The early spring brought Lucy Floyd on a visit to her cousin, a wondering witness of the happiness that reigned1 at Mellish Park.
Poor Lucy had expected to find Aurora2 held as something better than the dogs, and a little higher than the horses in that Yorkshire household, and was considerably3 surprised to find her dark-eyed cousin a despotic and capricious sovereign, reigning4 with undisputed sway over every creature, biped or quadruped, upon the estate. She was surprised to see the bright glow in her cheeks, the merry sparkle in her eyes — surprised to hear the light tread of her footstep, the gushing5 music of her laugh — surprised, in fact, to discover that, instead of weeping over the dry bones of her dead love for Talbot Bulstrode, Aurora had learned to love her husband.
Have I any need to be ashamed of my heroine in that she had forgotten her straight-nosed, gray-eyed Cornish lover, who had set his pride and his pedigree between himself and his affection, and had loved her at best with a reservation, although Heaven only knows how dearly he had loved her? Have I any cause to blush for this poor, impetuous girl if, turning in the sickness of her sorrowful heart with a sense of relief and gratitude6 to the honest shelter of John’s love, she had quickly learned to feel for him an affection which repaid him a thousand-fold for his long-suffering devotion? Surely it would have been impossible for any true-hearted woman to withhold7 some such repayment8 for such love as that which in every word, and look, and thought, and deed John Mellish bestowed9 upon his wife. How could she be for ever his creditor10 for such a boundless11 debt? Are hearts like his common among our clay? Is it a small thing to be beloved with this loyal and pure affection? Is it laid so often at the feet of any mortal woman that she should spurn12 and trample13 upon the holy offering?
He had loved, and, more, he had trusted her — he had trusted her, when the man who passionately14 loved her had left her in an agony of doubt and despair. The cause of this lay in the difference between the two men. John Mellish had as high and stern a sense of honor as Talbot Bulstrode; but while the Cornishman’s strength of brain lay in the reflective faculties15, the Yorkshireman’s acute intellect was strongest in its power of perception. Talbot drove himself half mad with imagining what might be; John saw what was, and he saw, or fancied he saw, that the woman he loved was worthy16 of all love, and he gave his peace and honor freely into her keeping.
He had his reward. He had his reward in her frank, womanly affection, and in the delight of seeing that she was happy; no cloud upon her face, no shadow on her life, but ever-beaming joy in her eyes, ever-changing smiles upon her lips. She was happy in the calm security of her home, happy in that pleasant strong-hold in which she was so fenced about and guarded by love and devotion. I do not know that she ever felt any romantic or enthusiastic love for this big Yorkshireman; but I do know that from the first hour in which she laid her head upon his broad breast she was true to him — true as a wife should be; true in every thought, true in the merest shadow of a thought. A wide gulf19 yawned around the altar of her home, separating her from every other man in the universe, and leaving her alone with that one man whom she had accepted as her husband. She had accepted him in the truest and purest sense of the word. She had accepted him from the hand of God as the protector and shelterer of her life; and, morning and night, upon her knees she thanked the gracious Creator who had made this man for her helpmeet.
But, after duly setting down all this, I have to confess that poor John Mellish was cruelly hen-pecked. Such big, blustering20 fellows are created to be the much-enduring subjects of petticoat government; and they carry the rosy21 garlands until their dying hour with a sublime22 consciousness that those floral chains are not very easy to be broken. Your little man is self-assertive, and for ever on his guard against womanly domination. All tyrannical husbands on record have been little men, from Mr. Daniel Quilp upward; but who could ever convince a fellow of six feet two in his stockings that he was afraid of his wife? He submits to the petty tyrant23 with a quiet smile of resignation. What does it matter? She is so little, so fragile; he could break that tiny wrist with one twist of his big thumb and finger; and, in the meantime, till affairs get desperate, and such measures become necessary, it’s as well to let her have her own way.
John Mellish did not even debate the point. He loved her, and he laid himself down to be trampled24 upon by her gracious feet. Whatever she did or said was charming, bewitching, and wonderful to him. If she ridiculed26 or laughed at him, her laughter was the sweetest harmony in creation; and it pleased him to think that his absurdities27 could give birth to such music. If she lectured him, she arose to the sublimity28 of a priestess, and he listened to her and worshipped her as the most noble of living creatures. And, with all this, his innate29 manliness30 of character preserved him from any taint31 of that quality our argot32 has christened spooneyism. It was only those who knew him well and watched him closely who could fathom33 the full depths of his tender weakness. The noblest sentiments approach most nearly to the universal, and this love of John’s was in a manner universal. It was the love of husband, father, mother, brother, melted into one comprehensive affection. He had a mother’s weak pride in Aurora, a mother’s foolish vanity in the wonderful creature, the rara avis he had won from her nest to be his wife.
If Mrs. Mellish was complimented while John stood by, he simpered like a school-girl who blushes at a handsome man’s first flatteries. I’m afraid he bored his male acquaintance about “my wife;” her marvellous leap over the bullfinch; the plan she drew for the new stables, “which the architect said was a better plan than he could have drawn34 himself, sir, by gad” (a clever man, that Doncaster architect); the surprising manner she had discovered the fault of the chestnut35 colt’s off fore36 leg; the pencil sketch37 she had made of her dog Bow-wow (“Sir Edwin Landseer might have been proud of such spirit and dash, sir”)— all these things did the country gentlemen hear, until, perhaps, they grew a shade weary of John’s talk of “my wife.” But they were never weary of Aurora herself. She took her place at once among them, and they bowed down to her and worshipped her, envying John Mellish the ownership of such a high-bred filly, as I fear they were but likely, unconsciously, to designate my black-eyed heroine.
The domain38 over which Aurora found herself empress was no inconsiderable one. John Mellish had inherited an estate which brought him an income of something between ￡16,000 and ￡17,000 a year. Far-away farms, upon wide Yorkshire wolds and fenny39 Lincolnshire flats, owned him master; and the intricate secrets of his possessions were scarcely known to himself — known, perhaps, to none but his land-steward and solicitor40, a grave gentleman who lived in Doncaster, and drove about once a fortnight down to Mellish Park, much to the horror of his light-hearted master, to whom “business” was a terrible bugbear. Not that I would have the reader for a moment imagine John Mellish an empty-headed blockhead, with no comprehension save for his own daily pleasures. He was not a reading man, nor a business man, nor a politician, nor a student of the natural sciences.
There was an observatory41 in the park, but John had fitted it up as a smoking-room, the revolving42 openings in the roof being very convenient for letting out the effluvia of his guests’ cheroots and Havanas, Mr. Mellish caring for the stars very much after the fashion of that Assyrian monarch43 who was content to see them shine, and thank their Maker44 for their beauty. He was not a spiritualist, and, unless one of the tables at Mellish could have given him “a tip” for the “Sellinger” or Great Ebor, he would have cared very little if every inch of walnut45 and rose-wood in his house had grown oracular. But, for all this, he was no fool; he had that brightly clear intellect which very often accompanies perfect honesty of purpose, and which is the very intellect of all others most successful in the discomfiture46 of all knavery47. He was not a creature to despise, for his very weaknesses were manly17. Perhaps Aurora felt this, and that it was something to rule over such a man. Sometimes, in an outburst of loving gratitude, she would nestle her handsome head upon his breast — tall as she was, she was only tall enough to take shelter under his wing — and tell him that he was the dearest and the best of men, and that, although she might love him to her dying day, she could never, never, never love him half as much as he deserved. After which, half ashamed of herself for the sentimental48 declaration, she would alternately ridicule25, lecture, and tyrannize over him for the rest of the day.
Lucy beheld49 this state of things with silent bewilderment. Could the woman who had once been loved by Talbot Bulstrode sink to this — the happy wife of a fair-haired Yorkshireman, with her fondest wishes concentred in her namesake, the bay filly, which was to run in a weight-for-age race at the York Spring, and was entered for the ensuing Derby; interested in a tan-gallop, a new stable; talking of mysterious but evidently all-important creatures, called by such names as Scott, and Fobert, and Challoner; and, to all appearance, utterly50 forgetful of the fact that there existed upon the earth a divinity with fathomless51 gray eyes, known as the heir of Bulstrode? Poor Lucy was like to have been driven wellnigh demented by the talk about this bay filly Aurora as the spring meeting drew near. She was taken to see it every morning by Aurora and John, who, in their anxiety for the improvement of their favorite, looked at the animal upon each visit as if they expected some wonderful physical transformation52 to have occurred in the stillness of the night. The loose box in which the filly was lodged53 was watched night and day by an amateur detective force of stable-boys and hangers-on; and John Mellish once went so far as to dip a tumbler into the pail of water provided for the bay filly Aurora, to ascertain54, of his own experience, that the crystal fluid was innocuous; for he grew nervous as the eventful day drew nigh, and was afraid of lurking55 danger to the filly from dark-minded touts56 who might have heard of her in London. I fear the touts troubled their heads very little about this graceful57 two-year old, though she had the blood of Old Melbourne and West Australian in her veins58, to say nothing of other aristocracy upon the maternal59 side.
The suspicious gentlemen hanging about York and Doncaster in those early April days were a great deal too much occupied with Lord Glasgow’s lot, and John Scott’s lot, and Lord Zetland’s, and Mr. Merry’s lot, and other lots of equal distinction, to have much time to prowl about Mellish Park, or peer into that meadow which the young man had caused to be surrounded by an eight-foot fence for the privacy of the Derby winner in futuro.
Lucy declared the filly to be the loveliest of creatures, and safe to win any number of cups and plates that might be offered for equine competition; but she was always glad, when the daily visit was over, to find herself safely out of reach of those high-bred hind60 legs, which seemed to possess a faculty61 for being in all four corners of the loose box at one and the same moment.
The first day of the meeting came, and found half the Mellish household established at York; John and his family at a hotel near the betting-rooms; and the trainer, his satellites, and the filly, at a little inn close to the Knavesmire.
Archibald Floyd did his best to be interested in the event which was so interesting to his children; but he freely confessed to his grand-niece Lucy that he heartily62 wished the meeting over, and the merits of the bay filly decided63. She had stood her trial nobly, John said; not winning with a rush, it is true; in point of fact, being in a manner beaten; but evincing a power to stay, which promised better for the future than any two-year-old velocity64. When the saddling-bell rang, Aurora, her father, and Lucy were stationed in the balcony, a crowd of friends about them; Mrs. Mellish, with a pencil in her hand, putting down all manner of impossible bets in her excitement, and making such a book as might have been preserved as a curiosity in sporting annals. John was pushing in and out of the ring below, tumbling over small bookmen in his agitation66, dashing from the ring to the weighing-house, and hanging about the small, pale-faced boy who was to ride the filly as anxiously as if the jockey had been a prime minister, and John a family man with half a dozen sons in need of government appointments. I tremble to think how many bonuses, in the way of five-pound notes, John promised the pale-faced lad on condition that the stakes (some small matter amounting to about ￡60) were pulled off — pulled off where, I wonder — by the bay filly Aurora. If the youth had not been of that preternatural order of being who seem born of an emotionless character to wear silk for the good of their fellow-men, his brain must certainly have been dazed by the variety of conflicting directions which John Mellish gave him within the critical last quarter of an hour; but, having received his orders early that morning from the trainer, accompanied with a warning not to suffer himself to be tewed (Yorkshire patois67 for worried) by anything Mr. Mellish might say, the sallow-complexioned lad walked about in the calm serenity68 of innocence69 — there are honest jockeys in the world, thank Heaven! and took his seat in the saddle with as even a pulse as if he had been about to ride in an omnibus.
There were some people upon the stand that morning who thought the face of Aurora Mellish as pleasant a sight as the smooth green sward of the Knavesmire, or the best horse-flesh in the county of York. All forgetful of herself in her excitement, with her natural vivacity70 multiplied by the animation71 of the scene before her, she was more than usually lovely; and Archibald Floyd looked at her with a fond emotion, so intermingled with gratitude to Heaven for the happiness of his daughter’s destiny as to be almost akin65 to pain. She was happy — she was thoroughly72 happy at last — the child of his dead Eliza, this sacred charge left to him by the woman he had loved; she was happy, and she was safe; he could go to his grave resignedly tomorrow, if it pleased God, knowing this. Strange thoughts, perhaps, for a crowded race-course; but our most solemn fancies do not come always in solemn places. Nay73, it is often in the midst of crowds and confusion that our souls wing their loftiest flights, and the saddest memories return to us. You see a man sitting at some theatrical74 entertainment with a grave, abstracted face, over which no change of those around him has any influence. He may be thinking of his dead wife, dead ten years ago; he may be acting75 over well-remembered scenes of joy and sorrow; he may be recalling cruel words, never to be atoned76 for upon earth — angry looks, gone to be registered against him in the skies, while his children are laughing at the clown on the stage below him. He may be moodily77 meditating78 inevitable79 bankruptcy80 or coming ruin, holding imaginary meetings with his creditors81, and contemplating82 prussic acid upon the refusal of his certificate, while his eldest83 daughter is crying with Pauline Deschapelles. So Archibald Floyd, while the numbers were going up, and the jockeys being weighed, and the bookmen clamoring below him, leaned over the broad ledge84 of the stone balcony, and, looking far away across the grassy85 amphitheatre, thought of his dead wife who had bequeathed to him this precious daughter.
The bay filly Aurora was beaten ignominiously86. Mrs. Mellish turned white with despair, as she saw the amber87 jacket, black belt, and blue cap crawling in at the heels of the ruck, the jockey looking pale defiance88 at the by-standers; as who should say that the filly had never been meant to win, and that the defeat of to-day was but an artfully-concocted ruse89 whereby fortunes were to be made in the future? John Mellish, something used to such disappointments, crept away to hide his discomfiture outside the ring; but Aurora dropped her card and pencil, and, stamping her foot upon the stone flooring of the balcony, told Lucy and the banker that it was a shame, and that the boy must have sold the race, as it was impossible that the filly could have been fairly beaten. As she turned to say this, her cheeks flushed with passion, and her eyes flashing bright indignation on any one who might stand in the way to receive the angry electric light, she became aware of a pale face and a pair of gray eyes earnestly regarding her from the threshold of an open window two or three paces off, and in another moment both she and her father had recognized Talbot Bulstrode.
The young man saw that he was recognized, and approached them, hat in hand — very, very pale, as Lucy always remembered — and, with a voice that trembled as he spoke90, wished the banker and the two ladies “Good-day.”
And it was thus that they met, these two who had “parted in silence and tears,” more than “half broken-hearted,” to sever91, as they thought, for eternity92; it was thus, upon this commonplace, prosaic93, half-guinea grand stand — that Destiny brought them once more face to face.
A year ago, and how often in the spring twilight94 Aurora Floyd had pictured her possible meeting with Talbot Bulstrode! He would come upon her suddenly, perhaps, in the still moonlight, and she would swoon away and die at his feet of the unendurable emotion; or they would meet in some crowded assembly, she dancing, laughing with hollow, simulated mirth, and the shock of one glance of those eyes would slay95 her in her painted glory of jewels and grandeur96. How often, ah! how often she had acted the scene and felt the anguish97! only a year ago, less than a year ago, ay! even so lately as on that balmy September day when she had laid on the rustic98 couch at the Chateau99 d’Arques, looking down at the fair Normandy landscape, with faithful John at watch by her side, the tame goats browsing100 upon the grassy platform behind her, and preternaturally ancient French children teasing the mild, long-suffering animals; and to-day she met him with her thoughts so full of the horse that had just been beaten that she scarcely knew what she said to her sometime lover. Aurora Floyd was dead and buried, and Aurora Mellish, looking critically at Talbot Bulstrode, wondered how any one could have ever gone near to the gates of death for the love of him.
It was Talbot who grew pale at this unlooked-for encounter; it was Talbot whose voice was shaken in the utterance101 of those few every-day syllables102 which common courtesy demanded of him. The captain had not so easily learned to forget. He was older than Aurora, and he had reached the age of two-and-thirty without having ever loved woman, only to be more desperately103 attacked by the fatal disease when his time came. He suffered acutely at that sudden meeting. — Wounded in his pride by her serene104 indifference105, dazzled afresh by her beauty, mad with jealous fury at the thought that he had lost her, Captain Bulstrode’s feelings were of no very enviable nature; and, if Aurora had ever wished to avenge106 that cruel scene at Felden Woods, her hour of vengeance107 had most certainly come. But she was too generous a creature to have harbored such a thought. She had submitted in all humility108 to Talbot’s decree; she had accepted his decision, and had believed in its justice; and, seeing his agitation to-day, she was sorry for him. She pitied him with a tender, matronly compassion109, such as she, in the safe harbor of a happy home, might be privileged to feel for this poor wanderer still at sea on life’s troubled ocean. Love, and the memory of love, must indeed have died before we can feel like this. The terrible passion must have died that slow and certain death from the grave of which no haunting ghost ever returns to torment110 the survivors111. It was, and it is not. Aurora might have been shipwrecked and cast on a desert island with Talbot Bulstrode, and might have lived ten years in his company without ever feeling for ten seconds as she had felt for him once. With these impetuous and impressionable people, who live quickly, a year is sometimes as twenty years; so Aurora looked back at Talbot Bulstrode across a gulf which stretched for weary miles between them, and wondered if they had really ever stood side by side, allied112 by hope and love, in the days that were gone.
While Aurora was thinking of these things, as well as a little of the bay filly, and while Talbot, half choked by a thousand confused emotions, tried to appear preternaturally at his ease, John Mellish, having refreshed his spirits with bottled beer, came suddenly upon the party, and slapped the captain on the back.
He was not jealous, this happy John. Secure in his wife’s love and truth, he was ready to face a regiment113 of her old admirers; indeed, he rather delighted in the idea of avenging114 Aurora upon this cowardly lover. Talbot glanced involuntarily at the members of the York constabulary on the course below, wondering how they would act if he were to fling John Mellish over the stone balcony, and do a murder then and there. He was thinking this while John was nearly wringing115 off his hand in cordial salutation, and asking what the deuce had brought him to the York Spring.
Talbot explained rather lamely116 that, being knocked up by his Parliamentary work, he had come down to spend a few days with an old brother-officer, Captain Hunter, who had a place between York and Leeds.
Mr. Mellish declared that nothing could be more lucky than this. He knew Hunter well; the two men must join them at dinner that day! and Talbot must give them a week at the Park after he left the captain’s place.
Talbot murmured some vague protestation of the impossibility of this, to which John paid no attention whatever, hustling117 his sometime rival away from the ladies in his eagerness to get back to the ring, where he had to complete his book for the next race.
So Captain Bulstrode was gone once more, and throughout the brief interview no one had cared to notice Lucy Floyd, who had been pale and red by turns half a dozen times within the last ten minutes.
John and Talbot returned after the start, with Captain Hunter, who was brought on to the stand to be presented to Aurora, and who immediately entered into a very animated118 discussion upon the day’s racing119. How Captain Bulstrode abhorred120 this idle babble121 of horse-flesh, this perpetual jargon122, alike in every mouth, from Aurora’s rosy Cupid’s bow to the tobacco-tainted lips of the bookmen in the ring! Thank Heaven, this was not his wife, who knew all the slang of the course, and, with lorgnette in hand, was craning her swan-like throat to catch sight of a wind in the Knavesmire and the horse that had a lead of half a mile.
Why had he ever consented to come into this accursed horse-racing county? Why had he deserted123 the Cornish miners even for a week? Better to be wearing out his brains over Dryasdust pamphlets and Parliamentary minutes than to be here, desolate124 among this shallow-minded, clamorous125 multitude, who have nothing to do but to throw up caps and cry huzza for any winner of any race. Talbot, as a by-stander, could not but remark this, and draw from this something of a philosophical126 lesson on life. He saw that there was always the same clamor and the same rejoicing in the crowd, whether the winning jockey wore blue and black belt, yellow and black cap, white with scarlet127 spots, or any other variety of color, even to dismal128 sable129; and he could but wonder how this was. Did the unlucky speculators run away and hide themselves while the uplifted voices were rejoicing? When the welkin was rent with the name of Kettledrum, where were the men who had backed Dundee unflinchingly up to the dropping of the flag and the ringing of the bell? When Thormanby came in with a rush, where were the wretched creatures whose fortunes hung on Umpire or Wizard? They were voiceless, these poor unlucky ones, crawling away with sick white faces, to gather in groups and explain to each other, with stable jargon intermingled with oaths, how it ought not to have been, and never could have been, but for some unlooked-for and preposterous130 combination of events never before witnessed upon any mortal course. How little is ever seen of the losers in any of the great races run upon this earth? For years and years the name of Louis Napoleon is an empty sound, signifying nothing; when, lo! a few master-strokes of policy and finesse131, a little juggling132 with those pieces of pasteboard out of which are built the shaky card-palaces men call empires, and creation rings with the same name; the outsider emerges from the ruck, and the purple jacket, spotted133 with golden bees, is foremost in the mighty134 race.
Talbot Bulstrode leaned with folded arms upon the stone balustrade, looking down at the busy life below him, and thinking of these things. Pardon him for his indulgence in dreary135 platitudes136 and wornout sentimentalities. He was a desolate, purposeless man; entered for no race himself; scratched for the matrimonial stakes; embittered137 by disappointment; soured by doubt and suspicion. He had spent the dull winter months upon the Continent, having no mind to go down to Bulstrode to encounter his mother’s sympathy and his cousin Constance Trevyllian’s chatter138. He was unjust enough to nourish a secret dislike to that young lady for the good service she had done him by revealing Aurora’s flight.
Are we ever really grateful to the people who tell us of the iniquity139 of those we love? Are we ever really just to the kindly140 creatures who give us friendly warning of our danger? No, never. We hate them; always involuntarily reverting141 to them as the first cause of our anguish; always repeating to ourselves that, had they been silent, that anguish need never have been; always ready to burst forth142 in one wild rage with the mad cry that “it is better to be much abused than but to know ‘t a little.” When the friendly Ancient drops his poisoned hints into poor Othello’s ear, it is not Mrs. Desdemona, but Iago himself, whom the noble Moor143 first has a mind to strangle. If poor, innocent Constance Treyvellian had been born the veriest cur in the county of Cornwall, she would have had a better chance of winning Talbot’s regard than she had now.
Why had he come into Yorkshire? I left that question unanswered just now, for I am ashamed to tell the reasons which actuated this unhappy man. He came, in a paroxysm of curiosity, to learn what kind of life Aurora led with her husband, John Mellish. He had suffered horrible distractions144 of mind upon this subject, one moment imagining her the most despicable of coquettes, ready to marry any man who had a fair estate and a good position to offer her, and by and by depicting145 her as some white-robed Iphigenia, led a passive victim to the sacrificial shrine146. So, when happening to meet this good-natured brother-officer at the United Service Club, he had consented to run down to Captain Hunter’s country place for a brief respite147 from Parliamentary minutes and red tape, the artful hypocrite had never owned to himself that he was burning to hear tidings of his false and fickle148 love, and that it was some lingering fumes149 of the old intoxication150 that carried him down to Yorkshire. But now — now that he met her — met her, the heartless, abominable151 creature, radiant and happy — mere18 simulated happiness and feverish152 mock radiance, no doubt, but too well put on to be quite pleasing to him — now he knew her. He knew her at last, the wicked enchantress, the soulless siren. He knew that she had never loved him; that she was, of course, powerless to love; good for nothing but to wreathe her white arms and flash the dark splendor153 of her eyes for weak man’s destruction; fit for nothing but to float in her beauty above the waves that concealed154 the bleached155 bones of her victims. Poor John Mellish! Talbot reproached himself for his hardness of heart in nourishing one spiteful feeling toward a man who was so deeply to be pitied.
When the race was done Captain Bulstrode turned and beheld the black-eyed sorceress in the midst of a group gathered about a grave patriarch, with gray hair, and the look of one accustomed to command.
This grave patriarch was John Pastern.
I write his name with respect, even as it was reverentially whispered there, till, travelling from lip to lip, every one present knew that a great man was among them. A very quiet, unassuming veteran, sitting with his womankind about him — his wife and daughter, as I think — self-possessed and grave, while men were busy with his name in the crowd below, and while tens of thousands were staked in trusting dependence156 on his acumen157. What golden syllables might have fallen from those oracular lips had the veteran been so pleased! What hundreds would have been freely bidden for a word, a look, a nod, a wink158, a mere significant pursing-up of the lips from that great man! What is the fable159 of the young lady who discoursed160 pearls and diamonds to a truth such as this! Pearls and diamonds must be of a large size which would be worth the secrets of those Richmond stables, the secrets which Mr. Pastern might tell if he chose. Perhaps it is the knowledge of this which gives him a calm, almost clerical gravity of manner. People come to him, and fawn161 upon him, and tell him that such and such a horse from his stable has won, or looks safe to win; and he nods pleasantly, thanking them for the kind information, while perhaps his thoughts are far away on Epsom Downs or Newmarket Flats, winning future Derbys and two thousands with colts that are as yet unfoaled.
John Mellish is on intimate terms with the great man, to whom he presents Aurora, and of whom he asks advice upon a matter that has been troubling him for some time. His trainer’s health is failing him, and he wants assistance in the stables — a younger man, honest and clever. Does Mr. Pastern know such a one?
The veteran tells him, after due consideration, that he does know of a young man — honest, he believes, as times go — who was once employed in the Richmond stables, and who had written to him only a few days before, asking for his influence in getting him a situation. “But the lad’s name has slipped my memory,” added Mr. Pastern; “he was but a lad when he was with me; but, bless my soul, that’s ten years ago! I’ll look up his letter when I go home, and write to you about him. I know he’s clever, and I believe he’s honest; and I shall be only too happy,” concluded the old gentleman, gallantly162, “to do anything to oblige Mrs. Mellish.”
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reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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aurora
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| n.极光 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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reigning
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| adj.统治的，起支配作用的 | |
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gushing
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| adj.迸出的；涌出的；喷出的；过分热情的v.喷，涌( gush的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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withhold
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| v.拒绝，不给；使停止，阻挡 | |
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repayment
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| n.偿还，偿还款；报酬 | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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creditor
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| n.债仅人，债主，贷方 | |
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boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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spurn
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| v.拒绝，摈弃；n.轻视的拒绝；踢开 | |
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trample
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| vt.踩，践踏；无视，伤害，侵犯 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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15
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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16
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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17
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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18
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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19
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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20
blustering
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| adj.狂风大作的，狂暴的v.外强中干的威吓( bluster的现在分词 )；咆哮；（风）呼啸；狂吹 | |
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21
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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22
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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23
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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24
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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25
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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26
ridiculed
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| v.嘲笑，嘲弄，奚落( ridicule的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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27
absurdities
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| n.极端无理性( absurdity的名词复数 )；荒谬；谬论；荒谬的行为 | |
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28
sublimity
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| 崇高，庄严，气质高尚 | |
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29
innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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30
manliness
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| 刚毅 | |
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31
taint
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| n.污点；感染；腐坏；v.使感染；污染 | |
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32
argot
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| n.隐语，黑话 | |
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33
fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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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
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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36
fore
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| adv.在前面；adj.先前的；在前部的；n.前部 | |
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37
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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38
domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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39
fenny
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| adj.沼泽的；沼泽多的；长在沼泽地带的；住在沼泽地的 | |
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40
solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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41
observatory
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| n.天文台，气象台，瞭望台，观测台 | |
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42
revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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43
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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44
maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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45
walnut
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| n.胡桃，胡桃木，胡桃色，茶色 | |
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46
discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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47
knavery
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| n.恶行，欺诈的行为 | |
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48
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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49
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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50
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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51
fathomless
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| a.深不可测的 | |
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52
transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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53
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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54
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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55
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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56
touts
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| n.招徕( tout的名词复数 )；（音乐会、体育比赛等的）卖高价票的人；侦查者；探听赛马的情报v.兜售( tout的第三人称单数 )；招揽；侦查；探听赛马情报 | |
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57
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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58
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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59
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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60
hind
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| adj.后面的，后部的 | |
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61
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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62
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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63
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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64
velocity
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| n.速度，速率 | |
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65
akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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66
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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67
patois
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| n.方言；混合语 | |
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68
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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69
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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70
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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71
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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72
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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73
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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74
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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75
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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76
atoned
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| v.补偿，赎（罪）( atone的过去式和过去分词 )；补偿，弥补，赎回 | |
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77
moodily
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| adv.喜怒无常地；情绪多变地；心情不稳地；易生气地 | |
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78
meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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79
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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80
bankruptcy
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| n.破产；无偿付能力 | |
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81
creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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82
contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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83
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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84
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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85
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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86
ignominiously
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| adv.耻辱地，屈辱地，丢脸地 | |
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87
amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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88
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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89
ruse
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| n.诡计，计策；诡计 | |
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90
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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91
sever
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| v.切开，割开；断绝，中断 | |
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92
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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93
prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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94
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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95
slay
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| v.杀死，宰杀，杀戮 | |
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96
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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97
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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98
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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99
chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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100
browsing
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| v.吃草( browse的现在分词 )；随意翻阅；（在商店里）随便看看；（在计算机上）浏览信息 | |
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101
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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102
syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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103
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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104
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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105
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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106
avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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107
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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108
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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109
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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110
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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111
survivors
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| 幸存者，残存者，生还者( survivor的名词复数 ) | |
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112
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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113
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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114
avenging
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| adj.报仇的，复仇的v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的现在分词 )；为…报复 | |
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115
wringing
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| 淋湿的，湿透的 | |
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116
lamely
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| 一瘸一拐地，不完全地 | |
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117
hustling
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| 催促（hustle的现在分词形式） | |
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118
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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119
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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120
abhorred
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| v.憎恶( abhor的过去式和过去分词 )；（厌恶地）回避；拒绝；淘汰 | |
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121
babble
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| v.含糊不清地说，胡言乱语地说，儿语 | |
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122
jargon
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| n.术语，行话 | |
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123
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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124
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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125
clamorous
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| adj.吵闹的，喧哗的 | |
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126
philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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127
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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128
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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129
sable
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| n.黑貂；adj.黑色的 | |
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130
preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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131
finesse
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| n.精密技巧，灵巧，手腕 | |
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132
juggling
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| n. 欺骗, 杂耍(=jugglery) adj. 欺骗的, 欺诈的 动词juggle的现在分词 | |
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133
spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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134
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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135
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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136
platitudes
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| n.平常的话，老生常谈，陈词滥调( platitude的名词复数 )；滥套子 | |
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137
embittered
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| v.使怨恨，激怒( embitter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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138
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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139
iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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140
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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141
reverting
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| 恢复( revert的现在分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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142
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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143
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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144
distractions
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| n.使人分心的事[人]( distraction的名词复数 )；娱乐，消遣；心烦意乱；精神错乱 | |
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145
depicting
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| 描绘，描画( depict的现在分词 )； 描述 | |
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146
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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147
respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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148
fickle
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| adj.(爱情或友谊上)易变的，不坚定的 | |
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149
fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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150
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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151
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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152
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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153
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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154
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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155
bleached
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| 漂白的，晒白的，颜色变浅的 | |
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156
dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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157
acumen
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| n.敏锐，聪明 | |
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158
wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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159
fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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160
discoursed
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| 演说（discourse的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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161
fawn
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| n.未满周岁的小鹿；v.巴结，奉承 | |
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162
gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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