Spencervale gossip always said that “Old Lady Lloyd” was rich and mean and proud. Gossip, as usual, was one-third right and two-thirds wrong. Old Lady Lloyd was neither rich nor mean; in reality she was pitifully poor—so poor that “Crooked1 Jack2” Spencer, who dug her garden and chopped her wood for her, was opulent by contrast, for he, at least, never lacked three meals a day, and the Old Lady could sometimes achieve no more than one. But she WAS very proud—so proud that she would have died rather than let the Spencervale people, among whom she had queened it in her youth, suspect how poor she was and to what straits was sometimes reduced. She much preferred to have them think her miserly and odd—a queer old recluse4 who never went anywhere, even to church, and who paid the smallest subscription5 to the minister’s salary of anyone in the congregation.
“And her just rolling in wealth!” they said indignantly. “Well, she didn’t get her miserly ways from her parents. THEY were real generous and neighbourly. There never was a finer gentleman than old Doctor Lloyd. He was always doing kindnesses to everybody; and he had a way of doing them that made you feel as if you was doing the favour, not him. Well, well, let Old Lady Lloyd keep herself and her money to herself if she wants to. If she doesn’t want our company, she doesn’t have to suffer it, that’s all. Reckon she isn’t none too happy for all her money and pride.”
No, the Old Lady was none too happy, that was unfortunately true. It is not easy to be happy when your life is eaten up with loneliness and emptiness on the spiritual side, and when, on the material side, all you have between you and starvation is the little money your hens bring you in.
The Old Lady lived “away back at the old Lloyd place,” as it was always called. It was a quaint6, low-eaved house, with big chimneys and square windows and with spruces growing thickly all around it. The Old Lady lived there all alone and there were weeks at a time when she never saw a human being except Crooked Jack. What the Old Lady did with herself and how she put in her time was a puzzle the Spencervale people could not solve. The children believed she amused herself counting the gold in the big black box under her bed. Spencervale children held the Old Lady in mortal terror; some of them—the “Spencer Road” fry—believed she was a witch; all of them would run if, when wandering about the woods in search of berries or spruce gum, they saw at a distance the spare, upright form of the Old Lady, gathering7 sticks for her fire. Mary Moore was the only one who was quite sure she was not a witch.
“Witches are always ugly,” she said decisively, “and Old Lady Lloyd isn’t ugly. She’s real pretty—she’s got such a soft white hair and big black eyes and a little white face. Those Road children don’t know what they’re talking of. Mother says they’re a very ignorant crowd.”
“Well, she doesn’t ever go to church, and she mutters and talks to herself all the time she’s picking up sticks,” maintained Jimmy Kimball stoutly8.
The Old Lady talked to herself because she was really very fond of company and conversation. To be sure, when you have talked to nobody but yourself for nearly twenty years, it is apt to grow somewhat monotonous9; and there were times when the Old Lady would have sacrificed everything but her pride for a little human companionship. At such times she felt very bitter and resentful toward Fate for having taken everything from her. She had nothing to love, and that is about as unwholesome a condition as is possible to anyone.
It was always hardest in the spring. Once upon a time the Old Lady—when she had not been the Old Lady, but pretty, wilful10, high-spirited Margaret Lloyd—had loved springs; now she hated them because they hurt her; and this particular spring of this particular May chapter hurt her more than any that had gone before. The Old Lady felt as if she could NOT endure the ache of it. Everything hurt her—the new green tips on the firs, the fairy mists down in the little beech11 hollow below the house, the fresh smell of the red earth Crooked Jack spaded up in her garden. The Old Lady lay awake all one moonlit night and cried for very heartache. She even forgot her body hunger in her soul hunger; and the Old Lady had been hungry, more or less, all that week. She was living on store biscuits and water, so that she might be able to pay Crooked Jack for digging her garden. When the pale, lovely dawn-colour came stealing up the sky behind the spruces, the Old Lady buried her face in her pillow and refused to look at it.
“I hate the new day,” she said rebelliously12. “It will be just like all the other hard, common days. I don’t want to get up and live it. And, oh, to think that long ago I reached out my hands joyfully13 to every new day, as to a friend who was bringing me good tidings! I loved the mornings then—sunny or gray, they were as delightful14 as an unread book—and now I hate them—hate them—hate them!”
But the Old Lady got up nevertheless, for she knew Crooked Jack would be coming early to finish the garden. She arranged her beautiful, thick, white hair very carefully, and put on her purple silk dress with the little gold spots in it. The Old Lady always wore silk from motives15 of economy. It was much cheaper to wear a silk dress that had belonged to her mother than to buy new print at the store. The Old Lady had plenty of silk dresses which had belonged to her mother. She wore them morning, noon, and night, and Spencervale people considered it an additional evidence of her pride. As for the fashion of them, it was, of course, just because she was too mean to have them made over. They did not dream that the Old Lady never put on one of the silk dresses without agonizing16 over its unfashionableness, and that even the eyes of Crooked Jack cast on her antique flounces and overskirts was almost more than her feminine vanity could endure.
In spite of the fact that the Old Lady had not welcomed the new day, its beauty charmed her when she went out for a walk after her dinner—or, rather, after her mid-day biscuit. It was so fresh, so sweet, so virgin17; and the spruce woods around the old Lloyd place were athrill with busy spring doings and all sprinkled through with young lights and shadows. Some of their delight found its way into the Old Lady’s bitter heart as she wandered through them, and when she came out at the little plank18 bridge over the brook19 down under the beeches20, she felt almost gentle and tender once more. There was one big beech there, in particular, which the Old Lady loved for reasons best known to herself—a great, tall beech with a trunk like the shaft21 of a gray marble column and a leafy spread of branches over the still, golden-brown pool made beneath it by the brook. It had been a young sapling in the days that were haloed by the vanished glory of the Old Lady’s life.
The Old Lady heard childish voices and laughter afar up the lane which led to William Spencer’s place just above the woods. William Spencer’s front lane ran out to the main road in a different direction, but this “back lane” furnished a short cut and his children always went to school that way.
The Old Lady shrank hastily back behind a clump22 of young spruces. She did not like the Spencer children because they always seemed so afraid of her. Through the spruce screen she could see them coming gaily23 down the lane—the two older ones in front, the twins behind, clinging to the hands of a tall, slim, young girl—the new music teacher, probably. The Old Lady had heard from the egg pedlar that she was going to board at William Spencer’s, but she had not heard her name.
She looked at her with some curiosity as they drew near—and then, all at once, the Old Lady’s heart gave a great bound and began to beat as it had not beaten for years, while her breath came quickly and she trembled violently. Who—WHO could this girl be?
Under the new music teacher’s straw hat were masses of fine chestnut24 hair of the very shade and wave that the Old Lady remembered on another head in vanished years; from under those waves looked large, violet-blue eyes with very black lashes25 and brows—and the Old Lady knew those eyes as well as she knew her own; and the new music teacher’s face, with all its beauty of delicate outline and dainty colouring and glad, buoyant youth, was a face from the Old Lady’s past—a perfect resemblance in every respect save one; the face which the Old Lady remembered had been weak, with all its charm; but this girl’s face possessed26 a fine, dominant27 strength compact of sweetness and womanliness. As she passed by the Old Lady’s hiding place she laughed at something one of the children said; and oh, but the Old Lady knew that laughter well. She had heard it before under that very beech tree.
She watched them until they disappeared over the wooded hill beyond the bridge; and then she went back home as if she walked in a dream. Crooked Jack was delving28 vigorously in the garden; ordinarily the Old Lady did not talk much with Crooked Jack, for she disliked his weakness for gossip; but now she went into the garden, a stately old figure in her purple, gold-spotted silk, with the sunshine gleaming on her white hair.
Crooked Jack had seen her go out and had remarked to himself that the Old Lady was losing ground; she was pale and peaked-looking. He now concluded that he had been mistaken. The Old Lady’s cheeks were pink and her eyes shining. Somewhere in her walk she had shed ten years at least. Crooked Jack leaned on his spade and decided29 that there weren’t many finer looking women anywhere than Old Lady Lloyd. Pity she was such an old miser3!
“Mr. Spencer,” said the Old Lady graciously—she always spoke30 very graciously to her inferiors when she talked to them at all—“can you tell me the name of the new music teacher who is boarding at Mr. William Spencer’s?”
“Sylvia Gray,” said Crooked Jack.
The Old Lady’s heart gave another great bound. But she had known it—she had known that girl with Leslie Gray’s hair and eyes and laugh must be Leslie Gray’s daughter.
Crooked Jack spat31 on his hand and resumed his work, but his tongue went faster than his spade, and the Old Lady listened greedily. For the first time she enjoyed and blessed Crooked Jack’s garrulity32 and gossip. Every word he uttered was as an apple of gold in a picture of silver to her.
He had been working at William Spencer’s the day the new music teacher had come, and what Crooked Jack couldn’t find out about any person in one whole day—at least as far as outward life went—was hardly worth finding out. Next to discovering things did he love telling them, and it would be hard to say which enjoyed that ensuing half-hour more—Crooked Jack or the Old Lady.
Crooked Jack’s account, boiled down, amounted to this; both Miss Gray’s parents had died when she was a baby, she had been brought up by an aunt, she was very poor and very ambitious.
“Wants a moosical eddication,” finished up Crooked Jack, “and, by jingo, she orter have it, for anything like the voice of her I never heerd. She sung for us that evening after supper and I thought ‘twas an angel singing. It just went through me like a shaft o’ light. The Spencer young ones are crazy over her already. She’s got twenty pupils around here and in Grafton and Avonlea.”
When the Old Lady had found out everything Crooked Jack could tell her, she went into the house and sat down by the window of her little sitting-room33 to think it all over. She was tingling34 from head to foot with excitement.
Leslie’s daughter! This Old Lady had had her romance once. Long ago—forty years ago—she had been engaged to Leslie Gray, a young college student who taught in Spencervale for the summer term one year—the golden summer of Margaret Lloyd’s life. Leslie had been a shy, dreamy, handsome fellow with literary ambitions, which, as he and Margaret both firmly believed, would one day bring him fame and fortune.
Then there had been a foolish, bitter quarrel at the end of that golden summer. Leslie had gone away in anger, afterwards he had written, but Margaret Lloyd, still in the grasp of her pride and resentment35, had sent a harsh answer. No more letters came; Leslie Gray never returned; and one day Margaret wakened to the realization36 that she had put love out of her life for ever. She knew it would never be hers again; and from that moment her feet were turned from youth to walk down the valley of shadow to a lonely, eccentric age.
Many years later she heard of Leslie’s marriage; then came news of his death, after a life that had not fulfilled his dreams for him. Nothing more she had heard or known—nothing to this day, when she had seen his daughter pass her by unseeing in the beech hollow.
“His daughter! And she might have been MY daughter,” murmured the Old Lady. “Oh, if I could only know her and love her—and perhaps win her love in return! But I cannot. I could not have Leslie Gray’s daughter know how poor I am—how low I have been brought. I could not bear that. And to think she is living so near me, the darling—just up the lane and over the hill. I can see her go by every day—I can have that dear pleasure, at least. But oh, if I could only do something for her—give her some little pleasure! It would be such a delight.”
When the Old Lady happened to go into her spare room that evening, she saw from it a light shining through a gap in the trees on the hill. She knew that it shone from the Spencers’ spare room. So it was Sylvia’s light. The Old Lady stood in the darkness and watched it until it went out—watched it with a great sweetness breathing in her heart, such as risen from old rose-leaves when they are stirred. She fancied Sylvia moving about her room, brushing and braiding her long, glistening37 hair—laying aside her little trinkets and girlish adornments—making her simple preparations for sleep. When the light went out the Old Lady pictured a slight white figure kneeling by the window in the soft starshine, and the Old Lady knelt down then and there and said her own prayers in fellowship. She said the simple form of words she had always used; but a new spirit seemed to inspire them; and she finished with a new petition—“Let me think of something I can do for her, dear Father—some little, little thing that I can do for her.”
The Old Lady had slept in the same room all her life—the one looking north into the spruces—and loved it; but the next day she moved into the spare room without a regret. It was to be her room after this; she must be where she could see Sylvia’s light, she put the bed where she could lie in it and look at that earth star which had suddenly shone across the twilight38 shadows of her heart. She felt very happy, she had not felt happy for many years; but now a strange, new, dream-like interest, remote from the harsh realities of her existence, but none the less comforting and alluring39, had entered into her life. Besides, she had thought of something she could do for Sylvia—“a little, little thing” that might give her pleasure.
Spencervale people were wont40 to say regretfully that there were no Mayflowers in Spencervale; the Spencervale young fry, when they wanted Mayflowers, thought they had to go over to the barrens at Avonlea, six miles away, for them. Old Lady Lloyd knew better. In her many long, solitary41 rambles42, she had discovered a little clearing far back in the woods—a southward-sloping, sandy hill on a tract43 of woodland belonging to a man who lived in town—which in spring was starred over with the pink and white of arbutus.
To this clearing the Old Lady betook herself that afternoon, walking through wood lanes and under dim spruce arches like a woman with a glad purpose. All at once the spring was dear and beautiful to her once more; for love had entered again into her heart, and her starved soul was feasting on its divine nourishment45.
Old Lady Lloyd found a wealth of Mayflowers on the sandy hill. She filled her basket with them, gloating over the loveliness which was to give pleasure to Sylvia. When she got home she wrote on a slip of paper, “For Sylvia.” It was not likely anyone in Spencervale would know her handwriting, but, to make sure, she disguised it, writing in round, big letters like a child’s. She carried her Mayflowers down to the hollow and heaped them in a recess46 between the big roots of the old beech, with the little note thrust through a stem on top.
Then the Old Lady deliberately47 hid behind the spruce clump. She had put on her dark green silk on purpose for hiding. She had not long to wait. Soon Sylvia Gray came down the hill with Mattie Spencer. When she reached the bridge she saw the Mayflowers and gave an exclamation48 of delight. Then she saw her name and her expression changed to wonder. The Old Lady, peering through the boughs49, could have laughed for very pleasure over the success of her little plot.
“For me!” said Sylvia, lifting the flowers. “CAN they really be for me, Mattie? Who could have left them here?”
“I believe it was Chris Stewart,” she said. “I know he was over at Avonlea last night. And ma says he’s taken a notion to you—she knows by the way he looked at you when you were singing night before last. It would be just like him to do something queer like this—he’s such a shy fellow with the girls.”
Sylvia frowned a little. She did not like Mattie’s expressions, but she did like Mayflowers, and she did not dislike Chris Stewart, who had seemed to her merely a nice, modest, country boy. She lifted the flowers and buried her face in them.
“Anyway, I’m much obliged to the giver, whoever he or she is,” she said merrily. “There’s nothing I love like Mayflowers. Oh, how sweet they are!”
When they had passed the Old Lady emerged from her lurking52 place, flushed with triumph. It did not vex53 her that Sylvia should think Chris Stewart had given her the flowers; nay54, it was all the better, since she would be the less likely to suspect the real donor55. The main thing was that Sylvia should have the delight of them. That quite satisfied the Old Lady, who went back to her lonely house with the cockles of her heart all in a glow.
It soon was a matter of gossip in Spencervale that Chris Stewart was leaving Mayflowers at the beech hollow for the music teacher every other day. Chris himself denied it, but he was not believed. Firstly, there were no Mayflowers in Spencervale; secondly56, Chris had to go to Carmody every other day to haul milk to the butter factory, and Mayflowers grew in Carmody, and, thirdly, the Stewarts always had a romantic streak57 in them. Was not that enough circumstantial evidence for anybody?
As for Sylvia, she did not mind if Chris had a boyish admiration58 for her and expressed it thus delicately. She thought it very nice of him, indeed, when he did not vex her with any other advances, and she was quite content to enjoy his Mayflowers.
Old Lady Lloyd heard all the gossip about it from the egg pedlar, and listened to him with laughter glimmering59 far down in her eyes. The egg pedlar went away and vowed60 he’d never seen the Old Lady so spry as she was this spring; she seemed real interested in the young folk’s doings.
The Old Lady kept her secret and grew young in it. She walked back to the Mayflower hill as long as the Mayflowers lasted; and she always hid in the spruces to see Sylvia Gray go by. Every day she loved her more, and yearned61 after her more deeply. All the long repressed tenderness of her nature overflowed62 to this girl who was unconscious of it. She was proud of Sylvia’s grace and beauty, and sweetness of voice and laughter. She began to like the Spencer children because they worshipped Sylvia; she envied Mrs. Spencer because the latter could minister to Sylvia’s needs. Even the egg pedlar seemed a delightful person because he brought news of Sylvia—her social popularity, her professional success, the love and admiration she had won already.
The Old Lady never dreamed of revealing herself to Sylvia. That, in her poverty, was not to be thought of for a moment. It would have been very sweet to know her—sweet to have her come to the old house—sweet to talk to her—to enter into her life. But it might not be. The Old Lady’s pride was still far stronger than her love. It was the one thing she had never sacrificed and never—so she believed—could sacrifice.
II. The June Chapter
There were no Mayflowers in June; but now the Old Lady’s garden was full of blossoms and every morning Sylvia found a bouquet63 of them by the beech—the perfumed ivory of white narcissus, the flame of tulips, the fairy branches of bleeding-heart, the pink-and-snow of little, thorny64, single, sweetbreathed early roses. The Old Lady had no fear of discovery, for the flowers that grew in her garden grew in every other Spencervale garden as well, including the Stewart garden. Chris Stewart, when he was teased about the music teacher, merely smiled and held his peace. Chris knew perfectly65 well who was the real giver of those flowers. He had made it his business to find out when the Mayflower gossip started. But since it was evident Old Lady Lloyd did not wish it to be known, Chris told no one. Chris had always liked Old Lady Lloyd ever since the day, ten years before, when she had found him crying in the woods with a cut foot and had taken him into her house, and bathed and bound the wound, and given him ten cents to buy candy at the store. The Old Lady went without supper that night because of it, but Chris never knew that.
The Old Lady thought it a most beautiful June. She no longer hated the new days; on the contrary, she welcomed them.
“Every day is an uncommon66 day now,” she said jubilantly to herself—for did not almost every day bring her a glimpse of Sylvia? Even on rainy days the Old Lady gallantly67 braved rheumatism68 to hide behind her clump of dripping spruces and watch Sylvia pass. The only days she could not see her were Sundays; and no Sundays had ever seemed so long to Old Lady Lloyd as those June Sundays did.
One day the egg pedlar had news for her.
“The music teacher is going to sing a solo for a collection piece to-morrow,” he told her.
The Old Lady’s black eyes flashed with interest.
“Jined two Sundays ago. I tell you, our music is something worth listening to now. The church’ll be packed to-morrow, I reckon—her name’s gone all over the country for singing. You ought to come and hear it, Miss Lloyd.”
The pedlar said this out of bravado70, merely to show he wasn’t scared of the Old Lady, for all her grand airs. The Old Lady made no answer, and he thought he had offended her. He went away, wishing he hadn’t said it. Had he but known it, the Old Lady had forgotten the existence of all and any egg pedlars. He had blotted71 himself and his insignificance72 out of her consciousness by his last sentence. All her thoughts, feelings, and wishes were submerged in a very whirlpool of desire to hear Sylvia sing that solo. She went into the house in a tumult73 and tried to conquer that desire. She could not do it, even thought she summoned all her pride to her aid. Pride said:
“You will have to go to church to hear her. You haven’t fit clothes to go to church in. Think what a figure you will make before them all.”
But, for the first time, a more insistent74 voice than pride spoke to her soul—and, for the first time, the Old Lady listened to it. It was too true that she had never gone to church since the day on which she had to begin wearing her mother’s silk dresses. The Old Lady herself thought that this was very wicked; and she tried to atone75 by keeping Sunday very strictly76, and always having a little service of her own, morning and evening. She sang three hymns78 in her cracked voice, prayed aloud, and read a sermon. But she could not bring herself to go to church in her out-of-date clothes—she, who had once set the fashions in Spencervale, and the longer she stayed away, the more impossible it seemed that she should ever again go. Now the impossible had become, not only possible, but insistent. She must go to church and hear Sylvia sing, no matter how ridiculous she appeared, no matter how people talked and laughed at her.
Spencervale congregation had a mild sensation the next afternoon. Just before the opening of service Old Lady Lloyd walked up the aisle79 and sat down in the long-unoccupied Lloyd pew, in front of the pulpit.
The Old Lady’s very soul was writhing80 within her. She recalled the reflection she had seen in her mirror before she left—the old black silk in the mode of thirty years agone and the queer little bonnet81 of shirred black satin. She thought how absurd she must look in the eyes of her world.
As a matter of fact, she did not look in the least absurd. Some women might have; but the Old Lady’s stately distinction of carriage and figure was so subtly commanding that it did away with the consideration of garmenting altogether.
The Old Lady did not know this. But she did know that Mrs. Kimball, the storekeeper’s wife, presently rustled83 into the next pew in the very latest fashion of fabric84 and mode; she and Mrs. Kimball were the same age, and there had been a time when the latter had been content to imitate Margaret Lloyd’s costumes at a humble85 distance. But the storekeeper had proposed, and things were changed now; and there sat poor Old Lady Lloyd, feeling the change bitterly, and half wishing she had not come to church at all.
Then all at once the Angel of Love touched these foolish thoughts, born of vanity and morbid86 pride, and they melted away as if they had never been. Sylvia Gray had come into the choir, and was sitting just where the afternoon sunshine fell over her beautiful hair like a halo. The Old Lady looked at her in a rapture87 of satisfied longing44 and thenceforth the service was blessed to her, as anything is blessed which comes through the medium of unselfish love, whether human or divine. Nay, are they not one and the same, differing in degree only, not in kind?
The Old Lady had never had such a good, satisfying look at Sylvia before. All her former glimpses had been stolen and fleeting88. Now she sat and gazed upon her to her hungry heart’s content, lingering delightedly over every little charm and loveliness—the way Sylvia’s shining hair rippled89 back from her forehead, the sweet little trick she had of dropping quickly her long-lashed eyelids90 when she encountered too bold or curious a glance, and the slender, beautifully modelled hands—so like Leslie Gray’s hands—that held her hymn77 book. She was dressed very plainly in a black skirt and a white shirtwaist; but none of the other girls in the choir, with all their fine feathers, could hold a candle to her—as the egg pedlar said to his wife, going home from church.
The Old Lady listened to the opening hymns with keen pleasure. Sylvia’s voice thrilled through and dominated them all. But when the ushers91 got up to take the collection, an undercurrent of subdued92 excitement flowed over the congregation. Sylvia rose and came forward to Janet Moore’s side at the organ. The next moment her beautiful voice soared through the building like the very soul of melody—true, clear, powerful, sweet. Nobody in Spencervale had ever listened to such a voice, except Old Lady Lloyd herself, who, in her youth, had heard enough good singing to enable her to be a tolerable judge of it. She realized instantly that this girl of her heart had a great gift—a gift that would some day bring her fame and fortune, if it could be duly trained and developed.
“Oh, I’m so glad I came to church,” thought Old Lady Lloyd.
When the solo was ended, the Old Lady’s conscience compelled her to drag her eyes and thoughts from Sylvia, and fasten them on the minister, who had been flattering himself all through the opening portion of the service that Old Lady Lloyd had come to church on his account. He was newly settled, having been in charge of the Spencervale congregation only a few months; he was a clever little fellow and he honestly thought it was the fame of his preaching that had brought Old Lady Lloyd out to church.
When the service was over all the Old Lady’s neighbours came to speak to her, with kindly93 smile and handshake. They thought they ought to encourage her, now that she had made a start in the right direction; the Old Lady liked their cordiality, and liked it none the less because she detected in it the same unconscious respect and deference94 she had been wont to receive in the old days—a respect and deference which her personality compelled from all who approached her. The Old Lady was surprised to find that she could command it still, in defiance95 of unfashionable bonnet and ancient attire96.
Janet Moore and Sylvia Gray walked home from church together. “Did you see Old Lady Lloyd out to-day?” asked Janet. “I was amazed when she walked in. She has never been to church in my recollection. What a quaint old figure she is! She’s very rich, you know, but she wears her mother’s old clothes and never gets a new thing. Some people think she is mean; but,” concluded Janet charitably, “I believe it is simply eccentricity97.”
“I felt that was Miss Lloyd as soon as I saw her, although I had never seen her before,” said Sylvia dreamily. “I have been wishing to see her—for a certain reason. She has a very striking face. I should like to meet her—to know her.”
“I don’t think it’s likely you ever will,” said Janet carelessly. “She doesn’t like young people and she never goes anywhere. I don’t think I’d like to know her. I’d be afraid of her—she has such stately ways and such strange, piercing eyes.”
“I shouldn’t be afraid of her,” said Sylvia to herself, as she turned into the Spencer lane. “But I don’t expect I’ll ever become acquainted with her. If she knew who I am I suppose she would dislike me. I suppose she never suspects that I am Leslie Gray’s daughter.”
The minister, thinking it well to strike while the iron was hot, went up to call on Old Lady Lloyd the very next afternoon. He went in fear and trembling, for he had heard things about Old Lady Lloyd; but she made herself so agreeable in her high-bred fashion that he was delighted, and told his wife when he went home that Spencervale people didn’t understand Miss Lloyd. This was perfectly true; but it is by no means certain that the minister understood her either.
He made only one mistake in tact98, but, as the Old Lady did not snub him for it, he never knew he made it. When he was leaving he said, “I hope we shall see you at church next Sunday, Miss Lloyd.”
“Indeed, you will,” said the Old Lady emphatically.
III. The July Chapter
The first day of July Sylvia found a little birch bark boat full of strawberries at the beech in the hollow. They were the earliest of the season; the Old Lady had found them in one of her secret haunts. They would have been a toothsome addition to the Old Lady’s own slender bill of fare; but she never thought of eating them. She got far more pleasure out of the thought of Sylvia’s enjoying them for her tea. Thereafter the strawberries alternated with the flowers as long as they lasted, and then came blueberries and raspberries. The blueberries grew far away and the Old Lady had many a tramp after them. Sometimes her bones ached at night because of it; but what cared the Old Lady for that? Bone ache is easier to endure than soul ache; and the Old Lady’s soul had stopped aching for the first time in many year. It was being nourished with heavenly manna.
One evening Crooked Jack came up to fix something that had gone wrong with the Old Lady’s well. The Old Lady wandered affably out to him; for she knew he had been working at the Spencers’ all day, and there might be crumbs99 of information about Sylvia to be picked up.
“I reckon the music teacher’s feeling pretty blue this evening,” Crooked Jack remarked, after straining the Old Lady’s patience to the last verge100 of human endurance by expatiating101 on William Spencer’s new pump, and Mrs. Spencer’s new washing-machine, and Amelia Spencer’s new young man.
“Why?” asked the Old Lady, turning very pale. Had anything happened to Sylvia?
“Well, she’s been invited to a big party at Mrs. Moore’s brother’s in town, and she hasn’t got a dress to go in,” said Crooked Jack. “They’re great swells102 and everybody will be got up regardless. Mrs. Spencer was telling me about it. She says Miss Gray can’t afford a new dress because she’s helping103 to pay her aunt’s doctor’s bills. She says she’s sure Miss Gray feels awful disappointed over it, though she doesn’t let on. But Mrs. Spencer says she knows she was crying after she went to bed last night.”
The Old Lady turned and went into the house abruptly104. This was dreadful. Sylvia must go to that party—she MUST. But how was it to be managed? Through the Old Lady’s brain passed wild thoughts of her mother’s silk dresses. But none of them would be suitable, even if there were time to make one over. Never had the Old Lady so bitterly regretted her vanished wealth.
“I’ve only two dollars in the house,” she said, “and I’ve got to live on that till the next day the egg pedlar comes round. Is there anything I can sell—ANYTHING? Yes, yes, the grape jug106!”
Up to this time, the Old Lady would as soon have thought of trying to sell her head as the grape jug. The grape jug was two hundred years old and had been in the Lloyd family ever since it was a jug at all. It was a big, pot-bellied affair, festooned with pink-gilt grapes, and with a verse of poetry printed on one side, and it had been given as a wedding present to the Old Lady’s great-grandmother. As long as the Old Lady could remember it had sat on the top shelf in the cupboard in the sitting-room wall, far too precious ever to be used.
Two years before, a woman who collected old china had explored Spencervale, and, getting word of the grape jug, had boldly invaded the old Lloyd place and offered to buy it. She never, to her dying day, forgot the reception the Old Lady gave her; but, being wise in her day and generation, she left her card, saying that if Miss Lloyd ever changed her mind about selling the jug, she would find that she, the aforesaid collector, had not changed hers about buying it. People who make a hobby of heirloom china must meekly107 overlook snubs, and this particular person had never seen anything she coveted108 so much as that grape jug.
The Old Lady had torn the card to pieces; but she remembered the name and address. She went to the cupboard and took down the beloved jug.
“I never thought to part with it,” she said wistfully, “but Sylvia must have a dress, and there is no other way. And, after all, when I’m gone, who would there be to have it? Strangers would get it then—it might as well go to them now. I’ll have to go to town to-morrow morning, for there’s no time to lose if the party is Friday night. I haven’t been to town for ten years. I dread105 the thought of going, more than parting with the jug. But for Sylvia’s sake!”
It was all over Spencervale by the next morning that Old Lady Lloyd had gone to town, carrying a carefully guarded box. Everybody wondered why she went; most people supposed she had become too frightened to keep her money in a black box below her bed, when there had been two burglaries over at Carmody, and had taken it to the bank.
The Old Lady sought out the address of the china collector, trembling with fear that she might be dead or gone. But the collector was there, very much alive, and as keenly anxious to possess the grape jug as ever. The Old Lady, pallid109 with the pain of her trampled110 pride, sold the grape jug and went away, believing that her great-grandmother must have turned over in her grave at the moment of the transaction. Old Lady Lloyd felt like a traitor111 to her traditions.
But she went unflinchingly to a big store and, guided by that special Providence112 which looks after simple-minded old souls in their dangerous excursions into the world, found a sympathetic clerk who knew just what she wanted and got it for her. The Old Lady selected a very dainty muslin gown, with gloves and slippers113 in keeping; and she ordered it sent at once, expressage prepaid, to Miss Sylvia Gray, in care of William Spencer, Spencervale.
Then she paid down the money—the whole price of the jug, minus a dollar and a half for railroad fare—with a grand, careless air and departed. As she marched erectly114 down the aisle of the store, she encountered a sleek115, portly, prosperous man coming in. As their eyes met, the man started and his bland116 face flushed crimson117; he lifted his hat and bowed confusedly. But the Old Lady looked through him as if he wasn’t there, and passed on with not a sign of recognition about her. He took one step after her, then stopped and turned away, with a rather disagreeable smile and a shrug118 of his shoulders.
Nobody would have guessed, as the Old Lady swept out, how her heart was seething119 with abhorrence120 and scorn. She would not have had the courage to come to town, even for Sylvia’s sake, if she had thought she would meet Andrew Cameron. The mere51 sight of him opened up anew a sealed fountain of bitterness in her soul; but the thought of Sylvia somehow stemmed the torrent121, and presently the Old Lady was smiling rather triumphantly122, thinking rightly that she had come off best in that unwelcome encounter. SHE, at any rate, had not faltered123 and coloured, and lost her presence of mind.
“It is little wonder HE did,” thought the Old Lady vindictively124. It pleased her that Andrew Cameron should lose, before her, the front of adamant125 he presented to the world. He was her cousin and the only living creature Old Lady Lloyd hated, and she hated and despised him with all the intensity126 of her intense nature. She and hers had sustained grievous wrong at his hands, and the Old Lady was convinced that she would rather die than take any notice of his existence.
Presently, she resolutely127 put Andrew Cameron out of her mind. It was desecration128 to think of him and Sylvia together. When she laid her weary head on her pillow that night she was so happy that even the thought of the vacant shelf in the room below, where the grape jug had always been, gave her only a momentary129 pang130.
“It’s sweet to sacrifice for one we love—it’s sweet to have someone to sacrifice for,” thought the Old Lady.
Desire grows by what it feeds on. The Old Lady thought she was content; but Friday evening came and found her in a perfect fever to see Sylvia in her party dress. It was not enough to fancy her in it; nothing would do the Old Lady but seeing her.
“And I SHALL see her,” said the Old Lady resolutely, looking out from her window at Sylvia’s light gleaming through the firs. She wrapped herself in a dark shawl and crept out, slipping down to the hollow and up the wood lane. It was a misty131, moonlight night, and a wind, fragrant132 with the aroma133 of clover fields, blew down the lane to meet her.
“I wish I could take your perfume—the soul of you—and pour it into her life,” said the Old Lady aloud to that wind.
Sylvia Gray was standing134 in her room, ready for the party. Before her stood Mrs. Spencer and Amelia Spencer and all the little Spencer girls, in an admiring semi-circle. There was another spectator. Outside, under the lilac bush, Old Lady Lloyd was standing. She could see Sylvia plainly, in her dainty dress, with the pale pink roses Old Lady Lloyd had left at the beech that day for her in her hair. Pink as they were, they were not so pink as her cheeks, and her eyes shone like stars. Amelia Spencer put up her hand to push back a rose that had fallen a little out of place, and the Old Lady envied her fiercely.
“That dress couldn’t have fitted better if it had been made for you,” said Mrs. Spencer admiringly. “Ain’t she lovely, Amelia? Who COULD have sent it?”
“Oh, I feel sure that Mrs. Moore was the fairy godmother,” said Sylvia. “There is nobody else who would. It was dear of her—she knew I wished so much to go to the party with Janet. I wish Aunty could see me now.” Sylvia gave a little sigh in spite of her joy. “There’s nobody else to care very much.”
Ah, Sylvia, you were wrong! There was somebody else—somebody who cared very much—an Old Lady, with eager, devouring135 eyes, who was standing under the lilac bush and who presently stole away through the moonlit orchard136 to the woods like a shadow, going home with a vision of you in your girlish beauty to companion her through the watches of that summer night.
IV. The August Chapter
One day the minister’s wife rushed in where Spencervale people had feared to tread, went boldly to Old Lady Lloyd, and asked her if she wouldn’t come to their Sewing Circle, which met fortnightly on Saturday afternoons.
“We are filling a box to send to our Trinidad missionary,” said the minister’s wife, “and we should be so pleased to have you come, Miss Lloyd.”
The Old Lady was on the point of refusing rather haughtily137. Not that she was opposed to missions—or sewing circles either—quite the contrary, but she knew that each member of the Circle was expected to pay ten cents a week for the purpose of procuring138 sewing materials; and the poor Old Lady really did not see how she could afford it. But a sudden thought checked her refusal before it reached her lips.
“Oh, they all go,” said the minister’s wife. “Janet Moore and Miss Gray are our most enthusiastic members. It is very lovely of Miss Gray to give her Saturday afternoons—the only ones she has free from pupils—to our work. But she really has the sweetest disposition140.”
“I’ll join your Circle,” said the Old Lady promptly141. She was determined142 she would do it, if she had to live on two meals a day to save the necessary fee.
She went to the Sewing Circle at James Martin’s the next Saturday, and did the most beautiful hand sewing for them. She was so expert at it that she didn’t need to think about it at all, which was rather fortunate, for all her thoughts were taken up with Sylvia, who sat in the opposite corner with Janet Moore, her graceful143 hands busy with a little boy’s coarse gingham shirt. Nobody thought of introducing Sylvia to Old Lady Lloyd, and the Old Lady was glad of it. She sewed finely away, and listened with all her ears to the girlish chatter144 which went on in the opposite corner. One thing she found out—Sylvia’s birthday was the twentieth of August. And the Old Lady was straightway fired with a consuming wish to give Sylvia a birthday present. She lay awake most of the night wondering if she could do it, and most sorrowfully concluded that it was utterly145 out of the question, no matter how she might pinch and contrive146. Old Lady Lloyd worried quite absurdly over this, and it haunted her like a spectre until the next Sewing Circle day.
It met at Mrs. Moore’s and Mrs. Moore was especially gracious to Old Lady Lloyd, and insisted on her taking the wicker rocker in the parlour. The Old Lady would rather have been in the sitting-room with the young girls, but she submitted for courtesy’s sake—and she had her reward. Her chair was just behind the parlour door, and presently Janet Moore and Sylvia Gray came and sat on the stairs in the hall outside, where a cool breeze blew in through the maples147 before the front door.
They were talking of their favourite poets. Janet, it appeared, adored Byron and Scott. Sylvia leaned to Tennyson and Browning.
“Do you know,” said Sylvia softly, “my father was a poet? He published a little volume of verse once; and, Janet, I’ve never seen a copy of it, and oh, how I would love to! It was published when he was at college—just a small, private edition to give his friends. He never published any more—poor father! I think life disappointed him. But I have such a longing to see that little book of his verse. I haven’t a scrap149 of his writings. If I had it would seem as if I possessed something of him—of his heart, his soul, his inner life. He would be something more than a mere name to me.”
“Didn’t he have a copy of his own—didn’t your mother have one?” asked Janet.
“Mother hadn’t. She died when I was born, you know, but Aunty says there was no copy of father’s poems among mother’s books. Mother didn’t care for poetry, Aunty says—Aunty doesn’t either. Father went to Europe after mother died, and he died there the next year. Nothing that he had with him was ever sent home to us. He had sold most of his books before he went, but he gave a few of his favourite ones to Aunty to keep for me. HIS book wasn’t among them. I don’t suppose I shall ever find a copy, but I should be so delighted if I only could.”
When the Old Lady got home she took from her top bureau drawer an inlaid box of sandalwood. It held a little, slim, limp volume, wrapped in tissue paper—the Old Lady’s most treasured possession. On the fly-leaf was written, “To Margaret, with the author’s love.”
The Old Lady turned the yellow leaves with trembling fingers and, through eyes brimming with tears, read the verses, although she had known them all by heart for years. She meant to give the book to Sylvia for a birthday present—one of the most precious gifts ever given, if the value of gifts is gauged150 by the measure of self-sacrifice involved. In that little book was immortal151 love—old laughter—old tears—old beauty which had bloomed like a rose years ago, holding still its sweetness like old rose leaves. She removed the telltale fly-leaf; and late on the night before Sylvia’s birthday, the Old Lady crept, under cover of the darkness, through byways and across fields, as if bent152 on some nefarious153 expedition, to the little Spencervale store where the post-office was kept. She slipped the thin parcel through the slit154 in the door, and then stole home again, feeling a strange sense of loss and loneliness. It was as if she had given away the last link between herself and her youth. But she did not regret it. It would give Sylvia pleasure, and that had come to be the overmastering passion of the Old Lady’s heart.
The next night the light in Sylvia’s room burned very late, and the Old Lady watched it triumphantly, knowing the meaning of it. Sylvia was reading her father’s poems, and the Old Lady in her darkness read them too, murmuring the lines over and over to herself. After all, giving away the book had not mattered so very much. She had the soul of it still—and the fly-leaf with the name, in Leslie’s writing, by which nobody ever called her now.
The Old Lady was sitting on the Marshall sofa the next Sewing Circle afternoon when Sylvia Gray came and sat down beside her. The Old Lady’s hands trembled a little, and one side of a handkerchief, which was afterwards given as a Christmas present to a little olive-skinned coolie in Trinidad, was not quite so exquisitely155 done as the other three sides.
Sylvia at first talked of the Circle, and Mrs. Marshall’s dahlias, and the Old Lady was in the seventh heaven of delight, though she took care not to show it, and was even a little more stately and finely mannered than usual. When she asked Sylvia how she liked living in Spencervale, Sylvia said,
“Very much. Everybody is so kind to me. Besides”—Sylvia lowered her voice so that nobody but the Old Lady could hear it—“I have a fairy godmother here who does the most beautiful and wonderful things for me.”
Sylvia, being a girl of fine instincts, did not look at Old Lady Lloyd as she said this. But she would not have seen anything if she had looked. The Old Lady was not a Lloyd for nothing.
“How very interesting,” she said, indifferently.
“Isn’t it? I am so grateful to her and I have wished so much she might know how much pleasure she has given me. I have found lovely flowers and delicious berries on my path all summer; I feel sure she sent me my party dress. But the dearest gift came last week on my birthday—a little volume of my father’s poems. I can’t express what I felt on receiving them. But I longed to meet my fairy godmother and thank her.”
“Quite a fascinating mystery, isn’t it? Have you really no idea who she is?”
The Old Lady asked this dangerous question with marked success. She would not have been so successful if she had not been so sure that Sylvia had no idea of the old romance between her and Leslie Gray. As it was, she had a comfortable conviction that she herself was the very last person Sylvia would be likely to suspect.
Sylvia hesitated for an almost unnoticeable moment. Then she said, “I haven’t tried to find out, because I don’t think she wants me to know. At first, of course, in the matter of the flowers and dress, I did try to solve the mystery; but, since I received the book, I became convinced that it was my fairy godmother who was doing it all, and I have respected her wish for concealment156 and always shall. Perhaps some day she will reveal herself to me. I hope so, at least.”
“I wouldn’t hope it,” said the Old Lady discouragingly. “Fairy godmothers—at least, in all the fairy tales I ever read—are somewhat apt to be queer, crochety people, much more agreeable when wrapped up in mystery than when met face to face.”
“I’m convinced that mine is the very opposite, and that the better I became acquainted with her, the more charming a personage I should find her,” said Sylvia gaily.
Mrs. Marshall came up at this juncture157 and entreated158 Miss Gray to sing for them. Miss Gray consenting sweetly, the Old Lady was left alone and was rather glad of it. She enjoyed her conversation with Sylvia much more in thinking it over after she got home than while it was taking place. When an Old Lady has a guilty conscience, it is apt to make her nervous and distract her thoughts from immediate159 pleasure. She wondered a little uneasily if Sylvia really did suspect her. Then she concluded that it was out of the question. Who would suspect a mean, unsociable Old Lady, who had no friends, and who gave only five cents to the Sewing Circle when everyone else gave ten or fifteen, to be a fairy godmother, the donor of beautiful party dresses, and the recipient160 of gifts from romantic, aspiring161 young poets?
V. The September Chapter
In September the Old Lady looked back on the summer and owned to herself that it had been a strangely happy one, with Sundays and Sewing Circle days standing out like golden punctuation162 marks in a poem of life. She felt like an utterly different woman; and other people thought her different also. The Sewing Circle women found her so pleasant, and even friendly, that they began to think they had misjudged her, and that perhaps it was eccentricity after all, and not meanness, which accounted for her peculiar163 mode of living. Sylvia Gray always came and talked to her on Circle afternoons now, and the Old Lady treasured every word she said in her heart and repeated them over and over to her lonely self in the watches of the night.
Sylvia never talked of herself or her plans, unless asked about them; and the Old Lady’s self-consciousness prevented her from asking any personal questions: so their conversation kept to the surface of things, and it was not from Sylvia, but from the minister’s wife that the Old Lady finally discovered what her darling’s dearest ambition was.
The minister’s wife had dropped in at the old Lloyd place one evening late in September, when a chilly164 wind was blowing up from the northeast and moaning about the eaves of the house, as if the burden of its lay were “harvest is ended and summer is gone.” The Old Lady had been listening to it, as she plaited a little basket of sweet grass for Sylvia. She had walked all the way to Avonlea sand-hills for it the day before, and she was very tired. And her heart was sad. This summer, which had so enriched her life, was almost over; and she knew that Sylvia Gray talked of leaving Spencervale at the end of October. The Old Lady’s heart felt like very lead within her at the thought, and she almost welcomed the advent165 of the minister’s wife as a distraction166, although she was desperately167 afraid that the minister’s wife had called to ask for a subscription for the new vestry carpet, and the Old Lady simply could not afford to give one cent.
But the minister’s wife had merely dropped in on her way home from the Spencers’ and she did not make any embarrassing requests. Instead, she talked about Sylvia Gray, and her words fell on the Old Lady’s ears like separate pearl notes of unutterably sweet music. The minister’s wife had nothing but praise for Sylvia—she was so sweet and beautiful and winning.
“And with SUCH a voice,” said the minister’s wife enthusiastically, adding with a sigh, “It’s such a shame she can’t have it properly trained. She would certainly become a great singer—competent critics have told her so. But she is so poor she doesn’t think she can ever possibly manage it—unless she can get one of the Cameron scholarships, as they are called; and she has very little hope of that, although the professor of music who taught her has sent her name in.”
“What are the Cameron scholarships?” asked the Old Lady.
“Well, I suppose you have heard of Andrew Cameron, the millionaire?” said the minister’s wife, serenely168 unconscious that she was causing the very bones of the Old Lady’s family skeleton to jangle in their closet.
Into the Old Lady’s white face came a sudden faint stain of colour, as if a rough hand had struck her cheek.
“Yes, I’ve heard of him,” she said.
“Well, it seems that he had a daughter, who was a very beautiful girl, and whom he idolized. She had a fine voice, and he was going to send her abroad to have it trained. And she died. It nearly broke his heart, I understand. But ever since, he sends one young girl away to Europe every year for a thorough musical education under the best teachers—in memory of his daughter. He has sent nine or ten already; but I fear there isn’t much chance for Sylvia Gray, and she doesn’t think there is herself.”
“Why not?” asked the Old Lady spiritedly. “I am sure that there can be few voices equal to Miss Gray’s.”
“Very true. But you see, these so-called scholarships are private affairs, dependent solely169 on the whim170 and choice of Andrew Cameron himself. Of course, when a girl has friends who use their influence with him, he will often send her on their recommendation. They say he sent a girl last year who hadn’t much of a voice at all just because her father had been an old business crony of his. But Sylvia doesn’t know anyone at all who would, to use a slang term, have any ‘pull’ with Andrew Cameron, and she is not acquainted with him herself. Well, I must be going; we’ll see you at the Manse on Saturday, I hope, Miss Lloyd. The Circle meets there, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” said the Old Lady absently. When the minister’s wife had gone, she dropped her sweetgrass basket and sat for a long, long time with her hands lying idly in her lap, and her big black eyes staring unseeingly at the wall before her.
Old Lady Lloyd, so pitifully poor that she had to eat six crackers171 the less a week to pay her fee to the Sewing Circle, knew that it was in her power—HERS—to send Leslie Gray’s daughter to Europe for her musical education! If she chose to use her “pull” with Andrew Cameron—if she went to him and asked him to send Sylvia Gray abroad the next year—she had no doubt whatever that it would be done. It all lay with her—if—if—IF she could so far crush and conquer her pride as to stoop to ask a favour of the man who had wronged her and hers so bitterly.
Years ago, her father, acting172 under the advice and urgency of Andrew Cameron, had invested all his little fortune in an enterprise that had turned out a failure. Abraham Lloyd lost every dollar he possessed, and his family were reduced to utter poverty. Andrew Cameron might have been forgiven for a mistake; but there was a strong suspicion, amounting to almost certainty, that he had been guilty of something far worse than a mistake in regard to his uncle’s investment. Nothing could be legally proved; but it was certain that Andrew Cameron, already noted173 for his “sharp practices,” emerged with improved finances from an entanglement174 that had ruined many better men; and old Doctor Lloyd had died brokenhearted, believing that his nephew had deliberately victimized him.
Andrew Cameron had not quite done this; he had meant well enough by his uncle at first, and what he had finally done he tried to justify175 to himself by the doctrine176 that a man must look out for Number One.
Margaret Lloyd made no such excuses for him; she held him responsible, not only for her lost fortune, but for her father’s death, and never forgave him for it. When Abraham Lloyd had died, Andrew Cameron, perhaps pricked177 by his conscience, had come to her, sleekly178 and smoothly179, to offer her financial aid. He would see, he told her, that she never suffered want.
Margaret Lloyd flung his offer back in his face after a fashion that left nothing to be desired in the way of plain speaking. She would die, she told him passionately180, before she would accept a penny or a favour from him. He had preserved an unbroken show of good temper, expressed his heartfelt regret that she should cherish such an unjust opinion of him, and had left her with an oily assurance that he would always be her friend, and would always be delighted to render her any assistance in his power whenever she should choose to ask for it.
The Old Lady had lived for twenty years in the firm conviction that she would die in the poorhouse—as, indeed, seemed not unlikely—before she would ask a favour of Andrew Cameron. And so, in truth, she would have, had it been for herself. But for Sylvia! Could she so far humble herself for Sylvia’s sake?
The question was not easily or speedily settled, as had been the case in the matters of the grape jug and the book of poems. For a whole week the Old Lady fought her pride and bitterness. Sometimes, in the hours of sleepless181 night, when all human resentments182 and rancours seemed petty and contemptible183, she thought she had conquered it. But in the daytime, with the picture of her father looking down at her from the wall, and the rustle82 of her unfashionable dresses, worn because of Andrew Cameron’s double dealing184, in her ears, it got the better of her again.
But the Old Lady’s love for Sylvia had grown so strong and deep and tender that no other feeling could endure finally against it. Love is a great miracle worker; and never had its power been more strongly made manifest than on the cold, dull autumn morning when the Old Lady walked to Bright River railway station and took the train to Charlottetown, bent on an errand the very thought of which turned her soul sick within her. The station master who sold her her ticket thought Old Lady Lloyd looked uncommonly185 white and peaked—“as if she hadn’t slept a wink186 or eaten a bite for a week,” he told his wife at dinner time. “Guess there’s something wrong in her business affairs. This is the second time she’s gone to town this summer.”
When the Old Lady reached the town, she ate her slender little lunch and then walked out to the suburb where the Cameron factories and warehouses187 were. It was a long walk for her, but she could not afford to drive. She felt very tired when she was shown into the shining, luxurious188 office where Andrew Cameron sat at his desk.
After the first startled glance of surprise, he came forward beamingly, with outstretched hand.
“Why, Cousin Margaret! This is a pleasant surprise. Sit down—allow me, this is a much more comfortable chair. Did you come in this morning? And how is everybody out in Spencervale?”
The Old Lady had flushed at his first words. To hear the name by which her father and mother and lover had called her on Andrew Cameron’s lips seemed like profanation189. But, she told herself, the time was past for squeamishness. If she could ask a favour of Andrew Cameron, she could bear lesser190 pangs191. For Sylvia’s sake she shook hands with him, for Sylvia’s sake she sat down in the chair he offered. But for no living human being’s sake could this determined Old Lady infuse any cordiality into her manner or her words. She went straight to the point with Lloyd simplicity192.
“I have come to ask a favour of you,” she said, looking him in the eye, not at all humbly193 or meekly, as became a suppliant194, but challengingly and defiantly195, as if she dared him to refuse.
“DE-lighted to hear it, Cousin Margaret.” Never was anything so bland and gracious as his tone. “Anything I can do for you I shall be only too pleased to do. I am afraid you have looked upon me as an enemy, Margaret, and I assure you I have felt your injustice196 keenly. I realize that some appearances were against me, but—”
“I did not come here to discuss that matter,” she said. “We will not refer to the past, if you please. I came to ask a favour, not for myself, but for a very dear young friend of mine—a Miss Gray, who has a remarkably198 fine voice which she wishes to have trained. She is poor, so I came to ask you if you would give her one of your musical scholarships. I understand her name has already been suggested to you, with a recommendation from her teacher. I do not know what he has said of her voice, but I do know he could hardly overrate it. If you send her abroad for training, you will not make any mistake.”
The Old Lady stopped talking. She felt sure Andrew Cameron would grant her request, but she did hope he would grant it rather rudely or unwillingly199. She could accept the favour so much more easily if it were flung to her like a bone to a dog. But not a bit of it. Andrew Cameron was suaver200 than ever. Nothing could give him greater pleasure than to grant his dear Cousin Margaret’s request—he only wished it involved more trouble on his part. Her little protege should have her musical education assuredly—she should go abroad next year—and he was DE-lighted—
“Thank you,” said the Old Lady, cutting him short again. “I am much obliged to you—and I ask you not to let Miss Gray know anything of my interference. And I shall not take up any more of your valuable time. Good afternoon.”
“Oh, you mustn’t go so soon,” he said, with some real kindness or clannishness201 permeating202 the hateful cordiality of his voice—for Andrew Cameron was not entirely203 without the homely204 virtues205 of the average man. He had been a good husband and father; he had once been very fond of his Cousin Margaret; and he was really very sorry that “circumstances” had “compelled” him to act as he had done in that old affair of her father’s investment. “You must be my guest to-night.”
“Thank you. I must return home to-night,” said the Old Lady firmly, and there was that in her tone which told Andrew Cameron that it would be useless to urge her. But he insisted on telephoning for his carriage to drive her to the station. The Old Lady submitted to this, because she was secretly afraid her own legs would not suffice to carry her there; she even shook hands with him at parting, and thanked him a second time for granting her request.
“Not at all,” he said. “Please try to think a little more kindly of me, Cousin Margaret.”
When the Old Lady reached the station she found, to her dismay, that her train had just gone and that she would have to wait two hours for the evening one. She went into the waiting-room and sat down. She was very tired. All the excitement that had sustained her was gone, and she felt weak and old. She had nothing to eat, having expected to get home in time for tea; the waiting-room was chilly, and she shivered in her thin, old, silk mantilla. Her head ached and her heart likewise. She had won Sylvia’s desire for her; but Sylvia would go out of her life, and the Old Lady did not see how she was to go on living after that. Yet she sat there unflinchingly for two hours, an upright, indomitable old figure, silently fighting her losing battle with the forces of physical and mental pain, while happy people came and went, and laughed and talked before her.
At eight o’clock the Old Lady got off the train at Bright River station, and slipped off unnoticed into the darkness of the wet night. She had two miles to walk, and a cold rain was falling. Soon the Old Lady was wet to the skin and chilled to the marrow206. She felt as if she were walking in a bad dream. Blind instinct alone guided her over the last mile and up the lane to her own house. As she fumbled207 at her door, she realized that a burning heat had suddenly taken the place of her chilliness208. She stumbled in over her threshold and closed the door.
VI. The October Chapter
On the second morning after Old Lady Lloyd’s journey to town, Sylvia Gray was walking blithely209 down the wood lane. It was a beautiful autumn morning, clear and crisp and sunny; the frosted ferns, drenched210 and battered211 with the rain of yesterday, gave out a delicious fragrance212; here and there in the woods a maple148 waved a gay crimson banner, or a branch of birch showed pale golden against the dark, unchanging spruces. The air was very pure and exhilarating. Sylvia walked with a joyous213 lightness of step and uplift of brow.
At the beech in the hollow she paused for an expectant moment, but there was nothing among the gray old roots for her. She was just turning away when little Teddy Kimball, who lived next door to the manse, came running down the slope from the direction of the old Lloyd place. Teddy’s freckled214 face was very pale.
“Oh, Miss Gray!” he gasped215. “I guess Old Lady Lloyd has gone clean crazy at last. The minister’s wife asked me to run up to the Old Lady, with a message about the Sewing Circle—and I knocked—and knocked—and nobody came—so I thought I’d just step in and leave the letter on the table. But when I opened the door, I heard an awful queer laugh in the sitting-room, and next minute, the Old Lady came to the sitting-room door. Oh, Miss Gray, she looked awful. Her face was red and her eyes awful wild—and she was muttering and talking to herself and laughing like mad. I was so scared I just turned and run.”
Sylvia, without stopping for reflection, caught Teddy’s hand and ran up the slope. It did not occur to her to be frightened, although she thought with Teddy that the poor, lonely, eccentric Old Lady had really gone out of her mind at last.
The Old Lady was sitting on the kitchen sofa when Sylvia entered. Teddy, too frightened to go in, lurked216 on the step outside. The Old Lady still wore the damp black silk dress in which she had walked from the station. Her face was flushed, her eyes wild, her voice hoarse217. But she knew Sylvia and cowered218 down.
“Don’t look at me,” she moaned. “Please go away—I can’t bear that YOU should know how poor I am. You’re to go to Europe—Andrew Cameron is going to send you—I asked him—he couldn’t refuse ME. But please go away.”
Sylvia did not go away. At a glance she had seen that this was sickness and delirium219, not insanity220. She sent Teddy off in hot haste for Mrs. Spencer and when Mrs. Spencer came they induced the Old Lady to go to bed, and sent for the doctor. By night everybody in Spencervale knew that Old Lady Lloyd had pneumonia221.
Mrs. Spencer announced that she meant to stay and nurse the Old Lady. Several other women offered assistance. Everybody was kind and thoughtful. But the Old Lady did not know it. She did not even know Sylvia Gray, who came and sat by her every minute she could spare. Sylvia Gray now knew all that she had suspected—the Old Lady was her fairy godmother. The Old Lady babbled222 of Sylvia incessantly223, revealing all her love for her, betraying all the sacrifices she had made. Sylvia’s heart ached with love and tenderness, and she prayed earnestly that the Old Lady might recover.
“I want her to know that I give her love for love,” she murmured.
Everybody knew now how poor the Old Lady really was. She let slip all the jealously guarded secrets of her existence, except her old love for Leslie Gray. Even in delirium something sealed her lips as to that. But all else came out—her anguish224 over her unfashionable attire, her pitiful makeshifts and contrivances, her humiliation225 over wearing unfashionable dresses and paying only five cents where every other Sewing Circle member paid ten. The kindly women who waited on her listened to her with tear-filled eyes, and repented226 of their harsh judgments227 in the past.
“But who would have thought it?” said Mrs. Spencer to the minister’s wife. “Nobody ever dreamed that her father had lost ALL his money, though folks supposed he had lost some in that old affair of the silver mine out west. It’s shocking to think of the way she has lived all these years, often with not enough to eat—and going to bed in winter days to save fuel. Though I suppose if we had known we couldn’t have done much for her, she’s so desperate proud. But if she lives, and will let us help her, things will be different after this. Crooked Jack says he’ll never forgive himself for taking pay for the few little jobs he did for her. He says, if she’ll only let him, he’ll do everything she wants done for her after this for nothing. Ain’t it strange what a fancy she’s took to Miss Gray? Think of her doing all those things for her all summer, and selling the grape jug and all. Well, the Old Lady certainly isn’t mean, but nobody made a mistake in calling her queer. It all does seem desperate pitiful. Miss Gray’s taking it awful hard. She seems to think about as much of the Old Lady as the Old Lady thinks of her. She’s so worked up she don’t even seem to care about going to Europe next year. She’s really going—she’s had word from Andrew Cameron. I’m awful glad, for there never was a sweeter girl in the world; but she says it will cost too much if the Old Lady’s life is to pay for it.”
Andrew Cameron heard of the Old Lady’s illness and came out to Spencervale himself. He was not allowed to see the Old Lady, of course; but he told all concerned that no expense or trouble was to be spared, and the Spencervale doctor was instructed to send his bill to Andrew Cameron and hold his peace about it. Moreover, when Andrew Cameron went back home, he sent a trained nurse out to wait on the Old Lady, a capable, kindly woman who contrived228 to take charge of the case without offending Mrs. Spencer—than which no higher tribute could be paid to her tact!
The Old Lady did not die—the Lloyd constitution brought her through. One day, when Sylvia came in, the Old Lady smiled up at her, with a weak, faint, sensible smile, and murmured her name, and the nurse said that the crisis was past.
The Old Lady made a marvellously patient and tractable229 invalid230. She did just as she was told, and accepted the presence of the nurse as a matter of course.
But one day, when she was strong enough to talk a little, she said to Sylvia,
“I suppose Andrew Cameron sent Miss Hayes here, did he?” “Yes,” said Sylvia, rather timidly.
The Old Lady noticed the timidity and smiled, with something of her old humour and spirit in her black eyes.
“Time has been when I’d have packed off unceremoniously any person Andrew Cameron sent here,” she said. “But, Sylvia, I have gone through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, and I have left pride and resentment behind me for ever, I hope. I no longer feel as I felt towards Andrew. I can even accept a personal favour from him now. At last I can forgive him for the wrong he did me and mine. Sylvia, I find that I have been letting no ends of cats out of bags in my illness. Everybody knows now how poor I am—but I don’t seem to mind it a bit. I’m only sorry that I ever shut my neighbours out of my life because of my foolish pride. Everyone has been so kind to me, Sylvia. In the future, if my life is spared, it is going to be a very different sort of life. I’m going to open it to all the kindness and companionship I can find in young and old. I’m going to help them all I can and let them help me. I CAN help people—I’ve learned that money isn’t the only power for helping people. Anyone who has sympathy and understanding to give has a treasure that is without money and without price. And oh, Sylvia, you’ve found out what I never meant you to know. But I don’t mind that now, either.”
Sylvia took the Old Lady’s thin white hand and kissed it.
“I can never thank you enough for what you have done for me, dearest Miss Lloyd,” she said earnestly. “And I am so glad that all mystery is done away with between us, and I can love you as much and as openly as I have longed to do. I am so glad and so thankful that you love me, dear fairy godmother.”
“Do you know WHY I love you so?” said the Old Lady wistfully. “Did I let THAT out in my raving231, too?”
“No, but I think I know. It is because I am Leslie Gray’s daughter, isn’t it? I know that father loved you—his brother, Uncle Willis, told me all about it.”
“I spoiled my own life because of my wicked pride,” said the Old Lady sadly. “But you will love me in spite of it all, won’t you, Sylvia? And you will come to see me sometimes? And write me after you go away?”
“I am coming to see you every day,” said Sylvia. “I am going to stay in Spencervale for a whole year yet, just to be near you. And next year when I go to Europe—thanks to you, fairy godmother—I’ll write you every day. We are going to be the best of chums, and we are going to have a most beautiful year of comradeship!”
The Old Lady smiled contentedly232. Out in the kitchen, the minister’s wife, who had brought up a dish of jelly, was talking to Mrs. Spencer about the Sewing Circle. Through the open window, where the red vines hung, came the pungent233, sun-warm October air. The sunshine fell over Sylvia’s chestnut hair like a crown of glory and youth.
“I do feel so perfectly happy,” said the Old Lady, with a long, rapturous breath.
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1
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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2
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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miser
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| n.守财奴，吝啬鬼 (adj.miserly) | |
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recluse
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| n.隐居者 | |
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subscription
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| n.预订，预订费，亲笔签名，调配法，下标（处方） | |
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6
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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8
stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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11
beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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rebelliously
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| adv.造反地，难以控制地 | |
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13
joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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14
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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15
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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16
agonizing
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| adj.痛苦难忍的；使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦；折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
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17
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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18
plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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19
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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20
beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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21
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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22
clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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23
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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24
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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25
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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26
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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27
dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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28
delving
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| v.深入探究，钻研( delve的现在分词 ) | |
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29
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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30
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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31
spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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32
garrulity
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| n.饶舌，多嘴 | |
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33
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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34
tingling
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
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35
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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36
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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37
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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38
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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39
alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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40
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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41
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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42
rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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43
tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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44
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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45
nourishment
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| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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46
recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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47
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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48
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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49
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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50
giggled
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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52
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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53
vex
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| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
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54
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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55
donor
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| n.捐献者；赠送人；(组织、器官等的)供体 | |
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56
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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57
streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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58
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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59
glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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60
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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61
yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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63
bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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64
thorny
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| adj.多刺的，棘手的 | |
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65
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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66
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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67
gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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68
rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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69
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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70
bravado
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| n.虚张声势，故作勇敢，逞能 | |
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71
blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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72
insignificance
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| n.不重要；无价值；无意义 | |
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73
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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74
insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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75
atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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76
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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77
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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78
hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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79
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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80
writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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81
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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82
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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83
rustled
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| v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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84
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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85
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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86
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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87
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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88
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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89
rippled
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| 使泛起涟漪（ripple的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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90
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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91
ushers
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| n.引座员( usher的名词复数 )；招待员；门房；助理教员v.引，领，陪同( usher的第三人称单数 ) | |
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92
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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93
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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94
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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95
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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96
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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97
eccentricity
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| n.古怪，反常，怪癖 | |
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98
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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99
crumbs
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| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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100
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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101
expatiating
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| v.详述，细说( expatiate的现在分词 ) | |
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102
swells
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| 增强( swell的第三人称单数 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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103
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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104
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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105
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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106
jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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107
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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108
coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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109
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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110
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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111
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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112
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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113
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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114
erectly
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| adv.直立地，垂直地 | |
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115
sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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116
bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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117
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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118
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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119
seething
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| 沸腾的，火热的 | |
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120
abhorrence
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| n.憎恶；可憎恶的事 | |
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121
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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122
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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123
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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124
vindictively
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| adv.恶毒地；报复地 | |
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125
adamant
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| adj.坚硬的，固执的 | |
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126
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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127
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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128
desecration
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| n. 亵渎神圣, 污辱 | |
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129
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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130
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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131
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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132
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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133
aroma
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| n.香气，芬芳，芳香 | |
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134
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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135
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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136
orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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137
haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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138
procuring
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的现在分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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139
craftily
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| 狡猾地，狡诈地 | |
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140
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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141
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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142
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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143
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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144
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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145
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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146
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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147
maples
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| 槭树，枫树( maple的名词复数 )； 槭木 | |
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148
maple
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| n.槭树，枫树，槭木 | |
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149
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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150
gauged
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| adj.校准的；标准的；量规的；量计的v.（用仪器）测量( gauge的过去式和过去分词 )；估计；计量；划分 | |
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151
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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152
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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153
nefarious
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| adj.恶毒的，极坏的 | |
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154
slit
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| n.狭长的切口；裂缝；vt.切开，撕裂 | |
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155
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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156
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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157
juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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158
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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159
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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160
recipient
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| a.接受的,感受性强的 n.接受者,感受者,容器 | |
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161
aspiring
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| adj.有志气的；有抱负的；高耸的v.渴望；追求 | |
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162
punctuation
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| n.标点符号，标点法 | |
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163
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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164
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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165
advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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166
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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167
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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168
serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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169
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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170
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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171
crackers
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| adj.精神错乱的，癫狂的n.爆竹( cracker的名词复数 )；薄脆饼干；（认为）十分愉快的事；迷人的姑娘 | |
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172
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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173
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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174
entanglement
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| n.纠缠，牵累 | |
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175
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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176
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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177
pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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178
sleekly
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| 光滑地，光泽地 | |
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179
smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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180
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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181
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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182
resentments
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| （因受虐待而）愤恨，不满，怨恨( resentment的名词复数 ) | |
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183
contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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184
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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185
uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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186
wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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187
warehouses
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| 仓库，货栈( warehouse的名词复数 ) | |
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188
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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189
profanation
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| n.亵渎 | |
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190
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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191
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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192
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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193
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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194
suppliant
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| adj.哀恳的；n.恳求者，哀求者 | |
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195
defiantly
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| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
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196
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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197
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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198
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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199
unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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200
suaver
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| adj.平滑的( suave的比较级 )；有礼貌的；老于世故的 | |
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201
clannishness
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202
permeating
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| 弥漫( permeate的现在分词 )； 遍布； 渗入； 渗透 | |
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203
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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204
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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205
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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206
marrow
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| n.骨髓；精华；活力 | |
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207
fumbled
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| （笨拙地）摸索或处理（某事物）( fumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 乱摸，笨拙地弄； 使落下 | |
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208
chilliness
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| n.寒冷，寒意，严寒 | |
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209
blithely
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| adv.欢乐地，快活地，无挂虑地 | |
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210
drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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211
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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212
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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213
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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214
freckled
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| adj.雀斑；斑点；晒斑；（使）生雀斑v.雀斑，斑点( freckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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215
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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216
lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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217
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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218
cowered
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的过去式 ) | |
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219
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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220
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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221
pneumonia
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| n.肺炎 | |
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222
babbled
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| v.喋喋不休( babble的过去式和过去分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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223
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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224
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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225
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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226
repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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227
judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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228
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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229
tractable
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| adj.易驾驭的；温顺的 | |
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230
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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231
raving
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| adj.说胡话的；疯狂的，怒吼的；非常漂亮的；令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话；疯话adv.胡言乱语地；疯狂地 | |
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232
contentedly
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| adv.心满意足地 | |
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233
pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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