Although Sir John's wealth and position may be inferred from the meager7 particulars already
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given of him, yet must the Marches be described first. And Theodora March must not only take precedence of the nephew and heir of the Marquis of Longacre, but of her own family as well—for to Theodora had this precedence always been allowed, although the very youngest scion8 of the house of March. She was slender and supple9, and had a beautiful head of rich gold hair that made an aureole around her pure and sparkling face. By one of those freaks, so common in American civilization, Theodora, whose ancestors had for unnumbered generations sold hardware and cutlery and groceries, and were born and bred to trade and barter10, looked as if she had all of the blood of all of the Howards in her veins11. March père, like Napoleon, might have been called the first of his family, but Theodora had grown up with all the tendencies toward a privileged class floating around in American society. She stamped her letters with a crest12 she could almost persuade herself her ancestors had borne at the battle of Agincourt, and adopted the Earls de la Marche of the middle ages as her progenitors13. Like many others who may be called fugitives14 from the lower middle class, she hated it with indescribable intensity15, and shook her small white fist at it and stoned it whenever she got a chance.
Besides Theodora there was Anne, a pretty but incomplete model of Nature's gorgeous after-thought, the younger sister. Theodora was a leonine blonde, while Anne was a nondescript. Mrs. March, an amiable16, obstinate17 old person, was
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the third and last and least interesting of the family.
The Marches had endured for years the nomadic18 existence preferred by many rich Americans. Like the Bedouins of the desert, they had moved their belongings19 from place to place at a moment's notice. But an acquaintance at Homburg with the Honorable Mrs. Wodehouse had inspired in Theodora a yearning20 for a London season—and Theodora, being the master spirit and motor for the March family, promptly21 transported them all to London, and the first week in April found them settled in one of the two finest mansions22 at Prince's Gate. Meanwhile a great event had happened in Anne's life. One William McBean, a lieutenant23 in a Highland24 regiment25, with one thousand pounds to his fortune besides his pay, had met Anne on the Continent, and, after falling hopelessly in love and communicating the same malady26 to her, was just about exchanging into a regiment going to India because he had not the courage to ask the rich American girl to marry him. Theodora, who had a good heart, and was grieved to see Anne pale and distrait27, and poor William McBean looking like a ghost, homely28 and red-headed at that, took matters into her own hands. She made a vigorous sortie on William McBean, wormed his secret out of him, laughed at his scruples29, proposed for him, accepted for Anne, and had the satisfaction of seeing two worthy30 people perfectly31 happy, and all her own doing too. Mrs. Wodehouse laughed at the match; but Theo
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dora extended her protecting arm over the lovers, and, slender and white as that arm was, it was a mighty32 ægis.
It can not be supposed that the Marches remained long in ignorance of the name and quality of their next neighbor at Prince's Gate. Within a fortnight Theodora had seen Sir John on his balcony smoking, had heard the click of his billiard balls through the open window, while Sir John had listened with pleasure to her clear trilling as she took her singing lesson. Anne did nothing now but sit on a bench in Kensington Palace Gardens and gaze in rapture33 on William McBean's honest, ugly face—a gaze which the red-headed lieutenant returned with compound interest. The sight of their innocent happiness amused and pleased Theodora excessively. It was love's young dream with a vengeance34.
One morning Mrs. Wodehouse arrived at the Marches' house in a great flutter. She had got cards for them to a grand ball to be given at the house of a K. G., K. C. B., S. E. I., and what not, and the cards bore the talisman35 "To meet H. R. H.—" It was the finest of the very great balls of the season, and Mrs. Wodehouse was in high feather at the notion of introducing her young friends on such an occasion, for Mrs. March had thankfully rendered up to her the office of chaperon. The question of a presentation at court was wisely deferred37 until another season.
"And it's not improbable, dear," said Mrs. Wodehouse, surveying with admiration38 Theodora's
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fresh beauty and captivating air, "that you may go as Miladi with—"
"A great big lozenge on my carriage," laughed Theodora. "I used to think," she added more gravely, "that Englishmen were pachyderms, but upon my word they are the spooniest set—Anne, what are you blushing for?"
"I was thinking of—of—," answered Anne, turning a yet more fiery39 red.
"Of William McBean," said Theodora, with cruel mirth, "you know you were. You're always thinking of William McBean."
"My dear girl," remarked Mrs. Wodehouse plaintively40 to Anne, "with your opportunities and nice looks, and money—you might look higher than a lieutenant in a marching regiment. It's a sacrifice, dear—a sacrifice which I—"
"Mrs. Wodehouse," cried Anne, rising and looking at Mrs. Wodehouse quite savagely41, "I insist that you shall not mention this matter again. I'm—I'm not called upon to justify42 myself to you—but I think when a girl marries a man and a gentleman—even if he is poor—she does herself honor, and although we've got money ourselves, I feel the greatest respect for a poor gentleman—and if he is so disinterested43 that he almost forces her to make the offer herself, it's no sacrifice—"
If a meek44 and much enduring sheep had turned on a hungry wolf, Mrs. Wodehouse could not have been more surprised than at Anne's spirit. But Theodora, who rarely permitted Anne to finish a sentence, here broke in:
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"No, it isn't a sacrifice—even if he has a red head and lisps dreadfully. Fortunately, I don't want to marry William McBean myself. I want—I don't know what I want. Not money—I have plenty of that."
"I think," continued Anne quite boldly, "that American girls are seldom mercenary. We have our faults, but that's not one of—"
"Yes," said Theodora, with an air of great magnanimity, marching up and down the room, "we have our faults, but at least we are not mercenary, or designing, or mean, or anything of that sort. Nor are we headstrong like English girls are sometimes—or ungenerous toward each other, or given to gossip. We make ourselves agreeable abroad, but that does not prevent our making our homes little paradises for those we love—and we are not a bit conceited45."
Anne attempted a mild suggestion that Theo hadn't left any faults at all with which American girls could be justly charged, but it was ruthlessly swept away in a hurricane of merry talk and laughter from Theodora about the ball, her gown, and all the cheerful, costly46 things that made up the life of Josiah C. March's lucky daughter. Mrs. Wodehouse left, arranging to come to their house on the evening of the ball, whence they would all go in the March's carriage and she would remain the rest of the night at Prince's Gate.
The night of the ball finally arrived. By one of those occult processes so difficult for the mas
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culine intelligence to comprehend, Theodora and Anne and Mrs. March found out that Sir John Blood was going to the ball too. Many speculations47 as to whether he would ask to be introduced or not went through the head of this young daughter of the great republic, but she said never a word. Anne and her mother though prattled48 incessantly49 about Sir John and the ball, to all of which Theodora listened with the air of lofty indifference50 which an American girl assumes where men are concerned, and apparently51 cared no more about Sir John Blood than she did about the future King of Bulgaria. The March carriage containing Mrs. Wodehouse drove up to Prince's Gate about ten o'clock on a bright May evening. At the same instant Sir John Blood's brougham was whirled to his door. Mrs. March stood in the doorway52 to enjoy the sight of her nestlings getting into the carriage. Mrs. Wodehouse did not descend53. Anne came first, tripping down the carpeted steps, looking uncommonly54 pretty in a blue gown.
"How charming you are, dear!" cried Mrs. Wodehouse.
"Just wait till you see Theo," answered Anne a little discontentedly. It is hard to be always and invariably outshone even when one has an angel named McBean to soothe55 one's self-love.
At that moment Sir John Blood appeared at his own door. He might well have got into his brougham and gone, but he delayed a moment or two—and in that moment Theodora sailed down
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the steps. A cloud of silver crêpe enveloped57 her and floated far behind her. Her slender form was molded into a bodice so simple and yet so exquisite58 that it was a poem in satin. Around the white pillar of her matchless throat she wore a string of pearls, and pearls hung upon the front of her corsage and skirt until both seemed sowed with gems59. Mrs. Wodehouse threw up her hands in silent ecstasy60. The coachman turned and gaped with delight, and so did the footman who shut the carriage door after her.
Not only did Sir John Blood as well as his servants gaze in admiration, but a group of ragged61 urchins62 began to "hooray," as the carriage rolled off. Theodora leaned back in her corner of the carriage, enjoying her little triumph as only a young and beautiful woman can. Nor did the triumph end there. When they ascended63 the grand staircase and entered the ball-room, a kind of admiring murmur64 followed Theodora. The whole evening was a repetition of these trivial but delicious successes that are dear to every woman's heart.
The very first person on whom Theodora's eyes rested was Sir John Blood, and half an hour had scarcely passed before he came up and asked for an introduction. Theodora was surprised to see Mrs. Wodehouse receive Sir John with something like haughtiness65. She barely consented to introduce him, and seized the first opportunity to whisper in Theodora's ear agonizingly—"He's a widower—don't for Heaven's sake—dear girl—"
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Theodora thought Mrs. Wodehouse had gone suddenly crazy, but she retained her self-possession and gracefully66 returned Sir John's bow, which was a kind of salaam67 or kowtow.
"I have the honor," he said, "of living next to Miss March."
Theodora smiled her own dazzling smile at this. "Yes," she replied, "and I want you to credit me with great virtue68 in shutting tight all the double windows when I am taking my singing lessons so that I shall not make myself odious69 to my neighbors."
"Do you call that kind?" said Sir John. "Shall we take a turn and talk about it?"
Mrs. Wodehouse actually put out her hand to detain Theodora, but Theo was already beyond her grasp.
She stole a side glance at her companion as they moved off, that gave her a much better idea of him than she had before. He was very tall and certainly distinguished70 looking, but there was something, an intense blackness around the eye, and a bluish tinge71 about the full black beard that gave him a sinister72 look. As they passed through the throng73 of splendid women and thorough-bred looking men, a very old man, much braced74 and padded, who stood up stiffly as if he feared he could not get up again if he sat down, and whose breast was covered by a broad blue ribbon, touched Sir John on the arm and mumbled75 something in his ear. Sir John, smiling, said to Theodora:
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"That is the Marquis of Longacre. He wants to be presented to you. He is nearly ninety, but his eye for beauty is as keen as it was fifty years ago."
Theodora colored brilliantly. A marquis asking to be presented to Josiah C. March's daughter was a big thing, as the defunct76 March would have expressed it—and although Sir John had not said a word about his relationship to the old gentleman, yet Theodora knew all about it, having studied the subject thoroughly77 in Debrett. So, after taking a turn about the ball-room, they returned. Sir John presented the marquis, and then courteously78 stepped aside that the old gentleman might have her all to himself.
This was the marquis's first observation: "Good Gad79! are all the girls in America as pretty as you are?"
"Most of them are a great deal prettier," laughed Theodora, with the ready adaptability80 of her compatriots.
"It must be a doosid jolly place, then," chuckled81 the marquis.
"Why don't you come over and take a look at us?" archly remarked the sprightly82 Theo, purposely oblivious83 of the marquis's eighty-five years.
"Because I'm eighty-five. Eighty-five's a bore, my dear young lady. You don't believe me, eh? Women never believe a man unless he lies to 'em," remarked the marquis with a wheeze84 which was meant for a sigh. "I often tell my nephew John—the one you're walking with—he won't have to
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wait long to be Marquis of Longacre. It's a pity that none of his wives could live to enjoy it."
"His wives!" cried Theodora, surprised into an exclamation85. The marquis seemed disposed to confidence.
"Yes, he's had three. All died like sheep. Something ailed56 'em, I dare say. I'm advising him to get another, and 'pon my soul, Americans seem to be the fashion, he, he!"
A sudden shock not far from disgust thrilled Theodora. Three wives already—and he not a day over forty-five, apparently. As in a dream she heard the marquis's tremulous old voice saying something she only half understood. But in a moment or two she pulled herself together. After all it was an illiberal86 prejudice. Should a man's domestic misfortune be made a subject of reproach to him?
In a moment Sir John came to fetch her and carried her back to Mrs. Wodehouse. Then that lady began the same inexplicably87 aggressive tactics toward him again. But it was in vain. He was not to be frozen out or bullied88, and if ever a man was winged at the first shot, it was Sir John Blood. He hovered89 near Theodora, asked permission to call, and showed in every way a passionate90 admiration for her.
But Sir John was not the only one who bit the dust, so to speak, in consequence of Theodora's charms. She levied91 on the Church as well as the state. An archbishop, although attended by a
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body guard of four hawk-eyed single daughters, suddenly found himself deep in a roaring flirtation92 with this new star of the West, and it can not be said that his Grace did not hold up his end of the line valiantly93. The four single daughters stood like a Roman phalanx against all widows, whom they considered their natural enemies, but it never occurred to them to be on their guard against anything as young and apparently as artless as Theodora—they being unfamiliar94 with the type of the wily American maiden95, who, under an exterior96 as harmless as a dove, conceals97 the wisdom of the serpent. In addition to the archbishop, a general officer, who had gone through eighteen London seasons without a scratch, was slain98 at Theodora's first fire, and as for the lieutenants99, the slaughter100 was fearful. It was a Waterloo, and Theodora was a she-Wellington.
At last the ball was over. Theodora and her party were rolling homeward. A certain constraint101 existed among them, and Sir John Blood's name was not once mentioned. When they reached home all the ladies scurried102 into a cozy103 morning room, where a sleepy footman gave them tea. A little fire crackled on the hearth104, and what will not a wood fire do toward unlocking the secret confidences of the female breast? Therefore, as Mrs. Wodehouse saw Theodora's tiny satin slippered105 feet seek hers in friendly juxtaposition106 on the fender, a sudden determination seized her to make a clean breast of it all.
"Theodora," she said, "do you know anything
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about Sir John Blood, who was so attentive107 to you to-night?"
"Nothing in the world except that he is very distinguished looking, very sensible, and lives in the next house," answered Theodora, debonairly108.
"And will be Marquis of Longacre when that old stuffed penguin109 dies we saw to-night. I'd rather have a poor lieutenant with a Tel-el-Kebir medal—" began Anne, but as usual was promptly cut short. This time it was Mrs. Wodehouse who broke in, after putting down her cup in some agitation110.
"Theodora, do you know Sir John's domestic history?"
"I know he has had three wives," answered Theo with much indifference, as if three wives were the usual allowance.
"But d-d-do you know how they died?" cried Mrs. Wodehouse, becoming every moment more agitated111; "and the terrible closet in Blood Hall?" And beginning to wring112 her hands, she sobbed113.
"Oh, Theo, Theo—I've introduced to you the original Bl—I can't call the dreadful name. But he's the original B-Bluebe—"
At this Anne turned deadly pale, and running over to her sister threw her arms about Theodora's neck.
"Oh, Theo, darling, don't—don't have anything to do with that dreadful man! Did you notice the color of his beard—it was perfectly blue black! I understand, if Theo doesn't—"
Just then a scream resounded114 behind them.
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Mrs. March, in a costume very like the one in which Zerlina in the opera dances before the looking-glass, had entered unobserved, and had heard it all and being a highly nervous and excitable person, shrieked115 at the terrible insinuation which she at once comprehended. Theodora jumped up and gazed around imperiously.
"For Heaven's sake, don't behave so! I never saw Sir John in my life until to-night, and here you are going on as if I were to marry him to-morrow!"
"This is the way he always does," whimpered Mrs. Wodehouse. "The poor misguided girls fall in love with him and marry him—the last one at Constantinople—her name was Fatima—something or other."
"I dare say," said Theodora, with wide, bright eyes and a voice full of scorn, "he never married an American girl. He wouldn't find one of them so easy to get rid of if he is what you intimate he is."
"Theodora," sobbed Mrs. March, "I'll never, never give my consent. I don't care if he is Marquis of Longacre, or Duke of Longacre, or Prince of Longacre, he shall never have my precious child."
Theodora by this time was walking up and down the room with her pretty brows bent116. Presently she came and stood in front of her mother.
"Mamma," said she, "it has just occurred to me that perhaps it is my duty—my duty—to marry this misguided man. Three women have already
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fallen victims to him—but not one was an American. I believe, from the very depths of my soul, that, if a really clever American girl should take hold of him, she could make him a model husband. Yes," cried Theodora, warming with her own eloquence117, and beginning again to march up and down, "look at Sir Roger MacTurk. Wasn't he a perfect terror until he got a wife from New York?—and now I believe he would play the concertina if Lady MacTurk told him to. And Lord Cantantram—everybody knows how that soft-voiced little thing from the South dragoons him. Oh, I can tell you, when an Englishman marries an American he doesn't have any bed of roses. Of course they don't let on—that's their British pluck—and they do fib in the most manly118 and splendid way about it all—but I think an Englishman married to an American girl, and who lives and dies a Christian119, ought to be painted with a nimbus around his head. Yes, I do. Anne, don't glower120 at me in that way. Now, an Englishman, for all he is so big and brave, can't resist an American girl when she looks at him this way." Here Theodora paused, quite breathless, threw up her head, and assumed an air that might well make a six-footer shake in his shoes.
These observations seemed to nettle121 Mrs. Wodehouse somewhat.
"I remember Colonel Cairngorm telling me—" began she.
"Colonel Cairngorm!" cried Theodora, throwing up her hands in a paroxysm of despair that
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would have made her fortune at the Comédie Française.
"You needn't laugh at him," responded Mrs. Wodehouse tartly122; and then, with a slight blush, she added: "It is not impossible that—in fact—to be very confidential—he proposed last week; I've got it under consideration—he is certainly a very pleasant person."
"Yes," agreed Theodora candidly123, "he is a nice man—but he does make the greatest gaby of himself when he is in the act of proposing I ever saw in my life, and I've heard half a dozen girls say the same thing." The look in Theodora's eye said as plainly as could be, "Aha! we are quits for what you have said of Sir John Blood"; and for Mrs. Wodehouse, the iron had entered her soul.
"And I think," continued Theodora, with an air of profound philosophy, "that the art of proposing is a gift with some men, and others, like Colonel Cairngorm, can't acquire it even after much practice. I recollect124 he made me perfectly ill on the occasion."
Mrs. Wodehouse had always thought American girls too nimble of wit, and was more than ever convinced of it then.
"Theo," began Anne, timidly, "for a woman who loves, there is a certain glorious kind of slavery, says Wil—"
Theodora dashed at her sister and good-naturedly boxed her ears and touzled her hair.
"Anne, if you wish to drive me wild, continue to talk about that long-legged lieutenant. William
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McBean will be my death, I know he will. Come, I'm going. Good-night, everybody. Go to bed, Anne, and dream about the McBean person." And she was off, the silver gauze of her train floating after her like a comet's tail.
All the next day gloom hung over the March household. Nobody mentioned Sir John Blood's name. Mrs. Wodehouse left early. It was well she did, for at precisely125 five o'clock, when Theodora with Mrs. March and Anne were sitting in the drawing-room, the footman threw open the door and announced:
"The Marquis of Longacre and Sir John Blood."
The object in bringing the tottering126 and doddering old marquis along soon appeared. He at once engaged in a senile and simultaneous flirtation with Mrs. March and Anne, while Sir John devoted128 himself to Theodora. Anne, too, was finally drawn129 into conversation with the pair, and so fascinating were Sir John's manners that she quite forgot his character and experiences, and, strangely maladroit130, made some allusion131 to Henry the Eighth, whom she declared to be a murderous old tyrant132.
"Why?" mildly asked Sir John, and taking up the subject of Henry's killing133 his wives, he elucidated134 it in so masterly a manner that to Anne's amazement135 she found herself admitting that Henry was a much maligned136 individual, and deserved all the credit which he claimed before Par1
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liament in being willing to assume the fetters137 of matrimony a sixth time for the good of his beloved subjects, after five successive disappointments.
But why prolong the tale? Theodora was full of enthusiasm—Sir John was full of love—and proposed within a fortnight. Anne wept, tormented138 her lover with her apprehensions139 for Theodora, Mrs. March implored140, but Theodora, bright and brave, would not be dissuaded141.
"You'll see," she cried. "Fatima—don't talk to me about Fatima—a great fat creature with no spirit at all. I'll charm him if he'll let me. Don't you suppose I believe in love as much as every other woman does? But if he undertakes to cut my throat—"
Shrieks142 from Mrs. March completed the sentence. But it was of no use. Theodora's mind was made up and with that young woman, her word was law.
In July, Theodora March and Sir John Blood were married at St. George's, Hanover Square. The Archbishop of Canterbury performed the ceremony, the American minister gave the bride away, and the Prince of Wales signed the register. The settlements were splendid. Sir John voluntarily resigned all interest in Theodora's fortune in case he survived her. This affair about the settlements gave Theodora, a slight shock, as she turned it over in her mind. For the first time she realized what it was to marry a man with such a fatal facility for getting rid of his wives.
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"Pshaw!" she said to herself, "no doubt the story books have exaggerated very much. There can't be a whole closet full. And he is such a delightful143 person, just like the charming man Heine met at the Spanish ambassador's, who turned out to be the devil. However, I'm an American"—and at this a mighty exultation144 filled her breast—"I am from that glorious land of pink and white tyranny. Sir John Blood can't frighten me with any children's stories of a closet full of defunct wives." And so she went on, to Anne's and her mother's distress145 and William McBean's intense amusement, who was willing to back Theodora against Blue Beard and give long odds146 any day.
Immediately after the marriage they went abroad, and after some months of travel they returned to England. Theodora had made but one request of her husband since her marriage. It was that her sister Anne might meet her in London and accompany her to Blood Hall. This Sir John granted with the uniform tenderness he had shown to her. It was a clear autumn evening when, after a rapturous meeting at the station, the sisters had traveled down to Suffolk, and for the first time found themselves alone in the drawing-room, while Sir John smoked his after-dinner cigar on the terrace.
"Theo," said Anne, placing her hands on her sister's shoulders. "Tell me, darling, are you happy?"
"Happy!" echoed Theodora brightly. "I am the happiest girl in the world, and Sir John is the best and kindest of men."
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"Except Wil—"
"No, I don't except anybody. To think you and mamma should have disliked him so much. Anne, he's so changed sometimes I doubt if he is the real Bl— you know what. But if he is, he'll find out what kindness and firmness together can do—and American pluck and the habit of command."
"Dear, happy, sweet Theo!"
"And that horrid147 Mrs. Wodehouse—Anne, he has told me all about his wives. They all died perfectly natural deaths. When his last wife died he wanted to throw himself in the grave."
"Theo, please don't talk that way—I wouldn't say such a thing about William for—"
"And he says if I die he means to marry another American girl."
"Oh, please, please, Theo," cried Anne in a distressed148 voice.
Just then Sir John sauntered in, smiling and bland149, with a request for some music.
Although Theodora had told Anne the truth about some things, she had not told her the whole truth. She saw very plainly that Sir John kept back more than he told about her predecessors150. But this story has been a total failure if its readers do not yet know that Theodora possessed151 a superb and matchless courage that might well make Sir John tremble. Nor had Sir John been married to this dauntless creature five months without seeing that the was made of sterner stuff than poor Fatima and the rest. Each had felt, in golden days by
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Como's lake and in starlit Venetian nights, that sometime or other there would come a tussle152 for ascendency, and by a sort of tacit arrangement it was postponed153 until their arrival at Blood Hall. When Theodora had asked for her sister Anne's company, Sir John had taken it as a confession154 of weakness. Theodora, on the contrary, when she had carried her point, felt flushed with victory. Naturally she kept a sharp lookout155 for the closet which Mrs. Wodehouse had dwelt upon; and in forty-eight hours after her arrival she had pitched upon it. It opened into a pleasant room which Sir John called his study, and where he usually spent his mornings. The door was of black Spanish oak, beautifully carved in early English designs. Theodora had mapped out a campaign in which that closet figured, and about two weeks after her arrival she opened hostilities156.
One stormy December night, Theodora, leaving Anne cowering157 over the drawing-room fire, sauntered off into Sir John's study, carrying her favorite poodle in her arms.
"Come in," said he in response to her knock, and rising with ready courtesy. "You'll excuse my continuing my paper," he remarked, wheeling a comfortable chair to the sparkling wood fire for her.
"Indeed I will not!" cried Theodora playfully, still holding on to the poodle, and taking the paper out of his hands almost before he knew it.
Sir John frowned and then smiled. His Ameri
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can wife had certain ways that baffled him. She was always amiable, gay, and affectionate, but she took a tone toward him which startled while it amused him; and then her surprising glibness158, her humor, her propensity159 to make small, though admirable jokes, her way of looking at life from the comic side, was astonishing, not to say appalling160. Sir John wondered sometimes if American men were subject to much of this sort of thing.
"No," kept on Theodora, with a pretty grimace161, and pinching the poodle, "you positively162 shan't read the paper. I want you to talk to me and Hector."
"What about?" asked Sir John, still half frowning. Theodora went up close to him and standing163 on tip-toe, with one arm yet around the poodle, leaned forward and putting two rosy164 fingers under her husband's chin said coquettishly:
"About that closet over yonder, where people say you keep your murdered wives. Don't we, Hector?"
"Yap! yap!" went the poodle.
The change that came over Sir John's face at these words was indescribable. He started to his feet, his face black with rage, his eyes flaming as he seized Theodora violently by the arm.
"How dare you?" he yelled, almost frothing at the mouth.
"How dare I?" asked Theodora, carefully putting the poodle in Sir John's vacant chair. "Now, keep quiet, Hector. Because I want to know and I'm going to find out."
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"Very well," answered Sir John, recovering his self-possession. But his cold fury was worse than his hot anger. A woman less intrepid165 than Theodora would have sunk under the appalling glare of his eye. "Listen, then, and I will tell you. But first put down that infernal dog."
Theodora had seated herself with Hector in her lap, but she thought it wisest to let him go, as it was a case where force could be used to her disadvantage. "Just wait a minute," she said briskly. "It's his bed-time, anyway. I'll ring for James," and suiting the action to the words, she went forward and rung the bell like a church warden166.
James appeared in a twinkling, and Theodora confided167 the poodle to his care with many injunctions. Then she returned to her seat.
"Now, madam, I will begin."
"Do," said Theodora pleasantly. "I'm dying to hear."
"You shall be gratified," answered Sir John darkly. "My first wife was thought to be a very amiable and attractive woman. We lived happily together until her indiscreet curiosity—mark well my words—about that closet, caused her to try the lock with a chisel168. The chisel slipped and cut an artery169. She was found weltering in her blood."
"How awkward!" exclaimed Theodora, spreading her handkerchief out in her lap, and examining it as if she had never seen it before. "Of course I mean how awkward for you."
"It was a great deal more awkward for her," gloomily remarked Sir John—and continued:
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"My second, was a gifted creature, but she, too, got the devil in her."
"She must have caught it from—hem—!—hem!" replied Theodora, coughing gently.
Sir John glowered170 at her and kept on. "She, too, longed to see the inside of the closet. Her curiosity—do you hear me, madam?—kept her awake, and she spent her nights wandering about the house. One night she missed a step at the top of the stairs and broke her neck. There was no one but myself in the house except the servants."
"Good gracious!" cried Theodora. "How frightened you must have been!"
"My third—"
"Oh, yes—Fatima—my latest predecessor—"
"Well, there was an absurd rumor171 at the time of Fatima's death—she, too, died of curiosity—that I had been killed by her brothers. Of course the truth came out after a number of unpleasant things had been printed about me. My Uncle Longacre advised me to sue the papers for libel. And now, madam," he said with a malignant172 smile, "do you still wish to see the closet?"
"Of course I do!" cried Theodora jumping up with the greatest alacrity173. "Now more than ever, since it is the remote cause that I am Lady Blood and will one day be Marchioness of Longacre. Come, hurry up with the key."
Sir John gazed at her with a sort of stupefied amazement.
"Rash girl!" he cried. "Do you know what you ask?"
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"Perfectly," answered Theodora, coming up to him and holding out a little jeweled hand, "Give me the key."
"Great Heavens!" shouted Sir John, "this is intolerable. God forgive me for marrying an American! I will never marry another. I shall have to silence her as I did Fatima."
"Give me the key, you old goose!" screamed Theodora in his face, and shaking his arm violently.
At that instant their eyes met. Sir John's were blazing with anger, while in Theodora's there shone a fire that—no, it could not be—yes, yes, it was—that made something like fear come into Sir John's handsome devilish face. She tightened174 her grip on his arm, and occasionally jerked it up and down to emphasize her remarks, while she cried:
"I want that key. You may well say" (shaking his arm furiously) "that you'll never marry another American girl. You'll never have the chance" (shake, shake). "When I married you I was willing to love you, just as Anne does that Scotch175 angel of hers, but I am not going to put up with your hectoring ways like poor Fatima." (Shake.) "You thought I'd be afraid of you—ha! ha! I'm an American girl, you great booby. Don't look at me in that way" (shake, shake, shake), "but give me the key this instant, or I'll order the carriage and drive to the nearest magistrate176 and denounce you on your own confession!" (Shake, with variations.)
[176]
Sir John's countenance177 during this tirade178 was a study. At first a furious, helpless rage, then over-powering amazement, followed by a hideous179 fear, and at last an abject180, helpless, hysterical181 breaking down. He fell on his knees at Theodora's feet, clutching her gown, and bursting out into wild lamentations, he screamed:
"Spare me! Spare me!"
"The key," panted Theodora, with a relentless182 smile on her beautiful sensitive mouth. The miserable183 man feeling in his trousers' pocket produced a key—with the identical blood stain on it left by poor Fatima.
"Now," said Theodora, letting him go and transferring the key to her pocket, "I don't want to see in the closet—no doubt it is a horrid place—but I shall keep hold of this and see that you don't get it again."
Her contemptuous tone aroused a faint spark of the spirit that made the worm turn. He called up all his coward's courage, and, rising to his feet, said sullenly184:
"All is not yet over between us."
"Do go away," replied Theodora scornfully. "You bore me to death with your heroics. But I think you've found out now what it is to be married to an American girl. It's like a mustard plaster—wholesome, if not pleasant, and not to be ignored."
Some months after this a large party was assembled at Castle Longacre, for Sir John Blood
[177]
was Marquis of Longacre, and she who was once Theodora March was now Theodora, Marchioness of Longacre. Mrs. Wodehouse was of the party, and so was Anne, now Mrs. William McBean, and sweeter, prettier, and gentler than ever. Not so gentle was she, however, that anybody dared to offer her any commiseration185 on account of her long-legged lieutenant, for at the first hint of the kind she showed fight so unmistakably, that even Theodora was fain to desist. Anne esteemed187 William as the first man in the world. With a refined and noble arrogance188 she conveyed to the world her pride and satisfaction in being the choice of such a man—and from being the meekest189 and most lamb-like of girls, developed into a person of considerable spirit, fully36 determined190 to sustain the honor of being William McBean's wife. She was not only openly and candidly and deeply in love with her lieutenant, whose strong sense and firm character were but dimly obscured by his red head and his hard features, but she loved the whole clan191 of McBean, was a rampant192 Jacobite, and went in for tartans, cairngorms, bag-pipes, Flora193 McDonald, Highland Mary, etc., with an ardor194 truly American. Meanwhile, as Anne became more determinedly195 Scotch, William McBean, who was a reading fellow, showed a strong leaning toward America and republicanism. Thus they were supplied with something to squabble about—lacking which, steady matrimony is apt to become a little tedious, it is said.
The first evening after dinner, before the men
[178]
had come up from the dining-room, the ladies gathered around the drawing-room fire, and about the piano. "Dear Theodora," said Mrs. Wodehouse, going up to her and taking her hand, "How proud I am of you! When you went into dinner on the Prince's arm, you never looked lovelier. Nobody would ever have imagined that you had not been born a marchioness."
"Yes," said Theodora with a brilliant smile. "You see, here there are only a few marchionesses, but with us we are all marchionesses in our own esteem186."
"Yes," replied Mrs. Wodehouse meditatively196, "you American peeresses certainly are—er—a—remarkable lot—all of you seem to have been born in the purple, and every one I've seen yet is a red-hot Tory."
"That I am," cried Theodora playfully, stamping her pretty foot. "I believe in my Order, as Ouida calls it, the more because it's all new and delightful."
"And a—your husband seems a charming man," continued Mrs. Wodehouse a little timidly.
"Yes," said Theodora heartily197. "We've agreed to let by-gones be by-gones. He's thoroughly domesticated198."
Just then occurred the little flutter that announces an irruption from the lower regions. A number of men came in at once, the marquis and William McBean among them. Six months of his American wife had aged127 the marquis ten years.
[179]
His hair was whitened and his once bold eyes had a cowed and uneasy look.
The talk ran to hunting. The marquis said: "To-morrow the Marsh199 meadow is to be drawn, and I can promise you as good sport as is to be found in the country. There is an old red fox—"
"Dearest," cried Theodora, softly but reproachfully, from her sofa, "if you go out to-morrow how are you to finish painting the front of my satin gown which I am to wear at the hunt ball?"
Everybody had heard her. William McBean grinned delightedly, and whispered to Anne, "Now the British lion's tail will be twisted."
The marquis's face grew three quarters of a yard long. He shifted uneasily in his chair.
"My love, do you really want that gown?"
"Of course I do, darling."
"Then," said the miserable marquis, with a ghastly assumption of a joke, "I'll have to give up the Marsh meadow to-morrow. But the next day, Wednesday—"
"Oh—oh!" cried Theodora with coquettish playfulness, pinching his ear, "don't you know you've got to take mamma up to town to do some shopping? Forgetful man!"
"I really had forgotten," exclaimed the poor marquis, turning very red, "I'm glad you reminded me, my dear."
"And Friday's the day you promised to take Hector to have his picture taken. I couldn't think of trusting my precious poodle to a heartless footman."
[180]
"Quite true," said the marquis, turning pale, "but Saturday, my pet—"
"Saturday!" exclaimed Theodora, "I have no end of things for you to do, dearest. I want you to fetch Major Philibeg over from the barracks in your trap, and Sunday you must go to church, you know, dear love."
"Certainly, my own," meekly200 responded the once redoubtable201 man who had killed three wives. At this William McBean suddenly darted202 out of the room, and was found half an hour afterward203 haw-hawing in the smoking-room. The spectacle of the British lion with his tail between his legs seemed to afford William rapturous amusement.
The Marsh meadow was drawn the next day, but the marquis, transformed from a lion into a lamb, was not among the huntsmen. After performing all of Theodora's errands, he was allowed, as a treat, a game of tennis with the chaplain of the castle—for this young American marchioness not only had her private chaplain, but would have had her private archbishop if she could have had her way, so naturally did she take to her privileged class. She "my loved" and "my deared" the marquis at a great rate, but Hercules spinning flax was a picture of manliness204 alongside of him. Anne's kind heart disposed her to take his part somewhat, but William McBean, who chuckled incessantly at the state of affairs, encouraged Theodora to lay on like Macduff. The marquis was made to wear goloshes whenever he went out, his cigars were docked, and at midnight, just as the
[181]
fun grew fast and furious in the smoking-room, Theodora's own footman would tap at the door, and the marquis, with a feeble pretense205 of "coming back after a while" would disappear. He never came back though. William McBean, who was the life and soul of the smoking-room, would make this hypocritical promise of the marquis's return an excuse for keeping up a rollicking good time until unearthly hours of the morning, when the last cigar would be smoked, the last story told, the last punch brewed206.
Wherever Theodora moved she was accompanied by a suite207, consisting of the marquis, the chaplain, the footman, and the poodle—and of these, the one most under her thumb was the once terrible Sir John Blood, whom his own mother would scarcely have recognized, so wonderfully had his American wife changed, or as Theodora expressed it, reformed him.
On the Sunday, a respectable contingent208 was mustered209 for service in the castle chapel210. The marquis complained of a cold, but was nevertheless present at both morning and evening service, by the side of Theodora, who had her poodle on the other side.
Toward twilight211 Mrs. Wodehouse peeped into the little morning room used by Theodora. By the dusky light she saw her seated at the cottage piano. She was playing chords softly, while the poor marquis, sitting by her with his throat wrapped up in flannels212 was warbling in a hoarse213 voice but with much piety214:
[182]
"A consecrated215 cross I'd bear."
Mrs. Wodehouse raised her hands in a paroxysm of silent surprise.
"A consecrated cross he'd bear!" she exclaimed presently, in a whisper. "Well he's got it—he's got an American wife!"
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1
par
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| n.标准，票面价值，平均数量；adj.票面的，平常的，标准的 | |
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2
gaped
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| v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的过去式和过去分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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3
clattering
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的现在分词形式） | |
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4
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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5
tenantless
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| adj.无人租赁的，无人居住的 | |
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6
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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7
meager
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| adj.缺乏的，不足的，瘦的 | |
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8
scion
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| n.嫩芽，子孙 | |
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supple
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| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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10
barter
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| n.物物交换，以货易货，实物交易 | |
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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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12
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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13
progenitors
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| n.祖先( progenitor的名词复数 )；先驱；前辈；原本 | |
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14
fugitives
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| n.亡命者，逃命者( fugitive的名词复数 ) | |
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15
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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16
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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18
nomadic
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| adj.流浪的；游牧的 | |
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19
belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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20
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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27
distrait
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| adj.心不在焉的 | |
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28
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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29
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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30
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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31
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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32
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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33
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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34
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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35
talisman
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| n.避邪物，护身符 | |
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36
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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37
deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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38
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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39
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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40
plaintively
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| adv.悲哀地，哀怨地 | |
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41
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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42
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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43
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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44
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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45
conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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46
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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47
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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48
prattled
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| v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话( prattle的过去式和过去分词 )；发出连续而无意义的声音；闲扯；东拉西扯 | |
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49
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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50
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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51
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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52
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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53
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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54
uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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55
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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56
ailed
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| v.生病( ail的过去式和过去分词 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
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57
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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59
gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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60
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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61
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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62
urchins
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| n.顽童( urchin的名词复数 )；淘气鬼；猬；海胆 | |
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63
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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64
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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65
haughtiness
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| n.傲慢；傲气 | |
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66
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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67
salaam
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| n.额手之礼，问安，敬礼；v.行额手礼 | |
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68
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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69
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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70
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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71
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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72
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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73
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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74
braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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75
mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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76
defunct
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| adj.死亡的；已倒闭的 | |
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77
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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78
courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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79
gad
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| n.闲逛；v.闲逛 | |
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80
adaptability
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| n.适应性 | |
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81
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
sprightly
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| adj.愉快的，活泼的 | |
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83
oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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84
wheeze
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| n.喘息声，气喘声；v.喘息着说 | |
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85
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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86
illiberal
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| adj.气量狭小的，吝啬的 | |
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87
inexplicably
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| adv.无法说明地，难以理解地，令人难以理解的是 | |
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88
bullied
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| adj.被欺负了v.恐吓，威逼( bully的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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89
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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91
levied
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| 征（兵）( levy的过去式和过去分词 )； 索取； 发动（战争）； 征税 | |
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92
flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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93
valiantly
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| adv.勇敢地，英勇地；雄赳赳 | |
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94
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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95
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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96
exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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97
conceals
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的第三人称单数 ) | |
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98
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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99
lieutenants
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| n.陆军中尉( lieutenant的名词复数 )；副职官员；空军；仅低于…官阶的官员 | |
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100
slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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101
constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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102
scurried
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| v.急匆匆地走( scurry的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
cozy
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| adj.亲如手足的，密切的，暖和舒服的 | |
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104
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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105
slippered
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| 穿拖鞋的 | |
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106
juxtaposition
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| n.毗邻，并置，并列 | |
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107
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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108
debonairly
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| adj.（通常指男人）愉快而自信的 | |
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109
penguin
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| n.企鹅 | |
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110
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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111
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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112
wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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113
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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114
resounded
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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115
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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116
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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117
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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118
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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119
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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120
glower
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| v.怒目而视 | |
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121
nettle
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| n.荨麻；v.烦忧，激恼 | |
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122
tartly
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| adv.辛辣地，刻薄地 | |
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123
candidly
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| adv.坦率地，直率而诚恳地 | |
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124
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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125
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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126
tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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127
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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128
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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129
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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130
maladroit
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| adj.笨拙的 | |
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131
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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132
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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133
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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134
elucidated
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| v.阐明，解释( elucidate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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135
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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136
maligned
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| vt.污蔑，诽谤（malign的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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137
fetters
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| n.脚镣( fetter的名词复数 )；束缚v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的第三人称单数 ) | |
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138
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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139
apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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140
implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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141
dissuaded
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| 劝（某人）勿做某事，劝阻( dissuade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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142
shrieks
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| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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143
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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144
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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145
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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146
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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147
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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148
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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149
bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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150
predecessors
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| n.前任( predecessor的名词复数 )；前辈；（被取代的）原有事物；前身 | |
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151
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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152
tussle
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| n.&v.扭打，搏斗，争辩 | |
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153
postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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154
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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155
lookout
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| n.注意，前途，瞭望台 | |
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156
hostilities
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| n.战争；敌意(hostility的复数)；敌对状态；战事 | |
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157
cowering
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的现在分词 ) | |
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158
glibness
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| n.花言巧语；口若悬河 | |
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159
propensity
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| n.倾向；习性 | |
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160
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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161
grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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162
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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163
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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164
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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165
intrepid
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| adj.无畏的，刚毅的 | |
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166
warden
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| n.监察员，监狱长，看守人，监护人 | |
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167
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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168
chisel
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| n.凿子；v.用凿子刻，雕，凿 | |
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169
artery
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| n.干线，要道；动脉 | |
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170
glowered
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| v.怒视( glower的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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171
rumor
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| n.谣言，谣传，传说 | |
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172
malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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173
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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174
tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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175
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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176
magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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177
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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178
tirade
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| n.冗长的攻击性演说 | |
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179
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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180
abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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181
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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182
relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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183
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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184
sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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185
commiseration
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| n.怜悯，同情 | |
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186
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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187
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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188
arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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189
meekest
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| adj.温顺的，驯服的( meek的最高级 ) | |
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190
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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191
clan
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| n.氏族，部落，宗族，家族，宗派 | |
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192
rampant
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| adj.(植物)蔓生的；狂暴的，无约束的 | |
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193
flora
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| n.(某一地区的)植物群 | |
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194
ardor
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| n.热情，狂热 | |
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195
determinedly
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| adv.决意地；坚决地，坚定地 | |
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196
meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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197
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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198
domesticated
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| adj.喜欢家庭生活的；（指动物）被驯养了的v.驯化( domesticate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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199
marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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200
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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201
redoubtable
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| adj.可敬的；可怕的 | |
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202
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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203
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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204
manliness
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| 刚毅 | |
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205
pretense
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| n.矫饰，做作，借口 | |
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206
brewed
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| 调制( brew的过去式和过去分词 )； 酝酿； 沏（茶）； 煮（咖啡） | |
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207
suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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208
contingent
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| adj.视条件而定的；n.一组，代表团，分遣队 | |
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209
mustered
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| v.集合，召集，集结（尤指部队）( muster的过去式和过去分词 )；（自他人处）搜集某事物；聚集；激发 | |
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210
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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211
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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212
flannels
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| 法兰绒男裤； 法兰绒( flannel的名词复数 ) | |
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213
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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214
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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215
consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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