Sir Michael and his young wife breakfasted in the library at a comfortable round table, wheeled close to the blazing fire; and Alicia was compelled to share this meal with her step-mother, however she might avoid that lady in the long interval4 between breakfast and dinner.
The March morning was bleak5 and dull, and a drizzling6 rain fell incessantly7, obscuring the landscape and blotting8 out the distance. There were very few letters by the morning post; the daily newspapers did not arrive until noon; and such aids to conversation being missing, there was very little talk at the breakfast table.
Alicia looked out at the drizzling rain drifting against the broad window-panes.
"No riding to-day," she said; "and no chance of any callers to enliven us, unless that ridiculous Bob comes crawling through the wet from Mount Stanning."
Have you ever heard anybody, whom you knew to be dead, alluded9 to in a light, easy going manner by another person who did not know of his death—alluded to as doing that or this, as performing some trivial everyday operation—when you know that he has vanished away from the face of this earth, and separated himself forever from all living creatures and their commonplace pursuits in the awful solemnity of death? Such a chance allusion10, insignificant11 though it may be, is apt to send a strange thrill of pain through the mind. The ignorant remark jars discordantly12 upon the hyper-sensitive brain; the King of Terrors is desecrated13 by that unwitting disrespect. Heaven knows what hidden reason my lady may have had for experiencing some such revulsion of feeling on the sudden mention of Mr. Audley's name, but her pale face blanched14 to a sickly white as Alicia Audley spoke15 of her cousin.
"Yes, he will come down here in the wet, perhaps," the young lady continued, "with his hat sleek16 and shining as if it had been brushed with a pat of fresh butter, and with white vapors18 steaming out of his clothes, and making him look like an awkward genie20 just let out of his bottle. He will come down here and print impressions of his muddy boots all over the carpet, and he'll sit on your Gobelin tapestry21, my lady, in his wet overcoat; and he'll abuse you if you remonstrate22, and will ask why people have chairs that are not to be sat upon, and why you don't live in Figtree Court, and—"
Sir Michael Audley watched his daughter with a thoughtful countenance23 as she talked of her cousin. She very often talked of him, ridiculing24 him and inveighing25 against him in no very measured terms. But perhaps the baronet thought of a certain Signora Beatrice who very cruelly entreated26 a gentleman called Benedick, but who was, it may be, heartily27 in love with him at the same time.
"What do you think Major Melville told me when he called here yesterday, Alicia?" Sir Michael asked, presently.
"I haven't the remotest idea," replied Alicia, rather disdainfully. "Perhaps he told you that we should have another war before long, by Ged, sir; or perhaps he told you that we should have a new ministry28, by Ged, sir, for that those fellows are getting themselves into a mess, sir; or that those other fellows were reforming this, and cutting down that, and altering the other in the army, until, by Ged, sir, we shall have no army at all, by-and-by—nothing but a pack of boys, sir, crammed29 up to the eyes with a lot of senseless schoolmasters' rubbish, and dressed in shell-jackets and calico helmets. Yes, sir, they're fighting in Oudh in calico helmets at this very day, sir."
"You're an impertinent minx, miss," answered the baronet. "Major Melville told me nothing of the kind; but he told me that a very devoted30 admirer of you, a certain Sir Harry31 Towers, has forsaken32 his place in Hertfordshire, and his hunting stable, and has gone on the continent for a twelvemonths' tour."
Miss Audley flushed up suddenly at the mention of her old adorer, but recovered herself very quickly.
"He has gone on the continent, has he?" she said indifferently. "He told me that he meant to do so—if—if he didn't have everything his own way. Poor fellow! he's a dear, good-hearted, stupid creature, and twenty times better than that peripatetic33, patent refrigerator, Mr. Robert Audley."
"I wish, Alicia, you were not so fond of ridiculing Bob," Sir Michael said, gravely. "Bob is a good fellow, and I'm as fond of him as if he'd been my own son; and—and—I've been very uncomfortable about him lately. He has changed very much within the last few days, and he has taken all sorts of absurd ideas into his head, and my lady has alarmed me about him. She thinks—"
Lady Audley interrupted her husband with a grave shake of her head.
"It is better not to say too much about it as yet awhile," she said; "Alicia knows what I think."
"Yes," replied Miss Audley, "my lady thinks that Bob is going mad, but I know better than that. He's not at all the sort of person to go mad. How should such a sluggish35 ditch-pond of an intellect as his ever work itself into a tempest? He may move about for the rest of his life, perhaps, in a tranquil36 state of semi-idiotcy, imperfectly comprehending who he is, and where he's going, and what he's doing—but he'll never go mad."
Sir Michael did not reply to this. He had been very much disturbed by his conversation with my lady on the previous evening, and had silently debated the painful question, in his mind ever since.
His wife—the woman he best loved and most believed in—had told him, with all appearance of regret and agitation37, her conviction of his nephew's insanity38. He tried in vain to arrive at the conclusion he wished most ardently39 to attain40; he tried in vain to think that my lady was misled by her own fancies, and had no foundation for what she said. But then, again, it suddenly flashed upon him, that to think this was to arrive at a worse conclusion; it was to transfer the horrible suspicion from his nephew to his wife. She appeared to be possessed41 with an actual conviction of Robert's insanity. To imagine her wrong was to imagine some weakness in her own mind. The longer he thought of the subject the more it harassed42 and perplexed43 him. It was most certain that the young man had always been eccentric. He was sensible, he was tolerably clever, he was honorable and gentlemanlike in feeling, though perhaps a little careless in the performance of certain minor44 social duties; but there were some slight differences, not easily to be defined, that separated him from other men of his age and position. Then, again, it was equally true that he had very much changed within the period that had succeeded the disappearance45 of George Talboys. He had grown moody46 and thoughtful, melancholy47 and absent-minded. He had held himself aloof48 from society, had sat for hours without speaking; had talked at other points by fits and starts; and had excited himself unusually in the discussion of subjects which apparently49 lay far out of the region of his own life and interests. Then there was even another region which seemed to strengthen my lady's case against this unhappy young man. He had been brought up in the frequent society of his cousin, Alicia—his pretty, genial50 cousin—to whom interest, and one would have thought affection, naturally pointed51 as his most fitting bride. More than this, the girl had shown him, in the innocent guilelessness of a transparent52 nature, that on her side at least, affection was not wanting; and yet, in spite of all this, he had held himself aloof, and had allowed others to propose for her hand, and to be rejected by her, and had still made no sign.
Now love is so very subtle an essence, such an indefinable metaphysical marvel53, that its due force, though very cruelly felt by the sufferer himself, is never clearly understood by those who look on at its torments54 and wonder why he takes the common fever so badly. Sir Michael argued that because Alicia was a pretty girl and an amiable55 girl it was therefore extraordinary and unnatural56 in Robert Audley not to have duly fallen in love with her. This baronet, who close upon his sixtieth birthday, had for the first time encountered that one woman who out of all the women in the world had power to quicken the pulses of his heart, wondered why Robert failed to take the fever from the first breath of contagion57 that blew toward him. He forgot that there are men who go their ways unscathed amidst legions of lovely and generous women, to succumb58 at last before some harsh-featured virago59, who knows the secret of that only philter which can intoxicate60 and bewitch him. He had forgot that there are certain Jacks61 who go through life without meeting the Jill appointed for them by Nemesis62, and die old bachelors, perhaps, with poor Jill pining an old maid upon the other side of the party-wall. He forgot that love, which is a madness, and a scourge63, and a fever, and a delusion64, and a snare65, is also a mystery, and very imperfectly understood by everyone except the individual sufferer who writhes66 under its tortures. Jones, who is wildly enamored of Miss Brown, and who lies awake at night until he loathes67 his comfortable pillow and tumbles his sheets into two twisted rags of linen68 in his agonies, as if he were a prisoner and wanted to wind them into impromptu69 ropes; this same Jones who thinks Russell Square a magic place because his divinity inhabits it, who thinks the trees in that inclosure and the sky above it greener and bluer than other trees or sky, and who feels a pang70, yes, an actual pang, of mingled71 hope, and joy, and expectation, and terror, when he emerges from Guilford street, descending72 from the hights of Islington, into those sacred precincts; this very Jones is hard and callous73 toward the torments of Smith, who adores Miss Robinson, and cannot imagine what the infatuated fellow can see in the girl. So it was with Sir Michael Audley. He looked at his nephew as a sample of a very large class of young men, and his daughter as a sample of an equally extensive class of feminine goods, and could not see why the two samples should not make a very respectable match. He ignored all those infinitesimal differences in nature which make the wholesome74 food of one man the deadly poison of another. How difficult it is to believe sometimes that a man doesn't like such and such a favorite dish. If at a dinner-party, a meek75 looking guest refuses early salmon76 and cucumbers, or green peas in February, we set him down as a poor relation whose instincts warn him off those expensive plates. If an alderman were to declare that he didn't like green fat, he would be looked upon as a social martyr77, a Marcus Curtius of the dinner-table, who immolated78 himself for the benefit of his kind. His fellow-aldermen would believe in anything rather than an heretical distaste for the city ambrosia79 of the soup tureen. But there are people who dislike salmon, and white-bait, and spring ducklings, and all manner of old-established delicacies80, and there are other people who affect eccentric and despicable dishes, generally stigmatized81 as nasty.
Alas82, my pretty Alicia, your cousin did not love you! He admired your rosy83 English face, and had a tender affection for you which might perhaps have expanded by-and-by into something warm enough for matrimony, that every-day jog-trot species of union which demands no very passionate84 devotion, but for a sudden check which it had received in Dorsetshire. Yes, Robert Audley's growing affection for his cousin, a plant of very slow growth, I am fain to confess, had been suddenly dwarfed85 and stunted86 upon that bitter February day on which he had stood beneath the pine-trees talking to Clara Talboys. Since that day the young man had experienced an unpleasant sensation in thinking of poor Alicia. He looked at her as being in some vague manner an incumbrance upon the freedom of his thoughts; he had a haunting fear that he was in some tacit way pledged to her; that she had a species of claim upon him, which forbade to him the right of thinking of another woman. I believe it was the image of Miss Audley presented to him in this light that goaded87 the young barrister into those outbursts of splenetic rage against the female sex which he was liable to at certain times. He was strictly88 honorable, so honorable that he would rather have immolated himself upon the altar of truth and Alicia than have done her the remotest wrong, though by so doing he might have secured his own comfort and happiness.
"If the poor little girl loves me," he thought, "and if she thinks that I love her, and has been led to think so by any word or act of mine, I'm in duty bound to let her think so to the end of time, and to fulfill89 any tacit promise which I may have unconsciously made. I thought once—I meant once to—to make her an offer by-and-by when this horrible mystery about George Talboys should have been cleared up and everything peacefully settled—but now—"
His thoughts would ordinarily wander away at this point of his reflections, carrying him where he never had intended to go; carrying him back under the pine-trees in Dorsetshire, and setting him once more face to face with the sister of his missing friend, and it was generally a very laborious90 journey by which he traveled back to the point from which he strayed. It was so difficult for him to tear himself away from the stunted turf and the pine-trees.
"Poor little girl!" he would think on coming back to Alicia. "How good it is of her to love me, and how grateful ought I to be for her tenderness. How many fellows would think such a generous, loving heart the highest boon91 that earth could give them. There's Sir Harry Towers stricken with despair at his rejection92. He would give me half his estate, all his estate, twice his estate, if he had it, to be in the shoes which I am anxious to shake off my ungrateful feet. Why don't I love her? Why is it that although I know her to be pretty, and pure, and good, and truthful93, I don't love her? Her image never haunts me, except reproachfully. I never see her in my dreams. I never wake up suddenly in the dead of the night with her eyes shining upon me and her warm breath upon my cheek, or with the fingers of her soft hand clinging to mine. No, I'm not in love with her, I can't fall in love with her."
He raged and rebelled against his ingratitude94. He tried to argue himself into a passionate attachment95 for his cousin, but he failed ignominiously96, and the more he tried to think of Alicia the more he thought of Clara Talboys. I am speaking now of his feelings in the period that elapsed between his return from Dorsetshire and his visit to Grange Heath.
Sir Michael sat by the library fire after breakfast upon this wretched rainy morning, writing letters and reading the newspapers. Alicia shut herself in her own apartment to read the third volume of a novel. Lady Audley locked the door of the octagon ante-chamber, and roamed up and down the suite97 of rooms from the bedroom to the boudoir all through that weary morning.
She had locked the door to guard against the chance of any one coming in suddenly and observing her before she was aware—before she had had sufficient warning to enable her to face their scrutiny98. Her pale face seemed to grow paler as the morning advanced. A tiny medicine-chest was open upon the dressing-table, and little stoppered bottles of red lavender, sal-volatile, chloroform, chlorodyne, and ether were scattered99 about. Once my lady paused before this medicine-chest, and took out the remaining bottles, half-absently, perhaps, until she came to one which was filled with a thick, dark liquid, and labeled "opium100—poison."
She trifled a long time with this last bottle; holding it up to the light, and even removing the stopper and smelling the sickly liquid. But she put it from her suddenly with a shudder101. "If I could!" she muttered, "if I could only do it! And yet why should I now?"
She clinched102 her small hands as she uttered the last words, and walked to the window of the dressing-room, which looked straight toward that ivied archway under which any one must come who came from Mount Stanning to the Court.
There were smaller gates in the gardens which led into the meadows behind the Court, but there was no other way of coming from Mount Stanning or Brentwood than by the principal entrance.
The solitary103 hand of the clock over the archway was midway between one and two when my lady looked at it.
"How slow the time is," she said, wearily; "how slow, how slow! Shall I grow old like this, I wonder, with every minute of my life seeming like an hour?"
She stood for a few minutes watching the archway, but no one passed under it while she looked, and she turned impatiently away from the window to resume her weary wandering about the rooms.
Whatever fire that had been which had reflected itself vividly104 in the black sky, no tidings of it had as yet come to Audley Court. The day was miserably105 wet and windy, altogether the very last day upon which even the most confirmed idler and gossip would care to venture out. It was not a market-day, and there were therefore very few passengers upon the road between Brentwood and Chelmsford, so that as yet no news of the fire, which had occurred in the dead of the wintry night, had reached the village of Audley, or traveled from the village to the Court.
The girl with the rose-colored ribbons came to the door of the anteroom to summon her mistress to luncheon106, but Lady Audley only opened the door a little way, and intimated her intention of taking no luncheon.
"My head aches terribly, Martin," she said; "I shall go and lie down till dinner-time. You may come at five to dress me."
Lady Audley said this with the predetermination of dressing at four, and thus dispensing107 with the services of her attendant. Among all privileged spies, a lady's-maid has the highest privileges; it is she who bathes Lady Theresa's eyes with eau-de-cologne after her ladyship's quarrel with the colonel; it is she who administers sal-volatile to Miss Fanny when Count Beaudesert, of the Blues108, has jilted her. She has a hundred methods for the finding out of her mistress' secrets. She knows by the manner in which her victim jerks her head from under the hair-brush, or chafes109 at the gentlest administration of the comb, what hidden tortures are racking her breast—what secret perplexities are bewildering her brain. That well-bred attendant knows how to interpret the most obscure diagnosis110 of all mental diseases that can afflict111 her mistress; she knows when the ivory complexion112 is bought and paid for—when the pearly teeth are foreign substances fashioned by the dentist—when the glossy113 plaits are the relics114 of the dead, rather than the property of the living; and she knows other and more sacred secrets than these; she knows when the sweet smile is more false than Madame Levison's enamel115, and far less enduring—when the words that issue from between gates of borrowed pearl are more disguised and painted than the lips which help to shape them—when the lovely fairy of the ball-room re-enters the dressing-room after the night's long revelry, and throws aside her voluminous burnous and her faded bouquet116, and drops her mask, and like another Cinderella loses the glass-slipper, by whose glitter she has been distinguished118, and falls back into her rags and dirt, the lady's maid is by to see the transformation119. The valet who took wages from the prophet of Korazin must have seen his master sometimes unveiled, and must have laughed in his sleeve at the folly120 of the monster's worshipers.
Lady Audley had made no confidante of her new maid, and on this day of all others she wished to be alone.
She did lie down; she cast herself wearily upon the luxurious121 sofa in the dressing-room, and buried her face in the down pillows and tried to sleep. Sleep!—she had almost forgotten what it was, that tender restorer of tired nature, it seemed so long now since she had slept. It was only about eight-and-forty hours perhaps, but it appeared an intolerable time. Her fatigue122 of the night before, and her unnatural excitement, had worn her out at last. She did fall asleep; she fell into a heavy slumber123 that was almost like stupor124. She had taken a few drops out of the opium bottle in a glass of water before lying down.
The clock over the mantelpiece chimed the quarter before four as she woke suddenly and started up, with the cold perspiration125 breaking out in icy drops upon her forehead. She had dreamt that every member of the household was clamoring at the door, eager to tell her of a dreadful fire that had happened in the night.
There was no sound but the flapping of the ivy-leaves against the glass, the occasional falling of a cinder117, and the steady ticking of the clock.
"Perhaps I shall be always dreaming these sort of dreams," my lady thought, "until the terror of them kills me!"
The rain had ceased, and the cold spring sunshine was glittering upon the windows. Lady Audley dressed herself rapidly but carefully. I do not say that even in her supremest hour of misery126 she still retained her pride in her beauty. It was not so; she looked upon that beauty as a weapon, and she felt that she had now double need to be well armed. She dressed herself in her most gorgeous silk, a voluminous robe of silvery, shimmering127 blue, that made her look as if she had been arrayed in moonbeams. She shook out her hair into feathery showers of glittering gold, and, with a cloak of white cashmere about her shoulders, went down-stairs into the vestibule.
She opened the door of the library and looked in. Sir Michael Audley was asleep in his easy-chair. As my lady softly closed this door Alicia descended128 the stairs from her own room. The turret129 door was open, and the sun was shining upon the wet grass-plat in the quadrangle. The firm gravel34-walks were already very nearly dry, for the rain had ceased for upward of two hours.
"Will you take a walk with me in the quadrangle?" Lady Audley asked as her step-daughter approached. The armed neutrality between the two women admitted of any chance civility such as this.
"Yes, if you please, my lady," Alicia answered, rather listlessly. "I have been yawning over a stupid novel all the morning, and shall be very glad of a little fresh air."
Heaven help the novelist whose fiction Miss Audley had been perusing130, if he had no better critics than that young lady. She had read page after page without knowing what she had been reading, and had flung aside the volume half a dozen times to go to the window and watch for that visitor whom she had so confidently expected.
Lady Audley led the way through the low doorway131 and on to the smooth gravel drive, by which carriages approached the house. She was still very pale, but the brightness of her dress and of her feathery golden ringlets, distracted an observer's eyes from her pallid132 face. All mental distress133 is, with some show of reason, associated in our minds with loose, disordered garments and dishabilled hair, and an appearance in every way the reverse of my lady's. Why had she come out into the chill sunshine of that March afternoon to wander up and down that monotonous134 pathway with the step-daughter she hated? She came because she was under the dominion135 of a horrible restlessness, which, would not suffer her to remain within the house waiting for certain tidings which she knew must too surely come. At first she had wished to ward19 them off—at first she had wished that strange convulsions of nature might arise to hinder their coming—that abnormal winter lightnings might wither136 and destroy the messenger who carried them—that the ground might tremble and yawn beneath his hastening feet, and that impassable gulfs might separate the spot from which the tidings were to come and the place to which they were to be carried. She wished that the earth might stand still, and the paralyzed elements cease from their natural functions, that the progress of time might stop, that the Day of Judgment137 might come, and that she might thus be brought before an unearthly tribunal, and so escape the intervening shame and misery of any earthly judgment. In the wild chaos138 of her brain, every one of these thoughts had held its place, and in her short slumber on the sofa in her dressing-room she had dreamed all these things and a hundred other things, all bearing upon the same subject. She had dreamed that a brook139, a tiny streamlet when she first saw it, flowed across the road between Mount Stanning and Audley, and gradually swelled140 into a river, and from a river became an ocean, till the village on the hill receded141 far away out of sight and only a great waste of waters rolled where it once had been. She dreamt that she saw the messenger, now one person, now another, but never any probable person, hindered by a hundred hinderances, now startling and terrible, now ridiculous and trivial, but never either natural or probable; and going down into the quiet house with the memory of these dreams strong upon her, she had been bewildered by the stillness which had betokened142 that the tidings had not yet come.
And now her mind underwent a complete change. She no longer wished to delay the dreaded143 intelligence. She wished the agony, whatever it was to be, over and done with, the pain suffered, and the release attained144. It seemed to her as if the intolerable day would never come to an end, as if her mad wishes had been granted, and the progress of time had actually stopped.
"What a long day it has been!" exclaimed Alicia, as if taking up the burden of my lady's thoughts; "nothing but drizzle145 and mist and wind! And now that it's too late for anybody to go out, it must needs be fine," the young lady added, with an evident sense of injury.
Lady Audley did not answer. She was looking at the stupid one-handed clock, and waiting for the news which must come sooner or later, which could not surely fail to come very speedily.
"They have been afraid to come and tell him," she thought; "they have been afraid to break the news to Sir Michael. Who will come to tell it, at last, I wonder? The rector of Mount Stanning, perhaps, or the doctor; some important person at least."
If she could have gone out into the leafless avenues, or onto the high road beyond them; if she could have gone so far as that hill upon which she had so lately parted with Phoebe, she would have gladly done so. She would rather have suffered anything than that slow suspense146, that corroding147 anxiety, that metaphysical dryrot in which heart and mind seemed to decay under an insufferable torture. She tried to talk, and by a painful effort contrived148 now and then to utter some commonplace remark. Under any ordinary circumstances her companion would have noticed her embarrassment149, but Miss Audley, happening to be very much absorbed by her own vexations, was quite as well inclined to be silent as my lady herself. The monotonous walk up and down the graveled pathway suited Alicia's humor. I think that she even took a malicious150 pleasure in the idea that she was very likely catching151 cold, and that her Cousin Robert was answerable for her danger. If she could have brought upon herself inflammation of the lungs, or ruptured152 blood-vessels, by that exposure to the chill March atmosphere, I think she would have felt a gloomy satisfaction in her sufferings.
"Perhaps Robert might care for me, if I had inflammation of the lungs," she thought. "He couldn't insult me by calling me a bouncer then. Bouncers don't have inflammation of the lungs."
I believe she drew a picture of herself in the last stage of consumption, propped153 up by pillows in a great easy-chair, looking out of a window in the afternoon sunshine, with medicine bottles, a bunch of grapes and a Bible upon a table by her side, and with Robert, all contrition154 and tenderness, summoned to receive her farewell blessing155. She preached a whole chapter to him in that parting benediction156, talking a great deal longer than was in keeping with her prostrate157 state, and very much enjoying her dismal158 castle in the air. Employed in this sentimental159 manner, Miss Audley took very little notice of her step-mother, and the one hand of the blundering clock had slipped to six by the time Robert had been blessed and dismissed.
"Good gracious me!" she cried, suddenly—"six o'clock, and I'm not dressed."
The half-hour bell rung in a cupola upon the roof while Alicia was speaking.
"I must go in, my lady," she said. "Won't you come?"
"Presently," answered Lady Audley. "I'm dressed, you see."
Alicia ran off, but Sir Michael's wife still lingered in the quadrangle, still waited for those tidings which were so long coming.
It was nearly dark. The blue mists of evening had slowly risen from the ground. The flat meadows were filled with a gray vapor17, and a stranger might have fancied Audley Court a castle on the margin160 of a sea. Under the archway the shadows of fastcoming night lurked161 darkly, like traitors162 waiting for an opportunity to glide163 stealthily into the quadrangle. Through the archway a patch of cold blue sky glimmered164 faintly, streaked165 by one line of lurid166 crimson167, and lighted by the dim glitter of one wintry-looking star. Not a creature was stirring in the quadrangle but the restless woman who paced up and down the straight pathways, listening for a footstep whose coming was to strike terror to her soul. She heard it at last!—a footstep in the avenue upon the other side of the archway. But was it the footstep? Her sense of hearing, made unnaturally168 acute by excitement, told her that it was a man's footstep—told even more, that it was the tread of a gentleman, no slouching, lumbering169 pedestrian in hobnailed boots, but a gentleman who walked firmly and well.
Every sound fell like a lump of ice upon my lady's heart. She could not wait, she could not contain herself, she lost all self-control, all power of endurance, all capability170 of self-restraint, and she rushed toward the archway.
She paused beneath its shadow, for the stranger was close upon her. She saw him, oh, God! she saw him in that dim evening light. Her brain reeled, her heart stopped beating. She uttered no cry of surprise, no exclamation171 of terror, but staggered backward and clung for support to the ivied buttress172 of the archway. With her slender figure crouched173 into the angle formed by the buttress and the wall which it supported, she stood staring at the new-comer.
As he approached her more closely her knees sunk under her, and she dropped to the ground, not fainting, or in any manner unconscious, but sinking into a crouching174 attitude, and still crushed into the angle of the wall, as if she would have made a tomb for herself in the shadow of that sheltering brickwork.
"My lady!"
The speaker was Robert Audley. He whose bedroom door she had double-locked seventeen hours before at the Castle Inn.
"What is the matter with you?" he said, in a strange, constrained175 manner. "Get up, and let me take you indoors."
He assisted her to rise, and she obeyed him very submissively. He took her arm in his strong hand and led her across the quadrangle and into the lamp-lit hall. She shivered more violently than he had ever seen any woman shiver before, but she made no attempt at resistance to his will.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
dressing
|
|
| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
exquisitely
|
|
| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
embroideries
|
|
| 刺绣( embroidery的名词复数 )； 刺绣品； 刺绣法 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
interval
|
|
| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
bleak
|
|
| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
drizzling
|
|
| 下蒙蒙细雨，下毛毛雨( drizzle的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
incessantly
|
|
| ad.不停地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
blotting
|
|
| 吸墨水纸 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
alluded
|
|
| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
allusion
|
|
| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
insignificant
|
|
| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
discordantly
|
|
| adv.不一致地，不和谐地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
desecrated
|
|
| 毁坏或亵渎( desecrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
blanched
|
|
| v.使变白( blanch的过去式 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
spoke
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
sleek
|
|
| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
vapor
|
|
| n.蒸汽，雾气 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
vapors
|
|
| n.水汽，水蒸气，无实质之物( vapor的名词复数 )；自夸者；幻想 [药]吸入剂 [古]忧郁（症）v.自夸，（使）蒸发( vapor的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
ward
|
|
| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
genie
|
|
| n.妖怪，神怪 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
tapestry
|
|
| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
remonstrate
|
|
| v.抗议，规劝 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
countenance
|
|
| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
ridiculing
|
|
| v.嘲笑，嘲弄，奚落( ridicule的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
inveighing
|
|
| v.猛烈抨击，痛骂，谩骂( inveigh的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
entreated
|
|
| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
heartily
|
|
| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
ministry
|
|
| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
crammed
|
|
| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
devoted
|
|
| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
harry
|
|
| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
Forsaken
|
|
| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
peripatetic
|
|
| adj.漫游的，逍遥派的，巡回的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
gravel
|
|
| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
sluggish
|
|
| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
tranquil
|
|
| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
agitation
|
|
| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
insanity
|
|
| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
ardently
|
|
| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
attain
|
|
| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
possessed
|
|
| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
harassed
|
|
| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
perplexed
|
|
| adj.不知所措的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
minor
|
|
| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
disappearance
|
|
| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
moody
|
|
| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
melancholy
|
|
| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
aloof
|
|
| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
apparently
|
|
| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
genial
|
|
| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
pointed
|
|
| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
transparent
|
|
| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
marvel
|
|
| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
torments
|
|
| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
amiable
|
|
| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
unnatural
|
|
| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
contagion
|
|
| n.(通过接触的疾病)传染；蔓延 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
succumb
|
|
| v.屈服，屈从；死 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
virago
|
|
| n.悍妇 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
intoxicate
|
|
| vt.使喝醉，使陶醉，使欣喜若狂 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
jacks
|
|
| n.抓子游戏；千斤顶( jack的名词复数 )；（电）插孔；[电子学]插座；放弃 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
nemesis
|
|
| n.给以报应者，复仇者，难以对付的敌手 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
scourge
|
|
| n.灾难，祸害；v.蹂躏 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
delusion
|
|
| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
snare
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
writhes
|
|
| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
loathes
|
|
| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的第三人称单数 )；极不喜欢 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
linen
|
|
| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
impromptu
|
|
| adj.即席的，即兴的；adv.即兴的(地)，无准备的(地) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
pang
|
|
| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
mingled
|
|
| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
descending
|
|
| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
callous
|
|
| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
wholesome
|
|
| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
meek
|
|
| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
salmon
|
|
| n.鲑，大马哈鱼，橙红色的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
martyr
|
|
| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
immolated
|
|
| v.宰杀…作祭品( immolate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
ambrosia
|
|
| n.神的食物；蜂食 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
delicacies
|
|
| n.棘手( delicacy的名词复数 )；精致；精美的食物；周到 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
stigmatized
|
|
| v.使受耻辱，指责，污辱( stigmatize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
alas
|
|
| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
rosy
|
|
| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
passionate
|
|
| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
dwarfed
|
|
| vt.（使）显得矮小（dwarf的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
stunted
|
|
| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
goaded
|
|
| v.刺激( goad的过去式和过去分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
strictly
|
|
| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
fulfill
|
|
| vt.履行，实现，完成；满足，使满意 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
laborious
|
|
| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
boon
|
|
| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
rejection
|
|
| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
truthful
|
|
| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
ingratitude
|
|
| n.忘恩负义 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
attachment
|
|
| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
ignominiously
|
|
| adv.耻辱地，屈辱地，丢脸地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
97
suite
|
|
| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
98
scrutiny
|
|
| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
99
scattered
|
|
| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
100
opium
|
|
| n.鸦片；adj.鸦片的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
101
shudder
|
|
| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
102
clinched
|
|
| v.（尤指两人）互相紧紧抱[扭]住( clinch的过去式和过去分词 )；解决（争端、交易），达成（协议） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
103
solitary
|
|
| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
104
vividly
|
|
| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
105
miserably
|
|
| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
106
luncheon
|
|
| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
107
dispensing
|
|
| v.分配( dispense的现在分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
108
blues
|
|
| n.抑郁，沮丧；布鲁斯音乐 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
109
chafes
|
|
| v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的第三人称单数 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
110
diagnosis
|
|
| n.诊断，诊断结果，调查分析，判断 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
111
afflict
|
|
| vt.使身体或精神受痛苦，折磨 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
112
complexion
|
|
| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
113
glossy
|
|
| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
114
relics
|
|
| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
115
enamel
|
|
| n.珐琅，搪瓷，瓷釉；(牙齿的)珐琅质 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
116
bouquet
|
|
| n.花束，酒香 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
117
cinder
|
|
| n.余烬，矿渣 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
118
distinguished
|
|
| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
119
transformation
|
|
| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
120
folly
|
|
| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
121
luxurious
|
|
| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
122
fatigue
|
|
| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
123
slumber
|
|
| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
124
stupor
|
|
| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
125
perspiration
|
|
| n.汗水；出汗 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
126
misery
|
|
| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
127
shimmering
|
|
| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
128
descended
|
|
| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
129
turret
|
|
| n.塔楼，角塔 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
130
perusing
|
|
| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的现在分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
131
doorway
|
|
| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
132
pallid
|
|
| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
133
distress
|
|
| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
134
monotonous
|
|
| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
135
dominion
|
|
| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
136
wither
|
|
| vt.使凋谢，使衰退，(用眼神气势等)使畏缩；vi.枯萎，衰退，消亡 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
137
judgment
|
|
| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
138
chaos
|
|
| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
139
brook
|
|
| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
140
swelled
|
|
| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
141
receded
|
|
| v.逐渐远离( recede的过去式和过去分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
142
betokened
|
|
| v.预示，表示( betoken的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
143
dreaded
|
|
| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
144
attained
|
|
| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
145
drizzle
|
|
| v.下毛毛雨；n.毛毛雨，蒙蒙细雨 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
146
suspense
|
|
| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
147
corroding
|
|
| 使腐蚀，侵蚀( corrode的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
148
contrived
|
|
| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
149
embarrassment
|
|
| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
150
malicious
|
|
| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
151
catching
|
|
| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
152
ruptured
|
|
| v.（使）破裂( rupture的过去式和过去分词 )；（使体内组织等）断裂；使（友好关系）破裂；使绝交 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
153
propped
|
|
| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
154
contrition
|
|
| n.悔罪，痛悔 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
155
blessing
|
|
| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
156
benediction
|
|
| n.祝福；恩赐 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
157
prostrate
|
|
| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
158
dismal
|
|
| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
159
sentimental
|
|
| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
160
margin
|
|
| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
161
lurked
|
|
| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
162
traitors
|
|
| 卖国贼( traitor的名词复数 )； 叛徒； 背叛者； 背信弃义的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
163
glide
|
|
| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
164
glimmered
|
|
| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
165
streaked
|
|
| adj.有条斑纹的，不安的v.快速移动( streak的过去式和过去分词 )；使布满条纹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
166
lurid
|
|
| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
167
crimson
|
|
| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
168
unnaturally
|
|
| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
169
lumbering
|
|
| n.采伐林木 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
170
capability
|
|
| n.能力；才能；(pl)可发展的能力或特性等 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
171
exclamation
|
|
| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
172
buttress
|
|
| n.支撑物；v.支持 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
173
crouched
|
|
| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
174
crouching
|
|
| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
175
constrained
|
|
| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |