On the same Monday evening that witnessed Bealby’s first experience of the theatre, Mr. Mergleson, the house steward1 of Shonts, walked slowly and thoughtfully across the corner of the park between the laundry and the gardens. His face was much recovered from the accidents of his collision with the Lord Chancellor2, resort to raw meat in the kitchen had checked the development of his injuries, and only a few contusions in the side of his face were more than faintly traceable. And suffering had on the whole rather ennobled than depressed3 his bearing. He had a black eye, but it was not, he felt, a common black eye. It came from high quarters and through no fault of Mr. Mergleson’s own. He carried it well. It was a fruit of duty rather than the outcome of wanton pleasure-seeking or misdirected passion.
He found Mr. Darling in profound meditation5 over some peach trees against the wall. They were not doing so well as they ought to do and Mr. Darling was engaged in wondering why.
“Good evening, Mr. Darling,” said Mr. Mergleson.
132Mr. Darling ceased rather slowly to wonder and turned to his friend. “Good evening, Mr. Mergleson,” he said. “I don’t quite like the look of these here peaches, blowed if I do.”
Mr. Mergleson glanced at the peaches, and then came to the matter that was nearest his heart.
“You ’aven’t I suppose seen anything of your stepson these last two days, Mr. Darling?”
“Naturally not,” said Mr. Darling, putting his head on one side and regarding his interlocutor. “Naturally not,—I’ve left that to you, Mr. Mergleson.”
“Well, that’s what’s awkward,” said Mr. Mergleson, and then, with a forced easiness, “You see, I ain’t seen ’im either.”
“No!”
“No. I lost sight of ’im—” Mr. Mergleson appeared to reflect—“late on Sattiday night.”
“’Ow’s that, Mr. Mergleson?”
Mr. Mergleson considered the difficulties of lucid6 explanation. “We missed ’im,” said Mr. Mergleson simply, regarding the well-weeded garden path with a calculating expression and then lifting his eyes to Mr. Darling’s with an air of great candour. “And we continue to miss him.”
“Well!” said Mr. Darling. “That’s rum.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Mergleson.
“It’s decidedly rum,” said Mr. Darling.
“We thought ’e might be ’iding from ’is work. Or cut off ’ome.”
“You didn’t send down to ask.”
“We was too busy with the week-end people. On the ’ole we thought if ’e ’ad cut ’ome, on the 133’ole, ’e wasn’t a very serious loss. ’E got in the way at times.... And there was one or two things ’appened—... Now that they’re all gone and ’e ’asn’t turned up—Well, I came down, Mr. Darling, to arst you. Where’s ’e gone?”
“’E ain’t come ’ere,” said Mr. Darling surveying the garden.
“I ’arf expected ’e might and I ’arf expected ’e mightn’t,” said Mr. Mergleson with the air of one who had anticipated Mr. Darling’s answer but hesitated to admit as much.
The two gentlemen paused for some seconds and regarded each other searchingly.
“Where’s ’e got to?” said Mr. Darling.
“Well,” said Mr. Mergleson, putting his hands where the tails of his short jacket would have been if it hadn’t been short, and looking extraordinarily8 like a parrot in its more thoughtful moods, “to tell you the truth, Mr. Darling, I’ve ’ad a dream about ’im—and it worries me. I got a sort of ideer of ’im as being in one of them secret passages. ’Iding away. There was a guest, well, I say it with all respec’ but anyone might ’ave ’id from ’im.... S’morning soon as the week-end ’ad cleared up and gone ’ome, me and Thomas went through them passages as well as we could. Not a trace of ’im. But I still got that ideer. ’E was a wriggling9, climbing,—enterprising sort of boy.”
“I’ve checked ’im for it once or twice,” said Mr. Darling with the red light of fierce memories gleaming for a moment in his eyes.
134“’E might even,” said Mr. Mergleson, “well, very likely ’ave got ’imself jammed in one of them secret passages....”
“Jammed,” repeated Mr. Darling.
“They say,” said Mr. Darling, “there’s underground passages to the Abbey ruins—three good mile away.”
“Orkward,” said Mr. Mergleson....
“Drat ’is eyes!” said Mr. Darling, scratching his head. “What does ’e mean by it?”
“We can’t leave ’im there,” said Mr. Mergleson.
“I knowed a young devil once what crawled up a culvert,” said Mr. Darling. “’Is father ’ad to dig ’im out like a fox.... Lord! ’ow ’e walloped ’im for it.”
“Mistake to ’ave a boy in so young,” said Mr. Mergleson.
“It’s all very awkward,” said Mr. Darling, surveying every aspect of the case. “You see—. ’Is mother sets a most estrordinary value on ’im. Most estrordinary.”
“I don’t know whether she oughtn’t to be told,” said Mr. Mergleson. “I was thinking of that.”
Mr. Darling was not the sort of man to meet trouble half-way. He shook his head at that. “Not yet, Mr. Mergleson. I don’t think yet. Not until everything’s been tried. I don’t think there’s any need to give her needless distress11,—none whatever. If you don’t mind I think I’ll 135come up to-night—nineish say—and ’ave a talk to you and Thomas about it—a quiet talk. Best to begin with a quiet talk. It’s a dashed rum go, and me and you we got to think it out a bit.”
“That’s what I think,” said Mr. Mergleson with unconcealed relief at Mr. Darling’s friendliness13. “That’s exactly the light, Mr. Darling, in which it appears to me. Because, you see—if ’e’s all right and in the ’ouse, why doesn’t ’e come for ’is vittels?”
§ 2
In the pantry that evening the question of telling someone was discussed further. It was discussed over a number of glasses of Mr. Mergleson’s beer. For, following a sound tradition, Mr. Mergleson brewed14 at Shonts, and sometimes he brewed well and sometimes he brewed ill, and sometimes he brewed weak and sometimes he brewed strong, and there was no monotony in the cups at Shonts. This was sturdy stuff and suited Mr. Darling’s mood, and ever and again with an author’s natural weakness and an affectation of abstraction Mr. Mergleson took the jug15 out empty and brought it back foaming16.
Henry, the second footman, was disposed to a forced hopefulness so as not to spoil the evening, but Thomas was sympathetic and distressed17. The red-haired youth made cigarettes with a little machine, licked them and offered them to the others, saying little, as became him. Etiquette18 136deprived him of an uninvited beer, and Mr. Mergleson’s inattention completed what etiquette began.
“I can’t bear to think of the poor little beggar, stuck head foremost into some cobwebby cranny, blowed if I can,” said Thomas, getting help from the jug.
“He was an interesting kid,” said Thomas in a tone that was frankly19 obituary20. “He didn’t like his work, one could see that, but he was lively—and I tried to help him along all I could, when I wasn’t too busy myself.”
“There was something sensitive about him,” said Thomas.
Mr. Mergleson sat with his arms loosely thrown out over the table.
“What we got to do is to tell someone,” he said, “I don’t see ’ow I can put off telling ’er ladyship—after to-morrow morning. And then—’eaven ’elp us!”
“’Course I got to tell my missis,” said Mr. Darling, and poured in a preoccupied21 way, some running over.
“We’ll go through them passages again now before we go to bed,” said Mr. Mergleson, “far as we can. But there’s ’oles and chinks on’y a boy could get through.”
“I got to tell the missis,” said Mr. Darling. “That’s what’s worrying me....”
As the evening wore on there was a tendency on the part of Mr. Darling to make this the refrain of his discourse22. He sought advice. “’Ow’d you tell the missis?” he asked Mr. Mergleson, 137and emptied a glass to control his impatience25 before Mr. Mergleson replied.
“I shall tell ’er ladyship, just simply, the fact. I shall say, your ladyship, here’s my boy gone and we don’t know where. And as she arsts me questions so shall I give particulars.”
Mr. Darling reflected and then shook his head slowly.
“’Ow’d ju tell the missis?” he asked Thomas.
“Glad I haven’t got to,” said Thomas. “Poor little beggar.”
“Yes, but ’ow would you tell ’er?” Mr. Darling said, varying the accent very carefully.
“I’d go to ’er and I’d pat her back and I’d say, ‘bear up,’ see, and when she asked what for, I’d just tell her what for—gradual like.”
“You don’t know the missis,” said Mr. Darling. “Henry, ’ow’d ju tell ’er?”
“Let ’er find out,” said Henry. “Wimmin do.”
“’Ow’d you?” he asked with an air of desperation of the red-haired youth.
The red-haired youth remained for a moment with his tongue extended, licking the gum of a cigarette paper, and his eyes on Mr. Darling. Then he finished the cigarette slowly, giving his mind very carefully to the question he had been honoured with. “I think,” he said, in a low serious voice, “I should say, just simply, Mary—or Susan—or whatever her name is.”
“Tilda,” supplied Mr. Darling.
138“‘Tilda,’ I should say. ‘The Lord gave and the Lord ’ath taken away. Tilda!—’e’s gone.’ Somethin’ like that.”
Mr. Darling reflected on this with profound satisfaction for some moments. Then he broke out almost querulously, “Yes, but brast him!—where’s ’e gone?”
“Anyhow,” said Mr. Darling, “I ain’t going to tell ’er, not till the morning. I ain’t going to lose my night’s rest if I have lost my stepson. Nohow. Mr. Mergleson, I must say, I don’t think I ever ’ave tasted better beer. Never. It’s—it’s famous beer.”
He had some more....
On his way back through the moonlight to the gardens Mr. Darling was still unsettled as to the exact way of breaking things to his wife. He had come out from the house a little ruffled27 because of Mr. Mergleson’s opposition28 to a rather good idea of his that he should go about the house and “holler for ’im a bit. He’d know my voice, you see. Ladyship wouldn’t mind. Very likely ’sleep by now.” But the moonlight dispelled29 his irritation30.
How was he to tell his wife? He tried various methods to the listening moon.
There was for example the off-hand newsy way. “You know tha’ boy yours?” Then a pause for the reply. Then, “’E’s toley dis’peared.”
Only there are difficulties about the word totally.
139Or the distressed impersonal31 manner. “Dre’fle thing happen’d. Dre’fle thing. Tha’ poo’ lill’ chap, Artie—toley dis’peared.”
Totally again.
Or the personal intimate note. “Dunno wha’ you’ll say t’me, Tilda, when you hear what-togottasay. Thur’ly bad news. Seems they los’ our Artie up there—clean los’ ’im. Can’t fine ’im nowhere tall.”
Or the authoritative32 kindly33. “Tilda—you go’ control yourself. Go’ show whad you made of. Our boy—’e’s—hic—los’.”
Then he addressed the park at large with a sudden despair. “Don’ care wha’ I say, she’ll blame it on to me. I know ’er!”
After that the enormous pathos34 of the situation got hold of him. “Poor lill’ chap,” he said. “Poor lill’ fell’,” and shed a few natural tears.
“Loved ’im jessis mione son.”
As the circumambient night made no reply he repeated the remark in a louder, almost domineering tone....
He spent some time trying to climb the garden wall because the door did not seem to be in the usual place. (Have to enquire35 about that in the morning. Difficult to see everything is all right when one is so bereaved). But finally he came on the door round a corner.
He told his wife merely that he intended to have a peaceful night, and took off his boots in a defiant36 and intermittent37 manner.
The morning would be soon enough.
She looked at him pretty hard, and he looked 140at her ever and again, but she never made a guess at it.
Bed.
§ 3
So soon as the week-enders had dispersed38 and Sir Peter had gone off to London to attend to various matters affecting the peptonizing of milk and the distribution of baby soothers about the habitable globe, Lady Laxton went back to bed and remained in bed until midday on Tuesday. Nothing short of complete rest and the utmost kindness from her maid would, she felt, save her from a nervous breakdown39 of the most serious description. The festival had been stormy to the end. Sir Peter’s ill-advised attempts to deprive Lord Moggeridge of alcohol had led to a painful struggle at lunch, and this had been followed by a still more unpleasant scene between host and guest in the afternoon. “This is an occasion for tact40,” Sir Peter had said and had gone off to tackle the Lord Chancellor, leaving his wife to the direst, best founded apprehensions41. For Sir Peter’s tact was a thing by itself, a mixture of misconception, recrimination and familiarity that was rarely well received....
She had had to explain to the Sunday dinner party that his lordship had been called away suddenly. “Something connected with the Great Seal,” Lady Laxton had whispered in a discreet42 mysterious whisper. One or two simple hearers were left with the persuasion43 that the Great Seal had been taken suddenly unwell—and probably 141in a slightly indelicate manner. Thomas had to paint Mergleson’s eye with grease-paint left over from some private theatricals45. It had been a patched-up affair altogether, and before she retired46 to bed that night Lady Laxton had given way to her accumulated tensions and wept.
There was no reason whatever why to wind up the day Sir Peter should have stayed in her room for an hour saying what he thought of Lord Moggeridge. She felt she knew quite well enough what he thought of Lord Moggeridge, and on these occasions he always used a number of words that she did her best to believe, as a delicately brought up woman, were unfamiliar47 to her ears....
So on Monday, as soon as the guests had gone, she went to bed again and stayed there, trying as a good woman should to prevent herself thinking of what the neighbours could be thinking—and saying—of the whole affair, by studying a new and very circumstantial pamphlet by Bishop49 Fowle on social evils, turning over the moving illustrations of some recent antivivisection literature and re-reading the accounts in the morning papers of a colliery disaster in the north of England.
To such women as Lady Laxton, brought up in an atmosphere of refinement50 that is almost colourless, and living a life troubled only by small social conflicts and the minor51 violence of Sir Peter, blameless to the point of complete uneventfulness, and secure and comfortable to the point of tedium52, there is something amounting to fascination53 in the wickedness and sufferings 142of more normally situated54 people, there is a real attraction and solace55 in the thought of pain and stress, and as her access to any other accounts of vice24 and suffering was restricted she kept herself closely in touch with the more explicit56 literature of the various movements for human moralization that distinguish our age, and responded eagerly and generously to such painful catastrophes58 as enliven it. The counterfoils59 of her cheque book witnessed to her gratitude60 for these vicarious sensations. She figured herself to herself in her day dreams as a calm and white and shining intervention61 checking and reproving amusements of an undesirable63 nature, and earning the tearful blessings64 of the mangled66 by-products of industrial enterprise.
There is a curious craving67 for entire reality in the feminine composition, and there were times when in spite of these feasts of particulars, she wished she could come just a little nearer to the heady dreadfulnesses of life than simply writing a cheque against it. She would have liked to have actually seen the votaries69 of evil blench70 and repent71 before her contributions, to have, herself, unstrapped and revived and pitied some doomed72 and chloroformed victim of the so-called “scientist,” to have herself participated in the stretcher and the hospital and humanity made marvellous by enlistment73 under the red-cross badge. But Sir Peter’s ideals of womanhood were higher than his language, and he would not let her soil her refinement with any vision of the pain and evil in the world. “Sort of woman 143they want up there is a Trained Nurse,” he used to say when she broached74 the possibility of going to some famine or disaster. “You don’t want to go prying75, old girl....”
She suffered, she felt, from repressed heroism76. If ever she was to shine in disaster that disaster, she felt, must come to her, she might not go to meet it, and so you realize how deeply it stirred her, how it brightened her and uplifted her to learn from Mr. Mergleson’s halting statements that perhaps, that probably, that almost certainly, a painful and tragical77 thing was happening even now within the walls of Shonts, that there was urgent necessity for action—if anguish78 was to be witnessed before it had ended, and life saved.
“Of course, my lady, ’e may ’ave run away!”
“Oh no!” she cried, “he hasn’t run away. He hasn’t run away. How can you be so wicked, Mergleson. Of course he hasn’t run away. He’s there now. And it’s too dreadful.”
She became suddenly very firm and masterful. The morning’s colliery tragedy inspired her imagination.
“We must get pick-axes,” she said. “We must organize search parties. Not a moment is to be lost, Mergleson—not a moment.... Get the men in off the roads. Get everyone you can....”
144And not a moment was lost. The road men were actually at work in Shonts before their proper dinner-hour was over.
They did quite a lot of things that afternoon. Every passage attainable81 from the dining-room opening was explored, and where these passages gave off chinks and crannies they were opened up with a vigour82 which Lady Laxton had greatly stimulated83 by an encouraging presence and liberal doses of whisky. Through their efforts a fine new opening was made into the library from the wall near the window, a hole big enough for a man to fall through, because one did, and a great piece of stonework was thrown down from the Queen Elizabeth tower, exposing the upper portion of the secret passage to the light of day. Lady Laxton herself and the head housemaid went round the panelling with a hammer and a chisel84, and called out “Are you there?” and attempted an opening wherever it sounded hollow. The sweep was sent for to go up the old chimneys outside the present flues. Meanwhile Mr. Darling had been set with several of his men to dig for, discover, pick up and lay open the underground passage or disused drain, whichever it was, that was known to run from the corner of the laundry towards the old ice-house, and that was supposed to reach to the abbey ruins. After some bold exploratory excavations85 this channel was located and a report sent at once to Lady Laxton.
It was this and the new and alarming scar on the Queen Elizabeth tower that brought Mr. 145Beaulieu Plummer post-haste from the estate office up to the house. Mr. Beaulieu Plummer was the Marquis of Cranberry87’s estate agent, a man of great natural tact, and charged among other duties with the task of seeing that the Laxtons did not make away with Shonts during the period of their tenancy. He was a sound compact little man, rarely out of extreme riding breeches and gaiters, and he wore glasses, that now glittered with astonishment88 as he approached Lady Laxton and her band of spade workers.
At his approach Mr. Darling attempted to become invisible, but he was unable to do so.
“Lady Laxton,” Mr. Beaulieu Plummer appealed, “may I ask—?”
“Oh Mr. Beaulieu Plummer, I’m so glad you’ve come. A little boy—suffocating! I can hardly bear it.”
“Suffocating!” cried Mr. Beaulieu Plummer, “where?” and was in a confused manner told.
He asked a number of questions that Lady Laxton found very tiresome89. But how did she know the boy was in the secret passage? Of course she knew; was it likely she would do all this if she didn’t know? But mightn’t he have run away? How could he when he was in the secret passages? But why not first scour23 the countryside? By which time he would be smothered90 and starved and dead!...
They parted with a mutual91 loss of esteem92, and Mr. Beaulieu Plummer, looking very serious indeed, ran as fast as he could straight to the village telegraph-office. Or to be more exact, 146he walked until he thought himself out of sight of Lady Laxton and then he took to his heels and ran. He sat for some time in the parlour post office spoiling telegraph forms, and composing telegrams to Sir Peter Laxton and Lord Cranberry.
He got these off at last, and then drawn93 by an irresistible94 fascination went back to the park and watched from afar the signs of fresh activities on the part of Lady Laxton.
He saw men coming from the direction of the stables with large rakes. With these they dragged the ornamental95 waters.
Then a man with a pick-axe appeared against the skyline and crossed the roof in the direction of the clock tower, bound upon some unknown but probably highly destructive mission.
Then he saw Lady Laxton going off to the gardens. She was going to console Mrs. Darling in her trouble. This she did through nearly an hour and a half. And on the whole it seemed well to Mr. Beaulieu Plummer that so she should be occupied....
It was striking five when a telegraph boy on a bicycle came up from the village with a telegram from Sir Peter Laxton.
“Stop all proceedings96 absolutely,” it said, “until I get to you.”
Lady Laxton’s lips tightened97 at the message. She was back from much weeping with Mrs. Darling and altogether finely strung. Here she felt was one of those supreme98 occasions when a woman must assert herself. “A matter of life 147or death,” she wired in reply, and to show herself how completely she overrode99 such dictation as this she sent Mr. Mergleson down to the village public-house with orders to engage anyone he could find there for an evening’s work on an extraordinarily liberal overtime100 scale.
After taking this step the spirit of Lady Laxton quailed101. She went and sat in her own room and quivered. She quivered but she clenched102 her delicate fist.
She would go through with it, come what might, she would go on with the excavation86 all night if necessary, but at the same time she began a little to regret that she had not taken earlier steps to demonstrate the improbability of Bealby having simply run away. She set to work to repair this omission103. She wrote off to the Superintendent104 of Police in the neighbouring town, to the nearest police magistrate105, and then on the off chance to various of her week-end guests, including Captain Douglas. If it was true that he had organized the annoyance106 of the Lord Chancellor (and though she still rejected that view she did now begin to regard it as a permissible107 hypothesis), then he might also know something about the mystery of this boy’s disappearance108.
Each letter she wrote she wrote with greater fatigue109 and haste than its predecessor110 and more illegibly111.
Sir Peter arrived long after dark. He cut across the corner of the park to save time, and fell into one of the trenches112 that Mr. Darling had opened. 148This added greatly to the éclat with which he came into the hall.
Lady Laxton withstood him for five minutes and then returned abruptly113 to her bedroom and locked herself in, leaving the control of the operations in his hands....
“If he’s not in the house,” said Sir Peter, “all this is thunderin’ foolery, and if he’s in the house he’s dead. If he’s dead he’ll smell in a bit and then’ll be the time to look for him. Somethin’ to go upon instead of all this blind hacking114 the place about. No wonder they’re threatenin’ proceedings....”
§ 4
Upon Captain Douglas Lady Laxton’s letter was destined115 to have a very distracting effect. Because, as he came to think it over, as he came to put her partly illegible117 allusions118 to secret passages and a missing boy side by side with his memories of Lord Moggeridge’s accusations119 and the general mystery of his expulsion from Shonts, it became more and more evident to him that he had here something remarkably120 like a clue, something that might serve to lift the black suspicion of irreverence121 and levity122 from his military reputation. And he had already got to the point of suggesting to Miss Philips that he ought to follow up and secure Bealby forthwith, before ever they came over the hill crest123 to witness the disaster to the caravan124.
Captain Douglas, it must be understood, was a young man at war within himself.
149He had been very nicely brought up, firstly in a charming English home, then in a preparatory school for selected young gentlemen, then in a good set at Eton, then at Sandhurst, where the internal trouble had begun to manifest itself. Afterwards the Bistershires.
There were three main strands126 in the composition of Captain Douglas. In the first place, and what was peculiarly his own quality, was the keenest interest in the why of things and the how of things and the general mechanism127 of things. He was fond of clocks, curious about engines, eager for science; he had a quick brain and nimble hands. He read Jules Verne and liked to think about going to the stars and making flying machines and submarines—in those days when everybody knew quite certainly that such things were impossible. His brain teemed128 with larval ideas that only needed air and light to become active full-fledged ideas. There he excelled most of us. In the next place, but this second strand125 was just a strand that most young men have, he had a natural keen interest in the other half of humanity, he thought them lovely, interesting, wonderful, and they filled him with warm curiosities and set his imagination cutting the prettiest capers129. And in the third place, and there again he was ordinarily human, he wanted to be liked, admired, approved, well thought of.... And so constituted he had passed through the educational influence of that English home, that preparatory school, the good set at Eton, the Sandhurst discipline, the Bistershire mess....
150Now the educational influence of the English home, the preparatory school, the good set at Eton and Sandhurst in those days—though Sandhurst has altered a little since—was all to develop that third chief strand of his being to the complete suppression of the others, to make him look well and unobtrusive, dress well and unobtrusively, behave well and unobtrusively, carry himself well, play games reasonably well, do nothing else well, and in the best possible form. And the two brothers Douglas, who were really very much alike, did honestly do their best to be such plain and simple gentlemen as our country demands, taking pretentious130 established things seriously, and not being odd or intelligent—in spite of those insurgent131 strands.
But the strands were in them. Below the surface the disturbing impulses worked and at last forced their way out....
In one Captain Douglas, as Mrs. Rampound Pilby told the Lord Chancellor, the suppressed ingenuity132 broke out in disconcerting mystifications and practical jokes that led to a severance133 from Portsmouth, in the other the pent-up passions came out before the other ingredients in an uncontrollable devotion to the obvious and challenging femininity of Miss Madeleine Philips.... His training had made him proof against ordinary women, deaf as it were to their charms, but she—she had penetrated134. And impulsive135 forces that have been pent up—go with a bang when they go....
The first strand in the composition of Captain 151Douglas has still to be accounted for, the sinister136 strain of intelligence and inventiveness and lively curiosity. On that he had kept a warier137 hold. So far that had not been noted138 against him. He had his motor bicycle, it is true, at a time when motor bicycles were on the verge139 of the caddish; to that extent a watchful140 eye might have found him suspicious; that was all that showed. I wish I could add it was all that there was, but other things—other things were going on. Nobody knew about them. But they were going on more and more.
He read books.
Not decent fiction, not official biographies about other fellows’ fathers and all the old anecdotes141 brought up to date and so on, but books with ideas,—you know, philosophy, social philosophy, scientific stuff, all that rot. The sort of stuff they read in mechanics’ institutes.
He thought. He could have controlled it. But he did not attempt to control it. He tried to think. He knew perfectly142 well that it wasn’t good form, but a vicious attraction drew him on.
He used to sit in his bedroom-study at Sandhurst, with the door locked, and write down on a bit of paper what he really believed and why. He would cut all sorts of things to do this. He would question—things no properly trained English gentleman ever questions.
And—he experimented.
This you know was long before the French and American aviators143. It was long before the coming of that emphatic144 lead from abroad without 152which no well-bred English mind permits itself to stir. In the darkest secrecy145 he used to make little models of cane146 and paper and elastic147 in the hope that somehow he would find out something about flying. Flying—that dream! He used to go off by himself to lonely places and climb up as high as he could and send these things fluttering earthward. He used to moon over them and muse62 about them. If anyone came upon him suddenly while he was doing these things, he would sit on his model, or pretend it didn’t belong to him, or clap it into his pocket, whichever was most convenient, and assume the vacuous148 expression of a well-bred gentleman at leisure—and so far nobody had caught him. But it was a dangerous practice.
And finally, and this now is the worst and last thing to tell of his eccentricities149, he was keenly interested in the science of his profession and intensely ambitious.
He thought—though it wasn’t his business to think, the business of a junior officer is to obey and look a credit to his regiment—that the military science of the British army was not nearly so bright as it ought to be, and that if big trouble came there might be considerable scope for an inventive man who had done what he could to keep abreast150 with foreign work, and a considerable weeding out of generals whose promotion151 had been determined153 entirely154 by their seniority, amiability155 and unruffled connubial156 felicity. He thought that the field artillery157 would be found out—there was no good in making a fuss about 153it beforehand—that no end of neglected dodges158 would have to be picked up from the enemy, that the transport was feeble, and a health service—other than surgery and ambulance—an unknown idea, but he saw no remedy but experience. So he worked hard in secret; he worked almost as hard as some confounded foreigner might have done; in the belief that after the first horrid159 smash-up there might be a chance to do things.
Outwardly of course he was sedulously160 all right. But he could not quite hide the stir in his mind. It broke out upon his surface in a chattering161 activity of incompleted sentences which he tried to keep as decently silly as he could. He had done his utmost hitherto to escape the observation of the powers that were. His infatuation for Madeleine Philips had at any rate distracted censorious attention from these deeper infamies162....
And now here was a crisis in his life. Through some idiotic163 entanglement164 manifestly connected with this missing boy, he had got tarred by his brother’s brush and was under grave suspicion for liveliness and disrespect.
The thing might be his professional ruin. And he loved the suppressed possibilities of his work beyond measure.
It was a thing to make him absent-minded even in the company of Madeleine.
§ 5
Not only were the first and second strands in the composition of Captain Douglas in conflict 154with all his appearances and pretensions165, but they were also in conflict with one another.
He was full of that concealed12 resolve to do and serve and accomplish great things in the world. That was surely purpose enough to hide behind an easy-going unpretending gentlemanliness. But he was also tremendously attracted by Madeleine Philips, more particularly when she was not there.
A beautiful woman may be the inspiration of a great career. This, however, he was beginning to find was not the case with himself. He had believed it at first and written as much and said as much, and said it very variously and gracefully166. But becoming more and more distinctly clear to his intelligence was the fact that the very reverse was the case. Miss Madeleine Philips was making it very manifest to Captain Douglas that she herself was a career; that a lover with any other career in view need not—as the advertisements say—apply.
And the time she took up!
The distress of being with her!
And the distress of not being with her!
She was such a proud and lovely and entrancing and distressing167 being to remember, and such a vain and difficult thing to be with.
She knew clearly that she was made for love, for she had made herself for love; and she went through life like its empress with all mankind and numerous women at her feet. And she had an ideal of the lover who should win her which was like a oleographic copy of a Laszlo portrait of 155Douglas greatly magnified. He was to rise rapidly to great things, he was to be a conqueror168 and administrator169, while attending exclusively to her. And incidentally she would gather desperate homage170 from all other men of mark, and these attentions would be an added glory to her love for him. At first Captain Douglas had been quite prepared to satisfy all these requirements. He had met her at Shorncliffe, for her people were quite good military people, and he had worshipped his way straight to her feet. He had made the most delightfully171 simple and delicate love to her. He had given up his secret vice of thinking for the writing of quite surprisingly clever love-letters, and the little white paper models had ceased for a time to flutter in lonely places.
And then the thought of his career returned to him, from a new aspect, as something he might lay at her feet. And once it had returned to him it remained with him.
“Some day,” he said, “and it may not be so very long, some of those scientific chaps will invent flying. Then the army will have to take it up, you know.”
“I should love,” she said, “to soar through the air.”
He talked one day of going on active service. How would it affect them if he had to do so? It was a necessary part of a soldier’s lot.
“But I should come too!” she said. “I should come with you.”
“It might not be altogether convenient,” he said, for already he had learnt that Madeleine 156Philips usually travelled with quite a large number of trunks and considerable impressiveness.
“Of course,” she said, “it would be splendid! How could I let you go alone. You would be the great general and I should be with you always.”
“Not always very comfortable,” he suggested.
“Silly boy!—I shouldn’t mind that! How little you know me! Any hardship!”
“A woman—if she isn’t a nurse—”
He tried to think of her dressed as a man, but nothing on earth could get his imagination any further than a vision of her dressed as a Principal Boy. She was so delightfully and valiantly174 not virile175; her hair would have flowed, her body would have moved, a richly fluent femininity—visible through any disguise.
§ 6
That was in the opening stage of the controversy176 between their careers. In those days they were both acutely in love with each other. Their friends thought the spectacle quite beautiful; they went together so well. Admirers, fluttered with the pride of participation177, asked them for week-ends together; those theatrical44 week-ends that begin on Sunday morning and end on Monday afternoon. She confided178 widely.
And when at last there was something like a rupture179 it became the concern of a large circle of friends.
157The particulars of the breach180 were differently stated. It would seem that looking ahead he had announced his intention of seeing the French army man?uvres just when it seemed probable that she would be out of an engagement.
“But I ought to see what they are doing,” he said. “They’re going to try those new dirigibles.”
Then should she come?
He wanted to whisk about. It wouldn’t be any fun for her. They might get landed at nightfall in any old hole. And besides people would talk— Especially as it was in France. One could do unconventional things in England one couldn’t in France. Atmosphere was different.
For a time after that halting explanation she maintained a silence. Then she spoke182 in a voice of deep feeling. She perceived, she said, that he wanted his freedom. She would be the last person to hold a reluctant lover to her side. He might go—to any man?uvres. He might go if he wished round the world. He might go away from her for ever. She would not detain him, cripple him, hamper183 a career she had once been assured she inspired....
The unfortunate man, torn between his love and his profession, protested that he hadn’t meant that.
Then what had he meant?
He realized he had meant something remarkably like it and he found great difficulty in expressing these fine distinctions....
She banished184 him from her presence for a 158month, said he might go to his man?uvres—with her blessing65. As for herself, that was her own affair. Some day perhaps he might know more of the heart of a woman.... She choked back tears—very beautifully, and military science suddenly became a trivial matter. But she was firm. He wanted to go. He must go. For a month anyhow.
He went sadly....
Into this opening breach rushed friends. It was the inestimable triumph of Judy Bowles to get there first. To begin with, Madeleine confided in her, and then, availing herself of the privilege of a distant cousinship, she commanded Douglas to tea in her Knightsbridge flat and had a good straight talk with him. She liked good straight talks with honest young men about their love affairs; it was almost the only form of flirtation185 that the Professor, who was a fierce, tough, undiscriminating man upon the essentials of matrimony, permitted her. And there was something peculiarly gratifying about Douglas’s complexion186. Under her guidance he was induced to declare that he could not live without Madeleine, that her love was the heart of his life, without it he was nothing and with it he could conquer the world.... Judy permitted herself great protestations on behalf of Madeleine, and Douglas was worked up to the pitch of kissing her intervening hand. He had little silvery hairs, she saw, all over his temples. And he was such a simple perplexed187 dear. It was a rich deep beautiful afternoon for Judy.
And then in a very obvious way Judy, who was 159already deeply in love with the idea of a caravan tour and the “wind on the heath” and the “Gipsy life” and the “open road” and all the rest of it, worked this charming little love difficulty into her scheme, utilized188 her reluctant husband to arrange for the coming of Douglas, confided in Mrs. Geedge....
And Douglas went off with his perplexities. He gave up all thought of France, week-ended at Shonts instead, to his own grave injury, returned to London unexpectedly by a Sunday train, packed for France and started. He reached Rheims on Monday afternoon. And then the image of Madeleine, which always became more beautiful and mysterious and commanding with every mile he put between them, would not let him go on. He made unconvincing excuses to the Daily Excess military expert with whom he was to have seen things. “There’s a woman in it, my boy, and you’re a fool to go,” said the Daily Excess man, “but of course you’ll go, and I for one don’t blame you—” He hurried back to London and was at Judy’s trysting-place even as Judy had anticipated.
And when he saw Madeleine standing189 in the sunlight, pleased and proud and glorious, with a smile in her eyes and trembling on her lips, with a strand or so of her beautiful hair and a streamer or so of delightful172 blue fluttering in the wind about her gracious form, it seemed to him for the moment that leaving the man?uvres and coming back to England was quite a right and almost a magnificent thing to do.
160
§ 7
This meeting was no exception to their other meetings.
The coming to her was a crescendo190 of poetical191 desire, the sight of her a climax192, and then—an accumulation of irritations193. He had thought being with her would be pure delight, and as they went over the down straying after the Bowles and the Geedges towards the Redlake Hotel he already found himself rather urgently asking her to marry him and being annoyed by what he regarded as her evasiveness.
He walked along with the restrained movement of a decent Englishman; he seemed as it were to gesticulate only through his clenched teeth, and she floated beside him, in a wonderful blue dress that with a wonderful foresight194 she had planned for breezy uplands on the basis of Botticelli’s Primavera. He was urging her to marry him soon; he needed her, he could not live in peace without her. It was not at all what he had come to say; he could not recollect195 that he had come to say anything, but now that he was with her it was the only thing he could find to say to her.
“But, my dearest boy,” she said, “how are we to marry? What is to become of your career and my career?”
“I’ve left my career!” cried Captain Douglas with the first clear note of irritation in his voice.
“Oh! don’t let us quarrel,” she cried. “Don’t let us talk of all those distant things. Let us be 161happy. Let us enjoy just this lovely day and the sunshine and the freshness and the beauty.... Because you know we are snatching these days. We have so few days together. Each—each must be a gem181.... Look, dear, how the breeze sweeps through these tall dry stems that stick up everywhere—low broad ripples196.”
She was a perfect work of art, abolishing time and obligations.
For a time they walked in silence. Then Captain Douglas said, “All very well—beauty and all that—but a fellow likes to know where he is.”
She did not answer immediately, and then she said, “I believe you are angry because you have come away from France.”
“I wonder,” she said.
“Well,—haven’t I?”
“I wonder if you ever are with me.... Oh!—I know you want me. I know you desire me. But the real thing, the happiness,—love. What is anything to love—anything at all?”
In this strain they continued until their footsteps led them through the shelter of a group of beeches201. And there the gallant202 captain sought expression in deeds. He kissed her hands, he sought her lips. She resisted softly.
“No,” she said, “only if you love me with all your heart.”
Then suddenly, wonderfully, conqueringly she yielded him her lips.
162“Oh!” she sighed presently, “if only you understood.”
But you see now how difficult it was under these mystically loving conditions to introduce the idea of a prompt examination and dispatch of Bealby. Already these days were consecrated204....
And then you see Bealby vanished—going seaward....
Even the crash of the caravan disaster did little to change the atmosphere. In spite of a certain energetic quality in the Professor’s direction of the situation—he was a little embittered205 because his thumb was sprained206 and his knee bruised207 rather badly and he had a slight abrasion208 over one ear and William had bitten his calf—the general disposition209 was to treat the affair hilariously210. Nobody seemed really hurt except William,—the Professor was not so much hurt as annoyed,—and William’s injuries though striking were all superficial, a sprained jaw211 and grazes and bruises212 and little things like that; everybody was heartened up to the idea of damages to be paid for; and neither the internal injuries to the caravan nor the hawker’s estimate of his stock-in-trade proved to be as great as one might reasonably have expected. Before sunset the caravan was safely housed in the Winthorpe-Sutbury public house, William had found a congenial corner in the bar parlour, where his account of an inside view of the catastrophe57 163and his views upon Professor Bowles were much appreciated, the hawker had made a bit extra by carting all the luggage to the Redlake Royal Hotel and the caravanners and their menfolk had loitered harmoniously213 back to this refuge. Madeleine had walked along the road beside Captain Douglas and his motor bicycle, which he had picked up at the now desolate214 encampment.
“It only remains,” she said, “for that thing to get broken.”
“But I may want it,” he said.
“No,” she said, “Heaven has poured us together and now He has smashed the vessels215. At least He has smashed one of the vessels. And look!—like a great shield, there is the moon. It’s the Harvest Moon, isn’t it?”
“No,” said the Captain, with his poetry running away with him. “It’s the Lovers’ Moon.”
“It’s like a benediction216 rising over our meeting.”
And it was certainly far too much like a benediction for the Captain to talk about Bealby.
That night was a perfect night for lovers, a night flooded with a kindly radiance, so that the warm mystery of the centre of life seemed to lurk217 in every shadow and hearts throbbed218 instead of beating and eyes were stars. After dinner every one found wraps and slipped out into the moonlight; the Geedges vanished like moths219; the Professor made no secret that Judy was transfigured for him. Night works these miracles. The only other visitors there, a brace220 of couples, resorted to the boats upon the little lake.
164Two enormous waiters removing the coffee cups from the small tables upon the verandah heard Madeleine’s beautiful voice for a little while and then it was stilled....
§ 8
The morning found Captain Douglas in a state of reaction. He was anxious to explain quite clearly to Madeleine just how necessary it was that he should go in search of Bealby forthwith. He was beginning to realize now just what a chance in the form of Bealby had slipped through his fingers. He had dropped Bealby and now the thing to do was to pick up Bealby again before he was altogether lost. Her professional life unfortunately had given Miss Philips the habit of never rising before midday, and the Captain had to pass the time as well as he could until the opportunity for his explanation came.
A fellow couldn’t go off without an explanation....
He passed the time with Professor Bowles upon the golf links.
The Professor was a first-rate player and an unselfish one; he wanted all other players to be as good as himself. He would spare no pains to make them so. If he saw them committing any of the many errors into which golfers fall, he would tell them of it and tell them why it was an error and insist upon showing them just how to avoid it in future. He would point out any want of judgment221, and not confine himself, as so many 165professional golf teachers do, merely to the stroke. After a time he found it necessary to hint to the Captain that nowadays a military man must accustom222 himself to self-control. The Captain kept Pishing and Tushing, and presently, it was only too evident, swearing softly; his play got jerky, his strokes were forcible without any real strength, once he missed the globe altogether and several times he sliced badly. The eyes under his light eyelashes were wicked little things.
And the Professor. He had always detested the Professor.
And his caddie; at least he would have always detested his caddie if he had known him long enough. His caddie was one of those maddening boys with no expression at all. It didn’t matter what he did or failed to do, there was the silly idiot with his stuffed face, unmoved. Really, of course overjoyed—but apparently224 unmoved....
“Why did I play it that way?” the Captain repeated. “Oh! because I like to play it that way.”
“Well,” said the Professor. “It isn’t a recognized way anyhow....”
Then came a moment of evil pleasures.
He’d sliced. Old Bowles had sliced. For once in a while he’d muffed something. Always teaching others and here he was slicing! Why, sometimes the Captain didn’t slice!...
166Why couldn’t Madeleine get up at a decent hour to see a fellow? Why must she lie in bed when she wasn’t acting116? If she had got up all this wouldn’t have happened. The shame of it! Here he was, an able-bodied capable man in the prime of life and the morning of a day playing this blockhead’s game—!
Yes—blockhead’s game!
“You play the like,” said the Professor.
“Rather,” said the Captain and addressed himself to his stroke.
“That’s not your ball,” said the Professor.
“Similar position,” said the Captain.
“You know, you might win this hole,” said the Professor.
“Who cares?” said the Captain under his breath and putted extravagantly226.
“That saves me,” said the Professor, and went down from a distance of twelve yards.
“You ought to put in a week at nothing but putting,” said the Professor. “It would save you at least a stroke a hole. I’ve noticed that on almost every green, if I haven’t beaten you before I pull up in the putting.”
It was Madeleine who had got him in for this game. A beautiful healthy girl ought to get up in the mornings. Mornings and beautiful healthy girls are all the same thing really. She ought to be dewy—positively dewy.... There she 167must be lying, warm and beautiful in bed—like Catherine the Great or somebody of that sort. No. It wasn’t right. All very luxurious231 and so on but not right. She ought to have understood that he was bound to fall a prey232 to the Professor if she didn’t get up. Golf! Here he was, neglecting his career; hanging about on these beastly links, all the sound men away there in France—it didn’t do to think of it!—and he was playing this retired tradesman’s consolation233!
(Beastly the Professor’s legs looked from behind. The uglier a man’s legs are the better he plays golf. It’s almost a law.)
That’s what it was, a retired tradesman’s consolation. A decent British soldier has no more business to be playing golf than he has to be dressing234 dolls. It’s a game at once worthless and exasperating235. If a man isn’t perfectly fit he cannot play golf, and when he is perfectly fit he ought to be doing a man’s work in the world. If ever anything deserved the name of vice, if ever anything was pure, unforgivable dissipation, surely golf was that thing....
And meanwhile that boy was getting more and more start. Anyone with a ha’porth of sense would have been up at five and after that brat—might have had him bagged and safe and back to lunch. Ass4 one was at times!
“You’re here, sir,” said the caddie.
The captain perceived he was in a nasty place, open green ahead but with some tumbled country near at hand and to the left, a rusty236 old gravel237 pit, furze at the sides, water at the bottom. 168Nasty attractive hole of a place. Sort of thing one gets into. He must pull himself together for this. After all, having undertaken to play a game one must play the game. If he hit the infernal thing, that is to say the ball, if he hit the ball so that if it didn’t go straight it would go to the right rather—clear of the hedge it wouldn’t be so bad to the right. Difficult to manage. Best thing was to think hard of the green ahead, a long way ahead,—with just the slightest deflection to the right. Now then,—heels well down, club up, a good swing, keep your eye on the ball, keep your eye on the ball, keep your eye on the ball just where you mean to hit it—far below there and a little to the right—and don’t worry....
Rap.
“In the pond I think, sir.”
“The water would have splashed if it had gone in the pond,” said the Professor. “It must be over there in the wet sand. You hit it pretty hard, I thought.”
Search. The caddie looked as though he didn’t care whether he found it or not. He ought to be interested. It was his profession, not just his game. But nowadays everybody had this horrid disposition towards slacking. A Tired generation we are. The world is too much with us. Too much to think about, too much to do, Madeleines, army man?uvres, angry lawyers, lost boys—let alone such exhausting foolery as this game....
“Got it, sir!” said the caddie.
“Where?”
169“Here, sir! Up in the bush, sir!”
It was resting in the branches of a bush two yards above the slippery bank.
“I doubt if you can play it,” said the Professor, “but it will be interesting to try.”
The Captain scrutinized238 the position. “I can play it,” he said.
“You’ll slip, I’m afraid,” said the Professor.
They were both right. Captain Douglas drove his feet into the steep slope of rusty sand below the bush, held his iron a little short and wiped the ball up and over and as he found afterwards out of the rough. All eyes followed the ball except his. The Professor made sounds of friendly encouragement. But the Captain was going—going. He was on all fours, he scrabbled handfuls of prickly gorse, of wet sand. His feet, his ankles, his calves239 slid into the pond. How much more? No. He’d reached the bottom. He proceeded to get out again as well as he could. Not so easy. The bottom of the pond sucked at him....
When at last he rejoined the other three his hands were sandy red, his knees were sandy red, his feet were of clay, but his face was like the face of a little child. Like the face of a little fair child after it has been boiled red in its bath and then dusted over with white powder. His ears were the colour of roses, Lancaster roses. And his eyes too had something of the angry wonder of a little child distressed....
“I was afraid you’d slip into the pond,” said the Professor.
170“I didn’t,” said the Captain.
“!”
“I just got in to see how deep it was and cool my feet—I hate warm feet.”
He lost that hole but he felt a better golfer now, his anger he thought was warming him up so that he would presently begin to make strokes by instinct, and do remarkable240 things unawares. After all there is something in the phrase “getting one’s blood up.” If only the Professor wouldn’t dally241 so with his ball and let one’s blood get down again. Tap!—the Professor’s ball went soaring. Now for it. The Captain addressed himself to his task, altered his plans rather hastily, smote242 and topped the ball.
The least one could expect was a sympathetic silence. But the Professor thought fit to improve the occasion.
“You’ll never drive,” said the Professor; “you’ll never drive with that irritable243 jerk in the middle of the stroke. You might just as well smack244 the ball without raising your club. If you think—”
The Captain lost his self-control altogether.
“Look here,” he said, “if you think that I care a single rap about how I hit the ball, if you think that I really want to win and do well at this beastly, silly, elderly, childish game—.”
He paused on the verge of ungentlemanly language.
“If a thing’s worth doing at all,” said the Professor after a pause for reflection, “it’s worth doing well.”
171“Then it isn’t worth doing at all. As this hole gives you the game—if you don’t mind—”
The Captain’s hot moods were so rapid that already he was acutely ashamed of himself.
“O certainly, if you wish it,” said the Professor.
With a gesture the Professor indicated the altered situation to the respectful caddies and the two gentlemen turned their faces towards the hotel.
For a time they walked side by side in silence, the caddies following with hushed expressions.
“Splendid weather for the French man?uvres,” said the Captain presently in an off-hand tone, “that is to say if they are getting this weather.”
“At present there are a series of high pressure systems over the whole of Europe north of the Alps,” said the Professor. “It is as near set fair as Europe can be.”
“There’s a drawback to everything,” said the Professor. “But it’s very lovely weather.”
§ 9
They got back to the hotel about half-past eleven and the Captain went and had an unpleasant time with one of the tyres of his motor bicycle which had got down in the night. In replacing the tyre he pinched the top of one of his fingers rather badly. Then he got the ordnance246 map of the district and sat at a green table in the open air in front of the hotel windows and speculated 172on the probable flight of Bealby. He had been last seen going south by east. That way lay the sea, and all boy fugitives248 go naturally for the sea.
He tried to throw himself into the fugitive247’s mind and work out just exactly the course Bealby must take to the sea.
For a time he found this quite an absorbing occupation.
Bealby probably had no money or very little money. Therefore he would have to beg or steal. He wouldn’t go to the workhouse because he wouldn’t know about the workhouse, respectable poor people never know anything about the workhouse, and the chances were he would be both too honest and too timid to steal. He’d beg. He’d beg at front doors because of dogs and things, and he’d probably go along a high road. He’d be more likely to beg from houses than from passers-by, because a door is at first glance less formidable than a pedestrian and more accustomed to being addressed. And he’d try isolated249 cottages rather than the village street doors, an isolated wayside cottage is so much more confidential250. He’d ask for food—not money. All that seemed pretty sound.
Now this road on the map—into it he was bound to fall and along it he would go begging. No other?... No.
In the fine weather he’d sleep out. And he’d go—ten, twelve, fourteen—thirteen, thirteen miles a day.
So now, he ought to be about here. And to-night,—here.
173To-morrow at the same pace,—here.
But suppose he got a lift!...
He’d only get a slow lift if he got one at all. It wouldn’t make much difference in the calculation....
So if to-morrow one started and went on to these cross roads marked Inn, just about twenty-six miles it must be by the scale, and beat round it one ought to get something in the way of tidings of Mr. Bealby. Was there any reason why Bealby shouldn’t go on south by east and seaward?...
None.
And now there remained nothing to do but to explain all this clearly to Madeleine. And why didn’t she come down? Why didn’t she come down?
But when one got Bealby what would one do with him?
Wring251 the truth out of him—half by threats and half by persuasion. Suppose after all he hadn’t any connexion with the upsetting of Lord Moggeridge? He had. Suppose he hadn’t. He had. He had. He had.
And when one had the truth?
Whisk the boy right up to London and confront the Lord Chancellor with the facts. But suppose he wouldn’t be confronted with the facts. He was a touchy252 old sinner....
For a time Captain Douglas balked253 at this difficulty. Then suddenly there came into his head the tall figure, the long moustaches of that kindly popular figure, his adopted uncle Lord Chickney. 174Suppose he took the boy straight to Uncle Chickney, told him the whole story. Even the Lord Chancellor would scarcely refuse ten minutes to General Lord Chickney....
The clearer the plans of Captain Douglas grew the more anxious he became to put them before Madeleine—clearly and convincingly....
Because first he had to catch his boy....
Presently, as Captain Douglas fretted254 at the continued eclipse of Madeleine, his thumb went into his waistcoat pocket and found a piece of paper. He drew it out and looked at it. It was a little piece of stiff note-paper cut into the shape of a curved V rather after the fashion of a soaring bird. It must have been there for months. He looked at it. His care-wrinkled brow relaxed. He glanced over his shoulder at the house and then held this little scrap255 high over his head and let go. It descended256 with a slanting257 flight curving round to the left and then came about and swept down to the ground to the right.... Now why did it go like that? As if it changed its mind. He tried it again. Same result.... Suppose the curvature of the wings was a little greater? Would it make a more acute or a less acute angle? He did not know.... Try it.
He felt in his pocket for a piece of paper, found Lady Laxton’s letter, produced a stout198 pair of nail scissors in a sheath from a waistcoat pocket, selected a good clear sheet, and set himself to cut out his improved V....
As he did so his eyes were on V number one, on the ground. It would be interesting to see if 175this thing turned about to the left again. If in fact it would go on zig-zagging. It ought, he felt, to do so. But to test that one ought to release it from some higher point so as to give it a longer flight. Stand on the chair?...
Not in front of the whole rotten hotel. And there was a beastly looking man in a green apron258 coming out of the house,—the sort of man who looks at you. He might come up and watch; these fellows are equal to anything of that sort. Captain Douglas replaced his scissors and scraps259 in his pockets, leaned back with an affectation of boredom260, got up, lit a cigarette—sort of thing the man in the green apron would think all right—and strolled off towards a clump261 of beech200 trees, beyond which were bushes and a depression. There perhaps one might be free from observation. Just try these things for a bit. That point about the angle was a curious one; it made one feel one’s ignorance not to know that....
§ 10
The ideal King has a careworn262 look, he rules, he has to do things, but the ideal Queen is radiant happiness, tall and sweetly dignified263, simply she has to be things. And when at last towards midday Queen Madeleine dispelled the clouds of the morning and came shining back into the world that waited outside her door, she was full of thankfulness for herself and for the empire that was given her. She knew she was a delicious and wonderful thing, she knew she was well done, 176her hands, the soft folds of her dress as she held it up, the sweep of her hair from her forehead pleased her, she lifted her chin but not too high for the almost unenvious homage in the eyes of the housemaid on the staircase. Her descent was well timed for the lunch gathering265 of the hotel guests; there was “Ah!—here she comes at last!” and there was her own particular court out upon the verandah before the entrance, Geedge and the Professor and Mrs. Bowles—and Mrs. Geedge coming across the lawn,—and the lover?
She came on down and out into the sunshine. She betrayed no surprise. The others met her with flattering greetings that she returned smilingly. But the lover—?
He was not there!
It was as if the curtain had gone up on almost empty stalls.
He ought to have been worked up and waiting tremendously. He ought to have spent the morning in writing a poem to her or in writing a delightful poetical love letter she could carry away and read or in wandering alone and thinking about her. He ought to be feeling now like the end of a vigil. He ought to be standing now, a little in the background and with that pleasant flush of his upon his face and that shy, subdued266, reluctant look that was so infinitely267 more flattering than any boldness of admiration268. And then she would go towards him, for she was a giving type, and hold out both hands to him, and he, as though he couldn’t help it, in spite of all his British 177reserve, would take one and hesitate—which made it all the more marked—and kiss it....
Instead of which he was just not there....
No visible disappointment dashed her bravery. She knew that at the slightest flicker269 Judy and Mrs. Geedge would guess and that anyhow the men would guess nothing. “I’ve rested,” she said, “I’ve rested delightfully. What have you all been doing?”
Judy told of great conversations, Mr. Geedge had been looking for trout270 in the stream, Mrs. Geedge with a thin little smile said she had been making a few notes and—she added the word with deliberation—“observations,” and Professor Bowles said he had had a round of golf with the Captain. “And he lost?” asked Madeleine.
“He’s careless in his drive and impatient at the greens,” said the Professor modestly.
“And then?”
“He vanished,” said the Professor, recognizing the true orientation271 of her interest.
There was a little pause and Mrs. Geedge said, “You know—” and stopped short.
Interrogative looks focussed upon her.
“It’s so odd,” she said.
Curiosity increased.
“I suppose one ought not to say,” said Mrs. Geedge, “and yet—why shouldn’t one?”
“Exactly,” said Professor Bowles, and every one drew a little nearer to Mrs. Geedge.
“One can’t help being amused,” she said. “It was so—extraordinary.”
178“Is it something about the Captain?” asked Madeleine.
“Yes. You see,—he didn’t see me.”
“Is he—is he writing poetry?” Madeleine was much entertained and relieved at the thought. That would account for everything. The poor dear! He hadn’t been able to find some rhyme!
But one gathered from the mysterious airs of Mrs. Geedge that he was not writing poetry. “You see,” she said, “I was lying out there among the bushes, just jotting272 down a few little things,—and he came by. And he went down into the hollow out of sight.... And what do you think he is doing? You’d never guess? He’s been at it for twenty minutes.”
They didn’t guess.
“He’s playing with little bits of paper—Oh! like a kitten plays with dead leaves. He throws them up—and they flutter to the ground—and then he pounces273 on them.”
“But—” said Madeleine. And then very brightly, “let’s go and see!”
She was amazed. She couldn’t understand. She hid it under a light playfulness, that threatened to become distraught. Even when presently, after a very careful stalking of the dell under the guidance of Mrs. Geedge, with the others in support, she came in sight of him, she still found him incredible. There was her lover, her devoted274 lover, standing on the top bar of a fence, his legs wide apart and his body balanced with difficulty, and in his fingers poised275 high was a little scrap of paper. This was the man who 179should have been waiting in the hall with feverish276 anxiety. His fingers released the little model and down it went drifting....
He seemed to be thinking of nothing else in the world. She might never have been born!...
Some noise, some rustle277, caught his ear. He turned his head quickly, guiltily, and saw her and her companions.
And then he crowned her astonishment. No lovelight leapt to his eyes; he uttered no cry of joy. Instead he clutched wildly at the air, shouted, “Oh damn!” and came down with a complicated inelegance on all fours upon the ground.
He was angry with her—angry; she could see that he was extremely angry.
§ 11
So it was that the incompatibilities of man and woman arose again in the just recovering love dream of Madeleine Philips. But now the discord278 was far more evident than it had been at the first breach.
Suddenly her dear lover, her flatterer, her worshipper, had become a strange averted279 man. He scrabbled up two of his paper scraps before he came towards her, still with no lovelight in his eyes. He kissed her hand as if it was a matter of course and said almost immediately: “I’ve been hoping for you all the endless morning. I’ve had to amuse myself as best I can.” His tone was resentful. He spoke as if he had a claim upon her—upon her attentions. As if it wasn’t entirely upon his side that obligations lay.
And all through the lunch she was as charming as she could be, and under such treatment that rebellious280 ruffled quality vanished from his manner, vanished so completely that she could wonder if it had really been evident at any time. The alert servitor returned.
She was only too pleased to forget the disappointment of her descent and forgive him, and it was with a puzzled incredulity that she presently saw his “difficult” expression returning. It was an odd little knitting of the brows, a faint absentmindedness, a filming of the brightness of his worship. He was just perceptibly indifferent to the charmed and charming things she was saying.
It seemed best to her to open the question herself. “Is there something on your mind, Dot?”
“Dot” was his old school nickname.
“Well, no—not exactly on my mind. But—. It’s a bother of course. There’s that confounded boy....”
“Were you trying some sort of divination281 about him? With those pieces of paper?”
“No. That was different. That was—just something else. But you see that boy—. Probably clear up the whole of the Moggeridge bother—and you know it is a bother. Might turn out beastly awkward....”
It was extraordinarily difficult to express. He wanted so much to stay with her and he wanted so much to go.
181But all reason, all that was expressible, all that found vent48 in words and definite suggestions, was on the side of an immediate197 pursuit of Bealby. So that it seemed to her he wanted and intended to go much more definitely than he actually did.
That divergence282 of purpose flawed a beautiful afternoon, cast chill shadows of silence over their talk, arrested endearments283. She was irritated. About six o’clock she urged him to go; she did not mind, anyhow she had things to see to, letters to write, and she left him with an effect of leaving him for ever. He went and overhauled284 his motor bicycle thoroughly285 and then an aching dread68 of separation from her arrested him.
Dinner, the late June sunset and the moon seemed to bring them together again. Almost harmoniously he was able to suggest that he should get up very early the next morning, pursue and capture Bealby and return for lunch.
“You’d get up at dawn!” she cried. “But how perfectly Splendid the midsummer dawn must be.”
Then she had an inspiration. “Dot!” she cried, “I will get up at dawn also and come with you.... Yes, but as you say he cannot be more than thirteen miles away we’d catch him warm in his little bed somewhere. And the freshness! The dewy freshness!”
And she laughed her beautiful laugh and said it would be “Such Fun!” entering as she supposed into his secret desires and making the most perfect of reconciliations286. They were to have tea first, which she would prepare with the caravan lamp 182and kettle. Mrs. Geedge would hand it over to her.
She broke into song. “A Hunting we will go-ooh,” she sang. “A Hunting we will go....”
But she could not conquer the churlish underside of the Captain’s nature even by such efforts. She threw a glamour287 of vigour and fun over the adventure, but some cold streak288 in his composition was insisting all the time that as a boy hunt the attempt failed. Various little delays in her preparations prevented a start before half-past seven, he let that weigh with him, and when sometimes she clapped her hands and ran—and she ran like a deer, and sometimes she sang, he said something about going at an even pace.
At a quarter past one Mrs. Geedge observed them returning. They were walking abreast and about six feet apart, they bore themselves grimly, after the manner of those who have delivered ultimata289, and they conversed290 no more....
In the afternoon Madeleine kept her own room, exhausted291, and Captain Douglas sought opportunities of speaking to her in vain. His face expressed distress and perplexity, with momentary292 lapses293 into wrathful resolution, and he evaded294 Judy and her leading questions and talked about the weather with Geedge. He declined a proposal of the Professor’s to go round the links, with especial reference to his neglected putting. “You ought to, you know,” said the Professor.
About half-past three, and without any publication of his intention, Captain Douglas departed upon his motor bicycle....
183Madeleine did not reappear until dinner-time, and then she was clad in lace and gaiety that impressed the naturally very good observation of Mrs. Geedge as unreal.
§ 12
The Captain, a confusion of motives295 that was as it were a mind returning to chaos296, started. He had seen tears in her eyes. Just for one instant, but certainly they were tears. Tears of vexation. Or sorrow? (Which is the worse thing for a lover to arouse, grief or resentment?) But this boy must be caught, because if he was not caught a perpetually developing story of imbecile practical joking upon eminent297 and influential298 persons would eat like a cancer into the Captain’s career. And if his career was spoilt what sort of thing would he be as a lover? Not to mention that he might never get a chance then to try flying for military purposes.... So anyhow, anyhow, this boy must be caught. But quickly, for women’s hearts are tender, they will not stand exposure to hardship. There is a kind of unreasonableness299 natural to goddesses. Unhappily this was an expedition needing wariness300, deliberation, and one brought to it a feverish hurry to get back. There must be self-control. There must be patience. Such occasions try the soldierly quality of a man....
It added nothing to the Captain’s self-control that after he had travelled ten miles he found he had forgotten his quite indispensable map and 184had to return for it. Then he was seized again with doubts about his inductions301 and went over them again, sitting by the roadside. (There must be patience.) ... He went on at a pace of thirty-five miles an hour to the inn he had marked upon his map as Bealby’s limit for the second evening. It was a beastly little inn, it stewed302 tea for the Captain atrociously and it knew nothing of Bealby. In the adjacent cottages also they had never heard of Bealby. Captain Douglas revised his deductions303 for the third time and came to the conclusion that he had not made a proper allowance for Wednesday afternoon. Then there was all Thursday, and the longer, lengthening304 part of Friday. He might have done thirty miles or more already. And he might have crossed this corner—inconspicuously.
Suppose he hadn’t after all come along this road!
He had a momentary vision of Madeleine with eyes brightly tearful. “You left me for a Wild Goose Chase,” he fancied her saying....
One must stick to one’s job. A soldier more particularly must stick to his job. Consider Balaclava....
He decided to go on along this road and try the incidental cottages that his reasoning led him to suppose were the most likely places at which Bealby would ask for food. It was a business demanding patience and politeness.
So a number of cottagers, for the greater part they were elderly women past the fiercer rush 185and hurry of life, grandmothers and ancient dames305 or wives at leisure with their children away at the Council schools, had a caller that afternoon. Cottages are such lonely places in the daytime that even district visitors and canvassers are godsends and only tramps ill received. Captain Douglas ranked high in the scale of visitors. There was something about him, his fairness, a certain handsomeness, his quick colour, his active speech, which interested women at all times, and now an indefinable flow of romantic excitement conveyed itself to his interlocutors. He encountered the utmost civility everywhere; doors at first tentatively ajar opened wider at the sight of him and there was a kindly disposition to enter into his troubles lengthily306 and deliberately307. People listened attentively308 to his demands, and before they testified to Bealby’s sustained absence from their perception they would for the most part ask numerous questions in return. They wanted to hear the Captain’s story, the reason for his research, the relationship between himself and the boy, they wanted to feel something of the sentiment of the thing. After that was the season for negative facts. Perhaps when everything was stated they might be able to conjure309 up what he wanted. He was asked in to have tea twice, for he looked not only pink and dusty, but dry, and one old lady said that years ago she had lost just such a boy as Bealby seemed to be—“Ah! not in the way you have lost him”—and she wept, poor old dear! and was only comforted after she had told the Captain 186three touching310 but extremely lengthy311 and detailed312 anecdotes of Bealby’s vanished prototype.
(Fellow cannot rush away, you know; still all this sort of thing, accumulating, means a confounded lot of delay.)
And then there was a deaf old man.... A very, very tiresome deaf old man who said at first he had seen Bealby....
After all the old fellow was deaf....
The sunset found the Captain on a breezy common forty miles away from the Redlake Royal Hotel and by this time he knew that fugitive boys cannot be trusted to follow the lines even of the soundest inductions. This business meant a search.
A moment of temptation.
If he did he knew she wouldn’t let him go.
No!
NO!
He must make a sweeping314 movement through the country to the left, trying up and down the roads that, roughly speaking, radiated from Redlake between the twenty-fifth and the thirty-fifth milestone315....
It was night and high moonlight when at last the Captain reached Crayminster, that little old town decayed to a village, in the Crays valley. He was hungry, dispirited, quite unsuccessful, and here he resolved to eat and rest for the night.
He would have a meal, for by this time he was ravenous316, and then go and talk in the bar or the tap about Bealby.
187Until he had eaten he felt he could not endure the sound of his own voice repeating what had already become a tiresome stereotyped317 formula; “You haven’t I suppose seen or heard anything during the last two days of a small boy—little chap of about thirteen—wandering about? He’s a sturdy resolute318 little fellow with a high colour, short wiry hair, rather dark....”
The White Hart at Crayminster, after some negotiations319, produced mutton cutlets and Australian hock. As he sat at his meal in the small ambiguous respectable dining-room of the inn—adorned with framed and glazed320 beer advertisements, crinkled paper fringes and insincere sporting prints—he became aware of a murmurous321 confabulation going on in the bar parlour. It must certainly he felt be the bar parlour....
He could not hear distinctly, and yet it seemed to him that the conversational322 style of Crayminster was abnormally rich in expletive. And the tone was odd. It had a steadfast323 quality of commination.
He brushed off a crumb324 from his jacket, lit a cigarette and stepped across the passage to put his hopeless questions.
The talk ceased abruptly at his appearance.
It was one of those deep-toned bar parlours that are so infinitely more pleasant to the eye than the tawdry decorations of the genteel accommodation. It was brown with a trimming of green paper hops325 and it had a mirror and glass shelves sustaining bottles and tankards. Six or seven individuals were sitting about the room. 188They had a numerous effect. There was a man in very light floury tweeds, with a floury bloom on his face and hair and an anxious depressed expression. He was clearly a baker326. He sat forward as though he nursed something precious under the table. Next him was a respectable-looking, regular-featured fair man with a large head, and a ruddy-faced butcher-like individual smoked a clay pipe by the side of the fireplace. A further individual with an alert intrusive327 look might have been a grocer’s assistant associating above himself.
“Evening,” said the Captain.
“Evening,” said the man with the large hand guardedly.
The Captain came to the hearthrug with an affectation of ease.
“I suppose,” he began, “that you haven’t any of you seen anything of a small boy, wandering about. He’s a little chap about thirteen. Sturdy, resolute-looking little fellow with a high colour, short wiry hair, rather dark....”
He stopped short, arrested by the excited movements of the butcher’s pipe and by the changed expressions of the rest of the company.
“We—we seen ’im,” the man with the big head managed to say at last.
“We seen ’im all right,” said a voice out of the darkness beyond the range of the lamp.
The baker with the melancholy328 expression interjected, “I don’t care if I don’t ever see ’im again.”
“Ah!” said the Captain, astonished to find 189himself suddenly beyond hoping on a hot fresh scent264. “Now all that’s very interesting. Where did you see him?”
“Thunderin’ vicious little varmint,” said the butcher. “Owdacious.”
“Mr. Benshaw,” said the voice from the shadows, “’E’s arter ’im now with a shot gun loaded up wi’ oats. ’E’ll pepper ’im if ’e gets ’im, Bill will, you bet your ’at. And serve ’im jolly well right tew.”
“I doubt,” said the baker, “I doubt if I’ll ever get my stummik—not thoroughly proper again. It’s a Blow I’ve ’ad. ’E give me a Blow. Oh! Mr. ’Orrocks, could I trouble you for another thimbleful of brandy? Just a thimbleful neat. It eases the ache....”
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1
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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chancellor
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| n.(英)大臣；法官；(德、奥)总理；大学校长 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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4
ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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7
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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9
wriggling
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| v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的现在分词 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等）；蠕蠕 | |
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10
dungeons
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| n.地牢( dungeon的名词复数 ) | |
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11
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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13
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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brewed
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| 调制( brew的过去式和过去分词 )； 酝酿； 沏（茶）； 煮（咖啡） | |
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jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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obituary
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| n.讣告，死亡公告；adj.死亡的 | |
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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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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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scour
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| v.搜索；擦，洗，腹泻，冲刷 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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27
ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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dispelled
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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30
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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authoritative
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| adj.有权威的，可相信的；命令式的；官方的 | |
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33
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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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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35
enquire
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| v.打听，询问；调查，查问 | |
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defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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intermittent
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| adj.间歇的，断断续续的 | |
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dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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breakdown
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| n.垮，衰竭；损坏，故障，倒塌 | |
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40
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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42
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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43
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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44
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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45
theatricals
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| n.（业余性的）戏剧演出，舞台表演艺术；职业演员；戏剧的( theatrical的名词复数 )；剧场的；炫耀的；戏剧性的 | |
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46
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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48
vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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49
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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50
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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51
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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52
tedium
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| n.单调；烦闷 | |
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53
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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55
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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56
explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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57
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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catastrophes
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| n.灾祸( catastrophe的名词复数 )；灾难；不幸事件；困难 | |
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59
counterfoils
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| n.（支票、票据等的）存根，票根( counterfoil的名词复数 ) | |
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60
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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intervention
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| n.介入，干涉，干预 | |
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62
muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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63
undesirable
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| adj.不受欢迎的，不良的，不合意的，讨厌的；n.不受欢迎的人，不良分子 | |
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64
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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65
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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66
mangled
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| vt.乱砍（mangle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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68
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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69
votaries
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| n.信徒( votary的名词复数 )；追随者；（天主教）修士；修女 | |
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70
blench
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| v.退缩，畏缩 | |
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71
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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72
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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73
enlistment
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| n.应征入伍，获得，取得 | |
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74
broached
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| v.谈起( broach的过去式和过去分词 )；打开并开始用；用凿子扩大（或修光）；（在桶上）钻孔取液体 | |
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75
prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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76
heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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77
tragical
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| adj. 悲剧的, 悲剧性的 | |
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78
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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79
agonized
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| v.使（极度）痛苦，折磨( agonize的过去式和过去分词 )；苦斗；苦苦思索；感到极度痛苦 | |
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80
mite
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| n.极小的东西；小铜币 | |
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81
attainable
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| a.可达到的，可获得的 | |
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82
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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83
stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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84
chisel
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| n.凿子；v.用凿子刻，雕，凿 | |
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85
excavations
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| n.挖掘( excavation的名词复数 )；开凿；开凿的洞穴（或山路等）；（发掘出来的）古迹 | |
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86
excavation
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| n.挖掘，发掘；被挖掘之地 | |
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87
cranberry
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| n.梅果 | |
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88
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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89
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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90
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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91
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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92
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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93
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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94
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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95
ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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96
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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97
tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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98
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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99
overrode
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| 越控( override的过去式 )； （以权力）否决； 优先于； 比…更重要 | |
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100
overtime
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| adj.超时的，加班的；adv.加班地 | |
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101
quailed
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| 害怕，发抖，畏缩( quail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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102
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
omission
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| n.省略，删节；遗漏或省略的事物，冗长 | |
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104
superintendent
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| n.监督人，主管，总监；(英国)警务长 | |
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105
magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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106
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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107
permissible
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| adj.可允许的，许可的 | |
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108
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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109
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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110
predecessor
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| n.前辈，前任 | |
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111
illegibly
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| adv.难读地，暧昧地 | |
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112
trenches
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| 深沟，地沟( trench的名词复数 )； 战壕 | |
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113
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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114
hacking
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| n.非法访问计算机系统和数据库的活动 | |
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115
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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116
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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117
illegible
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| adj.难以辨认的，字迹模糊的 | |
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118
allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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119
accusations
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| n.指责( accusation的名词复数 )；指控；控告；（被告发、控告的）罪名 | |
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120
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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121
irreverence
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| n.不尊敬 | |
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122
levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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123
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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124
caravan
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| n.大蓬车；活动房屋 | |
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125
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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126
strands
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| n.（线、绳、金属线、毛发等的）股( strand的名词复数 )；缕；海洋、湖或河的)岸；（观点、计划、故事等的）部份v.使滞留，使搁浅( strand的第三人称单数 ) | |
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127
mechanism
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| n.机械装置；机构，结构 | |
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128
teemed
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| v.充满( teem的过去式和过去分词 )；到处都是；（指水、雨等）暴降；倾注 | |
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129
capers
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| n.开玩笑( caper的名词复数 )；刺山柑v.跳跃，雀跃( caper的第三人称单数 ) | |
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130
pretentious
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| adj.自命不凡的，自负的，炫耀的 | |
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131
insurgent
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| adj.叛乱的，起事的；n.叛乱分子 | |
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132
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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133
severance
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| n.离职金；切断 | |
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134
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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135
impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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136
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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137
warier
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| 谨慎的，小心翼翼的( wary的比较级 ) | |
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138
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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139
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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140
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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141
anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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142
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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143
aviators
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| 飞机驾驶员，飞行员( aviator的名词复数 ) | |
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144
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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145
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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146
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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147
elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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148
vacuous
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| adj.空的，漫散的，无聊的，愚蠢的 | |
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149
eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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150
abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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151
promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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152
deter
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| vt.阻止，使不敢，吓住 | |
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153
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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154
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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155
amiability
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| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
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156
connubial
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| adj.婚姻的，夫妇的 | |
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157
artillery
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| n.(军)火炮，大炮；炮兵(部队) | |
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158
dodges
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| n.闪躲( dodge的名词复数 )；躲避；伎俩；妙计v.闪躲( dodge的第三人称单数 )；回避 | |
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159
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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160
sedulously
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| ad.孜孜不倦地 | |
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161
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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162
infamies
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| n.声名狼藉( infamy的名词复数 )；臭名；丑恶；恶行 | |
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163
idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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164
entanglement
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| n.纠缠，牵累 | |
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165
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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166
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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167
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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168
conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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169
administrator
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| n.经营管理者，行政官员 | |
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170
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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171
delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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172
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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173
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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174
valiantly
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| adv.勇敢地，英勇地；雄赳赳 | |
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175
virile
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| adj.男性的；有男性生殖力的；有男子气概的；强有力的 | |
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176
controversy
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| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
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177
participation
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| n.参与，参加，分享 | |
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178
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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179
rupture
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| n.破裂；(关系的)决裂；v.(使)破裂 | |
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180
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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181
gem
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| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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182
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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183
hamper
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| vt.妨碍，束缚，限制；n.(有盖的)大篮子 | |
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184
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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185
flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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186
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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187
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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188
utilized
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| v.利用，使用( utilize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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189
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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190
crescendo
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| n.(音乐)渐强，高潮 | |
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191
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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192
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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193
irritations
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| n.激怒( irritation的名词复数 )；恼怒；生气；令人恼火的事 | |
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194
foresight
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| n.先见之明，深谋远虑 | |
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195
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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196
ripples
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| 逐渐扩散的感觉( ripple的名词复数 ) | |
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197
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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199
stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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200
beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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201
beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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202
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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203
enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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204
consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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205
embittered
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| v.使怨恨，激怒( embitter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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206
sprained
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| v.&n. 扭伤 | |
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207
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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208
abrasion
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| n.磨（擦）破，表面磨损 | |
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209
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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210
hilariously
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211
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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212
bruises
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| n.瘀伤，伤痕，擦伤( bruise的名词复数 ) | |
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213
harmoniously
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| 和谐地，调和地 | |
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214
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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215
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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216
benediction
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| n.祝福；恩赐 | |
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217
lurk
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| n.潜伏，潜行；v.潜藏，潜伏，埋伏 | |
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218
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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219
moths
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| n.蛾( moth的名词复数 ) | |
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220
brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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221
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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222
accustom
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| vt.使适应，使习惯 | |
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223
detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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224
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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225
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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226
extravagantly
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| adv.挥霍无度地 | |
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227
irrational
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| adj.无理性的，失去理性的 | |
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228
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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229
halve
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| vt.分成两半，平分；减少到一半 | |
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230
rococo
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| n.洛可可；adj.过分修饰的 | |
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231
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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232
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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233
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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234
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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235
exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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236
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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237
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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238
scrutinized
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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239
calves
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| n.(calf的复数)笨拙的男子，腓；腿肚子( calf的名词复数 )；牛犊；腓；小腿肚v.生小牛( calve的第三人称单数 )；（冰川）崩解；生（小牛等），产（犊）；使（冰川）崩解 | |
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240
remarkable
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|
| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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241
dally
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| v.荒废(时日)，调情 | |
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242
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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243
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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244
smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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245
interval
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|
| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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246
ordnance
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| n.大炮，军械 | |
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247
fugitive
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|
| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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248
fugitives
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| n.亡命者，逃命者( fugitive的名词复数 ) | |
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249
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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250
confidential
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|
| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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251
wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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252
touchy
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| adj.易怒的；棘手的 | |
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253
balked
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|
| v.畏缩不前，犹豫( balk的过去式和过去分词 )；（指马）不肯跑 | |
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254
fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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255
scrap
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|
| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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256
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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257
slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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258
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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259
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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260
boredom
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|
| n.厌烦，厌倦，乏味，无聊 | |
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261
clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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262
careworn
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|
| adj.疲倦的，饱经忧患的 | |
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263
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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264
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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265
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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266
subdued
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|
| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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267
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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268
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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269
flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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270
trout
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| n.鳟鱼；鲑鱼(属) | |
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271
orientation
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| n.方向，目标；熟悉，适应，情况介绍 | |
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272
jotting
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| n.简短的笔记，略记v.匆忙记下( jot的现在分词 )；草草记下，匆匆记下 | |
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273
pounces
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| v.突然袭击( pounce的第三人称单数 )；猛扑；一眼看出；抓住机会（进行抨击） | |
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274
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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275
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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276
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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277
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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278
discord
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| n.不和，意见不合，争论，（音乐）不和谐 | |
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279
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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280
rebellious
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|
| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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281
divination
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| n.占卜，预测 | |
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282
divergence
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| n.分歧，岔开 | |
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283
endearments
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| n.表示爱慕的话语，亲热的表示( endearment的名词复数 ) | |
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284
overhauled
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| v.彻底检查( overhaul的过去式和过去分词 )；大修；赶上；超越 | |
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285
thoroughly
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|
| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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286
reconciliations
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|
| 和解( reconciliation的名词复数 )； 一致； 勉强接受； （争吵等的）止息 | |
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287
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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288
streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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289
ultimata
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| 根本的原理 | |
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290
conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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291
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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292
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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293
lapses
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| n.失误，过失( lapse的名词复数 )；小毛病；行为失检；偏离正道v.退步( lapse的第三人称单数 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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294
evaded
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| 逃避( evade的过去式和过去分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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295
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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296
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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297
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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298
influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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299
unreasonableness
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| 无理性； 横逆 | |
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300
wariness
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| n. 注意,小心 | |
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301
inductions
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| 归纳（法）( induction的名词复数 )； （电或磁的）感应； 就职； 吸入 | |
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302
stewed
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|
| adj.焦虑不安的，烂醉的v.炖( stew的过去式和过去分词 )；煨；思考；担忧 | |
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303
deductions
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| 扣除( deduction的名词复数 )； 结论； 扣除的量； 推演 | |
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304
lengthening
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的现在分词 )； 加长 | |
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305
dames
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| n.（在英国）夫人（一种封号），夫人（爵士妻子的称号）( dame的名词复数 )；女人 | |
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306
lengthily
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| adv.长，冗长地 | |
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307
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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308
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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309
conjure
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| v.恳求，祈求；变魔术，变戏法 | |
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310
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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311
lengthy
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| adj.漫长的，冗长的 | |
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312
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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313
pelt
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| v.投掷，剥皮，抨击，开火 | |
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314
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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315
milestone
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| n.里程碑；划时代的事件 | |
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316
ravenous
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| adj.极饿的，贪婪的 | |
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317
stereotyped
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| adj.(指形象、思想、人物等)模式化的 | |
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318
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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319
negotiations
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| 协商( negotiation的名词复数 )； 谈判； 完成（难事）； 通过 | |
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320
glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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321
murmurous
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| adj.低声的 | |
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322
conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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323
steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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324
crumb
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| n.饼屑，面包屑，小量 | |
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325
hops
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| 跳上[下]( hop的第三人称单数 )； 单足蹦跳； 齐足（或双足）跳行； 摘葎草花 | |
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326
baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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327
intrusive
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| adj.打搅的；侵扰的 | |
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328
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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