The clergyman had reached that mature period of human life at which a sensible man learns to decline (as often as his temper will let him) all useless conflict with the tyranny of his own troubles. Abandoning any further effort to reach a decision in the emergency that now beset3 him, Mr. Brock sat down placidly5 in his shirt sleeves on the side of his bed, and applied6 his mind to consider next whether the emergency itself was as serious as he had hitherto been inclined to think it. Following this new way out of his perplexities, Mr. Brock found himself unexpectedly traveling to the end in view by the least inspiriting of all human journeys — a journey through the past years of his own life.
One by one the events of those years — all connected with the same little group of characters, and all more or less answerable for the anxiety which was now intruding7 itself between the clergyman and his night’s rest — rose, in progressive series, on Mr. Brock’s memory. The first of the series took him back, through a period of fourteen years, to his own rectory on the Somersetshire shores of the Bristol Channel, and closeted him at a private interview with a lady who had paid him a visit in the character of a total stranger to the parson and the place.
The lady’s complexion8 was fair, the lady’s figure was well preserved; she was still a young woman, and she looked even younger than her age. There was a shade of melancholy9 in her expression, and an undertone of suffering in her voice — enough, in each case, to indicate that she had known trouble, but not enough to obtrude10 that trouble on the notice of others. She brought with her a fine, fair-haired boy of eight years old, whom she presented as her son, and who was sent out of the way, at the beginning of the interview, to amuse himself in the rectory garden. Her card had preceded her entrance into the study, and had announced her under the name of “Mrs. Armadale.” Mr. Brock began to feel interested in her before she had opened her lips; and when the son had been dismissed, he awaited with some anxiety to hear what the mother had to say to him.
Mrs. Armadale began by informing the rector that she was a widow. Her husband had perished by shipwreck11 a short time after their union, on the voyage from Madeira to Lisbon. She had been brought to England, after her affliction, under her father’s protection; and her child — a posthumous13 son — had been born on the family estate in Norfolk. Her father’s death, shortly afterward14, had deprived her of her only surviving parent, and had exposed her to neglect and misconstruction on the part of her remaining relatives (two brothers), which had estranged15 her from them, she feared, for the rest of her days. For some time past she had lived in the neighboring county of Devonshire, devoting herself to the education of her boy, who had now reached an age at which he required other than his mother’s teaching. Leaving out of the question her own unwillingness16 to part with him, in her solitary18 position, she was especially anxious that he should not be thrown among strangers by being sent to school. Her darling project was to bring him up privately19 at home, and to keep him, as he advanced in years, from all contact with the temptations and the dangers of the world.
With these objects in view, her longer sojourn21 in her own locality (where the services of the resident clergyman, in the capacity of tutor, were not obtainable) must come to an end. She had made inquiries22, had heard of a house that would suit her in Mr. Brock’s neighborhood, and had also been told that Mr. Brock himself had formerly23 been in the habit of taking pupils. Possessed24 of this information, she had ventured to present herself, with references that vouched25 for her respectability, but without a formal introduction; and she had now to ask whether (in the event of her residing in the neighborhood) any terms that could be offered would induce Mr. Brock to open his doors once more to a pupil, and to allow that pupil to be her son.
If Mrs. Armadale had been a woman of no personal attractions, or if Mr. Brock had been provided with an intrenchment to fight behind in the shape of a wife, it is probable that the widow’s journey might have been taken in vain. As things really were, the rector examined the references which were offered to him, and asked time for consideration. When the time had expired, he did what Mrs. Armadale wished him to do — he offered his back to the burden, and let the mother load him with the responsibility of the son.
This was the first event of the series; the date of it being the year eighteen hundred and thirty-seven. Mr. Brock’s memory, traveling forward toward the present from that point, picked up the second event in its turn, and stopped next at the year eighteen hundred and forty-five.
The fishing-village on the Somersetshire coast was still the scene, and the characters were once again — Mrs. Armadale and her son.
Through the eight years that had passed, Mr. Brock’s responsibility had rested on him lightly enough. The boy had given his mother and his tutor but little trouble. He was certainly slow over his books, but more from a constitutional inability to fix his attention on his tasks than from want of capacity to understand them. His temperament26, it could not be denied, was heedless to the last degree: he acted recklessly on his first impulses, and rushed blindfold27 at all his conclusions. On the other hand, it was to be said in his favor that his disposition28 was open as the day; a more generous, affectionate, sweet-tempered lad it would have been hard to find anywhere. A certain quaint29 originality30 of character, and a natural healthiness in all his tastes, carried him free of most of the dangers to which his mother’s system of education inevitably31 exposed him. He had a thoroughly32 English love of the sea and of all that belongs to it; and as he grew in years, there was no luring33 him away from the water-side, and no keeping him out of the boat-builder’s yard. In course of time his mother caught him actually working there, to her infinite annoyance34 and surprise, as a volunteer. He acknowledged that his whole future ambition was to have a yard of his own, and that his one present object was to learn to build a boat for himself. Wisely foreseeing that such a pursuit as this for his leisure hours was exactly what was wanted to reconcile the lad to a position of isolation35 from companions of his own rank and age, Mr. Brock prevailed on Mrs. Armadale, with no small difficulty, to let her son have his way. At the period of that second event in the clergyman’s life with his pupil which is now to be related, young Armadale had practiced long enough in the builder’s yard to have reached the summit of his wishes, by laying with his own hands the keel of his own boat.
Late on a certain summer day, not long after Allan had completed his sixteenth year, Mr. Brock left his pupil hard at work in the yard, and went to spend the evening with Mrs. Armadale, taking the Times newspaper with him in his hand.
The years that had passed since they had first met had long since regulated the lives of the clergyman and his neighbor. The first advances which Mr. Brock’s growing admiration36 for the widow had led him to make in the early days of their intercourse37 had been met on her side by an appeal to his forbearance which had closed his lips for the future. She had satisfied him, at once and forever, that the one place in her heart which he could hope to occupy was the place of a friend. He loved her well enough to take what she would give him: friends they became, and friends they remained from that time forth38. No jealous dread39 of another man’s succeeding where he had failed imbittered the clergyman’s placid4 relations with the woman whom he loved. Of the few resident gentlemen in the neighborhood, none were ever admitted by Mrs. Armadale to more than the merest acquaintance with her. Contentedly41 self-buried in her country retreat, she was proof against every social attraction that would have tempted42 other women in her position and at her age. Mr. Brock and his newspaper, appearing with monotonous43 regularity44 at her tea-table three times a week, told her all she knew or cared to know of the great outer world which circled round the narrow and changeless limits of her daily life.
On the evening in question Mr. Brock took the arm-chair in which he always sat, accepted the one cup of tea which he always drank, and opened the newspaper which he always read aloud to Mrs. Armadale, who invariably listened to him reclining on the same sofa, with the same sort of needle-work everlastingly45 in her hand.
“Bless my soul!” cried the rector, with his voice in a new octave, and his eyes fixed47 in astonishment48 on the first page of the newspaper.
No such introduction to the evening readings as this had ever happened before in all Mrs. Armadale’s experience as a listener. She looked up from the sofa in a flutter of curiosity, and besought49 her reverend friend to favor her with an explanation.
“I can hardly believe my own eyes,” said Mr. Brock. “Here is an advertisement, Mrs. Armadale, addressed to your son.”
Without further preface, he read the advertisement as follows:
IF this should meet the eye of ALLAN ARMADALE, he is desired to communicate, either personally or by letter, with Messrs. Hammick and Ridge50 (Lincoln’s Inn Fields, London), on business of importance which seriously concerns him. Any one capable of informing Messrs. E. and R. where the person herein advertised can be found would confer a favor by doing the same. To prevent mistakes, it is further notified that the missing Allan Armadale is a youth aged51 fifteen years, and that this advertisement is inserted at the instance of his family and friends.
“Another family, and other friends,” said Mrs. Armadale. “The person whose name appears in that advertisement is not my son.”
The tone in which she spoke52 surprised Mr. Brock. The change in her face, when he looked up, shocked him. Her delicate complexion had faded away to a dull white; her eyes were averted54 from her visitor with a strange mixture of confusion and alarm; she looked an older woman than she was, by ten good years at least.
“The name is so very uncommon,” said Mr. Brock, imagining he had offended her, and trying to excuse himself. “It really seemed impossible there could be two persons —”
“There are two,” interposed Mrs. Armadale. “Allan, as you know, is sixteen years old. If you look back at the advertisement, you will find the missing person described as being only fifteen. Although he bears the same surname and the same Christian55 name, he is, I thank God, in no way whatever related to my son. As long as I live, it will be the object of my hopes and prayers that Allan may never see him, may never even hear of him. My kind friend, I see I surprise you: will you bear with me if I leave these strange circumstances unexplained? There is past misfortune and misery56 in my early life too painful for me to speak of, even to you . Will you help me to bear the remembrance of it, by never referring to this again? Will you do even more — will you promise not to speak of it to Allan, and not to let that newspaper fall in his way?”
Mr. Brock gave the pledge required of him, and considerately left her to herself.
The rector had been too long and too truly attached to Mrs. Armadale to be capable of regarding her with any unworthy distrust. But it would be idle to deny that he felt disappointed by her want of confidence in him, and that he looked inquisitively58 at the advertisement more than once on his way back to his own house.
It was clear enough, now, that Mrs. Armadale’s motives60 for burying her son as well as herself in the seclusion62 of a remote country village was not so much to keep him under her own eye as to keep him from discovery by his namesake. Why did she dread the idea of their ever meeting? Was it a dread for herself, or a dread for her son? Mr. Brock’s loyal belief in his friend rejected any solution of the difficulty which pointed57 at some past misconduct of Mrs. Armadale’s. That night he destroyed the advertisement with his own hand; that night he resolved that the subject should never be suffered to enter his mind again. There was another Allan Armadale about the world, a stranger to his pupil’s blood, and a vagabond advertised in the public newspapers. So much accident had revealed to him. More, for Mrs. Armadale’s sake, he had no wish to discover — and more he would never seek to know.
This was the second in the series of events which dated from the rector’s connection with Mrs. Armadale and her son. Mr. Brock’s memory, traveling on nearer and nearer to present circumstances, reached the third stage of its journey through the by-gone time, and stopped at the year eighteen hundred and fifty, next.
The five years that had passed had made little if any change in Allan’s character. He had simply developed (to use his tutor’s own expression) from a boy of sixteen to a boy of twenty-one. He was just as easy and open in his disposition as ever; just as quaintly63 and inveterately64 good-humored; just as heedless in following his own impulses, lead him where they might. His bias65 toward the sea had strengthened with his advance to the years of manhood. From building a boat, he had now got on — with two journeymen at work under him — to building a decked vessel66 of five-and-thirty tons. Mr. Brock had conscientiously67 tried to divert him to higher aspirations68; had taken him to Oxford70, to see what college life was like; had taken him to London, to expand his mind by the spectacle of the great metropolis71. The change had diverted Allan, but had not altered him in the least. He was as impenetrably superior to all worldly ambition as Diogenes himself. “Which is best,” asked this unconscious philosopher, “to find out the way to be happy for yourself, or to let other people try if they can find it out for you?” From that moment Mr. Brock permitted his pupil’s character to grow at its own rate of development, and Allan went on uninterruptedly with the work of his yacht.
Time, which had wrought72 so little change in the son, had not passed harmless over the mother.
Mrs. Armadale’s health was breaking fast. As her strength failed, her temper altered for the worse: she grew more and more fretful, more and more subject to morbid73 fears and fancies, more and more reluctant to leave her own room. Since the appearance of the advertisement five years since, nothing had happened to force her memory back to the painful associations connected with her early life. No word more on the forbidden topic had passed between the rector and herself; no suspicion had ever been raised in Allan’s mind of the existence of his namesake; and yet, without the shadow of a reason for any special anxiety, Mrs. Armadale had become, of late years, obstinately75 and fretfully uneasy on the subject of her son. More than once Mr. Brock dreaded76 a serious disagreement between them; but Allan’s natural sweetness of temper, fortified77 by his love for his mother, carried him triumphantly78 through all trials. Not a hard word or a harsh look ever escaped him in her presence; he was unchangeably loving and forbearing with her to the very last.
Such were the positions of the son, the mother, and the friend, when the next notable event happened in the lives of the three. On a dreary79 afternoon, early in the month of November, Mr. Brock was disturbed over the composition of his sermon by a visit from the landlord of the village inn.
After making his introductory apologies, the landlord stated the urgent business on which he had come to the rectory clearly enough.
A few hours since a young man had been brought to the inn by some farm laborers80 in the neighborhood, who had found him wandering about one of their master’s fields in a disordered state of mind, which looked to their eyes like downright madness. The landlord had given the poor creature shelter while he sent for medical help; and the doctor, on seeing him, had pronounced that he was suffering from fever on the brain, and that his removal to the nearest town at which a hospital or a work-house infirmary could be found to receive him would in all probability be fatal to his chances of recovery. After hearing this expression of opinion, and after observing for himself that the stranger’s only luggage consisted of a small carpet-bag which had been found in the field near him, the landlord had set off on the spot to consult the rector, and to ask, in this serious emergency, what course he was to take next.
Mr. Brock was the magistrate81 as well as the clergyman of the district, and the course to be taken, in the first instance, was to his mind clear enough. He put on his hat, and accompanied the landlord back to the inn.
At the inn door they were joined by Allan, who had heard the news through another channel, and who was waiting Mr. Brock’s arrival, to follow in the magistrate’s train, and to see what the stranger was like. The village surgeon joined them at the same moment, and the four went into the inn together.
They found the landlord’s son on one side, and the hostler on the other, holding the man down in his chair. Young, slim, and undersized, he was strong enough at that moment to make it a matter of difficulty for the two to master him. His tawny82 complexion, his large, bright brown eyes, and his black beard gave him something of a foreign look. His dress was a little worn, but his linen83 was clean. His dusky hands were wiry and nervous, and were lividly discolored in more places than one by the scars of old wounds. The toes of one of his feet, off which he had kicked the shoe, grasped at the chair rail through his stocking, with the sensitive muscular action which is only seen in those who have been accustomed to go barefoot. In the frenzy84 that now possessed him, it was impossible to notice, to any useful purpose, more than this. After a whispered consultation85 with Mr. Brock, the surgeon personally superintended the patient’s removal to a quiet bedroom at the back of the house. Shortly afterward his clothes and his carpet-bag were sent downstairs, and were searched, on the chance of finding a clew by which to communicate with his friends, in the magistrate’s presence.
The carpet — bag contained nothing but a change of clothing, and two books — the Plays of Sophocles, in the original Greek, and the “Faust” of Goethe, in the original German. Both volumes were much worn by reading, and on the fly-leaf of each were inscribed86 the initials O. M. So much the bag revealed, and no more.
The clothes which the man wore when he was discovered in the field were tried next. A purse (containing a sovereign and a few shillings), a pipe, a tobacco pouch87, a handkerchief, and a little drinking-cup of horn were produced in succession. The next object, and the last, was found crumpled88 up carelessly in the breast-pocket of the coat. It was a written testimonial to character, dated and signed, but without any address.
So far as this document could tell it, the stranger’s story was a sad one indeed. He had apparently89 been employed for a short time as usher90 at a school, and had been turned adrift in the world, at the outset of his illness, from the fear that the fever might be infectious, and that the prosperity of the establishment might suffer accordingly. Not the slightest imputation91 of any misbehavior in his employment rested on him. On the contrary, the schoolmaster had great pleasure in testifying to his capacity and his character, and in expressing a fervent92 hope that he might (under Providence) succeed in recovering his health in somebody else’s house. The written testimonial which afforded this glimpse at the man’s story served one purpose more: it connected him with the initials on the books, and identified him to the magistrate and the landlord under the strangely uncouth93 name of Ozias Midwinter.
Mr. Brock laid aside the testimonial, suspecting that the schoolmaster had purposely abstained94 from writing his address on it, with the view of escaping all responsibility in the event of his usher’s death. In any case, it was manifestly useless, under existing circumstances, to think of tracing the poor wretch95’s friends, if friends he had. To the inn he had been brought, and, as a matter of common humanity, at the inn he must remain for the present. The difficulty about expenses, if it came to the worst, might possibly be met by charitable contributions from the neighbors, or by a collection after a sermon at church. Assuring the landlord that he would consider this part of the question and would let him know the result, Mr. Brock quitted the inn, without noticing for the moment that he had left Allan there behind him.
Before he had got fifty yards from the house his pupil overtook him. Allan had been most uncharacteristically silent and serious all through the search at the inn; but he had now recovered his usual high spirits. A stranger would have set him down as wanting in common feeling.
“This is a sad business,” said the rector. “I really don’t know what to do for the best about that unfortunate man.”
“You may make your mind quite easy, sir,” said young Armadale, in his off-hand way. “I settled it all with the landlord a minute ago.”
“You!” exclaimed Mr. Brock, in the utmost astonishment.
“I have merely given a few simple directions,” pursued Allan. “Our friend the usher is to have everything he requires, and is to be treated like a prince; and when the doctor and the landlord want their money they are to come to me.”
“My dear Allan,” Mr. Brock gently remonstrated96, “when will you learn to think before you act on those generous impulses of yours? You are spending more money already on your yacht-building than you can afford —”
“Only think! we laid the first planks97 of the deck the day before yesterday,” said Allan, flying off to the new subject in his usual bird-witted way. “There’s just enough of it done to walk on, if you don’t feel giddy. I’ll help you up the ladder, Mr. Brock, if you’ll only come and try.”
“Listen to me,” persisted the rector. “I’m not talking about the yacht now; that is to say, I am only referring to the yacht as an illustration —”
“And a very pretty illustration, too,” remarked the incorrigible98 Allan. “Find me a smarter little vessel of her size in all England, and I’ll give up yacht-building to-morrow. Whereabouts were we in our conversation, sir? I’m rather afraid we have lost ourselves somehow.”
“I am rather afraid one of us is in the habit of losing himself every time he opens his lips,” retorted Mr. Brock. “Come, come, Allan, this is serious. You have been rendering99 yourself liable for expenses which you may not be able to pay. Mind, I am far from blaming you for your kind feeling toward this poor friendless man —”
“Don’t be low-spirited about him, sir. He’ll get over it — he’ll be all right again in a week or so. A capital fellow, I have not the least doubt!” continued Allan, whose habit it was to believe in everybody and to despair of nothing. “Suppose you ask him to dinner when he gets well, Mr. Brock? I should like to find out (when we are all three snug100 and friendly together over our wine, you know) how he came by that extraordinary name of his. Ozias Midwinter! Upon my life, his father ought to be ashamed of himself.”
“Will you answer me one question before I go in?” said the rector, stopping in despair at his own gate. “This man’s bill for lodging101 and medical attendance may mount to twenty or thirty pounds before he gets well again, if he ever does get well. How are you to pay for it?”
“What’s that the Chancellor102 of the Exchequer103 says when he finds himself in a mess with his accounts, and doesn’t see his way out again?” asked Allan. “He always tells his honorable friend he is quite willing to leave a something or other —”
“A margin104?” suggested Mr. Brock.
“That’s it,” said Allan. “I’m like the Chancellor of the Exchequer. I’m quite willing to leave a margin. The yacht (bless her heart!) doesn’t eat up everything. If I’m short by a pound or two, don’t be afraid, sir. There’s no pride about me; I’ll go round with the hat, and get the balance in the neighborhood. Deuce take the pounds, shillings, and pence! I wish they could all three get rid of themselves, like the Bedouin brothers at the show. Don’t you remember the Bedouin brothers, Mr. Brock? ‘Ali will take a lighted torch, and jump down the throat of his brother Muli; Muli will take a lighted torch, and jump down the throat of his brother Hassan; and Hassan, taking a third lighted torch, will conclude the performances by jumping down his own throat, and leaving the spectators in total darkness.’ Wonderfully good, that — what I call real wit, with a fine strong flavor about it. Wait a minute! Where are we? We have lost ourselves again. Oh, I remember — money. What I can’t beat into my thick head,” concluded Allan, quite unconscious that he was preaching socialist105 doctrines106 to a clergyman; “is the meaning of the fuss that’s made about giving money away. Why can’t the people who have got money to spare give it to the people who haven’t got money to spare, and make things pleasant and comfortable all the world over in that way? You’re always telling me to cultivate ideas, Mr. Brock There’s an idea, and, upon my life, I don’t think it’s a bad one.”
Mr. Brock gave his pupil a good-humored poke53 with the end of his stick. “Go back to your yacht,” he said. “All the little discretion107 you have got in that flighty head of yours is left on board in your tool-chest. How that lad will end,” pursued the rector, when he was left by himself, “is more than any human being can say. I almost wish I had never taken the responsibility of him on my shoulders.”
Three weeks passed before the stranger with the uncouth name was pronounced to be at last on the way to recovery.
During this period Allan had made regular inquiries at the inn, and, as soon as the sick man was allowed to see visitors, Allan was the first who appeared at his bedside. So far Mr. Brock’s pupil had shown no more than a natural interest in one of the few romantic circumstances which had varied108 the monotony of the village life: he had committed no imprudence, and he had exposed himself to no blame. But as the days passed, young Armadale’s visits to the inn began to lengthen109 considerably110, and the surgeon (a cautious elderly man) gave the rector a private hint to bestir himself. Mr. Brock acted on the hint immediately, and discovered that Allan had followed his usual impulses in his usual headlong way. He had taken a violent fancy to the castaway usher and had invited Ozias Midwinter to reside permanently112 in the neighborhood in the new and interesting character of his bosom113 friend.
Before Mr. Brock could make up his mind how to act in this emergency, he received a note from Allan’s mother, begging him to use his privilege as an old friend, and to pay her a visit in her room.
He found Mrs. Armadale suffering under violent nervous agitation114, caused entirely115 by a recent interview with her son. Allan had been sitting with her all the morning, and had talked of nothing but his new friend. The man with the horrible name (as poor Mrs. Armadale described him) had questioned Allan, in a singularly inquisitive59 manner, on the subject of himself and his family, but had kept his own personal history entirely in the dark. At some former period of his life he had been accustomed to the sea and to sailing. Allan had, unfortunately, found this out, and a bond of union between them was formed on the spot. With a merciless distrust of the stranger — simply because he was a stranger — which appeared rather unreasonable116 to Mr. Brock, Mrs. Armadale besought the rector to go to the inn without a moment’s loss of time, and never to rest until he had made the man give a proper account of himself. “Find out everything about his father and mother!” she said, in her vehement117 female way. “Make sure before you leave him that he is not a vagabond roaming the country under an assumed name.”
“My dear lady,” remonstrated the rector, obediently taking his hat, “whatever else we may doubt, I really think we may feel sure about the man’s name! It is so remarkably118 ugly that it must be genuine. No sane119 human being would assume such a name as Ozias Midwinter.”
“You may be quite right, and I may be quite wrong; but pray go and see him,” persisted Mrs. Armadale. “Go, and don’t spare him, Mr. Brock. How do we know that this illness of his may not have been put on for a purpose?”
It was useless to reason with her. The whole College of Physicians might have certified120 to the man’s illness, and, in her present frame of mind, Mrs. Armadale would have disbelieved the College, one and all, from the president downward. Mr. Brock took the wise way out of the difficulty — he said no more, and he set off for the inn immediately.
Ozias Midwinter, recovering from brain-fever, was a startling object to contemplate121 on a first view of him. His shaven head, tied up in an old yellow silk handkerchief; his tawny, haggard cheeks; his bright brown eyes, preternaturally large and wild; his rough black beard; his long, supple122, sinewy123 fingers, wasted by suffering till they looked like claws — all tended to discompose the rector at the outset of the interview. When the first feeling of surprise had worn off, the impression that followed it was not an agreeable one. Mr. Brock could not conceal124 from himself that the stranger’s manner was against him. The general opinion has settled that, if a man is honest, he is bound to assert it by looking straight at his fellow-creatures when he speaks to them. If this man was honest, his eyes showed a singular perversity125 in looking away and denying it. Possibly they were affected126 in some degree by a nervous restlessness in his organization, which appeared to pervade127 every fiber128 in his lean, lithe129 body. The rector’s healthy Anglo-Saxon flesh crept responsively at every casual movement of the usher’s supple brown fingers, and every passing distortion of the usher’s haggard yellow face. “God forgive me!” thought Mr. Brock, with his mind running on Allan and Allan’s mother, “I wish I could see my way to turning Ozias Midwinter adrift in the world again!”
The conversation which ensued between the two was a very guarded one. Mr. Brock felt his way gently, and found himself, try where he might, always kept politely, more or less, in the dark.
From first to last, the man’s real character shrank back with a savage130 shyness from the rector’s touch. He started by an assertion which it was impossible to look at him and believe — he declared that he was only twenty years of age. All he could be persuaded to say on the subject of the school was that the bare recollection of it was horrible to him. He had only filled the usher’s situation for ten days when the first appearance of his illness caused his dismissal. How he had reached the field in which he had been found was more than he could say. He remembered traveling a long distance by railway, with a purpose (if he had a purpose) which it was now impossible to recall, and then wandering coastward, on foot, all through the day, or all through the night — he was not sure which. The sea kept running in his mind when his mind began to give way. He had been employed on the sea as a lad. He had left it, and had filled a situation at a bookseller’s in a country town. He had left the bookseller’s, and had tried the school. Now the school had turned him out, he must try something else. It mattered little what he tried —-failure (for which nobody was ever to blame but himself) was sure to be the end of it, sooner or later. Friends to assist him, he had none to apply to; and as for relations, he wished to be excused from speaking of them. For all he knew they might be dead, and for all they knew he might be dead. That was a melancholy acknowledgment to make at his time of life, there was no denying it. It might tell against him in the opinions of others; and it did tell against him, no doubt, in the opinion of the gentleman who was talking to him at that moment.
These strange answers were given in a tone and manner far removed from bitterness on the one side, or from indifference131 on the other. Ozias Midwinter at twenty spoke of his life as Ozias Midwinter at seventy might have spoken with a long weariness of years on him which he had learned to bear patiently.
Two circumstances pleaded strongly against the distrust with which, in sheer perplexity of mind, Mr. Brock blindly regarded him. He had written to a savings-bank in a distant part of England, had drawn132 his money, and had paid the doctor and the landlord. A man of vulgar mind, after acting133 in this manner, would have treated his obligations lightly when he had settled his bills. Ozias Midwinter spoke of his obligations — and especially of his obligation to Allan — with a fervor134 of thankfulness which it was not surprising only, but absolutely painful to witness. He showed a horrible sincerity135 of astonishment at having been treated with common Christian kindness in a Christian land. He spoke of Allan’s having become answerable for all the expenses of sheltering, nursing, and curing him, with a savage rapture136 of gratitude137 and surprise which burst out of him like a flash of lightning. “So help me God!” cried the castaway usher, “I never met with the like of him: I never heard of the like of him before!” In the next instant, the one glimpse of light which the man had let in on his own passionate138 nature was quenched139 again in darkness. His wandering eyes, returning to their old trick, looked uneasily away from Mr. Brock, and his voice dropped back once more into its unnatural140 steadiness and quietness of tone. “I beg your pardon, sir,” he said. “I have been used to be hunted, and cheated, and starved. Everything else comes strange to me. “ Half attracted by the man, half repelled141 by him, Mr. Brock, on rising to take leave, impulsively142 offered his hand, and then, with a sudden misgiving143, confusedly drew it back again. “You meant that kindly144, sir,” said Ozias Midwinter, with his own hands crossed resolutely145 behind him. “I don’t complain of your thinking better of it. A man who can’t give a proper account of himself is not a man for a gentleman in your position to take by the hand.”
Mr. Brock left the inn thoroughly puzzled. Before returning to Mrs. Armadale he sent for her son. The chances were that the guard had been off the stranger’s tongue when he spoke to Allan, and with Allan’s frankness there was no fear of his concealing147 anything that had passed between them from the rector’s knowledge.
Here again Mr. Brock’s diplomacy148 achieved no useful results.
Once started on the subject of Ozias Midwinter, Allan rattled149 on about his new friend in his usual easy, light-hearted way. But he had really nothing of importance to tell, for nothing of importance had been revealed to him. They had talked about boat-building and sailing by the hour together, and Allan had got some valuable hints. They had discussed (with diagrams to assist them, and with more valuable hints for Allan) the serious impending150 question of the launch of the yacht. On other occasions they had diverged151 to other subjects — to more of them than Allan could remember, on the spur of the moment. Had Midwinter said nothing about his relations in the flow of all this friendly talk? Nothing, except that they had not behaved well to him — hang his relations! Was he at all sensitive on the subject of his own odd name? Not the least in the world; he had set the example, like a sensible fellow, of laughing at it himself.
Mr. Brock still persisted. He inquired next what Allan had seen in the stranger to take such a fancy to? Allan had seen in him — what he didn’t see in people in general. He wasn’t like all the other fellows in the neighborhood. All the other fellows were cut out on the same pattern. Every man of them was equally healthy, muscular, loud, hard-hearted, clean-skinned, and rough; every man of them drank the same draughts152 of beer, smoked the same short pipes all day long, rode the best horse, shot over the best dog, and put the best bottle of wine in England on his table at night; every man of them sponged himself every morning in the same sort of tub of cold water and bragged153 about it in frosty weather in the same sort of way; every man of them thought getting into debt a capital joke and betting on horse-races one of the most meritorious154 actions that a human being can perform. They were, no doubt, excellent fellows in their way; but the worst of them was, they were all exactly alike. It was a perfect godsend to meet with a man like Midwinter — a man who was not cut out on the regular local pattern, and whose way in the world had the one great merit (in those parts) of being a way of his own.
Leaving all remonstrances156 for a fitter opportunity, the rector went back to Mrs. Armadale. He could not disguise from himself that Allan’s mother was the person really answerable for Allan’s present indiscretion. If the lad had seen a little less of the small gentry157 in the neighborhood, and a little more of the great outside world at home and abroad, the pleasure of cultivating Ozias Midwinter’s society might have had fewer attractions for him.
Conscious of the unsatisfactory result of his visit to the inn, Mr. Brock felt some anxiety about the reception of his report when he found himself once more in Mrs. Armadale’s presence. His forebodings were soon realized. Try as he might to make the best of it, Mrs. Armadale seized on the one suspicious fact of the usher’s silence about himself as justifying159 the strongest measures that could be taken to separate him from her son. If the rector refused to interfere160, she declared her intention of writing to Ozias Midwinter with her own hand. Remonstrance155 irritated her to such a pitch that she astounded161 Mr. Brock by reverting162 to the forbidden subject of five years since, and referring him to the conversation which had passed between them when the advertisement had been discovered in the newspaper. She passionately163 declared that the vagabond Armadale of that advertisement, and the vagabond Midwinter at the village inn, might, for all she know to the contrary, be one and the same. Foreboding a serious disagreement between the mother and son if the mother interfered164, Mr. Brock undertook to see Midwinter again, and to tell him plainly that he must give a proper account of himself, or that his intimacy165 with Allan must cease. The two concessions166 which he exacted from Mrs. Armadale in return were that she should wait patiently until the doctor reported the man fit to travel, and that she should be careful in the interval167 not to mention the matter in any way to her son.
In a week’s time Midwinter was able to drive out (with Allan for his coachman) in the pony168 chaise belonging to the inn, and in ten days the doctor privately reported him as fit to travel. Toward the close of that tenth day, Mr. Brock met Allan and his new friend enjoying the last gleams of wintry sunshine in one of the inland lanes. He waited until the two had separated, and then followed the usher on his way back to the inn.
The rector’s resolution to speak pitilessly to the purpose was in some danger of failing him as he drew nearer and nearer to the friendless man, and saw how feebly he still walked, how loosely his worn coat hung about him, and how heavily he leaned on his cheap, clumsy stick. Humanely169 reluctant to say the decisive words too precipitately170, Mr. Brock tried him first with a little compliment on the range of his reading, as shown by the volume of Sophocles and the volume of Goethe which had been found in his bag, and asked how long he had been acquainted with German and Greek. The quick ear of Midwinter detected something wrong in the tone of Mr. Brock’s voice. He turned in the darkening twilight171, and looked suddenly and suspiciously in the rector’s face.
“You have something to say to me,” he answered; “and it is not what you are saying now.”
There was no help for it but to accept the challenge. Very delicately, with many preparatory words, to which the other listened in unbroken silence, Mr. Brock came little by little nearer and nearer to the point. Long before he had really reached it — long before a man of no more than ordinary sensibility would have felt what was coming — Ozias Midwinter stood still in the lane, and told the rector that he need say no more.
“I understand you, sir,” said the usher. “Mr. Armadale has an ascertained172 position in the world; Mr. Armadale has nothing to conceal, and nothing to be ashamed of. I agree with you that I am not a fit companion for him. The best return I can make for his kindness is to presume on it no longer. You may depend on my leaving this place to-morrow morning.”
He spoke no word more; he would hear no word more. With a self-control which, at his years and with his temperament, was nothing less than marvelous, he civilly took off his hat, bowed, and returned to the inn by himself
Mr. Brock slept badly that night. The issue of the interview in the lane had made the problem of Ozias Midwinter a harder problem to solve than ever.
Early the next morning a letter was brought to the rector from the inn, and the messenger announced that the strange gentleman had taken his departure. The letter inclosed an open note addressed to Allan, and requested Allan’s tutor (after first reading it himself) to forward it or not at his own sole discretion. The note was a startlingly short one; it began and ended in a dozen words: “Don’t blame Mr. Brock; Mr. Brock is right. Thank you, and good-by.— O. M.”
The rector forwarded the note to its proper destination, as a matter of course, and sent a few lines to Mrs. Armadale at the same time to quiet her anxiety by the news of the usher’s departure. This done, he waited the visit from his pupil, which would probably follow the delivery of the note, in no very tranquil173 frame of mind. There might or might not be some deep motive61 at the bottom of Midwinter’s conduct; but thus far it was impossible to deny that he had behaved in such a manner as to rebuke174 the rector’s distrust, and to justify158 Allan’s good opinion of him.
The morning wore on, and young Armadale never appeared. After looking for him vainly in the yard where the yacht was building, Mr. Brock went to Mrs. Armadale’s house, and there heard news from the servant which turned his steps in the direction of the inn. The landlord at once acknowledged the truth: young Mr. Armadale had come there with an open letter in his hand, and had insisted on being informed of the road which his friend had taken. For the first time in the landlord’s experience of him, the young gentleman was out of temper; and the girl who waited on the customers had stupidly mentioned a circumstance which had added fuel to the fire. She had acknowledged having heard Mr. Midwinter lock himself into his room overnight, and burst into a violent fit of crying. That trifling175 particular had set Mr. Armadale’s face all of a flame; he had shouted and sworn; he had rushed into the stables; and forced the hostler to saddle him a horse, and had set off full gallop176 on the road that Ozias Midwinter had taken before him.
After cautioning the landlord to keep Allan’s conduct a secret if any of Mrs. Armadale’s servants came that morning to the inn, Mr. Brock went home again, and waited anxiously to see what the day would bring forth.
To his infinite relief his pupil appeared at the rectory late in the afternoon.
Allan looked and spoke with a dogged determination which was quite new in his old friend’s experience of him. Without waiting to be questioned, he told his story in his usual straightforward177 way. He had overtaken Midwinter on the road; and — after trying vainly first to induce him to return, then to find out where he was going to — had threatened to keep company with him for the rest of the day, and had so extorted178 the confession179 that he was going to try his luck in London. Having gained this point, Allan had asked next for his friend’s address in London, had been entreated180 by the other not to press his request, had pressed it, nevertheless, with all his might, and had got the address at last by making an appeal to Midwinter’s gratitude, for which (feeling heartily181 ashamed of himself) he had afterward asked Midwinter’s pardon. “I like the poor fellow, and I won’t give him up,” concluded Allan, bringing his clinched182 fist down with a thump183 on the rectory table. “Don’t be afraid of my vexing184 my mother; I’ll leave you to speak to her, Mr. Brock, at your own time and in your own way; and I’ll just say this much more by way of bringing the thing to an end. Here is the address safe in my pocket-book, and here am I, standing185 firm for once on a resolution of my own. I’ll give you and my mother time to reconsider this; and, when the time is up, if my friend Midwinter doesn’t come to me , I’ll go to my friend Midwinter.”
So the matter rested for the present; and such was the result of turning the castaway usher adrift in the world again.
A month passed, and brought in the new year —‘51. Overleaping that short lapse186 of time, Mr. Brock paused, with a heavy heart, at the next event; to his mind the one mournful, the one memorable187 event of the series — Mrs. Armadale’s death.
The first warning of the affliction that was near at hand had followed close on the usher’s departure in December, and had arisen out of a circumstance which dwelt painfully on the rector’s memory from that time forth.
But three days after Midwinter had left for London, Mr. Brock was accosted188 in the village by a neatly189 dressed woman, wearing a gown and bonnet190 of black silk and a red Paisley shawl, who was a total stranger to him, and who inquired the way to Mrs. Armadale’s house. She put the question without raising the thick black veil that hung over her face. Mr. Brock, in giving her the necessary directions, observed that she was a remarkably elegant and graceful191 woman, and looked after her as she bowed and left him, wondering who Mrs. Armadale’s visitor could possibly be.
A quarter of an hour later the lady, still veiled as before, passed Mr. Brock again close to the inn. She entered the house, and spoke to the landlady192. Seeing the landlord shortly afterward hurrying round to the stables, Mr. Brock asked him if the lady was going away. Yes; she had come from the railway in the omnibus, but she was going back again more creditably in a carriage of her own hiring, supplied by the inn.
The rector proceeded on his walk, rather surprised to find his thoughts running inquisitively on a woman who was a stranger to him. When he got home again, he found the village surgeon waiting his return with an urgent message from Allan’s mother. About an hour since, the surgeon had been sent for in great haste to see Mrs. Armadale. He had found her suffering from an alarming nervous attack, brought on (as the servants suspected) by an unexpected, and, possibly, an unwelcome visitor, who had called that morning. The surgeon had done all that was needful, and had no apprehension193 of any dangerous results. Finding his patient eagerly desirous, on recovering herself, to see Mr. Brock immediately, he had thought it important to humor her, and had readily undertaken to call at the rectory with a message to that effect.
Looking at Mrs. Armadale with a far deeper interest in her than the surgeon’s interest, Mr. Brock saw enough in her face, when it turned toward him on his entering the room, to justify instant and serious alarm. She allowed him no opportunity of soothing194 her; she heeded195 none of his inquiries. Answers to certain questions of her own were what she wanted, and what she was determined196 to have: Had Mr. Brock seen the woman who had presumed to visit her that morning? Yes. Had Allan seen her? No; Allan had been at work since breakfast, and was at work still, in his yard by the water-side.
This latter reply appeared to quiet Mrs. Armadale for the moment; she put her next question — the most extraordinary question of the three — more composedly: Did the rector think Allan would object to leaving his vessel for the present, and to accompanying his mother on a journey to look out for a new house in some other part of England? In the greatest amazement197 Mr. Brock asked what reason there could possibly be for leaving her present residence? Mrs. Armadale’s reason, when she gave it, only added to his surprise. The woman’s first visit might be followed by a second; and rather than see her again, rather than run the risk of Allan’s seeing her and speaking to her, Mrs. Armadale would leave England if necessary, and end her days in a foreign land. Taking counsel of his experience as a magistrate, Mr. Brock inquired if the woman had come to ask for money. Yes; respectably as she was dressed, she had described herself as being “in distress198”; had asked for money, and had got it. But the money was of no importance; the one thing needful was to get away before the woman came again. More and more surprised, Mr. Brock ventured on another question: Was it long since Mrs. Armadale and her visitor had last met? Yes; longer than all Allan’s lifetime — as long ago as the year before Allan was born.
At that reply, the rector shifted his ground, and took counsel next of his experience as a friend.
“Is this person,” he asked, “connected in any way with the painful remembrances of your early life?”
“Yes; with the painful remembrance of the time when I was married,” said Mrs. Armadale. “She was associated, as a mere40 child, with a circumstance which I must think of with shame and sorrow to my dying day.”
Mr. Brock noticed the altered tone in which his old friend spoke, and the unwillingness with which she gave her answer.
“Can you tell me more about her without referring to yourself?” he went on. “I am sure I can protect you, if you will only help me a little. Her name, for instance — you can tell me her name?”
Mrs. Armadale shook her head, “The name I knew her by,” she said, “would be of no use to you. She has been married since then; she told me so herself.”
“And without telling you her married name?”
“She refused to tell it.”
“Do you know anything of her friends?”
“Only of her friends when she was a child. They called themselves her uncle and aunt. They were low people, and they deserted199 her at the school on my father’s estate. We never heard any more of them.”
“Did she remain under your father’s care?”
“She remained under my care; that is to say, she traveled with us. We were leaving England, just as that time, for Madeira. I had my father’s leave to take her with me, and to train the wretch to be my maid —”
At those words Mrs. Armadale stopped confusedly. Mr. Brock tried gently to lead her on. It was useless; she started up in violent agitation, and walked excitedly backward and forward in the room.
“Don’t ask me any more!” she cried out, in loud, angry tones. “I parted with her when she was a girl of twelve years old. I never saw her again, I never heard of her again, from that time to this. I don’t know how she has discovered me, after all the years that have passed; I only know that she has discovered me. She will find her way to Allan next; she will poison my son’s mind against me. Help me to get away from her! help me to take Allan away before she comes back!”
The rector asked no more questions; it would have been cruel to press her further. The first necessity was to compose her by promising200 compliance201 with all that she desired. The second was to induce her to see another medical man. Mr. Brock contrived202 to reach his end harmlessly in this latter case by reminding her that she wanted strength to travel, and that her own medical attendant might restore her all the more speedily to herself if he were assisted by the best professional advice. Having overcome her habitual203 reluctance204 to seeing strangers by this means, the rector at once went to Allan; and, delicately concealing what Mrs. Armadale had said at the interview, broke the news to him that his mother was seriously ill. Allan would hear of no messengers being sent for assistance: he drove off on the spot to the railway, and telegraphed himself to Bristol for medical help.
On the next morning the help came, and Mr. Brock’s worst fears were confirmed. The village surgeon had fatally misunderstood the case from the first, and the time was past now at which his errors of treatment might have been set right. The shock of the previous morning had completed the mischief205. Mrs. Armadale’s days were numbered.
The son who dearly loved her, the old friend to whom her life was precious, hoped vainly to the last. In a month from the physician’s visit all hope was over; and Allan shed the first bitter tears of his life at his mother’s grave.
She had died more peacefully than Mr. Brock had dared to hope, leaving all her little fortune to her son, and committing him solemnly to the care of her one friend on earth. The rector had entreated her to let him write and try to reconcile her brothers with her before it was too late. She had only answered sadly that it was too late already. But one reference escaped her in her last illness to those early sorrows which had weighed heavily on all her after-life, and which had passed thrice already, like shadows of evil, between the rector and herself. Even on her deathbed she had shrunk from letting the light fall clearly on the story of the past. She had looked at Allan kneeling by the bedside, and had whispered to Mr. Brock: “Never let his Namesake come near him! Never let that Woman find him out !” No word more fell from her that touched on the misfortunes which had tried her in the past, or on the dangers which she dreaded in the future. The secret which she had kept from her son and from her friend was a secret which she carried with her to the grave.
When the last offices of affection and respect had been performed, Mr. Brock felt it his duty, as executor to the deceased lady, to write to her brothers, and to give them information of her death. Believing that he had to deal with two men who would probably misinterpret his motives if he left Allan’s position unexplained, he was careful to remind them that Mrs. Armadale’s son was well provided for, and that the object of his letter was simply to communicate the news of their sister’s decease. The two letters were dispatched toward the middle of January, and by return of post the answers were received. The first which the rector opened was written not by the elder brother, but by the elder brother’s only son. The young man had succeeded to the estates in Norfolk on his father’s death, some little time since. He wrote in a frank and friendly spirit, assuring Mr. Brock that, however strongly his father might have been prejudiced against Mrs. Armadale, the hostile feeling had never extended to her son. For himself, he had only to add that he would be sincerely happy to welcome his cousin to Thorpe Ambrose whenever his cousin came that way.
The second letter was a far less agreeable reply to receive than the first. The younger brother was still alive, and still resolute146 neither to forget nor forgive. He informed Mr. Brock that his deceased sister’s choice of a husband, and her conduct to her father at the time of her marriage, had made any relations of affection or esteem206 impossible, on his side, from that time forth. Holding the opinions he did, it would be equally painful to his nephew and himself if any personal intercourse took place between them. He had adverted207, as generally as possible, to the nature of the differences which had kept him apart from his late sister, in order to satisfy Mr. Brock’s mind that a personal acquaintance with young Mr. Armadale was, as a matter of delicacy208, quite out of the question and, having done this, he would beg leave to close the correspondence.
Mr. Brock wisely destroyed the second letter on the spot, and, after showing Allan his cousin’s invitation, suggested that he should go to Thorpe Ambrose as soon as he felt fit to present himself to strangers.
Allan listened to the advice patiently enough; but he declined to profit by it. “I will shake hands with my cousin willingly if I ever meet him,” he said; “but I will visit no family, and be a guest in no house, in which my mother has been badly treated.” Mr. Brock remonstrated gently, and tried to put matters in their proper light. Even at that time — even while he was still ignorant of events which were then impending — Allan’s strangely isolated209 position in the world was a subject of serious anxiety to his old friend and tutor. The proposed visit to Thorpe Ambrose opened the very prospect210 of his making friends and connections suited to him in rank and age which Mr. Brock most desired to see; but Allan was not to be persuaded; he was obstinate74 and unreasonable; and the rector had no alternative but to drop the subject.
One on another the weeks passed monotonously211, and Allan showed but little of the elasticity212 of his age and character in bearing the affliction that had made him motherless. He finished and launched his yacht; but his own journeymen remarked that the work seemed to have lost its interest for him. It was not natural to the young man to brood over his solitude213 and his grief as he was brooding now. As the spring advanced, Mr. Brock began to feel uneasy about the future, if Allan was not roused at once by change of scene. After much pondering, the rector decided214 on trying a trip to Paris, and on extending the journey southward if his companion showed an interest in Continental215 traveling. Allan’s reception of the proposal made atonement for his obstinacy216 in refusing to cultivate his cousin’s acquaintance; he was willing to go with Mr. Brock wherever Mr. Brock pleased. The rector took him at his word, and in the middle of March the two strangely assorted217 companions left for London on their way to Paris.
Arrived in London, Mr. Brock found himself unexpectedly face to face with a new anxiety. The unwelcome subject of Ozias Midwinter, which had been buried in peace since the beginning of December, rose to the surface again, and confronted the rector at the very outset of his travels, more unmanageably than ever.
Mr. Brock’s position in dealing218 with this difficult matter had been hard enough to maintain when he had first meddled219 with it. He now found himself with no vantage-ground left to stand on. Events had so ordered it that the difference of opinion between Allan and his mother on the subject of the usher was entirely disassociated with the agitation which had hastened Mrs. Armadale’s death. Allan’s resolution to say no irritating words, and Mr. Brock’s reluctance to touch on a disagreeable topic, had kept them both silent about Midwinter in Mrs. Armadale’s presence during the three days which had intervened between that person’s departure and the appearance of the strange woman in the village. In the period of suspense220 and suffering that had followed no recurrence221 to the subject of the usher had been possible, and none had taken place. Free from all mental disquietude on this score, Allan had stoutly222 preserved his perverse224 interest in his new friend. He had written to tell Midwinter of his affliction, and he now proposed (unless the rector formally objected to it) paying a visit to his friend before he started for Paris the next morning.
What was Mr. Brock to do? There was no denying that Midwinter’s conduct had pleaded unanswerably against poor Mrs. Armadale’s unfounded distrust of him. If the rector, with no convincing reason to allege225 against it, and with no right to interfere but the right which Allan’s courtesy gave him, declined to sanction the proposed visit, then farewell to all the old sociability226 and confidence between tutor and pupil on the contemplated227 tour. Environed by difficulties, which might have been possibly worsted by a less just and a less kind-hearted man, Mr. Brock said a cautious word or two at parting, and (with more confidence in Midwinter’s discretion and self-denial than he quite liked to acknowledge, even to himself) left Allan free to take his own way.
After whiling away an hour, during the interval of his pupil’s absence, by a walk in the streets, the rector returned to his hotel, and, finding the newspaper disengaged in the coffee-room, sat down absently to look over it. His eye, resting idly on the title-page, was startled into instant attention by the very first advertisement that it chanced to light on at the head of the column. There was Allan’s mysterious namesake again, figuring in capital letters, and associated this time (in the character of a dead man) with the offer of a pecuniary228 reward. Thus it ran:
SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD.— To parish clerks, sextons, and others. Twenty Pounds reward will be paid to any person who can produce evidence of the death of ALLAN ARMADALE, only son of the late Allan Armadale, of Barbadoes, and born in Trinidad in the year 1830. Further particulars on application to Messrs. Hammick and Ridge, Lincoln’s Inn Fields, London.
Even Mr. Brock’s essentially229 unimaginative mind began to stagger superstitiously230 in the dark as he laid the newspaper down again. Little by little a vague suspicion took possession of him that the whole series of events which had followed the first appearance of Allan’s namesake in the newspaper six years since was held together by some mysterious connection, and was tending steadily231 to some unimaginable end. Without knowing why, he began to feel uneasy at Allan’s absence. Without knowing why, he became impatient to get his pupil away from England before anything else happened between night and morning.
In an hour more the rector was relieved of all immediate111 anxiety by Allan’s return to the hotel. The young man was vexed232 and out of spirits. He had discovered Midwinter’s lodgings233, but he had failed to find Midwinter himself. The only account his landlady could give of him was that he had gone out at his customary time to get his dinner at the nearest eating-house, and that he had not returned, in accordance with his usual regular habits, at his usual regular hour. Allan had therefore gone to inquire at the eating-house, and had found, on describing him, that Midwinter was well known there. It was his custom, on other days, to take a frugal234 dinner, and to sit half an hour afterward reading the newspaper. On this occasion, after dining, he had taken up the paper as usual, had suddenly thrown it aside again, and had gone, nobody knew where, in a violent hurry. No further information being attainable235, Allan had left a note at the lodgings, giving his address at the hotel, and begging Midwinter to come and say good-by before his departure for Paris.
The evening passed, and Allan’s invisible friend never appeared. The morning came, bringing no obstacles with it, and Mr. Brock and his pupil left London. So far Fortune had declared herself at last on the rector’s side. Ozias Midwinter, after intrusively236 rising to the surface, had conveniently dropped out of sight again. What was to happen next?
Advancing once more, by three weeks only, from past to present, Mr. Brock’s memory took up the next event on the seventh of April. To all appearance, the chain was now broken at last. The new event had no recognizable connection (either to his mind or to Allan’s) with any of the persons who had appeared, or any of the circumstances that had happened, in the by-gone time.
The travelers had as yet got no further than Paris. Allan’s spirits had risen with the change; and he had been made all the readier to enjoy the novelty of the scene around him by receiving a letter from Midwinter, containing news which Mr. Brock himself acknowledged promised fairly for the future. The ex-usher had been away on business when Allan had called at his lodgings, having been led by an accidental circumstance to open communications with his relatives on that day. The result had taken him entirely by surprise: it had unexpectedly secured to him a little income of his own for the rest of his life. His future plans, now that this piece of good fortune had fallen to his share, were still unsettled. But if Allan wished to hear what he ultimately decided on, his agent in London (whose direction he inclosed) would receive communications for him, and would furnish Mr. Armadale at all future times with his address.
On receipt of this letter, Allan had seized the pen in his usual headlong way, and had insisted on Midwinter’s immediately joining Mr. Brock and himself on their travels. The last days of March passed, and no answer to the proposal was received. The first days of April came, and on the seventh of the month there was a letter for Allan at last on the breakfast-table. He snatched it up, looked at the address, and threw the letter down again impatiently. The handwriting was not Midwinter’s. Allan finished his breakfast before he cared to read what his correspondent had to say to him.
The meal over, young Armadale lazily opened the letter. He began it with an expression of supreme237 indifference. He finished it with a sudden leap out of his chair, and a loud shout of astonishment. Wondering, as he well might, at this extraordinary outbreak, Mr. Brock took up the letter which Allan had tossed across the table to him. Before he had come to the end of it, his hands dropped helplessly on his knees, and the blank bewilderment of his pupil’s expression was accurately238 reflected on his own face.
If ever two men had good cause for being thrown completely off their balance, Allan and the rector were those two. The letter which had struck them both with the same shock of astonishment did, beyond all question, contain an announcement which, on a first discovery of it, was simply incredible. The news was from Norfolk, and was to this effect. In little more than one week’s time death had mown down no less than three lives in the family at Thorpe Ambrose, and Allan Armadale was at that moment heir to an estate of eight thousand a year!
A second perusal239 of the letter enabled the rector and his companion to master the details which had escaped them on a first reading.
The writer was the family lawyer at Thorpe Ambrose. After announcing to Allan the deaths of his cousin Arthur at the age of twenty-five, of his uncle Henry at the age of forty-eight, and of his cousin John at the age of twenty-one, the lawyer proceeded to give a brief abstract of the terms of the elder Mr. Blanchard’s will. The claims of male issue were, as is not unusual in such cases, preferred to the claims of female issue. Failing Arthur and his issue male, the estate was left to Henry and his issue male. Failing them, it went to the issue male of Henry’s sister; and, in default of such issue, to the next heir male. As events had happened, the two young men, Arthur and John, had died unmarried, and Henry Blanchard had died, leaving no surviving child but a daughter. Under these circumstances, Allan was the next heir male pointed at by the will, and was now legally successor to the Thorpe Ambrose estate. Having made this extraordinary announcement, the lawyer requested to be favored with Mr. Armadale’s instructions, and added, in conclusion, that he would be happy to furnish any further particulars that were desired.
It was useless to waste time in wondering at an event which neither Allan nor his mother had ever thought of as even remotely possible. The only thing to be done was to go back to England at once. The next day found the travelers installed once more in their London hotel, and the day after the affair was placed in the proper professional hands. The inevitable240 corresponding and consulting ensued, and one by one the all-important particulars flowed in, until the measure of information was pronounced to be full.
This was the strange story of the three deaths:
At the time when Mr. Brock had written to Mrs. Armadale’s relatives to announce the news of her decease (that is to say, in the middle of the month of January), the family at Thorpe Ambrose numbered five persons — Arthur Blanchard (in possession of the estate), living in the great house with his mother; and Henry Blanchard, the uncle, living in the neighborhood, a widower241 with two children, a son and a daughter. To cement the family connection still more closely, Arthur Blanchard was engaged to be married to his cousin. The wedding was to be celebrated242 with great local rejoicings in the coming summer, when the young lady had completed her twentieth year.
The month of February had brought changes with it in the family position. Observing signs of delicacy in the health of his son, Mr. Henry Blanchard left Norfolk, taking the young man with him, under medical advice, to try the climate of Italy. Early in the ensuing month of March, Arthur Blanchard also left Thorpe Ambrose, for a few days only, on business which required his presence in London. The business took him into the City. Annoyed by the endless impediments in the streets, he returned westward243 by one of the river steamers, and, so returning, met his death.
As the steamer left the wharf244, he noticed a woman near him who had shown a singular hesitation245 in embarking246, and who had been the last of the passengers to take her place in the vessel. She was neatly dressed in black silk, with a red Paisley shawl over her shoulders, and she kept her face hidden behind a thick veil. Arthur Blanchard was struck by the rare grace and elegance247 of her figure, and he felt a young man’s passing curiosity to see her face. She neither lifted her veil nor turned her head his way. After taking a few steps hesitatingly backward and forward on the deck, she walked away on a sudden to the stern of the vessel. In a minute more there was a cry of alarm from the man at the helm, and the engines were stopped immediately. The woman had thrown herself overboard.
The passengers all rushed to the side of the vessel to look. Arthur Blanchard alone, without an instant’s hesitation, jumped into the river. He was an excellent swimmer, and he reached the woman as she rose again to the surface, after sinking for the first time. Help was at hand, and they were both brought safely ashore248. The woman was taken to the nearest police station, and was soon restored to her senses, her preserver giving his name and address, as usual in such cases, to the inspector249 on duty, who wisely recommended him to get into a warm bath, and to send to his lodgings for dry clothes. Arthur Blanchard, who had never known an hour’s illness since he was a child, laughed at the caution, and went back in a cab. The next day he was too ill to attend the examination before the magistrate. A fortnight afterward he was a dead man.
The news of the calamity250 reached Henry Blanchard and his son at Milan, and within an hour of the time when they received it they were on their way back to England. The snow on the Alps had loosened earlier than usual that year, and the passes were notoriously dangerous. The father and son, traveling in their own carriage, were met on the mountain by the mail returning, after sending the letters on by hand. Warnings which would have produced their effect under any ordinary circumstances were now vainly addressed to the two Englishmen. Their impatience251 to be at home again, after the catastrophe252 which had befallen their family, brooked253 no delay. Bribes254 lavishly255 offered to the postilions, tempted them to go on. The carriage pursued its way, and was lost to view in the mist. When it was seen again, it was disinterred from the bottom of a precipice256 — the men, the horses, and the vehicle all crushed together under the wreck12 and ruin of an avalanche257.
So the three lives were mown down by death. So, in a clear sequence of events, a woman’s suicide-leap into a river had opened to Allan Armadale the succession to the Thorpe Ambrose estates.
Who was the woman? The man who saved her life never knew. The magistrate who remanded her, the chaplain who exhorted258 her, the reporter who exhibited her in print, never knew. It was recorded of her with surprise that, though most respectably dressed, she had nevertheless described herself as being “in distress.” She had expressed the deepest contrition259, but had persisted in giving a name which was on the face of it a false one; in telling a commonplace story, which was manifestly an invention; and in refusing to the last to furnish any clew to her friends. A lady connected with a charitable institution (“interested by her extreme elegance and beauty”) had volunteered to take charge of her, and to bring her into a better frame of mind . The first day’s experience of the penitent260 had been far from cheering, and the second day’s experience had been conclusive261. She had left the institution by stealth; and — though the visiting clergyman, taking a special interest in the case, had caused special efforts to be made — all search after her, from that time forth, had proved fruitless.
While this useless investigation262 (undertaken at Allan’s express desire) was in progress, the lawyers had settled the preliminary formalities connected with the succession to the property. All that remained was for the new master of Thorpe Ambrose to decide when he would personally establish himself on the estate of which he was now the legal possessor.
Left necessarily to his own guidance in this matter, Allan settled it for himself in his usual hot-headed, generous way. He positively263 declined to take possession until Mrs. Blanchard and her niece (who had been permitted thus far, as a matter of courtesy, to remain in their old home) had recovered from the calamity that had befallen them, and were fit to decide for themselves what their future proceedings264 should be. A private correspondence followed this resolution, comprehending, on Allan’s side, unlimited265 offers of everything he had to give (in a house which he had not yet seen), and, on the ladies’ side, a discreetly266 reluctant readiness to profit by the young gentleman’s generosity267 in the matter of time. To the astonishment of his legal advisers268, Allan entered their office one morning, accompanied by Mr. Brock, and announced, with perfect composure, that the ladies had been good enough to take his own arrangements off his hands, and that, in deference269 to their convenience, he meant to defer270 establishing himself at Thorpe Ambrose till that day two months. The lawyers stared at Allan, and Allan, returning the compliment, stared at the lawyers.
“What on earth are you wondering at, gentlemen?” he inquired, with a boyish bewilderment in his good-humored blue eyes. “Why shouldn’t I give the ladies their two months, if the ladies want them? Let the poor things take their own time, and welcome. My rights? and my position? Oh, pooh! pooh! I’m in no hurry to be squire271 of the parish; it’s not in my way. What do I mean to do for the two months? What I should have done anyhow, whether the ladies had stayed or not; I mean to go cruising at sea. That’s what I like! I’ve got a new yacht at home in Somersetshire — a yacht of my own building. And I’ll tell you what, sir,” continued Allan, seizing the head partner by the arm in the fervor of his friendly intentions, “you look sadly in want of a holiday in the fresh air, and you shall come along with me on the trial trip of my new vessel. And your partners, too, if they like. And the head clerk, who is the best fellow I ever met with in my life. Plenty of room — we’ll all shake down together on the floor, and we’ll give Mr. Brock a rug on the cabin table. Thorpe Ambrose be hanged! Do you mean to say, if you had built a vessel yourself (as I have), you would go to any estate in the three kingdoms, while your own little beauty was sitting like a duck on the water at home, and waiting for you to try her? You legal gentlemen are great hands at argument. What do you think of that argument? I think it’s unanswerable — and I’m off to Somersetshire to-morrow.”
With those words, the new possessor of eight thousand a year dashed into the head clerk’s office, and invited that functionary272 to a cruise on the high seas, with a smack273 on the shoulder which was heard distinctly by his masters in the next room. The firm looked in interrogative wonder at Mr. Brock. A client who could see a position among the landed gentry of England waiting for him, without being in a hurry to occupy it at the earliest possible opportunity, was a client of whom they possessed no previous experience.
“He must have been very oddly brought up,” said the lawyers to the rector.
“Very oddly,” said the rector to the lawyers.
A last leap over one month more brought Mr. Brock to the present time — to the bedroom at Castletown, in which he was sitting thinking, and to the anxiety which was obstinately intruding itself between him and his night’s rest. That anxiety was no unfamiliar274 enemy to the rector’s peace of mind. It had first found him out in Somersetshire six months since, and it had now followed him to the Isle of Man under the inveterately obtrusive275 form of Ozias Midwinter.
The change in Allan’s future prospects276 had worked no corresponding alteration277 in his perverse fancy for the castaway at the village inn. In the midst of the consultations278 with the lawyers he had found time to visit Midwinter, and on the journey back with the rector there was Allan’s friend in the carriage, returning with them to Somersetshire by Allan’s own invitation.
The ex-usher’s hair had grown again on his shaven skull279, and his dress showed the renovating280 influence of an accession of pecuniary means, but in all other respects the man was unchanged. He met Mr. Brock’s distrust with the old uncomplaining resignation to it; he maintained the same suspicious silence on the subject of his relatives and his early life; he spoke of Allan’s kindness to him with the same undisciplined fervor of gratitude and surprise. “I have done what I could, sir,” he said to Mr. Brock, while Allan was asleep in the railway carriage. “I have kept out of Mr. Armadale’s way, and I have not even answered his last letter to me. More than that is more than I can do. I don’t ask you to consider my own feeling toward the only human creature who has never suspected and never ill-treated me. I can resist my own feeling, but I can’t resist the young gentleman himself. There’s not another like him in the world. If we are to be parted again, it must be his doing or yours — not mine. The dog’s master has whistled,” said this strange man, with a momentary281 outburst of the hidden passion in him, and a sudden springing of angry tears in his wild brown eyes, “and it is hard, sir, to blame the dog when the dog comes.”
Once more Mr. Brock’s humanity got the better of Mr. Brock’s caution. He determined to wait, and see what the coming days of social intercourse might bring forth.
The days passed; the yacht was rigged and fitted for sea; a cruise was arranged to the Welsh coast — and Midwinter the Secret was the same Midwinter still. Confinement282 on board a little vessel of five-and-thirty tons offered no great attraction to a man of Mr. Brock’s time of life. But he sailed on the trial trip of the yacht nevertheless, rather than trust Allan alone with his new friend.
Would the close companionship of the three on their cruise tempt20 the man into talking of his own affairs? No; he was ready enough on other subjects, especially if Allan led the way to them. But not a word escaped him about himself. Mr. Brock tried him with questions about his recent inheritance, and was answered as he had been answered once already at the Somersetshire inn. It was a curious coincidence, Midwinter admitted, that Mr. Armadale’s prospects and his own prospects should both have unexpectedly changed for the better about the same time. But there the resemblance ended. It was no large fortune that had fallen into his lap, though it was enough for his wants. It had not reconciled him with his relations, for the money had not come to him as a matter of kindness, but as a matter of right. As for the circumstance which had led to his communicating with his family, it was not worth mentioning, seeing that the temporary renewal283 of intercourse which had followed had produced no friendly results. Nothing had come of it but the money — and, with the money, an anxiety which troubled him sometimes, when he woke in the small hours of the morning.
At those last words he became suddenly silent, as if for once his well-guarded tongue had betrayed him.
Mr. Brock seized the opportunity, and bluntly asked him what the nature of the anxiety might be. Did it relate to money? No; it related to a Letter which had been waiting for him for many years. Had he received the letter? Not yet; it had been left under charge of one of the partners in the firm which had managed the business of his inheritance for him; the partner had been absent from England; and the letter, locked up among his own private papers, could not be got at till he returned. He was expected back toward the latter part of that present May, and, if Midwinter could be sure where the cruise would take them to at the close of the month, he thought he would write and have the letter forwarded. Had he any family reasons to be anxious about it? None that he knew of; he was curious to see what had been waiting for him for many years, and that was all. So he answered the rector’s questions, with his tawny face turned away over the low bulwark284 of the yacht, and his fishing-line dragging in his supple brown hands.
Favored by wind and weather, the little vessel had done wonders on her trial trip. Before the period fixed for the duration of the cruise had half expired, the yacht was as high up on the Welsh coast as Holyhead; and Allan, eager for adventure in unknown regions, had declared boldly for an extension of the voyage northward285 to the Isle of Man. Having ascertained from reliable authority that the weather really promised well for a cruise in that quarter, and that, in the event of any unforeseen necessity for return, the railway was accessible by the steamer from Douglas to Liverpool, Mr. Brock agreed to his pupil’s proposal. By that night’s post he wrote to Allan’s lawyers and to his own rectory, indicating Douglas in the Isle of Man as the next address to which letters might be forwarded. At the post-office he met Midwinter, who had just dropped a letter into the box. Remembering what he had said on board the yacht, Mr. Brock concluded that they had both taken the same precaution, and had ordered their correspondence to be forwarded to the same place.
Late the next day they set sail for the Isle of Man.
For a few hours all went well; but sunset brought with it the signs of a coming change. With the darkness the wind rose to a gale286, and the question whether Allan and his journeymen had or had not built a stout223 sea-boat was seriously tested for the first time. All that night, after trying vainly to bear up for Holyhead, the little vessel kept the sea, and stood her trial bravely. The next morning the Isle of Man was in view, and the yacht was safe at Castletown. A survey by daylight of hull287 and rigging showed that all the damage done might be set right again in a week’s time. The cruising party had accordingly remained at Castletown, Allan being occupied in superintending the repairs, Mr. Brock in exploring the neighborhood, and Midwinter in making daily pilgrimages on foot to Douglas and back to inquire for letters.
The first of the cruising party who received a letter was Allan. “More worries from those everlasting46 lawyers,” was all he said, when he had read the letter, and had crumpled it up in his pocket. The rector’s turn came next, before the week’s sojourn at Castletown had expired. On the fifth day he found a letter from Somersetshire waiting for him at the hotel. It had been brought there by Midwinter, and it contained news which entirely overthrew288 all Mr. Brock’s holiday plans. The clergyman who had undertaken to do duty for him in his absence had been unexpectedly summoned home again; and Mr. Brock had no choice (the day of the week being Friday) but to cross the next morning from Douglass to Liverpool, and get back by railway on Saturday night in time for Sunday’s service.
Having read his letter, and resigned himself to his altered circumstances as patiently as he might, the rector passed next to a question that pressed for serious consideration in its turn. Burdened with his heavy responsibility toward Allan, and conscious of his own undiminished distrust of Allan’s new friend, how was he to act, in the emergency that now beset him, toward the two young men who had been his companions on the cruise?
Mr. Brock had first asked himself that awkward question on the Friday afternoon, and he was still trying vainly to answer it, alone in his own room, at one o’clock on the Saturday morning. It was then only the end of May, and the residence of the ladies at Thorpe Ambrose (unless they chose to shorten it of their own accord) would not expire till the middle of June. Even if the repairs of the yacht had been completed (which was not the case), there was no possible pretense289 for hurrying Allan back to Somersetshire. But one other alternative remained — to leave him where he was. In other words, to leave him, at the turning-point of his life, under the sole influence of a man whom he had first met with as a castaway at a village inn, and who was still, to all practical purposes, a total stranger to him.
In despair of obtaining any better means of enlightenment to guide his decision, Mr. Brock reverted290 to the impression which Midwinter had produced on his own mind in the familiarity of the cruise.
Young as he was, the ex-usher had evidently lived a varied life. He could speak of books like a man who had really enjoyed them; he could take his turn at the helm like a sailor who knew his duty; he could cook, and climb the rigging, and lay the cloth for dinner, with an odd delight in the exhibition of his own dexterity291. The display of these, and other qualities like them, as his spirits rose with the cruise, had revealed the secret of his attraction for Allan plainly enough. But had all disclosures rested there? Had the man let no chance light in on his character in the rector’s presence? Very little; and that little did not set him forth in a morally alluring292 aspect. His way in the world had lain evidently in doubtful places; familiarity with the small villainies of vagabonds peeped out of him now and then; and, more significant still, he habitually293 slept the light, suspicious sleep of a man who has been accustomed to close his eyes in doubt of the company under the same roof with him. Down to the very latest moment of the rector’s experience of him — down to that present Friday night — his conduct had been persistently294 secret and unaccountable to the very last. After bringing Mr. Brock’s letter to the hotel, he had mysterious disappeared from the house without leaving any message for his companions, and without letting anybody see whether he had or had not received a letter himself. At nightfall he had come back stealthily in the darkness, had been caught on the stairs by Allan, eager to tell him of the change in the rector’s plans, had listened to the news without a word of remark! and had ended by sulkily locking himself into his own room. What was there in his favor to set against such revelations of his character as these — against his wandering eyes, his obstinate reserve with the rector, his ominous295 silence on the subject of family and friends? Little or nothing: the sum of all his merits began and ended with his gratitude to Allan.
Mr. Brock left his seat on the side of the bed, trimmed his candle, and, still lost in his own thoughts, looked out absently at the night. The change of place brought no new ideas with it. His retrospect296 over his own past life had amply satisfied him that his present sense of responsibility rested on no merely fanciful grounds, and, having brought him to that point, had left him there, standing at the window, and seeing nothing but the total darkness in his own mind faithfully reflected by the total darkness of the night.
“If I only had a friend to apply to!” thought the rector. “If I could only find some one to help me in this miserable297 place!”
At the moment when the aspiration69 crossed his mind, it was suddenly answered by a low knock at the door, and a voice said softly in the passage outside, “Let me come in.”
After an instant’s pause to steady his nerves, Mr. Brock opened the door, and found himself, at one o’clock in the morning, standing face to face on the threshold of his own bedroom with Ozias Midwinter.
“Are you ill?” asked the rector, as soon as his astonishment would allow him to speak.
“I have come here to make a clean breast of it!” was the strange answer. “Will you let me in?”
With those words he walked into the room, his eyes on the ground, his lips ashy pale, and his hand holding something hidden behind him.
“I saw the light under your door,” he went on, without looking up, and without moving his hand, “and I know the trouble on your mind which is keeping you from your rest. You are going away to-morrow morning, and you don’t like leaving Mr. Armadale alone with a stranger like me.”
Startled as he was, Mr. Brock saw the serious necessity of being plain with a man who had come at that time, and had said those words to him.
“You have guessed right,” he answered. “I stand in the place of a father to Allan Armadale, and I am naturally unwilling17 to leave him, at his age, with a man whom I don’t know.”
Ozias Midwinter took a step forward to the table. His wandering eyes rested on the rector’s New Testament298, which was one of the objects lying on it.
“You have read that Book, in the years of a long life, to many congregations,” he said. “Has it taught you mercy to your miserable fellow-creatures?”
Without waiting to be answered, he looked Mr. Brock in the face for the first time, and brought his hidden hand slowly into view.
“Read that,” he said; “and, for Christ’s sake, pity me when you know who I am.”
He laid a letter of many pages on the table. It was the letter that Mr. Neal had posted at Wildbad nineteen years since.
点击收听单词发音
1 isle | |
n.小岛,岛 | |
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2 retired | |
adj.隐退的,退休的,退役的 | |
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3 beset | |
v.镶嵌;困扰,包围 | |
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4 placid | |
adj.安静的,平和的 | |
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5 placidly | |
adv.平稳地,平静地 | |
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6 applied | |
adj.应用的;v.应用,适用 | |
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7 intruding | |
v.侵入,侵扰,打扰( intrude的现在分词);把…强加于 | |
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8 complexion | |
n.肤色;情况,局面;气质,性格 | |
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9 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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10 obtrude | |
v.闯入;侵入;打扰 | |
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11 shipwreck | |
n.船舶失事,海难 | |
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12 wreck | |
n.失事,遇难;沉船;vt.(船等)失事,遇难 | |
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13 posthumous | |
adj.遗腹的;父亡后出生的;死后的,身后的 | |
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14 afterward | |
adv.后来;以后 | |
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15 estranged | |
adj.疏远的,分离的 | |
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16 unwillingness | |
n. 不愿意,不情愿 | |
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17 unwilling | |
adj.不情愿的 | |
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18 solitary | |
adj.孤独的,独立的,荒凉的;n.隐士 | |
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19 privately | |
adv.以私人的身份,悄悄地,私下地 | |
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20 tempt | |
vt.引诱,勾引,吸引,引起…的兴趣 | |
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21 sojourn | |
v./n.旅居,寄居;逗留 | |
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22 inquiries | |
n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 );疑问;探究;打听 | |
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23 formerly | |
adv.从前,以前 | |
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24 possessed | |
adj.疯狂的;拥有的,占有的 | |
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25 vouched | |
v.保证( vouch的过去式和过去分词 );担保;确定;确定地说 | |
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26 temperament | |
n.气质,性格,性情 | |
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27 blindfold | |
vt.蒙住…的眼睛;adj.盲目的;adv.盲目地;n.蒙眼的绷带[布等]; 障眼物,蒙蔽人的事物 | |
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28 disposition | |
n.性情,性格;意向,倾向;排列,部署 | |
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29 quaint | |
adj.古雅的,离奇有趣的,奇怪的 | |
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30 originality | |
n.创造力,独创性;新颖 | |
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31 inevitably | |
adv.不可避免地;必然发生地 | |
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32 thoroughly | |
adv.完全地,彻底地,十足地 | |
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33 luring | |
吸引,引诱(lure的现在分词形式) | |
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34 annoyance | |
n.恼怒,生气,烦恼 | |
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35 isolation | |
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36 admiration | |
n.钦佩,赞美,羡慕 | |
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37 intercourse | |
n.性交;交流,交往,交际 | |
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38 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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39 dread | |
vt.担忧,忧虑;惧怕,不敢;n.担忧,畏惧 | |
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40 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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41 contentedly | |
adv.心满意足地 | |
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42 tempted | |
v.怂恿(某人)干不正当的事;冒…的险(tempt的过去分词) | |
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43 monotonous | |
adj.单调的,一成不变的,使人厌倦的 | |
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44 regularity | |
n.规律性,规则性;匀称,整齐 | |
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45 everlastingly | |
永久地,持久地 | |
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46 everlasting | |
adj.永恒的,持久的,无止境的 | |
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47 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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48 astonishment | |
n.惊奇,惊异 | |
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49 besought | |
v.恳求,乞求(某事物)( beseech的过去式和过去分词 );(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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50 ridge | |
n.山脊;鼻梁;分水岭 | |
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51 aged | |
adj.年老的,陈年的 | |
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52 spoke | |
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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53 poke | |
n.刺,戳,袋;vt.拨开,刺,戳;vi.戳,刺,捅,搜索,伸出,行动散慢 | |
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54 averted | |
防止,避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 ); 转移 | |
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55 Christian | |
adj.基督教徒的;n.基督教徒 | |
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56 misery | |
n.痛苦,苦恼,苦难;悲惨的境遇,贫苦 | |
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57 pointed | |
adj.尖的,直截了当的 | |
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58 inquisitively | |
过分好奇地; 好问地 | |
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59 inquisitive | |
adj.求知欲强的,好奇的,好寻根究底的 | |
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60 motives | |
n.动机,目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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61 motive | |
n.动机,目的;adv.发动的,运动的 | |
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62 seclusion | |
n.隐遁,隔离 | |
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63 quaintly | |
adv.古怪离奇地 | |
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64 inveterately | |
adv.根深蒂固地,积习地 | |
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65 bias | |
n.偏见,偏心,偏袒;vt.使有偏见 | |
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66 vessel | |
n.船舶;容器,器皿;管,导管,血管 | |
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67 conscientiously | |
adv.凭良心地;认真地,负责尽职地;老老实实 | |
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68 aspirations | |
强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 ); 志向; 发送气音; 发 h 音 | |
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69 aspiration | |
n.志向,志趣抱负;渴望;(语)送气音;吸出 | |
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70 Oxford | |
n.牛津(英国城市) | |
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71 metropolis | |
n.首府;大城市 | |
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72 wrought | |
v.引起;以…原料制作;运转;adj.制造的 | |
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73 morbid | |
adj.病的;致病的;病态的;可怕的 | |
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74 obstinate | |
adj.顽固的,倔强的,不易屈服的,较难治愈的 | |
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75 obstinately | |
ad.固执地,顽固地 | |
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76 dreaded | |
adj.令人畏惧的;害怕的v.害怕,恐惧,担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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77 fortified | |
adj. 加强的 | |
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78 triumphantly | |
ad.得意洋洋地;得胜地;成功地 | |
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79 dreary | |
adj.令人沮丧的,沉闷的,单调乏味的 | |
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80 laborers | |
n.体力劳动者,工人( laborer的名词复数 );(熟练工人的)辅助工 | |
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81 magistrate | |
n.地方行政官,地方法官,治安官 | |
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82 tawny | |
adj.茶色的,黄褐色的;n.黄褐色 | |
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83 linen | |
n.亚麻布,亚麻线,亚麻制品;adj.亚麻布制的,亚麻的 | |
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84 frenzy | |
n.疯狂,狂热,极度的激动 | |
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85 consultation | |
n.咨询;商量;商议;会议 | |
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86 inscribed | |
v.写,刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 );内接 | |
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87 pouch | |
n.小袋,小包,囊状袋;vt.装...入袋中,用袋运输;vi.用袋送信件 | |
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88 crumpled | |
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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89 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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90 usher | |
n.带位员,招待员;vt.引导,护送;vi.做招待,担任引座员 | |
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91 imputation | |
n.归罪,责难 | |
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92 fervent | |
adj.热的,热烈的,热情的 | |
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93 uncouth | |
adj.无教养的,粗鲁的 | |
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94 abstained | |
v.戒(尤指酒),戒除( abstain的过去式和过去分词 );弃权(不投票) | |
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95 wretch | |
n.可怜的人,不幸的人;卑鄙的人 | |
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96 remonstrated | |
v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 );告诫 | |
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97 planks | |
(厚)木板( plank的名词复数 ); 政纲条目,政策要点 | |
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98 incorrigible | |
adj.难以纠正的,屡教不改的 | |
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99 rendering | |
n.表现,描写 | |
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100 snug | |
adj.温暖舒适的,合身的,安全的;v.使整洁干净,舒适地依靠,紧贴;n.(英)酒吧里的私房 | |
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101 lodging | |
n.寄宿,住所;(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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102 chancellor | |
n.(英)大臣;法官;(德、奥)总理;大学校长 | |
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103 exchequer | |
n.财政部;国库 | |
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104 margin | |
n.页边空白;差额;余地,余裕;边,边缘 | |
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105 socialist | |
n.社会主义者;adj.社会主义的 | |
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106 doctrines | |
n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 );教义;学说;(政府政策的)正式声明 | |
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107 discretion | |
n.谨慎;随意处理 | |
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108 varied | |
adj.多样的,多变化的 | |
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109 lengthen | |
vt.使伸长,延长 | |
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110 considerably | |
adv.极大地;相当大地;在很大程度上 | |
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111 immediate | |
adj.立即的;直接的,最接近的;紧靠的 | |
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112 permanently | |
adv.永恒地,永久地,固定不变地 | |
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113 bosom | |
n.胸,胸部;胸怀;内心;adj.亲密的 | |
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114 agitation | |
n.搅动;搅拌;鼓动,煽动 | |
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115 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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116 unreasonable | |
adj.不讲道理的,不合情理的,过度的 | |
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117 vehement | |
adj.感情强烈的;热烈的;(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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118 remarkably | |
ad.不同寻常地,相当地 | |
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119 sane | |
adj.心智健全的,神志清醒的,明智的,稳健的 | |
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120 certified | |
a.经证明合格的;具有证明文件的 | |
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121 contemplate | |
vt.盘算,计议;周密考虑;注视,凝视 | |
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122 supple | |
adj.柔软的,易弯的,逢迎的,顺从的,灵活的;vt.使柔软,使柔顺,使顺从;vi.变柔软,变柔顺 | |
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123 sinewy | |
adj.多腱的,强壮有力的 | |
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124 conceal | |
v.隐藏,隐瞒,隐蔽 | |
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125 perversity | |
n.任性;刚愎自用 | |
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126 affected | |
adj.不自然的,假装的 | |
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127 pervade | |
v.弥漫,遍及,充满,渗透,漫延 | |
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128 fiber | |
n.纤维,纤维质 | |
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129 lithe | |
adj.(指人、身体)柔软的,易弯的 | |
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130 savage | |
adj.野蛮的;凶恶的,残暴的;n.未开化的人 | |
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131 indifference | |
n.不感兴趣,不关心,冷淡,不在乎 | |
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132 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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133 acting | |
n.演戏,行为,假装;adj.代理的,临时的,演出用的 | |
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134 fervor | |
n.热诚;热心;炽热 | |
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135 sincerity | |
n.真诚,诚意;真实 | |
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136 rapture | |
n.狂喜;全神贯注;着迷;v.使狂喜 | |
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137 gratitude | |
adj.感激,感谢 | |
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138 passionate | |
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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139 quenched | |
解(渴)( quench的过去式和过去分词 ); 终止(某事物); (用水)扑灭(火焰等); 将(热物体)放入水中急速冷却 | |
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140 unnatural | |
adj.不自然的;反常的 | |
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141 repelled | |
v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 );使厌恶;排斥;推开 | |
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142 impulsively | |
adv.冲动地 | |
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143 misgiving | |
n.疑虑,担忧,害怕 | |
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144 kindly | |
adj.和蔼的,温和的,爽快的;adv.温和地,亲切地 | |
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145 resolutely | |
adj.坚决地,果断地 | |
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146 resolute | |
adj.坚决的,果敢的 | |
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147 concealing | |
v.隐藏,隐瞒,遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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148 diplomacy | |
n.外交;外交手腕,交际手腕 | |
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149 rattled | |
慌乱的,恼火的 | |
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150 impending | |
a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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151 diverged | |
分开( diverge的过去式和过去分词 ); 偏离; 分歧; 分道扬镳 | |
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152 draughts | |
n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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153 bragged | |
v.自夸,吹嘘( brag的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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154 meritorious | |
adj.值得赞赏的 | |
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155 remonstrance | |
n抗议,抱怨 | |
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156 remonstrances | |
n.抱怨,抗议( remonstrance的名词复数 ) | |
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157 gentry | |
n.绅士阶级,上层阶级 | |
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158 justify | |
vt.证明…正当(或有理),为…辩护 | |
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159 justifying | |
证明…有理( justify的现在分词 ); 为…辩护; 对…作出解释; 为…辩解(或辩护) | |
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160 interfere | |
v.(in)干涉,干预;(with)妨碍,打扰 | |
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161 astounded | |
v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词);愕然;愕;惊讶 | |
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162 reverting | |
恢复( revert的现在分词 ); 重提; 回到…上; 归还 | |
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163 passionately | |
ad.热烈地,激烈地 | |
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164 interfered | |
v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 );调停;妨碍;干涉 | |
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165 intimacy | |
n.熟悉,亲密,密切关系,亲昵的言行 | |
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166 concessions | |
n.(尤指由政府或雇主给予的)特许权( concession的名词复数 );承认;减价;(在某地的)特许经营权 | |
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167 interval | |
n.间隔,间距;幕间休息,中场休息 | |
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168 pony | |
adj.小型的;n.小马 | |
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169 humanely | |
adv.仁慈地;人道地;富人情地;慈悲地 | |
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170 precipitately | |
adv.猛进地 | |
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171 twilight | |
n.暮光,黄昏;暮年,晚期,衰落时期 | |
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172 ascertained | |
v.弄清,确定,查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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173 tranquil | |
adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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174 rebuke | |
v.指责,非难,斥责 [反]praise | |
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175 trifling | |
adj.微不足道的;没什么价值的 | |
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176 gallop | |
v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔;飞速发展 | |
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177 straightforward | |
adj.正直的,坦率的;易懂的,简单的 | |
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178 extorted | |
v.敲诈( extort的过去式和过去分词 );曲解 | |
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179 confession | |
n.自白,供认,承认 | |
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180 entreated | |
恳求,乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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181 heartily | |
adv.衷心地,诚恳地,十分,很 | |
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182 clinched | |
v.(尤指两人)互相紧紧抱[扭]住( clinch的过去式和过去分词 );解决(争端、交易),达成(协议) | |
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183 thump | |
v.重击,砰然地响;n.重击,重击声 | |
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184 vexing | |
adj.使人烦恼的,使人恼火的v.使烦恼( vex的现在分词 );使苦恼;使生气;详细讨论 | |
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185 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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186 lapse | |
n.过失,流逝,失效,抛弃信仰,间隔;vi.堕落,停止,失效,流逝;vt.使失效 | |
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187 memorable | |
adj.值得回忆的,难忘的,特别的,显著的 | |
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188 accosted | |
v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 );跟…搭讪;(乞丐等)上前向…乞讨;(妓女等)勾搭 | |
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189 neatly | |
adv.整洁地,干净地,灵巧地,熟练地 | |
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190 bonnet | |
n.无边女帽;童帽 | |
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191 graceful | |
adj.优美的,优雅的;得体的 | |
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192 landlady | |
n.女房东,女地主 | |
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193 apprehension | |
n.理解,领悟;逮捕,拘捕;忧虑 | |
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194 soothing | |
adj.慰藉的;使人宽心的;镇静的 | |
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195 heeded | |
v.听某人的劝告,听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 );变平,使(某物)变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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196 determined | |
adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
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197 amazement | |
n.惊奇,惊讶 | |
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198 distress | |
n.苦恼,痛苦,不舒适;不幸;vt.使悲痛 | |
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199 deserted | |
adj.荒芜的,荒废的,无人的,被遗弃的 | |
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200 promising | |
adj.有希望的,有前途的 | |
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201 compliance | |
n.顺从;服从;附和;屈从 | |
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202 contrived | |
adj.不自然的,做作的;虚构的 | |
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203 habitual | |
adj.习惯性的;通常的,惯常的 | |
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204 reluctance | |
n.厌恶,讨厌,勉强,不情愿 | |
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205 mischief | |
n.损害,伤害,危害;恶作剧,捣蛋,胡闹 | |
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206 esteem | |
n.尊敬,尊重;vt.尊重,敬重;把…看作 | |
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207 adverted | |
引起注意(advert的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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208 delicacy | |
n.精致,细微,微妙,精良;美味,佳肴 | |
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209 isolated | |
adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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210 prospect | |
n.前景,前途;景色,视野 | |
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211 monotonously | |
adv.单调地,无变化地 | |
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212 elasticity | |
n.弹性,伸缩力 | |
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213 solitude | |
n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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214 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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215 continental | |
adj.大陆的,大陆性的,欧洲大陆的 | |
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216 obstinacy | |
n.顽固;(病痛等)难治 | |
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217 assorted | |
adj.各种各样的,各色俱备的 | |
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218 dealing | |
n.经商方法,待人态度 | |
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219 meddled | |
v.干涉,干预(他人事务)( meddle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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220 suspense | |
n.(对可能发生的事)紧张感,担心,挂虑 | |
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221 recurrence | |
n.复发,反复,重现 | |
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222 stoutly | |
adv.牢固地,粗壮的 | |
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224 perverse | |
adj.刚愎的;坚持错误的,行为反常的 | |
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225 allege | |
vt.宣称,申述,主张,断言 | |
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226 sociability | |
n.好交际,社交性,善于交际 | |
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227 contemplated | |
adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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228 pecuniary | |
adj.金钱的;金钱上的 | |
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229 essentially | |
adv.本质上,实质上,基本上 | |
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230 superstitiously | |
被邪教所支配 | |
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231 steadily | |
adv.稳定地;不变地;持续地 | |
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232 vexed | |
adj.争论不休的;(指问题等)棘手的;争论不休的问题;烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 );使苦恼;使生气;详细讨论 | |
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233 lodgings | |
n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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234 frugal | |
adj.节俭的,节约的,少量的,微量的 | |
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235 attainable | |
a.可达到的,可获得的 | |
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236 intrusively | |
adv.干扰地,侵入地 | |
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237 supreme | |
adj.极度的,最重要的;至高的,最高的 | |
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238 accurately | |
adv.准确地,精确地 | |
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239 perusal | |
n.细读,熟读;目测 | |
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240 inevitable | |
adj.不可避免的,必然发生的 | |
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241 widower | |
n.鳏夫 | |
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242 celebrated | |
adj.有名的,声誉卓著的 | |
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243 westward | |
n.西方,西部;adj.西方的,向西的;adv.向西 | |
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244 wharf | |
n.码头,停泊处 | |
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245 hesitation | |
n.犹豫,踌躇 | |
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246 embarking | |
乘船( embark的现在分词 ); 装载; 从事 | |
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247 elegance | |
n.优雅;优美,雅致;精致,巧妙 | |
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248 ashore | |
adv.在(向)岸上,上岸 | |
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249 inspector | |
n.检查员,监察员,视察员 | |
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250 calamity | |
n.灾害,祸患,不幸事件 | |
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251 impatience | |
n.不耐烦,急躁 | |
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252 catastrophe | |
n.大灾难,大祸 | |
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253 brooked | |
容忍,忍受(brook的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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254 bribes | |
n.贿赂( bribe的名词复数 );向(某人)行贿,贿赂v.贿赂( bribe的第三人称单数 );向(某人)行贿,贿赂 | |
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255 lavishly | |
adv.慷慨地,大方地 | |
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256 precipice | |
n.悬崖,危急的处境 | |
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257 avalanche | |
n.雪崩,大量涌来 | |
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258 exhorted | |
v.劝告,劝说( exhort的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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259 contrition | |
n.悔罪,痛悔 | |
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260 penitent | |
adj.后悔的;n.后悔者;忏悔者 | |
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261 conclusive | |
adj.最后的,结论的;确凿的,消除怀疑的 | |
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262 investigation | |
n.调查,调查研究 | |
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263 positively | |
adv.明确地,断然,坚决地;实在,确实 | |
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264 proceedings | |
n.进程,过程,议程;诉讼(程序);公报 | |
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265 unlimited | |
adj.无限的,不受控制的,无条件的 | |
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266 discreetly | |
ad.(言行)审慎地,慎重地 | |
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267 generosity | |
n.大度,慷慨,慷慨的行为 | |
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268 advisers | |
顾问,劝告者( adviser的名词复数 ); (指导大学新生学科问题等的)指导教授 | |
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269 deference | |
n.尊重,顺从;敬意 | |
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270 defer | |
vt.推迟,拖延;vi.(to)遵从,听从,服从 | |
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271 squire | |
n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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272 functionary | |
n.官员;公职人员 | |
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273 smack | |
vt.拍,打,掴;咂嘴;vi.含有…意味;n.拍 | |
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274 unfamiliar | |
adj.陌生的,不熟悉的 | |
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275 obtrusive | |
adj.显眼的;冒失的 | |
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276 prospects | |
n.希望,前途(恒为复数) | |
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277 alteration | |
n.变更,改变;蚀变 | |
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278 consultations | |
n.磋商(会议)( consultation的名词复数 );商讨会;协商会;查找 | |
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279 skull | |
n.头骨;颅骨 | |
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280 renovating | |
翻新,修复,整修( renovate的现在分词 ) | |
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281 momentary | |
adj.片刻的,瞬息的;短暂的 | |
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282 confinement | |
n.幽禁,拘留,监禁;分娩;限制,局限 | |
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283 renewal | |
adj.(契约)延期,续订,更新,复活,重来 | |
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284 bulwark | |
n.堡垒,保障,防御 | |
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285 northward | |
adv.向北;n.北方的地区 | |
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286 gale | |
n.大风,强风,一阵闹声(尤指笑声等) | |
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287 hull | |
n.船身;(果、实等的)外壳;vt.去(谷物等)壳 | |
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288 overthrew | |
overthrow的过去式 | |
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289 pretense | |
n.矫饰,做作,借口 | |
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290 reverted | |
恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 ); 重提; 回到…上; 归还 | |
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291 dexterity | |
n.(手的)灵巧,灵活 | |
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292 alluring | |
adj.吸引人的,迷人的 | |
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293 habitually | |
ad.习惯地,通常地 | |
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294 persistently | |
ad.坚持地;固执地 | |
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295 ominous | |
adj.不祥的,不吉的,预兆的,预示的 | |
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296 retrospect | |
n.回顾,追溯;v.回顾,回想,追溯 | |
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297 miserable | |
adj.悲惨的,痛苦的;可怜的,糟糕的 | |
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298 testament | |
n.遗嘱;证明 | |
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