The tradesmen, at the doors of their shops, bowed low as he passed, rubbing their hands and smiling, hoping inwardly that they took no liberty in sharing the cool rosy9 air of the evening with his Grace. They noted10 that he wore in his shirt-front a black pearl and a pink. “Daring, but becoming,” they opined.
The rooms of the Junta were over a stationer’s shop, next door but one to the Mitre. They were small rooms; but as the Junta had now, besides the Duke, only two members, and as no member might introduce more than one guest, there was ample space.
The Duke had been elected in his second term. At that time there were four members; but these were all leaving Oxford at the end of the summer term, and there seemed to be in the ranks of the Bullingdon and the Loder no one quite eligible11 for the Junta, that holy of holies. Thus it was that the Duke inaugurated in solitude12 his second year of membership. From time to time, he proposed and seconded a few candidates, after “sounding” them as to whether they were willing to join. But always, when election evening—the last Tuesday of term—drew near, he began to have his doubts about these fellows. This one was “rowdy”; that one was over-dressed; another did not ride quite straight to hounds; in the pedigree of another a bar-sinister was more than suspected. Election evening was always a rather melancholy13 time. After dinner, when the two club servants had placed on the mahogany the time-worn Candidates’ Book and the ballot-box, and had noiselessly withdrawn14, the Duke, clearing his throat, read aloud to himself “Mr. So-and-So, of Such-and-Such College, proposed by the Duke of Dorset, seconded by the Duke of Dorset,” and, in every case, when he drew out the drawer of the ballot-box, found it was a black-ball that he had dropped into the urn16. Thus it was that at the end of the summer term the annual photographic “group” taken by Messrs. Hills and Saunders was a presentment of the Duke alone.
In the course of his third year he had become less exclusive. Not because there seemed to be any one really worthy17 of the Junta; but because the Junta, having thriven since the eighteenth century, must not die. Suppose—one never knew—he were struck by lightning, the Junta would be no more. So, not without reluctance18, but unanimously, he had elected The MacQuern, of Balliol, and Sir John Marraby, of Brasenose.
To-night, as he, a doomed19 man, went up into the familiar rooms, he was wholly glad that he had thus relented. As yet, he was spared the tragic21 knowledge that it would make no difference.*
* The Junta has been reconstituted. But the apostolic line was
broken, the thread was snapped; the old magic is fled.
The MacQuern and two other young men were already there.
“Mr. President,” said The MacQuern, “I present Mr. Trent-Garby, of Christ Church.”
“The Junta is honoured,” said the Duke, bowing.
Such was the ritual of the club.
The other young man, because his host, Sir John Marraby, was not yet on the scene, had no locus22 standi, and, though a friend of The MacQuern, and well known to the Duke, had to be ignored.
A moment later, Sir John arrived. “Mr. President,” he said, “I present Lord Sayes, of Magdalen.”
“The Junta is honoured,” said the Duke, bowing.
Both hosts and both guests, having been prominent in the throng23 that vociferated around Zuleika an hour earlier, were slightly abashed24 in the Duke’s presence. He, however, had not noticed any one in particular, and, even if he had, that fine tradition of the club—“A member of the Junta can do no wrong; a guest of the Junta cannot err”—would have prevented him from showing his displeasure.
“The Junta is honoured,” said the Duke, bowing to his guest.
“Duke,” said the newcomer quietly, “the honour is as much mine as that of the interesting and ancient institution which I am this night privileged to inspect.”
Turning to Sir John and The MacQuern, the Duke said “I present Mr. Abimelech V. Oover, of Trinity.”
“The Junta,” they replied, “is honoured.”
“Gentlemen,” said the Rhodes Scholar, “your good courtesy is just such as I would have anticipated from members of the ancient Junta. Like most of my countrymen, I am a man of few words. We are habituated out there to act rather than talk. Judged from the view-point of your beautiful old civilisation26, I am aware my curtness27 must seem crude. But, gentlemen, believe me, right here—”
“Dinner is served, your Grace.”
Thus interrupted, Mr. Oover, with the resourcefulness of a practised orator28, brought his thanks to a quick but not abrupt29 conclusion. The little company passed into the front room.
Through the window, from the High, fading daylight mingled30 with the candle-light. The mulberry coats of the hosts, interspersed31 by the black ones of the guests, made a fine pattern around the oval table a-gleam with the many curious pieces of gold and silver plate that had accrued32 to the Junta in course of years.
The President showed much deference33 to his guest. He seemed to listen with close attention to the humorous anecdote34 with which, in the American fashion, Mr. Oover inaugurated dinner.
To all Rhodes Scholars, indeed, his courtesy was invariable. He went out of his way to cultivate them. And this he did more as a favour to Lord Milner than of his own caprice. He found these Scholars, good fellows though they were, rather oppressive. They had not—how could they have?—the undergraduate’s virtue35 of taking Oxford as a matter of course. The Germans loved it too little, the Colonials too much. The Americans were, to a sensitive observer, the most troublesome—as being the most troubled—of the whole lot. The Duke was not one of those Englishmen who fling, or care to hear flung, cheap sneers36 at America. Whenever any one in his presence said that America was not large in area, he would firmly maintain that it was. He held, too, in his enlightened way, that Americans have a perfect right to exist. But he did often find himself wishing Mr. Rhodes had not enabled them to exercise that right in Oxford. They were so awfully37 afraid of having their strenuous38 native characters undermined by their delight in the place. They held that the future was theirs, a glorious asset, far more glorious than the past. But a theory, as the Duke saw, is one thing, an emotion another. It is so much easier to covet39 what one hasn’t than to revel40 in what one has. Also, it is so much easier to be enthusiastic about what exists than about what doesn’t. The future doesn’t exist. The past does. For, whereas all men can learn, the gift of prophecy has died out. A man cannot work up in his breast any real excitement about what possibly won’t happen. He cannot very well help being sentimentally42 interested in what he knows has happened. On the other hand, he owes a duty to his country. And, if his country be America, he ought to try to feel a vivid respect for the future, and a cold contempt for the past. Also, if he be selected by his country as a specimen43 of the best moral, physical, and intellectual type that she can produce for the astounding44 of the effete46 foreigner, and incidentally for the purpose of raising that foreigner’s tone, he must—mustn’t he?—do his best to astound45, to exalt47. But then comes in this difficulty. Young men don’t like to astound and exalt their fellows. And Americans, individually, are of all people the most anxious to please. That they talk overmuch is often taken as a sign of self-satisfaction. It is merely a mannerism48. Rhetoric49 is a thing inbred in them. They are quite unconscious of it. It is as natural to them as breathing. And, while they talk on, they really do believe that they are a quick, businesslike people, by whom things are “put through” with an almost brutal50 abruptness51. This notion of theirs is rather confusing to the patient English auditor52.
Altogether, the American Rhodes Scholars, with their splendid native gift of oratory53, and their modest desire to please, and their not less evident feeling that they ought merely to edify54, and their constant delight in all that of Oxford their English brethren don’t notice, and their constant fear that they are being corrupted55, are a noble, rather than a comfortable, element in the social life of the University. So, at least, they seemed to the Duke.
And to-night, but that he had invited Oover to dine with him, he could have been dining with Zuleika. And this was his last dinner on earth. Such thoughts made him the less able to take pleasure in his guest. Perfect, however, the amenity56 of his manner.
This was the more commendable57 because Oover’s “aura” was even more disturbing than that of the average Rhodes Scholar. To-night, besides the usual conflicts in this young man’s bosom59, raged a special one between his desire to behave well and his jealousy60 of the man who had to-day been Miss Dobson’s escort. In theory he denied the Duke’s right to that honour. In sentiment he admitted it. Another conflict, you see. And another. He longed to orate about the woman who had his heart; yet she was the one topic that must be shirked.
The MacQuern and Mr. Trent-Garby, Sir John Marraby and Lord Sayes, they too—though they were no orators—would fain have unpacked61 their hearts in words about Zuleika. They spoke62 of this and that, automatically, none listening to another—each man listening, wide-eyed, to his own heart’s solo on the Zuleika theme, and drinking rather more champagne63 than was good for him. Maybe, these youths sowed in themselves, on this night, the seeds of lifelong intemperance64. We cannot tell. They did not live long enough for us to know.
While the six dined, a seventh, invisible to them, leaned moodily65 against the mantel-piece, watching them. He was not of their time. His long brown hair was knotted in a black riband behind. He wore a pale brocaded coat and lace ruffles66, silken stockings, a sword. Privy67 to their doom20, he watched them. He was loth that his Junta must die. Yes, his. Could the diners have seen him, they would have known him by his resemblance to the mezzotint portrait that hung on the wall above him. They would have risen to their feet in presence of Humphrey Greddon, founder68 and first president of the club.
His face was not so oval, nor were his eyes so big, nor his lips so full, nor his hands so delicate, as they appeared in the mezzotint. Yet (bating the conventions of eighteenth-century portraiture) the likeness69 was a good one. Humphrey Greddon was not less well-knit and graceful70 than the painter had made him, and, hard though the lines of the face were, there was about him a certain air of high romance that could not be explained away by the fact that he was of a period not our own. You could understand the great love that Nellie O’Mora had borne him.
Under the mezzotint hung Hoppner’s miniature of that lovely and ill-starred girl, with her soft dark eyes, and her curls all astray from beneath her little blue turban. And the Duke was telling Mr. Oover her story—how she had left her home for Humphrey Greddon when she was but sixteen, and he an undergraduate at Christ Church; and had lived for him in a cottage at Littlemore, whither he would ride, most days, to be with her; and how he tired of her, broke his oath that he would marry her, thereby71 broke her heart; and how she drowned herself in a mill-pond; and how Greddon was killed in Venice, two years later, duelling on the Riva Schiavoni with a Senator whose daughter he had seduced72.
And he, Greddon, was not listening very attentively73 to the tale. He had heard it told so often in this room, and he did not understand the sentiments of the modern world. Nellie had been a monstrous74 pretty creature. He had adored her, and had done with her. It was right that she should always be toasted after dinner by the Junta, as in the days when first he loved her—“Here’s to Nellie O’Mora, the fairest witch that ever was or will be!” He would have resented the omission75 of that toast. But he was sick of the pitying, melting looks that were always cast towards her miniature. Nellie had been beautiful, but, by God! she was always a dunce and a simpleton. How could he have spent his life with her? She was a fool, by God! not to marry that fool Trailby, of Merton, whom he took to see her.
Mr. Oover’s moral tone, and his sense of chivalry76, were of the American kind: far higher than ours, even, and far better expressed. Whereas the English guests of the Junta, when they heard the tale of Nellie O’Mora, would merely murmur77 “Poor girl!” or “What a shame!” Mr. Oover said in a tone of quiet authority that compelled Greddon’s ear “Duke, I hope I am not incognisant of the laws that govern the relations of guest and host. But, Duke, I aver58 deliberately78 that the founder of this fine old club; at which you are so splendidly entertaining me to-night, was an unmitigated scoundrel. I say he was not a white man.”
At the word “scoundrel,” Humphrey Greddon had sprung forward, drawing his sword, and loudly, in a voice audible to himself alone, challenged the American to make good his words. Then, as this gentleman took no notice, with one clean straight thrust Greddon ran him through the heart, shouting “Die, you damned psalm-singer and traducer79! And so die all rebels against King George!”* Withdrawing the blade, he wiped it daintily on his cambric handkerchief. There was no blood. Mr. Oover, with unpunctured shirt-front, was repeating “I say he was not a white man.” And Greddon remembered himself—remembered he was only a ghost, impalpable, impotent, of no account. “But I shall meet you in Hell to-morrow,” he hissed80 in Oover’s face. And there he was wrong. It is quite certain that Oover went to Heaven.
* As Edward VII. was at this time on the throne, it must have been
to George III. that Mr. Greddon was referring.
Unable to avenge81 himself, Greddon had looked to the Duke to act for him. When he saw that this young man did but smile at Oover and make a vague deprecatory gesture, he again, in his wrath82, forgot his disabilities. Drawing himself to his full height, he took with great deliberation a pinch of snuff, and, bowing low to the Duke, said “I am vastly obleeged to your Grace for the fine high Courage you have exhibited in the behalf of your most Admiring, most Humble83 Servant.” Then, having brushed away a speck84 of snuff from his jabot, he turned on his heel; and only in the doorway, where one of the club servants, carrying a decanter in each hand, walked straight through him, did he realise that he had not spoilt the Duke’s evening. With a volley of the most appalling85 eighteenth-century oaths, he passed back into the nether86 world.
To the Duke, Nellie O’Mora had never been a very vital figure. He had often repeated the legend of her. But, having never known what love was, he could not imagine her rapture87 or her anguish88. Himself the quarry89 of all Mayfair’s wise virgins90, he had always—so far as he thought of the matter at all—suspected that Nellie’s death was due to thwarted91 ambition. But to-night, while he told Oover about her, he could see into her soul. Nor did he pity her. She had loved. She had known the one thing worth living for—and dying for. She, as she went down to the mill-pond, had felt just that ecstasy92 of self-sacrifice which he himself had felt to-day and would feel to-morrow. And for a while, too—for a full year—she had known the joy of being loved, had been for Greddon “the fairest witch that ever was or will be.” He could not agree with Oover’s long disquisition on her sufferings. And, glancing at her well-remembered miniature, he wondered just what it was in her that had captivated Greddon. He was in that blest state when a man cannot believe the earth has been trodden by any really beautiful or desirable lady save the lady of his own heart.
The moment had come for the removal of the table-cloth. The mahogany of the Junta was laid bare—a clear dark lake, anon to reflect in its still and ruddy depths the candelabras and the fruit-cradles, the slender glasses and the stout93 old decanters, the forfeit94-box and the snuff-box, and other paraphernalia95 of the dignity of dessert. Lucidly96, and unwaveringly inverted97 in the depths these good things stood; and, so soon as the wine had made its circuit, the Duke rose and with uplifted glass proposed the first of the two toasts traditional to the Junta. “Gentlemen, I give you Church and State.”
The toast having been honoured by all—and by none with a richer reverence98 than by Oover, despite his passionate99 mental reservation in favour of Pittsburg-Anabaptism and the Republican Ideal—the snuff-box was handed round, and fruit was eaten.
Presently, when the wine had gone round again, the Duke rose and with uplifted glass said “Gentlemen, I give you—” and there halted. Silent, frowning, flushed, he stood for a few moments, and then, with a deliberate gesture, tilted100 his glass and let fall the wine to the carpet. “No,” he said, looking round the table, “I cannot give you Nellie O’Mora.”
“You have a right to ask that,” said the Duke, still standing102. “I can only say that my conscience is stronger than my sense of what is due to the customs of the club. Nellie O’Mora,” he said, passing his hand over his brow, “may have been in her day the fairest witch that ever was—so fair that our founder had good reason to suppose her the fairest witch that ever would be. But his prediction was a false one. So at least it seems to me. Of course I cannot both hold this view and remain President of this club. MacQuern—Marraby—which of you is Vice103-President?”
“He is,” said Marraby.
“Then, MacQuern, you are hereby President, vice myself resigned. Take the chair and propose the toast.”
“I would rather not,” said The MacQuern after a pause.
“Then, Marraby, YOU must.”
“Not I!” said Marraby.
“Why is this?” asked the Duke, looking from one to the other.
The MacQuern, with Scotch104 caution, was silent. But the impulsive105 Marraby—Madcap Marraby, as they called him in B.N.C.—said “It’s because I won’t lie!” and, leaping up, raised his glass aloft and cried “I give you Zuleika Dobson, the fairest witch that ever was or will be!”
Mr. Oover, Lord Sayes, Mr. Trent-Garby, sprang to their feet; The MacQuern rose to his. “Zuleika Dobson!” they cried, and drained their glasses.
Then, when they had resumed their seats, came an awkward pause. The Duke, still erect106 beside the chair he had vacated, looked very grave and pale. Marraby had taken an outrageous107 liberty. But “a member of the Junta can do no wrong,” and the liberty could not be resented. The Duke felt that the blame was on himself, who had elected Marraby to the club.
Mr. Oover, too, looked grave. All the antiquarian in him deplored108 the sudden rupture109 of a fine old Oxford tradition. All the chivalrous110 American in him resented the slight on that fair victim of the feudal111 system, Miss O’Mora. And, at the same time, all the Abimelech V. in him rejoiced at having honoured by word and act the one woman in the world.
Gazing around at the flushed faces and heaving shirt-fronts of the diners, the Duke forgot Marraby’s misdemeanour. What mattered far more to him was that here were five young men deeply under the spell of Zuleika. They must be saved, if possible. He knew how strong his influence was in the University. He knew also how strong was Zuleika’s. He had not much hope of the issue. But his new-born sense of duty to his fellows spurred him on. “Is there,” he asked with a bitter smile, “any one of you who doesn’t with his whole heart love Miss Dobson?”
Nobody held up a hand.
“As I feared,” said the Duke, knowing not that if a hand had been held up he would have taken it as a personal insult. No man really in love can forgive another for not sharing his ardour. His jealousy for himself when his beloved prefers another man is hardly a stronger passion than his jealousy for her when she is not preferred to all other women.
“You know her only by sight—by repute?” asked the Duke. They signified that this was so. “I wish you would introduce me to her,” said Marraby.
“You are all coming to the Judas concert tonight?” the Duke asked, ignoring Marraby. “You have all secured tickets?” They nodded. “To hear me play, or to see Miss Dobson?” There was a murmur of “Both—both.” “And you would all of you, like Marraby, wish to be presented to this lady?” Their eyes dilated112. “That way happiness lies, think you?”
“Oh, happiness be hanged!” said Marraby.
To the Duke this seemed a profoundly sane113 remark—an epitome114 of his own sentiments. But what was right for himself was not right for all. He believed in convention as the best way for average mankind. And so, slowly, calmly, he told to his fellow-diners just what he had told a few hours earlier to those two young men in Salt Cellar. Not knowing that his words had already been spread throughout Oxford, he was rather surprised that they seemed to make no sensation. Quite flat, too, fell his appeal that the syren be shunned115 by all.
Mr. Oover, during his year of residence, had been sorely tried by the quaint116 old English custom of not making public speeches after private dinners. It was with a deep sigh of satisfaction that he now rose to his feet.
“Duke,” he said in a low voice, which yet penetrated117 to every corner of the room, “I guess I am voicing these gentlemen when I say that your words show up your good heart, all the time. Your mentality118, too, is bully119, as we all predicate. One may say without exaggeration that your scholarly and social attainments120 are a by-word throughout the solar system, and be-yond. We rightly venerate121 you as our boss. Sir, we worship the ground you walk on. But we owe a duty to our own free and independent manhood. Sir, we worship the ground Miss Z. Dobson treads on. We have pegged122 out a claim right there. And from that location we aren’t to be budged—not for bob-nuts. We asseverate123 we squat—where—we—squat, come—what—will. You say we have no chance to win Miss Z. Dobson. That—we—know. We aren’t worthy. We lie prone124. Let her walk over us. You say her heart is cold. We don’t pro-fess we can take the chill off. But, Sir, we can’t be diverted out of loving her—not even by you, Sir. No, Sir! We love her, and—shall, and—will, Sir, with—our—latest breath.”
This peroration125 evoked126 loud applause. “I love her, and shall, and will,” shouted each man. And again they honoured in wine her image. Sir John Marraby uttered a cry familiar in the hunting-field. The MacQuern contributed a few bars of a sentimental41 ballad127 in the dialect of his country. “Hurrah128, hurrah!” shouted Mr. Trent-Garby. Lord Sayes hummed the latest waltz, waving his arms to its rhythm, while the wine he had just spilt on his shirt-front trickled129 unheeded to his waistcoat. Mr. Oover gave the Yale cheer.
The genial130 din1 was wafted131 down through the open window to the passers-by. The wine-merchant across the way heard it, and smiled pensively132. “Youth, youth!” he murmured.
The genial din grew louder.
At any other time, the Duke would have been jarred by the disgrace to the Junta. But now, as he stood with bent133 head, covering his face with his hands, he thought only of the need to rid these young men, here and now, of the influence that had befallen them. To-morrow his tragic example might be too late, the mischief134 have sunk too deep, the agony be life-long. His good breeding forbade him to cast over a dinner-table the shadow of his death. His conscience insisted that he must. He uncovered his face, and held up one hand for silence.
“We are all of us,” he said, “old enough to remember vividly135 the demonstrations136 made in the streets of London when war was declared between us and the Transvaal Republic. You, Mr. Oover, doubtless heard in America the echoes of those ebullitions. The general idea was that the war was going to be a very brief and simple affair—what was called ‘a walk-over.’ To me, though I was only a small boy, it seemed that all this delirious137 pride in the prospect138 of crushing a trumpery139 foe140 argued a defect in our sense of proportion. Still, I was able to understand the demonstrators’ point of view. To ‘the giddy vulgar’ any sort of victory is pleasant. But defeat? If, when that war was declared, every one had been sure that not only should we fail to conquer the Transvaal, but that IT would conquer US—that not only would it make good its freedom and independence, but that we should forfeit ours—how would the cits have felt then? Would they not have pulled long faces, spoken in whispers, wept? You must forgive me for saying that the noise you have just made around this table was very like to the noise made on the verge141 of the Boer War. And your procedure seems to me as unaccountable as would have seemed the antics of those mobs if England had been plainly doomed to disaster and to vassalage142. My guest here to-night, in the course of his very eloquent143 and racy speech, spoke of the need that he and you should preserve your ‘free and independent manhood.’ That seemed to me an irreproachable144 ideal. But I confess I was somewhat taken aback by my friend’s scheme for realising it. He declared his intention of lying prone and letting Miss Dobson ‘walk over’ him; and he advised you to follow his example; and to this counsel you gave evident approval. Gentlemen, suppose that on the verge of the aforesaid war, some orator had said to the British people ‘It is going to be a walk-over for our enemy in the field. Mr. Kruger holds us in the hollow of his hand. In subjection to him we shall find our long-lost freedom and independence’—what would have been Britannia’s answer? What, on reflection, is yours to Mr. Oover? What are Mr. Oover’s own second thoughts?” The Duke paused, with a smile to his guest.
“Go right ahead, Duke,” said Mr. Oover. “I’ll re-ply when my turn comes.”
“And not utterly145 demolish146 me, I hope,” said the Duke. His was the Oxford manner. “Gentlemen,” he continued, “is it possible that Britannia would have thrown her helmet in the air, shrieking147 ‘Slavery for ever’? You, gentlemen, seem to think slavery a pleasant and an honourable148 state. You have less experience of it than I. I have been enslaved to Miss Dobson since yesterday evening; you, only since this afternoon; I, at close quarters; you, at a respectful distance. Your fetters149 have not galled150 you yet. MY wrists, MY ankles, are excoriated151. The iron has entered into my soul. I droop152. I stumble. Blood flows from me. I quiver and curse. I writhe153. The sun mocks me. The moon titters in my face. I can stand it no longer. I will no more of it. Tomorrow I die.”
The flushed faces of the diners grew gradually pale. Their eyes lost lustre154. Their tongues clove155 to the roofs of their mouths.
At length, almost inaudibly, The MacQuern asked “Do you mean you are going to commit suicide?”
“Yes,” said the Duke, “if you choose to put it in that way. Yes. And it is only by a chance that I did not commit suicide this afternoon.”
“You—don’t—say,” gasped Mr. Oover.
“I do indeed,” said the Duke. “And I ask you all to weigh well my message.”
“But—but does Miss Dobson know?” asked Sir John.
“Oh yes,” was the reply. “Indeed, it was she who persuaded me not to die till to-morrow.”
“But—but,” faltered156 Lord Sayes, “I saw her saying good-bye to you in Judas Street. And—and she looked quite—as if nothing had happened.”
“Nothing HAD happened,” said the Duke. “And she was very much pleased to have me still with her. But she isn’t so cruel as to hinder me from dying for her to-morrow. I don’t think she exactly fixed157 the hour. It shall be just after the Eights have been rowed. An earlier death would mark in me a lack of courtesy to that contest... It seems strange to you that I should do this thing? Take warning by me. Muster158 all your will-power, and forget Miss Dobson. Tear up your tickets for the concert. Stay here and play cards. Play high. Or rather, go back to your various Colleges, and speed the news I have told you. Put all Oxford on its guard against this woman who can love no lover. Let all Oxford know that I, Dorset, who had so much reason to love life—I, the nonpareil—am going to die for the love I bear this woman. And let no man think I go unwilling159. I am no lamb led to the slaughter160. I am priest as well as victim. I offer myself up with a pious161 joy. But enough of this cold Hebraism! It is ill-attuned to my soul’s mood. Self-sacrifice—bah! Regard me as a voluptuary. I am that. All my baffled ardour speeds me to the bosom of Death. She is gentle and wanton. She knows I could never have loved her for her own sake. She has no illusions about me. She knows well I come to her because not otherwise may I quench162 my passion.”
There was a long silence. The Duke, looking around at the bent heads and drawn15 mouths of his auditors163, saw that his words had gone home. It was Marraby who revealed how powerfully home they had gone.
“Dorset,” he said huskily, “I shall die too.”
The Duke flung up his hands, staring wildly.
“I stand in with that,” said Mr. Oover.
“So do I!” said Lord Sayes. “And I!” said Mr. Trent-Garby; “And I!” The MacQuern.
The Duke found voice. “Are you mad?” he asked, clutching at his throat. “Are you all mad?”
“No, Duke,” said Mr. Oover. “Or, if we are, you have no right to be at large. You have shown us the way. We—take it.”
“Listen, you fools,” cried the Duke. But through the open window came the vibrant165 stroke of some clock. He wheeled round, plucked out his watch—nine!—the concert!—his promise not to be late!—Zuleika!
All other thoughts vanished. In an instant he dodged166 beneath the sash of the window. From the flower-box he sprang to the road beneath. (The facade167 of the house is called, to this day, Dorset’s Leap.) Alighting with the legerity of a cat, he swerved168 leftward in the recoil169, and was off, like a streak170 of mulberry-coloured lightning, down the High.
The other men had rushed to the window, fearing the worst. “No,” cried Oover. “That’s all right. Saves time!” and he raised himself on to the window-box. It splintered under his weight. He leapt heavily but well, followed by some uprooted171 geraniums. Squaring his shoulders, he threw back his head, and doubled down the slope.
There was a violent jostle between the remaining men. The MacQuern cannily172 got out of it, and rushed downstairs. He emerged at the front-door just after Marraby touched ground. The Baronet’s left ankle had twisted under him. His face was drawn with pain as he hopped173 down the High on his right foot, fingering his ticket for the concert. Next leapt Lord Sayes. And last of all leapt Mr. Trent-Garby, who, catching174 his foot in the ruined flower-box, fell headlong, and was, I regret to say, killed. Lord Sayes passed Sir John in a few paces. The MacQuern overtook Mr. Oover at St. Mary’s and outstripped175 him in Radcliffe Square. The Duke came in an easy first.
Youth, youth!
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
din
|
|
| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
leisurely
|
|
| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
brass
|
|
| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
versed
|
|
| adj. 精通，熟练 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
Oxford
|
|
| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
lore
|
|
| n.传说；学问，经验，知识 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
betokened
|
|
| v.预示，表示( betoken的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
junta
|
|
| n.团体；政务审议会 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
rosy
|
|
| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
noted
|
|
| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
eligible
|
|
| adj.有条件被选中的；(尤指婚姻等)合适(意)的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
solitude
|
|
| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
melancholy
|
|
| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
withdrawn
|
|
| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
drawn
|
|
| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
urn
|
|
| n.（有座脚的）瓮；坟墓；骨灰瓮 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
worthy
|
|
| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
reluctance
|
|
| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
doomed
|
|
| 命定的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
doom
|
|
| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
tragic
|
|
| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
locus
|
|
| n.中心 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
throng
|
|
| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
abashed
|
|
| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
doorway
|
|
| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
civilisation
|
|
| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
curtness
|
|
| n.简短；草率；简略 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
orator
|
|
| n.演说者，演讲者，雄辩家 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
abrupt
|
|
| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
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： |
|
|
|
|
31
interspersed
|
|
| adj.[医]散开的；点缀的v.intersperse的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
accrued
|
|
| adj.权责已发生的v.增加( accrue的过去式和过去分词 )；（通过自然增长）产生；获得；（使钱款、债务）积累 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
deference
|
|
| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
anecdote
|
|
| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
virtue
|
|
| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
sneers
|
|
| 讥笑的表情（言语）( sneer的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
awfully
|
|
| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
strenuous
|
|
| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
covet
|
|
| vt.垂涎；贪图(尤指属于他人的东西) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
revel
|
|
| vi.狂欢作乐，陶醉；n.作乐，狂欢 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
sentimental
|
|
| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
sentimentally
|
|
| adv.富情感地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
specimen
|
|
| n.样本，标本 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
astounding
|
|
| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
astound
|
|
| v.使震惊，使大吃一惊 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
effete
|
|
| adj.无生产力的，虚弱的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
exalt
|
|
| v.赞扬，歌颂，晋升，提升 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
mannerism
|
|
| n.特殊习惯，怪癖 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
rhetoric
|
|
| n.修辞学，浮夸之言语 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
brutal
|
|
| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
abruptness
|
|
| n. 突然，唐突 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
auditor
|
|
| n.审计员，旁听着 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
oratory
|
|
| n.演讲术；词藻华丽的言辞 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
edify
|
|
| v.陶冶；教化；启发 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
corrupted
|
|
| （使）败坏( corrupt的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）腐化； 引起（计算机文件等的）错误； 破坏 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
amenity
|
|
| n.pl.生活福利设施，文娱康乐场所；（不可数）愉快，适意 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
commendable
|
|
| adj.值得称赞的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
aver
|
|
| v.极力声明；断言；确证 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
bosom
|
|
| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
jealousy
|
|
| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
unpacked
|
|
| v.从（包裹等）中取出（所装的东西），打开行李取出( unpack的过去式和过去分词 )；拆包；解除…的负担；吐露（心事等） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
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： |
|
|
|
|
63
champagne
|
|
| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
intemperance
|
|
| n.放纵 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
moodily
|
|
| adv.喜怒无常地；情绪多变地；心情不稳地；易生气地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
ruffles
|
|
| 褶裥花边( ruffle的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
privy
|
|
| adj.私用的；隐密的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
Founder
|
|
| n.创始者，缔造者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
likeness
|
|
| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
graceful
|
|
| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
thereby
|
|
| adv.因此，从而 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
seduced
|
|
| 诱奸( seduce的过去式和过去分词 )； 勾引； 诱使堕落； 使入迷 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
attentively
|
|
| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
monstrous
|
|
| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
omission
|
|
| n.省略，删节；遗漏或省略的事物，冗长 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
chivalry
|
|
| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
murmur
|
|
| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
deliberately
|
|
| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
traducer
|
|
| n.诽谤者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
80
hissed
|
|
| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
avenge
|
|
| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
wrath
|
|
| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
humble
|
|
| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
speck
|
|
| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
appalling
|
|
| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
nether
|
|
| adj.下部的，下面的；n.阴间；下层社会 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
rapture
|
|
| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
anguish
|
|
| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
quarry
|
|
| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
virgins
|
|
| 处女，童男( virgin的名词复数 )； 童贞玛利亚（耶稣之母） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
thwarted
|
|
| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
ecstasy
|
|
| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
forfeit
|
|
| vt.丧失；n.罚金，罚款，没收物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
paraphernalia
|
|
| n.装备；随身用品 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
lucidly
|
|
| adv.清透地，透明地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
97
inverted
|
|
| adj.反向的，倒转的v.使倒置，使反转( invert的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
98
reverence
|
|
| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
99
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： |
|
|
|
|
100
tilted
|
|
| v. 倾斜的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
101
gasped
|
|
| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
102
standing
|
|
| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
103
vice
|
|
| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
104
scotch
|
|
| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
105
impulsive
|
|
| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
106
erect
|
|
| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
107
outrageous
|
|
| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
108
deplored
|
|
| v.悲叹，痛惜，强烈反对( deplore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
109
rupture
|
|
| n.破裂；(关系的)决裂；v.(使)破裂 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
110
chivalrous
|
|
| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
111
feudal
|
|
| adj.封建的，封地的，领地的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
112
dilated
|
|
| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
113
sane
|
|
| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
114
epitome
|
|
| n.典型，梗概 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
115
shunned
|
|
| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
116
quaint
|
|
| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
117
penetrated
|
|
| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
118
mentality
|
|
| n.心理，思想，脑力 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
119
bully
|
|
| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
120
attainments
|
|
| 成就，造诣； 获得( attainment的名词复数 )； 达到； 造诣； 成就 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
121
venerate
|
|
| v.尊敬，崇敬，崇拜 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
122
pegged
|
|
| v.用夹子或钉子固定( peg的过去式和过去分词 )；使固定在某水平 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
123
asseverate
|
|
| v.断言 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
124
prone
|
|
| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
125
peroration
|
|
| n.（演说等之）结论 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
126
evoked
|
|
| [医]诱发的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
127
ballad
|
|
| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
128
hurrah
|
|
| int.好哇，万岁，乌拉 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
129
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： |
|
|
|
|
130
genial
|
|
| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
131
wafted
|
|
| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
132
pensively
|
|
| adv.沉思地，焦虑地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
133
bent
|
|
| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
134
mischief
|
|
| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
135
vividly
|
|
| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
136
demonstrations
|
|
| 证明( demonstration的名词复数 )； 表明； 表达； 游行示威 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
137
delirious
|
|
| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
138
prospect
|
|
| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
139
trumpery
|
|
| n.无价值的杂物；adj.（物品）中看不中用的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
140
foe
|
|
| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
141
verge
|
|
| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
142
vassalage
|
|
| n.家臣身份，隶属 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
143
eloquent
|
|
| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
144
irreproachable
|
|
| adj.不可指责的，无过失的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
145
utterly
|
|
| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
146
demolish
|
|
| v.拆毁(建筑物等)，推翻(计划、制度等) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
147
shrieking
|
|
| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
148
honourable
|
|
| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
149
fetters
|
|
| n.脚镣( fetter的名词复数 )；束缚v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
150
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： |
|
|
|
|
151
excoriated
|
|
| v.擦伤( excoriate的过去式和过去分词 )；擦破（皮肤）；剥（皮）；严厉指责 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
152
droop
|
|
| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
153
writhe
|
|
| vt.挣扎，痛苦地扭曲；vi.扭曲，翻腾，受苦；n.翻腾，苦恼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
154
lustre
|
|
| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
155
clove
|
|
| n.丁香味 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
156
faltered
|
|
| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
157
fixed
|
|
| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
158
muster
|
|
| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
159
unwilling
|
|
| adj.不情愿的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
160
slaughter
|
|
| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
161
pious
|
|
| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
162
quench
|
|
| vt.熄灭，扑灭；压制 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
163
auditors
|
|
| n.审计员，稽核员( auditor的名词复数 )；（大学课程的）旁听生 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
164
stolidly
|
|
| adv.迟钝地，神经麻木地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
165
vibrant
|
|
| adj.震颤的，响亮的，充满活力的，精力充沛的，(色彩)鲜明的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
166
dodged
|
|
| v.闪躲( dodge的过去式和过去分词 )；回避 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
167
facade
|
|
| n.(建筑物的)正面，临街正面；外表 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
168
swerved
|
|
| v.（使）改变方向，改变目的( swerve的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
169
recoil
|
|
| vi.退却，退缩，畏缩 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
170
streak
|
|
| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
171
uprooted
|
|
| v.把（某物）连根拔起( uproot的过去式和过去分词 )；根除；赶走；把…赶出家园 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
172
cannily
|
|
| 精明地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
173
hopped
|
|
| 跳上[下]( hop的过去式和过去分词 )； 单足蹦跳； 齐足（或双足）跳行； 摘葎草花 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
174
catching
|
|
| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
175
outstripped
|
|
| v.做得比…更好，（在赛跑等中）超过( outstrip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |