She lived with an aunt, her mother's half-sister, considerably6 older and less pleasing than her mother in that charming woman's brief day. Her cousins were all older than she; the girls were so perfect in every respect that intimacy7 between her and them was out of the question; the son, a big, blunt young man, was mostly away, and, when at home, too much taken up with other interests to be more than just aware of the violet eyes. So,[143] life was very dull for Emmeline—"Emmie" she was familiarly called.
She went often of an evening to her mother's grave, and, sitting beside it, reflected how it was in keeping with the general sadness of things that there should be no prospect8 of any change for her in all the years of her life, no change from the present weary round of aunt and cousins, of sterile9 duties and insipid10 pleasures.
And there, by her mother's grave, came the very change she was sighing for. She sat on the sward, musingly11 watching the square tower of the church grow gray against the delicate, flushed sky, when she became aware of a stranger going from stone to stone in the fading light, examining the inscriptions12. At first she was afraid. While she debated whether to hide or flee, the stranger approached, and in a foreign voice and accent asked some common question about the place. She could not answer readily for a foolish shame mixed with terror. She got to her feet, blushing, then turning pale. It could be none other than the astonishing fiddler who[144] had played the night before in the hall at Colthorpe, and who could, they said, make your hair rise on end by the power of weird14, unearthly music, or your eyes dissolve with tenderness—as he chose. She stared without speech into his dark, peculiar15 face. And he, seeing that she was discomfited16, instead of apologizing and withdrawing, undertook, in a tone as persuasive17 as his violin's, to set her at ease. And when a few days later he disappeared from that part of the world, the violet eyes disappeared too.
Aunt Lucretia in time received a letter, asking her forgiveness and announcing Emmie's marriage.
She did not grant her forgiveness until several years later, after due savoring18 of sad, black-bordered letters from Emmie, imploring19 kindness. Her husband, after a brief illness, was dead; her little boy and she were left alone, without anything in the world. She acknowledged her fault so humbly20; she owned so freely that her marriage had been excessively—deservedly—wretched; she longed so desperately21 to be taken back into her old[145] home, that Lucretia found herself relenting. Her daughters were now married and lived at a distance; she felt daily more and more the need of a female companion. Her son, after reading the young widow's pitiful appeals, protested that it would be inhuman22 to refuse her a shelter. It was decided23 that she should be allowed to come, and in time the big, blunt Gregory, of whom she had been afraid in old days, went a long stretch of the journey to meet her, for that had seemed to him requisite24, though to his mother superfluous25. He even crossed the arm of sea that she must presently be crossing, with no apparent purpose but to cross it again with her.
When the boat was well out at sea and the passengers had disposed themselves in patience about the deck, he marched up and down, as did several of the others, and, while avoiding to look like one in search, sought diligently26 the remembered face of his cousin.
It was a cheerless gray day. The sea was quiet; the boat pitched but slightly. He was not long unsuccessful; when he had satis[146]fied himself that she was not in the crowd on the windside, he went to lee and saw her sitting almost alone. She might have gone there for warmth. She did not seem to notice that cinders27 and fine soot28 were raining down upon her. He found himself disinclined to accost29 her at once; he went to lean where he could watch her without pointed30 appearance of curiosity.
She looked mournful in her black things—not the new, crisp crape of well-to-do bereavement31, but a poor gentlewoman's ordinary shabby black. Her cheeks had lost their pretty roundness; the effect of her eyes was more than ever melancholy. The pale little face, set in its faint-colored hair, framed in its black bonnet32, might pass a hundred times unnoticed: it had little to arrest the attention; but attention, by whatever chance once secured, must be followed by a gentle, compassionate33 interest in the breast of the beholder36. This emotion felt Gregory.
She sat on one of the ship's benches, hugging her black wrap about her, hiding in it her little gloveless hands. A bundle was on[147] her lap, at her feet a large bag. She looked wearily off over the crumpled38 leaden plain, and now and then called: "Dorastus! Dorastus!"
At that, a toddling39 bundle came towards her, never near enough to be caught, and toddled40 off again, coming and going busily, with muttered baby soliloquy. He was a comical little figure, clumsily muffled41 against the cold, with a pointed knit cap drawn42 well down over his ears. If he ignored her call, she rose and fetched him, shaking his little hand and bidding him not to go again so far from mother. He dragged at his arm, squealing43 the while she exhorted44, and almost tumbled over when she let him loose. Then he resumed his interrupted play.
After a time he seemed to tire of it. He came to his mother and, touching45 the bag at her feet, unintelligibly46 demanded something. She shook her head. He seemed to repeat his demand. "No, no, Dorastus—mother can't!" she said, fretfully. Then this dot of humanity made himself formidable. Gregory watched in surprise the little imperious face[148] become disquietingly like an angry man's. He hammered with both small fists on his mother's knee, and stamped and loudly sputtered49. She caught his arms for a moment and held them quiet; mother and child looked each other in the face, his strange, unbabyish, heavy-browed eyes flaming, hers lit with a low smouldering resentment50. He struggled from her grasp, and at last, as his conduct was beginning to attract attention, she stooped, vanquished51, and, bruising52 her fingers on the awkward buckles53, undid54 the bag.
Gregory at this point approached and spoke55 to her by name. She lifted her face, her eyes full of helpless tears. She reddened faintly on recognizing him. She handed the boy a diminutive56 toy-fiddle13 from the bag. Pacified57, he retired58 at a little distance and, while his mamma and the gentleman entered into conversation, scraped seriously, the tassel59 on the tip of his cap bobbing with his funny little airs de tête.
"How good of you, how good of you—how comforting to me!" she said, her forlorn[149] face softly brightening; "I was getting so tired of taking care of myself! I have never travelled alone, and—and I am so timid—"
How different seemed the old house to Emmie returning! She settled down in it with the sense of passionate35 contentment. I can imagine in a dove restored to the cote after escaping the fowler's snare60 and the rage of wintry storms. How shut it was against the cold! how safe from arrogant61 men demanding money! Life in it now seemed to her one round of luxurious62 pleasures: one could sleep undisturbed, tea and buttered bread came as regularly as the desire for them; flowers bloomed at every season on mantel-shelf and table; the grate glowed as if to glow were no more than a grate's nature. There was undeniably the domestic tyrant63 still; but what a mild one by comparison! Aunt Lucretia might be peremptory64 and critical and contradictory65: to Emmie in these days she personated a benevolent66 Providence67. It is possible that the lady's disposition68 had softened69 towards her niece: her superior daughters were removed, and the little widow[150] with her manifold experiences was unquestionably a person more interesting to have about than the moping girl of yore.
The two ladies, sitting together with their wools, in undertones talked over Emmie's married miseries70. She was as ready with her confidences as Aunt Lucretia with her listening ear. There seemed no end to what she had to tell or the number of times she might relate the same incident and be heard out with tolerance72. She was glad of some one to whom to unburden her heart of its accumulated grievance73; she could not but be a little glad, too, now it was well over, that so much that was unusual had happened to her, since it lent her this importance. Aunt Lucretia gave a great deal of good advice—said what she would have done in like case; Emmie accepted it with as much humble74 gratitude75 as if it had still been of service. She concurred76 with all her heart in her aunt's unqualified condemnation78 of her first lapse79 from the respectable path—her elopement; she declared with perfect sincerity80 that she was puzzled to explain how it all happened—certainly before[151] a week had been over the folly81 of it had stared her in the face.
The young widow, when she had taken her aunt through scenes of rage and jealousy82 that made that matron's nostrils83 open as a war-horse's, and had shown up the petty tyrannies and meannesses of a bad-tempered84, vindictive85, vain man, afflicted86 with a set of morbidly87 tense nerves, would sometimes inconsistently betray a sort of pride in the fact that she had been adored by this erratic88 being, whose ill-treatment of her came partly from that fact; also a certain pride in the assurance she had had on every side, of his being a great artist who might have risen to fortune had he been blessed with a different constitution. A prince had once, in token of his appreciation89, bestowed90 on him a jewelled order; Emmie wished she had not been forced to sell it when he was ill. She herself could not judge of his playing—she could not abide91 the sound of a violin—but the star might be accounted a proof of his ability.
"You were too meek, my dear," said[152] Lucretia, conclusively92, after a tale of oppression; "I should have taken a stand."
"Dear aunt," said Emmie, pensively93 considering her relative's size and the cast of her features, "I think you would. He would have been afraid of you. If I displeased94 him, he said I was rebellious95 because I felt myself bolstered96 up by the admiration97 of whoever in the inn had happened to give me a passing glance, and he would torment98 me until I swore I loved him with every thought of my life. Sometimes, when he had made me cry, he would cry, too—I hate that in a man, aunt!—and go on tormenting99 me until I said I forgave him—"
"Ah, I should have taught him a lesson!"
"Yes, aunt, you would. But I swore whatever he pleased. If I was sulky, he was as likely as not to sit up all night, wailing101 on his violin when I wanted to sleep. He always took remote chambers102 at inns, for the privilege of playing at night, if he pleased. If I complained, he said that if I had liked the music it would have soothed104 me to sleep, and if I did not like it, it was well I should be[153] kept awake. He was very sore on the point of my not being in love with his music."
"I should like to see a man play the fiddle in my bedroom!" said Aunt Lucretia, with a face of danger.
And Emmie, from this lady's example and counsel, got a retrospective courage that enabled her in memory, now that she was well-fed, well-dressed, and possessed105 of the assurance that goes with those conditions, to bring the stormy scenes with her husband to an end more honorable to herself. She could imagine herself even braving him—when, perhaps, would come in sight Dorastus. Then her heart would sink in consciousness of its folly. There was no contending for her with a nature like that. That baby could bend her to his will even as the father had done. He was so little now that she could not strive with him to any enduring advantage; and when he would be bigger, she felt it already, no revolt of hers would be of use. The tyranny was handed down from father to son, with the sensitiveness and the jealousy. She look[154]ed over at the little, intrepid106 face sometimes with a sort of slave's aversion: every day he would be more like that other; he kept him disagreeably alive now in her memory with the tricks of his face, the difficulties of his temper. She only hoped, in an unformed way as yet, that before he grew to make himself heavily felt something might have arisen for her protection.
She made him pretty things with a mother's full indulgence, caressed107 him in due measure, and gave dutiful attention to his every request; but deep in her heart and in her eye was a reservation. And in him, though he could hardly frame speech, seemed an inherited suspicion of this want of loyalty108 in her, a consciousness of her appeal to something outside, against him. In his baby rages he seemed aware, by an instinct beyond his understanding, that she did not care for them, except that they made her uncomfortable, and he beat her with all his fierce little strength for it. She belonged strictly110 to him, and there was always treachery in the air; so he must be foes111 with all surrounding her, and[155] most severe with herself, whom he idolatrously loved.
Often, if they were alone and she did nothing to cross him, but treated respectfully his every whim112, he rewarded her gravely with such tokens of his devotion as he could devise. If they were out under the trees, he would make a hundred little voyages and from each bring back some treasure, flower or pebble113, that he dropped in her lap, watching her face to see if she were appropriately pleased. If she were busy with her stitching and after a time forgot to acknowledge his gift, he would make known his disgust by taking everything from her and stamping it under foot; but if she wisely kept her whole mind on him, and gave him praise and smiles, and admired his offerings, he would multiply his efforts to please her, get her things the most difficult and perilous114 to obtain, stones that were heavy, insects that were frightful115, parade before her every little accomplishment116, be débonnaire and royal, and expose his true worshipping heart to his servant.
Woe117 if in such moments of expansion[156] Gregory came out on the lawn and took the empty seat on the rustic118 bench beside Emmie! The child would know nothing of a divided allegiance, and showed his sense of outrage119 by a prompt attack on both, whom he seemed to think equally conspirators120 against his peace. They stood his babbled121 vituperation and baby blows with smiling patience for a little, trying to converse122 coherently under them; then, when he burst into angry tears, with a sigh the mother bore him off to be lectured and calmed, resuming her conversation with Gregory at a more opportune123 moment. Before Gregory she never spoke of her husband.
With the passing months her cheek got back its freshness, her eye its clear brightness. Now a haunting fear awoke in her breast: Aunt Lucretia was wearying of her presence. She had heard all of her injuries till the story was stale. She was beginning to find fault with her just as of old, to set her back in her place now and then with the former terrible abruptness124, and that place a very low one. The poor little[157] woman accepted all abjectly125, shuddering126 at the possibility of being again cast on the world with her child. She went about with reddened eyelids127 and a look of pathetic nervousness, hushing Dorastus whenever he lifted his voice, doing her pitiful best that neither should give offence. Gregory could not look on in patience: he laid the gentle afflicted creature's tremors128 forever by asking her to become his wife.
His mother left the house and went to abide with her daughters. But in time she became reconciled to what was unalterable and returned to her ancient seat of government, allowing her age to be cheered by the sight of her favorite child's happiness. Little sons and daughters, his wife gave him four, among whom prevailed straw-colored hair and eyes of the admired flower tint129. The old house was gay as at early dawn a tree full of gossiping birds.
So to Emmie was raised a mighty130 salvation131; against Dorastus arrayed themselves innocent yellow heads, like so many insuperable golden lances.
[158]
When the children were called into the drawing-room to be shown to the company, a visitor was sure to ask, "And who is this little man?" meaning Dorastus; so unlikely did it appear that he could be of his mother's kindred. To the golden hen, her golden brood. How in seriousness call a chick the little black creature with the large beak132 and the piercing eyes?
And as unlike his brothers as he was physically133, so unlike he remained in disposition. By all the children as by Dorastus himself the difference in kind was felt. He remained solitary134 among them and at odds135 with all. They set him down a domineering, bad-tempered thing, and he summed them up scornfully as a pack of pudding-heads. It was not plain to any one why he thought himself superior: his actual accomplishments136 were somewhat less than ordinary. Bullet-headed, downright Hector, his brother nearest in age, could beat him at any sport, and when their differences brought them to blows was rather more than half sure of victory over his senior, inferior to[159] him in size and art; Martin was cleverer than he at his books; the little girls even could give him points in conduct—yet his attitude of every minute insisted upon it that he was better than any of them, and that his mother was more particularly his mother than she was theirs. Emmie, it is true, did not reprove him quite as she did Hector; he was allowed more than the others the full swing of his temperament137. His step-father punctiliously138 refrained from meddling139 with him, and if he made trouble with his temper and his pride Emmie warned her nice-natured children not to irritate him, to make allowances for him. Insensibly that qualified77 the relation between Dorastus and his mother. That negative indulgence he felt, however dimly, did not prove him a favorite: it made him a sort of alien. He became more reserved in his demands upon his mother. There were too many yellow heads for one boy to contend with successfully by ordinary means. He still held to it bravely in his attitude towards his brothers and sisters that he was better than they, and that his mother belonged ex[160]clusively to him, but herself he troubled less and less with his jealousy and his claims. It might have seemed at last almost as if she were become indifferent to him. Absorbed by her domestic cares, she had scarcely perceived the change.
The cares were many, but pleasant in their nature. Gregory was steadily140, lazily kind, the children were healthy, she herself was in the beautiful full bloom of life—she found it good. She had almost forgotten the bitter taste of her beginnings, when one night, startled from a deep sleep, she lay in the dark awhile and wondered that she should dream so clearly of hearing the long, low wail100 of a violin. It had recreated about her in an instant the atmosphere of old days. She lay as she had lain often enough, with lead upon her heart, a dead sense of there being no escape in view from this slavery, this poverty, this succession of weary travel and third-rate inns, this nerve-racking sound of the violin penetrating141 through the brain as a red-hot needle—no release from this unrelenting master, this terrible added burden of baby.[161] She shook herself free from what she thought the remaining effect of a nightmare; she had seemed for a moment to smell the very essence her first husband used on his hair, mixed with the flat odor of the small Dutch inn-chamber103 in which Dorastus was born. She turned over on her side to sleep again, when she became assured that she heard a violin. She listened through her thick heart-beats, a thrill of superstitious142 horror stiffening143 her skin. She knew it unreasonable144, but could not dispel145 her fear. She rose sitting in bed, becoming at last fully47 awake. Still she heard the violin, sounding faintly, as if from some distant part of the house. Then she thought. It had been these long years in the garret, the treasured Amati he had made her swear to keep for his child. The child had found it.
She could not fall to sleep again, she must satisfy herself.
She slipped her feet into their shoes, got her dressing-gown about her, and crept through the shadowy corridor, up the stair, to where Dorastus slept. Since he would be[162] the master, whoever shared his room, which was obviously unfair to his room-mate, he had been allotted146 a little chamber by himself in a somewhat remote part of the house.
As she approached it, the sound of the violin came more and more clear to her. She stopped and leaned against the balusters, yielding to a soul-sickness that had its rise in she scarce knew which, memory or foreboding. She listened curiously147. It was strange playing, though simple, subdued148 to not wound the night silence; unordinary as it was, there was nothing tentative about it, the hands seemed going to it with a fine boldness, a delicate natural skill. The mother felt not a moment's joy.
She came to the door, opened it noiselessly, and stood in the doorway149 with her candle shining upward in her wide eyes, her solemn face.
Dorastus stopped playing, and said, with a gleeful, short laugh, "I knew it would make you come!"
As Emmie had expected, he held the Amati. He had thrown off his jacket and[163] tie and stood in his shirt-sleeves, with his neck bare. His dark eyes were burning and dancing; his black hair was ruffled150 and pushed up on end; his face was hotly flushed. His whole attitude had in it something new, finely expressive151 of conscious power.
"I knew it would make you come!" he said, with a triumphant152 nod.
She entered and set down her light on the little chest of drawers. "You ought not to play at night," she said, faintly. "It disturbs people's sleep."
"It wouldn't wake them!" he exclaimed, scornfully, "and if it did I shouldn't care, as long as they didn't come and bother. I wanted to call you, to make you come to me. I was sure I could. Are you cold, little mother dear? Get into my bed."
He laid down his instrument; he came where she stood, with her silken hair tumbling over her shoulders, and felt her chilled hands.
"No, no," she said, irritably153, taking them from him, "it is unheard of, playing at this[164] hour of the night. I must go." But she went mechanically to sit on the edge of his bed, that had not been lain in that night, and still kept towards him that wondering, dismayed face.
"How did it sound?" asked the boy, whose excitement seemed to dull his perception, so that he remained unchilled by her want of warmth. "Did it say plainly, Arise, wrap your sky-blue gown about you, never mind tying up your gold hair, light your light, and come gliding154 through the shadow of the sleeping house, to your dear son, the only one who loves you, in his solitary room, far from all the others? That is what I meant it should say, but towards the end I meant it to say something else, towards the end it was explaining. Did you understand that part?"
"How did you find it?" asked Emmie, still in her faint voice. "Why did you take it without asking our permission? Who taught you to play on it?"
The boy laughed again his gleeful laugh. He got on to the bed beside her and sat[165] with his chin in his hand, his glowing face full of pride in himself. "Ah, how I found it, when it was up in the garret? It was like that story of the Greek fellow—what's his name?—dressed like a girl. When the peddler brought shawls and ribbons and things, and a sword hidden among them, he took the sword, and the peddler knew by that sign that he was a man. In the garret there were old hoop-skirts, and broken mousetraps, and bird-cages, and boxes full of religious books and things—but my hand went straight to the violin!"
"Tell me the truth, Dorastus," spoke his mother, wearily.
"Well, then, after talking with a certain person, I concluded that it must be there. I looked for it and found it, months and months ago. I took it and learned to play, to give you a surprise. Do you think I can ever play as my father did?"
"Whom have you heard speak of your fathers playing, Dorastus?"
"Aha! There is some one who remembers him at this very place—who heard him[166] just once and never forgot it. I might as well tell you: it is the brother of the inn-keeper's wife at Colthorpe; he used to be the hostler, but is too old now. He plays the violin himself, at weddings, sometimes, and dances—but not much, dear. He taught me, but I have gone far ahead—oh, far ahead of him now! He knows when it is good, however, and you should hear what he says of me and my playing. You must see him and ask him. He had climbed up from outside into the window when once my father played at Colthorpe, and he can speak of it as if it had happened yesterday. (He says that I am very like my father, that any one would know me who had seen him. He knew, before asking, whose son I was. Only, my father wore his hair long; well, I will wear my hair long!) He says that, as he played, every trouble he had ever had came back to him, even the death of a dog, and he could not help crying—but he liked it; he enjoyed feeling bad. And he says that it made him see plain before him, but not very plain either, a lot of things he[167] had only heard folks talk about—the shepherds in the East, for instance, with the angels singing good-will in a hole in the clouds. And he knew for sure, he says, how it would have felt if the girl he wanted hadn't married some one else and gone to live away, but had taken him. I asked him, the other day, if I could make him feel those things. He said, 'Not yet, not quite yet;' but he thought I was beginning. He has a number of music sheets; I can read the notes much quicker than he already, though he taught me. But I don't care for those; there must be others much better than those! Those are nothing! I like better what I make up myself than I do those. Did you notice—but no, you must have been too far—how quickly I can play some passages? My left fingers go like a spider, and it is so easy for them! Giles says my hand is like my father's—he remembers it—a true violinist's hand. I feel that it can do anything, dear—anything! And I mean that it shall do such things! Look at it, mother!" and he held up the thin, unboyishly delicate,[168] angular hand, stronger in appearance than the rest of his body. "Is it like my father's? You are the one, of course, that remembers best. Is it like my father's?"
"Oh, yes—yes!" she almost moaned.
He did not seem to perceive her impatience156, but contemplated157 his own hand a little while, calmly sure that he must be an object of pride to her now. "It is quite unlike Hector's, at least. I should like to see him try to play with his pink paws!"
"He might not be able to play," said Emmie, "but he will, I dare say, do something quite as useful."
"There is nothing quite so useful!" cried the boy superbly, and laughed again in his perverse158 glee. "It is more useful than anything you can invent to say that Hector is going to do. Hector! Hector will be a rabbit-raiser; he likes rabbits better than anything. But I will come with my violin and make the rabbits stand up on their hind-legs and stare; I will play softly, wheedlingly159, going slowly backwards161 towards the woods, and they will all come after me, without stop[169]ping for a nibble162. I will lead them away, away, all the flock of little, round-backed, skipping things—just as I made you get out of bed and come up here."
"I came to tell you to stop, foolish boy. I didn't want you to wake the others. It was very inconsiderate in you—very inconsiderate. And I am not sure that I am pleased with you for taking a thing so valuable—it is worth a great deal of money—unknown to me, or for doing things in secret, or for having dealings with people I know nothing of—hostlers and inn-keepers' wives. You certainly play nicely—"
"Ah, did you truly think I did, mother?" he asked, eagerly. "You ought to know; you used to hear himself. Now, tell me, dear—"
"But I am not at all sure"—she interrupted him, lamely163 querulous—"that the violin—You have been so underhanded, and I see now how you waste your time—it explains your being so bad with your lessons. I am not at all sure that the violin ought not to be taken from you."
"I shall not give it up!" Dorastus said[170] instantly, and it might be perfectly164 understood that he would struggle with his last breath to keep it, doing as much damage as in him lay to his opposers.
Emmie, quite pale, looked into his face, that had fully returned from its mood of happy pride, and he looked into hers, as they had looked already when he was but a baby. Then, seeing what she had always seen, she tossed up her hands with a little helpless, womanish motion, and complained: "Oh, I am so cold, and I feel so ill! It is like a horrid165 dream—and I am miserable166." She rose and pulled her things about her to go, tears shining on her cheek.
Dorastus, who had leaped up and laid his hand resolutely167 on his violin and bow, if they should be in any immediate168 danger, watched her with a strange face. His jaw169 was iron. When, as she reached the door, he unclinched his teeth to speak, his face worked in spite of him and tears gushed170 from his eyes. "You never understand anything!" he exploded, in a harsh, angry voice all his pride could not keep from breaking. Then, with[171] the indignant scorn of a child for a grown-up person who seems to him out of all nature dull—"Go!" he said, beating his arms violently about, "Go! Go!"
So Dorastus retained the violin, and defiantly171 played on it, in and out of season. His mother's failure to be pleased with his playing seemed to have cut her off, in his estimation, from all right to an opinion. It is true that after the first night she armed herself with patience towards a situation she could not change. She did not cross the boy more than her conscience positively172 enjoined173; he might play since he pleased, but must not neglect his studies in pursuit of a vain pastime.
In spite of her, his studies suffered. He felt no humiliation174 now that Hector or any should be ahead of him with books; he could have been far ahead of them if he had chosen, but they could under no circumstance have done what he did. Of these things he was proudly convinced, and he declared them without hesitation175. His almost untutored playing took on a strange audacity176, a fantas[172]tical quality that made it pleasing to none in the household. That did not disturb him; he pursued triumphantly177 in the direction repugnant to them, taking their disapproval178 to naturally point to its excellence179. Sometimes, half in scorn, he would play for the little girls the simple melodies they knew, to show them that he could do that, too, if he chose; full tenderly could he play them and delight their gentle hearts, but he preferred, if he could catch an unprejudiced soul for audience, a housemaid for instance, to set her opposite to him and play to her from his head, then question her as to what the music had made her think of, helping180 her to detail her impressions, expressing his contempt freely if the music had not had on her the desired effect, but hugging her if she happened to answer as he wanted.
Whenever he had a holiday, or took one, he disappeared with his instrument, returning with a conqueror's mien181, out of place in a boy with whom every one is displeased, and who has had nothing to eat. It was felt by all how he was in these days not friends with[173] anybody, nor anybody friends with him. It suited his pride to carry off the situation as if he had been a king among boors182.
Her eldest183 child's conduct began at last to be something of a grievance to Emmie. She appealed to no one for help to reduce him to obedience184. She would not have dared do that; an intimate sense forbade it, a scruple185 which would have had no voice, perhaps, had she loved him more. She excused and up-held him in her little wars with Lucretia, and respected Gregory's reluctance186 to interfere187 with him, founded in justice on the consciousness of a deep-seated, invincible188 dislike; but she fretted189 under his undutifulness and only refrained from satisfying the desire to attempt asserting her power over him, though it should be futile190 as ever, in the idea that, at the worst, he would soon be leaving home, with Hector, for school, when the detested191 violin must be given up and stronger hands than her own find a way to bend his obstinate192 spirit. At the same time, in a corner of her heart, she felt unreasonably193, unaccountably hurt, as perhaps she would have felt if[174] Dorastus's father had suddenly ceased from his persecutions and she had known by that sign that, worm as he was, he had ceased to care for her.
"This is all very well; but when you get to school—" Phrases begun on that line became frequent in Dorastus's ear as the time approached. He heard them with a singularly bright eye.
The two boys set out for school together, under the guardianship194 of the tutor. Consternation195 fell on the family when it was known that Dorastus had been missed on the way. The boy was traced to London; there he was easily lost among the millions of its inhabitants.
While the question was in discussion whether it behooved196 Gregory himself to travel to London and institute a search for the runaway197, came a letter from the boy, making it easily decent for his step-father to leave the stinging weed to get its growth where it might without being a nuisance, and reconciling his mother to letting him take his chances as he pleased, since he was so sure[175] they were brilliant—very brilliant, those chances.
His certainty of himself, his enthusiasm, were such that gradually they communicated themselves in a degree to her. Why not? After all, his father, they had said, was a great man; princes had honored him. An involuntary respect crept through her for Dorastus's daring. It seemed advisable at least to give him the opportunity he wanted; the more that the process of finding him, bringing him back in what to him would seem ignominy, and thereafter keeping watch over him, was uncomfortable to think of.
His letter was to his mother, a mixture of boyishness and manliness198, more frank than any speech she had had from him in a long time. It vaguely199 stirred her heart; for it seemed to restore to her something that possessing she had not prized, but, careful economist200, did not like to think lost.
"You must promise that I shall not be troubled by any attempt to get me back. I will do anything terrible if I am trapped. Don't you see that I couldn't go to school[176] with Hector, who is younger? We should be put in classes together, for a while at least, and I couldn't stand it. Besides, I haven't the time, I have so much to do! Besides, I couldn't go on living with those people forever. I don't mean that you shall, either. I won't tell you all now, but after a time you may know that there is to be a house much better than theirs for you to live in, with me. You shall have everything much better. But I will not tell you more. Only, you can be perfectly sure of it. You will not think that I came away without caring about leaving you. I was afraid you would guess something if I hugged you before them as I wanted to, but I had been to your room in the night, and any of your gowns you put on is full of your son's kisses. If I thought you would show this letter, I think that I should never in my life write you again. If you should send me any money, I should return it at once or destroy it, so please don't do it, it would make me angry. I know that we had nothing when we came to their house, except the violin. One of the servants told[177] me how we came. What do you suppose keeping me all these years has cost? When I can, I mean to give them double; you can tell him so, if you choose. I can't now, but what I can do is to take nothing more from them. You need not be anxious about me. I am prepared, because I have long known what I meant to do, and I can take care of myself. I have met several persons already who know of my father; it seems to be something here to be his son, though not at home, except to one man, and he a hostler. Well, I will show them—you, too, dear mother. I don't mean to vex201 or grieve you, mother, dear. If I have vexed202 you, I know I shall make you forgive me some day, before long, perhaps, when I shall have made you understand. You can write me at the Tartar's Head, but if you hunted me there, or information concerning me, you would never find me, I vow203."
Other letters came from time to time, written in fine spirits always, referring, but mysteriously, to fine successes. Emmie felt a certain modesty204 about these letters. She[178] communicated what was in them with reserve, and adopted towards inquirers the tone of discretion205 that the letters had with herself. But she found herself often brooding over the contents. They charmed the imagination; they sounded like things one read. It was so remarkable206, this circumstance of a poor boy, a boy of her own, arriving in a great city, with little but his violin, and by sounds merely forcing the things one values to come to him, as he had spoken fancifully once, she remembered, of making a flock of rabbits follow him into the woods. He wrote little very definite, but dropped telling hints of how he had played before this great man and that man of importance, and this one had said—the other had promised. He had been called upon to perform at a certain levee, and out of his fee had bought the things he was sending; he had money to spare. And there came a parcel of presents for Emmie and the little girls, by which all were greatly impressed. Dorastus's rank in the memory of his family rose a degree. Now, on looking back, each knew that he had always foreseen how,[179] with that powerful will, Dorastus must be able to hew207 his way through difficulties and compel circumstances to serve him. He was looked on rather as a man than a boy, even as he looked on himself. His mother was grateful to him for seeming to efface208 the weak foolishness out of her first marriage: she was justified209 in her latter days, and proved a virgin210 full of good sense. She wrote Dorastus encouraging letters. Her good words got glowing answers: surely it would not be long; he was working with all his might. But they must be patient, for success as a material recompense was slow; and he hinted with the effect of a sigh at rivalries211, at the density212 of the public mind. Yet talent must inevitably213 triumph in the end and manly214 effort meet its reward.
When Hector came home for his holidays he found it just a little stupid to have been a good boy. The personage in the general mind seemed to be his undisciplined half-brother. He contrived215, however, in the course of weeks, to fix a good deal of attention on himself. He restored the balance to[180] his mother's mind. Dorastus sank into his natural place in relation to her other children. She waited in serene216 patience—sometimes with a passing touch of scepticism, the reflection of some outsider's attitude, oftener with childish perfection of faith—for the developments he announced in letters somewhat decreasing in frequency, but preserving their early tone of hopefulness.
So time passed. The unusual became the usual and lost consideration, according to its habit.
Then the sisters-in-law, those perfect daughters, mothers, and wives, came to visit the head of the house in the home of their girlhood. They brought maids and children and chattels217 manifold.
Now these ladies had been in London, and Emmie heard much from them of the glories and greatness of that city; she had long opportunity to learn respect for their manners and gowns, which alike came from there. They had not happened upon Dorastus; they could not remember hearing of him, and as that seemed to make it plain to Emmie they[181] had not been in the most polite places, they explained that the city was so large and populous218 you might not come across a person in a lifetime.
They left on a rainy autumn morning. Emmie, with her forehead against the glass, watched their carriages dwindling219, dwindling. Gone, with all their patterns for gowns, with the last sweet thing in worsted-work; gone, with their fashionable conversation, the art of which she had not had quite time yet to master. But even if she had become perfect in all, as they, of what use could it have been to her here? she asked, turning from the dripping window-pane.
She moved with an air of being the moon by day. The sickness of the decaying year seemed to have got into her blood; she felt as if she herself were the perishing summer, which had somehow been wasted. She said over her children's ages with a sort of terror, a sense of time having stolen a march on her; she was vaguely panic-stricken to think there was so little of the good time of life left before her. She sought the mirror to divert[182] her mind with trying on again the bonnet the sisters had bestowed on her, pronouncing it so becoming. Under the severe gray light the face she saw reflected held more than ever to her discontented eyes a forecast of the cheerless coming days when the rose should be withered220, the gold gone. The deadly quiet of the country, the silence of the well-regulated house, suddenly seemed to her an outrage, a roof incontrovertible that no one cared what happened to her. Gregory in particular did not care. Else would he not have comprehended that movement and novelty and gayety alone could at this pass save her from the insidious221 oncreeping evil that encouraged hard lines between the pale cheek and the drooping222 mouth? Clearly he did not care. He cared for nothing but not to be disturbed after dinner. In this connection she thought over many a subtle wrong she had been putting up with for years. She thought of Dorastus, from whom this husband, with his royal indifference223, allowed her to be so long separated; Dorastus, who as she looked to[183] him, turning from the lukewarm, apathetic224 tribe surrounding her, seemed an embodiment of swiftness and strength, a tempered steel blade to rely on, a flame at which to warm the numb71 hands of the heart. Ah, well, he was making a home for her with him, yonder in the living city. She lost sight of the mirror into which she was staring; she saw that home. Suddenly it seemed to her she could not live longer without seeing her boy. She rose with the energy of true inspiration. It was such an obviously legitimate225 desire, this desire to behold37 again her own flesh and blood, that she need not be at pains to fabricate palliation or excuse for it. She sought Gregory directly. She was weary and ill, she had dreams at night, he did not know how hard her life had become. She wanted to see Dorastus.
Gregory yielded.
They came to London. They took rooms at a quiet hotel known to him of old.
The novelty of all, the anticipation227, made Emmie feel young again. Her violet eyes were still childishly clear, her hair was pretty[184] still; little was missed of the beauty of her youth but its slender lightness.
"No, no; you must leave it all to me," she said, when Gregory would have accompanied her in her search for Dorastus. "I have a clue which I will not betray. He has shown, dear fellow, that he might be trusted to take care of himself. I will bring him home to dine with us. You may take seats for the pantomime."
So the good Gregory put her in the care of a trusted driver, and saw her started on her adventure.
Now she was driven—it seemed to her they were hours on the way—to the Tartar's Head, a coffee-house of not very imposing228 appearance, in a crowded part.
Before reaching her destination she almost wished she had let Gregory come: it was so noisy; the air was so dingy229 it deadened one's spirits despite wealth of delightful230 prospects231; and she must face various unknown, perhaps unfriendly, faces before finding his face—after which all would be well.
She descended233 from the carriage with a[185] little flutter, then with the haste of rout234 got into it again, and requested the driver to bring some one to her, as if she had been a great person.
A young man came out to take her commands, a well-oiled young man in side-whiskers and a broad shirt-front.
Had not letters been received there addressed to so-and-so?
The young man was more than polite. Inquiries235 were made. Such letters had been received. The person to whom they were addressed called for them.
"I am his mother," said Emmie, lamely, for she had prepared another course than this simple one, a course involving strategy. "Does he not live here? Where does he live?"
The young man continued very obliging. He made further inquiries and came back looking a little blank. The person came himself and left no direction for forwarding his letters; a letter had once been waiting several weeks.
"Does no one here know him?" asked his[186] mother, nearly in tears. Of a sudden this city seemed to her terribly large, and terribly full of people who cared nothing for any distress236 of hers. "He plays on the violin—he plays very beautifully on the violin."
A possibility of intelligence dawned in the obliging young man's face, and he ran in-doors again. He came back with a hopeful air. "Yes, your ladyship. There is an old man belonging to the place knows him. He took him a letter once when he couldn't come himself, being laid up. He didn't want to tell at first, saying how he'd sworn. But I let him know your ladyship was the young man's mother, and he told. It's a bit far."
The waiter stepped up to the coachman and gave him instructions. Emmie rewarded his obligingness with bounty237 in proportion to her relief at all proving so easy. Of course some one knew him. It was part of his boyishness to suppose he could hide, after his light had begun shining through the bushel, too.
She looked out through the misty238 pane[187] at the bright passing shop-windows; there seemed to her thousands in a row, and hundreds of carriages rolling along with her. She liked the city again exceedingly, and was glad to hope she might be there often after a time; it was so various, it put life into one. If only the murky239 cloud would lift that rested on the chimney-tops, and the rain stop making more the gray slime on the flags.
It was a long distance. She looked out until she was tired and confused; then leaned back and meditated240 pleasantly for a time, then looked out again, with a little shock of disappointment at seeing no more bright windows.
They were going more slowly; the streets here were narrow, the air seemed dingier241, the houses and people looked miserable.
She watched with a saddened interest these that she fixed242 upon as the poor city-people in their poor quarters. She was sorry for them, but she would be relieved when they were left behind for the gayer thoroughfares, or the roomier, more cheerful suburbs.
[188]
Now at the entrance of a narrow court the carriage stopped. She wondered what could be hindering its progress, and fidgeted while the coachman left his box and came to the door. He opened it with a stolid243 face and held his finger to his hat, waiting for her to alight.
"But—but"—she stammered244, eying the poverty-stricken appearance of the place, "this cannot be it!"
"The directions were clear, ma'am; I've followed them," said the man, with respectful firmness. "This is as near as I can get to the house; there's no room to turn around in the court."
Emmie leaned back a moment, determined245 not to stir from her cushions—the mistake was on the face of it too stupid.
The coachman stood waiting, a man of patience carved in wood. Emmie eyed him helplessly; then, seeing that the imposing creature would be satisfied with no less from her, with the abruptness of impatience she alighted, and rustled246 into the dark court, peering upward for the number.
There it was. She knocked, and listened,[189] with a heart in which strange things seemed to be happening. To the capless woman who opened she stammered a name, looking for the relief of being told instantly that none of that name lived there.
"Three pair back, ma'am," said the woman, who appeared like a cook, actual, past, or potential. "But he's not in. There's no telling how soon he will come. What name did you say? Drastus what? Sibbie-mole? Oh no, ma'am. Beg pardon. I listened as far as Drastus, and answered because it's such a curious name. Ours name is Fenton. But, let's see. What manner of young man might yours be? Like a foreigner, with a large nose and black eyes, and plays the fiddle, and wears his hair long? Dear me, ma'am, the very same! His room's three pair back. You wish to wait for him? This way, then, ma'am."
Emmie, in whom all processes of thought had stopped in amazement247, followed the landlady248 as best she could up three flights of dark stairs, and entered through the door flung open for her.
[190]
They stood in a little room that received the day through a sky-light. Emmie dropped, sitting on the edge of the narrow bed and knotted her little gloved fingers together in silence. She was so pale that the landlady felt alarmed and asked if she were feeling ill. She shook her head, and continued looking about fearfully and in wonder.
There was little to see, nothing that might not have belonged to any one in the wide world as well as to that boy; not one of these sordid249 appurtenances reminded her of him, except the music on the table—but any fiddler might have just such music.
She rose to her feet as if jerked by a hidden string, and walked stiffly towards the door, saying, "It is evidently not the one. This one's name is Drastus Fenton, you say. The one I seek is Dorastus Sibbemol. Good-morning, ma'am."
But near the door she stopped, her eyes widening upon an object set upright in the corner—a black wooden box, very old, scarred and worm-eaten, mournfully resembling a child's coffin250.
[191]
She went back to the bed, and limply leaned against the wall. She stared over at the box, with its peculiar wrought-iron hinges and handle.
"Has he been here long?" she asked, faintly, at last, of the blowzy woman who was looking at her with some concern, and at the same time, in view of the lady's respectability, trying to smooth down her untidy hair.
She thought a moment and judged he might have been there half a year.
Emmie wrung251 her hands in an aimless way. She felt little of pain as yet, or indignation; only vague throes and convulsions of change, a working of all the atoms in heart and brain trying to adjust themselves to something new.
"And he is poor!" she murmured.
"Well," said the landlady, exculpatingly, "we are all poor folks here, ma'am. He mostly pays his rent—I don't ask much, but when he's behind I'm not hard on him. He's a good lad," she went on, and as she was a sizable woman, after a gesture of deferential252 apology she took a seat, to support her[192] in her view of lingering to angle with information until she caught a little enlightenment. "A good lad, but that proud! He thinks he'll be as rich as a dook some day, with his little fiddle!" She shook her head in compassion34 and chuckled253 fatly over a household joke of long standing109. "He's all right in his head, ma'am, except on that point. A poor lad that plays in the streets is none so likely to pick up a fortune. And such tunes254 as he plays! I've always been told I'd an uncommon255 ear for a catch, but to catch head or tail of them is beyond me!"
"He plays in the streets!"
"Yes, poor Dook—come rain, come shine. Sometimes he has a good day, sometimes a bad one; but times is hard—it's not very good at best. He's not one of them pretty-impudent Italian boys with wheedling160 brown velvet256 eyes. He looks too scornful, and despises folks more than is for his own good. I have felt hurt at it myself, ma'am, and I may say I'm not touchy257. When I've known that he was a bit hard up and he looked hollow, and I've asked him in neighborly to have a bite[193] with us, he has answered me almost as if he hated me for it—and gone hollow."
His mother drew in her breath sharply.
"Might you be a friend of his?" asked the landlady. "Once when he was sick abed, and I came up to say a good word, he got sociabler than usual, and spoke of a lady, a lady of quality, who'd heard him play—I thought likely it was before he came here with his coat so seedy—a lady who thought he was very fine. Perhaps I don't understand about fiddle-playing, and he is all he says. Might you be the lady?"
"Yes, yes, yes!" said Emmie, scarcely knowing what she said.
The landlady looked much interested. "Well, now, I thought as much, for I don't think he's any one in the world belonging to him. He's a good lad, ma'am," she said again, with a good-natured impulse to make hay for a fellow-creature while this, possibly a sun, was shining. "He deserves better than he gets, if I do say it. He works at them music-books for hours sometimes, at night, till the man below is fit to go mad.[194] But I tell him I can't put out a lodger258 that pays more frequent than he, and when I speak to Drastus he says he'll leave, though he should have to sleep on the pavement—he must play when he pleases. He says that it's because he can't play as other fiddle-men do, from a book and in a particular way, that he can't get nothing to do but play in the streets. So he must learn, and learn he will, and he scrapes away like a meeting of cats on the roof. I'm sorry he's out, ma'am. What did you want with him, now? Couldn't I give your message—or must you wait yourself?"
"I will wait—I will wait."
"He may not be home till night. He sometimes even—"
"Oh, leave me, my good woman!" moaned Emmie. "What else can I do but wait?"
And the landlady, taking pity on what seemed to her an inordinate259 perturbation of spirit, left the visitor to herself, returning now and then to listen, and bringing up once an inquiry260 from the coachman.
Emmie remained sitting on the edge of[195] the bed. After a time she rose and looked with pointless minuteness at everything in the room, opening every drawer and reading every paper. She found all her letters tied in a bundle and wrapped in a silk neckerchief of her own, old, and that she had never missed. He had few possessions, and they made the heart sick to pore over.
The light faded off the dull glass overhead. With chilled fingers she felt for the candle and lighted it. The landlady, coming up at dark, insisted on bringing her a cup of tea. The good creature had so disciplined her curiosity concerning the history implied in this gentlewoman's presence here that her delicacy261 now in endeavoring to discover was touching. Yet it went unrewarded. She stayed for the satisfaction of seeing the lady, who she thought looked fairly ill, refresh herself; and when it was delayed, tried by example to institute in the atmosphere that cheerfulness which is conducive262 to a better appetite—until asked again, with an imploring glance from eyes like a shot dove's, to go, for the sake of pity to go.
[196]
Emmie now took down the few clothes she had seen on the hooks, with a vague idea that they required mending. She spread them out over her lap one by one, and passed her hand mechanically over the threadbare places where the black was green, over certain fringes about the holes, her heart feeling extraordinarily263 large and empty and silent. The rings on her cold hand glittered in the stroking movement, four rich rings with various stones, Gregory's gifts. Four—but she had five children.
She stretched herself suddenly on the bed with her face in the old coat, the chill of the room slowly seizing upon her as she lay. She prayed in a distant, half-conscious way, without the least illusion that such words could persuade any one, for God to unmake everything that had happened to her, to let her have died, and Dorastus too, at his very birth; for them to have both been lying in the remote Dutch God's-acre these many years. For one fleeting264 moment memory gave back to her perfect an impression never before recalled. She seemed to have been roused[197] from a stupor265 deeper than sleep; her eyes dwelt without wonder on what she thought to be a cathedral, with colored windows ablaze—it dwindled266, until it was a mere48 night-light glimmering267. Then shadowy people placed a little bundle in her arms. She tingled268 as an instrument whose every string is touched, a coolness rippled269 from her head to her feet, she knew a state never known before or since, a sense of unlimited270 wealth, a tenderness ineffable271, a trembling outgoing of all her being to this handful of life. She heaved a great, faint sigh, and with effort unspeakable bent272 till her lips were pressed as to a warm rose-leaf. She sank to sleep, weak unto death, but blissfully happy—waking stronger and in a different mood.
She wished she might not have waked, but been buried with her poor first baby in her arms, having ceased to be in the single moment wherein she completely loved it. Nothing that had happened to her since then seemed to her sweet; all was sicklied through by the consciousness of a crime gone before and daily confirmed, a woman's most mon[198]strous, miserable crime—not loving enough. Nothing could make her withered, yellowed, cheapened life right now—she should have died at that moment. She said this over and over again to the powers that hear us, until all meaning had faded from it. She started, with a sense of something going out—she thought it must be the candle and she should be left in the dark. She sat up, frightened and freezing.
The candle was burning quietly. Then, as she scrutinized273 the shadows ahead, loath274 to stir, she became aware of her rings having grown loose, they were in danger of dropping off; of her clothes having grown loose, they let the cold in under them; she felt a prickling at the temples, as if it were the gray creeping through her hair; she felt her features becoming pinched and old, beauty dropping from them like a husk. She wanted to cry then with a childish self-pity, but no tears would come; she did not know how to start the flood that she longed for to relieve her. She felt that she could only have screamed.
She got up to rid herself of this congeal[199]ment, and paced the room from corner to corner with sweeping275 black gown that told of the dusty things it had that day brushed.
Company had come to the man below; they were making a great deal of very jolly noise. The candle guttered276 drearily277; a reek155 of warm cabbage climbed up the stairway to her nostrils. She looked up on hearing a soft tapping—the black sky-light was spattered with silver tears, like a pall226.
She walked up and down, waiting and listening, everything taking more and more the quality of a dream wherein the most unnatural278 things grow ordinary. She had felt with a numbed279 sort of cowardly loathing280 that every moment brought her nearer to a black stream of realizing grief and remorse281 into which willy-nilly she must descend232; but now it seemed in accordance with every known law that she should be here, destined282 to go on walking so forever, never arriving, nor anything ever changing. She heard herself say aloud in a light, indifferent tone, "He will never come. He will never come."
For a moment she remembered Gregory,[200] whose image seemed to rise out of the dim past: Gregory in the warm light of the hotel coffee-room, where dinner was set on a little table for three, dinner with wine-glasses of two shapes, and fruit and confectionery in crystal dishes. The thought worked upon her as a sweet smell in sea-sickness. All that had to do with Gregory seemed of negative importance; let him wait and wonder and worry. She felt hard-hearted towards him and all prosperous things.
A burst of voices reached her through the floor; they were rough and hoarse283, their mirth had turned to wrangling284. It was so horribly lonely here! If they were suddenly possessed to climb the stairs, to burst in upon her! There was a crash of glass—she screamed; then a laugh—she shuddered—and the noise grew less. She breathed again, but, feeling her knees weaken, went back to the bed, and sat listening in fascination285 for the murmuring sounds to develop again into a quarrel.
Suddenly, without the warning of gradually approaching sounds she had prepared herself for, she heard footsteps just outside.
[201]
She knew them. An impulse to flee seized her. She looked about for a place to hide in, a place to get through, to jump from. She could not bear to see him, she felt as a murderess whose victim's ghost is upon her. His image flashed before her, pinched with hunger and cold, worn, embittered286 with disappointment, terrible with its long unrequited love turned to hatred—gray, with glassy eyes.
She looked wildly, but she could not move. Besides, it was too late, a hand was on the door.
As it opened, a deep stillness fell upon her, a suspension of all.
A spell seemed to snap with his coming into the range of the candle-light; it was as to a child locked all night in a graveyard287 the cock-crow that lays the ghosts and heralds288 the day. She took a feeble breath and her heart gave a warm little throb289. The very face! only, a young man's face rather than a boy's, thinner and bolder than ever, but, thank Heaven! not pathetic, not heart-breaking—but with red where red should be, with living light in the eyes.
[202]
He held his violin; he was meanly clad, and his woollen muffler was of a cheap and dismal290 tint no mother would have chosen for him.
He looked in surprise at the lighted candle, and quickly cast his eyes about, frowning to see who had taken this liberty. He caught sight of her, blinked and narrowed his eyes, to distinguish.
She could not make a sound, or bring a vestige291 of expression to her face, or lift the pale little hands from her black lap—but sat transfixed under his questioning stare.
He took a few steps, uttered a jubilant shout, and dashed towards her with outstretched arms—But he stopped before reaching her. He gave a glance around the horrible little room, a glance at her face with the eyes full of stern sadness, of reproach for the many, many lies he had told her. Abruptly292 he turned his back to her and dropped on his knees beside the table, saying furiously in disjointed syllables293 as he pressed his working face against his arms. "You won't understand! You never understand any[203]thing! I think sometimes that you are a fool!"
But he felt her soft icy hands tremble about his head, he felt her fluttering breath in his neck. She was kneeling beside him, saying in choked whispers in the intervals294 of lifting her poor lips from his wet face, "Don't speak!—Don't speak!"
She was straining him to her with a passionate tenderness never shown another being, raining on him the sweetest kisses.
Both fell to crying as if their hearts would break.
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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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smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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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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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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sterile
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| adj.不毛的，不孕的，无菌的，枯燥的，贫瘠的 | |
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insipid
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| adj.无味的，枯燥乏味的，单调的 | |
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musingly
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| adv.沉思地，冥想地 | |
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inscriptions
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| （作者）题词( inscription的名词复数 )； 献词； 碑文； 证劵持有人的登记 | |
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fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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discomfited
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| v.使为难( discomfit的过去式和过去分词)；使狼狈；使挫折；挫败 | |
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17
persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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18
savoring
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| v.意味，带有…的性质( savor的现在分词 )；给…加调味品；使有风味；品尝 | |
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19
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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20
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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21
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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22
inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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23
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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24
requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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25
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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26
diligently
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| ad.industriously;carefully | |
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27
cinders
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| n.煤渣( cinder的名词复数 )；炭渣；煤渣路；煤渣跑道 | |
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28
soot
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| n.煤烟，烟尘；vt.熏以煤烟 | |
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29
accost
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| v.向人搭话，打招呼 | |
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30
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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31
bereavement
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| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
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32
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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33
compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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34
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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35
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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36
beholder
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| n.观看者，旁观者 | |
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37
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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38
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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39
toddling
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| v.（幼儿等）东倒西歪地走( toddle的现在分词 )；蹒跚行走；溜达；散步 | |
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40
toddled
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| v.（幼儿等）东倒西歪地走( toddle的过去式和过去分词 )；蹒跚行走；溜达；散步 | |
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41
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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42
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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43
squealing
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| v.长声尖叫，用长而尖锐的声音说( squeal的现在分词 ) | |
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44
exhorted
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| v.劝告，劝说( exhort的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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46
unintelligibly
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| 难以理解地 | |
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47
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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48
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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49
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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50
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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51
vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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52
bruising
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| adj.殊死的；十分激烈的v.擦伤(bruise的现在分词形式) | |
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53
buckles
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| 搭扣，扣环( buckle的名词复数 ) | |
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54
Undid
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| v. 解开, 复原 | |
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55
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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56
diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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57
pacified
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| 使（某人）安静( pacify的过去式和过去分词 )； 息怒； 抚慰； 在（有战争的地区、国家等）实现和平 | |
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58
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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59
tassel
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| n.流苏，穗；v.抽穗， （玉米）长穗须 | |
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60
snare
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| n.陷阱，诱惑，圈套；（去除息肉或者肿瘤的）勒除器；响弦，小军鼓；vt.以陷阱捕获，诱惑 | |
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61
arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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62
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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63
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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64
peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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65
contradictory
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| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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66
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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67
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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68
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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69
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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70
miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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71
numb
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| adj.麻木的，失去感觉的；v.使麻木 | |
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72
tolerance
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| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
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73
grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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74
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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75
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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76
concurred
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| 同意（concur的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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77
qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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78
condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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79
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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80
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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81
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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82
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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83
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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84
bad-tempered
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| adj.脾气坏的 | |
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85
vindictive
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| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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86
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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87
morbidly
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| adv.病态地 | |
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88
erratic
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| adj.古怪的，反复无常的，不稳定的 | |
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89
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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90
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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91
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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92
conclusively
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| adv.令人信服地，确凿地 | |
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93
pensively
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| adv.沉思地，焦虑地 | |
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94
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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95
rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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96
bolstered
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| v.支持( bolster的过去式和过去分词 )；支撑；给予必要的支持；援助 | |
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97
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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98
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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99
tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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100
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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101
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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102
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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103
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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104
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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105
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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106
intrepid
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| adj.无畏的，刚毅的 | |
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107
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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109
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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110
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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111
foes
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| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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112
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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113
pebble
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| n.卵石，小圆石 | |
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114
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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115
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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116
accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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117
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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118
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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119
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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120
conspirators
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| n.共谋者，阴谋家( conspirator的名词复数 ) | |
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121
babbled
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| v.喋喋不休( babble的过去式和过去分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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122
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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123
opportune
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| adj.合适的，适当的 | |
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124
abruptness
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| n. 突然，唐突 | |
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125
abjectly
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| 凄惨地； 绝望地； 糟透地； 悲惨地 | |
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126
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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127
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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128
tremors
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| 震颤( tremor的名词复数 )； 战栗； 震颤声； 大地的轻微震动 | |
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129
tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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130
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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131
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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132
beak
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| n.鸟嘴，茶壶嘴，钩形鼻 | |
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133
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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134
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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135
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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136
accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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137
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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138
punctiliously
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139
meddling
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的现在分词 ) | |
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140
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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141
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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142
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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143
stiffening
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| n. (使衣服等)变硬的材料, 硬化 动词stiffen的现在分词形式 | |
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144
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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145
dispel
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| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
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146
allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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147
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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148
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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149
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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150
ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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151
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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152
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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153
irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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154
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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155
reek
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| v.发出臭气；n.恶臭 | |
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156
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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157
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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158
perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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159
wheedlingly
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| 用甜言蜜语哄骗 | |
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160
wheedling
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| v.骗取（某物），哄骗（某人干某事）( wheedle的现在分词 ) | |
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161
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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162
nibble
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| n.轻咬，啃；v.一点点地咬，慢慢啃，吹毛求疵 | |
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163
lamely
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| 一瘸一拐地，不完全地 | |
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164
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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165
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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166
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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167
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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168
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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169
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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170
gushed
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| v.喷，涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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171
defiantly
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| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
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172
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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173
enjoined
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| v.命令( enjoin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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174
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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175
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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176
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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177
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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178
disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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179
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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180
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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181
mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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182
boors
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| n.农民( boor的名词复数 )；乡下佬；没礼貌的人；粗野的人 | |
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183
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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184
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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185
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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186
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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187
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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188
invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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189
fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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190
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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191
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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192
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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193
unreasonably
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| adv. 不合理地 | |
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194
guardianship
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| n. 监护, 保护, 守护 | |
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195
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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196
behooved
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| v.适宜( behoove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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197
runaway
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| n.逃走的人，逃亡，亡命者；adj.逃亡的，逃走的 | |
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198
manliness
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| 刚毅 | |
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199
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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200
economist
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| n.经济学家，经济专家，节俭的人 | |
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201
vex
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| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
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202
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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203
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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204
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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205
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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206
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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207
hew
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| v.砍；伐；削 | |
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208
efface
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| v.擦掉，抹去 | |
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209
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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210
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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211
rivalries
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| n.敌对，竞争，对抗( rivalry的名词复数 ) | |
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212
density
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| n.密集，密度，浓度 | |
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213
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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214
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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215
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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216
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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217
chattels
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| n.动产，奴隶( chattel的名词复数 ) | |
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218
populous
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| adj.人口稠密的，人口众多的 | |
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219
dwindling
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| adj.逐渐减少的v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的现在分词 ) | |
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220
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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221
insidious
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| adj.阴险的，隐匿的，暗中为害的，（疾病）不知不觉之间加剧 | |
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222
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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223
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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224
apathetic
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| adj.冷漠的，无动于衷的 | |
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225
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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226
pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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227
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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228
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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229
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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230
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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231
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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232
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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233
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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234
rout
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| n.溃退，溃败；v.击溃，打垮 | |
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235
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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236
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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237
bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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238
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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239
murky
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| adj.黑暗的，朦胧的；adv.阴暗地，混浊地；n.阴暗；昏暗 | |
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240
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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241
dingier
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| adj.暗淡的，乏味的( dingy的比较级 )；肮脏的 | |
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242
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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243
stolid
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| adj.无动于衷的，感情麻木的 | |
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244
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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245
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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246
rustled
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| v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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247
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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248
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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249
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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250
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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251
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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252
deferential
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| adj. 敬意的，恭敬的 | |
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253
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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254
tunes
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| n.曲调，曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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255
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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256
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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257
touchy
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| adj.易怒的；棘手的 | |
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258
lodger
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| n.寄宿人，房客 | |
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259
inordinate
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| adj.无节制的；过度的 | |
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260
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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261
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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262
conducive
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|
| adj.有益的，有助的 | |
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263
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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264
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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265
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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266
dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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267
glimmering
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|
| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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268
tingled
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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269
rippled
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| 使泛起涟漪（ripple的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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270
unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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271
ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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272
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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273
scrutinized
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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274
loath
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| adj.不愿意的；勉强的 | |
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275
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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276
guttered
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| vt.形成沟或槽于…（gutter的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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277
drearily
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| 沉寂地，厌倦地，可怕地 | |
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278
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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279
numbed
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| v.使麻木，使麻痹( numb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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280
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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281
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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282
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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283
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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284
wrangling
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| v.争吵，争论，口角( wrangle的现在分词 ) | |
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285
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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286
embittered
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| v.使怨恨，激怒( embitter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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287
graveyard
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| n.坟场 | |
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288
heralds
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| n.使者( herald的名词复数 )；预报者；预兆；传令官v.预示( herald的第三人称单数 )；宣布（好或重要） | |
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289
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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290
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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291
vestige
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| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
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292
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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293
syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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294
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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