“Ye foolish woman!” he told her angrily. “How could ye be so imprudent, reckless mad, as to visit a man’s chamber at night?”
“Don’t preach to me, uncle,” she answered sullenly10.[185] “No one knows of my being there, not even Mr. Burns himself.”
“But what were ye thinkin’ of to do such a reprehensible11 act?” he demanded sternly. She turned on him suddenly.
“Because I love him!” she exclaimed passionately12, casting prudence14 to the winds. “I went there to tell him of my love, to give myself to him, to beg him to take me away from here, to take me anywhere, only to let me be near him, to stay with him. But I was forced to come away without seeing him, thanks to you.”
For a moment he regarded the reckless woman in silence, amazement15, shame, and anger struggling for the mastery.
“Alice, of what are you thinking?” he ejaculated finally, catching16 her roughly by the arm. “You must control yourself. I speak for your own good. Think no more of this idle poet, for only shame, ruin and unhappiness can come to ye and your husband, unless ye give up this unholy passion.”
She laughed scornfully. “My husband!” she cried bitterly. “Don’t remind me of that fossil! You, and the rest of my family, are to blame for my being fettered18, tied to a man I do not love. If it were not for that, I could find the happiness I crave19.”
“Sh! be calm!” he continued, looking anxiously around. “You may be overheard. Foolish woman![186] do you forget that Robert Burns, as well as yourself, is married.”
“He is not!” she flashed impetuously. “That was no legal tie. Some foolish chit of a country lass flung herself at him, with the usual result. Any man would have done as he did, but unlike most men, he, out of pity and from a high sense of honor, married her; but it was an irregular marriage, which was speedily annulled20 by the girl’s father. He is free now, free as ever he was. The girl has given him up, poor fool. I only am the shackled21 one, a prisoner for life, unless——” An eager light flashed in her deepened eyes.
“Unless Robert Burns elopes with ye!” he finished sarcastically22. “I warn ye, Alice, not to play with edged tools;’tis o’er dangerous. Be more careful or others will suspect what I already know.” She smiled disdainfully and shrugged23 her shapely shoulders.
“Do not force me to open your husband’s eyes!” he retorted, angered by her irritating indifference25. She looked at him, her heart filled with sudden fury. How she would like to hit him in the face with her fan, how she hated him and his interference, his unwelcome advice. “Already,” he continued irritably26, “you have given that scandalmonger, Eppy McKay, cause to suspect your too warm and ardent27 affection for Mr. Burns, by openly showing jealousy28 of Lady Nancy Gordon.”
[187]
“I jealous of Nancy Gordon?” she repeated, with airy scorn, walking toward the door of the conservatory. “Huh, not I, uncle; I am not so unconscious of my own charms,” and she drew her magnificent figure up to its full height, then smiled insolently29 into his perturbed30 and nervous face. “I thank you for all your advice,” she murmured sweetly as they traversed the long hall, “but remember, hereafter, that I mean to steer33 my own canoe, whether it leads me into safe waters or through the rapids.” And with a radiant smile upon her sensuous34 lips she entered the drawing-room, leaning affectionately upon the arm of her outraged35 but speechless relative. Quietly she took her place by her waiting husband’s side, her dark eyes full of a bewitching and dangerous softness, for her thoughts were on the one guest whose very name had the power to move her so completely.
Never had she appeared so dazzlingly beautiful, as she stood there meeting her friends and acquaintances with a deep ceremonious courtesy for the distinguished36 ones, a smile and a nod for her intimates, and an air of high-bred insolence37 and extreme self-satisfaction pervading38 her whole appearance.
No one was ever bored at the Duchess of Athol’s brilliant “at homes.” One always felt sure of meeting at least three or four justly celebrated39 personages under her hospitable40 roof. And to-night society was a-gog, for it was to welcome the farmer-poet,[188] Robert Burns, who had returned from his triumphant41 tour through the Highlands. Soon the capacious drawing-rooms were crowded. There was the rustle43 of silk and satin, rare and delicate perfumes shaken out of lace kerchiefs, while the heavy scent45 of the many bouquets46 oppressed the warm air to the point of suffocation47. There was an interminably monotonous48 murmur31 of voices, only broken at rare intervals49 by a ripple50 of mild laughter. Over by the large windows that overlooked the terrace stood a group of people gazing earnestly out beyond the gardens at some object, which had arrested their attention, with various degrees of interest.
“Whatever is happening below on Princes Street?” suddenly inquired one of the ladies, nervously51 clutching the arm of the man nearest her. Eppy McKay was an eccentric maiden52 lady of questionable53 age and taste. Of more than ordinary height naturally, she looked a giantess in her powdered wig54, which towered fully17 a foot in the air, and which was decorated profusely55 with waving plumes56, rosettes and jewels. Her lowcut gown of crimson57 satin, over a petticoat of quilted green silk, was cut extremely low, revealing a vision of skin and bones, powdered to a ghastly whiteness. Her affectations, her simperings, and her poses accorded society much amusement, of which fact she was blissfully unconscious.
“There is a crowd gathered around a carriage,[189] but farther than that I cannot make out,” replied Mr. Mackenzie, the famous author and publisher.
A prolonged shout from below increased the restlessness of the timid Eppy. “Oh, dear!” she gasped59. “If it should be an uprising of the Jacobites,” and she looked fearfully into the amused faces of her companions.
With a disgusted grunt61, Sir William Creech shook his arm free from her clawlike clutch. “Nonsense, woman, ye’re daft!” he answered impatiently.
“Well, upon my word!” she murmured in injured surprise.
“The mob is increasing—’tis coming nearer!” exclaimed Mr. Mackenzie, stepping out upon the wide balcony.
“So it is,” affirmed Eppy, retreating behind the heavy curtains. “Lady Glencairn!” she called as her ladyship approached the window. “Listen to those murmurs62! Oh, dear! it makes me so nervous.”
Lady Glencairn stepped out upon the balcony, followed by the timid Eppy, and stood contemplating63 the scene in the brightly lighted street below them.
“It sounds not ominous,” she said quietly, after a moment. “Lud, what a throng64! They have unhitched the horses from a carriage, and are themselves drawing it hither.”
“Who is in the carriage, can you see?” eagerly asked Eppy, straining her eyes.
[190]
“A gentleman, who is evidently addressing the people,” answered Lady Glencairn slowly. She gazed intently at the figure silhouetted65 against the light of the street lamps. Surely she knew that form. At that moment he turned, and with a flush of surprise, a thrill of joy, she suddenly recognized him.
“Upon my life,’tis Robert, Robert Burns!” she cried excitedly.
“Aye, I recognize him now,” said Mr. Mackenzie.
“And you say they are drawing him hither?” inquired Sir William incredulously, turning to his niece.
“Aye, and why not?” she replied brightly, turning to the others. “They should carry him on their shoulders, for he deserves all homage66.”
“And ’tis said the Scots are not demonstrative,” ejaculated Mr. Mackenzie, as another burst of applause and cheers, followed by laughter, reached their ears.
“You hear how demonstrative they can be when occasion demands enthusiasm,” replied Lady Glencairn stanchly, “when genius knocks at the door of their hearts. See how Edinburgh has utterly67 lost control of its conservative old self, and all over the poetic68 genius of Robert Burns.”
“True, he has indeed stirred the hardest-hearted Scot by his fascinating poetry,” mused60 Mr. Mackenzie admiringly.
[191]
“How I shall love him,” sighed Eppy dreamily. “In sooth I do now,” and she simpered and dropped her eyes like a love-sick school girl.
“And she has never met the man yet!” cried Sir William in amazement. “The woman’s daft,” he muttered, turning away.
“I do wish he would come,” sighed Eppy. “I want to tell him how much I admire him and his poetry. Oh, I have the dearest little speech, that Sibella, my sister, composed, all prepared to say when I am presented to him.” She rolled her eyes up ecstatically.
“I shall also recite one of his odes to him,” she continued, in the tone of one who is about to confer a great favor. “I know ’twill please him greatly,” and she fanned herself languidly.
“What have you selected?” inquired Lady Glencairn, laughing openly. The woman’s vanity amused her.
“Such a sweet conceit,” simpered Eppy.
“Is it ‘Tam O’Shanter’s Tale’?” inquired Mr. Mackenzie, interestedly.
“An ode to a calf,” said Sir William grimly, “would be more appropriate.”
“Perhaps ’tis the tale of ‘The Twa Dogs,’” hazarded Lady Glencairn. Eppy laughed gleefully and shook her head.
[192]
“Tell us the name, madam; we’re no children!” roared Sir William, glaring at her like an angry bull.
“You’re so gruff,” pouted71 Eppy reproachfully. “Do you all give it up?” They nodded. “Well, then, don’t be shocked,” and she shook her finger at them coquettishly; then leaning forward she whispered loudly, “’Tis entitled ‘To a Louse.’”
“She’s touched here!” cried Sir William commiseratingly, putting his finger to his head.
“Why did you choose that?” gasped Lady Glencairn, in amazement.
“Because ’tis a beautiful conceit,” answered Eppy soulfully. “I protest, I mean to recite it.”
“I don’t see why,” snapped Eppy spitefully. “’Twas written round a fact.”
“Really, I hadn’t heard of that,” answered her ladyship, coolly turning away.
“I wonder at that,” cooed Eppy innocently, although a little malicious75 twinkle appeared in her eyes. “You of all people should know everything pertaining76 to Mr. Burns and his verses.” Lady Glencairn stiffened77 suddenly, and cast a quick look at the stern face of her uncle.
“What do you mean by that?” inquired Sir William aggressively, turning to Eppy.
[193]
“Oh, nothing, nothing!” she hastily replied, frightened by what she had said.
“Everything concerning Mr. Burns, my husband’s protégé, and my friend, my dear friend, I may call him, does interest me mightily78, Miss McKay. Pray tell me the story connected with the poem, if you care to!” and Lady Glencairn turned her glittering eyes, which were narrowed dangerously, upon the face of the crestfallen79 Eppy.
Sir William gave a snort of anger. “Ye couldn’t stop her; she is dying to tell all she knows!” he said crustily.
Eppy cleared her throat vigorously. “Well, it was this way,” she began confidentially80. “Mr. Burns was sitting behind a lady in Kirk, one Sabbath, who had on a new bonnet81, of which she seemed most proud. As he was admiring its beauty, his keen eyes detected this horrid82 little animal crawling over the gauze and lace.”
“And it immediately inspired his pen to write the verses which have made such a sensation in town,” concluded Eppy, looking eagerly at her listeners for some look or word of approval.
“What a—a creepy story,” said Lady Glencairn, with a little shiver of repulsion.
She turned to her quickly. “’Tis said, my dear, and I ask you not to repeat it, for I promised not to[194] tell, that the lady in question was Agnes McLehose, the beautiful grass widow, who is such an ardent admirer of Mr. Burns, you know.”
“Really!” murmured Lady Glencairn coldly.
“And the airs she put on!” cried Eppy, with lofty indignation. “Why, do you know——”
But Lady Glencairn interrupted her sharply. “I do not care to speak of Agnes McLehose,” she retorted frigidly84, “and I never indulge in scandal, especially before my friends, so let us not disgust them with any woman’s gossip.”
“You are quite right,” affirmed Eppy affably. “I do not believe in it myself; it always comes back to one.”
“Well, it’s most easy to understand men,” retorted Eppy quickly.
With a sigh of impatience86, Lady Glencairn took Mr. Mackenzie’s arm and silently they re?ntered the drawing-room. They wended their way through the groups of people standing87 about, for the largest and most brilliant portion of the assemblage were standing, the sofas, ottomans, and chairs being occupied by the puffy old dowagers, who were entertaining each other with choice bits of scandal; and, finally, came to a standstill beside the grand piano. For a moment they remained quiet, listening to the glorious voice of Madame Urbani, who from the great[195] drawing-room above was trilling forth88 an aria89 from grand opera. From her position Lady Glencairn commanded a good view of the large arch through which the guests entered the drawing-rooms. Anxiously she watched for the handsome face and curly black hair of the poet above the crowd that surrounded her. “Why does he not come? what can be detaining him?” she asked herself for the hundredth time. Perhaps he was with Lady Nancy Gordon, she thought jealously, looking about the vast room. She was sure she had not yet been announced. It looked very suspicious that neither she, nor Robert, had arrived. And her heart was consumed with bitter jealousy, although her smiling face bore no traces of the raging fire within. How she hated that doll-faced beauty for being single and free! How she would delight in trampling90 her in the dust, she thought cruelly. Nearly a month had elapsed since Robert left Edinburgh, since she had seen him. A month filled with vain longing91 and unrest. And since his return, she could scarcely restrain her intense longing to see him. Day after day she would drive slowly past his lodgings92, hoping to catch a glimpse of his glowing, dark face, which had such power to thrill her to the very depths of her intense and passionate13 nature. That longing had taken possession of her to-night, when she had slipped out and stolen away to his rooms, and she would have willingly given her body and soul to him, for the asking;[196] but her good angel had protected her from her own indiscretion, and saved her unsuspecting victim from a great remorse94. The gurgling voice of Eppy McKay broke in abruptly95 on her disturbing revery.
“Oh, dear, I wish Mr. Burns would come,” she said plaintively96.
“He is usually very punctual,” answered Lady Glencairn, opening her large fan of ostrich97 plumes and fanning herself indolently.
“Genius is never governed by any rules of punctuality or propriety,” observed Mr. Mackenzie.
“Then he is exempt,” replied her ladyship, smiling brightly. “Ah! you truant98. Where have you been?” she demanded of her husband, who joined them at that moment.
“Incidentally getting a breath of fresh air, my dear,” replied Lord Glencairn, smiling lovingly into his wife’s face. “But in reality, I was listening to the ovation99 which Robert was receiving as he drove through Princes Street.” Her eyes suddenly brightened.
“How I wish I could have heard his speech to the masses,” she cried enthusiastically. “For I must confess, James, that no man’s conversation ever carried me off my feet so completely as that of Robert Burns.”
“Indeed, my lady!” he retorted in mock alarm. “Then it behooves100 me to keep my eye on you hereafter.”
[197]
She joined in the laugh that followed, then remarked audaciously, “But, I vow, a little flirtation101 is really most exhilarating now and then.” She flashed her brilliant eyes mockingly upon the horror-struck countenance102 of Eppy McKay.
“How indiscreet!” exclaimed Eppy in amazement, “and you are a married woman, too.”
Eppy pursed her thin lips, while a little spot of color dyed her parchment-like cheeks. “Well, I do not approve of married women flirting,” she replied primly105, and as she caught the look of amusement which passed between her ladyship and Mr. Mackenzie, she added sourly, “Especially in public.”
“Oh! Then you do approve of it in private,” replied her ladyship sweetly, innocently opening her eyes to their widest.
Eppy gave a gasp of horror. “Mercy, no!” she cried indignantly, “I should say not.” And she tossed her head in virtuous106 anger.
There was a sudden hush108, a movement of excitement, and the group around the door fell back, and everybody made way for the most important guest of the evening, who for the last hour had been the all-absorbing topic of conversation. Lady Glencairn started violently, as she heard the name announced.[198] For a brief instant she closed her eyes, feeling faint, and trembling in an ecstasy109 of joy. He was here at last! Her heart throbbed110 so violently it stifled111 her.
“How noble he looks!” exclaimed Eppy in an awestruck tone, as she watched the tall figure in a polite but determined112 manner coolly elbowing a passage among the heaving bare shoulders, fat arms, the long trains, and bulging113 bustles114 and paniers that seriously obstructed115 his way. “And to think that man is but a lowly-bred peasant,” observed Mr. Mackenzie, as he watched him bending low over the hand of their hostess.
“A man’s a man, for all that!” murmured her ladyship, worshipful pride in her voice and in her dazzling eyes, as she watched him approach, bowing right and left. She drew herself up with the conscious air of a beauty who knows she is nearly perfect, and with a smile she extended her jeweled hand. “I’m so glad to see you here to-night,” she says sweetly, although a glance like fire seen through smoke leaps from beneath her silky eyelashes, but Robert saw it not; he was bending low over her fair hand. “Welcome back to Edinburgh!” she continued, pressing his hand warmly.
A bright smile lighted up his dark visage. “Thank ye,” he returned simply. Then he turned to Lord Glencairn with outstretched hand. “My lord!” he said warmly, “how glad, how delighted,[199] I am to again press the hand of my patron, my friend.”
“The pleasure is mutual116, my lad!” he replied. A kindly117 smile lighted up his noble face, as he perceived the ruddy glow of health in the full cheeks, the flashing eyes of the young poet. “Ah, you return to us looking bonnier than ever,” he continued. “Your triumphant tour through the north with its Highland42 chieftains and lords at your feet, has not turned your head after all.”
“Let me present Mr. Henry Mackenzie,” introduced Lady Glencairn at this juncture.
Robert advanced eagerly to meet him, his hand extended, his eyes flashing with delight. “The author of the ‘Man of Feeling,’ the first book I loved and admired years ago!” he exclaimed in direct frankness. “It is an unexpected pleasure, sir.”
“The pleasure is mutual,” replied Mr. Mackenzie, flushing at the compliment. “We witnessed your triumphant progress up Princes Street, and were delighted at the ovation you received.”
Robert laughed happily. “Was it not wonderful?” he answered in his sonorous119 voice, which had such a thrilling richness in it. “I could scarcely realize it was the once poor, humble120 Robbie Burns they were cheering. I am indeed happy; my popularity has not begun to wane121 yet.” He regarded[200] the great publisher with kindling122 eyes. “That I am so favorably known, is due to your kindly articles in your inestimable paper, The Lounger, and your unbiased criticism of my poems, which brought me before the public, and I thank you most heartily for that generous criticism which was so judicious123 withal.” A little murmur of approval from his listeners greeted his last words.
“’Twas a pleasure, believe me, Mr. Burns,” he answered quietly, “to lend a helping124 hand to assist a struggling genius.”
“Thank ye,” said Robert, simply.
“I believe you have never met our esteemed125 contemporary, Mr. Sterne, author of ‘Tristam Shandy,’” observed Mr. Mackenzie, and he quickly made the introduction.
Robert turned quickly to the grave and dignified126 scholar. “Little did I ever dream,” he said fervently127, “that I would one day meet and converse128 with my two favorite authors.”
A smile of gratified vanity overspread the rugged24 features of the scholar. “I am proud indeed,” he observed pompously129, “if my book has found favor in your eyes, Mr. Burns.” And soon they had become engaged in an animated130 conversation, much to the chagrin131 of one of his admirers, who had been waiting patiently to be introduced. She had been mentally rehearsing her little speech for some time, and was now waiting for the opportunity to deliver it.
[201]
“Huh! he makes love to every woman he meets!” replied Sir William spitefully.
With a thrill of rapture at the thought, Eppy attracted the attention of Lady Glencairn, and whispered in that lady’s impatient ear, “Introduce me, please; I see Mr. Burns is regarding me very closely.”
Presently a lull134 occurred in the discussion, and Lady Glencairn smilingly introduced the garrulous135 old lady to the poet, as a “warm admirer of his poems.” “And of you, too,” eagerly interrupted Eppy, clasping his hand in both of her own. “Oh! I have longed for this moment, that I might clasp the hand of Scotia’s Bard136, and tell him how I love him,”—she broke off with a smothered137 giggle138. “I mean his poems; oh, they are too heavenly for utterance,” and she rolled her little gray eyes till only the whites showed. “Sibella—she’s my sister, and a dear creature if I do say so—and I have had many a lovely cry over them,” she rattled139 on hardly pausing for breath. “Ah, they have made us so happy. You must come and see her, won’t you, she’s a writer also, and you can have a sweet talk over your art. We belong to a literary family, you know. Rob Don, the Gaelic poet, belonged to our clan140. We take[202] after him.” She smiled affectedly141 and batted her little eyes in what she fondly believed a very fetching manner.
Robert had vainly tried to edge in a word, and now stood listening to the silly prattle142, a smile of amusement playing round his mobile mouth.
“A long way after,” observed Sir William dryly. Then he threw up his hands in dismay, for Eppy had started off again.
“Here I am rattling143 off a lot of nonsense,” she gurgled, “but I do enjoy your talking so much, Mr. Burns. I vow I could listen to it all day. I shall always remember this happy occasion of our meeting.” She stopped, out of breath, panting but happy.
Robert regarded her quizzically for a moment while an audible titter was heard throughout the rooms. “You quite overwhelm me, Miss McKay,” he drawled at last. “But I have nevertheless enjoyed conversing144 with you. Really, madam, I felt quite eloquent145 and did myself full justice,” and he bowed gravely.
“Oh, you flatterer!” tittered Eppy, slapping his arm coquettishly with her fan. “But I am not madam yet.” She ventured a quick look at Sir William.
“Robert, I have been requested to ask you to recite one of your favorite poems; will you honor us?” asked Lord Glencairn, coming forward.
[203]
At once there was a chorus of inanely146 polite voices. “Oh, do recite, Mr. Burns!” “Please give us ‘Tam O’Shanter’s Ride,’” etc., etc.
Robert slowly looked around him at the sea of faces, and suddenly a feeling of resentment147 filled his heart. Must he parade himself before these empty-headed noodles, who regarded him in the light of a curiosity, a plaything, to amuse them by his antics? Why didn’t they ask Mr. Mackenzie or Mr. Sterne or Dr. Blacklock, Mr. Ramsay, or any one of the others to read from their books?
“I must ask ye to excuse me to-night,” he replied coldly. “I have been speaking in the open air and my voice is tired.”
“Then I will recite in your stead,” cried Eppy, determined to make an impression on the romantic young farmer.
They crowded around her, laughing and joking, for poor Eppy was the innocent, unsuspecting butt148 of society.
“What is your selection?” someone asked seriously.
“’Tis about the cunning little animal Mr. Burns saw on the lady’s bonnet,” replied Eppy. “The lady’s name was—er——” She paused and looked inquiringly into Robert’s grimly amused face.
“Ye would be very much surprised, perhaps shocked and grieved, Miss McKay,” he answered, “were I to mention the lady’s name here, so I’ll spare[204] your feelings. Please recite the poem.” Eppy made a deep courtesy, blissfully unconscious that the lady in question was none else than herself. And after arranging her dress to her satisfaction, cleared her throat affectedly and made several ineffectual attempts to begin the recitation. Gradually a look of comical despair puckered150 up her face, and turning to Robert with an embarrassed giggle, she exclaimed poutingly151, “I cannot recall a single line. How provoking, and I protest. I knew every line by rote73 this morning. Please start me on the first verse, Mr. Burns.”
The spectacle of this silly old woman making a fool of herself before that heartless crowd both annoyed and embarrassed Robert. “The last verse is my favorite,” he replied, frowning angrily at the amused titters which reached his ears from all sides, and quickly he read the verse through:
“Oh wad some power the giftie gie us
To see ourselves as others see us.
It wad fra many a blunder free us, and foolish notion
What airs in dress and gait wad leave us, and e’en devotion.”
And none knew whether the shaft152 was pointed153 at them or at the object of their mirth, who stood before him with clasped hands and a smile meant to be winning on her weak face, listening with all her senses.
“How true that is,” murmured Lady Glencairn.
“Yes, indeed,” sighed Eppy soulfully. “What[205] fools some people make of themselves, and they never know it, which is the funny part of it.” She darted154 a quick glance at Lady Glencairn, who returned the look calmly and evenly, although she was saying to herself, “Is she the fool she appears, or is she giving me a dig, I wonder?”
She turned to Robert. “Mr. Burns, will you find me a chair, please; I am rather fatigued155, standing so long.”
He offered her his arm. “It will be rather a difficult matter,” he observed, looking about him vainly. “Still, I can try.” And he moved through the swaying crowd and out upon the balcony, with her little gloved hand resting lightly on his coat sleeve.
“I saw you this morning, Mr. Burns, on Calton Hill,” she observed lightly, “but at a distance. Upon driving nearer I lost sight of you; you must have vanished into the air.”
“Not at all,” replied Robert, sitting beside her on the low balustrade. “I found a beautiful solitude156 amongst a luxuriant growth of willows157, which no doubt you overlooked.”
“To be sure,” she returned. “Now I remember. A sad scene occurred there a few years ago; a lady from Loch Carron drowned herself in the little pond they hang over, because the man she loved despised her.” Her voice was soft and low. She drooped158 her eyes and sighed.
[206]
“Poor unhappy woman,” sighed Robert sympathetically.
She looked at him quickly, her face flushing, her eyes earnestly searching his face. “Then you would have pitied her?” she asked almost breathlessly.
“He cannot be a man who would not pity a woman under such circumstances,” he replied simply and thoughtfully.
“She loved him devotedly159, recklessly,” she continued, her voice trembling with suppressed emotion; “but she had no moral right to do so,” she continued. “She was a wife, a miserable160, unhappy wife; she deserved much pity, but he was pitiless and uncharitable. He despised her weakness, and so—she drowned herself.” Her voice sank into a strained, unnatural161 whisper.
“Poor unhappy woman!” he repeated compassionately162. “She was over-hasty, I fear.”
“You would not have consigned163 her to such a fate, would you?” she faltered164, laying her soft feverish165 hand on his.
He started violently and was silent for a time. Then, slowly, sorrowfully he turned and looked into her tell-tale face; for a moment she gazed at him, her eyes glittering with an unholy light, her bosom166 heaving tumultuously. Then she slowly drooped her head.
“’Twould be a heavy load to have on one’s conscience,” he replied constrainedly167.
[207]
He rose from his seat and stood looking thoughtfully across to where Edinburgh castle loomed168 up on the hill, so cold and gloomy, outlined against the blue sky.
She glided169 swiftly to his side. “Robert, let me——” she began passionately, when the cold voice of Sir William Creech rooted her to the spot in terror. Out of the shadow walked her uncle, and ignoring her presence he addressed himself to Robert.
“Well, Mr. Burns!” he said angrily, “perhaps ye’ll condescend170 to notice me now, your publisher, Sir William Creech.”
“I hope ye’re well,” returned Robert indifferently.
Sir William quivered with rage. “Ye’ve been in town a week, and yet ye have not called to notify me of your arrival,” he sputtered171.
“I quite forgot, Sir William,” answered Rob repentently; “you see I’m not a good business man. However, to-morrow I will call and we will arrange our much neglected business matters.”
“And there is much to arrange. Why did ye refuse to write for my weekly? I offered to pay ye well for it,” he snarled173.
“Pay!” flashed Rob indignantly. “Do you think to buy the fruit of my brain like so much merchandise, at so much a line for a penny newspaper? I am not a penny journalist, I am a poet. Whenever I embark174 on any undertaking175 it is with honest enthusiasm, and to talk of money, wage, or fee would[208] be a downright prostitution of the soul,” and his eyes flashed dangerously.
“You do not despise money, Robert Burns?” retorted Sir William sarcastically.
“Most certainly not!” replied Robert quickly. “’Tis a most necessary commodity, but extremely elusive176, and to show you that money has no terrors for me, I shall expect a settlement to-morrow in full. Some ￡300 are due me from the sale of the last edition of my songs.” He returned Sir William’s wrathful gaze, his eyes full of righteous anger and strong determination.
“Just one word more, Mr. Burns!” he began belligerently177, but Robert raised his hand with a stately gesture.
“I’m in a sorry mood for business, Sir William Creech,” he warned him, a steely glitter in his eye.
“Well, ye will hear what I’ve to say,” insisted Sir William doggedly178. “Ye are under contract to me, sir; but instead of living up to the terms of that agreement, ye are scattering179 broadcast to every person that pleases your fancy, a song or an ode or a poem, which diminishes the worth and consequent sale of your collection.”
“Lud, uncle,” interposed Lady Glencairn quickly, “I’ll warrant it makes not the slightest difference.”
“’Tis not fair to me,” sputtered Sir William, “and I warn ye, Mr. Burns, ye must not do it again. I strictly180 forbid it.”
[209]
“Uncle!” gasped Lady Glencairn in amazement.
“Ye forbid?” repeated Robert in immeasurable scorn. “Ye nor any man living can dictate181 to Robert Burns. I shall write when an’ for whom I please. I will not barter182 an’ sell my soul like so much merchandise. You published my collection of songs an’ have made money out o’ the transaction, which is mair than I have done. I am sick of it all; I am done with your roguery, your deceit, now an’ forever.” And he waved his hand in angry dismissal.
“But our contract,” gasped Sir William, taken aback.
“’Tis ended now, canceled by your ain insult, an’ I shall take means to collect my just dues.”
“Are you not hasty?” asked Lady Glencairn concernedly.
“I told ye to call to-morrow,” snarled Sir William, “and I’ll pay ye, then ye can gang your own gait. I have sought to give you advice, but ye were too haughty and independent, and ye wouldn’t listen, but ye will yet see and realize the bitter truth of my words, so go on in your career of folly183 and its inevitable184 ruin, for ye’ll soon be at the end of your tether, and may the devil claim ye for his own.” He stalked angrily away, muttering to himself, “Ye upstart, ye low-born peasant, I’ll humble ye yet!”
Robert turned to Lady Glencairn with a smile of apology on his lips. “I ask your pardon, Lady Glencairn,” he said humbly185, “for being the cause of[210] this unseemly scene in your presence, but my anger was aroused, an’ I simply couldna’ help speaking my thoughts—I am always doing the wrong thing.”
“Oh, nonsense!” she responded laughingly. “Let us forget it and join the others.” She took his arm and they slowly entered the ballroom186, where they were speedily joined by Lord Glencairn and a party of friends, who immediately surrounded them.
“My dear,” said Lord Glencairn, “do you know that you have left us an unconscionable time? Is there some witchery about yon balcony that I know not of?” and he smiled affectionately upon his wife, whose eyes were shining with happiness.
“Your pardon, James, but I’m sure our absence was not noted187 in such a distinguished assemblage.” She glanced carelessly about the room at the groups of sedate-looking people gravely conversing with each other while they strolled slowly, aimlessly about with much dignity and ceremony, and an almost imperceptible sneer188 curled her full lips. “Oh, the stiff formality of some of these Calvinistic old fossils!” she remarked contemptuously to Robert.
“From all such people, good Lord deliver us,” he replied in a low chant.
“Amen!” cried Eppy, looking archly at Sir William. “Give me youth and gayety always.” Sir William looked his unspoken scorn.
“You and I may well sigh for youth, Miss McKay,” quavered the venerable Dr. Blacklock. “Many[211] moons have passed since he eluded190 our clutch and fled, never to return,” and he sighed dismally191.
“Speak for yourself, Doctor,” bridled192 Eppy. “I shall never let go my hold on youth,” and she tossed her head indignantly.
“Speaking of fossils,” said Lady Glencairn pointedly193, turning to Eppy, “I wonder what can have happened to Mrs. Dunlop?”
“Oh, she is always late for effect,” she replied spitefully.
“Mrs. Dunlop is a very dear friend of mine,” observed Robert quietly, but his eyes flashed with indignation.
“I beg your pardon for my rudeness,” murmured Lady Glencairn sweetly.
“I understand Mrs. Dunlop is chaperoning a new beauty,” said Lord Glencairn inquiringly to his wife.
She gave him a side glance that was far from pleasant. New beauty, indeed! There was only one recognized beauty in Edinburgh and she would not yield the palm to anyone. “I really do not know to whom you allude194, James,” she said coldly.
The Duchess of Athol, who was standing near, smiled significantly. “Mrs. Dunlop asked permission to bring a young friend, who was visiting her from the Highlands,” she remarked pleasantly. “I do not know her in the least, and they may not come at all.”
[212]
“Mrs. Dunlop and Miss Campbell!” announced the footman loudly. With a smile on his handsome face and a hurried word of apology, Robert rapidly walked to meet the approaching couple, who were the cynosure195 of all eyes. Mrs. Dunlop was recognized by all as a woman of much importance in Edinburgh society. She knew everybody and everybody knew her, for she was the lineal descendant of the immortal196 Wallace, a fact of which she was justly proud. She was a motherly looking woman, with a charming smile and a pleasant, taking manner.
But the murmur of admiration197 throughout the room was not for her; it was for the slim little girl in white with the blue eyes and fair hair, which glittered like gold beneath the brilliant light of the chandeliers. “Who can she be?” they whispered to each other in wonder. “Evidently not a person of importance, else she would be dressed in the fashion of the day and have her hair powdered.”
“At last, Mary, ye’re here!” cried Robert delightedly, placing her hand within his arm. She clung to it with a nervous clutch.
“The child is frightened to death,” whispered Mrs. Dunlop, smiling indulgently.
“‘Mrs. Dunlop and Miss Campbell,’ announced the footman loudly.”
Lady Glencairn turned very pale, as she recognized the girl she had met in Robert’s room. She trembled and could scarcely regain198 her usual composure as Robert with a proud tenderness lighting199 up the depths of his black eyes, led the vision of youth and[213] perfect beauty up to the hostess, to whom he introduced Mary. Then he turned to Lady Glencairn. “Lady Glencairn, allow me to introduce to you Miss Campbell. You remember Highland Mary, do you not?”
She gave a slight start and her muscles tightened200. The dairymaid sweetheart here in Edinburgh? she thought in amazement. What could it mean?
“Quite well,” she answered, extending her cold jeweled hand. “I little dreamed I should ever meet you here like this, but the unexpected always happens.”
“Dinna’ ye mind, my lady,” replied Mary simply, “ye said ye would be glad to see me whenever I came to town.” She raised those marvelous, innocent eyes of hers and smiled. Why did Lady Glencairn shrink from that frank and childlike openness of regard? Why did she for one brief moment feel herself to be vile201 and beneath contempt? She turned to where Mrs. Dunlop was conversing animatedly202 with their hostess, a flush akin69 to shame mantling203 her haughty face.
“My dear Duchess,” she was saying apologetically, “pray pardon our late arrival, but I assure you ’tis not made for effect; our carriage broke down on the way.”
Eppy started in amazement; had she overheard her spiteful remark?
The Duchess graciously inclined her stately[214] head. “So glad you got here at all, Mrs. Dunlop,” she said.
Robert turned laughingly to the group of eager people importuning204 him for an introduction to the beautiful débutante. “Time forbids my introducing ye individually to Miss Campbell,” he said good-naturedly, “therefore let me present ye collectively to Highland Mary, my future wife, whom ye have all read of an’ loved in my poems.” A ripple of applause greeted the news, and congratulations poured in upon them, both hearty205 and sincere.
Lady Glencairn staggered slightly, her face paling, but she quickly recovered and stood haughtily206 erect207, fanning herself a little more rapidly, her full red lips tightened to a thin malicious line.
Eppy rushed up to Mary effusively208. “May I kiss you, dear?” she asked gushingly209, “you are so sweet and pretty, just like I was a few years ago,” and she kissed the blushing girl with a resounding210 smack211. “You’ll be married in Edinburgh, I presume?” she continued volubly. “I must attend the wedding.”
“The marriage will be most private, madam,” observed Robert coldly.
“Do you stay long in Edinburgh, Miss Campbell?” asked Lady Glencairn abruptly, forcing a smile to her lips.
“No, not long, your ladyship,” replied Mary timidly. The cold metallic212 tones of the haughty[215] lady frightened her strangely. “I—I ne’er thought I’d e’er come to Edinburgh,” she said, “but——” She hesitated and looked shyly at Robert, and then looked modestly down at the bit of cobweb lace which she held in her hand and which did duty as a ’kerchief.
“But I found the barrier between us was down, that I was free as ever to wed5 the sweetheart of my boyhood days,” he explained with simple dignity.
“Aye, but you make a bonnie couple,” exclaimed Mrs. Dunlop admiringly. “Well, I don’t blame anyone for falling in love with you, Robert,” she declared frankly. “You’re a great man,” and she nodded her head vigorously. “And a handsome one, too.”
Robert blushed and shook his finger in warning at his old friend, although a tender smile played around his eyes and mouth. “Mrs. Dunlop, men are said to flatter women because they are weak,” he said, “but if it is so, poets must be weaker still, for the artful compliments I have received from your sex have absolutely turned my head, an’ really I begin to look on myself as a person of no small importance,” and he roguishly winked213 his eye at his old friend.
In the brief lull that followed the general laugh, the voice of Lord Glencairn could be heard in conversation with Mary, who was earnestly gazing up[216] into his face, all traces of timidity gone, for she felt singularly at her ease in the presence of the kindly old nobleman. “And so you mean to take Robert away from us for good, eh?” he was saying in his earnest, serious manner.
Lady Glencairn snapped her fan together convulsively. “You mean to leave Edinburgh for good?” she asked in faint, incredulous accents, turning to Robert.
The people crowded around and a storm of protest arose. “What madness!” “Leave Edinburgh for the country!” “They couldn’t hear of such a thing.” “He owed a duty to them as Scotland’s Bard!” etc., etc.
Robert turned to them and spoke189 lightly, although with an undercurrent of seriousness. “I ken I am but wasting my time, my energies, my talents here, amid the sensual delight which your city affords,” he said. “I am not formed for it. I am but a rustic214 at heart and in manners, and the country is my only vantageground.”
Mary stole softly to his side and snuggled her hand in his. “Isn’t it sweet to be in love?” cried Eppy cooingly, to Sir William, in a sibilant aside. “Think what we are missing.”
“We’re too old for such nonsense,” replied Sir William gruffly.
[217]
“Oh, indeed!” flashed Eppy. “Huh, a woman’s never too old to love,” with an indignant toss of her head.
“No, nor to make a fool of herself,” retorted Sir William, smiling grimly.
“But we cannot give you up just yet,” declared Lord Glencairn emphatically, placing his hand affectionately on Robert’s shoulder.
“I am sure, Mr. Burns,” said Mr. Mackenzie gravely, “that your friends and admirers would not advise such a move for you, especially as you are now riding high on the top wave of success.”
“I have nothing to gain by staying here, Mr. Mackenzie,” replied Robert, turning to him and speaking slowly and thoughtfully, “for, as you observe, I am now firmly established as a poet. I fear I am not proof against the subtle temptations which constantly beset215 my path and which push aside all thoughts of poesy; so as discretion93 is the better part of valor,” he continued, looking lovingly at the girl clinging so confidingly216 to his arm, “I shall flee from it all to my farm, my plow217, and there amid those innocent, wholesome218 surroundings pass my remaining days in peace wi’ my wife by my side.”
Mrs. Dunlop sighed dismally and shook her white curls in decided disapproval219. “Laddie, you will be taking a false step,” she declared emphatically; “your place is here before the public.”
“Indeed it is!” gurgled Eppy soulfully. “I[218] protest Edinburgh cannot spare its poet yet. Your old farm can wait for you yet a while.”
Mary looked at his thoughtful face with anxious eyes. She prayed fervently that nothing would dissuade220 him from his purpose. For it had been at her earnest solicitation221 that he finally decided to give up the enervating222 pleasures of the Capital, and to retire to the country where he would be free from the contaminating influences which now surrounded him.
He smiled reassuringly223 into her perturbed little face. No power on earth could tempt149 him to break the promise he had so willingly made her on that first day of her arrival in the gay metropolis224, he thought fondly. He turned to his questioners, who were eagerly awaiting his answer, his face shining with fixed225 determination.
“My friends,” he said quietly, “I am only a farmer born, a son of the soil. My one ambition now is to have my own roof-tree near the Doon, where amidst the beauties of harmonious226 nature the Goddess Muse58 will commune with me as of old, for ’twas there the greatest inspiration of my soul came to me, and I know if all else fails me an independent livelihood227 awaits me at the plowtail.”
Lady Glencairn, who had been feverishly229 toying with her fan, turned suddenly to Mary, a sneering[219] smile on her crimson lips, “And have you no higher ambition for your future husband, Miss Campbell?” she demanded, her voice strangely harsh and metallic. “Are you content to have him bury his talents in the country?”
“Yes! Oh, yes!” answered Mary shyly, a happy smile dimpling her sweet face. Then she added na?vely, “Ye ken, I’ll hae him all to myself then.” Robert laughed merrily at this na?ve confession230.
“Young man,” observed Mr. Sterne pompously, “take my word for it, you’ll repent172 it if you leave Edinburgh now.”
“Robbie, what will everybody think?” cried Mrs. Dunlop tearfully. “You are daft to run away while the world is literally231 at your feet.”
“For how long?” he asked laconically232.
“Until you tire of its homage, my lad,” replied Lord Glencairn stanchly.
Robert shook his head with a doubting smile. “’Twill not be I who will tire first, my lord,” he returned quietly. “I know myself and the world so well. You see the novelty of a poet in my obscure situation, my imperfection of awkward rusticity233 has raised a partial tide of public notice which has borne me to a height where I am absolutely certain my abilities are inadequate234 to support me.” He looked around a trifle defiantly235 at the rows of serious faces, a little feeling of resentment welling up in his heart.
[220]
“You are over-modest, my dear Burns,” observed Mr. Mackenzie with kindling eye.
Robert shook his head with somber236 dignity. “Too surely do I see the time when the same tide will leave me and recede237 as far below the mark of truth.” He turned and faced the people suddenly, his hands outstretched, his eyes filled with melancholy238 enthusiasm. Raising his voice he proceeded prophetically, “My friends, you will all bear me witness, that when the bubble of fame was at its height I stood unintoxicated, with the inebriating239 cup in my hand, looking forward to the hastening time when the blow of calumny240 should dash it to the ground with all the eagerness of revengeful triumph.”
“That time will never come, Robert,” cried Mary softly, “for we will leave this life behind us in a very short while noo.”
Lord Glencairn slapped him on the back with playful earnestness. “Come, come, my lad!” he cried gayly, “this will never do; you are in the dumps; throw it off, lad, and be merry. Do not heed241 the idle gossip of your unsuccessful rivals and the scandal mongers. Rest assured your popularity and fame will never die whether you remain here or retire to the country.”
“Would I could think so,” sighed Robert gloomily.
Eppy suddenly gave a nervous little giggle. “I vow I feel like crying,” she observed hysterically242, “I wish everybody wouldn’t look so mournful.”
[221]
Mr. Mackenzie turned quickly to his hostess. “My dear Duchess,” he said courteously243, “you were going to show us your new painting in which Mr. Burns is the central figure of the group.”
At once the silent group became animated. “Oh, yes, do!” cried Eppy, with a yearning244 look at Robert. “I wonder if I could pick you from among the others?” she coyly observed.
“I trust, madam, that my phiz will be recognizable,” he replied dryly.
The Duchess turned to her husband. “Take Miss Campbell and lead the way to the gallery,” she said quickly.
“Is Mr. Burns to take me?” inquired Eppy of her hostess, but she had followed her husband, leaning on the arm of Mr. Mackenzie.
Lady Glencairn smiled sweetly, “So sorry, Miss McKay, but Sir William has asked for that pleasure.”
“I?” gasped Sir William, with a comical look of dismay.
She looked at him maliciously245. “Yes, did you not?” she raised her eyebrows246 inquiringly, an innocent smile hovering247 about her mouth.
For a moment he sputtered, then with a grim smile he snarled sarcastically, “’Twill afford me great pleasure.”
With a wildly beating heart Lady Glencairn took[222] Robert’s arm and started for the stairs, followed by the others.
Eppy sniffed suspiciously. “Oh, I understand now,” she observed spitefully with a meaning smile.
“I thought you would, dear,” flashed her ladyship mockingly, over her shoulder.
With an indignant clack of her tongue, Eppy haughtily brushed past him and swiftly mounted the stairs, leaving the disgruntled Sir William to follow at his leisure.
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收听单词发音
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1
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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conservatory
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| n.温室，音乐学院；adj.保存性的，有保存力的 | |
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wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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reprehensible
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| adj.该受责备的 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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fettered
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| v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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19
crave
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| vt.渴望得到，迫切需要，恳求，请求 | |
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annulled
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| v.宣告无效( annul的过去式和过去分词 )；取消；使消失；抹去 | |
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shackled
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| 给（某人）带上手铐或脚镣( shackle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sarcastically
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| adv.挖苦地，讽刺地 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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insolently
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| adv.自豪地，自傲地 | |
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perturbed
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| adj.烦燥不安的v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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31
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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32
averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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33
steer
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| vt.驾驶，为…操舵；引导；vi.驾驶 | |
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sensuous
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| adj.激发美感的；感官的，感觉上的 | |
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outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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pervading
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的现在分词 ) | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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40
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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42
highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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43
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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46
bouquets
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| n.花束( bouquet的名词复数 )；（酒的）芳香 | |
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47
suffocation
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| n.窒息 | |
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48
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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49
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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50
ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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51
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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52
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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53
questionable
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| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
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54
wig
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| n.假发 | |
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55
profusely
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| ad.abundantly | |
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56
plumes
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| 羽毛( plume的名词复数 )； 羽毛饰； 羽毛状物； 升上空中的羽状物 | |
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57
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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58
muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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59
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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60
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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61
grunt
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| v.嘟哝；作呼噜声；n.呼噜声，嘟哝 | |
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62
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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63
contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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64
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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65
silhouetted
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| 显出轮廓的，显示影像的 | |
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66
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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67
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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68
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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69
akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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70
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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71
pouted
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| v.撅（嘴）( pout的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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72
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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73
rote
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| n.死记硬背，生搬硬套 | |
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74
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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75
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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76
pertaining
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| 与…有关系的，附属…的，为…固有的(to) | |
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77
stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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78
mightily
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| ad.强烈地；非常地 | |
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79
crestfallen
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| adj. 挫败的，失望的，沮丧的 | |
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80
confidentially
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| ad.秘密地，悄悄地 | |
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81
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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82
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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83
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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84
frigidly
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| adv.寒冷地；冷漠地；冷淡地；呆板地 | |
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85
grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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86
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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87
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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88
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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89
aria
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| n.独唱曲，咏叹调 | |
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90
trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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91
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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92
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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93
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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94
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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95
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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96
plaintively
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| adv.悲哀地，哀怨地 | |
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97
ostrich
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| n.鸵鸟 | |
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98
truant
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| n.懒惰鬼，旷课者；adj.偷懒的，旷课的，游荡的；v.偷懒，旷课 | |
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99
ovation
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| n.欢呼，热烈欢迎，热烈鼓掌 | |
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100
behooves
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| n.利益，好处( behoof的名词复数 )v.适宜( behoove的第三人称单数 ) | |
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101
flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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102
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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103
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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104
mimicked
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| v.（尤指为了逗乐而）模仿( mimic的过去式和过去分词 )；酷似 | |
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105
primly
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| adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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106
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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107
juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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108
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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109
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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110
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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111
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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112
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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113
bulging
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| 膨胀； 凸出（部）； 打气； 折皱 | |
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114
bustles
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| 热闹( bustle的名词复数 )； （女裙后部的）衬垫； 撑架 | |
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115
obstructed
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| 阻塞( obstruct的过去式和过去分词 )； 堵塞； 阻碍； 阻止 | |
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116
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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117
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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118
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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119
sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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120
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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121
wane
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| n.衰微，亏缺，变弱；v.变小，亏缺，呈下弦 | |
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122
kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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123
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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124
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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125
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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126
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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127
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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128
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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129
pompously
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| adv.傲慢地，盛大壮观地；大模大样 | |
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130
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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131
chagrin
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| n.懊恼；气愤；委屈 | |
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132
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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133
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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134
lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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135
garrulous
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| adj.唠叨的，多话的 | |
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136
bard
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| n.吟游诗人 | |
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137
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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138
giggle
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| n.痴笑，咯咯地笑；v.咯咯地笑着说 | |
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139
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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140
clan
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| n.氏族，部落，宗族，家族，宗派 | |
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141
affectedly
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142
prattle
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| n.闲谈；v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话；发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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143
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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144
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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145
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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146
inanely
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147
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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148
butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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149
tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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150
puckered
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| v.（使某物）起褶子或皱纹( pucker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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151
poutingly
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| adv.撅嘴 | |
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152
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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153
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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154
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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155
fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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156
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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157
willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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158
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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159
devotedly
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| 专心地； 恩爱地； 忠实地； 一心一意地 | |
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160
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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161
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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162
compassionately
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| adv.表示怜悯地，有同情心地 | |
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163
consigned
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的过去式和过去分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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164
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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165
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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166
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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167
constrainedly
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| 不自然地，勉强地，强制地 | |
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168
loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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169
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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170
condescend
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| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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171
sputtered
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| v.唾沫飞溅( sputter的过去式和过去分词 )；发劈啪声；喷出；飞溅出 | |
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172
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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173
snarled
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的过去式和过去分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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174
embark
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| vi.乘船，着手，从事，上飞机 | |
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175
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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176
elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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177
belligerently
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178
doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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179
scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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180
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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181
dictate
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| v.口授；(使)听写；指令，指示，命令 | |
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182
barter
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| n.物物交换，以货易货，实物交易 | |
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183
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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184
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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185
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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186
ballroom
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| n.舞厅 | |
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187
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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188
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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189
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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190
eluded
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的过去式和过去分词 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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191
dismally
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| adv.阴暗地，沉闷地 | |
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192
bridled
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| 给…套龙头( bridle的过去式和过去分词 )； 控制； 昂首表示轻蔑（或怨忿等）； 动怒，生气 | |
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193
pointedly
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| adv.尖地，明显地 | |
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194
allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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195
cynosure
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| n.焦点 | |
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196
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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197
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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198
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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199
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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200
tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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201
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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202
animatedly
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| adv.栩栩如生地，活跃地 | |
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203
mantling
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| 覆巾 | |
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204
importuning
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| v.纠缠，向（某人）不断要求( importune的现在分词 )；（妓女）拉（客） | |
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205
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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206
haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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207
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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208
effusively
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| adv.变溢地，热情洋溢地 | |
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209
gushingly
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210
resounding
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| adj. 响亮的 | |
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211
smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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212
metallic
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| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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213
winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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214
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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215
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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216
confidingly
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| adv.信任地 | |
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217
plow
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| n.犁，耕地，犁过的地；v.犁，费力地前进[英]plough | |
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218
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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219
disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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220
dissuade
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| v.劝阻，阻止 | |
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221
solicitation
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| n.诱惑；揽货；恳切地要求；游说 | |
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222
enervating
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| v.使衰弱，使失去活力( enervate的现在分词 ) | |
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223
reassuringly
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| ad.安心，可靠 | |
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224
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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225
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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226
harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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227
livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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228
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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229
feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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230
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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231
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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232
laconically
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| adv.简短地，简洁地 | |
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233
rusticity
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| n.乡村的特点、风格或气息 | |
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234
inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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235
defiantly
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| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
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236
somber
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| adj.昏暗的，阴天的，阴森的，忧郁的 | |
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237
recede
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| vi.退(去)，渐渐远去；向后倾斜，缩进 | |
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238
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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239
inebriating
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| vt.使酒醉，灌醉（inebriate的现在分词形式） | |
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240
calumny
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| n.诽谤，污蔑，中伤 | |
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241
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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242
hysterically
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| ad. 歇斯底里地 | |
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243
courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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244
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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245
maliciously
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| adv.有敌意地 | |
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246
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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247
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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248
testily
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| adv. 易怒地, 暴躁地 | |
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