The holiday in this quiet neighbourhood had delighted him, but its crowning experience had been too brief. On the last day but one the loveliest woman he had ever known had emerged almost as briefly as that cabman. Some men are constantly meeting that woman. Not so the Honourable9 Gerald Loughlin, but no man turns his back tranquilly10 on destiny even if it is but two days old and already some half-dozen miles away. The visit had come to its end, Loughlin had come to his station, the cab had gone back to its lair11, but on reflection he could find no other reasons for going away and denying himself the delight of this proffered12 experience. Time was his own, as much as he could buy of it, and he had an income that enabled him to buy a good deal.
14
“Thanky, sir, but I can’t smoke a pipe; a cigarette I take now and again, thanky, sir, not often, just to keep me from cussing and damming. My wife buys me a packet sometimes, she says I don’t swear so much then, but I don’t know, I has to knock ’em off soon’s they make me feel bad, and then, dam it all, I be worsen ever....”
“Look here,” said the other, interrupting him, “I’m not going by this train after all. Something I have forgotten. Now look after my bags and I’ll come along later, this afternoon.” He turned and left the station as hurriedly as if his business was really of the high importance the porter immediately conceived it to be.
The Honourable Gerald, though handsome and honest, was not a fool. A fool is one who becomes distracted between the claims of instinct and common sense; the larger foolishness is the peculiar16 doom17 of imaginative people, artists and their kind, while the smaller foolishness is the mark of all those who have nothing but their foolishness to endorse19 them. Loughlin responded to this impulse unhesitatingly but without distraction20, calmly and directly as became a well-bred bachelor in the early thirties. He might have written to the young beauty with the queer name, Orianda Crabbe, but that course teemed21 with absurdities22 and difficulties for he was modest, his romantic imagination weak, and he had only met her15 at old Lady Tillington’s a couple of days before. Of this mere23 girl, just twenty-three or twenty-four, he knew nothing save that they had been immediately and vividly24 charming to each other. That was no excuse for presenting himself again to the old invalid25 of Tillington Park, it would be impossible for him to do so, but there had been one vague moment of their recalled intercourse26, a glimmering27 intimation, which just now seemed to offer a remote possibility of achievement, and so he walked on in the direction of the park.
Tillington was some miles off and the heat was oppressive. At the end of an hour’s stroll he stepped into “The Three Pigeons” at Denbury and drank a deep drink. It was quiet and deliciously cool in the taproom there, yes, as silent as that little station had been. Empty the world seemed to-day, quite empty; he had not passed a human creature. Happily bemused he took another draught28. Eighteen small panes30 of glass in that long window and perhaps as many flies buzzing in the room. He could hear and see a breeze saluting31 the bright walled ivy32 outside and the bushes by a stream. This drowsiness33 was heaven, it made so clear his recollection of Orianda. It was impossible to particularize but she was in her way, her rather uncultured way, just perfection. He had engaged her upon several themes, music, fishing (Loughlin loved fishing), golf, tennis, and books; none of these had particularly stirred her but she had brains, quite an original turn of mind. There had been neither time nor opportunity to discover anything about her, but there she was, staying there, that16 was the one thing certain, apparently indefinitely, for she described the park in a witty34 detailed35 way even to a certain favourite glade36 which she always visited in the afternoons. When she had told him that, he could swear she was not finessing37; no, no, it was a most engaging simplicity38, a frankness that was positively39 marmoreal.
He would certainly write to her; yes, and he began to think of fine phrases to put in a letter, but could there be anything finer, now, just at this moment, than to be sitting with her in this empty inn. It was not a fair place, though it was clean, but how she would brighten it, yes! there were two long settles and two short ones, two tiny tables and eight spittoons (he had to count them), and somehow he felt her image flitting adorably into this setting, defeating with its native glory all the scrupulous40 beer-smelling impoverishment41. And then, after a while, he would take her, and they would lie in the grass under a deep-bosomed tree and speak of love. How beautiful she would be. But she was not there, and so he left the inn and crossed the road to a church, pleasant and tiny and tidy, whitewalled and clean-ceilinged. A sparrow chirped43 in the porch, flies hummed in the nave44, a puppy was barking in the vicarage garden. How trivial, how absurdly solemn, everything seemed. The thud of the great pendulum45 in the tower had the sound of a dead man beating on a bar of spiritless iron. He was tired of the vapid46 tidiness of these altars with their insignificant47 tapestries48, candlesticks of gilded49 wood, the bunches of pale flowers oppressed by the rich glow from the windows. He longed for17 an altar that should be an inspiring symbol of belief, a place of green and solemn walls with a dark velvet50 shrine51 sweeping52 aloft to the peaked roof unhindered by tarnishing53 lustre54 and tedious linen55. Holiness was always something richly dim. There was no more holiness here than in the tough hassocks and rush-bottomed chairs; not here, surely, the apple of Eden flourished. And yet, turning to the lectern, he noted56 the large prayer book open at the office of marriage. He idly read over the words of the ceremony, filling in at the gaps the names of Gerald Wilmot Loughlin and Orianda Crabbe.
What a fool! He closed the book with a slam and left the church. Absurd! You couldn’t fall in love with a person as sharply as all that, could you? But why not? Unless fancy was charged with the lightning of gods it was nothing at all.
Tramping away still in the direction of Tillington Park he came in the afternoon to that glade under a screen of trees spoken of by the girl. It was green and shady, full of scattering58 birds. He flung himself down in the grass under a deep-bosomed tree. She had spoken delightfully60 of this delightful59 spot.
When she came, for come she did, the confrontation61 left him very unsteady as he sprang to his feet. (Confound that potation at “The Three Pigeons”! Enormously hungry, too!) But he was amazed, entranced, she was so happy to see him again. They sat down together, but he was still bewildered and his confusion left him all at sixes and sevens. Fortunately her own rivulet62 of casual chatter63 carried them18 on until he suddenly asked: “Are you related to the Crabbes of Cotterton—I fancy I know them?”
“No, I think not, no, I am from the south country, near the sea, nobody at all, my father keeps an inn.”
“An inn! How extraordinary! How very ... very ...”
“Extraordinary?” Nodding her head in the direction of the hidden mansion64 she added: “I am her companion.”
“Lady Tillington’s?”
She assented65 coolly, was silent, while Loughlin ransacked66 his brains for some delicate reference that would clear him over this ... this ... cataract67. But he felt stupid—that confounded potation at “The Three Pigeons”! Why, that was where he had thought of her so admirably, too. He asked if she cared for the position, was it pleasant, and so on. Heavens, what an astonishing creature for a domestic, quite positively lovely, a compendium68 of delightful qualities, this girl, so frank, so simple!
“Yes, I like it, but home is better. I should love to go back to my home, to father, but I can’t, I’m still afraid—I ran away from home three years ago, to go with my mother. I’m like my mother, she ran away from home too.”
Orianda picked up the open parasol which she had dropped, closed it in a thoughtful manner, and laid its crimson70 folds beside her. There was no other note of colour in her white attire71; she was without a hat. Her fair hair had a quenching72 tinge73 upon it that made it less bright than gold, but more rare. Her19 cheeks had the colour of homely74 flowers, the lily and the pink. Her teeth were as even as the peas in a newly opened pod, as clear as milk.
“Tell me about all that. May I hear it?”
“I have not seen him or heard from him since, but I love him very much now.”
“Your father?”
“Yes, but he is stern, a simple man, and he is so just. We live at a tiny old inn at the end of a village near the hills. ‘The Black Dog.’ It is thatched and has tiny rooms. It’s painted all over with pink, pink whitewash75.”
“Ah, I know.”
“There’s a porch, under a sycamore tree, where people sit, and an old rusty76 chain hanging on a hook just outside the door.”
“What’s that for?”
20
“I don’t know what it is for, horses, perhaps, but it is always there, I always see that rusty chain. And on the opposite side of the road there are three lime trees and behind them is the yard where my father works. He makes hurdles78 and ladders. He is the best hurdle77 maker79 in three counties, he has won many prizes at the shows. It is splendid to see him working at the willow80 wood, soft and white. The yard is full of poles and palings, spars and fagots, and long shavings of the thin bark like seaweed. It smells so nice. In the spring the chaffinches and wrens82 are singing about him all day long; the wren81 is lovely, but in the summer of course it’s the whitethroats come chippering, and yellow-hammers.”
“Ah, blackbirds, thrushes, nightingales!”
“Yes, but it’s the little birds seem to love my father’s yard.”
“Well then, but why did you, why did you run away?”
“My mother was much younger, and different from father; she was handsome and proud too, and in all sorts of ways superior to him. They got to hate each other; they were so quiet about it, but I could see. Their only common interest was me, they both loved me very much. Three years ago she ran away from him. Quite suddenly, you know; there was nothing at all leading up to such a thing. But I could not understand my father, not then, he took it all so calmly. He did not mention even her name to me for a long time, and I feared to intrude84; you see, I did not understand, I was only twenty. When I did ask about her he told me not to bother him, forbade me to write to her. I didn’t know where she was, but he knew, and at last I found out too.”
“And you defied him, I suppose?”
“No, I deceived him. He gave me money for some purpose—to pay a debt—and I stole it. I left him a letter and ran away to my mother. I loved her.”
“O well, that was only to be expected,” said Loughlin. “It was all right, quite right.”
“She was living with another man. I didn’t know. I was a fool.”
“Good lord! That was a shock for you,” Loughlin said. “What did you do?”
21
“No, I was not shocked, she was so happy. I lived with them for a year....”
“Extraordinary!”
“And then she died.”
“Your mother died!”
“Yes, so you see I could not stop with my ... I could not stay where I was, and I couldn’t go back to my father.”
“I see, no, but you want to go back to your father now.”
“I’m afraid. I love him, but I’m afraid. I don’t blame my mother, I feel she was right, quite right—it was such happiness. And yet I feel, too, that father was deeply wronged. I can’t understand that, it sounds foolish. I should so love to go home again. This other kind of life doesn’t seem to eclipse me—things have been extraordinary kind—I don’t feel out of my setting, but still it doesn’t satisfy, it is polite and soft, like silk, perhaps it isn’t barbarous enough, and I want to live, somehow—well, I have not found what I wanted to find.”
“What did you want to find?”
“I shan’t know until I have found it. I do want to go home now, but I am full of strange feelings about it. I feel as if I was bearing the mark of something that can’t be hidden or disguised of what my mother did, as if I were all a burning recollection for him that he couldn’t fail to see. He is good, a just man. He ... he is the best hurdle maker in three counties.”
While listening to this daughter of a man who made ladders the Honourable Gerald had been swiftly thinking of an intriguing85 phrase that leaped into his mind. Social plesiomorphism, that was it! Caste was humbug86, no doubt, but even if it was22 conscious humbug it was there, really there, like the patterned frost upon a window pane29, beautiful though a little incoherent, and conditioned only by the size and number of your windows. (Eighteen windows in that pub!) But what did it amount to, after all? It was stuck upon your clear polished outline for every eye to see, but within was something surprising as the sight of a badger87 in church—until you got used to the indubitable relation of such badgers88 to such churches. Fine turpitudes!
“My dear girl,” he burst out, “your mother and you were right, absolutely. I am sure life is enhanced not by amassing89 conventions, but by destroying them. And your feeling for your father is right, too, rightest of all. Tell me ... let me ... may I take you back to him?”
“Your courage is kind,” she said, “but he doesn’t know you, nor you him.” And to that she added, “You don’t even know me.”
“I have known you for ten thousand years. Come home to him with me, we will go back together. Yes, you can explain. Tell him”—the Honourable Gerald had got the bit between his teeth now—“tell him I’m your sweetheart, will you—will you?”
“Ten thousand ...! Yes, I know; but it’s strange to think you have only seen me just once before!”
23
“Does that matter? Everything grows from that one small moment into a world of ... well of ... boundless91 admiration92.”
“I don’t want,” said Orianda, reopening her crimson parasol, “to grow into a world of any kind.”
“No, of course you don’t. But I mean the emotion is irresistible93, ‘the desire of the moth69 for the star,’ that sort of thing, you know, and I immolate94 myself, the happy victim of your attractions.”
“All that has been said before.” Orianda adjusted her parasol as a screen for her raillery.
“I swear,” said he, “I have not said it before, never to a living soul.”
Fountains of amusement beamed in her brilliant eyes. She was exquisite95; he was no longer in doubt about the colour of her eyes—though he could not describe them. And the precise shade of her hair was—well, it was extraordinarily96 beautiful.
“I mean—it’s been said to me!”
“O damnation! Of course it’s been said to you. Ah, and isn’t that my complete justification97? But you agree, do you not? Tell me if it’s possible. Say you agree, and let me take you back to your father.”
“I think I would like you to,” the jolly girl said, slowly.
II
On an August morning a few weeks later they travelled down together to see her father. In the interim98 Orianda had resigned her appointment, and several times Gerald had met her secretly in the purlieus of Tillington Park. The girl’s cool casual nature fascinated him not less than her appearance. Admiration certainly outdistanced his24 happiness, although that also increased; but the bliss99 had its shadow, for the outcome of their friendship seemed mysteriously to depend on the outcome of the proposed return to her father’s home, devotion to that project forming the first principle, as it were, of their intercourse. Orianda had not dangled100 before him the prospect101 of any serener102 relationship; she took his caresses104 as naturally and undemonstratively as a pet bird takes a piece of sugar. But he had begun to be aware of a certain force behind all her charming naivete; the beauty that exhaled105 the freshness, the apparent fragility, of a drop of dew had none the less a savour of tyranny which he vowed106 should never, least of all by him, be pressed to vulgar exercise.
When the train reached its destination Orianda confided107 calmly that she had preferred not to write to her father. Really she did not know for certain whether he was alive or even living on at the old home she so loved. And there was a journey of three miles or more which Orianda proposed to walk. So they walked.
The road lay across an expanse of marshy109 country and approached the wooded uplands of her home only by numerous eccentric divagations made necessary by culverts that drained the marsh108. The day was bright; the sky, so vast an arch over this flat land, was a very oven for heat; there were cracks in the earth, the grass was like stubble. At the mid110 journey they crossed a river by its wooden bridge, upon which a boy sat fishing with stick and string. Near the water was a long white hut with a flag; a few tethered boats floated upon the stream. Gerald25 gave a shilling to a travelling woman who carried a burden on her back and shuffled111 slowly upon the harsh road sighing, looking neither to right nor left; she did not look into the sky, her gaze was fastened upon her dolorous112 feet, one two, one two, one two; her shift, if she had such a garment, must have clung to her old body like a shrimping net.
In an hour they had reached the uplands and soon, at the top of a sylvan114 slope where there was shade and cooling air, Gerald saw a sign hung upon a sycamore tree, The Black Dog by Nathaniel Crabbe. The inn was small, pleasant with pink wash and brown paint, and faced across the road a large yard encircled by hedges, trees, and a gate. The travellers stood peeping into the enclosure which was stocked with new ladders, hurdles, and poles of various sizes. Amid them stood a tall burly man at a block, trimming with an axe115 the butt116 of a willow rod. He was about fifty, clad in rough country clothes, a white shirt, and a soft straw hat. He had mild simple features coloured, like his arms and neck, almost to the hue117 of a bay horse.
“Hullo!” called the girl. The man with the axe looked round at her unrecognizingly. Orianda hurried through the gateway118. “Father!” she cried.
“I did not know. I was not rightly sure of ye,” said the man, dropping the axe, “such a lady you’ve grown.”
As he kissed his daughter his heavy discoloured hands rested on her shoulders, her gloved ones lay against his breast. Orianda took out her purse.
26
“Here is the money I stole, father.”
She dropped some coins one by one into his palm. He counted them over, and saying simply “Thank you, my dear,” put them into his pocket.
“I’m dashed!”—thought Loughlin, who had followed the girl—“it’s exactly how she would take it; no explanation, no apology. They do not know what reproach means. Have they no code at all?”
She went on chatting with her father, and seemed to have forgotten her companion.
“You mean you want to come back!” exclaimed her father eagerly, “come back here? That would be grand, that would. But look, tell me what I am to do. I’ve—you see—this is how it is—”
He spat119 upon the ground, picked up his axe, rested one foot upon the axe-block and one arm upon his knee. Orianda sat down upon a pile of the logs.
“This is how it is ... be you married?”
“Come and sit here, Gerald,” called the girl. As he came forward Orianda rose and said: “This is my very dear friend, father, Gerald Loughlin. He has been so kind. It is he who has given me the courage to come back. I wanted to for so long. O, a long time, father, a long time. And yet Gerald had to drag me here in the end.”
“What was you afraid of, my girl?” asked the big man.
“Myself.”
The two visitors sat upon the logs. “Shall I tell you about mother?” asked the girl.
Crabbe hesitated; looked at the ground.
“Ah, yes, you might,” he said.
27
“She died, did you know?”
The man looked up at the trees with their myriads120 of unmoving leaves; each leaf seemed to be listening.
“She died?” he said softly. “No, I did not know she died.”
“Two years!” He repeated it without emotion. “No, I did not know she died. ’Tis a bad job.” He was quite still, his mind seemed to be turning over his own secret memories, but what he bent122 forward and suddenly said was: “Don’t say anything about it in there.” He nodded towards the inn.
“No?” Orianda opened her crimson parasol.
“You see,” he went on, again resting one foot on the axe-block and addressing himself more particularly to Gerald: “I’ve ... this is how it is. When I was left alone I could not get along here, not by myself. That’s for certain. There’s the house and the bar and the yard—I’d to get help, a young woman from Brighton. I met her at Brighton.” He rubbed the blade of the axe reflectively across his palm—“And she manages house for me now, you see.”
He let the axe fall again and stood upright. “Her name’s Lizzie.”
“O, quite so, you could do no other,” Gerald exclaimed cheerfully, turning to the girl. But Orianda said softly: “What a family we are! He means he is living with her. And so you don’t want your undutiful daughter after all, father?” Her gaiety was a little tremulous.
“No, no!” he retorted quickly,28 “you must come back, you must come back, if so be you can. There’s nothing I’d like better, nothing on this mortal earth. My God, if something don’t soon happen I don’t know what will happen.” Once more he stooped for the axe. “That’s right, Orianda, yes, yes, but you’ve no call to mention to her”—he glared uneasily at the inn doorway124—“that ... that about your mother.”
Orianda stared up at him though he would not meet her gaze.
“You mean she doesn’t know?” she asked, “you mean she would want you to marry her if she did know?”
“Yes, that’s about how it is with us.”
Loughlin was amazed at the girl’s divination125. It seemed miraculous126, what a subtle mind she had, extraordinary! And how casually127 she took the old rascal128’s—well, what could you call it?—effrontery, shame, misdemeanour, helplessness. But was not her mother like it too? He had grasped nothing at all of the situation yet, save that Nathaniel Crabbe appeared to be netted in the toils129 of this housekeeper130, this Lizzie from Brighton. Dear Orianda was “dished” now, poor girl. She could not conceivably return to such a menage.
Orianda was saying: “Then I may stay, father, mayn’t I, for good with you?”
Her father’s eyes left no doubt of his pleasure.
“Can we give Gerald a bedroom for a few days? Or do we ask Lizzie?”
“Ah, better ask her,” said the shameless man. “You want to make a stay here, sir?”
“If it won’t incommode you,” replied Loughlin.
29
“O, make no doubt about that, to be sure no, I make no doubt about that.”
“Have you still got my old bedroom?” asked Orianda, for the amount of dubiety in his air was in prodigious131 antagonism132 to his expressed confidence.
“Why yes, it may happen,” he replied slowly.
“Then Gerald can have the spare room. It’s all wainscot and painted dark blue. It’s a shrimp113 of a room, but there’s a preserved albatross in a glass case as big as a van.”
“I make no doubt about that,” chimed in her father, straightening himself and scratching his chin uneasily, “you must talk to Lizzie.”
“Splendid!” said Gerald to Orianda, “I’ve never seen an albatross.”
“We’ll ask Lizzie,” said she, “at once.”
Loughlin was experiencing not a little inward distress133 at this turn in the affair, but it was he who had brought Orianda to her home, and he would have to go through with the horrid134 business.
“Is she difficult, father?”
“No, she’s not difficult, not difficult, so to say, you must make allowance.”
The girl was implacable. Her directness almost froze the blood of the Hon. Loughlin.
“Are you fond of her. How long has she been here?”
“O, a goodish while, yes, let me see—no, she’s not difficult, if that’s what you mean—three years, perhaps.”
“Well, but that’s long enough!”
(Long enough for what—wondered Loughlin?)
30
“Yes, it is longish.”
“If you really want to get rid of her you could tell her ...”
“Tell her what?”
“You know what to tell her!”
“Take me in to her,” said Orianda, and they all walked across to “The Black Dog.” There was no one within; father and daughter went into the garden while Gerald stayed behind in a small parlour. Through the window that looked upon a grass plot he could see a woman sitting in a deck chair under a tree. Her face was turned away so that he saw only a curve of pink cheek and a thin mound136 of fair hair tossed and untidy. Lizzie’s large red fingers were slipping a sprig of watercress into a mouth that was hidden round the corner of the curve. With her other hand she was caressing137 a large brown hen that sat on her lap. Her black skirt wrapped her limbs tightly, a round hip83 and a thigh138 being rigidly139 outlined, while the blouse of figured cotton also seemed strained upon her buxom140 breast, for it was torn and split in places. She had strong white arms and holes in her stockings. When she turned to confront the others it was easy to see that she was a foolish, untidy, but still a rather pleasant woman of about thirty.
“How do you do, Lizzie?” cried Orianda, offering a cordial hand. The hen fluttered away as, smiling a little wanly141, the woman rose.
“Who is it, ’Thaniel?” she asked.
31
Loughlin heard no more, for some men came noisily into the bar and Crabbe hurried back to serve them.
III
In the afternoon Orianda drove Gerald in the gig back to the station to fetch the baggage.
“Well, what success, Orianda?” he asked as they jogged along.
“It would be perfect but for Lizzie—that was rather a blow. But I should have foreseen her—Lizzies are inevitable142. And she is difficult—she weeps. But, O I am glad to be home again. Gerald, I feel I shall not leave it, ever.”
“Yes, Orianda,” he protested, “leave it for me. I’ll give your nostalgia143 a little time to fade. I think it was a man named Pater said: ‘All life is a wandering to find home.’ You don’t want to omit the wandering?”
“Not if I have found my home again?”
“A home with Lizzie!”
“No, not with Lizzie.” She flicked144 the horse with the whip. “I shall be too much for Lizzie; Lizzie will resume her wandering. She’s as stupid as a wax widow in a show. Nathaniel is tired of Lizzie, and Lizzie of Nathaniel. The two wretches146! But I wish she did not weep.”
Gerald had not observed any signs of tearfulness in Lizzie at the midday dinner; on the contrary, she seemed rather a jolly creature, not that she had spoken much beyond “Yes, ’Thaniel, No, ’Thaniel,” or Gerald, or Orianda, as the case had been. Her use of his Christian147 name, which had swept him at once32 into the bosom42 of the family, shocked him rather pleasantly. But he did not know what had taken place between the two women; perhaps Lizzie had already perceived and tacitly accepted her displacement148.
He was wakened next morning by unusual sounds, chatter of magpies149 in the front trees, and the ching of hammers on a bulk of iron at the smithy. Below his window a brown terrier stood on its barrel barking at a goose. Such common simple things had power to please him, and for a few days everything at “The Black Dog” seemed planned on this scale of novel enjoyment150. The old inn itself, the log yard, harvesting, the chatter of the evening topers, even the village Sunday delighted him with its parade of Phyllis and Corydon, though it is true Phyllis wore a pink frock, stockings of faint blue, and walked like a man, while Corydon had a bowler151 hat and walked like a bear. He helped ’Thaniel with axe, hammer, and plane, but best of all was to serve mugs of beer nightly in the bar and to drop the coins into the drawer of money. The rest of the time he spent with Orianda whom he wooed happily enough, though without establishing any marked progress. They roamed in fields and in copses, lounged in lanes, looking at things and idling deliciously, at last returning home to be fed by Lizzie, whose case somehow hung in the air, faintly deflecting152 the perfect stream of felicity.
In their favourite glade a rivulet was joined by a number of springs bubbling from a pool of sand and rock. Below it the enlarged stream was dammed into a small lake once used for turning a mill, but now,33 since the mill was dismantled153, covered with arrow heads and lily leaves, surrounded by inclining trees, bushes of rich green growth, terraces of willow herb, whose fairy-like pink steeples Orianda called “codlins and cream,” and catmint with knobs of agreeable odour. A giant hornbeam tree had fallen and lay half buried in the lake. This, and the black poplars whose vacillating leaves underscored the solemn clamour of the outfall, gave to it the very serenity154 of desolation.
Here they caught sight of the two woodpeckers bathing in the springs, a cock and his hen, who had flown away yaffling, leaving a pretty mottled feather tinged155 with green floating there. It was endless pleasure to watch each spring bubble upwards156 from a pouch of sand that spread smoke-like in the water, turning each cone157 into a midget Vesuvius. A wasp158 crawled laboriously159 along a flat rock lying in the pool. It moved weakly, as if, marooned160 like a mariner161 upon some unknown isle162, it could find no way of escape; only, this isle was no bigger than a dish in an ocean as small as a cartwheel. The wasp seemed to have forgotten that it had wings, it creepingly examined every inch of the rock until it came to a patch of dried dung. Proceeding163 still as wearily it paused upon a dead leaf until a breeze blew leaf and insect into the water. The wasp was overwhelmed by the rush from the bubbles, but at last it emerged, clutching the woodpecker’s floating feather and dragged itself into safety as a swimmer heaves himself into a boat. In a moment it preened165 its wings, flew back to the rock, and played at Crusoe again. Orianda picked the feather from the pool.
34
“What a fool that wasp is,” declared Gerald, “I wonder what it is doing?”
Orianda, placing the feather in his hat, told him it was probably wandering to find home.
One day, brightest of all days, they went to picnic in the marshes166, a strange place to choose, all rank with the musty smell of cattle, and populous167 with grasshoppers168 that burred below you and millions, quadrillions of flies that buzzed above. But Orianda loved it. The vast area of coarse pasture harboured not a single farmhouse169, only a shed here and there marking a particular field, for a thousand shallow brooks170 flowed like veins171 from all directions to the arterial river moving through its silent leagues. Small frills of willow curving on the river brink172, and elsewhere a temple of lofty elms, offered the only refuge from sun or storm. Store cattle roamed unchecked from field to field, and in the shade of gaunt rascally173 bushes sheep were nestling. Green reeds and willow herb followed the watercourses with endless efflorescence, beautiful indeed.
In the late afternoon they had come to a spot where they could see their village three or four miles away, but between them lay the inexorable barrier of the river without a bridge. There was a bridge miles away to the right, they had crossed it earlier in the day; and there was another bridge on the left, but that also was miles distant.
“Now what are we to do?” asked Orianda. She wore a white muslin frock, a country frock, and a large straw hat with poppies, a country hat. They approached a column of trees. In the soft smooth35 wind the foliage174 of the willows175 was tossed into delicate greys. Orianda said they looked like cockshy heads on spindly necks. She would like to shy at them, but she was tired. “I know what we could do.” Orianda glanced around the landscape, trees, and bushes; the river was narrow, though deep, not more than forty feet across, and had high banks.
“You can swim, Gerald?”
Yes, Gerald could swim rather well.
“Then let’s swim it, Gerald, and carry our own clothes over.”
“Can you swim, Orianda?”
Yes, Orianda could swim rather well.
“All right then,” he said. “I’ll go down here a little way.”
“O, don’t go far, I don’t want you to go far away, Gerald,” and she added softly, “my dear.”
“No, I won’t go far,” he said, and sat down behind a bush a hundred yards away. Here he undressed, flung his shoes one after the other across the river, and swimming on his back carried his clothes over in two journeys. As he sat drying in the sunlight he heard a shout from Orianda. He peeped out and saw her sporting in the stream quite close below him. She swam with a graceful176 overarm stroke that tossed a spray of drops behind her and launched her body as easily as a fish’s. Her hair was bound in a handkerchief. She waved a hand to him. “You’ve done it! Bravo! What courage! Wait for me. Lovely.” She turned away like an eel15, and at every two or three strokes she spat into the air a gay little fountain of water. How extraordinary she was.36 Gerald wished he had not hurried. By and by he slipped into the water again and swam upstream. He could not see her.
“Have you finished?” he cried.
“I have finished, yes.” Her voice was close above his head. She was lying in the grass, her face propped177 between her palms, smiling down at him. He could see bare arms and shoulders.
“Got your clothes across?”
“Of course.”
“All dry?”
She nodded.
“How many journeys? I made two.”
“Two,” said Orianda briefly.
“You’re all right then.” He wafted178 a kiss, swam back, and dressed slowly. Then as she did not appear he wandered along to her humming a discreet179 and very audible hum as he went. When he came upon her she still lay upon the grass most scantily180 clothed.
“I beg your pardon,” he said hastily, and full of surprise and modesty181 walked away. The unembarrassed girl called after him: “Drying my hair.”
“All right”—he did not turn round—“no hurry.”
But what sensations assailed182 him. They aroused in his decent gentlemanly mind not exactly a tumult183, but a flux184 of emotions, impressions, and qualms185; doubtful emotions, incredible impressions, and torturing qualms. That alluring186 picture of Orianda, her errant father, the abandoned Lizzie! Had the water perhaps heated his mind though it had cooled his body? He felt he would have to urge her, drag37 her if need be, from this “Black Dog.” The setting was fair enough and she was fair, but lovely as she was not even she could escape the brush of its vulgarity, its plebeian187 pressure.
And if all this has, or seems to have, nothing, or little enough to do with the drying of Orianda’s hair, it is because the Honourable Gerald was accustomed to walk from grossness with an averted188 mind.
“Orianda,” said he, when she rejoined him, “when are you going to give it up. You cannot stay here ... with Lizzie ... can you?”
“Why not?” she asked, sharply tossing back her hair. “I stayed with my mother, you know.”
“That was different from this. I don’t know how, but it must have been.”
She took his arm. “Yes, it was. Lizzie I hate, and poor stupid father loves her as much as he loves his axe or his handsaw. I hate her meekness189, too. She has taken the heart out of everything. I must get her away.”
“I see your need, Orianda, but what can you do?”
“I shall lie to her, lie like a libertine190. And I shall tell her that my mother is coming home at once. No Lizzie could face that.”
He was silent. Poor Lizzie did not know that there was now no Mrs. Crabbe.
“You don’t like my trick, do you?” Orianda shook his arm caressingly191.
38
“Pooh! You shouldn’t waste grandeur on clearing up a mess. This is a very dirty Eden.”
“No, all’s fair, I suppose.”
“But it isn’t war, you dear, if that’s what you mean. I’m only doing for them what they are naturally loth to do for themselves.” She pronounced the word “loth” as if it rimed with moth.
“Lizzie,” he said, “I’m sure about Lizzie. I’ll swear there is still some fondness in her funny little heart.”
“It isn’t love, though; she’s just sentimental193 in her puffy kind of way. My dear Honourable, you don’t know what love is.” He hated her to use his title, for there was then always a breath of scorn in her tone. Just at odd times she seemed to be—not vulgar, that was unthinkable—she seemed to display a contempt for good breeding. He asked with a stiff smile “What is love?”
“For me,” said Orianda, fumbling194 for a definition, “for me it is a compound of anticipation195 and gratitude196. When either of these two ingredients is absent love is dead.”
Gerald shook his head, laughing. “It sounds like a malignant197 bolus that I shouldn’t like to take. I feel that love is just self-sacrifice. Apart from the taste of the thing or the price of the thing, why and for what this anticipation, this gratitude?
“For the moment of passion, of course. Honour thy moments of passion and keep them holy. But O, Gerald Loughlin,” she added mockingly, “this you cannot understand, for you are not a lover; you are not, no, you are not even a good swimmer.” Her mockery was adorable, but baffling.
“I do not understand you,” he said. Now why in39 the whole world of images should she refer to his swimming? He was a good swimmer. He was silent for a long time and then again he began to speak of marriage, urging her to give up her project and leave Lizzie in her simple peace.
Then, not for the first time, she burst into a strange perverse198 intensity that may have been love but might have been rage, that was toned like scorn and yet must have been a jest.
“Lovely Gerald, you must never marry, Gerald, you are too good for marriage. All the best women are already married, yes, they are—to all the worst men.” There was an infinite slow caress103 in her tone but she went on rapidly. “So I shall never marry you, how should I marry a kind man, a good man? I am a barbarian199, and want a barbarian lover, to crush and scarify me, but you are so tender and I am so crude. When your soft eyes look on me they look on a volcano.”
“I have never known anything half as lovely,” he broke in.
Her sudden emotion, though controlled, was unconcealed and she turned away from him.
“My love is a gentleman, but with him I should feel like a wild bee in a canary cage.”
“What are you saying!” cried Gerald, putting his arms around her. “Orianda!”
“O yes, we do love in a mezzotinted kind of way. You could do anything with me short of making me marry you, anything, Gerald.” She repeated it tenderly. “Anything. But short of marrying me I could make you do nothing.” She turned from him40 again for a moment or two. Then she took his arm and as they walked on she shook it and said chaffingly, “And what a timid swimmer my Gerald is.”
But he was dead silent. That flux of sensations in his mind had taken another twist, fiery200 and exquisite. Like rich clouds they shaped themselves in the sky of his mind, fancy’s bright towers with shining pinnacles201.
Lizzie welcomed them home. Had they enjoyed themselves—yes, the day had been fine—and so they had enjoyed themselves—well, well, that was right. But throughout the evening Orianda hid herself from him, so he wandered almost distracted about the village until in a garth he saw some men struggling with a cow. Ropes were twisted around its horns and legs. It was flung to the earth. No countryman ever speaks to an animal without blaspheming it, although if he be engaged in some solitary202 work and inspired to music, he invariably sings a hymn204 in a voice that seems to have some vague association with wood pulp205. So they all blasphemed and shouted. One man, with sore eyes, dressed in a coat of blue fustian206 and brown cord trousers, hung to the end of a rope at an angle of forty-five degrees. His posture207 suggested that he was trying to pull the head off the cow. Two other men had taken turns of other rope around some stout208 posts, and one stood by with a handsaw.
“What are you going to do?” asked Gerald.
“Its harns be bent, yeu see,” said the man with the saw, “they be going into its head. ’Twill blind or madden the beast.”
41
When Gerald went back to the inn Orianda was still absent. He sat down but he could not rest. He could never rest now until he had won her promise. That lovely image in the river spat fountains of scornful fire at him. “Do not leave me, Gerald,” she had said. He would never leave her, he would never leave her. But the men talking in the inn scattered211 his flying fiery thoughts. They discoursed212 with a vacuity213 whose very endlessness was transcendent. Good God! Was there ever a living person more magnificently inane214 than old Tottel, the registrar215. He would have inspired a stork216 to protest. Of course, a man of his age should not have worn a cap, a small one especially; Tottel himself was small, and it made him look rumpled210. He was bandy: his intellect was bandy too.
“Yes,” Mr. Tottel was saying, “it’s very interesting to see interesting things, no matter if it’s man, woman, or a object. The most interesting man as I ever met in my life I met on my honeymoon217. Years ago. He made a lifelong study of railways, that man, knew ’em from Alpha to ... to ... what is it?”
“Abednego,” said someone.
42
“Yes, the trunk lines, the fares, the routs218, the junctions219 of anywheres in England or Scotland or Ireland or Wales. London, too, the Underground. I tested him, every station in correct order from South Kensington to King’s Cross. A strange thing! Nothing to do with railways in ’imself, it was just his ’obby. Was a Baptist minister, really, but still a most interesting man.”
Loughlin could stand it no longer, he hurried away into the garden. He could not find her. Into the kitchen—she was not there. He sat down excited and impatient, but he must wait for her, he wanted to know, to know at once. How divinely she could swim! What was it he wanted to know? He tried to read a book there, a ragged164 dusty volume about the polar regions. He learned that when a baby whale is born it weighs at least a ton. How horrible!
He rushed out into the fields full of extravagant220 melancholy221 and stupid distraction. That! All that was to be her life here! This was your rustic beauty, idiots and railways, boors222 who could choke an ox and chop off its horns—maddening doubts, maddening doubts—foul-smelling rooms, darkness, indecency. She held him at arm’s length still, but she was dovelike, and he was grappled to her soul with hoops223 of steel, yes, indeed.
But soon this extravagance was allayed224. Dim loneliness came imperceivably into the fields and he turned back. The birds piped oddly; some wind was caressing the higher foliage, turning it all one way, the way home. Telegraph poles ahead looked like half-used pencils; the small cross on the steeple glittered with a sharp and shapely permanence.
When he came to the inn Orianda was gone to bed.
IV
The next morning an air of uneasy bustle225 crept into the house after breakfast, much going in and out and up and down in restrained perturbation.
43
Orianda asked him if he could drive the horse and trap to the station. Yes, he thought he could drive it.
“Lizzie is departing,” she said, “there are her boxes and things. It is very good of you, Gerald, if you will be so kind. It is a quiet horse.”
Lizzie, then, had been subdued226. She was faintly affable during the meal, but thereafter she had been silent; Gerald could not look at her until the last dreadful moment had come and her things were in the trap.
“Good-bye, ’Thaniel,” she said to the innkeeper, and kissed him.
“Good-bye, Orianda,” and she kissed Orianda, and then climbed into the trap beside Gerald, who said “Click click,” and away went the nag123.
Lizzie did not speak during the drive—perhaps she was in tears. Gerald would have liked to comfort her, but the nag was unusually spirited and clacked so freshly along that he did not dare turn to the sorrowing woman. They trotted228 down from the uplands and into the windy road over the marshes. The church spire203 in the town ahead seemed to change its position with every turn of that twisting route. It would have a background now of high sour-hued down, now of dark woodland, anon of nothing but sky and cloud; in a few miles further there would be the sea. Hereabout there were no trees, few houses, the world was vast and bright, the sky vast and blue. What was prettiest of all was a windmill turning its fans steadily229 in the draught from the sea. When they crossed the river its slaty230 slow-going flow was broken into blue waves.
44
At the station Lizzie dismounted without a word and Gerald hitched231 the nag to a tree. A porter took the luggage and labelled it while Gerald and Lizzie walked about the platform. A calf232 with a sack over its loins, tied by the neck to a pillar, was bellowing233 deeply; Lizzie let it suck at her finger for a while, but at last she resumed her walk and talked with her companion.
“She’s a fine young thing, clever, his daughter; I’d do anything for her, but for him I’ve nothing to say. What can I say? What could I do? I gave up a great deal for that man, Mr. Loughlin—I’d better not call you Gerald any more now—a great deal. I knew he’d had trouble with his wicked wife, and now to take her back after so many years, eh! It’s beyond me, I know how he hates her. I gave up everything for him, I gave him what he can’t give back to me, and he hates her; you know?”
“No, I did not know. I don’t know anything of this affair.”
“No, of course, you would not know anything of this affair,” said Lizzie with a sigh. “I don’t want to see him again. I’m a fool, but I got my pride, and that’s something to the good, it’s almost satisfactory, ain’t it?”
As the train was signalled she left him and went into the booking office. He marched up and down, her sad case affecting him with sorrow. The poor wretch145, she had given up so much and could yet smile at her trouble. He himself had never surrendered to anything in life—that was what life demanded of you—surrender. For reward it gave you love, this45 swarthy, skin-deep love that exacted remorseless penalties. What German philosopher was it who said Woman pays the debt of life not by what she does, but by what she suffers? The train rushed in. Gerald busied himself with the luggage, saw that it was loaded, but did not see its owner. He walked rapidly along the carriages, but he could not find her. Well, she was sick of them all, probably hiding from him. Poor woman. The train moved off, and he turned away.
But the station yard outside was startlingly empty, horse and trap were gone. The tree was still there, but with a man leaning against it, a dirty man with a dirty pipe and a dirty smell. Had he seen a horse and trap?
“Yes.”
“Trap with yaller wheels?”
“That’s it.”
“O ah, a young ooman druv away in that....”
“A young woman!”
“Ah, two minutes ago.” And he described Lizzie. “Out yon,” said the dirty man, pointing with his dirty pipe to the marshes.
Gerald ran until he saw a way off on the level winding236 road the trap bowling237 along at a great pace; Lizzie was lashing238 the cob.
“The damned cat!” He puffed239 large puffs240 of exasperation241 and felt almost sick with rage, but there was nothing now to be done except walk back to “The Black Dog,” which he began to do. Rage gave place to anxiety, fear of some unthinkable disaster, some tragic242 horror at the inn.
46
“What a clumsy fool! All my fault, my own stupidity!” He groaned243 when he crossed the bridge at the half distance. He halted there: “It’s dreadful, dreadful!” A tremor244 in his blood, the shame of his foolishness, the fear of catastrophe245, all urged him to turn back to the station and hasten away from these miserable246 complications.
But he did not do so, for across the marshes at the foot of the uplands he saw the horse and trap coming back furiously towards him. Orianda was driving it.
“What has happened?” she cried, jumping from the trap. “O, what fear I was in, what’s happened?” She put her arms around him tenderly.
“And I was in great fear,” he said with a laugh of relief. “What has happened?”
“The horse came home, just trotted up to the door and stood still. Covered with sweat and foam247, you see. The trap was empty. We couldn’t understand it, anything, unless you had been flung out and were bleeding on the road somewhere. I turned the thing back and came on at once.” She was without a hat; she had been anxious and touched him fondly. “Tell me what’s the scare?”
He told her all.
“But Lizzie was not in the trap,” Orianda declared excitedly. “She has not come back. What does it mean, what does she want to do? Let us find her. Jump up, Gerald.”
Away they drove again, but nobody had seen anything of Lizzie. She had gone, vanished, dissolved, and in that strong warm air her soul might indeed have been blown to Paradise. But they did not know47 how or why. Nobody knew. A vague search was carried on in the afternoon, guarded though fruitless enquiries were made, and at last it seemed clear, tolerably clear, that Lizzie had conquered her mad impulse or intention or whatever it was, and walked quietly away across the fields to a station in another direction.
V
For a day or two longer time resumed its sweet slow delightfulness248, though its clarity was diminished and some of its enjoyment dimmed. A village woman came to assist in the mornings, but Orianda was now seldom able to leave the inn; she had come home to a burden, a happy, pleasing burden, that could not often be laid aside, and therefore a somewhat lonely Loughlin walked the high and the low of the country by day and only in the evenings sat in the parlour with Orianda. Hope too was slipping from his heart as even the joy was slipping from his days, for the spirit of vanished Lizzie, defrauded249 and indicting250, hung in the air of the inn, an implacable obsession251, a triumphant252 forboding that was proved a prophecy when some boys fishing in the mill dam hooked dead Lizzie from the pool under the hornbeam tree.
Then it was that Loughlin’s soul discovered to him a mass of feelings—fine sympathy, futile253 sentiment, a passion for righteousness, morbid254 regrets—from which a tragic bias255 was born. After the dread227 ordeal256 of the inquest, which gave a passive verdict of Found Drowned, it was not possible for him to stem this disloyal tendency of his mind. It laid that drowned48 figure accusatively at the feet of his beloved girl, and no argument or sophistry257 could disperse258 the venal259 savour that clung to the house of “The Black Dog.” “To analyse or assess a person’s failings or deficiencies,” he declared to himself, “is useless, not because such blemishes260 are immovable, but because they affect the mass of beholders in divers261 ways. Different minds perceive utterly262 variant263 figures in the same being. To Brown Robinson is a hero, to Jones a snob264, to Smith a fool. Who then is right? You are lucky if you can put your miserable self in relation at an angle where your own deficiencies are submerged or minimized, and wise if you can maintain your vision of that interesting angle.” But embedded265 in Loughlin’s modest intellect there was a stratum266 of probity267 that was rock to these sprays of the casuist; and although Orianda grew more alluring than ever, he packed his bag, and on a morning she herself drove him in the gig to the station.
Upon that miserable departure it was fitting that rain should fall. The station platform was piled with bushel baskets and empty oil barrels. It rained with a quiet remorselessness. Neither spoke57 a word, no one spoke, no sound was uttered but the faint flicking268 of the raindrops. Her kiss to him was long and sweet, her good-bye almost voiceless.
“You will write?” she whispered.
“Yes, I will write.”
But he does not do so. In London he has not forgotten, but he cannot endure the thought of that countryside—to be far from the madding crowd is to be mad indeed. It is only after some trance of49 recollection, when his fond experience is all delicately and renewingly there, that he wavers; but time and time again he relinquishes269 or postpones270 his return. And sometimes he thinks he really will write a letter to his friend who lives in the country.
But he does not do so.
50
“I walked out of the hotel, just as I was, and left her there. I never went back again. I don’t think I intended anything quite so final, so dastardly; I had not intended it, I had not thought of doing so, but that is how it happened. I lost her, lost my wife purposely. It was heartless, it was shabby, for she was a nice woman, a charming woman, a good deal younger than I was, a splendid woman, in fact she was very beautiful, and yet I ran away from her. How can you explain that, Turner?”
Poor Bollington looked at Turner, who looked at his glass of whiskey, and that looked irresistible—he drank some. Bollington sipped272 a little from his glass of milk.
I often found myself regarding Bollington as a little old man. Most of the club members did so too, but he was not that at all, he was still on the sunny side of fifty, but so unassertive, no presence to speak of, no height, not enough hair to mention—if he had had it would surely have been yellow. So mild and modest he cut no figure at all, just a man in glasses that seemed rather big for him. Turner was different, though he was just as bald; he had stature273 and bulk, his very pince-nez seemed twice the size of Bollington’s spectacles. They had not met each other for ten years.
“Well, yes,” Turner said, “but that was a serious thing to do.”
“Wasn’t it!” said the other, “and I had no idea of the enormity of the offence—not at the time.51 She might have been dead, poor girl, and her executors advertising274 for me. She had money you know, her people had been licensed275 victuallers, quite wealthy. Scandalous!”
Bollington brooded upon his sin until Turner sighed: “Ah well, my dear chap.”
“But you have no idea,” protested Bollington, “how entirely276 she engrossed277 me. She was twenty-five and I was forty when we married. She was entrancing. She had always lived in a stinking278 hole in Balham, and it is amazing how strictly279 some of those people keep their children; licensed victuallers, did I tell you? Well I was forty, and she was twenty-five; we lived for a year dodging280 about from one hotel to another all over the British Isles281, she was a perfect little nomad282. Are you married, Turner?”
No, Turner was not married, he never had been.
“O, but you should be,” cried little Bollington, “it’s an extraordinary experience, the real business of the world is marriage, marriage. I was deliriously283 happy and she was learning French and Swedish—that’s where we were going later. She was an enchanting284 little thing, fair, with blue eyes; Phoebe her name was.”
Turner thoughtfully brushed his hand across his generous baldness, then folded his arms.
“You really should,” repeated Bollington, “you ought to, really. But I remember we went from Killarney to Belfast, and there something dreadful happened. I don’t know, it had been growing on her I suppose, but she took a dislike to me there, had52 strange fancies, thought I was unfaithful to her. You see she was popular wherever we went, a lively little woman, in fact she wasn’t merely a woman, she was a little magnet, men congregated285 and clung to her like so many tacks286 and nails and pins. I didn’t object at all—on the contrary, ‘Enjoy yourself, Phoebe,’ I said, ‘I don’t expect you always to hang around an old fogey like me.’ Fogey was the very word I used; I didn’t mean it, of course, but that was the line I took, for she was so charming until she began to get so bad tempered. And believe me, that made her angry, furious. No, not the fogey, but the idea that I did not object to her philandering287. It was fatal, it gave colour to her suspicions of me—Turner, I was as innocent as any lamb—tremendous colour. And she had such a sharp tongue! If you ventured to differ from her—and you couldn’t help differing sometimes—she’d positively bludgeon you, and you couldn’t help being bludgeoned. And she had a passion for putting me right, and I always seemed to be so very wrong, always. She would not be satisfied until she had proved it, and it was so monstrous288 to be made feel that because you were rather different from other people you were an impertinent fool. Yes, I seemed at last to gain only the pangs289 and none of the prizes of marriage. Now there was a lady we met in Belfast to whom I paid some attention....”
“O, good lord!” groaned Turner.
“No, but listen,” pleaded Bollington, “it was a very innocent friendship—nothing was further from my mind—and she was very much like my wife, very much, it was noticeable, everybody spoke of it53— I mean the resemblance. A Mrs. Macarthy, a delightful woman, and Phoebe simply loathed290 her. I confess that my wife’s innuendoes291 were so mean and persistent292 that at last I hadn’t the strength to deny them, in fact at times I wished they were true. Love is idolatry if you like, but it cannot be complete immolation—there’s no such bird as the ph?nix, is there, Turner?”
“What, what?”
“No such bird as the ph?nix.”
“No, there is no such bird, I believe.”
“And sometimes I had to ask myself quite seriously if I really hadn’t been up to some infidelity! Nonsense, of course, but I assure you that was the effect it was having upon me. I had doubts of myself, frenzied293 doubts! And it came to a head between Phoebe and me in our room one day. We quarrelled, O dear, how we quarrelled! She said I was sly, two-faced, unfaithful, I was a scoundrel, and so on. Awfully294 untrue, all of it. She accused me of dreadful things with Mrs. Macarthy and she screamed out: ‘I hope you will treat her better than you have treated me.’ Now what did she mean by that, Turner?”
Bollington eyed his friend as if he expected an oracular answer, but just as Turner was about to respond, Bollington continued:54 “Well, I never found out, I never knew, for what followed was too terrible. ‘I shall go out,’ I said, ‘it will be better, I think.’ Just that, nothing more. I put on my hat and I put my hand on the knob of the door when she said most violently: ‘Go with your Macarthys, I never want to see your filthy295 face again!’ Extraordinary you know, Turner. Well, I went out, and I will not deny I was in a rage, terrific. It was raining but I didn’t care, and I walked about in it. Then I took shelter in a bookseller’s doorway opposite a shop that sold tennis rackets and tobacco, and another one that displayed carnations296 and peaches on wads of coloured wool. The rain came so fast that the streets seemed to empty, and the passers-by were horridly297 silent under their umbrellas, and their footsteps splashed so dully, and I tell you I was very sad, Turner, there. I debated whether to rush across the road and buy a lot of carnations and peaches and take them to Phoebe. But I did not do so, Turner, I never went back, never.”
“Why, Bollington, you, you were a positive ruffian, Bollington.”
“O, scandalous,” rejoined the ruffian.
“Well, out with it, what about this Mrs. Macarthy?”
“Mrs. Macarthy? But, Turner, I never saw her again, never, I ... I forgot her. Yes, I went prowling on until I found myself at the docks and there it suddenly became dark; I don’t know, there was no evening, no twilight298, the day stopped for a moment—and it did not recover. There were hundreds of bullocks slithering and panting and steaming in the road, thousands; lamps were hung up in the harbour, cabs and trollies rattled299 round the bullocks, the rain fell dismally300 and everybody hurried. I went into the dock and saw them loading the steamer, it was called s.s. Frolic, and really, Turner, the things they put into55 the belly301 of that steamer were rather funny: tons and tons of monstrous big chain, the links as big as soup plates, and two or three pantechnicon vans. Yes, but I was anything but frolicsome302, I assure you, I was full of misery303 and trepidation304 and the deuce knows what. I did not know what I wanted to do, or what I was going to do, but I found myself buying a ticket to go to Liverpool on that steamer, and, in short, I embarked305. How wretched I was, but how determined306. Everything on board was depressing and dirty, and when at last we moved off the foam slewed307 away in filthy bubbles as if that dirty steamer had been sick and was running away from it. I got to Liverpool in the early morn, but I did not stay there, it is such a clamouring place, all trams and trollies and teashops. I sat in the station for an hour, the most miserable man alive, the most miserable ever born. I wanted some rest, some peace, some repose308, but they never ceased shunting an endless train of goods trucks, banging and screeching309 until I almost screamed at the very porters. Criff was the name on some of the trucks, I remember, Criff, and everything seemed to be going criff, criff, criff. I haven’t discovered to this day what Criff signifies, whether it’s a station or a company, or a manufacture, but it was Criff, I remember. Well, I rushed to London and put my affairs in order. A day or two later I went to Southampton and boarded another steamer and put to sea, or rather we were ignominiously310 lugged311 out of the dock by a little rat of a tug312 that seemed all funnel313 and hooter. I was off to America, and there I stopped for over three years.”
56
Turner sighed. A waiter brought him another glass of spirit.
“I can’t help thinking, Bollington, that it was all very fiery and touchy314. Of course, I don’t know, but really it was a bit steep, very squeamish of you. What did your wife say?”
“I never communicated with her, I never heard from her, I just dropped out. My filthy face, you know, she did not want to see it again.”
“Oh come, Bollington! And what did Mrs. Macarthy say?”
“Mrs. Macarthy! I never saw or heard of her again. I told you that.”
“I was intensely miserable there for a long while. Of course I loved Phoebe enormously, I felt the separation, I.... O, it is impossible to describe. But what was worst of all was the meanness of my behaviour, there was nothing heroic about it, I soon saw clearly that it was a shabby trick, disgusting, I had bolted and left her to the mercy of ... well, of whatever there was. It made such an awful barrier—you’ve no idea of my compunction—I couldn’t make overtures—‘Let us forgive and forget.’ I was a mean rascal, I was filthy. That was the barrier—myself; I was too bad. I thought I should recover and enjoy life again, I began to think of Phoebe as a cat, a little cat. I went everywhere and did everything. But America is a big country, I couldn’t get into contact, I was lonely, very lonely, and although two years went by I longed for Phoebe. Everything I did I wanted57 to do with Phoebe by my side. And then my cousin, my only relative in the world—he lived in England—he died. I scarcely ever saw him, but still he was my kin18. And he died. You’ve no comprehension, Turner, of the truly awful sensation such a bereavement316 brings. Not a soul in the world now would have the remotest interest in my welfare. O, I tell you, Turner, it was tragic, tragic, when my cousin died. It made my isolation317 complete. I was alone, a man who had made a dreadful mess of life. What with sorrow and remorse234 I felt that I should soon die, not of disease, but disgust.”
“You were a great ninny,” ejaculated his friend. “Why the devil didn’t you hurry back, claim your wife, bygones be bygones; why bless my conscience, what a ninny, what a great ninny!”
“Yes, Turner, it is as you say. But though conscience is a good servant it is a very bad master, it overruled me, it shamed me, and I hung on to America for still another year. I tell you my situation was unbearable318, I was tied to my misery, I was a tethered dog, a duck without water—even dirty water. And I hadn’t any faith in myself or in my case; I knew I was wrong, had always been wrong, Phoebe had taught me that. I hadn’t any faith, I wish I had had. Faith can move mountains, so they say, though I’ve never heard of it actually being done.”
“No, not in historical times,” declared Turner.
“What do you mean by that?”
58
“O well, time is nothing, it’s nothing, it comes and off it goes. Has it ever occurred to you, Bollington, that in 5,000 years or so there will be nobody in the world speaking the English language, our very existence even will be speculated upon, as if we were the Anthropophagi? O good lord, yes.”
And another whiskey.
“You know, Bollington, you were a perfect fool. You behaved like one of those half-baked civil service hounds who lunch in a dairy on a cup of tea and a cream horn. You wanted some beef, some ginger319. You came back, you must have come back because there you are now.”
“Yes, Turner, I came back after nearly four years. Everything was different, ah, how strange! I could not find Phoebe, it is weird320 how people can disappear. I made enquiries, but it was like looking for a lost umbrella, fruitless after so long.”
“Well, but what about Mrs. Macarthy?”
Mr. Bollington said, slowly and with the utmost precision: “I did not see Mrs. Macarthy again.”
“O, of course, you did not see her again, not ever.”
“Not ever. I feared Phoebe had gone abroad too, but at last I found her in London....”
“No,” roared Turner, “why the devil couldn’t you say so and done with it? I’ve been sweating with sympathy for you. O, I say, Bollington!”
“My dear Turner, listen. Do you know, she was delighted to see me, she even kissed me, straight off, and we went out to dine and had the very deuce of a spread and we were having the very deuce of a good time. She was lovelier than ever, and I could see all her old affection for me was returning, she was so ... well, I can’t tell you, Turner, but she had no59 animosity whatever, no grievance321, she would certainly have taken me back that very night. O dear, dear ... and then! I was anxious to throw myself at her feet, but you couldn’t do that in a public café, I could only touch her hands, beautiful, as they lay on the white linen cloth. I kept asking: ‘Do you forgive me?’ and she would reply: ‘I have nothing to forgive, dear, nothing.’ How wonderful that sounded to my truly penitent322 soul—I wanted to die.
“‘But you don’t ask me where I’ve been!’ she cried gaily323, ‘or what I’ve been doing, you careless old Peter. I’ve been to France, and Sweden too!’
“‘When did you go?’ I asked.
“‘When I left you,’ she said.
“‘You mean when I went away?’
“‘Did you go away? O, of course, you must have. Poor Peter, What a sad time he has had.’
“I was a little bewildered, but I was delighted; in fact, Turner, I was hopelessly infatuated again, I wanted to wring325 out all the dregs of my detestable villainy and be absolved326. All I could begin with was: ‘Were you not very glad to be rid of me?’
“‘Well,’ she said, ‘my great fear at first was that you would find me again and make it up. I didn’t want that then, at least, I thought I didn’t.’
“‘That’s exactly what I felt,’ I exclaimed, ‘but how could I find you?’
“‘Well,’ Phoebe said,60 ‘you might have found out and followed me. But I promise never to run away again, Peter dear, never.’
“‘Do you mean, Phoebe, that you ran away from me?’
“‘Yes, didn’t I?’ she answered.
“‘But I ran away from you,’ I said. ‘I walked out of the hotel on that dreadful afternoon we quarrelled so, and I never went back. I went to America. I was in America nearly four years.’
“‘Do you mean you ran away from me?’ she cried.
“‘Yes,’ I said, ‘didn’t I?’
“‘But that is exactly what I did—I mean, I ran away from you. I walked out of the hotel directly you had gone—I never went back, and I’ve been abroad thinking how tremendously I had served you out, and wondering what you thought of it all and where you were.’
“I could only say ‘Good God, Phoebe, I’ve had the most awful four years of remorse and sorrow, all vain, mistaken, useless, thrown away.’ And she said: ’And I’ve had four years—living in a fool’s paradise after all. How dared you run away, it’s disgusting!’
“And, Turner, in a moment she was at me again in her old dreadful way, and the last words I had from her were: ‘Now I never want to see your face again, never, this is the end!’
“And that’s how things are now, Turner. It’s rather sad, isn’t it?”
61
“Sad! Why you chump, when was it you saw her?”
“O, a long time ago, it must be nearly three years now.”
“Three years! But you’ll see her again!”
“Tfoo! No, no, no, Turner. God bless me, no, no, no!” said the little old man.
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收听单词发音
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1
freckled
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| adj.雀斑；斑点；晒斑；（使）生雀斑v.雀斑，斑点( freckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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3
antediluvian
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| adj.史前的，陈旧的 | |
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limbo
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| n.地狱的边缘；监狱 | |
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5
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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6
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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8
crunching
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| v.嘎吱嘎吱地咬嚼( crunch的现在分词 )；嘎吱作响；（快速大量地）处理信息；数字捣弄 | |
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9
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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10
tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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lair
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| n.野兽的巢穴；躲藏处 | |
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proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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14
pouch
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| n.小袋，小包，囊状袋；vt.装...入袋中，用袋运输；vi.用袋送信件 | |
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15
eel
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| n.鳗鲡 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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19
endorse
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| vt.(支票、汇票等)背书，背署；批注；同意 | |
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20
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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21
teemed
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| v.充满( teem的过去式和过去分词 )；到处都是；（指水、雨等）暴降；倾注 | |
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22
absurdities
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| n.极端无理性( absurdity的名词复数 )；荒谬；谬论；荒谬的行为 | |
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23
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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24
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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25
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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26
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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27
glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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28
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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29
pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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30
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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31
saluting
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的现在分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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32
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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33
drowsiness
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| n.睡意；嗜睡 | |
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34
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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35
detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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36
glade
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| n.林间空地，一片表面有草的沼泽低地 | |
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37
finessing
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| v.手腕，手段，技巧( finesse的现在分词 ) | |
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38
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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39
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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40
scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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41
impoverishment
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| n.贫穷，穷困；贫化 | |
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42
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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43
chirped
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| 鸟叫，虫鸣( chirp的过去式 ) | |
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44
nave
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| n.教堂的中部；本堂 | |
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45
pendulum
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| n.摆，钟摆 | |
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46
vapid
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| adj.无味的；无生气的 | |
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47
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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48
tapestries
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| n.挂毯( tapestry的名词复数 )；绣帷，织锦v.用挂毯（或绣帷）装饰( tapestry的第三人称单数 ) | |
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49
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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50
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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51
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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52
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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53
tarnishing
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| （印花）白地沾色 | |
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54
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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55
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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56
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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57
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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58
scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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59
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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60
delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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61
confrontation
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| n.对抗，对峙，冲突 | |
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62
rivulet
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| n.小溪，小河 | |
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63
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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64
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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65
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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66
ransacked
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| v.彻底搜查( ransack的过去式和过去分词 )；抢劫，掠夺 | |
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67
cataract
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| n.大瀑布，奔流，洪水，白内障 | |
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68
compendium
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| n.简要，概略 | |
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69
moth
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| n.蛾，蛀虫 | |
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70
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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71
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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72
quenching
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| 淬火，熄 | |
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73
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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74
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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75
whitewash
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| v.粉刷，掩饰；n.石灰水，粉刷，掩饰 | |
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76
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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77
hurdle
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| n.跳栏，栏架；障碍，困难；vi.进行跨栏赛 | |
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78
hurdles
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| n.障碍( hurdle的名词复数 )；跳栏；（供人或马跳跃的）栏架；跨栏赛 | |
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79
maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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80
willow
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| n.柳树 | |
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81
wren
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| n.鹪鹩；英国皇家海军女子服务队成员 | |
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82
wrens
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| n.鹪鹩( wren的名词复数 ) | |
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83
hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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84
intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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85
intriguing
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| adj.有趣的；迷人的v.搞阴谋诡计(intrigue的现在分词)；激起…的好奇心 | |
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86
humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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87
badger
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| v.一再烦扰，一再要求，纠缠 | |
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88
badgers
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| n.獾( badger的名词复数 )；獾皮；（大写）獾州人（美国威斯康星州人的别称）；毛鼻袋熊 | |
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89
amassing
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| v.积累，积聚( amass的现在分词 ) | |
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90
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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91
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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92
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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93
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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94
immolate
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| v.牺牲 | |
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95
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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96
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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97
justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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98
interim
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| adj.暂时的，临时的；n.间歇，过渡期间 | |
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99
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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100
dangled
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| 悬吊着( dangle的过去式和过去分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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101
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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102
serener
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| serene（沉静的，宁静的，安宁的）的比较级形式 | |
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103
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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104
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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105
exhaled
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的过去式和过去分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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106
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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107
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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108
marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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109
marshy
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| adj.沼泽的 | |
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110
mid
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| adj.中央的，中间的 | |
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111
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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112
dolorous
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| adj.悲伤的；忧愁的 | |
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113
shrimp
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| n.虾，小虾；矮小的人 | |
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114
sylvan
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| adj.森林的 | |
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115
axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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116
butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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117
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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118
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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119
spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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120
myriads
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| n.无数，极大数量( myriad的名词复数 ) | |
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121
warily
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| adv.留心地 | |
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122
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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123
nag
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| v.(对…)不停地唠叨；n.爱唠叨的人 | |
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124
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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125
divination
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| n.占卜，预测 | |
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126
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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127
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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128
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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129
toils
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| 网 | |
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130
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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131
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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132
antagonism
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| n.对抗，敌对，对立 | |
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133
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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134
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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135
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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136
mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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137
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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138
thigh
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| n.大腿；股骨 | |
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139
rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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140
buxom
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| adj.（妇女）丰满的，有健康美的 | |
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141
wanly
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| adv.虚弱地；苍白地，无血色地 | |
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142
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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143
nostalgia
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| n.怀乡病，留恋过去，怀旧 | |
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144
flicked
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的过去式和过去分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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145
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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146
wretches
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|
| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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147
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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148
displacement
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| n.移置，取代，位移，排水量 | |
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149
magpies
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| 喜鹊（magpie的复数形式） | |
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150
enjoyment
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|
| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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151
bowler
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| n.打保龄球的人，（板球的）投（球）手 | |
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152
deflecting
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| （使）偏斜， （使）偏离， （使）转向( deflect的现在分词 ) | |
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153
dismantled
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|
| 拆开( dismantle的过去式和过去分词 )； 拆卸； 废除； 取消 | |
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154
serenity
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|
| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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155
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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156
upwards
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|
| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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157
cone
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|
| n.圆锥体，圆锥形东西，球果 | |
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158
wasp
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| n.黄蜂，蚂蜂 | |
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159
laboriously
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|
| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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160
marooned
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|
| adj.被围困的；孤立无援的；无法脱身的 | |
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161
mariner
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| n.水手号不载人航天探测器，海员，航海者 | |
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162
isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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163
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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164
ragged
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|
| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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165
preened
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| v.（鸟）用嘴整理（羽毛）( preen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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166
marshes
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|
| n.沼泽，湿地( marsh的名词复数 ) | |
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167
populous
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| adj.人口稠密的，人口众多的 | |
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168
grasshoppers
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| n.蚱蜢( grasshopper的名词复数 )；蝗虫；蚂蚱；（孩子）矮小的 | |
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169
farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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170
brooks
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| n.小溪( brook的名词复数 ) | |
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171
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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172
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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173
rascally
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|
| adj. 无赖的，恶棍的 adv. 无赖地，卑鄙地 | |
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174
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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175
willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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176
graceful
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|
| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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177
propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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178
wafted
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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179
discreet
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|
| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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180
scantily
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| adv.缺乏地；不充足地；吝啬地；狭窄地 | |
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181
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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182
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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183
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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184
flux
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| n.流动；不断的改变 | |
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185
qualms
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| n.不安；内疚 | |
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186
alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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187
plebeian
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|
| adj.粗俗的；平民的；n.平民；庶民 | |
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188
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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189
meekness
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|
| n.温顺，柔和 | |
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190
libertine
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|
| n.淫荡者；adj.放荡的，自由思想的 | |
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191
caressingly
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| 爱抚地，亲切地 | |
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192
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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193
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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194
fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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195
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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196
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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197
malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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198
perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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199
barbarian
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| n.野蛮人；adj.野蛮(人)的；未开化的 | |
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200
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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201
pinnacles
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| 顶峰( pinnacle的名词复数 )； 顶点； 尖顶； 小尖塔 | |
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202
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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203
spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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204
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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205
pulp
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| n.果肉，纸浆；v.化成纸浆，除去...果肉，制成纸浆 | |
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206
fustian
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| n.浮夸的；厚粗棉布 | |
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207
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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209
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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210
rumpled
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| v.弄皱，使凌乱( rumple的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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211
scattered
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|
| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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212
discoursed
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| 演说（discourse的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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213
vacuity
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| n.(想象力等)贫乏，无聊，空白 | |
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214
inane
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| adj.空虚的，愚蠢的，空洞的 | |
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215
registrar
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| n.记录员，登记员；(大学的)注册主任 | |
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216
stork
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| n.鹳 | |
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217
honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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218
routs
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| n.打垮，赶跑( rout的名词复数 )；（体育）打败对方v.打垮，赶跑( rout的第三人称单数 )；（体育）打败对方 | |
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219
junctions
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| 联结点( junction的名词复数 )； 会合点； （公路或铁路的）交叉路口； （电缆等的）主结点 | |
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220
extravagant
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|
| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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221
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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222
boors
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| n.农民( boor的名词复数 )；乡下佬；没礼貌的人；粗野的人 | |
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223
hoops
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| n.箍( hoop的名词复数 )；（篮球）篮圈；（旧时儿童玩的）大环子；（两端埋在地里的）小铁弓 | |
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224
allayed
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| v.减轻，缓和( allay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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225
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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226
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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227
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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228
trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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229
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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230
slaty
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| 石板一样的，石板色的 | |
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231
hitched
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| （免费）搭乘他人之车( hitch的过去式和过去分词 )； 搭便车； 攀上； 跃上 | |
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232
calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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233
bellowing
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| v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的现在分词 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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234
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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235
mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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236
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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237
bowling
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| n.保龄球运动 | |
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238
lashing
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| n.鞭打；痛斥；大量；许多v.鞭打( lash的现在分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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239
puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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240
puffs
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| n.吸( puff的名词复数 )；（烟斗或香烟的）一吸；一缕（烟、蒸汽等）；（呼吸或风的）呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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241
exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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242
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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243
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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244
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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245
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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246
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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247
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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248
delightfulness
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| n.delightful（令人高兴的，使人愉快的，给人快乐的，讨人喜欢的）的变形 | |
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249
defrauded
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| v.诈取，骗取( defraud的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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250
indicting
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| 控告，起诉( indict的现在分词 ) | |
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251
obsession
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| n.困扰，无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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252
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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253
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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254
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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255
bias
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| n.偏见，偏心，偏袒；vt.使有偏见 | |
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256
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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257
sophistry
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| n.诡辩 | |
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258
disperse
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| vi.使分散；使消失；vt.分散；驱散 | |
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259
venal
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| adj.唯利是图的，贪脏枉法的 | |
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260
blemishes
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| n.（身体的）瘢点( blemish的名词复数 )；伤疤；瑕疵；污点 | |
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261
divers
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| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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262
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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263
variant
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| adj.不同的，变异的；n.变体，异体 | |
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264
snob
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| n.势利小人，自以为高雅、有学问的人 | |
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265
embedded
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| a.扎牢的 | |
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266
stratum
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| n.地层，社会阶层 | |
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267
probity
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| n.刚直；廉洁，正直 | |
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268
flicking
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的现在分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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269
relinquishes
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的第三人称单数 )； 放弃 | |
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270
postpones
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| v.延期，推迟( postpone的第三人称单数 ) | |
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271
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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272
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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273
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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274
advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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275
licensed
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| adj.得到许可的v.许可，颁发执照(license的过去式和过去分词) | |
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276
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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277
engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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278
stinking
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| adj.臭的，烂醉的，讨厌的v.散发出恶臭( stink的现在分词 )；发臭味；名声臭；糟透 | |
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279
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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280
dodging
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| n.避开，闪过，音调改变v.闪躲( dodge的现在分词 )；回避 | |
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281
isles
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| 岛( isle的名词复数 ) | |
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282
nomad
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| n.游牧部落的人，流浪者，游牧民 | |
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283
deliriously
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| adv.谵妄（性）；发狂；极度兴奋/亢奋；说胡话 | |
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284
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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285
congregated
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| （使）集合，聚集( congregate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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286
tacks
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| 大头钉( tack的名词复数 )； 平头钉； 航向； 方法 | |
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287
philandering
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| v.调戏，玩弄女性( philander的现在分词 ) | |
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288
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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289
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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290
loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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291
innuendoes
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| n.影射的话( innuendo的名词复数 )；讽刺的话；含沙射影；暗讽 | |
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292
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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293
frenzied
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| a.激怒的；疯狂的 | |
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294
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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295
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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296
carnations
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| n.麝香石竹，康乃馨( carnation的名词复数 ) | |
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297
horridly
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| 可怕地，讨厌地 | |
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298
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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299
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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300
dismally
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| adv.阴暗地，沉闷地 | |
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301
belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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302
frolicsome
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| adj.嬉戏的，闹着玩的 | |
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303
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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304
trepidation
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| n.惊恐，惶恐 | |
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305
embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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306
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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307
slewed
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| adj.喝醉的v.杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去式 )( slew的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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308
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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309
screeching
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| v.发出尖叫声( screech的现在分词 )；发出粗而刺耳的声音；高叫 | |
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310
ignominiously
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| adv.耻辱地，屈辱地，丢脸地 | |
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311
lugged
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| vt.用力拖拉（lug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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312
tug
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| v.用力拖(或拉)；苦干；n.拖；苦干；拖船 | |
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313
funnel
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| n.漏斗；烟囱；v.汇集 | |
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314
touchy
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| adj.易怒的；棘手的 | |
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315
slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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316
bereavement
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| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
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317
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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318
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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319
ginger
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| n.姜，精力，淡赤黄色；adj.淡赤黄色的；vt.使活泼，使有生气 | |
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320
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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321
grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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322
penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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323
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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324
plucky
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| adj.勇敢的 | |
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325
wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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326
absolved
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| 宣告…无罪，赦免…的罪行，宽恕…的罪行( absolve的过去式和过去分词 )； 不受责难，免除责任 [义务] ,开脱（罪责） | |
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327
swerved
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| v.（使）改变方向，改变目的( swerve的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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