A LITTLE MUSIC
Punch was in bed asleep, with the bedclothes drawn1 up to his ears. It had just struck six, and round the corner of the open window the sun crept, flinging a path of light across the floor. Presently it would reach the bed and strike Punch’s nose; Toby, awake and curled up on a mat near the door, watched the light travel across the room and waited for the inevitable2 moment.
The room was of the simplest. Against the wall leant the Punch and Judy show, on the mantelpiece was a jar that had once held plum jam and now contained an enormous bundle of wild flowers. Two chairs, a bed, a chest of drawers and a washstand completed the furniture. Against the wall was pinned an enormous outline map of England. This Punch had filled in himself, marking roads, inns, houses, even trees; here and there the names of people were written in a tiny hand. This map was his complete history during the last twenty years; nothing of any importance that had happened to him remained unchronicled. Sometimes it would only be a cross or a line, but he remembered what the sign stood for.
The sun struck his nose and rested on his hair, and he awoke. He said “Ugh” and “Ah” very loudly several times, rubbed his eyes with his knuckles3, raised his arms above his head and yawned, and then sat up. His eyes rested for a moment lovingly on the map. Parts of it were coloured in chalk, red and yellow and blue, for reasons best known to himself. The sight of it opened unending horizons: sharp white roads curving up through the green and brown into a blue misty4 distance, the round heaving shoulder of some wind-swept down over which he had tramped as the dusk was falling and the stars came slowly from their hiding-places to watch him, the grey mists rising from some deep valley as the sun rose red and angry—they stretched, those roads and hills and valleys, beyond his room and the sea, for ever and ever. And there were people too, in London, in country towns, in lonely farms and tiny villages; the lines and crosses on the map brought to his mind a thousand histories in which he had played his part.
He looked at Toby. “A swim, old man,” he said; “time for a swim—out we get!” Toby unrolled himself, rubbed his nose on his mat twice like an Eastern Mahommedan paying his devotions, and strolled across to the bed. His morning greeting to his master was always the same, he rolled his eyes, licked his lips with satisfaction, and wagged an ear; then he looked for a moment quite solemnly into his master’s face with a gaze of the deepest devotion, then finally he leapt upon the bed and curled up at his master’s side.
Punch (whose real name, by the way, was David Garrick—I don’t know why I didn’t say so before—he hadn’t the slightest connexion with the actor, because his family didn’t go back beyond his grandfather) stroked a paw and scratched his head. “It’s time we got up and went for a swim, old man. The sun’s been saying so hours ago.” He flung on an overcoat and went out.
The cottage where he lived was almost on the beach. Above it the town rose, a pile of red roofs and smoking chimneys, a misty cloud of pale blue smoke twisted and turned in the air. The world was full of delicious scents5 that the later day destroyed, and everything behaved as though it were seeing life for the first time; the blue smoke had never discovered the sky before, the waves had never discovered the sand before, the breeze had never discovered the trees before. Very soon they would lose that surprise and would find that they had done it all only yesterday, but, at first, it was all quite new.
Punch and Toby bathed; as they came out of the water they saw Morelli sitting on a rock. Punch sat down on the sand quite unconcernedly and watched the sea. He hadn’t a towel, and so the sun must do instead. Toby, having barked once, sat down too.
“Good morning, Mr. Garrick,” said Morelli.
Punch looked up for a moment. “A fine day,” he said.
Morelli came over to him. He was dressed in a suit of some green stuff, so that against the background of green boughs7 that fringed the farther side of the little cove6 he seemed to disappear altogether.
“Good morning, Mr. Garrick,” he said again. “A splendid day for a bathe. I’d have gone in myself only I know I should have repented8 it afterwards.”
“Yes, sir,” said Punch. “You can bathe ’ere all the year round. In point of fact, it’s ’otter at Christmas than it is now. The sea takes a while to get warm.”
“This fine weather,” said Morelli, looking at the sea, “brings a lot of people to the place.”
“I suppose it makes some difference to you, Mr. Garrick, whether there are people or no?”
“Oh yes,” said Punch, “if there’s no one ’ere I move. I’m staying this time.”
“Do you find that the place changes?” said Morelli.
“No,” said Punch, “it don’t alter at all. Now there are places, Pendragon for one, that you wouldn’t know for the difference. They’ve pulled down the Cove and built flats, and there are niggers and what not. It’s better for the trade, of course, but I don’t like the place.”
“Oh yes, I remember Pendragon,” said Morelli. “There was a house there, the Flutes—Trojan was the name of the people—a fine place.”
“And ’e’s a nice man that’s there now,” said Punch, “Sir ’Enry; what I call a man, but the place is rotten.”
Toby looked in his master’s face and knew that he was ill at ease. He knew his master so well that he recognised his sentiments about people without looking at him twice. His own feelings about other dogs were equally well defined; if he was suspicious of a dog he was on his guard, very polite of course, but sniffing11 inwardly; his master did the same.
“I can remember when there were only two or three houses in Pendragon,” said Morelli; then suddenly, “You meet a great many people, Mr. Garrick. Everyone here seems to know you. Do you happen to have met a young fellow, Gale12 is his name? He is staying at the ‘Man at Arms.’”
“Yes,” said Punch. “I know Mr. Gale.” Why did Morelli want to know?
“A nice boy,” said Morelli. “I don’t often take to the people who come here for the summer, they don’t interest me as a rule. But this boy——”
He broke off and watched Toby. He began to whistle very softly, as though to himself. The dog pricked13 up his ears, moved as though he would go to him, and then looked up in his master’s face.
“There’s another man,” continued Morelli, “that goes about with young Gale. An older man, Maradick his name is, I think. No relation, it seems, merely a friend.”
Punch said nothing. It was no business of his. Morelli could find out what he wanted for himself. He got up. “Well,” he said, wrapping his greatcoat about him, “I must be going back.”
Morelli came close to him and laid a hand on his arm. “Mr. Garrick,” he said, “you dislike me. Why?”
Punch turned round and faced him. “I do, sir,” he said, “that’s truth. I was comin’ down the high road from Perrota one evenin’ whistling to myself, the dog was at my heels. It was sunset and a broad red light over the sea. I came upon you suddenly sitting by the road, but you didn’t see me in the dust. You were laughing and in your hands was a rabbit that you were strangling; it was dusk, but I ’eard the beast cry and I ’eard you laugh. I saw your eyes.”
“It’s the way you kill that counts,” said Punch, and he went up the beach.
Meanwhile there is Janet Morelli.
Miss Minns was the very last person in the world fitted to give anyone a settled education; in her early days she had given young ladies lessons in French and music, but now the passing of years had reduced the one to three or four conversational16 terms and the other to some elementary tunes18 about which there was a mechanical precision that was anything but musical. Her lessons in deportment had, at one time, been considered quite the thing, but now they had grown a little out of date, and, like her music, lost freshness through much repetition.
Her ideas of life were confined to the three or four families with whom she had passed her days, and Janet had never discovered anything of interest in any of her predecessors19; Alice Crate20 (her father was Canon Crate of Winchester Cathedral), Mary Devonshire (her father was a merchant in Liverpool), and Eleanor Simpson (her father was a stockbroker21 and lived in London). Besides, all these things had happened a long while ago; Miss Minns had been with Janet for the last twelve years, and fact had become reminiscence and reminiscence tradition within that time. Miss Minns of the moment with which we have to do was not a very lively person for a very young creature to be attached to; she was always on the quiver, from the peak of her little black bonnet22 to the tip of her tiny black shoes. When she did talk, her conversation suffered from much repetition and was thickly strewn with familiar proverbs, such as “All’s well that ends well” and “Make hay while the sun shines.” She served no purpose at all as far as Janet was concerned, save as an occasional audience of a very negative kind.
The only other person with whom Janet had been brought into contact, her father, was far more perplexing.
She had accepted him in her early years as somebody about whom there was no question. When he was amusing and played with her there was no one in the world so completely delightful23. He had carried her sometimes into the woods and they had spent the whole day there. She remembered when he had whistled and sung and the animals had come creeping from all over the wood. The birds had climbed on to his shoulders and hands, rabbits and hares had let him take them in his hands and had shown no fear at all. She remembered once that a snake had crawled about his arm. He had played with her as though he had been a child like herself, and she had done what she pleased with him and he had told her wonderful stories. And then suddenly, for no reason that she could understand, that mood had left him and he had been suddenly angry, terribly, furiously angry. She had seen him once take a kitten that they had had in his hands and, whilst it purred in his face, he had twisted its neck and killed it. That had happened when she was very small, but she would never forget it. Then she had grown gradually accustomed to this rage and had fled away and hidden. But on two occasions he had beaten her, and then, afterwards, in a moment it had passed, and he had cried and kissed her and given her presents.
She had known no other man, and so she could not tell that they were not all like that. But, as the years had passed, she had begun to wonder. She had asked Miss Minns whether everybody could make animals come when they whistled, and Miss Minns had admitted that the gift was unusual, that, in fact, she didn’t know anyone else who could do it. But Janet was growing old enough now to realise that Miss Minns’ experience was limited and that she did not know everything. She herself had tried to attract the birds, but they had never come to her.
Her father’s fury had seemed to her like the wind or rain; something that came to him suddenly, blowing from no certain place, and something, too, for which he was not responsible. She learnt to know that they only lasted a short time, and she used to hide herself until they were over.
With all this she did not love him. He gave her very little opportunity of doing so. His affection was as strangely fierce as his temper and frightened her almost as badly. She felt that that too was outside himself, that he had no love for her personally, but felt as he did about the animals, about anything young and wild. It was this last characteristic that was strangest of all to her. It was very difficult to put it into words, but she had seen that nothing made him so furious as the conventional people of the town. She was too young to recognise what it was about them that made him so angry, but she had seen him grow pale with rage at some insignificant24 thing that some one had said or done. On the other hand, he liked the wildest people of the place, the fishermen and tramps that haunted the lower quarters of the town. All this she grasped very vaguely25, because she had no standard of comparison; she knew no one else. But fear had made love impossible; she was frightened when he was fond of her, she was frightened when he was angry with her. Miss Minns, too, was a difficult person to bestow26 love upon. She did not want it, and indeed resolutely27 flung it back with the remark that emotion was bad for growing girls and interfered28 with their education. When she lived at all she lived in the past, and Janet was only a very dim shadowy reflexion of the Misses Crate, Devonshire, and Simpson, who had glorified29 her earlier years.
Janet, therefore, had spent a very lonely and isolated30 childhood, and, as she had grown, the affection that was in her had grown too, and she had had no one to whom she might give it. At first it had been dolls, and ugly and misshapen though they were they had satisfied her. But the time came when their silence and immobility maddened her, she wanted something that would reply to her caresses31 and would share with her all her thoughts and ideas. Then Miss Minns came, and Janet devoted32 herself to her with an ardour that was quite new to the good lady; but Miss Minns distrusted enthusiasm and had learnt, whilst educating Miss Simpson, to repress all emotion, so she gave it all back to Janet again, carefully wrapped up in tissue paper. When Janet found that Miss Minns didn’t want her, and that she was only using her as a means of livelihood33, she devoted herself to animals, and in a puppy, a canary and a black kitten she found what she wanted. But then came the terrible day when her father killed the kitten, and she determined34 never to have another pet of any kind.
By this time she was about fifteen and she had read scarcely anything. Her father never talked to her about books, and Miss Minns considered most novels improper35 and confined herself to Mrs. Hemans and the “Fairchild Family.” Janet’s ideas of the world were, at this time, peculiar36. Her father had talked to her sometimes strangely about places that he had seen, but they had never attracted her: mountain heights, vast unending seas, tangled37 forests, sun-scorched deserts; always things without people, silent, cold, relentless38. She had asked him about cities and he had spoken sometimes about London, and this had thrilled her through and through. What she longed for was people; people all round her, friends who would love her, people whom she herself could help. And then suddenly, on an old bookshelf that had remained untouched for many years past, she had found “Kenilworth.” There was a picture that attracted her and she had begun to read, and then a new world opened before her. There were several on the shelf: Lytton’s “Rienzi” and “The Last of the Barons,” George Eliot’s “Middlemarch,” Trollope’s “Barchester Towers,” and Miss Braddon’s “Lady Audley’s Secret.” There were some other things; somebody’s “History of England,” a Geography of Europe, a torn volume of Shakespeare, and the “Pickwick Papers.” Living, hitherto a drab and unsatisfactory affair, became a romantic thrilling business in which anything might happen, a tremendous bran pie into which one was continually plunging40 for plums. She had no doubt at all that there would be adventures for her in the future. Everyone, even the people in “Middlemarch,” had adventures, and it was absurd to suppose that she wouldn’t have them as well. She noticed, too, that all the adventures that these people had rose from the same source, namely love. She did not realise very thoroughly41 what this love was, except that it meant finding somebody for whom you cared more than anyone else in the world and staying with them for the rest of your life, and perhaps after. She did not admire all the people of whom the heroines were enamoured, but she realised that everyone thought differently about such things, and that there was apt to be trouble when two ladies cared for the same gentleman or vice42 versa.
Only you must, so to speak, have your chance, and that she seemed to be missing. It was all very well to watch romance from your high window and speculate on its possibilities as it passed down the street, but you ought to be down in the midst of it if you were going to do anything. It all seemed ridiculously simple and easy, and she waited for her knight43 to come with a quiet and assured certainty.
At first she had attacked Miss Minns on the question, but had got little response. Miss Minns was of the opinion that knights44 were absurd, and that it did not do to expect anything in this world, and that in any case young girls oughtn’t to think about such things, and that it came of reading romances and stuff, with a final concession45 that it was “Love that made the world go round,” and that “It was better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”
All this was to little purpose, but it was of trivial importance, because Janet was quite settled in her mind about the whole affair. She had no ideal knight; he was quite vague, hidden in a cloud of glory, and she did not want to see his face; but that he would come she was sure.
But, afterwards, she gave her knight kingdoms and palaces and a beautiful life in which she had some vague share, as of a worshipper before a misty shrine46. And he, indeed, was long in coming. She met no one from one year’s end to another, and wistful gazing from her window was of no use at all. She wished that she had other girls for company. She saw them pass, sometimes, through the town, arm in arm; fisher-girls, perhaps, or even ladies from the hotel, and she longed, with an aching longing47, to join them and tell them all that she was thinking.
Her father never seemed to consider that she might be lonely. He never thought very much about her at all, and he was not on sufficiently48 good terms with the people of the place to ask them to his home; he would not have known what to do with them if he had had them there, and would have probably played practical jokes, to their extreme discomfiture49.
And then Tony came. She did not see him with any surprise. She had known that it was only a matter of waiting, and she had no doubt at all that he was the knight in question. Her ignorance of the world prevented her from realising that there were a great many other young men dressed in the same way and with the same charming manners. From the first moment that she saw him she took it for granted that they would marry and would go away to some beautiful country, where they would live in the sunshine for ever. And with it all she was, in a way, practical. She knew that it would have to be a secret, that Miss Minns and her father must know nothing about it, and that there would have to be plots and, perhaps, an escape. That was all part of the game, and if there were no difficulties there would be no fun. She had no scruples50 about the morality of escaping from Miss Minns and her father. They neither of them loved her, or if they did, they had not succeeded in making her love them, and she did not think they would miss her very much.
She was also very thankful to Providence51 for having sent her so charming a knight. She loved every bit of him, from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot, his curly hair, his eyes, his smile, his mouth, his hands. Oh! he would fit into her background very handsomely. And charming though he was, it never entered her head for a moment that he was not in love with her. Of course he was! She had seen it in his eyes from the very first minute.
And so all the scruples, the maidenly52 modesty53 and the bashful surprise that surround the love affairs of most of her sex were entirely54 absent. It seemed to her like the singing of a lark55 in the sky or the murmur56 of waves across the sand; something inevitable and perfectly57, easily natural. There might be difficulties and troubles, because there were people like Miss Minns in the world, but they would pass away in time, and it would be as though they had never existed.
The only thing that puzzled her a little was Maradick. She did not understand what he was doing there. Was he always coming whenever Tony came? He was old like her father, but she thought he looked pleasant. Certainly not a person to be afraid of, and perhaps even some one to whom one could tell things. She liked his size and his smile and his quiet way of talking. But still it was a nuisance his being there at all. There were quite enough complications already with Miss Minns and father without another elderly person. And why was Tony with him at all? He was an old man, one of those dull, elderly people who might be nice and kind but couldn’t possibly be any use as a friend. She tried to get Miss Minns to solve the problem, but that lady murmured something about “Birds of a feather,” and that it was always proper to pay calls in twos, which was no use at all.
So Janet gave up Maradick for the present with a sigh and a shake of the head. But she was most blissfully happy. That country that had remained so long without an inhabiter was solitary58 no longer, her dreams and pictures moved before her now with life and splendour. She went about her day with a light in her eyes, humming a little song, tender and sympathetic with Miss Minns because she, poor thing, could not know how glorious a thing it was, this love!
I do not know whether Miss Minns had her suspicions. She must have noticed Janet’s pleasant temper and gaiety, but she said nothing. As to Morelli, there was no telling what he noticed.
He returned to the house after his conversation with Punch in no pleasant humour. Janet had been up since a very early hour; she never could sleep when the sun was bright, and she was very happy. She had a suspicion that Tony would come to-day. It was based on nothing very certain, but she had dreamt that he would; and it was the right kind of day for him to come on, when the sun was so bright and a butterfly had swept through the window like the petal59 of a white rose blown by the wind.
And so she met her father with a laugh when he came in and led the way gaily60 to breakfast. But in a moment she saw that something was wrong, and, at the thought that one of his rages was sweeping61 over him and that she would not be able to escape, her face grew very white and her lips began to tremble.
She knew the symptoms of it. He sat very quietly with his hands crumbling62 the bread at his side; he was frowning, but very slightly, and he spoke39 pleasantly about ordinary things. As a rule when he was like this she crept away up to her room and locked her door, but now there seemed no chance of escape.
But she talked gaily and laughed, although her heart was beating so loudly that she thought that he would hear it.
“Miss Minns and I are going to walk over to Tregotha Point this afternoon, father,” she said; “there are flowers there and we shall take books. Only I shall be back for tea, and so we shall start early.”
He said nothing, but looked at the tablecloth63. She looked round the room as though for a means of escape. It was all so cheerful that it seemed to mock her, the red-tiled fireplace, the golden globe of the lamp, the shining strip of blue sky beyond the window.
“Tea, father?” The teapot trembled a little in her hand. She could not talk; when the storm was approaching some actual presence seemed to come from the clouds and place an iron grip upon her. It had been some while since the last time and she had begun to hope that it might not happen again, and now——She was afraid to speak lest her voice should shake. The smile on her lips froze.
“Well,” he said, looking at her across the table, “talk to me.” The look that she knew so well came into his face; there was a little smile at the corners of his mouth and his eyes stared straight in front of him as though he were looking past her into infinite distances.
“Well,” he said again, “why don’t you talk?”
And then suddenly the storm broke. He gave a little scream like a wild animal, and, with one push of the hand, the table went over, crashing to the ground. The crockery lay in shattered pieces on the blue carpet. Janet crouched65 back against the wall, but he came slowly round the table towards her. His back was bent66 a little and his head stretched forward like an animal about to spring.
She was crying bitterly, with her hands pressed in front of her face.
“Please, father,” she said, “I haven’t done anything—I didn’t know—I haven’t done anything.”
She said it again and again between her tears. Morelli came over to her. “There was a man,” he said between his teeth, “a man whom I saw this morning, and he said things. Oh! if I had him here!” He laughed. “I would kill him, here, with my hands. But you see, you shall never speak to him again, you don’t go near him.” He spoke with passion.
She did not answer. He shook her shoulder. “Well, speak, can’t you?” He took her arm and twisted it, and then, apparently67 maddened by her immobility and her tears, he struck her with his hand across the face.
He let her sink to the floor in a heap, then for a moment he looked down on her. There was absolute silence in the room, a shaft68 of light fell through the window, caught a gleaming broken saucer on the floor, lighted the red tiles and sparkled against the farther wall. Janet was sobbing69 very quietly, crouching70 on the floor with her head in her hands. He looked at her for a moment and then crept silently from the room.
The stillness and peace and the twittering of a bird at the window brought her to her senses. It had happened so often before that it did not take her long to recover. She got up from her knees and wiped her eyes; she pushed back her hair and put the pins in carefully. Then she felt her cheek where he had struck her. It always happened like that, suddenly, for no reason at all. She knew that it was due to no bitter feeling against herself. Anything that came in his way at the time would suffer, as Miss Minns had learnt. Doubtless she was up in her room now with her door locked.
But this occasion was different from all the others. When it had happened before, quite the worst part of it had been the loneliness. It had seemed such a terribly desolate71 world, and she had seen infinite, dreary72 years stretching before her in which she remained, defenceless and without a friend, at the mercy of his temper. But now that her knight had come she did not mind at all. It would not be long before she escaped altogether, and, in any case, he was there to be sorry for her and comfort her. She would, of course, tell him all about it, because she would tell him everything. She felt no anger against her father. He was like that; she knew what it felt like to be angry, she had screamed and stamped and bit when she was a little girl in just that kind of way. She was rather sorry for him, because she knew he was always sorry afterwards. And then it was such a relief that it was over. The worst part of it was that sickening terror at first, when she did not know what he might do.
She set up the table again, collected the pieces of crockery from the floor and carried them into the kitchen. She then wiped up the pool of tea that had dripped on to the carpet. After this she realised that she was hungry, that she had had nothing at all, and she sat down and made a picnicky meal. By the end of it she was humming to herself as though nothing had occurred.
Later, she took her work and sat in the window. Her thoughts, as indeed was always the case now, were with Tony. She made up stories for him, imagined what he was doing at the moment and what the people were like to whom he was talking. She still felt sure that he would come and see them that afternoon. Then the door opened, and she knew that her father had returned. She did not turn round, but sat with her back to the door, facing the window. She could see a corner of the street with its shining cobbles, a dark clump73 of houses, a strip of the sky. The noise of the market came distantly up to her, and some cart rattled74 round the corner very, very faintly; the sound of the mining-stamp swung like a hammer through the air.
She heard him step across the room and stand waiting behind her. She was not afraid of him now; she knew that he had come back to apologise. She hated that as much as the rage, it seemed to hurt just as badly. She bent her head a little lower over her work.
“Janet,” he spoke imploringly75 behind her.
“Father!” She turned and smiled up at him.
He bent down and kissed her. “Janet! dear, I’m so sorry. I really can’t think why I was angry. You know I do get impatient sometimes, and that man had made me angry by the things he said.”
He stood away from her with his head hanging like a child who was waiting to be punished.
“No, father, please don’t.” She stood up and looked at him. “You know it is very naughty of you, and after you promised so faithfully last time that you wouldn’t get angry like that again. It’s no use promising76 if you never keep it, you know. And then think of all the china you’ve broken.”
“Yes, I know.” He shook his head dolefully. “I don’t know what it is, my dear. I never seem to get any better. And I don’t mean anything, you know. I really don’t mean anything.”
But she doubted that a little as she looked at him. She knew that, although his rage might pass, he did not forget. She had known him cherish things in his head long after they had passed from the other man’s memory, and she had seen him take his revenge. Who was this man who had insulted him? A sudden fear seized her. Supposing . . .
“Father,” she said, looking up at him, “who was it said things to you this morning that made you angry?”
“Ah, never mind that now, dear,” he said, his lip curling a little. “We will forget. See, I am sorry; you have forgiven me?” He sat down and drew her to him. “Look! I am just like a child. I am angry, and then suddenly it all goes.” He stroked her hair with his hand, and bent and kissed her neck. “Where was it that I hit her? Poor darling! There, on the cheek? Poor little cheek! But look! Hit me now hard with your fist. Here on the cheek. I am a brute77, a beast.”
“No, father,” she laughed and pulled herself away from him, “It is nothing! I have forgotten it already. Only, dear me! all the broken china! Such expense!”
“Well, dear, never mind the expense. I have a plan, and we will have a lovely day. We will go into the wood with our lunch and will watch the sea, and I will tell you stories, and will play to you. What! now, won’t that be good fun?”
His little yellow face was wreathed in smiles; he hummed a little tune17 and his feet danced on the floor. He passed his hand through his hair so that it all stood on end. “We’ll have such a game,” he said.
She smiled. “Yes, father dear, that will be lovely. Only, we will be back this afternoon, because perhaps——”
“Oh! I know!” He laughed at her. “Callers! Why, yes, of course. We shall be here if they come.” He chuckled78 to himself. “I am afraid, my dear, you have been lonely all these years. I ought to have thought of it, to give you companions.” Then he added after a little pause, “But he is a nice young fellow, Mr. Gale.”
She gave a little sigh of relief; then it was not he who had quarrelled with her father that morning. “That will be splendid. I’ll go and get lunch at once.” She bent down and kissed him, and then went singing out of the room.
He could, when he liked, be perfectly delightful, and he was going to like that afternoon, she knew. He was the best fun in the world. Poor thing! He would be hungry! He had no breakfast. And he sat in front of the window, smiling and humming a little tune to himself. The sun wrapped his body round with its heat, all the live things in the world were calling to him. He saw in front of him endless stretches of country, alive, shining in the sun. He stared in front of him.
It was market-day, and the market-place was crowded. Janet loved it, and her cheeks were flushed as she passed through the line of booths. As they crossed in front of the tower she saw that some one was leaning over the stall talking to the old fruit woman. Her heart began to beat furiously; he was wearing no cap, and she heard his laugh.
He turned round suddenly as though he knew who it was. The light suddenly flamed in his eyes, and he came forward:
“Good morning, Mr. Morelli,” he said.
In all the crowded market-place she was the only thing that he saw. She was dressed in a white muslin with red roses on it, and over her arm was slung79 the basket with the lunch; her hair escaped in little golden curls from under her broad hat.
But she found that she didn’t know what to say. This was a great surprise to her, because when she had thought about him in her room, alone, she had always had a great deal to say, and a great many questions to ask.
But now she stood in the sun and hung her head. Morelli watched them both.
Tony stammered. “Good-morning, Miss Morelli. I—I can’t take off my cap because I haven’t got one. Isn’t it a ripping day?” He held out his hand and she took it, and then they both laughed. The old woman behind them in her red peaked hat screamed, “A-pples and O-ranges! Fine ripe grapes!”
“We’re going out for a picnic, father and I,” said Janet at last. “We’ve got lunch in this basket. It’s a day that you can’t be in doors, simply!”
“Oh! I know,” he looked hungrily at the basket, as though he would have loved to have proposed coming as well. “Yes, it’s a great day.” Then he looked at her and started. She had been crying. She was smiling and laughing, but he could see that she had been crying. The mere14 thought of it made his blood boil; who had made her cry? He looked quickly at Morelli; was it he? Perhaps it was Miss Minns? or perhaps she wasn’t well, but he must know if she were unhappy; he would find out.
“I was thinking of coming to call this afternoon, Mr. Morelli,” he said, “Maradick and I . . . but if you are going to spend the day in the woods, another day——”
“Oh, no,” said Morelli, smiling, “we shall be back again by four. We are only going to have lunch. We should be delighted to see you, and your friend.” Then they said good-bye, and Tony watched them as they turned out of the market-place. They didn’t talk very much as they passed through the town, they had, each of them, their own thoughts. Janet was very happy; he was coming to tea, and they would be able to talk. But how silly she was, she could suddenly think of a hundred things that she would like to have said to him. They turned off the hard white road that ran above the sea and passed along a narrow lane. It was deeply rutted with cart-tracks, and the trees hung so thickly over it that it was quite dark. It wound up the sides of a green hill and then dived suddenly into the heart of a wood. Here there were pine trees, and a broad avenue over which they passed crushing the needles under their feet. The trees met in a green tapestry80 of colours above their heads, and through it the sun twinkled in golden stars and broad splashes of light. The avenue dwindled81 into a narrow path, and then suddenly it ended in a round green knoll82 humped like the back of a camel. The grass was a soft velvety83 green, and the trees stood like sentinels on every side, but in front they parted and there was a wonderful view. The knoll was at the top of the hill, and you could see straight down, above and beyond the trees of the wood, the sea. To the right there was another clearing, and a little cove of white sand and brown rocks shone in the sun. There was perfect stillness, save for a little breeze that rocked the trees so that they stirred like the breathing of some sleeper84.
Janet and her father always came to this place. Afterwards she was to see a great many cities and countries, but this green wood always remained to her the most perfect thing in the world. It was so still that you could, if you held your breath, hear the tiny whisper of the waves across the shingle85 and the murmur of the mining stamp. It was a wonderful place for whispers; the trees, the sea, the birds, even the flowers seemed to tell secrets, and Janet used to fancy that if she lay there, silently, long enough, she would, like the man in the fairy tale, hear what they were saying. She noticed that she always seemed to hear more when she was with her father. She had gone there sometimes with Miss Minns, and had wondered how she could be so fanciful. Nothing had whispered at all, and Miss Minns had had a headache. But to-day everything seemed to have a new meaning; her meeting with Tony had lent it a colour, an intensity86 that it had not had before. It was as though they all—the sea, the sky, the trees, the animals—knew that she had got a knight and would like to tell her how glad they were.
Morelli sat perched on the highest peak of the knoll with his legs crossed beneath him. He was at his very best; gay, laughing, throwing the pine needles like a child into the air, singing a little song.
“Come here, my dear, and talk to me.” He made way for her beside him. “Everything is singing to-day. There is a bird in a tree above us who has just told me how happy he is. I hope you are happy, my dear.”
“Yes, father, very.” She gave a little sigh of satisfaction and lay back on the grass at his side.
“Well, don’t be ashamed of showing it. Have your feelings and show them. Never mind what they are, but don’t cover them as though you were afraid that they would catch cold. Don’t mind feeling intensely, hurting intensely, loving intensely. It is a world of emotion, not of sham87.”
She never paid any very deep attention when he talked about rules of life. Existence seemed to her, at present, such an easy affair that rules weren’t necessary; people made such a bother.
She lay back and stared straight into the heart of the sky. Two little clouds, like pillows, bulged88 against the blue; the hard sharp line of the pines cut into space, and they moved together slowly like the soft opening and closing of a fan.
“I knew a place once like this,” said Morelli. “It was in Greece. A green hill overlooking the sea, and on it a white statue; they came to worship their god there.”
“What is this talk of God?” she asked him, resting on one elbow and looking up at him. “You have never told me, father, but of course I have read and have heard people talk. Who is God?”
She asked it with only a very languid interest. She had never speculated at all about the future. The world was so wonderful, and there were such a number of things all around her to think about, that discussion about something that would affect her at the end of her life, when all the world was dark and she was old and helpless, seemed absurd. She would want the end to come then, when she was deaf and blind and cold; she would not spoil the young colour and intensity of her life by thinking about it. But with the sudden entrance of Tony the question came forward again. They would not live for ever; life seemed very long to her, but the time must come when they would die. And then? Who was this God? Would He see to it that she and Tony were together afterwards? If so, she would worship Him; she would bring Him flowers, and light candles as Miss Minns did. As she sat there and heard the woods and the sea she thought that the answer must be somewhere in them. He must have made this colour and sound, and, if that were so, He could not be unkind. She watched the two clouds; they had swollen89 into the shape of bowls, their colour was pale cream, and the sun struck their outer edges into a very faint gold.
“Who is God?” she said again.
Morelli looked at her. “There were gods once,” he said. “People were faithful in those days, and they saw clearly. Now the world is gloomy, because of the sin that it thinks that it has committed, or because pleasure has been acid to the taste. Then they came with their songs and flowers to the hill, and, with the sky at their head and the sea at their feet, they praised the God whom they knew. Now——” He stared fiercely in front of him. “Oh! these people!” he said.
She did not ask him any more. She could not understand what he had said, and she was afraid lest her questions should bring his fury back again. But the question was there; many new questions were there, and she was to spend her life in answering them.
So they had lunch whilst the two clouds divided into three and danced with white trailing garments across the sun; then again they were swans, and vanished with their necks proudly curved into space.
“Father,” said Janet, with an abstracted air, as though she was thinking of some one else, “Do you think Mr. Gale handsome?”
“Yes, dear,” he answered. “He’s young, very young, and that is worth all the looks in the world.”
“I think he is very handsome,” she said, staring in front of him.
“Yes, dear, I know you do.”
“You like him, father?”
“Of course.” Morelli smiled. “I like to see you together.”
“And Mr. Maradick, father? What do you think of him?”
“Poor Mr. Maradick!” Morelli laughed. “He is going to have a bad time; life comes late to some people.”
“Yes, I like him,” said Janet, thoughtfully, “I know he’s kind, but he’s old; he’s older than you are, father.”
“He’ll be younger before he’s left Treliss,” said Morelli.
She lay motionless, with her arms behind her head; she became part of the landscape; her white dress lay about her like a cloud, her hair spread like sunlight over the grass, and her eyes stared, shining, into the sky. He sat, with his legs crossed under him, on the swelling90 grass, and stared at the tops of the trees and the sweep of the sea. No part of him moved except his fingers, which twinkled on the flute; the tune was a little gay dance that sparkled in the air and seemed to set all the trees in motion, even the three little clouds came back again and lay like monstrous91 white birds against the sky.
The two figures were absorbed into the surrounding country. His brown face and sharp nose seemed to belong to the ground on which he sat; the roses on her dress seemed to grow about her, and her hair lay around her like daffodils and primroses92. The gay tune danced along, and the sun rose high above their heads; a mist rose from the sea like a veil and, shot with colour, blue and green, enveloped93 the woods.
Then there were stealthy movements about the two figures. Birds, thrushes, chaffinches, sparrows, hopped94 across the grass. A pigeon cooed softly above his head; two rabbits peeped out from the undergrowth. They grew bolder, and a sparrow, its head on one side, hopped on to Janet’s dress.
More rabbits came, and the pigeon, with a soft whirr of its wings, swept down to Morelli’s feet. The grass was soon dotted with birds, a squirrel ran down a tree-trunk and stayed, with its tail in the air, to listen. The birds grew bolder and hopped on to Morelli’s knee; a sparrow stood for a moment on Morelli’s head and then flew away.
Janet showed no astonishment95 at these things. She had often seen her father play to the animals before, and they had come. Suddenly he piped a shrill96, discordant97 note, and with a whirr of their wings the birds had vanished and the rabbits disappeared.
He put his flute into his pocket.
“It’s nearly four o’clock,” he said.
“Father,” she said as they went down the hill, “can other people do that? Make the birds and animals come?”
“No,” he said.
“Why not? What is it that you do?”
“It’s nothing that I do,” he said. “It’s what I am. Don’t you worry your head about that, my dear. Only don’t say that anything’s impossible. ‘There’s more in Heaven and earth than is dreamed of in the philosophy’ of those folks who think that they know such a lot. Don’t ever disbelieve anything, my dear. Everything’s true, and a great deal more as well.”
Meanwhile Tony dragged a reluctant Maradick to tea. “They don’t want me,” he said, “you’ll be making me hideously98 unpopular, Tony, if you keep dragging me there.”
“I told them you were coming,” said Tony resolutely. “And of course you are. There are simply heaps of reasons. The plot’s thickening like anything, and it’s absurd of you to pretend that you are not in it, because you are, right up to your neck. And now I’ll give you my reasons. In the first place there’s mother. At the picnic yesterday Alice spotted99 that there was some one else; of course she will speak to mother, probably has spoken already. As I have told you already, she has perfect confidence in you, and as long as you are there it’s perfectly right, but if you leave me she’ll begin to worry her head off. Then again, there’s Janet herself. I want her to get to know you and trust you. She’ll want some one older just as much as I do, probably more, because she’s a girl and a frightful100 kid. Oh! rot! I’m no use at explaining, and the situation’s jolly difficult; only how can she possibly trust you and the rest of it, if she never sees you? And last of all, there’s me. I want you to see how the thing’s going so that we can talk about it. There’s something ‘up,’ I know, I could see this morning that she’d been crying. I believe Morelli’s beastly to her or something. Anyhow, you’re bound and pledged and everything, and you’re a ripping old brick to be so decent about it,” at the end of which Tony, breathless with argument and excitement seized Maradick by the arm and dragged him away.
But Maradick had a great deal to think about, and it was as much for this reason as for any real reluctance101 to visit the Morellis that he hesitated.
And the tea-party was a great success. Everyone was in the very best of humours, and the restraint that had been there a little on the first occasion had now quite passed away. The sun poured into the room, and shone so that everything burnt with colour. Maradick felt again how perfect a setting it made for the two who were its centre, the blue-tiled fireplace, the fantastic blue and white china on the walls, the deep blue of the carpet set the right note for a background. On the table the tea-things, the old silver teapot and milk jug102, old red and white plates and an enormous bowl of flaming poppies, gave the colour. Then against the blue sky and dark brown roofs beyond the window was Janet, with her golden hair and the white dress with the pink roses. Miss Minns was the only dark figure in the room and she scarcely seemed to matter. The only words that she spoke were to Maradick, “In for a penny in for a pound,” she suddenly flung at him à propos of some story of Epsom expenses, and then felt apparently that she had said too much and was quiet for the rest of the afternoon.
Morelli was at his pleasantest, and showed how agreeable a companion he could be. Maradick still felt the same distrust of him, but he was forced to confess that he had never before met anyone so entertaining. His knowledge of other countries seemed inexhaustible; he had been everywhere, and had a way of describing things and places that brought them straight with him into the room, so vivid were they.
His philosophy of life in general appeared, this afternoon pleasant and genial103. He spoke of men who had failed with commiseration104 and a very wide charity; he seemed to extend his affection to everyone, and said with a smile that “It was only a question of knowing people; they were all good fellows at heart.”
And yet, through it all, Maradick felt as though he were, in some unexplained way, playing at a game. The man was rather like a child playing at being grown-up and talking as he had heard his elders do. He had an impulse to say, “Look here, Morelli, it’s boring you dreadfully talking like this, you’re not a bit interested, really and truly, and we’re only playing this game as a background for the other two.”
And, in fact, that was what it all came to; that was Maradick’s immediate105 problem that must be answered before any of the others. What was Morelli’s idea about his daughter and Tony? Morelli knew, of course, perfectly well what was going on. You could see it in their eyes. And, apparently, as far as Maradick could see, he liked it and wanted it to continue. Why? Did he want them to marry? No, Maradick didn’t think that he did. He watched them with a curious smile; what was it that he wanted?
And they, meanwhile, the incredible pair with their incredible youth, were silent. It was through no constraint106, but rather, perhaps, because of their overflowing107 happiness. Tony smiled broadly at the whole world, and every now and again his eyes fastened on her face with a look of assured possession, in the glance with which she had greeted him he had seen all that he wanted to know.
Then she turned round to him. “Oh, Mr. Gale, you haven’t seen the garden, our garden. You really must. It’s small, but it’s sweet. You will come, Mr. Maradick?”
Her father looked up at her with a smile. “You take Mr. Gale, dear. We’ll follow in a moment.” And so they went out together. He thought that he had never seen so sweet a place. The high walls were old red brick, the lawn stretched the whole length, and around it ran a brown gravelled path. In one corner was an enormous mulberry leaning heavily to one side, and supported by old wooden stakes and held together by bands of metal. Immediately beneath the wall, and around the length of the garden, was a flower bed filled with pansies and hollyhocks and nasturtiums; it was a blaze of colour against the old red of the wall and behind the green of the lawn.
Underneath108 the mulberry tree was a seat, and they sat down close enough to make Tony’s heart beat very hard indeed.
“Oh, it’s perfect!” he said with a sigh.
“Yes, it’s very lovely, isn’t it? I’ve never known any other garden, and now you don’t know how nice it is to have some one to show it to. I’ve never had anyone to show it to before.”
The old house looked lovely from the garden. Its walls bulged towards them in curious curves and angles, it seemed to hang over the lawn like a protecting deity109. The light of the sun caught its windows and they flamed red and gold.
“You like having me to show it to?” he said.
“Of course,” she answered.
They were both suddenly uncomfortable. Everything around and about them seemed charged with intensest meaning. They began, each of them, to be more uncertain about the other. Perhaps after all they had read the signs wrongly. Janet suddenly reflected that she had known no other young men, and, after all, they might all have that habit of smiling and looking pleasant. It might be merely politeness, and probably meant nothing at all. She had been much too hasty; she took a stolen glance at him and fancied that he looked as though he were a little bored.
“It’s much nicer,” she said a little coldly, “in the summer than the winter.”
He looked at her for a moment, and then burst out laughing. “I say,” he said, “don’t let’s start being polite to each other, we’re friends. You know we made a compact the other day. We’ve got such a lot to talk about that we mustn’t waste time.”
“Oh! I’m so glad,” she sighed with relief; “you see I know so few people that I didn’t a bit know whether I was doing the right sort of thing. You looked a very little bit as though you were bored.”
“By Jove!” he said. “I should think not. Do you know, it’s the rippingest thing in the world coming and talking to you, and I’d been wondering ever since last time how soon it would be before I could come and talk to you again. And now, if you like my coming, it’s simply splendid.”
“Well, please come often,” she said, smiling. “I haven’t got many friends, and we seem to think the same about such lots of things.”
“Well, I love this place and this garden and everything, and I expect that I shall come often.”
“Oh! I think you’re wonderful!” she said.
“No, please don’t.” He bent towards her and touched her hand. “That’s only because you haven’t seen other people much. I’m most awfully110 ordinary, quite a commonplace sort of chap. I’d be awfully sick with myself really if I had time to think about it, but there’s such a lot going on that one simply can’t bother. But you’ll do me a lot of good if you’ll let me come.”
“I!” She opened her eyes wide. “How funny you are! I’m no use to anybody.”
“We’re both most fearfully modest,” he said, smiling, “and when people say how rotten they are they generally mean just the opposite. But I don’t, really. I mean it absolutely.” Then he lowered his voice. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”
“Yes,” she said, very softly.
“Always?”
“Yes, always.”
His hand took hers very gently. At the touch of her fingers his heart began suddenly to pound his breast so that he could not hear, a quiver shook his body, he bent his head.
“I’m an awfully poor sort of fellow,” he said in a whisper.
The mulberry tree, the lawn, the shining windows, the flowers caught the tone and for one moment fell like a burning cloud about the two, then the light died away.
In the green wood, on the knoll, a little breeze played with the tops of the trees; down, far below, the white beach shone in the sun and the waves curled in dancing rows across the blue.
Two rabbits fancied for a moment that they heard the tune that had charmed them earlier in the day. They crept out to look, but there was no one on the knoll.
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1
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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scents
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| n.香水( scent的名词复数 )；气味；（动物的）臭迹；（尤指狗的）嗅觉 | |
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cove
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| n.小海湾，小峡谷 | |
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boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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flute
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| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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sniffing
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| n.探查法v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的现在分词 )；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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gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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18
tunes
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| n.曲调，曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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predecessors
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| n.前任( predecessor的名词复数 )；前辈；（被取代的）原有事物；前身 | |
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crate
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| vt.(up)把…装入箱中；n.板条箱，装货箱 | |
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stockbroker
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| n.股票（或证券），经纪人（或机构） | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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glorified
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| 美其名的，变荣耀的 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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improper
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| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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40
plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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41
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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42
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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43
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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46
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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47
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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48
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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49
discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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50
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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51
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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52
maidenly
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| adj. 像处女的, 谨慎的, 稳静的 | |
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53
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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54
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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55
lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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56
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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57
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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58
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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59
petal
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| n.花瓣 | |
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60
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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61
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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62
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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63
tablecloth
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| n.桌布，台布 | |
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64
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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65
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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66
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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67
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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68
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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69
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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70
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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71
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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72
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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73
clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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74
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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75
imploringly
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| adv. 恳求地, 哀求地 | |
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76
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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77
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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78
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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79
slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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80
tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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81
dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
knoll
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| n.小山，小丘 | |
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83
velvety
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| adj. 像天鹅绒的, 轻软光滑的, 柔软的 | |
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84
sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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85
shingle
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| n.木瓦板；小招牌(尤指医生或律师挂的营业招牌)；v.用木瓦板盖（屋顶）；把（女子头发）剪短 | |
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86
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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87
sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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88
bulged
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| 凸出( bulge的过去式和过去分词 )； 充满； 塞满（某物） | |
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89
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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90
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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91
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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92
primroses
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| n.报春花( primrose的名词复数 )；淡黄色；追求享乐（招至恶果） | |
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93
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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94
hopped
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| 跳上[下]( hop的过去式和过去分词 )； 单足蹦跳； 齐足（或双足）跳行； 摘葎草花 | |
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95
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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96
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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97
discordant
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| adj.不调和的 | |
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98
hideously
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| adv.可怕地，非常讨厌地 | |
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99
spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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100
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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101
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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102
jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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103
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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104
commiseration
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| n.怜悯，同情 | |
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105
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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106
constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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107
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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108
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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109
deity
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| n.神，神性；被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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110
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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