I
My cousin Melville is never very clear about his dates. Now this is greatly to be regretted, because it would be very illuminating1 indeed if one could tell just how many days elapsed before he came upon Chatteris in intimate conversation with the Sea Lady. He was going along the front of the Leas with some books from the Public Library that Miss Glendower had suddenly wished to consult, and which she, with that entire ignorance of his lack of admiration4 for her which was part of her want of charm for him, had bidden him bring her. It was in one of those sheltered paths just under[134] the brow which give such a pleasant and characteristic charm to Folkestone, that he came upon a little group about the Sea Lady’s bath chair. Chatteris was seated in one of the wooden seats that are embedded5 in the bank, and was leaning forward and looking into the Sea Lady’s face; and she was speaking with a smile that struck Melville even at the time as being a little special in its quality—and she seems to have been capable of many charming smiles. Parker was a little distance away, where a sort of bastion projects and gives a wide view of the pier6 and harbour and the coast of France, regarding it all with a qualified7 disfavour, and the bath chairman was crumpled8 up against the bank lost in that wistful melancholy9 that the constant perambulation of broken humanity necessarily engenders10.
My cousin slackened his pace a little[135] and came up and joined them. The conversation hung at his approach. Chatteris sat back a little, but there seemed no resentment11 and he sought a topic for the three to discuss in the books Melville carried.
“Books?” he said.
“For Miss Glendower,” said Melville.
“Oh!” said Chatteris.
“What are they about?” asked the Sea Lady.
“Land tenure,” said Melville.
“That’s hardly my subject,” said the Sea Lady, and Chatteris joined in her smile as if he saw a jest.
There was a little pause.
“You are contesting Hythe?” said Melville.
“Fate points that way,” said Chatteris.
“They threaten a dissolution for September.”
“It will come in a month,” said Chatteris,[136] with the inimitable tone of one who knows.
“In that case we shall soon be busy.”
“And I may canvass,” said the Sea Lady. “I never have——”
“Miss Waters,” explained Chatteris, “has been telling me she means to help us.” He met Melville’s eye frankly12.
“It’s rough work, Miss Waters,” said Melville.
“I don’t mind that. It’s fun. And I want to help. I really do want to help—Mr. Chatteris.”
“You know, that’s encouraging.”
“I could go around with you in my bath chair?”
“It would be a picnic,” said Chatteris.
“I mean to help anyhow,” said the Sea Lady.
“You know the case for the plaintiff?” asked Melville.[137]
She looked at him.
“You’ve got your arguments?”
“I shall ask them to vote for Mr. Chatteris, and afterwards when I see them I shall remember them and smile and wave my hand. What else is there?”
“Nothing,” said Chatteris, and shut the lid on Melville. “I wish I had an argument as good.”
“What sort of people are they here?” asked Melville. “Isn’t there a smuggling13 interest to conciliate?”
“I haven’t asked that,” said Chatteris. “Smuggling is over and past, you know. Forty years ago. It always has been forty years ago. They trotted14 out the last of the smugglers,—interesting old man, full of reminiscences,—when there was a count of the Saxon Shore. He remembered smuggling—forty years ago. Really, I doubt if there ever was any smuggling. The[138] existing coast guard is a sacrifice to a vain superstition15.”
“Why!” cried the Sea Lady. “Only about five weeks ago I saw quite near here——”
“In a paper?” he suggested.
“Yes, in a paper,” she said, seizing the rope he threw her.
“Well?” asked Chatteris.
“There is smuggling still,” said the Sea Lady, with an air of some one who decides not to tell an anecdote18 that is suddenly found to be half forgotten.
“There’s no doubt it happens,” said Chatteris, missing it all. “But it doesn’t appear in the electioneering. I certainly sha’n’t agitate19 for a faster revenue cutter. However things may be in that respect, I take the line that they are very well as they are. That’s my line, of course.”[139] And he looked out to sea. The eyes of Melville and the Sea Lady had an intimate moment.
“There, you know, is just a specimen20 of the sort of thing we do,” said Chatteris. “Are you prepared to be as intricate as that?”
“Quite,” said the Sea Lady.
My cousin was reminded of an anecdote.
The talk degenerated21 into anecdotes22 of canvassing23, and ran shallow. My cousin was just gathering24 that Mrs. Bunting and Miss Bunting had been with the Sea Lady and had gone into the town to a shop, when they returned. Chatteris rose to greet them and explained—what had been by no means apparent before—that he was on his way to Adeline, and after a few further trivialities he and Melville went on together.
A brief silence fell between them.[140]
“Who is that Miss Waters?” asked Chatteris.
“Friend of Mrs. Bunting,” prevaricated25 Melville.
“So I gather.… She seems a very charming person.”
“She is.”
“She’s interesting. Her illness seems to throw her up. It makes a passive thing of her, like a picture or something that’s—imaginary. Imagined—anyhow. She sits there and smiles and responds. Her eyes—have something intimate. And yet——”
My cousin offered no assistance.
“Where did Mrs. Bunting find her.”
My cousin had to gather himself together for a second or so.
“There’s something,” he said deliberately27, “that Mrs. Bunting doesn’t seem disposed——”
“What can it be?”[141]
“It’s bound to be all right,” said Melville rather weakly.
“It’s strange, too. Mrs. Bunting is usually so disposed——”
Melville left that to itself.
“That’s what one feels,” said Chatteris.
“What?”
“Mystery.”
My cousin shares with me a profound detestation of that high mystic method of treating women. He likes women to be finite—and nice. In fact, he likes everything to be finite—and nice. So he merely grunted29.
But Chatteris was not to be stopped by that. He passed to a critical note. “No doubt it’s all illusion. All women are impressionists, a patch, a light. You get an effect. And that is all you are meant to get, I suppose. She gets an effect. But how—that’s the mystery. It’s not merely beauty. There’s plenty of[142] beauty in the world. But not of these effects. The eyes, I fancy.”
He dwelt on that for a moment.
“There’s really nothing in eyes, you know, Chatteris,” said my cousin Melville, borrowing an alien argument and a tone of analytical30 cynicism from me. “Have you ever looked at eyes through a hole in a sheet?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Chatteris. “I don’t mean the mere28 physical eye.… Perhaps it’s the look of health—and the bath chair. A bold discord31. You don’t know what’s the matter, Melville?”
“How?”
“I gather from Bunting it’s a disablement—not a deformity.”
“He ought to know.”
“I’m not so sure of that. You don’t happen to know the nature of her disablement?”
“I can’t tell at all,” said Melville in a[143] speculative32 tone. It struck him he was getting to prevaricate26 better.
The subject seemed exhausted33. They spoke34 of a common friend whom the sight of the Métropole suggested. Then they did not talk at all for a time, until the stir and interest of the band stand was passed. Then Chatteris threw out a thought.
“Complex business—feminine motives,” he remarked.
“How?”
“This canvassing. She can’t be interested in philanthropic Liberalism.”
“There’s a difference in the type. And besides, it’s a personal matter.”
“Not necessarily, is it? Surely there’s not such an intellectual gap between the sexes! If you can get interested——”
“Oh, I know.”
“Besides, it’s not a question of principles. It’s the fun of electioneering.”[144]
“Fun!”
“There’s no knowing what won’t interest the feminine mind,” said Melville, and added, “or what will.”
Chatteris did not answer.
“It’s the district visiting instinct, I suppose,” said Melville. “They all have it. It’s the canvassing. All women like to go into houses that don’t belong to them.”
“Very likely,” said Chatteris shortly, and failing a reply from Melville, he gave way to secret meditations35, it would seem still of a fairly agreeable sort.
The twelve o’clock gun thudded from Shornecliffe Camp.
“By Jove!” said Chatteris, and quickened his steps.
They found Adeline busy amidst her papers. As they entered she pointed36 reproachfully, yet with the protrusion37 of a[145] certain Marcella-like undertone of sweetness, at the clock. The apologies of Chatteris were effusive38 and winning, and involved no mention of the Sea Lady on the Leas.
Melville delivered his books and left them already wading39 deeply into the details of the district organisation40 that the local Liberal organiser had submitted.
II
A little while after the return of Chatteris, my cousin Melville and the Sea Lady were under the ilex at the end of the sea garden and—disregarding Parker (as every one was accustomed to do), who was in a garden chair doing some afternoon work at a proper distance—there was nobody with them at all. Fred and the girls were out cycling—Fred had gone with them at the Sea Lady’s request—and[146] Miss Glendower and Mrs. Bunting were at Hythe calling diplomatically on some rather horrid41 local people who might be serviceable to Harry42 in his electioneering.
Mr. Bunting was out fishing. He was not fond of fishing, but he was in many respects an exceptionally resolute43 little man, and he had taken to fishing every day in the afternoon after luncheon44 in order to break himself of what Mrs. Bunting called his “ridiculous habit” of getting sea-sick whenever he went out in a boat. He said that if fishing from a boat with pieces of mussels for bait after luncheon would not break the habit nothing would, and certainly it seemed at times as if it were going to break everything that was in him. But the habit escaped. This, however, is a digression.
These two, I say, were sitting in the ample shade under the evergreen45 oak, and[147] Melville, I imagine, was in those fine faintly patterned flannels46 that in the year 1899 combined correctness with ease. He was no doubt looking at the shaded face of the Sea Lady, framed in a frame of sunlit yellow-green lawn and black-green ilex leaves—at least so my impulse for verisimilitude conceives it—and she at first was pensive47 and downcast that afternoon and afterwards she was interested and looked into his eyes. Either she must have suggested that he might smoke or else he asked. Anyhow, his cigarettes were produced. She looked at them with an arrested gesture, and he hung for a moment, doubtful, on her gesture.
“I suppose you—” he said.
“I never learned.”
He glanced at Parker and then met the Sea Lady’s regard.
“It’s one of the things I came for,” she said.[148]
He took the only course.
She accepted a cigarette and examined it thoughtfully. “Down there,” she said, “it’s just one of the things— You will understand we get nothing but saturated48 tobacco. Some of the mermen— There’s something they have picked up from the sailors. Quids, I think they call it. But that’s too horrid for words!”
My cousin clicked his match-box.
She had a momentary49 doubt and glanced towards the house. “Mrs. Bunting?” she asked. Several times, I understand, she asked the same thing.
“She wouldn’t mind—” said Melville, and stopped.
“There’s nobody else,” said the Sea[149] Lady, glancing at Parker, and my cousin lit the match.
My cousin has an indirect habit of mind. With all general and all personal things his desperation to get at them obliquely52 amounts almost to a passion; he could no more go straight to a crisis than a cat could to a stranger. He came off at a tangent now as he was sitting forward and scrutinising her first very creditable efforts to draw. “I just wonder,” he said, “exactly what it was you did come for.”
She smiled at him over a little jet of smoke. “Why, this,” she said.
“And hairdressing?”
She smiled again after a momentary hesitation54. “And all this sort of thing,” she said, as if she felt she had answered him perhaps a little below his deserts. Her gesture indicated the house[150] and the lawn and—my cousin Melville wondered just exactly how much else.
“Am I doing it right?” asked the Sea Lady.
“Beautifully,” said my cousin with a faint sigh in his voice. “What do you think of it?”
“It was worth coming for,” said the Sea Lady, smiling into his eyes.
“But did you really just come——?”
She filled in his gap. “To see what life was like on land here?… Isn’t that enough?”
“Life,” he said, “isn’t all—this sort of thing.”
“This sort of thing?”
“Sunlight. Cigarette smoking. Talk. Looking nice.”
“But it’s made up——”
“Not altogether.”[151]
“For example?”
“Oh, you know.”
“What?”
“You know,” said Melville, and would not look at her.
“I decline to know,” she said after a little pause.
“Besides—” he said.
“Yes?”
“You told Mrs. Bunting—” It occurred to him that he was telling tales, but that scruple57 came too late.
“Well?”
“Something about a soul.”
She made no immediate58 answer. He looked up and her eyes were smiling. “Mr. Melville,” she said, innocently, “what is a soul?”
“Well,” said my cousin readily, and then paused for a space. “A soul,” said he, and knocked an imaginary ash from his extinct cigarette.[152]
“A soul,” he repeated, and glanced at Parker.
“A soul, you know,” he said again, and looked at the Sea Lady with the air of a man who is handling a difficult matter with skilful59 care.
“Come to think of it,” he said, “it’s a rather complicated matter to explain——”
“To a being without one?”
“To any one,” said my cousin Melville, suddenly admitting his difficulty.
“No,” she answered, “I don’t.”
“You know as well as I do.”
“Ah! that may be different.”
“You came to get a soul.”
“Perhaps I don’t want one. Why—if [153]one hasn’t one——?”
“Ah, there!” And my cousin shrugged62 his shoulders. “But really you know— It’s just the generality of it that makes it hard to define.”
“Everybody has a soul?”
“Every one.”
“Except me?”
“I’m not certain of that.”
“Mrs. Bunting?”
“Certainly.”
“And Mr. Bunting?”
“Every one.”
“Has Miss Glendower?”
“Lots.”
“Mr. Melville,” she said, “what is a union of souls?”
Melville flicked64 his extinct cigarette suddenly into an elbow shape and then threw it away. The phrase may have awakened65 some reminiscence. “It’s an[154] extra,” he said. “It’s a sort of flourish.… And sometimes it’s like leaving cards by footmen—a substitute for the real presence.”
There came a gap. He remained downcast, trying to find a way towards whatever it was that was in his mind to say. Conceivably, he did not clearly know what that might be until he came to it. The Sea Lady abandoned an attempt to understand him in favour of a more urgent topic.
“Do you think Miss Glendower and Mr. Chatteris——?”
Melville looked up at her. He noticed she had hung on the latter name. “Decidedly,” he said. “It’s just what they would do.”
Then he spoke again. “Chatteris?” he said.
“Yes,” said she.
“I thought so,” said Melville.[155]
The Sea Lady regarded him gravely. They scrutinised each other with an unprecedented67 intimacy68. Melville was suddenly direct. It was a discovery that it seemed he ought to have made all along. He felt quite unaccountably bitter; he spoke with a twitch69 of the mouth and his voice had a note of accusation70. “You want to talk about him.”
She nodded—still grave.
“Well, I don’t.” He changed his note. “But I will if you wish it.”
“I thought you would.”
“Oh, you know,” said Melville, discovering his extinct cigarette was within reach of a vindictive71 heel.
She said nothing.
“Well?” said Melville.
“I saw him first,” she apologised, “some years ago.”
“Where?”
“In the South Seas—near Tonga.”[156]
“And that is really what you came for?”
This time her manner was convincing. She admitted, “Yes.”
Melville was carefully impartial72. “He’s sightly,” he admitted, “and well-built and a decent chap—a decent chap. But I don’t see why you——”
He went off at a tangent. “He didn’t see you——?”
“Oh, no.”
Melville’s pose and tone suggested a mind of extreme liberality. “I don’t see why you came,” he said. “Nor what you mean to do. You see”—with an air of noting a trifling73 but valid74 obstacle—“there’s Miss Glendower.”
“Is there?” she said.
“Well, isn’t there?”
“That’s just it,” she said.
“And besides after all, you know, why [157]should you——?”
“I admit it’s unreasonable75,” she said. “But why reason about it? It’s a matter of the imagination——”
“For him?”
“How should I know how it takes him? That is what I want to know.”
Melville looked her in the eyes again. “You know, you’re not playing fair,” he said.
“To her?”
“To any one.”
“Why?”
“Because you are immortal76—and unincumbered. Because you can do everything you want to do—and we cannot. I don’t know why we cannot, but we cannot. Here we are, with our short lives and our little souls to save, or lose, fussing for our little concerns. And you, out of the elements, come and beckon——”
“The elements have their rights,” she said. And then: “The elements are the[158] elements, you know. That is what you forget.”
“Imagination?”
“Certainly. That’s the element. Those elements of your chemists——”
“Yes?”
“Are all imagination. There isn’t any other.” She went on: “And all the elements of your life, the life you imagine you are living, the little things you must do, the little cares, the extraordinary little duties, the day by day, the hypnotic limitations—all these things are a fancy that has taken hold of you too strongly for you to shake off. You daren’t, you mustn’t, you can’t. To us who watch you——”
“You watch us?”
“Oh, yes. We watch you, and sometimes we envy you. Not only for the dry air and the sunlight, and the shadows of trees, and the feeling of morning, and the pleasantness of many such things, but[159] because your lives begin and end—because you look towards an end.”
She reverted77 to her former topic. “But you are so limited, so tied! The little time you have, you use so poorly. You begin and you end, and all the time between it is as if you were enchanted78; you are afraid to do this that would be delightful79 to do, you must do that, though you know all the time it is stupid and disagreeable. Just think of the things—even the little things—you mustn’t do. Up there on the Leas in this hot weather all the people are sitting in stuffy80 ugly clothes—ever so much too much clothes, hot tight boots, you know, when they have the most lovely pink feet, some of them—we see,—and they are all with little to talk about and nothing to look at, and bound not to do all sorts of natural things and bound to do all sorts of preposterous81 things. Why are they bound? Why are[160] they letting life slip by them? Just as if they wouldn’t all of them presently be dead! Suppose you were to go up there in a bathing dress and a white cotton hat——”
“It wouldn’t be proper!” cried Melville.
“Why not?”
“It would be outrageous82!”
“But any one may see you like that on the beach!”
“That’s different.”
“It isn’t different. You dream it’s different. And in just the same way you dream all the other things are proper or improper or good or bad to do. Because you are in a dream, a fantastic, unwholesome little dream. So small, so infinitely83 small! I saw you the other day dreadfully worried by a spot of ink on your sleeve—almost the whole afternoon.”[161]
My cousin looked distressed85. She abandoned the ink-spot.
“Your life, I tell you, is a dream—a dream, and you can’t wake out of it——”
“And if so, why do you tell me?”
She made no answer for a space.
“Why do you tell me?” he insisted.
She came warmly close to him. She spoke in gently confidential88 undertone, as one who imparts a secret that is not to be too lightly given. “Because,” she said, “there are better dreams.”
III
For a moment it seemed to Melville that he had been addressed by something quite other than the pleasant lady in the bath chair before him. “But how—?” he began and stopped. He remained silent[162] with a perplexed89 face. She leaned back and glanced away from him, and when at last she turned and spoke again, specific realities closed in on him once more.
“Why shouldn’t I,” she asked, “if I want to?”
“Shouldn’t what?”
“If I fancy Chatteris.”
“One might think of obstacles,” he reflected.
“He’s not hers,” she said.
“In a way, he’s trying to be,” said Melville.
“Trying to be! He has to be what he is. Nothing can make him hers. If you weren’t dreaming you would see that.” My cousin was silent. “She’s not real,” she went on. “She’s a mass of fancies and vanities. She gets everything out of books. She gets herself out of a book. You can see her[163] doing it here.… What is she seeking? What is she trying to do? All this work, all this political stuff of hers? She talks of the condition of the poor! What is the condition of the poor? A dreary90 tossing on the bed of existence, a perpetual fear of consequences that perpetually distresses91 them. Lives of anxiety they lead, because they do not know what a dream the whole thing is. Suppose they were not anxious and afraid.… And what does she care for the condition of the poor, after all? It is only a point of departure in her dream. In her heart she does not want their dreams to be happier, in her heart she has no passion for them, only her dream is that she should be prominently doing good, asserting herself, controlling their affairs amidst thanks and praise and blessings92. Her dream! Of serious things!—a rout93 of phantoms94 pursuing a phantom95 ignis[164] fatuus—the afterglow of a mirage96. Vanity of vanities——”
“It’s real enough to her.”
“As real as she can make it, you know. But she isn’t real herself. She begins badly.”
“And he, you know——”
“He doesn’t believe in it.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“I am—now.”
“He’s a complicated being.”
“He will ravel out,” said the Sea Lady.
“I think you misjudge him about that work of his, anyhow,” said Melville. “He’s a man rather divided against himself.” He added abruptly, “We all are.” He recovered himself from the generality. “It’s vague, I admit, a sort of vague wish to do something decent, you know, that he has——”
“A sort of vague wish,” she conceded; “but——”[165]
“He means well,” said Melville, clinging to his proposition.
“He means nothing. Only very dimly he suspects——”
“Yes?”
“What you too are beginning to suspect.… That other things may be conceivable even if they are not possible. That this life of yours is not everything. That it is not to be taken too seriously. Because … there are better dreams!”
The song of the sirens was in her voice; my cousin would not look at her face. “I know nothing of any other dreams,” he said. “One has oneself and this life, and that is enough to manage. What other dreams can there be? Anyhow, we are in the dream—we have to accept it. Besides, you know, that’s going off the question. We were talking of Chatteris, and why you have come for him. Why should you come, why[166] should any one outside come—into this world?”
“Because we are permitted to come—we immortals97. And why, if we choose to do so, and taste this life that passes and continues, as rain that falls to the ground, why should we not do it? Why should we abstain98?”
“And Chatteris?”
“If he pleases me.”
He roused himself to a Titanic99 effort against an oppression that was coming over him. He tried to get the thing down to a definite small case, an incident, an affair of considerations. “But look here, you know,” he said. “What precisely100 do you mean to do if you get him? You don’t seriously intend to keep up the game to that extent. You don’t mean—positively101, in our terrestrial fashion, you know—to marry him?”
The Sea Lady laughed at his recovery[167] of the practical tone. “Well, why not?” she asked.
“And go about in a bath chair, and— No, that’s not it. What is it?”
He looked up into her eyes, and it was like looking into deep water. Down in that deep there stirred impalpable things. She smiled at him.
“No!” she said, “I sha’n’t marry him and go about in a bath chair. And grow old as all earthly women must. (It’s the dust, I think, and the dryness of the air, and the way you begin and end.) You burn too fast, you flare102 and sink and die. This life of yours!—the illnesses and the growing old! When the skin wears shabby, and the light is out of the hair, and the teeth— Not even for love would I face it. No.… But then you know—” Her voice sank to a low whisper. “There are better dreams.”
“What dreams?” rebelled Melville.[168] “What do you mean? What are you? What do you mean by coming into this life—you who pretend to be a woman—and whispering, whispering … to us who are in it, to us who have no escape.”
“But there is an escape,” said the Sea Lady.
“How?”
“For some there is an escape. When the whole life rushes to a moment—” And then she stopped. Now there is clearly no sense in this sentence to my mind, even from a lady of an essentially103 imaginary sort, who comes out of the sea. How can a whole life rush to a moment? But whatever it was she really did say, there is no doubt she left it half unsaid.
“Do … ris! Do … ris! Are you there?” It was Mrs. Bunting’s voice[169] floating athwart the lawn, the voice of the ascendant present, of invincibly104 sensible things. The world grew real again to Melville. He seemed to wake up, to start back from some delusive105 trance that crept upon him.
He looked at the Sea Lady as if he were already incredulous of the things they had said, as if he had been asleep and dreamed the talk. Some light seemed to go out, some fancy faded. His eye rested upon the inscription106, “Flamps, Bath Chair Proprietor,” just visible under her arm.
“We’ve got perhaps a little more serious than—” he said doubtfully, and then, “What you have been saying—did you exactly mean——?”
The rustle of Mrs. Bunting’s advance became audible, and Parker moved and coughed.
He was quite sure they had been “more serious than——”[170]
“Another time perhaps——”
Had all these things really been said, or was he under some fantastic hallucination?
He had a sudden thought. “Where’s your cigarette?” he asked.
But her cigarette had ended long ago.
“And what have you been talking about so long?” sang Mrs. Bunting, with an almost motherly hand on the back of Melville’s chair.
“Oh!” said Melville, at a loss for once, and suddenly rising from his chair to face her, and then to the Sea Lady with an artificially easy smile, “What have we been talking about?”
“All sorts of things, I dare say,” said Mrs. Bunting, in what might almost be called an arch manner. And she honoured Melville with a special smile—one of those smiles that are morally almost winks107.
My cousin caught all the archness full in the face, and for four seconds he stared[171] at Mrs. Bunting in amazement108. He wanted breath. Then they all laughed together, and Mrs. Bunting sat down pleasantly and remarked, quite audibly to herself, “As if I couldn’t guess.”
IV
I gather that after this talk Melville fell into an extraordinary net of doubting. In the first place, and what was most distressing109, he doubted whether this conversation could possibly have happened at all, and if it had whether his memory had not played him some trick in modifying and intensifying110 the import of it all. My cousin occasionally dreams conversations of so sober and probable a sort as to mingle111 quite perplexingly with his real experiences. Was this one of these occasions? He found himself taking up and scrutinising, as it were, first this remembered[172] sentence and then that. Had she really said this thing and quite in this way? His memory of their conversation was never quite the same for two days together. Had she really and deliberately foreshadowed for Chatteris some obscure and mystical submergence?
What intensified112 and complicated his doubts most, was the Sea Lady’s subsequent serene113 freedom from allusion114 to anything that might or might not have passed. She behaved just as she had always behaved; neither an added intimacy nor that distance that follows indiscreet confidences appeared in her manner.
And amidst this crop of questions arose presently quite a new set of doubts, as if he were not already sufficiently115 equipped. The Sea Lady alleged116 she had come to the world that lives on land, for Chatteris.
[173]
And then——?
He had not hitherto looked ahead to see precisely what would happen to Chatteris, to Miss Glendower, to the Buntings or any one when, as seemed highly probable, Chatteris was “got.” There were other dreams, there was another existence, an elsewhere—and Chatteris was to go there! So she said! But it came into Melville’s mind with a quite disproportionate force and vividness that once, long ago, he had seen a picture of a man and a mermaid117, rushing downward through deep water.… Could it possibly be that sort of thing in the year eighteen hundred and ninety-nine? Conceivably, if she had said these things, did she mean them, and if she meant them, and this definite campaign of capture was in hand, what was an orderly, sane-living, well-dressed bachelor of the world to do?
Look on—until things ended in a catastrophe118?[174]
One figures his face almost aged119. He appears to have hovered120 about the house on the Sandgate Riviera to a scandalous extent, failing always to get a sufficiently long and intimate tête-à-tête with the Sea Lady to settle once for all his doubts as to what really had been said and what he had dreamed or fancied in their talk. Never had he been so exceedingly disturbed as he was by the twist this talk had taken. Never had his habitual121 pose of humorous acquiescence122 in life been quite so difficult to keep up. He became positively absent-minded. “You know if it’s like that, it’s serious,” was the burden of his private mutterings. His condition was palpable even to Mrs. Bunting. But she misunderstood his nature. She said something. Finally, and quite abruptly, he set off to London in a state of frantic123 determination to get out of it all. The Sea Lady wished him good-bye in Mrs. Bunting’s presence[175] as if there had never been anything unusual between them.
I suppose one may contrive124 to understand something of his disturbance125. He had made quite considerable sacrifices to the world. He had, at great pains, found his place and his way in it, he had imagined he had really “got the hang of it,” as people say, and was having an interesting time. And then, you know, to encounter a voice, that subsequently insists upon haunting you with “There are better dreams”; to hear a tale that threatens complications, disasters, broken hearts, and not to have the faintest idea of the proper thing to do.
But I do not think he would have bolted from Sandgate until he had really got some more definite answer to the question, “What better dreams?” until he had surprised or forced some clearer illumination from the passive invalid126, if Mrs.[176] Bunting one morning had not very tactfully dropped a hint.
You know Mrs. Bunting, and you can imagine what she tactfully hinted. Just at that time, what with her own girls and the Glendower girls, her imagination was positively inflamed127 for matrimony; she was a matrimonial fanatic128; she would have married anybody to anything just for the fun of doing it, and the idea of pairing off poor Melville to this mysterious immortal with a scaly129 tail seems to have appeared to her the most natural thing in the world.
“My opportunity!” cried Melville, trying madly not to understand in the face of her pink resolution.
“You’ve a monopoly now,” she cried. “But when we go back to London with[177] her there will be ever so many people running after her.”
I fancy Melville said something about carrying the thing too far. He doesn’t remember what he did say. I don’t think he even knew at the time.
However, he fled back to London in August, and was there so miserably131 at loose ends that he had not the will to get out of the place. On this passage in the story he does not dwell, and such verisimilitude as may be, must be supplied by my imagination. I imagine him in his charmingly appointed flat,—a flat that is light without being trivial, and artistic132 with no want of dignity or sincerity133,—finding a loss of interest in his books, a loss of beauty in the silver he (not too vehemently) collects. I imagine him wandering into that dainty little bed-room of his and around into the dressing-room, and there, rapt in a blank contemplation of the seven-and-twenty[178] pairs of trousers (all creasing134 neatly135 in their proper stretchers) that are necessary to his conception of a wise and happy man. For every occasion he has learnt, in a natural easy progress to knowledge, the exquisitely136 appropriate pair of trousers, the permissible137 upper garment, the becoming gesture and word. He was a man who had mastered his world. And then, you know, the whisper:—
“There are better dreams.”
“What dreams?” I imagine him asking, with a defensive138 note. Whatever transparence the world might have had, whatever suggestion of something beyond there, in the sea garden at Sandgate, I fancy that in Melville’s apartments in London it was indisputably opaque139.
And “Damn it!” he cried, “if these dreams are for Chatteris, why should she tell me? Suppose I had the chance of them— Whatever they are——”[179]
He reflected, with a terrible sincerity in the nature of his will.
“No!” And then again, “No!
“And if one mustn’t have ’em, why should one know about ’em and be worried by them? If she comes to do mischief140, why shouldn’t she do mischief without making me an accomplice141?”
He walks up and down and stops at last and stares out of his window on the jaded142 summer traffic going Haymarket way.
He sees nothing of that traffic. He sees the little sea garden at Sandgate and that little group of people very small and bright and something—something hanging over them. “It isn’t fair on them—or me—or anybody!”
Then you know, quite suddenly, I imagine him swearing.
I imagine him at his luncheon, a meal he usually treats with a becoming gravity.[180] I imagine the waiter marking the kindly143 self-indulgence of his clean-shaven face, and advancing with that air of intimate participation144 the good waiter shows to such as he esteems145. I figure the respectful pause, the respectful enquiry.
“Oh, anything!” cries Melville, and the waiter retires amazed.
V
To add to Melville’s distress84, as petty discomforts146 do add to all genuine trouble, his club-house was undergoing an operation, and was full of builders and decorators; they had gouged147 out its windows and gagged its hall with scaffolding, and he and his like were guests of a stranger club that had several members who blew. They seemed never to do anything but blow and sigh and rustle papers and go to sleep about the place; they were like[181] blight-spots on the handsome plant of this host-club, and it counted for little with Melville, in the state he was in, that all the fidgety breathers were persons of eminent148 position. But it was this temporary dislocation of his world that brought him unexpectedly into a quasi confidential talk with Chatteris one afternoon, for Chatteris was one of the less eminent and amorphous149 members of this club that was sheltering Melville’s club.
They seemed never to do anything but blow and sigh and rustle papers. They seemed never to do anything but blow and sigh and rustle papers.
Melville had taken up Punch—he was in that mood when a man takes up anything—and was reading, he did not know exactly what. Presently he sighed, looked up, and discovered Chatteris entering the room.
He was surprised to see Chatteris, startled and just faintly alarmed, and Chatteris it was evident was surprised and disconcerted to see him. Chatteris stood in as awkward an attitude as he was capable[182] of, staring unfavourably, and for a moment or so he gave no sign of recognition. Then he nodded and came forward reluctantly. His every movement suggested the will without the wit to escape. “You here?” he said.
“What are you doing away from Hythe at this time?” asked Melville.
“I came here to write a letter,” said Chatteris.
He looked about him rather helplessly. Then he sat down beside Melville and demanded a cigarette. Suddenly he plunged150 into intimacy.
“It is doubtful whether I shall contest Hythe,” he remarked.
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
He lit his cigarette.
“Would you?” he asked.
“Not a bit of it,” said Melville. “But then it’s not my line.”[183]
“Is it mine?”
“Isn’t it a little late in the day to drop it?” said Melville. “You’ve been put up for it now. Every one’s at work. Miss Glendower——”
“I know,” said Chatteris.
“Well?”
“I don’t seem to want to go on.”
“My dear man!”
“It’s a bit of overwork perhaps. I’m off colour. Things have gone flat. That’s why I’m up here.”
He did a very absurd thing. He threw away a quarter-smoked cigarette and almost immediately demanded another.
“You’ve been a little immoderate with your statistics,” said Melville.
Chatteris said something that struck Melville as having somehow been said before. “Election, progress, good of humanity, public spirit. None of these[184] things interest me really,” he said. “At least, not just now.”
Melville waited.
“One gets brought up in an atmosphere in which it’s always being whispered that one should go for a career. You learn it at your mother’s knee. They never give you time to find out what you really want, they keep on shoving you at that. They form your character. They rule your mind. They rush you into it.”
“They didn’t rush me,” said Melville.
“They rushed me, anyhow. And here I am!”
“You don’t want a career?”
“Well— Look what it is.”
“Oh! if you look at what things are!”
“First of all, the messing about to get into the House. These confounded parties mean nothing—absolutely nothing. They aren’t even decent factions151. You[185] blither to damned committees of damned tradesmen whose sole idea for this world is to get overpaid for their self-respect; you whisper and hobnob with local solicitors152 and get yourself seen about with them; you ask about the charities and institutions, and lunch and chatter3 and chum with every conceivable form of human conceit153 and pushfulness and trickery——”
He broke off. “It isn’t as if they were up to anything! They’re working in their way, just as you are working in your way. It’s the same game with all of them. They chase a phantom gratification, they toil154 and quarrel and envy, night and day, in the perpetual attempt to persuade themselves in spite of everything that they are real and a success——”
He stopped and smoked.
Melville was spiteful. “Yes,” he admitted, “but I thought your little movement[186] was to be something more than party politics and self-advancement——?”
He left his sentence interrogatively incomplete.
“The condition of the poor,” he said.
Melville dodged156 the look. “At Sandgate,” he said, “there was, you know, a certain atmosphere of belief——”
“I know,” said Chatteris for the second time.
“That’s the devil of it!” said Chatteris after a pause.
“If I don’t believe in the game I’m playing, if I’m left high and dry on this shoal, with the tide of belief gone past me, it isn’t my planning, anyhow. I know the decent thing I ought to do. I mean to do it; in the end I mean to do it; I’m talking in this way to relieve my mind.[187] I’ve started the game and I must see it out; I’ve put my hand to the plough and I mustn’t go back. That’s why I came to London—to get it over with myself. It was running up against you, set me off. You caught me at the crisis.”
“Ah!” said Melville.
“But for all that, the thing is as I said—none of these things interest me really. It won’t alter the fact that I am committed to fight a phantom election about nothing in particular, for a party that’s been dead ten years. And if the ghosts win, go into the Parliament as a constituent157 spectre.… There it is—as a mental phenomenon!”
He became more critical. He bent a little closer to Melville’s ear. “It isn’t really that I don’t believe. When I say I[188] don’t believe in these things I go too far. I do. I know, the electioneering, the intriguing160 is a means to an end. There is work to be done, sound work, and important work. Only——”
Melville turned an eye on him over his cigarette end.
Chatteris met it, seemed for a moment to cling to it. He became absurdly confidential. He was evidently in the direst need of a confidential ear.
“I don’t want to do it. When I sit down to it, square myself down in the chair, you know, and say, now for the rest of my life this is IT—this is your life, Chatteris; there comes a sort of terror, Melville.”
“H’m,” said Melville, and turned away. Then he turned on Chatteris with the air of a family physician, and tapped his shoulder three times as he spoke. “You’ve had too much statistics, Chatteris,” he said.[189]
He let that soak in. Then he turned about towards his interlocutor, and toyed with a club ash tray. “It’s every day has overtaken you,” he said. “You can’t see the wood for the trees. You forget the spacious161 design you are engaged upon, in the heavy details of the moment. You are like a painter who has been working hard upon something very small and exacting162 in a corner. You want to step back and look at the whole thing.”
“No,” said Chatteris, “that isn’t quite it.”
Melville indicated that he knew better.
“I keep on, stepping back and looking at it,” said Chatteris. “Just lately I’ve scarcely done anything else. I’ll admit it’s a spacious and noble thing—political work done well—only— I admire it, but it doesn’t grip my imagination. That’s where the trouble comes in.”
“What does grip your imagination?”[190] asked Melville. He was absolutely certain the Sea Lady had been talking this paralysis163 into Chatteris, and he wanted to see just how far she had gone. “For example,” he tested, “are there—by any chance—other dreams?”
Chatteris gave no sign at the phrase. Melville dismissed his suspicion. “What do you mean—other dreams?” asked Chatteris.
“Is there conceivably another way—another sort of life—some other aspect——?”
“It’s out of the question,” said Chatteris. He added, rather remarkably164, “Adeline’s awfully165 good.”
My cousin Melville acquiesced166 silently in Adeline’s goodness.
“All this, you know, is a mood. My life is made for me—and it’s a very good life. It’s better than I deserve.”
“Heaps,” said Melville.[191]
“Let’s talk of other things,” said Chatteris. “It’s what even the street boys call mawbid nowadays to doubt for a moment the absolute final all-this-and-nothing-else-in-the-worldishness of whatever you happen to be doing.”
My cousin Melville, however, could think of no other sufficiently interesting topic. “You left them all right at Sandgate?” he asked, after a pause.
“Except little Bunting.”
“Seedy?”
“Been fishing.”
“Of course. Breezes and the spring tides.… And Miss Waters?”
Chatteris shot a suspicious glance at him. He affected169 the offhand170 style. “She’s quite well,” he said. “Looks just as charming as ever.”
“She really means that canvassing?”[192]
“She’s spoken of it again.”
“She’ll do a lot for you,” said Melville, and left a fine wide pause.
Chatteris assumed the tone of a man who gossips.
“Who is this Miss Waters?” he asked.
“A very charming person,” said Melville and said no more.
“Look here,” he said. “Who is this Miss Waters?”
“How should I know?” prevaricated Melville.
“Well, you do know. And the others know. Who is she?”
Melville met his eyes. “Won’t they tell you?” he asked.
“That’s just it,” said Chatteris.
“Why do you want to know?”[193]
“Why shouldn’t I know?”
“There’s a sort of promise to keep it dark.”
“Keep what dark?”
My cousin gestured.
“It can’t be anything wrong?” My cousin made no sign.
“She may have had experiences?”
My cousin reflected a moment on the possibilities of the deep-sea life. “She has had them,” he said.
“I don’t care, if she has.”
There came a pause.
“Look here, Melville,” said Chatteris, “I want to know this. Unless it’s a thing to be specially172 kept from me.… I don’t like being among a lot of people who treat me as an outsider. What is this something about Miss Waters?”
“What does Miss Glendower say?”
“Vague things. She doesn’t like her and she won’t say why. And Mrs. Bunting[194] goes about with discretion173 written all over her. And she herself looks at you— And that maid of hers looks— The thing’s worrying me.”
“Why don’t you ask the lady herself?”
“How can I, till I know what it is? Confound it! I’m asking you plainly enough.”
“Well,” said Melville, and at the moment he had really decided66 to tell Chatteris. But he hung upon the manner of presentation. He thought in the moment to say, “The truth is, she is a mermaid.” Then as instantly he perceived how incredible this would be. He always suspected Chatteris of a capacity for being continental174 and romantic. The man might fly out at him for saying such a thing of a lady.
A dreadful doubt fell upon Melville. As you know, he had never seen that tail[195] with his own eyes. In these surroundings there came to him such an incredulity of the Sea Lady as he had not felt even when first Mrs. Bunting told him of her. All about him was an atmosphere of solid reality, such as one can breathe only in a first-class London club. Everywhere ponderous175 arm-chairs met the eye. There were massive tables in abundance and match-boxes of solid rock. The matches were of some specially large, heavy sort. On a ponderous elephant-legged green baize table near at hand were several copies of the Times, the current Punch, an inkpot of solid brass176, and a paper weight of lead. There are other dreams! It seemed impossible. The breathing of an eminent person in a chair in the far corner became very distinct in that interval177. It was heavy and resolute like the sound of a stone-mason’s saw. It insisted upon itself as the touchstone of reality.[196] It seemed to say that at the first whisper of a thing so utterly178 improbable as a mermaid it would snort and choke.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” said Melville.
“Well, tell me—anyhow.”
My cousin looked at an empty chair beside him. It was evidently stuffed with the very best horse-hair that money could procure179, stuffed with infinite skill and an almost religious care. It preached in the open invitation of its expanded arms that man does not live by bread alone—inasmuch as afterwards he needs a nap. An utterly dreamless chair!
He felt that he was after all quite possibly the victim of a foolish delusion181, hypnotised by Mrs. Bunting’s beliefs. Was there not some more plausible182 interpretation183, some phrase that would lie out bridgeways from the plausible to the truth?[197]
“Oh, I don’t care a hang,” he said, and shied his second cigarette into the massively decorated fireplace. “It’s no affair of mine.”
Then quite abruptly he sprang to his feet and gesticulated with an ineffectual hand.
“You needn’t,” he said, and seemed to intend to say many regrettable things. Meanwhile until his intention ripened186 he sawed the air with his ineffectual hand. I fancy he ended by failing to find a thing sufficiently regrettable to express the pungency187 of the moment. He flung about and went towards the door.
“Don’t!” he said to the back of the newspaper of the breathing member.
“If you don’t want to,” he said to the respectful waiter at the door.[198]
The hall-porter heard that he didn’t care—he was damned if he did!
“He might be one of these here guests,” said the hall-porter, greatly shocked. “That’s what comes of lettin’ ’em in so young.”
VI
Melville overcame an impulse to follow him.
“Confound the fellow!” said he.
And then as the whole outburst came into focus, he said with still more emphasis, “Confound the fellow!”
He stood up and became aware that the member who had been asleep was now regarding him with malevolent188 eyes. He perceived it was a hard and invincible189 malevolence190, and that no petty apologetics of demeanour could avail against it. He turned about and went towards the door.[199]
The interview had done my cousin good. His misery191 and distress had lifted. He was presently bathed in a profound moral indignation, and that is the very antithesis192 of doubt and unhappiness. The more he thought it over, the more his indignation with Chatteris grew. That sudden unreasonable outbreak altered all the perspectives of the case. He wished very much that he could meet Chatteris again and discuss the whole matter from a new footing.
“Think of it!” He thought so vividly193 and so verbally that he was nearly talking to himself as he went along. It shaped itself into an outspoken194 discourse195 in his mind.
“Was there ever a more ungracious, ungrateful, unreasonable creature than this same Chatteris? He was the spoiled child of Fortune; things came to him, things were given to him, his very blunders[200] brought more to him than other men’s successes. Out of every thousand men, nine hundred and ninety-nine might well find food for envy in this way luck had served him. Many a one has toiled196 all his life and taken at last gratefully the merest fraction of all that had thrust itself upon this insatiable thankless young man. Even I,” thought my cousin, “might envy him—in several ways. And then, at the mere first onset197 of duty, nay198!—at the mere first whisper of restraint, this insubordination, this protest and flight!
“Think!” urged my cousin, “of the common lot of men. Think of the many who suffer from hunger——”
(It was a painful Socialistic sort of line to take, but in his mood of moral indignation my cousin pursued it relentlessly199.)
“Think of many who suffer from hunger, who lead lives of unremitting toil, who go fearful, who go squalid, and withal[201] strive, in a sort of dumb, resolute way, their utmost to do their duty, or at any rate what they think to be their duty. Think of the chaste200 poor women in the world! Think again of the many honest souls who aspire201 to the service of their kind, and are so hemmed202 about and preoccupied203 that they may not give it! And then this pitiful creature comes, with his mental gifts, his gifts of position and opportunity, the stimulus204 of great ideas, and a fiancée, who is not only rich and beautiful—she is beautiful!—but also the best of all possible helpers for him. And he turns away. It isn’t good enough. It takes no hold upon his imagination, if you please. It isn’t beautiful enough for him, and that’s the plain truth of the matter. What does the man want? What does he expect?…”
My cousin’s moral indignation took him the whole length of Piccadilly, and[202] along by Rotten Row, and along the flowery garden walks almost into Kensington High Street, and so around by the Serpentine205 to his home, and it gave him such an appetite for dinner as he had not had for many days. Life was bright for him all that evening, and he sat down at last, at two o’clock in the morning, before a needlessly lit, delightfully206 fusillading fire in his flat to smoke one sound cigar before he went to bed.
“No,” he said suddenly, “I am not mawbid either. I take the gifts the gods will give me. I try to make myself happy, and a few other people happy, too, to do a few little duties decently, and that is enough for me. I don’t look too deeply into things, and I don’t look too widely about things. A few old simple ideals——
“H’m.
“Chatteris is a dreamer, with an impossible, extravagant207 discontent. What does[203] he dream of?… Three parts he is a dreamer and the fourth part—spoiled child.”
“Dreamer.…”
“Other dreams.…”
“What other dreams could she mean?”
My cousin fell into profound musings. Then he started, looked about him, saw the time by his Rathbone clock, got up suddenly and went to bed.
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illuminating
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| a.富于启发性的，有助阐明的 | |
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lapsed
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| adj.流失的，堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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chatter
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admiration
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embedded
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pier
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qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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crumpled
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melancholy
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engenders
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resentment
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frankly
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smuggling
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trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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superstition
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abrupt
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abruptly
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anecdote
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agitate
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specimen
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canvassing
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| v.（在政治方面）游说( canvass的现在分词 )；调查（如选举前选民的）意见；为讨论而提出（意见等）；详细检查 | |
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gathering
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prevaricated
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prevaricate
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deliberately
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mere
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grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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analytical
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speculative
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exhausted
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spoke
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meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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36
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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37
protrusion
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| n.伸出，突出 | |
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38
effusive
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| adj.热情洋溢的；感情(过多)流露的 | |
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39
wading
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的现在分词 ) | |
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40
organisation
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| n.组织，安排，团体，有机休 | |
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41
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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42
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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43
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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44
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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45
evergreen
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| n.常青树；adj.四季常青的 | |
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46
flannels
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| 法兰绒男裤； 法兰绒( flannel的名词复数 ) | |
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47
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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48
saturated
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| a.饱和的，充满的 | |
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49
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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50
improper
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| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
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51
amplified
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| 放大，扩大( amplify的过去式和过去分词 )； 增强； 详述 | |
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52
obliquely
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| adv.斜； 倾斜； 间接； 不光明正大 | |
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53
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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54
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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55
blighted
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|
| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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56
pensively
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| adv.沉思地，焦虑地 | |
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57
scruple
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|
| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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58
immediate
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|
| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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59
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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60
meditated
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|
| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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61
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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62
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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63
mused
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|
| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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64
flicked
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的过去式和过去分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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65
awakened
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|
| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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66
decided
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|
| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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67
unprecedented
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|
| adj.无前例的，新奇的 | |
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68
intimacy
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|
| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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69
twitch
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| v.急拉，抽动，痉挛，抽搐；n.扯，阵痛，痉挛 | |
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70
accusation
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|
| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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71
vindictive
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|
| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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72
impartial
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|
| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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73
trifling
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|
| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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74
valid
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|
| adj.有确实根据的；有效的；正当的，合法的 | |
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75
unreasonable
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|
| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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76
immortal
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|
| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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77
reverted
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|
| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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78
enchanted
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|
| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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79
delightful
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|
| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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80
stuffy
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|
| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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81
preposterous
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|
| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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82
outrageous
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|
| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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83
infinitely
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|
| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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84
distress
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|
| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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85
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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86
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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87
bent
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|
| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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88
confidential
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|
| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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89
perplexed
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|
| adj.不知所措的 | |
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90
dreary
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|
| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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91
distresses
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|
| n.悲痛( distress的名词复数 )；痛苦；贫困；危险 | |
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92
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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93
rout
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|
| n.溃退，溃败；v.击溃，打垮 | |
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94
phantoms
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|
| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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95
phantom
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|
| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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96
mirage
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|
| n.海市蜃楼，幻景 | |
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97
immortals
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|
| 不朽的人物( immortal的名词复数 )； 永生不朽者 | |
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98
abstain
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|
| v.自制，戒绝，弃权，避免 | |
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99
titanic
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|
| adj.巨人的，庞大的，强大的 | |
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100
precisely
|
|
| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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101
positively
|
|
| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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102
flare
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|
| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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103
essentially
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|
| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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104
invincibly
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|
| adv.难战胜地，无敌地 | |
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105
delusive
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|
| adj.欺骗的，妄想的 | |
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106
inscription
|
|
| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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107
winks
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|
| v.使眼色( wink的第三人称单数 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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108
amazement
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|
| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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109
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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110
intensifying
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|
| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的现在分词 )；增辉 | |
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111
mingle
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|
| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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112
intensified
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|
| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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113
serene
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|
| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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114
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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115
sufficiently
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|
| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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116
alleged
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| a.被指控的，嫌疑的 | |
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117
mermaid
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| n.美人鱼 | |
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118
catastrophe
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|
| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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119
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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120
hovered
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|
| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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121
habitual
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|
| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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122
acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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123
frantic
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|
| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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124
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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125
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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126
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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127
inflamed
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|
| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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128
fanatic
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|
| n.狂热者，入迷者；adj.狂热入迷的 | |
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129
scaly
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| adj.鱼鳞状的；干燥粗糙的 | |
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130
apropos
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| adv.恰好地；adj.恰当的；关于 | |
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131
miserably
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|
| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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132
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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133
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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134
creasing
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| （使…）起折痕，弄皱( crease的现在分词 )； （皮肤）皱起，使起皱纹； 挑檐 | |
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135
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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136
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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137
permissible
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| adj.可允许的，许可的 | |
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138
defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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139
opaque
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| adj.不透光的；不反光的，不传导的；晦涩的 | |
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140
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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141
accomplice
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| n.从犯，帮凶，同谋 | |
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142
jaded
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| adj.精疲力竭的；厌倦的；（因过饱或过多而）腻烦的；迟钝的 | |
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143
kindly
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|
| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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144
participation
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| n.参与，参加，分享 | |
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145
esteems
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| n.尊敬，好评( esteem的名词复数 )v.尊敬( esteem的第三人称单数 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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146
discomforts
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| n.不舒适( discomfort的名词复数 )；不愉快，苦恼 | |
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147
gouged
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| v.凿( gouge的过去式和过去分词 )；乱要价；（在…中）抠出…；挖出… | |
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148
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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149
amorphous
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| adj.无定形的 | |
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150
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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151
factions
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| 组织中的小派别，派系( faction的名词复数 ) | |
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152
solicitors
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| 初级律师( solicitor的名词复数 ) | |
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153
conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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154
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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155
stony
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|
| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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156
dodged
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| v.闪躲( dodge的过去式和过去分词 )；回避 | |
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157
constituent
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| n.选民；成分，组分；adj.组成的，构成的 | |
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158
reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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159
cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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160
intriguing
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|
| adj.有趣的；迷人的v.搞阴谋诡计(intrigue的现在分词)；激起…的好奇心 | |
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161
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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162
exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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163
paralysis
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| n.麻痹(症)；瘫痪(症) | |
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164
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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165
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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166
acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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167
defiantly
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| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
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endorsed
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| vt.& vi.endorse的过去式或过去分词形式v.赞同( endorse的过去式和过去分词 )；在（尤指支票的）背面签字；在（文件的）背面写评论；在广告上说本人使用并赞同某产品 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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offhand
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| adj.临时，无准备的；随便，马虎的 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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172
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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173
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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174
continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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175
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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176
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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177
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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178
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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179
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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180
mermaids
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| n.（传说中的）美人鱼( mermaid的名词复数 ) | |
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181
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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182
plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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183
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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184
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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185
furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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186
ripened
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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187
pungency
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| n.（气味等的）刺激性；辣；（言语等的）辛辣；尖刻 | |
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malevolent
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| adj.有恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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189
invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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190
malevolence
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| n.恶意，狠毒 | |
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191
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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antithesis
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| n.对立；相对 | |
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193
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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194
outspoken
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| adj.直言无讳的，坦率的，坦白无隐的 | |
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195
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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196
toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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197
onset
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| n.进攻，袭击，开始，突然开始 | |
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198
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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199
relentlessly
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| adv.不屈不挠地；残酷地；不间断 | |
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200
chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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aspire
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| vi.(to，after)渴望，追求，有志于 | |
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202
hemmed
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| 缝…的褶边( hem的过去式和过去分词 )； 包围 | |
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203
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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204
stimulus
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| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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205
serpentine
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| adj.蜿蜒的，弯曲的 | |
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206
delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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207
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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