being spoken to as if he were afraid, and annoyed at having to confess the true reason for declining the feat58. But Urian was not to be thus baffled. He went up to Clément, and put his arm once more about his neck, and I could see the two lads as they walked down the terrace away from the h?tel windows: first Urian spoke57 eagerly, looking with imploring59 fondness into Clément’s face, which sought the ground, till at last the French boy spoke, and by-and-by his arm was round Urian too, and they paced backwards60 and forwards in deep talk, but gravely, as became men, rather than boys.
“All at once, from the little chapel61 at the corner of the large garden belonging to the Missions Etrangères, I heard the tinkle62 of the little bell, announcing the elevation63 of the host. Down on his knees went{100} Clément, hands crossed, eyes bent64 down: while Urian stood looking on in respectful thought.
“What a friendship that might have been! I never dream of Urian without seeing Clément too,—Urian speaks to me, or does something,—but Clément only flits round Urian, and never seems to see any one else!
“But I must not forget to tell you, that the next morning, before he was out of his room, a footman of Madam de Créquy’s brought Urian the starling’s nest.
“Well! we came back to England, and the boys were to correspond; and Madame de Créquy and I exchanged civilities; and Urian went to sea.
“After that, all seemed to drop away. I cannot tell you all. However, to confine myself to the De Créquys. I had a letter from Clément; I knew he felt his friend’s death deeply; but I should never have learnt it from the letter he sent. It was formal, and seemed like chaff65 to my hungering heart. Poor fellow! I dare say he had found it hard to write. What could he—or any one—say to a mother who has lost her child? The world does not think so, and, in general, one must conform to the customs of the world; but, judging from my own experience, I should say that reverent66 silence at such times is the tenderest balm.{101} Madame de Créquy wrote too. But I knew she could not feel my loss so much as Clément, and therefore her letter was not such a disappointment. She and I went on being civil and polite in the way of commissions, and occasionally introducing friends to each other, for a year or two, and then we ceased to have any intercourse67. Then the terrible revolution came. No one who did not live at those times can imagine the daily expectation of news,—the hourly terror of rumours68 affecting the fortunes and lives of those whom most of us had known as pleasant hosts, receiving us with peaceful welcome in their magnificent houses. Of course, there was sin enough and suffering enough behind the scenes; but we English visitors to Paris had seen little or nothing of that,—and I had sometimes thought, indeed, how even Death seemed loth to choose his victims out of that brilliant throng69 whom I had known. Madame de Créquy’s one boy lived; while three out of my six were gone since we had met! I do not think all lots are equal, even now that I know the end of her hopes; but I do say, that whatever our individual lot is, it is our duty to accept it, without comparing it with that of others.
“The times were thick with gloom and terror. ‘What next?’ was the question we asked of every one who brought us news from Paris. Where were these{102} demons70 hidden when, so few years ago, we danced and feasted, and enjoyed the brilliant salons71 and the charming friendships of Paris?
“One evening, I was sitting alone in Saint James’ Square; my lord off at the club with Mr. Fox and others: he had left me, thinking that I should go to one of the many places to which I had been invited for that evening; but I had no heart to go anywhere, for it was poor Urian’s birthday, and I had not even rung for lights, though the day was fast closing in, but was thinking over all his pretty ways, and on his warm affectionate nature, and how often I had been too hasty in speaking to him, for all I loved him so dearly; and how I seemed to have neglected and dropped his dear friend Clément, who might even now be in need of help in that cruel, bloody72 Paris. I say I was thinking reproachfully of all this, and particularly of Clément de Créquy in connection with Urian, when Fenwick brought me a note, sealed with a coat-of-arms I knew well, though I could not remember at the moment where I had seen it. I puzzled over it, as one does sometimes, for a minute or more, before I opened the letter. In a moment I saw it was from Clément de Créquy. ‘My mother is here,’ he said: ‘she is very ill, and I am bewildered in this strange country. May I entreat73 you to receive me for a few{103} minutes?’ The bearer of the note was the woman of the house where they lodged74. I had her brought up into the anteroom, and questioned her myself, while my carriage was being brought round. They had arrived in London a fortnight or so before: she had not known their quality, judging them (according to her kind) by their dress and their luggage; poor enough, no doubt. The lady had never left her bed-room since her arrival; the young man waited upon her, did everything for her, never left her, in fact; only she (the messenger) had promised to stay within call, as soon as she returned, while he went out somewhere. She could hardly understand him, he spoke English so badly. He had never spoken it, I dare say, since he had talked to my Urian.”
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precepts
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| n.规诫，戒律，箴言( precept的名词复数 ) | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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gazetteers
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| n.地名索引，地名词典( gazetteer的名词复数 ) | |
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sinecure
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| n.闲差事，挂名职务 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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growl
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| v.（狗等）嗥叫，（炮等）轰鸣；n.嗥叫，轰鸣 | |
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crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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brutes
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| 兽( brute的名词复数 )； 畜生； 残酷无情的人； 兽性 | |
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thumping
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| adj.重大的，巨大的；重击的；尺码大的；极好的adv.极端地；非常地v.重击(thump的现在分词)；狠打；怦怦地跳；全力支持 | |
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caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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supremacy
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| n.至上；至高权力 | |
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vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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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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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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stun
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| vt.打昏，使昏迷，使震惊，使惊叹 | |
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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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displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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perplexed
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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amends
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| n. 赔偿 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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repression
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| n.镇压，抑制，抑压 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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persevere
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| v.坚持，坚忍，不屈不挠 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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abruptness
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| n. 突然，唐突 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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lashing
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| n.鞭打；痛斥；大量；许多v.鞭打( lash的现在分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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hemming
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| 卷边 | |
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morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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simile
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| n.直喻，明喻 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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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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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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scrambling
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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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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feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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tinkle
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| vi.叮当作响；n.叮当声 | |
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elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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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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chaff
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| v.取笑，嘲笑；n.谷壳 | |
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reverent
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| adj.恭敬的，虔诚的 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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demons
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| n.恶人( demon的名词复数 )；恶魔；精力过人的人；邪念 | |
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salons
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| n.（营业性质的）店( salon的名词复数 )；厅；沙龙（旧时在上流社会女主人家的例行聚会或聚会场所）；（大宅中的）客厅 | |
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bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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