That is of course only half the truth, but half the truth it is, and if smuts choose your nose to settle on when you're in your cradle, the probability is that they'll still be settling there when you're in your second childhood.
Henry was changing underneath1, as will very shortly, I hope, be made plain, but the hard ugly truth that I am now compelled to declare is that by the early days of June he had got his Baronet's letters into such a devil of a mess that he did not know where he was nor how he was ever going to get straight again. Nevertheless, I must repeat once more—he was not such a fool as he looked.
During all these weeks his lord and master had not glanced at them once.
He had indeed paid very little attention to Henry, giving him no typewriting and only occasionally dictating2 to him very slowly a letter or two. He had been away in the country once for a week and had not taken Henry with him.
He had attempted no further personal advances, had been always kindly3 but nevertheless aloof4. Henry had, on his side, made very few fresh discoveries.
He had met once or twice a brother, Tom Duncombe, a large, fat, red-faced man with a loud laugh, carroty hair, a smell[Pg 114] of whisky and a handsome appetite. Friends had come to luncheon5 and Mr. Light-Johnson had been as constant and pessimistic as ever, but Henry had not trusted himself to a second outburst. Of his own private love-affair there is more to be said, but of that presently.
The salient fact in the situation was that until now Duncombe had not mentioned the letters, had not looked at them, had not apparently6 considered them. Every morning Henry, with beating heart, expected those dread7 words: "Well now, let's see what you've done"—and every day passed without those words being said.
Every night in his bed in Panton Street he told himself that to-morrow he would force some order into the horrible things, and every day he was once again defeated by them. He was now quite certain that they led a life of their own, that they deliberately8 skipped, when he was not looking, out of one pile into another, that they changed the dates on their pages and counterfeited9 handwritings, and were altogether taunting10 him and teasing him to the full strength of their yellow crooked11 little souls. And yet behind the physical exterior12 of these letters he knew that he was gaining a feeling for and a knowledge of the period with which they dealt that was invaluable13. He had burrowed14 in the library and discovered a host of interesting details—books like Hogg's Reminiscences and Gibson's Recollections, and Washington Irving's Abbotsford and Lang's Lockhart, and the Ballantyne Protests and the Life of Archibald Constable—them and many, many others—he had devoured15 with the greed of a shipwrecked mariner16 on a desert island. He could tell you everything now about the Edinburgh of that day—the streets, the fashions, the clothes, the politics. It seemed that he must, in an earlier incarnation, have lived there with them all, possibly, he liked to fancy, as a second-hand17 bookseller hidden somewhere in the intricacies of the Old Town. He seemed to feel yet beating through his arteries18 the thrill and happy pride when Sir Walter himself with his cheery laugh, his joke and his kindly grip of the hand stood among the dusky overhanging shelves and gossiped and yarned19 and climbed the rickety ladder searching for some ballad20 or romance,[Pg 115] while Henry, his eyes aflame with hero-worship, held that same ladder and gazed upwards21 to that broad-shouldered form.
Yes—but the letters were in the devil of a mess!
And then suddenly the blow fell. One beautiful June morning, when the sun, refusing to be beaten by the thick glare of the windows, was transforming the old books and sending mists of gold and purple from ceiling to floor, Henry, his head bent22 over files of the recalcitrant23 letters, heard the very words that for weeks he had been expecting.
"Now then—it's about time I had a look at those letters of yours."
It is no exaggeration at all to say that young Henry's heart stood absolutely still, his feet were suddenly like dead fish in his boots and his hands weak as water. This, then, was The End! Oh, how he wished that it had occurred weeks ago! He had by now become devotedly24 attached to the library, loved the books like friends, was happier when hidden in the depths of the little gallery nosing after Bage and Maturin and Clara Reeve than he had been in all his life before. Moreover, he realized in this agonizing25 moment how deeply attached he had grown during these weeks to his angular master. Few though the words between them had been, there seemed to him to have developed mysteriously and subterraneously26 as it were an unusual sympathy and warmth of feeling. That may have been simply his affectionate nature and innocence27 of soul. Nevertheless, there it was. He made a last frantic28 effort towards a last discipline, juggling29 the letters together and trying to put the more plainly dated next to one another on the top of the little untidy heaps.
He realized that there was nothing to be done. He sat there waiting for sentence to be pronounced.
Duncombe came over to the table and rested one hand on Henry's shoulder.
"Now, let's see," he said. "You've had more than a month—I expect to find great progress. How many boxes have you done?"
"I'm still at the first," said Henry, his voice low and gentle.
"Still at the first? Ah, well, I expect there are more than[Pg 116] one knew. What's your system? First in months and then in years, I suppose?"
"The trouble is," said Henry, the words choking in his throat, "that so many of them aren't dated at all."
"Yes—that would be so. Well, here we have April, 1816. What I should do, I think, is to make them into six-monthly packets—otherwise the—Hullo, here's 1818!"
"They move about so," said Henry feebly.
"Move about? Nobody can move them if you don't—March 7, 1818; March 12, 1818; April 3—Why, here we are back in '16 again!"
There followed then the most dreadful pause. It seemed to the agonized30 Henry to last positively31 for centuries. He grew an old, old man with a long, white, sweeping32 beard, he looked back over a vast, misspent lifetime, his hearing was gone, his vision was dulled, he was tired, deadly tired, and longed only for the gentle peace of the kindly grave. Not a word was said. Duncombe's long white fingers moved with a deadly and practised skill from packet to packet, taking up one, looking at it, laying it down again, taking up another, holding it for an eternity33 in his hand then carefully replacing it. The clock wheezed34 and gurgled and chattered35, the sunlight danced on the bookshelves, Henry was in his grave, dead, buried, a vague pathetic memory to those who once had loved him.
"Why!" a voice came from vast distances; "these letters aren't arranged at all!" The worst was over, the doom37 had fallen; nothing more terrible could occur.
Henry said nothing.
"They simply aren't arranged at all!" came the voice more sharply.
Still Henry said nothing.
Duncombe moved back into the room. Henry felt his eyes burrowing38 into a hole, red-hot, in the middle of his back. He did not move.
"Would you mind telling me what you have been doing all these weeks?"
Henry turned round. The terrible thing was that tears were not far away. He was twenty-six years of age, he had fought in the Great War and been wounded, he had written[Pg 117] ten chapters of a romantic novel, he was living a life of independent ease as a bachelor gentleman in Panton Street—nevertheless tears were not far away.
"I warned you," he said. "I told you at the very beginning that I was a perfect fool. You can't say I didn't warn you. I've meant to do my very best. I've never before wanted to do my best so badly—I mean so well—I mean——" he broke off. "I've tried," he ended.
"But would you mind telling me what you've tried?" asked Duncombe. "The state the letters were in when they were in this box was beautiful order compared with the state they're in now! Why, you've had six weeks at them! What have you been doing?"
"I think they move in the night," said Henry, tears bubbling in his voice do what he could to prevent them. "I know that must sound silly to you, or to any sensible person, but I swear to you that I've had dozens of them in the right order when I've gone away one day and found them in every kind of mess when I've got back next morning."
Duncombe said nothing.
"Then," Henry went on, gathering39 a stronger control of himself, "they really are confusing. Any one would find them so. The writing's often so faded and the signatures sometimes so illegible40. And at first—when I started—I knew so little about the period. I didn't know who any of the people were. I've been reading a lot lately and although it looks so hopeless, I—" Then he broke off. "But it's no good," he muttered, turning his back. "I haven't got a well-ordered mind. I never could do mathematics at school. I ought to have told you, the second day I tried to tell you, but I've liked it so, I've enjoyed it. I——"
"I daresay you have enjoyed it," said Duncombe. "I can well believe it. You must have had the happiest six weeks of your life. Isn't it aggravating41? Here are six weeks entirely42 wasted."
"Please take back your money and let me go," said Henry. "I can't pay you everything at once because, to tell you the truth, I've spent it, but if you'll wait a little——"
"Money!" cried Duncombe wrathfully. "Who's talking of[Pg 118] money? It's the wasted time I mind. We're not an inch further on."
"We are," cried Henry excitedly. "I've been taking notes—lots of them. I've got them in a book here. And whoever goes on with this next can have them. He'll learn a lot from them, he will really."
"Let's see your notes," said Duncombe.
Henry produced a red-bound exercise book. It was nearly filled with his childish and sprawling44 hand. There were also many blots45, and even some farcical drawings in the margin46.
Duncombe took the book and went back with it to his desk. There followed a lengthy47 pause, while Henry stood in front of his table staring at the window.
At last Duncombe said, "You certainly seem to have scribbled48 a lot here. Yes . . . I take back what I said about your being idle. I'm glad you're not that. And you seem interested; you must be interested to have done all this."
"I am interested," said Henry.
"Well, then, I don't understand it. If you are interested why couldn't you get something more out of the letters? A child of eight could have done them better than you have."
"It's the kind of brain I have," said Henry. "It's always been the same. I never could do examinations. I have an untidy brain. I could always remember things about books but never anything else. It was just the same in the War. I always gave the wrong orders to the men. I never remembered what I ought to say. But when they put me into Intelligence and I could use my imagination a little, I wasn't so bad. I can see Scott and Hogg and the others moving about, and I can see Edinburgh and the way the shops go and everything, but I can't do the mechanical part. I knew I couldn't at the very beginning."
"You'd better go on working for a bit while I think about it," said Duncombe.
Henry went back to the letters, a sick heavy weight of disappointment in his heart. He could have no doubt concerning the final judgment49. How could it be otherwise? Well, at the most he had had a beautiful six weeks. He had learnt some very interesting things that he would never forget and that[Pg 119] he could not have learnt in any other way. But how disappointing to lose his first job so quickly! How sad Millie would be and how sarcastic50 his father! And then the girl! How could he now entertain any hopes of doing anything for her when he had no job, no money, no prospects51! . . .
A huge fat tear welled into his eye, he tried to gulp52 it back; he was too late. It plopped down on one of the letters. Another followed it. He sniffed53 and sniffed again. He took out his handkerchief and blew his nose. He fought for self-control and, after a hard sharp battle, gained the victory. The other tears were defeated and reluctantly went back to the place whence they had come.
The clock struck one; in five minutes' time the gong would sound for luncheon. He heard Duncombe get up, cross the floor; once again he felt his hand on his shoulder.
"You certainly have shown imagination here," he said. "There are some remarkable54 things in this book. Not all of it authentic55, I fancy." The hand pressed into his shoulder with a kindly emphasis. "It's a pity that order isn't your strong point. Never mind. We must make the best of it. We'll get one of those dried-up young clerks at so much an hour to do this part of it. You shall do the rest. I think you'll make rather a remarkable book of it."
"I'm going to keep you." Duncombe moved back to his desk. "Now it's luncheon-time. I suggest that you wash your hands—and your face."
Henry stood for a moment irresolute57.
"I don't know what to say—I—to thank——"
"Well, don't," said Duncombe. "I hate being thanked. Besides, there's no call for it."
The gong sounded.
This was an adventurous58 day for Henry; he discovered in the first place that Duncombe would not himself be in to luncheon, and he descended59 the cold stone stairs with the anticipatory60 shiver that he always felt when his master deserted61 him. Lady Bell-Hall neither liked nor trusted him, and showed her disapproval62 by showering little glances upon him,[Pg 120] with looks of the kind that anxious hostesses bestow63 upon nervous parlour-maids when the potatoes are going the wrong way round or the sherry has been forgotten. Henry knew what these glances said. They said: "Oh, young man, I cannot conceive why my brother has chosen you for his secretary. You are entirely unsuited for a secretary. You are rash, ignorant, bad-mannered and impetuous. If there is one thing in life that I detest64 it is having some one near me whose words and actions are for ever uncertain and not to be calculated beforehand. I am never certain of you from one minute to another. I do wish you would go away and take a post elsewhere."
Because Henry knew that Lady Bell-Hall was thinking this of him he was always in her presence twice as awkward as he need have been, spilt his soup, crumbled65 his bread and made strange sudden noises that were by himself entirely unexpected. To-day, however, he was spared his worst trouble, Mr. Light-Johnson. The only guests were Tom Duncombe and a certain Lady Alicia Penrose, who exercised over Lady Bell-Hall exactly the fascinated influence that a boa-constrictor has for a rabbit. Alicia Penrose certainly resembled a boa-constrictor, being tall, swollen66 and writhing67, bound, moreover, so tightly about with brilliant clothing fitting her like a sheath that it was always a miracle to Henry that she could move at all. She must have been a lady of some fifty summers, but her skirts were very short, coming only just below her knees. She was a jolly and hearty68 woman, living entirely for Bridge and food, and not pretending to do otherwise. Henry could not understand why she should come so often to luncheon as she did. He supposed that she enjoyed startling Lady Bell-Hall with peeps into her pleasure-loving life, not that in her chatter36 she ever paused to listen to her hostess's terrified little "Really, Alicia!" or "You can't mean it, Alicia!" or "I never heard such a thing—never!"
After a while Henry arrived nearer the truth when he supposed that she came in order to obtain a free meal, she being in a state of chronic69 poverty and living in a small series of attics70 over a mews.
She was, it seemed, related to every person of importance and alluded71 to them all in a series of little nicknames that[Pg 121] fell like meteors about table. "Podgy," "Old Cuddles," "Dusty Parker," "Fifi Bones," "Larry," "Bronx," "Traddles"—these were her familiar friends. When she was alone with Henry, Duncombe and his sister she was comparatively quiet, paying eager attention to her food (which was not very good) and sometimes including Henry in the conversation. But the presence of an outsider excited her terribly. She was, outwardly at any rate, as warmly excited about the domestic and political situation as was Lady Bell-Hall, but it did not seem to Henry that it went very deep. So long as her Bridge was uninterfered with everything else might go. She talked in short staccato sentences like a female Mr. Tingle72.
To-day she was stirred by Tom Duncombe, not that she did not know him well enough, he being very much more in her set than were either his brother or sister. Henry had not liked Tom Duncombe from the first and to-day he positively loathed73 him. This was for a very simple human reason, namely, that he talked as though he, Henry, did not exist, looking over his head, and once, when Henry volunteered a comment on the weather, not answering him at all.
And then when the meal was nearly over Henry most unfortunately fell yet again into Lady Bell-Hall's bad graces.
"Servants," Lady Alicia was saying. "Servants. Been in a Registry Office all the morning. For father. He wants a footman and doesn't want to pay much for him; you know all about father, Tommy." (The Earl of Water-Somerset was notoriously mean). "Offering sixty—sixty for a footman. Did you hear anything like it? Couldn't hear of a soul. All too damned superior. Saw one or two—never saw such men. All covered with tattoo74 marks and war-ribbons—extraordinary times we live in. Extraordinary. Puffy Clerk told me yesterday—remarkable thing. Down at the Withers75 on Sunday. Sunday afternoon. Short of a fourth. Found the second footman played. Had him in. Perfect gentleman. Son of a butcher but had been a Colonel in the War. Broke off to fetch in the tea—then sat down again afterwards. Best of the joke won twenty quid off Addy Blake and next morning asked to have his wages raised. Said if he was going to be asked to play bridge with[Pg 122] the family must have higher wages. And Addy gave them him."
"Dam funny. Dam funny," he said. Lady Bell-Hall shook her head. "A friend of mine, a Mr. Light-Johnson—I think you've met him here, Alicia—told me the other day he's got a man now who plays on the piano beautifully and reads Spanish. He says that we shall all be soon either killed in our beds or working for the Bolsheviks. What the servants are coming——"
As the old butler brought in the coffee at this moment she stopped and began hurriedly to talk about Conan Doyle's séances which seemed to her very peculiar—the pity of it was that we couldn't really tell if it had happened just as he said. "Of course he's been writing stories for years," she said. "He's the author of those detectives stories, Alicia—and writing stories for a long time must make one very regardless of the truth."
Then as the butler had retired77 they were able to continue. "I don't know what servants are coming to," she said. "They never want to go to church now as they used to."
It was then that Henry made his plunge78, as unfortunate in its impetuosity and tactlessness as had been his earlier one, it was perhaps the red supercilious79 countenance80 of Tom Duncombe that drove him forward.
"I'm glad servants are going to have a better time now," he said, leaning forward and staring at Alicia Penrose as though fascinated by her bright colours. "I can't think how they endured it in the old days before the War, in those awful attics people used to put them into, the bad food they got and having no time off and——"
"Why, you're a regular young Bolshevik!" Alicia Penrose cried, laughing. "Margaret, Charles got a Bolshevik for a secretary. Who'd have thought it?"
"I'm not a Bolshevik," said Henry very red. "I want everything to be fair for everybody all the way round. The Bolsheviks aren't fair any more than the—than the—other people used to be before the War, but it seems to me——"
"Seen the Bradleys lately, Alicia?" said Tom Duncombe, speaking exactly as though Henry existed less than his sister's[Pg 123] dog, Pretty One, a nondescript mongrel asleep in a basket near the window.
"No," said Alicia. "But that reminds me. Benjy Porker owes me five quid off a game a fortnight ago at Addy Blake's. Glad you've reminded me, Thomas. That young man wants watching. Plays badly too—why in that very game he had four hearts——"
Henry's cup was full. Why, again, had he spoken? When would he learn the right words on the right occasion? Why had he painted himself even blacker than before in Lady Bell-Hall's sight?
He went up to the library hating Tom Duncombe, but hating himself even more.
He sat down at his table determining to put in an hour at such slave-driving over the letters as they had never known in all their little lives. At four o'clock punctually he intended to present himself in Mrs. Tenssen's sitting-room82.
When he had been stirring the letters about for some ten minutes or so the quiet and peace of the library once again settled beautifully around him. It seemed to enfold him as though it loved him and wished him to know it. Once again the strange hallucination stole into his soul that the past was the present and the present the past, that there was no time nor place and that only thinking made it so, and that the only reality, the only faith, the only purpose in this life or in any other was love—love of beauty, of character, of truth, love above all of one human being for another. He was touched to an almost emotional softness by Duncombe's action that morning. Touched, too, to the very soul by his own love affair, and touched finally to-day by the sense that he had that old books in the library, and the times and the places and the people that they stood for, were stretching out hands to him, trying to make him hear their voices.
"Only love us enough and we shall live. Everything lives by love. Touch us with some of your own enchantment83. You are calling us back to life by caring for us. . . ." He stopped, his head up, his pen arrested, listening—as though he did in very truth hear voices coming to him from different parts of the room.
[Pg 124]
What he did hear, however, was the opening of the library door, and what he beheld84 was Tom Duncombe's bulky figure standing85 for a moment hesitating in the doorway86. He came forward but did not see Henry immediately. He stood again, listening, one finger to his lip like a schoolboy about to steal jam. Henry bent his head over his letters, but with one eye watched. All thoughts of love and tenderness were gone with that entrance. He hated Tom Duncombe and hated him for reasons more conclusive87 than personal, wounded vanity. Duncombe took some further steps and then suddenly saw Henry. He stopped dead, staring, then as Henry did not turn, but stayed with head bent forward, he moved on again still cautiously and with the clumsy hesitating, step that was especially his.
He arrived at his brother's table and stopped there. Henry, looking sideways, could see half Duncombe's heavy body, the red cheek, the thick arm and large, ill-shaped fingers. Those same fingers, he perceived, were taking up letters and papers from the table and putting them down again.
Then, like a sudden blow on the heart, certain words of Sir Charles's spoken a week or two before came back to Henry. "By the way, Trenchard," he had said, "if I'm out and you're ever alone in the library here I want you to be especially careful to allow no one to touch the papers on my table, nor to permit any one to open a drawer—any one, mind you, not even my brother, unless I've told you first that he may. I leave you in charge—you or old Moffatt (the ancient butler), and if you are going, and I'm not yet back, lock the library and give the keys to Moffatt."
He had promised that at the time, feeling rather proud that he should have been charged with so confidential88 an office. Now the time had come for him to keep his word, and the most difficult crisis of his life was suddenly upon him. There had been difficult moments in the War—Henry alone knew how difficult moments of physical challenge, moments of moral challenge too—but then in that desolate-hell-delivered country thousands of others had been challenged at the same time, and some especial courage seemed to have been given one with special occasion. Here he was alone, and alone in an especially[Pg 125] arduous89 way. He did not know how much authority he really had, he did not know whether Sir Charles had in truth meant all that he had said, he did not know whether Tom Duncombe had not after all some right to be there.
Above all he was young, very young, for his age, doubtful of himself, fearing that he always struck a silly figure in any crisis that he had to face. On the other hand, he was helped by his real hatred90 of the red-flushed man at the table, unlike his brother-in-law Philip in that, namely, that he did not want every one to like him and, indeed, rather preferred to be hated by the people whom he himself disliked.
Tom Duncombe was now pulling at one of the drawers of the table. Henry stood up, feeling that the whole room was singing about his ears.
"I beg your pardon," he said, smiling feebly, and knowing that his voice was a ridiculous one. "But would you mind waiting until Sir Charles comes in? I know he won't be long—he said he'd be back by three."
Duncombe moved away from the drawer and stared.
"Here," he said. "Do you know where my brother keeps the key of this drawer? If so, hand it over."
"Yes, I do know," said Henry. (It was sufficiently91 obvious, as the key was hanging on a string at the far corner of the table.) "But I'm afraid I can't give it you. Sir Charles told me that no one was to have it while he was away."
Duncombe took in this piece of intelligence very slowly. He stared at Henry as though he were some curious and noxious92 kind of animal that had just crawled in from under the window. A purple flush suffused93 his forehead and nose.
"Good God!" he said. "The infernal cheek!"
They stood silently staring at one another for a moment, then Duncombe said:
"None of your lip, young man. I don't know who the devil you think you are—anyway hand over the key."
"No," said Henry paling, "I can't."
"You can't? What the devil do you mean?"
"Simply I can't. I was told not to—I'm your brother's secretary and have to do what he says—not what you say!"
[Pg 126]
"Do you want to get the damnedest hiding you've ever had in your young life?"
"I don't care what you do."
"Don't care what I do? Well, you soon will. Are you going to give me that key?" (All this time he was pulling at the drawers with angry jerks, pausing to stare at Henry, then pulling again.)
"No."
"You're not? You know I can get my brother to kick you out?"
"I don't care. I'm going to do what he said."
"I may have misunderstood him. If I did, he'll put it right when he comes back."
"Yes, and a nice story I'll tell him of your damned impertinence. Give me that key."
"Sorry I can't."
"I'll break your bloody neck."
"That won't help you to find the key." Henry was feeling quite cheerful now.
"Christ! . . . You shall get it for that!"
He made two steps to come round the table to get at Henry—and saw the key. At the same instant Henry saw that he saw it. He ran forward to secure it, and in a second they were struggling together like two small boys in a manner unlovely, unscientific, even ludicrous. Ludicrous—had there been an observer, but for the fighters themselves it was one of those uncomfortable struggles when there are no rules of the game and anything may happen at any moment. Duncombe was large but fat and in the worst possible condition, with a large luncheon still unsettled and in a roving state. Moreover he had never been a fighter. Henry was not a fighter either and was handicapped at once because at the first onset96 his pince-nez were knocked on to the carpet. He fought then blindly in a blind world. He knew that Duncombe was kicking, and struggling to strike at him with his fists. Himself seemed strangely involved in Duncombe's chest, at which he tore with his hands, while he bent his head to avoid the blows. He was[Pg 127] breathing desperately97, while there was such anger seething98 in his breast as he had never felt for anything human or inhuman99 in all his life. He felt Duncombe's waistcoat tear, plunged100 at the shirt, and at once his fingers felt the bare flesh, the soft fat of Duncombe's well-tended body. He was also conscious that he was muttering "You beast, you beast, you beast!" that his left leg was aching terribly and that Duncombe had his hand now firmly fixed101 in his hair and was pulling with all his strength.
Henry was going. . . . He was being pushed backwards102. He caught a large fold of Duncombe's fat between his fingers and pinched. Then he was conscious that in another moment he would be over; he was falling, the ceiling, far away, beat down toward him, his left arm shot out and his fingers fastened themselves into Duncombe's posterior, which was large and soft, then, with a cry he fell, Duncombe on top of him.
Henry, half-stunned, lay, his leg crushed under him, his eyes closed, and waited for the end. Duncombe now could do what he liked to him, and what he liked would be something horrible. But Duncombe also, it seemed, could not stir, but lay there all over Henry, heaving up and down, the sweat from his cheek and forehead trickling103 into Henry's eyes, his breath coming in great desperate pants.
Then from a long way off came a voice:
"Tom—Trenchard. What the devil!" That voice seemed to electrify104 Duncombe. Henry felt the whole body quiver, stiffen105 for a moment, then slowly, very slowly raise itself.
Henry stumbled up and saw Sir Charles, not regarding him at all, but fixing his eyes only upon his brother, who stood, his hair on end, his shirt torn and exposing a red, hairy chest, wrath43 in his eyes, his mouth trembling with anger and also with some other emotion.
"What have you been doing, Tom?"
"This damned——" then to Henry's immense surprise he broke off and left the room almost at a run.
Sir Charles went straight to his table, looked at the papers, glanced at the drawers, then finally at the key, which was still on the hook.
[Pg 128]
"You'd better go and clean up, Henry," he said, pointing to the farther room.
He had never called him Henry before.
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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dictating
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的现在分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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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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aloof
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luncheon
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apparently
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dread
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deliberately
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counterfeited
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taunting
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| 嘲讽( taunt的现在分词 )； 嘲弄； 辱骂； 奚落 | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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burrowed
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| v.挖掘（洞穴），挖洞( burrow的过去式和过去分词 )；翻寻 | |
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devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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16
mariner
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| n.水手号不载人航天探测器，海员，航海者 | |
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second-hand
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| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
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arteries
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| n.动脉( artery的名词复数 )；干线，要道 | |
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yarned
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| vi.讲故事（yarn的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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20
ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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21
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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22
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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23
recalcitrant
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| adj.倔强的 | |
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24
devotedly
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| 专心地； 恩爱地； 忠实地； 一心一意地 | |
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25
agonizing
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| adj.痛苦难忍的；使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦；折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
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26
subterraneously
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| adj.地下的，隐匿的 | |
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27
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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28
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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29
juggling
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| n. 欺骗, 杂耍(=jugglery) adj. 欺骗的, 欺诈的 动词juggle的现在分词 | |
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30
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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31
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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32
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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33
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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34
wheezed
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| v.喘息，发出呼哧呼哧的喘息声( wheeze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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35
chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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36
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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37
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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38
burrowing
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| v.挖掘（洞穴），挖洞( burrow的现在分词 )；翻寻 | |
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39
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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40
illegible
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| adj.难以辨认的，字迹模糊的 | |
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41
aggravating
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| adj.恼人的，讨厌的 | |
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42
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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43
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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44
sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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45
blots
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| 污渍( blot的名词复数 )； 墨水渍； 错事； 污点 | |
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46
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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47
lengthy
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| adj.漫长的，冗长的 | |
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48
scribbled
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| v.潦草的书写( scribble的过去式和过去分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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49
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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50
sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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51
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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52
gulp
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| vt.吞咽，大口地吸（气）；vi.哽住；n.吞咽 | |
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53
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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54
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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55
authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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56
gulped
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| v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的过去式和过去分词 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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57
irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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58
adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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59
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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60
anticipatory
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| adj.预想的，预期的 | |
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61
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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62
disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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63
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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64
detest
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| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
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65
crumbled
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| （把…）弄碎， （使）碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 衰落； 坍塌； 损坏 | |
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66
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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67
writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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68
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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69
chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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70
attics
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| n. 阁楼 | |
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71
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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72
tingle
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| vi.感到刺痛，感到激动；n.刺痛，激动 | |
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73
loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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74
tattoo
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| n.纹身，(皮肤上的)刺花纹；vt.刺花纹于 | |
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75
withers
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| 马肩隆 | |
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76
guffawed
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| v.大笑，狂笑( guffaw的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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77
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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78
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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79
supercilious
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| adj.目中无人的，高傲的；adv.高傲地；n.高傲 | |
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80
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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81
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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82
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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83
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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84
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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85
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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86
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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87
conclusive
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| adj.最后的，结论的；确凿的，消除怀疑的 | |
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88
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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89
arduous
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| adj.艰苦的，费力的，陡峭的 | |
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90
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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91
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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92
noxious
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| adj.有害的，有毒的；使道德败坏的，讨厌的 | |
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93
suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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94
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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95
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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96
onset
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| n.进攻，袭击，开始，突然开始 | |
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97
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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98
seething
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| 沸腾的，火热的 | |
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99
inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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100
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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101
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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102
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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103
trickling
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| n.油画底色含油太多而成泡沫状突起v.滴( trickle的现在分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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104
electrify
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| v.使充电；使电气化；使触电；使震惊；使兴奋 | |
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105
stiffen
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| v.(使)硬，(使)变挺，(使)变僵硬 | |
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106
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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