To the nurse of the Delancy boy and to his mother he was by no means an old story or merely an incident of the year. He was an increasing wonder--new every morning, and exciting every evening. He was the centre of a world of solicitude1 and adoration2. It would be scarcely too much to say that his coming into the world promised a new era, and his traits, his likes and dislikes, set a new standard in his court. If he had apprehended3 his position his vanity would have outgrown4 his curiosity about the world, but he displayed no more consciousness of his royalty5 than a kicking Infanta of Spain. This was greatly to his credit in the opinion of the nurse, who devoted6 herself to the baby with that enthusiasm of women for infants which fortunately never fails, and won the heart of Edith by her worship. And how much they found to say about this marvel7! To hear from the nurse, over and over again, what the baby had done and had not done, in a given hour, was to Edith like a fresh chapter out of an exciting romance.
And the boy's biographer is inclined to think that he had rare powers of discrimination, for one day when Carmen had called and begged to be permitted to go up into the nursery, and had asked to take him in her arms just for a moment, notwithstanding her soft dress and her caressing9 manner, Fletcher had made a wry10 face and set up a howl. "How much he looks like his father" (he didn't look like anything), Carmen said, handing him over to the nurse. What she thought was that in manner and disposition11 he was totally unlike Jack12 Delancy.
When they came down-stairs, Mrs. Schuyler Blunt was in the drawing-room. "I've had such a privilege, Mrs. Blunt, seeing the baby!" cried Carmen, in her sweetest manner.
"It must have been," that lady rejoined, stiffly.
Carmen, who hated to be seen through, of all things, did not know whether to resent this or not. But Edith hastened to the rescue of her guest.
"I think it's a privilege."
"And you know, Mrs. Blunt," said Carmen, recovering herself and smiling, "that I must have some excitement this dull season."
"I see," said Mrs. Blunt, with no relaxation13 of her manner; "we are all grateful to Mrs. Delancy."
"Mrs. Henderson does herself injustice14," Edith again interposed. "I can assure you she has a great talent for domesticity."
Carmen did not much fancy this apology for her, but she rejoined: "Yes, indeed. I'm going to cultivate it."
"How is this privileged person?" Mrs. Blunt asked.
"You shall see," said Edith. "I am glad you came, for I wanted very much to consult you. I was going to send for you."
"Well, here I am. But I didn't come about the baby. I wanted to consult you. We miss you, dear, every day." And then Mrs. Blunt began to speak about some social and charitable arrangements, but stopped suddenly. "I'll see the baby first. Good-morning, Mrs. Henderson." And she left the room.
Carmen felt as much left out socially as about the baby, and she also rose to go.
"Don't go," said Edith. "What kind of a summer have you had?"
"Oh, very good. Some shipwrecks15."
"And Mr. Henderson? Is he well?"
"Perfectly16. He is away now. Husbands, you know, haven't so much talent for domesticity as we have."
"That depends," Edith replied, simply, but with that spirit and air of breeding before which Carmen always inwardly felt defeat--"that depends very much upon ourselves."
Naturally, with this absorption in the baby, Edith was slow to resume her old interests. Of course she knew of the illness of Father Damon, and the nurse, who was from the training-school in which Dr. Leigh was an instructor17, and had been selected for this important distinction by the doctor, told her from time to time of affairs on the East Side. Over there the season had opened quite as usual; indeed, it was always open; work must go on every day, because every day food must be obtained and rent-money earned, and the change from summer to winter was only a climatic increase of hardships. Even an epidemic18 scare does not essentially19 vary the daily monotony, which is accepted with a dogged fatality20:
There had been no vacation for Ruth Leigh, and she jokingly said, when at length she got a half-hour for a visit to Edith, that she would hardly know what to do with one if she had it.
"We have got through very well," she added. "We always dread21 the summer, and we always dread the winter. Science has not yet decided22 which is the more fatal, decayed vegetables or unventilated rooms. City residence gives both a fair chance at the poor."
"Are not the people learning anything?" Edith asked.
"Not much, except to bear it, I am sorry to say. Even Father Damon--"
"Is he at work again? Do you see him often?"
"Yes, occasionally."
"I should so like to see him. But I interrupted you."
"Well, Father Damon has come to see that nothing can be done without organization. The masses"--and there was an accent of bitterness in her use of the phrase--"must organize and fight for anything they want."
"Does Father Damon join in this?"
"Oh, he has always been a member of the Labor23 League. Now he has been at work with the Episcopal churches of the city, and got them to agree, when they want workmen for any purpose, to employ only union men."
"Isn't that," Edith exclaimed, "a surrender of individual rights and a great injustice to men not in the unions?"
"You would see it differently if you were in the struggle. If the working-men do not stand by each other, where are they to look for help? What have the Christians24 of this city done?" and the little doctor got up and began to pace the room. "Charities? Yes, little condescending25 charities. And look at the East Side! Is its condition any better? I tell you, Mrs. Delancy, I don't believe in charities--in any charities."
"It seems to me," said Edith, with a smile calculated to mollify this vehemence26, "that you are a standing8 refutation of your own theory."
"Me? No, indeed. I'm paid by the dispensary. And I make my patients pay--when they are able."
"So I have heard," Edith retorted. "Your bills must be a terror to the neighborhood."
"You may laugh. But I'm establishing a reputation over there as a working-woman, and if I have any influence, or do any little good, it's owing to that fact. Do you think they care anything about Father Damon's gospel?"
"I should be sorry to think they did not," Edith said, gravely.
"Well, very little they care. They like the man because they think he shares their feelings, and does not sympathize with them because they are different from him. That is the only kind of gospel that is good for anything over there."
"I don't think Father Damon would agree with you in that."
"Of course he would not. He's as mediaeval as any monk27. But then he is not blind. He sees that it is never anything but personal influence that counts. Poor fellow," and the doctor's voice softened28, "he'll kill himself with his ascetic29 notions. He is trying to take up the burden of this life while struggling under the terror of another."
"But he must be doing a great deal of good."
"Oh, I don't know. Nothing seems to do much good. But his presence is a great comfort. That is something. And I'm glad he is going about now rousing opposition30 to what is, rather than all the time preaching submission31 to the lot of this life for the sake of a reward somewhere else. That's a gospel for the rich."
Edith was accustomed to hear Ruth Leigh talk in this bitter strain when this subject was introduced, and she contrived32 to turn the conversation upon what she called practical work, and then to ask some particulars of Father Damon's sudden illness.
"He did rest," the doctor said, "for a little, in his way. But he will not spare himself, and he cannot stand it. I wish you could induce him to come here often--to do anything for diversion. He looks so worn."
There was in the appeal to Edith a note of personal interest which her quick heart did not fail to notice. And the thought came to her with a painful apprehension33. Poor thing! Poor Father Damon!
Does not each of them have to encounter misery34 enough without this?
Doesn't life spare anybody?
She told her apprehension to Jack when he came home.
Jack gave a long whistle. "That is a deadlock35!"
"His vows36, and her absolute materialism37! Both of them would go to the stake for what they believe, or don't believe. It troubles me very much."
"But," said Jack, "it's interesting. It's what they call a situation. There. I didn't mean to make light of it. I don't believe there is anything in it. But it would be comical, right here in New York."
"Comedy usually is. I suppose it's the human nature in it. That is so difficult to get rid of. But I thought the missionary39 business was safe. Though, do you know, Edith, I should think better of both of them for having some human feeling. By-the-way, did Dr. Leigh say anything about Henderson?"
"No. What?"
"He has given Father Damon ten thousand dollars. It's in strict secrecy40, but Father Damon said I might tell you. He said it was providential."
"I thought Mr. Henderson was wholly unscrupulous and cold as ice."
"Yes, he's got a reputation for freeze-outs. If the Street knew this it would say it was insurance money. And he is so cynical41 that he wouldn't care what the Street said."
"Do you think it came about through Mrs. Henderson?"
"I don't think so. She was speaking of Father Damon this morning in the Loan Exhibition. I don't believe she knows anything about it. Henderson is a good deal shut up in himself. They say at the Union that years ago he used to do a good many generous things--that he is a great deal harder than he used to be."
This talk was before dinner. She did not ask anything now about Carmen, though she knew that Jack had fallen into his old habit of seeing much of her. He was less and less at home, except at dinner-time, and he was often restless, and, she saw, often annoyed. When he was at home he tried to make up for his absence by extra tenderness and consideration for Edith and the boy. And this effort, and its evidence of a double if not divided life, wounded her more than the neglect. One night, when he came home late, he had been so demonstrative about the baby that Edith had sent the nurse out of the room until she could coax42 Jack to go into his own apartment. His fits of alternate good-humor and depression she tried to attribute to his business, to which he occasionally alluded43 without confiding44 in her.
The next morning Father Damon came in about luncheon-time. He apologized for not coming before since her return, but he had been a little upset, and his work was more and more interesting. His eyes were bright and his manner had quite the usual calm, but he looked pale and thinner, and so exhausted45 that Edith ran immediately for a glass of wine, and began to upbraid46 him for not taking better care of himself.
"I take too much care of myself. We all do. The only thing I've got to give is myself."
"But you will not last."
"That is of little moment; long or short, a man can only give himself. Our Lord was not here very long." And then Father Damon smiled, and said "My dear friend, I'm really doing very well. Of course I get tired. Then I come up again. And every now and then I get a lift. Did Jack tell you about Henderson?"
"Yes. Wasn't it strange?"
"I never was more surprised. He sent for me to come to his office. Without any circumlocution47, he asked me how I was getting on, and, before I could answer, he said, in the driest business way, that he had been thinking over a little plan, and perhaps I could help him. He had a little money he wanted to invest--RR"'In our mission chapel48?' I asked.
"'No,' he said, without moving a muscle. 'Not that. I don't know much about chapels49, Father Damon. But I've been hearing what you are doing, and it occurred to me that you must come across a good many cases not in the regular charities that you could help judiciously50, get them over hard spots, without encouraging dependence51. I'm going to put ten thousand dollars into your hands, if you'll be bothered with it, to use at your discretion52.'
"I was taken aback, and I suppose I showed it, and I said that was a great deal of money to intrust to one man.
"Henderson showed a little impatience53. It depended upon the man. That was his lookout54. The money would be deposited, he said, in bank to my order, and he asked me for my signature that he could send with the deposit.
"Of course I thanked him warmly, and said I hoped I could do some good with it. He did not seem to pay much attention to what I was saying. He was looking out of the window to the bare trees in the court back of his office, and his hands were moving the papers on his table aimlessly about.
"'I shall know,' he said, 'when you have drawn55 this out. I've got a fancy for keeping a little fund of this sort there.' And then he added, still not looking at me, but at the dead branches, 'You might call it the Margaret Fund.'"
"That was the name of his first wife!" Edith exclaimed.
"Yes, I remember. I said I would, and began to thank him again as I rose from my chair. He was still looking away, and saying, as if to himself, 'I think she would like that.' And then he turned, and, in his usual abrupt56 office manner, said: 'Good-morning, good-morning. I am very much obliged to you.'"
"Wasn't it all very strange!" Edith spoke57, after a moment. "I didn't suppose he cared. Do you think it was just sentiment?"
"I shouldn't wonder. Men like Henderson do queer things. In the hearts of such hardened men there are sometimes roots of sentiment that you wouldn't suspect. But I don't know. The Lord somehow looks out for his poor."
Notwithstanding this windfall of charity, Father Damon seemed somewhat depressed58. "I wish," he said, after a pause, "he had given it to the mission. We are so poor, and modern philanthropy all runs in other directions. The relief of temporary suffering has taken the place of the care of souls."
"But Dr. Leigh said that you were interesting the churches in the labor unions."
"Yes. It is an effort to do something. The church must put herself into sympathetic relations with these people, or she will accomplish nothing. To get them into the church we must take up their burdens. But it is a long way round. It is not the old method of applying the gospel to men's sins."
"And yet," Edith insisted, "you must admit that such people as Dr. Leigh are doing a good work."
Father Damon did not reply immediately. Presently he asked: "Do you think, Mrs. Delancy, that Dr. Leigh has any sympathy with the higher life, with spiritual things? I wish I could think so."
"With the higher life of humanity, certainly."
"Ah, that is too vague. I sometimes feel that she and those like her are the worst opponents to our work. They substitute humanitarianism59 for the gospel."
"Yet I know of no one who works more than Ruth Leigh in the self-sacrificing spirit of the Master."
"Whom she denies!" The quick reply came with a flush in his pale face, and he instantly arose and walked away to the window and stood for some moments in silence. When he turned there was another expression in his eyes and a note of tenderness in his voice that contradicted the severity of the priest. It was the man that spoke. "Yes, she is the best woman I ever knew. God help me! I fear I am not fit for my work."
This outburst of Father Damon to her, so unlike his calm and trained manner, surprised Edith, although she had already some suspicion of his state of mind. But it would not have surprised her if she had known more of men, the necessity of the repressed and tortured soul for sympathy, and that it is more surely to be found in the heart of a pure woman than elsewhere.
But there was nothing that she could say, as she took his hand to bid him good-by, except the commonplace that Dr. Leigh had expressed anxiety that he was overworking, and that for the sake of his work he must be more prudent60. Yet her eyes expressed the sympathy she did not put in words.
Father Damon understood this, and he went away profoundly grateful for her forbearance of verbal expression as much as for her sympathy. But he did not suspect that she needed sympathy quite as much as he did, and consequently he did not guess the extent of her self-control. It would have been an immense relief to have opened her heart to him--and to whom could she more safely do this than to a priest set apart from all human entanglements61?--and to have asked his advice. But Edith's peculiar62 strength--or was it the highest womanly instinct?--lay in her discernment of the truth that in one relation of life no confidences are possible outside of that relation except to its injury, and that to ask interference is pretty sure to seal its failure. As its highest joys cannot be participated in, so its estrangements cannot be healed by any influence outside of its sacred compact. To give confidence outside is to destroy the mutual65 confidence upon which the relation rests, and though interference may patch up livable compromises, the bloom of love and the joy of life are not in them. Edith knew that if she could not win her own battle, no human aid could win it for her.
And it was all the more difficult because it was vague and indefinite, as the greater part of domestic tragedies are. For the most part life goes on with external smoothness, and the public always professes66 surprise when some accident, a suit at law, a sudden death, a contested will, a slip from apparent integrity, or family greed or feminine revenge, turns the light of publicity67 upon a household, to find how hollow the life has been; in the light of forgotten letters, revealing check-books, servants' gossip, and long-established habits of aversion or forbearance, how much sordidness68 and meanness!
Was not everything going on as usual in the Delancy house and in the little world of which it was a part? If there had been any open neglect or jealousy69, any quarrel or rupture70, or any scene, these could be described. These would have an interest to the biographer and perhaps to the public. But at this period there was nothing of this sort to tell. There were no scenes. There were no protests or remonstrances71 or accusations72, nor to the world was there any change in the daily life of these two.
It was more pitiful even than that. Here was a woman who had set her heart in all the passionate73 love of a pure ideal, and day by day she felt that the world, the frivolous74 world, with its low and selfish aims, was too strong for her, and that the stream was wrecking75 her life because it was bearing Jack away from her. What could one woman do against the accepted demoralizations of her social life? To go with them, not to care, to accept Jack's idle, good-natured, easy philosophy of life and conduct, would not that have insured a peaceful life? Why shouldn't she conform and float, and not mind?
To be sure, a wise woman, who has been blessed or cursed with a long experience of life, would have known that such a course could not forever, or for long, secure happiness, and that a man's love ultimately must rest upon a profound respect for his wife and a belief in her nobility. Perhaps Edith did not reason in this way. Probably it was her instinct for what was pure and true-showing, indeed, the quality of her love-that guided her.
To Jack's friends he was much the same as usual. He simply went on in his ante-marriage ways. Perhaps he drank a little more, perhaps he was a little more reckless at cards, and it was certain that his taste for amusing himself in second-hand76 book-shops and antiquity77 collections had weakened. His talked-of project for some regular occupation seemed to have been postponed78, although he said to himself that it was only postponed until his speculations79, which kept him in a perpetual fever, should put him in a position to command a business.
Meantime he did not neglect social life--that is, the easy, tolerant company which lived as he liked to live. There was at first some pretense80 of declining invitations which Edith could not accept, but he soon fell into the habit of a man whose family has temporarily gone abroad, with the privileges of a married man, without the responsibilities of a bachelor. Edith could see that he took great credit to himself for any evenings he spent at home, and perhaps he had a sort of support in the idea that he was sacrificing himself to his family. Major Fairfax, whom Edith distrusted as a misleader of youth, did not venture to interfere64 with Jack again, but he said to himself that it was a blank shame that with such a wife he should go dangling81 about with women like Carmen and Miss Tavish, not that the Major himself had any objection to their society, but, hang it all, that was no reason why Jack should be a fool.
In midwinter Jack went to Washington on business. It was necessary to see Mavick, and Mr. Henderson, who was also there. To spend a few weeks at the capital, in preparation for Lent, has become a part of the program of fashion. There can be met people like-minded from all parts of the Union, and there is gayety, and the entertainment to be had in new acquaintances, without incurring82 any of the responsibilities of social continuance. They meet there on neutral ground. Half Jack's set had gone over or were going. Young Van Dam would go with him. It will be only for a few days, Jack had said, gayly, when he bade Edith good-by, and she must be careful not to let the boy forget him.
It was quite by accident, apparently83, that in the same train were the Chesneys, Miss Tavish, and Carmen going over to join her husband. This gave the business expedition the air of an excursion. And indeed at the hotel where they stayed this New York contingent84 made something of an impression, promising85 an addition to the gayety of the season, and contributing to the importance of the house as a centre of fashion. Henderson's least movements were always chronicled and speculated on, and for years he had been one of the stock subjects, out of which even the dullest interviewers, who watch the hotel registers in all parts of the country, felt sure that they could make an acceptable paragraph. The arrival of his wife, therefore, was a newspaper event.
They said in Washington at the time that Mrs. Henderson was one of the most fascinating of women, amiable86, desirous to please, approachable, and devoted to the interests of her husband. If some of the women, residents in established society, were a little shy of her, if some, indeed, thought her dangerous--women are always thinking this of each other, and surely they ought to know-nothing of this appeared in the reports. The men liked her. She had so much vivacity87, such esprit, she understood men so well, and the world, and could make allowances, and was always an entertaining companion. More than one Senator paid marked court to her, more than one brilliant young fellow of the House thought himself fortunate if he sat next her at dinner, and even cabinet officers waited on her at supper. It could not be doubted that a smile and a confidential88 or a witty89 remark from Mrs. Henderson brightened many an evening. Wherever she went her charming toilets were fully90 described, and the public knew as well as her jewelers the number and cost of her diamonds, her necklaces, her tiaras. But this was for the world and for state occasions. At home she liked simplicity91. And this was what impressed the reporters when, in the line of their public duty, they were admitted to her presence. With them she was very affable, and she made them feel that they could almost be classed with her friends, and that they were her guardians92 against the vulgar publicity, which she disliked and shrank from.
There went abroad, therefore, an impression of her amiability93, her fabulous94 wealth in jewels and apparel, her graciousness and her cleverness and her domesticity. Her manners seemed to the reporters those of a "lady," and of this both her wit and freedom from prudishness and her courteous95 treatment of them convinced them. And the best of all this was that while it was said that Henderson was one of the boldest and shrewdest of operators, and a man to be feared in the Street, he was in his family relations one of the most generous and kind-hearted of men.
Henderson himself had not much time for the frivolities of the season, and he evaded96 all but the more conspicuous97 social occasions, at which Carmen, sometimes with a little temper, insisted that he should accompany her. "You would come here," he once said, "when you knew I was immersed in most perplexing business."
"And now I am here," she had replied, in a tone equally wanting in softness, "you have got to make the best of me."
Was Jack happy in the whirl he was in? Some days exceedingly so. Some days he sulked, and some days he threw himself with recklessness born of artificial stimulants98 into the always gay and rattling99 moods of Miss Tavish. Somehow he could get no nearer to Henderson or to Mavick than when he was in New York. Not that he could accuse Mavick of trying to conceal100 anything; Mavick bore to him always the open, "all right" attitude, but there were things that he did not understand.
And then Carmen? Was she a little less dependent on him, in this wide horizon, than in New York? And had he noticed a little disposition to patronize on two or three occasions? It was absurd. He laughed at himself for such an idea. Old Eschelle's daughter patronize him! And yet there was something. She was very confidential with Mavick. They seemed to have a great deal in common. It so happened that even in the little expeditions of sightseeing these two were thrown much together, and at times when the former relations of Jack and Carmen should have made them comrades. They had a good deal to say to each other, and momentarily evidently serious things, and at receptions Jack had interrupted their glances of intelligence. But what stuff this was! He jealous of the attentions of his friend to another man's wife! If she was a coquette, what did it matter to him? Certainly he was not jealous. But he was irritated.
One day after a round of receptions, in which Jack had been specially101 disgruntled, and when he was alone in the drawing-room of the hotel with Carmen, his manner was so positively102 rude to her that she could not but notice it. There was this trait of boyishness in Jack, and it was one of the weaknesses that made him loved, that he always cried out when he was hurt.
Did Carmen resent this? Did she upbraid him for his manner? Did she apologize, as if she had done anything to provoke it? She sank down wearily in a chair and said:
"I'm so tired. I wish I were back in New York."
"You don't act like it," Jack replied, gruffly.
"No. You don't understand. And now you want to make me more miserable103. See here, Mr. Delancy," and she started up in her seat and turned to him, "you are a man of honor. Would you advise me to make an enemy of Mr. Mavick, knowing all that he does know about Mr. Henderson's affairs?"
"I don't see what that has got to do with it," said Jack, wavering. "Lately your manner--"
"Nonsense!" cried Carmen, springing up and approaching Jack with a smile of animation104 and trust, and laying her hand on his shoulder. "We are old, old friends. And I have just confided105 to you what I wouldn't to any other living being. There!" And looking around at the door, she tapped him lightly on the cheek and ran out of the room.
Whatever you might say of Carmen, she had this quality of a wise person, that she never cut herself loose from one situation until she was entirely106 sure of a better position.
For one reason or another Jack's absence was prolonged. He wrote often, he made bright comments on the characters and peculiarities107 of the capital, and he said that he was tired to death of the everlasting108 whirl and scuffle. People plunged109 in the social whirlpool always say they are weary of it, and they complain bitterly of its exactions and its tax on their time and strength. Edith judged, especially from the complaints, that her husband was enjoying himself. She felt also that his letters were in a sense perfunctory, and gave her only the surface of his life. She sought in vain in them for those evidences of spontaneous love, of delight in writing to her of all persons in the world, the eagerness of the lover that she recalled in letters written in other days. However affectionate in expression, these were duty letters. Edith was not alone. She had no lack of friends, who came and went in the common round of social exchange, and for many of them she had a sincere affection. And there were plenty of relatives on the father's and on the mother's side. But for the most part they were old-fashioned, home-keeping New-Yorkers, who were sufficient to themselves, and cared little for the set into which Edith's marriage had more definitely placed her. In any real trouble she would not have lacked support. She was deemed fortunate in her marriage, and in her apparent serene110 prosperity it was believed that she was happy. If she had had mother or sister or brother, it is doubtful if she would have made either a confidant of her anxieties, but high-spirited and self-reliant as she was, there were days when she longed with intolerable heartache for the silent sympathy of a mother's presence.
It is singular how lonely a woman of this nature can be in a gay and friendly world. She had her interests, to be sure. As she regained111 her strength she took up her social duties, and she tried to resume her studies, her music, her reading, and she occupied herself more and more with the charities and the fortunes of her friends who were giving their lives to altruistic112 work. But there was a sense of unreality in all this. The real thing was the soul within, the longing113, loving woman whose heart was heavy and unsatisfied. Jack was so lovable, he had in his nature so much nobility, if the world did not kill it, her life might be so sweet, and so completely fulfill114 her girlish dreams. All these schemes of a helpful, altruistic life had been in her dream, but how empty it was without the mutual confidence, the repose115 in the one human love for which she cared.
Though she was not alone, she had no confidant. She could have none. What was there to confide63? There was nothing to be done. There was no flagrant wrong or open injustice. Some women in like circumstances become bitter and cynical. Others take their revenge in a career reckless, but within social conventions, going their own way in a sort of matrimonial truce116. These are not noticeable tragedies. They are things borne with a dumb ache of the heart. There are lives into which the show of spring comes, but without the song of birds or the scent117 of flowers. They are endured bravely, with a heroism118 for which the world does not often give them credit. Heaven only knows how many noble women-noble in this if in nothing else--carry through life this burden of an unsatisfied heart, mocked by the outward convention of love.
But Edith had one confidant--the boy. And he was perfectly safe; he would reveal nothing. There were times when he seemed to understand, and whether he did or not she poured out her heart to him. Often in the twilight119 she sat by him in this silent communion. If he were asleep--and he was not troubled with insomnia--he was still company. And when he was awake, his efforts to communicate the dawning ideas of the queer world into which he had come were a never-failing delight. He wanted so many more things than he could ask for, which it was his mother's pleasure to divine; later on he would ask for so many things he could not get. The nurse said that he had uncommon120 strength of will.
These were happy hours, imagining what the boy would be, planning what she would make his life, hours enjoyed as a traveler enjoys wayside flowers, snatched before an approaching storm. It is a pity, the nurse would say, that his father cannot see him now. And at the thought Edith could only see the child through tears, and a great weight rested on her heart in all this happiness.
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solicitude
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adoration
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apprehended
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| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 )； 理解 | |
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outgrown
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| 长[发展] 得超过（某物）的范围( outgrow的过去分词 )； 长[发展]得不能再要（某物）； 长得比…快； 生长速度超过 | |
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royalty
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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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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caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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10
wry
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| adj.讽刺的；扭曲的 | |
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11
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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12
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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13
relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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14
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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15
shipwrecks
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| 海难，船只失事( shipwreck的名词复数 )； 沉船 | |
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16
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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17
instructor
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| n.指导者，教员，教练 | |
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18
epidemic
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| n.流行病；盛行；adj.流行性的，流传极广的 | |
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19
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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20
fatality
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| n.不幸，灾祸，天命 | |
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21
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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22
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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23
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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24
Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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25
condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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26
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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27
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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28
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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29
ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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30
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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31
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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32
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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33
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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34
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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35
deadlock
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| n.僵局，僵持 | |
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36
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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37
materialism
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| n.［哲］唯物主义，唯物论；物质至上 | |
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38
tragical
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| adj. 悲剧的, 悲剧性的 | |
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39
missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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40
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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41
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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42
coax
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| v.哄诱，劝诱，用诱哄得到，诱取 | |
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43
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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45
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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46
upbraid
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| v.斥责，责骂，责备 | |
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47
circumlocution
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| n. 绕圈子的话，迂回累赘的陈述 | |
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48
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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49
chapels
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| n.小教堂， （医院、监狱等的）附属礼拜堂( chapel的名词复数 )；（在小教堂和附属礼拜堂举行的）礼拜仪式 | |
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50
judiciously
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| adv.明断地，明智而审慎地 | |
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51
dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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52
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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53
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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54
lookout
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| n.注意，前途，瞭望台 | |
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55
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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56
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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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
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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59
humanitarianism
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| n.博爱主义；人道主义；基督凡人论 | |
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60
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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61
entanglements
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| n.瓜葛( entanglement的名词复数 )；牵连；纠缠；缠住 | |
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62
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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63
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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64
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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65
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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66
professes
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| 声称( profess的第三人称单数 )； 宣称； 公开表明； 信奉 | |
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67
publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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68
sordidness
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| n.肮脏；污秽；卑鄙；可耻 | |
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69
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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70
rupture
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| n.破裂；(关系的)决裂；v.(使)破裂 | |
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71
remonstrances
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| n.抱怨，抗议( remonstrance的名词复数 ) | |
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72
accusations
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| n.指责( accusation的名词复数 )；指控；控告；（被告发、控告的）罪名 | |
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73
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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74
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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75
wrecking
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| 破坏 | |
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76
second-hand
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| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
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77
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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78
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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79
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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80
pretense
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| n.矫饰，做作，借口 | |
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81
dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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82
incurring
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| 遭受，招致，引起( incur的现在分词 ) | |
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83
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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84
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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85
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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86
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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87
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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88
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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89
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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90
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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91
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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92
guardians
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| 监护人( guardian的名词复数 )； 保护者，维护者 | |
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93
amiability
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| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
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94
fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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95
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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96
evaded
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| 逃避( evade的过去式和过去分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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97
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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98
stimulants
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| n.兴奋剂( stimulant的名词复数 )；含兴奋剂的饮料；刺激物；激励物 | |
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99
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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100
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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101
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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102
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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103
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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104
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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105
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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106
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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107
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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108
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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109
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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110
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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111
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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112
altruistic
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| adj.无私的，为他人着想的 | |
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113
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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114
fulfill
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| vt.履行，实现，完成；满足，使满意 | |
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115
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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116
truce
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| n.休战，(争执，烦恼等的)缓和；v.以停战结束 | |
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117
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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118
heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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119
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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120
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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