Vi’s vivid physical beauty and intense joy in life had broadened the horizons of everyone in the house, and set them dreaming. Ruthita, coming down from London, had at once become infatuated. From day to day she had prolonged Vi’s visit, now with one excuse, now another. They had brought Dorrie down to stay with Vi at the shop—little Bee’s Knee as my Grannie called her, because she was so tiny and a bee’s knee was the smallest thing she could think of with which to compare her. It was many years since a child’s prattle5 had been heard about that quiet house. Vi’s comradeship with her little daughter finished the persuading of my grandmother that she was safe and good. All virtuous6 women believe in the virtue7 of a woman who is fond of children.
They were sitting down to lunch in the keeping-room when I entered.
“Why, if it isn’t Dante!”
The greeting I received was in welcome contrast to the cold, guarded reserve of the past seven days. A place was made for me at table between my grandmother and Ruthita. It was a gay little party that waited, watching me curiously8 across the dishes and plates, to hear my news. Just then I preferred the cosiness9 of my grandmother’s shop to the chilly10 dignity of Woadley Hall. Outside the sunshine slanted11 across the courtyard, leaving one half in shadow, the other golden white. The maid, coming in and out from the kitchen in her rustling12 print-dress, with her smiling country face, was a pleasanter sight than the butler at Woadley. From the shop came the smell of tar13 and rope and new-made bread. Everything was so frank and kindly14, and unashamed of itself. Here in the keeping-room of the ship-chandler’s shop we were humanly intimate—“coxy-loxy” as my grandmother would have expressed it.
I told a sorrowful tale at first, which seemed to foreshadow a sorrowful ending. I spoke16 of the stiff formality of my reception, the garnished17 gentility which had marked my intercourse19 with Sir Charles, the withheld20 confidence—the fact that my mother’s name was scarcely mentioned. Ruthita’s hand sought mine beneath the table; I could feel the fingers tremble.
“This morning,” I said, “he called me into his study. He told me that I must leave within the hour and that our friendship could go no further.”
“The old rascal21!” exclaimed Grandmother Cardover, bringing down her knife and fork on her plate with a clatter22. “What was he a-doin’, gettin’ you there to Woadley? He must ‘a’ known what we all expected.”
I tilted23 back my chair, putting on an expression of long-suffering melancholy24. “He wanted to see what I was like, I suppose. His chief reason was that he wanted to make a new will.”
Babel broke loose. Why hadn’t I told them earlier? Why had I harrowed up their feelings for nothing? What were the particulars? I was cruel to have kept them in suspense25.
Grandmother Cardover was hysterical26 with joy. She wanted to run out into the streets and tell everybody. She began with the maid in the kitchen, and would have gone on to the men in the bake-house if I hadn’t stopped her by appealing to her curiosity, saying there was more to tell. As for Ruthita, she just put her arms about me and laid her head on my shoulder, crying for sheer gladness. Little Bee’s Knee looked on open-mouthed, shocked that grownups should behave so foolishly. Vi gazed at me with a far-away stare in her eyes, picturing the might-have-beens, and I gazed back at her across the gulf27 that widened between us.
Discretion28 was thrown to the wind. When Vi gathered Dorrie to her and began to excuse herself, she was told that she must stay and make one of the family. Then the story was told again with the new perspective.
With shame and self-reproach I look back and perceive how carelessly I accepted all Ruthita’s admiration29. My new good fortune promised nothing for her; yet she could rejoice in it. In her shy girl’s world, had I known it, I figured as something between a faery-prince and a hero. Through me she looked out into a more generous world of glamour30 than any she had personally experienced.. Poor little Ruthita, with her mouse-like timidity! She had lived all her days in a walled-in garden, treading the dull monotonous31 round of self-sacrificing duties. No one ever credited her with a career of her own. No one stopped to think that she might have dreams and a will of her own. They told her what to do and let their gratitude32 be taken for granted. She humored my father when he was discouraged, did the housekeeping, and took shelter behind the superior social grace of the Snow Lady. We all loved her, but we made the mistake of not telling her—we supposed she knew. All the strong things that men and women do together, all love’s comedy and tragedy, were so much hearsay33 to her.
That afternoon and evening she sat beside me holding my hand with frank affection, making me feel that in loving Vi I was stealing something that belonged to her. More than that, I was feeling for this woman, who had been nothing to me a few weeks ago, a quality of kindness and consideration that I had always withheld from the child-friend who had tiptoed her way up to womanhood beside me.
After tea we mounted to the drawing-room, which was over the shop and faced the street. It was usually occupied only on Sundays and feast-days, or when a visiting Methodist minister had been apportioned34 to my grandmother for entertainment. Faded engravings of sacred subjects and simpering females elaborately framed, hung upon the walls. On the mantelshelf stood some quaint35 specimens36 of Ransby china—red-roofed cottages with grapes ripening37 above the porch, and a lover coming up the path while his lady watched him from the window. The chairs were upholstered in woolwork on canvas, which my grandmother had done in her youth. In one corner stood a heavy rosewood piano on which all the family portraits were arranged. In this room comfort was sacrificed to appearance—the furniture was sedate38 rather than genial39. Nothing was haphazard40 or awry41. The mats and antimacassars never budged42 an inch from their places. No smell of beer, or cheese, or baking bread vulgarized the sacred respectability of its atmosphere.
Here, as we sat together talking, the light began to fade. Heavy footsteps of sailors in their sea-boots, passing down the street from the harbor to the cottages, only emphasized the quiet. We watched the sky grow pink behind the masts of shipping43, then green, then gray. Cordage and rigging were etched distinctly against the gloom of the oncoming night. At the top of the street a light sprang up, then another, then another. The lamp-lighter with his long pole and ladder passed by. Now with the heavy tread of men’s feet the tip-a-tap of girls’ footsteps began to mingle44. Sometimes a snatch of laughter would reach us; then, as if afraid of the sound it made, it died abruptly45 away. While we talked in subdued46 voices, it seemed to me that all the sailor-lovers with their lassies had conspired47 to steal by the house that night. I fell to wondering what it felt like to slip your arm about the waist of a woman you loved, feel her warmth and trust and nearness, feel her head droop48 back against your shoulder, see her face flash up in the starlight and know that, while your lips were trembling against hers, she was abandoning herself soul and body to you in the summer dusk.
Dorrie had crept into her mother’s lap. Her soft breathing told that she was sleeping. One small hand, with fingers crumpled49, rested against her mother’s throat. Someone had called to see Grandmother Cardover, so Vi, Ruth-ita, and I were left alone together. Sitting back in our chairs out of reach of the street-lamp, we could not see the expression on one another’s faces.
“I would give all the world to be you, Mrs. Carpenter,” Ruthita whispered.
“To be me! Why? I sometimes get very tired of it.”
“If I were you I should have Dorrie. It must be very sweet to be a mother. Why is it that she always calls you Vi and never mother?”
“She picked that up from her father. I never corrected her because—well, because somehow I like it. It makes me seem younger.”
“You don’t need to seem young,” I interrupted.
“How old do you think I am?”
“About the same age as myself and Ruthita.”
She laughed. “That couldn’t be; Dorrie is eight.”
“Then I give up guessing.”
“I’m twenty-seven. I was little more than a child, you see, when I married.”
“Mother married early,” said Ruthita, “and my papa was only twenty at the time. She says that early marriages turn out happiest.”
Vi made no answer. The silence grew awkward. We could almost hear one another’s thoughts trying to hide. Why had she explained in that tone of half-apology, “I was little more than a child; you see, when I married.” Why didn’t she say something now? Was it because an early marriage had proved for her disastrous50? Then, if it had, what moral obligation separated us? Who was this husband who could dispense51 with her for a year, and yet had the power to stretch out his arm across the Atlantic and thrust me aside?
She leant forward. The light from the street-lamp kindled52 her face and smoldered53 in her hair. She had the wistful, rapt expression of a young girl, ignorant as yet of the bitter-sweet of love, who dreams of an ideal lover. I felt then that her soul was virgin54; it had never been a man’s possession. It was almost mine.
Ruthita’s remark about the happiness of early marriages was forgotten, when Vi returned to the subject. “They may be sometimes,” she said, speaking doubtfully.
She caught my eye resting on her. Conscious that her qualification had divulged55 a secret, she hurried into an implied defense56 of her husband.
“I had a letter from Mr. Carpenter this morning. He’s lonely. He says he can’t bear to be without me any longer. He wants me to return home at once. He’s not seen Dorrie for nearly a year. He’s afraid she’ll forget him entirely57. If I don’t go to him, he says he’ll come and fetch me. It’s been horrid58 of me to stay away so long. When we left, we only intended to be gone for three months. Somehow the time lengthened59. I wanted to see so much. He’s been too easy with me. He’s been awfully60 kind. He always has been kind. He treats me like a spoilt child.”
She had been speaking so eagerly and hurriedly that she had not heard the creaking of the stairs. Through the darkness I could see my grandmother standing61 in the doorway62. Vi turned to Ruthita with a pretense63 of gaiety, “No wonder you English don’t understand us. Don’t you think that American husbands are very patient?”
“I’m sure I do,” said Ruthita. “What makes them so different from English husbands?”
“They love their wives.”
It was impossible to tell from the bantering64 tone in Vi’s voice, whether she spoke the last words in cynicism or sincerity65.
Grandmother Cardover took her literally66. Her national pride was touched. She believed that an aspersion67 had been cast on the affection of all married Englishmen. She advanced into the room with suspicions aroused, bristling68 with morality. “If that’s what they call love in America,” she snorted, “then it’s glad I am that I was born in Ransby. ‘They shall be one flesh’—that’s what the Holy Book says about marriage. And ’ow can you be one flesh if you stay away from one another a twelvemonth at a time? Why, when my Will’am was alive, I never slept a night away from ’im, from the day we was married to the day he died.”
The darkness about her seemed to quiver with indignation. I could see her gray curls bobbing, and hear the keys hanging from her waist jangle, as she trembled. Ruthita cowered69 close to me, shocked and frightened. Dorrie woke and began to whimper to be taken to bed. We all waited for a natural expression of anger from Vi.
She set Dorrie on to her feet very gently, whispering to her mothering words, telling her not to cry. Drawing herself up, she faced into the darkness. When she spoke there was a sweet, low pleading in her voice.
“Mrs. Cardover, you took me too seriously. I’m sorry. You misunderstood me. I believe all that you have said—a wife ought to be her husband’s companion. There have been reasons for my long absence, which I cannot explain; if I did, you might not understand them. But I want you always to believe well of me. I have never had such kindness from any woman as you have given me.”
I heard my Grannie sniffle. Vi must have heard Her, She left Dorrie and, running across the room, put her arms about her. I heard them blaming themselves, and taking everything back, the way women do when they ask forgiveness. I lifted Dorrie into my arms, and Ruthita and I tiptoed from the room.
Presently they came down to us. Grandmother Cardover was smiling comically, as though she was rather pleased at what had happened. Vi said that she must be going. Ruthita and I volunteered to accompany her back to her lodgings70. So the storm in the tea-cup ended, leaving me with new materials for conjecture71 and reflection.
On the way up the High Street we chatted volubly, trying to overlay what had occurred with a new impression. We talked against time and without sincerity. When we had reached the black flint house and the door had shut, Ruthita snuggled close to me with a relieved little sigh. Ever since my return from Woadley she had been waiting for this moment of privacy. With a sweet sisterly air of proprietorship72 she slipped her arm through mine. We turned down a score and struck out across the denes to the north beach, where we could be quiet. A wet wind from the sea pattered about our faces, giving Ruthita an excuse to cling yet more closely.
You would not have called Ruthita beautiful in those days. She lacked the fire that goes with beauty. She was too humble73 in her self-esteem, too self-effacing. But one who had looked closely would have discerned something more lasting74 than mere75 physical beauty—the loveliness of a pure spirit looking out from her quiet eyes. She was one of those domestic saints, unaware76 of their own goodness, that one sometimes finds in middle-class families; women who are never heard of, who live only through their influence on their menfolk’s lives.
Her features were small, but perfect. Her figure slight, and buoyant in its carriage. Her complexion77 white, but ready to suffuse78 with color at the least sign of appreciation79. Her glory was in her hair, which was black and abundant as night. From a child I had always thought that her feet and hands were most beautiful in their fragile tininess. I never told her any of these flattering observations, which would have meant so much if put into words. Brothers don’t—and I was as good as her brother.
“Don’t you think,” said Ruthita, “that there’s something awfully queer about Mrs. Carpenter’s marriage? I’ve been with her nearly a week now, and I’ve never heard her mention her husband until to-night.”
“And Dorrie doesn’t speak of him either.”
“No, I’ve noticed that.”
Then Ruthita surprised me. “Do you know, Dante, I think to marry the wrong man must be purgatory80.”
I was amused at the note of seriousness in her voice.
“Ruthie, to hear you speak one’d suppose you’d been in love. Have you ever thought that you’ll have to marry some day?”
“Of course I have.”
“What’ll he have to be like?”
She held her tongue. My jauntiness81 had made her shy. “Come, Ruthie,” I said, “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I hate to own that you’re grown up. I didn’t think you’d given a thought to marriage. Tell me, what’ll he have to be like?”
I halted, swinging her round so she had to look up in my face. She wore a hunted look of cornered perplexity.
“I’ve never spoken of these things even to mother,” she said. “They all treat me as though I were still a child.”
I wondered what was her trouble. The searchlight swept her. I saw the eagerness for confession82 on her trembling mouth.
The fire which her beauty had always lacked leapt up. I was amazed at the transformation83. She looked reckless. The mask of maidenly84 tranquillity85 had slipped aside; I saw all the longing86 of her unnoticed womanhood focused for an instant in her eyes. The search-light traveled out to sea again. I repeated, “What must he be like?”
She reached up to me, so that her lips almost touched mine. “I think he must be like you,” she whispered.
Of all answers that was the last I had expected. I had thought myself on the brink87 of some great discovery—that she, too, had some secret lover. I slipped my arm about her and we strolled on through the darkness in silence. Ahead the harbor-lights, reflected across the water, drew nearer. We climbed the beach and the sea-wall, and made our way across the denes to the town.
“You’re all wrong,” I said. “Some day, when you do fall in love, you’ll get a better standard.”
We entered the lamp-lit town. For the rest of the evening we did not say much. I was thinking how easy it is for two people to live always together and yet never to understand each other. Who would have guessed that little Ruthita had this hunger to be loved?
While we were seated at breakfast next morning, someone walked across the shop and tapped on the door of the keeping-room. Before any of us could spring up, Lawyer Seagirt entered.
“Keep your seats. Keep your seats,” he said cheerily. “I’m sure you’ll excuse this early call when you hear what I’ve come about.”
With his back to the empty fireplace, he straddled the hearthrug, bowing first to my grandmother, then to Ruthita. Then he settled his gaze on me, with the beaming benevolence88 of a bachelor uncle. He cleared his throat.
“Ahem! Ahem! Mr. Cardover, I congratulate you. After you left yesterday, Sir Charles spoke of you with considerable feeling. He expressed sentiments concerning you which from him meant much—much more than if uttered by any other man. For many years he has honored me with his confidence, yet on no occasion do I remember him to have displayed so much emotion. Of course all this is strictly89 between ourselves and must go no further.”
Like three mandarins we nodded.
“It is my pleasant duty to have to inform you, Mr. Cardover, that Sir Charles has been pleased to make you an allowance. It will be paid quarterly on the first day of January, April, July, and October, and will be delivered to you through my hands.”
Again he halted. Grandmother Cardover, losing patience, forgot her manners. “God bless my soul,” she exclaimed, “how the man maunders! How much?”
“Madam,” said Lawyer Seagirt, “the amount is four hundred pounds per annum.”
The good man had never found himself so popular. He was made to sit down to table with us, despite his protests that he had breakfasted already. The money might have been coming out of his own pocket for all the fuss we made of him. Every now and then the fact of my prosperity would strike Grandmother Cardover afresh. Throwing up her hands she would exclaim, “Four ’undred pounds, and he’s got two ’undred already from his fellowship! It’s more than I’ve ever earned in any year with all my wear and tear. Just you wait till his pa ’ears about it!”
That morning I took Ruthita to Norwich. She was puzzled when I told her to get ready to come. All the way over in the train she kept trying to guess my purpose. The truth was I had contrasted her with Vi. Vi was not only exquisite in herself, but as expensively exquisite as fine clothes could make her. Ruthita, on the other hand, had the appearance of making the most genteel impression at the minimum expenditure90 of money. My father’s means were narrow, and she was not his daughter; therefore the Snow Lady insisted on making most of her own and Ruthita’s dresses. Rigid91 economies had been exercised; stuffs had been turned, and dyed, and made over again. Now that I could afford it, I was determined92 to see what fine feathers could do for this shy little sister.
When the gowns came home, even Ruthita was surprised at the prettiness that filmy muslins and French laces accentuated93 in her.
“My word, Ruthie, you’re a dainty little armful. You won’t have to wait long for that lover now,” I told her, when she came down into the keeping-room to show herself to me.
She pouted94 and made a face at me like a child. “I don’t want lovers,” she laughed. “I only want my big brother.”
When she had gone upstairs my grandmother turned to me. “You can go too far with her, Dannie.” She only called me Dannie when she was saying something serious or a little wounding. “You can go too far with her, Dannie. I should advise you to be careful.”
“What are you driving at?” I asked bluntly.
“Just this, that however you may pretend to one another, she isn’t your sister and you aren’t her brother. Any day you may wake something up in her that you didn’t mean to.”
“Stuff and nonsense,” I replied. “At heart she’s only a child.”
“All I can say is you’re going the right way to work to make her a woman,” my grandmother said shortly.
That afternoon I persuaded Ruthita to put on all her finery and come for a walk on the esplanade. I wanted her to lose her timidity and to discover for herself that she was as good as anybody. I felt a boyish pride in walking beside her; she was my creation—I had dressed her.
We had passed the pier95 and entered the long trim walk, lined with sculptured Neptunes, which runs along the seafront from Ransby to Pakewold, when a figure which had a morbid96 interest for me came in sight. It was that of a buxom97 broad-hipped woman, handsome in her own bold fashion, leading by the hand an over-dressed, half-witted child. As she drew nearer, the rouge98 on her face became discernible. She strolled with a swagger through the fashionable crowd, eyeing the men with sly effrontery99. She was known in Ransby by the nickname of “Lady Halloway.” She was the bathing-machine man’s daughter, and had been the victim of one of my cousin’s earliest amorous100 adventures. It was commonly believed that he was the father of her child.
Since the news had got abroad that I had supplanted101 Halloway in my grandfather’s favor, she had glowered102 at me, with undisguised hostility103, whenever we met.
As we passed, Ruthita’s parasol just touched her. It was the woman’s fault, for she had crowded us purposely. I raised my hat, muttering an apology, and was on the point of moving forward, when she wrenched104 the parasol from Ruthita’s hand and flung it to the ground. Ruthita stared at her too surprised to say a word. The woman herself, for the moment, was too infuriated to express herself. All the bitterness of a deserted105 mistress, the pent-up resentment106 against years of contempt and the false pride with which she had brazened out her shame among her fellow-townsmen, came to the surface and found an excuse for utterance107. People nearest to us halted in their promenade108 and, gathering109 round, began to form the nucleus110 of an audience. An audience for her oratory111 was what “Lady Halloway” most desired. Her lips were drawn112 back from her teeth and her hands were clenched113; anger re-created her into something almost magnificent and wholly brutal114. When she spoke, she addressed herself to Ruthita, but her eyes were fixed115 on mine in vixenish defiance116. The over-dressed, top-heavy oddity at her side steadied himself by clinging to her skirts, gazing from one to the other of us with a vacant, wondering expression.
I picked up Ruthita’s parasol and handed it back to her, whispering that she should go on. The woman heard me.
“Yes, go on, my fine lady,” she sneered117 in savage118 sarcasm119. “Go on. You’re too good ter be zeen a-talkin’ wi’ the likes o’ me. Yer know wot I am. I’m a woman wot’s fallen. I ain’t too bad, ’owsomever, for Mr. Cardover to diddle me out o’ my property. He’s a grand man, Mr. Cardover, wi’ ’is high airs and proud ways. And where do ’e get them from, I ax. From old Cardover’s bake-’ouse around the corner ter be sure, and from ’is mawther, wot ran orf wi’ ’is father and ’ad the good luck ter get married.”
I interrupted her. “I’m very sorry for you,” I said, “but you’ve got to stop this at once. You don’t know what you’re saying, neither does anyone else. Please let us pass.”
She stepped in front of us with her plump arms held up in fighting attitude, blocking our path.
“Zorry for me. Zorry for me,” she laughed, still addressing Ruthita. “I doan’t want ’is zorrow. Your man’s a thief, my gal120, and it’s the likes o’ him wot despises me—me as should be Lady Halloway if I ’ad me rights, me as should be livin’ at Woadley ’All as zoon as Sir Charles be dead and gorn. ’E says ’e’s zorry for me, wi’ the lawful121 heir, the child ’e ’as robbed, a-standin’ in ’is sight. The imperdence of ’im!”
She gave the idiot’s hand a vicious jerk, swinging him in front of her, so that the lawful heir began to holloa. Someone who had newly joined the crowd, inquired what was up.
“Wot’s up, you axed. This gentleman, as ’e calls ’isself, told ’is gal to barge122 inter18 me. That’s wot’s up, and I won’t stand it. ’E’s robbed my kid, wot was heir, o’ wot belongs ter ’im. And ’e’s robbed my ’usband, for ’e’s as good as my ’usband in the sight o’ almighty123 Gawd. ’E treats me like a dorg and tells ’is gal to barge inter me, and ’e thinks I’ll stand it.”
While she had been exploding I had tried to back away from her, but she followed. Now a policeman’s helmet showed above the heads of the spectators. Just then the bathing-machine man strolled up from the beach out of curiosity. Seeing his daughter the center of disturbance124, he fought his way to the front and seized her by the wrists with a threatening gesture. “Yer fool, Lottie,” he panted, “when are yer goin’ ter be done a-disgracin’ o’ me?”
For a moment she was cowed. But as he dragged her away to the bathing-machines, she tore one hand free and shook her fist at me. “’E’s comin’ down to-morrer,” she shouted. “I’ve writ125 and told ’ im wot you’ve been a-doin’ at Woadley.”
Ruthita was trembling all over with disgust and excitement. I took her back to the shop. When I was alone with my grandmother I asked her what kind of a woman Lottie was.
“As nice and kind a little girl as there was in Ransby,” she answered, “until that rascal, Lord Halloway, ruined her.”
Next day I had a chance of judging for myself the worth of Lord Halloway. In the afternoon, just as I was going out, I was told that he was waiting to see me in the shop. I went to meet him prepared for trouble. I found a tall, aristocratic man of about thirty-five, filling up the doorway, looking out into the street with his legs wide apart. He was swinging his cane126 and whistling softly. The impression one got from his back-view was that he was extremely athletic127. When he turned round I saw that he was magnificently proportioned, handsome, high com-plexioned, and graceful128 to the point of affectation. When he smiled and held out his hand, his manner was so winning that every prejudice was for the moment swamped. He had the instinctive129 art of charm.
“Awfully sorry to have to meet you like this for the first time,” he said. “We’re second-cousins, aren’t we? Strange how we’ve managed to miss one another, and being members of the same college and all.”
He had removed his hat, and was leaning against the door-jamb, with his legs crossed. I watched him narrowly while he was talking. I had expected to see a cultured degenerate—the worst type of bounder. Instead of being exhausted130 and nervous with a spurious energy, he was almost military in his upright carriage. He had a daredevil air of careless command, which was so much a part of his breeding that it was impossible to resent it. A man would have summed up his vices131 and virtues132 leniently133 by saying that he was a gay dog. A good woman might well have fallen in love with him, and excused the attraction that his wickedness had for her by saying that she was trying to convert him. The only sign of weakness I could detect was a light inconsequent laugh, strangely out of keeping with the virility134 of his height and breadth; it was like the vain and meaningless giggle135 of a silly woman.
I asked him if he would not come inside. He shook his head, saying that this was not a social visit, but that he had come to apologize. Then he faced me with an openness of countenance136 which impressed me as manly15, but which might have been due to shamelessness.
“I want to tell you how sorry I am for the beastly row you had yesterday. Lottie’s not a bad sort, but she gets fancies and they run away with her. I’ve talked with her, and I can promise you it won’t happen again. She’s been writing me angry letters for the past week, ever since you made it up with Sir Charles. I was afraid something like this would happen, so I thought I’d just run down. I wish I’d managed to get here earlier.”
He stopped suddenly, gazing toward the keeping-room door. Ruthita came out and crossed the shop. She had on one of her new dresses and was on her way to tea with Vi.
He followed her with his eyes till she was gone. There was nothing insulting in the gallantry with which he admired her; he seemed rather surprised—that was all. For a minute he continued conversing137 with me in an absent-minded manner, then he wished me good-by, hoping that we might meet again in Oxford138. I walked out on to the pavement and watched him down the street. Then I hurriedly fetched my hat and followed.
It might have been accidental and I may have been over-suspicious, but his path lay in the same direction as Ruthita’s; he never walked so quickly as to overtake her or so slowly as not to keep her well in sight. When she entered the old flint house, he hesitated, as though the purpose of his errand was gone; then, seeing me out of the tail of his eye, he turned leisurely139 to the left down a score. Next day I heard that he had departed from Ransby.
I could not rid myself for many days of the impression this incident had created. Like a Hogarth canvas, it typified for me the ugly nemesis140 of illicit141 passion in all its grotesque142 nakedness. There was horror in connecting such a man as Halloway with such a woman as Lottie. The horror was emphasized by the child. Yet Lottie had once been “as nice and kind a little girl as there was in Ransby,” until he destroyed her. Doubtless at the time, their sinning had seemed sweet and excusable—much the same as the love of any lover for any lass. Only the result had proved its bitterness.
This thought made me go with a tightened143 rein144. When impulse tempted145 me to give way, the memory of that woman with her half-witted child, brazening out her shame before a crowd of pleasure-seekers on the sunlit esplanade, sprang into my mind and turned me back like the flame of a sword.
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ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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rummaged
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的过去式和过去分词 )； 已经海关检查 | |
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jewelry
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| n.（jewllery）（总称）珠宝 | |
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prattle
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| n.闲谈；v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话；发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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9
cosiness
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| n.舒适，安逸 | |
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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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slanted
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| 有偏见的； 倾斜的 | |
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rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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tar
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| n.柏油，焦油；vt.涂或浇柏油/焦油于 | |
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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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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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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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17
garnished
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| v.给（上餐桌的食物）加装饰( garnish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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18
inter
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| v.埋葬 | |
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19
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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20
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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21
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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22
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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23
tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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24
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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25
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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26
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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27
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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28
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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29
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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30
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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31
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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32
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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33
hearsay
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| n.谣传，风闻 | |
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34
apportioned
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| vt.分摊，分配（apportion的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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35
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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36
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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37
ripening
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的现在分词 )；熟化；熟成 | |
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38
sedate
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| adj.沉着的，镇静的，安静的 | |
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39
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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40
haphazard
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| adj.无计划的，随意的，杂乱无章的 | |
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41
awry
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| adj.扭曲的，错的 | |
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42
budged
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| v.（使）稍微移动( budge的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）改变主意，（使）让步 | |
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43
shipping
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| n.船运（发货，运输，乘船） | |
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44
mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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45
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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46
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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47
conspired
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| 密谋( conspire的过去式和过去分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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48
droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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49
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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50
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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51
dispense
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| vt.分配，分发；配(药)，发(药)；实施 | |
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52
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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53
smoldered
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| v.用文火焖烧，熏烧，慢燃( smolder的过去式 ) | |
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54
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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55
divulged
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| v.吐露，泄露( divulge的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
defense
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| n.防御，保卫；[pl.]防务工事；辩护，答辩 | |
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57
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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58
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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59
lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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61
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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62
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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63
pretense
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| n.矫饰，做作，借口 | |
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64
bantering
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| adj.嘲弄的v.开玩笑，说笑，逗乐( banter的现在分词 )；（善意地）取笑，逗弄 | |
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65
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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66
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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67
aspersion
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| n.诽谤，中伤 | |
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68
bristling
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| a.竖立的 | |
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69
cowered
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的过去式 ) | |
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70
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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71
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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72
proprietorship
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| n.所有（权）；所有权 | |
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73
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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74
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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75
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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76
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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77
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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78
suffuse
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| v.(色彩等)弥漫，染遍 | |
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79
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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80
purgatory
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| n.炼狱；苦难；adj.净化的，清洗的 | |
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81
jauntiness
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| n.心满意足；洋洋得意；高兴；活泼 | |
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82
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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83
transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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84
maidenly
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| adj. 像处女的, 谨慎的, 稳静的 | |
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85
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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86
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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87
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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88
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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89
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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90
expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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91
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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92
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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93
accentuated
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| v.重读( accentuate的过去式和过去分词 )；使突出；使恶化；加重音符号于 | |
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94
pouted
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| v.撅（嘴）( pout的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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95
pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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96
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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97
buxom
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| adj.（妇女）丰满的，有健康美的 | |
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98
rouge
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| n.胭脂，口红唇膏；v.(在…上)擦口红 | |
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99
effrontery
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| n.厚颜无耻 | |
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100
amorous
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| adj.多情的；有关爱情的 | |
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101
supplanted
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| 把…排挤掉，取代( supplant的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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102
glowered
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| v.怒视( glower的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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104
wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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105
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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106
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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107
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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108
promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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109
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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110
nucleus
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| n.核，核心，原子核 | |
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111
oratory
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| n.演讲术；词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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112
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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113
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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114
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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115
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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116
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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117
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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118
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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119
sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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120
gal
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| n.姑娘，少女 | |
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121
lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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122
barge
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| n.平底载货船，驳船 | |
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123
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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124
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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125
writ
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| n.命令状，书面命令 | |
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126
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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127
athletic
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| adj.擅长运动的，强健的；活跃的，体格健壮的 | |
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128
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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129
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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130
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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131
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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132
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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133
leniently
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| 温和地，仁慈地 | |
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134
virility
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| n.雄劲，丈夫气 | |
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135
giggle
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| n.痴笑，咯咯地笑；v.咯咯地笑着说 | |
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136
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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137
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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138
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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139
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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140
nemesis
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| n.给以报应者，复仇者，难以对付的敌手 | |
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141
illicit
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| adj.非法的，禁止的，不正当的 | |
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142
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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143
tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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144
rein
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| n.疆绳，统治，支配；vt.以僵绳控制，统治 | |
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145
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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