If I could have locked myself up anywhere else I should have preferred it. I would have justified2 my own part in the present family quarrel to Aunt Isobel herself, and yet I would rather not have been alone just now with the text I had made and pinned up, and with my new picture. However, there was nowhere else to go to.
A restless way I have of pacing up and down when I am in a rage, has often reminded me of the habits of the more ferocious3 of the wild beasts in the Zoological Gardens, and has not lessened5 my convictions on the subject of the family temper. For a few prowls up and down my den4 I managed to occupy my thoughts with fuming6 against Philip's behaviour, but as the first flush of anger began to cool, there was no keeping out of my head the painful reflections which the sight of my text, my picture, and my books [211]suggested—the miserable7 contrast between my good resolves and the result.
"It only shows," I muttered to myself, in a voice about as amiable8 as the growlings of a panther, "it only shows that it is quite hopeless. We're an ill-tempered family—a hopelessly ill-tempered family; and to try to cure us is like patching the lungs of a consumptive family, I don't even wish that I could forgive Philip. He doesn't deserve it."
And then as I nursed the cut on my elbow, and recalled the long hours of work at the properties, the damaged scene, the rifling of the green-room, and Philip's desertion with the Dragon, his probable industry for Mr. Clinton's theatricals9, and the way he had left us to face our own disappointed audience, fierce indignation got the upper hand once more.
"I don't care," I growled10 afresh; "if I have lost my temper, I believe I was right to lose it—at least, that no one could have been expected not to lose it, I will never beg his pardon for it, let Aunt Isobel say what she will. I should hate him ever after if I did, for the injustice11 of the thing. Pardon, indeed!"
I turned at the top of the room and paced back towards the window, towards the long illuminated12 text, and that
"—— Noble face,
So sweet and full of grace,"
[212]
I have a trick of talking to myself and to inanimate objects. I addressed myself now to the text and the picture.
"But if I don't," I continued, "if after being confirmed with Philip in the autumn, we come to just one of our old catastrophes15 in the very next holidays, as bad as ever, and spiting each other to the last—I shall take you all down to-morrow! I don't pretend to be able to persuade myself that black is white—like Mrs. Rampant16; but I am not a hypocrite, I won't ornament17 my room with texts, and crosses, and pictures, and symbols of Eternal Patience, when I do not even mean to try to sacrifice myself, or to be patient."
It is curious how one's faith and practice hang together. I felt very doubtful whether it was even desirable that I should. Whether we did not misunderstand GOD'S will, in thinking that it is well that people in the right should ever sacrifice themselves for those who are in the wrong. I did not however hide from myself, that to say this was to unsay all my resolves about my besetting18 sin. I decided19 to take down my texts, pictures, and books, and grimly thought that I would frame a fine photograph Charles had given me of a lioness, and would make a new inscription20, the [213]motto of the old Highland21 Clan22 Chattan—with which our family is remotely connected—"Touch not the cat but a glove."[1]
[1] Anglicè "without a glove."
"Put on your gloves next time, Master Philip!" I thought. "I shall make no more of these feeble attempts to keep in my claws, which only tempt23 you to irritate me beyond endurance. We're an ill-tempered family, and you're not the most amiable member of it. For my own part, I can control my temper when it is not running away with me, and be fairly kind to the little ones, so long as they do what I tell them. But, at a crisis like this, I can no more yield to your unreasonable24 wishes, stifle25 my just anger, apologize for a little wrong to you who owe apologies for a big one, and pave the way to peace with my own broken will, than the leopard26 can change his spots."
"And yet—if I could!"
It broke from me almost like a cry, "If my besetting sin is a sin, if I have given way to it under provocation—if this moment is the very hardest of the battle, and the day is almost lost—and if now, even now, I could turn round and tread down this Satan under my feet. If this were to-morrow morning, and I had done it—O my soul, what triumph, what satisfaction in past prayers, what hope for the future!
[214]"Then thou shouldest believe the old legends of sinners numbered with the saints, of tyrants27 taught to be gentle, of the unholy learning to be pure—for one believes with heartiness28 what he has experienced—then text and picture and cross should hang on, in spite of frailty29, and in this sign shalt thou conquer."
One ought to be very thankful for the blessings30 of good health and strong nerves, but I sometimes wish I could cry more easily. I should not like to be like poor Mrs. Rampant, whose head or back is always aching, and whose nerves make me think of the strings31 of an ?olian harp32, on which Mr. Rampant, like rude Boreas, is perpetually playing with the tones of his voice, the creak of his boots, and the bang of his doors. But her tears do relieve, if they exhaust her, and back-ache cannot be as bad as heart-ache—hot, dry heart-ache, or cold, hard heart-ache. I think if I could have cried I could have felt softer. As it was I began to wish that I could do what I felt sure that I could not.
If I dragged myself to Philip, and got out a few conciliatory words, I should break down in a worse fury than before if he sneered33 or rode the high horse, "as he probably would," thought I.
On my little carved Prayer-book shelf lay with other volumes a copy of à Kempis, which had belonged to my mother. Honesty had already whis[215]pered that if I deliberately34 gave up the fight with evil this must be banished35 with my texts and pictures. At the present moment a familiar passage came into my head:
"When one that was in great anxiety of mind, often wavering between fear and hope, did once humbly36 prostrate37 himself in prayer, and said, 'O if I knew that I should persevere38!' he presently heard within him an answer from GOD, which said, 'If thou didst know it, what would'st thou do? Do what thou would'st do then, and thou shalt be safe.'"
Supposing I began to do right, and trusted the rest? I could try to speak to Philip, and it would be something even if I stopped short and ran away. Or if I could not drag my feet to him, I could take Aunt Isobel's advice, and pray. I might not be able to speak civilly to Philip, or even to pray about him in my present state of mental confusion, but I could repeat some prayer reverently39. Would it not be better to start on the right road, even if I fell by the way?
I crossed the room in three strides to the place where I usually say my prayers. I knelt, and folded my hands, and shut my eyes, and began to recite the Te Deum in my head, trying to attend to it. I did attend pretty well, but it was mere40 attention, till I felt slightly softened41 at the verse—"Make them to be numbered with Thy saints in glory everlasting42." For my young mother was very good, and I always [216]think of her when the choir43 comes to that verse on Sundays.
"Vouchsafe44, O Lord, to keep us this day without sin." "It's too late to ask that," thought I, with that half of my brain which was not attending to the words of the Te Deum, "and yet there is a little bit of the day left which will be dedicated45 either to good or evil."
I prayed the rest, "O Lord, have mercy upon us, have mercy upon us. O Lord, let Thy mercy lighten upon us, as our trust is in Thee. O Lord, in Thee have I trusted, let me never be confounded!" and with the last verse there came from my heart a very passion of desire for strength to do the will of GOD at the sacrifice of my own. I flung myself on the floor with inarticulate prayers that were very fully46 to the point now, and they summed themselves up again in the old words, "In Thee, O Lord, have I trusted, let me never be confounded!"
When I raised my head I caught sight of the picture, and for an instant felt a superstitious47 thrill. The finely drawn48 face shone with a crimson49 glow. But in a moment more I saw the cause, and exclaimed—"The sun is setting! I must speak to Philip before it goes down."
What should I say? Somehow, now, my judgment50 felt very clear and decisive. I would not pre[217]tend that he had been in the right, but I would acknowledge where I had been in the wrong. I had been disobliging about Mr. Clinton, and I would say so, and offer to repair that matter. I would regret having lost my temper, and say nothing about his. I would not offer to deprive Charles of his part, or break my promise of the white feather; but I would make a new part for Mr. Clinton, and he should be quite welcome to any finery in my possession except Charles's plume51. This concession52 was no difficulty to me. Bad as our tempers are, I am thankful to say they are not mean ones. If I dressed out Mr. Clinton at all, it would come natural to do it liberally. I would do all this—if I could. I might break down into passion at the mere sight of Philip and the properties, but at least I would begin "as if I knew I should persevere."
At this moment the front door was shut with a bang which shook the house.
It was Philip going to catch the 4.15. I bit my lips, and began to pull on my boots, watching the red sun as it sank over the waste of marshland which I could see from my window. I must try to overtake him, but I could run well, and I suspected that he would not walk fast. I did not believe that he was really pleased at the break-up of our plans and the prospect53 of a public exposure of our squabbles, [218]though as a family we are always willing to make fools of ourselves rather than conciliate each other.
My things were soon on, and I hurried from my room. In the window-seat of the corridor was Alice. The sight of her reproached me. She slept in my room, but I jealously retained full power over it, and when I locked myself in she dared not disturb me.
"I'm afraid you've been wanting to come in," said I. "Do go in now."
"Thank you," said Alice, "I've nowhere to go to." Then tightening54 her lips, she added, "Philip's gone."
"You always do spoil Philip, because he's your twin," she said, at last; "you wouldn't do it for me."
"Oh, Alice, you don't know. I'd much rather do it for you, girls are so much less aggravating56 than boys. But don't try and make it harder for me to make peace."
"I beg your pardon, Isobel. If you do, you're an angel. I couldn't, to save my life."
At the head of the stairs I met Charles.
"He's gone," said he significantly, and bestriding the balustrades, he shot to the foot. When I reached him he was pinching the biceps muscle of his arm.
[219]"Feel, Isobel," said he, "It's hard, isn't it?"
"Very, Charles, but I'm in a hurry."
"Look here," he continued, with an ugly expression on his face, "I'm going into training. I'm going to eat bits of raw mutton, and dumb-bell. Wait a year, wait half a year, and I shall be able to thrash him. I'll make him remember these theatricals. I don't forget. I haven't forgot his bursting my football out of spite."
It is not pleasant to see one's own sins reflected on other faces. I could not speak.
By the front door was Bobby. He was by way of looking out of the portico57 window, but his swollen58 eyes could not possibly have seen anything.
"Oh, Isobel, Isobel!" he sobbed59, "Philip's gone, and taken the D—d—d—dragon with him, and we're all m—m—m—miserable."
"Don't cry, Bobby," said I, kissing him. "Finish your cloak, and be doing anything you can. I'm going to try and bring Philip back."
"Oh, thank you, thank you, Isobel! If only he'll come back I don't care what I do. Or I'll give up my parts if he wants them, and be a scene-shifter, if you'll lend me your carpet-slippers, and make me a paper cap."
"GOD has given you a very sweet temper, Bobby," said I, solemnly. "I wish I had one like it."
"You're as good as gold," said Bobby. His [220]loving hug added strength to my resolutions, and I ran across the garden and jumped the ha-ha, and followed Philip over the marsh. I do not know whether he heard my steps when I came nearly up with him, but I fancy his pace slackened. Not that he looked round. He was much too sulky.
Philip is a very good-looking boy, much handsomer than I am, though we are alike. But the family curse disfigures his face when he is cross more than any one's, and the back view of him is almost worse than the front. His shoulders get so humped up, and his whole figure is stiff with cross-grained obstinacy60.
"I shall never hold out if he speaks as ungraciously as he looks," thought I in despair. "But I'll not give in till I can hold out no longer."
"Philip!" I said. He turned round, and his face was no prettier to look at than his shoulders.
"What do you want?" (in the costermonger tone.)
"I want you to come back, Philip"—(here I choked).
"I dare say," he sneered, "and you want the properties! But you've got your play, and your amiable Charles, and your talented Alice, and your ubiquitous Bobby. And the audience will be entertained with an [221]unexpected after-piece entitled—'The disobliging disobliged.'"
Oh it was hard! I think if I had looked at Philip's face I must have broken down, but I kept my eyes steadily61 on the crimson sun, which loomed62 large through the marsh mists that lay upon the horizon, as I answered with justifiable63 vehemence64:
"I have a very bad temper, Philip" (I checked the disposition65 to add—"and so have you"), "but I never tell a lie. I have not come after the properties. The only reason for which I have come is to try and make peace." At this point I gathered up all my strength and hurried on, staring at the sun till the bushes near us and the level waste of marsh beyond seemed to vanish in the glow. "I came to say that I am sorry for my share of the quarrel. I lost my temper, and I beg your pardon for that. I was not very obliging about Mr. Clinton, but you had tried me very much. However, what you did wrong, does not excuse me, I know, and if you like to come back, I'll make a new part as you wanted. I can't give him Charles's part, or the feather, but anything I can do, or give up of my own, I will. It's not because of to-night, for you know as well as I do that I do not care twopence what happens when I'm angry, and, after all, we can only say that you've taken the things. But I wanted us to get through these holidays without quarrelling, and I wanted you to enjoy them, and I want to try and be good to you, for you [222]are my twin brother, and for my share of the quarrel I beg your pardon—I can do no more."
Some of this speech had been about as pleasant to say as eating cinders66, and when it was done I felt a sudden sensation (very rare with me) of unendurable fatigue67. As the last words left my lips the sun set, but my eyes were so bedazzled that I am not sure that I should not have fallen, but for an unexpected support. What Philip had been thinking of during my speech I do not know, for I had avoided looking at him, but when it was done he threw the properties out of his arms, and flung them around me with the hug of a Polar bear.
"You ill-tempered!" he roared. "You've the temper of an angel, or you would never have come after me like this. Isobel, I am a brute68, I have behaved like a brute all the week, and I beg your pardon."
I retract69 my wishes about crying, for when I do begin, I cry in such a very disagreeable way—no spring shower, but a perfect tempest of tears. Philip's unexpected generosity70 upset me, and I sobbed till I frightened him, and he said I was hysterical71. The absurdity72 of this idea set me off into fits of laughing, which, oddly enough, seemed to distress73 him so much that I stopped at last, and found breath to say, [223]"Then you'll come home?"
"If you'll have me. And never mind about Clinton, I'll get out of it. The truth is, Isobel, you and Alice did snub him from the first, and that vexed74 me; but I am disappointed in him. He does brag75 so, and I've had to take that fowling-piece to the gunsmith's already, so I know what it's worth. I did give Clinton a hint about it, and—would you believe it?—he laughed, and said he thought he had got the best of that bargain. I said, 'I hope you have, if it isn't an even one, for I should be very sorry to think I had cheated a friend!' But he either did not or wouldn't see it. He's a second-rate sort of fellow, I'm sure, and I'm sorry I promised to let him act. But I'll get out of it, you shan't be bothered by him."
"No, no," said I, "if you promised I'd much rather. It won't bother me at all."
(It is certainly a much pleasanter kind of dispute when the struggle is to give, and not to take!)
"You can't fit him in now?" said Philip doubtfully.
"Oh yes, I can." I felt sure that I could. I have often been short of temper for our amusements, but never of ideas. Philip tucked the properties under one arm, and me under the other, and as we ran homewards over the marsh, I threaded Mr. Clinton into the plot with [224]perfect ease.
"We'll have a second Prince, and he shall have an enchanted76 shield, which shall protect him from you—though he can't kill you—for Charles must do that. He shall be in love with the Princess too, but just when he and Charles are going to fight for her, the Fairy Godmother shall sprinkle him with the Waters of Memory, and break a spell which had made him forget his own Princess in a distant land. You know, Philip, if he does act well, he may make a capital part of it. It will be a splendid scene. We have two real metal swords, and as they are flashing in the air—enter the Fairy with the carved claret jug78. When he is sprinkled he must drop his sword, and put his hands to his head. He will recall the picture of his own Princess, and draw it out and kiss it (I can lend him my locket miniature of great-grandpapa). Charles and he must swear eternal friendship, and then he will pick up his sword, and exit right centre, waving the golden shield, to find his Princess. It will look very well, and as he goes out the Princess can enter left in distraction79 about the combat, and she and Charles can fall in each other's arms, and be blessed by the Fairy."
"Capital!" said Philip. "What a head you have! But you're out of breath? We're running too fast."
"Not a bit," said I, "it refreshes me. Do you [225]remember when you and I used to run hand in hand from the top to the bottom of Breakneck Hill? Oh, Philip, I do wish we could never quarrel any more! I think we might keep our tempers if we tried."
"You might," said Philip, "because you are good. But I shall always be a brute."
(Just what I said to Aunt Isobel! Must every one learn his own lessons for himself? I had a sort of unreasonable feeling that my experience ought to serve for the rest of our ill-tempered family into the bargain.)
Philip's spirits rose higher and higher. Of course he was delighted to be out of the scrape. I am sure he was glad to be friendly again, and he was hotter than ever for the theatricals.
So was I. I felt certain that they would be successful now. But far above and beyond the comfort of things "coming right," and the pleasure of anticipated fun, my heart was rocked to a higher peace. In my small religious experiences I had never known this triumph, this thankfulness before. Circumstances, not self-control, had helped me out of previous quarrels; I had never really done battle, and gained a conquest over my besetting sin. Now, however imperfectly and awkwardly, I yet had fought. If Philip had been less generous I might have failed, but the effort had been real—and it had been [226]successful. Henceforth my soul should fight with the prestige of victory, with the courage that comes of having striven and won, trusted and not been confounded.
The first person we met after we got in was Aunt Isobel. She had arrived in our absence. No doubt she had heard the whole affair, but she is very good, and never gauche80 and she only said—
"Here come the stage-managers! Now what can I do to help? I have had some tea, and am ready to obey orders till the curtain rings up."
Boys do not carry things off well. Philip got very red, but I said—"Oh, please come to the nursery, Aunt Isobel. There are lots of things to do." She came, and was invaluable81. I never said anything about the row to her, and she never said anything to me. That is what I call a friend!
The first thing Philip did was to unlock the property-box in his room and bring the Dragon and things back. The second thing he did was to mend the new scene by replacing the bit he had cut out, glueing canvas on behind it, and touching82 up with paint where it joined.
We soon put straight what had been disarranged. Blinds were drawn, candles lighted, seats fixed83, and the theatre began to look like itself. Aunt Isobel and I were bringing in the footlights, when we saw [227]Bobby at the extreme right of the stage wrapped in his cloak, and contemplating84, with apparent satisfaction, twelve old hats and six pasteboard bandboxes which were spread before him.
"My dear Bobby, what are these?" said Aunt Isobel. Bobby hastily—almost stammeringly—explained,
"I am Twelve Travellers, you know, Aunt Isobel."
"Dear me!" said Aunt Isobel.
"I'll show you how I am going to do it," said Bobby.
"Here are twelve old hats—I have had such work to collect them!—and six bandboxes."
"Only six?" said Aunt Isobel with commendable85 gravity.
"But there are the lids," said Bobby; "six of them, and six boxes, make twelve, you know. I've only one cloak, but it's red on one side and blue on the other, and two kinds of buttons. Well; I come on left for the First Traveller, with my cloak the red side out, and this white chimney-pot hat."
"Ah!" said Aunt Isobel.
"And one of the bandboxes under my cloak. The Dragon attacks me in the centre, and drives me off the right, where I smash up the bandbox, which sounds like him crunching86 my bones. Then I roll [228]the thunder, turn my cloak to the blue side, put on this wideawake, and come on again with a bandbox lid and crunch87 that, and roll more thunder, and so on. I'm the Faithful Attendant and the Bereaved88 Father as well," added Bobby, with justifiable pride, "and I would have done the Dragon if they would have let me."
But even Bobby did not outdo the rest of us in willingness. Alice's efforts were obvious tokens of remorse89; she waited on Philip, was attentive90 to Mr. Clinton (who, I think, to this day believes that he made himself especially acceptable to "the young ladies"), and surpassed herself on the stage. Charles does not "come round" so quickly, but at the last moment he came and offered to yield the white plume. I confess I was rather vexed with Mr. Clinton for accepting it, but Alice and I despoiled91 our best hats of their black ostrich92 feathers to make it up to Charles, and he said, with some dignity, that he should never have offered the white one if he had not meant it to be accepted.
One thing took us by surprise. We had had more trouble over the dressing93 of the new Prince than the costumes and make-up of all the rest of the characters together cost—he was only just torn from the big looking-glass by his "call" to the stage, and, to our amazement, [229]he seemed decidedly unwilling94 to go on.
"It's a very odd thing, Miss Alice," said he in accents so pitiable that I did not wonder that Alice did her best to encourage him,—"it's a most extraordinary thing, but I feel quite nervous."
"You'll be all right when you're once on," said Alice; "mind you don't forget that it depends on you to explain that it's an invincible95 shield."
"The left, the left!" cried Alice. "Now you ought to be on."
"Oh what shall I say?" cried our new hero.
"Say—'Devastating Monster! my arm is mortal, and my sword was forged by human fingers, but this shield is invincible as ——'"
He was greeted with loud applause. He said afterwards that this put his part out of his head, that Alice had told him wrong, and that the shield was too small for him.
As a matter of fact he hammered and stammered98 and got himself and the piece into such confusion, that Philip lost patience as he lay awaiting his cue. With a fierce bellow99 he emerged from his cask, and roaring, "Avaunt, knight100 of the invincible shield and craven heart!" he crossed the stage with the full [230]clatter of his canvas joints101, and chased Mr. Clinton off at the left centre.
Once behind the scenes, he refused to go on again. He said that he had never played without a proper part at his uncle's in Dublin, and thought our plan quite a mistake. Besides which, he had got toothache, and preferred to join the audience, which he did, and the play went on without him.
I was acting102 as stage-manager in the intervals103 of my part, when I noticed Mr. Clinton (not the ex-Prince, but his father, the surgeon) get up, and hastily leave his place among the spectators. But just as I was wondering at this, I was recalled to business by delay on the part of Bobby, who ought to have been on (with the lights down) as the Twelfth Traveller.
I found him at the left wing, with all the twelve hats fitted one over another, the whole pile resting on a chair.
"Bob, what are you after? You ought to be on."
"All right," said Bob, "Philip knows. He's lashing77 his tail and doing some business till I'm ready. Help me to put this cushion under my cloak for a hump-back, will you? I didn't like the twelfth hat, it's too like the third one, so I'm going on as a Jew Pedlar. Give me that box. Now!" And before I [231]could speak a roar of applause had greeted Bobby as he limped on in his twelve hats, crying, "Oh tear, oh tear! dish ish the tarkest night I ever shaw."
But either we acted unusually well, or our audience was exceptionally kind, for it applauded everything and everybody till the curtain fell.
"Behind the scenes" is always a place of confusion after amateur theatricals; at least it used to be with us. We ran hither and thither104, lost our every-day shoes, washed the paint from our faces, and mislaid any number of towels, and combs, and brushes, ate supper by snatches, congratulated ourselves on a successful evening, and were kissed all around by Granny, who came behind the scenes for the purpose.
All was over, and the guests were gone, when I gave an invitation to the others to come and make lemon-brew105 over my bedroom fire as an appropriate concluding festivity. (It had been suggested by Bobby.) I had not seen Philip for some time, but we were all astonished to hear that he had gone out. We kept his "brew" hot for him, and Charles and Bobby were both nodding—though they stoutly106 refused to go to bed,—when his step sounded in the corridor, and he knocked and came hastily in.
Everybody roused up.
"Oh, Philip, we've been wondering where you [232]were! Here's your brew, and we've each kept a little drop, to drink your good health."
("Mine is all pips," observed Bobby as a parenthesis107.) But Philip was evidently thinking of something else.
"Isobel," he said, standing108 by the table, as if he were making a speech, "I shall never forget your coming after me to-day. I told you you had the temper of an angel."
"So did I," said Alice.
"Hear! hear!" said Bobby, who was sucking his pips one by one and laying them by—"to plant in a pot," as he afterwards explained.
"You not only saved the theatricals," continued Philip, "you saved my life I believe."
No "situation" in the play had been half so startling as this. We remained open-mouthed and silent, whilst Philip sat down as if he were tired, and rested his head on his hands, which were dirty, and stained with something red.
"Haven't you heard about the accident?" he asked.
We all said "No."
"The 4.15 ran into the express where the lines cross, you know. Isobel, there were only two first-class carriages, and everybody in them was killed but one man. They have taken both his legs off, and he's not expected to live. Oh, poor fellow, he did groan109 so!"
[233]
Bobby burst into passionate110 tears, and Philip buried his head on his arms.
Neither Alice nor I could speak, but Charles got up and went round and stood by Philip.
"You've been helping," he said emphatically, "I know you have. You're a good fellow, Philip, and I beg your pardon for saucing you. I am going to forget about the football too. I was going to have eaten raw meat, and dumb-belled, to make myself strong enough to thrash you," added Charles remorsefully111.
"Eat a butcher's shop full, if you like," replied Philip with contempt. And I think it showed that Charles was beginning to practise forbearance, that he made no reply.
Some years have passed since those Twelfth Night theatricals. The Dragon has long been dissolved into his component112 scales, and we never have impromptu113 performances now. The passing fame which a terrible railway accident gave to our insignificant114 station has also faded. But it set a seal on our good resolutions which I may honestly say has not been lightly broken.
There, on the very spot where I had almost resolved never to forgive Philip, never to try to heal the miserable wounds of the family peace, I learned the news of the accident in which he might have been [234]killed. Philip says that if anything could make him behave better to me it is the thought that I saved his life, as he calls it. But if anything could help me to be good to him, surely it must be the remembrance of how nearly I did not save him.
I put Alice on an equality in our bedroom that night, and gave her part-ownership of the text and the picture. We are very happy together.
We have all tried to improve, and I think I may say we have been fairly successful.
More than once I have heard (one does hear many things people say behind one's back) that new acquaintances—people who have only known us lately—have expressed astonishment115, not unmixed with a generous indignation, on hearing that we were ever described by our friends as—A VERY ILL-TEMPERED FAMILY.
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marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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lessened
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| 减少的，减弱的 | |
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fuming
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| 愤怒( fume的现在分词 )； 大怒； 发怒； 冒烟 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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8
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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9
theatricals
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| n.（业余性的）戏剧演出，舞台表演艺术；职业演员；戏剧的( theatrical的名词复数 )；剧场的；炫耀的；戏剧性的 | |
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10
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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11
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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13
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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14
emblem
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| n.象征，标志；徽章 | |
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15
catastrophes
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| n.灾祸( catastrophe的名词复数 )；灾难；不幸事件；困难 | |
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rampant
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| adj.(植物)蔓生的；狂暴的，无约束的 | |
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17
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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18
besetting
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| adj.不断攻击的v.困扰( beset的现在分词 )；不断围攻；镶；嵌 | |
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19
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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20
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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21
highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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22
clan
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| n.氏族，部落，宗族，家族，宗派 | |
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23
tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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24
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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25
stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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26
leopard
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| n.豹 | |
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27
tyrants
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| 专制统治者( tyrant的名词复数 )； 暴君似的人； （古希腊的）僭主； 严酷的事物 | |
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28
heartiness
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| 诚实，热心 | |
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29
frailty
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| n.脆弱；意志薄弱 | |
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30
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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31
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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32
harp
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| n.竖琴；天琴座 | |
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33
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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34
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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35
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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36
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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37
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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38
persevere
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| v.坚持，坚忍，不屈不挠 | |
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39
reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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40
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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41
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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42
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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43
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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44
vouchsafe
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| v.惠予，准许 | |
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45
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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46
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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47
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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48
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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49
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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50
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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51
plume
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| n.羽毛；v.整理羽毛，骚首弄姿，用羽毛装饰 | |
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52
concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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53
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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54
tightening
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| 上紧，固定，紧密 | |
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55
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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56
aggravating
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| adj.恼人的，讨厌的 | |
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57
portico
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| n.柱廊，门廊 | |
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58
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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59
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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60
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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61
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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62
loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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63
justifiable
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| adj.有理由的，无可非议的 | |
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64
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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65
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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66
cinders
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| n.煤渣( cinder的名词复数 )；炭渣；煤渣路；煤渣跑道 | |
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67
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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68
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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69
retract
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| vt.缩回，撤回收回，取消 | |
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70
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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71
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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72
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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73
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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74
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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75
brag
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| v./n.吹牛，自夸；adj.第一流的 | |
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76
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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77
lashing
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| n.鞭打；痛斥；大量；许多v.鞭打( lash的现在分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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78
jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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79
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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80
gauche
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| adj.笨拙的，粗鲁的 | |
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81
invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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82
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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83
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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84
contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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85
commendable
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| adj.值得称赞的 | |
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86
crunching
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| v.嘎吱嘎吱地咬嚼( crunch的现在分词 )；嘎吱作响；（快速大量地）处理信息；数字捣弄 | |
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87
crunch
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| n.关键时刻；艰难局面；v.发出碎裂声 | |
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88
bereaved
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| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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89
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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90
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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91
despoiled
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| v.掠夺，抢劫( despoil的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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92
ostrich
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| n.鸵鸟 | |
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93
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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94
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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95
invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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96
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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97
hustled
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| 催促（hustle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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98
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
bellow
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| v.吼叫，怒吼；大声发出，大声喝道 | |
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100
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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101
joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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102
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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103
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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104
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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105
brew
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| v.酿造，调制 | |
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106
stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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107
parenthesis
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| n.圆括号，插入语，插曲，间歇，停歇 | |
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108
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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109
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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110
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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111
remorsefully
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| adv.极为懊悔地 | |
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112
component
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| n.组成部分，成分，元件；adj.组成的，合成的 | |
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113
impromptu
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| adj.即席的，即兴的；adv.即兴的(地)，无准备的(地) | |
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114
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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115
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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