It will be remembered that Mr. Slope, when leaving his billet-doux at the house of Mrs. Bold, had been informed that it would be sent out to her at Plumstead that afternoon. The archdeacon and Mr. Harding had in fact come into town together in the brougham, and it had been arranged that they should call for Eleanor’s parcels as they left on their way home. Accordingly they did so call, and the maid, as she handed to the coachman a small basket and large bundle carefully and neatly2 packed, gave in at the carriage window Mr. Slope’s epistle. The archdeacon, who was sitting next to the window, took it and immediately recognized the hand-writing of his enemy.
“Who left this?” said he.
“Mr. Slope called with it himself, your Reverence,” said the girl, “and was very anxious that Missus should have it today.”
So the brougham drove off, and the letter was left in the archdeacon’s hand. He looked at it as though he held a basket of adders3. He could not have thought worse of the document had he read it and discovered it to be licentious4 and atheistical5. He did, moreover, what so many wise people are accustomed to do in similar circumstances; he immediately condemned7 the person to whom the letter was written, as though she were necessarily a particeps criminis.
Poor Mr. Harding, though by no means inclined to forward Mr. Slope’s intimacy8 with his daughter, would have given anything to have kept the letter from his son-inlaw. But that was now impossible. There it was in his hand, and he looked as thoroughly9 disgusted as though he were quite sure that it contained all the rhapsodies of a favoured lover.
“It’s very hard on me,” said he after awhile, “that this should go on under my roof.”
Now here the archdeacon was certainly most unreasonable10. Having invited his sister-inlaw to his house, it was a natural consequence that she should receive her letters there. And if Mr. Slope chose to write to her, his letter would, as a matter of course, be sent after her. Moreover, the very fact of an invitation to one’s house implies confidence on the part of the inviter. He had shown that he thought Mrs. Bold to be a fit person to stay with him by his asking her to do so, and it was most cruel to her that he should complain of her violating the sanctity of his roof-tree, when the laches committed were none of her committing.
Mr. Harding felt this and felt also that when the archdeacon talked thus about his roof, what he said was most offensive to himself as Eleanor’s father. If Eleanor did receive a letter from Mr. Slope, what was there in that to pollute the purity of Dr. Grantly’s household? He was indignant that his daughter should be so judged and so spoken of, and he made up his mind that even as Mrs. Slope she must be dearer to him than any other creature on God’s earth. He almost broke out and said as much, but for the moment he restrained himself.
“Here,” said the archdeacon, handing the offensive missile to his father-inlaw, “I am not going to be the bearer of his love-letters. You are her father and may do as you think fit with it.”
By doing as he thought fit with it, the archdeacon certainly meant that Mr. Harding would be justified12 in opening and reading the letter and taking any steps which might in consequence be necessary. To tell the truth, Dr. Grantly did feel rather a stronger curiosity than was justified by his outraged13 virtue15 to see the contents of the letter. Of course he could not open it himself, but he wished to make Mr. Harding understand that he, as Eleanor’s father, would be fully1 justified in doing so. The idea of such a proceeding16 never occurred to Mr. Harding. His authority over Eleanor ceased when she became the wife of John Bold. He had not the slightest wish to pry17 into her correspondence. He consequently put the letter into his pocket and only wished that he had been able to do so without the archdeacon’s knowledge. They both sat silent during half the journey home, and then Dr. Grantly said, “Perhaps Susan had better give it to her. She can explain to her sister better than either you or I can do how deep is the disgrace of such an acquaintance.”
“I think you are very hard upon Eleanor,” replied Mr. Harding. “I will not allow that she has disgraced herself, nor do I think it likely that she will do so. She has a right to correspond with whom she pleases, and I shall not take upon myself to blame her because she gets a letter from Mr. Slope.”
“I suppose,” said Dr. Grantly, “you don’t wish her to marry the man. I suppose you’ll admit that she would disgrace herself if she did do so.”
“I do not wish her to marry him,” said the perplexed18 father. “I do not like him and do not think he would make a good husband. But if Eleanor chooses to do so, I shall certainly not think that she disgraces herself.”
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Dr. Grantly and threw himself back into the corner of his brougham. Mr. Harding said nothing more but commenced playing a dirge19 with an imaginary fiddle20 bow upon an imaginary violoncello, for which there did not appear to be quite room enough in the carriage; he continued the tune21, with sundry22 variations, till he arrived at the rectory door.
The archdeacon had been meditating23 sad things in his mind. Hitherto he had always looked on his father-inlaw as a true partisan24, though he knew him to be a man devoid25 of all the combative26 qualifications for that character. He had felt no fear that Mr. Harding would go over to the enemy, though he had never counted much on the ex-warden’s prowess in breaking the hostile ranks. Now, however, it seemed that Eleanor, with her wiles27, had completely trepanned and bewildered her father, cheated him out of his judgement, robbed him of the predilections28 and tastes of his life, and caused him to be tolerant of a man whose arrogance29 and vulgarity would, a few years since, have been unendurable to him. That the whole thing was as good as arranged between Eleanor and Mr. Slope there was no longer any room to doubt. That Mr. Harding knew that such was the case, even this could hardly be doubted. It was too manifest that he at any rate suspected it and was prepared to sanction it.
And to tell the truth, such was the case. Mr. Harding disliked Mr. Slope as much as it was in his nature to dislike any man. Had his daughter wished to do her worst to displease30 him by a second marriage, she could hardly have succeeded better than by marrying Mr. Slope. But, as he said to himself now very often, what right had he to condemn6 her if she did nothing that was really wrong? If she liked Mr. Slope, it was her affair. It was indeed miraculous31 to him that a woman with such a mind, so educated, so refined, so nice in her tastes, should like such a man. Then he asked himself whether it was possible that she did so.
Ah, thou weak man; most charitable, most Christian32, but weakest of men! Why couldn’t thou not have asked herself? Was she not the daughter of thy loins, the child of thy heart, the best beloved to thee of all humanity? Had she not proved to thee, by years of closest affection, her truth and goodness and filial obedience33? And yet, knowing and feeling all this, thou couldst endure to go groping in darkness, hearing her named in strains which wounded thy loving heart and being unable to defend her as thou shouldst have done!
Mr. Harding had not believed, did not believe, that his daughter meant to marry this man, but he feared to commit himself to such an opinion. If she did do it there would be then no means of retreat. The wishes of his heart were: first, that there should be no truth in the archdeacon’s surmises34; and in this wish he would have fain trusted entirely35, had he dared so to do; secondly36, that the match might be prevented, if unfortunately, it had been contemplated37 by Eleanor; thirdly, that should she be so infatuated as to marry this man, he might justify38 his conduct and declare that no cause existed for his separating himself from her.
He wanted to believe her incapable39 of such a marriage; he wanted to show that he so believed of her; but he wanted also to be able to say hereafter that she had done nothing amiss, if she should unfortunately prove herself to be different from what he thought her to be.
Nothing but affection could justify such fickleness40, but affection did justify it. There was but little of the Roman about Mr. Harding. He could not sacrifice his Lucretia even though she should be polluted by the accepted addresses of the clerical Tarquin at the palace. If Tarquin could be prevented, well and good, but if not, the father would still open his heart to his daughter and accept her as she presented herself, Tarquin and all.
Dr. Grantly’s mind was of a stronger calibre, and he was by no means deficient41 in heart. He loved with an honest genuine love his wife and children and friends. He loved his father-inlaw, and was quite prepared to love Eleanor too, if she would be one of his party, if she would be on his side, if she would regard the Slopes and the Proudies as the enemies of mankind and acknowledge and feel the comfortable merits of the Gwynnes and Arabins. He wished to be what he called “safe” with all those whom he had admitted to the penetralia of his house and heart. He could luxuriate in no society that was deficient in a certain feeling of faithful, staunch High Churchism, which to him was tantamount to freemasonry. He was not strict in his lines of definition. He endured without impatience42 many different shades of Anglo-church conservatism, but with the Slopes and Proudies he could not go on all fours.
He was wanting in, moreover, or perhaps it would be more correct to say, he was not troubled by that womanly tenderness which was so peculiar43 to Mr. Harding. His feelings towards his friends were that while they stuck to him, he would stick to them; that he would work with them shoulder and shoulder; that he would be faithful to the faithful. He knew nothing of that beautiful love which can be true to a false friend.
And thus these two men, each miserable44 enough in his own way, returned to Plumstead.
It was getting late when they arrived there, and the ladies had already gone up to dress. Nothing more was said as the two parted in the hall. As Mr. Harding passed to his own room he knocked at Eleanor’s door and handed in the letter. The archdeacon hurried to his own territory, there to unburden his heart to his faithful partner.
What colloquy46 took place between the marital47 chamber48 and the adjoining dressing-room shall not be detailed49. The reader, now intimate with the persons concerned, can well imagine it. The whole tenor50 of it also might be read in Mrs. Grantly’s brow as she came down to dinner.
Eleanor, when she received the letter from her father’s hand, had no idea from whom it came. She had never seen Mr. Slope’s handwriting, or if so had forgotten it, and did not think of him as she twisted the letter as people do twist letters when they do not immediately recognize their correspondents either by the writing or the seal. She was sitting at her glass, brushing her hair and rising every other minute to play with her boy, who was sprawling51 on the bed and who engaged pretty nearly the whole attention of the maid as well as of his mother.
At last, sitting before her toilet-table, she broke the seal and, turning over the leaf, saw Mr. Slope’s name. She first felt surprised, and then annoyed, and then anxious. As she read it she became interested. She was so delighted to find that all obstacles to her father’s return to the hospital were apparently52 removed that she did not observe the fulsome53 language in which the tidings were conveyed. She merely perceived that she was commissioned to tell her father that such was the case, and she did not realize the fact that such a communication should not have been made, in the first instance, to her by an unmarried young clergyman. She felt, on the whole, grateful to Mr. Slope and anxious to get on her dress that she might run with the news to her father. Then she came to the allusion54 to her own pious55 labours, and she said in her heart that Mr. Slope was an affected56 ass45. Then she went on again and was offended by her boy being called Mr. Slope’s darling — he was nobody’s darling but her own, or at any rate not the darling of a disagreeable stranger like Mr. Slope. Lastly she arrived at the tresses and felt a qualm of disgust. She looked up in the glass, and there they were before her, long and silken, certainly, and very beautiful. I will not say but that she knew them to be so, but she felt angry with them and brushed them roughly and carelessly. She crumpled57 the letter up with angry violence and resolved, almost without thinking of it, that she would not show it to her father. She would merely tell him the contents of it. She then comforted herself again with her boy, had her dress fastened, and went down to dinner.
As she tripped down the stairs she began to ascertain58 that there was some difficulty in her situation. She could not keep from her father the news about the hospital, nor could she comfortably confess the letter from Mr. Slope before the Grantlys. Her father had already gone down. She had heard his step upon the lobby. She resolved therefore to take him aside and tell him her little bit of news. Poor girl! She had no idea how severely59 the unfortunate letter had already been discussed.
When she entered the drawing-room, the whole party were there, including Mr. Arabin, and the whole party looked glum60 and sour. The two girls sat silent and apart as though they were aware that something was wrong. Even Mr. Arabin was solemn and silent. Eleanor had not seen him since breakfast. He had been the whole day at St. Ewold’s, and such having been the case, it was natural that he should tell how matters were going on there. He did nothing of the kind, however, but remained solemn and silent. They were all solemn and silent. Eleanor knew in her heart that they had been talking about her, and her heart misgave61 her as she thought of Mr. Slope and his letter. At any rate she felt it to be quite impossible to speak to her father alone while matters were in this state.
Dinner was soon announced, and Dr. Grantly, as was his wont62, gave Eleanor his arm. But he did so as though the doing it were an outrage14 on his feelings rendered necessary by sternest necessity. With quick sympathy Eleanor felt this , and hardly put her fingers on his coat-sleeve. It may be guessed in what way the dinner-hour was passed. Dr. Grantly said a few words to Mr. Arabin, Mr. Arabin said a few words to Mrs. Grantly, she said a few words to her father, and he tried to say a few words to Eleanor. She felt that she had been tried and found guilty of something, though she knew not what. She longed to say out to them all, “Well, what is it that I have done; out with it, and let me know my crime; for heaven’s sake let me hear the worst of it;” but she could not. She could say nothing, but sat there silent, half-feeling that she was guilty and trying in vain to pretend even to eat her dinner.
At last the cloth was drawn63, and the ladies were not long following it. When they were gone, the gentlemen were somewhat more sociable64 but not much so. They could not of course talk over Eleanor’s sins. The archdeacon had indeed so far betrayed his sister-inlaw as to whisper into Mr. Arabin’s ear in the study, as they met there before dinner, a hint of what he feared. He did so with the gravest and saddest of fears, and Mr. Arabin became grave and apparently sad enough as he heard it. He opened his eyes, and his mouth and said in a sort of whisper “Mr. Slope!” in the same way as he might have said “The Cholera65!” had his friend told him that that horrid66 disease was in his nursery. “I fear so, I fear so,” said the archdeacon, and then together they left the room.
We will not accurately67 analyse Mr. Arabin’s feelings on receipt of such astounding68 tidings. It will suffice to say that he was surprised, vexed69, sorrowful, and ill at ease. He had not perhaps thought very much about Eleanor, but he had appreciated her influence and had felt that close intimacy with her in a country-house was pleasant to him and also beneficial. He had spoken highly of her intelligence to the archdeacon and had walked about the shrubberies with her carrying her boy on his back. When Mr. Arabin had called Johnny his darling, Eleanor was not angry.
Thus the three men sat over their wine, all thinking of the same subject but unable to speak of it to each other. So we will leave them and follow the ladies into the drawing-room.
Mrs. Grantly had received a commission from her husband and had undertaken it with some unwillingness70. He had desired her to speak gravely to Eleanor and to tell her that, if she persisted in her adherence72 to Mr. Slope, she could no longer look for the countenance73 of her present friends. Mrs. Grantly probably knew her sister better than the doctor did and assured him that it would be in vain to talk to her. The only course likely to be of any service in her opinion was to keep Eleanor away from Barchester. Perhaps she might have added, for she had a very keen eye in such things, that there might also be ground for hope in keeping Eleanor near Mr. Arabin. Of this, however, she said nothing. But the archdeacon would not be talked over; he spoke11 much of his conscience and declared that, if Mrs. Grantly would not do it, he would. So instigated74, the lady undertook the task, stating, however, her full conviction that her interference would be worse than useless. And so it proved.
As soon as they were in the drawing-room Mrs. Grantly found some excuse for sending her girls away, and then began her task. She knew well that she could exercise but very slight authority over her sister. Their various modes of life, and the distance between their residences, had prevented any very close confidence. They had hardly lived together since Eleanor was a child. Eleanor had, moreover, especially in latter years, resented in a quiet sort of way the dictatorial76 authority which the archdeacon seemed to exercise over her father, and on this account had been unwilling71 to allow the archdeacon’s wife to exercise authority over herself.
“You got a note just before dinner, I believe,” began the eldest77 sister.
Eleanor acknowledged that she had done so and felt that she turned red as she acknowledged it. She would have given anything to have kept her colour, but the more she tried to do so the more signally she failed.
“Was it not from Mr. Slope?”
Eleanor said that the letter was from Mr. Slope.
“Is he a regular correspondent of yours, Eleanor?”
“Not exactly,” said she, already beginning to feel angry at the cross-examination. She determined78, and why it would be difficult to say, that nothing should induce her to tell her sister Susan what was the subject of the letter. Mrs. Grantly, she knew, was instigated by the archdeacon, and she would not plead to any arraignment79 made against her by him.
“But, Eleanor dear, why do you get letters from Mr. Slope at all, knowing, as you do, he is a person so distasteful to Papa, and to the archdeacon, and indeed to all your friends?”
“In the first place, Susan, I don’t get letters from him; and in the next place, as Mr. Slope wrote the one letter which I have got, and as I only received it, which I could not very well help doing, as Papa handed it to me, I think you had better ask Mr. Slope instead of me.”
“What was his letter about, Eleanor?”
“I cannot tell you,” said she, “because it was confidential80. It was on business respecting a third person.”
“It was in no way personal to yourself then?”
“I won’t exactly say that, Susan,” said she, getting more and more angry at her sister’s questions.
“Well, I must say it’s rather singular,” said Mrs. Grantly, affecting to laugh, “that a young lady in your position should receive a letter from an unmarried gentleman of which she will not tell the contents and which she is ashamed to show to her sister.”
“I am not ashamed,” said Eleanor, blazing up. “I am not ashamed of anything in the matter; only I do not choose to be cross-examined as to my letters by anyone.”
“Well, dear,” said the other, “I cannot but tell you that I do not think Mr. Slope a proper correspondent for you.”
“If he be ever so improper81, how can I help his having written to me? But you are all prejudiced against him to such an extent that that which would be kind and generous in another man is odious82 and impudent83 in him. I hate a religion that teaches one to be so one-sided in one’s charity.”
“I am sorry, Eleanor, that you hate the religion you find here, but surely you should remember that in such matters the archdeacon must know more of the world than you do. I don’t ask you to respect or comply with me, although I am, unfortunately, so many years your senior, but surely, in such a matter as this, you might consent to be guided by the archdeacon. He is most anxious to be your friend, if you will let him.”
“In such a matter as what?’ said Eleanor very testily84. “Upon my word I don’t know what this is all about.”
“We all want you to drop Mr. Slope.”
“You all want me to be as illiberal85 as yourselves. That I shall never be. I see no harm in Mr. Slope’s acquaintance, and I shall not insult the man by telling him that I do. He has thought it necessary to write to me, and I do not want the archdeacon’s advice about the letter. If I did, I would ask it.”
“Then, Eleanor, it is my duty to tell you,” and now she spoke with a tremendous gravity, “that the archdeacon thinks that such a correspondence is disgraceful and that he cannot allow it to go on in his house.”
Eleanor’s eyes flashed fire as she answered her sister, jumping up from her seat as she did so. “You may tell the archdeacon that wherever I am I shall receive what letters I please and from whom I please. And as for the word ‘disgraceful,’ if Dr. Grantly has used it of me, he has been unmanly and inhospitable,” and she walked off to the door. “When Papa comes from the dining-room I will thank you to ask him to step up to my bedroom. I will show him Mr. Slope’s letter, but I will show it to no one else.” And so saying, she retreated to her baby.
She had no conception of the crime with which she was charged. The idea that she could be thought by her friends to regard Mr. Slope as a lover had never flashed upon her. She conceived that they were all prejudiced and illiberal in their persecution86 of him, and therefore she would not join in the persecution, even though she greatly disliked the man.
Eleanor was very angry as she seated herself in a low chair by her open window at the foot of her child’s bed. “To dare to say I have disgraced myself,” she repeated to herself more than once. “How Papa can put up with that man’s arrogance! I will certainly not sit down to dinner in his house again unless he begs my pardon for that word.” And then a thought struck her that Mr. Arabin might perchance hear of her “disgraceful” correspondence with Mr. Slope, and she turned crimson87 with pure vexation. Oh, if she had known the truth! If she could have conceived that Mr. Arabin had been informed as a fact that she was going to marry Mr. Slope!
She had not been long in her room before her father joined her. As he left the drawing-room Mrs. Grantly took her husband into the recess88 of the window and told him how signally she had failed.
“I will speak to her myself before I go to bed,” said the archdeacon.
“Pray do no such thing,” said she; “you can do no good and will only make an unseemly quarrel in the house. You have no idea how headstrong she can be.”
The archdeacon declared that as to that he was quite indifferent. He knew his duty and would do it. Mr. Harding was weak in the extreme in such matters. He would not have it hereafter on his conscience that he had not done all that in him lay to prevent so disgraceful an alliance. It was in vain that Mrs. Grantly assured him that speaking to Eleanor angrily would only hasten such a crisis and render it certain, if at present there were any doubt. He was angry, self-willed, and sore. The fact that a lady of his household had received a letter from Mr. Slope had wounded his pride in the sorest place, and nothing could control him.
Mr. Harding looked worn and woe-begone as he entered his daughter’s room. These sorrows worried him sadly. He felt that if they were continued, he must go to the wall in the manner so kindly89 prophesied90 to him by the chaplain. He knocked gently at his daughter’s door, waited till he was distinctly bade to enter, and then appeared as though he and not she were the suspected criminal.
Eleanor’s arm was soon within his, and she had soon kissed his forehead and caressed91 him, not with joyous92 but with eager love. “Oh, Papa,” she said, “I do so want to speak to you. They have been talking about me downstairs tonight — don’t you know they have, Papa?”
Mr. Harding confessed with a sort of murmur93 that the archdeacon had been speaking of her.
“I shall hate Dr. Grantly soon —”
“Oh, my dear!”
“Well, I shall. I cannot help it. He is so uncharitable, so unkind, so suspicious of everyone that does not worship himself: and then he is so monstrously94 arrogant95 to other people who have a right to their opinions as well as he has to his own.”
“He is an earnest, eager man, my dear, but he never means to be unkind.”
“He is unkind, Papa, most unkind. There, I got that letter from Mr. Slope before dinner. It was you yourself who gave it to me. There, pray read it. It is all for you. It should have been addressed to you. You know how they have been talking about it downstairs. You know how they behaved to me at dinner. And since dinner Susan has been preaching to me, till I could not remain in the room with her. Read it, Papa, and then say whether that is a letter that need make Dr. Grantly so outrageous96.”
Mr. Harding took his arm from his daughter’s waist and slowly read the letter. She expected to see his countenance lit with joy as he learnt that his path back to the hospital was made so smooth, but she was doomed97 to disappointment, as had once been the case before on a somewhat similar occasion. His first feeling was one of unmitigated disgust that Mr. Slope should have chosen to interfere75 in his behalf. He had been anxious to get back to the hospital, but he would have infinitely98 sooner resigned all pretensions99 to the place than have owed it in any manner to Mr. Slope’s influence in his favour. Then he thoroughly disliked the tone of Mr. Slope’s letter; it was unctuous100, false, and unwholesome, like the man. He saw, which Eleanor had failed to see, that much more had been intended than was expressed. The appeal to Eleanor’s pious labours as separate from his own grated sadly against his feelings as a father. And then, when he came to the “darling boy” and the “silken tresses,” he slowly closed and folded the letter in despair. It was impossible that Mr. Slope should so write unless he had been encouraged. It was impossible Eleanor should have received such a letter, and have received it without annoyance101, unless she were willing to encourage him. So at least Mr. Harding argued to himself.
How hard it is to judge accurately of the feelings of others. Mr. Harding, as he came to the close of the letter, in his heart condemned his daughter for indelicacy, and it made him miserable to do so. She was not responsible for what Mr. Slope might write. True. But then she expressed no disgust at it. She had rather expressed approval of the letter as a whole. She had given it to him to read, as a vindication103 for herself and also for him. The father’s spirits sank within him as he felt that he could not acquit104 her.
And yet it was the true feminine delicacy102 of Eleanor’s mind which brought on her this condemnation105. Listen to me, ladies, and I beseech106 you to acquit her. She thought of this man, this lover of whom she was so unconscious, exactly as her father did, exactly as the Grantlys did. At least she esteemed107 him personally as they did. But she believed him to be in the main an honest man and one truly inclined to assist her father. She felt herself bound, after what had passed, to show this letter to Mr. Harding. She thought it necessary that he should know what Mr. Slope had to say. But she did not think it necessary to apologize for, or condemn, or even allude108 to the vulgarity of the man’s tone, which arose, as does all vulgarity, from ignorance. It was nauseous to her to have a man like Mr. Slope commenting on her personal attractions, and she did not think it necessary to dilate109 with her father upon what was nauseous. She never supposed they could disagree on such a subject. It would have been painful for her to point it out, painful for her to speak strongly against a man of whom, on the whole, she was anxious to think and speak well. In encountering such a man she had encountered what was disagreeable, as she might do in walking the streets. But in such encounters she never thought it necessary to dwell on what disgusted her.
And he, foolish, weak, loving man, would not say one word, though one word would have cleared up everything. There would have been a deluge110 of tears, and in ten minutes everyone in the house would have understood how matters really were. The father would have been delighted. The sister would have kissed her sister and begged a thousand pardons. The archdeacon would have apologized and wondered, and raised his eyebrows111, and gone to bed a happy man. And Mr. Arabin — Mr. Arabin would have dreamt of Eleanor, have awoke in the morning with ideas of love, and retired112 to rest the next evening with schemes of marriage. But, alas113, all this was not to be.
Mr. Harding slowly folded the letter, handed it back to her, kissed her forehead, and bade God bless her. He then crept slowly away to his own room.
As soon as he had left the passage, another knock was given at Eleanor’s door, and Mrs. Grantly’s very demure114 own maid, entering on tiptoe, wanted to know would Mrs. Bold be so kind as to speak to the archdeacon for two minutes in the archdeacon’s study, if not disagreeable. The archdeacon’s compliments, and he wouldn’t detain her two minutes.
Eleanor thought it was very disagreeable; she was tired and fagged and sick at heart; her present feelings towards Dr. Grantly were anything but those of affection. She was, however, no coward, and therefore promised to be in the study in five minutes. So she arranged her hair, tied on her cap, and went down with a palpitating heart.
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adders
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licentious
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atheistical
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condemn
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condemned
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intimacy
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thoroughly
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unreasonable
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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17
pry
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| vi.窥(刺)探，打听；vt.撬动(开，起) | |
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18
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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19
dirge
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| n.哀乐，挽歌，庄重悲哀的乐曲 | |
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20
fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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21
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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22
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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23
meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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24
partisan
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| adj.党派性的；游击队的；n.游击队员；党徒 | |
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25
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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26
combative
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| adj.好战的；好斗的 | |
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27
wiles
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| n.（旨在欺骗或吸引人的）诡计，花招；欺骗，欺诈( wile的名词复数 ) | |
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28
predilections
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| n.偏爱，偏好，嗜好( predilection的名词复数 ) | |
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29
arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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30
displease
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| vt.使不高兴，惹怒；n.不悦，不满，生气 | |
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31
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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32
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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33
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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34
surmises
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的第三人称单数 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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35
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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36
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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37
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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38
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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39
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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40
fickleness
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| n.易变；无常；浮躁；变化无常 | |
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41
deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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42
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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43
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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44
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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45
ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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46
colloquy
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| n.谈话，自由讨论 | |
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47
marital
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| adj.婚姻的，夫妻的 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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51
sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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52
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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53
fulsome
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| adj.可恶的，虚伪的，过分恭维的 | |
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54
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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58
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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59
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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glum
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| adj.闷闷不乐的，阴郁的 | |
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61
misgave
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| v.使（某人的情绪、精神等）疑虑，担忧，害怕( misgive的过去式 ) | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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63
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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65
cholera
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| n.霍乱 | |
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66
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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68
astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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vexed
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| 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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70
unwillingness
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| n. 不愿意，不情愿 | |
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71
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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72
adherence
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| n.信奉，依附，坚持，固着 | |
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73
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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74
instigated
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| v.使（某事物）开始或发生，鼓动( instigate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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75
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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76
dictatorial
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| adj. 独裁的，专断的 | |
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77
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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78
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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79
arraignment
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| n.提问，传讯，责难 | |
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80
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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81
improper
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| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
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82
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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83
impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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84
testily
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| adv. 易怒地, 暴躁地 | |
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85
illiberal
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| adj.气量狭小的，吝啬的 | |
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86
persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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87
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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88
recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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89
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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90
prophesied
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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91
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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92
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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93
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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94
monstrously
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95
arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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96
outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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97
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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98
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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99
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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100
unctuous
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| adj.油腔滑调的，大胆的 | |
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101
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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102
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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103
vindication
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| n.洗冤，证实 | |
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104
acquit
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| vt.宣判无罪；(oneself)使(自己)表现出 | |
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105
condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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106
beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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107
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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108
allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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109
dilate
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| vt.使膨胀，使扩大 | |
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110
deluge
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| n./vt.洪水，暴雨，使泛滥 | |
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111
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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112
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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113
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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114
demure
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| adj.严肃的；端庄的 | |
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