Coplestone was the first of our tenants1 who had taken his house through me, and I was extremely proud of him. It was precisely2 the pride of the mighty3 hunter in his first kill; for Coplestone was big game in his way, and even of a leonine countenance4, with his crested5 wave of tawny6 hair and his clear sunburnt skin. In early life, as an incomparable oar7, he had made a name which still had a way of creeping into the sporting papers; and at forty the same fine figure and untarnished face were a walking advertisement of virtue8. But now he had also the grim eyes and stubborn jaw9 of the man who has faced big trouble; he wore sombre ties that suggested the kind of trouble it had been; and he settled down among us to a solitude10 only broken in the holidays of his only child, then a boy of twelve at a preparatory school.
I first heard of the boy's existence when Coplestone chose the papers for his house. Anything seemed good enough for the "three reception-rooms and usual offices"; but over a bedroom and a play room on the first floor we were an hour deciding against every pattern in the books, and then on the exact self-colour to be obtained elsewhere. It was at the end of that hour that a chance remark, about the evening paper and the latest cricket, led to a little conversation, insignificant11 in itself, yet enough to bring Coplestone and me into touch about better things than house decoration. Often after that, when he came down of an afternoon, he would look in at the office and leave me his Pall12 Mall. And he brought the boy in with him on the first day of the midsummer holidays.
"Ronnie's a keen cricketer at present," said Coplestone on that occasion. "But he's got to be a wet-bob like his old governor when he goes on to Eton. That's what we're here for, isn't it, Ronnie? We're going to take each other on the river every blessed day of the holidays."
Ronnie beamed with the brightest little face in all the world. He had bright brown eyes and dark brown hair, and his skin burnt a delicate brown instead of the paternal13 pink. His expression was his father's, but not an atom of his colouring. His mother must have been a brunette and a beautiful woman. I could not help thinking of her as I looked at the beaming boy who seemed to have forgotten his loss, if he had ever realised it. And yet it was just a touch of something in his face, a something pensive14 and constrained15, when he was not smiling, that gave him also such a look of Coplestone at times.
But as a rule Ronnie was sizzling with happiness and excitement; and it was my privilege to see a lot of him those hot holidays. Coplestone did not go away for a single night or day. Most mornings one met him and his boy in flannels16, on their way down to the river, laden17 with their lunch. But because the exclusive society of the best of boys must eventually bore the most affectionate of men, I was sometimes invited to join the picnic, and on Saturdays and Sundays I accepted more than once. Those, however, were the days on which I was nearly always bespoke19 by Uvo Delavoye, and once when I said so it ended in our all going off together in a bigger boat. That day marked a decline in Ronnie's regard for me as an ex-member of a minor20 school eleven. It was not, perhaps, that he admired me less, but that Delavoye, who played no games at all, had nevertheless a way with him that fascinated man and boy alike.
With Ronnie, it was a way of cracking jokes and telling stories, and taking an extraordinary interest in the boy's preparatory school, so that its rather small beer came bubbling out in a sparkling brew21 that Coplestone himself had failed to tap. Then Uvo could talk like an inspired professional about the games he could not play, about books like an author, and about adventures like a born adventurer. In Egypt, moreover, he had seen a little life that went a long way in the telling; conversely, one always felt that he had done a bigger thing or two out there than he pretended. To a small boy, at all events, he was irresistible22. Had he been an usher23 at a school like Ronnie's he would have had a string of them on either arm at every turn. As it was, a less sensible father might well have been jealous of him before the holidays were nearly over.
But it was just in the holidays that Coplestone was at his best; when the boy went back in September, we were to see him at his worst. In the beginning he was merely moody25 and depressed26, and morose27 towards us two as creatures who had served our turn. The more we tried to cheer his solitude, the less encouragement we received. If we cared to call again at Christmas, he hinted, we should be welcome, but not before. We watched him go off bicycling alone in the red autumn afternoons. We saw his light on half of the night; late as we were, he was always later; and now he was never to be seen at all of a morning. But his grim eyes had lost their light, his ruddy face had changed its shade, and erelong I saw him reeling in broad daylight.
Coplestone had taken to the bottle—and as a strong man takes to everything—without fear or shame. Yet somehow I felt it was for the first time in his life; so did Delavoye, but on other grounds. I did not believe he could have been the man he was when he came to us, if this curse had ever descended28 on Coplestone before. Yet he seemed to take it rather as a blessing29, as a sudden discovery which he was a fool not to have made before. This was no case of surreptitious, shamefaced tippling; it was a cynically30 open and defiant31 downfall, at once an outrage32 on a more than decent community, and a new interest in many admirable lives.
Soon there were complaints which I was requested to transmit to Coplestone in his next lucid33 interval34. But I only pretended to have done so. I thought the complainants a set of self-righteous busybodies, and I vastly preferred the good will of the delinquent35. That was partly on Ronnie's account, partly for the sake of the man's own magnificent past, but partly also because his present seemed to me a fleeting36 phase of sheer insanity37, which would end as suddenly as it had supervened. The form was too bad to be true, even if Coplestone had ever shown it before; and there was now some evidence that he had not.
Delavoye had come down from town with eyes as bright as Ronnie's.
"You remember Sawrey-Biggerstaff by name? He was second for the Diamonds the second year Coplestone won them, and he won them himself the year after. I met him to-day with a man who lunched me at the United University. I told him we had Coplestone down here, and asked him if it was true that he had ever been off the rails like this before, only without breathing a word about his being off them now. Sawrey-Biggerstaff swore that he had never heard of such a libel, or struck a more abstemious38 hound than Harry39 Coplestone, or ever heard of him being or ever having been anything else! So you must see what it all means, Gilly."
"It means that he's never got over the loss of his wife."
"But that happened nearly three years ago. Ronnie told me. Why didn't the old boy break out before? Why save it all up for Witching Hill?"
"I know what you're going to say."
"But isn't it obvious? Our wicked old man drank like an aquarium40. His vices41 are the weeds of this polluted soil; they crop up one after the other, and with inveterate42 irony43 he's allotted44 this one to the noblest creature on the place. It's for us to save him by hook or crook45—or rather it's my own hereditary46 job."
"And how do you mean to set about it?"
"You'll be angry with me, Gilly, but I shan't be happy till I see his house on your hands again. It's the only chance—to drive him into fresh woods and pastures new!"
I was angry. I declined to discuss the matter any further; but I stuck to my opinion that the cloud would vanish as quickly as it had gathered. And Coplestone of all men was man enough to stand his ground and live it down.
But first he must take himself in hand, instead of which I had to own that he was going from bad to worse. He was a man of leisure, and he drank as though he had found his vocation47 in the bottle. He was a lonely man, and he drank as though drink was a friend in need and not the deadliest foe48. He was the only drunkard I ever knew who drank with impenitent49 zest50; and I saw something of him at his worst; he was more approachable than he had been before his great surrender. All October and November he kept it up, his name a byword far beyond the confines of the Estate, and by December he must have been near the inevitable51 climax52. Then he disappeared. The servants had no idea of his whereabouts; but he had taken luggage. That was the best reason for believing him to be still alive, until he turned up with his boy for the Christmas holidays.
It would be too much to say that he looked as he had looked last holidays. The man had aged53; he seemed even a little shaken, but not more than by a moderate dose of influenza54; and to a casual eye the improvement was more astounding55 than the previous deterioration56, especially in its rapidity. His spirits were at least as good as they had been before, his hospitality in keeping with the season. I ate my Christmas dinner with father and son, and Delavoye and I first-footed them on New Year's morning. What was most remarkable57 on these occasions was the way Coplestone drank his champagne58, with the happy moderation of a man who has never exceeded in his life. There was now no shadow of excess, but neither was there any of the weakling's recourse to the opposite extreme of meticulous59 austerity. A doctor might have forbidden even a hair of the sleeping dog, but to us young fellows it was a joy to see our hero so completely his own man once more.
Early in January came a frost—a thrilling frost—with skating on the gravel-pit ponds beyond the Village. It was a pastime in which I had taken an untutored delight, all the days of my northern youth, and now I put in every hour I could at the clumsy execution of elementary figures. But Coplestone had spent some winters in Switzerland, and he was a past master in the Continental60 style. Ordinary skaters would form a ring to watch his dazzling displays, and those who had not seen him in the autumn must have found it hard to credit the whispers of those who had. His pink skin regained61 its former purity, his blue eyes shone like fairy lamps, and the whole ice rang with the music of his "edge" as he sped careening like a human yacht. It was better still to watch him patiently imparting the rudiments62 to Ronnie, who picked them up as a small boy will, and worked so hard that the perspiration63 would stand upon the smooth brown face for all that wondrous64 frost. It froze, more or less, all the rest of those holidays, and the Coplestones never missed a day until the last of all. I was hoping to find them on the ice at dusk, if only I could manage to get away in time, but early in the afternoon Uvo Delavoye came along to disabuse65 my mind.
"That young Ronnie's caught a chill," said he—"I thought he would. It'll keep him at home for another day or two, so the ill wind may blow old Coplestone a bit of good. I'm feeling a bit anxious about him, Gilly; wild horses won't drag him from this haunted hill! Just at this moment, however, he's on his way to Richmond to see if he can get Ronnie the new Wisden; and I'm sneaking66 up to town because I know it's not to be had nearer. I was wondering if you could make time to look him up while we're gone?"
I made it there and then at the risk of my place; it was not so often that I had Ronnie to myself. But at the very gate I ceased to think about the child. A Pickford van was delivering something at the house. At a glance I knew it for a six-gallon jar of whisky—to see poor Coplestone some little way into the Easter term.
Ronnie lay hot and dry in his bed, but brown and bright as he had looked upon the ice, and sizzling with the exuberance67 of a welcome that warmed my heart. He told me, of course, that it was "awful rot" losing the last day like this; but, on the other hand, he seemed delighted with his room—he always was delighted with something—and professed68 himself rather glad of an opportunity of appreciating it as it deserved. Indeed, there was not a lazy bone in his little body, and I doubt if he had spent an unnecessary minute in his bedroom all the holidays. But they really were delightful69 quarters, those two adjoining rooms for which no paper in our stock had been good enough. Both were now radiant in a sky-blue self-colour that transported one to the tropics, and certainly looked better than I thought it would when I had the trouble of procuring70 it.
In the bedroom the blue was only broken by some simple white furniture, by a row of books over the bed, and by groups of the little eleven in which Ronnie already had a place, and photographs of his father at one or two stages of his great career. I was still exploring when an eager summons brought me to the bedside.
"Let's play cricket!" cried Ronnie—"do you mind? With a pack of cards—my own invention! Everything up to six counts properly; all over six count singles, except the picture cards, and most of them get you out. King and queen are caught and bowled, but the old knave's Mr. Extras!"
"Capital, Ronnie!" said I. "Shall it be single wicket between us two, or the next test-match with Australia?"
Ronnie was all for the test, and really the rules worked very well. You shuffled71 after the fall of every wicket, and you never knew your luck. Tom Richardson, the last man in for England, made sixty-two, while some who shall be nameless went down like ninepins in the van. In the next test (at Lord's) we elaborated the laws to admit of stumping72, running out, getting leg-before and even hitting wicket. But the red kings and queens still meant a catch or what Ronnie called "a row in your timber yard." And so the afternoon wore on, until I had to mend the fire and light the gas; and then somehow the cards seemed only cards, and we put them away for that season.
I forget why it was that Ronnie suddenly wanted his knife. I rather think that he was deliberately73 rallying his possessions about him in philosophic74 preparation for a lengthy75 campaign between the sheets. In any case there was no finding that knife, but something much more interesting came to light instead.
I was conducting the search under directions from the bed, but I was out of sight behind the screen when I kicked up the corner of loose carpet and detected the loosened board. Here, thought I, was a secret repository where the missing possession might have been left by mistake; there were the actual marks of a blade upon the floor. "This looks a likely place," I said; but I did not specify76 the place I meant, and the next moment I had discovered neither knife nor pencil, but the soiled, unframed photograph of a lovely lady.
There it had lain under the movable bit of board, which had made a certain noise in the moving. That same second Ronnie bounded out of bed, and I to my feet to chase him back again.
"Who told you to look in there? Give that to me this minute! No—no—please put it back where you—where you found it!"
His momentary77 rage had already broken down in sobs78, but he stood over me while I quickly did as he begged and replaced the carpet; then I tucked him up again, but for some time the bed shook under his anguish79. I told him how sorry I was, again and yet again, and I suppose eventually my tone betrayed me.
"So you know who it is?" he asked, suddenly regarding me with dry bright eyes.
"I couldn't help seeing the likeness," I replied.
"It's my mother," he said unnecessarily.
"And you keep her photograph under the floor?"
"Yes; you don't see many about, do you?" he inquired with precocious81 bitterness.
There was not one to be seen downstairs. That I knew from my glimpse of the photograph under the floor; there was nothing like it on any of the walls, nothing so beautiful, nothing with that rather wild, defiant expression which I saw again in Ronnie at this moment.
"You won't tell anybody you saw it there?"
"Not a soul."
"You promise?"
"Solemnly."
"You won't say a single word about it, if I tell you something?"
"Well—then—it's because I don't want Daddy to see it, for fear——"
"—it would grieve him?" I suggested as the end of his broken sentence. And I held my breath in the sudden hope that I might be right.
"For fear he tears it up!" the boy said harshly. "He did that once before, and this is the last I've got."
I made no comment, and there were no further confidences from Ronnie. So many things I wanted to know and could not ask! I could only hold my peace and Ronnie's hot hand, until it pinched mine in sudden warning, as the whole house lept under a springy step upon the stairs.
"Not a word to anybody, you know, Mr. Gillon?"
"Not one, to a single soul, Ronnie!"
But it was a heavy seal that was thus placed upon my lips; heavy as lead when I discussed the child with Uvo Delavoye; and that was almost every minute that we spent together for days to come.
For Ronnie became very ill.
In the beginning it was an honest chill. The chill turned to that refuge of the General Practitioner—influenza. Double pneumonia84 was its last, most definite stage; the local doctor made no mistake about that, and Coplestone appealed in vain against the verdict, before specialists who came down from London at a guinea a mile.
It was a mild enough case so far. The boy was strong and healthy, and capable of throwing off at least as much as most strong men. He was also a capital little patient—and Coplestone was a magnificent patient's father. He did not harry the doctors; he treated the elderly Scotch85 nurse like a queen; he was not always in and out of the sick-room by day, and he never set foot in it during the night. In the daytime Delavoye took him for long walks, and I would sit up with him at night until he started nodding in his chair.
The first night he said: "You must have some whisky, Gillon. I've got a new lot in." And when I said I seldom touched it—"I know you don't, in this house," he rejoined, with his hand for an instant on my shoulder. "But that's all right, Gillon!—Do you happen to know much about Dr. Johnson?"
"Hardly anything. You should try Uvo."
"Well, I don't know much myself; but I always remember that when the poor old boy was dying he refused the drugs which were giving him all the peace he got, because he said he'd made up his mind to 'render up his soul to God unclouded.' Now I come to think of it, there's not much analogy," continued Coplestone with a husky laugh. "But I know I'd rather do what Dr. Johnson wouldn't than go up clouded to my little lad if ever he—wanted me!"
And he took about a teaspoonful86 from a mistaken sense of hospitality, but no second allowance as the night wore on. The next night I was able to refuse without offending him; after that the decanter was never touched. Yet once or twice I saw the stopper taken out in sheer absence of mind, only to be replaced without flurry or hesitation87.
Self-control? I never knew a man with more; it came out every hour that we spent together, and before long it was needed almost every minute. One day Delavoye dashed into the office in town clothes and with a tragic88 face.
"They want a second nurse! It's come to that already," he said, "and I'm going up about it now."
"I can't help it if it is, Gilly! I must lend a hand somehow or I shall crack up. It's little enough one can do, besides being day-nurse to poor old Coplestone, and this afternoon he's asleep for once. What a great chap he is, Gilly, and will be ever after, if only we can pull the lad through and then get them both out of this! But it's two lives hanging on one thread, and that cursed old man of mine trying all he knows to cut it! I'll euchre him, you'll see. By hook or crook I'll balk90 him——"
But white clouds were tumbling behind the red houses opposite, and Delavoye dashed out again to catch his train, like the desperate leader of a forlorn hope, leaving his dark eyes burning before mine and his wild words ringing in my ears.
Quite apart from the point on which he was never sane91, he seemed to have lost the otherwise level head on which I had learnt to rely at any crisis; but Coplestone still kept his, and him I admired more and more. He still took his exercise like a man, refrained from harrying92 nurse or doctor, showed an untroubled face by the sick-bed, but avoided the room more and more, and altogether during the terrible delirious93 stages.
"If I were to stay there long," he said to me once, "I should make a scene. I couldn't help it. There are more things than one to cloud your mind, and I've got to keep mine unclouded all the time."
He kept it very nearly serene94; and his serenity95 was not the numbness96 of despair which sometimes wears the same appearance; for I do not think there was a moment at which Coplestone despaired. He had much too stout97 a heart. There was nothing forced or unnatural98 in his manner; his feelings were not deadened for an instant, yet not for an instant would he give them rein99. Only, our sober vigils cut deeper lines than his excesses before Christmas, and every night left him a hard year older.
We spent them all downstairs in his study. Neither of us was a chess-player, and I was all unversed in cards, but sometimes we played draughts100 or dominoes by the hour, as though one of us had been Ronnie himself. Often we talked of him, but never as though there were any question of his eventual18 recovery. Coplestone would only go so far as to bemoan101 the probability of an entirely102 lost hockey term, and his eye would steal round to the photograph of last year's hockey eleven at Ronnie's little school, in a place of honour on the mantelpiece, where indeed it concealed103 one of his own most heroic trophies104.
Fitted and proportioned like half a hundred others on the Estate, that study of Coplestone's is one of those Witching Hill interiors that time cannot dismantle105 in my mind. It was filled with the memorials of a brilliant boyhood. There were framed photographs of four Cambridge crews, of two Eton eights, of the Eton Society with Coplestone to the fore24 in white trousers, of the "long low wall with trees behind it" and of the "old grey chapel106 behind the trees." There were also a number of parti-coloured caps under suspended oars107, and more silver in the shape of cups, salvers, and engraved108 cigarette boxes than his modest staff of servants could possibly keep clean. Over the mantelpiece hung the rules of the Eton Society—under glass—with a trophy109 of canes110 decked with light blue ribbons.
"It all looks pretty blatant111, I'm afraid," said Coplestone apologetically. "But I thought it would interest Ronnie and perhaps hound him on to cut me out. And now——"
He stopped, and I hoped he was not going on, for this was when Ronnie was at his worst and the second nurse had arrived.
"And now," said Coplestone, "the little sinner wants to be a dry-bob!"
I have not naturally a despondent112 temperament113, but that night I for my part was wondering whether Ronnie would ever go to Eton at all. The delirious stage is always terrifying to the harrowed ignoramus watching by the bed; it is almost worse if one is downstairs, trying not to listen, yet doing little else, and without the nurse's calm voice and experienced eyes to reassure114 one. That was how I spent that night. The delirium115 had begun the night before, and been intermittent116 ever since. But Coplestone was not terrified; he kept both nerve and spirits like a hero. His thought for me brought a lump into my throat. Since I refused to leave him, I must take the sofa; he would do splendidly in the chair. He did better than I could have believed possible. He fell peacefully asleep, and I sat up watching his great long limbs in the lowered gas-light, but always listening while I watched.
Ronnie had not the makings of his father's fine physique. That was one of the disquieting117 features of the case. He was fragile, excitable, highly strung, as I felt his poor mother must have been before him. And he was tragically118 like his hidden portrait of her. I saw it as often as I was permitted a peep at Ronnie. What had she done amiss before she died? That was perhaps the chief thing I wanted to know about her, but after my pledge to Ronnie I felt unable even to discuss the poor soul with Delavoye. But she was only less continually in my mind than Ronnie himself, and to-night it seemed she was in his as well.
"O Mummie! Mummie—darling! My very, very, own little Mummie!"
God knows what had taken me upstairs, except the awful fascination119 of such wanderings, the mental necessity of either hearing them or knowing that they had ceased. On the stairs I felt so thankful they had ceased; it was in the darkened play-room, now a magazine of hospital appliances, kettles, bottles, and the oxygen apparatus120; it was here I heard the joyous121 ravings of his loving little heart—here, on the threshold between his own two rooms, that I even saw him with his thin arms locked round the neck of the young nurse who had taken over the night duty.
She heard me. She came to the door and stood in silhouette123 against the cheerful firelight of the inner room. Its glow just warmed one side of her white cap and plain apparel, then glanced off her high white forehead and made a tear twinkle underneath124.
"He thinks I'm his mother," she whispered—"and I'm letting him!"
I went out and pulled myself together on the landing, before sneaking back into the study without waking Coplestone.
In the morning I was dozing125 behind my counter without compunction, for the vigil had been an absolutely sleepless126 one for me, when the glass door opened like a clap of thunder, and in comes Delavoye rubbing his hands.
"The doctor's grinning all round his head this morning!" he crowed. "You may take it from me that there's a lot of life in our young dog yet."
"What's his temperature?"
"Down to a hundred and a bit. One thing at a time. They've scotched127 that infernal delirium, at all events."
"Since when?"
"Some time in the night. He's not talking any rot this morning."
"Ah! Gilly," said he, "but now we've got an angel abroad in the house. You can almost hear the beating of her wings!"
"Is that your own, Uvo?"
"No; it's a bit of a chestnut129 in these days. But it was said originally of the angel of death, Gilly, and I mean the opposite sort of angel altogether."
"The young nurse?"
"Exactly. She's simply priceless. But I knew she would be."
"You knew something about her, then?"
"Enough to bring her down on my own yesterday, and blow the doctor! But he's all for her now."
So, indeed, was I; for though a tear is nowhere more out of place than on the cheek of a trained nurse, yet in none is it such welcome evidence of human interest and affection. And there was the tender tact130 of the pretence131 to which she had lent herself before my eyes; even as a memory it nearly filled them afresh. Yet I could not speak of it to Coplestone, and to Delavoye I would not, lest I were led into betraying that which I had promised Ronnie to keep entirely to myself.
Nurse Agnes we all called her, but I for one hardly saw her again, save on the daily constitutional in grey uniform and flowing veil. The fact was that the improvement in Ronnie was so marked, and so splendidly sustained, that both his father and I were able to get to bed again. The boy himself had capital nights, and said he looked forward to them; on the other hand, for final sign of approaching convalescence132, he became just a little difficult by day. Altogether it was no surprise to me to learn that two nurses would not be necessary after the second week; but I was sorry to hear it was Nurse Agnes who was going, and I thought that Uvo Delavoye would be sorrier still.
There was something between them. I felt sure of that. His rushing up to town to fetch her down, the absurd grounds on which he had pretended to justify133 that officious proceeding134, and then his candid135 enthusiasm next day, when his protégé had shown her quality, all these were suspicious circumstances in themselves. Yet by themselves, at such a time, they might easily have escaped one's attention. It was a more than suspicious circumstance that brought the whole train home to me.
I was getting my exercise one mid-day when there was nothing doing; suddenly I saw Nurse Agnes ahead of me getting hers. Her thin veil flew about her as she stepped out briskly, but I was walking quicker still; in any case I must overtake her, and it was a chance of hearing more good news of Ronnie; for we never saw anything of her at night, except in firelit glimpses through the sick-room door. Evidently these were not enough for Uvo either; presently I espied136 him sauntering ahead, and when Nurse Agnes overtook him, instead of my overtaking her, he hardly took the trouble to lift his hat. But they walked on together at a pace between his and hers, while I waited in a gateway137 before turning back.
So that was it! I was delighted for Uvo's sake; I tried to feel delighted altogether. At any rate he had chosen a wonderful nurse, but really I had seen so little of the girl ... if that was the word for her. In the apparent absence of other objections, I was prepared for a distinct grievance138 on the score of age.
However, she was going. That was something, and Uvo did not seem particularly cut up about it after all. But he brought the cab for her himself when the time came; he did not come in; but I saw him through the window as I sat at draughts once more with Coplestone, because it was a Saturday afternoon and Ronnie was not quite so well.
"This must be for Nurse Agnes," I said innocently. "It seems a pity she should go so soon."
"But she's not going yet!" cried Coplestone, upsetting the board. "She's going this evening; the other nurse told me she was. Of course I've got to see her before she goes!"
"I fancy that's her cab," said I, unwilling139 to give Delavoye away, but feeling much more strongly that Nurse Agnes had saved Ronnie's life.
"I didn't hear the bell," said Coplestone.
"Still, I believe that's Nurse Agnes on the stairs."
I had heard one creak, but only one, and the nurse was on tip-toe outside the door as Coplestone opened it. She might have been a thief, she seemed so startled.
"Why, nurse, what do you mean by trying to give me the slip?" he said in his hearty140 voice. "Do you know they all tell me you've saved my little chap's life, and yet I've hardly seen you all the time? You'd always fixed141 him up for the night by the time I'd finished dinner, and I've been so late in the morning that we've kept on missing each other at both ends. You've got to spare me a moment now, you know!"
"I—I mustn't lose my train," was all I heard.
And then I realised that even I had only heard her voice once before, and that now it did not sound the same voice. It was not meant to sound the same—that was why—I had it in a flash. And in that flash I saw that Nurse Agnes had been keeping out of our way all these days and nights, keeping us out of her way by a dozen tacit little regulations which had seemed only proper and professional at the time.
But a fiercer light had struck Coplestone like a lash143 across the eyes. And he started back as though stung and blinded, until Nurse Agnes tried to dart144 past the door; then his long arm shot out, and I shuddered145 as he dragged her in by hers.
"Yes," she said coolly, facing him through her veil; "and they're quite right—I've saved your boy for you. Do you mind letting me go?"
I forced my way past the pair of them, and rushed out to Delavoye waiting with the cab.
"Who is she? Who on earth is this nurse of yours?" I cried without restraint.
He drew me out of earshot of the cab-man.
"This very minute—but who is she?"
"His wife."
"I thought she was dead?"
"No; he divorced her three years ago."
"Who told you?"
"Ronnie."
"And you never told me!"
"I promised him I wouldn't tell a soul."
The little rascal148! He had bound us both; but there was a characteristic difference as between Delavoye and me, and the feelings that we inspired in that gallant149 little heart. Whereas I had surprised its secret, Ronnie had confided150 in Uvo of his own free will and accord.
"And it was he who begged me to bring her, Gilly, when he was at his worst! He said it was his one hope—that she could pull him through—that he knew she could! So I found her, and she did. She wasn't really a nurse, but she was his mother; she was his Angel of Life."
"Will she be forgiven?" I asked, when we had looked askance at the study windows, that gave us back only the wavering reflection of shrubs151 and of the chimneys opposite.
"Will she forgive?" returned Uvo sardonically152. "It's always harder for the one who's in the wrong, and there's always something to be said for him or her!"
"Does she know that her husband needs to be saved as well?"
"Hush153!" said Delavoye. The door had opened. Coplestone came out upon the step, and stood there feeling in his pockets.
I held my breath; and the only creature who counted just then, in all that road of bleak154 red houses, and in all the wintry world beyond, was the great shaken fellow coming down the path.
"You might give this to the cabby," said he, filling my palm with loose silver. "Just tell him we shan't want him now!"
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1
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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2
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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3
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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4
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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5
crested
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| adj.有顶饰的，有纹章的，有冠毛的v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的过去式和过去分词 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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6
tawny
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| adj.茶色的，黄褐色的；n.黄褐色 | |
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7
oar
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| n.桨，橹，划手；v.划行 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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9
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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10
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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11
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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12
pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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13
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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14
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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15
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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16
flannels
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| 法兰绒男裤； 法兰绒( flannel的名词复数 ) | |
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17
laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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18
eventual
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| adj.最后的，结局的，最终的 | |
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19
bespoke
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| adj.（产品）订做的；专做订货的v.预定( bespeak的过去式 )；订（货）；证明；预先请求 | |
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20
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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21
brew
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| v.酿造，调制 | |
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22
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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23
usher
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| n.带位员，招待员；vt.引导，护送；vi.做招待，担任引座员 | |
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24
fore
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| adv.在前面；adj.先前的；在前部的；n.前部 | |
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25
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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26
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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27
morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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28
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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29
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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30
cynically
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| adv.爱嘲笑地，冷笑地 | |
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31
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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32
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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33
lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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34
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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35
delinquent
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| adj.犯法的，有过失的；n.违法者 | |
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36
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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37
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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38
abstemious
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| adj.有节制的，节俭的 | |
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39
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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40
aquarium
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| n.水族馆，养鱼池，玻璃缸 | |
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41
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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42
inveterate
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| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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43
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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44
allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
crook
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| v.使弯曲；n.小偷，骗子，贼；弯曲(处) | |
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46
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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47
vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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48
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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49
impenitent
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| adj.不悔悟的，顽固的 | |
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50
zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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51
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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52
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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53
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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54
influenza
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| n.流行性感冒，流感 | |
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55
astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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56
deterioration
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| n.退化；恶化；变坏 | |
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57
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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58
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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59
meticulous
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| adj.极其仔细的，一丝不苟的 | |
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60
continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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61
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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62
rudiments
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| n.基础知识，入门 | |
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63
perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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64
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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65
disabuse
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| v.解惑；矫正 | |
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66
sneaking
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| a.秘密的，不公开的 | |
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67
exuberance
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| n.丰富；繁荣 | |
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68
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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69
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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70
procuring
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的现在分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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71
shuffled
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| v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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72
stumping
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| 僵直地行走，跺步行走( stump的现在分词 )； 把（某人）难住； 使为难； （选举前）在某一地区作政治性巡回演说 | |
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73
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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74
philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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75
lengthy
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| adj.漫长的，冗长的 | |
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76
specify
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| vt.指定，详细说明 | |
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77
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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78
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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79
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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80
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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81
precocious
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| adj.早熟的；较早显出的 | |
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82
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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83
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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84
pneumonia
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| n.肺炎 | |
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85
scotch
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| 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 | |
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86
teaspoonful
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| n.一茶匙的量；一茶匙容量 | |
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87
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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88
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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89
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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90
balk
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| n.大方木料；v.妨碍；不愿前进或从事某事 | |
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91
sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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92
harrying
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| v.使苦恼( harry的现在分词 )；不断烦扰；一再袭击；侵扰 | |
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93
delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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94
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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95
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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96
numbness
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| n.无感觉，麻木，惊呆 | |
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98
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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99
rein
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| n.疆绳，统治，支配；vt.以僵绳控制，统治 | |
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100
draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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101
bemoan
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| v.悲叹，哀泣，痛哭；惋惜，不满于 | |
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102
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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103
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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104
trophies
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| n.（为竞赛获胜者颁发的）奖品( trophy的名词复数 )；奖杯；（尤指狩猎或战争中获得的）纪念品；（用于比赛或赛跑名称）奖 | |
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105
dismantle
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| vt.拆开，拆卸；废除，取消 | |
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106
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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107
oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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108
engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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109
trophy
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| n.优胜旗，奖品，奖杯，战胜品，纪念品 | |
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110
canes
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| n.（某些植物，如竹或甘蔗的）茎( cane的名词复数 )；（用于制作家具等的）竹竿；竹杖 | |
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111
blatant
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| adj.厚颜无耻的；显眼的；炫耀的 | |
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112
despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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113
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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114
reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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115
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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116
intermittent
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| adj.间歇的，断断续续的 | |
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117
disquieting
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| adj.令人不安的，令人不平静的v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的现在分词 ) | |
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118
tragically
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| adv. 悲剧地，悲惨地 | |
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119
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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120
apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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121
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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122
raving
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| adj.说胡话的；疯狂的，怒吼的；非常漂亮的；令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话；疯话adv.胡言乱语地；疯狂地 | |
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123
silhouette
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| n.黑色半身侧面影，影子，轮廓；v.描绘成侧面影，照出影子来，仅仅显出轮廓 | |
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124
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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125
dozing
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| v.打瞌睡,假寐 n.瞌睡 | |
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126
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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127
scotched
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| v.阻止( scotch的过去式和过去分词 )；制止（车轮）转动；弄伤；镇压 | |
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128
exulting
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| vi. 欢欣鼓舞，狂喜 | |
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129
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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130
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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131
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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132
convalescence
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| n.病后康复期 | |
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133
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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134
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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136
espied
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| v.看到( espy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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137
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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138
grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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139
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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140
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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142
mumbling
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的现在分词 ) | |
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143
lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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144
dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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151
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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152
sardonically
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| adv.讽刺地，冷嘲地 | |
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153
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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