It was close on six o’clock when Allan and his friends left the boat, and the evening influence was creeping already, in its mystery and its stillness, over the watery1 solitude2 of the Broads.
The shore in these wild regions was not like the shore elsewhere. Firm as it looked, the garden ground in front of the reed-cutter’s cottage was floating ground, that rose and fell and oozed3 into puddles4 under the pressure of the foot. The boatmen who guided the visitors warned them to keep to the path, and pointed5 through gaps in the reeds and pollards to grassy6 places, on which strangers would have walked confidently, where the crust of earth was not strong enough to bear the weight of a child over the unfathomed depths of slime and water beneath. The solitary7 cottage, built of planks8 pitched black, stood on ground that had been steadied and strengthened by resting it on piles. A little wooden tower rose at one end of the roof, and served as a lookout9 post in the fowling10 season. From this elevation11 the eye ranged far and wide over a wilderness12 of winding13 water and lonesome marsh14. If the reed-cutter had lost his boat, he would have been as completely isolated15 from all communication with town or village as if his place of abode16 had been a light-vessel instead of a cottage. Neither he nor his family complained of their solitude, or looked in any way the rougher or the worse for it. His wife received the visitors hospitably17, in a snug18 little room, with a raftered ceiling, and windows which looked like windows in a cabin on board ship. His wife’s father told stories of the famous days when the smugglers came up from the sea at night, rowing through the net-work of rivers with muffled19 oars20 till they gained the lonely Broads, and sank their spirit casks in the water, far from the coast-guard’s reach. His wild little children played at hide-and-seek with the visitors; and the visitors ranged in and out of the cottage, and round and round the morsel21 of firm earth on which it stood, surprised and delighted by the novelty of all they saw. The one person who noticed the advance of the evening — the one person who thought of the flying time and the stationary22 Pentecosts in the boat — was young Pedgift. That experienced pilot of the Broads looked askance at his watch, and drew Allan aside at the first opportunity.
“I don’t wish to hurry you, Mr. Armadale,” said Pedgift Junior; “but the time is getting on, and there’s a lady in the case.”
“A lady?” repeated Allan.
“Yes, sir,” rejoined young Pedgift. “A lady from London; connected (if you’ll allow me to jog your memory) with a pony-chaise and white harness.”
“Good heavens, the governess!” cried Allan. “Why, we have forgotten all about her!”
“Don’t be alarmed, sir; there’s plenty of time, if we only get into the boat again. This is how it stands, Mr. Armadale. We settled, if you remember, to have the gypsy tea-making at the next ‘Broad’ to this — Hurle Mere23?”
“Certainly,” said Allan. “Hurle Mere is the place where my friend Midwinter has promised to come and meet us.”
“Hurle Mere is where the governess will be, sir, if your coachman follows my directions,” pursued young Pedgift. “We have got nearly an hour’s punting to do, along the twists and turns of the narrow waters (which they call The Sounds here) between this and Hurle Mere; and according to my calculations we must get on board again in five minutes, if we are to be in time to meet the governess and to meet your friend.”
“We mustn’t miss my friend on any account,” said Allan; “or the governess, either, of course. I’ll tell the major.”
Major Milroy was at that moment preparing to mount the wooden watch-tower of the cottage to see the view. The ever useful Pedgift volunteered to go up with him, and rattle24 off all the necessary local explanations in half the time which the reed-cutter would occupy in describing his own neighborhood to a stranger.
Allan remained standing25 in front of the cottage, more quiet and more thoughtful than usual. His interview with young Pedgift had brought his absent friend to his memory for the first time since the picnic party had started. He was surprised that Midwinter, so much in his thoughts on all other occasions, should have been so long out of his thoughts now. Something troubled him, like a sense of self-reproach, as his mind reverted26 to the faithful friend at home, toiling27 hard over the steward’s books, in his interests and for his sake. “Dear old fellow,” thought Allan, “I shall be so glad to see him at the Mere; the day’s pleasure won’t be complete till he joins us!”
“Should I be right or wrong, Mr. Armadale, if I guessed that you were thinking of somebody?” asked a voice, softly, behind him.
Allan turned, and found the major’s daughter at his side. Miss Milroy (not unmindful of a certain tender interview which had taken place behind a carriage) had noticed her admirer standing thoughtfully by himself, and had determined28 on giving him another opportunity, while her father and young Pedgift were at the top of the watch-tower.
“You know everything,” said Allan, smiling. “I was thinking of somebody.”
Miss Milroy stole a glance at him — a glance of gentle encouragement. There could be but one human creature in Mr. Armadale’s mind after what had passed between them that morning! It would be only an act of mercy to take him back again at once to the interrupted conversation of a few hours since on the subject of names.
“I have been thinking of somebody, too,” she said, half-inviting, half-repelling the coming avowal29. “If I tell you the first letter of my Somebody’s name, will you tell me the first letter of yours?”
“I will tell you anything you like,” rejoined Allan, with the utmost enthusiasm.
She still shrank coquettishly from the very subject that she wanted to approach. “Tell me your letter first,” she said, in low tones, looking away from him.
Allan laughed. “M,” he said, “is my first letter.”
She started a little. Strange that he should be thinking of her by her surname instead of her Christian30 name; but it mattered little as long as he was thinking of her.
“What is your letter?” asked Allan.
She blushed and smiled. “A— if you will have it!” she answered, in a reluctant little whisper. She stole another look at him, and luxuriously31 protracted32 her enjoyment33 of the coming avowal once more. “How many syllables34 is the name in?” she asked, drawing patterns shyly on the ground with the end of the parasol.
No man with the slightest knowledge of the sex would have been rash enough, in Allan’s position, to tell her the truth. Allan, who knew nothing whatever of woman’s natures, and who told the truth right and left in all mortal emergencies, answered as if he had been under examination in a court of justice.
“It’s a name in three syllables,” he said.
Miss Milroy’s downcast eyes flashed up at him like lightning. “Three!” she repeated in the blankest astonishment35.
Allan was too inveterately36 straightforward37 to take the warning even now. “I’m not strong at my spelling, I know,” he said, with his lighthearted laugh. “But I don’t think I’m wrong, in calling Midwinter a name in three syllables. I was thinking of my friend; but never mind my thoughts. Tell me who A is — tell me whom you were thinking of?”
“Of the first letter of the alphabet, Mr. Armadale, and I beg positively38 to inform you of nothing more!”
With that annihilating39 answer the major’s daughter put up her parasol and walked back by herself to the boat.
Allan stood petrified40 with amazement41. If Miss Milroy had actually boxed his ears (and there is no denying that she had privately42 longed to devote her hand to that purpose), he could hardly have felt more bewildered than he felt now. “What on earth have I done?” he asked himself, helplessly, as the major and young Pedgift joined him, and the three walked down together to the water-side. “I wonder what she’ll say to me next?”
She said absolutely nothing; she never so much as looked at Allan when he took his place in the boat. There she sat, with her eyes and her complexion43 both much brighter than usual, taking the deepest interest in the curate’s progress toward recovery; in the state of Mrs. Pentecost’s spirits; in Pedgift Junior (for whom she ostentatiously made room enough to let him sit beside her); in the scenery and the reed-cutter’s cottage; in everybody and everything but Allan — whom she would have married with the greatest pleasure five minutes since. “I’ll never forgive him,” thought the major’s daughter. “To be thinking of that ill-bred wretch44 when I was thinking of him ; and to make me all but confess it before I found him out! Thank Heaven, Mr. Pedgift is in the boat!”
In this frame of mind Miss Neelie applied45 herself forthwith to the fascination46 of Pedgift and the discomfiture47 of Allan. “Oh, Mr. Pedgift, how extremely clever and kind of you to think of showing us that sweet cottage! Lonely, Mr. Armadale? I don’t think it’s lonely at all; I should like of all things to live there. What would this picnic have been without you, Mr. Pedgift; you can’t think how I have enjoyed it since we got into the boat. Cool, Mr. Armadale? What can you possibly mean by saying it’s cool; it’s the warmest evening we’ve had this summer. And the music, Mr. Pedgift; how nice it was of you to bring your concertina! I wonder if I could accompany you on the piano? I would so like to try. Oh, yes, Mr. Armadale, no doubt you meant to do something musical, too, and I dare say you sing very well when you know the words; but, to tell you the truth, I always did, and always shall, hate Moore’s Melodies!”
Thus, with merciless dexterity48 of manipulation, did Miss Milroy work that sharpest female weapon of offense49, the tongue; and thus she would have used it for some time longer, if Allan had only shown the necessary jealousy50, or if Pedgift had only afforded the necessary encouragement. But adverse51 fortune had decreed that she should select for her victims two men essentially52 unassailable under existing circumstances. Allan was too innocent of all knowledge of female subtleties53 and susceptibilities to understand anything, except that the charming Neelie was unreasonably54 out of temper with him without the slightest cause. The wary55 Pedgift, as became one of the quick-witted youth of the present generation, submitted to female influence, with his eye fixed56 immovably all the time on his own interests. Many a young man of the past generation, who was no fool, has sacrificed everything for love. Not one young man in ten thousand of the present generation, except the fools, has sacrificed a half-penny. The daughters of Eve still inherit their mother’s merits and commit their mother’s faults. But the sons of Adam, in these latter days, are men who would have handed the famous apple back with a bow, and a “Thanks, no; it might get me into a scrape.” When Allan — surprised and disappointed — moved away out of Miss Milroy’s reach to the forward part of the boat, Pedgift Junior rose and followed him. “You’re a very nice girl,” thought this shrewdly sensible young man; “but a client’s a client; and I am sorry to inform you, miss, it won’t do.” He set himself at once to rouse Allan’s spirits by diverting his attention to a new subject. There was to be a regatta that autumn on one of the Broads, and his client’s opinion as a yachtsman might be valuable to the committee. “Something new, I should think, to you, sir, in a sailing match on fresh water?” he said, in his most ingratiatory manner. And Allan, instantly interested, answered, “Quite new. Do tell me about it!”
As for the rest of the party at the other end of the boat, they were in a fair way to confirm Mrs. Pentecost’s doubts whether the hilarity57 of the picnic would last the day out. Poor Neelie’s natural feeling of irritation58 under the disappointment which Allan’s awkwardness had inflicted59 on her was now exasperated60 into silent and settled resentment61 by her own keen sense of humiliation62 and defeat. The major had relapsed into his habitually63 dreamy, absent manner; his mind was turning monotonously64 with the wheels of his clock. The curate still secluded65 his indigestion from public view in the innermost recesses66 of the cabin; and the curate’s mother, with a second dose ready at a moment’s notice, sat on guard at the door. Women of Mrs. Pentecost’s age and character generally enjoy their own bad spirits. “This,” sighed the old lady, wagging her head with a smile of sour satisfaction “is what you call a day’s pleasure, is it? Ah, what fools we all were to leave our comfortable homes!”
Meanwhile the boat floated smoothly67 along the windings68 of the watery labyrinth69 which lay between the two Broads. The view on either side was now limited to nothing but interminable rows of reeds. Not a sound was heard, far or near; not so much as a glimpse of cultivated or inhabited land appeared anywhere. “A trifle dreary70 hereabouts, Mr. Armadale,” said the ever-cheerful Pedgift. “But we are just out of it now. Look ahead, sir! Here we are at Hurle Mere.”
The reeds opened back on the right hand and the left, and the boat glided71 suddenly into the wide circle of a pool. Round the nearer half of the circle, the eternal reeds still fringed the margin72 of the water. Round the further half, the land appeared again, here rolling back from the pool in desolate73 sand-hills, there rising above it in a sweep of grassy shore. At one point the ground was occupied by a plantation74, and at another by the out-buildings of a lonely old red brick house, with a strip of by-road near, that skirted the garden wall and ended at the pool. The sun was sinking in the clear heaven, and the water, where the sun’s reflection failed to tinge75 it, was beginning to look black and cold. The solitude that had been soothing76, the silence that had felt like an enchantment77, on the other Broad, in the day’s vigorous prime, was a solitude that saddened here — a silence that struck cold, in the stillness and melancholy78 of the day’s decline.
The course of the boat was directed across the Mere to a creek79 in the grassy shore. One or two of the little flat-bottomed punts peculiar80 to the Broads lay in the creek; and the reed cutters to whom the punts belonged, surprised at the appearance of strangers, came out, staring silently, from behind an angle of the old garden wall. Not another sign of life was visible anywhere. No pony-chaise had been seen by the reed cutters; no stranger, either man or woman, had approached the shores of Hurle Mere that day.
Young Pedgift took another look at his watch, and addressed himself to Miss Milroy. “You may, or may not, see the governess when you get back to Thorpe Ambrose,” he said; “but, as the time stands now, you won’t see her here. You know best, Mr. Armadale,” he added, turning to Allan, “whether your friend is to be depended on to keep his appointment?”
“I am certain he is to be depended on,” replied Allan, looking about him — in unconcealed disappointment at Midwinter’s absence.
“Very good,” pursued Pedgift Junior. “If we light the fire for our gypsy tea-making on the open ground there, your friend may find us out, sir, by the smoke. That’s the Indian dodge81 for picking up a lost man on the prairie, Miss Milroy and it’s pretty nearly wild enough (isn’t it?) to be a prairie here!”
There are some temptations — principally those of the smaller kind — which it is not in the defensive82 capacity of female human nature to resist. The temptation to direct the whole force of her influence, as the one young lady of the party, toward the instant overthrow83 of Allan’s arrangement for meeting his friend, was too much for the major’s daughter. She turned on the smiling Pedgift with a look which ought to have overwhelmed him. But who ever overwhelmed a solicitor84?
“I think it’s the most lonely, dreary, hideous85 place I ever saw in my life!” said Miss Neelie. “If you insist on making tea here, Mr. Pedgift, don’t make any for me. No! I shall stop in the boat; and, though I am absolutely dying with thirst, I shall touch nothing till we get back again to the other Broad!”
The major opened his lips to remonstrate86. To his daughter’s infinite delight, Mrs. Pentecost rose from her seat before he could say a word, and, after surveying the whole landward prospect87, and seeing nothing in the shape of a vehicle anywhere, asked indignantly whether they were going all the way back again to the place where they had left the carriages in the middle of the day. On ascertaining88 that this was, in fact, the arrangement proposed, and that, from the nature of the country, the carriages could not have been ordered round to Hurle Mere without, in the first instance, sending them the whole of the way back to Thorpe Ambrose, Mrs. Pentecost (speaking in her son’s interests) instantly declared that no earthly power should induce her to be out on the water after dark. “Call me a boat!” cried the old lady, in great agitation89. “Wherever there’s water, there’s a night mist, and wherever there’s a night mist, my son Samuel catches cold. Don’t talk to me about your moonlight and your tea-making — you’re all mad! Hi! you two men there!” cried Mrs. Pentecost, hailing the silent reed cutters on shore. “Sixpence apiece for you, if you’ll take me and my son back in your boat!”
Before young Pedgift could interfere90, Allan himself settled the difficulty this time, with perfect patience and good temper.
“I can’t think, Mrs. Pentecost, of your going back in any boat but the boat you have come out in,” he said. “There is not the least need (as you and Miss Milroy don’t like the place) for anybody to go on shore here but me. I must go on shore. My friend Midwinter never broke his promise to me yet; and I can’t consent to leave Hurle Mere as long as there is a chance of his keeping his appointment. But there’s not the least reason in the world why I should stand in the way on that account. You have the major and Mr. Pedgift to take care of you; and you can get back to the carriages before dark, if you go at once. I will wait here, and give my friend half an hour more, and then I can follow you in one of the reed-cutters’ boats.”
“That’s the most sensible thing, Mr. Armadale, you’ve said to-day,” remarked Mrs. Pentecost, seating herself again in a violent hurry
“Tell them to be quick! “ cried the old lady, shaking her fist at the boatmen. “Tell them to be quick!”
Allan gave the necessary directions, and stepped on shore. The wary Pedgift (sticking fast to his client) tried to follow.
“We can’t leave you here alone, sir,” he said, protesting eagerly in a whisper. “Let the major take care of the ladies, and let me keep you company at the Mere.”
“No, no!” said Allan, pressing him back. “They’re all in low spirits on board. If you want to be of service to me, stop like a good fellow where you are, and do your best to keep the thing going.”
He waved his hand, and the men pushed the boat off from the shore. The others all waved their hands in return except the major’s daughter, who sat apart from the rest, with her face hidden under her parasol. The tears stood thick in Neelie’s eyes. Her last angry feeling against Allan died out, and her heart went back to him penitently91 the moment he left the boat. “How good he is to us all!” she thought, “and what a wretch I am!” She got up with every generous impulse in her nature urging her to make atonement to him. She got up, reckless of appearances and looked after him with eager eyes and flushed checks, as he stood alone on the shore. “Don’t be long, Mr. Armadale!” she said, with a desperate disregard of what the rest of the company thought of her.
The boat was already far out in the water, and with all Neelie’s resolution the words were spoken in a faint little voice, which failed to reach Allan’s ears. The one sound he heard, as the boat gained the opposite extremity93 of the Mere, and disappeared slowly among the reeds, was the sound of the concertina. The indefatigable94 Pedgift was keeping things going — evidently under the auspices95 of Mrs. Pentecost — by performing a sacred melody.
Left by himself, Allan lit a cigar, and took a turn backward and forward on the shore. “She might have said a word to me at parting!” he thought. “I’ve done everything for the best; I’ve as good as told her how fond of her I am, and this is the way she treats me!” He stopped, and stood looking absently at the sinking sun, and the fast-darkening waters of the Mere. Some inscrutable influence in the scene forced its way stealthily into his mind, and diverted his thoughts from Miss Milroy to his absent friend. He started, and looked about him.
The reed-cutters had gone back to their retreat behind the angle of the wall, not a living creature was visible, not a sound rose anywhere along the dreary shore. Even Allan’s spirits began to get depressed96. It was nearly an hour after the time when Midwinter had promised to be at Hurle Mere. He had himself arranged to walk to the pool (with a stable-boy from Thorpe Ambrose as his guide), by lanes and footpaths98 which shortened the distance by the road. The boy knew the country well, and Midwinter was habitually punctual at all his appointments. Had anything gone wrong at Thorpe Ambrose? Had some accident happened on the way? Determined to remain no longer doubting and idling by himself, Allan made up his mind to walk inland from the Mere, on the chance of meeting his friend. He went round at once to the angle in the wall, and asked one of the reedcutters to show him the footpath97 to Thorpe Ambrose.
The man led him away from the road, and pointed to a barely perceptible break in the outer trees of the plantation. After pausing for one more useless look around him, Allan turned his back on the Mere and made for the trees.
For a few paces, the path ran straight through the plantation. Thence it took a sudden turn; and the water and the open country became both lost to view. Allan steadily99 followed the grassy track before him, seeing nothing and hearing nothing, until he came to another winding of the path. Turning in the new direction, he saw dimly a human figure sitting alone at the foot of one of the trees. Two steps nearer were enough to make the figure familiar to him. “Midwinter!” he exclaimed, in astonishment. “This is not the place where I was to meet you! What are you waiting for here?”
Midwinter rose, without answering. The evening dimness among the trees, which obscured his face, made his silence doubly perplexing.
Allan went on eagerly questioning him. “Did you come here by yourself?” he asked. “I thought the boy was to guide you?”
This time Midwinter answered. “When we got as far as these trees,” he said, “I sent the boy back. He told me I was close to the place, and couldn’t miss it.”
“What made you stop here when he left you?” reiterated100 Allan. “Why didn’t you walk on?”
“Don’t despise me,” answered the other. “I hadn’t the courage!”
“Not the courage?” repeated Allan. He paused a moment. “Oh, I know!” he resumed, putting his hand gayly on Midwinter’s shoulder. “You’re still shy of the Milroys. What nonsense, when I told you myself that your peace was made at the cottage!”
“I wasn’t thinking, Allan, of your friends at the cottage. The truth is, I’m hardly myself to-day. I am ill and unnerved; trifles startle me.” He stopped, and shrank away, under the anxious scrutiny101 of Allan’s eyes. “If you will have it,” he burst out, abruptly102, “the horror of that night on board the Wreck103 has got me again; there’s a dreadful oppression on my head; there’s a dreadful sinking at my heart. I am afraid of something happening to us, if we don’t part before the day is out. I can’t break my promise to you; for God’s sake, release me from it, and let me go back!”
Remonstrance104, to any one who knew Midwinter, was plainly useless at that moment. Allan humored him. “Come out of this dark, airless place,” he said, “and we will talk about it. The water and the open sky are within a stone’s throw of us. I hate a wood in the evening; it even gives me the horrors. You have been working too hard over the steward’s books. Come and breathe freely in the blessed open air.”
Midwinter stopped, considered for a moment, and suddenly submitted.
“You’re right,” he said, “and I’m wrong, as usual. I’m wasting time and distressing105 you to no purpose. What folly106 to ask you to let me go back! Suppose you had said yes?”
“Well?” asked Allan.
“Well,” repeated Midwinter, “something would have happened at the first step to stop me, that’s all. Come on.”
They walked together in silence on the way to the Mere.
At the last turn in the path Allan’s cigar went out. While he stopped to light it again, Midwinter walked on before him, and was the first to come in sight of the open ground.
Allan had just kindled107 the match, when, to his surprise, his friend came back to him round the turn in the path. There was light enough to show objects more clearly in this part of the plantation. The match, as Midwinter faced him, dropped on the instant from Allan’s hand.
“Good God!” he cried, starting back, “you look as you looked on board the Wreck!”
Midwinter held up his band for silence. He spoke92 with his wild eyes riveted108 on Allan’s face, with his white lips close at Allan’s ear.
“You remember how I looked ,” he answered, in a whisper. “Do you remember what I said when you and the doctor were talking of the Dream?”
“I have forgotten the Dream,” said Allan.
As he made that answer, Midwinter took his hand, and led him round the last turn in the path.
“Do you remember it now?” he asked, and pointed to the Mere.
The sun was sinking in the cloudless westward109 heaven. The waters of the Mere lay beneath, tinged110 red by the dying light. The open country stretched away, darkening drearily111 already on the right hand and the left. And on the near margin of the pool, where all had been solitude before, there now stood, fronting the sunset, the figure of a woman.
The two Armadales stood together in silence, and looked at the lonely figure and the dreary view.
Midwinter was the first to speak.
“Your own eyes have seen it,” he said. “Now look at our own words.”
He opened the narrative112 of the Dream, and held it under Allan’s eyes. His finger pointed to the lines which recorded the first Vision; his voice, sinking lower and lower, repeated the words:
“The sense came to me of being left alone in the darkness.
“I waited.
“The darkness opened, and showed me the vision — as in a picture — of a broad, lonely pool, surrounded by open ground. Above the further margin of the pool I saw the cloudless western sky, red with the light of sunset.
“On the near margin of the pool there stood the Shadow of a Woman.”
He ceased, and let the hand which held the manuscript drop to his side. The other hand pointed to the lonely figure, standing with its back turned on them, fronting the setting sun.
“There,” he said, “stands the living Woman, in the Shadow’s place! There speaks the first of the dream warnings to you and to me! Let the future time find us still together, and the second figure that stands in the Shadow’s place will be Mine.”
Even Allan was silenced by the terrible certainty of conviction with which he spoke.
In the pause that followed, the figure at the pool moved, and walked slowly away round the margin of the shore. Allan stepped out beyond the last of the trees, and gained a wider view of the open ground. The first object that met his eyes was the pony-chaise from Thorpe Ambrose.
He turned back to Midwinter with a laugh of relief. “What nonsense have you been talking!” he said. “And what nonsense have I been listening to! It’s the governess at last.”
Midwinter made no reply. Allan took him by the arm, and tried to lead him on. He released himself suddenly, and seized Allan with both hands, holding him back from the figure at the pool, as he had held him back from the cabin door on the deck of the timber ship. Once again the effort was in vain. Once again Allan broke away as easily as he had broken away in the past time.
“One of us must speak to her,” he said. “And if you won’t, I will.”
He had only advanced a few steps toward the Mere, when he heard, or thought he heard, a voice faintly calling after him, once and once only, the word Farewell. He stopped, with a feeling of uneasy surprise, and looked round.
“Was that you, Midwinter?” he asked.
There was no answer. After hesitating a moment more, Allan returned to the plantation. Midwinter was gone.
He looked back at the pool, doubtful in the new emergency what to do next. The lonely figure had altered its course in the interval113; it had turned, and was advancing toward the trees. Allan had been evidently either heard or seen. It was impossible to leave a woman unbefriended, in that helpless position and in that solitary place. For the second time Allan went out from the trees to meet her.
As he came within sight of her face, he stopped in ungovernable astonishment. The sudden revelation of her beauty, as she smiled and looked at him inquiringly, suspended the movement in his limbs and the words on his lips. A vague doubt beset114 him whether it was the governess, after all.
He roused himself, and, advancing a few paces, mentioned his name. “May I ask,” he added, “if I have the pleasure —?”
The lady met him easily and gracefully115 half-way. “Major Milroy’s governess,” she said. “Miss Gwilt.”
收听单词发音 |
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watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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oozed
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| v.（浓液等）慢慢地冒出，渗出( ooze的过去式和过去分词 )；使（液体）缓缓流出；（浓液）渗出，慢慢流出 | |
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puddles
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| n.水坑， （尤指道路上的）雨水坑( puddle的名词复数 ) | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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planks
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| （厚）木板( plank的名词复数 )； 政纲条目，政策要点 | |
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lookout
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| n.注意，前途，瞭望台 | |
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fowling
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| 捕鸟，打鸟 | |
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elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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14
marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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15
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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hospitably
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| 亲切地，招待周到地，善于款待地 | |
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snug
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| 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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muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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20
oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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21
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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22
stationary
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| adj.固定的，静止不动的 | |
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23
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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24
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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25
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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26
reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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27
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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28
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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29
avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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30
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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31
luxuriously
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| adv.奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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32
protracted
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| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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33
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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34
syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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35
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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36
inveterately
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| adv.根深蒂固地，积习地 | |
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37
straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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38
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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39
annihilating
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| v.（彻底）消灭( annihilate的现在分词 )；使无效；废止；彻底击溃 | |
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40
petrified
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| adj.惊呆的；目瞪口呆的v.使吓呆，使惊呆；变僵硬；使石化(petrify的过去式和过去分词) | |
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41
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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42
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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43
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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44
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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45
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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46
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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47
discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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dexterity
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| n.(手的)灵巧，灵活 | |
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49
offense
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| n.犯规，违法行为；冒犯，得罪 | |
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50
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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51
adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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52
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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53
subtleties
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| 细微( subtlety的名词复数 )； 精细； 巧妙； 细微的差别等 | |
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54
unreasonably
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| adv. 不合理地 | |
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55
wary
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| adj.谨慎的，机警的，小心的 | |
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56
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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57
hilarity
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| n.欢乐；热闹 | |
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58
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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59
inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60
exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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61
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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62
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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63
habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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64
monotonously
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| adv.单调地，无变化地 | |
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65
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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66
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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68
windings
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| （道路、河流等）蜿蜒的，弯曲的( winding的名词复数 )； 缠绕( wind的现在分词 )； 卷绕； 转动（把手） | |
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69
labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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70
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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71
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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72
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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73
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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74
plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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75
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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76
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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77
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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78
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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79
creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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80
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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81
dodge
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| v.闪开，躲开，避开；n.妙计，诡计 | |
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82
defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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83
overthrow
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| v.推翻，打倒，颠覆；n.推翻，瓦解，颠覆 | |
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84
solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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85
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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86
remonstrate
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| v.抗议，规劝 | |
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87
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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88
ascertaining
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的现在分词 ) | |
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89
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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90
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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91
penitently
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92
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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93
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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94
indefatigable
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| adj.不知疲倦的，不屈不挠的 | |
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95
auspices
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| n.资助，赞助 | |
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96
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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97
footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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98
footpaths
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| 人行小径，人行道( footpath的名词复数 ) | |
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99
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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100
reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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102
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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103
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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104
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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105
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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106
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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107
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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108
riveted
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| 铆接( rivet的过去式和过去分词 )； 把…固定住； 吸引； 引起某人的注意 | |
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109
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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110
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
drearily
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| 沉寂地，厌倦地，可怕地 | |
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112
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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113
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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114
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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115
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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