Brian found Wimperfield duller as a place of residence after Sir Reginald’s death; or it may be that he found London gayer, and his professional duties more absorbing. It was not often that his wife and mother-in-law were gratified by any public notification of his engagements; but now and then the name of Mr. Wendover appeared as junior counsel in some insignificant1 case, and Lady Palliser, who read the Times and Post, diligently2 apprised3 Ida of the fact.
‘You see Brian is getting on quite nicely,’ she said approvingly, ‘and by-and-by when he has plenty of work, you will have a small house in town, I suppose — somewhere about Belgravia — and only come to Wimperfield for your holidays.’
Fanny Palliser had never left off compassionating4 Ida for her frequent separation from her husband. She had never divined that Ida was happier in Brian’s absence than when he was with her. The wife had so borne herself that her husband should not be put to shame by her indifference5. She lived the larger half of her life apart from him; but Lady Palliser and her gossips believed that in so doing the young couple sacrificed inclination6 to prudence7. So soon as they could afford to maintain a town house they would have one.
It was midsummer weather, and the rose garden at Wimperfield, that garden which had been Ida’s own peculiar8 care for the last four years, the garden which she had improved and beautified with every art learned from that ardent9 rose-worshipper Aunt Betsy, was glorious with its first blooms. Sir Reginald Palliser had been dead a year and a half, but Ida still wore black gowns, and the widow had in no wise mitigated10 the severity of her weeds. The two women had lived peaceably and affectionately together ever since the baronet’s death, leading a quiet but not unhappy life, the placid11 monotony of their existence agreeably varied12 by frequent intercourse13 with the family at Kingthorpe.
The only changes at The Knoll14 were of a gentle domestic character. No cloud of trouble had darkened that happy household. Bessie had become a brisk, business-like little matron, dividing her cares between her yearling baby and her husband’s parish; troubled, like Martha, about many things, but only in such a manner as women of her temperament15 like to be troubled. Reginald had begun his University career as an undergraduate of Balliol, and talked largely about Professor Jowett, and Greek. Horatio was still a Wintonian. The Colonel had grown a little stouter16, and his wife was too polite to cultivate a slimness which might have seemed a reproach to her husband’s comfortable figure. Blanche was ‘out,’ a development of her being which meant that she was occasionally invited to a friendly dinner-party with her father and mother, that her clothes cost three times as much as they had cost while she was ‘in,’ that she had ideas about blue china and sunflowers, lamented18 the shabbiness of The Knoll drawing-room and the general untidiness of the household, and that she abandoned herself to despondency whenever there was a long interval19 between one garden party and another. The child Eva had become exactly what Blanche had been four years ago. Urania was still Urania Rylance, just a shade more self-opinionated, and more conscious of the inferiority of her fellow-creatures. These innate20 instincts had been ripened21 and developed by several London seasons, and were now accompanied by a flavour of sourness which was meant for wit. She had not been without offers, but there had been no offer tempting22 enough to induce her to abandon her privileges as Dr. Rylance’s daughter. She had an idea that her marriage would be the signal for Dr. Rylance to take unto himself a second wife; and she was disinclined to give that signal. The more anxious her father seemed to dispose of her in the marriage market, the more tenaciously23 she clung to the privileges of spinsterhood.
‘I hope you are not in a hurry to get rid of me, father,’ she said at breakfast one morning, when Dr. Rylance urged the claims of a cultured youth in the War Office.
‘No, my dear; I don’t think I have shown any undue24 haste. This is your fifth London season.’
I hope you do not call my intermittent25 glimpses of town a season,’ sneered26 Urania.
‘I have you here as often and as long as I can,’ answered her father, becoming suddenly stony27 of countenance28, ‘and I take you out as much as I can. Mr. Fitz Wilson has seven hundred a year. I could give you — say three; and surely with a thousand a year two young people might live in very good style — even in these pretentious29 days.’
‘No doubt. But I don’t care for Mr. Fitz Wilson, and I care still less for the kind of style which can be maintained upon a thousand a year,’ replied Urania, with the air of a duchess. ‘That would mean a small house 011 the skirts of Regent’s Park, or a flat in the Marylebone Road, I suppose — and no carriage.’
‘Marry whom you please, my love, and when you please,’ said her father; ‘but remember that time is not standing30 still with any of us.’
There had been no change at the Abbey in the years which were gone since Brian Walford claimed his bride, except that the new schools had been built under Colonel Wendover’s superintendence. The old house still resembled the palace of the sleeping beauty; except that trustworthy servants took care of it, and kept moths32, spiders, mice, and all such small deer at a distance. The owner of the mansion33 was still absent, roaming about somewhere in Northern India, as it was supposed; but his letters were few and far between. His kindred at Kingthorpe were accustomed to think of him as a wanderer in far-away places, and gave themselves very little anxiety about him. To have been anxious once would be to be anxious always, since a traveller’s risks are manifold, and there is never a year when the eager spirit of some valiant35 explorer is not quenched36 in sudden death. Brian Wendover had been away so long that people had left off talking about him; and it seemed a natural condition for the Abbey to be tenantless37 — a capital place for picnics and afternoon teas. The Wendovers of The Knoll took all their visitors there as a matter of course — played tennis on the lawn between the goodly old cedars38; and Blanche, who was of a much more enterprising disposition39 than her sister Bessie, had tried her hardest to induce Mrs. Wendover to give a ball in the old refectory.
Ida and her husband were strolling about the rose-garden in the quiet hour after luncheon40, while Lady Palliser dozed41 over her knitting-needles in her favourite chair by the long French window. Brian had come to Wimperfield somewhat unexpectedly, while the London season was still at its height, and all the law courts in full swing. He came home invalided42, and wanting rest and care: but he refused to consult the family doctor, a general practitioner43 born and bred in the adjacent village — clever, sagacious, homely44 in dress and manners, and, in the opinion of Lady Palliser, a tower of strength. She liked a fatherly doctor.
‘What is the use of seeing old Fosbroke when I have had the best advice in London?’ Brian said, peevishly45, when urged by his mother-in-law to take advice from the family doctor. ‘I know exactly what ails46 me — nervous exhaustion47, an over-worked brain, and that kind of thing. I suppose it is a natural consequence of modern civilisation48: men’s brains have to go at express speed in order to keep pace with the average intelligence of the time.’
‘If you had only a better appetite!’ sighed Lady Palliser, who had been distressed49 at seeing her son-in-law send away plate after plate, with its contents hardly touched.
‘I wouldn’t mind having a bad appetite if I could sleep, said he; ‘it’s insomnia50 that tells upon a fellow.’
Brian did not enter into the causes of this dire51 malady52, which had begun with long nights given to dissipation — not to gross pleasures or vulgar companions, but to a semi-intellectual dissipation: wit, fun, copious53 talk about all things between heaven and earth, in the society of artists, actors, journalists, Bohemians of all the arts. To the man who begins by doing without sleep there sometimes comes a day when sleep will refuse to answer to his bidding. He has acquired the habit of perpetual wakefulness. The sleep-mechanism of the brain is out of gear. It will go for half-an-hour, perhaps, or for a few minutes, in spasmodic jerks: and then it stops all at once, as if the machinery54 had gone wrong.
So it was with Brian. Those festive55 nights given over to the feast of reason and the flow of soul — not to riot or drunkenness, but to the half-unconscious consumption of much brandy and soda56 — nights in which the atmosphere seemed charged with wit and wisdom as with mental electricity — nights in which a young man, able to talk smartly upon any given topic, was carried away by the consciousness of his power, and thought himself a god.
Brian was a member of all those joyous57 clubs — the night flowers of the club world, which unfold their petals58 in the small hours, when the playhouses are shut, and the lights have been extinguished in all sober households. There was no offence in any of these institutions, and they offered a fine intellectual arena59, afforded a splendid training for literary youth: but to a man who loved them too well they meant a shattered constitution.
Brian had come to Wimperfield in the hope that quiet and country air would bring back sleep to his eyelids60 and steadiness to his nerves; but he had been there a week, and his hand was no steadier, his nights were no less wakeful. He fancied himself growing weaker day by day, and although the great authority in Harley Street had strictly61 forbidden any stimulant62 except one glass of stout17 with his mutton chop at luncheon, Brian, who was quite unable to eat the chop, found it impossible to lunch without plenty of dry sherry, or to dine without champagne63, and after dinner drank a good deal of that fine old port which had been laid down by old Sir Vernon Palliser in forty-seven.
Ida was very kind and gentle to her husband at this time, seeing that he was really in need of her tenderness. She devoted64 herself to his amusement, walked with him, rode with him, drove with him; but although he was grateful, he was not happy. A terrible depression of mind, broken by flashes of hilarity65, had taken possession of him. The London physician had told him frankly66 that his nerves were shattered, but that all would be well with him if he left off all stimulants67, ate chops and steaks, and lived in the open air; but as yet he had been unable to cope with the most diminutive68 chop, or to exist for three hours without stimulants. Even those rides and drives with Ida seemed a weariness to him, and he would have escaped them if he could.
This afternoon he paced the rose-garden listlessly by Ida’s side, smoking a cigarette — that cigarette which was rarely absent from his lips.
‘Are you sure your London doctor does not object to your smoking so much?’ Ida asked presently, noting the languid uncertainty69 of the fingers which held the cigarette.
‘I am not sure about anything. I told him I could not live without tobacco, and he said I might smoke two or three cigarettes in the course of the day —’
‘Oh, Brian, and you smoke —’
‘Two or three dozen! Not quite so bad as that, eh? But no doubt I do go considerably70 outside the medico’s mark. I could no more exist by line and rule in that way than I could fly. No, if I am to die of tobacco and late hours, I am doomed71.’
‘But there is no such thing as being doomed; every man is his own master — he can mould his life as he likes.’
‘Can he? That depends upon the man. I am not going into the mystery of fate and free will. There is the question of temperament — hereditary72 instinct. If I cannot have intellectual society — new ideas — variety — I must die. I could not lead the life you live here — not life, but stagnation73.’
‘I have the books I love, this dear park, and all the lovely country round us — horses — dogs — and some very pleasant neighbours: and I try to do a little good in my generation.’
‘All very well; but you are as much out of the world as if you were in the centre of Africa. I could not exist under such conditions. Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay. This to me would be as bad as Cathay. But now I suppose you are going to be perfectly74 happy, now that your brother is coming home.’
‘Yes. I am always happy, when I have him — he is more and more companionable every day of his life.’
Vernon was expected that afternoon. He was coming home for a summer holiday, just when summer was at her loveliest He was not bound by public school rules, or obliged to wait for the stereotyped75 watering-place season. The Jardines were to bring him over this afternoon, and were to stay at Wimperfield for a couple of days. Ida glanced towards the avenue every now and then, expecting to catch a glimpse of the approaching carriage between the leafy elms.
Brian strolled by her side with a listless air, smoking, and murmuring a few words now and then for courtesy’s sake. He had very little to say to his wife. She did not care for the things he cared for, or understand the kind of life he lived. She loved books, the books which are for all time; he was a mere76 skimmer of books and reviews — mostly reviews; and he cared only for new books, new ideas, new theories, new paradoxes77. His cleverness was the cleverness of the daily press — the floating froth upon the sea of knowledge. He liked to talk to a man of his own stamp, with whom he could argue upon equal terms; but not to a woman who had steeped her mind in the wisdom and poetry of the past.
He stifled79 a yawn every now and then, in that half-hour of waiting, longing80 to go back to the dining-room and refresh his parched81 lips with the contents of a syphon dashed with brandy. He had given his own orders to the butler, and the spirit stand was always on the sideboard ready for his use. The butler had made a note of the brandy which was dribbled82 away in this desultory84 form of refreshment85, and had made up his own mind as to Mr. Wendover’s habits; but it is a servant’s duty to hold his peace upon such matters.
At last there came the sound of wheels, and Ida flew round to the portico86 to receive her guests, Brian following at his leisure. The slender figure in the black gown reminded Brian of those old days by the river — the tranquil87 October afternoons — the clear light — the placid water — a gray river under a gray sky, with a lovely line of yellow light behind the tufted willows88. How happy he had been in those days! — caring nothing for the future — bent89 on winning this girl at any price — laughing within himself at her delusion90 — trusting to his own merits as an ample set-off against his empty purse when he should stand revealed as the wrong Brian.
Things had gone fairly enough with him since then. He had had plenty of pleasure; a good deal of money, though not half enough; and very little work. And yet he felt that his life was a failure — and he was languid and old before his time. An idle life had exhausted91 him sooner than other men are exhausted by a hard-working career. He knew of men at the Bar who had lived hard and worked like galley92 slaves, and who yet retained all the fire and freshness of youth.
The guests had alighted by the time Brian reached the portico, and Vernon was in his sister’s arms. She held him away from her, to show him to her husband — a thin fair-haired boy of eleven, in a gray highland93 kilt and jacket, like a gillie — fresh rosy95 cheeks, bright blue eyes.
‘Hasn’t he grown, Brian I and isn’t he a darling?’ she asked, hugging him again.
‘He is a jolly little fellow, and he shall go out shooting with me as soon as there is anything to shoot.’
‘We can fish,’ said Vernon; ‘there’s plenty of trout96; but you don’t look strong enough to throw a fly. My rod’s ever so heavy,’ he added, with a flourish of his arm.
That weakness and languor97 which was obvious even to the boy, was still more apparent to Mr. and Mrs. Jardine. Bessie had not seen her cousin since Christmas, when he and Ida had spent a couple of days at Kingthorpe.
‘Oh, Brian,’ she exclaimed, ‘have you been ill? Nobody told me anything.’
‘I have had no illness worth telling about; but I have not been in vigorous health. London life takes too much out of a man.’
‘Then you should not live in London. You ought to be out all day, roaming about on those pine-clad hills yonder —“hangers98,” I think you call them in these parts.’
‘Yes,’ answered Ida, ‘we are very proud of our hangers; but Brian is not able to walk much just yet.’
Bessie was full of concern for Brian after this. She devoted herself to him in the interval before dinner, and left Ida free to roam about the garden with Vernie. She remembered how he had always been her favourite cousin. She had been angry with him for allowing that foolish practical joke of hers to take so fixed100 and fatal a form; but now she saw him wan34 and broken-looking she was prepared to forgive him everything.
‘You must take care of yourself, Brian,’ she said, when they were sitting side by side in one of the drawing-room windows, while Lady Palliser dispensed101 afternoon tea.
‘I am taking care of myself; I am here for that purpose; but it is dreary102 work.’
‘What! dreary work to live in this lovely place, and with such a sweet wife! But I know you never liked the country.’
‘And you miss the intellectual society to which you are accustomed in London — literary men — poets — playwrights104. How delightful105 it must be to know the men who write books!’
‘They are not always the pleasantest people in the world. I never cared much for your deep-thinker — the man who believes he is sent into the world to promulgate106 his own particular gospel. But the men who write for newspapers — critics, humourists — they are jolly fellows enough.’
‘And you have glorious nights at your clubs, don’t you? We had a friend of John’s with us the other day who had met you at some literary club near the Strand107. Do you ever sing comic songs now?’
‘Sometimes, after midnight. One does not feel moved to that kind of thing till the small hours.’
‘Ah!’ sighed Bessie, ‘our only idea of the small hours is getting up at four, to be ready for a five o’clock service. But I don’t think the small hours agree with you, Brian. You are looking ten years older than when you were at Kingthorpe last summer.’
‘Better wear out than rust31 out,’ said Brian.
After dinner Vernie was eager for an exploration of the village, and Blackman’s Hanger99, the wild, pine-clad hill which sheltered the village from north-east winds and the salt breath of a distant sea.
Ida was ready to go with him, and the Jardines, always tremendous walkers, were equally anxious for a ramble108; but Brian was much too languid for evening walks.
‘I’ll stay and smoke my smoke and talk to the Mater,’ he said, always contriving109 to keep on pleasant terms with Lady Palliser; ‘I hate bats, owls110, twilight111, and all the Gray’s Elegy112 business.’
‘But you stop such a time over your cigar,’ said the widow. ‘Last night I sat for an hour waiting tea for you. I like company over my cup of tea.’
‘To-night you shall have the advantage of intellectual society,’ said Brian. ‘I will come and dribble83 out my impressions of the last Contemporary Review, which I dozed over between breakfast and luncheon.’
Brian stayed in the dining-room, dimly lighted by two hanging moderator lamps, while the soft shades of evening were just beginning to steal over the landscape outside. He had his favourite pointer for company — the last Sir Vernon’s favourite, a magnificent beast, and of almost human intelligence, and he had plenty of wine in the decanters before him — choice port and claret, which had been set on the table in honour of the Jardines, who had hardly touched it. He had his cigarette case and his own thoughts, which were idle as the smoke-wreaths which went curling up to the ceiling, light as the ashes of his tobacco.
Out of doors the evening was divine. Vernon was delighted to be frisking about upon his patrimonial113 soil. The five years he had lived at Wimperfield seemed the greater half of his life — seemed, indeed, almost to have absorbed and blotted114 out his former history. He remembered very little of the shabbier circumstances of his babyhood, and had all the feelings of a boy born in the purple, to whom it was natural to be proprietor115 of the landscape, and to patronise the humbler dwellers116 on the soil.
Blackman’s Hanger was a rugged117 ridge118 of hill above the village of Wimpertield. They lingered here to listen to the nightingales, and to admire the sunset; and then, when the glow above the western horizon was changing from golden to deepest crimson119, they all went down into the village, where lights were beginning to glimmer120 faintly in some of the cottages.
Wimperfield was a snug121 primitive122 settlement, consisting of about five-and-twenty habitations, not one of which had been built within the last century, a general shop, a bakery, and three public-houses, a fact which shows that the brewing123 interests were well protected in this part of the world. One of village taverns124, a dingy125 old low-browed cottage, with a pile of out-buildings which served for stable, piggery, or anything else, and about half an acre of garden, stood a little way aloof126 from the village, and on the skirt of the copse that clothed the sloping steep below Blackman’s Hanger. There was a piece of waste land in front of this inn which served as the theatre for such itinerary127 exhibitors, Cheap Jacks128, and Bohemians of all kinds who took quiet little Wimperfield in the course of their perambulations.
Here to-night in the dusk, there stood a covered cart of the pedler order and Vernon, who had been walking on in front with Mr. Jardine, rushed back to his sister to say that there was a Cheap Jack94 in front of the ‘Royal Oak.’
‘Oh, he has been there for a long time — ever since the beginning of the year,’ said Ida; ‘he is quite an institution.’
‘What’s an institution?’ asked Vernon.
‘Something fixed and lasting129, don’t you know. I believe he does no end of good among the villagers — doctoring them, and advising them, and helping130 them when they are ill or out of work; but he has a very churlish way with the gentry131. Mr. Mason, our curate, says the man always reminds him of the Black Dwarf132, except that he is not so ugly, nor deformed133 in any way.’
‘Then he can’t be like the Black Dwarf,’ said Vernon, who knew almost all Sir Walter’s novels, his sister having read Shakespeare, Scott, and Dickens to him for hours on end, during the long winter evenings at Wimperfield.
‘Does he live in that cart always?’ asked Bessie.
‘Not always; he has taken possession of that dilapidated cottage upon the Hanger, which used to be occupied by Lord Pontifex’s gamekeeper, and I believe he oscillates between the cart and the cottage. I have hardly seen him, for he is such a morose134 personage that he always hides when any of the gentry approach his hut.’
‘Sulks in his tent, like Achilles,’ said Mr. Jardine.
They were on the edge of the little patch of green by this time. The cart — painted a lively yellow, and with a little window on each side — stood in the middle of the green, backed by a clump135 of tall elms. There was a little crowd in front of the cart, and a man with a black beard and a red fez cap was discoursing136 in a deep, sonorous137 voice to the assembly — descanting, with seeming fluency138, upon a picture which he held in his hand, his tawny139, gipsy-like face only half shown by the flame of a flaring140 naphtha lamp, and his features rendered grotesque141 by the play of lights and shadows. The party from the park, however, had very little opportunity for seeing what manner of man he was; for no sooner did he catch sight of Mr. Jardine’s tail hat over the circle of rustic142 heads, than he flung the engraving143 he had been exhibiting inside the cart, extinguished his lamp, wished his audience an abrupt144 good night, and shut the door of his dwelling145 upon the outside world.
The rustics146 gave him a round of applause before they dispersed147. The women and children moved towards the village; the men and lads lingered a little on the green, irresolute148, and then slowly gravitated to the ‘Royal Oak,’ touching149 their hats as they passed the gentlefolks. Mr. Jardine stopped one of the men midway.
‘A curious customer that,’ he said, looking towards the cart.
‘Yes, sir, so he be; but rale right down clever.’
‘Was he trying to sell you that picture?’
‘No, sir; him don’t often sell things to we; sometimes him do — knives, and comforters, and corderoy waistcoats, and flannel150 shirts, and such like, and oncommon good they be, too, and oncommon cheap. He wor givin’ we a bit of a lecture loike, on lions and tigers, and ryenosed-horses, and such-loike beasts, and on they queer creatures wot lived before the flood. Lord! there was one beast with a long neck, and paddles for swimmin’ with, as made we all ready to bust151 with laughin’ when him showed us the pictur’ of his skeleton.’
‘Does he often give you a lecture of that kind?’
‘Yes, sir; him do lecture we about all manner o’ things — flowers, and ferns, and insects — kindness to hanimals — hinstinct in dogs — Lord knows what; but he have a way of makin’ it all go down — much better nor parson; and ha allus gets a good laugh out o’ we. And when there’s any on us ill, or out o’ work, then Cheap Jack be a real good friend, and very ready with the brass152.’
‘But can he afford to help you? is he so much better off than you are?’
‘Well, sir, you see him haven’t got no missus nor young ‘uns, and I fancy him’s got a few pounds saved in a old stocking. Him don’t drink, nayther — not so much as a mug o’ beer.’
‘Is he a native of these parts?’
‘Lor no, sir, turn’s a furriner; why, his skin’s as brown as a berry!’
‘Is he a gipsy, do you think?’
‘I ain’t sure o’ that, but him can talk their patter; and when the gipsies come this way him and them is as thick as thaves.’
‘I see — half a gipsy and half a foreigner, and altogether a rover, I suppose. Well, I’m glad he gives you a little instruction and amusement now and then, and I hope he’ll find the way to keep you out of the public-house,’ said Mr. Jardine.
‘Why, you see, parson, a man must have his mug o’ beer; but it’s summot to the good if he don’t sit down over it and make it three or four mugs o’ beer. There ain’t been so much sitting down since Cheap Jack corned among us.’
‘Isn’t that a desolate153 hovel up on the hill where he lives sometimes?’
‘It was oncommon deserlate till Cheap Jack took it in hand there ain’t a owl78 in the wood that would have liked to live in it; but Jack hammers a bit of wood here, and a plank154 there, and a bit o’ matting up agen the walla, and puta in a stove from Petersfield, and makes it as snug as a burd’s nest. I’ve smoked many a pipe with him alongside that stove, and drank many a cup o’ coffee. That’s Jack’s drink — not a drain o’ beer or sperrits ever goes inside o’ he.’
‘That accounts for the money in the stocking,’ said Bessie.
The rustic shook his head dubiously155.
‘Him ain’t got no childer,’ he said. ‘It’s them as makes the coin go.’
‘I wish he’d come out again and go on lecturing,’ exclaimed Vernon, with an aggrieved156 air. ‘I do so want to hear him.’
‘Oh, but him won’t show the end of his nose now you’re here, Sir Vernon,’ answered the rustic. ‘Him can’t abide157 gentlefolks. Parson ha’ tried his hardest to get round he, but Jack shuts the door in parson’s face. Him don’t want nothing of ’em, and don’t want their company.’
‘A natural corollary,’ said Mr. Jardine, laughing. ‘But I’m afraid your friend is a desperate radical158.’
‘Well, I don’t know, sir. Him don’t speak hard agen the Queen; him don’t want to do away with soldiers and sailors, like grocer down street; and though Jack don’t go to church, Jack reads his Bible, and holds by his Bible. I fancy as some rich gentleman must ha’ done he a great injury once upon a time, and that it turned he agen the breed.’
‘Very like the Black Dwarf,’ said Mr. Jardine to Ida. ‘I daresay I shall hear of your playing the part of Isabella Vere, and interviewing this half-savage, half-Christian recluse159. But do you mean to tell me that he has lived here six months, within a mile and a half of your house, and you have never seen him?’
‘It is a fact. You had a specimen160 of his manners just now. Whenever I have passed his cottage he has shut the door or the window in my face, if he happened to be standing at either. To Mr. Mason he has been absolutely rude.’
‘It isn’t every man who appreciates the privilege of being interviewed by a parson,’ said John Jardine.
‘Oh, Jack,’ cried Bessie! ‘all your people love to see you at their doors.’
‘Yes, they are a sociable161 lot. That comes from living on Salisbury Plain, far from the madding crowd.’
After this they went home, watching the golden summer moon rise above the pine-clad Hanger as they went. They found Lady Palliser nodding in her arm-chair in front of the low tea table, the teapot still intact. It was ten o’clock, but Brian had not come in to talk to her after her tea. John Jardine went in quest of him, and found him in the dining-room, mooning over his wine. He murmured a vague excuse about feeling too tired to talk to anybody, and then bade Mr. Jardine good night, and vent162 up to his room; not to sleep, but to fling the window wide open, and lean his elbows on the sill, and stare out into the exquisite163 summer night, the leafy wood, the moon-kissed crest164 of the hill, in a half-dreamy, half-hysterical state of mind.
‘I begin to think I am like Swift, and shall go first at top,’ he said to himself; ‘this quiet life is killing165; and yet if I was to go back I should be worse. The nights in Elm Court, when I went home alone after a glorious evening, were devilish.
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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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diligently
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| ad.industriously;carefully | |
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apprised
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| v.告知，通知( apprise的过去式和过去分词 )；评价 | |
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compassionating
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indifference
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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prudence
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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ardent
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mitigated
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| v.减轻，缓和( mitigate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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11
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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12
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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13
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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14
knoll
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| n.小山，小丘 | |
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15
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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16
stouter
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| 粗壮的( stout的比较级 )； 结实的； 坚固的； 坚定的 | |
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18
lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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19
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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20
innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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21
ripened
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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22
tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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23
tenaciously
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| 坚持地 | |
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24
undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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25
intermittent
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| adj.间歇的，断断续续的 | |
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26
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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27
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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28
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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29
pretentious
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| adj.自命不凡的，自负的，炫耀的 | |
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30
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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31
rust
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| n.锈；v.生锈；(脑子)衰退 | |
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32
moths
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| n.蛾( moth的名词复数 ) | |
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33
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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34
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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35
valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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36
quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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37
tenantless
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| adj.无人租赁的，无人居住的 | |
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38
cedars
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| 雪松，西洋杉( cedar的名词复数 ) | |
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39
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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40
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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41
dozed
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| v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
invalided
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| 使伤残（invalid的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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43
practitioner
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| n.实践者，从事者；(医生或律师等)开业者 | |
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44
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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45
peevishly
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| adv．暴躁地 | |
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46
ails
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| v.生病( ail的第三人称单数 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
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47
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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48
civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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49
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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50
insomnia
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| n.失眠，失眠症 | |
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51
dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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52
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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53
copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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54
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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55
festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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56
soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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57
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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58
petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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59
arena
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| n.竞技场，运动场所；竞争场所，舞台 | |
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60
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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61
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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62
stimulant
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| n.刺激物，兴奋剂 | |
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63
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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64
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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65
hilarity
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| n.欢乐；热闹 | |
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66
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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67
stimulants
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| n.兴奋剂( stimulant的名词复数 )；含兴奋剂的饮料；刺激物；激励物 | |
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68
diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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69
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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70
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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71
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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72
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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73
stagnation
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| n. 停滞 | |
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74
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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75
stereotyped
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| adj.(指形象、思想、人物等)模式化的 | |
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76
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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77
paradoxes
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|
| n.似非而是的隽语，看似矛盾而实际却可能正确的说法( paradox的名词复数 )；用于语言文学中的上述隽语；有矛盾特点的人[事物，情况] | |
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78
owl
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| n.猫头鹰，枭 | |
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79
stifled
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|
| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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80
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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81
parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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82
dribbled
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|
| v.流口水( dribble的过去式和过去分词 )；（使液体）滴下或作细流；运球，带球 | |
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83
dribble
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|
| v.点滴留下，流口水；n.口水 | |
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84
desultory
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|
| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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85
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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86
portico
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| n.柱廊，门廊 | |
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87
tranquil
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|
| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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88
willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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89
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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90
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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91
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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92
galley
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| n.（飞机或船上的）厨房单层甲板大帆船；军舰舰长用的大划艇； | |
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93
highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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94
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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95
rosy
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|
| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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96
trout
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| n.鳟鱼；鲑鱼(属) | |
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97
languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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98
hangers
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| n.衣架( hanger的名词复数 )；挂耳 | |
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99
hanger
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| n.吊架，吊轴承；挂钩 | |
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100
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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101
dispensed
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| v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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102
dreary
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|
| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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103
detest
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| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
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104
playwrights
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| n.剧作家( playwright的名词复数 ) | |
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105
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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106
promulgate
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| v.宣布；传播；颁布（法令、新法律等） | |
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107
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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108
ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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109
contriving
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| （不顾困难地）促成某事( contrive的现在分词 )； 巧妙地策划，精巧地制造（如机器）； 设法做到 | |
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110
owls
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| n.猫头鹰( owl的名词复数 ) | |
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111
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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112
elegy
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| n.哀歌，挽歌 | |
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113
patrimonial
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| adj.祖传的 | |
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114
blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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115
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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116
dwellers
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| n.居民，居住者( dweller的名词复数 ) | |
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117
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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118
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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119
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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120
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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121
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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122
primitive
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|
| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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123
brewing
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| n. 酿造, 一次酿造的量 动词brew的现在分词形式 | |
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124
taverns
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| n.小旅馆，客栈，酒馆( tavern的名词复数 ) | |
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125
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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126
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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127
itinerary
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| n.行程表，旅行路线；旅行计划 | |
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128
jacks
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| n.抓子游戏；千斤顶( jack的名词复数 )；（电）插孔；[电子学]插座；放弃 | |
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129
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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130
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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131
gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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132
dwarf
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| n.矮子，侏儒，矮小的动植物；vt.使…矮小 | |
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133
deformed
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| adj.畸形的；变形的；丑的，破相了的 | |
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134
morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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135
clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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136
discoursing
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| 演说（discourse的现在分词形式） | |
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137
sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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138
fluency
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| n.流畅，雄辩，善辩 | |
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139
tawny
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| adj.茶色的，黄褐色的；n.黄褐色 | |
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140
flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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141
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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142
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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143
engraving
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| n.版画；雕刻（作品）；雕刻艺术；镌版术v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的现在分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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144
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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145
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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146
rustics
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| n.有农村或村民特色的( rustic的名词复数 )；粗野的；不雅的；用粗糙的木材或树枝制作的 | |
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147
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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148
irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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149
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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150
flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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151
bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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152
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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153
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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154
plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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155
dubiously
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| adv.可疑地，怀疑地 | |
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156
aggrieved
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| adj.愤愤不平的，受委屈的；悲痛的；（在合法权利方面）受侵害的v.令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式)；令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式和过去分词) | |
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157
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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158
radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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159
recluse
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| n.隐居者 | |
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160
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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161
sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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162
vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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163
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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164
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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165
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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