Once there, he sought no longer to dissemble his concern, walking to and fro in the room with a contorted face, and passing his hand repeatedly upon his brow.
“We have some business,” he began at last; and there broke off, declared we must have wine, and sent for a magnum of the best. This was extremely foreign to his habitudes; and what was still more so, when the wine had come, he gulped3 down one glass upon another like a man careless of appearances. But the drink steadied him.
“You will scarce be surprised, Mackellar,” says he, “when I tell you that my brother—whose safety we are all rejoiced to learn—stands in some need of money.”
I told him I had misdoubted as much; but the time was not very fortunate, as the stock was low.
“Not mine,” said he. “There is the money for the mortgage.”
I reminded him it was Mrs. Henry’s.
“I will be answerable to my wife,” he cried violently.
“And then,” said I, “there is the mortgage.”
“I know,” said he; “it is on that I would consult you.”
I showed him how unfortunate a time it was to divert this money from its destination; and how, by so doing, we must lose the profit of our past economies, and plunge1 back the estate into the mire4. I even took the liberty to plead with him; and when he still opposed me with a shake of the head and a bitter dogged smile, my zeal5 quite carried me beyond my place. “This is midsummer madness,” cried I; “and I for one will be no party to it.”
“You speak as though I did it for my pleasure,” says he. “But I have a child now; and, besides, I love order; and to say the honest truth, Mackellar, I had begun to take a pride in the estates.” He gloomed for a moment. “But what would you have?” he went on. “Nothing is mine, nothing. This day’s news has knocked the bottom out of my life. I have only the name and the shadow of things—only the shadow; there is no substance in my rights.”
“They will prove substantial enough before a court,” said I.
He looked at me with a burning eye, and seemed to repress the word upon his lips; and I repented6 what I had said, for I saw that while he spoke7 of the estate he had still a side-thought to his marriage. And then, of a sudden, he twitched8 the letter from his pocket, where it lay all crumpled9, smoothed it violently on the table, and read these words to me with a trembling tongue: “‘My dear Jacob’—This is how he begins!” cries he—“‘My dear Jacob, I once called you so, you may remember; and you have now done the business, and flung my heels as high as Criffel.’ What do you think of that, Mackellar,” says he, “from an only brother? I declare to God I liked him very well; I was always staunch to him; and this is how he writes! But I will not sit down under the imputation”—walking to and fro—“I am as good as he; I am a better man than he, I call on God to prove it! I cannot give him all the monstrous10 sum he asks; he knows the estate to be incompetent11; but I will give him what I have, and it is more than he expects. I have borne all this too long. See what he writes further on; read it for yourself: ‘I know you are a niggardly12 dog.’ A niggardly dog! I niggardly? Is that true, Mackellar? You think it is?” I really thought he would have struck me at that. “Oh, you all think so! Well, you shall see, and he shall see, and God shall see. If I ruin the estate and go barefoot, I shall stuff this bloodsucker. Let him ask all—all, and he shall have it! It is all his by rights. Ah!” he cried, “and I foresaw all this, and worse, when he would not let me go.” He poured out another glass of wine, and was about to carry it to his lips, when I made so bold as to lay a finger on his arm. He stopped a moment. “You are right,” said he, and flung glass and all in the fireplace. “Come, let us count the money.”
I durst no longer oppose him; indeed, I was very much affected13 by the sight of so much disorder14 in a man usually so controlled; and we sat down together, counted the money, and made it up in packets for the greater ease of Colonel Burke, who was to be the bearer. This done, Mr. Henry returned to the hall, where he and my old lord sat all night through with their guest.
A little before dawn I was called and set out with the Colonel. He would scarce have liked a less responsible convoy15, for he was a man who valued himself; nor could we afford him one more dignified16, for Mr. Henry must not appear with the freetraders. It was a very bitter morning of wind, and as we went down through the long shrubbery the Colonel held himself muffled17 in his cloak.
“Sir,” said I, “this is a great sum of money that your friend requires. I must suppose his necessities to be very great.”
“We must suppose so,” says he, I thought drily; but perhaps it was the cloak about his mouth.
“I am only a servant of the family,” said I. “You may deal openly with me. I think we are likely to get little good by him?”
“My dear man,” said the Colonel, “Ballantrae is a gentleman of the most eminent18 natural abilities, and a man that I admire, and that I revere19, to the very ground he treads on.” And then he seemed to me to pause like one in a difficulty.
“But for all that,” said I, “we are likely to get little good by him?”
“Sure, and you can have it your own way, my dear man,” says the Colonel.
By this time we had come to the side of the creek20, where the boat awaited him. “Well,” said be, “I am sure I am very much your debtor21 for all your civility, Mr. Whatever-your-name-is; and just as a last word, and since you show so much intelligent interest, I will mention a small circumstance that may be of use to the family. For I believe my friend omitted to mention that he has the largest pension on the Scots Fund of any refugee in Paris; and it’s the more disgraceful, sir,” cries the Colonel, warming, “because there’s not one dirty penny for myself.”
He cocked his hat at me, as if I had been to blame for this partiality; then changed again into his usual swaggering civility, shook me by the hand, and set off down to the boat, with the money under his arms, and whistling as he went the pathetic air of Shule Aroon. It was the first time I had heard that tune23; I was to hear it again, words and all, as you shall learn, but I remember how that little stave of it ran in my head after the freetraders had bade him “Wheesht, in the deil’s name,” and the grating of the oars24 had taken its place, and I stood and watched the dawn creeping on the sea, and the boat drawing away, and the lugger lying with her foresail backed awaiting it.
The gap made in our money was a sore embarrassment25, and, among other consequences, it had this: that I must ride to Edinburgh, and there raise a new loan on very questionable26 terms to keep the old afloat; and was thus, for close upon three weeks, absent from the house of Durrisdeer.
What passed in the interval27 I had none to tell me, but I found Mrs. Henry, upon my return, much changed in her demeanour. The old talks with my lord for the most part pretermitted; a certain deprecation visible towards her husband, to whom I thought she addressed herself more often; and, for one thing, she was now greatly wrapped up in Miss Katharine. You would think the change was agreeable to Mr. Henry; no such matter! To the contrary, every circumstance of alteration28 was a stab to him; he read in each the avowal29 of her truant30 fancies. That constancy to the Master of which she was proud while she supposed him dead, she had to blush for now she knew he was alive, and these blushes were the hated spring of her new conduct. I am to conceal31 no truth; and I will here say plainly, I think this was the period in which Mr. Henry showed the worst. He contained himself, indeed, in public; but there was a deep-seated irritation32 visible underneath33. With me, from whom he had less concealment34, he was often grossly unjust, and even for his wife he would sometimes have a sharp retort: perhaps when she had ruffled35 him with some unwonted kindness; perhaps upon no tangible36 occasion, the mere37 habitual38 tenor39 of the man’s annoyance40 bursting spontaneously forth41. When he would thus forget himself (a thing so strangely out of keeping with the terms of their relation), there went a shook through the whole company, and the pair would look upon each other in a kind of pained amazement42.
All the time, too, while he was injuring himself by this defect of temper, he was hurting his position by a silence, of which I scarce know whether to say it was the child of generosity43 or pride. The freetraders came again and again, bringing messengers from the Master, and none departed empty-handed. I never durst reason with Mr. Henry; he gave what was asked of him in a kind of noble rage. Perhaps because he knew he was by nature inclining to the parsimonious44, he took a backforemost pleasure in the recklessness with which he supplied his brother’s exigence. Perhaps the falsity of the position would have spurred a humbler man into the same excess. But the estate (if I may say so) groaned46 under it; our daily expenses were shorn lower and lower; the stables were emptied, all but four roadsters; servants were discharged, which raised a dreadful murmuring in the country, and heated up the old disfavour upon Mr. Henry; and at last the yearly visit to Edinburgh must be discontinued.
This was in 1756. You are to suppose that for seven years this bloodsucker had been drawing the life’s blood from Durrisdeer, and that all this time my patron had held his peace. It was an effect of devilish malice47 in the Master that he addressed Mr. Henry alone upon the matter of his demands, and there was never a word to my lord. The family had looked on, wondering at our economies. They had lamented49, I have no doubt, that my patron had become so great a miser—a fault always despicable, but in the young abhorrent50, and Mr. Henry was not yet thirty years of age. Still, he had managed the business of Durrisdeer almost from a boy; and they bore with these changes in a silence as proud and bitter as his own, until the coping-stone of the Edinburgh visit.
At this time I believe my patron and his wife were rarely together, save at meals. Immediately on the back of Colonel Burke’s announcement Mrs. Henry made palpable advances; you might say she had laid a sort of timid court to her husband, different, indeed, from her former manner of unconcern and distance. I never had the heart to blame Mr. Henry because he recoiled51 from these advances; nor yet to censure52 the wife, when she was cut to the quick by their rejection53. But the result was an entire estrangement54, so that (as I say) they rarely spoke, except at meals. Even the matter of the Edinburgh visit was first broached55 at table, and it chanced that Mrs. Henry was that day ailing56 and querulous. She had no sooner understood her husband’s meaning than the red flew in her face.
“At last,” she cried, “this is too much! Heaven knows what pleasure I have in my life, that I should be denied my only consolation57. These shameful58 proclivities59 must be trod down; we are already a mark and an eyesore in the neighbourhood. I will not endure this fresh insanity60.”
“I cannot afford it,” says Mr. Henry.
“Afford?” she cried. “For shame! But I have money of my own.”
My old lord threw up his hands to Heaven, and he and his daughter, withdrawing to the chimney, gave me a broad hint to be gone. I found Mr. Henry in his usual retreat, the steward’s room, perched on the end of the table, and plunging62 his penknife in it with a very ugly countenance63.
“Oh!” cries he, “nobody minds here. They think it only natural. I have shameful proclivities. I am a niggardly dog,” and he drove his knife up to the hilt. “But I will show that fellow,” he cried with an oath, “I will show him which is the more generous.”
“This is no generosity,” said I; “this is only pride.”
“Do you think I want morality?” he asked.
I thought he wanted help, and I should give it him, willy-nilly; and no sooner was Mrs. Henry gone to her room than I presented myself at her door and sought admittance.
She openly showed her wonder. “What do you want with me, Mr. Mackellar?” said she.
“The Lord knows, madam,” says I, “I have never troubled you before with any freedoms; but this thing lies too hard upon my conscience, and it will out. Is it possible that two people can be so blind as you and my lord? and have lived all these years with a noble gentleman like Mr. Henry, and understand so little of his nature?”
“What does this mean?” she cried.
“Do you not know where his money goes to? his—and yours—and the money for the very wine he does not drink at table?” I went on. “To Paris—to that man! Eight thousand pounds has he had of us in seven years, and my patron fool enough to keep it secret!”
“Eight thousand pounds!” she repeated. “It in impossible; the estate is not sufficient.”
“God knows how we have sweated farthings to produce it,” said I. “But eight thousand and sixty is the sum, beside odd shillings. And if you can think my patron miserly after that, this shall be my last interference.”
“You need say no more, Mr. Mackellar,” said she. “You have done most properly in what you too modestly call your interference. I am much to blame; you must think me indeed a very unobservant wife” (looking upon me with a strange smile), “but I shall put this right at once. The Master was always of a very thoughtless nature; but his heart is excellent; he is the soul of generosity. I shall write to him myself. You cannot think how you have pained me by this communication.”
“Indeed, madam, I had hoped to have pleased you,” said I, for I raged to see her still thinking of the Master.
“And pleased,” said she, “and pleased me of course.”
That same day (I will not say but what I watched) I had the satisfaction to see Mr. Henry come from his wife’s room in a state most unlike himself; for his face was all bloated with weeping, and yet he seemed to me to walk upon the air. By this, I was sure his wife had made him full amends66 for once. “Ah,” thought I to myself, “I have done a brave stroke this day.”
On the morrow, as I was seated at my books, Mr. Henry came in softly behind me, took me by the shoulders, and shook me in a manner of playfulness. “I find you are a faithless fellow after all,” says he, which was his only reference to my part; but the tone he spoke in was more to me than any eloquence67 of protestation. Nor was this all I had effected; for when the next messenger came (as he did not long afterwards) from the Master, he got nothing away with him but a letter. For some while back it had been I myself who had conducted these affairs; Mr. Henry not setting pen to paper, and I only in the dryest and most formal terms. But this letter I did not even see; it would scarce be pleasant reading, for Mr. Henry felt he had his wife behind him for once, and I observed, on the day it was despatched, he had a very gratified expression.
Things went better now in the family, though it could scarce be pretended they went well. There was now at least no misconception; there was kindness upon all sides; and I believe my patron and his wife might again have drawn68 together if he could but have pocketed his pride, and she forgot (what was the ground of all) her brooding on another man. It is wonderful how a private thought leaks out; it is wonderful to me now how we should all have followed the current of her sentiments; and though she bore herself quietly, and had a very even disposition69, yet we should have known whenever her fancy ran to Paris. And would not any one have thought that my disclosure must have rooted up that idol70? I think there is the devil in women: all these years passed, never a sight of the man, little enough kindness to remember (by all accounts) even while she had him, the notion of his death intervening, his heartless rapacity71 laid bare to her; that all should not do, and she must still keep the best place in her heart for this accursed fellow, is a thing to make a plain man rage. I had never much natural sympathy for the passion of love; but this unreason in my patron’s wife disgusted me outright72 with the whole matter. I remember checking a maid because she sang some bairnly kickshaw while my mind was thus engaged; and my asperity73 brought about my ears the enmity of all the petticoats about the house; of which I reeked74 very little, but it amused Mr. Henry, who rallied me much upon our joint75 unpopularity. It is strange enough (for my own mother was certainly one of the salt of the earth, and my Aunt Dickson, who paid my fees at the University, a very notable woman), but I have never had much toleration for the female sex, possibly not much understanding; and being far from a bold man, I have ever shunned77 their company. Not only do I see no cause to regret this diffidence in myself, but have invariably remarked the most unhappy consequences follow those who were less wise. So much I thought proper to set down, lest I show myself unjust to Mrs. Henry. And, besides, the remark arose naturally, on a re-perusal of the letter which was the next step in these affairs, and reached me, to my sincere astonishment78, by a private hand, some week or so after the departure of the last messenger.
Letter from Colonel Burke (afterwards Chevalier) to Mr. Mackellar.
July 12, 1756
My Dear Sir,—You will doubtless be surprised to receive a communication from one so little known to you; but on the occasion I had the good fortune to rencounter you at Durrisdeer, I remarked you for a young man of a solid gravity of character: a qualification which I profess80 I admire and revere next to natural genius or the bold chivalrous81 spirit of the soldier. I was, besides, interested in the noble family which you have the honour to serve, or (to speak more by the book) to be the humble45 and respected friend of; and a conversation I had the pleasure to have with you very early in the morning has remained much upon my mind.
Being the other day in Paris, on a visit from this famous city, where I am in garrison82, I took occasion to inquire your name (which I profess I had forgot) at my friend, the Master of B.; and a fair opportunity occurring, I write to inform you of what’s new.
The Master of B. (when we had last some talk of him together) was in receipt, as I think I then told you, of a highly advantageous83 pension on the Scots Fund. He next received a company, and was soon after advanced to a regiment84 of his own. My dear sir, I do not offer to explain this circumstance; any more than why I myself, who have rid at the right hand of Princes, should be fubbed off with a pair of colours and sent to rot in a hole at the bottom of the province. Accustomed as I am to Courts, I cannot but feel it is no atmosphere for a plain soldier; and I could never hope to advance by similar means, even could I stoop to the endeavour. But our friend has a particular aptitude85 to succeed by the means of ladies; and if all be true that I have heard, he enjoyed a remarkable86 protection. It is like this turned against him; for when I had the honour to shake him by the hand, he was but newly released from the Bastille, where he had been cast on a sealed letter; and, though now released, has both lost his regiment and his pension. My dear sir, the loyalty87 of a plain Irishman will ultimately succeed in the place of craft; as I am sure a gentleman of your probity88 will agree.
Now, sir, the Master is a man whose genius I admire beyond expression, and, besides, he is my friend; but I thought a little word of this revolution in his fortunes would not come amiss, for, in my opinion, the man’s desperate. He spoke, when I saw him, of a trip to India (whither I am myself in some hope of accompanying my illustrious countryman, Mr. Lally); but for this he would require (as I understood) more money than was readily at his command. You may have heard a military proverb: that it is a good thing to make a bridge of gold to a flying enemy? I trust you will take my meaning and I subscribe89 myself, with proper respects to my Lord Durrisdeer, to his son, and to the beauteous Mrs. Durie,
My dear Sir,
Your obedient humble servant,
Francis Burke.
This missive I carried at once to Mr. Henry; and I think there was but the one thought between the two of us: that it had come a week too late. I made haste to send an answer to Colonel Burke, in which I begged him, if he should see the Master, to assure him his next messenger would be attended to. But with all my haste I was not in time to avert90 what was impending91; the arrow had been drawn, it must now fly. I could almost doubt the power of Providence92 (and certainly His will) to stay the issue of events; and it is a strange thought, how many of us had been storing up the elements of this catastrophe93, for how long a time, and with how blind an ignorance of what we did.
From the coming of the Colonel’s letter, I had a spyglass in my room, began to drop questions to the tenant94 folk, and as there was no great secrecy95 observed, and the freetrade (in our part) went by force as much as stealth, I had soon got together a knowledge of the signals in use, and knew pretty well to an hour when any messenger might be expected. I say, I questioned the tenants96; for with the traders themselves, desperate blades that went habitually97 armed, I could never bring myself to meddle98 willingly. Indeed, by what proved in the sequel an unhappy chance, I was an object of scorn to some of these braggadocios99; who had not only gratified me with a nickname, but catching100 me one night upon a by-path, and being all (as they would have said) somewhat merry, had caused me to dance for their diversion. The method employed was that of cruelly chipping at my toes with naked cutlasses, shouting at the same time “Square-Toes”; and though they did me no bodily mischief101, I was none the less deplorably affected, and was indeed for several days confined to my bed: a scandal on the state of Scotland on which no comment is required.
It happened on the afternoon of November 7th, in this same unfortunate year, that I espied102, during my walk, the smoke of a beacon103 fire upon the Muckleross. It was drawing near time for my return; but the uneasiness upon my spirits was that day so great that I must burst through the thickets104 to the edge of what they call the Craig Head. The sun was already down, but there was still a broad light in the west, which showed me some of the smugglers treading out their signal fire upon the Ross, and in the bay the lugger lying with her sails brailed up. She was plainly but new come to anchor, and yet the skiff was already lowered and pulling for the landing-place at the end of the long shrubbery. And this I knew could signify but one thing, the coming of a messenger for Durrisdeer.
I laid aside the remainder of my terrors, clambered down the brae—a place I had never ventured through before, and was hid among the shore-side thickets in time to see the boat touch. Captain Crail himself was steering106, a thing not usual; by his side there sat a passenger; and the men gave way with difficulty, being hampered107 with near upon half a dozen portmanteaus, great and small. But the business of landing was briskly carried through; and presently the baggage was all tumbled on shore, the boat on its return voyage to the lugger, and the passenger standing76 alone upon the point of rock, a tall slender figure of a gentleman, habited in black, with a sword by his side and a walking-cane108 upon his wrist. As he so stood, he waved the cane to Captain Crail by way of salutation, with something both of grace and mockery that wrote the gesture deeply on my mind.
No sooner was the boat away with my sworn enemies than I took a sort of half courage, came forth to the margin109 of the thicket105, and there halted again, my mind being greatly pulled about between natural diffidence and a dark foreboding of the truth. Indeed, I might have stood there swithering all night, had not the stranger turned, spied me through the mists, which were beginning to fall, and waved and cried on me to draw near. I did so with a heart like lead.
“Here, my good man,” said he, in the English accent, “there are some things for Durrisdeer.”
I was now near enough to see him, a very handsome figure and countenance, swarthy, lean, long, with a quick, alert, black look, as of one who was a fighter, and accustomed to command; upon one cheek he had a mole110, not unbecoming; a large diamond sparkled on his hand; his clothes, although of the one hue111, were of a French and foppish112 design; his ruffles113, which he wore longer than common, of exquisite114 lace; and I wondered the more to see him in such a guise115 when he was but newly landed from a dirty smuggling116 lugger. At the same time he had a better look at me, toised me a second time sharply, and then smiled.
“I wager117, my friend,” says he, “that I know both your name and your nickname. I divined these very clothes upon your hand of writing, Mr. Mackellar.”
At these words I fell to shaking.
“Oh,” says he, “you need not be afraid of me. I bear no malice for your tedious letters; and it is my purpose to employ you a good deal. You may call me Mr. Bally: it is the name I have assumed; or rather (since I am addressing so great a precision) it is so I have curtailed118 my own. Come now, pick up that and that”—indicating two of the portmanteaus. “That will be as much as you are fit to bear, and the rest can very well wait. Come, lose no more time, if you please.”
His tone was so cutting that I managed to do as he bid by a sort of instinct, my mind being all the time quite lost. No sooner had I picked up the portmanteaus than he turned his back and marched off through the long shrubbery, where it began already to be dusk, for the wood is thick and evergreen119. I followed behind, loaded almost to the dust, though I profess I was not conscious of the burthen; being swallowed up in the monstrosity of this return, and my mind flying like a weaver’s shuttle.
On a sudden I set the portmanteaus to the ground and halted. He turned and looked back at me.
“Well?” said he.
“You are the Master of Ballantrae?”
“You will do me the justice to observe,” says he, “I have made no secret with the astute120 Mackellar.”
“And in the name of God,” cries I, “what brings you here? Go back, while it is yet time.”
“I thank you,” said he. “Your master has chosen this way, and not I; but since he has made the choice, he (and you also) must abide121 by the result. And now pick up these things of mine, which you have set down in a very boggy122 place, and attend to that which I have made your business.”
But I had no thought now of obedience123; I came straight up to him. “If nothing will move you to go back,” said I; “though, sure, under all the circumstances, any Christian124 or even any gentleman would scruple125 to go forward . . . ”
“These are gratifying expressions,” he threw in.
“If nothing will move you to go back,” I continued, “there are still some decencies to be observed. Wait here with your baggage, and I will go forward and prepare your family. Your father is an old man; and . . . ” I stumbled . . . “there are decencies to be observed.”
“Truly,” said he, “this Mackellar improves upon acquaintance. But look you here, my man, and understand it once for all—you waste your breath upon me, and I go my own way with inevitable126 motion.”
“Ah!” says I. “Is that so? We shall see then!”
And I turned and took to my heels for Durrisdeer. He clutched at me and cried out angrily, and then I believe I heard him laugh, and then I am certain he pursued me for a step or two, and (I suppose) desisted. One thing at least is sure, that I came but a few minutes later to the door of the great house, nearly strangled for the lack of breath, but quite alone. Straight up the stair I ran, and burst into the hall, and stopped before the family without the power of speech; but I must have carried my story in my looks, for they rose out of their places and stared on me like changelings.
“He has come,” I panted out at last.
“He?” said Mr. Henry.
“Himself,” said I.
“My son?” cried my lord. “Imprudent, imprudent boy! Oh, could he not stay where he was safe!”
Never a word says Mrs. Henry; nor did I look at her, I scarce knew why.
“Well,” said Mr. Henry, with a very deep breath, “and where is he?”
“I left him in the long shrubbery,” said I.
“Take me to him,” said he.
So we went out together, he and I, without another word from any one; and in the midst of the gravelled plot encountered the Master strolling up, whistling as he came, and beating the air with his cane. There was still light enough overhead to recognise, though not to read, a countenance.
“Ah! Jacob,” says the Master. “So here is Esau back.”
“James,” says Mr. Henry, “for God’s sake, call me by my name. I will not pretend that I am glad to see you; but I would fain make you as welcome as I can in the house of our fathers.”
“Or in my house? or yours?” says the Master. “Which were you about to say? But this is an old sore, and we need not rub it. If you would not share with me in Paris, I hope you will yet scarce deny your elder brother a corner of the fire at Durrisdeer?”
“That is very idle speech,” replied Mr. Henry. “And you understand the power of your position excellently well.”
“Why, I believe I do,” said the other with a little laugh. And this, though they had never touched hands, was (as we may say) the end of the brothers’ meeting; for at this the Master turned to me and bade me fetch his baggage.
“As long as the Master is here, Mr. Mackellar, you will very much oblige me by regarding his wishes as you would my own,” says Mr. Henry. “We are constantly troubling you: will you be so good as send one of the servants?”—with an accent on the word.
If this speech were anything at all, it was surely a well-deserved reproof129 upon the stranger; and yet, so devilish was his impudence130, he twisted it the other way.
“And shall we be common enough to say ‘Sneck up’?” inquires he softly, looking upon me sideways.
Had a kingdom depended on the act, I could not have trusted myself in words; even to call a servant was beyond me; I had rather serve the man myself than speak; and I turned away in silence and went into the long shrubbery, with a heart full of anger and despair. It was dark under the trees, and I walked before me and forgot what business I was come upon, till I near broke my shin on the portmanteaus. Then it was that I remarked a strange particular; for whereas I had before carried both and scarce observed it, it was now as much as I could do to manage one. And this, as it forced me to make two journeys, kept me the longer from the hall.
When I got there, the business of welcome was over long ago; the company was already at supper; and by an oversight131 that cut me to the quick, my place had been forgotten. I had seen one side of the Master’s return; now I was to see the other. It was he who first remarked my coming in and standing back (as I did) in some annoyance. He jumped from his seat.
“And if I have not got the good Mackellar’s place!” cries he. “John, lay another for Mr. Bally; I protest he will disturb no one, and your table is big enough for all.”
I could scarce credit my ears, nor yet my senses, when he took me by the shoulders and thrust me, laughing, into my own place—such an affectionate playfulness was in his voice. And while John laid the fresh place for him (a thing on which he still insisted), he went and leaned on his father’s chair and looked down upon him, and the old man turned about and looked upwards132 on his son, with such a pleasant mutual133 tenderness that I could have carried my hand to my head in mere amazement.
Yet all was of a piece. Never a harsh word fell from him, never a sneer134 showed upon his lip. He had laid aside even his cutting English accent, and spoke with the kindly135 Scots’ tongue, that set a value on affectionate words; and though his manners had a graceful22 elegance136 mighty137 foreign to our ways in Durrisdeer, it was still a homely138 courtliness, that did not shame but flattered us. All that, he did throughout the meal, indeed, drinking wine with me with a notable respect, turning about for a pleasant word with John, fondling his father’s hand, breaking into little merry tales of his adventures, calling up the past with happy reference—all he did was so becoming, and himself so handsome, that I could scarce wonder if my lord and Mrs. Henry sat about the board with radiant faces, or if John waited behind with dropping tears.
As soon as supper was over, Mrs. Henry rose to withdraw.
“This was never your way, Alison,” said he.
“It is my way now,” she replied: which was notoriously false, “and I will give you a good-night, James, and a welcome—from the dead,” said she, and her voice dropped and trembled.
Poor Mr. Henry, who had made rather a heavy figure through the meal, was more concerned than ever; pleased to see his wife withdraw, and yet half displeased139, as he thought upon the cause of it; and the next moment altogether dashed by the fervour of her speech.
On my part, I thought I was now one too many; and was stealing after Mrs. Henry, when the Master saw me.
“Now, Mr. Mackellar,” says he, “I take this near on an unfriendliness. I cannot have you go: this is to make a stranger of the prodigal140 son; and let me remind you where—in his own father’s house! Come, sit ye down, and drink another glass with Mr. Bally.”
“Ay, ay, Mr. Mackellar,” says my lord, “we must not make a stranger either of him or you. I have been telling my son,” he added, his voice brightening as usual on the word, “how much we valued all your friendly service.”
So I sat there, silent, till my usual hour; and might have been almost deceived in the man’s nature but for one passage, in which his perfidy141 appeared too plain. Here was the passage; of which, after what he knows of the brothers’ meeting, the reader shall consider for himself. Mr. Henry sitting somewhat dully, in spite of his best endeavours to carry things before my lord, up jumps the Master, passes about the board, and claps his brother on the shoulder.
“Come, come, Hairry lad,” says he, with a broad accent such as they must have used together when they were boys, “you must not be downcast because your brother has come home. All’s yours, that’s sure enough, and little I grudge142 it you. Neither must you grudge me my place beside my father’s fire.”
“And that is too true, Henry,” says my old lord with a little frown, a thing rare with him. “You have been the elder brother of the parable143 in the good sense; you must be careful of the other.”
“I am easily put in the wrong,” said Mr. Henry.
“Who puts you in the wrong?” cried my lord, I thought very tartly144 for so mild a man. “You have earned my gratitude145 and your brother’s many thousand times: you may count on its endurance; and let that suffice.”
“Ay, Harry146, that you may,” said the Master; and I thought Mr. Henry looked at him with a kind of wildness in his eye.
On all the miserable147 business that now followed, I have four questions that I asked myself often at the time and ask myself still:—Was the man moved by a particular sentiment against Mr. Henry? or by what he thought to be his interest? or by a mere delight in cruelty such as cats display and theologians tell us of the devil? or by what he would have called love? My common opinion halts among the three first; but perhaps there lay at the spring of his behaviour an element of all. As thus:—Animosity to Mr. Henry would explain his hateful usage of him when they were alone; the interests he came to serve would explain his very different attitude before my lord; that and some spice of a design of gallantry, his care to stand well with Mrs. Henry; and the pleasure of malice for itself, the pains he was continually at to mingle148 and oppose these lines of conduct.
Partly because I was a very open friend to my patron, partly because in my letters to Paris I had often given myself some freedom of remonstrance149, I was included in his diabolical150 amusement. When I was alone with him, he pursued me with sneers151; before the family he used me with the extreme of friendly condescension152. This was not only painful in itself; not only did it put me continually in the wrong; but there was in it an element of insult indescribable. That he should thus leave me out in his dissimulation153, as though even my testimony154 were too despicable to be considered, galled155 me to the blood. But what it was to me is not worth notice. I make but memorandum156 of it here; and chiefly for this reason, that it had one good result, and gave me the quicker sense of Mr. Henry’s martyrdom.
It was on him the burthen fell. How was he to respond to the public advances of one who never lost a chance of gibing157 him in private? How was he to smile back on the deceiver and the insulter? He was condemned158 to seem ungracious. He was condemned to silence. Had he been less proud, had he spoken, who would have credited the truth? The acted calumny159 had done its work; my lord and Mrs. Henry were the daily witnesses of what went on; they could have sworn in court that the Master was a model of long-suffering good-nature, and Mr. Henry a pattern of jealousy160 and thanklessness. And ugly enough as these must have appeared in any one, they seemed tenfold uglier in Mr. Henry; for who could forget that the Master lay in peril161 of his life, and that he had already lost his mistress, his title, and his fortune?
“Henry, will you ride with me?” asks the Master one day.
“I sometimes wish you would be kinder, Henry,” says the other, wistfully.
I give this for a specimen163; but such scenes befell continually. Small wonder if Mr. Henry was blamed; small wonder if I fretted164 myself into something near upon a bilious165 fever; nay166, and at the mere recollection feel a bitterness in my blood.
Sure, never in this world was a more diabolical contrivance: so perfidious167, so simple, so impossible to combat. And yet I think again, and I think always, Mrs. Henry might have read between the lines; she might have had more knowledge of her husband’s nature; after all these years of marriage she might have commanded or captured his confidence. And my old lord, too—that very watchful168 gentleman—where was all his observation? But, for one thing, the deceit was practised by a master hand, and might have gulled169 an angel. For another (in the case of Mrs. Henry), I have observed there are no persons so far away as those who are both married and estranged170, so that they seem out of ear-shot or to have no common tongue. For a third (in the case of both of these spectators), they were blinded by old ingrained predilection171. And for a fourth, the risk the Master was supposed to stand in (supposed, I say—you will soon hear why) made it seem the more ungenerous to criticise172; and, keeping them in a perpetual tender solicitude173 about his life, blinded them the more effectually to his faults.
It was during this time that I perceived most clearly the effect of manner, and was led to lament48 most deeply the plainness of my own. Mr. Henry had the essence of a gentleman; when he was moved, when there was any call of circumstance, he could play his part with dignity and spirit; but in the day’s commerce (it is idle to deny it) he fell short of the ornamental174. The Master (on the other hand) had never a movement but it commanded him. So it befell that when the one appeared gracious and the other ungracious, every trick of their bodies seemed to call out confirmation. Not that alone: but the more deeply Mr. Henry floundered in his brother’s toils175, the more clownish he grew; and the more the Master enjoyed his spiteful entertainment, the more engagingly, the more smilingly, he went! So that the plot, by its own scope and progress, furthered and confirmed itself.
It was one of the man’s arts to use the peril in which (as I say) he was supposed to stand. He spoke of it to those who loved him with a gentle pleasantry, which made it the more touching177. To Mr. Henry he used it as a cruel weapon of offence. I remember his laying his finger on the clean lozenge of the painted window one day when we three were alone together in the hall. “Here went your lucky guinea, Jacob,” said he. And when Mr. Henry only looked upon him darkly, “Oh!” he added, “you need not look such impotent malice, my good fly. You can be rid of your spider when you please. How long, O Lord? When are you to be wrought178 to the point of a denunciation, scrupulous179 brother? It is one of my interests in this dreary180 hole. I ever loved experiment.” Still Mr. Henry only stared upon him with a grooming182 brow, and a changed colour; and at last the Master broke out in a laugh and clapped him on the shoulder, calling him a sulky dog. At this my patron leaped back with a gesture I thought very dangerous; and I must suppose the Master thought so too, for he looked the least in the world discountenance, and I do not remember him again to have laid hands on Mr. Henry.
But though he had his peril always on his lips in the one way or the other, I thought his conduct strangely incautious, and began to fancy the Government—who had set a price upon his head—was gone sound asleep. I will not deny I was tempted183 with the wish to denounce him; but two thoughts withheld184 me: one, that if he were thus to end his life upon an honourable185 scaffold, the man would be canonised for good in the minds of his father and my patron’s wife; the other, that if I was anyway mingled186 in the matter, Mr. Henry himself would scarce escape some glancings of suspicion. And in the meanwhile our enemy went in and out more than I could have thought possible, the fact that he was home again was buzzed about all the country-side, and yet he was never stirred. Of all these so-many and so-different persons who were acquainted with his presence, none had the least greed—as I used to say in my annoyance—or the least loyalty; and the man rode here and there—fully more welcome, considering the lees of old unpopularity, than Mr. Henry—and considering the freetraders, far safer than myself.
Not but what he had a trouble of his own; and this, as it brought about the gravest consequences, I must now relate. The reader will scarce have forgotten Jessie Broun; her way of life was much among the smuggling party; Captain Crail himself was of her intimates; and she had early word of Mr. Bally’s presence at the house. In my opinion, she had long ceased to care two straws for the Master’s person; but it was become her habit to connect herself continually with the Master’s name; that was the ground of all her play-acting; and so now, when he was back, she thought she owed it to herself to grow a haunter of the neighbourhood of Durrisdeer. The Master could scarce go abroad but she was there in wait for him; a scandalous figure of a woman, not often sober; hailing him wildly as “her bonny laddie,” quoting pedlar’s poetry, and, as I receive the story, even seeking to weep upon his neck. I own I rubbed my hands over this persecution187; but the Master, who laid so much upon others, was himself the least patient of men. There were strange scenes enacted188 in the policies. Some say he took his cane to her, and Jessie fell back upon her former weapons—stones. It is certain at least that he made a motion to Captain Crail to have the woman trepanned, and that the Captain refused the proposition with uncommon189 vehemence190. And the end of the matter was victory for Jessie. Money was got together; an interview took place, in which my proud gentleman must consent to be kissed and wept upon; and the woman was set up in a public of her own, somewhere on Solway side (but I forget where), and, by the only news I ever had of it, extremely ill-frequented.
This is to look forward. After Jessie had been but a little while upon his heels, the Master comes to me one day in the steward’s office, and with more civility than usual, “Mackellar,” says he, “there is a damned crazy wench comes about here. I cannot well move in the matter myself, which brings me to you. Be so good as to see to it: the men must have a strict injunction to drive the wench away.”
“Sir,” said I, trembling a little, “you can do your own dirty errands for yourself.”
He said not a word to that, and left the room.
Presently came Mr. Henry. “Here is news!” cried he. “It seems all is not enough, and you must add to my wretchedness. It seems you have insulted Mr. Bally.”
“Under your kind favour, Mr. Henry,” said I, “it was he that insulted me, and, as I think, grossly. But I may have been careless of your position when I spoke; and if you think so when you know all, my dear patron, you have but to say the word. For you I would obey in any point whatever, even to sin, God pardon me!” And thereupon I told him what had passed.
Mr. Henry smiled to himself; a grimmer smile I never witnessed. “You did exactly well,” said he. “He shall drink his Jessie Broun to the dregs.” And then, spying the Master outside, he opened the window, and crying to him by the name of Mr. Bally, asked him to step up and have a word.
“James,” said he, when our persecutor191 had come in and closed the door behind him, looking at me with a smile, as if he thought I was to be humbled192, “you brought me a complaint against Mr. Mackellar, into which I have inquired. I need not tell you I would always take his word against yours; for we are alone, and I am going to use something of your own freedom. Mr. Mackellar is a gentleman I value; and you must contrive193, so long as you are under this roof, to bring yourself into no more collisions with one whom I will support at any possible cost to me or mine. As for the errand upon which you came to him, you must deliver yourself from the consequences of your own cruelty, and, none of my servants shall be at all employed in such a case.”
“My father’s servants, I believe,” says the Master.
“Go to him with this tale,” said Mr. Henry.
The Master grew very white. He pointed194 at me with his finger. “I want that man discharged,” he said.
“He shall not be,” said Mr. Henry.
“You shall pay pretty dear for this,” says the Master.
“I have paid so dear already for a wicked brother,” said Mr. Henry, “that I am bankrupt even of fears. You have no place left where you can strike me.”
“I will show you about that,” says the Master, and went softly away.
“What will he do next, Mackellar?” cries Mr. Henry.
“Let me go away,” said I. “My dear patron, let me go away; I am but the beginning of fresh sorrows.”
“Would you leave me quite alone?” said he.
We were not long in suspense195 as to the nature of the new assault. Up to that hour the Master had played a very close game with Mrs. Henry; avoiding pointedly196 to be alone with her, which I took at the time for an effect of decency197, but now think to be a most insidious198 art; meeting her, you may say, at meal-time only; and behaving, when he did so, like an affectionate brother. Up to that hour, you may say he had scarce directly interfered199 between Mr. Henry and his wife; except in so far as he had manoeuvred the one quite forth from the good graces of the other. Now all that was to be changed; but whether really in revenge, or because he was wearying of Durrisdeer and looked about for some diversion, who but the devil shall decide?
From that hour, at least, began the siege of Mrs. Henry; a thing so deftly200 carried on that I scarce know if she was aware of it herself, and that her husband must look on in silence. The first parallel was opened (as was made to appear) by accident. The talk fell, as it did often, on the exiles in France; so it glided201 to the matter of their songs.
“There is one,” says the Master, “if you are curious in these matters, that has always seemed to me very moving. The poetry is harsh; and yet, perhaps because of my situation, it has always found the way to my heart. It is supposed to be sung, I should tell you, by an exile’s sweetheart; and represents perhaps, not so much the truth of what she is thinking, as the truth of what he hopes of her, poor soul! in these far lands.” And here the Master sighed, “I protest it is a pathetic sight when a score of rough Irish, all common sentinels, get to this song; and you may see, by their falling tears, how it strikes home to them. It goes thus, father,” says he, very adroitly202 taking my lord for his listener, “and if I cannot get to the end of it, you must think it is a common case with us exiles.” And thereupon he struck up the same air as I had heard the Colonel whistle; but now to words, rustic203 indeed, yet most pathetically setting forth a poor girl’s aspirations204 for an exiled lover; of which one verse indeed (or something like it) still sticks by me:—
O, I will dye my petticoat red,
With my dear boy I’ll beg my bread,
Though all my friends should wish me dead,
For Willie among the rushes, O!
He sang it well, even as a song; but he did better yet a performer. I have heard famous actors, when there was not a dry eye in the Edinburgh theatre; a great wonder to behold205; but no more wonderful than how the Master played upon that little ballad206, and on those who heard him, like an instrument, and seemed now upon the point of failing, and now to conquer his distress207, so that words and music seemed to pour out of his own heart and his own past, and to be aimed directly at Mrs. Henry. And his art went further yet; for all was so delicately touched, it seemed impossible to suspect him of the least design; and so far from making a parade of emotion, you would have sworn he was striving to be calm. When it came to an end, we all sat silent for a time; he had chosen the dusk of the afternoon, so that none could see his neighbour’s face; but it seemed as if we held our breathing; only my old lord cleared his throat. The first to move was the singer, who got to his feet suddenly and softly, and went and walked softly to and fro in the low end of the hall, Mr. Henry’s customary place. We were to suppose that he there struggled down the last of his emotion; for he presently returned and launched into a disquisition on the nature of the Irish (always so much miscalled, and whom he defended) in his natural voice; so that, before the lights were brought, we were in the usual course of talk. But even then, methought Mrs. Henry’s face was a shade pale; and, for another thing, she withdrew almost at once.
The next sign was a friendship this insidious devil struck up with innocent Miss Katharine; so that they were always together, hand in hand, or she climbing on his knee, like a pair of children. Like all his diabolical acts, this cut in several ways. It was the last stroke to Mr. Henry, to see his own babe debauched against him; it made him harsh with the poor innocent, which brought him still a peg208 lower in his wife’s esteem209; and (to conclude) it was a bond of union between the lady and the Master. Under this influence, their old reserve melted by daily stages. Presently there came walks in the long shrubbery, talks in the Belvedere, and I know not what tender familiarity. I am sure Mrs. Henry was like many a good woman; she had a whole conscience but perhaps by the means of a little winking210. For even to so dull an observer as myself, it was plain her kindness was of a more moving nature than the sisterly. The tones of her voice appeared more numerous; she had a light and softness in her eye; she was more gentle with all of us, even with Mr. Henry, even with myself; methought she breathed of some quiet melancholy211 happiness.
To look on at this, what a torment212 it was for Mr. Henry! And yet it brought our ultimate deliverance, as I am soon to tell.
The purport213 of the Master’s stay was no more noble (gild it as they might) than to wring214 money out. He had some design of a fortune in the French Indies, as the Chevalier wrote me; and it was the sum required for this that he came seeking. For the rest of the family it spelled ruin; but my lord, in his incredible partiality, pushed ever for the granting. The family was now so narrowed down (indeed, there were no more of them than just the father and the two sons) that it was possible to break the entail215 and alienate216 a piece of land. And to this, at first by hints, and then by open pressure, Mr. Henry was brought to consent. He never would have done so, I am very well assured, but for the weight of the distress under which he laboured. But for his passionate217 eagerness to see his brother gone, he would not thus have broken with his own sentiment and the traditions of his house. And even so, he sold them his consent at a dear rate, speaking for once openly, and holding the business up in its own shameful colours.
“You will observe,” he said, “this is an injustice to my son, if ever I have one.”
“But that you are not likely to have,” said my lord.
“God knows!” says Mr. Henry. “And considering the cruel falseness of the position in which I stand to my brother, and that you, my lord, are my father, and have the right to command me, I set my hand to this paper. But one thing I will say first: I have been ungenerously pushed, and when next, my lord, you are tempted to compare your sons, I call on you to remember what I have done and what he has done. Acts are the fair test.”
My lord was the most uneasy man I ever saw; even in his old face the blood came up. “I think this is not a very wisely chosen moment, Henry, for complaints,” said he. “This takes away from the merit of your generosity.”
“Do not deceive yourself, my lord,” said Mr. Henry. “This injustice is not done from generosity to him, but in obedience to yourself.”
“Before strangers . . . ” begins my lord, still more unhappily affected.
“There is no one but Mackellar here,” said Mr. Henry; “he is my friend. And, my lord, as you make him no stranger to your frequent blame, it were hard if I must keep him one to a thing so rare as my defence.”
“Ah! Henry, Henry,” says he, “you are the best of us still. Rugged219 and true! Ah! man, I wish I was as good.”
And at that instance of his favourite’s generosity my lord desisted from his hesitation220, and the deed was signed.
As soon as it could he brought about, the land of Ochterhall was sold for much below its value, and the money paid over to our leech221 and sent by some private carriage into France. Or so he said; though I have suspected since it did not go so far. And now here was all the man’s business brought to a successful head, and his pockets once more bulging222 with our gold; and yet the point for which we had consented to this sacrifice was still denied us, and the visitor still lingered on at Durrisdeer. Whether in malice, or because the time was not yet come for his adventure to the Indies, or because he had hopes of his design on Mrs. Henry, or from the orders of the Government, who shall say? but linger he did, and that for weeks.
You will observe I say: from the orders of Government; for about this time the man’s disreputable secret trickled223 out.
The first hint I had was from a tenant, who commented on the Master’s stay, and yet more on his security; for this tenant was a Jacobitish sympathiser, and had lost a son at Culloden, which gave him the more critical eye. “There is one thing,” said he, “that I cannot but think strange; and that is how he got to Cockermouth.”
“To Cockermouth?” said I, with a sudden memory of my first wonder on beholding224 the man disembark so point-de-vice after so long a voyage.
“Why, yes,” says the tenant, “it was there he was picked up by Captain Crail. You thought he had come from France by sea? And so we all did.”
I turned this news a little in my head, and then carried it to Mr. Henry. “Here is an odd circumstance,” said I, and told him.
“No, sir,” said I, “but think again! Does not this smack226 a little of some Government connivance227? You know how much we have wondered already at the man’s security.”
“Stop,” said Mr. Henry. “Let me think of this.” And as he thought, there came that grim smile upon his face that was a little like the Master’s. “Give me paper,” said he. And he sat without another word and wrote to a gentleman of his acquaintance—I will name no unnecessary names, but he was one in a high place. This letter I despatched by the only hand I could depend upon in such a case—Macconochie’s; and the old man rode hard, for he was back with the reply before even my eagerness had ventured to expect him. Again, as he read it, Mr. Henry had the same grim smile.
“This is the best you have done for me yet, Mackellar,” says he. “With this in my hand I will give him a shog. Watch for us at dinner.”
At dinner accordingly Mr. Henry proposed some very public appearance for the Master; and my lord, as he had hoped, objected to the danger of the course.
“Oh!” says Mr. Henry, very easily, “you need no longer keep this up with me. I am as much in the secret as yourself.”
“In the secret?” says my lord. “What do you mean, Henry? I give you my word, I am in no secret from which you are excluded.”
The Master had changed countenance, and I saw he was struck in a joint of his harness.
“How?” says Mr. Henry, turning to him with a huge appearance of surprise. “I see you serve your masters very faithfully; but I had thought you would have been humane228 enough to set your father’s mind at rest.”
“What are you talking of? I refuse to have my business publicly discussed. I order this to cease,” cries the Master very foolishly and passionately229, and indeed more like a child than a man.
“So much discretion230 was not looked for at your hands, I can assure you,” continued Mr. Henry. “For see what my correspondent writes”—unfolding the paper—“‘It is, of course, in the interests both of the Government and the gentleman whom we may perhaps best continue to call Mr. Bally, to keep this understanding secret; but it was never meant his own family should continue to endure the suspense you paint so feelingly; and I am pleased mine should be the hand to set these fears at rest. Mr. Bally is as safe in Great Britain as yourself.’”
“Is this possible?” cries my lord, looking at his son, with a great deal of wonder and still more of suspicion in his face.
“My dear father,” says the Master, already much recovered. “I am overjoyed that this may be disclosed. My own instructions, direct from London, bore a very contrary sense, and I was charged to keep the indulgence secret from every one, yourself not excepted, and indeed yourself expressly named—as I can show in black and white unless I have destroyed the letter. They must have changed their mind very swiftly, for the whole matter is still quite fresh; or rather, Henry’s correspondent must have misconceived that part, as he seems to have misconceived the rest. To tell you the truth, sir,” he continued, getting visibly more easy, “I had supposed this unexplained favour to a rebel was the effect of some application from yourself; and the injunction to secrecy among my family the result of a desire on your part to conceal your kindness. Hence I was the more careful to obey orders. It remains231 now to guess by what other channel indulgence can have flowed on so notorious an offender232 as myself; for I do not think your son need defend himself from what seems hinted at in Henry’s letter. I have never yet heard of a Durrisdeer who was a turncoat or a spy,” says he, proudly.
And so it seemed he had swum out of this danger unharmed; but this was to reckon without a blunder he had made, and without the pertinacity233 of Mr. Henry, who was now to show he had something of his brother’s spirit.
“You say the matter is still fresh,” says Mr. Henry.
“Is it so recent as that?” asks Mr. Henry, like a man a little puzzled, and spreading his letter forth again.
In all the letter there was no word as to the date; but how was the Master to know that?
“It seemed to come late enough for me,” says he, with a laugh. And at the sound of that laugh, which rang false, like a cracked bell, my lord looked at him again across the table, and I saw his old lips draw together close.
“No,” said Mr. Henry, still glancing on his letter, “but I remember your expression. You said it was very fresh.”
And here we had a proof of our victory, and the strongest instance yet of my lord’s incredible indulgence; for what must he do but interfere65 to save his favourite from exposure!
“I think, Henry,” says he, with a kind of pitiful eagerness, “I think we need dispute no more. We are all rejoiced at last to find your brother safe; we are all at one on that; and, as grateful subjects, we can do no less than drink to the king’s health and bounty235.”
Thus was the Master extricated236; but at least he had been put to his defence, he had come lamely237 out, and the attraction of his personal danger was now publicly plucked away from him. My lord, in his heart of hearts, now knew his favourite to be a Government spy; and Mrs. Henry (however she explained the tale) was notably238 cold in her behaviour to the discredited239 hero of romance. Thus in the best fabric240 of duplicity, there is some weak point, if you can strike it, which will loosen all; and if, by this fortunate stroke, we had not shaken the idol, who can say how it might have gone with us at the catastrophe?
And yet at the time we seemed to have accomplished241 nothing. Before a day or two he had wiped off the ill-results of his discomfiture242, and, to all appearance, stood as high as ever. As for my Lord Durrisdeer, he was sunk in parental243 partiality; it was not so much love, which should be an active quality, as an apathy244 and torpor245 of his other powers; and forgiveness (so to mis-apply a noble word) flowed from him in sheer weakness, like the tears of senility. Mrs. Henry’s was a different case; and Heaven alone knows what he found to say to her, or how he persuaded her from her contempt. It is one of the worst things of sentiment, that the voice grows to be more important than the words, and the speaker than that which is spoken. But some excuse the Master must have found, or perhaps he had even struck upon some art to wrest246 this exposure to his own advantage; for after a time of coldness, it seemed as if things went worse than ever between him and Mrs. Henry. They were then constantly together. I would not be thought to cut one shadow of blame, beyond what is due to a half-wilful blindness, on that unfortunate lady; but I do think, in these last days, she was playing very near the fire; and whether I be wrong or not in that, one thing is sure and quite sufficient: Mr. Henry thought so. The poor gentleman sat for days in my room, so great a picture of distress that I could never venture to address him; yet it is to be thought he found some comfort even in my presence and the knowledge of my sympathy. There were times, too, when we talked, and a strange manner of talk it was; there was never a person named, nor an individual circumstance referred to; yet we had the same matter in our minds, and we were each aware of it. It is a strange art that can thus be practised; to talk for hours of a thing, and never name nor yet so much as hint at it. And I remember I wondered if it was by some such natural skill that the Master made love to Mrs. Henry all day long (as he manifestly did), yet never startled her into reserve.
To show how far affairs had gone with Mr. Henry, I will give some words of his, uttered (as I have cause not to forget) upon the 26th of February, 1757. It was unseasonable weather, a cast back into Winter: windless, bitter cold, the world all white with rime181, the sky low and gray: the sea black and silent like a quarry-hole. Mr. Henry sat close by the fire, and debated (as was now common with him) whether “a man” should “do things,” whether “interference was wise,” and the like general propositions, which each of us particularly applied247. I was by the window, looking out, when there passed below me the Master, Mrs. Henry, and Miss Katharine, that now constant trio. The child was running to and fro, delighted with the frost; the Master spoke close in the lady’s ear with what seemed (even from so far) a devilish grace of insinuation; and she on her part looked on the ground like a person lost in listening. I broke out of my reserve.
“If I were you, Mr. Henry,” said I, “I would deal openly with my lord.”
“Mackellar, Mackellar,” said he, “you do not see the weakness of my ground. I can carry no such base thoughts to any one—to my father least of all; that would be to fall into the bottom of his scorn. The weakness of my ground,” he continued, “lies in myself, that I am not one who engages love. I have their gratitude, they all tell me that; I have a rich estate of it! But I am not present in their minds; they are moved neither to think with me nor to think for me. There is my loss!” He got to his feet, and trod down the fire. “But some method must be found, Mackellar,” said he, looking at me suddenly over his shoulder; “some way must be found. I am a man of a great deal of patience—far too much—far too much. I begin to despise myself. And yet, sure, never was a man involved in such a toil176!” He fell back to his brooding.
“Cheer up,” said I. “It will burst of itself.”
“I am far past anger now,” says he, which had so little coherency with my own observation that I let both fall.
该作者的其它作品
《Treasure Island宝岛》
《内河航程 An Inland Voyage》
《化身博士》
该作者的其它作品
《Treasure Island宝岛》
《内河航程 An Inland Voyage》
《化身博士》
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
plunge
|
|
| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
plunged
|
|
| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
gulped
|
|
| v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的过去式和过去分词 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
mire
|
|
| n.泥沼，泥泞；v.使...陷于泥泞，使...陷入困境 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
zeal
|
|
| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
repented
|
|
| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
spoke
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
twitched
|
|
| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
crumpled
|
|
| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
monstrous
|
|
| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
incompetent
|
|
| adj.无能力的，不能胜任的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
niggardly
|
|
| adj.吝啬的，很少的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
affected
|
|
| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
disorder
|
|
| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
convoy
|
|
| vt.护送，护卫，护航；n.护送；护送队 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
dignified
|
|
| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
muffled
|
|
| 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） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
eminent
|
|
| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
revere
|
|
| vt.尊崇，崇敬，敬畏 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
creek
|
|
| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
debtor
|
|
| n.借方，债务人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
graceful
|
|
| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
tune
|
|
| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
oars
|
|
| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
embarrassment
|
|
| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
questionable
|
|
| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
interval
|
|
| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
alteration
|
|
| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
avowal
|
|
| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
truant
|
|
| n.懒惰鬼，旷课者；adj.偷懒的，旷课的，游荡的；v.偷懒，旷课 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
conceal
|
|
| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
irritation
|
|
| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
underneath
|
|
| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
concealment
|
|
| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
ruffled
|
|
| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
tangible
|
|
| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
mere
|
|
| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
habitual
|
|
| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
tenor
|
|
| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
annoyance
|
|
| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
forth
|
|
| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
amazement
|
|
| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
generosity
|
|
| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
parsimonious
|
|
| adj.吝啬的，质量低劣的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
humble
|
|
| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
groaned
|
|
| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
malice
|
|
| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
lament
|
|
| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
lamented
|
|
| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
abhorrent
|
|
| adj.可恶的，可恨的，讨厌的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
recoiled
|
|
| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
censure
|
|
| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
rejection
|
|
| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
estrangement
|
|
| n.疏远，失和，不和 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
broached
|
|
| v.谈起( broach的过去式和过去分词 )；打开并开始用；用凿子扩大（或修光）；（在桶上）钻孔取液体 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
ailing
|
|
| v.生病 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
consolation
|
|
| n.安慰，慰问 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
shameful
|
|
| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
proclivities
|
|
| n.倾向，癖性( proclivity的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
insanity
|
|
| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
snarled
|
|
| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的过去式和过去分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
plunging
|
|
| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
countenance
|
|
| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
injustice
|
|
| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
interfere
|
|
| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
amends
|
|
| n. 赔偿 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
eloquence
|
|
| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
drawn
|
|
| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
disposition
|
|
| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
idol
|
|
| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
rapacity
|
|
| n.贪婪，贪心，劫掠的欲望 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
outright
|
|
| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
asperity
|
|
| n.粗鲁，艰苦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
reeked
|
|
| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的过去式和过去分词 )；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） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
joint
|
|
| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
standing
|
|
| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
shunned
|
|
| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
astonishment
|
|
| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
champagne
|
|
| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
profess
|
|
| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
chivalrous
|
|
| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
garrison
|
|
| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
advantageous
|
|
| adj.有利的；有帮助的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
regiment
|
|
| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
aptitude
|
|
| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
remarkable
|
|
| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
loyalty
|
|
| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
probity
|
|
| n.刚直；廉洁，正直 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
subscribe
|
|
| vi.(to)订阅，订购；同意；vt.捐助，赞助 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
avert
|
|
| v.防止，避免；转移(目光、注意力等) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
impending
|
|
| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
providence
|
|
| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
catastrophe
|
|
| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
tenant
|
|
| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
secrecy
|
|
| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
tenants
|
|
| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
97
habitually
|
|
| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
98
meddle
|
|
| v.干预，干涉，插手 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
99
braggadocios
|
|
| n.自夸，吹牛大王( braggadocio的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
100
catching
|
|
| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
101
mischief
|
|
| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
102
espied
|
|
| v.看到( espy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
103
beacon
|
|
| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
104
thickets
|
|
| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
105
thicket
|
|
| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
106
steering
|
|
| n.操舵装置 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
107
hampered
|
|
| 妨碍，束缚，限制( hamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
108
cane
|
|
| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
109
margin
|
|
| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
110
mole
|
|
| n.胎块；痣；克分子 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
111
hue
|
|
| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
112
foppish
|
|
| adj.矫饰的，浮华的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
113
ruffles
|
|
| 褶裥花边( ruffle的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
114
exquisite
|
|
| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
115
guise
|
|
| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
116
smuggling
|
|
| n.走私 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
117
wager
|
|
| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
118
curtailed
|
|
| v.截断，缩短( curtail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
119
evergreen
|
|
| n.常青树；adj.四季常青的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
120
astute
|
|
| adj.机敏的，精明的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
121
abide
|
|
| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
122
boggy
|
|
| adj.沼泽多的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
123
obedience
|
|
| n.服从，顺从 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
124
Christian
|
|
| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
125
scruple
|
|
| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
126
inevitable
|
|
| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
127
confirmation
|
|
| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
128
defiance
|
|
| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
129
reproof
|
|
| n.斥责，责备 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
130
impudence
|
|
| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
131
oversight
|
|
| n.勘漏，失察，疏忽 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
132
upwards
|
|
| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
133
mutual
|
|
| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
134
sneer
|
|
| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
135
kindly
|
|
| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
136
elegance
|
|
| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
137
mighty
|
|
| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
138
homely
|
|
| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
139
displeased
|
|
| a.不快的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
140
prodigal
|
|
| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
141
perfidy
|
|
| n.背信弃义，不忠贞 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
142
grudge
|
|
| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
143
parable
|
|
| n.寓言，比喻 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
144
tartly
|
|
| adv.辛辣地，刻薄地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
145
gratitude
|
|
| adj.感激，感谢 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
146
harry
|
|
| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
147
miserable
|
|
| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
148
mingle
|
|
| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
149
remonstrance
|
|
| n抗议，抱怨 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
150
diabolical
|
|
| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
151
sneers
|
|
| 讥笑的表情（言语）( sneer的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
152
condescension
|
|
| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
153
dissimulation
|
|
| n.掩饰，虚伪，装糊涂 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
154
testimony
|
|
| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
155
galled
|
|
| v.使…擦痛( gall的过去式和过去分词 )；擦伤；烦扰；侮辱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
156
memorandum
|
|
| n.备忘录，便笺 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
157
gibing
|
|
| adj.讥刺的，嘲弄的v.嘲笑，嘲弄( gibe的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
158
condemned
|
|
| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
159
calumny
|
|
| n.诽谤，污蔑，中伤 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
160
jealousy
|
|
| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
161
peril
|
|
| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
162
goaded
|
|
| v.刺激( goad的过去式和过去分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
163
specimen
|
|
| n.样本，标本 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
164
fretted
|
|
| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
165
bilious
|
|
| adj.胆汁过多的；易怒的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
166
nay
|
|
| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
167
perfidious
|
|
| adj.不忠的，背信弃义的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
168
watchful
|
|
| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
169
gulled
|
|
| v.欺骗某人( gull的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
170
estranged
|
|
| adj.疏远的，分离的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
171
predilection
|
|
| n.偏好 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
172
criticise
|
|
| v.批评，评论；非难 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
173
solicitude
|
|
| n.焦虑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
174
ornamental
|
|
| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
175
toils
|
|
| 网 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
176
toil
|
|
| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
177
touching
|
|
| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
178
wrought
|
|
| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
179
scrupulous
|
|
| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
180
dreary
|
|
| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
181
rime
|
|
| n.白霜；v.使蒙霜 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
182
grooming
|
|
| n. 修饰, 美容，（动物）梳理毛发 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
183
tempted
|
|
| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
184
withheld
|
|
| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
185
honourable
|
|
| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
186
mingled
|
|
| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
187
persecution
|
|
| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
188
enacted
|
|
| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
189
uncommon
|
|
| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
190
vehemence
|
|
| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
191
persecutor
|
|
| n. 迫害者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
192
humbled
|
|
| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
193
contrive
|
|
| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
194
pointed
|
|
| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
195
suspense
|
|
| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
196
pointedly
|
|
| adv.尖地，明显地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
197
decency
|
|
| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
198
insidious
|
|
| adj.阴险的，隐匿的，暗中为害的，（疾病）不知不觉之间加剧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
199
interfered
|
|
| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
200
deftly
|
|
| adv.灵巧地，熟练地，敏捷地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
201
glided
|
|
| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
202
adroitly
|
|
| adv.熟练地，敏捷地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
203
rustic
|
|
| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
204
aspirations
|
|
| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
205
behold
|
|
| v.看，注视，看到 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
206
ballad
|
|
| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
207
distress
|
|
| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
208
peg
|
|
| n.木栓，木钉；vt.用木钉钉，用短桩固定 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
209
esteem
|
|
| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
210
winking
|
|
| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
211
melancholy
|
|
| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
212
torment
|
|
| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
213
purport
|
|
| n.意义，要旨，大要；v.意味著，做为...要旨，要领是... | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
214
wring
|
|
| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
215
entail
|
|
| vt.使承担，使成为必要，需要 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
216
alienate
|
|
| vt.使疏远，离间；转让(财产等) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
217
passionate
|
|
| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
218
rescinded
|
|
| v.废除，取消( rescind的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
219
rugged
|
|
| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
220
hesitation
|
|
| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
221
leech
|
|
| n.水蛭，吸血鬼，榨取他人利益的人；vt.以水蛭吸血；vi.依附于别人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
222
bulging
|
|
| 膨胀； 凸出（部）； 打气； 折皱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
223
trickled
|
|
| v.滴( trickle的过去式和过去分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
224
beholding
|
|
| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
225
groans
|
|
| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
226
smack
|
|
| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
227
connivance
|
|
| n.纵容；默许 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
228
humane
|
|
| adj.人道的，富有同情心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
229
passionately
|
|
| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
230
discretion
|
|
| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
231
remains
|
|
| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
232
offender
|
|
| n.冒犯者，违反者，犯罪者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
233
pertinacity
|
|
| n.执拗，顽固 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
234
stoutness
|
|
| 坚固，刚毅 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
235
bounty
|
|
| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
236
extricated
|
|
| v.使摆脱困难，脱身( extricate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
237
lamely
|
|
| 一瘸一拐地，不完全地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
238
notably
|
|
| adv.值得注意地，显著地，尤其地，特别地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
239
discredited
|
|
| 不足信的，不名誉的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
240
fabric
|
|
| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
241
accomplished
|
|
| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
242
discomfiture
|
|
| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
243
parental
|
|
| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
244
apathy
|
|
| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
245
torpor
|
|
| n.迟钝；麻木；（动物的）冬眠 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
246
wrest
|
|
| n.扭，拧，猛夺；v.夺取，猛扭，歪曲 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
247
applied
|
|
| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |