Mrs. Ames, it may be remembered, had already enjoyed a fortnight’s holiday at Overstrand this year, and the last week of July saw her still disinclined to make holiday plans. They had taken a sort of bungalow10 near Deal for the last year or two, which, among other advantages, was built in such a manner that any remark made in any part of the house could be heard in any other part of the house. It was enough almost for her to say, as she finished dressing11, “We are ready for breakfast,” to hear Parker replying from the kitchen, “The kettle’s just on the boil, ma’am.” This year, however, she had been late in inquiring whether it was vacant for August, and she found, when her belated letter was answered, that it was already engaged.
This fact she broke to her husband and Harry12, who had returned from Cambridge with hair unusually wild and lank13, with tempered indignation.
“Considering how many years we have taken it,” she said, “I must say that I think they should have told us before letting it over our heads like this. But I always thought that Mrs. Mackenzie was a most grasping sort of person who would be likely to take the first offer that turned up, and I’m sure the{177} house was never very comfortable. I have no doubt we can easily find a better without much bother!”
“My bedroom ceiling always leaked,” said Harry; “and there was nowhere to write at!”
Mrs. Ames had finished her breakfast and got up. She felt faintly in her mind that after the fancy dress ball it was time for her to do something original. Yet the whole idea was so novel.... Riseborough would be sure to say that they had not been able to afford a holiday. But, after all, that mattered very little.
“I really don’t know why we always take the trouble to go away to an uncomfortable lodging14 during August,” she said, “and leave our own comfortable house standing15 vacant.”
Major Ames, had he been a horse, would have pricked16 up his ears at this. But the human ear being unadapted to such movements, he contented17 himself with listening avidly18. He had seen little of Millie this last fortnight, and was beginning to realize how much he missed her presence. Between them, it is true, they had come near to an intimacy19 which had its dangers, which he really feared more than he desired, but he felt, with that self-deception that comes so easily to those who know nothing about themselves, that he was on his guard now. Meantime, he missed her, and guessed quite truly that she missed him. And, poor prig, he told himself that he had no right to cut off that which gave her pleasure. He could be Spartan20 over his own affairs, if so minded, but he must not play Lycurgus to others. And an idea that had privately21 occurred to him, which at the time seemed incapable22 of realization23, suddenly leaped into the possible horizons.{178}
“And you always complain of the dampness of strange houses, Lyndhurst,” she added; “and as Harry says, he has no place for writing and study. Why should we go away at all? I am sure, after the excitement of the last month, it would be a complete rest to remain here when everybody else is gone. I have not had a moment to myself this last month, and I should not be at all sorry to stop quietly here.”
Major Ames knew with sufficient accuracy the influence he had over his wife. He realized, that is to say, as far as regarded the present instance, that slight opposition24 on his part usually produced a corresponding firmness on hers. Accentuated25 opposition produced various results; sometimes he won, sometimes she. But mild remonstrance26 always confirmed her views in opposition to his. He had a plan of his own on this occasion, and her determination to remain in Riseborough would prove to be in alliance with it. Therefore he mildly remonstrated27.
“You would regret it before the month was out,” he said. “For me, I’m an old campaigner, and I hope I can make myself comfortable anywhere. But you would get bored before the end of August, Amy, and when you get bored your digestion28 is invariably affected29.”
“I should like to stop in Riseborough,” said Harry. “I hate the sea.”
“You will go wherever your mother settles to go, my boy,” said Major Ames, still pursuing his plan. “If she wishes to go to Sheffield for August, you and I will go too, and—and no doubt learn something useful about cutlery. But don’t try stopping in Riseborough, my dear Amy. At least, if you take my advice, you won’t.{179}”
Major Ames was not very intelligent, but the highest intelligence could not have done better. He had learned the trick of slight opposition, just as a stupid dog with a Conservative master can learn to growl30 for Asquith by incessant31 repetition. When it has learned it, it does it right. The Major had done it right on this occasion.
“I do not see why Harry should not have a voice in the question of where we spend his vacation,” she said. “Certainly your room at the bungalow, Lyndhurst, was comfortable enough, but that was the only decent room in the house. In any case we cannot get the bungalow for this August. Have you any other plans as to where we should go?”
There was room for a little more of his policy of opposition.
“Well, now, Brighton,” he said. “Why not Brighton? There’s a club there; I dare say I should get a little Bridge in the evening, and no doubt you would pick up some acquaintances, Amy. I think the Westbournes went there last year.”
This remarkable32 reason for going to Brighton made Mrs. Ames almost epigrammatic.
“By all means, my dear,” said he. “I dare say the curry would be quite inexpensive.”
Mrs. Ames opened the door on to the verandah.
“Pray let me know, Lyndhurst,” she said, “if you have any serious proposition to make.”
It was Major Ames’ custom to start work in the garden immediately after breakfast, but this morning he got out one of his large-sized cheroots instead (these conduced to meditation), and estab{180}lished himself in a chair on the verandah. His mental development was not, in most regards, of a very high or complex order, but he possessed35 that rather rare attainment36 of being able to sit down and think about one thing to the exclusion37 of others. With most of us to sit down and think about one thing soon resolves itself into a confused survey of most other things; Major Ames could do better than that, for he could, and on this occasion did exclude all other topics from his mind, and at the end return, so to speak, “bringing his sheaves with him.” He had made a definite and reasonable plan.
Harry had communicated the interesting fact of his passion for Mrs. Evans to the Omar Khayyam Club, and was, of course, bound to prosecute38 his nefarious39 intrigue40. He had already written several galloping41 lyrics42, a little loose in grammar and rhyme, to his enchantress, which he had copied into a small green morocco note-book, the title-page of which he had inscribed43 as “Dedicated to M. E.” This looked a Narcissus-like proceeding44 to any one who did not remember what Mrs. Evans’ initials were. This afternoon, feeling the poetic45 afflatus46 blowing a gale47 within him, but having nothing definite to say, he decided48 to call on the inspirer of his muse49, in order to gather fresh fuel for his fire. Arrayed in a very low collar, which showed the full extent of his rather scraggy neck, and adorned50 with a red tie, for socialism was no less an orthodoxy in the club than atheistic51 principles and illicit52 love, he set secretly out, and had the good fortune to find the goddess alone, and was welcomed with that rather timid, childlike deference53 that he had found so adorable before.{181}
“But how good of you to come and see me,” she said, “when I’m sure you must have so many friends wanting you. I think it is so kind.”
Clearly she was timid; she did not know her power. Her eyes were bluer than ever; her hair was of palest gold, “As I remembered her of old,” he thought to himself, referring to the evening at the end of June. Indeed, there was a poem dated June 28, rather a daring one.
“The kindness is entirely54 on your side,” he said, “in letting me come, and”—he longed to say—“worship,” but did not quite dare—“and have tea with you.”
“Dear me, that is a selfish sort of kindness,” she said. “Let us go into the garden. I think it was very unkind of you, Mr. Harry, not to come to my dance last week. But of course you Cambridge men have more serious things to think about than little country parties.”
“I thought about nothing else but your dance for days,” said he; “but my tutor simply refused to let me come down for it. A narrow, pedantic55 fellow, who I don’t suppose ever danced. Tell me about your dress; I like to picture you in a fancy dress.”
She could not help appearing to wish to attract. It was as much the fault of the way her head was set on to her neck, of the colour of her eyes, as of her mind.
“Oh, quite a simple white frock,” she said; “and a few pearls. They—they wanted me to go as Cleopatra. So silly—me with a grown-up daughter. But my husband insisted.”
The fancy dress ball had not been talked about at Mrs. Ames’ lately, and he had heard nothing{182} about it in the two days he had been at home. Both his parents had reason for letting it pass into the region of things that are done with.
“Did mother and father go?” he asked. “I suppose they felt too old to dress up?”
“Oh, no. They came as Antony and Cleopatra. Have they not told you? Cousin Amy looked so—so interesting. And your father was splendid as Mark Antony.”
“Then was Dr. Evans Mark Antony too?” asked Harry.
“No; he was Timon of Athens.”
“Then who was your Mark Antony?” he asked.
Mrs. Evans felt herself flushing, and her annoyance56 at herself made her awkward in the pouring out of tea. She felt that Harry’s narrow, gimlet-like eyes were fixed57 on her.
“See how stupid I am,” she said. “I have spilled your tea in the saucer. Dear Mr. Harry, we had heaps of Cleopatras: Mrs. Altham was one, Mrs. Brooks58 was another. We danced with Hamlets, and—and anybody.”
But this crude, ridiculous youth, she felt, had some idea in his head.
“And did father and mother dance together all the evening?” he asked.
She felt herself growing impatient.
“Of course not. Everybody danced with everybody. We had quadrilles; all sorts of things.”
Then, with the mistaken instinct that makes us cautious in the wrong place, she determined59 to say a little more.
“But your father was so kind to me,” she said. “He helped me with all the arrangements. I could{183} never have managed it except for him. We had tremendous days of talking and planning about it. Now tell me all about Cambridge.”
But Harry was scenting61 a sonnet62 of the most remarkable character. It might be called The Rivals, and would deal with a situation which the Omar Khayyam Club would certainly feel to be immensely “parful.”
“I suppose mother helped you, too?” he said.
This was Byronic, lacerating. She had to suffer as well as he ... there was a pungent63 line already complete. “But who had suffered as much as me?” was the refrain. There were thrills in store for the Omar Khayyam Club. After a sufficiency of yellow wine.
“Cousin Amy was away,” said Mrs. Evans. “She was staying at Cromer till just before my little dance. That is not far from Cambridge, is it? I suppose she came over to see you.”
Harry spared her, and did not press these questions. But enough had been said to show that she had broken faith with him. “Rivals” could suitably become quite incoherent towards the close. Incoherency was sometimes a great convenience, for exclamatory rhymes were not rare.
He smoothed the lank hair off his forehead, and tactfully changed the subject.
“And I suppose you are soon going away now,” he said. “I am lucky to have seen you at all. We are going to stop here all August, I think. My mother does not want to go away. Nor do I; not that they either of them care about that.”
“How wise!” she said. “It is so absurd to go to stay somewhere uncomfortably instead of remaining comfortably. I wish we were doing the same. But my husband always has to go to Harrogate for a few weeks. And he likes me to be with him. I shall think of you all and envy you stopping here in this charming Riseborough.”
“You like it?” asked Harry.
“How should I not with so many delightful65 people being friendly to me? Relations too; Cousin Amy, for instance, and Major Ames, and, let me see, if Mrs. Ames is my cousin, surely you are cousin Harry?”
Harry became peculiarly fascinating, and craned his long neck forward.
“Oh, leave out the ‘cousin,’” he said.
“How sweet of you—Harry,” she said.
That, so to speak, extracted the poison-fangs from the projected “Rivals,” and six mysterious postcards were placed by the author’s hand in the pillar-box that evening. Each consisted of one mystic sentence. “She calls me by my Christian66 name.” By a most convenient circumstance, too apt to be considered accidental, there had here come to birth an octo-syllabic line, of honeyed sweetness and simplicity67. He was not slow to take advantage of it, and the moon setting not long before daybreak saw another completed gem60 of the M. E. series.
Mrs. Evans that afternoon, like Major Ames that morning, “sat and thought,” after Harry had left her. Independently of the fact that all admirers, even the weirdest68, always found welcome in her pale blue eyes, she felt really grateful to Harry, for he had given her the information on which she based a plan{185} which was quite as sound and simple as Major Ames’, and was designed to secure the same object. Since the night of the fancy dress ball she had only seen him once or twice, and never privately, and the greater vitality69 which, by the wondrous70 processes of affinity71, he had stirred in her, hungered for its sustenance72. It cannot be said that she was even now really conscious in herself of disloyalty to her husband, or that she actually contemplated73 any breach74 of faith. She had not at present sufficient force of feeling to imagine a decisive situation; but she could at most lash75 her helm, so to speak, so that the action of the wind would take her boat in the direction in which she wished to go, and then sit idly on deck, saying that she was not responsible for the course she was pursuing. The wind, the tide, the currents were irresistibly76 impelling77 her; she had nothing to do with the rudder, having tied it, she did not touch it. Like the majority in this world of miserable78 sinners, she did not actively79 court the danger she desired, but she hung about expectant of it. At the same time she kept an anxious eye on the shore towards which she was driving. Was it really coming closer? If so, why did she seem to have made no way lately?
To-day her plan betokened80 a more active hand in what she thought of as fate, but unfortunately, though it was as sound in itself as Major Ames’, it was made independently and ignorantly of that which had prompted his slight opposition this morning, so that, while each plan was admirable enough in itself, the two, taken in conjunction, would, if successful, result in a fiasco almost sublime81 in its completeness. The manner of which was as follows.
Elsie, it so happened, was not at home that evening,{186} and she and her husband dined alone, and strolled out in the garden afterwards.
“You will miss your chess this evening, dear,” she said. “Or would it amuse you to give me a queen and a few bishops82 and knights83, and see how long it takes you to defeat me? Or shall we spend a little cosy84 chatty evening together? I hope no horrid85 people will be taken ill, and send for you.”
“So do I, little woman,” he said (she was getting to detest86 appellation). “And as if I shouldn’t enjoy a quiet evening of talk with you more than fifty games of chess! But, dear me, I shall be glad to get away to Harrogate this year! I need a month of it badly. I shall positively87 enjoy the foul88 old rotten-egg smell.”
“Oh, don’t talk of it,” she said. “It is bad enough without thinking of it beforehand.”
“Poor little woman! Almost a pity you are not gouty too. Then we should both look forward to it.”
She sat down on one of the shrubbery seats, and drew aside her skirts, making room for him to sit beside her.
“Yes, but as I am not gouty, Wilfred,” she said. “It is no use wishing I was. And I do hate Harrogate so. I wonder——”
She gave a little sigh and put her arm within his.
“Well, what’s the little woman wondering now?” he asked.
“I hardly like to tell you. You are always so kind to me that I don’t know why I am afraid. Wilfred, would you think it dreadful of me, if I suggested not going with you this year? I’m sure it makes me ill to be there. You will have Elsie; you will play chess as usual with her all evening. You see all morning{187} you are at your baths, and you usually are out bicycling all afternoon with her. I don’t think you know how I hate it.”
She had begun in her shy, tentative manner. But her voice grew more cold and decided. She put forward her arguments like a woman who has thought it all carefully over, as indeed she had.
“But what will you do with yourself, my dear?” he said. “It seems a funny plan. You can’t stop here alone.”
She sat up, taking her hand from his arm.
“Indeed, I should not be as lonely here as I am at Harrogate,” she said. “We don’t know anybody there, and if you think of it, I am really alone most of the time. It is different for you, because it is doing you good, and, as I say, you are bicycling with Elsie all the afternoon, and you play chess together in the evening.”
A shade of trouble and perplexity came over the doctor’s face; the indictment90, for it was hardly less than that, was as well-ordered and digested as if it had been prepared for a forensic91 argument. And the calm, passionless voice went on.
“Think of my day there,” she said, going into orderly detail. “After breakfast you go off to your baths, and I have to sit in that dreadful sitting-room92 while they clear the things away. Even a hotel would be more amusing than those furnished lodgings93; one could look at the people going in and out. Or if I go for a stroll in the morning, I get tired, and must rest in the afternoon. You come in to lunch, and go off with Elsie afterwards. That is quite right; the exercise is good for you, but what is the use of my being there? There is nobody for me to go to see,{188} nobody comes to see me. Then we have dinner, and I have the excitement of learning where you and Elsie have been bicycling. You two play chess after dinner, and I have the excitement of being told who has won. Here, at any rate, I can sit in a room that doesn’t smell of dinner, or I can sit in the garden. I have my own books and things about me, and there are people I know whom I can see and talk to.”
He got up, and began walking up and down the path in front of the bench where they had been sitting, his kindly94 soul in some perplexity.
“Nothing wrong, little woman?” he asked.
“Certainly not. Why should you think that? I imagine there is reason enough in what I have told you. I do get so bored there, Wilfred. And I hate being bored. I am sure it is not good for me, either. Try to picture my life there, and see how utterly95 different it is from yours. Besides, as I say, it is doing you good all the time, and as you yourself said, you welcome the thought of that horrible smelling water.”
“Pray sit down, Wilfred,” she said. “Your walking about like that confuses me. And surely you can say ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ to me. If you insist on my going with you, I shall go. But I shall think it very unreasonable97 of you.”
“But I can’t say ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ like that, little woman,” he said. “I don’t imagine you have thought how dull Riseborough will be during August. Everybody goes away, I believe.”
For a moment she thought of telling him that the Ames’ were going to stop here: then, with entirely{189} misplaced caution, she thought wiser to keep that to herself. She, guilty in the real reason for wishing to remain here, though coherent and logical enough in the account she had given him of her reason, thought, grossly wronging him, that some seed of suspicion might hereby enter her husband’s mind.
“There is sure to be some one here,” she said. “The Althams, for instance, do not go away till the middle of August.”
“You do not particularly care for them,” said he.
“No, but they are better than nobody. All day at Harrogate I have nobody. It is not companionship to sit in the room with you and Elsie playing chess. Besides, the Westbournes will be at home. I shall go over there a great deal, I dare say. Also I shall be in my own house, which is comfortable, and which I am fond of. Our lodgings at Harrogate disgust me. They are all oilcloth and plush; there is nowhere to sit when they are clearing away.”
His face was still clouded.
“But it is so odd for a married woman to stop alone like that,” he said.
“I think it is far odder for her husband to want her to spend a month of loneliness and boredom98 in lodgings,” she said. “Because I have never complained, Wilfred, you think I haven’t detested99 it. But on thinking it over it seems to me more sensible to tell you how I detest it, and ask you that I shouldn’t go.”
He was silent a moment.
“Very well, little woman,” he said at length. “You shall do as you please.”
Instantly the cold precision of her speech changed. She gave that little sigh of conscious content with{190} which she often woke in the morning, and linked her arm into his again.
“Ah, that is dear of you,” she said. “You are always such a darling to me.”
He was not a man to give grudging100 consents, or spoil a gift by offering it except with the utmost cordiality.
“I only hope you’ll make a great success of it, little woman,” he said. “And it must be dull for you at Harrogate. So that’s settled, and we’re all satisfied. Let us see if Elsie has come in yet.”
She laughed softly.
“You are a dear,” she said again.
Wilfred Evans was neither analytical101 regarding himself nor curious about analysis that might account for the action of others. Just as in his professional work he was rather old-fashioned, but eminently102 safe and sensible, so in the ordinary conduct of his life he did not seek for abstruse103 causes and subtle motives104. It was quite enough for him that his wife felt that she would be excruciatingly bored at Harrogate, and less acutely desolate105 here. On the other hand, it implied violation106 of one of the simplest customs of life that a wife should be in one place and her husband in another. That was vaguely107 disquieting108 to him. Disquieting also was the cold, precise manner with which she had conducted her case. A dozen times only, perhaps, in all their married life had she assumed this frozen rigidity109 of demeanour; each time he had succumbed110 before it. In the ordinary way, if their inclinations111 were at variance112, she would coax113 and wheedle114 him into yielding or, though quietly adhering to her own opinion, she would let him have his way. But with her calm rigidity, rarely assumed, he had{191} never successfully combated; there was a steeliness about it that he knew to be stronger than any opposition he could bring to it. Nothing seemed to affect it, neither argument nor conjugal115 command. She would go on saying “I do not agree with you,” in the manner of cool water dripping on a stone. Or with the same inexorable quietness she would repeat, “I feel very strongly about it: I think it very unkind of you.” And a sufficiency of that always had rendered his opposition impotent: her will, when once really aroused, seemed to paralyse his. Once or twice her line had turned out conspicuously116 ill. That seemed to make no difference: the cold, precise manner was on higher plane than the material failure which had resulted therefrom. She would merely repeat, “But it was the best thing to do under the circumstances.”
In this instance he wondered a little that she had used this manner over a matter that seemed so little vital as the question of Harrogate, but by next morning he had ceased to concern himself further with it. She was completely her usual self again, and soon after breakfast set off to accomplish some little errands in the town, looking in on him in his laboratory to know if there were any commissions she could do for him. His eye at the moment was glued to his microscope: a culture of staphylococcus absorbed him, and without looking up, he said—
“Nothing, thanks, little woman.”
He heard her pause: then she came across the room to him, and laid her cool hand on his shoulder.
He interrupted his observations, and put his arm round her.
“Vexed?” he said. “I’ll tell you when I’m vexed.{192}”
She smiled at him, dewily, timidly.
“That’s all right, then,” she said.
So her plan was accomplished118.
The affair of the staphylococcus did not long detain the doctor, and presently after Major Ames was announced. He had come to consult Dr. Evans with regard to certain gouty symptoms into which the doctor inquired and examined.
“There’s nothing whatever to worry about,” he said, after a very short investigation119. “I should recommend you to cut off alcohol entirely, and not eat meat more than once a day. A fortnight’s dieting will probably cure you. And take plenty of exercise. I won’t give you any medicine. There is no use in taking drugs when you can produce the same effect by not taking other things.”
Major Ames fidgeted and frowned a little.
“I was thinking,” he said at length, “of taking myself more thoroughly120 in hand than that. I’ve never approved of half-measures, and I can’t begin now. If a tooth aches have it out, and be done with it. No fiddling121 about for me. Now my wife does not want to go away this August, and it seemed to me that it would be a very good opportunity for me to go, as you do, I think, and take a course of waters. Get rid of the tendency, don’t you know, eradicate122 it. What do you say to that? Harrogate now; I was thinking of Harrogate, if you approved. Harrogate does wonders for gout, does it not?”
The doctor laughed.
“I am certainly hoping that Harrogate will do wonders for me,” he said. “I go there every year. And no doubt many of us who are getting on in years would be benefited by it. But your symptoms are very{193} slight. I think you will soon get rid of them if you follow the course I suggest.”
But Major Ames showed a strange desire for Harrogate.
“Well, I like to do things thoroughly,” he said. “I like getting rid of a thing root and branch, you know. You see I may not get another opportunity. Amy likes me to go with her on her holiday in August, but there is no reason why I should stop in Riseborough. I haven’t spoken to her yet, but if I could say that you recommended Harrogate, I’m sure she would wish me to go. Indeed, she would insist on my going. She is often anxious about my gouty tendencies, more anxious, as I often tell her, than she has any need to be. But an aunt of hers had an attack which went to her heart quite unexpectedly, and killed her, poor thing. I think, indeed, it would be a weight off Amy’s mind if she knew I was going to take myself thoroughly in hand, not tinker and peddle123 about with diet only. So would you be able to recommend me to go to Harrogate?”
“A course of Harrogate wouldn’t be bad for any of us who eat a good dinner every night,” said Dr. Evans. “But I think that if you tried——”
Major Ames got up, waving all further discussion aside.
“That’s enough, doctor,” he said. “If it would do me good, I know Amy would wish me to go; you know what wives are. Now I’m pressed for time this morning, and so I am sure are you. By the way, you needn’t mention my plan till I’ve talked it over with Amy. But about lodgings, now. Do you recommend lodgings or an hotel?”
Dr. Evans did not mention that his wife was not going to be with him this year, for, having obtained{194} permission to say that Harrogate would do him good, Major Ames had developed a prodigious124 hurry, and a few moments after was going jauntily125 home, with the address of Dr. Evans’ lodgings in his pocket. He trusted to his own powers of exaggeration to remove all possible opposition on his wife’s part, and felt himself the devil of a diplomatist.
So his plan was arranged.
The third factor in this network of misconceived plots occurred the same morning. Mrs. Ames, visiting the High Street on account of an advanced melon, met Cousin Millie on some similar errand to the butcher’s on account of advanced cutlets, for the weather was trying. It was natural that she announced her intention of remaining in Riseborough with her family during August: it was natural also that Cousin Millie signified the remission from Harrogate. Cousin Amy was cordial on the subject, and returned home. Probably she would have mentioned this fact to her husband, if he had given her time to do it. But he was bursting with a more immediate34 communication.
“I didn’t like to tell you before, Amy,” he said, “because I didn’t want to make you unnecessarily anxious. And there’s no need for anxiety now.”
Mrs. Ames was not very imaginative, but it occurred to her that the newly-planted magnolia had not been prospering126.
“No real cause for anxiety,” he said. “But the fact is that I went to see Dr. Evans this morning—don’t be frightened, my dear—and got thoroughly overhauled127 by him, thoroughly overhauled. He said there was no reason for anxiety, assured me of it. But I’m gouty, my dear, there’s no doubt of it, and of course you remember about your poor Aunt Harriet.{195} Well, there it is. And he says Harrogate. A bore, of course, but Harrogate. But no cause for anxiety: he told me so twice.”
Mrs. Ames gave one moment to calm, clear, oyster-like reflection, unhurried, unalarmed. There was no shadow of reason why she should tell him what Mrs. Evans’ plans were. But it was odd that she should suddenly decide to stop in Riseborough, instead of going to Harrogate, having heard from Harry that the Ames’ were to remain at home, and Lyndhurst as suddenly be impelled128 to go to Harrogate, instead of stopping in Riseborough. A curious coincidence. Everybody seemed to be making plans. At any rate she would not add to their number, but only acquiesce129 in those which were made.
“My dear Lyndhurst, what an upset!” she said. “Of course, if you tell me there is no cause for anxiety, I will not be anxious. Does Dr. Evans recommend you to go to Harrogate now? You must tell me all he said. They always go in August, do they not? That will be pleasant for you. But I am afraid you will find the waters far from palatable130.”
Major Ames felt that he had not made a sufficiently131 important impression.
“Of course, I told Dr. Evans I could decide nothing till I had consulted you,” he said. “It seems a great break-up to leave you and Harry here and go away like this. It was that I was thinking of, not whether waters a palatable or not. I have more than half a mind not to go. I daresay I shall worry through all right without.”
Again Mrs. Ames made a little pause.
Major Ames’ experience of him this morning fully{196} endorsed133 this. Certainly he had been neither, whatever the difference between the two might be.
“Well, my dear, if both you and Dr. Evans are agreed,” he said, “I mustn’t set myself up against you.”
“Now did he tell you where to go?”
“He gave me the address of his own lodgings.”
“What a convenient arrangement! Now, my dear, I beg you to waste no time. Send off a telegram, and pay the reply, and we’ll pack you off to-morrow. I am sure it is the right thing to do.”
A sudden conviction, painfully real, that he was behaving currishly, descended134 on Major Ames. The feeling was so entirely new to him that he would have liked to put it down to an obsession135 of gout in a new place—the conscience, for instance, for he could hardly believe that he should be self-accused of paltry136 conduct. He felt as if there must be some mistake about it. He almost wished that Amy had made difficulties; then there would have been the compensatory idea that she was behaving badly too. But she could not have conducted herself in a more guilelessly sympathetic manner; she seemed to find no inherent improbability in Dr. Evans having counselled Harrogate, no question as to the advisability of following his advice. It was almost unpleasant to him to have things made so pleasant.
But then this salutary impression was effaced137, for anything that savoured of self-reproach could not long find harbourage in his mind. Instead, he pictured himself at Harrogate station, welcoming the Evans’. She would probably be looking rather tired and fragile after the journey, but he would have a cab ready for her, and tea would be awaiting them when they reached the lodgings....
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1
paramount
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| a.最重要的，最高权力的 | |
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annually
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| adv.一年一次，每年 | |
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dwarfed
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| vt.（使）显得矮小（dwarf的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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appallingly
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| 毛骨悚然地 | |
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zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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bungalow
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| n.平房，周围有阳台的木造小平房 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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lank
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| adj.瘦削的；稀疏的 | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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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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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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avidly
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| adv.渴望地，热心地 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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spartan
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| adj.简朴的，刻苦的；n.斯巴达；斯巴达式的人 | |
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21
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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accentuated
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| v.重读( accentuate的过去式和过去分词 )；使突出；使恶化；加重音符号于 | |
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remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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digestion
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| n.消化，吸收 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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30
growl
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| v.（狗等）嗥叫，（炮等）轰鸣；n.嗥叫，轰鸣 | |
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31
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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32
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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33
curry
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| n.咖哩粉，咖哩饭菜；v.用咖哩粉调味，用马栉梳，制革 | |
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34
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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36
attainment
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| n.达到，到达；［常pl.］成就，造诣 | |
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exclusion
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| n.拒绝，排除，排斥，远足，远途旅行 | |
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38
prosecute
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| vt.告发；进行；vi.告发，起诉，作检察官 | |
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39
nefarious
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| adj.恶毒的，极坏的 | |
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40
intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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41
galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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42
lyrics
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| n.歌词 | |
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43
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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44
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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45
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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46
afflatus
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| n.灵感，神感 | |
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47
gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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48
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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49
muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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50
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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51
atheistic
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| adj.无神论者的 | |
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52
illicit
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| adj.非法的，禁止的，不正当的 | |
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53
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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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
pedantic
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| adj.卖弄学问的；迂腐的 | |
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56
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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57
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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58
brooks
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| n.小溪( brook的名词复数 ) | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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gem
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| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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61
scenting
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| vt.闻到（scent的现在分词形式） | |
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62
sonnet
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| n.十四行诗 | |
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pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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64
merged
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| （使）混合( merge的过去式和过去分词 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
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65
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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66
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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weirdest
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| 怪诞的( weird的最高级 )； 神秘而可怕的； 超然的； 古怪的 | |
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69
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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70
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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71
affinity
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| n.亲和力，密切关系 | |
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72
sustenance
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| n.食物，粮食；生活资料；生计 | |
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73
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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74
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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75
lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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76
irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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impelling
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| adj.迫使性的，强有力的v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的现在分词 ) | |
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78
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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actively
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| adv.积极地，勤奋地 | |
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80
betokened
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| v.预示，表示( betoken的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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82
bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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83
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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84
cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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85
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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86
detest
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| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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88
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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89
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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90
indictment
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| n.起诉；诉状 | |
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91
forensic
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| adj.法庭的，雄辩的 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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94
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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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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96
shuffled
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| v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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boredom
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| n.厌烦，厌倦，乏味，无聊 | |
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99
detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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100
grudging
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| adj.勉强的，吝啬的 | |
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101
analytical
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| adj.分析的；用分析法的 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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abstruse
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| adj.深奥的，难解的 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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105
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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106
violation
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| n.违反(行为)，违背(行为)，侵犯 | |
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107
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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108
disquieting
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| adj.令人不安的，令人不平静的v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的现在分词 ) | |
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109
rigidity
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| adj.钢性，坚硬 | |
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110
succumbed
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的过去式和过去分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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111
inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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112
variance
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| n.矛盾，不同 | |
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113
coax
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| v.哄诱，劝诱，用诱哄得到，诱取 | |
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114
wheedle
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| v.劝诱，哄骗 | |
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115
conjugal
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| adj.婚姻的，婚姻性的 | |
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116
conspicuously
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| ad.明显地，惹人注目地 | |
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117
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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118
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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119
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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120
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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121
fiddling
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| 微小的 | |
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122
eradicate
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| v.根除，消灭，杜绝 | |
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123
peddle
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| vt.(沿街)叫卖，兜售；宣传，散播 | |
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124
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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125
jauntily
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| adv.心满意足地；洋洋得意地；高兴地；活泼地 | |
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126
prospering
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| 成功，兴旺( prosper的现在分词 ) | |
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127
overhauled
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| v.彻底检查( overhaul的过去式和过去分词 )；大修；赶上；超越 | |
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128
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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acquiesce
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| vi.默许，顺从，同意 | |
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130
palatable
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| adj.可口的，美味的；惬意的 | |
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131
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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132
fussy
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| adj.为琐事担忧的，过分装饰的，爱挑剔的 | |
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133
endorsed
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| vt.& vi.endorse的过去式或过去分词形式v.赞同( endorse的过去式和过去分词 )；在（尤指支票的）背面签字；在（文件的）背面写评论；在广告上说本人使用并赞同某产品 | |
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134
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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135
obsession
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| n.困扰，无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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136
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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137
effaced
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| v.擦掉( efface的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；超越；使黯然失色 | |
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