At seven o'clock on the following morning the post-cart, summoned by an early message from Mrs. Morran, appeared outside the cottage. In it sat the ancient postman, whose real home was Auchenlochan, but who slept alternate nights in Dalquharter, and beside him Dobson the innkeeper. Dickson and his hostess stood at the garden-gate, the former with his pack on his back and at his feet a small stout1 wooden box, of the kind in which cheeses are transported, garnished2 with an immense padlock. Heritage for obvious reasons did not appear; at the moment he was crouched3 on the floor of the loft4 watching the departure through a gap in the dimity curtains.
The traveller, after making sure that Dobson was looking, furtively5 slipped the key of the trunk into his knapsack.
"Well, good-bye, Auntie Phemie," he said. "I'm sure you've been awful kind to me, and I don't know how to thank you for all you're sending."
"Tuts, Dickson, my man, they're hungry folk about Glesca that'll be glad o' my scones7 and jeelie. Tell Mirren I'm rale pleased wi' her man and haste ye back soon."[Pg 115]
The trunk was deposited on the floor of the cart and Dickson clambered into the back seat. He was thankful that he had not to sit next to Dobson, for he had tell-tale stuff on his person. The morning was wet, so he wore his waterproof8, which concealed9 his odd tendency to stoutness10 about the middle.
Mrs. Morran played her part well, with all the becoming gravity of an affectionate aunt, but so soon as the post-cart turned the bend of the road her demeanour changed. She was torn with convulsions of silent laughter. She retreated to the kitchen, sank into a chair, wrapped her face in her apron11 and rocked. Heritage, descending12, found her struggling to regain13 composure. "D'ye ken14 his wife's name?" she gasped15. "I ca'ed her Mirren! And maybe the body's no mairried! Hech sirs! Hech sirs!"
Meantime Dickson was bumping along the moor-road on the back of the post-cart. He had worked out a plan, just as he had been used aforetime to devise a deal in foodstuffs16. He had expected one of the watchers to turn up, and was rather relieved that it should be Dobson, whom he regarded as "the most natural beast" of the three. Somehow he did not think that he would be molested17 before he reached the station, since his enemies would still be undecided in their minds. Probably they only wanted to make sure that he had really departed to forget all about him. But if not, he had his plan ready.
"Are you travelling to-day?" he asked the innkeeper.[Pg 116]
"Just as far as the station to see about some oil-cake I'm expectin'. What's in your wee kist? Ye came here wi' nothing but the bag on your back."
"Ay, the kist is no' mine. It's my auntie's. She's a kind body, and nothing would serve but she must pack a box for me to take back. Let me see. There's a baking of scones; three pots of honey and one of rhubarb jam—she was aye famous for her rhubarb jam; a mutton ham, which you can't get for love or money in Glasgow; some home-made black puddings and a wee skim-milk cheese. I doubt I'll have to take a cab from the station."
Dobson appeared satisfied, lit a short pipe and relapsed into meditation19. The long uphill road, ever climbing to where far off showed the tiny whitewashed20 buildings which were the railway station, seemed interminable this morning. The aged21 postman addressed strange objurgations to his aged horse and muttered reflections to himself, the innkeeper smoked, and Dickson stared back into the misty22 hollow where lay Dalquharter. The south-west wind had brought up a screen of rain clouds and washed all the countryside in a soft wet grey. But the eye could still travel a fair distance, and Dickson thought he had a glimpse of a figure on a bicycle leaving the village two miles back. He wondered who it could be. Not Heritage, who had no bicycle. Perhaps some woman who was conspicuously24 late for the train. Women were the chief cyclists nowadays in country places.
Then he forgot about the bicycle and twisted his neck to watch the station. It was less than a mile[Pg 117] off now, and they had no time to spare, for away to the south among the hummocks25 of the bog26 he saw the smoke of the train coming from Auchenlochan. The postman also saw it and whipped up his beast into a clumsy canter. Dickson, always nervous about being late for trains, forced his eyes away and regarded again the road behind them. Suddenly the cyclist had become quite plain—a little more than a mile behind—a man, and pedalling furiously in spite of the stiff ascent28.... It could only be one person—Léon. He must have discovered their visit to the House yesterday and be on the way to warn Dobson. If he reached the station before the train, there would be no journey to Glasgow that day for one respectable citizen.
Dickson was in a fever of impatience30 and fright. He dared not abjure31 the postman to hurry, lest Dobson should turn his head and descry32 his colleague. But that ancient man had begun to realise the shortness of time and was urging the cart along at a fair pace, since they were now on the flatter shelf of land which carried the railway. Dickson kept his eyes fixed33 on the bicycle and his teeth shut tight on his lower lip. Now it was hidden by the last dip of hill; now it emerged into view not a quarter of a mile behind, and its rider gave vent34 to a shrill35 call. Luckily the innkeeper did not hear, for at that moment with a jolt36 the cart pulled up at the station door, accompanied by the roar of the incoming train.
Dickson whipped down from the back seat and seized the solitary37 porter. "Label the box for[Pg 118] Glasgow and into the van with it. Quick, man, and there'll be a shilling for you." He had been doing some rapid thinking these last minutes and had made up his mind. If Dobson and he were alone in a carriage he could not have the box there; that must be elsewhere, so that Dobson could not examine it if he were set on violence, somewhere in which it could still be a focus of suspicion and attract attention from his person. He took his ticket, and rushed on to the platform, to find the porter and the box at the door of the guard's van. Dobson was not there. With the vigour38 of a fussy39 traveller he shouted directions to the guard to take good care of his luggage, hurled40 a shilling at the porter and ran for a carriage. At that moment he became aware of Dobson hurrying through the entrance. He must have met Léon and heard news from him, for his face was red and his ugly brows darkening.
The train was in motion. "Here, you!" Dobson's voice shouted. "Stop! I want a word wi' ye." Dickson plunged41 at a third-class carriage, for he saw faces behind the misty panes43, and above all things then he feared an empty compartment44. He clambered on to the step, but the handle would not turn, and with a sharp pang45 of fear he felt the innkeeper's grip on his arm. Then some Samaritan from within let down the window, opened the door and pulled him up. He fell on a seat and a second later Dobson staggered in beside him.
Thank Heaven, the dirty little carriage was nearly full. There were two herds46, each with a dog and a long hazel crook47, and an elderly woman who[Pg 119] looked like a ploughman's wife out for a day's marketing48. And there was one other whom Dickson recognised with a peculiar49 joy—the bagman in the provision line of business whom he had met three days before at Kilchrist.
The recognition was mutual51. "Mr. McCunn!" the bagman exclaimed. "My, but that was running it fine! I hope you've had a pleasant holiday, sir?"
"Very pleasant. I've been spending two nights with friends down hereaways. I've been very fortunate in the weather, for it has broke just when I'm leaving."
Dickson sank back on the hard cushions. It had been a near thing, but so far he had won. He wished his heart did not beat so fast, and he hoped he did not betray his disorder52 in his face. Very deliberately53 he hunted for his pipe and filled it slowly. Then he turned to Dobson. "I didn't know you were travelling the day. What about your oil-cake?"
"I've changed my mind," was the gruff answer.
"Was that you I heard crying on me, when we were running for the train?"
"Ay. I thought ye had forgot about your kist."
"No fear," said Dickson. "I'm no' likely to forget my auntie's scones."
He laughed pleasantly and then turned to the bagman. Thereafter the compartment hummed with the technicalities of the grocery trade. He exerted himself to draw out his companion, to have him refer to the great firm of D. McCunn, so that the innkeeper might be ashamed of his suspicions.[Pg 120] What nonsense to imagine that a noted54 and wealthy Glasgow merchant—the bagman's tone was almost reverential—would concern himself with the affairs of a forgotten village and a tumbledown house!
Presently the train drew up at Kirkmichael station. The woman descended55, and Dobson, after making sure that no one else meant to follow her example, also left the carriage. A porter was shouting: "Fast train to Glasgow—Glasgow next stop." Dickson watched the innkeeper shoulder his way through the crowd in the direction of the booking office. "He's off to send a telegram," he decided18. "There'll be trouble waiting for me at the other end."
When the train moved on he found himself disinclined for further talk. He had suddenly become meditative56, and curled up in a corner with his head hard against the window pane42, watching the wet fields and glistening57 roads as they slipped past. He had his plans made for his conduct at Glasgow, but Lord! how he loathed58 the whole business! Last night he had had a kind of gusto in his desire to circumvent59 villainy; at Dalquharter station he had enjoyed a momentary60 sense of triumph; now he felt very small, lonely and forlorn. Only one thought far at the back of his mind cropped up now and then to give him comfort. He was entering on the last lap. Once get this detestable errand done and he would be a free man, free to go back to the kindly61 humdrum62 life from which he should never have strayed. Never again, he vowed63, never again. Rather would he spend the rest of his days in hydro[Pg 121]pathics than come within the pale of such horrible adventures. Romance, forsooth! This was not the mild goddess he had sought, but an awful harpy who battened on the souls of men.
He had some bad minutes as the train passed through the suburbs, and along the grimy embankment by which the southern lines enter the city. But as it rumbled64 over the river bridge and slowed down before the terminus, his vitality65 suddenly revived. He was a business man, and there was now something for him to do.
After a rapid farewell to the bagman, he found a porter and hustled66 his box out of the van in the direction of the left-luggage office. Spies, summoned by Dobson's telegram, were, he was convinced, watching his every movement, and he meant to see that they missed nothing. He received his ticket for the box, and slowly and ostentatiously stowed it away in his pack. Swinging the said pack on his arm he sauntered through the entrance hall to the row of waiting taxi-cabs, and selected that one which seemed to him to have the oldest and most doddering driver. He deposited the pack inside on the seat, and then stood still as if struck with a sudden thought.
"I breakfasted terrible early," he told the driver. "I think I'll have a bite to eat. Will you wait?"
"Ay," said the man, who was reading a grubby sheet of newspaper. "I'll wait as long as ye like, for it's you that pays."
Dickson left his pack in the cab and, oddly enough for a careful man, he did not shut the door.[Pg 122] He re-entered the station, strolled to the bookstall and bought a Glasgow Herald67. His steps then tended to the refreshment68 room, where he ordered a cup of coffee and two Bath buns, and seated himself at a small table. There he was soon immersed in the financial news, and though he sipped69 his coffee he left the buns untasted. He took out a penknife and cut various extracts from the Herald, bestowing70 them carefully in his pocket. An observer would have seen an elderly gentleman absorbed in market quotations71.
After a quarter of an hour had been spent in this performance he happened to glance at the clock and rose with an exclamation72. He bustled73 out to his taxi and found the driver still intent upon his reading. "Here I am at last," he said cheerily, and had a foot on the step, when he stopped suddenly with a cry. It was a cry of alarm, but also of satisfaction.
"What's become of my pack? I left it on the seat, and now it's gone! There's been a thief here."
The driver, roused from his lethargy, protested in the name of his gods that no one had been near it. "Ye took it into the station wi' ye," he urged.
"I did nothing of the kind. Just you wait here till I see the inspector74. A bonny watch you keep on a gentleman's things."
But Dickson did not interview the railway authorities. Instead he hurried to the left-luggage office. "I deposited a small box here a short time ago. I mind the number. Is it there still?"
The attendant glanced at a shelf. "A wee deal[Pg 123] box with iron bands. It was took out ten minutes syne75. A man brought the ticket and took it away on his shoulder."
"Thank you. There's been a mistake, but the blame's mine. My man mistook my orders."
Then he returned to the now nervous taxi-driver. "I've taken it up with the station-master and he's putting the police on. You'll likely be wanted, so I gave him your number. It's a fair disgrace that there should be so many thieves about this station. It's not the first time I've lost things. Drive me to West George Street and look sharp." And he slammed the door with the violence of an angry man.
But his reflections were not violent, for he smiled to himself. "That was pretty neat. They'll take some time to get the kist open, for I dropped the key out of the train after we left Kirkmichael. That gives me a fair start. If I hadn't thought of that, they'd have found some way to grip me and ripe me long before I got to the Bank." He shuddered76 as he thought of the dangers he had escaped. "As it is, they're off the track for half an hour at least, while they're rummaging77 among Auntie Phemie's scones." At the thought he laughed heartily78, and when he brought the taxi-cab to a standstill by rapping on the front window, he left it with a temper apparently79 restored. Obviously he had no grudge80 against the driver, who to his immense surprise was rewarded with ten shillings.
Three minutes later Mr. McCunn might have been seen entering the head office of the Strathclyde[Pg 124] Bank, and inquiring for the manager. There was no hesitation81 about him now, for his foot was on his native heath. The chief cashier received him with deference82, in spite of his unorthodox garb83, for he was not the least honoured of the bank's customers. As it chanced he had been talking about him that very morning to a gentleman from London. "The strength of this city," he had said, tapping his eyeglasses on his knuckles84, "does not lie in its dozen very rich men, but in the hundred or two homely85 folk who make no parade of wealth. Men like Dickson McCunn, for example, who live all their life in a semi-detached villa23 and die worth half a million." And the Londoner had cordially assented86.
So Dickson was ushered87 promptly88 into an inner room, and was warmly greeted by Mr. Mackintosh, the patron of the Gorbals Die-Hards.
"I must thank you for your generous donation, McCunn. Those boys will get a little fresh air and quiet after the smoke and din6 of Glasgow. A little country peace to smooth out the creases89 in their poor little souls."
"Maybe," said Dickson, with a vivid recollection of Dougal as he had last seen him. Somehow he did not think that peace was likely to be the portion of that devoted90 band. "But I've not come here to speak about that."
He took off his waterproof; then his coat and waistcoat; and showed himself a strange figure with sundry91 bulges92 about the middle. The manager's eyes grew very round. Presently these excrescences[Pg 125] were revealed as linen93 bags sewn on to his shirt, and fitting into the hollow between ribs94 and hip27. With some difficulty he slit95 the bags and extracted three hide-bound packages.
"See here, Mackintosh," he said solemnly. "I hand you over these parcels, and you're to put them in the innermost corner of your strong room. You needn't open them. Just put them away as they are, and write me a receipt for them. Write it now."
Mr. Mackintosh obediently took pen in hand.
"What'll I call them?" he asked.
"Just the three leather parcels handed to you by Dickson McCunn, Esq., naming the date."
Mr. Mackintosh wrote. He signed his name with his usual flourish and handed the slip to his client.
"Now," said Dickson, "you'll put that receipt in the strong box where you keep my securities, and you'll give it up to nobody but me in person, and you'll surrender the parcels only on presentation of the receipt. D'you understand?"
"You'd better not if you don't want to hear lees."
"What's in the packages?" Mr. Mackintosh weighed them in his hand.
"That's asking," said Dickson. "But I'll tell ye this much. It's jools."
"Your own?"
"No, but I'm their trustee."
"Valuable?"
"I was hearing they were worth more than a million pounds."[Pg 126]
"God bless my soul," said the startled manager. "I don't like this kind of business, McCunn."
"No more do I. But you'll do it to oblige an old friend and a good customer. If you don't know much about the packages you know all about me. Now, mind, I trust you."
Mr. Mackintosh forced himself to a joke. "Did you maybe steal them?"
Dickson grinned. "Just what I did. And that being so, I want you to let me out by the back door."
When he found himself in the street he felt the huge relief of a boy who had emerged with credit from the dentist's chair. Remembering that there would be no midday dinner for him at home, his first step was to feed heavily at a restaurant. He had, so far as he could see, surmounted97 all his troubles, his one regret being that he had lost his pack, which contained among other things his Izaak Walton and his safety razor. He bought another razor and a new Walton, and mounted an electric tram-car en route for home.
Very contented98 with himself he felt as the car swung across the Clyde bridge. He had done well—but of that he did not want to think, for the whole beastly thing was over. He was going to bury that memory, to be resurrected perhaps on a later day when the unpleasantness had been forgotten. Heritage had his address, and knew where to come when it was time to claim the jewels. As for the watchers, they must have ceased to suspect him, when they discovered the innocent contents of his knapsack and Mrs. Morran's box. Home for him, and a[Pg 127] luxurious99 tea by his own fireside; and then an evening with his books, for Heritage's nonsense had stimulated100 his literary fervour. He would dip into his old favourites again to confirm his faith. To-morrow he would go for a jaunt101 somewhere—perhaps down the Clyde, or to the South of England, which he had heard was a pleasant, thickly peopled country. No more lonely inns and deserted102 villages for him; henceforth he would make certain of comfort and peace.
The rain had stopped, and, as the car moved down the dreary103 vista104 of Eglinton Street, the sky opened into fields of blue and the April sun silvered the puddles105. It was in such place and under such weather that Dickson suffered an overwhelming experience.
It is beyond my skill, being all unlearned in the game of psycho-analysis, to explain how this thing happened. I concern myself only with facts. Suddenly the pretty veil of self-satisfaction was rent from top to bottom, and Dickson saw a figure of himself within, a smug leaden little figure which simpered and preened106 itself and was hollow as a rotten nut. And he hated it.
The horrid107 truth burst on him that Heritage had been right. He only played with life. That imbecile image was a mere108 spectator, content to applaud, but shrinking from the contact of reality. It had been all right as a provision merchant, but when it fancied itself capable of higher things it had deceived itself. Foolish little image with its brave dreams and its swelling109 words from Browning! All[Pg 128] make-believe of the feeblest. He was a coward, running away at the first threat of danger. It was as if he were watching a tall stranger with a wand pointing to the embarrassed phantom110 that was himself, and ruthlessly exposing its frailties111! And yet the pitiless showman was himself too—himself as he wanted to be, cheerful, brave, resourceful, indomitable.
Dickson suffered a spasm112 of mortal agony. "Oh, I'm surely not so bad as all that," he groaned113. But the hurt was not only in his pride. He saw himself being forced to new decisions, and each alternative was of the blackest. He fairly shivered with the horror of it. The car slipped past a suburban114 station from which passengers were emerging—comfortable black-coated men such as he had once been. He was bitterly angry with Providence115 for picking him out of the great crowd of sedentary folk for this sore ordeal116. "Why was I tethered to sich a conscience?" was his moan. But there was that stern inquisitor with his pointer exploring his soul. "You flatter yourself you have done your share," he was saying. "You will make pretty stories about it to yourself, and some day you may tell your friends, modestly disclaiming117 any special credit. But you will be a liar50, for you know you are afraid. You are running away when the work is scarcely begun, and leaving it to a few boys and a poet whom you had the impudence118 the other day to despise. I think you are worse than a coward. I think you are a cad."
His fellow-passengers on the top of the car saw[Pg 129] an absorbed middle-aged119 gentleman who seemed to have something the matter with his bronchial tubes. They could not guess at the tortured soul. The decision was coming nearer, the alternatives loomed120 up dark and inevitable121. On one side was submission122 to ignominy, on the other a return to that place, which he detested123, and yet loathed himself for detesting124. "It seems I'm not likely to have much peace either way," he reflected dismally125.
How the conflict would have ended had it continued on these lines I cannot say. The soul of Mr. McCunn was being assailed126 by moral and metaphysical adversaries127 with which he had not been trained to deal. But suddenly it leapt from negatives to positives. He saw the face of the girl in the shuttered House, so fair and young and yet so haggard. It seemed to be appealing to him to rescue it from a great loneliness and fear. Yes, he had been right, it had a strange look of his Janet—the wide-open eyes, the solemn mouth. What was to become of that child if he failed her in her great need?
Now Dickson was a practical man and this view of the case brought him into a world which he understood. "It's fair ridiculous," he reflected. "Nobody there to take a grip of things. Just a wheen Gorbals keelies and the lad Heritage. Not a business man among the lot."
The alternatives, which hove before him like two great banks of cloud, were altering their appearance. One was becoming faint and tenuous128; the other, solid as ever, was just a shade less black.[Pg 130] He lifted his eyes and saw in the near distance the corner of the road which led to his home. "I must decide before I reach that corner," he told himself.
Then his mind became apathetic129. He began to whistle dismally through his teeth, watching the corner as it came nearer. The car stopped with a jerk. "I'll go back," he said aloud, clambering down the steps. The truth was he had decided five minutes before when he first saw Janet's face.
He walked briskly to his house, entirely130 refusing to waste any more energy on reflection. "This is a business proposition," he told himself, "and I'm going to handle it as sich." Tibby was surprised to see him and offered him tea in vain. "I'm just back for a few minutes. Let's see the letters."
There was one from his wife. She proposed to stay another week at the Neuk Hydropathic and suggested that he might join her and bring her home. He sat down and wrote a long affectionate reply, declining, but expressing his delight that she was soon returning. "That's very likely the last time Mamma will hear from me," he reflected, but—oddly enough—without any great fluttering of the heart.
Then he proceeded to be furiously busy. He sent out Tibby to buy another knapsack and to order a cab and to cash a considerable cheque. In the knapsack he packed a fresh change of clothing and the new safety razor, but no books, for he was past the need of them. That done, he drove to his solicitors131.[Pg 131]
"What like a firm are Glendonan and Speirs in Edinburgh?" he asked the senior partner.
"Oh, very respectable. Very respectable indeed. Regular Edinburgh W.S. lot. Do a lot of factoring."
"I want you to telephone through to them and inquire about a place in Carrick called Huntingtower, near the village of Dalquharter. I understand it's to let, and I'm thinking of taking a lease of it."
The senior partner after some delay got through to Edinburgh, and was presently engaged in the feverish132 dialectic which the long-distance telephone involves. "I want to speak to Mr. Glendonan himself.... Yes, yes, Mr. Caw of Paton and Linklater.... Good afternoon.... Huntingtower. Yes, in Carrick. Not to let? But I understand it's been in the market for some months. You say you've an idea it has just been let. But my client is positive that you're mistaken, unless the agreement was made this morning.... You'll inquire? Oh, I see. The actual factoring is done by your local agent. Mr. James Loudon, in Auchenlochan. You think my client had better get into touch with him at once. Just wait a minute, please."
He put his hand over the receiver. "Usual Edinburgh way of doing business," he observed caustically133. "What do you want done?"
"I'll run down and see this Loudon. Tell Glendonan and Speirs to advise him to expect me, for I'll go this very day."
Mr. Caw resumed his conversation. "My client[Pg 132] would like a telegram sent at once to Mr. Loudon introducing him. He's Mr. Dickson McCunn of Mearns Street—the great provision merchant, you know. Oh, yes! Good for any rent. Refer if you like to the Strathclyde Bank, but you can take my word for it. Thank you. Then that's settled. Good-bye."
Dickson's next visit was to a gunmaker who was a fellow-elder with him in the Guthrie Memorial Kirk.
"I want a pistol and a lot of cartridges134," he announced. "I'm not caring what kind it is, so long as it is a good one and not too big."
"For yourself?" the gunmaker asked. "You must have a licence, I doubt, and there's a lot of new regulations."
"I can't wait on a licence. It's for a cousin of mine who's off to Mexico at once. You've got to find some way of obliging an old friend, Mr. McNair."
Mr. McNair scratched his head. "I don't see how I can sell you one. But I'll tell you what I'll do—I'll lend you one. It belongs to my nephew, Peter Tait, and has been lying in a drawer ever since he came back from the front. He has no use for it now that he's a placed minister."
So Dickson bestowed135 in the pockets of his waterproof a service revolver and fifty cartridges, and bade his cab take him to the shop in Mearns Street. For a moment the sight of the familiar place struck a pang to his breast, but he choked down unavailing regrets. He ordered a great hamper136 of foodstuffs[Pg 133]—the most delicate kind of tinned goods, two perfect hams, tongues, Strassburg pies, chocolate, cakes, biscuits and, as a last thought, half a dozen bottles of old liqueur brandy. It was to be carefully packed, addressed to Mrs. Morran, Dalquharter Station, and delivered in time for him to take down by the 7.33 train. Then he drove to the terminus and dined with something like a desperate peace in his heart.
On this occasion he took a first-class ticket, for he wanted to be alone. As the lights began to be lit in the wayside stations and the clear April dusk darkened into night, his thoughts were sombre yet resigned. He opened the window and let the sharp air of the Renfrewshire uplands fill the carriage. It was fine weather again after the rain, and a bright constellation—perhaps Dougal's friend O'Brien—hung in the western sky. How happy he would have been a week ago had he been starting thus for a country holiday! He could sniff137 the faint scent29 of moor-burn and ploughed earth which had always been his first reminder138 of spring. But he had been pitchforked out of that old happy world and could never enter it again. Alas139! for the roadside fire, the cosy140 inn, the Compleat Angler, the Chavender or Chub!
And yet—and yet! He had done the right thing, though the Lord alone knew how it would end. He began to pluck courage from his very melancholy141 and hope from his reflections upon the transitoriness of life. He was austerely142 following Romance as he conceived it, and if that capricious lady[Pg 134] had taken one dream from him she might yet reward him with a better. Tags of poetry came into his head which seemed to favour this philosophy—particularly some lines of Browning on which he used to discourse143 to his Kirk Literary Society. Uncommon144 silly, he considered, these homilies of his must have been, mere twitterings of the unfledged. But now he saw more in the lines, a deeper interpretation145 which he had earned the right to make.
Oh, life, the long mutation—is it so?
Is it with life as with the body's change?—
Where, e'en tho' better follow, good must pass."
That was as far as he could get, though he cudgelled his memory to continue. Moralising thus, he became drowsy148, and was almost asleep when the train drew up at the station of Kirkmichael.
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2
garnished
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| v.给（上餐桌的食物）加装饰( garnish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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loft
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| n.阁楼，顶楼 | |
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furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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scones
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| n.烤饼，烤小圆面包( scone的名词复数 ) | |
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waterproof
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| n.防水材料；adj.防水的；v.使...能防水 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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stoutness
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| 坚固，刚毅 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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13
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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14
ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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15
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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16
foodstuffs
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| 食物，食品( foodstuff的名词复数 ) | |
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17
molested
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| v.骚扰( molest的过去式和过去分词 )；干扰；调戏；猥亵 | |
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18
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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19
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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20
whitewashed
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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21
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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22
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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23
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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24
conspicuously
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| ad.明显地，惹人注目地 | |
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25
hummocks
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| n.小丘，岗( hummock的名词复数 ) | |
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26
bog
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| n.沼泽；室...陷入泥淖 | |
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27
hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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28
ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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29
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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30
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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31
abjure
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| v.发誓放弃 | |
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32
descry
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| v.远远看到；发现；责备 | |
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33
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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34
vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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35
shrill
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|
| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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36
jolt
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| v.（使）摇动，（使）震动，（使）颠簸 | |
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37
solitary
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|
| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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38
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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39
fussy
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| adj.为琐事担忧的，过分装饰的，爱挑剔的 | |
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40
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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41
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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42
pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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43
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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44
compartment
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|
| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
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45
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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46
herds
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| 兽群( herd的名词复数 )； 牧群； 人群； 群众 | |
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47
crook
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| v.使弯曲；n.小偷，骗子，贼；弯曲(处) | |
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48
marketing
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| n.行销，在市场的买卖，买东西 | |
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49
peculiar
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|
| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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50
liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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51
mutual
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|
| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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52
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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53
deliberately
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|
| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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54
noted
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|
| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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55
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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56
meditative
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|
| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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57
glistening
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|
| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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58
loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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59
circumvent
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|
| vt.环绕，包围；对…用计取胜，智胜 | |
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60
momentary
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|
| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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61
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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62
humdrum
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|
| adj.单调的，乏味的 | |
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63
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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64
rumbled
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|
| 发出隆隆声，发出辘辘声( rumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 轰鸣着缓慢行进； 发现…的真相； 看穿（阴谋） | |
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65
vitality
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|
| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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66
hustled
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| 催促（hustle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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67
herald
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|
| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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68
refreshment
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|
| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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69
sipped
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|
| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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70
bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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71
quotations
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|
| n.引用( quotation的名词复数 )；[商业]行情（报告）；（货物或股票的）市价；时价 | |
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72
exclamation
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|
| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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73
bustled
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|
| 闹哄哄地忙乱，奔忙( bustle的过去式和过去分词 )； 催促 | |
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74
inspector
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|
| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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75
syne
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| adv.自彼时至此时，曾经 | |
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76
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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77
rummaging
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|
| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的现在分词 )； 海关检查 | |
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78
heartily
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|
| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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79
apparently
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|
| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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80
grudge
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|
| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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81
hesitation
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|
| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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82
deference
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|
| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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83
garb
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|
| n.服装，装束 | |
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84
knuckles
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|
| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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85
homely
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|
| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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86
assented
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|
| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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87
ushered
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|
| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
promptly
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|
| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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89
creases
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|
| （使…）起折痕，弄皱( crease的第三人称单数 )； （皮肤）皱起，使起皱纹 | |
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90
devoted
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|
| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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91
sundry
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|
| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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92
bulges
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|
| 膨胀( bulge的名词复数 )； 鼓起； （身体的）肥胖部位； 暂时的激增 | |
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93
linen
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|
| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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94
ribs
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|
| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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95
slit
|
|
| n.狭长的切口；裂缝；vt.切开，撕裂 | |
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96
perfectly
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|
| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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97
surmounted
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|
| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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98
contented
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|
| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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99
luxurious
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|
| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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100
stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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101
jaunt
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|
| v.短程旅游；n.游览 | |
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102
deserted
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|
| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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103
dreary
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|
| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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104
vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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105
puddles
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|
| n.水坑， （尤指道路上的）雨水坑( puddle的名词复数 ) | |
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106
preened
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| v.（鸟）用嘴整理（羽毛）( preen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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107
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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108
mere
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|
| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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109
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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110
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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111
frailties
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| n.脆弱( frailty的名词复数 )；虚弱；（性格或行为上的）弱点；缺点 | |
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112
spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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113
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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114
suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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115
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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116
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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117
disclaiming
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| v.否认( disclaim的现在分词 ) | |
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118
impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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119
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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120
loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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121
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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122
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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123
detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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124
detesting
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的现在分词 ) | |
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125
dismally
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| adv.阴暗地，沉闷地 | |
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126
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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127
adversaries
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| n.对手，敌手( adversary的名词复数 ) | |
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128
tenuous
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| adj.细薄的，稀薄的，空洞的 | |
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129
apathetic
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| adj.冷漠的，无动于衷的 | |
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130
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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131
solicitors
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| 初级律师( solicitor的名词复数 ) | |
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132
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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133
caustically
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| adv.刻薄地；挖苦地；尖刻地；讥刺地 | |
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134
cartridges
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| 子弹( cartridge的名词复数 )； （打印机的）墨盒； 录音带盒； （唱机的）唱头 | |
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135
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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136
hamper
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| vt.妨碍，束缚，限制；n.(有盖的)大篮子 | |
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137
sniff
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| vi.嗅…味道；抽鼻涕；对嗤之以鼻，蔑视 | |
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138
reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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139
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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140
cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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141
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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142
austerely
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| adv.严格地，朴质地 | |
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143
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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144
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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145
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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146
nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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147
abides
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| 容忍( abide的第三人称单数 )； 等候； 逗留； 停留 | |
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148
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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