Young Joseph Last, having finally gone down from Oxford1, wondered a good deal what he was to do next and for the years following next. He was an orphan2 from early boyhood, both his parents having died of typhoid within a few days of each other when Joseph was ten years old, and he remembered very little of Dunham, where his father ended a long line of solicitors3, practising in the place since 1707. The Lasts had once been very comfortably off. They had intermarried now and again with the gentry4 of the neighbourhood and did a good deal of the county business, managing estates, collecting rents, officiating as stewards5 for several manors6, living generally in a world of quiet but snug7 prosperity, rising to their greatest height, perhaps, during the Napoleonic Wars and afterwards. And then they began to decline, not violently at all, but very gently, so that it was many years before they were aware of the process that was going on, slowly, surely. Economists8, no doubt, understand very well how the country and the country town gradually became less important soon after the Battle of Waterloo; and the causes of the decay and change which vexed9 Cobbett so sadly, as he saw, or thought he saw, the life and strength of the land being sucked up to nourish the monstrous10 excrescence of London. Anyhow, even before the railways came, the assembly rooms of the country towns grew dusty and desolate11, the county families ceased to come to their “town houses” for the winter season, and the little theatres, where Mrs. Siddons and Grimaldi had appeared in their divers12 parts, rarely opened their doors, and the skilled craftsmen13, the clock-makers14 and the furniture makers and the like began to drift away to the big towns and to the capital city. So it was with Dunham. Naturally the fortunes of the Lasts sank with the fortunes of the town; and there had been speculations15 which had not turned out well, and people spoke16 of a heavy loss in foreign bonds. When Joseph’s father died, it was found that there was enough to educate the boy and keep him in strictly17 modest comfort and not much more.
He had his home with an uncle who lived at Blackheath, and after a few years at Mr. Jones’s well-known preparatory school, he went to Merchant Taylors and thence to Oxford. He took a decent degree (2nd in Greats) and then began that wondering process as to what he was to do with himself. His income would keep him in chops and steaks, with an occasional roast fowl18, and three or four weeks on the Continent once a year. If he liked, he could do nothing, but the prospect19 seemed tame and boring. He was a very decent Classical scholar, with something more than the average schoolmaster’s purely20 technical knowledge of Latin and Greek and professional interest in them: still, schoolmastering seemed his only clear and obvious way of employing himself. But it did not seem likely that he would get a post at any of the big public schools. In the first place, he had rather neglected his opportunities at Oxford. He had gone to one of the obscurer colleges, one of those colleges which you may read about in memoirs22 dealing23 with the first years of the nineteenth century as centres and fountains of intellectual life; which for some reason or no reason have fallen into the shadow. There is nothing against them in any way; but nobody speaks of them any more. In one of these places Joseph Last made friends with good fellows, quiet and cheeerful men like himself; but they were not, in the technical sense of the term, the “good friends” which a prudent24 young man makes at the University. One or two had the Bar in mind, and two or three the Civil Service; but most of them were bound for country curacies and country offices. Generally, and for practical purposes, they were “out of it”: they were not the men whose whispers could lead to anything profitable in high quarters. And then, again, even in those days, games were getting important in the creditable schools; and there, young Last was very decidedly out of it. He wore spectacles with lenses divided in some queer manner: his athletic27 disability was final and complete.
He pondered, and thought at first of setting up a small preparatory school in one of the well-to-do London suburbs; a day-school where parents might have their boys well-grounded from the very beginning, for comparatively modest fees, and yet have their upbringing in their own hands. It had often struck Last that it was a barbarous business to send a little chap of seven or eight away from the comfortable and affectionate habit of his home to a strange place among cold strangers; to bare boards, an inky smell, and grammar on an empty stomach in the morning. But consulting with Jim Newman of his old college, he was warned by that sage28 to drop his scheme and leave it on the ground. Newman pointed29 out in the first place that there was no money in teaching unless it was combined with hotel-keeping. That, he said, was all right, and more than all right; and he surmised30 that many people who kept hotels in the ordinary way would give a good deal to practise their art and mystery under Housemaster’s Rules. “You needn’t pay so very much for your furniture, you know. You don’t want to make the boys into young sybarites. Besides, there’s nothing a healthy-minded boy hates more than stuffiness31: what he likes is clean fresh air and plenty of it. And, you know, old chap, fresh air is cheap enough. And then with the food, there’s apt to be trouble in the ordinary hotel if it’s uneatable; but in the sort of hotel we’re talking of, a little accident with the beef or mutton affords a very valuable opportunity for the exercise of the virtue32 of self-denial.”
Last listened to all this with a mournful grin.
“You seem to know all about it,” he said. “Why don’t you go in for it yourself?”
“I couldn’t keep my tongue in my cheek. Besides, I don’t think it’s fair sport. I’m going out to India in the autumn. What about pig-sticking?”
“And there’s another thing,” he went on after a meditative33 pause. “That notion of yours about a day prep. school is rotten. The parents wouldn’t say thank you for letting them keep their kids at home when they’re all small and young. Some people go so far as to say that the chief purpose of schools is to allow parents a good excuse for getting rid of their children. That’s nonsense. Most fathers and mothers are very fond of their children and like to have them about the house; when they’re young, at all events. But somehow or other, they’ve got it into their heads that strange schoolmasters know more about bringing up a small boy than his own people; and there it is. So, on all counts, drop that scheme of yours.”
Last thought it over, and looked about him in the scholastic34 world, and came to the conclusion that Newman was right. For two or three years he took charge of reading parties in the long vacation. In the winter he found occupation in the coaching of backward boys, in preparing boys not so backward for scholarship examinations; and his little text-book, Beginning Greek, was found quite useful in Lower School. He did pretty well on the whole, though the work began to bore him sadly, and such money as he earned, added to his income, enabled him to live, in the way he liked, comfortably enough. He had a couple of rooms in one of the streets going down from the Strand35 to the river, for which he paid a pound a week, had bread and cheese and odds36 and ends for lunch, with beer from his own barrel in the cellar, and dined simply but sufficiently37 now in one, now in another of the snug taverns39 which then abounded40 in the quarter. And, now and again, once a month or so, perhaps, instead of the tavern38 dinners, there was the play at the Vaudeville41 or the Olympic, the Globe or the Strand, with supper and something hot to follow. The evening might turn into a little party: old Oxford friends would look him up in his rooms between six and seven; Zouch would gather from the Temple and Medwin from Buckingham Street, and possibly Garraway, taking the Yellow Albion ‘bus, would descend43 from his remote steep in the northern parts of London, would knock at 14, Mowbray Street, and demand pipes, porter, and the pit at a good play. And, on rare occasions, another member of the little society, Noel, would turn up. Noel lived at Turnham Green in a red brick house which was then thought merely old-fashioned, which would now — but it was pulled down long ago — be distinguished44 as choice Queen Anne or Early Georgian. He lived there with his father, a retired45 official of the British Museum, and through a man whom he had known at Oxford, he had made some way in literary journalism46, contributing regularly to an important weekly paper. Hence the consequence of his occasional descents on Buckingham Street, Mowbray Street, and the Temple. Noel, as in some sort a man of letters, or, at least, a professional journalist, was a member of Blacks’ Club, which in those days had exiguous47 premises48 in Maiden49 Lane. Noel would go round the haunts of his friends, and gather them to stout50 and oysters51, and guide them into some neighbouring theatre pit, whence they viewed excellent acting52 and a cheerful, nonsensical play, enjoyed both, and were ready for supper at the Tavistock. This done, Noel would lead the party to Blacks’, where they, very likely, saw some of the actors who had entertained them earlier in the evening, and Noel’s friends, the journalists and men-of-letters, with a painter and a black-and-white man here and there. Here, Last enjoyed himself very much, more especially among the actors, who seemed to him more genial53 than the literary men. He became especially friendly with one of the players, old Meredith Mandeville, who had talked with the elder Kean, was reliable in the smaller Shakespearean parts, and had engaging tales to tell of early days in county circuits. “You had nine shillings a week to begin with. When you got to fifteen shillings you gave your landlady54 eight or nine shillings, and had the rest to play with. You felt a prince. And the county families often used to come and see us in the Green Room: most agreeable.”
With this friendly old gentleman, whose placid55 and genial serenity56 was not marred57 at all by incalculable quantities of gin, Last loved to converse58, getting glimpses of a life strangely remote from his own: vagabondage, insecurity, hard times, and jollity; and against it all as a background, the lighted murmur59 of the stage, voices uttering tremendous things, and the sense of moving in two worlds. The old man, by his own account, had not been eminently60 prosperous or successful, and yet he had relished61 his life, and drew humours from its disadvantages, and made hard times seem an adventure. Last used to express his envy of the player’s career, dwelling63 on the dull insignificance64 of his own labours, which, he said, were a matter of tinkering small boys’ brains, teaching older boys the tricks of the examiners, and generally doing things that didn’t matter.
“It’s no more education than bricklaying is architecture,” he said one night. “And there’s no fun in it.”
Old Mandeville, on his side, listened with interest to these revelations of a world as strange and unknown to him as the life of the floats was to the tutor. Broadly speaking, he knew nothing of any books but play books. He had heard, no doubt, of things called examinations, as most people have heard of Red Indian initiations; but to him one was as remote as the other. It was interesting and strange to him to be sitting at Blacks’ and actually talking to a decent young fellow who was seriously engaged in this queer business. And there were — Last noted66 with amazement67 — points at which their two circles touched, or so it seemed. The tutor, wishing to be agreeable, began one night to talk about the origins of King Lear. The actor found himself listening to Celtic legends which to him sounded incomprehensible nonsense. And when it came to the Knight68 who fought the King of Fairyland for the hand of Cordelia till Doomsday, he broke in: “Lear is a pill; there’s no doubt of that. You’re too young to have seen Barry O’Brien’s Lear: magnificent. The part has been attempted since his day. But it has never been played. I have depicted69 the Fool myself, and, I must say, not without some meed of applause. I remember once at Stafford . . . ” and Last was content to let him tell his tale, which ended, oddly enough, with a bullock’s heart for supper.
But one night when Last was grumbling70, as he often did, about the fragmentary, desultory71, and altogether unsatisfactory nature of his occupation, the old man interrupted him in a wholly unexpected vein72.
“It is possible,” he began, “mark you, I say possible, that I may be the means of alleviating73 the tedium74 of your lot. I was calling some days ago on a cousin of mine, a Miss Lucy Pilliner, a very agreeable woman. She has a considerable knowledge of the world, and, I hope you will forgive the liberty, but I mentioned in the course of our conversation that I had lately become acquainted with a young gentleman of considerable scholastic distinction, who was somewhat dissatisfied with the too abrupt75 and frequent entrances and exits of his present tutorial employment. It struck me that my cousin received these remarks with a certain reflective interest, but I was not prepared to receive this letter.”
Mandeville handed Last the letter. It began: “My dear Ezekiel,” and Last noted out of the corner of his eye a glance from the actor which pleaded for silence and secrecy76 on this point. The letter went on to say in a manner almost as dignified77 as Mandeville’s, that the writer had been thinking over the circumstances of the young tutor, as related by her cousin in the course of their most agreeable conversation of Friday last, and she was inclined to think that she knew of an educational position shortly available in a private family, which would be of a more permanent and satisfactory nature. “Should your friend feel interested,” Miss Pilliner ended, “I should be glad if he would communicate with me, with a view to a meeting being arranged, at which the matter could be discussed with more exact particulars.
“And what do you think of it?” said Mandeville, as Last returned Miss Pilliner’s letter.
For a moment Last hesitated. There is an attraction and also a repulsion in the odd and the improbable, and Last doubted whether educational work obtained through an actor at Blacks’ and a lady at Islington — he had seen the name at the top of the letter — could be altogether solid or desirable. But brighter thoughts prevailed, and he assured Mandeville that he would be only too glad to go thoroughly78 into the matter, thanking him very warmly for his interest. The old man nodded benignly79, gave him the letter again that he might take down Miss Pilliner’s address, and suggested an immediate80 note asking for an appointment.
“And now,” he said, “despite the carping objections of the Moody81 Prince, I propose to drink your jocund82 health to-night.”
And he wished Last all the good luck in the world with hearty83 kindliness84.
In a couple of days Miss Pilliner presented her compliments to Mr. Joseph Last and begged him to do her the favour of calling on her on a date three days ahead, at noon, “if neither day nor hour were in any way incompatible85 with his convenience.” They might then, she proceeded, take advantage of the occasion to discuss a certain proposal, the nature of which, she believed, had been indicated to Mr. Last by her good cousin, Mr. Meredith Mandeville.
Corunna Square, where Miss Pilliner lived, was a small, almost a tiny, square in the remoter parts of Islington. Its two-storied houses of dim, yellowish brick were fairly covered with vines and clematis and all manner of creepers. In front of the houses were small paled gardens, gaily86 flowering, and the square enclosure held little else besides a venerable, wide-spreading mulberry, far older than the buildings about it. Miss Pilliner lived in the quietest corner of the square. She welcomed Last with some sort of compromise between a bow and a curtsey, and begged him to be seated in an upright arm-chair, upholstered in horse-hair. Miss Pilliner, he noted, looked about sixty, and was, perhaps, a little older. She was spare, upright, and composed; and yet one might have suspected a lurking87 whimsicality. Then, while the weather was discussed, Miss Pilliner offered a choice of port or sherry, sweet biscuits or plum cake. And so to the business of the day.
“My cousin, Mr. Mandeville, informed me,” she began, “of a young friend of great scholastic ability, who was, nevertheless, dissatisfied with the somewhat casual and occasional nature of his employment. By a singular coincidence, I had received a letter a day or two before from a friend of mine, a Mrs. Marsh88. She is, in fact, a distant connection, some sort of cousin, I suppose, but not being a Highlander89 or a Welshwoman, I really cannot say how many times removed. She was a lovely creature; she is still a handsome woman. Her name was Manning, Arabella Manning, and what possessed90 her to marry Mr. Marsh I really cannot say. I only saw the man once, and I thought him her inferior in every respect, and considerably91 older. However, she declares that he is a devoted92 husband and an excellent person in every respect. They first met, odd as it must seem, in Pekin, where Arabella was governess in one of the Legation families. Mr. Marsh, I was given to understand, represented highly important commercial interests at the capital of the Flowery Land, and being introduced to my connection, a mutual93 attraction seems to have followed. Arabella Manning resigned her position in the attaché‘s family, and the marriage was solemnised in due course. I received this intelligence nine years ago in a letter from Arabella, dated at Pekin, and my relative ended by saying that she feared it would be impossible to furnish an address for an immediate reply, as Mr. Marsh was about to set out on a mission of an extremely urgent nature on behalf of his firm, involving a great deal of travelling and frequent changes of address. I suffered a good deal of uneasiness on Arabella’s account; it seemed such an unsettled way of life, and so unhomelike. However, a friend of mine who is in the City assured me that there was nothing unusual in the circumstances, and that there was no cause for alarm. Still, as the years went on, and I received no further communication from my cousin, I made up my mind that she had probably contracted some tropical disease which had carried her off, and that Mr. Marsh had heartlessly neglected to communicate to me the intelligence of the sad event. But a month ago, almost to the day — Miss Pilliner referred to an almanac on the table beside her — I was astonished and delighted to receive a letter from Arabella. She wrote from one of the most luxurious94 and exclusive hotels in the West End of London, announcing the return of her husband and herself to their native land after many years of wandering. Mr. Marsh’s active concern in business had, it appeared, at length terminated in a highly prosperous and successful manner, and he was now in negotiation95 for the purchase of a small estate in the country, where he hoped to spend the remainder of his days in peaceful retirement96.”
Miss Pilliner paused and replenished97 Last’s glass.
“I am so sorry,” she continued, “to trouble you with this long narrative98, which, I am sure, must be a sad trial of your patience. But, as you will see presently, the circumstances are a little out of the common, and as you are, I trust, to have a particular interest in them, I think it is only right that you should be fully99 informed — fair and square, and all above board, as my poor father used to say in his bluff100 manner.
“Well, Mr. Last, I received, as I have said, this letter from Arabella with its extremely gratifying intelligence. As you may guess, I was very much relieved to hear that all had turned out so felicitously101. At the end of her letter, Arabella begged me to come and see them at Billing’s Hotel, saying that her husband was most anxious to have the pleasure of meeting me.”
Miss Pilliner went to a drawer in a writing-table by the window and took out a letter.
“Arabella was always considerate. She says, ‘I know that you have always lived very quietly, and are not accustomed to the turmoil102 of fashionable London. But you need not be alarmed. Billing’s Hotel is no bustling103 modern caravanserai. Everything is very quiet, and, besides, we have our own small suite104 of apartments. Herbert — her husband, Mr. Last — positively105 insists on your paying us a visit, and you must not disappoint us. If next Thursday, the 22nd, suits you, a carriage shall be sent at four o’clock to bring you to the hotel, and will take you back to Corunna Square, after you have joined us in a little dinner.’
“Very kind, most considerate; don’t you agree with me, Mr. Last? But look at the postscript106.”
Last took the letter, and read in a tight, neat script: “PS. We have a wonderful piece of news for you. It is too good to write, so I shall keep it for our meeting.”
Last handed back Mrs. Marsh’s letter. Miss Pilliner’s long and ceremonious approach was lulling107 him into a mild stupor108; he wondered faintly when she would come to the point, and what the point would be like when she came to it, and, chiefly, what on earth this rather dull family history could have to do with him.
Miss Pilliner proceeded.
“Naturally, I accepted so kindly109 and urgent an invitation. I was anxious to see Arabella once more after her long absence, and I was glad to have the opportunity of forming my own judgment110 as to her husband, of whom I knew absolutely nothing. And then, Mr. Last, I must confess that I am not deficient111 in that spirit of curiosity, which gentlemen have scarcely numbered with female virtues112. I longed to be made partaker in the wonderful news which Arabella had promised to impart on our meeting, and I wasted many hours in speculating as to its nature.
“The day came. A neat brougham with its attendant footman arrived at the appointed hour, and I was driven in smooth luxury to Billing’s Hotel in Manners Street, Mayfair. There a major-domo led the way to the suite of apartments on the first floor occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Marsh. I will not waste your valuable time, Mr. Last, by expatiating113 on the rich but quiet luxury of their apartments; I will merely mention that my relative assured me that the Sèvres ornaments114 in their drawing-room had been valued at nine hundred guineas. I found Arabella still a beautiful woman, but I could not help seeing that the tropical countries in which she had lived for so many years had taken their toll115 of her once resplendent beauty; there was a weariness, a lassitude in her appearance and demeanour which I was distressed116 to observe. As to her husband, Mr. Marsh, I am aware that to form an unfavourable judgment after an acquaintance which has only lasted a few hours is both uncharitable and unwise; and I shall not soon forget the discourse118 which dear Mr. Venn delivered at Emmanuel Church on the very Sunday after my visit to my relative: it really seemed, and I confess it with shame, that Mr. Venn had my own case in mind, and felt it his bounden duty to warn me while it was yet time. Still, I must say that I did not take at all to Mr. Marsh. I really can’t say why. To me he was most polite; he could not have been more so. He remarked more than once on the extreme pleasure it gave him to meet at last one of whom he had heard so much from his dear Bella; he trusted that now his wandering days were over, the pleasure might be frequently repeated; he omitted nothing that the most genial courtesy might suggest. And yet, I cannot say that the impression I received was a favourable117 one. However; I dare say that I was mistaken.”
There was a pause. Last was resigned. The point of the long story seemed to recede119 into some far distance, into vanishing prospective120.
“There was nothing definite?” he suggested.
“No; nothing definite. I may have thought that I detected a lack of candour, a hidden reserve behind all the generosity121 of Mr. Marsh’s expressions. Still; I hope I was mistaken.
“But I am forgetting in these trivial and I trust erroneous observations, the sole matter that is of consequence; to you, at least, Mr. Last. Soon after my arrival, before Mr. Marsh had appeared, Arabella confided122 to me her great piece of intelligence. Her marriage had been blessed by offspring. Two years after her union with Mr. Marsh, a child had been born, a boy. The birth took place at a town in South America, Santiago de Chile — I have verified the place in my atlas123 — where Mr. Marsh’s visit had been more protracted124 than usual. Fortunately, an English doctor was available, and the little fellow throve from the first, and as Arabella, his proud mother, boasted, was now a beautiful little boy, both handsome and intelligent to a remarkable125 degree. Naturally, I asked to see the child, but Arabella said that he was not in the hotel with them. After a few days it was thought that the dense126 and humid air of London was not suiting little Henry very well; and he had been sent with a nurse to a resort in the Isle127 of Thanet, where he was reported to be in the best of health and spirits.
“And now, Mr. Last, after this tedious but necessary preamble128, we arrive at that point where you, I trust, may be interested. In any case, as you may suppose, the life which the exigencies129 of business compelled the Marshes130 to lead, involving as it did almost continual travel, would have been little favourable to a course of systematic131 education for the child. But this obstacle apart, I gathered that Mr. Marsh holds very strong views as to the folly132 of premature133 instruction. He declared to me his conviction that many fine minds had been grievously injured by being forced to undergo the process of early stimulation134; and he pointed out that, by the nature of the case, those placed in charge of very young children were not persons of the highest acquirements and the keenest intelligence. ‘As you will readily agree, Miss Pilliner,’ he remarked to me, ‘great scholars are not employed to teach infants their alphabet, and it is not likely that the mysteries of the multiplication135 table will be imparted by a master of mathematics.’ In consequence, he urged, the young and budding intelligence is brought into contact with dull and inferior minds, and the damage may well be irreparable.”
There was much more, but gradually light began to dawn on the dazed man. Mr. Marsh had kept the virgin136 intelligence of his son Henry undisturbed and uncorrupted by inferior and incompetent138 culture. The boy, it was judged, was now ripe for true education, and Mr. and Mrs. Marsh had begged Miss Pilliner to make enquiries, and to find, if she could, a scholar who would undertake the whole charge of little Henry’s mental upbringing. If both parties were satisfied, the engagement would be for seven years at least, and the appointments, as Miss Pilliner called the salary, would begin with five hundred pounds a year, rising by an annual increment139 of fifty pounds. References, particulars of University distinctions would be required: Mr. Marsh, long absent from England, was ready to proffer140 the names of his bankers. Miss Pilliner was quite sure, however, that Mr. Last might consider himself engaged, if the position appealed to him.
Last thanked Miss Pilliner profoundly. He told her that he would like a couple of days in which to think the matter over. He would then write to her, and she would put him into communication with Mr. Marsh. And so he went away from Corunna Square in a mood of great bewilderment and doubt. Unquestionably, the position had many advantages. The pay was very good. And he would be well lodged141 and well fed. The people were wealthy, and Miss Pilliner had assured him: “You will have no cause to complain of your entertainment.” And from the educational point of view, it would certainly be an improvement on the work he had been doing since he left the University. He had been an odd-job man, a tinker, a patcher, a cobbler of other people’s work; here was a chance to show that he was a master craftsman142. Very few people, if any, in the teaching profession had ever enjoyed such an opportunity as this. Even the sixth-form masters in the big public schools must sometimes groan143 at having to underpin144 and relay the bad foundations of the Fifth and Fourth. He was to begin at the beginning, with no false work to hamper145 him: “from A B C to Plato, ?schylus, and Aristotle,” he murmured to himself. Undoubtedly146 it was a big chance.
And on the other side? Well, he would have to give up London, and he had grown fond of the homely147, cheerful London that he knew; his comfortable rooms in Mowbray Street, quiet enough down by the unfrequented Embankment, and yet but a minute or two from the ringing Strand. Then there were the meetings with the old Oxford friends, the nights at the theatre, the snug taverns with their curtained boxes, and their good chops and steaks and stout, and chimes of midnight and after, heard in cordial company at Blacks’: all these would have to go. Miss Pilliner had spoken of Mr. Marsh as looking for some place a considerable distance from town, “in the real country.” He had his eye, she said, on a house on the Welsh border, which he thought of taking furnished, with the option of buying, if he eventually found it suited him. You couldn’t look up old friends in London and get back the same night, if you lived somewhere on the Welsh border. Still, there would be the holidays, and a great deal might be done in the holidays.
And yet; there was still debate and doubt within his mind, as he sat eating his bread and cheese and potted meat, and drinking his beer in his sitting-room148 in peaceful Mowbray Street. He was influenced, he thought, by Miss Pilliner’s evident dislike of Mr. Marsh, and though Miss Pilliner talked in the manner of Dr. Johnson, he had a feeling that, like a lady of the Doctor’s own day, she had a bottom of good sense. Evidently she did not trust Mr. Marsh overmuch. Yet, what can the most cunning swindler do to his resident tutor? Give him cold mutton for dinner or forget to pay his salary? In either case, the remedy was simple: the resident tutor would swiftly cease to reside, and go back to London, and not be much the worse. After all, Last reflected, a man can’t compel his son’s tutor to invest in Uruguayan Silver or Java Spices or any other fallacious commercial undertaking149, so what mattered the supposed trickiness150 of Marsh to him?
But again, when all had been summed up and considered, for and against; there was a vague objection remaining. To oppose this, Last could bring no argument, since it was without form of words, shapeless, and mutable as a cloud.
However, when the next morning came, there came with it a couple of letters inviting151 him to cram152 two young dunderheads with facts and figures and verbs in mi. The prospect was so terribly distasteful that he wrote to Miss Pilliner directly after breakfast, enclosing his College Testimonials and certain other commendatory letters he had in his desk. In due course, he had an interview with Mr. Marsh at Billing’s Hotel. On the whole, each was well-enough pleased with the other. Last found Marsh a lean, keen, dark man in later middle age; there was a grizzle in his black hair above the ears, and wrinkles seamed his face about the eyes. His eyebrows153 were heavy, and there was a hint of a threat in his jaw154, but the smile with which he welcomed Last lit up his grimmish features into a genial warmth. There was an oddity about his accent and his tone in speaking; something foreign, perhaps? Last remembered that he had journeyed about the world for many years, and supposed that the echoes of many languages sounded in his speech. His manner and address were certainly suave155, but Last had no prejudice against suavity156, rather, he cherished a liking157 for the decencies of common intercourse158. Still, no doubt, Marsh was not the kind of man Miss Pilliner was accustomed to meet in Corunna Square society or among Mr. Venn’s congregation. She probably suspected him of having been a pirate.
And Mr. Marsh on his side was delighted with Last. As appeared from a letter addressed by him to Miss Pilliner —“or, may I venture to say, Cousin Lucy?”— Mr. Last was exactly the type of man he and Arabella had hoped to secure through Miss Pilliner’s recommendation. They did not want to give their boy into the charge of a flashy man of the world with a substratum of learning. Mr. Last was, it was evident, a quiet and unworldly scholar, more at home among books than among men; the very tutor Arabella and himself had desired for their little son. Mr. Marsh was profoundly grateful to Miss Pilliner for the great service she had rendered to Arabella, to himself, and to Henry.
And, indeed, as Mr. Meredith Mandeville would have said, Last looked the part. No doubt, the spectacles helped to create the remote, retired, Dominie Sampson impression.
In a week’s time it was settled, he was to begin his duties. Mr. Marsh wrote a handsome cheque, “to defray any little matters of outfit159, travelling expenses, and so forth160; nothing to do with your salary.” He was to take train to a certain large town in the west, and there he would be met and driven to the house, where Mrs. Marsh and his pupil were already established —“beautiful country, Mr. Last; I am sure you will appreciate it.”
There was a famous farewell gathering161 of the old friends. Zouch and Medwin, Garraway and Noel came from near and far. There was grilled162 sole before the mighty163 steak, and a roast fowl after it. They had decided26 that as it was the last time, perhaps, they would not go to the play, but sit and talk about the mahogany. Zouch, who was understood to be the ruler of the feast, had conferred with the head waiter, and when the cloth was removed, a rare and curious port was solemnly set before them. They talked of the old days when they were up at Wells together, pretended — though they knew better — that the undergraduate who had cut his own father in Piccadilly was a friend of theirs, retold jokes that must have been older than the wine, related tales of Moll and Meg, and the famous history of Melcombe, who screwed up the Dean in his own rooms. And then there was the affair of the Poses Plastiques. Certain lewd164 fellows, as one of the Dons of Wells College expressed it, had procured165 scandalous figures from the wax-work booth at the fair, and had disposed them by night about the fountain in the college garden in such a manner that their scandal was shamefully167 increased. The perpetrators of this infamy168 had never been discovered: the five friends looked knowingly at each other, pursed their lips, and passed the port.
The old wine and the old stories blended into a mood of gentle meditation169; and then, at the right moment, Noel carried them off to Blacks’ and new company. Last sought out old Mandeville and related, with warm gratitude170, the happy issue of his intervention171.
The chimes sounded, and they all went their several ways.
ii
Though Joseph Last was by no means a miracle of observation and deduction172, he was not altogether the simpleton among his books that Mr. Marsh had judged him. It was not so very long before a certain uneasiness beset173 him in his new employment.
At first everything had seemed very well. Mr. Marsh had been right in thinking that he would be charmed by the scene in which the White House was set. It stood, terraced on a hill-side, high above a grey and silver river winding174 in esses through a lonely, lovely valley. Above it, to the east, was a vast and shadowy and ancient wood, climbing to the high ridge175 of the hill, and descending176 by height and by depth of green to the level meadows and to the sea. And, standing177 on the highest point of the wood above the White House, Last looked westward178 between the boughs179 and saw the lands across the river, and saw the country rise and fall in billow upon billow to the huge dim wall of the mountain, blue in the distance, and white farms shining in the sun on its vast side. Here was a man in a new world. There had been no such country as this about Dunham in the Midlands, or in the surroundings of Blackheath or Oxford; and he had visited nothing like it on his reading parties. He stood amazed, enchanted180 under the green shade, beholding181 a great wonder. Close beside him the well bubbled from the grey rocks, rising out of the heart of the hill.
And in the White House, the conditions of life were altogether pleasant. He had been struck by the dark beauty of Mrs. Marsh, who was clearly, as Miss Pilliner had told him, a great many years younger than her husband. And he noted also that effect which her cousin had ascribed to years of living in the tropics, though he would hardly have called it weariness or lassitude. It was something stranger than that; there was the mark of flame upon her, but Last did not know whether it were the flame of the sun, or the stranger fires of places that she had entered, perhaps long ago.
But the pupil, little Henry, was altogether a surprise and a delight. He looked rather older than seven, but Last judged that this impression was not so much due to his height or physical make as to the bright alertness and intelligence of his glance. The tutor had dealt with many little boys, though with none so young as Henry; and he had found them as a whole a stodgy182 and podgy race, with faces that recorded a fixed183 abhorrence184 of learning and a resolution to learn as little as possible. Last was never surprised at this customary expression. It struck him as eminently natural. He knew that all elements are damnably dull and difficult. He wondered why it was inexorably appointed that the unfortunate human creature should pass a great portion of its life from the very beginning in doing things that it detested185; but so it was, and now for the syntax of the optative.
But there were no such obstinate186 entrenchments in the face or the manner of Henry Marsh. He was a handsome boy, who looked brightly and spoke brightly, and evidently did not regard his tutor as a hostile force that had been brought against him. He was what some people would have called, oddly enough, old-fashioned; child-like, but not at all childish, with now and then a whimsical turn of phrase more suggestive of a humorous man than a little boy. This older habit was no doubt to be put down partly to the education of travel, the spectacle of the changing scene and the changing looks of men and things, but very largely to the fact that he had always been with his father and mother, and knew nothing of the company of children of his own age.
“Henry has had no playmates,” his father explained. “He’s had to be content with his mother and myself. It couldn’t be helped. We’ve been on the move all the time; on shipboard or staying at cosmopolitan187 hotels for a few weeks, and then on the road again. The little chap had no chance of making any small friends.”
And the consequence was, no doubt, that lack of childishness that Last had noted. It was, probably, a pity that it was so. Childishness, after all, was a wonder world, and Henry seemed to know nothing of it: he had lost what might be, perhaps, as valuable as any other part of human experience, and he might find the lack of it as he grew older. Still, there it was; and Last ceased to think of these possibly fanciful deprivations188, when he began to teach the boy, as he had promised himself, from the very beginning. Not quite from the beginning; the small boy confessed with a disarming189 grin that he had taught himself to read a little: “But please, sir, don’t tell my father, as I know he wouldn’t like it. You see, my father and mother had to leave me alone sometimes, and it was so dull, and I thought it would be such fun if I learnt to read books all by myself.”
Here, thought Last, is a lesson for schoolmasters. Can learning be made a desirable secret, an excellent sport, instead of a horrible penance190? He made a mental note, and set about the work before him. He found an extraordinary aptitude191, a quickness in grasping his indications and explanations such as he had never known before —“not in boys twice his age, or three times his age, for the matter of that,” as he reflected. This child, hardly removed from strict infancy192, had something almost akin42 to genius — so the happy tutor was inclined to believe. Now and again, with his, “Yes, sir, I see. And then, of course . . . ” he would veritably take the coming words out of Last’s mouth, and anticipate what was, no doubt, logically the next step in the demonstration194. But Last had not been accustomed to pupils who anticipated anything — save the hour for putting the books back on the shelf. And above all, the instructor195 was captured by the eager and intense curiosity of the instructed. He was like a man reading The Moonstone, or some such sensational196 novel, and unable to put the book down till he had read to the very last page and found out the secret. This small boy brought just this spirit of insatiable curiosity to every subject put before him. “I wish I had taught him to read,” thought Last to himself. “I have no doubt he would have regarded the alphabet as we regard those entrancing and mysterious cyphers in Edgar Allan Poe’s stories. And, after all, isn’t that the right and rational way of looking at the alphabet?”
And then he went on to wonder whether curiosity, often regarded as a failing, almost a vice25, is not, in fact, one of the greatest virtues of the spirit of man, the key to all knowledge and all the mysteries, the very sense of the secret that must be discovered.
With one thing and another: with this treasure of a pupil, with this enchantment197 of the strange and beautiful country about him, and with the extreme kindness and consideration shown him by Mr. and Mrs. Marsh, Last was in rich clover. He wrote to his friends in town, telling them of his happy experiences, and Zouch and Noel, meeting by chance at the Sun, the Dog, or the Triple Tun, discussed their friend’s felicity.
“Proud of the pup,” said Zouch.
“And pleased with the prospect,” responded Noel, thinking of Last’s lyrics198 about the woods and the waters, and the scene of the White House. “Still, timeo Hesperides et dona ferentes. I mistrust the west. As one of its own people said, it is a land of enchantment and illusion. You never know what may happen next. It is a fortunate thing that Shakespeare was born within the safety line. If Stratford had been twenty or thirty miles farther west . . . I don’t like to think of it. I am quite sure that only fairy gold is dug from Welsh goldmines. And you know what happens to that.”
Meanwhile, far from the lamps and rumours199 of the Strand, Last continued happy in his outland territory, under the great wood. But before long he received a shock. He was strolling in the terraced garden one afternoon between tea and dinner, his work done for the day; and feeling inclined for tobacco with repose200, drifted towards the stone summer-house — or, perhaps, gazebo — that stood on the verge201 of the lawn in a coolness of dark ilex trees. Here one could sit and look down on the silver winding of the river, crossed by a grey bridge of ancient stone. Last was about to settle down when he noticed a book on the table before him. He took it up, and glanced into it, and drew in his breath, and turning over a few more pages, sank aghast upon the bench. Mr. Marsh had always deplored202 his ignorance of books. “I knew how to read and write and not much more,” he would say, “when I was thrown into business — at the bottom of the stairs. And I’ve been so busy ever since that I’m afraid it’s too late now to make up for lost time.” Indeed, Last had noted that though Marsh usually spoke carefully enough, perhaps too carefully, he was apt to lapse203 in the warmth of conversation: he would talk of “fax,” meaning “facts.” And yet, it seemed, he had not only found time for reading, but had acquired sufficient scholarship to make out the Latin of a terrible Renaissance204 treatise205, not generally known even to collectors of such things. Last had heard of the book; and the few pages he had glanced at showed him that it thoroughly deserved its very bad character.
It was a disagreeable surprise. He admitted freely to himself that his employer’s morals were no business of his. But why should the man trouble to tell lies? Last remembered queer old Miss Pilliner’s account of her impressions of him; she had detected “a lack of candour,” something reserved behind a polite front of cordiality. Miss Pilliner was, certainly, an acute woman: there was an undoubted lack of candour about Marsh.
Last left the wretched volume on the summer-house table, and walked up and down the garden, feeling a good deal perturbed206. He knew he was awkward at dinner, and said he felt a bit seedy, inclined to a headache. Marsh was bland207 and pleasant as usual, and Mrs. Marsh sympathised with Last. She had hardly slept at all last night, she complained, and felt heavy and tired. She thought there was thunder in the air. Last, admiring her beauty, confessed again that Miss Pilliner had been right. Apart from her fatigue208 of the moment, there was a certain tropical languor209 about her, something of still, burning nights and the odour of strange flowers.
Marsh brought out a very special brandy which he administered with the black coffee; he said it would do both the invalids210 good, and that he would keep them company. Indeed, Last confessed to himself that he felt considerably more at ease after the good dinner, the good wine, and the rare brandy. It was humiliating, perhaps, but it was impossible to deny the power of the stomach. He went to his room early and tried to convince himself that the duplicity of Marsh was no affair of his. He found an innocent, or almost innocent explanation of it before he had finished his last pipe, sitting at the open window, hearing faintly the wash of the river and gazing towards the dim lands beyond it.
“Here,” he meditated211, “we have a modified form of Bounderby’s Disease. Bounderby said that he began life as a wretched, starved, neglected little outcast. Marsh says that he was made into an office boy or something of the sort before he had time to learn anything. Bounderby lied, and no doubt Marsh lies. It is the trick of wealthy men; to magnify their late achievements by magnifying their early disadvantages.”
By the time he went to sleep he had almost decided that the young Marsh had been to a good grammar school, and had done well.
The next morning, Last awoke almost at ease again. It was no doubt a pity that Marsh indulged in a subtle and disingenuous212 form of boasting, and his taste in books was certainly deplorable: but he must look after that himself. And the boy made amends213 for all. He showed so clean a grasp of the English sentence, that Last thought he might well begin Latin before very long. He mentioned this one night at dinner, looking at Marsh with a certain humorous intention. But Marsh gave no sign that the dart214 had pricked215 him.
“That shows I was right,” he remarked. “I’ve always said there’s no greater mistake than forcing learning on children before they’re fit to take it in. People will do it, and in nine cases out of ten the children’s heads are muddled216 for the rest of their lives. You see how it is with Henry; I’ve kept him away from books up to now, and you see for yourself that I’ve lost him no time. He’s ripe for learning, and I shouldn’t wonder if he got ahead better in six months than the ordinary, early-crammed217 child would in six years.”
It might be so, Last thought, but on the whole he was inclined to put down the boy’s swift progress rather to his own exceptional intelligence than to his father’s system, or no system. And in any case, it was a great pleasure to teach such a boy. And his application to his books had certainly no injurious effect on his spirits. There was not much society within easy reach of the White House, and, besides, people did not know whether the Marshes were to settle down or whether they were transient visitors: they were chary218 of paying their calls while there was this uncertainty219. However, the rector had called; first of all the rector and his wife, she cheery, good-humoured and chatty; he somewhat dim and vague. It was understood that the rector, a high wrangler220 in his day, divided his time between his garden and the invention of a flying machine. He had the character of being slightly eccentric. He came not again, but Mrs. Winslow would drive over by the forest road in the governess’s car with her two children; Nancy, a pretty fair girl of seventeen, and Ted21, a boy of eleven or twelve, of that type which Last catalogued as “stodgy and podgy,” broad and thick set, with bulgy221 cheeks and eyss, and something of the determined222 expression of a young bulldog. After tea Nancy would organise223 games for the two boys in the garden and join in them herself with apparent relish62. Henry, who had known few companions besides his parents, and had probably never played a game of any kind, squealed224 with delight, ran here and there and everywhere, hid behind the summer-house and popped out from the screen of the French beans with the greatest gusto, and Ted Winslow joined in with an air of protest. He was on his holidays, and his expression signified that all that sort of thing was only fit for girls and kids. Last was delighted to see Henry so ready and eager to be amused; after all he had something of the child in him. He seemed a little uncomfortable when Nancy Winslow took him on her knee after the sports were over; he was evidently fearful of Ted Winslow’s scornful eye. Indeed, the young bulldog looked as if he feared that his character would be compromised by associating with so manifest and confessed a kid. The next time Mrs. Winslow took tea at the White House, Ted had a diplomatic headache and stayed at home. But Nancy found games that two could play, and she and Henry were heard screaming with joy all over the gardens. Henry wanted to show Nancy a wonderful well that he had discovered in the forest; it came, he said, from under the roots of a great yew225 tree. But Mrs. Marsh seemed to think that they might get lost.
Last had got over the uncomfortable incident of that villainous book in the summer-house. Writing to Noel, he had remarked that he feared his employer was a bit of an old rascal226 in some respects, but all right so far as he was concerned; and there it was. He got on with his job and minded his own business. Yet, now and again, his doubtful uneasiness about the man was renewed. There was a bad business at a hamlet a couple of miles away, where a girl of twelve or thirteen, coming home after dusk from a visit to a neighbour, had been set on in the wood and very vilely227 misused228. The unfortunate child, it would appear, had been left by the scoundrel in the black dark of the forest, at some distance from the path she must have taken on her way home. A man who had been drinking late at the Fox and Hounds heard crying and screaming, “like someone in a fit,” as he expressed it, and found the girl in a terrible state, and in a terrible state she had remained ever since. She was quite unable to describe the person who had so shamefully maltreated her; the shock had left her beside herself; she cried out once that something had come behind her in the dark, but she could say no more, and it was hopeless to try to get her to describe a person that, most likely, she had not even seen. Naturally, this very horrible story made something of a feature in the local paper, and one night, as Last and Marsh were sitting smoking after dinner, the tutor spoke of the affair; said something about the contrast between the peace and beauty and quiet of the scene and the villainous crime that had been done hard by. He was surprised to find that Marsh grew at once ill at ease. He rose from his chair and walked up and down the room muttering “horrible business, shameful166 business”; and when he sat down again, with the light full on him, Last saw the face of a frightened man. The hand that Marsh laid on the table was twitching229 uneasily; he beat with his foot on the floor as he tried to bring his lips to order, and there was a dreadful fear in his eyes.
Last was shocked and astonished at the effect he had produced with a few conventional phrases. Nervously231, willing to tide over a painful situation, he began to utter something even more conventional to the effect that the loveliness of external nature had never conferred immunity232 from crime, or some stuff to the same inane233 purpose. But Marsh, it was clear, was not to be soothed234 by anything of the kind. He started again from his chair and struck his hand upon the table, with a fierce gesture of denial and refusal.
“Please, Mr. Last, let it be. Say no more about it. It has upset Mrs. Marsh and myself very much indeed. It horrifies235 us to think that we have brought our boy here, to this peaceful place as we thought, only to expose him to the contagion236 of this dreadful affair. Of course we have given the servants strict orders not to say a word about it in Henry’s presence; but you know what servants are, and what very sharp ears children have. A chance word or two may take root in a child’s mind and contaminate his whole nature. It is, really, a very terrible thought. You must have noticed how distressed Mrs. Marsh has been for the last few days. The only thing we can do is to try and forget it all, and hope no harm has been done.”
Last murmured a word or two of apology and agreement, and the talk moved off into safer country. But when the tutor was alone, he considered what he had seen and heard very curiously237. He thought that Marsh’s looks did not match his words. He spoke as the devoted father, afraid that his little boy should overhear nauseous and offensive gossip and conjecture238 about a horrible and obscene crime. But he looked like a man who had caught sight of a gallows239, and that, Last felt, was altogether a very different kind of fear. And, then, there was his reference to his wife. Last had noticed that since the crime in the forest there had been something amiss with her; but, again, he mistrusted Marsh’s comment. Here was a woman whose usual habit was a rather lazy good humour; but of late there had been a look and an air of suppressed fury, the burning glance of a jealous woman, the rage of despised beauty. She spoke little, and then as briefly240 as possible; but one might suspect flames and fires within. Last had seen this and wondered, but not very much, being resolved to mind his own business. He had supposed there had been some difference of opinion between her and her husband; very likely about the re-arrangement of the drawing-room furniture and hiring a grand piano. He certainly had not thought of tracing Mrs. Marsh’s altered air to the villainous crime that had been committed. And now Marsh was telling him that these glances of concealed241 rage were the outward signs of tender maternal242 anxiety; and not one word of all that did he believe. He put Marsh’s half-hidden terror beside his wife’s half-hidden fury; he thought of the book in the summer-house and things that were being whispered about the horror in the wood: and loathing243 and dread230 possessed him. He had no proof, it was true; merely conjecture, but he felt no doubt. There could be no other explanation. And what could he do, but leave this terrible place?
Last could get no sleep. He undressed and went to bed, and tossed about in the half-dark of the summer night. Then he lit his lamp and dressed again, and wondered whether he had better not steal away without a word, and walk the eight miles to the station, and escape by the first train that went to London. It was not merely loathing for the man and his works; it was deadly fear, also, that urged him to fly from the White House. He felt sure that if Marsh guessed at his suspicions of the truth, his life might well be in danger. There was no mercy or scruple244 in that evil man. He might even now be at his door, listening, waiting. There was cold terror in his heart, and cold sweat pouring at the thought. He paced softly up and down his room in his bare feet, pausing now and again to listen for that other soft step outside. He locked the door as silently as he could, and felt safer. He would wait till the day came and people were stirring about the house, and then he might venture to come out and make his escape.
And yet when he heard the servants moving over their work, he hesitated. The light of the sun was shining in the valley, and the white mist over the silver river floated upward and vanished; the sweet breath of the wood entered the window of his room. The black horror and fear were raised from his spirit. He began to hesitate, to suspect his judgment, to enquire245 whether he had not rushed to his black conclusions in a panic of the night. His logical deductions246 at midnight seemed to smell of nightmare in the brightness of that valley; the song of the aspiring247 lark248 confuted him. He remembered Garraway’s great argument after a famous supper at the Turk’s Head: that it was always unsafe to make improbability the guide of life. He would delay a little, and keep a sharp look out, and be sure before taking sudden and violent action. And perhaps the truth was that Last was influenced very strongly by his aversion from leaving young Henry, whose extraordinary brilliance249 and intelligence amazed and delighted him more and more.
It was still early when at last he left his room, and went out into the fine morning air. It was an hour or more before breakfast-time, and he set out on the path that led past the wall of the kitchen garden up the hill and into the heart of the wood. He paused a moment at the upper corner, and turned round to look across the river at the happy country showing its morning magic and delight. As he dawdled250 and gazed, he heard soft steps approaching on the other side of the wall, and low voices murmuring. Then, as the steps drew near, one of the voices was raised a little, and Last heard Mrs. Marsh speaking:
“Too old, am I? And thirteen is too young. Is it to be seventeen next when you can get her into the wood? And after all I have done for you, and after what you have done to me.”
Mrs. Marsh enumerated251 all these things without remission, and without any quiver of shame in her voice. She paused for a moment. Perhaps her rage was choking her; and there was a shrill252 piping cackle of derision, as if Marsh’s voice had cracked in its contempt.
Very softly, but very swiftly, Last, the man with the grey face and the staring eyes, bolted for his life, down and away from the White House. Once in the road, free from the fields and brakes, he changed his run into a walk, and he never paused or stopped, till he came with a gulp253 of relief into the ugly streets of the big industrial town. He made his way to the station at once, and found that he was an hour too soon for the London Express. So there was plenty of time for breakfast; which consisted of brandy.
iii
The tutor went back to his old life and his old ways, and did his best to forget the strange and horrible interlude of the White House. He gathered his podgy pups once more about him; crammed and coached, read with undergraduates during the long vacation, and was moderately satisfied with the course of things in general. Now and then, when he was endeavouring to persuade the podges against their deliberate judgment that Latin and Greek were languages once spoken by human beings, not senseless enigmas254 invented by demons193, he would think with a sigh of regret of the boy who understood and longed to understand. And he wondered whether he had not been a coward to leave that enchanting255 child to the evil mercies of his hideous256 parents. But what could he have done? But it was dreadful to think of Henry, slowly or swiftly corrupted137 by his detestable father and mother, growing up with the fat slime of their abominations upon him.
He went into no detail with his old friends. He hinted that there had been grave unpleasantness, which made it impossible for him to remain in the west. They nodded, and perceiving that the subject was a sore one, asked no questions, and talked of old books and the new steak instead. They all agreed, in fact, that the steak was far too new, and William was summoned to explain this horror. Didn’t he know that beefsteak, beefsteak meant for the consumption of Christian257 men, as distinguished from Hottentots, required hanging just as much as game? William the ponderous258 and benignant, tasted and tested, and agreed; with sorrowful regret. He apologised, and went on to say that as the gentlemen would not care to wait for a fowl, he would suggest a very special, tender, and juicy fillet of roast veal259, then in cut. The suggestion was accepted, and found excellent. The conversation turned to Choric Metres and Florence St. John at the Strand. There was Port later.
It was many years afterwards, when this old life, after crumbling260 for a long while, had come down with a final crash, that Last heard the real story of his tutorial engagement at the White House. Three dreadful people were put in the dock at the Old Bailey. There was an old man, with the look of a deadly snake; a fat, sloppy261, deplorable woman with pendulous262 cheeks and a faint hint of perished beauty in her eyes; and to the utter blank amazement of those who did not know the story, a wonderful little boy. The people who saw him in court said he might have been taken for a child of nine or ten; no more. But the evidence that was given showed that he must be between fifty and sixty at the least; perhaps more than that.
The indictment263 charged these three people with an unspeakable and hideous crime. They were charged under the name of Mailey, the name which they had borne at the time of their arrest; but it turned out at the end of the trial that they had been known by many names in the course of their career: Mailey, Despasse, Lartigan, Delarue, Falcon264, Lecossic, Hammond, Marsh, Haringworth. It was established that the apparent boy, whom Last had known as Henry Marsh, was no relation of any kind to the elder prisoners. “Henry’s” origins were deeply obscure. It was conjectured265 that he was the illegitimate son of a very high Englishman, a diplomatist, whose influence had counted for a great deal in the Far East. Nobody knew anything about the mother. The boy showed brilliant promise from very early years, and the father, a bachelor, and disliking what little he knew of his relations, left his very large fortune to his son. The diplomatist died when the boy was twelve years old; and he had been aged65, and more than aged when the child was born. People remarked that Arthur Wesley, as he was then called, was very short for his years, and he remained short, and his face remained that of a boy of seven or eight. He could not be sent to a school, so he was privately266 educated. When he was of age, the trustees had the extraordinary experience of placing a very considerable property in the hands of a young man who looked like a little boy. Very soon afterwards, Arthur Wesley disappeared. Dubious267 rumours spoke of reappearances, now here, now there, in all quarters of the world. There were tales that he had “gone fantee” in what was then unknown Africa, when the Mountains of the Moon still lingered on the older maps. It was reported, again, that he had gone exploring in the higher waters of the Amazon, and had never come back; but a few years later a personage that must have been Arthur Wesley was displaying unpleasant activities in Macao. It was soon after this period, according to the prosecution268, that — in the words of counsel — he realised the necessity of “taking cover.” His extraordinary personality, naturally enough, drew attention to him and his doings, and these doings being generally or always of an infamous269 kind, such attention was both inconvenient270 and dangerous. Somewhere in the East, and in very bad company, he came upon the two people who were charged with him. Arabella Manning, who was said to have respectable connections in Wiltshire, had gone out to the East as a governess, but had soon found other occupations. Meers had been a clerk in a house of business at Shanghai. His very ingenious system of fraud obtained his discharge, but, for some reason or other, the firm refused to prosecute271, and Meers went — where Arthur Wesley found him. Wesley thought of his great plan. Manning and Meers were to pretend to be Mr. and Mrs. Marsh — that seemed to have been their original style — and he was to be their little boy. He paid them well for their various services: Arabella was his mistress-in-chief, the companion of his milder moments, for some years. Occasionally, a tutor was engaged to make the situation more plausible272. In this state, the horrible trio peregrinated over the earth.
The court heard all this, and much more, after the jury had found the three prisoners guilty of the particular offence with which they were charged. This last crime — which the Press had to enfold in paraphrase274 and periphrase — had been discovered, strange as it seemed, largely as a result of the woman’s jealousy275. Wesley’s . . . affections, let us call them, were still apt to wander, and Arabella’s jealous rage drove her beyond all caution and all control. She was the weak joint276 in Wesley’s armour277, the rent in his cover. People in court looked at the two; the debauched, deplorable woman with her flagging, sagging278 cheeks, and the dim fire still burning in her weary old eyes, and at Wesley, still, to all appearance, a bright and handsome little boy; they gasped279 with amazement at the grotesque280, impossible horror of the scene. The judge raised his head from his notes, and gazed steadily281 at the convicted persons for some moments; his lips were tightly compressed.
The detective drew to the end of his portentous282 history. The track of these people, he said, had been marked by many terrible scandals, but till quite lately there had been no suspicion of their guilt273. Two of these cases involved the capital charge: but formal evidence was lacking.
He drew to his close.
“In spite of his diminutive283 stature284 and juvenile285 appearance, the prisoner, Charles Mailey, alias286 Arthur Wesley, made a desperate resistance to his arrest. He is possessed of immense strength for his size, and almost choked one of the officers who arrested him.”
The formulas of the court were uttered. The judge, without a word of comment, sentenced Mailey, or Wesley, to imprisonment287 for life, John Meers to fifteen years’ imprisonment, Arabella Manning to ten years’ imprisonment.
The old world, it has been noted, had crashed down. Many, many years had passed since Last had been hunted out of Mowbray Street, that went down dingily288, peacefully from the Strand. Mowbray Street was now all blazing office buildings. Later, he had been driven from one nook and corner and snug retreat after another as new London rose in majesty289 and splendour. But for a year or more he had lain hidden in a by-street that had the advantage of leading into a disused graveyard290 near the Gray’s Inn Road. Medwin and Garraway were dead; but Last summoned the surviving Zouch and Noel to his abode291 one night; and then and there made punch, and good punch for them.
“It’s so jolly it must be sinful,” he said, as he pared his lemons, “but up to the present I believe it is not illegal. And I still have a few bottles of that port I bought in ‘ninety-two.”
And then he told them for the first time all the whole story of his engagement at the White House.
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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10
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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11
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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12
divers
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| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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13
craftsmen
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| n. 技工 | |
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14
makers
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| n.制造者，制造商（maker的复数形式） | |
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15
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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16
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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17
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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18
fowl
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| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
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19
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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20
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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21
ted
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| vt.翻晒，撒，撒开 | |
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22
memoirs
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| n.回忆录；回忆录传( mem,自oir的名词复数) | |
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23
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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24
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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25
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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26
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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27
athletic
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| adj.擅长运动的，强健的；活跃的，体格健壮的 | |
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28
sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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29
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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30
surmised
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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31
stuffiness
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| n.不通风，闷热；不通气 | |
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32
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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33
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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34
scholastic
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| adj.学校的，学院的，学术上的 | |
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35
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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36
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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37
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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38
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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39
taverns
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| n.小旅馆，客栈，酒馆( tavern的名词复数 ) | |
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40
abounded
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| v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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41
vaudeville
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| n.歌舞杂耍表演 | |
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42
akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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43
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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44
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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45
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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46
journalism
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| n.新闻工作，报业 | |
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47
exiguous
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| adj.不足的，太少的 | |
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48
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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49
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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51
oysters
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| 牡蛎( oyster的名词复数 ) | |
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52
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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53
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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54
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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55
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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56
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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57
marred
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| adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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58
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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59
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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60
eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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61
relished
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| v.欣赏( relish的过去式和过去分词 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
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62
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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63
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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64
insignificance
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| n.不重要；无价值；无意义 | |
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65
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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66
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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67
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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68
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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69
depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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70
grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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71
desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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72
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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73
alleviating
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| 减轻，缓解，缓和( alleviate的现在分词 ) | |
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74
tedium
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| n.单调；烦闷 | |
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75
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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76
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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77
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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78
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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79
benignly
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| adv.仁慈地，亲切地 | |
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80
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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81
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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82
jocund
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| adj.快乐的，高兴的 | |
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83
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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84
kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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85
incompatible
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| adj.不相容的，不协调的，不相配的 | |
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86
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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87
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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88
marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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89
highlander
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| n.高地的人，苏格兰高地地区的人 | |
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90
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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91
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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92
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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93
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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94
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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95
negotiation
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| n.谈判，协商 | |
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96
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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97
replenished
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| 补充( replenish的过去式和过去分词 )； 重新装满 | |
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98
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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99
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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100
bluff
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| v.虚张声势，用假象骗人；n.虚张声势，欺骗 | |
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101
felicitously
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| adv.恰当地，适切地 | |
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102
turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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103
bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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104
suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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105
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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106
postscript
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| n.附言，又及；(正文后的)补充说明 | |
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107
lulling
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的现在分词形式） | |
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108
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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109
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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110
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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111
deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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112
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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113
expatiating
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| v.详述，细说( expatiate的现在分词 ) | |
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114
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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115
toll
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| n.过路(桥)费；损失，伤亡人数；v.敲(钟) | |
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116
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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117
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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118
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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119
recede
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| vi.退(去)，渐渐远去；向后倾斜，缩进 | |
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120
prospective
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| adj.预期的，未来的，前瞻性的 | |
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121
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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122
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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123
atlas
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| n.地图册，图表集 | |
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124
protracted
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| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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125
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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126
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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127
isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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128
preamble
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| n.前言；序文 | |
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129
exigencies
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| n.急切需要 | |
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130
marshes
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| n.沼泽，湿地( marsh的名词复数 ) | |
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131
systematic
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| adj.有系统的，有计划的，有方法的 | |
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132
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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133
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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134
stimulation
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| n.刺激，激励，鼓舞 | |
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135
multiplication
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| n.增加，增多，倍增；增殖，繁殖；乘法 | |
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136
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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137
corrupted
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|
| （使）败坏( corrupt的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）腐化； 引起（计算机文件等的）错误； 破坏 | |
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138
incompetent
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| adj.无能力的，不能胜任的 | |
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139
increment
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| n.增值，增价；提薪，增加工资 | |
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140
proffer
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| v.献出，赠送；n.提议，建议 | |
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141
lodged
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|
| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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142
craftsman
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| n.技工，精于一门工艺的匠人 | |
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143
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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144
underpin
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| v.加固，支撑 | |
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145
hamper
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| vt.妨碍，束缚，限制；n.(有盖的)大篮子 | |
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146
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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147
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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148
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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149
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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150
trickiness
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| n.欺骗；狡猾；棘手；微妙 | |
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151
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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152
cram
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| v.填塞，塞满，临时抱佛脚，为考试而学习 | |
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153
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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154
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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155
suave
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| adj.温和的；柔和的；文雅的 | |
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156
suavity
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| n.温和；殷勤 | |
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157
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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158
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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159
outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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160
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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161
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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162
grilled
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| adj. 烤的, 炙过的, 有格子的 动词grill的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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163
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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164
lewd
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| adj.淫荡的 | |
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165
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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166
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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167
shamefully
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| 可耻地； 丢脸地； 不体面地； 羞耻地 | |
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168
infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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169
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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170
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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171
intervention
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| n.介入，干涉，干预 | |
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172
deduction
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| n.减除，扣除，减除额；推论，推理，演绎 | |
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173
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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174
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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175
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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176
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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177
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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178
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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179
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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180
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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181
beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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182
stodgy
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| adj.易饱的；笨重的；滞涩的；古板的 | |
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183
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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184
abhorrence
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| n.憎恶；可憎恶的事 | |
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185
detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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186
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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187
cosmopolitan
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| adj.世界性的，全世界的，四海为家的，全球的 | |
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188
deprivations
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| 剥夺( deprivation的名词复数 )； 被夺去； 缺乏； 匮乏 | |
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189
disarming
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| adj.消除敌意的，使人消气的v.裁军( disarm的现在分词 )；使息怒 | |
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190
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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191
aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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192
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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193
demons
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| n.恶人( demon的名词复数 )；恶魔；精力过人的人；邪念 | |
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194
demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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195
instructor
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| n.指导者，教员，教练 | |
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196
sensational
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| adj.使人感动的，非常好的，轰动的，耸人听闻的 | |
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197
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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198
lyrics
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| n.歌词 | |
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199
rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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200
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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201
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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202
deplored
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| v.悲叹，痛惜，强烈反对( deplore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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203
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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204
renaissance
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| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
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205
treatise
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| n.专著；(专题)论文 | |
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206
perturbed
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|
| adj.烦燥不安的v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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207
bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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208
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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209
languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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210
invalids
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| 病人，残疾者( invalid的名词复数 ) | |
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211
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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212
disingenuous
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| adj.不诚恳的，虚伪的 | |
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213
amends
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| n. 赔偿 | |
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214
dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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215
pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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216
muddled
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| adj.混乱的；糊涂的；头脑昏昏然的v.弄乱，弄糟( muddle的过去式)；使糊涂；对付，混日子 | |
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217
crammed
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|
| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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218
chary
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| adj.谨慎的，细心的 | |
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219
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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220
wrangler
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| n.口角者，争论者；牧马者 | |
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221
bulgy
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| a.膨胀的；凸出的 | |
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222
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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223
organise
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| vt.组织，安排，筹办 | |
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224
squealed
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| v.长声尖叫，用长而尖锐的声音说( squeal的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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225
yew
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| n.紫杉属树木 | |
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226
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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227
vilely
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| adv.讨厌地，卑劣地 | |
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228
misused
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| v.使用…不当( misuse的过去式和过去分词 )；把…派作不正当的用途；虐待；滥用 | |
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229
twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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230
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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231
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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232
immunity
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| n.优惠；免除；豁免，豁免权 | |
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233
inane
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| adj.空虚的，愚蠢的，空洞的 | |
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234
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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235
horrifies
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| v.使震惊，使感到恐怖( horrify的第三人称单数 ) | |
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236
contagion
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| n.(通过接触的疾病)传染；蔓延 | |
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237
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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238
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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239
gallows
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| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
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240
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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241
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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242
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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243
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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244
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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245
enquire
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| v.打听，询问；调查，查问 | |
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246
deductions
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| 扣除( deduction的名词复数 )； 结论； 扣除的量； 推演 | |
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247
aspiring
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| adj.有志气的；有抱负的；高耸的v.渴望；追求 | |
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248
lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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249
brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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250
dawdled
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| v.混（时间）( dawdle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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251
enumerated
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| v.列举，枚举，数( enumerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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252
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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253
gulp
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| vt.吞咽，大口地吸（气）；vi.哽住；n.吞咽 | |
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254
enigmas
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| n.难于理解的问题、人、物、情况等，奥秘( enigma的名词复数 ) | |
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255
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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256
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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257
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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258
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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259
veal
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| n.小牛肉 | |
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260
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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261
sloppy
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| adj.邋遢的，不整洁的 | |
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262
pendulous
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| adj.下垂的；摆动的 | |
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263
indictment
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| n.起诉；诉状 | |
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264
falcon
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| n.隼，猎鹰 | |
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265
conjectured
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| 推测，猜测，猜想( conjecture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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266
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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267
dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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268
prosecution
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| n.起诉，告发，检举，执行，经营 | |
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269
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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270
inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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271
prosecute
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| vt.告发；进行；vi.告发，起诉，作检察官 | |
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272
plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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273
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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274
paraphrase
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| vt.将…释义，改写；n.释义，意义 | |
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275
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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276
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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277
armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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278
sagging
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| 下垂[沉，陷]，松垂，垂度 | |
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279
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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280
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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281
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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282
portentous
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| adj.不祥的，可怕的，装腔作势的 | |
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283
diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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284
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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285
juvenile
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| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
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286
alias
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| n.化名；别名；adv.又名 | |
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287
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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288
dingily
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| adv.暗黑地，邋遢地 | |
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289
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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290
graveyard
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| n.坟场 | |
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291
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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