'No more of me you knew, my love!'
Stephen Smith revisited Endelstow Vicarage, agreeably to his promise. He had a genuine artistic1 reason for coming, though no such reason seemed to be required. Six-and-thirty old seat ends, of exquisite2 fifteenth-century workmanship, were rapidly decaying in an aisle3 of the church; and it became politic4 to make drawings of their worm-eaten contours ere they were battered5 past recognition in the turmoil6 of the so-called restoration.
He entered the house at sunset, and the world was pleasant again to the two fair-haired ones. A momentary7 pang8 of disappointment had, nevertheless, passed through Elfride when she casually9 discovered that he had not come that minute post-haste from London, but had reached the neighbourhood the previous evening. Surprise would have accompanied the feeling, had she not remembered that several tourists were haunting the coast at this season, and that Stephen might have chosen to do likewise.
They did little besides chat that evening, Mr. Swancourt beginning to question his visitor, closely yet paternally10, and in good part, on his hopes and prospects11 from the profession he had embraced. Stephen gave vague answers. The next day it rained. In the evening, when twenty-four hours of Elfride had completely rekindled12 her admirer's ardour, a game of chess was proposed between them.
The game had its value in helping13 on the developments of their future.
Elfride soon perceived that her opponent was but a learner. She next noticed that he had a very odd way of handling the pieces when castling or taking a man. Antecedently she would have supposed that the same performance must be gone through by all players in the same manner; she was taught by his differing action that all ordinary players, who learn the game by sight, unconsciously touch the men in a stereotyped14 way. This impression of indescribable oddness in Stephen's touch culminated15 in speech when she saw him, at the taking of one of her bishops16, push it aside with the taking man instead of lifting it as a preliminary to the move.
'How strangely you handle the men, Mr. Smith!'
'Do I? I am sorry for that.'
'Oh no--don't be sorry; it is not a matter great enough for sorrow. But who taught you to play?'
'Nobody, Miss Swancourt,' he said. 'I learnt from a book lent me by my friend Mr. Knight17, the noblest man in the world.'
'But you have seen people play?'
'I have never seen the playing of a single game. This is the first time I ever had the opportunity of playing with a living opponent. I have worked out many games from books, and studied the reasons of the different moves, but that is all.'
This was a full explanation of his mannerism19; but the fact that a man with the desire for chess should have grown up without being able to see or engage in a game astonished her not a little. She pondered on the circumstance for some time, looking into vacancy20 and hindering the play.
Mr. Swancourt was sitting with his eyes fixed21 on the board, but apparently22 thinking of other things. Half to himself he said, pending23 the move of Elfride:
'"Quae finis aut quod me manet stipendium?"'
Stephen replied instantly:
'"Effare: jussas cum fide poenas luam."'
'Excellent--prompt--gratifying!' said Mr. Swancourt with feeling, bringing down his hand upon the table, and making three pawns25 and a knight dance over their borders by the shaking. 'I was musing26 on those words as applicable to a strange course I am steering-but enough of that. I am delighted with you, Mr. Smith, for it is so seldom in this desert that I meet with a man who is gentleman and scholar enough to continue a quotation27, however trite28 it may be.'
'I also apply the words to myself,' said Stephen quietly.
'You? The last man in the world to do that, I should have thought.'
'Come,' murmured Elfride poutingly29, and insinuating31 herself between them, 'tell me all about it. Come, construe32, construe!'
Stephen looked steadfastly33 into her face, and said slowly, and in a voice full of a far-off meaning that seemed quaintly34 premature35 in one so young:
'Quae finis WHAT WILL BE THE END, aut OR, quod stipendium WHAT FINE, manet me AWAITS ME? Effare SPEAK OUT; luam I WILL PAY, cum fide WITH FAITH, jussas poenas THE PENALTY REQUIRED.'
The vicar, who had listened with a critical compression of the lips to this school-boy recitation, and by reason of his imperfect hearing had missed the marked realism of Stephen's tone in the English words, now said hesitatingly: 'By the bye, Mr. Smith (I know you'll excuse my curiosity), though your translation was unexceptionably correct and close, you have a way of pronouncing your Latin which to me seems most peculiar36. Not that the pronunciation of a dead language is of much importance; yet your accents and quantities have a grotesque37 sound to my ears. I thought first that you had acquired your way of breathing the vowels39 from some of the northern colleges; but it cannot be so with the quantities. What I was going to ask was, if your instructor40 in the classics could possibly have been an Oxford41 or Cambridge man?'
'Yes; he was an Oxford man--Fellow of St. Cyprian's.'
'Really?'
'Oh yes; there's no doubt about it.
'The oddest thing ever I heard of!' said Mr. Swancourt, starting with astonishment42. 'That the pupil of such a man----'
'The best and cleverest man in England!' cried Stephen enthusiastically.
'That the pupil of such a man should pronounce Latin in the way you pronounce it beats all I ever heard. How long did he instruct you?'
'Four years.'
'Four years!'
'It is not so strange when I explain,' Stephen hastened to say. 'It was done in this way--by letter. I sent him exercises and construing43 twice a week, and twice a week he sent them back to me corrected, with marginal notes of instruction. That is how I learnt my Latin and Greek, such as it is. He is not responsible for my scanning. He has never heard me scan a line.'
'A novel case, and a singular instance of patience!' cried the vicar.
'On his part, not on mine. Ah, Henry Knight is one in a thousand! I remember his speaking to me on this very subject of pronunciation. He says that, much to his regret, he sees a time coming when every man will pronounce even the common words of his own tongue as seems right in his own ears, and be thought none the worse for it; that the speaking age is passing away, to make room for the writing age.'
Both Elfride and her father had waited attentively44 to hear Stephen go on to what would have been the most interesting part of the story, namely, what circumstances could have necessitated45 such an unusual method of education. But no further explanation was volunteered; and they saw, by the young man's manner of concentrating himself upon the chess-board, that he was anxious to drop the subject.
The game proceeded. Elfride played by rote38; Stephen by thought. It was the cruellest thing to checkmate him after so much labour, she considered. What was she dishonest enough to do in her compassion46? To let him checkmate her. A second game followed; and being herself absolutely indifferent as to the result (her playing was above the average among women, and she knew it), she allowed him to give checkmate again. A final game, in which she adopted the Muzio gambit as her opening, was terminated by Elfride's victory at the twelfth move.
Stephen looked up suspiciously. His heart was throbbing47 even more excitedly than was hers, which itself had quickened when she seriously set to work on this last occasion. Mr. Swancourt had left the room.
'You have been trifling48 with me till now!' he exclaimed, his face flushing. 'You did not play your best in the first two games?'
Elfride's guilt49 showed in her face. Stephen became the picture of vexation and sadness, which, relishable52 for a moment, caused her the next instant to regret the mistake she had made.
'Mr. Smith, forgive me!' she said sweetly. 'I see now, though I did not at first, that what I have done seems like contempt for your skill. But, indeed, I did not mean it in that sense. I could not, upon my conscience, win a victory in those first and second games over one who fought at such a disadvantage and so manfully.'
He drew a long breath, and murmured bitterly, 'Ah, you are cleverer than I. You can do everything--I can do nothing! O Miss Swancourt!' he burst out wildly, his heart swelling53 in his throat, 'I must tell you how I love you! All these months of my absence I have worshipped you.'
He leapt from his seat like the impulsive54 lad that he was, slid round to her side, and almost before she suspected it his arm was round her waist, and the two sets of curls intermingled.
So entirely55 new was full-blown love to Elfride, that she trembled as much from the novelty of the emotion as from the emotion itself. Then she suddenly withdrew herself and stood upright, vexed56 that she had submitted unresistingly even to his momentary pressure. She resolved to consider this demonstration57 as premature.
'You must not begin such things as those,' she said with coquettish hauteur58 of a very transparent59 nature 'And--you must not do so again--and papa is coming.'
'Let me kiss you--only a little one,' he said with his usual delicacy60, and without reading the factitiousness of her manner.
'No; not one.'
'Only on your cheek?'
'No.'
'Forehead?'
'Certainly not.'
'You care for somebody else, then? Ah, I thought so!'
'I am sure I do not.'
'Nor for me either?'
'How can I tell?' she said simply, the simplicity61 lying merely in the broad outlines of her manner and speech. There were the semitone of voice and half-hidden expression of eyes which tell the initiated63 how very fragile is the ice of reserve at these times.
Footsteps were heard. Mr. Swancourt then entered the room, and their private colloquy64 ended.
The day after this partial revelation, Mr. Swancourt proposed a drive to the cliffs beyond Targan Bay, a distance of three or four miles.
Half an hour before the time of departure a crash was heard in the back yard, and presently Worm came in, saying partly to the world in general, part]y to himself, and slightly to his auditors65:
'Ay, ay, sure! That frying of fish will be the end of William Worm. They be at it again this morning--same as ever--fizz, fizz, fizz!'
'Your head bad again, Worm?' said Mr. Swancourt. 'What was that noise we heard in the yard?'
'Ay, sir, a weak wambling man am I; and the frying have been going on in my poor head all through the long night and this morning as usual; and I was so dazed wi' it that down fell a piece of legwood across the shaft66 of the pony67-shay, and splintered it off. "Ay," says I, "I feel it as if 'twas my own shay; and though I've done it, and parish pay is my lot if I go from here, perhaps I am as independent as one here and there."'
'Dear me, the shaft of the carriage broken!' cried Elfride. She was disappointed: Stephen doubly so. The vicar showed more warmth of temper than the accident seemed to demand, much to Stephen's uneasiness and rather to his surprise. He had not supposed so much latent sternness could co-exist with Mr. Swancourt's frankness and good-nature.
'You shall not be disappointed,' said the vicar at length. 'It is almost too long a distance for you to walk. Elfride can trot68 down on her pony, and you shall have my old nag69, Smith.'
Elfride exclaimed triumphantly70, 'You have never seen me on horseback--Oh, you must!' She looked at Stephen and read his thoughts immediately. 'Ah, you don't ride, Mr. Smith?'
'I am sorry to say I don't.'
'Fancy a man not able to ride!' said she rather pertly.
The vicar came to his rescue. 'That's common enough; he has had other lessons to learn. Now, I recommend this plan: let Elfride ride on horseback, and you, Mr. Smith, walk beside her.'
The arrangement was welcomed with secret delight by Stephen. It seemed to combine in itself all the advantages of a long slow ramble71 with Elfride, without the contingent72 possibility of the enjoyment73 being spoilt by her becoming weary. The pony was saddled and brought round.
'Now, Mr. Smith,' said the lady imperatively74, coming downstairs, and appearing in her riding-habit, as she always did in a change of dress, like a new edition of a delightful75 volume, 'you have a task to perform to-day. These earrings77 are my very favourite darling ones; but the worst of it is that they have such short hooks that they are liable to be dropped if I toss my head about much, and when I am riding I can't give my mind to them. It would be doing me knight service if you keep your eyes fixed upon them, and remember them every minute of the day, and tell me directly I drop one. They have had such hairbreadth escapes, haven't they, Unity18?' she continued to the parlour-maid who was standing78 at the door.
'Yes, miss, that they have!' said Unity with round-eyed commiseration79.
'Once 'twas in the lane that I found one of them,' pursued Elfride peflectively.
'And then 'twas by the gate into Eighteen Acres,' Unity chimed in.
'And then 'twas on the carpet in my own room,' rejoined Elfride merrily.
'And then 'twas dangling80 on the embroidery81 of your petticoat, miss; and then 'twas down your back, miss, wasn't it? And oh, what a way you was in, miss, wasn't you? my! until you found it!'
Stephen took Elfride's slight foot upon his hand: 'One, two, three, and up!' she said.
Unfortunately not so. He staggered and lifted, and the horse edged round; and Elfride was ultimately deposited upon the ground rather more forcibly than was pleasant. Smith looked all contrition82.
'Never mind,' said the vicar encouragingly; 'try again! 'Tis a little accomplishment83 that requires some practice, although it looks so easy. Stand closer to the horse's head, Mr. Smith.'
'Indeed, I shan't let him try again,' said she with a microscopic84 look of indignation. 'Worm, come here, and help me to mount.' Worm stepped forward, and she was in the saddle in a trice.
Then they moved on, going for some distance in silence, the hot air of the valley being occasionally brushed from their faces by a cool breeze, which wound its way along ravines leading up from the sea.
'I suppose,' said Stephen, 'that a man who can neither sit in a saddle himself nor help another person into one seems a useless incumbrance; but, Miss Swancourt, I'll learn to do it all for your sake; I will, indeed.'
'What is so unusual in you,' she said, in a didactic tone justifiable85 in a horsewoman's address to a benighted86 walker, 'is that your knowledge of certain things should be combined with your ignorance of certain other things.'
Stephen lifted his eyes earnestly to hers.
'You know,' he said, 'it is simply because there are so many other things to be learnt in this wide world that I didn't trouble about that particular bit of knowledge. I thought it would be useless to me; but I don't think so now. I will learn riding, and all connected with it, because then you would like me better. Do you like me much less for this?'
She looked sideways at him with critical meditation88 tenderly rendered.
'Do I seem like LA BELLE89 DAME90 SANS MERCI?' she began suddenly, without replying to his question. 'Fancy yourself saying, Mr. Smith:
"I sat her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A fairy's song,
She found me roots of relish51 sweet,
And honey wild, and manna dew; "
and that's all she did.'
'No, no,' said the young man stilly, and with a rising colour.
'"And sure in language strange she said,
I love thee true."'
'Not at all,' she rejoined quickly. 'See how I can gallop91. Now, Pansy, off!' And Elfride started; and Stephen beheld92 her light figure contracting to the dimensions of a bird as she sank into the distance--her hair flowing.
He walked on in the same direction, and for a considerable time could see no signs of her returning. Dull as a flower without the sun he sat down upon a stone, and not for fifteen minutes was any sound of horse or rider to be heard. Then Elfride and Pansy appeared on the hill in a round trot.
'Such a delightful scamper93 as we have had!' she said, her face flushed and her eyes sparkling. She turned the horse's head, Stephen arose, and they went on again.
'Well, what have you to say to me, Mr. Smith, after my long absence?'
'Do you remember a question you could not exactly answer last night--whether I was more to you than anybody else?' said he.
'I cannot exactly answer now, either.'
'Why can't you?'
'Because I don't know if I am more to you than any one else.'
'Yes, indeed, you are!' he exclaimed in a voice of intensest appreciation94, at the same time gliding95 round and looking into her face.
'Eyes in eyes,' he murmured playfully; and she blushingly obeyed, looking back into his.
'And why not lips on lips?' continued Stephen daringly.
'No, certainly not. Anybody might look; and it would be the death of me. You may kiss my hand if you like.'
He expressed by a look that to kiss a hand through a glove, and that a riding-glove, was not a great treat under the circumstances.
'There, then; I'll take my glove off. Isn't it a pretty white hand? Ah, you don't want to kiss it, and you shall not now!'
'If I do not, may I never kiss again, you severe Elfride! You know I think more of you than I can tell; that you are my queen. I would die for you, Elfride!'
A rapid red again filled her cheeks, and she looked at him meditatively96. What a proud moment it was for Elfride then! She was ruling a heart with absolute despotism for the first time in her life.
Stephen stealthily pounced97 upon her hand.
'No; I won't, I won't!' she said intractably; 'and you shouldn't take me by surprise.'
There ensued a mild form of tussle98 for absolute possession of the much-coveted hand, in which the boisterousness99 of boy and girl was far more prominent than the dignity of man and woman. Then Pansy became restless. Elfride recovered her position and remembered herself.
'You make me behave in not a nice way at all!' she exclaimed, in a tone neither of pleasure nor anger, but partaking of both. 'I ought not to have allowed such a romp24! We are too old now for that sort of thing.'
'I hope you don't think me too--too much of a creeping-round sort of man,' said he in a penitent100 tone, conscious that he too had lost a little dignity by the proceeding101.
'You are too familiar; and I can't have it! Considering the shortness of the time we have known each other, Mr. Smith, you take too much upon you. You think I am a country girl, and it doesn't matter how you behave to me!'
'I assure you, Miss Swancourt, that I had no idea of freak in my mind. I wanted to imprint102 a sweet--serious kiss upon your hand; and that's all.'
'Now, that's creeping round again! And you mustn't look into my eyes so,' she said, shaking her head at him, and trotting103 on a few paces in advance. Thus she led the way out of the lane and across some fields in the direction of the cliffs. At the boundary of the fields nearest the sea she expressed a wish to dismount. The horse was tied to a post. and they both followed an irregular path, which ultimately terminated upon a flat ledge87 passing round the face of the huge blue-black rock at a height about midway between the sea and the topmost verge104. There, far beneath and before them, lay the everlasting105 stretch of ocean; there, upon detached rocks, were the white screaming gulls106, seeming ever intending to settle, and yet always passing on. Right and left ranked the toothed and zigzag107 line of storm-torn heights, forming the series which culminated in the one beneath their feet.
Behind the youth and maiden108 was a tempting109 alcove110 and seat, formed naturally in the beetling111 mass, and wide enough to admit two or three persons. Elfride sat down, and Stephen sat beside her.
'I am afraid it is hardly proper of us to be here, either,' she said half inquiringly. 'We have not known each other long enough for this kind of thing, have we!'
'Oh yes,' he replied judicially112; 'quite long enough.'
'How do you know?'
'It is not length of time, but the manner in which our minutes beat, that makes enough or not enough in our acquaintanceship.'
'Yes, I see that. But I wish papa suspected or knew what a VERY NEW THING I am doing. He does not think of it at all.'
'Darling Elfie, I wish we could be married! It is wrong for me to say it--I know it is--before you know more; but I wish we might be, all the same. Do you love me deeply, deeply?'
'No!' she said in a fluster113.
At this point-blank denial, Stephen turned his face away decisively, and preserved an ominous114 silence; the only objects of interest on earth for him being apparently the three or four-score sea-birds circling in the air afar off.
'I didn't mean to stop you quite,' she faltered115 with some alarm; and seeing that he still remained silent, she added more anxiously, 'If you say that again, perhaps, I will not be quite-quite so obstinate--if--if you don't like me to be.'
'Oh, my Elfride!' he exclaimed, and kissed her.
It was Elfride's first kiss. And so awkward and unused was she; full of striving--no relenting. There was none of those apparent struggles to get out of the trap which only results in getting further in: no final attitude of receptivity: no easy close of shoulder to shoulder, hand upon hand, face upon face, and, in spite of coyness, the lips in the right place at the supreme116 moment. That graceful117 though apparently accidental falling into position, which many have noticed as precipitating118 the end and making sweethearts the sweeter, was not here. Why? Because experience was absent. A woman must have had many kisses before she kisses well.
In fact, the art of tendering the lips for these amatory salutes119 follows the principles laid down in treatises120 on legerdemain121 for performing the trick called Forcing a Card. The card is to be shifted nimbly, withdrawn122, edged under, and withal not to be offered till the moment the unsuspecting person's hand reaches the pack; this forcing to be done so modestly and yet so coaxingly123, that the person trifled with imagines he is really choosing what is in fact thrust into his hand.
Well, there were no such facilities now; and Stephen was conscious of it--first with a momentary regret that his kiss should be spoilt by her confused receipt of it, and then with the pleasant perception that her awkwardness was her charm.
'And you do care for me and love me?' said he.
'Yes.'
'Very much?'
'Yes.'
'And I mustn't ask you if you'll wait for me, and be my wife some day?'
'Why not?' she said naively124.
'There is a reason why, my Elfride.'
'Not any one that I know of.'
'Suppose there is something connected with me which makes it almost impossible for you to agree to be my wife, or for your father to countenance125 such an idea?'
'Nothing shall make me cease to love you: no blemish126 can be found upon your personal nature. That is pure and generous, I know; and having that, how can I be cold to you?'
'And shall nothing else affect us--shall nothing beyond my nature be a part of my quality in your eyes, Elfie?'
'Nothing whatever,' she said with a breath of relief. 'Is that all? Some outside circumstance? What do I care?'
'You can hardly judge, dear, till you know what has to be judged. For that, we will stop till we get home. I believe in you, but I cannot feel bright.'
'Love is new, and fresh to us as the dew; and we are together. As the lover's world goes, this is a great deal. Stephen, I fancy I see the difference between me and you--between men and women generally, perhaps. I am content to build happiness on any accidental basis that may lie near at hand; you are for making a world to suit your happiness.'
'Elfride, you sometimes say things which make you seem suddenly to become five years older than you are, or than I am; and that remark is one. I couldn't think so OLD as that, try how I might....And no lover has ever kissed you before?'
'Never.'
'I knew that; you were so unused. You ride well, but you don't kiss nicely at all; and I was told once, by my friend Knight, that that is an excellent fault in woman.'
'Now, come; I must mount again, or we shall not be home by dinnertime.' And they returned to where Pansy stood tethered. 'Instead of entrusting127 my weight to a young man's unstable128 palm,' she continued gaily129, 'I prefer a surer "upping-stock" (as the villagers call it), in the form of a gate. There--now I am myself again.'
They proceeded homeward at the same walking pace.
Her blitheness130 won Stephen out of his thoughtfulness, and each forgot everything but the tone of the moment.
'What did you love me for?' she said, after a long musing look at a flying bird.
'I don't know,' he replied idly.
'Oh yes, you do,' insisted Elfride.
'Perhaps, for your eyes.'
'What of them?--now, don't vex50 me by a light answer. What of my eyes?'
'Oh, nothing to be mentioned. They are indifferently good.'
'Come, Stephen, I won't have that. What did you love me for?'
'It might have been for your mouth?'
'Well, what about my mouth?'
'I thought it was a passable mouth enough----'
'That's not very comforting.'
'With a pretty pout30 and sweet lips; but actually, nothing more than what everybody has.'
'Don't make up things out of your head as you go on, there's a dear Stephen. Now--what--did--you--love--me--for?'
'Perhaps, 'twas for your neck and hair; though I am not sure: or for your idle blood, that did nothing but wander away from your cheeks and back again; but I am not sure. Or your hands and arms, that they eclipsed all other hands and arms; or your feet, that they played about under your dress like little mice; or your tongue, that it was of a dear delicate tone. But I am not altogether sure.'
'Ah, that's pretty to say; but I don't care for your love, if it made a mere62 flat picture of me in that way, and not being sure, and such cold reasoning; but what you FELT I was, you know,Stephen' (at this a stealthy laugh and frisky131 look into his face),'when you said to yourself, "I'll certainly love that young lady."'
'I never said it.'
'When you said to yourself, then, "I never will love that young lady."'
'I didn't say that, either.'
'Then was it, "I suppose I must love that young lady?"'
'No.'
'What, then?'
''Twas much more fluctuating--not so definite.'
'Tell me; do, do.'
'It was that I ought not to think about you if I loved you truly.'
'Ah, that I don't understand. There's no getting it out of you. And I'll not ask you ever any more--never more--to say out of the deep reality of your heart what you loved me for.'
'Sweet tantalizer132, what's the use? It comes to this sole simple thing: That at one time I had never seen you, and I didn't love you; that then I saw you, and I did love you. Is that enough?'
'Yes; I will make it do....I know, I think, what I love you for. You are nice-looking, of course; but I didn't mean for that. It is because you are so docile133 and gentle.'
'Those are not quite the correct qualities for a man to be loved for,' said Stephen, in rather a dissatisfied tone of selfcriticism. 'Well, never mind. I must ask your father to allow us to be engaged directly we get indoors. It will be for a long time.'
'I like it the better....Stephen, don't mention it till tomorrow.'
'Why?'
'Because, if he should object--I don't think he will; but if he should--we shall have a day longer of happiness from our ignorance....Well, what are you thinking of so deeply?'
'I was thinking how my dear friend Knight would enjoy this scene. I wish he could come here.'
'You seem very much engrossed134 with him,' she answered, with a jealous little toss. 'He must be an interesting man to take up so much of your attention.'
'Interesting!' said Stephen, his face glowing with his fervour; 'noble, you ought to say.'
'Oh yes, yes; I forgot,' she said half satirically. 'The noblest man in England, as you told us last night.'
'He is a fine fellow, laugh as you will, Miss Elfie.'
'I know he is your hero. But what does he do? anything?'
'He writes.'
'What does he write? I have never heard of his name.'
'Because his personality, and that of several others like him, is absorbed into a huge WE, namely, the impalpable entity135 called the PRESENT--a social and literary Review.'
'Is he only a reviewer?'
'ONLY, Elfie! Why, I can tell you it is a fine thing to be on the staff of the PRESENT.
'That's a hit at me, and my poor COURT OF KELLYON CASTLE.'
'No, Elfride,' he whispered; 'I didn't mean that. I mean that he is really a literary man of some eminence136, and not altogether a reviewer. He writes things of a higher class than reviews, though he reviews a book occasionally. His ordinary productions are social and ethical137 essays--all that the PRESENT contains which is not literary reviewing.'
'I admit he must be talented if he writes for the PRESENT. We have it sent to us irregularly. I want papa to be a subscriber138, but he's so conservative. Now the next point in this Mr. Knight-I suppose he is a very good man.'
'An excellent man. I shall try to be his intimate friend some day.'
'But aren't you now?'
'No; not so much as that,' replied Stephen, as if such a supposition were extravagant139. 'You see, it was in this way--he came originally from the same place as I, and taught me things; but I am not intimate with him. Shan't I be glad when I get richer and better known, and hob and nob with him!' Stephen's eyes sparkled.
A pout began to shape itself upon Elfride's soft lips. 'You think always of him, and like him better than you do me!'
'No, indeed, Elfride. The feeling is different quite. But I do like him, and he deserves even more affection from me than I give.'
'You are not nice now, and you make me as jealous as possible!' she exclaimed perversely140. 'I know you will never speak to any third person of me so warmly as you do to me of him.' 'But you don't understand, Elfride,' he said with an anxious movement. 'You shall know him some day. He is so brilliant--no, it isn't exactly brilliant; so thoughtful--nor does thoughtful express him--that it would charm you to talk to him. He's a most desirable friend, and that isn't half I could say.'
'I don't care how good he is; I don't want to know him, because he comes between me and you. You think of him night and day, ever so much more than of anybody else; and when you are thinking of him, I am shut out of your mind.'
'No, dear Elfride; I love you dearly.'
'And I don't like you to tell me so warmly about him when you are in the middle of loving me. Stephen, suppose that I and this man Knight of yours were both drowning, and you could only save one of us----'
'Yes--the stupid old proposition--which would I save?
'Well, which? Not me.'
'Both of you,' he said, pressing her pendent hand.
'No, that won't do; only one of us.'
'I cannot say; I don't know. It is disagreeable--quite a horrid141 idea to have to handle.'
'A-ha, I know. You would save him, and let me drown, drown, drown; and I don't care about your love!'
She had endeavoured to give a playful tone to her words, but the latter speech was rather forced in its gaiety.
At this point in the discussion she trotted142 off to turn a corner which was avoided by the footpath143, the road and the path reuniting at a point a little further on. On again making her appearance she continually managed to look in a direction away from him, and left him in the cool shade of her displeasure. Stephen was soon beaten at this game of indifference144. He went round and entered the range of her vision.
'Are you offended, Elfie? Why don't you talk?'
'Save me, then, and let that Mr. Clever of yours drown. I hate him. Now, which would you?'
'Really, Elfride, you should not press such a hard question. It is ridiculous.'
'Then I won't be alone with you any more. Unkind, to wound me so!' She laughed at her own absurdity145 but persisted.
'Come, Elfie, let's make it up and be friends.'
'Say you would save me, then, and let him drown.'
'I would save you--and him too.'
'And let him drown. Come, or you don't love me!' she teasingly went on.
'And let him drown,' he ejaculated despairingly.
'There; now I am yours!' she said, and a woman's flush of triumph lit her eyes.
'Only one earring76, miss, as I'm alive,' said Unity on their entering the hall.
With a face expressive146 of wretched misgiving147, Elfride's hand flew like an arrow to her ear.
'There!' she exclaimed to Stephen, looking at him with eyes full of reproach.
'I quite forgot, indeed. If I had only remembered!' he answered, with a conscience-stricken face.
She wheeled herself round, and turned into the shrubbery. Stephen followed.
'If you had told me to watch anything, Stephen, I should have religiously done it,' she capriciously went on, as soon as she heard him behind her.
'Forgetting is forgivable.'
'Well, you will find it, if you want me to respect you and be engaged to you when we have asked papa.' She considered a moment, and added more seriously, 'I know now where I dropped it, Stephen. It was on the cliff. I remember a faint sensation of some change about me, but I was too absent to think of it then. And that's where it is now, and you must go and look there.'
'I'll go at once.'
And he strode away up the valley, under a broiling148 sun and amid the deathlike silence of early afternoon. He ascended149, with giddy-paced haste, the windy range of rocks to where they had sat, felt and peered about the stones and crannies, but Elfride's stray jewel was nowhere to be seen. Next Stephen slowly retraced150 his steps, and, pausing at a cross-road to reflect a while, he left the plateau and struck downwards151 across some fields, in the direction of Endelstow House.
He walked along the path by the river without the slightest hesitation152 as to its bearing, apparently quite familiar with every inch of the ground. As the shadows began to lengthen153 and the sunlight to mellow154, he passed through two wicket-gates, and drew near the outskirts155 of Endelstow Park. The river now ran along under the park fence, previous to entering the grove156 itself, a little further on.
Here stood a cottage, between the fence and the stream, on a slightly elevated spot of ground, round which the river took a turn. The characteristic feature of this snug157 habitation was its one chimney in the gable end, its squareness of form disguised by a huge cloak of ivy158, which had grown so luxuriantly and extended so far from its base, as to increase the apparent bulk of the chimney to the dimensions of a tower. Some little distance from the back of the house rose the park boundary, and over this were to be seen the sycamores of the grove, making slow inclinations159 to the just-awakening air.
Stephen crossed the little wood bridge in front, went up to the cottage door, and opened it without knock or signal of any kind.
Exclamations160 of welcome burst from some person or persons when the door was thrust ajar, followed by the scrape of chairs on a stone floor, as if pushed back by their occupiers in rising from a table. The door was closed again, and nothing could now be heard from within, save a lively chatter161 and the rattle162 of plates.
收听单词发音 |
1
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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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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politic
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| adj.有智虑的；精明的；v.从政 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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paternally
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| adv.父亲似地；父亲一般地 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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rekindled
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| v.使再燃( rekindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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stereotyped
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| adj.(指形象、思想、人物等)模式化的 | |
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culminated
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| v.达到极点( culminate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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mannerism
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| n.特殊习惯，怪癖 | |
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vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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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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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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pending
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| prep.直到，等待…期间；adj.待定的；迫近的 | |
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romp
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| n.欢闹；v.嬉闹玩笑 | |
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pawns
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| n.（国际象棋中的）兵( pawn的名词复数 )；卒；被人利用的人；小卒v.典当，抵押( pawn的第三人称单数 )；以（某事物）担保 | |
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musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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trite
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| adj.陈腐的 | |
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poutingly
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| adv.撅嘴 | |
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pout
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| v.撅嘴；绷脸；n.撅嘴；生气，不高兴 | |
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31
insinuating
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| adj.曲意巴结的，暗示的v.暗示( insinuate的现在分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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32
construe
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| v.翻译，解释 | |
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33
steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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34
quaintly
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| adv.古怪离奇地 | |
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35
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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36
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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37
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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rote
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| n.死记硬背，生搬硬套 | |
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vowels
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| n.元音，元音字母( vowel的名词复数 ) | |
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40
instructor
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| n.指导者，教员，教练 | |
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41
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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42
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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43
construing
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| v.解释（陈述、行为等）( construe的现在分词 )；翻译，作句法分析 | |
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44
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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45
necessitated
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| 使…成为必要，需要( necessitate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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47
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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48
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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49
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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50
vex
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| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
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51
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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52
relishable
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| 可实现的，可实行的，可了解的 | |
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53
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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54
impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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55
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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56
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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57
demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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58
hauteur
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| n.傲慢 | |
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59
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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60
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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61
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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62
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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63
initiated
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| n. 创始人 adj. 新加入的 vt. 开始，创始，启蒙，介绍加入 | |
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64
colloquy
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| n.谈话，自由讨论 | |
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65
auditors
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| n.审计员，稽核员( auditor的名词复数 )；（大学课程的）旁听生 | |
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66
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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67
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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68
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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69
nag
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| v.(对…)不停地唠叨；n.爱唠叨的人 | |
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70
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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71
ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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72
contingent
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| adj.视条件而定的；n.一组，代表团，分遣队 | |
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73
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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74
imperatively
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| adv.命令式地 | |
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75
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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76
earring
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| n.耳环，耳饰 | |
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77
earrings
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| n.耳环( earring的名词复数 )；耳坠子 | |
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78
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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79
commiseration
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| n.怜悯，同情 | |
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80
dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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81
embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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82
contrition
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| n.悔罪，痛悔 | |
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83
accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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84
microscopic
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| adj.微小的，细微的，极小的，显微的 | |
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85
justifiable
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| adj.有理由的，无可非议的 | |
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86
benighted
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| adj.蒙昧的 | |
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87
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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88
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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89
belle
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| n.靓女 | |
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90
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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91
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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92
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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93
scamper
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| v.奔跑，快跑 | |
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94
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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95
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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96
meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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97
pounced
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| v.突然袭击( pounce的过去式和过去分词 )；猛扑；一眼看出；抓住机会（进行抨击） | |
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98
tussle
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| n.&v.扭打，搏斗，争辩 | |
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99
boisterousness
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| n.喧闹；欢跃；（风暴）狂烈 | |
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100
penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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101
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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102
imprint
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| n.印痕，痕迹；深刻的印象；vt.压印，牢记 | |
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103
trotting
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| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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104
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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105
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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106
gulls
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| n.鸥( gull的名词复数 )v.欺骗某人( gull的第三人称单数 ) | |
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107
zigzag
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| n.曲折，之字形；adj.曲折的，锯齿形的；adv.曲折地，成锯齿形地；vt.使曲折；vi.曲折前行 | |
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108
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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109
tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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110
alcove
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| n.凹室 | |
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111
beetling
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| adj.突出的，悬垂的v.快速移动( beetle的现在分词 ) | |
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judicially
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| 依法判决地，公平地 | |
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fluster
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| adj.慌乱，狼狈，混乱，激动 | |
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ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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precipitating
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| adj.急落的，猛冲的v.（突如其来地）使发生( precipitate的现在分词 )；促成；猛然摔下；使沉淀 | |
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119
salutes
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| n.致敬，欢迎，敬礼( salute的名词复数 )v.欢迎，致敬( salute的第三人称单数 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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120
treatises
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| n.专题著作，专题论文，专著( treatise的名词复数 ) | |
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legerdemain
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| n.戏法，诈术 | |
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122
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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coaxingly
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| adv. 以巧言诱哄，以甘言哄骗 | |
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naively
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| adv. 天真地 | |
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125
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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blemish
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| v.损害；玷污；瑕疵，缺点 | |
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entrusting
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的现在分词 ) | |
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unstable
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| adj.不稳定的，易变的 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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blitheness
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| n.blithe（快乐的）的变形 | |
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frisky
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| adj.活泼的，欢闹的；n.活泼，闹着玩；adv.活泼地，闹着玩地 | |
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tantalizer
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docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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entity
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| n.实体，独立存在体，实际存在物 | |
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eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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ethical
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| adj.伦理的，道德的，合乎道德的 | |
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subscriber
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| n.用户，订户；（慈善机关等的）定期捐款者；预约者；签署者 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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perversely
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| adv. 倔强地 | |
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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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trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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misgiving
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
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broiling
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| adj.酷热的，炽热的，似烧的v.（用火）烤（焙、炙等）( broil的现在分词 )；使卷入争吵；使混乱；被烤（或炙） | |
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ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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retraced
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| v.折回( retrace的过去式和过去分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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153
lengthen
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| vt.使伸长，延长 | |
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mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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159
inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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