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Mrs. Millar and Dora, to witness May's desperate unwillingness5 to depart.
It will be better to throw a veil over the anguish6 of that leave-taking, including the final closeting with Tray and the torrents8 of tears shed on his irresponsive hairy coat. We shall draw up the curtain on a new scene—St. Ambrose's, in its classic glory and stately beauty, and Thirlwall Hall, in its youthful strong-mindedness.
Poor May felt horribly forlorn when her father left her behind, and she realized that she was for the first time in her life compelled to play her part without the support of kith or kin7. Nobody was in the least unkind to her, any more than the conservative Miss Stones had been to Rose, unless in calling "little May" "Miss Millar," a promotion9 which somehow cut her to the heart.
The lady principal, Miss Lascelles, was an excellent intellectual woman, of mingled10 aristocratic and spirituelle antecedents. In another country and nation she might have been a distinguished11 dame12 de salon13. As it was, she was sufficiently14 harassed15 and overworked in her double office of decorous, authoritative16 chaperon and qualified17 guide, philosopher, and friend to the girls under her charge. These might be vestal virgins18 or nymphs of Minerva, but they were also girls, so long as the world lasted—the most of them half curious, half
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friendly where May was concerned. This was true even of the wonderful young American who came and stayed with no other object in view than to say she had kept her terms at St. Ambrose's, according to what was the sum total of the ambition of many a young man at the great University. She would call the Atlantic "the herring pond," and speak of "fixing" her hair; still she was a girl like the rest of them. Miss Lascelles, with all the other ladies in residence at Thirlwall Hall, the American included, could not help wondering what the friends and guardians19 of a budding beauty and helpless baby like Miss Millar intended by sending her to live among a set of self-reliant, amply-occupied young women, who, as a rule, knew exactly what they wanted to do and did it.
The whole place and system overwhelmed May. The hoary20 dignity of the old colleges, receptacles of the concentrated learning of ages, the crowds of capped and gowned tutors and professors, potent21 representatives of the learning of the present, even the shoals of young men who were able to care for none of these things, and to carry their responsibilities lightly, all to be encountered in the course of a morning walk, struck May with a sense of inadjustable disproportion, and of intolerable presumption22 on her part in pretending to be a scholar. She was still one of a household largely
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composed of women, as she had been at home, but here the household was planted where it was an innovation, in the midst of a colony of men, which constantly threatened to sweep over it and submerge it.
The grown-up, independent, yet disciplined routine of Thirlwall Hall, founded as closely as possible on the venerable routine of the men's colleges, was widely, crushingly different from life in the Old Doctor's House at Redcross. Morning chapel23, the steady business of individual reading, the attendance on the selected courses of lectures, with the new experience of being spoken to, and expected to take notes like men; the walks and talks, which even with the interruptions of tennis and boating were apt to be academically shoppy; the very afternoon tea after evening chapel had an impressively scholastic25 flavour utterly26 foreign to the desultory27 proceedings28 of an ordinary family circle. So had the further reading by one's self, for one's self, to get up a particular branch of study; the "swell29 dinner," as May persisted in calling it in her own mind, though it was simple and social enough—beyond certain indispensable forms and ceremonies—to the initiated30; the withdrawal31 once more to the dreary32 retirement33 of her own room, since a new girl had neither the requisite34 familiarity nor the heart to go and tap at her neighbours' doors,
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where no substitute for "sporting the oak" had as yet been found, and drop in for a little purely35 human chatter36.
May was so "hard hit," as people say—not with love, but with home-sickness—that she did not believe she could live to the end of the summer term. She felt as if she must die of strangeness, fright, and pining; and that was hard, for they would be very sorry at home, and so would Annie and Rose in London, though both of them had been able to go and stay away quite cheerfully like the girls at Thirlwall Hall. Perhaps May and Dora were not like other girls. There was something wanting or something in excess about them. Perhaps they were not fit to go through the world, as she had once heard somebody say of her—May. Perhaps they were meant to die young—like their Aunt Dolly—and not destined37 to live long and struggle helplessly with adverse38 circumstances. In that case, Dora was the happy one to be left to spend her short life at home, though, save for father and mother, she too was all alone, and poor dear Dora would feel that, and was, perhaps, crying in another empty room as May was crying in hers at this very moment; but at least, Dora would pass her last days with father and mother in the old familiar places.
This isolated39 doom40 for herself and Dora fasci
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nated May's imagination. She could not get it out of her head. She dreamt about it, and sat up in her bed crying and shivering in the silence and solitude41 of night, where even by day all was silent and solitary42. She began to think that she would never see Redcross or her mother again. With the morbid43 sentimentality of early youth, and its lively capacity for self-torture, in which to be sure there is that underlying45 luxury of woe46, she commenced to rehearse the loving farewells she would take on paper, and the harrowing last messages she would send to every member of her family.
Occasionally May's hallucination took the form of conjuring47 up a series of disasters which should suddenly descend48 on her absent friends. If she did not die herself, one or all of those she loved might die while she was separated from them. Her father might fall down in a fit; her mother might be seized with small-pox or typhoid fever; and what more likely than that Dora should catch the infection waiting on her mother?
This distempered frame of mind was hardly calculated for the rapid reception and assimilation of these particles, terminations, and cases of philological49 nicety in which May began to recognize that she was inaccurate50 and deficient51.
If Tray could but have come to her, and laid his shining black nose in her lap, barked in her face,
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and invited her to take a turn in the grounds of Thirlwall Hall, he would have ceased to be the doleful, shadowy phantom52 of a Tray she was constantly seeing now, along with other phantoms53. A game of romps54 with her four-footed friend would have done something to dissipate the mental sickness which was prostrating55 May's powers. But Thirlwall Hall was moulded on the men's colleges, and there were no dogs for the girl any more than for the boy graduates.
Miss Lascelles was at once conscientious56 and kind, with considerable natural sagacity; but she led a busy, rather over-burdened life, and had little time to spare. Naturally she was tempted57, in spite of the logical faculty58 which made her a capital principal of Thirlwall Hall, to leap at conclusions like many of her weaker-minded sisters. She had taken it for granted that Miss Millar was simply a spoilt child, without more ability and information than had just served her to surmount59 the preliminary test of admission to Thirlwall Hall, where, nevertheless, she had no business to be. Her time would be completely wasted; she would only be wretched, and serve to make other people uncomfortable. However, as she had stood the preliminary test, and was at Thirlwall Hall for the rest of the term, the most humane61 thing to do was to set some other girl who was not particularly engaged
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on her own account, who could be safely trusted with such a charge, who had plenty of acquaintances at St. Ambrose's to render the charge lighter62, to make friends with the poor girl, take her about, cheer and entertain her, as far as possible, till the end of her stay.
Miss Lascelles, in default of better, fixed63 on Miss Vanhansen, the American young lady, as a friend for May. Miss Vanhansen had plenty of time on her hands, plenty of confidence, plenty of money. She had taken even exclusive St. Ambrose's by storm, for Athens itself would have found it difficult to resist her racy indifference64, her shrewd mother-wit, her superb frocks, and her sublime65 heaps of dollars. At the same time she was perfectly66 good-natured and quite trustworthy in her own free and easy way. She had scandalized Miss Lascelles in the earlier days of their acquaintance by her energetic determination to have "a good time of it." She had made the lady principal's hair stand on end by calmly suggesting nice rides and rows and luncheons68 at village inns, tête-à-tête with the "mooniest" young fellows who could be laid hold of and crammed69 with stories about America and the doings of American girls.
But practically Miss Vanhansen had the good sense to do at Rome as the Romans did; she confined her independence to those sallies of the
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tongue, which were not without a rousing charm in a place grown partly languid, partly esoteric, by dint70 of a superabundance of culture and of college statutes71 elaborate, involved and irreversible as the laws of the Medes and the Persians.
Keturah Vanhansen rather liked the task imposed upon her. It appealed at once to her kindliness72 of nature and her love of creating a sensation; she would rouse this drooping73 young beauty who showed such a sinful disregard of her complexion74 and eyes. Miss Vanhansen was herself as sallow as a nabob, her small eyes, by an unkind perversity75 on the part of her fairy god-mother, were of a fishy76 paleness, yet she managed to her great satisfaction, by dint of dress and carriage, to be a striking-looking and all but a handsome girl, so that she had no overpowering reason to be jealous of her better-endowed neighbours. She would astonish Miss Millar's weak nerves, and give her "a wrinkle or two," before she had done with her.
At first May shrank back a good deal from the advances of the conquering princess from the Far West; but here the English girl's humility77 and good feeling stood her in better stead than her judgment78. May was grateful to Miss Vanhansen, and went so far as to be flattered by her attentions even when they gave the recipient79 no pleasure.
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That frame of mind could not last at seventeen. May, the most unsophisticated and easily pleased of human beings, was won from her sad dreams of Redcross. She was deeply obliged, she was faintly amused. At last she was fairly launched on such a mild course of St. Ambrose gaieties as two girls in a college could with grace pursue. This included tennis parties, rowing parties, water-lily and fritillary hunts, "strawberries," concerts instead of lectures in the afternoons as well as in the evenings, afternoon teas—not tête-à-tête, not confined to a party of three, but under what even Miss Lascelles would have considered sufficient surveillance in the rooms of liberal heads of houses, hospitable80 young dons, social, idle undergraduates. These had no more business on their hands than could be summed up in cricket-matches or boat-races, and in meeting Miss Vanhansen and listening to her queer unconventional remarks.
At all these gatherings83, May Millar in the budding beauty of seventeen and the simplicity84 of her youthful dress, with her modesty85 and naïveté, was made very welcome. Soon she began to feel herself ashamed of the extent to which she was enjoying herself, as she was swept along by the stream.
She was able to write home now long letters full of girlish enthusiasm over the kindness of Miss Vanhansen, and the beauties and delights of
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St. Ambrose's. Dora, though greatly relieved in her ungrudging devotion to May, to find that Tom Robinson's words were fulfilled, was still a little puzzled to understand how May could find time for so many gay doings, and her studies into the bargain. But Dr. and Mrs. Millar could only be happy in the happiness of their child, and hug themselves on having thought more of her welfare than of her feelings at the moment of parting. It was right she should see all the charming sights which were to be seen, and enter a little into the special attractions of the great University town—that would not prevent her from settling down and doing her proper work presently. You might trust the lady principal and a studious young creature like May, who liked to be busy with her books far before any other occupation, with a great deal more license86 than that came to.
Then a new turn was given to the dissipation in which May was dipping. The longing87 in which she had indulged, ever since she had first heard of its possible fulfilment, was granted—a Greek play was to be acted by the young women who stood for the "Grecians" of the year at Thirlwall Hall, and May was there to see. From the moment the play was decided88 upon to the hour of the first rehearsal89, May spoke24, thought, and dreamed of nothing save "Alcestis."
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Miss Vanhansen gave her up in disgust. "The ungrateful, soft-spoken wretch60!" cried the forsaken90 fair one; "the hypocritical young blue-grass Penelope Blue! she has been bluer than the blue clouds all the time she has been imposing91 on me as a pining, bread-and-butter, home-sick miss among us Titanesses and daughters of the gods. Here I am ready to collapse92 with trotting93 her about among the few girls in St. Ambrose's who are sensible enough not to know the Empire of the East from the Empire of the West, and would not care which was which if they did know, and the still wiser young men who spend the long summer days lying on their backs in their own canoes, reading Mark Twain. Oh! she is a brazen-faced impostor. 'Molasses!' and 'Great Scott!' are not enough to say to her. I should like to try her with the final polite remarks of the last chief of the Dogs' Noses."
But contemporaneously with May's being thus dropped by her first friend, she was peremptorily94 claimed and appropriated by the actresses. They had not failed to notice her interest in their enterprise, and some of the cleverest of them had already mastered an astonishing problem.
They had been guilty of nicknaming Miss Millar "Baby," because she had been so lachrymose96 and shiftless when she came to Thirlwall
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Hall, and had never looked up till she was handed over to Miss Vanhansen, who had given her "airings" and "outings" all very well for a baby, and much to Baby's taste as it seemed, but not exactly severe study. Yet in spite of it all, and in spite of the halting inaccuracy of the training in a private ladies'-school, May Millar knew more by sheer instinct, as it sounded, of Alcestis, and felt more with her and for her, than the best of those who professed97 to be her interpreters.
It was therefore not with wisely repairing the breaches98 in her Latin and Greek, and laying these foundations afresh, as Rose was doing with her art under Mr. St. Foy in London, that May was engrossed99. It was with becoming a bond-slave to those ambitious players. She lent herself to the minutest details of their attempt, coached herself in them day and night, till she could coach everybody in turn, and figured behind backs as universal prompter, dresser, stage-manager—the girl who had been so lifeless and incapable100 of looking after herself when she first came among them that they had styled her the baby of the establishment!
Miss Lascelles, who was deeply interested in the play, both in her highly-finished scholarship, and for the credit of Thirlwall Hall, was electrified101 when she discovered the efficient coadjutor whom the performers had found. "I am afraid there has
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been a mistake made, and time lost," she said to herself ruefully. "How could I be so shortsighted, when there is the making of the finest scholar in the Hall in Miss Millar, who threatened to hang so heavily on my hands that I was fain to send her to play with our generous 'Barbarian102.' What discrimination, what taste and feeling with regard to the selection and fit declamation103 of these passages which we were doubtful whether to retain or reject, or what to do with them! With what pretty girlish shyness and timidity she made the suggestions! Nothing but her passionate104 love of the subject, and her jealousy105 for its honour, as it were, with her intense craving106 to have it fitly expressed, would have induced her to come forward. I should like to hear what Professor Hennessy," naming a great name among classical authorities, "thinks of this young girl's interpretation107 of several parts of the play when he comes to hear them. I should like to introduce Miss Millar to him if she were not so frightened, and if she had taken the place which she ought to have held to begin with. It is too late to rectify108 the mistake and set her to work this term, and she had much better not go in for the Markham scholarship which her father spoke of—that would be worse than useless. But we'll turn over a new leaf next term. After all, she is very young; and
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I suppose it is of no great consequence that she has wasted her first half. Her family are professional people, and these are generally well off." (Miss Lascelles was the portionless daughter of the impecunious109 younger son of a poor nobleman.)
When the play was performed nearly all the classical scholars of St. Ambrose's—and what was a man doing at St. Ambrose's if he were not a classical scholar, unless, to be sure, he happened to be a philosopher of the first water, or a profound expounder110 of Anglo-Saxon, or a strangely and wonderfully informed pundit111?—came with their wives and daughters, and graciously applauded the daring deed.
As for Keturah Vanhansen, she wore her rivière of diamonds, dripping, dancing, flashing like water that was perpetually flowing, and yet, by some enchantment112, arrested in its flow in glorious suspension. Set in the middle of the enchanted113 water was such a breast-knot of rare, exquisite114, uncannily grotesque115 orchids116 as no queen or princess had ever been seen to wear in St. Ambrose's. Indeed, it might have suited the Queen of Sheba.
Miss Vanhansen announced that she wore her war-paint to do honour to the Thirlwall Hall play, and to May Millar, whom she had forgiven, for rancour never yet dwelt in the Yankee breast. "Alcestis" was a little long, and "real right down
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funny," as her Aunt Sally would have said, though it was a tragedy, and she, Keturah Vanhansen, did not understand a word of it, notwithstanding this was her last year at Thirlwall Hall. One good joke was the man who was in cats' skins, and carried a kitchen poker117 for a club, and was half a head shorter than she was, and she was not big; they should see her Aunt Abe if they wanted to know what a big woman was like. Another joke was the sacks for the ladies' frocks, with holes for the head and feet, and holes for the arms, so nice and simple, and so graceful118; Worth ought to get a hint of the costume. Only it was not very distinctive119, when one regarded the corresponding sacks for the gentlemen. There was really nothing to mark out the ladies except the large towels which they wore hanging down their backs, while the gentlemen had Inverness capes120 over their sacks, fastened on the shoulders with Highland121 brooches. How came the Greeks, in the time of Euripides, to know about Inverness capes and Highland brooches? She, Keturah Vanhansen, had been so startled by what she feared might be a frightful122 anachronism that all her false hair had fallen off, and she had been left like one of her Aunt Abe's moulting fowls123.
The truth was that, in the matter of hair, nature had favoured Miss Vanhansen with a peculiarly
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fine and luxuriant crop, so that she had no need to apply to art for its help.
But as for May, she saw nothing and heard nothing of the discrepancies124 which might mar81 the ancient story to far less ostentatiously matter-of-fact and mocking critics than the would-be barbarian from beyond the herring-pond. The piteous tragedy was enacted125 in all its terror and pathos126 to May. She forgot even to sigh for one of the original great open-air amphitheatres, with the cloudless blue sky of Greece overhead, which had been the fit setting to those old-world plays; while she appreciated, without being conscious of the appreciation127, every scenic128 item—the double stage, the attendant chorus, the classic dress, that had awakened129 Miss Vanhansen's ridicule130, from the sandal on the foot to the toque on the head—all which could lend verisimilitude to the spectacle. For the benefit of happy May, Alcestis lived again in modern St. Ambrose's. Once more she suffered and died willingly in the room of Admetus; once more the miserable131 husband's half-heroic, half-savage ally, Harakles, fought Death for his pale prey132, and brought back the sacrificed wife from Hades, to restore her—a figure veiled and motionless, yet instinct with glad life, every vein133 throbbing134 with love and thankfulness—to the arms of her husband, more joyful135, and at the same time,
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in the middle of his joy, more full of yearning136 sorrow and self-abasement than ever was happy bridegroom.
On the day after the play, Miss Lascelles casually137 mentioned to May that even if she went in for the coming examination, she, Miss Lascelles, thought May had better not try for the Markham scholarship.
"But I must, Miss Lascelles," protested May, starting up as if she were awakening138 from a dream, and opening great eyes of distress139 and apprehension—feelings which were only at that moment called into life. "My father would be so vexed140 and disappointed if I did not."
"If you will take my advice, my dear, you will wait till next year; there will be another scholarship falling in then. Very many of the Thirlwall Hall girls do much better the second year than they have done the first," Miss Lascelles continued to warn her girl-graduate, with the delicate consideration and tact141 which qualified the lady principal for her office. "It is bad policy to enter hastily into a competition with failure staring you in the face. It will only serve to dishearten you, and to mislead people with regard to what I am now certain—I can honestly congratulate you on my conviction—are your really exceptional gifts. You will do Thirlwall Hall credit, and we shall all be
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proud of you, if you will have patience. You are very young; you can afford to wait. It is a common occurrence for clever, studious girls, and lads too, to come up to St. Ambrose's from the country, from private schools or home-teaching, who are not sufficiently exact in their scholarship, and do nothing beyond remedying the defect in their first or even their second year. You don't grudge142 giving what is but a fraction of your life, after all, to thorough as opposed to superficial learning, do you, dear? Remember, the one is worthy67 and the other worthless—a mere143 pretentious144 waste."
"I cannot help it," said May, with a little gasp145 of despair. "To wait is just what I cannot afford to do. I am almost certain that my coming up next year depends on what I can do this term. We have grown quite poor. Father has lost a great deal of money lately. Even if he were content to send me back here, I do not think it would be right in me to come, unless I could do something to lessen146 the expense. My sister Annie is in London learning to be a nurse, and my sister Rose is coming out as an artist."
"I thought they were doing it from choice. Why did you not apply yourself before, Miss Millar? You knew what you could do, better than any of us here could possibly guess your
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talents and attainments147. From your general behaviour until the play was started, I for one, I confess, fell into the grave error of supposing that you could do little or nothing, or that any progress you had made was entirely148 forced work." Miss Lascelles spoke sharply, for she was considerably149 discomfited150, and full of unavailing regret for her share in the misadventure.
May could not tell her that she had been too miserable about coming away from home, and leaving her mother and father, Dora and Tray, to apply herself to learning; neither would there have been much use in her applying if she had been destined to fade away presently as she had imagined, and to die, bereft151, among the lexicons152, commentaries, and lecture-notes of Thirlwall Hall. She preferred to say with meek153 contriteness154 that she knew she had been very idle, but she would do her best to atone155 for her idleness by working every lawful156 moment of every hour of the few weeks which were left to her, if Miss Lascelles would but allow her to go in for the examination, preparatory to trying for the scholarship.
Miss Lascelles could not prevent her, she told May a little dryly, for the students of Thirlwall Hall, though some of them were no more than seventeen—May's age—were all regarded and treated as grown-up young women capable of
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judging and acting157 for themselves. What Miss Lascelles was bound to do was to see that Miss Millar did not run into the opposite extreme, and bring on a brain fever by over-study. "And you know, my dear," finished the kind, experienced woman, who was easily softened158, who had always the greatest difficulty to keep from being sympathetic, "that would be a great deal worse than merely being turned back in your examinations, though Dr. Millar is not rich, and there may be obstacles—I sincerely trust they will not be insurmountable—to your coming back in the autumn, to work with a will and at the same time with moderation."
Poor May did not work herself into a brain fever, but she did in other respects exactly as Miss Lascelles—a woman who understood the position—had clearly foreseen. May succeeded in fretting160, and worrying, and getting herself into a state of nervous agitation161. Her brain, or that part of it which had to do with grammatical declensions, derivations, rules, and principles, became a complete muddle162, so that in place of taking in new information, it seemed to be rapidly letting go the old which it had once held securely.
Before the eventful day of May's examination, she had lost the last shred163 of hope, and so had all who had heard her or formed a correct estimate
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of the contents of her papers, of her crossing the rubicon. Of her own accord she sorrowfully refrained from making any move to enter the lists for the scholarship.
It is the fashion at St. Ambrose's not to issue the result of the examinations for a considerable number of weeks, during which the unhappy candidates hang on the tenterhooks164 of expectation. A looker-on is inclined to consider this a refinement165 of cruelty till he or she has taken into consideration that the motive166 of the protracted167 suspense168 is to suit the convenience and lessen the arduous169 labours of the toil-worn professors and tutors who serve as examiners.
But in May Millar's case her failure was such a foregone conclusion, was so remedial by reason of her youth, and so qualified by the share she had taken in the Greek play, that a point was stretched for her, and she was privately170 put out of pain at once. Latterly May had not entertained the slightest expectation of any other sentence, yet the blow fell so heavily upon her that it was well it was the end of the term.
To do Thirlwall Hall no more than justice, everybody was sorry for their youngest, gentlest, prettiest, most inspired, and withal most inoffensive and obliging student. Miss Lascelles took May into her private sitting-room171 and recklessly lavished172 the few
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moments the lady principal had in which to rest and recruit from the fatigue173 of receiving company, and playing a becoming part in the academical gaieties with which the summer term at St. Ambrose's closes, in order to speak encouraging words to the poor crestfallen174 child. Miss Vanhansen implored175 May to cross the herring-pond at her expense, and have a good time among the Barbarian's relations in Ol' Virginny and Kentuck. The girl who had played Alcestis wanted to inaugurate a reading-party in which May should be coached all round every day. Failing this, the same adventurous176 spirit would get up a series of Greek plays in London drawing-rooms, with Miss Millar's assistance; and so far as she herself was concerned, she would never be contented177 till Miss Millar played Admetus to her Alcestis. A large deputation of blue-stockinged maidens178 from Thirlwall Hall escorted May to the railway station, and more than one was relieved to find that she was going first to join her sisters in London instead of carrying the mortification179 of her failure straight to her country-town home.
It might be the deferring180 of an ordeal181, and yet it was with a white face, as abashed182 and well-nigh as scared as if she had committed a crime, that May awaited Annie in the drawing-room to which the probationers' friends were free at St. Ebbe's. The consciousness had come too late of having
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wasted the little money her father had to spare on sentimental44 self-indulgence and the gratification of her own feelings instead of employing it as it was meant to be employed, in controlling herself and doing her duty, so as to acquire fitting arms for the battle of life.
It was this horrible comprehension which made her wistful eyes grow distended183 and fixed in their sense of guilt95 and disgrace. She might have committed a forgery184, and be come to tell Annie what she had done. May was essentially185 one-idea'd at this period of her life, and she had dwelt on the fact of her failure and exaggerated its importance, like the most egotistical of human beings, till it filled her imagination and blotted186 out every other consideration.
Annie, in the full career of a busy professional morning, snatched a moment between two important engagements to see her sister.
May looked with imploring187, fascinated eyes at Annie in her nurse's gown and cap. The younger girl had some faint inkling of Annie's earlier experience in the life of an hospital; yet there she was as fresh and fair and bright as ever—a thousand times cooler and happier-looking than her visitor.
"Here you are, May," Annie was saying in glad greeting, as she held her sister by the two shoulders, after she had kissed her; "and I declare you have
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grown since you went to St. Ambrose's. Oh, you incorrigible188 girl, when you were so much the tallest of us before you went there."
May could only make one answer with parched189 lips, faltering190 tongue, and eyes dry under their heavy cloud of grief, "Annie, I have failed in my examination!"
Annie started in surprise, while her face fell for a second. "What a pity!" she could not help exclaiming. "Father will be——" She broke off in the middle of the sentence. "Don't fret159 about it," she added, quickly taking another look into May's face; "that will do no good, and it is not very much after all. I cannot stay another minute now, May," she went on to tell the bewildered girl in the most matter-of-fact tone, so that May was in danger of feeling half-offended at finding her tribulation191 taken so cavalierly—"just like Annie!"
"You must wait for me," Annie was saying further. "There is a poor fellow—a patient of mine—who is to have his arm amputated this morning, and I must be with him when it is done."
"Oh dear!" cried May, completely taken aback, "that is dreadful. Will he die, Annie? Will he die?" forgetting all her own high-strung woes192, the product of an advanced stage of civilization, in heart-felt, human sympathy with the most primitive193 of all trials—bodily suffering and loss.
"Not if we can help it, please God," said Annie
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emphatically. Then an inspiration came to her as she gazed on the girl's white quivering face. "You have been working too hard, 'little May'; you shake your head like a tragedy queen. Then you've been worrying too much, which is a great deal worse. I shall take you in hand, but I can't stay to talk about it. Just you think how little my poor fellow would mind not passing an examination, in comparison with the loss of an arm—fortunately it is the left one. He is a printer who got his arm crushed under one of the great rollers, and he has a wife and five little children dependent on their bread-winner."
Annie was gone, leaving May suddenly transported out of herself, and plunged194 into the trials of her neighbours, the awfully195 near, common life-and-death trials, of which she had known so little. Her own seemed to sink into insignificance196 beside them. St. Ambrose's and its intellectual lists and wordy contests, even its lofty abstruse197 thoughts—excellent things in their way, without which the unlettered world would become rude, sordid198 and narrow—faded into the background. She forgot everything but the poor man passing through a mortal crisis, with Annie able to succour him in his need, and his wife and children waiting to hear whether the end were life or death.
May held her breath, and watched, prayed, and
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waited in her turn, with no thought left for the news she had brought to town, and was to carry to Redcross. What did it signify if only the poor man lived when May herself was well and strong, and all her dear friends were in health, and likely to be spared to her.
When Annie came in again with a cheerful face, and said, "He has stood it wonderfully; there is every prospect199 of his making a speedy recovery," May's face too cleared till for the moment it was almost radiant. She acquiesced200, with responsive animation201, in Annie's arrangement that since she, Annie, had got leave of absence for the rest of the day she would put on her walking-dress, and she and May too would go and pick up Rose at Mr. St. Foy's class-rooms; and what was to hinder all the three from having an expedition together in the fine summer weather to Hampton Court, or Kew, or the Crystal Palace, thus celebrating May's visit to town, and making the most of Annie's holiday? It would be like dear old times of primrose202 hunting, blue-bell gathering82, maying, and nutting down at Redcross before the cares and troubles of the world had taken hold of the girls. Annie had already sent on May's luggage to Welby Square, to which May would return with Rose. Annie excluded herself carefully from this part of the programme, with a kind of unapproachable haughtiness203
[315]
which had three strains of stubbornness and one strain of fiery204 youthful anger in its composition, while it was a complete enigma205 to May. But all she cared to know was that she was going with her own two sisters for an entire afternoon's delightful206 excursion. In the morning she had felt that she could never have the heart to be happy again. Even yet she would not be quite happy; she would be very much affronted207 when she was telling Annie and Rose the particulars of her, May's, silliness and selfishness; how she had given herself up to moping, and then how she had played herself—first with the St. Ambrose gaieties, and later with the Greek play, instead of setting about her work methodically and diligently208. Annie would, perhaps, tell her a few home-truths, and Rose would crumple209 up her nose, shake her head, and look superhumanly wise—Rose who in the old days had been more thoughtless than May.
Still she deserved it all a thousand times over, and it would be a relief to have disburdened herself of the sorry tale.
Her own sisters would defend her from every other assailant. They would feel for her, seek to reassure210 her, even make much of her, as they were doing by taking her away with them this afternoon. May was very sensible that a burden was lifted off her back.
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1
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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4
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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unwillingness
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| n. 不愿意，不情愿 | |
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6
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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torrents
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| n.倾注；奔流( torrent的名词复数 )；急流；爆发；连续不断 | |
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promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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10
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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12
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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13
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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15
harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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authoritative
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| adj.有权威的，可相信的；命令式的；官方的 | |
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qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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18
virgins
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| 处女，童男( virgin的名词复数 )； 童贞玛利亚（耶稣之母） | |
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guardians
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| 监护人( guardian的名词复数 )； 保护者，维护者 | |
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hoary
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| adj.古老的；鬓发斑白的 | |
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21
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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22
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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23
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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24
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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25
scholastic
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| adj.学校的，学院的，学术上的 | |
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26
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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27
desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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28
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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29
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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30
initiated
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| n. 创始人 adj. 新加入的 vt. 开始，创始，启蒙，介绍加入 | |
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31
withdrawal
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| n.取回，提款；撤退，撤军；收回，撤销 | |
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32
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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33
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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34
requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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35
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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36
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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37
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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38
adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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39
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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40
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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41
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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42
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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43
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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44
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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45
underlying
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| adj.在下面的，含蓄的，潜在的 | |
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46
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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47
conjuring
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| n.魔术 | |
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48
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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49
philological
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| adj.语言学的，文献学的 | |
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50
inaccurate
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| adj.错误的，不正确的，不准确的 | |
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51
deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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52
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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53
phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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54
romps
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| n.无忧无虑，快活( romp的名词复数 )v.嬉笑玩闹( romp的第三人称单数 )；（尤指在赛跑或竞选等中）轻易获胜 | |
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55
prostrating
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| v.使俯伏，使拜倒( prostrate的现在分词 )；（指疾病、天气等）使某人无能为力 | |
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56
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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57
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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58
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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59
surmount
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| vt.克服；置于…顶上 | |
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60
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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61
humane
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| adj.人道的，富有同情心的 | |
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62
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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63
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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64
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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65
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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66
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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67
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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68
luncheons
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| n.午餐，午宴( luncheon的名词复数 ) | |
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69
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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70
dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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71
statutes
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| 成文法( statute的名词复数 )； 法令； 法规； 章程 | |
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72
kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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73
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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74
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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75
perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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76
fishy
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| adj. 值得怀疑的 | |
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77
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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78
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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79
recipient
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| a.接受的,感受性强的 n.接受者,感受者,容器 | |
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80
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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81
mar
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| vt.破坏，毁坏，弄糟 | |
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82
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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83
gatherings
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| 聚集( gathering的名词复数 )； 收集； 采集； 搜集 | |
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84
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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85
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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86
license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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87
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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88
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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89
rehearsal
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| n.排练，排演；练习 | |
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90
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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91
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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92
collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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93
trotting
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| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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94
peremptorily
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| adv.紧急地，不容分说地，专横地 | |
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95
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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96
lachrymose
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| adj.好流泪的，引人落泪的；adv.眼泪地，哭泣地 | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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breaches
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| 破坏( breach的名词复数 )； 破裂； 缺口； 违背 | |
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99
engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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100
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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101
electrified
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| v.使电气化( electrify的过去式和过去分词 )；使兴奋 | |
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102
barbarian
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| n.野蛮人；adj.野蛮(人)的；未开化的 | |
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103
declamation
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| n. 雄辩，高调 | |
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104
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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105
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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106
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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107
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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108
rectify
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| v.订正，矫正，改正 | |
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109
impecunious
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| adj.不名一文的，贫穷的 | |
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110
expounder
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| 陈述者，说明者 | |
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111
pundit
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| n.博学之人；权威 | |
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112
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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113
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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114
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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115
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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116
orchids
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| n.兰花( orchid的名词复数 ) | |
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117
poker
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| n.扑克；vt.烙制 | |
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118
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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119
distinctive
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| adj.特别的，有特色的，与众不同的 | |
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120
capes
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| 碎谷； 斗篷( cape的名词复数 )； 披肩； 海角； 岬 | |
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121
highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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122
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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123
fowls
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| 鸟( fowl的名词复数 )； 禽肉； 既不是这； 非驴非马 | |
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124
discrepancies
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| n.差异，不符合（之处），不一致（之处）( discrepancy的名词复数 ) | |
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125
enacted
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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126
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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127
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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128
scenic
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| adj.自然景色的，景色优美的 | |
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129
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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130
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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131
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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132
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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133
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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134
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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135
joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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136
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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137
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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138
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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139
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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140
vexed
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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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141
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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142
grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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143
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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144
pretentious
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| adj.自命不凡的，自负的，炫耀的 | |
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145
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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146
lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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147
attainments
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| 成就，造诣； 获得( attainment的名词复数 )； 达到； 造诣； 成就 | |
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148
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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149
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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150
discomfited
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| v.使为难( discomfit的过去式和过去分词)；使狼狈；使挫折；挫败 | |
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151
bereft
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| adj.被剥夺的 | |
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152
lexicons
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| n.词典( lexicon的名词复数 )；专门词汇 | |
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153
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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154
contriteness
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| n.悔悟 | |
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155
atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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156
lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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157
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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158
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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159
fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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160
fretting
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| n. 微振磨损 adj. 烦躁的, 焦虑的 | |
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161
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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162
muddle
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| n.困惑，混浊状态；vt.使混乱，使糊涂，使惊呆；vi.胡乱应付，混乱 | |
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163
shred
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| v.撕成碎片，变成碎片；n.碎布条，细片，些少 | |
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164
tenterhooks
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| n.坐立不安 | |
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165
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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166
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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167
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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168
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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169
arduous
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| adj.艰苦的，费力的，陡峭的 | |
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170
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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171
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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172
lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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173
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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174
crestfallen
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| adj. 挫败的，失望的，沮丧的 | |
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175
implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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176
adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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177
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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178
maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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179
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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180
deferring
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| v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的现在分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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181
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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182
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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183
distended
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| v.（使）膨胀，肿胀( distend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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184
forgery
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| n.伪造的文件等，赝品，伪造（行为） | |
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185
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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186
blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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187
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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188
incorrigible
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| adj.难以纠正的，屡教不改的 | |
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189
parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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190
faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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191
tribulation
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| n.苦难，灾难 | |
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192
woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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193
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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194
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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195
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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196
insignificance
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| n.不重要；无价值；无意义 | |
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197
abstruse
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| adj.深奥的，难解的 | |
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198
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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199
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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200
acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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201
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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202
primrose
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| n.樱草，最佳部分， | |
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203
haughtiness
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| n.傲慢；傲气 | |
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204
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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205
enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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206
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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207
affronted
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| adj.被侮辱的，被冒犯的v.勇敢地面对( affront的过去式和过去分词 )；相遇 | |
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208
diligently
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| ad.industriously;carefully | |
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209
crumple
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| v.把...弄皱，满是皱痕，压碎，崩溃 | |
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210
reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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