It lay in the Melton country, and was equally well placed for Pytchley, Quorn, and Belvoir, besides possessing its own small but very perfect pack of “little ladies,” or the “demoiselles,” as they were severally nicknamed; the game was closely preserved, pheasants were fed on Indian corn till they were the finest birds in the country, and in the little winding1 paths of the elder and bilberry coverts2 thirty first-rate shots, with two loading-men to each, could find flock and feather to amuse them till dinner, with rocketers and warm corners enough to content the most insatiate of knickerbockered gunners. The stud was superb; the cook, a French artist of consummate3 genius, who had a brougham to his own use and wore diamonds of the first water; in the broad beech-studded grassy4 lands no lesser5 thing than doe and deer ever swept through the thick ferns in the sunlight and the shadow; a retinue6 of powdered servants filled the old halls, and guests of highest degree dined in its stately banqueting room, with its scarlet7 and gold, its Vandykes and its Vernets, and yet — there was terribly little money at Royallieu with it all. Its present luxury was purchased at the cost of the future, and the parasite8 of extravagance was constantly sapping, unseen, the gallant9 old Norman-planted oak of the family-tree. But then, who thought of that? Nobody. It was the way of the House never to take count of the morrow. True, any one of them would have died a hundred deaths rather than have had one acre of the beautiful green diadem10 of woods felled by the ax of the timber contractor11, or passed to the hands of a stranger; but no one among them ever thought that this was the inevitable12 end to which they surely drifted with blind and unthinking improvidence13. The old Viscount, haughtiest14 of haughty15 nobles, would never abate16 one jot17 of his accustomed magnificence; and his sons had but imbibed18 the teaching of all that surrounded them; they did but do in manhood what they had been unconsciously molded to do in boyhood, when they were set to Eton at ten with gold dressing-boxes to grace their Dame’s tables, embryo19 Dukes for their cofags, and tastes that already knew to a nicety the worth of the champagnes at the Christopher. The old, old story — how it repeats itself! Boys grow up amid profuse20 prodigality21, and are launched into a world where they can no more arrest themselves than the feather-weight can pull in the lightning stride of the two-year-old, who defies all check and takes the flat as he chooses. They are brought up like young Dauphins, and tossed into the costly22 whirl to float as best they can — on nothing. Then, on the lives and deaths that follow; on the graves where a dishonored alien lies forgotten by the dark Austrian lakeside, or under the monastic shadow of some crumbling23 Spanish crypt; where a red cross chills the lonely traveler in the virgin24 solitudes25 of Amazonian forest aisles26, or the wild scarlet creepers of Australia trail over a nameless mound27 above the trackless stretch of sun-warmed waters — then at them the world “shoots out its lips with scorn.” Not on them lies the blame.
A wintry, watery28 sun was shining on the terraces as Lord Royallieu paced up and down the morning after the Grand Military; his step and limbs excessively enfeebled, but the carriage of his head and the flash of his dark hawk’s eyes as proud and untamable as in his earliest years. He never left his own apartments; and no one, save his favorite “little Berk,” ever went to him without his desire. He was too sensitive a man to thrust his age and ailing30 health in among the young leaders of fashion, the wild men of pleasure, the good wits and the good shots of his son’s set; he knew very well that his own day was past; that they would have listened to him out of the patience of courtesy, but that they would have wished him away as “no end of a bore.” He was too shrewd not to know this; but he was too quickly galled31 ever to bear to have it recalled to him.
He looked up suddenly and sharply: coming toward him he saw the figure of the Guardsman. For “Beauty” the Viscount had no love; indeed, well-nigh a hatred32, for a reason never guessed by others, and never betrayed by him.
Bertie was not like the Royallieu race; he resembled his mother’s family. She, a beautiful and fragile creature whom her second son had loved, for the first years of his life, as he would have thought it now impossible that he could love anyone, had married the Viscount with no affection toward him, while he had adored her with a fierce and jealous passion that her indifference33 only inflamed34. Throughout her married life, however, she had striven to render loyalty35 and tenderness toward a lord into whose arms she had been thrown, trembling and reluctant; of his wife’s fidelity36 he could not entertain a doubt; though, that he had never won her heart, he could not choose but know. He knew more, too; for she had told it him with a noble candor37 before he wedded38 her; knew that the man she did love was a penniless cousin, a cavalry39 officer, who had made a famous name among the wild mountain tribes of Northern India. This cousin, Alan Bertie — a fearless and chivalrous40 soldier, fitter for the days of knighthood than for these — had seen Lady Royallieu at Nice, some three years after her marriage; accident had thrown them across each other’s path; the old love, stronger, perhaps, now than it had ever been, had made him linger in her presence — had made her shrink from sending him to exile. Evil tongues at last had united their names together; Alan Bertie had left the woman he idolized lest slander41 should touch her through him, and fallen two years later under the dark dank forests on the desolate42 moor-side of the hills of Hindostan, where long before he had rendered “Bertie’s Horse” the most famous of all the wild Irregulars of the East.
After her death, Lord Royallieu found Alan’s miniature among her papers, and recalled those winter months by the Mediterranean43 till he cherished, with the fierce, eager, self-torture of a jealous nature, doubts and suspicions that, during her life, one glance from her eyes would have disarmed44 and abashed45. Her second and favorite child bore her family name — her late lover’s name; and, in resembling her race, resembled the dead soldier. It was sufficient to make him hate Bertie with a cruel and savage46 detestation, which he strove indeed to temper, for he was by nature a just man, and, in his better moments, knew that his doubts wronged both the living and the dead; but which colored, too strongly to be dissembled, all his feelings and his actions toward his son, and might both have soured and wounded any temperament47 less nonchalantly gentle and supremely48 careless than Cecil’s.
As it was, Bertie was sometimes surprised at his father’s dislike to him, but never thought much about it, and attributed it, when he did think of it, to the caprices of a tyrannous old man. To be jealous of the favor shown to his boyish brother could never for a moment have come into his imagination. Lady Royallieu with her last words had left the little fellow, a child of three years old, in the affection and the care of Bertie — himself then a boy of twelve or fourteen — and little as he thought of such things now, the trust of his dying mother had never been wholly forgotten.
A heavy gloom came now over the Viscount’s still handsome aquiline49, saturnine50 face, as his second son approached up the terrace; Bertie was too like the cavalry soldier whose form he had last seen standing51 against the rose light of a Mediterranean sunset. The soldier had been dead eight-and-twenty years; but the jealous hate was not dead yet.
Cecile took off his hunting-cap with a courtesy that sat very well on his habitual52 languid nonchalance53; he never called his father anything but “Royal”; rarely saw, still less rarely consulted him, and cared not a straw for his censure54 or opinion; but he was too thoroughbred by nature to be able to follow the underbred indecorum of the day which makes disrespect to old age the fashion. “You sent for me?” he asked, taking the cigarette out of his mouth.
“No, sir,” answered the old lord curtly55; “I sent for your brother. The fools can’t take even a message right now, it seems.”
“Shouldn’t have named us so near alike; it’s often a bore!” said Bertie.
“I didn’t name you, sir; your mother named you,” answered his father sharply; the subject irritated him.
“It’s of no consequence which!” murmured Cecil, with an expostulatory wave of his cigar. “We’re not even asked whether we like to come into the world; we can’t expect to be asked what we like to be called in it. Good-day to you, sir.”
He turned to move away to the house, but his father stopped him; he knew that he had been discourteous57 — a far worse crime in Lord Royallieu’s eyes than to be heartless.
“So you won the Vase yesterday?” he asked pausing in his walk with his back bowed, but his stern, silver-haired head erect58.
“I didn’t — the King did.”
“That’s absurd, sir,” said the Viscount, in his resonant59 and yet melodious60 voice. “The finest horse in the world may have his back broke by bad riding, and a screw has won before now when it’s been finely handled. The finish was tight, wasn’t it?”
“Well — rather. I have ridden closer spins, though. The fallows were light.”
Lord Royallieu smiled grimly.
“I know what the Shire ‘plow’ is like,” he said, with a flash of his falcon61 eyes over the landscape, where, in the days of his youth, he had led the first flight so often; George Rex, and Waterford, and the Berkeleys, and the rest following the rally of his hunting-horn. “You won much in bets?”
“Very fair, thanks.”
“And won’t be a shilling richer for it this day next week!” retorted the Viscount, with a rasping, grating irony62; he could not help darting63 savage thrusts at this man who looked at him with eyes so cruelly like Alan Bertie’s. “You play 5 pound points, and lay 500 pounds on the odd trick, I’ve heard, at your whist in the Clubs — pretty prices for a younger son!”
“Never bet on the odd trick; spoils the game; makes you sacrifice play to the trick. We always bet on the game,” said Cecil, with gentle weariness; the sweetness of his temper was proof against his father’s attacks upon his patience.
“No matter what you bet, sir; you live as if you were a Rothschild while you are a beggar!”
“Wish I were a beggar: fellows always have no end in stock, they say; and your tailor can’t worry you very much when all you have to think about is an artistic64 arrangement of tatters!” murmured Bertie, whose impenetrable serenity65 was never to be ruffled66 by his father’s bitterness.
“You will soon have your wish, then,” retorted the Viscount, with the unprovoked and reasonless passion which he vented67 on everyone, but on none so much as the son he hated. “You are on a royal road to it. I live out of the world, but I hear from it sir. I hear that there is not a man in the Guards — not even Lord Rockingham — who lives at the rate of imprudence you do; that there is not a man who drives such costly horses, keeps such costly mistresses, games to such desperation, fools gold away with such idiocy68 as you do. You conduct yourself as if you were a millionaire, sir; and what are you? A pauper69 on my bounty70, and on your brother Montagu’s after me — a pauper with a tinsel fashion, a gilded71 beggary, a Queen’s commission to cover a sold-out poverty, a dandy’s reputation to stave off a defaulter’s future! A pauper, sir — and a Guardsman!”
The coarse and cruel irony flushed out with wicked, scorching72 malignity73; lashing74 and upbraiding75 the man who was the victim of his own unwisdom and extravagance.
A slight tinge76 of color came on his son’s face as he heard; but he gave no sign that he was moved, no sign of impatience77 or anger. He lifted his cap again, not in irony, but with a grave respect in his action that was totally contrary to his whole temperament.
“This sort of talk is very exhausting, very bad style,” he said, with his accustomed gentle murmur56. “I will bid you good-morning, my lord.”
And he went without another word. Crossing the length of the old-fashioned Elizabethan terrace, little Berk passed him: he motioned the lad toward the Viscount. “Royal wants to see you, young one.”
The boy nodded and went onward78; and, as Bertie turned to enter the low door that led out to the stables, he saw his father meet the lad — meet him with a smile that changed the whole character of his face, and pleasant, kindly79 words of affectionate welcome; drawing his arm about Berkeley’s shoulder, and looking with pride upon his bright and gracious youth.
More than an old man’s preference would be thus won by the young one; a considerable portion of their mother’s fortune, so left that it could not be dissipated, yet could be willed to which son the Viscount chose, would go to his brother by this passionate80 partiality; but there was not a tinge of jealousy81 in Cecil; whatever else his faults he had no mean ones, and the boy was dear to him, by a quite unconscious, yet unvarying, obedience82 to his dead mothers’ wish.
“Royal hates me as game-birds hate a red dog. Why the deuce, I wonder?” he thought, with a certain slight touch of pain, despite his idle philosophies and devil-may-care indifference. “Well — I am good for nothing, I suppose. Certainly I am not good for much, unless it’s riding and making love.”
With which summary of his merits, “Beauty,” who felt himself to be a master in those two arts, but thought himself a bad fellow out of them, sauntered away to join the Seraph83 and the rest of his guests; his father’s words pursuing him a little, despite his carelessness, for they had borne an unwelcome measure of truth.
“Royal can hit hard,” his thoughts continued. “‘A pauper and a Guardsman!’ By Jove! It’s true enough; but he made me so. They brought me up as if I had a million coming to me, and turned me out among the cracks to take my running with the best of them — and they give me just about what pays my groom84’s book! Then they wonder that a fellow goes to the Jews. Where the deuce else can he go?”
And Bertie, whom his gains the day before had not much benefited, since his play-debts, his young brother’s needs, and the Zu–Zu’s insatiate little hands were all stretched ready to devour85 them without leaving a sovereign for more serious liabilities, went, for it was quite early morning, to act the M. F. H. in his fathers’ stead at the meet on the great lawns before the house, for the Royallieu “lady-pack” were very famous in the Shires, and hunted over the same country alternate days with the Quorn. They moved off ere long to draw the Holt Wood, in as open a morning and as strong a scenting87 wind as ever favored Melton Pink.
A whimper and “gone away!” soon echoed from Beebyside, and the pack, not letting the fox hang a second, dashed after him, making straight for Scraptoft. One of the fastest things up-wind that hounds ever ran took them straight through the Spinnies, past Hamilton Farm, away beyond Burkby village, and down into the valley of the Wreake without a check, where he broke away, was headed, tried earths, and was pulled down scarce forty minutes from the find. The pack then drew Hungerton foxhole88 blank, drew Carver’s spinnies without a whimper; and lastly, drawing the old familiar Billesden Coplow, had a short, quick burst with a brace89 of cubs90, and returning, settled themselves to a fine dog fox that was raced an hour-and-half, hunted slowly for fifty minutes, raced again another hour-and-quarter, sending all the field to their “second horses”; and after a clipping chase through the cream of the grass country, nearly saved his brush in the twilight91 when the scent86 was lost in a rushing hailstorm, but had the “little ladies” laid on again like wildfire, and was killed with the “who-whoop!” ringing far and away over Glenn Gorse, after a glorious run — thirty miles in and out — with pace that tired the best of them.
A better day’s sport even the Quorn had never had in all its brilliant annals, and faster things the Melton men themselves had never wanted: both those who love the “quickest thing you ever knew — thirty minutes without a check — such a pace!” and care little whether the finale be “killed” or “broke away,” and those of the old fashion, who prefer “long day, you know, steady as old time; the beauties stuck like wax through fourteen parishes, as I live; six hours, if it were a minute; horses dead-beat; positively92 walked, you know; no end of a day!” but must have the fatal “who-whoop” as conclusion — both of these, the “new style and the old,” could not but be content with the doings of the “demoiselles” from start to finish.
Was it likely that Cecil remembered the caustic93 lash29 of his father’s ironies94 while he was lifting Mother of Pearl over the posts and rails, and sweeping95 on, with the halloo ringing down the wintry wind as the grasslands96 flew beneath him? Was it likely that he recollected97 the difficulties that hung above him while he was dashing down the Gorse happy as a king, with the wild hail driving in his face, and a break of stormy sunshine just welcoming the gallant few who were landed at the death, as twilight fell? Was it likely that he could unlearn all the lessons of his life, and realize in how near a neighborhood he stood to ruin when he was drinking Regency sherry out of his gold flask98 as he crossed the saddle of his second horse, or, smoking, rode slowly homeward; chatting with the Seraph through the leafless, muddy lanes in the gloaming?
Scarcely; it is very easy to remember our difficulties when we are eating and drinking them, so to speak, in bad soups and worse wines in continental99 impecuniosity100; sleeping on them as rough Australian shake-downs, or wearing them perpetually in Californian rags and tatters — it were impossible very well to escape from them then; but it is very hard to remember them when every touch and shape of life is pleasant to us — when everything about us is symbolical101 and redolent of wealth and ease — when the art of enjoyment102 is the only one we are called on to study, and the science of pleasure all we are asked to explore.
It is well-nigh impossible to believe yourself a beggar while you never want sovereigns for whist; and it would be beyond the powers of human nature to conceive your ruin irrevocable while you still eat turbot and terrapin103, with a powdered giant behind your chair daily. Up in his garret a poor wretch104 knows very well what he is, and realizes in stern fact the extremities105 of the last sou, the last shirt, and the last hope; but in these devil-may-care pleasures — in this pleasant, reckless, velvet-soft rush down-hill — in this club-palace, with every luxury that the heart of man can devise and desire, yours to command at your will — it is hard work, then, to grasp the truth that the crossing sweeper yonder, in the dust of Pall106 Mall, is really not more utterly107 in the toils108 of poverty than you are!
“Beauty” was never, in the whole course of his days, virtually or physically109, or even metaphorically110, reminded that he was not a millionaire; much less still was he ever reminded so painfully.
Life petted him, pampered112 him, caressed113 him, gifted him, though of half his gifts he never made use; lodged114 him like a prince, dined him like a king, and never recalled to him by a single privation or a single sensation that he was not as rich a man as his brother-inarms, the Seraph, future Duke of Lyonnesse. How could he then bring himself to understand, as nothing less than truth, the grim and cruel insult his father had flung at him in that brutally115 bitter phrase —“A Pauper and a Guardsman”? If he had ever been near a comprehension of it, which he never was, he must have ceased to realize it when — pressed to dine with Lord Guenevere, near whose house the last fox had been killed, while a groom dashed over to Royallieu for his change of clothes — he caught a glimpse, as they passed through the hall, of the ladies taking their preprandial cups of tea in the library, an enchanting116 group of lace and silks, of delicate hue117 and scented118 hair, of blond cheeks and brunette tresses, of dark velvets and gossamer119 tissue; and when he had changed the scarlet for dinner-dress, went down among them to be the darling of that charmed circle, to be smiled on and coquetted with by those soft, languid aristocrats120, to be challenged by the lustrous121 eyes of his chatelaine and chere amie, to be spoiled as women will spoil the privileged pet of their drawing rooms whom they had made “free of the guild,” and endowed with a flirting123 commission, and acquitted124 of anything “serious.”
He was the recognized darling and permitted property of the young married beauties; the unwedded knew he was hopeless for them, and tacitly left him to the more attractive conquerors125, who hardly prized the Seraph so much as they did Bertie, to sit in their barouches and opera boxes, ride and drive and yacht with them, conduct a Boccaccio intrigue126 through the height of the season, and make them really believe themselves actually in love while they were at the moors127 or down the Nile, and would have given their diamonds to get a new distraction128.
Lady Guenevere was the last of these, his titled and wedded captors; and perhaps the most resistless of all of them. Neither of them believed very much in their attachment129, but both of them wore the masquerade dress to perfection. He had fallen in love with her as much as he ever fell in love, which was just sufficient to amuse him, and never enough to disturb him. He let himself be fascinated, not exerting himself either to resist or advance the affair till he was, perhaps, a little more entangled130 with her than it was, according to his canons, expedient131 to be; and they had the most enchanting — friendship.
Nobody was ever so indiscreet as to call it anything else; and my Lord was too deeply absorbed in the Alderney beauties that stood knee-deep in the yellow straw of his farmyard, and the triumphant132 conquests that he gained over his brother peers’ Shorthorns and Suffolks, to trouble his head about Cecil’s attendance on his beautiful Countess.
They corresponded in Spanish; they had a thousand charming ciphers133; they made the columns of the “Times” and the “Post” play the unconscious role of medium to appointments; they eclipsed all the pages of Calderon’s or Congreve’s comedies in the ingenuities134 with which they met, wrote, got invitations together to the same houses, and arranged signals for mute communication: but there was not the slightest occasion for it all. It passed the time, however, and went far to persuade them that they really were in love, and had a mountain of difficulties and dangers to contend with; it added the “spice to the sauce,” and gave them the “relish of being forbidden.” Besides, an open scandal would have been very shocking to her brilliant ladyship, and there was nothing on earth, perhaps, of which he would have had a more lively dread135 than a “scene”; but his present “friendship” was delightful136, and presented no such dangers, while his fair “friend” was one of the greatest beauties and the greatest coquettes of her time. Her smile was honor; her fan was a scepter; her face was perfect; and her heart never troubled herself or her lovers; if she had a fault, she was a trifle exacting137, but that was not to be wondered at in one so omnipotent138, and her chains, after all, were made of roses.
As she sat in the deep ruddy glow of the library fire, with the light flickering139 on her white brow and her violet velvets; as she floated to the head of her table, with opals shining among her priceless point laces, and some tropical flower with leaves of glistening140 gold crowning her bronze hair; as she glided141 down in a waltz along the polished floor, or bent142 her proud head over ecarte in a musing143 grace that made her opponent utterly forget to mark the king or even play his cards at all; as she talked in the low music of her voice of European imbrogli, and consols and coupons144, for she was a politician and a speculator, or lapsed145 into a beautifully tinted146 study of la femme incomprise, when time and scene suited, when the stars were very clear above the terraces without, and the conservatory147 very solitary148, and a touch of Musset or Owen Meredith chimed in well with the light and shade of the oleanders and the brown luster149 of her own eloquent150 glance — in all these how superb she was!
And if in truth her bosom151 only fell with the falling of Shares, and rose with the rising of Bonds; if her soft shadows were only taken up, like the purple tinting152 under her lashes153, to embellish154 her beauty; if in her heart of hearts she thought Musset a fool, and wondered why “Lucille” was not written in prose, in her soul far preferring “Le Follet”; why — it did not matter, that I can see. All great ladies gamble in stocks nowadays under the rose, and women are for the most part as cold, clear, hard, and practical as their adorers believe them the contrary; and a femme incomprise is so charming, when she avows155 herself comprehended by you, that you would never risk spoiling the confidence by hinting a doubt of its truth. If she and Bertie only played at love; if neither believed much in the other; if each trifled with a pretty gossamer soufflet of passion much as they trifled with the soufflets at dinner; if both tried it to trifle away ennui156 much as they tried staking a Friedrich d’Or at Baden, this light, surface, fashionable, philosophic157 form of a passion they both laughed at, in its hot and serious follies158, suited them admirably. Had it ever mingled159 a grain of bitterness in her ladyship’s Souchong before dinner, or given an aroma160 of bitterness to her lover’s Naples punch in the smoking room, it would have been out of all keeping with themselves and their world.
Nothing on earth is so pleasant as being a little in love; nothing on earth so destructive as being too much so; and as Cecil, in the idle enjoyment of the former gentle luxury, flirted161 with his liege lady that night; lying back in the softest of lounging-chairs, with his dark, dreamy, handsome eyes looking all the eloquence162 in the world, and his head drooped163 till his mustaches were almost touching164 her laces, his Queen of Beauty listened with charmed interest, and to look at him he might have been praying after the poet:
How is it under our control
To love or not to love?
In real truth he was gently murmuring:
“Such a pity that you missed today! Hounds found directly; three of the fastest things I ever knew, one after another; you should have seen the ‘little ladies’ head him just above the Gorse! Three hares crossed us and a fresh fox; some of the pack broke away after the new scent, but old Bluebell165, your pet, held on like death, and most of them kept after her — you had your doubts about Silver Trumpet’s shoulders; they’re not the thing, perhaps, but she ran beautifully all day, and didn’t show a symptom of rioting.”
Cecil could, when needed, do the Musset and Meredith style of thing to perfection, but on the whole he preferred love a la mode; it is so much easier and less exhausting to tell your mistress of a ringing run, or a close finish, than to turn perpetual periods on the luster of her eyes, and the eternity166 of your devotion.
Nor did it at all interfere167 with the sincerity168 of his worship that the Zu–Zu was at the prettiest little box in the world, in the neighborhood of Market Harborough, which he had taken for her, and had been at the meet that day in her little toy trap, with its pair of snowy ponies169 and its bright blue liveries that drove so desperately170 through his finances, and had ridden his hunter Maraschino with immense dash and spirit for a young lady who had never done anything but pirouette till the last six months, and a total and headlong disregard of “purlers” very reckless in a white-skinned, bright-eyed, illiterate171, avaricious172 little beauty, whose face was her fortune; and who most assuredly would have been adored no single moment longer, had she scarred her fair, tinted cheek with the blackthorn, or started as a heroine with a broken nose like Fielding’s cherished Amelia. The Zu–Zu might rage, might sulk, might even swear all sorts of naughty Mabille oaths, most villainously pronounced, at the ascendancy173 of her haughty, unapproachable patrician174 rival — she did do all these things — but Bertie would not have been the consummate tactician175, the perfect flirt122, the skilled and steeled campaigner in the boudoirs that he was, if he had not been equal to the delicate task of managing both the peeress and the ballet-dancer with inimitable ability; even when they placed him in the seemingly difficult dilemma176 of meeting them both, with twenty yards between them, on the neutral ground of the gathering177 to see the Pytchley or the Tailby throw off — a task he had achieved with victorious178 brilliance179 more than once already this season.
“You drive a team, Beauty — never drive a team,” the Seraph had said on occasion, over a confidential180 “sherry-peg” in the mornings, meaning by the metaphor111 of a team Lady Guenevere, the Zu–Zu, and various other contemporaries in Bertie’s affections. “Nothing on earth so dangerous; your leader will bolt, or your off-wheeler will turn sulky, or your young one will passage and make the very deuce of a row; they’ll never go quiet till the end, however clever your hand is on the ribbons. Now, I’ll drive six-inhand as soon as any man — drove a ten-hander last year in the Bois — when the team comes out of the stables; but I’m hanged if I’d risk my neck with managing even a pair of women. Have one clean out of the shafts181 before you trot182 out another!”
To which salutary advice Cecil only gave a laugh, going on his own ways with the “team” as before, to the despair of his fidus Achates; the Seraph being a quarry183 so incessantly184 pursued by dowager-beaters, chaperone-keepers, and the whole hunt of the Matrimonial Pack, with those clever hounds Belle185 and Fashion ever leading in full cry after him, that he dreaded186 the sight of a ballroom187 meet; and, shunning188 the rich preserves of the Salons189, ran to earth persistently190 in the shady Wood of St. John’s, and got — at some little cost and some risk of trapping, it is true, but still efficiently191 — preserved from all other hunters or poachers by the lawless Robin192 Hoods193 aux yeux noirs of those welcome and familiar coverts.
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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coverts
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| n.隐蔽的，不公开的，秘密的( covert的名词复数 )；复羽 | |
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consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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retinue
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| n.侍从；随员 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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parasite
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| n.寄生虫；寄生菌；食客 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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diadem
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| n.王冠，冕 | |
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11
contractor
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| n.订约人，承包人，收缩肌 | |
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12
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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13
improvidence
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| n.目光短浅 | |
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14
haughtiest
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| haughty（傲慢的，骄傲的）的最高级形式 | |
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15
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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16
abate
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| vi.(风势，疼痛等)减弱，减轻，减退 | |
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17
jot
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| n.少量；vi.草草记下；vt.匆匆写下 | |
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18
imbibed
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| v.吸收( imbibe的过去式和过去分词 )；喝；吸取；吸气 | |
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19
embryo
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| n.胚胎，萌芽的事物 | |
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20
profuse
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| adj.很多的，大量的，极其丰富的 | |
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21
prodigality
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| n.浪费，挥霍 | |
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22
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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23
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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24
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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25
solitudes
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| n.独居( solitude的名词复数 )；孤独；荒僻的地方；人迹罕至的地方 | |
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26
aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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27
mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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28
watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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29
lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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30
ailing
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| v.生病 | |
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31
galled
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| v.使…擦痛( gall的过去式和过去分词 )；擦伤；烦扰；侮辱 | |
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32
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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33
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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34
inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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35
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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36
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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37
candor
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| n.坦白，率真 | |
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38
wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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39
cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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40
chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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41
slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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42
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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43
Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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44
disarmed
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| v.裁军( disarm的过去式和过去分词 )；使息怒 | |
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45
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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47
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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48
supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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49
aquiline
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| adj.钩状的，鹰的 | |
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50
saturnine
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| adj.忧郁的，沉默寡言的，阴沉的，感染铅毒的 | |
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51
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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52
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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53
nonchalance
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| n.冷淡，漠不关心 | |
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54
censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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55
curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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56
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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57
discourteous
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| adj.不恭的，不敬的 | |
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58
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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59
resonant
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| adj.(声音)洪亮的，共鸣的 | |
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60
melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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61
falcon
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| n.隼，猎鹰 | |
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62
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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63
darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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64
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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65
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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66
ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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67
vented
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| 表达，发泄（感情，尤指愤怒）( vent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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68
idiocy
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| n.愚蠢 | |
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69
pauper
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| n.贫民，被救济者，穷人 | |
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70
bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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71
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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72
scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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73
malignity
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| n.极度的恶意，恶毒；（病的）恶性 | |
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74
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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75
upbraiding
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| adj.& n.谴责（的）v.责备，申斥，谴责( upbraid的现在分词 ) | |
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76
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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77
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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78
onward
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|
| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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79
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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80
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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81
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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82
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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83
seraph
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| n.六翼天使 | |
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84
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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85
devour
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| v.吞没；贪婪地注视或谛听，贪读；使着迷 | |
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86
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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87
scenting
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| vt.闻到（scent的现在分词形式） | |
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88
foxhole
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| n.（军）散兵坑 | |
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89
brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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90
cubs
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| n.幼小的兽，不懂规矩的年轻人( cub的名词复数 ) | |
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91
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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92
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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93
caustic
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| adj.刻薄的，腐蚀性的 | |
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94
ironies
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| n.反语( irony的名词复数 )；冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事；嘲弄 | |
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95
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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96
grasslands
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| n.草原，牧场( grassland的名词复数 ) | |
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97
recollected
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|
| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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98
flask
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| n.瓶，火药筒，砂箱 | |
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99
continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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100
impecuniosity
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| n.（经常）没有钱，身无分文，贫穷 | |
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101
symbolical
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| a.象征性的 | |
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102
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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103
terrapin
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| n.泥龟；鳖 | |
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104
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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105
extremities
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| n.端点( extremity的名词复数 )；尽头；手和足；极窘迫的境地 | |
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106
pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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107
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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108
toils
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| 网 | |
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109
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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110
metaphorically
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| adv. 用比喻地 | |
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111
metaphor
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| n.隐喻，暗喻 | |
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112
pampered
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| adj.饮食过量的，饮食奢侈的v.纵容，宠，娇养( pamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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113
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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114
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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115
brutally
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| adv.残忍地，野蛮地，冷酷无情地 | |
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116
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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117
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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118
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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119
gossamer
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| n.薄纱，游丝 | |
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120
aristocrats
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| n.贵族( aristocrat的名词复数 ) | |
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121
lustrous
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| adj.有光泽的；光辉的 | |
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122
flirt
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| v.调情，挑逗，调戏；n.调情者，卖俏者 | |
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123
flirting
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的现在分词 ) | |
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124
acquitted
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| 宣判…无罪( acquit的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（自己）作出某种表现 | |
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125
conquerors
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| 征服者，占领者( conqueror的名词复数 ) | |
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126
intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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127
moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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128
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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129
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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130
entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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131
expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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132
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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133
ciphers
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| n.密码( cipher的名词复数 )；零；不重要的人；无价值的东西 | |
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134
ingenuities
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| 足智多谋，心灵手巧( ingenuity的名词复数 ) | |
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135
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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136
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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137
exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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138
omnipotent
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| adj.全能的，万能的 | |
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139
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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140
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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141
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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142
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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143
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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144
coupons
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| n.礼券( coupon的名词复数 )；优惠券；订货单；参赛表 | |
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145
lapsed
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| adj.流失的，堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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146
tinted
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| adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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147
conservatory
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| n.温室，音乐学院；adj.保存性的，有保存力的 | |
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148
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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149
luster
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| n.光辉；光泽，光亮；荣誉 | |
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150
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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151
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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152
tinting
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| 着色，染色（的阶段或过程） | |
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153
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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154
embellish
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| v.装饰，布置；给…添加细节，润饰 | |
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155
avows
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| v.公开声明，承认( avow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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156
ennui
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| n.怠倦，无聊 | |
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157
philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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158
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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159
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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160
aroma
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| n.香气，芬芳，芳香 | |
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161
flirted
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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162
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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163
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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164
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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165
bluebell
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| n.风铃草 | |
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166
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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167
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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168
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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169
ponies
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| 矮种马，小型马( pony的名词复数 )； ￡25 25 英镑 | |
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170
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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171
illiterate
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| adj.文盲的；无知的；n.文盲 | |
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172
avaricious
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| adj.贪婪的，贪心的 | |
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173
ascendancy
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| n.统治权，支配力量 | |
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174
patrician
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| adj.贵族的，显贵的；n.贵族；有教养的人；罗马帝国的地方官 | |
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175
tactician
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| n. 战术家, 策士 | |
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176
dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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177
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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178
victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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179
brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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180
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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181
shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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182
trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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183
quarry
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| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
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184
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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185
belle
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| n.靓女 | |
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186
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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187
ballroom
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| n.舞厅 | |
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188
shunning
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的现在分词 ) | |
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189
salons
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| n.（营业性质的）店( salon的名词复数 )；厅；沙龙（旧时在上流社会女主人家的例行聚会或聚会场所）；（大宅中的）客厅 | |
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190
persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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191
efficiently
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| adv.高效率地，有能力地 | |
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192
robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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193
hoods
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| n.兜帽( hood的名词复数 )；头巾；（汽车、童车等的）折合式车篷；汽车发动机罩v.兜帽( hood的第三人称单数 )；头巾；（汽车、童车等的）折合式车篷；汽车发动机罩 | |
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