Poetic15 justice had been dealt to Diaper the poet. He thought of all he had sacrificed for this woman — the comfortable quarters, the friend, the happy flights. He could not but accuse her of unfaithfulness in leaving him in his old age. Habit had legalized his union with her. He wrote as pathetically of the break of habit as men feel at the death of love; and when we are old and have no fair hope tossing golden locks before us, a wound to this our second nature is quite as sad. I know not even if it be not actually sadder.
Day by day Richard visited his mother. Lady Blandish and Ripton alone were in the secret. Adrian let him do as he pleased. He thought proper to tell him that the public recognition he accorded to a particular lady was, in the present state of the world, scarcely prudent16.
“’Tis a proof to me of your moral rectitude, my son, but the world will not think so. No one character is sufficient to cover two — in a Protestant country especially. The divinity that doth hedge a Bishop17 would have no chance in contact with your Madam Dana?. drop the woman, my son. Or permit me to speak what you would have her hear.”
Richard listened to him with disgust.
“Well, you’ve had my doctorial warning,” said Adrian, and plunged18 back into his book.
When Lady Feverel had revived to take part in the consultations19 Mrs. Berry perpetually opened on the subject of Richard’s matrimonial duty, another chain was cast about him. “Do not, oh, do not offend your father!” was her one repeated supplication20. Sir Austin had grown to be a vindictive21 phantom22 in her mind. She never wept but when she said this.
So Mrs. Berry, to whom Richard had once made mention of Lady Blandish as the only friend he had among women, bundled off in her black-satin dress to obtain an interview with her, and an ally. After coming to an understanding on the matter of the visit, and reiterating23 many of her views concerning young married people, Mrs. Berry said: “My lady, if I may speak so bold, I’d say the sin that’s bein’ done is the sin o’ the lookers-on. And when everybody appear frightened by that young gentleman’s father, I’ll say — hopin’ your pardon — they no cause be frighted at all. For though it’s nigh twenty year since I knew him, and I knew him then just sixteen months — no more — I’ll say his heart’s as soft as a woman’s, which I’ve cause for to know. And that’s it. That’s where everybody’s deceived by him, and I was. It’s because he keeps his face, and makes ye think you’re dealin’ with a man of iron, and all the while there’s a woman underneath24. And a man that’s like a woman he’s the puzzle o’ life! We can see through ourselves, my lady, and we can see through men, but one o’ that sort — he’s like somethin’ out of nature. Then I say — hopin’ be excused — what’s to do is for to treat him like a woman, and not for to let him ‘ave his own way — which he don’t know himself, and is why nobody else do. Let that sweet young couple come together, and be wholesome25 in spite of him, I say; and then give him time to come round, just like a woman; and round he’ll come, and give ’em his blessin’, and we shall know we’ve made him comfortable. He’s angry because matrimony have come between him and his son, and he, woman-like, he’s wantin’ to treat what is as if it isn’t. But matrimony’s a holier than him. It began long long before him, and it’s be hoped will endoor long’s the time after, if the world’s not coming to rack — wishin’ him no harm.”
Now Mrs. Berry only put Lady Blandish’s thoughts in bad English. The lady took upon herself seriously to advise Richard to send for his wife. He wrote, bidding her come. Lucy, however, had wits, and inexperienced wits are as a little knowledge. In pursuance of her sage26 plan to make the family feel her worth, and to conquer the members of it one by one, she had got up a correspondence with Adrian, whom it tickled27. Adrian constantly assured her all was going well: time would heal the wound if both the offenders28 had the fortitude29 to be patient: he fancied he saw signs of the baronet’s relenting: they must do nothing to arrest those favourable30 symptoms. Indeed the wise youth was languidly seeking to produce them. He wrote, and felt, as Lucy’s benefactor31. So Lucy replied to her husband a cheerful rigmarole he could make nothing of, save that she was happy in hope, and still had fears. Then Mrs. Berry trained her fist to indite32 a letter to her bride. Her bride answered it by saying she trusted to time. “You poor marter,” Mrs. Berry wrote back, “I know what your sufferin’s be. They is the only kind a wife should never hide from her husband. He thinks all sorts of things if she can abide33 being away. And you trusting to time, why it’s like trusting not to catch cold out of your natural clothes.” There was no shaking Lucy’s firmness.
Richard gave it up. He began to think that the life lying behind him was the life of a fool. What had he done in it? He had burnt a rick and got married! He associated the two acts of his existence. Where was the hero he was to have carved out of Tom Bakewell! — a wretch34 he had taught to lie and chicane: and for what? Great heavens! how ignoble35 did a flash from the light of his aspirations36 make his marriage appear! The young man sought amusement. He allowed his aunt to drag him into society, and sick of that he made late evening calls on Mrs. Mount, oblivious37 of the purpose he had in visiting her at all. Her man-like conversation, which he took for honesty, was a refreshing38 change on fair lips.
“Call me Bella: I’ll call you Dick,” said she. And it came to be Bella and Dick between them. No mention of Bella occurred in Richard’s letters to Lucy.
Mrs. Mount spoke39 quite openly of herself. “I pretend to be no better than I am,” she said, “and I know I’m no worse than many a woman who holds her head high.” To back this she told him stories of blooming dames40 of good repute, and poured a little social sewerage into his ears.
Also she understood him. “What you want, my dear Dick, is something to do. You went and got married like a — hum! — friends must be respectful. Go into the Army. Try the turf. I can put you up to a trick or two — friends should make themselves useful.”
She told him what she liked in him. “You’re the only man I was ever alone with who don’t talk to me of love and make me feel sick. I hate men who can’t speak to a woman sensibly. — Just wait a minute.” She left him and presently returned with, “Ah, Dick! old fellow! how are you?”— arrayed like a cavalier, one arm stuck in her side, her hat jauntily41 cocked, and a pretty oath on her lips to give reality to the costume. “What do you think of me? Wasn’t it a shame to make a woman of me when I was born to be a man?”
“I don’t know that,” said Richard, for the contrast in her attire42 to those shooting eyes and lips, aired her sex bewitchingly.
“What! you think I don’t do it well?”
“Charming! but I can’t forget. . . . ”
“Now that is too bad!” she pouted43.
Then she proposed that they should go out into the midnight streets arm-inarm, and out they went and had great fits of laughter at her impertinent manner of using her eye-glass, and outrageous44 affectation of the supreme45 dandy.
“They take up men, Dick, for going about in women’s clothes, and vice46 versaw, I suppose. You’ll bail47 me, old fellaa, if I have to make my bow to the beak48, won’t you? Say it’s becas I’m an honest woman and don’t care to hide the — a — unmentionables when I wear them — as the t’others do,” sprinkled with the dandy’s famous invocations.
He began to conceive romance in that sort of fun.
“You’re a wopper, my brave Dick! won’t let any peeler take me? by Jove!”
And he with many assurances guaranteed to stand by her, while she bent49 her thin fingers trying the muscle of his arm, and reposed50 upon it more. There was delicacy51 in her dandyism. She was a graceful52 cavalier.
“Sir Julius,” as they named the dandy’s attire, was frequently called for on his evening visits to Mrs. Mount. When he beheld53 Sir Julius he thought of the lady, and “vice versaw,” as Sir Julius was fond of exclaiming.
Was ever hero in this fashion wooed?
The woman now and then would peep through Sir Julius. Or she would sit, and talk, and altogether forget she was impersonating that worthy54 fop.
She never uttered an idea or a reflection, but Richard thought her the cleverest woman he had ever met.
All kinds of problematic notions beset55 him. She was cold as ice, she hated talk about love, and she was branded by the world.
A rumour56 spread that reached Mrs. Doria’s ears. She rushed to Adrian first. The wise youth believed there was nothing in it. She sailed down upon Richard. “Is this true? that you have been seen going publicly about with an infamous57 woman, Richard? Tell me! pray, relieve me!”
Richard knew of no person answering to his aunt’s description in whose company he could have been seen.
“Tell me, I say! Don’t quibble. Do you know any woman of bad character?”
The acquaintance of a lady very much misjudged and ill-used by the world, Richard admitted to.
Urgent grave advice Mrs. Doria tendered her nephew, both from the moral and the worldly point of view, mentally ejaculating all the while: “That ridiculous System! That disgraceful marriage!” Sir Austin in his mountain solitude58 was furnished with serious stuff to brood over.
The rumour came to Lady Blandish. She likewise lectured Richard, and with her he condescended59 to argue. But he found himself obliged to instance something he had quite neglected. “Instead of her doing me harm, it’s I that will do her good.”
Lady Blandish shook her head and held up her finger. “This person must be very clever to have given you that delusion60, dear.”
“She is clever. And the world treats her shamefully61.”
“She complains of her position to you?”
“Not a word. But I will stand by her. She has no friend but me.”
“My poor boy! has she made you think that?”
“How unjust you all are!” cried Richard.
“How mad and wicked is the man who can let him be tempted62 so!” thought Lady Blandish.
He would pronounce no promise not to visit her, not to address her publicly. The world that condemned63 her and cast her out was no better — worse for its miserable64 hypocrisy65. He knew the world now, the young man said.
“My child! the world may be very bad. I am not going to defend it. But you have some one else to think of. Have you forgotten you have a wife, Richard?”
“Ay! you all speak of her now. There’s my aunt: ‘Remember you have a wife!’ Do you think I love any one but Lucy? poor little thing! Because I am married am I to give up the society of women?”
“Of women!”
“Isn’t she a woman?”
“Too much so!” sighed the defender66 of her sex.
Adrian became more emphatic67 in his warnings. Richard laughed at him. The wise youth sneered68 at Mrs. Mount. The hero then favoured him with a warning equal to his own in emphasis, and surpassing it in sincerity69.
“We won’t quarrel, my dear boy,” said Adrian. “I’m a man of peace. Besides, we are not fairly proportioned for a combat. Ride your steed to virtue70’s goal! All I say is, that I think he’ll upset you, and it’s better to go a slow pace and in companionship with the children of the sun. You have a very nice little woman for a wife — well, good-bye!”
To have his wife and the world thrown at his face, was unendurable to Richard; he associated them somewhat after the manner of the rick and the marriage. Charming Sir Julius, always gay, always honest, dispersed71 his black moods.
“Why, you’re taller,” Richard made the discovery.
“Of course I am. Don’t you remember you said I was such a little thing when I came out of my woman’s shell?”
“And how have you done it?”
“Grown to please you.”
“Now, if you can do that, you can do anything.”
“And so I would do anything.”
“You would?”
“Honour!”
“Then” . . . his project recurred72 to him. But the incongruity73 of speaking seriously to Sir Julius struck him dumb.
“Then what?” asked she.
“Then you’re a gallant74 fellow.”
“That all?”
“Isn’t it enough?”
“Not quite. You were going to say something. I saw it in your eyes.”
“You saw that I admired you.”
“Yes, but a man mustn’t admire a man.”
“I suppose I had an idea you were a woman.”
“What! when I had the heels of my boots raised half an inch,” Sir Julius turned one heel, and volleyed out silver laughter.
“I don’t come much above your shoulder even now,” she said, and proceeded to measure her height beside him with arch up-glances.
“You must grow more.”
“‘Fraid I can’t, Dick! Bootmakers can’t do it.”
“I’ll show you how,” and he lifted Sir Julius lightly, and bore the fair gentleman to the looking-glass, holding him there exactly on a level with his head. “Will that do?”
“Yes! Oh, but I can’t stay here.”
“Why can’t you?”
“Why can’t I?”
He should have known then — it was thundered at a closed door in him, that he played with fire. But the door being closed, he thought himself internally secure.
Their eyes met. He put her down instantly.
Sir Julius, charming as he was, lost his vogue75. Seeing that, the wily woman resumed her shell. The memory of Sir Julius breathing about her still, doubled the feminine attraction.
“I ought to have been an actress,” she said.
Richard told her he found all natural women had a similar wish.
“Yes! Ah! then! if I had been!” sighed Mrs. Mount, gazing on the pattern of the carpet.
He took her hand, and pressed it.
“You are not happy as you are?”
“No.”
“May I speak to you?”
“Yes.”
Her nearest eye, setting a dimple of her cheek in motion, slid to the corner toward her ear, as she sat with her head sideways to him, listening. When he had gone, she said to herself: “Old hypocrites talk in that way; but I never heard of a young man doing it, and not making love at the same time.”
Their next meeting displayed her quieter: subdued76 as one who had been set thinking. He lauded77 her fair looks. “Don’t make me thrice ashamed,” she petitioned.
But it was not only that mood with her. Dauntless defiance78, that splendidly befitted her gallant outline and gave a wildness to her bright bold eyes, when she would call out: “Happy? who dares say I’m not happy? D’you think if the world whips me I’ll wince79? D’you think I care for what they say or do? Let them kill me! they shall never get one cry out of me!” and flashing on the young man as if he were the congregated80 enemy, add: “There! now you know me!”— that was a mood that well became her, and helped the work. She ought to have been an actress.
“This must not go on,” said Lady Blandish and Mrs. Doria in unison81. A common object brought them together. They confined their talk to it, and did not disagree. Mrs. Doria engaged to go down to the baronet. Both ladies knew it was a dangerous, likely to turn out a disastrous82, expedition. They agreed to it because it was something to do, and doing anything is better than doing nothing. “Do it,” said the wise youth, when they made him a third, “do it, if you want him to be a hermit83 for life. You will bring back nothing but his dead body, ladies — a Hellenic, rather than a Roman, triumph. He will listen to you — he will accompany you to the station — he will hand you into the carriage — and when you point to his seat he will bow profoundly, and retire into his congenial mists.”
Adrian spoke their thoughts. They fretted84; they relapsed.
“Speak to him, you, Adrian,” said Mrs. Doria. “Speak to the boy solemnly. It would be almost better he should go back to that little thing he has married.”
“Almost?” Lady Blandish opened her eyes. “I have been advising it for the last month and more.”
“A choice of evils,” said Mrs. Doria’s sour-sweet face and shake of the head.
Each lady saw a point of dissension, and mutually agreed, with heroic effort, to avoid it by shutting their mouths. What was more, they preserved the peace in spite of Adrian’s artifices85.
“Well, I’ll talk to him again,” he said. “I’ll try to get the Engine on the conventional line.”
“Command him!” exclaimed Mrs. Doria.
“Gentle means are, I think, the only means with Richard,” said Lady Blandish.
Throwing banter86 aside, as much as he could, Adrian spoke to Richard. “You want to reform this woman. Her manner is open — fair and free — the traditional characteristic. We won’t stop to canvass87 how that particular honesty of deportment that wins your approbation88 has been gained. In her college it is not uncommon89. Girls, you know, are not like boys. At a certain age they can’t be quite natural. It’s a bad sign if they don’t blush, and fib, and affect this and that. It wears off when they’re women. But a woman who speaks like a man, and has all those excellent virtues90 you admire — where has she learned the trick? She tells you. You don’t surely approve of the school? Well, what is there in it, then? Reform her, of course. The task is worthy of your energies. But, if you are appointed to do it, don’t do it publicly, and don’t attempt it just now. May I ask you whether your wife participates in this undertaking91?”
Richard walked away from the interrogation. The wise youth, who hated long unrelieved speeches and had healed his conscience, said no more.
Dear tender Lucy! Poor darling! Richard’s eyes moistened. Her letters seemed sadder latterly. Yet she never called to him to come, or he would have gone. His heart leapt up to her. He announced to Adrian that he should wait no longer for his father. Adrian placidly92 nodded.
The enchantress observed that her knight93 had a clouded brow and an absent voice.
“Richard — I can’t call you Dick now, I really don’t know why”— she said, “I want to beg a favour of you.”
“Name it. I can still call you Bella, I suppose?”
“If you care to. What I want to say is this: when you meet me out — to cut it short — please not to recognize me.”
“And why?”
“Do you ask to be told that?”
“Certainly I do.”
“Then look: I won’t compromise you.”
“I see no harm, Bella.”
“No,” she caressed94 his hand, “and there is none. I know that. But,” modest eyelids95 were drooped96, “other people do,” struggling eyes were raised.
“What do we care for other people?”
“Nothing. I don’t. Not that!” snapping her finger, “I care for you, though.” A prolonged look followed the declaration.
“You’re foolish, Bella.”
“Not quite so giddy — that’s all.”
He did not combat it with his usual impetuosity. Adrian’s abrupt97 inquiry98 had sunk in his mind, as the wise youth intended it should. He had instinctively99 refrained from speaking to Lucy of this lady. But what a noble creature the woman was!
So they met in the park; Mrs. Mount whipped past him; and secrecy100 added a new sense to their intimacy101.
Adrian was gratified at the result produced by his eloquence102.
Though this lady never expressed an idea, Richard was not mistaken in her cleverness. She could make evenings pass gaily103, and one was not the fellow to the other. She could make you forget she was a woman, and then bring the fact startlingly home to you. She could read men with one quiver of her half-closed eye-lashes. She could catch the coming mood in a man, and fit herself to it. What does a woman want with ideas, who can do thus much? Keenness of perception, conformity104, delicacy of handling, these be all the qualities necessary to parasites105.
Love would have scared the youth: she banished106 it from her tongue. It may also have been true that it sickened her. She played on his higher nature. She understood spontaneously what would be most strange and taking to him in a woman. Various as the Serpent of old Nile, she acted fallen beauty, humorous indifference107, reckless daring, arrogance108 in ruin. And acting109 thus, what think you? — She did it so well because she was growing half in earnest.
“Richard! I am not what I was since I knew you. You will not give me up quite?”
“Never, Bella.”
“I am not so bad as I’m painted!”
“You are only unfortunate.”
“Now that I know you I think so, and yet I am happier.”
She told him her history when this soft horizon of repentance110 seemed to throw heaven’s twilight111 across it. A woman’s history, you know: certain chapters expunged112. It was dark enough to Richard.
“Did you love the man?” he asked. “You say you love no one now.”
“Did I love him? He was a nobleman and I a tradesman’s daughter. No. I did not love him. I have lived to learn it. And now I should hate him, if I did not despise him.”
“Can you be deceived in love?” said Richard, more to himself than to her.
“Yes. When we’re young we can be very easily deceived. If there is such a thing as love, we discover it after we have tossed about and roughed it. Then we find the man, or the woman, that suits us:— and then it’s too late! we can’t have him.”
“Singular!” murmured Richard, “she says just what my father said.”
He spoke aloud: “I could forgive you if you had loved him.”
“Don’t be harsh, grave judge! How is a girl to distinguish?”
“You had some affection for him? He was the first?”
She chose to admit that. “Yes. And the first who talks of love to a girl must be a fool if he doesn’t blind her.”
“That makes what is called first love nonsense.”
“Isn’t it?”
He repelled113 the insinuation. “Because I know it is not, Bella.”
Nevertheless she had opened a wider view of the world to him, and a colder. He thought poorly of girls. A woman — a sensible, brave, beautiful woman seemed, on comparison, infinitely114 nobler than those weak creatures.
She was best in her character of lovely rebel accusing foul115 injustice116. “What am I to do? You tell me to be different. How can I? What am I to do? Will virtuous117 people let me earn my bread? I could not get a housemaid’s place! They wouldn’t have me — I see their noses smelling! Yes: I can go to the hospital and sing behind a screen! Do you expect me to bury myself alive? Why, man, I have blood: I can’t become a stone. You say I am honest, and I will be. Then let me tell you that I have been used to luxuries, and I can’t do without them. I might have married men — lots would have had me. But who marries one like me but a fool? and I could not marry a fool. The man I marry I must respect. He could not respect me — I should know him to be a fool, and I should be worse off than I am now. As I am now, they may look as pious118 as they like — I laugh at them!”
And so forth119: direr things. Imputations upon wives: horrible exultation120 at the universal peccancy of husbands. This lovely outcast almost made him think she had the right on her side, so keenly her Parthian arrows pierced the holy centres of society, and exposed its rottenness.
Mrs. Mount’s house was discreetly121 conducted: nothing ever occurred to shock him there. The young man would ask himself where the difference was between her and the women of society? How base, too, was the army of banded hypocrites! He was ready to declare war against them on her behalf. His casus belli, accurately122 worded, would have read curiously123. Because the world refused to lure124 the lady to virtue with the offer of a housemaid’s place, our knight threw down his challenge. But the lady had scornfully rebutted125 this prospect126 of a return to chastity. Then the form of the challenge must be: Because the world declined to support the lady in luxury for nothing! But what did that mean? In other words: she was to receive the devil’s wages without rendering127 him her services. Such an arrangement appears hardly fair on the world or on the devil. Heroes will have to conquer both before they will get them to subscribe128 to it.
Heroes, however, are not in the habit of wording their declarations of war at all. Lance in rest they challenge and they charge. Like women they trust to instinct, and graft129 on it the muscle of men. Wide fly the leisurely-remonstrating hosts: institutions are scattered130, they know not wherefore, heads are broken that have not the balm of a reason why. ’Tis instinct strikes! Surely there is something divine in instinct.
Still, war declared, where were these hosts? The hero could not charge down on the ladies and gentlemen in a ballroom131, and spoil the quadrille. He had sufficient reticence132 to avoid sounding his challenge in the Law Courts; nor could he well go into the Houses of Parliament with a trumpet133, though to come to a tussle134 with the nation’s direct representatives did seem the likelier method. It was likewise out of the question that he should enter every house and shop, and battle with its master in the cause of Mrs. Mount. Where, then, was his enemy? Everybody was his enemy, and everybody was nowhere. Shall he convoke135 multitudes on Wimbledon Common? Blue Policemen, and a distant dread10 of ridicule136, bar all his projects. Alas137 for the hero in our day!
Nothing teaches a strong arm its impotence so much as knocking at empty air.
“What can I do for this poor woman?” cried Richard, after fighting his phantom enemy till he was worn out.
“O Rip! old Rip!” he addressed his friend, “I’m distracted. I wish I was dead! What good am I for? Miserable! selfish! What have I done but make every soul I know wretched about me? I follow my own inclinations138 — I make people help me by lying as hard as they can — and I’m a liar139. And when I’ve got it I’m ashamed of myself. And now when I do see something unselfish for me to do, I come upon grins — I don’t know where to turn — how to act — and I laugh at myself like a devil!”
It was only friend Ripton’s ear that was required, so his words went for little: but Ripton did say he thought there was small matter to be ashamed of in winning and wearing the Beauty of Earth. Richard added his customary comment of “Poor little thing!”
He fought his duello with empty air till he was exhausted140. A last letter written to his father procured141 him no reply. Then, said he, I have tried my utmost. I have tried to be dutiful — my father won’t listen to me. One thing I can do — I can go down to my dear girl, and make her happy, and save her at least from some of the consequences of my rashness.
“There’s nothing better for me!” he groaned142. His great ambition must be covered by a house-top: he and the cat must warm themselves on the domestic hearth143! The hero was not aware that his heart moved him to this. His heart was not now in open communion with his mind.
Mrs. Mount heard that her friend was going — would go. She knew he was going to his wife. Far from discouraging him, she said nobly: “Go — I believe I have kept you. Let us have an evening together, and then go: for good, if you like. If not, then to meet again another time. Forget me. I shan’t forget you. You’re the best fellow I ever knew, Richard. You are, on my honour! I swear I would not step in between you and your wife to cause either of you a moment’s unhappiness. When I can be another woman I will, and I shall think of you then.”
Lady Blandish heard from Adrian that Richard was positively144 going to his wife. The wise youth modestly veiled his own merit in bringing it about by saying: “I couldn’t see that poor little woman left alone down there any longer.”
“Well! Yes!” said Mrs. Doria, to whom the modest speech was repeated, “I suppose, poor boy, it’s the best he can do now.”
Richard bade them adieu, and went to spend his last evening with Mrs. Mount.
The enchantress received him in state.
“Do you know this dress? No? It’s the dress I wore when I first met you — not when I first saw you. I think I remarked you, sir, before you deigned145 to cast an eye upon humble146 me. When we first met we drank champagne147 together, and I intend to celebrate our parting in the same liquor. Will you liquor with me, old boy?”
She was gay. She revived Sir Julius occasionally. He, dispirited, left the talking all to her.
Mrs. Mount kept a footman. At a late hour the man of calves148 dressed the table for supper. It was a point of honour for Richard to sit down to it and try to eat. Drinking, thanks to the kindly149 mother nature, who loves to see her children made fools of, is always an easier matter. The footman was diligent150; the champagne corks151 feebly recalled the file-firing at Richmond.
“We’ll drink to what we might have been, Dick,” said the enchantress.
Oh, the glorious wreck152 she looked.
His heart choked as he gulped153 the buzzing wine.
“What! down, my boy?” she cried. “They shall never see me hoist154 signals of distress155. We must all die, and the secret of the thing is to die game, by Jove! Did you ever hear of Laura Fenn? a superb girl! handsomer than your humble servant — if you’ll believe it — a ‘Miss’ in the bargain, and as a consequence, I suppose, a much greater rake. She was in the hunting-field. Her horse threw her, and she fell plump on a stake. It went into her left breast. All the fellows crowded round her, and one young man, who was in love with her — he sits in the House of Peers now — we used to call him ‘Duck’ because he was such a dear — he dropped from his horse to his knees: ‘Laura! Laura! my darling! speak a word to me! — the last!’ She turned over all white and bloody156! ‘I— I shan’t be in at the death!’ and gave up the ghost! Wasn’t that dying game? Here’s to the example of Laura Fenn! Why, what’s the matter? See! it makes a man turn pale to hear how a woman can die. Fill the glasses, John. Why, you’re as bad!”
“It’s give me a turn, my lady,” pleaded John, and the man’s hand was unsteady as he poured out the wine.
“You ought not to listen. Go, and drink some brandy.”
John footman went from the room.
“My brave Dick! Richard! what a face you’ve got!”
He showed a deep frown on a colourless face.
“Can’t you bear to hear of blood? You know, it was only one naughty woman out of the world. The clergyman of the parish didn’t refuse to give her decent burial. We are Christians157! Hurrah158!”
She cheered, and laughed. A lurid159 splendour glanced about her like lights from the pit.
“Pledge me, Dick! Drink, and recover yourself. Who minds? We must all die — the good and the bad. Ashes to ashes — dust to dust — and wine for living lips! That’s poetry — almost. Sentiment: ‘May we never say die till we’ve drunk our fill!’ Not bad — eh? A little vulgar, perhaps, by Jove! Do you think me horrid160?”
“Where’s the wine?” Richard shouted. He drank a couple of glasses in succession, and stared about. Was he in hell, with a lost soul raving161 to him?
“Nobly spoken! and nobly acted upon, my brave Dick! Now we’ll be companions. ‘She wished that heaven had made her such a man.’ Ah, Dick! Dick! too late! too late!”
Softly fell her voice. Her eyes threw slanting162 beams.
“Do you see this?”
She pointed4 to a symbolic163 golden anchor studded with gems164 and coiled with a rope of hair in her bosom165. It was a gift of his.
“Do you know when I stole the lock? Foolish Dick! you gave me an anchor without a rope. Come and see.”
She rose from the table, and threw herself on the sofa.
“Don’t you recognize your own hair! I should know a thread of mine among a million.”
Something of the strength of Samson went out of him as he inspected his hair on the bosom of Delilah.
“And you knew nothing of it! You hardly know it now you see it! What couldn’t a woman steal from you? But you’re not vain, and that’s a protection. You’re a miracle, Dick: a man that’s not vain! Sit here.” She curled up her feet to give him place on the sofa. “Now let us talk like friends that part to meet no more. You found a ship with fever on board, and you weren’t afraid to come alongside and keep her company. The fever isn’t catching166, you see. Let us mingle167 our tears together. Ha! ha! a man said that once to me. The hypocrite wanted to catch the fever, but he was too old. How old are you, Dick?”
Richard pushed a few months forward.
“Twenty-one? You just look it, you blooming boy. Now tell me my age, Adonis! — Twenty —what?”
Richard had given the lady twenty-five years.
She laughed violently. “You don’t pay compliments, Dick. Best to be honest; guess again. You don’t like to? Not twenty-five, or twenty-four, or twenty-three, or — see how he begins to start! — twenty-two. Just twenty-one, my dear. I think, my birthday’s somewhere in next month. Why, look at me, close — closer. Have I a wrinkle?”
“And when, in heaven’s name!” . . . he stopped short.
“I understand you. When did I commence for to live? At the ripe age of sixteen I saw a nobleman in despair because of my beauty. He vowed168 he’d die. I didn’t want him to do that. So to save the poor man for his family, I ran away with him, and I dare say they didn’t appreciate the sacrifice, and he soon forgot to, if he ever did. It’s the way of the world!”
Richard seized some dead champagne, emptied the bottle into a tumbler, and drank it off.
John footman entered to clear the table, and they were left without further interruption.
“Bella! Bella!” Richard uttered in a deep sad voice, as he walked the room.
She leaned on her arm, her hair crushed against a reddened cheek, her eyes half-shut and dreamy.
“Bella!” he dropped beside her. “You are unhappy.”
She blinked and yawned, as one who is awakened169 suddenly. “I think you spoke,” said she.
“You are unhappy, Bella. You can’t conceal170 it. Your laugh sounds like madness. You must be unhappy. So young, too! Only twenty-one!”
“What does it matter? Who cares for me?”
The mighty171 pity falling from his eyes took in her whole shape. She did not mistake it for tenderness, as another would have done.
“Who cares for you, Bella? I do. What makes my misery172 now, but to see you there, and know of no way of helping173 you? Father of mercy! it seems too much to have to stand by powerless while such ruin is going on!”
Her hand was shaken in his by the passion of torment174 with which his frame quaked.
Involuntarily a tear started between her eyelids. She glanced up at him quickly, then looked down, drew her hand from his, and smoothed it, eying it.
“Bella! you have a father alive!”
“A linen175 draper, dear. He wears a white neck-cloth.”
This article of apparel instantaneously changed the tone of the conversation, for he, rising abruptly176, nearly squashed the lady’s lap-dog, whose squeaks177 and howls were piteous, and demanded the most fervent178 caresses179 of its mistress. It was: “Oh, my poor pet Mumpsy, and he didn’t like a nasty great big ugly heavy foot on his poor soft silky — mum — mum — back, he didn’t, and he soodn’t that he — mum — mum — soodn’t; and he cried out and knew the place to come to, and was oh so sorry for what had happened to him — mum — mum — mum — and now he was going to be made happy, his mistress make him happy — mum — mum — mum — moo-o-o-o.”
“Yes!” said Richard, savagely180, from the other end of the room, “you care for the happiness of your dog.”
“A course se does,” Mumpsy was simperingly assured in the thick of his silky flanks.
Richard looked for his hat. Mumpsy was deposited on the sofa in a twinkling.
“Now,” said the lady, “you must come and beg Mumpsy’s pardon, whether you meant to do it or no, because little doggies can’t tell that — how should they? And there’s poor Mumpsy thinking you’re a great terrible rival that tries to squash him all flat to nothing, on purpose, pretending you didn’t see; and he’s trembling, poor dear wee pet! And I may love my dog, sir, if I like; and I do; and I won’t have him ill-treated, for he’s never been jealous of you, and he is a darling, ten times truer than men, and I love him fifty times better. So come to him with me.”
First a smile changed Richard’s face; then laughing a melancholy181 laugh, he surrendered to her humour, and went through the form of begging Mumpsy’s pardon.
“The dear dog! I do believe he saw we were getting dull,” said she.
“And immolated182 himself intentionally183? Noble animal!”
“Well, we’ll act as if we thought so. Let us be gay, Richard, and not part like ancient fogies. Where’s your fun? You can rattle184; why don’t you? You haven’t seen me in one of my characters — not Sir Julius: wait a couple of minutes.” She ran out.
A white visage reappeared behind a spring of flame. Her black hair was scattered over her shoulders and fell half across her brows. She moved slowly, and came up to him, fastening weird185 eyes on him, pointing a finger at the region of witches. Sepulchral186 cadences187 accompanied the representation. He did not listen, for he was thinking what a deadly charming and exquisitely188 horrid witch she was. Something in the way her underlids worked seemed to remind him of a forgotten picture; but a veil hung on the picture. There could be no analogy, for this was beautiful and devilish, and that, if he remembered rightly, had the beauty of seraphs.
His reflections and her performance were stayed by a shriek189. The spirits of wine had run over the plate she held to the floor. She had the coolness to put the plate down on the table, while he stamped out the flame on the carpet. Again she shrieked190: she thought she was on fire. He fell on his knees and clasped her skirts all round, drawing his arms down them several times.
Still kneeling, he looked up, and asked, “Do you feel safe now?”
She bent her face glaring down till the ends of her hair touched his cheek.
Said she, “Do you?”
Was she a witch verily? There was sorcery in her breath; sorcery in her hair: the ends of it stung him like little snakes.
“How do I do it, Dick?” she flung back, laughing.
“Like you do everything, Bella,” he said, and took a breath.
“There! I won’t be a witch; I won’t be a witch: they may burn me to a cinder191, but I won’t be a witch!”
She sang, throwing her hair about, and stamping her feet.
“I suppose I look a figure. I must go and tidy myself.”
“No, don’t change. I like to see you so.” He gazed at her with a mixture of wonder and admiration192. “I can’t think you the same person — not even when you laugh.”
“Richard,” her tone was serious, “you were going to speak to me of my parents.”
“How wild and awful you looked, Bella!”
“My father, Richard, was a very respectable man.”
“Bella, you’ll haunt me like a ghost.”
“My mother died in my infancy193, Richard.”
“Don’t put up your hair, Bella.”
“I was an only child!”
Her head shook sorrowfully at the glistening194 fire-irons. He followed the abstracted intentness of her look, and came upon her words.
“Ah, yes! speak of your father, Bella. Speak of him.”
“Shall I haunt you, and come to your bedside, and cry, ”Tis time’?”
“Dear Bella! if you will tell me where he lives, I will go to him. He shall receive you. He shall not refuse — he shall forgive you.”
“If I haunt you, you can’t forget me, Richard.”
“Let me go to your father, Bella — let me go to him tomorrow. I’ll give you my time. It’s all I can give. O Bella! let me save you.”
“So you like me best dishevelled, do you, you naughty boy! Ha! ha!” and away she burst from him, and up flew her hair, as she danced across the room, and fell at full length on the sofa.
He felt giddy: bewitched.
“We’ll talk of everyday things, Dick,” she called to him from the sofa. “It’s our last evening. Our last? Heigho! It makes me sentimental195. How’s that Mr. Ripson, Pipson, Nipson? — it’s not complimentary196, but I can’t remember names of that sort. Why do you have friends of that sort? He’s not a gentleman. Better is he? Well, he’s rather too insignificant197 for me. Why do you sit off there? Come to me instantly. There — I’ll sit up, and be proper, and you’ll have plenty of room. Talk, Dick!”
He was reflecting on the fact that her eyes were brown. They had a haughty198 sparkle when she pleased, and when she pleased a soft languor199 circled them. Excitement had dyed her cheeks deep red. He was a youth, and she an enchantress. He a hero; she a female will-o’-the-wisp.
The eyes were languid now, set in rosy200 colour.
“You will not leave me yet, Richard? not yet?”
He had no thought of departing.
“It’s our last night — I suppose it’s our last hour together in this world — and I don’t want to meet you in the next, for poor Dick will have to come to such a very, very disagreeable place to make the visit.”
He grasped her hand at this.
“Yes, he will! too true! can’t be helped: they say I’m handsome.”
“You’re lovely, Bella.”
She drank in his homage201.
“Well, we’ll admit it. His Highness below likes lovely women, I hear say. A gentleman of taste! You don’t know all my accomplishments202 yet, Richard.”
“I shan’t be astonished at anything new, Bella.”
“Then hear, and wonder.” Her voice trolled out some lively roulades. “Don’t you think he’ll make me his prima donna below? It’s nonsense to tell me there’s no singing there. And the atmosphere will be favourable to the voice. No damp, you know. You saw the piano — why didn’t you ask me to sing before? I can sing Italian. I had a master — who made love to me. I forgave him because of the music-stool — men can’t help it on a music-stool, poor dears!”
She went to the piano, struck the notes, and sang —
“‘My heart, my heart — I think ’twill break.’
“Because I’m such a rake. I don’t know any other reason. No; I hate sentimental songs. Won’t sing that. Ta-tiddy-tiddy-iddy — a . . . e! How ridiculous those women were, coming home from Richmond!
‘Once the sweet romance of story
Clad thy moving form with grace;
Once the world and all its glory
Was but framework to thy face.
Ah, too fair! — what I remember,
Might my soul recall — but no!
To the winds this wretched ember
Of a fire that falls so low!’
“Hum! don’t much like that. Tum-te-tum-tum — accanto al fuoco — heigho! I don’t want to show off, Dick — or to break down — so I won’t try that.
‘Oh! but for thee, oh! but for thee,
I might have been a happy wife,
And nursed a baby on my knee,
And never blushed to give it life.’
“I used to sing that when I was a girl, sweet Richard, and didn’t know at all, at all, what it meant. Mustn’t sing that sort of song in company. We’re oh! so proper — even we!
‘If I had a husband, what think you I’d do?
I’d make it my business to keep him a lover;
For when a young gentleman ceases to woo,
Some other amusement he’ll quickly discover.’
“For such are young gentlemen made of — made of: such are young gentlemen made of!”
After this trifling203 she sang a Spanish ballad204 sweetly. He was in the mood when imagination intensely vivifies everything. Mere205 suggestion of music sufficed. The lady in the ballad had been wronged. Lo! it was the lady before him; and soft horns blew; he smelt206 the languid night-flowers; he saw the stars crowd large and close above the arid207 plain: this lady leaning at her window desolate208, pouring out her abandoned heart.
Heroes know little what they owe to champagne.
The lady wandered to Venice. Thither209 he followed her at a leap. In Venice she was not happy. He was prepared for the misery of any woman anywhere. But, oh! to be with her! To glide210 with phantom-motion through throbbing211 street; past houses muffled212 in shadow and gloomy legends; under storied bridges; past palaces charged with full life in dead quietness; past grand old towers, colossal213 squares, gleaming quays214, and out, and on with her, on into the silver infinity215 shaking over seas!
Was it the champagne? the music? or the poetry? Something of the two former, perhaps: but most the enchantress playing upon him. How many instruments cannot clever women play upon at the same moment! And this enchantress was not too clever, or he might have felt her touch. She was no longer absolutely bent on winning him, or he might have seen a manoeuvre216. She liked him — liked none better. She wished him well. Her pique217 was satisfied. Still he was handsome, and he was going. What she liked him for, she rather — very slightly — wished to do away with, or see if it could be done away with: just as one wishes to catch a pretty butterfly, without hurting its patterned wings. No harm intended to the innocent insect, only one wants to inspect it thoroughly218, and enjoy the marvel219 of it, in one’s tender possession, and have the felicity of thinking one could crush it, if one would.
He knew her what she was, this lady. In Seville, or in Venice, the spot was on her. Sailing the pathways of the moon it was not celestial220 light that illumined her beauty. Her sin was there: but in dreaming to save, he was soft to her sin — drowned it in deep mournfulness.
Silence, and the rustle221 of her dress, awoke him from his musing222. She swam wave-like to the sofa. She was at his feet.
“I have been light and careless to-night, Richard. Of course I meant it. I must be happy with my best friend going to leave me.”
Those witch underlids were working brightly.
“You will not forget me? and I shall try . . . try. . . . ”
Her lips twitched223. She thought him such a very handsome fellow.
“If I change — if I can change. . . . Oh! if you could know what a net I’m in, Richard!”
Now at those words, as he looked down on her haggard loveliness, not divine sorrow but a devouring224 jealousy225 sprang like fire to his breast, and set him rocking with horrid pain. He bent closer to her pale beseeching226 face. Her eyes still drew him down.
“Bella! No! no! promise me! swear it!”
“Lost, Richard! lost for ever! give me up!”
He cried: “I never will!” and strained her in his arms, and kissed her passionately227 on the lips.
She was not acting now as she sidled and slunk her half-averted head with a kind of maiden228 shame under his arm, sighing heavily, weeping, clinging to him. It was wicked truth.
Not a word of love between them!
Was ever hero in this fashion won?
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收听单词发音
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1
prematurely
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| adv.过早地，贸然地 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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decrepit
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| adj.衰老的，破旧的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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5
strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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imperatively
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| adv.命令式地 | |
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colloquy
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| n.谈话，自由讨论 | |
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smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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18
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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19
consultations
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| n.磋商（会议）( consultation的名词复数 )；商讨会；协商会；查找 | |
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20
supplication
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| n.恳求，祈愿，哀求 | |
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vindictive
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| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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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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reiterating
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的现在分词 ) | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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offenders
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| n.冒犯者( offender的名词复数 )；犯规者；罪犯；妨害…的人（或事物） | |
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fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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32
indite
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| v.写（文章，信等）创作 | |
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abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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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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40
dames
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| n.（在英国）夫人（一种封号），夫人（爵士妻子的称号）( dame的名词复数 )；女人 | |
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jauntily
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| adv.心满意足地；洋洋得意地；高兴地；活泼地 | |
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attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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43
pouted
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| v.撅（嘴）( pout的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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47
bail
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| v.舀（水），保释；n.保证金，保释，保释人 | |
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48
beak
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| n.鸟嘴，茶壶嘴，钩形鼻 | |
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49
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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50
reposed
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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52
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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53
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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54
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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55
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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56
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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57
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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58
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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59
condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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60
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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61
shamefully
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| 可耻地； 丢脸地； 不体面地； 羞耻地 | |
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62
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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63
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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64
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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65
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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66
defender
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| n.保卫者，拥护者，辩护人 | |
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67
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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68
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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69
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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70
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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71
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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72
recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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73
incongruity
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| n.不协调，不一致 | |
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74
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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75
Vogue
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| n.时髦，时尚；adj.流行的 | |
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76
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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77
lauded
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| v.称赞，赞美( laud的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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78
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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79
wince
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| n.畏缩，退避，（因痛苦，苦恼等)面部肌肉抽动；v.畏缩，退缩，退避 | |
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80
congregated
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| （使）集合，聚集( congregate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81
unison
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| n.步调一致，行动一致 | |
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82
disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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83
hermit
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| n.隐士，修道者；隐居 | |
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84
fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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85
artifices
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| n.灵巧( artifice的名词复数 )；诡计；巧妙办法；虚伪行为 | |
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86
banter
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| n.嘲弄，戏谑；v.取笑，逗弄，开玩笑 | |
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87
canvass
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| v.招徕顾客，兜售；游说；详细检查，讨论 | |
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88
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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89
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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90
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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91
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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92
placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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93
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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94
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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95
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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96
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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97
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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98
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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99
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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100
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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101
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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102
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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103
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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104
conformity
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| n.一致，遵从，顺从 | |
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105
parasites
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| 寄生物( parasite的名词复数 )； 靠他人为生的人； 诸虫 | |
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106
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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107
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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108
arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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109
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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110
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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111
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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112
expunged
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| v.擦掉( expunge的过去式和过去分词 )；除去；删去；消除 | |
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113
repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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114
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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115
foul
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|
| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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116
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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117
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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118
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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119
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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120
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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121
discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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122
accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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123
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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124
lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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125
rebutted
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| v.反驳，驳回( rebut的过去式和过去分词 )；击退 | |
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126
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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127
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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128
subscribe
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| vi.(to)订阅，订购；同意；vt.捐助，赞助 | |
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129
graft
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| n.移植，嫁接，艰苦工作，贪污；v.移植，嫁接 | |
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130
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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131
ballroom
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| n.舞厅 | |
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132
reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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133
trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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134
tussle
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| n.&v.扭打，搏斗，争辩 | |
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135
convoke
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| v.召集会议 | |
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136
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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137
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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138
inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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139
liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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140
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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141
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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142
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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143
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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144
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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145
deigned
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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146
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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147
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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148
calves
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| n.(calf的复数)笨拙的男子，腓；腿肚子( calf的名词复数 )；牛犊；腓；小腿肚v.生小牛( calve的第三人称单数 )；（冰川）崩解；生（小牛等），产（犊）；使（冰川）崩解 | |
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149
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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150
diligent
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| adj.勤勉的，勤奋的 | |
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151
corks
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| n.脐梅衣；软木( cork的名词复数 )；软木塞 | |
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152
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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153
gulped
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| v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的过去式和过去分词 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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154
hoist
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| n.升高，起重机，推动；v.升起，升高，举起 | |
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155
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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156
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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157
Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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158
hurrah
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| int.好哇，万岁，乌拉 | |
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159
lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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160
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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161
raving
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| adj.说胡话的；疯狂的，怒吼的；非常漂亮的；令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话；疯话adv.胡言乱语地；疯狂地 | |
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162
slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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163
symbolic
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| adj.象征性的，符号的，象征主义的 | |
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164
gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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165
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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166
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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167
mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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168
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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169
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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170
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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171
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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172
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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173
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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174
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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175
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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176
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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177
squeaks
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| n.短促的尖叫声，吱吱声( squeak的名词复数 )v.短促地尖叫( squeak的第三人称单数 )；吱吱叫；告密；充当告密者 | |
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178
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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179
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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180
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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181
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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182
immolated
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| v.宰杀…作祭品( immolate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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183
intentionally
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| ad.故意地，有意地 | |
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184
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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185
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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186
sepulchral
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| adj.坟墓的，阴深的 | |
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187
cadences
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| n.（声音的）抑扬顿挫( cadence的名词复数 )；节奏；韵律；调子 | |
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188
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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189
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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190
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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191
cinder
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| n.余烬，矿渣 | |
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192
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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193
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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194
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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complimentary
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| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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198
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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199
languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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200
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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201
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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202
accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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203
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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206
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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208
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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209
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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210
glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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211
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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212
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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quays
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| 码头( quay的名词复数 ) | |
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infinity
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| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
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manoeuvre
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| n.策略，调动；v.用策略，调动 | |
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217
pique
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| v.伤害…的自尊心，使生气 n.不满，生气 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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219
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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221
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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224
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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225
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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226
beseeching
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| adj.恳求似的v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的现在分词 ) | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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