Faint streaks1 of crimson2 glimmer3 here and there amid the rich darkness of the Kentish woods. Autumn’s red finger has been lightly laid upon the foliage4 — sparingly, as the artist puts the brighter tints5 into his picture; but the grandeur6 of an August sunset blazes upon the peaceful landscape, and lights all into glory.
The encircling woods and wide lawn-like meadows, the still ponds of limpid7 water, the trim hedges, and the smooth winding8 roads; undulating hill-tops, melting into the purple distance; laboring-men’s cottages, gleaming white from the surrounding foliage; solitary9 roadside inns with brown thatched roofs and moss-grown stacks of lop-sided chimneys; noble mansions10 hiding behind ancestral oaks; tiny Gothic edifices12; Swiss and rustic13 lodges15; pillared gates surmounted16 by escutcheons hewn in stone, and festooned with green wreaths of clustering ivy17; village churches and prim18 school-houses — every object in the fair English prospect19 is steeped in a luminous20 haze21, as the twilight22 shadows steal slowly upward from the dim recesses23 of shady woodland and winding lane, and every outline of the landscape darkens against the deepening crimson of the sky.
Upon the broad fa?ade of a mighty24 redbrick mansion11, built in the favorite style of the early Georgian era, the sinking sun lingers long, making gorgeous illumination. The long rows of narrow windows are all aflame with the red light, and an honest homeward-tramping villager pauses once or twice in the roadway to glance across the smooth width of dewy lawn and tranquil25 lake, half fearful that there must be something more than natural in the glitter of those windows, and that may be Maister Floyd’s house is afire.
The stately red-built mansion belongs to Maister Floyd, as he is called in the honest patois26 of the Kentish rustics27; to Archibald Martin Floyd, of the great banking-house of Floyd, Floyd, and Floyd, Lombard street, City.
The Kentish rustics knew very little of this city banking-house, for Archibald Martin, the senior partner, has long retired28 from any active share in the business, which is carried on entirely29 by his nephews, Andrew and Alexander Floyd, both steady, middle-aged30 men, with families and country-houses; both owing their fortune to the rich uncle, who had found places in his counting-house for them some thirty years before, when they were tall, raw-boned, sandy-haired, red-complexioned Scottish youths, fresh from some unpronounceable village north of Aberdeen.
The young gentlemen signed their names M‘Floyd when they first entered their uncle’s counting-house; but they very soon followed that wise relative’s example, and dropped the formidable prefix33. “We’ve nae need to tell these Southeran bodies that we’re Scotche,” Alick remarked to his brother as he wrote his name for the first time A. Floyd, all short.
The Scottish banking-house had thriven wonderfully in the hospitable35 English capital. Unprecedented36 success had waited upon every enterprise undertaken by the old-established and respected firm of Floyd, Floyd, and Floyd. It had been Floyd, Floyd, and Floyd for upward of a century; for, as one member of the house dropped off, some greener branch shot out from the old tree; and there had never yet been any need to alter the treble repetition of the well-known name upon the brass37 plates that adorned38 the swinging mahogany doors of the banking-house. To this brass plate Archibald Martin Floyd pointed39 when, some thirty years before the August evening of which I write, he took his raw-boned nephews for the first time across the threshold of his house of business.
“See there, boys,” he said: “look at the three names upon that brass plate. Your uncle George is over fifty, and a bachelor — that’s the first name; our first cousin, Stephen Floyd, of Calcutta, is going to sell out of the business before long — that’s the second name; the third is mine, and I’m thirty-seven years of age, remember, boys, and not likely to make a fool of myself by marrying. Your names will be wanted by and by to fill the blanks; see that you keep them bright in the meantime; for, let so much as one speck40 rest upon them, and they’ll never be fit for that brass plate.”
Perhaps the rugged41 Scottish youths took this lesson to heart, or perhaps honesty was a natural and inborn42 virtue43 in the house of Floyd. Be it as it might, neither Alick nor Andrew disgraced their ancestry44; and when Stephen Floyd, the East-Indian merchant, sold out, and Uncle George grew tired of business, and took to building, as an elderly, bachelor-like hobby, the young men stepped into their relatives’ shoes, and took the conduct of the business upon their broad Northern shoulders. Upon one point only Archibald Martin Floyd had misled his nephews, and that point regarded himself. Ten years after his address to the young men, at the sober age of seven-and-forty, the banker not only made a fool of himself by marrying, but, if indeed such things are foolish, sank still farther from the proud elevation46 of worldly wisdom by falling desperately47 in love with a beautiful but penniless woman, whom he brought home with him after a business tour through the manufacturing districts, and with but little ceremony introduced to his relations and the county families round his Kentish estate as his newly-wedded wife.
The whole affair was so sudden, that these very county families had scarcely recovered from their surprise at reading a certain paragraph in the left-hand column of the Times, announcing the marriage of “Archibald Martin Floyd, Banker, of Lombard street and Felden Woods, to Eliza, only surviving daughter of Captain Prodder48,” when the bridegroom’s travelling carriage dashed past the Gothic lodge14 at the gates, along the avenue and under the great stone portico49 at the side of the house, and Eliza Floyd entered the banker’s mansion, nodding good-naturedly to the bewildered servants, marshalled into the hall to receive their new mistress.
The banker’s wife was a tall young woman of about thirty, with a dark complexion32, and great flashing black eyes that lit up a face which might otherwise have been unnoticeable into the splendor50 of absolute beauty.
Let the reader recall one of those faces whose sole loveliness lies in the glorious light of a pair of magnificent eyes, and remember how far they surpass all others in their power of fascination51. The same amount of beauty frittered away upon a well-shaped nose, rosy52, pouting53 lips, symmetrical forehead, and delicate complexion, would make an ordinarily lovely woman; but concentrated in one nucleus54, in the wondrous55 lustre56 of the eyes, it makes a divinity, a Circe. You may meet the first any day of your life; the second, once in a lifetime.
Mr. Floyd introduced his wife to the neighboring gentry57 at a dinner-party, which he gave soon after the lady’s arrival at Felden Woods, as his country seat was called; and this ceremony very briefly58 despatched, he said no more about his choice either to his neighbors or his relations, who would have been very glad to hear how this unlooked-for marriage had come about, and who hinted the same to the happy bridegroom, but without effect.
Of course this very reticence59 on the part of Archibald Floyd himself only set the thousand tongues of rumor60 more busily to work. Round Beckenham and West Wickham, near which villages Felden Woods was situated61, there was scarcely any one debased and degraded station of life from which Mrs. Floyd was not reported to have sprung. She was a factory-girl, and the silly old banker had seen her in the streets of Manchester, with a colored handkerchief on her head, a coral necklace round her throat, and shoeless and stockingless feet tramping in the mud: he had seen her thus, and had fallen incontinently in love with her, and offered to marry her there and then. She was an actress, and he had seen her on the Manchester stage; nay62, lower still, she was some poor performer, decked in dirty white muslin, red cotton velvet63, and spangles, who acted in a canvas booth, with a pitiful set of wandering vagabonds and a learned pig. Sometimes they said she was an equestrian64, and it was at Astley’s, and not in the manufacturing districts, that the banker had first seen her; nay, some there were ready to swear that they themselves had beheld65 her leaping through gilded66 hoops67, and dancing the cachuca upon six barebacked steeds in that sawdust-strewn arena68. There were whispered rumors69 that went even farther than these — rumors which I dare not even set down here, for the busy tongues that dealt so mercilessly with the name and fame of Eliza Floyd were not unbarbed by malice70. It may be that some of the ladies had personal reasons for their spite against the bride, and that many a waning71 beauty, in those pleasant Kentish mansions, had speculated upon the banker’s income, and the advantages attendant upon a union with the owner of Felden Woods.
The daring, disreputable creature, with not even beauty to recommend her — for the Kentish damsels scrupulously72 ignored Eliza’s wonderful eyes, and were sternly critical with her low forehead, doubtful nose, and rather wide mouth — the artful, designing minx, who, at the mature age of nine-and-twenty, with her hair growing nearly down to her eyebrows73, had contrived74 to secure to herself the hand and fortune of the richest man in Kent — the man who had been hitherto so impregnable to every assault from bright eyes and rosy lips, that the most indefatigable75 of manoeuvring mothers had given him up in despair, and ceased to make visionary and Alnaschar-like arrangements of the furniture in Mr. Floyd’s great red-brick palace.
The female portion of the community wondered indignantly at the supineness of the two Scotch34 nephews, and the old bachelor brother, George Floyd. Why did not these people show a little spirit — institute a commission of lunacy, and shut their crazy relative in a mad-house? He deserved it.
The ruined noblesse of the Faubourg St. Germain, the faded duchesses and wornout vidames, could not have abused a wealthy Bonapartist with more vigorous rancor76 than these people employed in their ceaseless babble77 about the banker’s wife. Whatever she did was a new subject for criticism; even at that first dinner-party, though Eliza had no more ventured to interfere78 with the arrangements of the man-cook and housekeeper79 than if she had been a visitor at Buckingham Palace, the angry guests found that everything had degenerated80 since “that woman” had entered the house. They hated the successful adventuress — hated her for her beautiful eyes and her gorgeous jewels, the extravagant81 gifts of an adoring husband — hated her for her stately figure and graceful82 movements, which never betrayed the rumored83 obscurity of her origin — hated her, above all, for her insolence84 in not appearing in the least afraid of the lofty members of that new circle in which she found herself.
If she had meekly85 eaten the ample dish of humble86-pie which these county families were prepared to set before her — if she had licked the dust from their aristocratic shoes, courted their patronage87, and submitted to be “taken up” by them — they might, perhaps, in time, have forgiven her. But she did none of this. If they called upon her, well and good; she was frankly88 and cheerfully glad to see them. They might find her in her gardening-gloves, with rumpled89 hair and a watering-pot in her hands, busy among her conservatories90; and she would receive them as serenely91 as if she had been born in a palace, and used to homage92 from her very babyhood. Let them be as frigidly93 polite as they pleased, she was always easy, candid94, gay, and good-natured. She would rattle95 away about her “dear old Archy,” as she presumed to call her benefactor96 and husband; or she would show her guests some new picture he had bought, and would dare — the impudent97, ignorant, pretentious98 creature! — to talk about Art, as if all the high-sounding jargon99 with which they tried to crush her was as familiar to her as to a Royal Academician. When etiquette100 demanded her returning these stately visits, she would drive boldly up to her neighbors’ doors in a tiny basket carriage, drawn101 by one rough pony102; for it was an affectation of this designing woman to affect simplicity103 in her tastes, and to abjure104 all display. She would take all the grandeur she met with as a thing of course, and chatter105 and laugh, with her flaunting106 theatrical107 animation108, much to the admiration109 of misguided young men, who could not see the high-bred charms of her detractors, but who were never tired of talking of Mrs. Floyd’s jolly manners and glorious eyes.
I wonder whether poor Eliza Floyd knew all or half the cruel things that were said of her. I shrewdly suspect that she contrived somehow or other to hear them all, and that she rather enjoyed the fun. She had been used to a life of excitement, and Felden Woods might have seemed dull to her but for these ever-fresh scandals. She took a malicious111 delight in the discomfiture112 of her enemies.
“How badly they must have wanted you for a husband, Archy,” she said, “when they hate me so ferociously113. Poor, portionless old maids, to think I should snatch their prey114 from them! I know they think it a hard thing that they can’t have me hung for marrying a rich man.”
But the banker was so deeply wounded when his adored wife repeated to him the gossip which she had heard from her maid, who was a stanch115 adherent116 to a kind, easy mistress, that Eliza ever after withheld117 these reports from him. They amused her, but they stung him to the quick. Proud and sensitive, like almost all very honest and conscientious118 men, he could not endure that any creature should dare to befoul the name of the woman he loved so tenderly. What was the obscurity from which he had taken her to him? Is a star less bright because it shines on a gutter119 as well as upon the purple bosom120 of the midnight sea? Is a virtuous121 and generous-hearted woman less worthy122 because you find her making a scanty123 living out of the only industry she can exercise, and acting124 Juliet to an audience of factory hands, who gave threepence apiece for the privilege of admiring and applauding her?
Yes, the murder must out; the malicious were not altogether wrong in their conjectures125: Eliza Prodder was an actress; and it was on the dirty boards of a second-rate theatre in Lancashire that the wealthy banker had first beheld her. Archibald Floyd nourished a traditional, passive, but sincere admiration for the British Drama. Yes, the British Drama; for he had lived in a day when the drama was British, and when George Barnwell and Jane Shore were among the favorite works of art of a play-going public. How sad that we should have degenerated since those classic days, and that the graceful story of Milwood and her apprentice-admirer is now so rarely set before us! Imbued126, therefore, with the solemnity of Shakespeare and the drama, Mr. Floyd, stopping for a night at this second-rate Lancashire town, dropped into the dusty boxes of the theatre to witness the performance of Romeo and Juliet— the heiress of the Capulets being represented by Miss Eliza Percival, alias127 Prodder.
I do not believe that Miss Percival was a good actress, or that she would ever become distinguished128 in her profession; but she had a deep, melodious129 voice, which rolled out the words of her author in a certain rich though rather monotonous130 music, pleasant to hear; and upon the stage she was very beautiful to look at, for her face lighted up the little theatre better than all the gas that the manager grudged131 to his scanty audiences.
It was not the fashion in those days to make “sensation” dramas of Shakespeare’s plays. There was no Hamlet with the celebrated132 water-scene, and the Danish prince taking a “header” to save poor weak-witted Ophelia. In the little Lancashire theatre it would have been thought a terrible sin against all canons of dramatic art had Othello or his Ancient attempted to sit down during any part of the solemn performance. The hope of Denmark was no long-robed Norseman with flowing flaxen hair, but an individual who wore a short, rusty133 black cotton velvet garment, shaped like a child’s frock and trimmed with bugles134, which dropped off and were trodden upon at intervals135 throughout the performance. The simple actors held, that tragedy, to be tragedy, must be utterly136 unlike anything that ever happened beneath the sun. And Eliza Prodder patiently trod the old and beaten track, far too good-natured, light-hearted, and easy-going a creature to attempt any foolish interference with the crookedness137 of the times, which she was not born to set right.
What can I say, then, about her performance of the impassioned Italian girl? She wore white satin and spangles, the spangles sewn upon the dirty hem31 of her dress, in the firm belief, common to all provincial138 actresses, that spangles are an antidote139 to dirt. She was laughing and talking in the whitewashed140 little green-room the very minute before she ran on to the stage to wail141 for her murdered kinsman142 and her banished143 lover. They tell us that Macready began to be Richelieu at three o’clock in the afternoon, and that it was dangerous to approach or to speak to him between that hour and the close of the performance. So dangerous, indeed, that surely none but the daring and misguided gentleman who once met the great tragedian in a dark passage, and gave him “Good-morrow, ‘Mac,’ “ would have had the temerity144 to attempt it. But Miss Percival did not take her profession very deeply to heart; the Lancashire salaries barely paid for the physical wear and tear of early rehearsals145 and long performances; how, then, for that mental exhaustion146 of the true artist who lives in the character he represents?
The easy-going comedians147 with whom Eliza acted made friendly remarks to each other on their private affairs in the intervals of the most vengeful discourse148; speculated upon the amount of money in the house in audible undertones during the pauses of the scene; and when Hamlet wanted Horatio down at the foot-lights to ask him if he “marked that,” it was likely enough that the prince’s confidant was up the stage telling Polonius of the shameful149 way in which his landlady150 stole the tea and sugar.
It was not, therefore, Miss Percival’s acting that fascinated the banker. Archibald Floyd knew that she was as bad an actress as ever played the leading tragedy and comedy for five-and-twenty shillings a week. He had seen Miss O’Neil in that very character, and it moved him to a pitying smile as the factory hands applauded poor Eliza’s poison-scene. But, for all this, he fell in love with her. It was a repetition of the old story. It was Arthur Pendennis at the little Chatteris Theatre bewitched and bewildered by Miss Fotheringay all over again — only that instead of a feeble, impressionable boy, it was a sober, steady-going business-man of seven-and-forty, who had never felt one thrill of emotion in looking on a woman’s face until that night — until that night — and from that night to him the world only held one being, and life only had one object. He went the next evening, and the next, and then contrived to scrape acquaintance with some of the actors at a tavern151 next the theatre. They sponged upon him cruelly, these seedy comedians, and allowed him to pay for unlimited152 glasses of brandy and water, and flattered and cajoled him, and plucked out the heart of his mystery; and then went back to Eliza Percival, and told her that she had dropped into a good thing, for that an old chap with no end of money had fallen over head and ears in love with her, and that if she played her cards well, he would marry her to-morrow. They pointed him out to her through a hole in the green curtain, sitting almost alone in the shabby boxes, waiting for the play to begin and her black eyes to shine upon him once more.
Eliza laughed at her conquest; it was only one among many such, which had all ended alike — leading to nothing better than the purchase of a box on her benefit night, or a bouquet153 left for her at the stage-door. She did not know the power of first love upon a man of seven-and-forty. Before the week was out, Archibald Floyd had made her a solemn offer of his hand and fortune.
He had heard a great deal about her from her fellow-performers, and had heard nothing but good. Temptations resisted; diamond bracelets154 indignantly declined; graceful acts of gentle womanly charity done in secret; independence preserved through all poverty and trial — they told him a hundred stories of her goodness, that brought the blood to his face with proud and generous emotion. And she herself told him the simple history of her life — told him that she was the daughter of a merchant-captain called Prodder; that she was born at Liverpool; that she remembered little of her father, who was almost always at sea; nor of a brother, three years older than herself, who quarrelled with his father, the merchant-captain, and ran away, and was never heard of again; nor of her mother, who died when she, Eliza, was ten years old. The rest was told in a few words. She was taken into the family of an aunt who kept a grocer’s shop in Miss Prodder’s native town. She learned artificial flower-making, and did not take to the business. She went often to the Liverpool theatres, and thought she would like to go upon the stage. Being a daring and energetic young person, she left her aunt’s house one day, walked straight to the stage-manager of one of the minor155 theatres, and asked him to let her appear as Lady Macbeth. The man laughed at her, but told her that, in consideration of her fine figure and black eyes, he would give her fifteen shillings a week to “walk on,” as he technically156 called the business of the ladies who wander on to the stage, sometimes dressed as villagers, sometimes in court costume of calico trimmed with gold, and stare vaguely157 at whatever may be taking place in the scene. From “walking on” Eliza came to play minor parts, indignantly refused by her superiors; from these she plunged158 ambitiously into the tragic159 lead, and thus, for nine years, pursued the even tenor160 of her way, until, close upon her nine-and-twentieth birthday, Fate threw the wealthy banker across her pathway, and in the parish church of a small town in the Potteries161 the black-eyed actress exchanged the name of Prodder for that of Floyd.
She had accepted the rich man partly because, moved by a sentiment of gratitude162 for the generous ardor163 of his affection, she was inclined to like him better than any one else she knew, and partly in accordance with the advice of her theatrical friends, who told her, with more candor164 than elegance165, that she would be a jolly fool to let such a chance escape her; but at the time she gave her hand to Archibald Martin Floyd she had no idea whatever of the magnitude of the fortune he had invited her to share. He told her that he was a banker, and her active mind immediately evoked166 the image of the only banker’s wife she had ever known — a portly lady, who wore silk gowns, lived in a square, stuccoed house with green blinds, kept a cook and house-maid, and took three box tickets for Miss Percival’s benefit.
When, therefore, the doting167 husband loaded his handsome bride with diamond bracelets and necklaces, and with silks and brocades that were stiff and unmanageable from their very richness — when he carried her straight from the Potteries to the Isle45 of Wight, and lodged168 her in spacious169 apartments at the best hotel in Ryde, and flung his money here and there as if he had carried the lamp of Aladdin in his coat-pocket — Eliza remonstrated170 with her new master, fearing that his love had driven him mad, and that this alarming extravagance was the first outburst of insanity171.
It seemed a repetition of the dear old Burleigh story when Archibald Floyd took his wife into the long picture-gallery at Felden Woods. She clasped her hands for frank, womanly joy, as she looked at the magnificence about her. She compared herself to the humble bride of the marquis, and fell on her knees, and did theatrical homage to her lord. “Oh, Archy,” she said, “it is all too good for me. I am afraid I shall die of my grandeur, as the poor girl pined away at Burleigh House.”
In the full maturity172 of womanly loveliness, rich in health, freshness, and high spirits, how little could Eliza dream that she would hold even a briefer lease of these costly173 splendors174 than the Bride of Burleigh had done before her.
Now the reader, being acquainted with Eliza’s antecedents, may perhaps find in them some clew to the insolent175 ease and well-bred audacity176 with which Mrs. Floyd treated the second-rate county families who were bent177 upon putting her to confusion. She was an actress; for nine years she had lived in that ideal world in which dukes and marquises are as common as butchers and bakers178 in work-a-day life, in which, indeed, a nobleman is generally a poor, mean-spirited individual, who gets the worst of it on every hand, and is contemptuously entreated179 by the audience on account of his rank. How should she be abashed180 on entering the drawing-rooms of these Kentish mansions, when for nine years she had walked nightly on to a stage to be the focus for every eye, and to entertain her guests the evening through? Was it likely she was to be overawed by the Lenfields, who were coach-builders in Park Lane, or the Miss Manderlys, whose father had made his money by a patent for starch181 — she, who had received King Duncan at the gates of her castle, and had sat on her throne dispensing182 condescending183 hospitality to the obsequious184 Thanes at Dunsinane? So, do what they would, they were unable to subdue185 this base intruder; while, to add to their mortification186, it every day became more obvious that Mr. and Mrs. Floyd made one of the happiest couples who had ever worn the bonds of matrimony, and changed them into garlands of roses. If this were a very romantic story, it would be perhaps only proper for Eliza Floyd to pine in her gilded bower187, and misapply her energies in weeping for some abandoned lover, deserted188 in an evil hour of ambitious madness. But as my story is a true one — not only true in a general sense, but strictly189 true as to the leading facts which I am about to relate — and as I could point out, in a certain county, far northward190 of the lovely Kentish woods, the very house in which the events I shall describe took place, I am bound also to be truthful191 here, and to set down as a fact that the love which Eliza Floyd bore for her husband was as pure and sincere an affection as ever man need hope to win from the generous heart of a good woman. What share gratitude may have had in that love I can not tell. If she lived in a handsome house, and was waited on by attentive192 and deferential193 servants; if she ate of delicate dishes, and drank costly wines; if she wore rich dresses and splendid jewels, and lolled on the downy cushions of a carriage, drawn by high-mettled horses, and driven by a coachman with powdered hair; if, wherever she went, all outward semblance194 of homage was paid to her; if she had but to utter a wish, and, swift as the stroke of some enchanter’s wand, that wish was gratified, she knew that she owed all to her husband, Archibald Floyd; and it may be that she grew, not unnaturally195, to associate him with every advantage she enjoyed, and to love him for the sake of these things. Such a love as this may appear a low and despicable affection when compared to the noble sentiment entertained by the Nancys of modern romance for the Bill Sykeses of their choice; and no doubt Eliza Floyd ought to have felt a sovereign contempt for the man who watched her every whim196, who gratified her every whim, and who loved and honored her as much, ci-devant provincial actress as she was, as he could have done had she descended197 the steps of the loftiest throne in Christendom to give him her hand.
She was grateful to him, she loved him, she made him perfectly198 happy — so happy that the strong-hearted Scotchman was sometimes almost panic stricken at the contemplation of his own prosperity, and would fall down on his knees and pray that this blessing199 might not be taken from him; that, if it pleased Providence200 to afflict201 him, he might be stripped of every shilling of his wealth, and left penniless, to begin the world anew — but with her. Alas202! it was this blessing, of all others, that he was to lose.
For a year Eliza and her husband lived this happy life at Felden Woods. He wished to take her on the Continent, or to London for the season; but she could not bear to leave her lovely Kentish home. She was happier than the day was long among her gardens, and pineries, and graperies, her dogs and horses, and her poor. To these last she seemed an angel, descended from the skies to comfort them. There were cottages from which the prim daughters of the second-rate county families fled, tract110 in hand, discomfited203 and abashed by the black looks of the half-starved inmates204, but upon whose doorways205 the shadow of Mrs. Floyd was as the shadow of a priest in a Catholic country — always sacred, yet ever welcome and familiar. She had the trick of making these people like her before she set to work to reform their evil habits. At an early stage of her acquaintance with them, she was as blind to the dirt and disorder206 of their cottages as she would have been to a shabby carpet in the drawing-room of a poor duchess; but by and by she would artfully hint at this and that little improvement in the ménages of her pensioners207, until, in less than a month, without having either lectured or offended, she had worked an entire transformation208. Mrs. Floyd was frightfully artful in her dealings with these erring209 peasants. Instead of telling them at once in a candid and Christian-like manner that they were all dirty, degraded, ungrateful, and irreligious, she diplomatized and finessed210 with them as if she had been canvassing211 the county. She made the girls regular in their attendance at church by means of new bonnets212; she kept married men out of the public houses by bribes213 of tobacco to smoke at home, and once (oh, horror!) by the gift of a bottle of gin. She cured a dirty chimney-piece by the present of a gaudy214 china vase to its proprietress, and a slovenly215 hearth216 by means of a brass fender. She repaired a shrewish temper with a new gown, and patched up a family breach217 of long standing218 with a chintz waistcoat. But one brief year after her marriage — while busy landscape-gardeners were working at the improvements she had planned; while the steady process of reformation was slowly but surely progressing among the grateful recipients219 of her bounty220; while the eager tongues of her detractors were still waging war upon her fair fame; while Archibald Floyd rejoiced as he held a baby-daughter in his arms — without one forewarning symptom to break the force of the blow, the light slowly faded out of those glorious eyes, never to shine again on this side of eternity221, and Archibald Martin Floyd was a widower222.
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streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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limpid
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| adj.清澈的，透明的 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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edifices
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| n.大建筑物( edifice的名词复数 ) | |
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13
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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15
lodges
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| v.存放( lodge的第三人称单数 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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16
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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17
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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18
prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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19
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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20
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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21
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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22
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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23
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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24
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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25
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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26
patois
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| n.方言；混合语 | |
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27
rustics
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| n.有农村或村民特色的( rustic的名词复数 )；粗野的；不雅的；用粗糙的木材或树枝制作的 | |
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28
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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29
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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30
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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31
hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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32
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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33
prefix
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| n.前缀；vt.加…作为前缀；置于前面 | |
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34
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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35
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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36
unprecedented
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| adj.无前例的，新奇的 | |
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37
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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38
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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39
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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40
speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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41
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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42
inborn
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| adj.天生的，生来的，先天的 | |
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43
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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44
ancestry
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| n.祖先，家世 | |
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45
isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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46
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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47
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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48
prodder
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| 做刺或戳的动作的人或给人以激励的人或物 | |
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49
portico
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| n.柱廊，门廊 | |
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50
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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51
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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52
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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53
pouting
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| v.撅（嘴）( pout的现在分词 ) | |
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54
nucleus
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| n.核，核心，原子核 | |
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55
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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56
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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57
gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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58
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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59
reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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60
rumor
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| n.谣言，谣传，传说 | |
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61
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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62
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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63
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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64
equestrian
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| adj.骑马的；n.马术 | |
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65
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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66
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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67
hoops
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| n.箍( hoop的名词复数 )；（篮球）篮圈；（旧时儿童玩的）大环子；（两端埋在地里的）小铁弓 | |
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68
arena
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| n.竞技场，运动场所；竞争场所，舞台 | |
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69
rumors
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| n.传闻( rumor的名词复数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷v.传闻( rumor的第三人称单数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷 | |
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70
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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71
waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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72
scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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73
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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74
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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75
indefatigable
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| adj.不知疲倦的，不屈不挠的 | |
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76
rancor
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| n.深仇，积怨 | |
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77
babble
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| v.含糊不清地说，胡言乱语地说，儿语 | |
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78
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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79
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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80
degenerated
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| 衰退，堕落，退化( degenerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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82
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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83
rumored
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| adj.传说的，谣传的v.传闻( rumor的过去式和过去分词 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷 | |
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84
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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85
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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86
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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87
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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88
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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89
rumpled
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| v.弄皱，使凌乱( rumple的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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90
conservatories
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| n.（培植植物的）温室，暖房( conservatory的名词复数 ) | |
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91
serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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92
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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93
frigidly
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| adv.寒冷地；冷漠地；冷淡地；呆板地 | |
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94
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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95
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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96
benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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97
impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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98
pretentious
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| adj.自命不凡的，自负的，炫耀的 | |
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99
jargon
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| n.术语，行话 | |
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100
etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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101
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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102
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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103
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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104
abjure
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| v.发誓放弃 | |
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105
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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106
flaunting
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| adj.招摇的，扬扬得意的，夸耀的v.炫耀，夸耀( flaunt的现在分词 )；有什么能耐就施展出来 | |
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107
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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108
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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109
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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110
tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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111
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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112
discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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113
ferociously
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| 野蛮地，残忍地 | |
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114
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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115
stanch
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| v.止住（血等）；adj.坚固的；坚定的 | |
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116
adherent
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| n.信徒，追随者，拥护者 | |
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117
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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118
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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119
gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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120
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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121
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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122
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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123
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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124
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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125
conjectures
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| 推测，猜想( conjecture的名词复数 ) | |
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126
imbued
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| v.使（某人/某事）充满或激起（感情等）( imbue的过去式和过去分词 )；使充满；灌输；激发（强烈感情或品质等） | |
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127
alias
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| n.化名；别名；adv.又名 | |
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128
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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129
melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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130
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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131
grudged
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| 怀恨（grudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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132
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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133
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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134
bugles
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| 妙脆角，一种类似薯片但做成尖角或喇叭状的零食； 号角( bugle的名词复数 )； 喇叭； 匍匐筋骨草； （装饰女服用的）柱状玻璃（或塑料）小珠 | |
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135
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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136
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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137
crookedness
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| [医]弯曲 | |
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138
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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139
antidote
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| n.解毒药，解毒剂 | |
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140
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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141
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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142
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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143
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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144
temerity
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| n.鲁莽，冒失 | |
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145
rehearsals
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| n.练习( rehearsal的名词复数 )；排练；复述；重复 | |
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146
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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147
comedians
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| n.喜剧演员，丑角( comedian的名词复数 ) | |
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148
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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149
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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150
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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151
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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152
unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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153
bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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154
bracelets
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| n.手镯，臂镯( bracelet的名词复数 ) | |
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155
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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156
technically
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| adv.专门地，技术上地 | |
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157
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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158
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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159
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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160
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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161
potteries
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| n.陶器( pottery的名词复数 )；陶器厂；陶土；陶器制造（术） | |
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162
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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163
ardor
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| n.热情，狂热 | |
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164
candor
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| n.坦白，率真 | |
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165
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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166
evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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167
doting
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| adj.溺爱的，宠爱的 | |
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168
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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169
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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170
remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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171
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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172
maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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173
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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174
splendors
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| n.华丽( splendor的名词复数 )；壮丽；光辉；显赫 | |
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175
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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176
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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177
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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178
bakers
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| n.面包师( baker的名词复数 )；面包店；面包店店主；十三 | |
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179
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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180
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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181
starch
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| n.淀粉；vt.给...上浆 | |
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182
dispensing
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| v.分配( dispense的现在分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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183
condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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184
obsequious
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| adj.谄媚的，奉承的，顺从的 | |
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185
subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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186
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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187
bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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188
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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189
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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190
northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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191
truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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192
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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193
deferential
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| adj. 敬意的，恭敬的 | |
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194
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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195
unnaturally
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| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
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196
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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197
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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198
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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199
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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200
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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201
afflict
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| vt.使身体或精神受痛苦，折磨 | |
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202
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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203
discomfited
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| v.使为难( discomfit的过去式和过去分词)；使狼狈；使挫折；挫败 | |
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204
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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205
doorways
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| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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206
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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207
pensioners
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| n.领取退休、养老金或抚恤金的人( pensioner的名词复数 ) | |
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208
transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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209
erring
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| 做错事的，错误的 | |
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210
finessed
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| v.手腕，手段，技巧( finesse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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211
canvassing
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| v.（在政治方面）游说( canvass的现在分词 )；调查（如选举前选民的）意见；为讨论而提出（意见等）；详细检查 | |
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212
bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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213
bribes
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| n.贿赂( bribe的名词复数 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂v.贿赂( bribe的第三人称单数 )；向（某人）行贿，贿赂 | |
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214
gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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215
slovenly
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| adj.懒散的，不整齐的，邋遢的 | |
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216
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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217
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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218
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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219
recipients
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| adj.接受的；受领的；容纳的；愿意接受的n.收件人；接受者；受领者；接受器 | |
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220
bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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221
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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222
widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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