The wind fell and the thunder ceased,
The rod light came up from the east,
As my dear love a-dying lay
Between the dawning and the day.”
THE night after the baby’s birth Marion Baldwin had a somewhat remarkable2 dream. Remarkable in more ways than one. In the first place it was unusually coherent and clear; in the second, it was the first and only time in which Ralph Severn, the being who had exerted the greatest influence on herself and her life, ever appeared to her in “a vision of the night;” in the third place, after events satisfied her at least that to some extent the dream was prophetic as well as retrospective.
She dreamt that she was again a little child. A girl with flying curls and nimble feet, playing with her brother Harry3 in the garden of the little cottage at Brackley. All that had happened to her since then—her eventful girlhood, her sufferings and joys, her wifehood had hardly as yet realized motherhood—her whole life in short, was for the time being, swept out of her mind. She was again little May Vere, chasing butterflies and running races on the grass with still smaller Harry. Suddenly, in the midst of their play there was wafted5 towards her a strong, sweet scent6. It was that of honeysuckle; the scent which, ever since the meeting in the old garden at the Peacock, she had not been able to endure. Any day she would gladly have walked some miles rather than encounter it.
In her dream it acted upon her in a peculiar7, bewildering way. For a short time there came over her the painful sensation of partial suffocation8; it seemed to her that she stopped in her running, and lay down on the soft, velvety9 grass. At this point Harry disappeared; nor did the remembrance of him return to her again throughout the dream. Gradually the oppression cleared away, and her breathing became easy. She was still conscious of the honeysuckle scent; but no longer to a painful of disagreeable extent. Then some one called her by name, clearly and distinctly. She knew the voice to be Ralph’s; but, looking up eagerly to see him, to her amazement10 she recognized the person approaching her as Geoffrey. As he drew nearer she saw that he looked pale and tired and walked very slowly. Something too he was carrying in his arms, the form of which she could not at first distinguish. Then she saw that it was a little child, lying across his breast as if asleep. It was not a baby, for a shower of thick, dark hair fell over and concealed11 the face: and as Geoffrey came close to her, and stood half fainting beside her, with one hand he gently put aside the hair, and she saw that the child was Sybil. Then he spoke12.
“Help me to carry her, Marion,” he said. “I promised to take care of her and see her safe home, but she was too tired to walk any further; and I am nearly worn out myself.”
Marion stretched out her arm to take the child, but suddenly, as she did so, Sybil seemed to awake, slid from her grasp, and stood before her. Without speaking, the child for a moment gazed at the husband and wife with yearning13 love in her face; then, kissing her little hands she turned from them and hastened rapidly away, seeming rather to fly than run; but ever as she went, turning to kiss her hands with a sort of beckoning14 gesture. Marion did not feel the least surprise; but looking at Geoffrey was amazed to see him in violent distress15.
“I must go,” he cried, “I must go.” As these words reached her ears she was seized with that fearful, indescribable sensation of dream horror, combining in itself every shade of human agony. Throwing up her arms in her extremity16, she heard again Ralph’s voice calling her by name; and immediately she felt her hands grasped in his. Looking up, she met his tender, loving gaze fixed17 on her.
“Marion, Marion,” he cried, as if in reproach, “why did you not tell me before? Why did you leave it for Sybil to tell? See only how Geoffrey is suffering. Could you not have trusted my great love, not even for his sake?”
Then blinding tears fell from her eyes. In a mist as it were, she saw Ralph dart18 forward, in time, barely, to prevent Geoffrey’s falling to the ground; the sense of suffocation again oppressed her, and making a strong effort to overcome it, she woke, with a slight scream — to find Geoffrey bending over her in some anxiety; for her sleep had been disturbed and he had obtained the nurse’s permission to watch beside her, while that good lady was occupied in performing Miss Baldwin’s toilette for the day.
It was early morning. There were birds, a few at least, even in Brewer19 Street; and their sweet spring chirping20 sounded fresh and bright to Marion’s waking ears.
“I have had such a queer dream,” she said to her husband, and she looked at him anxiously. “You are quite well this morning, dear Geoffrey, are you not?” she asked. “You have not been sitting up all night beside me?”
“Oh, dear, no,” he answered cheerfully, “I have had an excellent night’s rest. But now I must be off; for the old dragon in the next room made me promise I shouldn’t let you talk first thing in the morning, before you have had anything to eat. I shall get my breakfast and start for town. I’ll be back for an hour in the middle of the day to see how you’re getting on. Be a good girl, and get well as fast as you can, and don’t dream queer dreams that make you scream in your sleep.”
“It wasn’t a disagreeable dream exactly,” said Marion, “but I don’t quite understand it.”
Geoffrey smiled at the grave consideration she bestowed21 on the subject. Then he kissed her tenderly, and was gone.
It might have been only the faint light in the room, but somehow, Marion could not rid herself of the idea that Geoffrey did not look well that morning. Certainly he had had plenty to try him of late; his anxiety about her had of itself been enough to knock him up. She must not be morbid22 or fanciful, she said to herself. The best thing she could do for her husband, was to get well herself as quickly as possible; so as to be able to take care of him and see he played no tricks with himself; in the way of not changing his wet clothes, going too long without food, or any nonsense of that kind!
She did her best to keep to her resolution, and her recovery progressed satisfactorily. The baby was certainly very delightful23, its fingers and toes especially. It really cried very little indeed, hardly at all “compared with a many,” said the nurse, and Marion thought it a round ball of perfection. The nicest time was the evening, when Geoffrey came and sat beside her, his day’s work over; and she made him hold the baby in his arms and laughed at his wonderful clumsiness till the tears ran down her cheeks.
When she was well enough to be carried downstairs, and established on the regulation sofa, which, by the help of a few pillows, Geoffrey had succeeded in rendering24 somewhat more comfortable, some few visitors dropped in to enquire25 after her. Kind Mrs. Allen, of course, who indeed had allowed few days to pass since baby Mary’s arrival, without calling herself, or sending a servant, with far more fruit than Mrs. Baldwin could possibly have consumed, and flowers in sufficient abundance to have decked the greater part of the front parlours in Brewer Street—not to speak of more substantial proofs of friendliness26 in the shape of jellies and blancmanges, and a dozen of old port surreptitiously confided27 to Mrs. Appleby’s care, for the use of the young mother “when she begins to get about again.” It was all done so simply, with such homely28, matter-of-fact kindliness29, that even Geoffrey could not feel offended, or otherwise than grateful for the motherly goodness which his young wife’s gentleness and sweetness had thus drawn30 forth31.
The Baxter chariot made its appearance in Brewer Street one day, and the descended32 therefrom in person, to inspect the new thing in babies which had made its appearance at No. 32. She condescended33 to approve of small Mary, handled her in a wonderfully knowing manner, and altogether over-whelmed her mamma by the astonishing amount of monthly nurse talk she managed to get through in a quarter of an hour. In this domain34 evidently she felt herself at home, and thorough mistress of all she touched upon.
Two or three weeks soon passed, and Marion began to resume her regular habits. Her anxiety about Geoffrey, though it had to some extent subsided35, had by no means altogether left her. At times he looked almost like his old self; then again any extra fatigue36 or unusual anxiety would tell on him fearfully. One day when he left for town he told her not to expect him home for an hour later than usual, as he thought it probable he would be detained till that time. It was a fine, mild evening. Marion opened the window of her room upstairs, from whence she could see some way down the street, and sat there watching for his return. He came at last, walking slowly and looking very wearied. A slight shiver crept through her as suddenly the remembrance of her strange dream flashed across her mind. She darted37 downstairs and met him at the door, then drawing him gently into the little sitting-room—
“Geoffrey,” she said, “are you not well? I have been watching you coming along the street, and I fancied you looked so pale and tired.”
He did not answer her immediately. He sank down on a chair and covered his face with his hand. She grew frightened.
“Geoffrey,” she said, with the slight petulance38 of nervous anxiety, “speak to me, do! Are you not well, or is anything the matter?”
He roused himself and looked up in a bewildered manner.
“Don’t be vexed39 with me, dear,” he said. “I know I am very stupid. No, there is nothing the matter. I am quite well, only a slight feeling of giddiness came over me just now. I have had rather an extra long walk, and it is getting very close and oppressive in the warehouse40 now the summer is coming on. I shall be all right after tea. Let us have it now, for I have a lot of things to talk to you about.”
She saw he was very tired, and therefore said no more, till, refreshed by the meal, he settled himself comfortably in an arm-chair by the window.
“How delightful it must be in the country just now,” said Geoffrey. “Brentshire will be looking its very best.”
“Yes,” said Marion, a little sadly. “I am not happy when I think of your being cooped up in this place all through the summer, Geoffrey. I can see it does not suit you.”
“It is not so bad for me as for you,” he replied. Then with a sudden change of tone: “Where do you think I went to-day after leaving the office? I set off to call on your friend, Mrs. Allen.”
“To thank her for all her kindness?” exclaimed Marion. “I am very glad. It is just what I have been wishing you would do, but I didn’t like to propose it, for you have seemed so tired lately in the evenings.”
“Well, to tell the truth it was not merely to thank her,” said Geoffrey. “I wanted to consult her about you. I am not quite satisfied that you are getting as thoroughly41 strong again as you should. And one day the doctor said something about sea-air being always desirable after this sort of thing. I couldn’t get it out of my head, so at last I went to consult with Mrs. Allen as to how it should be managed. She has made the most capital arrangement, if only you will be a good girl and agree to it. What a good creature Mrs. Allen is!”
“Awfully good!” answered Marion, warmly. “What is this plan of hers?”
“I’m almost afraid to tell you. I shall be so horribly disappointed if you don’t agree to it,” said Geoffrey. “They, the Allens, are going to the sea-side on Friday, for a month and she has asked you and the baby, and nurse of course, to go with them for a fortnight.”
“And leave you?” exclaimed Marion in dismay.
“Only for a fortnight, dear,” he replied; “I shall get on very well. Possibly I may get away on Saturday-week and stay with you till the Monday. Don’t refuse to go, my darling. You don’t know what a relief it will be to my mind to know you are having a breath of fresh air.”
“But you want it more than I do, my poor Geoffrey!” remonstrated42 Marion, her voice faltering43. “How can I leave you here alone for a whole fortnight? And you are not well. I see you are not well, though you won’t own to it.”
“But surely it would not mend matters for you not to try to get stronger, now you have really a chance of doing so,” he urged. “Think of all depending on you—that little monkey, too. Supposing I were to fall ill, which Heaven forbid, so long as I am any good to you, my dearest, all the more reason for you to keep strong.”
There was reason in this, Marion could not deny.
Geoffrey saw she was beginning to yield and resolved wisely to strike while the iron was hot.
“I promised to send Mrs. Allen a line by to-night’s post,” he said briskly. “Give me my portfolio44, and I’ll write it now and get Sarah Ann, or whatever her name is, to post it. I am so glad to have it settled. You are a very good girl, Marion;” and he kissed her fondly.
“Promise me you won’t get ill while I am away,” she said wistfully.
“Of course I won’t. Don’t talk nonsense,” he replied. The words were rough, but the tone of the tenderest. “Seriously,” he went on, “I don’t think I am a bit worse than I was last year when we first came here. It is only the close weather that tries me.” And his satisfaction at the successful result of his little scheme, made him look so bright and cheerful that Marion’s spirits rose again, and she began to think her fears had been exaggerated.
“Be sure you write every day,” were her last words on the Friday morning, when, for the first time since their coming to Millington, the husband and wife separated. He nodded a cheerful assent45, and in another minute the train puffed46 out of the station, and poor Geoffrey, standing47 solitary48 on the platform, straining his eyes to catch the last glimpse of his wife, was lost to sight.
Notwithstanding her misgivings50 on his account, Marion could not but feel that the change of air and scene was very acceptable and pleasant. The Allens were the kindest and most considerate of hosts; the fresh sea air seemed to give her new life and strength with every breath; little Mary throve as a Sunday child should, and everything but the thought of Geoffrey’s loneliness conspired51 to refresh and inspirit her.
For the first week every morning brought a few words from Brewer Street. He was “getting on all right,” wrote Geoffrey; delighted to hear she was so well and happy, and looking forward, if all were well, to a Saturday and Sunday together by the sea before her return.
One day he forwarded to her a letter in an unfamiliar52 hand. She opened it with some curiosity, and hastily glanced at the signature. It was that of “Maria Jane Baxter.”
“How kind of her to write,” thought Marion, and the CONTENTS OF the letter pleased her very much.
“I have not been able to write before,” wrote Maria, “for at school we are not allowed to send letters to any one not a relation. The holidays have just begun, and I want very much to tell you that I gave your message to Lotty Severn immediately I saw her. She was so very glad to hear about you. She asked me a good many questions, and I hope it was not wrong of me to tell her what I know. That you were married, I mean, to Mr. Baldwin, and how handsome and kind he was, and also that I thought you had lost a great deal of money. I hope it was not wrong of me to tell that? I heard them speaking of you at my uncle’s, the next day after you dined there, and I was not sure that I caught your name rightly, for I think Uncle Baxter said your name used to be Vere, and I understood you to say Freer. But Lotty says I am quite right, and that before you were married, and at the time they knew you, you were Miss Freer. She asked me to give you her love if ever I saw you, and to tell you she would always remember you, and she hoped Mr. Baldwin would make a great deal of money at Millington. She said she would not talk about you to any one but her uncle—not to her grandmother, for Sybil always thought Lady Severn was unkind to you, Lotty says—but her uncle loved you very much for being so good to Sybil; and Lotty says she is sure he will like to hear about you. I think that was all Lotty said. I should like to see you again very much. I heard you had a little baby, and I told Lotty so. She wished you would call it ‘Sybil.’ I am afraid I shall not see you again, for my Aunt Baxter offended my mamma the last time we were there, and mamma says she will never go there again,” &c., &c.
And so the simple, girlish epistle ended. But it please Marion even while it recalled painful associations. She was glad to have been able to send a message to poor Lotty, and to receive this assurance of the little girl’s affection. Pleased, too, that, even in this indirect roundabout way, some tidings of her should penetrate53 to Ralph. She was glad that he should know that her strong interest in his little nieces had in no wise faded, that sweet Sybil had not been unmourned by her.
That the incident should lead to any other result in no wise occurred to her.
It was on the Thursday morning of the second week of her stay with the Allens that she received this letter. The day but one following—the Saturday—was to bring Geoffrey. Friday passed without any tidings of him; the first day he had missed writing. She felt a little uneasy. Still more so when Saturday morning brought no letter. But Mrs. Allen persuaded her that as he was coming that day he would not have thought it necessary to write; might, not improbably, have been detained late at business the previous evening in preparation for the Saturday’s holiday.
Marion felt but half satisfied, but tried to think it was all right. To kill time till the hour at which Mr. Allen promised to escort her to the station to meet her husband, she went a long walk with the two boys. She did her best to be cheerful; they hunted for shells, they built sand fortresses54 for the waves to undermine, they ran races on the shore; but for all that her heart was heavy with unacknowledged misgiving49. At last they turned towards home. A few paces from their own door they met Mr. Allen hastening towards them.
“You must have been quite a long walk,” he said, speaking, it seemed to Marion, rather faster than usual. “I have been some distance in the other direction looking for you. What a lovely day it is!” he went on, hurriedly. “Just the day for the sea-side. Mr. Baldwin would have enjoyed it so much. Such a pity he can’t come.”
“Can’t come,” repeated Marion in astonishment55. “He is coming, Mr. Allen. I had no letter this morning, and he would have been sure to write had anything prevented his coming.”
She glanced at Mr. Allen’s face; he did not speak, but she read something in his expression which caused her heart for an instant to stand still, and then again to beat with almost suffocating56 rapidity.
“Mr. Allen,” she exclaimed, wildly, “you are playing with me. It is nonsense. I see it all in your face. You have had some dreadful news while I was out. You have had a letter saying that——. Good God, tell me the worst. Give me the letter, if you won’t speak.”
“Not a letter,” stammered57 Mr. Allen, his rosy58 face suffused59 with perspiration60 drawn forth by his very unsuccessful attempt at “breaking it gently to the poor thing.” “Not a letter. A telegram from Mr. Baxter, and, and—— yes, you shall see it,” he went on, fumbling61 in his pocket for the large thin envelope, with the fatal “immediate” in the corner; “for I Heaven’s sake, don’t excite your-self so, my dear young lady. Think of the poor baby.” (He was a family man, you see, and none of the little Allens had been brought up “by hand.”) “After all, it may not be so bad as you think.”
From Robert Baxter, Esq., Millington, to “Henry Allen, Esq., Sandbeach.” (Thus ran the telegram.)
“Not seen Baldwin two days. Sent to enquire. Find him very ill. Better send his wife at once.”
That was all. All that could be learnt for the next dreadful three hours, which must elapse before the poor wife could be by the bedside of her suffering, perhaps dying, husband.
For “send,” good Mr. Allen read “bring”; and after a waking nightmare of hurry and confusion, Marion found herself but half conscious of where she was or what she was doing, in the railway, hastening back to the home she had quitted so unwillingly63 but a few days before.
Baby Mary was with her, of course, torn from her cot, poor child, to be hastily enveloped64 in hood4 and cloak, and hurried away on this unexpected journey. But it was all one to her. She was really a wonderful baby for taking things coolly, and reposed65, poor little soul, in calm unconsciousness of her father’s danger, or her mother’s agonising anxiety.
“ ‘Never so bad but it might have been worse,’ ” quoted Mr. Allen to himself. “It would really have been dreadful if the poor baby, as they generally do, had seen fit to scream all the way!”
Millington, dirty, smoky, unlovely Millington at last. A wretched, jolting66 drive, in a wretched, jolting cab, with a stupid driver who could not, or would not, read the names of the streets or the numbers of the houses; (in consequence of which the greater part of the transit67 from the station to Brewer Street was performed by Mr. Allen with the upper half of his stout68 little person—ensconced in the regulation pater-familias sea-side costume of Scotch69 tweed, which he had not had time to change—extended out of the cab window as far as it could reach in the direction of the driver) ending at last in a sudden halt at Mrs. Appleby’s door.
Careless of cab fare, all but forgetful of baby, Marion dashed open the little garden gate and flew to the door. It was opened before she had time to ring; Mrs. Appleby had heard them stop.
“How is he?” was all she could say.
“Very poorly, I’m afraid,” replied the land-lady. But even that was better than the worst.
Then hastened up Mr. Allen; and, leading the way into the front parlour, Mrs. Appleby related to the two new-comers the particulars of Mr. Baldwin’s seizure70.
“He had not been ‘not to say well,’ since Mrs. Baldwin left,” said Mrs. Appleby. Up to Thursday, however, he had been able to go to business as usual. On that morning he had not got up, told Mrs. Appleby his head was so bad, he thought he must stay in bed. He seemed to sleep most of that day, and the landlady71 was in hopes by Friday morning he would be all right again. But it was not so. She felt at a loss what to do, and proposed to him to send for the doctor, or Mrs. Baldwin both of which propositions he most decidedly negatived. This morning, however, Saturday, he was so evidently worse, light-headed Mrs. Appleby fancied, that she grew frightened: and when a young man from Baxter Brothers called to ask if Mr. Baldwin were ill, she sent by him a note to the same medical man who had attended Mrs. Baldwin, and a request to some of the gentlemen at the office to telegraph to Mr. Allen at Sandbeach.
“Had the doctor been?”
“Oh yes,” and was to call again in the afternoon.
“I will wait till he has been,” said Mr. Allen decidedly. And when Marion began to make some piteous apology for so trespassing72 on his kindness: “My dear,” said the little man, drawing himself up to his full height of five feet five and a half. “My dear, do you take me for a monster---a monster,” he repeated, “in human form? No, no, as sure as my name is ’Enery Hallen, I. feel towards you, my dear, as a daughter in this time of trouble. Now run away to your ’usband, poor fellow, and do your best to be calm. I shall do very well here till I have seen Dr. ’Amley. This good lady, I have no doubt,” with a gallant73 inclination74 towards Mrs. Appleby, which forthwith gained the worthy75 landlady’s heart. “This good lady will get me a chop, and shall still have time to catch the last train to Sandbeach. Now don’t think any more about me. Run away to your ’usband.”
She needed no second bidding. But, alas76! when she stood by Geoffrey’s bedside, laid her cool hand on his forehead, called him by every endearing name, he no longer knew her! He lay in a sort of stupor77, perfectly78 quiet, not apparently79 suffering. His eyes were open, but for her, sightless. He stared at her, evidently without the slightest recognition. It was fearful! She had never before come in contact with this sort of illness, rarely indeed with serious illness of any kind: and she crouched80 down by the bedside and sobbed81 her very heart out.
Suddenly she fancied she heard him speak. He was only muttering to himself. “The letter,” he said, “I must put it where she will be sure to see it—at once, as soon as ever it is all over. Veronica will be good to her at first.”
He spoke so rationally, though the words made her shudder82, that she fancied he must be recovering his consciousness.
“Yes, dear Geoffrey,” she said, “I am here. Shall I fetch the letter?” But he only stared at her vacantly, and repeated, “She will be to see it—yes, sure to see it, when all is over.”
Then he dozed83 off again, and for an hour or more she crouched beside him in her desolation of misery84.
At the end of that time came Mrs. Appleby, to tell her that Dr. Hamley was below, and to entreat85 her to take some nourishment86.
Marion could not succeed in obtaining much satisfaction from the doctor. At that early stage in an illness of the kind, he said to her, it was impossible to give an opinion. No doubt it was likely to be serious; but Mr. Baldwin was young, had an excellent and unimpaired constitution, and with care and patience they had every reason to hope the best. She must take great care of herself, he added, as a parting injunction—for every sake, baby’s of course in particular.
“Oh yes,” replied Marion, “you shall see how reasonable and sensible I shall be, Dr. Hamley, if only you will let me nurse him myself.”
“Not unassisted? Indeed, my dear young lady, it would be quite out of the question,” said the doctor. “For a short time you really must have a nurse. It is a case in which everything depends on constant, unflagging care and watchfulness88. I shall look out a nice nurse myself and send her this evening.
“Thank you very much,” faltered89 Poor Marion, as he left her, promising90 to call again early the next morning.
To Mr. Allen, whom he saw alone on his way out, Dr. Hamley was much more out-spoken and explicit91. “He is terribly ill, poor fellow,” he said. “It will be at best a touch-and-go case. You see it has been coming on evidently for some time. A sort of break up it is in fact; resulting from all he has undergone, and the complete change in his life and habits since coming here. If he recovers, a return to a country life will be his only chance. But it will be some weeks before we can venture to talk of him and recovery in the same breath! I only hope that poor girl’s strength may keep up.”
“Poor thing, poor thing,” said Mr. Allen, sympathisingly. Then he added with some little embarrassment92, button-holing Dr. Hamley as he spoke: “They are very poor, Doctor, and illness is expensive. You will know where to apply to if there is any difficulty of this kind? I must hasten to catch the next train, but with you I feel that I leave them in good hands. You will see that they want for nothing that a little ready money can supply?”
“All right, my dear Sir,” replied the doctor cordially, and added as he shook hands with Mr. Allen, “They are fortunate in having such friends as, I know of old, your worthy lady and yourself are sure to prove in time need.”
The nurse arrived before night and was installed in her place.
Then began the weary monotony of a long and dangerous illness; to those who have not come directly in contact with it, so indescribable; to those who have themselves watched for weeks in a sick room, so painfully familiar.
It proved indeed, as Dr. Hamley had prophesied93, a close race between me and death. For many days none could have said which was the more likely to win.
Of acute suffering there was little; for the occasional paroxysms of fever and delirium94 alternated with long fits of death-like stupor, during which for hours together, Geoffrey Baldwin neither moved nor spoke. When delirious95, his thoughts appeared chiefly to run on the letter to which he had alluded96 in the beginning of his illness. Marion got accustomed to his speaking of it, and came to think it must be merely a dream, for though she looked in every direction, in likely and unlikely places, she found no letter to which his broken sentences could refer. She soothed98, or tried to soothe97, his anxiety on the subject (for she was never sure if she understood what she said) by assuring him she had read the letter and would attend to all its injunctions. “When all is over?” he asked her once, wistfully gazing in her face. But not even to satisfy him could she bring herself to repeat the dreadful words—“Yes, when all is over.”
All through the weary weeks she watched him, as if with the concentrated devotion of mother, sister and wife. She did not allow herself to think: had she done so her strength must assuredly have failed; as it was, it stood the test in a way that astonished all about her.
“You do not know how wiry I am,” she said one day to Dr. Hamley, and she judged herself correctly.
At last, at last—when June had grown into July, and the leaves on the few trees in Brewer Street were already, poor stunted99 things, brown and shrivelled by Millington dust and smoke, and seemingly inclined in disgust and disappointment to drop off in premature100 decay—at last, after the long waiting, the heart sickness of hope deferred101 till it had all but become despair, Marion had her reward.
“He has got the turn, my dear,” said Dr. Hamley. “He has got the turn, and if we can now keep up his strength and spirits, we shall, by God’s blessing102, pull him through.”
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ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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wafted
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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scent
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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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suffocation
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velvety
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amazement
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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14
beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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15
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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16
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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17
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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18
dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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19
brewer
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| n. 啤酒制造者 | |
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20
chirping
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| 鸟叫，虫鸣( chirp的现在分词 ) | |
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21
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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22
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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23
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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24
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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25
enquire
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| v.打听，询问；调查，查问 | |
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26
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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27
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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28
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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29
kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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30
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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31
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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32
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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33
condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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34
domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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35
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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36
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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37
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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38
petulance
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| n.发脾气，生气，易怒，暴躁，性急 | |
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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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40
warehouse
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| n.仓库；vt.存入仓库 | |
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41
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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42
remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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43
faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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44
portfolio
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| n.公事包；文件夹；大臣及部长职位 | |
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45
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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46
puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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47
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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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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49
misgiving
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
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50
misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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51
conspired
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| 密谋( conspire的过去式和过去分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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52
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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53
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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54
fortresses
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| 堡垒，要塞( fortress的名词复数 ) | |
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55
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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56
suffocating
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| a.使人窒息的 | |
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57
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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58
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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59
suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60
perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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61
fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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62
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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63
unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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64
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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65
reposed
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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66
jolting
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| adj.令人震惊的 | |
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67
transit
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| n.经过，运输；vt.穿越，旋转；vi.越过 | |
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69
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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70
seizure
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| n.没收；占有；抵押 | |
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71
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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72
trespassing
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| [法]非法入侵 | |
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73
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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74
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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75
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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76
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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77
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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78
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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79
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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80
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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82
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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83
dozed
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| v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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84
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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85
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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86
nourishment
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| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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87
reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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88
watchfulness
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| 警惕，留心； 警觉（性） | |
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89
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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90
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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91
explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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92
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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93
prophesied
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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94
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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95
delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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96
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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97
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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98
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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99
stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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100
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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101
deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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102
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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