Early in October Aurora1 Floyd returned to Felden Woods, once more “engaged.” The county families opened their eyes when the report reached them that the banker’s daughter was going to be married, not to Talbot Bulstrode, but to Mr. John Mellish, of Mellish Park, near Doncaster. The unmarried ladies — rather hanging on hand about Beckenham and West Wickham — did not approve of all this chopping and changing. They recognized the taint2 of the Prodder3 blood in this fickleness4. The spangles and the sawdust were breaking out, and Aurora was, as they had always said, her mother’s own daughter. She was a very lucky young woman, they remarked, in being able, after jilting one rich man, to pick up another; but, of course, a young person whose father could give her fifty thousand pounds on her wedding-day might be permitted to play fast and loose with the male sex, while worthier6 Marianas moped in their moated granges till gray hairs showed themselves in glistening7 bandeaux, and cruel crow’s -feet gathered about the corners of bright eyes. It is well to be merry and wise, and honest and true, and to be off with the old love, etc., but it is better to be Miss Floyd, of the senior branch of Floyd, Floyd, and Floyd, for then you need be none of these things. At least to such effect was the talk about Beckenham when Archibald brought his daughter back to Felden Woods, and a crowd of dress-makers and milliners set to work at the marriage garments as busily as if Miss Floyd had never had any clothes in her life before.
Mrs. Alexander and Lucy came back to Felden to assist in the preparations for the wedding. Lucy had improved very much in appearance since the preceding winter; there was a happier light in her soft blue eyes, and a healthier hue8 in her cheeks; but she blushed crimson9 when she first met Aurora, and hung back a little from Miss Floyd’s caresses10.
The wedding was to take place at the end of November. The bride and bridegroom were to spend the winter in Paris, where Archibald Floyd was to join them, and return to England “in time for the Craven Meeting,” as John Mellish said; for I am sorry to say that, having been so happily successful in his love-affair, this young man’s thoughts returned into their accustomed channels; and the creature he held dearest on earth, next to Miss Floyd and those belonging to her, was a bay filly called Aurora, and entered for the Oaks and Leger of a future year.
Ought I to apologize for my heroine because she has forgotten Talbot Bulstrode, and that she entertains a grateful affection for this adoring John Mellish? She ought, no doubt, to have died of shame and sorrow after Talbot’s cruel desertion: and Heaven knows that only her youth and vitality12 carried her through a very severe battle with the grim rider of the pale horse; but, having once passed through that dread13 encounter, she was, however feeble, in a fair way to recover. These passionate14 griefs, to kill at all, must kill suddenly. The lovers who die for love in our tragedies die in such a vast hurry that there is generally some mistake or misapprehension about the business, and the tragedy might have been a comedy if the hero or heroine had only waited for a quarter of an hour. If Othello had but lingered a little before smothering15 his wife, Mistress Emilia might have come in and sworn and protested; and Cassio, with the handkerchief about his leg, might have been in time to set the mind of the valiant16 Moor17 at rest, and put the Venetian dog to confusion. How happily Mr. and Mrs. Romeo Montague might have lived and died, thanks to the dear, good friar, if the foolish bridegroom had not been in such a hurry to swallow the vile18 stuff from the apothecary’s; and, as people are, I hope and believe, a little wiser in real life than they appear to be upon the stage, the worms very rarely get an honest meal off men and women who have died for love. So Aurora walked through the rooms at Felden in which Talbot Bulstrode had so often walked by her side; and, if there was any regret at her heart, it was a quiet sorrow, such as we feel for the dead — a sorrow not unmingled with pity, for she thought that the proud son of Sir John Raleigh Bulstrode might have been a happier man if he had been as generous and trusting as John Mellish. Perhaps the healthiest sign of the state of her health was, that she could speak of Talbot freely, cheerfully, and without a blush. She asked Lucy if she had met Captain Bulstrode that year; and the little hypocrite told her cousin Yes; that he had spoken to them one day in the Park, and that she believed he had gone into Parliament. She believed! Why, she knew his maiden20 speech by heart, though it was on some hopelessly uninteresting bill in which the Cornish mines were in some vague manner involved with the national survey, and she could have repeated it as correctly as her youngest brother could declaim to his “Romans, countrymen, and lovers.” Aurora might forget him, and basely marry a fair-haired Yorkshireman; but for Lucy Floyd, earth only held this dark knight21, with the severe gray eyes and the stiff leg. Poor Lucy, therefore, loved, and was grateful to her brilliant cousin for that fickleness which had brought about such a change in the programme of the gay wedding at Felden Woods. The fair young confidante and bridesmaid could assist in the ceremonial now with a good grace. She no longer walked about like a “corpse alive,” but took a hearty22 womanly interest in the whole affair, and was very much concerned in a discussion as to the merits of pink versus23 blue for the bonnets24 of the bridesmaids.
The boisterous26 happiness of John Mellish seemed contagious27, and made a genial28 atmosphere about the great mansion29 at Felden. Stalwart Andrew Floyd was delighted with his young cousin’s choice. No more refusals to join him in the hunting-field, but half the county breakfasting at Felden, and the long terrace and garden luminous30 with “pink.”
Not a ripple31 disturbed the smooth current of that brief courtship. The Yorkshireman contrived32 to make himself agreeable to everybody belonging to his dark-eyed divinity. He flattered their weaknesses, he gratified their caprices, he studied their wishes, and paid them all such insidious33 court, that I’m afraid invidious comparisons were drawn34 between John and Talbot, to the disadvantage of the proud young officer.
It was impossible for any quarrel to arise between the lovers, for John followed his mistress about like some big slave, who only lived to do her bidding; and Aurora accepted his devotion with a sultana-like grace, which became her amazingly. Once more she visited the stables and inspected her father’s stud, for the first time since she had left Felden for the Parisian finishing school. Once more she rode across country, wearing a hat which provoked considerable criticism — a hat which was no other than the now universal turban, or pork-pie, but which was new to the world in the autumn of fifty-eight. Her earlier girlhood appeared to return to her once more. It seemed almost as if the two years and a half in which she had left and returned to her home, and had met and parted with Talbot Bulstrode, had been blotted35 from her life, leaving her spirits fresh and bright as they were before that stormy interview in her father’s study in the June of fifty-six.
The county families came to the wedding at Beckenham church, and were fain to confess that Miss Floyd looked wondrously36 handsome in her virginal crown of orange-buds and flowers, and her voluminous Mechlin veil; she had pleaded hard to be married in a bonnet25, but had been overruled by a posse of female cousins. Mr. Richard Gunter provided the marriage feast, and sent a man down to Felden to superintend the arrangements, who was more dashing and splendid to look upon than any of the Kentish guests. John Mellish alternately laughed and cried throughout that eventful morning. Heaven knows how many times he shook hands with Archibald Floyd, carrying the banker off into solitary37 corners, and swearing, with the tears running down his broad cheeks, to be a good husband to the old man’s daughter, so that it must have been a relief to the white-haired old Scotchman when Aurora descended38 the staircase, rustling39 in violet moiré antique, and surrounded by her bridesmaids, to take leave of this dear father before the prancing40 steeds carried Mr. and Mrs. Mellish to that most prosaic41 of hymeneal stages, the London Bridge station.
Mrs. Mellish! Yes, she was Mrs. Mellish now. Talbot Bulstrode read of her marriage in that very column of the newspaper in which he had thought, perhaps, to see her death. How flatly the romance ended! With what a dull cadence42 the storm died out, and what a commonplace, gray, every-day sky succeeded the terrors of the lightning! Less than a year since, the globe had seemed to him to collapse43, and creation to come to a stand-still because of his trouble; and he was now in Parliament legislating44 for the Cornish miners, and getting stout45, his ill-natured friends said; and she — she who ought, in accordance with all dramatic propriety46, to have died out of hand long before this, she had married a Yorkshire land-owner, and would, no doubt, take her place in the county, and play My Lady Bountiful in the village, and be chief patroness at the race-balls, and live happily ever afterward47. He crumpled48 the Times newspaper, and flung it from him in his rage and mortification49. “And I once thought that she loved me,” he cried.
And she did love you, Talbot Bulstrode — loved you as she can never love this honest, generous, devoted50 John Mellish, though she may by and by bestow51 upon him an affection which is a great deal better worth having. She loved you with the girl’s romantic fancy and reverent52 admiration53, and tried humbly54 to fashion her very nature anew, that she might be worthy55 of your sublime56 excellence57. She loved you as women only love in their first youth, and as they rarely love the men they ultimately marry. The tree is perhaps all the stronger when these first frail58 branches are lopped away to give place to strong and spreading arms, beneath which a husband and children may shelter.
But Talbot could not see all this. He saw nothing but that brief announcement in the Times: “Aurora, only daughter of Archibald Floyd, Banker, of Felden Woods, Kent, to John Mellish, Esq., of Mellish Park, near Doncaster.” He was angry with his sometime love, and more angry with himself for feeling that anger; and he plunged59 furiously into blue-books, to prepare himself for the coming session; and again he took his gun and went out upon the “barren, barren moorland,” as he had done in the first violence of his grief, and wandered down to the dreary60 sea-shore, where he raved61 about his “Amy, shallow-hearted,” and tried the pitch of his voice against the ides of February should come round, and the bill for the Cornish miners be laid before the speaker.
Toward the close of January, the servants at Mellish Park prepared for the advent62 of Master John and his bride. It was a work of love in that disorderly household, for it pleased them that master would have some one to keep him at home, and that the county would be entertained, and festivals held in the roomy, rambling63 mansion. Architects, upholsterers, and decorators had been busy through the short winter days preparing a suite64 of apartments for Mrs. Mellish; and the western, or, as it was called, the Gothic wing of the house, had been restored and remodelled65 for Aurora, until the oak-roofed chambers66 blazed with rose-color and gold, like a medi?val chapel67. If John could have expended68 half his fortune in the purchase of a roc’s egg to hang in these apartments, he would have gladly done so. He was so proud of his Cleopatra-like bride, his jewel beyond all parallel amid all gems69, that he fancied he could not build a shrine70 rich enough for his treasure. So the house is which honest country squires71 and their sensible motherly wives had lived contentedly72 for nearly three centuries was almost pulled to pieces before John thought it worthy of the banker’s daughter. The trainers, and grooms73, and stable-boys shrugged74 their shoulders superciliously76, and spat77 fragments of straw disdainfully upon the paved stable-yard, as they heard the clatter78 of the tools of the stone-masons and glaziers busy about the fa?ade of the restored apartments. The stable would be naught79 now, they supposed, and Muster80 Mellish would be always tied to his wife’s apron-string. It was a relief to them to hear that Mrs. Mellish was fond of riding and hunting, and would, no doubt, take to horse-racing in due time, as the legitimate81 taste of a lady of position and fortune.
The bells of the village church rang loudly and joyously83 in the clear winter air as the carriage and four, which had met John and his bride at Doncaster, dashed into the gates of Mellish Park, and up the long avenue to the semi-Gothic, semi-barbaric portico84 of the great door. Hearty Yorkshire voices rang out in loud cheers of welcome as Aurora stepped from the carriage, and passed under the shadow of the porch and into the old oak hall, which had been hung with evergreens85 and adorned86 with floral devices, among which figured the legend, “WELLCOME TO MELLISH!” and other such friendly inscriptions87, more conspicuous88 for their kindly89 meaning than their strict orthography90. The servants were enraptured91 with their master’s choice. She was so brightly handsome that the simple-hearted creatures accepted her beauty as we accept the sunlight, and felt a genial warmth in that radiant loveliness which the most classical perfection could never have inspired. Indeed, a Grecian outline might have been thrown away upon the Yorkshire servants, whose uncultivated tastes were a great deal more disposed to recognize splendor92 of color than purity of form. They could not choose but admire Aurora’s eyes, which they unanimously declared to be “regular shiners;” and the flash of her white teeth glancing between the full crimson lips; and the bright flush which lighted up her pale olive skin; and the purple lustre93 of her massive coronal of plaited hair. Her beauty was of that luxuriant and splendid order which has always most effect upon the masses, and the fascination94 of her manner was almost akin5 to sorcery in its power over simple people. I lose myself when I try to describe the feminine intoxications, the wonderful fascination exercised by this dark-eyed siren. Surely the secret of her power to charm must have been the wonderful vitality of her nature, by virtue95 of which she carried life and animal spirits about with her as an atmosphere, till dull people grew merry by reason of her contagious presence; or perhaps the true charm of her manner was that childlike and exquisite96 unconsciousness of self which made her for ever a new creature — for ever impulsive97 and sympathetic, acutely sensible of all sorrow in others, though of a nature originally joyous82 in the extreme.
Mrs. Walter Powell had been transferred from Felden Woods to Mellish Park, and was comfortably installed in her prim98 apartments when the bride and bridegroom arrived. The Yorkshire housekeeper99 was to abandon the executive power to the ensign’s widow, who was to take all trouble of administration off Aurora’s hands.
“Heaven help your friends if they ever had to eat a dinner of my ordering, John,” Mrs. Mellish said, making a free confession100 of her ignorance; “I am glad, too, that we have no occasion to turn the poor soul out upon the world once more. Those long columns of advertisements in the Times give me a sick pain at my heart when I think of what a governess must have to encounter. I can not loll back in my carriage and be ‘grateful for my advantages,’ as Mrs. Alexander says, when I remember the sufferings of others. I am rather inclined to be discontented with my lot, and to think it a poor thing after all, to be rich and happy in a world where so many must suffer; so I am glad we can give Mrs. Powell something to do at Mellish Park.”
The ensign’s widow rejoiced very much in that she was to be retained in such comfortable quarters, but she did not thank Aurora for the benefits received from the open hands of the banker’s daughter. She did not thank her, because — she hated her. Why did she hate her? She hated her for the very benefits she received, or rather because she, Aurora, had power to bestow such benefits. She hated her as such slow, sluggish101, narrow-minded creatures always hate the frank and generous; hated her as envy will for ever hate prosperity; as Haman hated Mordecai from the height of his throne, and as the man of Haman nature would hate were he supreme102 in the universe. If Mrs. Walter Powell had been a duchess, and Aurora a crossing-sweeper, she would still have envied her; she would have envied her glorious eyes and flashing teeth, her imperial carriage and generous soul. This pale, whity-brown haired woman felt herself contemptible103 in the presence of Aurora, and she resented the bounteous104 vitality of this nature which made her conscious of the sluggishness105 of her own. She detested106 Mrs. Mellish for the possession of attributes which she felt were richer gifts than all the wealth of the house of Floyd, Floyd, and Floyd, melted into one mountain of ore. But it is not for a dependent to hate, except in a decorous and gentlewomanly manner — secretly, in the dim recesses107 of her soul; while she dresses her face with an unvarying smile — a smile which she puts on every morning with her clean collar, and takes off at night when she goes to bed.
Now as, by an all-wise dispensation of Providence108, it is not possible for one person so to hate another without that other having a vague consciousness of the deadly sentiment, Aurora felt that Mrs. Powell’s attachment109 to her was of no very profound a nature. But the reckless girl did not seek to fathom110 the depth of any inimical feeling which might lurk111 in her dependent’s breast.
“She is not very fond of me, poor soul,” she said, “and I dare say I torment112 and annoy her with my careless follies113. If I were like that dear, considerate little Lucy, now —” And with a shrug75 of her shoulders, and an unfinished sentence such as this, Mrs. Mellish dismissed the insignificant114 subject from her mind.
You can not expect these grand, courageous115 creatures to be frightened of quiet people. And yet, in the great dramas of life, it is the quiet people who do the mischief116. Iago was not a noisy person, though, thank Heaven! it is no longer the fashion to represent him an oily sneak117, whom even the most foolish of Moors118 could not have trusted.
Aurora was at peace. The storms that had so nearly shipwrecked her young life had passed away, leaving her upon a fair and fertile shore. Whatever griefs she had inflicted119 upon her father’s devoted heart had not been mortal, and the old banker seemed a very happy man when he came, in the bright April weather, to see the young couple at Mellish Park. Among all the hangers-on of that large establishment there was only one person who did not join in the general voice when Mrs. Mellish was spoken of, and that one person was so very insignificant that his fellow-servants scarcely cared to ascertain120 his opinion. He was a man of about forty, who had been born at Mellish Park, and had pottered about the stables from his boyhood, doing odd jobs for the grooms, and being reckoned, although a little “fond” upon common matters, a very acute judge of horseflesh. This man was called Stephen, or more commonly, Steeve Hargraves. He was a squat121, broad-shouldered fellow, with a big head, a pale, haggard face — a face whose ghastly pallor seemed almost unnatural122 — reddish-brown eyes, and bushy, sandy eyebrows123, which formed a species of penthouse over those sinister-looking eyes. He was the sort of man who is generally called repulsive124— a man from whom you recoil125 with a feeling of instinctive126 dislike, which is, no doubt, both wicked and unjust; for we have no right to take objection to a man because he has an ugly glitter in his eyes, and shaggy tufts of red hair meeting on the bridge of his nose, and big splay feet, which seem made to crush and destroy whatever comes in their way; and this was what Aurora Mellish thought when, a few days after her arrival at the Park, she saw Steeve Hargraves for the first time, coming out of the harness-room with a bridle127 across his arm. She was angry with herself for the involuntary shudder128 with which she drew back at the sight of this man, who stood at a little distance polishing the brass129 ornaments130 upon a set of harness, and furtively131 regarding Mrs. Mellish as she leaned on her husband’s arm, talking to the trainer about the foals at grass in the meadows outside the Park.
Aurora asked who the man was.
“Why, his name is Hargraves, ma’am,” answered the trainer; “but we call him Steeve. He’s a little bit touched in the upper story — a little bit ‘fond,’ as we call it here; but he’s useful about the stables when he pleases, for he’s rather a queer temper, and there’s none of us has ever been able to get the upper hand of him, as master knows.”
John Mellish laughed.
“No,” he said; “Steeve has pretty much his own way in the stables, I fancy. He was a favorite groom11 of my father’s twenty years ago; but he got a fall in the hunting-field, which did him some injury about the head, and he’s never been quite right since. Of course this, with my poor father’s regard for him, gives him a claim upon us, and we put up with his queer ways — don’t we, Langley?”
“Well, we do, sir,” said the trainer; “though, upon my honor, I’m sometimes half afraid of him, and think he’ll get up in the middle of the night and murder some of us.”
“Not till some of you have won a hatful of money, Langley. Steeve’s a little too fond of the brass to murder any of you for nothing. You shall see his face light up presently, Aurora,” said John, beckoning132 to the stableman. “Come here, Steeve. Mrs. Mellish wishes you to drink her health.”
He dropped a sovereign into the man’s broad, muscular palm — the hand of a gladiator, with horny flesh and sinews of iron. Steeve’s red eyes glistened133 as his fingers closed upon the money.
“Thank you kindly, my lady,” he said, touching134 his cap.
He spoke19 in a low, subdued135 voice, which contrasted so strangely with the physical power manifest in his appearance that Aurora drew back with a start.
Unhappily for this poor “fond” creature, whose person was in itself repulsive, there was something in this inward, semi-whispering voice which gave rise to an instinctive dislike in those who heard him speak for the first time.
He touched his greasy136 woollen cap once more, and went slowly back to his work.
“How white his face is!” said Aurora. “Has he been ill?”
“No. He has had that pale face ever since his fall. I was too young when it happened to remember much about it, but I have heard my father say that when they brought the poor creature home his face, which had been florid before, was as white as a sheet of writing-paper, and his voice, until that period strong and gruff, was reduced to the half-whisper in which he now speaks. The doctors did all they could for him, and carried him through an awful attack of brain fever, but they could never bring back his voice, nor the color to his cheeks.”
“Poor fellow!” said Mrs. Mellish, gently; “he is very much to be pitied.”
She was reproaching herself, as she said this, for that feeling of repugnance137 which she could not overcome. It was a repugnance closely allied138 to terror; she felt as if she could scarcely be happy at Mellish Park while that man was on the premises139. She was half inclined to beg her indulgent husband to pension him off, and send him to the other end of the county; but the next moment she was ashamed of her childish folly140, and a few hours afterward had forgotten Steeve Hargraves, the “softy,” as he was politely called in the stables.
Reader, when any creature inspires you with this instinctive, unreasoning abhorrence141, avoid that creature. He is dangerous. Take warning, as you take warning by the clouds in the sky and the ominous142 stillness of the atmosphere when there is a storm coming. Nature can not lie; and it is nature which has planted that shuddering143 terror in your breast; an instinct of self-preservation rather than of cowardly fear, which, at the first sight of some fellow-creature, tells you more plainly than words can speak, “That man is my enemy!”
Had Aurora suffered herself to be guided by this instinct; had she given way to the impulse which she despised as childish, and caused Stephen Hargraves to be dismissed from Mellish Park, what bitter misery144, what cruel anguish145, might have been spared to herself and others.
The mastiff Bow-wow had accompanied his mistress to her new home; but Bow-wow’s best days were done. A month before Aurora’s marriage he had been run over by a pony146-carriage in one of the roads about Felden, and had been conveyed, bleeding and disabled, to the veterinary surgeon’s, to have one of his hind147 legs put into splints, and to be carried through his sufferings by the highest available skill in the science of dog-doctoring. Aurora drove every day to Croydon to see her sick favorite; and at the worst Bow-wow was always well enough to recognize his beloved mistress, and roll his listless, feverish148 tongue over her white hands, in token of that unchanging brute149 affection which can only perish with life. So the mastiff was quite lame150 as well as half blind when he arrived at Mellish Park with the rest of Aurora’s goods and chattels151. He was a privileged creature in the roomy mansion; a tiger-skin was spread for him upon the hearth152 in the drawing-room, and he spent his declining days in luxurious153 repose154, basking155 in the firelight or sunning himself in the windows, as it pleased his royal fancy; but, feeble as he was, always able to limp after Mrs. Mellish when she walked on the lawn or in the woody shrubberies which skirted the gardens.
One day, when she had returned from her morning’s ride with John and her father, who accompanied them sometimes upon a quiet gray cob, and seemed a younger man for the exercise, she lingered on the lawn in her riding-habit after the horses had been taken back to the stables, and Mr. Mellish and his father-in-law had re-entered the house. The mastiff saw her from the drawing-room window, and crawled out to welcome her. Tempted156 by the exquisite softness of the atmosphere, she strolled, with her riding-habit gathered under her arm and her whip in her hand, looking for primroses157 under the clumps158 of trees upon the lawn. She gathered a cluster of wild flowers, and was returning to the house, when she remembered some directions respecting a favorite pony that was ill, which she had omitted to give to her groom.
She crossed the stable-yard, followed by Bow-wow, found the groom, gave him her orders, and went back to the gardens. While talking to the man, she had recognized the white face of Steeve Hargraves at one of the windows of the harness-room. He came out while she was giving her directions, and carried a set of harness across to a coach-house on the opposite side of the quadrangle. Aurora was on the threshold of the gates opening from the stables into the gardens, when she was arrested by a howl of pain from the mastiff Bow-wow. Rapid as lightning in every movement, she turned round in time to see the cause of this cry. Steeve Hargraves had sent the animal reeling away from him with a kick from his iron-bound clog159. Cruelty to animals was one of the failings of the “softy.” He was not cruel to the Mellish horses, for he had sense enough to know that his daily bread depended upon his attention to them; but Heaven help any outsider that came in his way. Aurora sprang upon him like a beautiful tigress, and, catching160 the collar of his fustian161 jacket in her slight hands, rooted him to the spot upon which he stood. The grasp of those slender hands, convulsed by passion, was not to be easily shaken off; and Steeve Hargraves, taken completely off his guard, stared aghast at his assailant. Taller than the stable-man by a foot and a half, she towered above him, her cheeks white with rage, her eyes flashing fury, her hat fallen off, and her black hair tumbling about her shoulders, sublime in her passion.
The man crouched162 beneath the grasp of the imperious creature.
“Let me go,” he gasped163, in his inward whisper, which had a hissing164 sound in his agitation165; “let me go, or you’ll be sorry; let me go!”
“How dared you!” cried Aurora —“how dared you hurt him? My poor dog! My poor, lame, feeble dog! How dared you do it? You cowardly dastard166! you —”
She disengaged her right hand from his collar, and rained a shower of blows upon his clumsy shoulders with her slender whip; a mere167 toy, with emeralds set in its golden head, but stinging like a rod of flexible steel in that little hand.
“How dared you!” she repeated again and again, her cheeks changing from white to scarlet168 in the effort to hold the man with one hand. Her tangled169 hair had fallen to her waist by this time, and the whip was broken in half a dozen places.
John Mellish, entering the stable-yard by chance at this very moment, turned white with horror at beholding170 the beautiful fury.
“Aurora! Aurora!” he cried, snatching the man’s collar from her grasp, and hurling171 him half a dozen paces off. “Aurora, what is it?”
She told him, in broken gasps172, the cause of her indignation. He took the splintered whip from her hand, picked up her hat which she had trodden upon in her rage, and led her across the yard toward the back entrance to the house. It was such bitter shame to him to think that this peerless, this adored creature should do anything to bring disgrace or even ridicule173 upon herself. He would have stripped off his coat and fought with half a dozen coal-heavers, and thought nothing of it; but that she —
“Go in, go in, my darling girl,” he said, with sorrowful tenderness; “the servants are peeping and prying174 about, I dare say. You should not have done this; you should have told me.”
“I should have told you!” she cried, impatiently. “How could I stop to tell you when I saw him strike my dog — my poor, lame dog?”
“Go in, darling, go in! There, there, calm yourself, and go in.”
He spoke as if he had been trying to soothe175 an agitated176 child, for he saw by the convulsive heaving of her breast that the violent emotion would terminate in hysteria, as all womanly fury must, sooner or later. He half led, half carried her up a back staircase to her own room, and left her lying on a sofa in her riding-habit. He thrust the broken whip into his pocket, and then, setting his strong white teeth and clenching177 his fist, went to look for Stephen Hargraves. As he crossed the hall in his way out, he selected a stout leather-thonged hunting-whip from a stand of formidable implements179. Steeve, the softy, was sitting on a horse-block when John re-entered the stable-yard. He was rubbing his shoulders with a very doleful face, while a couple of grinning stable-boys, who had perhaps witnessed his chastisement180, watched him from a respectful distance. They had no inclination181 to go too near him just then, for the softy had a playful habit of brandishing182 a big clasp-knife when he felt himself aggrieved183, and the bravest lad in the stables had no wish to die from a stab in the abdomen184, with the pleasant conviction that his murderer’s heaviest punishment might be a fortnight’s imprisonment185 or an easy fine.
“Now, Mr. Hargraves,” said John Mellish, lifting the softy off the horse-block and planting him at a convenient distance for giving full play to the hunting-whip, “it was n’t Mrs. Mellish’s business to horsewhip you, but it was her duty to let me do it for her; so take that, you coward.”
The leathern thong178 whistled in the air, and curled about Steeve’s shoulders; but John felt there was something despicable in the unequal contest. He threw his whip away, and, still holding him by the collar, conducted the softy to the gates of the stable-yard.
“You see that avenue,” he said, pointing down a fair glade186 that stretched before them, “it leads pretty straight out of the park, and I strongly recommend you, Mr. Stephen Hargraves, to get to the end of it as quick as ever you can, and never to show your ugly white face upon an inch of ground belonging to me again. D’ye hear?”
“E-es, sir.”
“Stay! I suppose there’s wages or something due to you.” He took a handful of money from his waistcoat-pocket and threw it on the ground, sovereigns and half-crowns rolling hither and thither187 on the gravel188 path; then, turning on his heel, he left the softy to pick up the scattered189 treasure. Steeve Hargraves dropped on his knees, and groped about till he had found the last coin; then, as he slowly counted the money from one hand into the other, his white face relapsed into a grin; John Mellish had given him gold and silver amounting to upward of two years of his ordinary wages.
He walked a few paces down the avenue, and then, looking back, shook his fist at the house he was leaving behind him.
“You’re a fine-spirited madam, Mrs. John Mellish, sure enough,” he muttered; “but never you give me a chance of doing you any mischief, or by the Lord, fond as I am, I’ll do it! They think the softy’s up to naught, perhaps. Wait a bit.”
He took his money from his pocket again, and counted it once more as he walked slowly toward the gates of the park.
It will be seen, therefore, that Aurora had two enemies, one without and one within her pleasant home; one for ever brooding discontent and hatred190 within the holy circle of the domestic hearth, the other plotting ruin and vengeance191 without the walls of the citadel192.
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| n.极光 | |
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2
taint
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| n.污点；感染；腐坏；v.使感染；污染 | |
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3
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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4
fickleness
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| n.易变；无常；浮躁；变化无常 | |
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5
akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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6
worthier
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| 应得某事物( worthy的比较级 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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7
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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8
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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9
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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10
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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11
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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12
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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13
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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14
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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15
smothering
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的现在分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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16
valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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17
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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18
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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19
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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20
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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21
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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22
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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23
versus
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| prep.以…为对手，对；与…相比之下 | |
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24
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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25
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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26
boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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27
contagious
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| adj.传染性的，有感染力的 | |
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28
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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29
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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30
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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31
ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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32
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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33
insidious
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| adj.阴险的，隐匿的，暗中为害的，（疾病）不知不觉之间加剧 | |
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34
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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35
blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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36
wondrously
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| adv.惊奇地，非常，极其 | |
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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
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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39
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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40
prancing
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| v.（马）腾跃( prance的现在分词 ) | |
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41
prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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42
cadence
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| n.（说话声调的）抑扬顿挫 | |
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43
collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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44
legislating
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| v.立法，制定法律( legislate的现在分词 ) | |
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46
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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47
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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48
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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49
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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50
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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51
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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52
reverent
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| adj.恭敬的，虔诚的 | |
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53
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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54
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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55
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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56
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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57
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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58
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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59
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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60
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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61
raved
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| v.胡言乱语( rave的过去式和过去分词 )；愤怒地说；咆哮；痴心地说 | |
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62
advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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63
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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64
suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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65
remodelled
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| v.改变…的结构[形状]( remodel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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66
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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67
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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68
expended
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| v.花费( expend的过去式和过去分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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69
gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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70
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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71
squires
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| n.地主，乡绅( squire的名词复数 ) | |
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72
contentedly
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| adv.心满意足地 | |
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73
grooms
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| n.新郎( groom的名词复数 )；马夫v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的第三人称单数 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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74
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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75
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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76
superciliously
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| adv.高傲地；傲慢地 | |
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77
spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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78
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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79
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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80
muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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81
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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82
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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83
joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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84
portico
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| n.柱廊，门廊 | |
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85
evergreens
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| n.常青树，常绿植物，万年青( evergreen的名词复数 ) | |
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86
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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87
inscriptions
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| （作者）题词( inscription的名词复数 )； 献词； 碑文； 证劵持有人的登记 | |
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88
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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89
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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90
orthography
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| n.拼字法，拼字式 | |
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91
enraptured
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| v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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92
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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93
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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94
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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95
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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96
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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97
impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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98
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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99
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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100
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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101
sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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102
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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103
contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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104
bounteous
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| adj.丰富的 | |
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105
sluggishness
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| 不振，萧条，呆滞；惰性；滞性；惯性 | |
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106
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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107
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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108
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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109
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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110
fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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111
lurk
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| n.潜伏，潜行；v.潜藏，潜伏，埋伏 | |
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112
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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113
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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114
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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115
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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116
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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117
sneak
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| vt.潜行(隐藏,填石缝)；偷偷摸摸做；n.潜行；adj.暗中进行 | |
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118
moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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119
inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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120
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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121
squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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122
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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123
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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124
repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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125
recoil
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| vi.退却，退缩，畏缩 | |
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126
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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127
bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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128
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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129
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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130
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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131
furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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132
beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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133
glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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134
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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135
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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136
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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137
repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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138
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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139
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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140
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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141
abhorrence
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| n.憎恶；可憎恶的事 | |
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142
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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143
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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144
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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145
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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146
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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147
hind
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| adj.后面的，后部的 | |
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148
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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149
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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150
lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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151
chattels
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| n.动产，奴隶( chattel的名词复数 ) | |
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152
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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153
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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154
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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155
basking
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| v.晒太阳，取暖( bask的现在分词 )；对…感到乐趣；因他人的功绩而出名；仰仗…的余泽 | |
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156
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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157
primroses
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| n.报春花( primrose的名词复数 )；淡黄色；追求享乐（招至恶果） | |
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158
clumps
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| n.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的名词复数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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159
clog
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| vt.塞满，阻塞；n.[常pl.]木屐 | |
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160
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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161
fustian
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| n.浮夸的；厚粗棉布 | |
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162
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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163
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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164
hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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165
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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166
dastard
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| n.卑怯之人，懦夫；adj.怯懦的，畏缩的 | |
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167
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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168
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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169
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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170
beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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171
hurling
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| n.爱尔兰式曲棍球v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的现在分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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172
gasps
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| v.喘气( gasp的第三人称单数 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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173
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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174
prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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175
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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176
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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177
clenching
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的现在分词 ) | |
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178
thong
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| n.皮带；皮鞭；v.装皮带 | |
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179
implements
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| n.工具( implement的名词复数 )；家具；手段；[法律]履行（契约等）v.实现( implement的第三人称单数 )；执行；贯彻；使生效 | |
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180
chastisement
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| n.惩罚 | |
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181
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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182
brandishing
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| v.挥舞( brandish的现在分词 )；炫耀 | |
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183
aggrieved
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| adj.愤愤不平的，受委屈的；悲痛的；（在合法权利方面）受侵害的v.令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式)；令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式和过去分词) | |
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184
abdomen
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| n.腹，下腹(胸部到腿部的部分) | |
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185
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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186
glade
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| n.林间空地，一片表面有草的沼泽低地 | |
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187
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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188
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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189
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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190
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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191
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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192
citadel
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| n.城堡；堡垒；避难所 | |
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