Better is little, than treasure and trouble therewith. Better a dinner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred1 therewith. None but a great man would have dared to utter such a glaring commonplace as that. Not only on Sundays now, but all the week, came the hot joint2 to table, and on every day there was pudding, till a body grew indifferent to pudding; thus a joy-giving luxury of life being lost and but another item added to the long list of uninteresting needs. Now we could eat and drink without stint3. No need now to organise4 for the morrow's hash. No need now to cut one's bread instead of breaking it, thinking of Saturday's bread pudding. But there the saying fails, for never now were we merry. A silent unseen guest sat with us at the board, so that no longer we laughed and teased as over the half pound of sausages or the two sweet-scented herrings; but talked constrainedly5 of empty things that lay outside us.
Easy enough would it have been for us to move to Guilford Street. Occasionally in the spiritless tones in which they now spoke6 on all subjects save the one, my mother and father would discuss the project; but always into the conversation would fall, sooner or later, some loosened thought to stir it to anger, and so the aching months went by, and the cloud grew.
Then one day the news came that old Teidelmann had died suddenly in his counting house.
“You are going to her?” said my mother.
“I have been sent for,” said my father; “I must—it may mean business.”
My mother laughed bitterly; why, at the time, I could not understand; and my father flung out of the house. During the many hours that he was away my mother remained locked in her room, and, stealing sometimes to the door, I was sure I heard her crying; and that she should grieve so at old Teidelmann's death puzzled me.
She came oftener to our house after that. Her mourning added, I think, to her beauty, softening—or seeming to soften—the hardness of her eyes. Always she was very sweet to my mother, who by contrast beside her appeared witless and ungracious; and to me, whatever her motive7, she was kindness itself; hardly ever arriving without some trifling8 gift or plan for affording me some childish treat. By instinct she understood exactly what I desired and liked, the books that would appeal to me as those my mother gave me never did, the pleasures that did please me as opposed to the pleasures that should have pleased me. Often my mother, talking to me, would chill me with the vista9 of the life that lay before me: a narrow, viewless way between twin endless walls of “Must” and “Must not.” This soft-voiced lady set me dreaming of life as of sunny fields through which one wandered laughing, along the winding10 path of Will; so that, although as I have said, there lurked11 at the bottom of my thoughts a fear of her; yet something within me I seemed unable to control went out to her, drawn12 by her subtle sympathy and understanding of it.
“Has he ever seen a pantomime?” she asked of my father one morning, looking at me the while with a whimsical screwing of her mouth.
My heart leaped within me. My father raised his eyebrows15: “What would your mother say, do you think?” he asked. My heart sank.
“She thinks,” I replied, “that theatres are very wicked places.” It was the first time that any doubt as to the correctness of my mother's judgments16 had ever crossed my mind.
Mrs. Teidelmann's smile strengthened my doubt. “Dear me,” she said, “I am afraid I must be very wicked. I have always regarded a pantomime as quite a moral entertainment. All the bad people go down so very straight to—well, to the fit and proper place for them. And we could promise to leave before the Clown stole the sausages, couldn't we, Paul?”
My mother was called and came; and I could not help thinking how insignificant17 she looked with her pale face and plain dark frock, standing13 stiffly beside this shining lady in her rustling18 clothes.
“You will let him come, Mrs. Kelver,” she pleaded in her soft caressing19 tones; “it's Dick Whittington, you know—such an excellent moral.”
My mother had stood silent, clasping and unclasping her hands, a childish trick she had when troubled; and her lips were trembling. Important as the matter loomed20 before my own eyes, I wondered at her agitation21.
“I am very sorry,” said my mother, “it is very kind of you. But I would rather he did not go.”
“Just this once,” persisted Mrs. Teidelmann. “It is holiday time.”
A ray of sunlight fell into the room, lighting22 upon her coaxing23 face, making where my mother stood seem shadow.
“I would rather he did not go,” repeated my mother, and her voice sounded harsh and grating. “When he is older others must judge for him, but for the present he must be guided by me—alone.”
“I really don't think there could be any harm, Maggie,” urged my father. “Things have changed since we were young.”
“That may be,” answered my mother, still in the same harsh voice; “it is long ago since then.”
“I didn't intend it that way,” said my father with a short laugh.
“I merely meant that I may be wrong,” answered my mother. “I seem so old among you all—so out of place. I have tried to change, but I cannot.”
“We will say no more about it,” said Mrs. Teidelmann, sweetly. “I merely thought it would give him pleasure; and he has worked so hard this last term, his father tells me.”
She laid her hand caressingly25 on my shoulder, drawing me a little closer to her; and it remained there.
“It was very kind of you,” said my mother, “I would do anything to give him pleasure, anything—I could. He knows that. He understands.”
My mother's hand, I knew, was seeking mine, but I was angry and would not see; and without another word she left the room.
My mother did not allude26 again to the subject; but the very next afternoon she took me herself to a hall in the neighbourhood, where we saw a magic-lantern, followed by a conjurer. She had dressed herself in a prettier frock than she had worn for many a long day, and was brighter and gayer in herself than had lately been her wont28, laughing and talking merrily. But I, nursing my wrongs, remained moody29 and sulky. At any other time such rare amusement would have overjoyed me; but the wonders of the great theatre that from other boys I had heard so much of, that from gaudy-coloured posters I had built up for myself, were floating vague and undefined before me in the air; and neither the open-mouthed sleeper30, swallowing his endless chain of rats; nor even the live rabbit found in the stout31 old gentleman's hat—the last sort of person in whose hat one would have expected to find such a thing—could draw away my mind from the joy I had caught a glimpse of only to lose.
So we walked home through the muddy, darkening streets, speaking but little; and that night, waking—or rather half waking, as children do—I thought I saw a figure in white crouching32 at the foot of my bed. I must have gone to sleep again; and later, though I cannot say whether the intervening time was short or long, I opened my eyes to see it still there; and frightened, I cried out; and my mother rose from her knees.
She laughed, a curious broken laugh, in answer to my questions. “It was a silly dream I had,” she explained “I must have been thinking of the conjurer we saw. I dreamt that a wicked Magician had spirited you away from me. I could not find you and was all alone in the world.”
She put her arms around me, so tight as almost to hurt me. And thus we remained until again I must have fallen asleep.
It was towards the close of these same holidays that my mother and I called upon Mrs. Teidelmann in her great stone-built house at Clapton. She had sent a note round that morning, saying she was suffering from terrible headaches that quite took her senses away, so that she was unable to come out. She would be leaving England in a few days to travel. Would my mother come and see her, she would like to say good-bye to her before she went. My mother handed the letter across the table to my father.
“Of course you will go,” said my father. “Poor girl, I wonder what the cause can be. She used to be so free from everything of the kind.”
“Do you think it well for me to go?” said my mother. “What can she have to say to me?”
It was a dull, sombre house without, but one entered through its commonplace door as through the weed-grown rock into Aladdin's cave. Old Teidelmann had been a great collector all his life, and his treasures, now scattered34 through a dozen galleries, were then heaped there in curious confusion. Pictures filled every inch of wall, stood propped35 against the wonderful old furniture, were even stretched unframed across the ceilings. Statues gleamed from every corner (a few of the statues were, I remember, the only things out of the entire collection that Mrs. Teidelmann kept for herself), carvings36, embroideries37, priceless china, miniatures framed in gems38, illuminated39 missals and gorgeously bound books crowded the room. The ugly little thick-lipped man had surrounded himself with the beauty of every age, brought from every land. He himself must have been the only thing cheap and uninteresting to be found within his own walls; and now he lay shrivelled up in his coffin40, under a monument by means of which an unknown cemetery41 became quite famous.
Instructions had been given that my mother was to be shown up into Mrs. Teidelmann's boudoir. She was lying on a sofa near the fire when we entered, asleep, dressed in a loose lace robe that fell away, showing her thin but snow-white arms, her rich dark hair falling loose about her. In sleep she looked less beautiful: harder and with a suggestion of coarseness about the face, of which at other times it showed no trace. My mother said she would wait, perhaps Mrs. Teidelmann would awake; and the servant, closing the door softly, left us alone with her.
An old French clock standing on the mantelpiece, a heart supported by Cupids, ticked with a muffled42, soothing43 sound. My mother, choosing a chair by the window, sat with her eyes fixed44 on the sleeping woman's face, and it seemed to me—though this may have been but my fancy born of after-thought—that a faint smile relaxed for a moment the sleeping woman's pained, pressed lips. Neither I nor my mother spoke, the only sound in the room being the hushed ticking of the great gilt45 clock. Until the other woman after a few slight movements of unrest began to talk in her sleep.
Only confused murmurs46 escaped her at first, and then I heard her whisper my father's name. Very low—hardly more than breathed—were the words, but upon the silence each syllable47 struck clear and distinct: “Ah no, we must not. Luke, my darling.”
My mother rose swiftly from her chair, but she spoke in quite matter-of-fact tones.
“Go, Paul,” she said, “wait for me downstairs;” and noiselessly opening the door, she pushed me gently out, and closed it again behind me.
It was half an hour or more before she came down, and at once we left the house, letting ourselves out. All the way home my mother never once spoke, but walked as one in a dream with eyes that saw not. With her hand upon the lock of our gate she came back to life.
“You must say nothing, Paul, do you understand?” she said. “When people are delirious48 they use strange words that have no meaning. Do you understand, Paul; you must never breathe a word—never.”
I promised, and we entered the house; and from that day my mother's whole manner changed. Not another angry word ever again escaped her lips, never an angry flash lighted up again her eyes. Mrs. Teidelmann remained away three months. My father, of course, wrote to her often, for he was managing all her affairs. But my mother wrote to her also—though this my father, I do not think, knew—long letters that she would go away by herself to pen, writing them always in the twilight49, close to the window.
“Why do you choose this time, just when it's getting dark, to write your letters,” my father would expostulate, when by chance he happened to look into the room. “Let me ring for the lamp, you will strain your eyes.” But my mother would always excuse herself, saying she had only a few lines to finish.
“I can think better in this light,” she would explain.
And when Mrs. Teidelmann returned, it was my mother who was the first to call upon her; before even my father knew that she was back. And from thence onward50 one might have thought them the closest of friends, my mother visiting her often, speaking of her to all in terms of praise and liking51.
In this way peace returned unto the house, and my father was tender again in all his words and actions towards my mother, and my mother thoughtful as before of all his wants and whims14, her voice soft and low, the sweet smile ever lurking52 around her lips as in the old days before this evil thing had come to dwell among us; and I might have forgotten it had ever cast its blight53 upon our life but that every day my mother grew feebler, the little ways that had seemed a part of her gone from her.
The summer came and went—that time in towns of panting days and stifling55 nights, when through the open window crawls to one's face the hot foul56 air, heavy with reeking57 odours drawn from a thousand streets; when lying awake one seems to hear the fitful breathing of the myriad58 mass around, as of some over-laboured beast too tired to even rest; and my mother moved about the house ever more listlessly.
“There's nothing really the matter with her,” said Dr. Hal, “only weakness. It is the place. Cannot you get her away from it?”
“I cannot leave myself,” said my father, “just yet; but there is no reason why you and the boy should not take a holiday. This year I can afford it, and later I might possibly join you.”
My mother consented, as she did to all things now, and so it came about that again of afternoons we climbed—though more slowly and with many pauses—the steep path to the ruined tower old Jacob in his happy foolishness had built upon the headland, rested once again upon its topmost platform, sheltered from the wind that ever blew about its crumbling59 walls, saw once more the distant mountains, faint like spectres, and the silent ships that came and vanished, and about our feet the pleasant farm lands, and the grave, sweet river.
We had taken lodgings60 in the village: smaller now it seemed than previously61; but wonderful its sunny calm, after the turmoil62 of the fierce dark streets. Mrs. Fursey was there still, but quite another than the Mrs. Fursey of my remembrance, a still angular but cheery dame63, bent64 no longer on suppressing me, but rather on drawing me out before admiring neighbours, as one saying: “The material was unpromising, as you know. There were times when I almost despaired. But with patience, and—may I say, a natural gift that way—you see what can be accomplished65!” And Anna, now a buxom66 wife and mother, with an uncontrollable desire to fall upon and kiss me at most unexpected moments, necessitating67 a never sleeping watchfulness68 on my part, and a choosing of positions affording means of ready retreat. And old Chumbley, still cobbling shoes in his tiny cave. On the bench before him in a row they sat and watched him while he tapped and tapped and hammered: pert little shoes piping “Be quick, be quick, we want to be toddling69. You seem to have no idea, my good man, how much toddling there is to be done.” Dapper boots, sighing: “Oh, please make haste, we are waiting to dance and to strut70. Jack71 walks in the lane, Jill waits by the gate. Oh, deary, how slowly he taps.” Stout sober boots, saying: “As soon as you can, old friend. Remember we've work to do.” Flat-footed old boots, rusty72 and limp, mumbling73: “We haven't much time, Mr. Chumbley. Just a patch, that is all, we haven't much further to go.” And old Joe, still peddling74 his pack, with the help of the same old jokes. And Tom Pinfold, still puzzled and scratching his head, the rejected fish still hanging by its tail from his expostulating hand; one might almost have imagined it the same fish. Grown-up folks had changed but little. Only the foolish children had been playing tricks; parties I had left mere24 sucking babes now swaggering in pinafore or knickerbocker; children I had known now mincing75 it as men and women; such affectation annoyed me.
One afternoon—it was towards the close of the last week of our stay—my mother and I had climbed, as was so often our wont, to the upper platform of old Jacob's tower. My mother leant upon the parapet, her eyes fixed dreamingly upon the distant mountains, and a smile crept to her lips.
“What are you thinking of?” I asked.
“Oh, only of things that happened over there”—she nodded her head towards the distant hills as to some old crony with whom she shares secrets—“when I was a girl.”
“You lived there, long ago, didn't you, when you were young?” I asked. Boys do not always stop to consider whether their questions might or might not be better expressed.
“You're very rude,” said my mother—it was long since a tone of her old self had rung from her in answer to any touch; “it was a very little while ago.”
Suddenly she raised her head and listened. Perhaps some twenty seconds she remained so with her lips parted, and then from the woods came a faint, long-drawn “Coo-ee.” We ran to the side of the tower commanding the pathway from the village, and waited until from among the dark pines my father emerged into the sunlight.
Seeing us, he shouted again and waved his stick, and from the light of his eyes and his gallant76 bearing, and the spring of his step across the heathery turf, we knew instinctively77 that trouble had come upon him. He always rose to meet it with that look and air. It was the old Norse blood in his veins78, I suppose. So, one imagines, must those godless old Pirates have sprung to their feet when the North wind, loosed as a hawk79 from the leash80, struck at the beaked81 prow82.
We heard his quick step on the rickety stair, and the next moment he was between us, breathing a little hard, but laughing.
He stood for awhile beside my mother without speaking, both of them gazing at the distant hills among which, as my mother had explained, things had happened long ago. And maybe, “over there,” their memories met and looked upon each other with kind eyes.
“Do you remember,” said my father, “we climbed up here—it was the first walk we took together after coming here. We discussed our plans for the future, how we would retrieve83 our fortunes.”
“And the future,” answered my mother, “has a way of making plans for us instead.”
“It would seem so,” replied my father, with a laugh. “I am an unlucky beggar, Maggie. I dropped all your money as well as my own down that wretched mine.”
“It was the will—it was Fate, or whatever you call it,” said my mother. “You could not help that, Luke.”
“If only that damned pump hadn't jambed,” said my father.
“Do you remember that Mrs. Tharand?” asked my mother.
“Yes, what of her?”
“A worldly woman, I always thought her. She called on me the morning we were leaving; I don't think you saw her. 'I've been through more worries than you would think, to look at me,' she said to me, laughing. I've always remembered her words: 'and of all the troubles that come to us in this world, believe me, Mrs. Kelver, money troubles are the easiest to bear.'”
“I wish I could think so,” said my father.
“She rather irritated me at the time,” continued my mother. “I thought it one of those commonplaces with which we console ourselves for other people's misfortunes. But now I know she spoke the truth.”
There was silence between them for awhile. Then said my father in a cheery tone:
“I've broken with old Hasluck.”
“I thought you would be compelled to sooner or later,” answered my mother.
“Hasluck,” exclaimed my father, with sudden vehemence84, “is little better than a thief; I told him so.”
“What did he say?” asked my mother.
“Laughed, and said that was better than some people.”
My father laughed himself.
I wish to do the memory of Noel Hasluck no injustice85. Ever was he a kind friend to me; not only then, but in later years, when, having come to learn that kindness is rarer in the world than I had dreamt, I was glad of it. Added to which, if only for Barbara's sake, I would prefer to write of him throughout in terms of praise. Yet even were his good-tempered, thick-skinned ghost (and unless it were good-tempered and thick-skinned it would be no true ghost of old Noel Hasluck) to be reading over my shoulder the words as I write them down, I think it would agree with me—I do not think it would be offended with me (for ever in his life he was an admirer and a lover of the Truth, being one of those good fighters capable of respecting even his foe86, his enemy, against whom from ten to four, occasionally a little later, he fought right valiantly) for saying that of all the men who go down into the City each day in a cab or 'bus or train, he was perhaps one of the most unprincipled: and whether that be saying much or little I leave to those with more knowledge to decide.
To do others, as it was his conviction, right or wrong, that they would do him if ever he gave them half a chance, was his notion of “business;” and in most of his transactions he was successful. “I play a game,” he would argue, “where cheating is the rule. Nine out of every ten men round the table are sharpers like myself, and the tenth man is a fool who has no business to be there. We prey87 upon each other, and the cutest of us is the winner.”
“But the innocent people, lured88 by your fine promises,” I ventured once to suggest to him, “the widows and the orphans90?”
“My dear lad,” he said, with a laugh, laying his fat hand upon my shoulder, “I remember one of your widows writing me a pathetic letter about some shares she had taken in a Silver Company of mine. Lord knows where the mine is now—somewhere in Spain, I think. It looked as though all her savings91 were gone. She had an only son, and it was nearly all they possessed92 in the world, etc., etc.—you know the sort of thing. Well, I did what I've often been numskull enough to do in similar cases, wrote and offered to buy her out at par54. A week later she answered, thanking me, but saying it did not matter. There had occurred a momentary93 rise, and she had sold out at a profit—to her own brother-in-law, as I discovered, happening to come across the transfers. You can find widows and orphans round the Monte Carlo card tables, if you like to look for them; they are no more deserving of consideration than the rest of the crowd. Besides, if it comes to that, I'm an orphan89 myself;” and he laughed again, one of his deep, hearty94, honest laughs. No one ever possessed a laugh more suggestive in its every cadence95 of simple, transparent96 honesty. He used to say himself it was worth thousands to him.
Better from the Moralists' point of view had such a man been an out-and-out rogue97. Then might one have pointed, crying: “Behold: Dishonesty, as you will observe in the person of our awful example, to be hated, needs but to be seen.” But the duty of the Chronicler is to bear witness to what he knows, leaving Truth with the whole case before her to sum up and direct the verdict. In the City, old Hasluck had a bad reputation and deserved it; in Stoke-Newington—then a green suburb, containing many fine old houses, standing in great wooded gardens—he was loved and respected. In his business, he was a man void of all moral sense, without bowels98 of compassion99 for any living thing; in retirement100, a man with a strong sense of duty and a fine regard for the rights and feelings of others, never happier than when planning to help or give pleasure. In his office, he would have robbed his own mother. At home, he would have spent his last penny to add to her happiness or comfort. I make no attempt to explain. I only know that such men do exist, and that Hasluck was one of them. One avoids difficulties by dismissing them as a product of our curiously101 complex civilisation—a convenient phrase; let us hope the recording102 angel may be equally impressed by it.
Casting about for some reason of excuse to myself for my liking of him, I hit upon the expedient103 of regarding him as a modern Robin104 Hood27, whom we are taught to admire without shame, a Robin Hood up to date, adapted to the changed conditions of modern environment; making his living relieving the rich; taking pleasure relieving the poor.
“What will you do?” asked my mother.
“I shall have to give up the office,” answered my father. “Without him there's not enough to keep it going. He was quite good-tempered about the matter—offered to divide the work, letting me retain the straightforward105 portion for whatever that might be worth. But I declined. Now I know, I feel I would rather have nothing more to do with him.”
“I think you were quite right,” agreed my mother.
“What I blame myself for,” said my father, “is that I didn't see through him before. Of course he has been making a mere tool of me from the beginning. I ought to have seen through him. Why didn't I?”
They discussed the future, or, rather, my father discussed, my mother listening in silence, stealing a puzzled look at him from time to time, as though there were something she could not understand.
He would take a situation in the City. One had been offered him. It might sound poor, but it would be a steady income on which we must contrive106 to live. The little money he had saved must be kept for investments—nothing speculative—judicious “dealings,” by means of which a cool, clear-headed man could soon accumulate capital. Here the training acquired by working for old Hasluck would serve him well. One man my father knew—quite a dull, commonplace man—starting a few years ago with only a few hundreds, was now worth tens of thousands. Foresight107 was the necessary qualification. You watched the “tendency” of things. So often had my father said to himself: “This is going to be a big thing. That other, it is no good,” and in every instance his prognostications had been verified. He had “felt it;” some men had that gift. Now was the time to use it for practical purposes.
“Here,” said my father, breaking off, and casting an approving eye upon the surrounding scenery, “would be a pleasant place to end one's days. The house you had was very pretty and you liked it. We might enlarge it, the drawing-room might be thrown out—perhaps another wing.” I felt that our good fortune as from this day was at last established.
But my mother had been listening with growing impatience108, her puzzled glances giving place gradually to flashes of anger; and now she turned her face full upon him, her question written plainly thereon, demanding answer.
Some idea of it I had even then, watching her; and since I have come to read it word for word: “But that woman—that woman that loves you, that you love. Ah, I know—why do you play with me? She is rich. With her your life will be smooth. And the boy—it will be better far for him. Cannot you three wait a little longer? What more can I do? Cannot you see that I am surely dying—dying as quickly as I can—dying as that poor creature your friend once told us of; knowing it was the only thing she could do for those she loved. Be honest with me: I am no longer jealous. All that is past: a man is ever younger than a woman, and a man changes. I do not blame you. It is for the best. She and I have talked; it is far better so. Only be honest with me, or at least silent. Will you not honour me enough for even that?”
My father did not answer, having that to speak of that put my mother's question out of her mind for all time; so that until the end no word concerning that other woman passed again between them. Twenty years later, nearly, I myself happened to meet her, and then long physical suffering had chased the wantonness away for ever from the pain-worn mouth; but in that hour of waning109 voices, as some trouble of the fretful day when evening falls, so she faded from their life; and if even the remembrance of her returned at times to either of them, I think it must have been in those moments when, for no seeming reason, shyly their hands sought one another.
So the truth of the sad ado—how far my mother's suspicions wronged my father; for the eye of jealousy110 (and what loving woman ever lived that was not jealous?) has its optic nerve terminating not in the brain but in the heart, which was not constructed for the reception of true vision—I never knew. Later, long after the curtain of green earth had been rolled down upon the players, I spoke once on the matter with Doctor Hal, who must have seen something of the play and with more understanding eyes than mine, and who thereupon delivered to me a short lecture on life in general, a performance at which he excelled.
“Flee from temptation and pray that you may be delivered from evil,” shouted the Doctor—(his was not the Socratic method)—“but remember this: that as sure as the sparks fly upward there will come a time when, however fast you run, you will be overtaken—cornered—no one to deliver you but yourself—the gods sitting round interested. It is a grim fight, for the Thing, you may be sure, has chosen its right moment. And every woman in the world will sympathise with you and be just to you, not even despising you should you be overcome; for however they may talk, every woman in the world knows that male and female cannot be judged by the same standard. To woman, Nature and the Law speak with one voice: 'Sin not, lest you be cursed of your sex!' It is no law of man: it is the law of creation. When the woman sins, she sins not only against her conscience, but against her every instinct. But to the man Nature whispers: 'Yield.' It is the Law alone that holds him back. Therefore every woman in the world, knowing this, will be just to you—every woman in the world but one—the woman that loves you. From her, hope for no sympathy, hope for no justice.”
“Then you think—” I began.
“I think,” said the Doctor, “that your father loved your mother devotedly111; but he was one of those fighters that for the first half-dozen rounds or so cause their backers much anxiety. It is a dangerous method.”
“Then you think my mother—”
“I think your mother was a good woman, Paul; and the good woman will never be satisfied with man till the Lord lets her take him to pieces and put him together herself.”
My father had been pacing to and fro the tiny platform. Now he came to a halt opposite my mother, placing his hands upon her shoulders.
“I want you to help me, Maggie—help me to be brave. I have only a year or two longer to live, and there's a lot to be done in that time.”
Slowly the anger died out of my mother's face.
“You remember that fall I had when the cage broke,” my father went on. “Andrews, as you know, feared from the first it might lead to that. But I always laughed at him.”
“How long have you known?” my mother asked.
“Oh, about six months. I felt it at the beginning of the year, but I didn't say anything to Washburn till a month later. I thought it might be only fancy.”
“And he is sure?”
My father nodded.
“But why have you never told me?”
“Because,” replied my father, with a laugh, “I didn't want you to know. If I could have done without you, I should not have told you now.”
And at this there came a light into my mother's face that never altogether left it until the end.
She drew him down beside her on the seat. I had come nearer; and my father, stretching out his hand, would have had me with them. But my mother, putting her arms about him, held him close to her, as though in that moment she would have had him to herself alone.
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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stint
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| v.节省，限制，停止；n.舍不得化，节约，限制；连续不断的一段时间从事某件事 | |
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organise
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| vt.组织，安排，筹办 | |
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constrainedly
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| 不自然地，勉强地，强制地 | |
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6
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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7
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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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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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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13
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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14
WHIMS
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| 虚妄，禅病 | |
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15
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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16
judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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17
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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18
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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19
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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20
loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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21
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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22
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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23
coaxing
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的现在分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱；“锻炼”效应 | |
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24
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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25
caressingly
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| 爱抚地，亲切地 | |
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26
allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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27
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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28
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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29
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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30
sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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32
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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33
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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34
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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35
propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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36
carvings
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| n.雕刻( carving的名词复数 )；雕刻术；雕刻品；雕刻物 | |
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37
embroideries
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| 刺绣( embroidery的名词复数 )； 刺绣品； 刺绣法 | |
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38
gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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39
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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40
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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41
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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42
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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43
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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44
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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45
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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46
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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47
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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48
delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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49
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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50
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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51
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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52
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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53
blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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54
par
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| n.标准，票面价值，平均数量；adj.票面的，平常的，标准的 | |
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55
stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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56
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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57
reeking
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的现在分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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58
myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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59
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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60
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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61
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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62
turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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63
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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64
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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65
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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66
buxom
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| adj.（妇女）丰满的，有健康美的 | |
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67
necessitating
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| 使…成为必要，需要( necessitate的现在分词 ) | |
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68
watchfulness
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| 警惕，留心； 警觉（性） | |
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69
toddling
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| v.（幼儿等）东倒西歪地走( toddle的现在分词 )；蹒跚行走；溜达；散步 | |
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70
strut
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| v.肿胀，鼓起；大摇大摆地走；炫耀；支撑；撑开；n.高视阔步；支柱，撑杆 | |
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71
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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72
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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73
mumbling
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的现在分词 ) | |
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74
peddling
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| 忙于琐事的，无关紧要的 | |
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75
mincing
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| adj.矫饰的；v.切碎；切碎 | |
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76
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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77
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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78
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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79
hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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80
leash
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| n.牵狗的皮带，束缚；v.用皮带系住 | |
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81
beaked
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| adj.有喙的，鸟嘴状的 | |
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82
prow
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| n.(飞机)机头，船头 | |
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83
retrieve
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| vt.重新得到，收回；挽回，补救；检索 | |
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84
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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85
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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86
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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87
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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88
lured
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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89
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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90
orphans
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| 孤儿( orphan的名词复数 ) | |
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91
savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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92
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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93
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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94
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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95
cadence
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| n.（说话声调的）抑扬顿挫 | |
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96
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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97
rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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98
bowels
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| n.肠，内脏，内部；肠( bowel的名词复数 )；内部，最深处 | |
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99
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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100
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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101
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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102
recording
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| n.录音，记录 | |
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103
expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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104
robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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105
straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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106
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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107
foresight
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| n.先见之明，深谋远虑 | |
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108
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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109
waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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110
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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111
devotedly
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| 专心地； 恩爱地； 忠实地； 一心一意地 | |
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