“OH Liberty!” says the Bulgarian poet Machinchose in a fine apostrophe, too little known in this country. “Oh Liberty,” etc.
Never had George Mulross Demaine known the sweets of that word in the days when he enjoyed its privilege to the full. Now, as the brilliant dawn of that Wednesday awakened1 him upon the deep he learned the beauty of Freedom.
Its meaning saturated2 his very being as he woke in his miserable3 cell, refreshed but very weak, and saw shafts4 of the happy morning sun coming level with the dancing of the sea, and making a rhythmic5 change of unreal network in the oval patch of light that was cast by the porthole against the filthy6 rust7 of the walls.
He felt mechanically for his watch and found nothing but bare skin; then (such a teacher is adversity!) he to whom induction8 was grossly unfamiliar9, began to induce away like any child of Nature.
The sunlight was level, for the image of the porthole upon the wall was but little lower than the[201] porthole itself:—therefore the sun had but just risen.
It was June, therefore if the sun had but just risen the hour was very early: how early he certainly could not have answered if you had asked him a week ago, but adversity, that admirable schoolmistress, was developing the mind of George Mulross as the blossom of a narcissus develops under the first airs of Spring, and he was capable of remembering a sunrise after the ball at the Buteleys’, and another after a big supper at Granges’. He was in bed before half-past five on each occasion. It must therefore be between four and five o’clock.
The term “solstice” was unfamiliar to this expectant member of the British Executive, but he seemed to remember that somewhere about this time of year the nights were at their shortest.
He was full of a new pride as he made these discoveries. Then two things struck him at once: the first that he was ravenously10 hungry, the second that all motion of the ship had ceased. He heard no sound of any kind except the gentle lapping of the tiny waves alongside, for it was calm except for the little breeze of morning.
He attempted with his new-found powers to pass the time in further induction, to guess by the position of the light how the ship lay, but as he had forgotten at which end of a ship the anchor is let go, and as he had no notion of the tide in the[202] English Channel, nor even whether tides ran for six hours or twelve (he was sure it was one of the two), and as, in general, he was grossly ignorant of the data upon which such an induction should proceed, the effort soon fatigued11 him. He was content to prop13 himself up against the wall and crave14 for food.
He heard a step outside, he struck the door with his fist. To his delight a key turned in it, and the doubtful visage of the boy once more appeared. Early as was the hour, and divine the weather, the boy was still gloomy.
“I’m sure I’m very sorry,” said George. “I only knocked because I’m so terribly hungry. Can’t you get me something to eat?”
“Yus,” said the boy thoughtfully, “I dahn’t think! Yer’d myke me chuck it. Yer’s particler as a orspital nuss,” he added, with a recollection of a brazen18 woman in gaudy19 uniform whom a kind lady had thrust upon his mother’s humble20 home just before he had gone aboard.
Demaine was in acute necessity. “Look here,” he said, “get me some bread.”
“Whaffor?” asked the boy.
Demaine nodded mysteriously, and once again was his gaoler torn between a desire for some ultimate gain and the certitude that no present gain was obtainable.
[203]He was a London lad, with all the advantages that London birth implies, and it had already occurred to him that Demaine’s accent, manner and cuticle22 differed in a strange way from those of your stock stowaway23. He had been impressed in the matter of the food; he was more impressed by certain little turns of language which he associated with those hateful, but, as he had been told, wealthy people, who came down and did good amid his mother’s neighbours in the East End; and when he had thought it well over and tamed his prisoner further by one more well-chosen epithet24, he went off and came back with a hunk of bread.
“Yer lucky,” he said as he returned, “thet yer on a short trip. Otherwyes t’d uv been biscuit....” Then he added, “and gryte wurms in ut!”
George did not reply. He bit into the bread in ecstasy25, and his eyes, which his acquaintances in London commonly discovered to be lifeless, positively26 gleamed upon this summer morning.
“Yes?” said George with his mouth full.
“Ho! yus, it is!” sneered28 the boy, who thought there was something of the toff in this use of the simply affirmative. “An’ after that they’ll land yer, and yer’ll ave the darbies on afore breakfast-toime.” He added nothing this time about hanging. The details of the moment were too absorbing.
[204]“How do you mean ‘communicate’?” asked George carelessly and all ears.
“Woy, wiv a flag, that’s ow,” said the boy.
Demaine had often been told of the long and complicated messages which little pieces of bunting could convey, and he had himself presented to a country school a whole series of flags which, in a certain order, signified that England expected every man to do his duty. But he could not conceive how so complete a message as the presence and desired arrest of an unfortunate stowaway could be conveyed to the authorities ashore29 by any such simple means, unless indeed the presence of stowaways30 was so common an occurrence that a code signal was used for the purpose of disembarking that cargo31.
The boy illumined him.
“They got th’ flag up,” he said, “syin’ ‘Send a baht,’ and when they sees it they’ll run up one theirselves—then’s yer toime.”
But the boy’s information, as is common with the official statements of inferiors, was grossly erroneous.
Tumble up George did; that is, he crawled up the steep and noisome33 ladder, and as he put his head out into the glorious air, thought that never was such contrast between heaven and hell. He drank the air and put his shoulders back to it, to the risk of the green-black coat.
[205]George Mulross was one of those few men who have never written verse, but he was capable that moment if not of the execution at least of the sentiment which the more classical of my readers are weary of in Prom. Vinc. Chor. A. 1-19, Oh the god-like air! The depth and the expanse of sky!
The fatherly sky was all light, the sun was climbing, and a vivid belt of England lay, still asleep, green and in repose34 under that beneficence; and in the midst of it, set all round with fields, lay a lovely little town. It was Parham.
Demaine had once or twice noted35 how strangely glad the houses of men seem from off the sea, but as he was familiar rather with Calais and Dover, with Ostend, Folkestone and Boulogne than with other ports, and as he had more often approached them in winter weather than in the London season, there was something miraculously36 new to him in this vision which had been the delight of his forefathers37: England from the summer sea.
The clear spirit bubbling within him encountered another and muddier but forceful current as his eyes fell upon the first officer.
That individual surveyed him with hatred38 but did not deign39 to throw him a word. He bade the lad stand by George in a particular place upon the deck till he should be sent for; he next threatened several of the boy’s vital organs if his prisoner were not properly kept in view, and having pronounced these threats, lurched away.
[206]“Th’ old man’ll want yer soon, ter fill in ’is sheet,” said the lad by way of making conversation. “Myebe ee’ll ave ye larrupped, myebe ee wahn’t. Ee didn’t the larst un,” he put in as an afterthought, as though it were the custom to larrup some seven stowaways out of eight by way of parting, and to make capricious exception of certain favourites.
“Yer’ll ave to tyke thut sheet wivyer; leastwyes whoever’s in charge of the baht’ll ave ter, an thye gives ut to th’ cops, and th’ cops shahs ut to the beak40. As to do ut, to ave everyin roight and reglar. Otherwyes they cudden put yer awye—and they’re bahnd ter do that: not arf!”
But Demaine was not heeding41 the discomforting comment of his warder. He was balancing in his mind the poor chances of the morning, and as he balanced them they seemed blacker with every moment.
The shore was perhaps half a mile away: the hour say five, perhaps half-past. By six, or half-past six at the latest, the earliest people in Parham would be astir.
The fixed42 inveterate43 hope of the governing class that a gentleman can always get out of a hole, had dwindled44 within him to that dying spark to which it dwindles45 during invasions and at the hour of death.
He did not trust his accent, he did not trust his skin, he did not trust his parentage, he did not trust his wealth—alas46, his former wealth!—to speak[207] more accurately47, his wife’s former wealth,—to speak still more accurately, the former wealth of his wife’s father.
He trusted nothing but blind chance, his muscles and flight.
He hated the vision which was in immediate48 prospect49 of the little weasel-faced captain with his pointed50 red beard, reciting by rote51 yet another string of idiotic52 sentences from a manual; he hated the vision of the next step, the men in blue, with their violence and their closing of his mouth by brutal53 means. Whether he could convince a magistrate54 he did not pause to inquire. The way was too long—it was a dark corridor leading to Doom55.
He heard a second voice calling the boy to the accompaniment of oaths quite novel and individual and in a high voice that he had not yet heard, and he thought that his hour had come.
But the boy’s reply undeceived him.
“Oi dursn’t!” he yelled down the decks, “Oi gotter look arter th’ Skunk.”
Apparently56, thought George bitterly, he already had a fixed traditional name aboard the Lily, like Blacky and the Old Man.
The cook, for it was he, emerged from the galley57 aft, stood in the brilliant sunlight and delivered rapid blasphemy58 with tremendous velocity59 and unerring aim.
The boy whimpered and was irresolute60.
[208]If the threats of the mate had been less practical, those of the cook might have had less effect, but between the prospect of the excision61 of his liver and of a series of hearty62 buffets63 and mighty64 kicks endways, what reasonable youth would hesitate in a civilisation65 such as ours?
The boy faltered66 visibly, and turning upon the Skunk informed him once again that he was always gettin’ people inter trouble. Nay67, more, he threatened to pay out the innocent cause of his despair for the divided duty in which he found himself.
The cook re-emerged; he had fixed on a new belt of ammunition68 and began firing in a manner if possible more direct and devastating69 and quite as rapid, as that which had distinguished70 the first volley. And the boy, who was, after all, more directly the servant of the cook than of any one else on board, wavered and broke. With a clear statement of the consequences should Demaine move an inch from the spot, and a promise to return before a man could spit to leeward71, the boy dashed off to the galley, and for perhaps five seconds, perhaps ten, the prospective72 Warden73 of the Court of Dowry was free.
The movement of the human mind, says Marcus Aurelius (imitative in this sentence, as in most of his egregious74 writings), resembles that of a serpent.
There are serpents and serpents. Minds of Demaine’s type move commonly with the motion of a gorged75 python but just roused from sleep; but[209] even the python will, under compulsion, dart,—and, in those five seconds, not reason but an animal instinct drove the politician’s soul.
He was up, on to the bale, over the bulwark76 and down ten feet into the sea, before he had even had time to formulate77 a plan. He could swim, and that was enough for him.
The splash made by Demaine’s considerable form as it displaced in an amount equal to his weight the waters of the English Channel, came to the ears of the Watch, who was leaning comfortably over the farther railing at the other end of the vessel78, looking out to seaward and ruminating79 upon a small debt which he had left behind him in the parish of Wapping. With no loss of dignity the Watch shuffled80 forward to see whether aught was displaced. The splash had been a loud one, but it might have been something thrown from the galley.
He first of all looked carefully over the starboard bow to seaward. There was no foam81 upon the water: everything was still. It occurred to him to cross the deck; he did so in a leisurely82 manner and thought he noted far down the side, and already drifting astern with the tide, a rapidly disappearing ring of foam. He was a stupid man (though I say it that shouldn’t, for he came from Bosham, noble and fateful Mistress of the Sea), and he looked at the ring of foam in a fascinated manner, considering what could have caused it, until he was roused to life and to his duties by the thunder of the first[210] officer who from the bridge demanded of him in perfectly84 unmistakable language what he had done to the Skunk.
The sense of innocence85 was so strong in the honest seafaring soul that he replied by a simple stare which almost gave the first officer a fit, and in the midst of the language that followed, the boy, positively pale with fear, came tearing from the galley and found, not his charge, but the Bosham man gazing like a stuck pig at his superior above, and at the world in general.
The reappearance of the boy was a welcome relief to the chief officer’s lungs and intelligence; it added fuel to his flame. He very nearly leapt down from the bridge in his paroxysms of wrath86, and heaven only knows what he would have done to the wretched lad whom he would render responsible for the misadventure had he not at that moment caught sight of a little speck87 upon the sunlit water far astern: it was the head of George Mulross Demaine, battling with fate.
The prospective Warden of the Court of Dowry could swim fairly well. It had been his practice to swim in a tank. He had swum now and then near shore, but he had no conception of the amount of salt water that can get into a man’s mouth in a really long push over a sea however slightly broken, especially if one enters that sea in a sort of bundle, without taking a proper header. Moreover, the phenomenon of the tide astonished him; he had[211] imagined in his innocence that the sea also was a kind of tank and that he had a dead course of it for the shore, the nearest point of which lay just eastward88 of the harbour mouth.
As it was, England seemed to be flitting by at a terrible rate, and the Lily, when he turned upon his back and floated for a moment to observe her, had all the appearance of a ship proceeding89 at full speed up Channel, so rapidly did he drift away.
He swam too hurriedly and he exhausted90 himself, for his mind was full of terrors: they might fire upon him—he did not know what dreadful arsenal91 the Lily might not contain!
He remembered having noticed upon the cross-Channel steamers exceedingly bright little brass92 guns, the purpose and use of which had often troubled him. Now he knew!—and he hoped against hope that no such instrument of death swivelled upon the poop of the Lily.
He dreaded93 every moment to catch the sharp spit of flame against the sunlight, a curl of smoke, the scream of the light shell, the ricochet, the boom that would come later sullenly94 upon the air, and all the rest that he had read of:—the first shot to find the range: the dreadful second that would sink him.
He was relieved, as minute after minute passed, and no such experiment in marine95 ballistics was tried. There was faintly borne to his ears as he was swept down the ceaseless stream of Ocean, a[212] little clamour which, on the spot itself, was a roaring babel; he saw a group of men wrestling with the davits, but the davits were stiff, and boat-drill was not in the programme of the Lily. Indeed of all the crew but two had ever handled such a contrivance as a davit before, and of these one was an Italian.
Another man than Captain Higgins would have been profoundly grateful to see the stowaway drown; not so that conscientious96 servant of the Firm. The stowaway received such food and lodging97 as had kept him living until such time as he could be handed over to the Sheriff or his officers or any other servants or justices of our lord the King, who were competent to deal with breach98 of contract, tort, replevin and demurrer. The stowaway was responsible to the Law, and Captain Higgins was responsible for the stowaway; therefore must a boat be lowered. And because there was something grander in swinging out the davits in full view of a British town and harbour than in chucking the dinghy into the water, swing out the davits he would,—and he lost ten minutes over it—ten precious minutes during which the tide had carried the little speck that was the head of George Mulross Demaine almost beyond the power of his spyglass.
Captain Higgins capitulated; he left the davits as they were—one stuck fast, the other painfully screwed half round, a deplorable spectacle for the town of Parham, and one shameful99 to the reputation[213] of the sailor-men aboard the Lily, and he ordered the little dinghy out over the side.
They unlashed her and let her down. Two men tumbled into her, the second officer took command, and they rowed away down tide with all the vigour100 that Captain Higgins’ awful discipline could inspire, directed in their course by his repeated injunctions and proceeding at a pace that must surely at last overhaul101 the fugitive102.
When Demaine heard the beat of the oars103 and again floated to look backwards104, he estimated the distance between himself and the shore and gave himself up for lost. Now indeed there could be no doubt of the rope’s end! He could not disappear like a whale for any appreciable105 time beneath the surface; the tales he had read (and believed) of heroes in the Napoleonic and other wars, who themselves, single-handed and in the water, had fought a whole ship’s crew with success, he now dismissed as idle fables106. There was nothing left for him but, somewhat doggedly107, to continue the overhand stroke, for now that he was discovered there was no point in the slower breast stroke that had helped to conceal108 him. They were making (as they said in the days of the Clippers) perhaps three feet to his one, but freedom is dear to the human heart, and he pegged109 away.
The Shining Goddesses of the Sea loved him more than they loved the odious110 denizens111 of the Lily; they set the tide in shore, and the Sea Lady, the[214] Silver-Footed One, led the little waves along in his favour.
He had come to a belt of water where the tide set inward very rapidly, along a gulley or deep of the shore water. It was a godsend to him, for his pursuers were still in the outer tide. He was now not a quarter of a mile from the water-mark, and still going strong, with perhaps two hundred yards between the boat and him; he could not feel their hot breath upon his neck, but he could hear the rhythmic yell of the officer astern, criticising the moral characters of his crew with a regular emphatic112 cadence113 that followed the stroke of the oars ... when his cold, numbed114 right foot struck something; then his left struck sand: ... It was England! And the English statesman, like Ant?us, was glad and was refreshed.
He stumbled along out of it—the water on the shelving sand was here not three feet deep. He stumbled and raced along through the splashing water. It fell to his knees, to his shins, to his ankles, and he was on dry land!
A very pretty problem for the amateur tactician115 learned in the matter of landing-parties, was here presented. The dinghy must ground far out: she could not be abandoned; it was an even race, and his pursuers would be one man short from the necessity of leaving some one in a boat which had grounded too far out for beaching.
Some such combination occurred in a confused[215] way to Demaine, but he had no time for following it up. He did what he had done more than once in the last unhappy days—he ran. His numbed feet suffered agonies upon the shingle116 above the sand, but he ran straight inland, he crossed a rough road, went stumbling over a salted field, and made for a wind-driven and scraggy spinney that lay some half a mile inland, defying the sea winds. As he approached that spinney he saw two men from the boat just coming full tilt117 over the ridge83 of the sea road; as he plunged118 into it they were in the midst of the field beyond.
The undergrowth in the spinney was thick, but Demaine had the sense to double, and he crept cautiously but rapidly along, separating the thick branches as noiselessly as he could, and bearing heroically with the innumerable brambles that tore his flesh. He halted a moment to look through a somewhat thinner place towards the field, and there, to his considerable astonishment119, he perceived the two sailor-men dawdling120 along in amicable121 converse122 and apparently taking their time, as though they were out upon a holiday rather than in the pursuit of a criminal.
It dawned upon George that there was a reason for this: the second officer could not leave the boat. The boat and the sea were hidden by the ridge of the sea road, and the longer the time the hearty fellows could spend ashore, the greater their relief from labour and their enjoyment123 of a pleasant day.[216] He saw them sauntering towards the spinney; they took sticks and beat it in a sort of aimless, perfunctory manner, poking124 into the brushwood half-heartedly here and there, as though Demaine had been a hare whom they desired to start from its form. They wandered off along the edge of the wood in a direction opposite to his own, and paused a moment to light their pipes upon their way.
It was a peaceful scene: but a moment would come when that scene could not be prolonged, and when their activity must be renewed. Demaine, therefore, pushed through the brushwood, still going as noiselessly as he could, and came out to the landward side of it upon a disused lawn.
The grass was brown and rank and trampled125. It had not been mown that season. An old sun-dial stood in the midst of it; a wall bounded it upon two sides, and there was the beginning of a gravel126 path. He followed that path between two rows of rusty127 laurels128, and round a sharp turn came upon the house to which this derelict domain129 belonged. He came upon it suddenly.
It stood low and had been masked from him by a belt of trees. He saw a little back door, and,—fatal as had such reasoning been in his immediate past,—he reasoned once more: that where there was a house with servants’ offices, there would be a difference of social rank, there would be education, there would be understanding, and he must certainly come into his own.
[217]His bleeding feet, the soaked rags that clung upon him, his hair hanging in absurd straight lines clogged130 with salt, would, could he have seen them in a looking-glass, have given him pause. But the exhaustion131 of these terrible hours was now upon him; the heat of the sun was increasing,—he was under an absolute necessity for food and repose.
He boldly opened the door and went in.
He found himself in a little room of which this door was evidently the private communication with the garden; it was a room that lifted his heart.
To begin with, it was lined everywhere with books, and though he himself had read perhaps but eighteen volumes in the whole course of his early manhood, yet a room lined with books justly suggested to him cultivation132, leisure, and a certain amount of wealth. A volume was lying with its flyleaf open upon the table. He saw pasted in it a book-plate in the modern style, made out in the name of Carolus Merry Armiger. Mr. Armiger, it seemed, was his unsuspecting host. Mr. Armiger’s literary occupations did not interest George Mulross; such as they were he gathered them to have some connection with the Ten Lost Tribes.
Manuscripts were lying upon the table, manuscripts consisting of long double lists of names with a date between them. The Jewish Encyclopedia133 was ranged in awful solemnity before these manuscripts; the Court Guides, reference books and almanacs of London, Berlin, New York, Frankfort,[218] Paris, Rome and Vienna, were laid ready to hand, and sundry134 slips detailing the family origins and marital135 connections of most European statesmen, including of course our own, completed the work upon which the chief resident of the house appeared to be engaged.
Forgetting the deplorable condition in which he was, a big scarecrow reeking136 and dripping salt water from sodden137 black rags that clung to his nakedness, George Mulross sank into a large easy-chair and breathed a sigh of profound content.
They might look as long as they chose, he thought they would look for him in vain! His pursuers did not know who he was nor that he had come back into his own rank of life again and had certainly found, though they were as yet unknown to him, equals who would as certainly befriend and protect him.
He pictured the scene to himself:—the owner of the house enters—he is wearing spectacles, he is a busy literary man, a professor perhaps—who could tell?—a learned Rabbi! The papers and the books upon the table seemed to concern the Hebrew race. At any rate, a literary man—a solid literary man. He would come in, preoccupied138, as is the manner of his tribe, he would look fussily139 for something that he had mislaid upon the table, his eyes would light upon the form of George Mulross Demaine. At first sight he would be surprised. A man partially140 naked, glistening141 in the salt of the sea, his hair falling in[219] absurd straight wisps clotted142 with damp, his face a mixture of grime and white patches where the water had washed it, his nails a dense143 black, his bare feet bleeding, would stand before him. But this strange figure would speak a word, and all would be well. He would say:
“Sir, my name is Demaine. You are perhaps acquainted with that name. I beg you to listen to me and I will briefly144 tell you,” etc. etc.
The literary man would be profoundly and increasingly interested as the narrative145 proceeded, and at its close a warm bath and refreshment146 of the best would be provided, a certain deference147 even would appear in his host’s manner when he had fully17 gathered that he was speaking to a Cabinet Minister, and from that moment the unhappy business would be no more than an exciting memory.
As George Mulross so mused148 he rose from his chair and was horrified149 to note that there stood in the hollow of it little pools of salt water, that the back was dripping wet, and that where his feet had reposed150 upon the Axminster carpet damp patches recalling the discovery of the Man Friday, the marks of human feet, were clearly apparent.
Even as he noted these things and appreciated that they would constitute some handicap to his explanation, he heard voices outside the door.
Alas, they were not the voices of the governing classes, they were not the voices of refinement151 and leisured ease. Oh! no. They were the voices of two[220] domestics engaged in altercation152, the one male, the other female; and the latter, after affirming that it was none of her partner’s business, evidently approached the door of the room in which he was.
For a moment his heart stopped beating. He heard her hand upon the outer handle of the door; by what form of address could he melt that uncultivated heart? Those bitter hours of his just passed had filled him with a mixture of terror and hatred for such English men and women as work for their living. He had always regarded them as of another species: he beheld153 them now in the aspect of unreasoning wolves.
By the grace of heaven the door was locked. He heard a female expletive, extreme in tone though mild in phrase, directed towards the domestic habits of her master, especially with regard to the privacy of his study, and he next heard her steps moving away. She was coming round by the garden; there was not a moment to lose ... and there was not a cranny in which to hide.
I have expatiated154 on the effect of misery155 and of terror upon George’s brain: I have but here to add that for two seconds he was a veritable Napoleon in his survey of terrain156. He grasped in a flash that if he retreated by the garden door he was full in the line of the enemy’s advance without an alternative route towards any base; and with such an inspiration as decided157 Jena, he made for the chimney.
The eccentricities158 of the master of the house (for[221] he was obviously eccentric) appeared to include a passion for old-fashioned fireplaces; at any rate there was no register nor any other devilish device for impeding159 the progress of the human form, and George, with a dexterity160 remarkable161 in one of his bulk, hoisted162 himself into the space immediately above the grate. There the chimney narrowed rapidly to a small flue, and he must perforce support himself by the really painful method of pressing with his feet against the one wall, and with his cramped163 shoulders against the other, lying in the attitude of a man curled up in bed upon his right side,—but in no such comfort, for where the bed should be was air.
He had not gained his lair164 a moment too soon. He could discover from it the hearth-rug, a small strip of the carpet, and the legs of sundry tables and chairs, when he heard the garden door open, and other legs,—human legs—natty, and their extremities165 alone visible, passed among the legs of the inanimate things. The head which owned them far above continued, as the legs and feet bore it round the room, to criticise166 the habits of its master. It dusted, it went to the farther side of the apartment, the feet disappeared. They reappeared suddenly within his line of vision and stopped dead, while the invisible head remarked in a tone of curiosity:
“Whatever’s that!”
She was looking at the imprint167 of the feet. Next he heard her patting the damp arm-chair, and exclaiming that she never!
[222]The strain upon George Mulross Demaine was increasing, but had it been tenfold as severe he dared not descend168. A slight involuntary movement due to an effort to ease his shoulder off a point of brick produced a fall of soot169 which most unpleasantly covered his face.
He could hear a startled exclamation170 from the wench, her decision that she didn’t understand the house at all, and her sudden exit.
Hardly had she shut the garden door behind her when a key was heard turning in the lock in the other door opening into the house, and the Expected Stranger, the Unknown Host, entered. The moment of George’s salvation171 was at hand.
Two very large flat boots slowly tramped into the narrow region he could survey: above each nine inches of creased172 grey trouser leg could be seen; the boots, the trouser legs, did not approach the arm-chair; they took little notice apparently of things about them. Their owner grunted173 his satisfaction that none of his papers had been removed by the maid to whom he applied174 a most indiscreet epithet; he grunted further satisfaction that she had laid his fire and not lit it. Apparently it was among his other eccentricities to have a fire upon a June morning simply because the room was cold, and to let it die down before noon.
The Unknown came close to the grate. George heard large hands fumbling175 upon the mantelpiece, the unmistakable rattle176 of a match-box; next an[223] arm midway to the shoulder, and at its extremity177 a hand bearing a lighted match appeared, and the Stranger Host thoughtfully lit the Newspaper upon which the fire was laid.
The dense and acrid178 smoke produced by our Great Organs of Opinion when they are put to this domestic purpose rose up and enveloped179 the unhappy George. It was the limit! And with one cry and with one roar, as Macaulay finely says of another crisis, the prospective Warden of the Court of Dowry slid down into the grate, ruining the careful structure of coal and wood, and stood in the presence of—he could scarcely believe his eyes—William Bailey!
That tall, bewhiskered, genial180 oligarch expressed no marked astonishment. It is, alas! a characteristic of the eccentric that, just as he sees the world all wrong where it is normal, so, before the abnormal he is incapable181 of expressing reasonable emotion. All he said was, in a mild tone of voice:
“Well! well! well!”
To which Demaine answered, with the solemnity the occasion demanded:
“William, don’t you know me?”
“Yes, I know you,” said William Bailey thoughtfully, “Dimmy, by God!... Dimmy, d’you know that you present a most extraordinary spectacle?”
“You needn’t tell me that,” said Dimmy bitterly, drawing his hand across his mouth and displaying two red lips which appeared in the midst of his[224] features like those of a comedy negro. “The point is what can you do for me?”
“My dear Dimmy,” said William Bailey, his interest increasing as the situation grew upon him, “I am delighted to hear that phrase! I haven’t heard it since I gave up politics! I haven’t heard it since they tried to make me an Under Secretary,—only it used to be worded a little differently. Old schoolfellows of mine whom I had thrashed with a cricket stump183 in years gone by used to come up washing their hands and saying, ‘What can I do for you?’ Now for once in my life some one has asked me what I can do for him. Sweet Dimmy, all I have is at your disposal. Would you like to borrow some money, or would you prefer to wash?”
“I wish you’d chuck that sort of thing,” said Demaine, angrily and with insufficient184 respect for a senior. “It isn’t London and I’m not out for jokes. I’m in trouble.”
“In trouble?” said William Bailey, asking the question sympathetically. “Oh don’t say that! Dirty, maybe, and very funnily dressed, but not, I hope, in trouble?”
“Damn it!” said the other, “what are you in this house?”
“What I am out of it,” said William Bailey cheerfully, “a harmless eccentric with a small property, several bees in my bonnet185 (the present one an anti-Semitic bee), and a great lover of my friends, Dimmy,[225] especially men of my own blood. Now then, what do you want?”
“Do you own this house, or do you not?” demanded Dimmy.
“Why,” said William Bailey, “it is very good of you to ask. I am what the law calls a lessor or lessee186, or perhaps I am a bailee of the house. The house itself belongs to Merry. You know Merry, the architect who builds his father’s houses?”
“The books have got ‘Armiger’ in them,” said Dimmy suspiciously.
“That’s a title,” replied William Bailey, “not an English title,” he continued hurriedly, “it was given him by the Pope.”
“Anyhow, you’re master here?” said Demaine anxiously.
“Oh yes,” said Bailey, “I’ve been master here since the end of the first week. At first there was some doubt whether it was Elise or the groom187 or Parrett, the housekeeper188, who was master. But I won, Dimmy,” he said, rubbing his hands contentedly189, “I brought down my servant Zachary and between us we won. They’re as tame as pheasants now.”
“Very well then,” said Demaine, “you’ve got to do two things. You’ve got to cleanse190 me and to clothe me and to hide me during the next few hours if the necessity arises.”
“I don’t know why you shouldn’t cleanse yourself,” said William Bailey thoughtfully. “You’ve[226] never learned a trade, Dimmy, and you were never handy or quick at things, but you’re a grown man, and there’s lots of hot water and soap and stuff in the bathroom; there was a beastly thing called a loofah that Merry had left there, but I’ve burned it.”
“Don’t be a fool, Bill!” pleaded Demaine, “there isn’t time, really there isn’t. Then tell me, what clothes have you?”
“Mine are too narrow in the shoulders for you,” said William Bailey, thinking, “Zachary is altogether too thin. You’re big, Dimmy, not to say fat. The trousers wouldn’t meet and the coat wouldn’t go on. But I can put you to bed and send for clothes. What d’you mean about hiding? I can see you have some reasons for privacy; in fact if you hadn’t, getting up that chimney would be a schoolboy sort of thing to do at your age. Have you been bathing without a licence, and some one stolen your clothes? Or have they been having a jolly rag at the Buteleys’? They’re close by.”
“I’ll tell you when I’ve washed,” said Demaine wearily, “only now do let me slip up to the bathroom like a good fellow. Good God, I’m tired!”
William Bailey opened the door and peered cautiously into the corridor, listened for footsteps and heard none, and then, after locking the door of the study behind him, as was his ridiculous habit, he popped up a narrow pair of stairs, with Dimmy, whose old nature had sufficiently191 returned to cause him to stumble, following at his heels.
[227]They were not quite out of the range of the front door when there came a violent pull at the bell, and Elise went forward to open it.
William Bailey pushed his guest and cousin into the bathroom and went down to meet two policemen who stood with awful solemnity, clothed in suspicion and in power, at his threshold. From the depths of his sanctuary192 and through the crack of the half-open window, Demaine heard a conversation that did not please him.
Demaine did not hear his cousin’s reply.
“Are you sure he’s been on the premises195, sir?” came from the first policeman, whom I will call “Basso Profondo.”
“Positive,” answered William Bailey’s voice, cheerful and loud. “Positive!”
“Did you see him with your own eyes, sir?” this from the second policeman, whom I will call “Tenore Stridente.”
“Certainly I did, or I wouldn’t be telling you this,” came again from William Bailey a little testily196.
“Well now, sir, we’ve suspicions that he’s on the place still.”
“You’re wrong there,” said William Bailey, “he ran off down the Parham road when he heard my dog bark.”
[228]“We didn’t meet any one on the Parham road, sir:” it was the voice of the Tenore policeman who spoke197, evidently a less ingenuous198 man than the Basso.
“I can’t help that,” said William Bailey. “You’re welcome to look over the house.”
They thanked him and walked in like an army.
“It is for your own good, sir,” said the first policeman, in his deep bass.
“Besides which it’s our duty,” said the second policeman in his tenore stridente.
“Of course,” said William Bailey, “of course, and I hope that while one of you is doing the good, the other will look after the duty. It’s the kind of thing people like me are very fond of doing, hiding stowaways. I’ve hidden bushels of them.”
“You know very well, sir,” he said, “what the criminal classes are, or rather you gentlemen don’t know. Why, he’d cut the women’s throats in the night and make off with the valuables.”
“Would he cut mine?” asked William Bailey as he followed them from room to room.
“He’s capable of it,” said the bass, nodding mysteriously. “He’s not an ordinary stowaway,” he continued, lowering his voice almost to a gruff whisper, “he’s well known to the police. He’s Stappy, that’s what he is, Stappy the Clinker! He’s done this trick before, getting aboard a vessel and pretending he’s a vagabun; the Chief knows all about[229] him! He did a man in last Monday night in London!”
To the unhappy man in the bathroom there returned with vivid horror the recollection of Lewes Gaol21; but so long as William Bailey’s wits did not fail him he knew that more than even chances were in his favour. His mood changed suddenly, however, when the police, who had been perambulating the small rooms near his retreat, suddenly rattled200 the door of his bathroom and said:
“What’s in here?”
“I do beg of you to take care, gentlemen,” said William Bailey angrily, “that’s the bathroom, and if you want to know, my niece is inside.”
“Oh I beg your pardon,” said the bass, “I’m sure.” He had the sense not to doubt the master of the house in a matter directly concerning his own interest. But the tenor added:
“We must make a note of it, sir.”
“By all means,” said William Bailey, “by all means. Her name is Rebecca.”
George Mulross Demaine, in the delight of the very warm water, was soothed201 to hear them tramping heavily down the stairs once more.
They examined every room and cranny of the place until they came to the study door.
“It’s my study,” said William Bailey apologetically, “I always keep it locked.”
He unlocked it and they entered. Their trained eyes could see nothing unusual in the aspect of the[230] room until the tenor inadvertently putting his hand upon the back of the arm-chair discovered it to be both wet and to the taste salt. He had found a clue! In a voice of excitement unworthy of his office, the intelligent officer shouted:
“We’ve got ’im sir, we’ve got ’im! He’s been here! Look—sea water. We’ve got ’im!” He looked round wildly as though expecting to see the runaway202 appear suddenly in mid-air between the floor and the ceiling.
“It is certainly most disconcerting,” said William Bailey in evident alarm. “But wait a minute. Perhaps he came in here from the garden to see what he could get, found the door locked on the outside and made out through the garden again; that would explain everything.”
“No it wouldn’t sir,” said the bass respectfully, “it wouldn’t explain that!” And his mind, which, if slower than his colleague’s, was prone203 to sound conclusions, pointed his hand to the wreck204 of the fire, to the heaps of soot that lay upon it, and the disturbance205 of the fender.
“He’s gone up the chimney, that’s what he’s done,” said the tenor.
“That’s what he’s done,” said the bass, putting the matter in his own way, “he’s gone up the chimney.”
William Bailey put his head in and looked up the flue, the top of which was a little square of blue June sunlight above. “I don’t see him,” said he.
“Ah, Stappy could,” said the bass in a tone of one who talks of an old acquaintance, “Stappy could get out of anywhere, or through anything! He’s a wonderful man, sir!”
Suddenly the tenor solved the whole business.
“He’s on the roof!” he said.
Nothing would suit them but ladders must be brought, and they must climb upon the slates208, while William Bailey, consoling himself with the thought that the property was not his, took the opportunity of dashing up to the bathroom and banging at the door.
“Dimmy, Dimmy!” he whispered loudly, “Dimmy, get out.”
“I’m all wet,” said Dimmy.
“You’re used to that,” said Bailey unfeelingly. “Dry your feet. Never mind the rest. Quick!” He threw a dressing-gown in, and Dimmy, as clean as Sunday morning, emerged.
“Are your feet quite dry, Dimmy?”
“Well then, let me think.... Go in there.”
He pushed Demaine into a little writing-room that gave out of the corridor.
“Now then, go to that little table and sit perfectly[232] tight. Do as I tell you and you are saved. Depart-by-but-one-iota-from-my-specific-instructions-and though you’ll ultimately be redeemed210 by your powerful relatives from the ignominy of incarceration211, you cannot fail to become a laughing-stock before your fellow-citizens! Do you take me, Dimmy?”
Dimmy, who like the rest of the family was never quite certain whether William Bailey’s final outbreak into downright lunacy might not take place at any moment, suddenly sat where he was bid, and his cousin returned within thirty seconds bearing a woman’s walking-cloak and a respectable bonnet which, I regret to say, were those of Parrett herself. Bailey huddled212 the cloak upon the younger man, banged the bonnet upon his head, tied the ribbons under his chin, disposed his person with the back to the door, in the attitude of one writing a note, and said:
“Dimmy, could you talk in a high voice?”
“No, I can’t!” said Dimmy.
“Try. Say ‘Oh don’t, I’m busy.’”
“I can’t!” said Dimmy again.
“Great heavens! is there no limit to the things you can’t do?” said William Bailey testily. “Try.”
At a vast sacrifice of that self-respect which was his chiefest treasure, Dimmy uttered the grotesque213 words in a faint falsetto.
“Excellent!” said William Bailey. “Now when you hear the word ‘Rebecca’ that’s your cue. Say it again.”
[233]The second step is easier than the first, and Dimmy this time replied at once, the falsetto quite just: “Oh don’t, I’m busy.” And William Bailey was satisfied.
By this time the policemen could be heard scrambling214 down from the roof; they had found nothing, which, seeing that the roof was in shape exactly pyramidical, was not wonderful.
“Well, he’s gone, sir,” said the bass a little relieved.
“By all means,” said William Bailey, “if it’s empty,” he added with a decent reserve.
They went upstairs and on their way he opened the writing-room door, and said:
“Oh, there she is. Rebecca!”
“Sorry I’m sure sir,” said the tenor, who was now sincerely apologetic. “We have no desire to disturb the lady, but it was our duty.”
“Of course,” said William Bailey hurriedly, “of course,” and he shut the door, mentally renewing his profound faith in the imbecility of political life.
The active and intelligent officers of the law gazed mechanically round the bathroom; they were too modest to examine a certain damp heap of black cloth that was flung huddled into a corner. They went out with every assurance that they would not[234] have disturbed Mr. Bailey for a moment had they not been compelled by that sense of duty to their country to which they had already so frequently alluded217.
William Bailey accompanied them to the gate, in the fixed desire to see them off the place, and with a heartfelt silent prayer that Parrett would not go into the writing-room until he had returned.
As they reached the gate the bass, who remembered the necessity for subscriptions218 to local clubs, charities and balls, and especially to the Policemen’s balls, charities and clubs, said once more that he hoped Mr. Bailey understood they had only done their duty.
“Of course,” he added, “we know Mr. Merry very well, and we take it you’re a friend of his.”
“Yes sir,” said the tenor more severely219, “and we know who you are. We know everybody in the place, sir. It’s our business. We know what they do, where they come from and where they go to. They can’t escape us.”
With this cheerful assurance the bass and the tenor both slightly saluted220, and the gate shut behind them.
Outside the gate a little crowd consisting of the two sailor-men, a dingy221 officer of the mercantile marine, three young boys, a draggle-tailed village girl, and a spaniel, awaited the return of the police, and when it was known that they had drawn222 blank, this little crowd paradoxically enough gave cry. Each was now as certain that he had seen the fugitive[235] in some one of a hundred opposing and impossible directions as he had formerly223 been determined224 that the refugee was still concealed225 in Mr. Merry’s house.
William Bailey hurried back: he went straight to the writing-room. He thanked heaven that no one had disturbed Rebecca. Without an apology he rapidly untied226 the ribbons of the bonnet, hoicked off the cloak and was bearing them back to Parrett’s room when he heard the voice of that admirable female raised in hot remonstrance227 against the misdeeds of a domestic.
In tactics as in strategy there is a disposition228 known as the offensive-defensive. William Bailey was familiar with it. He adopted it now, and in a voice that silenced every other sort, he roared his complaint that the servants perpetually left their clothes hanging about at random229 right and left all over the house.
“Whose is this?” he demanded, pointing to the cloak and bonnet where he had flung them sprawling230 on a chair.
“It’s mine, sir,” said Parrett with considerable dignity.
“Oh it is, is it?” said Bailey a little mollified. “I’m sorry, Parrett. If I’d known it was yours I’d have spoken to you privately231.”
“I never left them there, sir!” said Parrett all aruffle with indignation.
“I never said you did, I never said you did. It’s none of my business. I don’t care who left them[236] there; but I will have this house orderly or I will not have it at all,” with which enigmatical sentence for the further discipline of Merry’s impossible household, he went back to Demaine in his dressing-gown and brought him through the corridor to the study.
“Now my dear fellow,” he said, “are you cold?”
“Yes,” said Dimmy.
“Are you hungry?”
“Yes,” said Dimmy.
“Are you thirsty?”
“I am very tired,” said Dimmy.
“Very well then, you shall eat and drink. I will try and light the fire.”
He did so and the room, which was already warm with the June sun, became like an oven. As he rose from his chair Demaine said in some anxiety: “For heavens’ sake don’t send for the servants!”
“I’m not going to,” said William Bailey simply. He went to a cupboard and brought out some ham, a loaf and a bottle of wine.
William Bailey took him to his own room and told him to sleep there. “I’ve established,” he said, in a genial tone, “so healthy a reign232 of terror in this house that you certainly will not be disturbed if you sleep in my bed. I will see about the clothes.”
And thus, after so many and so great adventures, George Mulross Demaine slept once again between sheets, in a bed well aired, in a room with reasonable[237] pictures upon the walls, and reasonable books upon the table, with blankets, with curtains, with pillows, with mahogany tallboys, with three kinds of looking-glasses, with an eider-down quilt, with a deep carpet, with a silver reading lamp, soothed by a complete cleanliness, and, in a word, amid all that the governing classes have very properly secured for themselves during their short pilgrimage through the wilderness233 of this world.
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1
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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saturated
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| a.饱和的，充满的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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rhythmic
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| adj.有节奏的，有韵律的 | |
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filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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rust
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| n.锈；v.生锈；(脑子)衰退 | |
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induction
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| n.感应，感应现象 | |
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unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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ravenously
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| adv.大嚼地，饥饿地 | |
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fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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prop
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| vt.支撑；n.支柱，支撑物；支持者，靠山 | |
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crave
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| vt.渴望得到，迫切需要，恳求，请求 | |
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inter
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| v.埋葬 | |
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skunk
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| n.臭鼬，黄鼠狼；v.使惨败，使得零分；烂醉如泥 | |
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17
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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brazen
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| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
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gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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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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gaol
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| n.(jail)监狱；(不加冠词)监禁；vt.使…坐牢 | |
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cuticle
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| n.表皮 | |
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stowaway
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| n.（藏于轮船，飞机中的）偷乘者 | |
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epithet
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| n.（用于褒贬人物等的）表述形容词，修饰语 | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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pompously
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| adv.傲慢地，盛大壮观地；大模大样 | |
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sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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stowaways
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| n.偷乘船[飞机]者( stowaway的名词复数 ) | |
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cargo
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| n.(一只船或一架飞机运载的)货物 | |
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32
bawling
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的现在分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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33
noisome
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| adj.有害的，可厌的 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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miraculously
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| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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38
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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deign
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| v. 屈尊, 惠允 ( 做某事) | |
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beak
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| n.鸟嘴，茶壶嘴，钩形鼻 | |
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41
heeding
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的现在分词 ) | |
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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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43
inveterate
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| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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44
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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45
dwindles
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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46
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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47
accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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48
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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49
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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50
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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51
rote
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| n.死记硬背，生搬硬套 | |
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52
idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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53
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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54
magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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55
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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56
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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57
galley
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| n.（飞机或船上的）厨房单层甲板大帆船；军舰舰长用的大划艇； | |
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58
blasphemy
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| n.亵渎，渎神 | |
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59
velocity
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| n.速度，速率 | |
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60
irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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61
excision
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| n.删掉；除去 | |
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62
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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63
buffets
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| （火车站的）饮食柜台( buffet的名词复数 )； （火车的）餐车； 自助餐 | |
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64
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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65
civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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66
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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67
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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68
ammunition
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| n.军火，弹药 | |
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69
devastating
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| adj.毁灭性的，令人震惊的，强有力的 | |
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70
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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71
leeward
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| adj.背风的；下风的 | |
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72
prospective
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| adj.预期的，未来的，前瞻性的 | |
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73
warden
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| n.监察员，监狱长，看守人，监护人 | |
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74
egregious
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| adj.非常的，过分的 | |
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75
gorged
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|
| v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的过去式和过去分词 )；作呕 | |
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76
bulwark
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| n.堡垒，保障，防御 | |
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77
formulate
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| v.用公式表示；规划；设计；系统地阐述 | |
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78
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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79
ruminating
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| v.沉思( ruminate的现在分词 )；反复考虑；反刍；倒嚼 | |
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80
shuffled
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| v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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81
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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82
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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83
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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84
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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85
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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86
wrath
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|
| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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87
speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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88
eastward
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|
| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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89
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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90
exhausted
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|
| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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91
arsenal
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| n.兵工厂，军械库 | |
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92
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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93
dreaded
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|
| 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) | |
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94
sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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95
marine
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| adj.海的；海生的；航海的；海事的；n.水兵 | |
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96
conscientious
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|
| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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97
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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98
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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99
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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100
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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101
overhaul
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| v./n.大修，仔细检查 | |
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102
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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103
oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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104
backwards
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|
| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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105
appreciable
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| adj.明显的，可见的，可估量的，可觉察的 | |
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106
fables
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| n.寓言( fable的名词复数 )；神话，传说 | |
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107
doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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108
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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109
pegged
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| v.用夹子或钉子固定( peg的过去式和过去分词 )；使固定在某水平 | |
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110
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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111
denizens
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| n.居民，住户( denizen的名词复数 ) | |
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112
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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113
cadence
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| n.（说话声调的）抑扬顿挫 | |
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114
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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115
tactician
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| n. 战术家, 策士 | |
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116
shingle
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| n.木瓦板；小招牌(尤指医生或律师挂的营业招牌)；v.用木瓦板盖（屋顶）；把（女子头发）剪短 | |
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117
tilt
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| v.(使)倾侧；(使)倾斜；n.倾侧；倾斜 | |
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118
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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119
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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120
dawdling
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| adj.闲逛的，懒散的v.混（时间）( dawdle的现在分词 ) | |
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121
amicable
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|
| adj.和平的，友好的；友善的 | |
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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
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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124
poking
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| n. 刺，戳，袋 vt. 拨开，刺，戳 vi. 戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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125
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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126
gravel
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|
| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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127
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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128
laurels
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| n.桂冠，荣誉 | |
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129
domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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130
clogged
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| （使）阻碍( clog的过去式和过去分词 )； 淤滞 | |
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131
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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132
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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133
encyclopedia
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| n.百科全书 | |
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134
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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135
marital
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| adj.婚姻的，夫妻的 | |
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136
reeking
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的现在分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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137
sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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138
preoccupied
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|
| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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139
fussily
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|
| adv.无事空扰地，大惊小怪地，小题大做地 | |
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140
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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141
glistening
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|
| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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142
clotted
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|
| adj.凝结的v.凝固( clot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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143
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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144
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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145
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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146
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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147
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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148
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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149
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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150
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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151
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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152
altercation
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| n.争吵，争论 | |
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153
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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154
expatiated
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| v.详述，细说( expatiate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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155
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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156
terrain
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| n.地面，地形，地图 | |
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157
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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158
eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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159
impeding
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| a.(尤指坏事)即将发生的，临近的 | |
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160
dexterity
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| n.(手的)灵巧，灵活 | |
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161
remarkable
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|
| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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162
hoisted
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| 把…吊起，升起( hoist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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163
cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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164
lair
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| n.野兽的巢穴；躲藏处 | |
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165
extremities
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| n.端点( extremity的名词复数 )；尽头；手和足；极窘迫的境地 | |
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166
criticise
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| v.批评，评论；非难 | |
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167
imprint
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| n.印痕，痕迹；深刻的印象；vt.压印，牢记 | |
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168
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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169
soot
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| n.煤烟，烟尘；vt.熏以煤烟 | |
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170
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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171
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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172
creased
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| （使…）起折痕，弄皱( crease的过去式和过去分词 )； （皮肤）皱起，使起皱纹； 皱皱巴巴 | |
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173
grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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174
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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175
fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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176
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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177
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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178
acrid
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| adj.辛辣的，尖刻的，刻薄的 | |
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179
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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180
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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181
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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182
feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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183
stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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184
insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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185
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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186
lessee
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| n.（房地产的）租户 | |
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187
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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188
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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189
contentedly
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| adv.心满意足地 | |
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190
cleanse
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| vt.使清洁，使纯洁，清洗 | |
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191
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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192
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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193
bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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194
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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195
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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196
testily
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| adv. 易怒地, 暴躁地 | |
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197
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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198
ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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199
sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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200
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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201
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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202
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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203
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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204
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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205
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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206
constables
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| n.警察( constable的名词复数 ) | |
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207
stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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208
slates
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| （旧时学生用以写字的）石板( slate的名词复数 )； 板岩； 石板瓦； 石板色 | |
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209
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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210
redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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211
incarceration
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| n.监禁，禁闭；钳闭 | |
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212
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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213
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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214
scrambling
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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215
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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216
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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217
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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218
subscriptions
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| n.（报刊等的）订阅费( subscription的名词复数 )；捐款；（俱乐部的）会员费；捐助 | |
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219
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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220
saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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221
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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222
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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223
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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224
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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225
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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226
untied
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| 松开，解开( untie的过去式和过去分词 )； 解除，使自由； 解决 | |
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227
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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228
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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229
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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230
sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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231
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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232
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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233
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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