As this is not a history of the British constitution, it does not concern it to relate how or why West Lynne got into hot water with the House of Commons. The House threatened to disfranchise it, and West Lynne under the fear, went into mourning for its sins. The threat was not carried out; but one of the sitting members was unseated with ignominy, and sent to the right about. Being considerably1 humiliated2 thereby3, and in disgust with West Lynne, he retired4 accordingly, and a fresh writ5 was issued. West Lynne then returned the Hon. Mr. Attley, a county nobleman’s son; but he died in the very midst of his first session, and another writ had to be issued.
Of course the consideration now was, who should be the next lucky man fixed6 upon. All the notables within ten miles were discussed, not excepting the bench justices. Mr. Justice Hare? No! he was too uncompromising, he would study his own will, but not that of West Lynne. Squire7 Pinner? He never made a speech in his life, and had not an idea beyond turnips8 and farming stock. Colonel Bethel? He had no money to spend upon an election. Sir John Dobede? He was too old. “By a good twenty years,” laughed Sir John, to himself. “But here we stand, like a pack of noodles, conning9 over the incapables, and passing by the right one,” continued Sir John. “There’s only one man amongst us fit to be our member.”
“Who’s that?” cried the meeting.
“Archibald Carlyle.”
A pause of consternation—consternation at their collective forgetfulness—and then a loud murmur10 of approaching to a shout, filled the room. Archibald Carlyle. It should be no other.
“If we can get him,” cried Sir John. “He may decline, you know.”
The best thing, all agreed, was to act promptly11. A deputation, half the length of the street—its whole length, if you include the tagrag and bobtail that attended behind—set off on the spur of the moment to the office of Mr. Carlyle. They found that gentleman about to leave it for the evening, to return home to dinner; for, in the discussion of the all-important topic, the meeting had suffered time to run on to a late hour; those gentlemen who dined at a somewhat earlier one had, for once in their lives, patiently allowed their dinners and their stomachs to wait—which is saying a great deal for the patience of a justice.
Mr. Carlyle was taken by surprise. “Make me your member?” cried he, merrily. “How do you know I should not sell you all?”
“We’ll trust you, Carlyle. Too happy to do it.”
“I am not sure that I could spare the time,” deliberated Mr. Carlyle.
“Now, Carlyle, you must remember that you avowed12 to me, no longer than last Christmas, your intention of going into parliament some time,” struck in Mr. Justice Herbert. “You can’t deny it.”
“Some time!—yes,” replied Mr. Carlyle; “but I did not say when. I have no thoughts of it yet awhile.”
“You must allow us to put you in nomination13—you must, indeed, Mr. Carlyle. There’s nobody else fit for it. As good send a pig to the House as some of us.”
“An extremely flattering reason for proposing to shift the honor upon me,” laughed Mr. Carlyle.
“Well, you know what we mean, Carlyle; there’s not a man in the whole county so suitable as you, search it to the extremity15 of its boundaries—you must know there is not.”
“I don’t know anything of the sort,” returned Mr. Carlyle.
“At any rate, we shall do it, for we have determined16 upon having you. When you walk into West Lynne tomorrow, you’ll see the walks alive with placards, ‘Carlyle forever!’”
“Suppose you allow me until tomorrow to consider of it, and defer17 the garnishing18 of the walls a day later,” said Mr. Carlyle, a serious tone peeping out in the midst of his jocularity.
“You do not fear the expenses?”
It was but a glance he returned in answer. As soon as the question had been put—it was stupid old Pinner who propounded19 it—they had felt how foolish it was. And indeed the cost would be a mere20 nothing, were there no opposition21.
“Come, decide now, Carlyle. Give us your promise.”
“If I decide now, it will be in the negative,” replied Mr. Carlyle. “It is a question that demands consideration. Give me till tomorrow for that, and it is possible that I may accede22 to your request.”
This was the best that could be made of him, and the deputation backed out, and as nothing more could be done, departed to their several dinner-tables. Mr. Dill, who had been present, remained rubbing his hands with satisfaction, and casting admiring glances at Mr. Carlyle.
“What’s the matter, Dill?” asked the latter; “you look as though you were pleased at this movement, and assumed that I should accept it.”
“And so you will, Mr. Archibald. And as to the looking pleased, there’s not a man, woman or child in West Lynne who won’t do that.”
“Don’t make too sure, Dill.”
“Of which, sir—of your becoming our member, or of the people looking pleased?”
“Of either,” laughed Mr. Carlyle.
He quitted the office to walk home, revolving23 the proposition as he did so. That he had long thought of some time entering parliament was certain, though no definite period of the “when” had fixed itself in his mind. He saw not why he should confine his days entirely24 to toil25, to the work of his calling. Pecuniary26 considerations did not require it, for his realized property, combined with the fortune brought by Barbara, was quite sufficient to meet expenses, according to their present style of living. Not that he had the least intention of giving up his business; it was honorable, as he conducted it, and lucrative27, and he really liked it. He would not have been condemned28 to lead an idle life for the world; but there was no necessity for his being always at it. Mr. Dill made as good a principal as he did, and—if length of service and experience might be counted—a better one. He could safely be left to manage during the time it would be necessary for him, Mr. Carlyle, to be in London. He would rather represent West Lynne than any other spot on the face of the earth, no matter what might be the other’s importance; and, as West Lynne was now in want of a member, perhaps his opportunity had come. That he would make a good and efficient public servant, he believed; his talents were superior, his oratory29 persuasive30, and he had the gift of a true and honest spirit. That he would have the interest of West Lynne, at heart was certain, and he knew that he should serve his constituents31 to the very best of his power and ability. They knew it also.
Before Mr. Carlyle had reached East Lynne, he had decided32 that it should be.
It was a fine spring evening. The lilac was in bloom, the hedges and trees were clothed in their early green, and all things seemed full of promise. Even Mr. Carlyle’s heart was rejoicing in the prospect33 opened to it; he was sure he should like a public life; but in the sanguine34 moments of realization35 or of hope, some dark shade will step in to mar36 the brightness.
Barbara stood at the drawing-room window watching for him. Not in her was the dark shade; her dress was a marvel37 of vanity and prettiness, and she had chosen to place on her fair hair a dainty headdress of lace—as if her hair required any such ornament38! She waltzed up to Mr. Carlyle when he entered, and saucily39 held up her face, the light of love dancing in her bright blue eyes.
“What do you want?” he provokingly asked, putting his hands behind him, and letting her stand there.
“Oh, well—if you won’t say good-evening to me, I have a great mind to say you should not kiss me for a week, Archibald.”
He laughed. “Who would be punished by that?” whispered he.
Barbara pouted40 her pretty lips, and the tears positively41 came into her eyes. “Which is as much as to say it would be no punishment to you. Archibald, don’t you care for me?”
He threw his arms around her and clasped her to his heart, taking plenty of kisses then. “You know whether I care not,” he fondly whispered.
But now, will you believe that that unfortunate Lady Isabel had been a witness to this? Well, it was only what his greeting to her had once been. Her pale face flushed scarlet42, and she glided43 out of the room again as softly as she had entered it. They had not seen her. Mr. Carlyle drew his wife to the window, and stood there, his arms round her waist.
“Barbara, what should you say to living in London for a few months out of the twelve?”
“London? I am very happy where I am. Why should you ask me that? You are not going to live in London?”
“I am not sure of that. I think I am for a portion of the year. I have had an offer made me this afternoon, Barbara.”
She looked at him, wondering what he meant—wondering whether he was serious. An offer? What sort of an offer? Of what nature could it be?
He smiled at her perplexity. “Should you like to see M. P. attached to my name? West Lynne wants me to become its member.”
A pause to take in the news; a sudden rush of color, and then she gleefully clasped her hands round his arm, her eyes sparkling with pleasure.
“Oh, Archibald, how glad I am! I knew how you were appreciated, and you will be appreciated more and more. This is right; it was not well for you to remain what you are for life—a private individual, a country lawyer.”
“I am perfectly44 contented45 with my lot, Barbara,” he seriously said. “I am too busy to be otherwise.”
“I know that; were you but a laboring46 man, toiling47 daily for the bread you eat, you would be contented, feeling that you were fulfilling your appointed duty to the utmost,” she impulsively48 said; “but, Archibald, can you not still be a busy man at West Lynne, although you do become its representative?”
“If I could not, I should never accept the honor, Barbara. For some few months of the year I must of necessity be in town; but Dill is an efficient substitute, and I can run down for a week or so between times. Part of Saturday, Sunday, and part of Monday, I can always pass here, if I please. Of course these changes have their drawbacks, as well as their advantages.”
“Where would be the drawbacks in this?” she interrupted.
“Well,” smiled Mr. Carlyle, “in the first place, I suppose you could not always be with me.”
Her hands fell—her color faded. “Oh, Archibald!”
“If I do become their member, I must go up to town as soon as elected, and I don’t think it will do for my little wife to be quitting her home to travel about just now.”
Barbara’s face wore a very blank look. She could not dissent49 from Mr. Carlyle’s reasoning.
“And you must remain in London to the end of the session, while I am here! Separated! Archibald,” she passionately50 added, while the tears gushed52 into her eyes. “I could not live without you.”
“Then what is to be done? Must I decline it?”
“Decline it! Oh, of course not! I know we are looking on the dark side of things. I can go very well with you for a month—perhaps two.”
“You think so?”
“I am sure so. And, mind you must not encourage mamma to talk me out of it. Archibald,” she continued, resting her head upon his breast, her sweet face turned up beseechingly53 to his, “you would rather have me with you, would you not?”
He bent54 his own down upon it. “What do you think about it, my darling?”
Once more—an opportune55 moment for her to enter—Lady Isabel. Barbara heard her this time, and sprang away from her husband. Mr. Carlyle turned round at the movement, and saw Madame Vine. She came forward, her lips ashy, her voice subdued56.
Six months now had she been at East Lynne, and had hitherto escaped detection. Time and familiarity render us accustomed to most things—to danger among the rest; and she had almost ceased to fear recognition, living—so far as that point went—far more peaceably than she had done at first. She and the children were upon the best of terms. She had greatly endeared herself to them; she loved them, and they loved her—perhaps nature was asserting her own hidden claims.
She felt very anxious about William. He seemed to grow weaker, and she determined to make her fears known to Mr. Carlyle.
She quitted the parlor58. She had heard Mr. Carlyle come in. Crossing the hall, she tapped softly at the drawing-room door, and then as softly entered. It was the moment of Mr. Carlyle’s loud greeting to his wife. They stood together heedless of her.
Gliding59 out again, she paced the hall, her hands pressed upon her beating heart. How dared that heart rise up in sharp rebellion at these witnessed tokens of love? Was Barbara not his wife? Had she not a legal claim to all his tenderness? Who was she that she should resent them in her jealousy60? What, though they had once been hers, hers only, had she not signed and sealed her own forfeit61 of them, and so made room for Barbara?
Back to the gray parlor, there she stood, her elbow on the mantelpiece, her eyes hidden by her hand. Thus she remained for some minutes, and Lucy thought how sad she looked.
But Lucy felt hungry, and was casting longing62 glances to the tea-table. She wondered how long her governess meant to keep it waiting. “Madame Vine,” cried she presently, “don’t you know that tea is ready?”
This caused Madame Vine to raise her eyes. They fell on the pale boy at her feet. She made no immediate63 answer, only placed her hand on Lucy’s shoulder.
“Oh, Lucy dear, I—I have many sorrows to bear.”
“The tea will warm you, and there is some nice jam,” was Miss Lucy’s offered consolation64.
“Their greeting, tender as it may be, is surely over by this time,” thought Lady Isabel, an expression something like mockery curving her lips. “I will venture again.”
Only to see him with his wife’s face on his breast, and his lips bent upon it. But they had heard her this time, and she had to advance, in spite of her spirit of misery65 and her whitened features.
“Would you be so good sir, as to come and look at William?” she asked in a low tone, of Mr. Carlyle.
“Certainly.”
“What for?” interjected Barbara.
“He looks very ill. I do not like his looks. I am fearing whether he can be worse than we have thought.”
They went to the gray parlor, all three of them. Mr. Carlyle was in first, and had taken a long, silent look at William before the others entered.
“What is he doing on the floor?” exclaimed Barbara, in her astonishment66. “He should not lie on the floor, Madame Vine.”
“He lays himself down there at the dusk hour, and I cannot get him up again. I try to persuade him to use the sofa, but it is of no use.”
“The floor will not hurt him,” said Mr. Carlyle. This was the dark shade: his boy’s failing health.
William opened his eyes. “Who’s that—papa?”
“Don’t you feel well, William?”
“Oh, yes, I’m very well; but I am tired.”
“Why do you lie down here?”
“I like lying here. Papa, that pretty white rabbit of mine is dead.”
“Indeed. Suppose you get up and tell me all about it.”
“I don’t know about it myself yet,” said William, softly rising. “The gardener told Lucy when she was out just now: I did not go; I was tired. He said—”
“What has tired you?” interrupted Mr. Carlyle, taking hold of the boy’s hand.
“Oh, nothing. I am always tired.”
“Do you tell Mr. Wainwright that you are tired?”
“No. Why should I tell him? I wish he would not order me to take that nasty medicine, that cod68 liver oil.”
“But it is to make you strong, my boy.”
“It makes me sick. I always feel sick after it, papa. Madame Vine says I ought to have cream. That would be nice.”
“Cream?” repeated Mr. Carlyle, turning his eyes on Madame Vine.
“I have known cream to do a great deal of good in a case like William’s,” she observed. “I believe that no better medicine can be given; that it has in fact no substitute.”
“It can be tried,” said Mr. Carlyle.
“Pray give your orders, Madame Vine, for anything you think may be beneficial to him,” Mrs. Carlyle added. “You have had more experience with children than I. Joyce—”
“What does Wainwright say?” interrupted Mr. Carlyle, speaking to his wife, in his low tone.
“I do not always see him when he comes, Archibald. Madame Vine does, I believe.”
“Oh, dear!” cried Lucy, “can’t we have tea? I want some bread and jam.”
Mr. Carlyle turned round, smiled and nodded at her. “Patience is good for little girls, Miss Lucy. Would you like some bread and jam, my boy?”
William shook his head. “I can’t eat jam. I am only thirsty.”
Mr. Carlyle cast a long and intent look at him, and then left the room. Lady Isabel followed him, her thoughts full of her ailing67 child.
“Do you think him very ill, sir?” she whispered.
“I think he looks so. What does Mr. Wainwright say?”
“He says nothing to me. I have not inquired his true condition. Until to-night it did not come to me that there was any apprehension69.”
“Does he look so much worse to-night?”
“Not any worse than customary. Latterly he had looked just like this in the evening. It was a remark of Hannah’s that roused my alarm: she thinks he is on the road to death. What can we do to save him?”
She clasped her hands as she spoke70, in the intensity71 of her emotion. She almost forgot, as they stood there together talking of the welfare of the child, their child, that he was no longer her husband. Almost, not quite, utterly72 impossible would it be for her wholly to forget the dreadful present. Neither he nor the child could again belong to her in this world.
A strange rising of the throat in her wild despair, a meek73 courtesy, as she turned from him, his last words ringing in her ears: “I shall call in further advice for him, Madame Vine.”
William was clinging round Mrs. Carlyle, in a coaxing74 attitude, when she reentered the gray parlor. “I know what I could eat, mamma, if you’d let me have it,” cried he, in answer to her remonstrance75 that he must eat something.
“What could you eat?”
“Some cheese.”
“Cheese! Cheese with tea!” laughed Mrs. Carlyle.
“For the last week or two he has fancied strange things, the effect of a diseased appetite,” exclaimed Madame Vine; “but if I allow them to be brought in he barely tastes them.”
“I am sure, mamma, I could eat some cheese now,” said William.
“You may have it,” answered Mrs. Carlyle.
As she turned to leave the room, the impatient knock and ring of a visitor was heard. Barbara wondered who could be arriving at that, their dinner hour. Sailing majestically76 into the hall, her lips compressed, her aspect threatening, came Miss Carlyle.
Now it turned out that Miss Corny had been standing77 at her own window, grimly eyeing the ill doings of the street, from the fine housemaid opposite, who was enjoying a flirting78 interview with the baker79, to the ragged80 urchins81, pitch-polling in the gutter82 and the dust. And there she caught sight of the string, justices and others, who came flowing out of the office of Mr. Carlyle. So many of them were they that Miss Corny involuntarily thought of a conjuror83 flinging flowers out of a hat—the faster they come, the more it seems there are to come. “What on earth is up?” cried Miss Corny, pressing her nose flat against the pane84, that she might see better.
They filed off, some one way, some another. Miss Carlyle’s curiosity was keener than her appetite, for she stayed on the watch, although just informed that her dinner was served. Presently Mr. Carlyle appeared and she knocked at the window with her knuckles85. He did not hear it; he had turned off at a quick pace toward home. Miss Corny’s temper rose.
The clerks came out next, one after another; and the last was Mr. Dill. He was less hurried than Mr. Carlyle had been, and heard Miss Corny’s signal.
“What in the name of wonder, did all that stream of people want at the office?” began she, when Mr. Dill had entered in obedience86 to it.
“That was the deputation, Miss Cornelia.”
“What deputation?”
“The deputation to Mr. Archibald. They want him to become their new member.”
“Member of what?” cried she, not guessing at the actual meaning.
“Of parliament, Miss Corny; to replace Mr. Attley. The gentlemen came to solicit87 him to be put in nomination.”
“Solicit a donkey!” irascibly uttered Miss Corny, for the tidings did not meet her approbation88. “Did Archibald turn them out again?”
“He gave them no direct answer, ma’am. He will consider of it between now and tomorrow morning.”
“Consider of it!” shrieked89 she. “Why, he’d never, never be such a flat as to comply. He go into parliament! What next?”
“Why should he not, Miss Corny? I’m sure I should be proud to see him there.”
Miss Corny gave a sniff90. “You are proud of things more odd than even John Dill. Remember that fine shirt front! What has become of it? Is it laid up in lavender?”
“Not exactly in lavender, Miss Corny. It lies in the drawer; for I have never liked to put it on since, after what you said.”
“Why don’t you sell it at half-price, and buy a couple of good useful ones with the money?” returned she, tartly92. “Better that than keep the foppish93 thing as a witness of your folly94. Perhaps he’ll be buying embroidered95 fronts next, if he goes into that idle, do-nothing House of Commons. I’d rather enter myself for six months at the treadmill96.”
“Oh, Miss Corny! I don’t think you have well considered it. It’s a great honor, and worthy97 of him. He will be elevated above us all, as it were, and he deserves to be.”
“Elevate him on a weathercock!” raged Miss Corny. “There, you may go. I’ve heard quite enough.”
Brushing past the old gentleman, leaving him to depart or not, as he might please, Miss Carlyle strode upstairs, flung on her shawl and bonnet98, and strode down again. Her servant looked considerably surprised, and addressed her as she crossed the hall.
“Your dinner, ma’am?” he ventured to say.
“What’s my dinner to you?” returned Miss Corny, in her wrath99. “You have had yours.”
Away she strode. And thus it happened that she was at East Lynne almost as soon as Mr. Carlyle.
“Where’s Archibald?” began she, without ceremony, the moment she saw Barbara.
“He is here. Is anything the matter?”
Mr. Carlyle, hearing the voice, came out and she pounced100 upon him with her tongue.
“What’s this about your becoming the new member for West Lynne?”
“West Lynne wishes it,” said Mr. Carlyle. “Sit down, Cornelia.”
“Sit down yourself,” retorted she, keeping on her feet. “I want my question answered. Of course you will decline?”
“On the contrary, I have made up my mind to accept.”
Miss Corny untied101 the strings102 of her bonnet, and flung them behind her.
“Have you counted the cost?” she asked, and there was something quite sepulchral103 in her solemn tone.
“I have given it consideration, Cornelia; both as regards money and time. The expenses are not worth naming, should there be no opposition. And if there is any—”
“Ay!” groaned104 Miss Corny. “If there is?”
“Well? I am not without a few hundred to spare for the playing,” he said, turning upon her the good-humored light of his fine countenance105.
Miss Carlyle emitted some dismal106 groans107.
“That ever I should have lived to see this day! To hear money talked of as though it were dirt. And what’s to become of your business?” she sharply added. “Is that to be let run to rack and ruin, while you are kicking up your heels in that wicked London, under plea of being at the House night after night?”
“Cornelia,” he gravely said, “were I dead, Dill could carry on the business just as well as it is being carried on now. I might go into a foreign country for seven years and come back to find the business as flourishing as ever, for Dill could keep it together. And even were the business to drop off—though I tell you it will not do so—I am independent of it.”
Miss Carlyle faced tartly round upon Barbara.
“Have you been setting him on to this?”
“I think he had made up his mind before he spoke to me. But,” added Barbara, in her truth, “I urged him to accept it.”
“Oh, you did! Nicely moped and miserable108 you’ll be here, if he goes to London for months on the stretch. You did not think of that, perhaps.”
“But he would not have me here,” said Barbara, her eyelashes becoming wet at the thought, as she unconsciously moved to her husband’s side. “He would take me with him.”
Miss Carlyle made a pause, and looked at them alternately.
“Is that decided?” she asked.
“Of course it is,” laughed Mr. Carlyle, willing to joke the subject and his sister into good-humor. “Would you wish to separate man and wife, Cornelia?”
She made no reply. She rapidly tied her bonnet-strings, the ribbons trembling ominously109 in her fingers.
“You are not going, Cornelia? You must stay to dinner, now that you are here—it is ready—and we will talk this further over afterward110.”
“This has been dinner enough for me for one day,” spoke she, putting on her gloves. “That I should have lived to see my father’s son throw up his business, and change himself into a lazy, stuck-up parliament man!”
“Do stay and dine with us, Cornelia; I think I can subdue57 your prejudices, if you will let me talk to you.”
“If you wanted to talk to me about it, why did you not come in when you left the office?” cried Miss Corny, in a greater amount of wrath than she had shown yet. And there’s no doubt that, in his not having done so, lay one of the sore points.
“I did not think of it,” said Mr. Carlyle. “I should have come in and told you of it tomorrow morning.”
“I dare say you would,” she ironically answered. “Good evening to you both.”
And, in spite of their persuasions111, she quitted the house and went stalking down the avenue.
Two or three days more, and the address of Mr. Carlyle to the inhabitants of West Lynne appeared in the local papers, while the walls and posts convenient were embellished112 with various colored placards, “Vote for Carlyle.” “Carlyle forever!”
Wonders never cease. Surprises are the lot of man; but perhaps a greater surprise had never been experienced by those who knew what was what, than when it went forth113 to the world that Sir Francis Levison had converted himself from—from what he was—into a red-hot politician.
Had he been offered the post of prime minister? Or did his conscience smite114 him, as was the case with a certain gallant115 captain renowned116 in song? Neither the one nor the other. The simple fact was, that Sir Francis Levison was in a state of pecuniary embarrassment117, and required something to prop14 him up—some snug118 sinecure—plenty to get and nothing to do.
Patch himself up he must. But how? He had tried the tables, but luck was against him; he made a desperate venture upon the turf, a grand coup91 that would have set him on his legs for some time, but the venture turned out the wrong way, and Sir Francis was a defaulter. He began then to think there was nothing for it but to drop into some nice government nest, where, as I have told you, there would be plenty to get and nothing to do. Any place with much to do would not suit him, or he it; he was too empty-headed for work requiring talent; you may have remarked that a man given to Sir Francis Levison’s pursuits generally is.
He dropped into something good, or that promised good—nothing less than the secretaryship to Lord Headthelot, who swayed the ministers in the upper House. But that he was a connection of Lord Headthelot’s he never would have obtained it, and very dubiously119 the minister consented to try him. Of course a condition was, that he should enter parliament the first opportunity, his vote to be at the disposal of the ministry120—rather a shaky ministry—and supposed, by some, to be on its last legs. And this brings us to the present time.
In a handsome drawing-room in Eaton Square, one sunny afternoon, sat a lady, young and handsome. Her eyes were of violet blue, her hair was auburn, her complexion121 delicate; but there was a stern look of anger, amounting to sullenness122, on her well-formed features, and her pretty foot was beating the carpet in passionate51 impatience123. It was Lady Levison.
The doings of the past had been coming home to her for some time now—past doings, be they good or be they ill, are sure to come home, one day or another, and bring their fruits with them.
In the years past—many years past now—Francis Levison had lost his heart—or whatever the thing might be that, with him, did duty for one—to Blanche Challoner. He had despised her once to Lady Isabel—as Lord Thomas says in the old ballad124; but that was done to suit his own purpose, for he had never, at any period, cared for Lady Isabel as he had cared for Blanche. He gained her affection in secret—they engaged themselves to each other. Blanche’s sister, Lydia Challoner, two years older than herself suspected it, and taxed Blanche with it. Blanche, true to her compact of keeping it a secret, denied it with many protestations. “She did not care for Captain Levison; rather disliked him, in fact.” “So much the better,” was Miss Challoner’s reply; for she had no respect for Captain Levison, and deemed him an unlikely man to marry.
Years went on, and poor, unhappy Blanche Challoner remained faithful to her love.
He played fast and loose with her—professing attachment125 for her in secret, and visiting at the house; perhaps he feared an outbreak from her, an exposure that might be anything but pleasant, did he throw off all relations between them. Blanche summoned up her courage and spoke to him, urging the marriage; she had not yet glanced at the fear that his intention of marrying her, had he ever possessed126 such, was over. Bad men are always cowards. Sir Francis shrank from an explanation, and so far forgot honor as to murmur some indistinct promise that the wedding should be speedy.
Lydia Challoner had married, and been left a widow, well off. She was Mrs. Waring; and at her house resided Blanche. For the girls were orphans127. Blanche was beginning to show symptoms of her nearly thirty years; not the years, but the long-continued disappointment, the heart-burnings, were telling upon her. Her hair was thin, her face was pinched, her form had lost its roundness. “Marry her, indeed!” scoffed128 to himself Sir Francis Levison.
There came to Mrs. Waring’s upon a Christmas visit a younger sister, Alice Challoner, a fair girl of twenty years. She resided generally with an aunt in the country. Far more beautiful was she than Blanche had ever been, and Francis Levison, who had not seen her since she was a child, fell—as he would have called it—in love with her. Love! He became her shadow; he whispered sweet words in her ear; he turned her head giddy with its own vanity, and he offered her marriage. She accepted him, and preparations for the ceremony immediately began. Sir Francis urged speed, and Alice was nothing loth.
And what of Blanche? Blanche was stunned129. A despairing stupor130 took possession of her; and, when she woke from it, desperation set in. She insisted upon an interview with Sir Francis, and evade131 it he could not, though he tried hard. Will it be believed that he denied the past—that he met with mocking suavity132 her indignant reminders133 of what had been between them? “Love! Marriage? Nonsense! Her fancy had been too much at work.” Finally, he defied her to prove that he had regarded her with more than ordinary friendship, or had ever hinted at such a thing as a union.
She could not prove it. She had not so much as a scrap134 of paper written on by him; she had not a single friend or enemy to come forward and testify that they heard him breathe to her a word of love. He had been too wary135 for that. Moreover there was her own solemn protestations to her sister Lydia that there was not anything between her and Francis Levison; who would believe her if she veered136 round now, and avowed these protestations were false? No; she found that she was in a sinking ship; one there was no chance of saving.
But one chance did she determine to try—an appeal to Alice. Blanche Challoner’s eyes were suddenly and rudely opened to the badness of the man, and she was aware now how thoroughly137 unfit he was to become the husband of her sister. It struck her that only misery could result from the union, and that, if possible, Alice should be saved from entering upon it. Would she have married him herself, then? Yes. But it was a different thing for that fair, fresh young Alice; she had not wasted her life’s best years in waiting for him.
When the family had gone to rest, and the house was quiet, Blanche Challoner proceeded to her sister’s bedroom. Alice had not begun to undress; she was sitting in a comfortable chair before the fire, her feet on the fender, reading a love letter from Sir Francis.
“Alice, I am come to tell you a story,” she said quietly. “Will you hear it?”
“In a minute. Stop a bit,” replied Alice. She finished the perusal138 of the letter, put it aside, and then spoke again. “What did you say, Blanche? A story?”
Blanche nodded. “Several years ago there was a fair young girl, none too rich, in our station of life. A gentleman, who was none too rich either, sought and gained her love. He could not marry; he was not rich, I say. They loved on in secret, hoping for better times, she wearing out her years and her heart. Oh, Alice! I cannot describe to you how she loved him—how she has continued to love him up to this moment. Through evil report she clung to him tenaciously139 and tenderly as the vine clings to its trellis, for the world spoke ill of him.”
“Who was the young lady?” interrupted Alice. “Is this a fable140 of romance, Blanche, or a real history?”
“A real history. I knew her. All those years—years and years, I say—he kept leading her on to love, letting her think that his love was hers. In the course of time he succeeded to a fortune, and the bar to their marriage was over. He was abroad when he came into it, but returned home at once; their intercourse141 was renewed, and her fading heart woke up once more to life. Still, the marriage did not come on; he said nothing of it, and she spoke to him. Very soon now, should it be, was his answer, and she continued to live on—in hope.”
“Go on, Blanche,” cried Alice, who had grown interested in the tale, never suspecting that it could bear a personal interest.
“Yes, I will go on. Would you believe, Alice, that almost immediately after this last promise, he saw one whom he fancied he should like better, and asked her to be his wife, forsaking142 the one to whom he was bound by every tie of honor—repudiating all that had been between them, even his own words and promises?”
“How disgraceful! Were they married?”
“They are to be. Would you have such a man?”
“I!” returned Alice, quite indignant at the question. “It is not likely that I would.”
“That man, Alice is Sir Francis Levison.”
Alice Challoner gave a start, and her face became scarlet. “How dare you say so, Blanche? It is not true. Who was the girl, pray? She must have traduced143 him.”
“She has not traduced him,” was the subdued answer. “The girl was myself.”
An awkward pause. “I know!” cried Alice, throwing back her head resentfully. “He told me I might expect something of this—that you had fancied him in love with you, and were angry because he had chosen me.”
Blanche turned upon her with streaming eyes; she could no longer control her emotion. “Alice, my sister, all the pride is gone out of me; all the reticence144 that woman loves to observe as to her wrongs and her inward feelings I have broken through for you this night. As sure as there is a heaven above us, I have told you the truth. Until you came I was engaged to Francis Levison.”
An unnatural145 scene ensued. Blanche, provoked at Alice’s rejection146 of her words, told all the ill she knew or heard of the man; she dwelt upon his conduct with regard to Lady Isabel Carlyle, his heartless after-treatment of that unhappy lady. Alice was passionate and fiery147. She professed148 not to believe a word of her sister’s wrongs, and as to the other stories, they were no affairs of hers, she said: “what had she to do with his past life?”
But Alice Challoner did believe; her sister’s earnestness and distress149, as she told the tale, carried conviction with them. She did not very much care for Sir Francis; he was not entwined round her heart, as he was round Blanche’s; but she was dazzled with the prospect of so good a settlement in life, and she would not give him up. If Blanche broke her heart—why, she must break it. But she need not have mixed taunts150 and jeers151 with her refusal to believe; she need not have triumphed openly over Blanche. Was it well done? Was it the work of an affectionate sister! As we sow, so shall we reap. She married Sir Francis Levison, leaving Blanche to her broken heart, or to any other calamity152 that might grow out of the injustice153. And there sat Lady Levison now, her three years of marriage having served to turn her love for Sir Francis into contempt and hate.
A little boy, two years old, the only child of the marriage, was playing about the room. His mother took no notice of him; she was buried in all-absorbing thought—thought which caused her lips to contract, and her brow to scowl154. Sir Francis entered, his attitude lounging, his air listless. Lady Levison roused herself, but no pleasant manner of tone was hers, as she set herself to address him.
“I want some money,” she said.
“So do I,” he answered.
An impatient stamp of the foot and a haughty155 toss. “And I must have it. I must. I told you yesterday that I must. Do you suppose I can go on, without a sixpence of ready money day after day?”
“Do you suppose it is of any use to put yourself in this fury?” retorted Sir Francis. “A dozen times a week do you bother me for money and a dozen times do I tell you I have got none. I have got none for myself. You may as well ask that baby for money as ask me.”
“I wish he had never been born!” passionately uttered Lady Levison; “unless he had had a different father.”
That the last sentence, and the bitter scorn of its tone, would have provoked a reprisal156 from Sir Francis, his flashing countenance betrayed. But at that moment a servant entered the room.
“I beg your pardon, sir. That man, Brown, forced his way into the hall, and—”
“I can’t see him—I won’t see him!” interrupted Sir Francis backing to the furthest corner of the room, in what looked very like abject157 terror, as if he had completely lost his presence of mind. Lady Levison’s lips curled.
“We got rid of him, sir, after a dreadful deal of trouble, I was about to say, but while the door was open in the dispute, Mr. Meredith entered. He has gone into the library, sir, and vows158 he won’t stir till he sees you, whether you are sick or well.”
A moment’s pause, a half-muttered oath, and the Sir Francis quitted the room. The servant retired, and Lady Levison caught up her child.
“Oh, Franky dear,” she wailed159 forth, burying her face in his warm neck. “I’d leave him for good and all, if I dared; but I fear he might keep you.”
Now, the secret was, that for the last three days Sir Francis had been desperately160 ill, obliged to keep his bed, and could see nobody, his life depending upon quiet. Such was the report, or something equivalent to it, which had gone in to Lord Headthelot, or rather, to the official office, for that renowned chief was himself out of town; it had also been delivered to all callers at Sir Francis Levison’s house; the royal truth being that Sir Francis was as well as you or I, but, from something that had transpired161 touching162 one of his numerous debts, did not dare to show himself. That morning the matter had been arranged—patched up for a time.
“My stars, Levison!” began Mr. Meredith, who was a whipper-in of the ministry, “what a row there is about you! Why, you look as well as ever you were.”
“A great deal better today,” coughed Sir Francis.
“To think that you should have chosen the present moment for skulking163! Here have I been dancing attendance at your door, day after day, in a state of incipient164 fever, enough to put me into a real one, and could neither get admitted nor a letter taken up. I should have blown the house up today and got in amidst the flying debris165. By the way, are you and my lady two just now?”
“Two?” growled166 Sir Francis.
“She was stepping into her carriage yesterday when they turned me from the door, and I made inquiry167 of her. Her ladyship’s answer was, that she knew nothing either of Francis or his illness.”
“Her ladyship is subject to flights of distemper,” chafed168 Sir Francis. “What desperate need have you of me, just now? Headthelot’s away and there’s nothing doing.”
“Nothing doing up here; a deal too much doing somewhere else. Attley’s seat’s in the market.”
“Well?”
“And you ought to have been down there about it three or four days ago. Of course you must step into it.”
“Of course I shan’t,” returned Sir Francis. “To represent West Lynne will not suit me.”
“Not suit you? West Lynne! Why, of all places, it is most suitable. It’s close to your own property.”
“If you call ten miles close. I shall not put up for West Lynne, Meredith.”
“Headthelot came up this morning,” said Mr. Meredith.
The information somewhat aroused Sir Francis. “Headthelot? What brings him back?”
“You. I tell you, Levison, there’s a hot row. Headthelot expected you would be at West Lynne days past, and he has come up in an awful rage. Every additional vote we can count in the House is worth its weight in gold; and you, he says are allowing West Lynne to slip through your fingers! You must start for it at once Levison.”
Sir Francis mused169. Had the alternative been given him, he would have preferred to represent a certain warm place underground, rather than West Lynne. But, to quit Headthelot, and the snug post he anticipated, would be ruin irretrievable; nothing short of outlawry170, or the queen’s prison. It was awfully171 necessary to get his threatened person into parliament, and he began to turn over in his mind whether he could bring himself to make further acquaintance with West Lynne. “The thing must have blown over for good by this time,” was the result of his cogitations, unconsciously speaking aloud.
“I can understand your reluctance172 to appear at West Lynne,” cried Mr. Meredith; “the scene, unless I mistake, of that notorious affair of yours. But private feelings must give way to public interests, and the best thing you can do is to start. Headthelot is angry enough as it is. He says, had you been down at first, as you ought to have been, you would have slipped in without opposition, but now there will be a contest.”
Sir Francis looked up sharply. “A contest? Who is going to stand the funds?”
“Pshaw! As if we should let funds be any barrier! Have you heard who is in the field?”
“No,” was the apathetic173 answer.
“Carlyle.”
“Carlyle!” uttered Sir Francis, startled. “Oh, by George, though! I can’t stand against him.”
“Well, there’s the alternative. If you can’t, Thornton will.”
“I should run no chance. West Lynne would not elect me in preference to him. I’m not sure, indeed, that West Lynne would have me in any case.”
“Nonsense! You know our interest there. Government put in Attley, and it can put you in. Yes, or no, Levison?”
“Yes,” answered Sir Francis.
An hour’s time, and Sir Francis Levison went forth. On his way to be conveyed to West Lynne? Not yet. He turned his steps to Scotland Yard. In considerably less than an hour the following telegram, marked “Secret,” went down from the head office to the superintendent174 of police at West Lynne.
“Is Otway Bethel at West Lynne? If not; where is he? And when will he be returning to it?”
It elicited175 a prompt answer.
“Otway Bethel is not at West Lynne. Supposed to be in Norway. Movements uncertain.”
收听单词发音 |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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writ
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| n.命令状，书面命令 | |
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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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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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turnips
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| 芜青( turnip的名词复数 )； 芜菁块根； 芜菁甘蓝块根； 怀表 | |
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conning
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| v.诈骗，哄骗( con的现在分词 )；指挥操舵( conn的现在分词 ) | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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nomination
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| n.提名，任命，提名权 | |
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prop
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| vt.支撑；n.支柱，支撑物；支持者，靠山 | |
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extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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defer
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| vt.推迟，拖延；vi.(to)遵从，听从，服从 | |
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garnishing
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| v.给（上餐桌的食物）加装饰( garnish的现在分词 ) | |
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propounded
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| v.提出（问题、计划等）供考虑[讨论]，提议( propound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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accede
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| v.应允，同意 | |
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revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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lucrative
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| adj.赚钱的，可获利的 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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oratory
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| n.演讲术；词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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constituents
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| n.选民( constituent的名词复数 )；成分；构成部分；要素 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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mar
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| vt.破坏，毁坏，弄糟 | |
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marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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saucily
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| adv.傲慢地，莽撞地 | |
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pouted
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| v.撅（嘴）( pout的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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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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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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laboring
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| n.劳动，操劳v.努力争取(for)( labor的现在分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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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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impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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dissent
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| n./v.不同意，持异议 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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gushed
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| v.喷，涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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beseechingly
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| adv. 恳求地 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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opportune
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| adj.合适的，适当的 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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forfeit
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| vt.丧失；n.罚金，罚款，没收物 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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ailing
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| v.生病 | |
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cod
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| n.鳕鱼；v.愚弄；哄骗 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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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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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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74
coaxing
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的现在分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱；“锻炼”效应 | |
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remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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76
majestically
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| 雄伟地； 庄重地； 威严地； 崇高地 | |
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77
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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78
flirting
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的现在分词 ) | |
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79
baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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80
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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81
urchins
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| n.顽童( urchin的名词复数 )；淘气鬼；猬；海胆 | |
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82
gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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83
conjuror
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| n.魔术师，变戏法者 | |
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84
pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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85
knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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86
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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87
solicit
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| vi.勾引；乞求；vt.请求，乞求；招揽(生意) | |
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88
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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89
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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90
sniff
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| vi.嗅…味道；抽鼻涕；对嗤之以鼻，蔑视 | |
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91
coup
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| n.政变；突然而成功的行动 | |
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92
tartly
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| adv.辛辣地，刻薄地 | |
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93
foppish
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| adj.矫饰的，浮华的 | |
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94
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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95
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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96
treadmill
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| n.踏车；单调的工作 | |
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97
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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98
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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99
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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100
pounced
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| v.突然袭击( pounce的过去式和过去分词 )；猛扑；一眼看出；抓住机会（进行抨击） | |
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101
untied
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| 松开，解开( untie的过去式和过去分词 )； 解除，使自由； 解决 | |
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102
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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103
sepulchral
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| adj.坟墓的，阴深的 | |
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104
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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105
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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106
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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107
groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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108
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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109
ominously
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| adv.恶兆地，不吉利地；预示地 | |
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110
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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111
persuasions
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| n.劝说，说服（力）( persuasion的名词复数 )；信仰 | |
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112
embellished
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| v.美化( embellish的过去式和过去分词 )；装饰；修饰；润色 | |
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113
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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114
smite
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| v.重击；彻底击败；n.打；尝试；一点儿 | |
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115
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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116
renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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117
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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118
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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119
dubiously
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| adv.可疑地，怀疑地 | |
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120
ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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121
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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122
sullenness
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| n. 愠怒, 沉闷, 情绪消沉 | |
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123
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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124
ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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125
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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126
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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127
orphans
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| 孤儿( orphan的名词复数 ) | |
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128
scoffed
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| 嘲笑，嘲弄( scoff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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129
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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130
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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131
evade
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| vt.逃避，回避；避开，躲避 | |
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132
suavity
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| n.温和；殷勤 | |
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133
reminders
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| n.令人回忆起…的东西( reminder的名词复数 )；提醒…的东西；（告知该做某事的）通知单；提示信 | |
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134
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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135
wary
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| adj.谨慎的，机警的，小心的 | |
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136
veered
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| v.（尤指交通工具）改变方向或路线( veer的过去式和过去分词 )；（指谈话内容、人的行为或观点）突然改变；（指风） （在北半球按顺时针方向、在南半球按逆时针方向）逐渐转向；风向顺时针转 | |
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137
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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138
perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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139
tenaciously
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| 坚持地 | |
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140
fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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141
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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142
forsaking
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| 放弃( forsake的现在分词 )； 弃绝； 抛弃； 摒弃 | |
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143
traduced
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| v.诋毁( traduce的过去式和过去分词 )；诽谤；违反；背叛 | |
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144
reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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145
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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146
rejection
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| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
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147
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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148
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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149
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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150
taunts
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| 嘲弄的言语，嘲笑，奚落( taunt的名词复数 ) | |
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151
jeers
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| n.操纵帆桁下部（使其上下的）索具；嘲讽( jeer的名词复数 )v.嘲笑( jeer的第三人称单数 ) | |
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152
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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153
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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154
scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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155
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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156
reprisal
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| n.报复，报仇，报复性劫掠 | |
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157
abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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158
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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159
wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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160
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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161
transpired
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| （事实，秘密等）被人知道( transpire的过去式和过去分词 )； 泄露； 显露； 发生 | |
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162
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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163
skulking
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| v.潜伏，偷偷摸摸地走动，鬼鬼祟祟地活动( skulk的现在分词 ) | |
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164
incipient
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| adj.起初的，发端的，初期的 | |
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165
debris
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| n.瓦砾堆，废墟，碎片 | |
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166
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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167
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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168
chafed
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| v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的过去式 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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169
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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170
outlawry
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| 宣布非法，非法化，放逐 | |
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171
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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172
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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173
apathetic
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| adj.冷漠的，无动于衷的 | |
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174
superintendent
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| n.监督人，主管，总监；(英国)警务长 | |
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175
elicited
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| 引出，探出( elicit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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