HE did follow her, and, convinced that she would be engaged ten deep in five minutes, hustled2 up to the master of the ceremonies and begged an introduction. The great banker’s son was attended to at once. Julia saw them coming, as her sex can see, without looking. Her eyes were on fire, and a delicious blush on her cheeks, when the M. C. introduced Mr. Alfred Hardie with due pomp. He asked her to dance.
“I am engaged for this dance, sir,” said she softly.
“The next?” asked Hardie timidly.
“With pleasure.”
But when they had got so far they were both seized with bashful silence; and just as Alfred was going to try and break it, Cornet Bosanquet, aged1 18, height 5 feet 4 inches, strutted3 up with clanking heel, and, glancing haughtily4 up at him, carried Julia off, like a steam-tug towing away some fair schooner5. To these little thorns society treats all anxious lovers, but the incident was new to Alfred, and discomposed him; and, besides, he had nosed a rival in Sampson’s prescription6. So now he thought to himself, “that little ensign is ‘his puppy.’”
To get rid of Mrs. Dodd he offered to conduct her to a seat. She thanked him; she would rather stand where she could see her daughter dance: on this he took her to the embrasure of a window opposite where Julia and her partner stood, and they entered a circle of spectators. The band struck up, and the solemn skating began.
“Who is this lovely creature in white?” asked a middle-aged7 solicitor8. “In white? I did not see any beauty in white,” replied his daughter. “Why there, before your eyes,” said the gentleman, loudly.
“What, that girl dancing with the little captain? I don’t see much beauty in her. And what a rubbishing dress.”
“It never cost a pound, making and all,” suggested another Barkingtonian nymph.
“But what splendid pearls!” said a third: “can they be real?”
“Real! what an idea!” ejaculated a fourth: “who puts on real pearls as big as peas with muslin at twenty pence the yard?”
“Weasels!” muttered Alfred, and quivered all over: and he felt to Mrs. Dodd so like a savage9 going to spring, that she laid her hand upon his wrist, and said gently, but with authority, “Be calm, sir! and oblige me by not noticing these people.”
Then they threw dirt on her bouquet10, and then on her shoes, while she was winding11 in and out before their eyes a Grace, and her soft muslin drifting and flowing like an appropriate cloud round a young goddess.
“A little starch13 would make it set out better. It’s as limp as a towel on the line.”
“I’ll be sworn it was washed at home.”
“Where it was made.”
“I call it a rag, not a gown.”
“Do let us move,” whispered Alfred.
“I am very comfortable here,” whispered Mrs. Dodd. “How can these things annoy my ears while I have eyes? Look at her: she is the best-dressed lady in the room; her muslin is Indian, and of a quality unknown to these provincial14 shopkeepers; a rajah gave it us: her pearls were my mother’s, and have been in every court in Europe; and she herself is beautiful, would be beautiful dressed like the dowdies who are criticising her: and I think, sir, she dances as well as any lady can encumbered15 with an Atom that does not know the figure.” All this with the utmost placidity16.
Then, as if to extinguish all doubt, Julia flung them a heavenly smile; she had been furtively18 watching them all the time, and she saw they were talking about her.
The other Oxonian squeezed up to Hardie. “Do you know the beauty? She smiled your way.
“Ah!” said Hardie, deliberately19, “you mean that young lady with the court pearls, in that exquisite20 Indian muslin, which floats so gracefully22, while the other muslin girls are all crimp and stiff; like little pigs clad in crackling.”
“Ha! ha! ha! Yes. Introduce me.”
“I could not take such a liberty with the queen of the ball.”
Mrs. Dodd smiled, but felt nervous and ill at ease. She thought to herself, “Now here is a generous, impetuous thing.” As for the hostile party, staggered at first by the masculine insolence23 of young Hardy24, it soon recovered, and, true to its sex, attacked him obliquely25, through his white ladye.
“Who is the beauty of the ball?” asked one, haughtily.
“I don’t know, but not that mawkish26 thing in limp muslin.”
“I should say Miss Hetherington is the belle,” suggested a third.
“Which is Miss Hetherington?” asked the Oxonian coolly of Alfred.
“Oh, she won’t do for us. It is that little chalk-faced girl, dressed in pink with red roses; the pink of vulgarity and bad taste.”
At this both Oxonians laughed arrogantly27, and Mrs. Dodd withdrew her hand from the speaker’s arm and glided28 away behind the throng29. Julia looked at him with marked anxiety. He returned her look, and was sore puzzled what it meant, till he found Mrs. Dodd had withdrawn30 softly from him; then he stood confused, regretting too late he had not obeyed her positive request, and tried to imitate her dignified32 forbearance.
The quadrille ended. He instantly stepped forward, and bowing politely to the cornet, said authoritatively33, “Mrs. Dodd sends me to conduct you to her. With your permission, sir.” His arm was offered and taken before the little warrior34 knew where he was.
He had her on his arm, soft, light, and fragrant35 as zephyr36, and her cool breath wooing his neck; oh, the thrill of that moment! but her first word was to ask him, with considerable anxiety, “Why did mamma leave you?”
“Miss Dodd, I am the most unhappy of men.”
“No doubt! no doubt!” said she, a little crossly. She added with one of her gushes37 of naivete, “and I shall be unhappy too if you go and displease38 mamma.”
“What could I do? A gang of snobbesses were detracting from — somebody. To speak plainly, they were running down the loveliest of her sex. Your mamma told me to keep quiet. And so I did till I got a fair chance, and then I gave it them in their teeth.” He ground his own, and added, “I think I was very good not to kick them.”
.Julia coloured with pleasure, and proceeded to turn it off. “Oh! most forbearing and considerate,” said she. “Ah! by the way, I think I did hear some ladies express a misgiving39 as to the pecuniary40 value of my costume; ha! ha! Oh — you — foolish! — Fancy noticing that! Why it is in little sneers41 that the approval of the ladies shows itself at a ball, and it is a much sincerer compliment than the gentlemen’s bombastical praises: ‘the fairest of her sex,’ and so on; that none but the ‘silliest of her sex’ believe.”
“Miss Dodd, I never said the fairest of her sex. I said the loveliest.”
“Oh, that alters the case entirely,” said Julia, whose spirits were mounting with the lights and music, and Alfred’s company; “so now come and be reconciled to the best and wisest of her sex; ay, and the beautifullest, if you but knew her sweet, dear, darling face as I do. There she is; let us fly.”
“Mamma, here is a penitent42 for you, real or feigned43, I don’t know which.”
“Real, Mrs. Dodd,” said Alfred. “ I had no right to disobey you and risk a scene. You served me right by abandoning me; I feel the rebuke44 and its justice. Let me hope your vengeance45 will go no further.”
Mrs. Dodd smiled at the grandiloquence46 of youth, and told him he had mistaken her character. “I saw I had acquired a generous, hot-headed ally, who was bent47 on doing battle with insects; so I withdrew; but so I should at Waterloo, or anywhere else where people put themselves in a passion.”
The band struck up again.
“Ah!” said Julia, “and I promised you this dance; but it is a waltz and my guardian48 angel objects to the valse a deux temps.”
“Decidedly. Should all the mothers in England permit their daughters to romp50 and wrestle51 in public, and call it waltzing, I must stand firm till they return to their senses.”
Julia looked at Alfred despondently52. He took his cue and said with a smile, “Well, perhaps it is a little rompy; a donkey’s gallop53 and then twirl her like a mop.”
“Since you admit that, perhaps you can waltz properly?” said Mrs. Dodd.
Alfred said he ought; he had given his whole soul to it in Germany last Long.
“Then I can have the pleasure of dropping the tyrant54. Away with you both while there is room to circulate.”
Alfred took his partner delicately; they made just two catlike steps forward, and melted into the old-fashioned waltz.
It was an exquisite moment. To most young people Love comes after a great deal of waltzing. But this pair brought the awakened55 tenderness and trembling sensibilities of two burning hearts to this their first intoxicating56 whirl. To them, therefore, everything was an event, everything was a thrill — the first meeting and timid pressure of their hands, the first delicate enfolding of her supple57 waist by his strong arm but trembling hand, the delightful58 unison59 of their unerring feet, the movement, the music, the soft delicious whirl, her cool breath saluting60 his neck, his ardent61 but now liquid eyes seeking hers tenderly, and drinking them deep, hers that now and then sipped62 his so sweetly — all these were new and separate joys, that linked themselves in one soft delirium63 of bliss64. It was not a waltz it was an Ecstasy65.
Starting almost alone, this peerless pair danced a gauntlet. On each side admiration66 and detraction67 buzzed all the time.
“Beautiful! They are turning in the air.”
“Quite gone by. That’s how the old fogies dance.”
Chorus of shallow males: “How well she waltzes.”
Chorus of shallow females: “How well he waltzes.”
But they noted68 neither praise nor detraction: they saw nothing, heard nothing, felt nothing, but themselves and the other music, till two valsers a deux temps plunged69 into them. Thus smartly reminded they had not earth all to themselves, they laughed good-humouredly and paused.
“Ah! I am happy!” gushed70 from Julia. She hushed at herself, and said severely71, “You dance very well, sir.” This was said to justify72 her unguarded admission, and did, after a fashion. “I think it is time to go to mamma,” said she demurely73.
“So soon? And I had so much to say to you.”
“Oh, very well. I am all attention.”
The sudden facility offered set Alfred stammering75 a little. “I wanted to apologise to you for something — you are so good you seem to have forgotten it — but I dare not hope that — I mean at Henley — when the beauty of your character, and your goodness, so overpowered me, that a fatal impulse ——”
“What do you mean, sir?” said Julia, looking him full in the face, like an offended lion, while, with true feminine and Julian inconsistency her bosom76 fluttered like a dove. “I never exchanged one word with you in my life before today; and I never shall again if you pretend the contrary.”
Alfred stood stupified, and looked at her in piteous amazement77.
“I value your acquaintance highly, Mr. Hardie, now I have made it, as acquaintances are made; but please to observe, I never saw you before — scarcely; not even in church.”
“As you please,” said he, recovering his wits in part. “What you say I’ll swear to.”
“Then I say, never remind a lady of what you ought to wish her to forget.”
“I was a fool, and you are an angel of tact78 and goodness.”
“Oh, now I am sure it is time to join mamma,” said she in the driest, drollest way. “Valsons.”
They waltzed down to Mrs. Dodd, exchanging hearts at every turn, and they took a good many in the space of a round table, for in truth both were equally loth to part.
At two o’clock Mrs. Dodd resumed common-place views of a daughter’s health, and rose to go.
Her fly had played her false, and, being our island home, it rained buckets. Alfred ran, before they could stop him, and caught a fly. He was dripping. Mrs. Dodd expressed her regrets; he told her it did not matter; for him the ball was now over, the flowers faded, and the lights darkness visible.
“The extravagance of these children!” said Mrs. Dodd to Julia, with a smile, as soon as he was out of hearing. Julia made no reply.
Next day she was at evening church: the congregation was very sparse79. The first glance revealed Alfred Hardie standing80 in the very next pew. He wore a calm front of conscious rectitude; under which peeped sheep-faced misgivings81 as to the result of this advance; for, like all true lovers, he was half impudence82, half timidity; and both on the grand scale.
Now Julia in a ball-room was one creature, another in church. After the first surprise, which sent the blood for a moment to her cheek, she found he had come without a prayer-book. She looked sadly and half reproachfully at him; then put her white hand calmly over the wooden partition, and made him read with her out of her book. She shared her hymn83-book with him, too, and sang her Maker’s praise modestly and soberly, but earnestly, and quite undisturbed by her lover’s presence. It seemed as if this pure creature was drawing him to heaven holding by that good book, and by her touching84 voice. He felt good all over. To be like her, be tried to bend his whole mind on the prayers of the church, and for the first time realised how beautiful they are.
After service he followed her to the door. Island home again, by the pailful; and she had a thick shawl but no umbrella. He had brought a large one on the chance; he would see her home.
“Quite unnecessary; it is so near.”
He insisted; she persisted; and, persisting, yielded. They said but little; yet they seemed to interchange volumes; and, at each gaslight they passed, they stole a look and treasured it to feed on.
That night was one broad step more towards the great happiness, or great misery85, which awaits a noble love. Such loves, somewhat rare in Nature, have lately become so very rare in Fiction that I have ventured, with many misgivings, to detail the peculiarities86 of its rise and progress. But now for a time it advanced on beaten tracks. Alfred had the right to call at Albion Villa87, and he came twice; once when Mrs. Dodd was out. This was the time he stayed the two hours. A Mrs. James invited Jane and him to tea and exposition. There he met Julia and Edward, who had just returned. Edward was taken with Jane Hardie’s face and dovelike eyes; eyes that dwelt with a soft and chastened admiration on his masculine face and his model form, and their owner felt she had received “a call” to watch over his spiritual weal. So they paired off.
Julia’s fluctuating spirits settled now into a calm, demure74, complacency. Her mother, finding this strange remedial virtue88 in youthful society, gave young parties, inviting89 Jane and Alfred in their turn. Jane hesitated, but, as she could no longer keep Julia from knowing her worldly brother, and hoped a way might be opened for her to rescue Edward, she relaxed her general rule, which was to go into no company unless some religious service formed part of the entertainment. Yet her conscience was ill at ease; and, to set them an example, she took care, when she asked the Dodds in return, to have a clergyman there of her own party, who could pray and expound90 with unction.
Mrs. Dodd, not to throw cold water on what seemed to gratify her children, accepted Miss Hardie’s invitation; but she never intended to go, and at the last moment wrote to say she was slightly indisposed. The nature of her indisposition she revealed to Julia alone. “That young lady keeps me on thorns. I never feel secure she will not say or do something extravagant92 or unusual: she seems to suspect sobriety and good taste of being in league with impiety93. Here I succeed in bridling94 her a little; but encounter a female enthusiast95 in her own house? merci! After all, there must be something good in her, since she is your friend, and you are hers. But I have something more serious to say before you go there: it is about her brother. He is a flirt96: in fact, a notorious one, more than one lady tells me.”
Julia was silent, but began to be very uneasy; they were sitting and talking after sunset, yet without candles. She profited for once by that prodigious97 gap in the intelligence of “the sex.”
“I hear he pays you compliments, and I have seen a disposition91 to single you out. Now, my love, you have the good sense to know that, whatever a young gentleman of that age says to you, he says to many other ladies; but your experience is not equal to your sense; so profit by mine. A girl of your age must never be talked of with a person of the other sex: it is fatal; fatal! but if you permit yourself to be singled out, you will be talked of, and distress98 those who love you. It is easy to avoid injudicious duets in society; oblige me by doing so to-night.” To show how much she was in earnest, Mrs. Dodd hinted that, were her admonition neglected, she should regret for once having kept clear of an enthusiast.
Julia had no alternative; she assented99 in a faint voice. After a pause she faltered100 out, “And suppose he should esteem101 me seriously?”
Mrs. Dodd replied quickly, “Then that would be much worse. But,” said she, “I have no apprehensions102 on that score; you are a child, and he is a precocious103 boy, and rather a flirt. But forewarned is forearmed. So now run away and dress, sweet one: my lecture is quite ended.”
The sensitive girl went up to her room with a heavy heart. All the fears she had lulled104 of late revived. She saw plainly now that Mrs. Dodd only accepted Alfred as a pleasant acquaintance: as a son-inlaw he was out of the question. “Oh, what will she say when she knows all?” thought Julia.
Next day, sitting near the window, she saw him coming up the road. After the first movement of pleasure at the bare sight of him, she was sorry he had come. Mamma’s suspicions awake at last, and here he was again; the third call in one fortnight! She dared not risk an interview with him, ardent and unguarded, under that penetrating105 eye, which she felt would now be on the watch. She rose hurriedly, said as carelessly as she could, “I am going to the school,” and tying her bonnet106 on all in a flurry, whipped out at the back-door with her shawl in her hand just as Sarah opened the front door to Alfred. She then shuffled107 on her shawl, and whisked through the little shrubbery into the open field, and reached a path that led to the school, and so gratified was she at her dexterity108 in evading109 her favourite, that she hung her head, and went murmuring, “Cruel, cruel, cruel!”
Alfred entered the drawing-room gaily110, with a good-sized card and a prepared speech. His was not the visit of a friend, but a functionary111; the treasurer112 of the cricket-ground come to book two of his eighteen to play against the All–England Eleven next month. “As for you, my worthy113 sir (turning to Edward), I shall just put you down without ceremony. But I must ask leave to book Captain Dodd. Mrs. Dodd, I come at the universal desire of the club; they say it is sure to be a dull match without Captain Dodd. Besides, he is a capital player.”
“Mamma, don’t you be caught by his chaff,” said Edward, quietly. “Papa is no player at all. Anything more unlike cricket than his way of making runs!”
“But he makes them, old fellow; now you and I, at Lord’s the other day, played in first-rate form, left shoulder well up, and achieved — with neatness, precision, dexterity, and despatch114 — the British duck’s-egg.
“Misericorde! What is that?” inquired Mrs. Dodd.
Why, a round O,” said the other Oxonian, coming to his friend’s aid.
“And what is that, pray?”
Alfred told her “the round O,” which had yielded to “the duck’s egg,” and was becoming obsolete115, meant the cypher set by the scorer against a player’s name who is out without making a run.
“I see,” sighed Mrs. Dodd. “The jargon116 of the day penetrates117 to your very sports and games. And why British?”
“Oh, ‘British’ is redundant118: thrown in by the universities.”
“But what does it mean?”
“It means nothing. That is the beauty of it. British is inserted in imitation of our idols119, the Greeks; they adored redundancy.”
In short, poor Alfred, though not an M. P., was talking to put off time, till Julia should come in: so he now favoured Mrs. Dodd, of all people, with a flowery description of her husband’s play, which I, who have not his motive120 for volubility, suppress. However, he wound up with the captains “moral influence.” “Last match,” said he, “Barkington did not do itself justice. Several, that could have made a stand, were frightened out, rather than bowled, by the London professionals. Then Captain Dodd went in, and treated those artists with the same good-humoured contempt he would a parish bowler121, and, in particular, sent Mynne’s over-tossed balls flying over his head for five, or to square leg for four, and, on his retiring with twenty-five, scored in eight minutes, the remaining Barkingtonians were less funky122, and made some fair scores.”
Mrs. Dodd smiled a little ironically at this tirade123, but said she thought she might venture to promise Mr. Dodd’s cooperation, should he reach home in time. Then, to get rid of Alfred before Julia’s return, the amiable124 worldling turned to Edward. “Your sister will not be back, so you may as well ring the bell for luncheon125 at once. Perhaps Mr. Hardie will join us.”
Alfred declined, and took his leave with far less alacrity126 than he had entered; Edward went down-stairs with him.
“Miss Dodd gone on a visit?” asked Alfred, affecting carelessness.
“Only to the school. By-the-bye, I will go and fetch her.”
“No, don’t do that; call on my sister instead, and then you will pull me out of a scrape. I promised to bring her here; but her saintship was so long adorning127 ‘the poor perishable128 body,’ that I came alone.”
“I don’t understand you,” said Edward. “I am not the attraction here; it is Julia.”
“How do you know that? When a young lady interests herself in an undergraduate’s soul, it is a pretty sure sign she likes the looks of him. But perhaps you don’t want to be converted; if so, keep clear of her. ‘Bar the fell dragon’s blighting129 way; but shun130 that lovely snare131.’”
“On the contrary,” said Edward calmly, “ I only wish she could make me as good as she is, or half as good.”
“Give her the chance, old fellow, and then it won’t be your fault if she makes a mess of it. Call at two, and Jenny will receive you very kindly132, and will show you you are in the ‘gall of bitterness and the bond of iniquity133.’ Now, won’t that be nice?”
“I will go,” said Edward gravely.
They parted. Where Alfred went the reader can perhaps guess; Edward to luncheon.
“Mamma,” said he, with that tranquillity134 which sat so well on him, “don’t you think Alfred Hardie is spoony upon our Julia?”
Mrs. Dodd suppressed a start, and (perhaps to gain time before replying sincerely) said she had not the honour of knowing what “spoony” meant.
“Why, sighs for her, and dies for her, and fancies she is prettier than Miss Hardie. He must be over head and ears to think that.”
“Fie, child! “ was the answer. “If I thought so, I should withdraw from their acquaintance. Excuse me; I must put on my bonnet at once, not to lose this fine afternoon.”
Edward did not relish135 her remark: it menaced more Spoons than one. However, he was not the man to be cast down at a word: he lighted a cigar, and strolled towards Hardie’s house. Mr. Hardie, senior, had left three days ago on a visit to London; Miss Hardie received him; he passed the afternoon in calm complacency, listening reverently136 to her admonitions, and looking her softly out of countenance137, and into earthly affections, with his lion eyes.
Meantime his remark, so far from really seeming foolish to Mrs. Dodd, was the true reason for her leaving him so abruptly138 “Even this dear slow Thing sees it,” thought she. She must talk to Julia more seriously, and would go to the school at once. She went up-stairs, and put on her bonnet and shawl before the glass; then moulded on her gloves, and came down equipped. On the stairs was a large window, looking upon the open field; she naturally cast her eyes through it in the direction she was going, and what did she see but a young lady and gentleman coming slowly down the path towards the villa. Mrs. Dodd bit her lip with vexation, and looked keenly at them, to divine on what terms they were. And the more she looked the more uneasy she grew.
The head, the hand, the whole body of a sensitive young woman walking beside him she loves, betray her heart to experienced eyes watching unseen; and especially to female eyes. And why did Julia move so slowly, especially after that warning? Why was her head averted139 from that encroaching boy, and herself so near him? Why not keep her distance, and look him full in the face? Mrs. Dodd’s first impulse was that of leopardesses, lionesses, hens, and all the mothers in nature; to dart140 from her ambush141 and protect her young; but she controlled it by a strong effort; it seemed wiser to descry142 the truth, and then act with resolution: besides, the young people were now almost at the shrubbery; so the mischief143 if any, was done.
They entered the shrubbery.
To Mrs. Dodd’s surprise and dismay, they did not come out this side so quickly. She darted144 her eye into the plantation145; and lo! Alfred had seized the fatal opportunity foliage146 offers, even when thinnish: he held Julia’s hand, and was pleading eagerly for something she seemed not disposed to grant; for she turned away and made an effort to leave him. But Mrs. Dodd, standing there quivering with maternal147 anxiety, and hot with shame, could not but doubt the sincerity148 of that graceful21 resistance. If she had been quite in earnest, Julia had fire enough in her to box the little wretch149’s ears. She ceased even to doubt, when she saw that her daughter’s opposition150 ended in his getting hold of two hands instead of one, and devouring151 them with kisses, while Julia still drew her head and neck away, but the rest of her supple frame seemed to yield and incline, and draw softly towards her besieger152 by some irresistible153 spell.
“I can bear no more!” gasped154 Mrs. Dodd aloud, and turned to hasten and part them; but even as she curved her stately neck to go, she caught the lovers’ parting; and a very pretty one too, if she could but have looked at it, as these things ought always to be looked at: artistically155.
Julia’s head and lovely throat, unable to draw the rest of her away, compromised: they turned, declined, drooped156, and rested one half moment on her captor’s shoulder, like a settling dove: the next, she scudded157 from him, and made for the house alone.
Mrs. Dodd, deeply indignant, but too wise to court a painful interview, with her own heart beating high, went into the drawing-room, and there sat down, to recover some little composure. But she was hardly seated when Julia’s innocent voice was heard calling “Mamma, mamma!” and soon she came bounding into the drawing-room, brimful of good news, her cheeks as red as fire and her eyes wet with happy tears; and there confronted her mother, who had started up at her footstep, and now, with one hand nipping the back of the chair convulsively, stood lofty, looking strangely agitated158 and hostile.
The two ladies eyed one another, silent, yet expressive159, like a picture facing a statue; but soon the colour died out of Julia’s face as well, and she began to cower160 with vague fears before that stately figure, so gentle and placid17 usually, but now so discomposed and stern.
“Where have you been, Julia?”
“Only at the school,” she faltered.
“Who was your companion home?”
“Oh, don’t be angry with me! It was Alfred.”
“Alfred! His Christian161 name! You try my patience too hard.”
“Forgive me. I was not to blame this time, indeed! indeed! You frighten me. What will become of me? What have I done for my own mamma to look at me so?”
Mrs. Dodd groaned162. “Was that young coquette I watched from my window the child I have reared? No face on earth is to be trusted after this. ‘What have you done’ indeed? Only risked your own mother’s esteem, and nearly broken her heart!” And with these words her own courage began to give way, and she sank into a chair with a deep sigh.
At this Julia screamed, and threw herself on her knees beside her, and cried “Kill me! oh, pray kill me! but don’t drive me to despair with such cruel words and looks!” and fell to sobbing163 so wildly that Mrs. Dodd altered her tone with almost ludicrous rapidity. “There, do not terrify me with your impetuosity, after grieving me so. Be calm, child; let me see whether I cannot remedy your sad imprudence; and, that I may, pray tell me the whole truth. How did this come about?”
In reply to this question, which she somewhat mistook, Julia sobbed165 out, “He met me c-coming out of the school, and asked to s-see me home. I said ‘No thank you,’ because I th-thought of your warning. ‘Oh yes!’ said he, and would walk with me, and keep saying he loved me. So, to stop him, I said, ‘M-much ob-liged, but I was b-busy and had no time to flirt.’ ‘Nor have I the ininclination,’ said he. ‘That is not what others say of you,’ said I— you know what you t-told me, mamma — so at last he said d-did ever he ask any lady to be his wife? ‘I suppose not,’ said I, ‘or you would be p-p-private property by now instead of p-public.’”
“Now there was a foolish speech; as much as to say nobody could resist him.”
“W-wasn’t it? And n-no more they could. You have no idea how he makes love; so unladylike: keeps advancing and advancing, and never once retreats, nor even st-ops. ‘But I ask you to be my wife,’ said he. Oh, mamma, I trembled so. Why did I tremble? I don’t know. I made myself cold and haughty166; ‘I should make no reply to such ridiculous questions; say that to mamma, if you dare!’ I said.”
Mrs. Dodd bit her lip, and said, “Was there ever such simplicity167?”
“Simple! Why that was my cunning. You are the only creature he is afraid of; so I thought to stop his mouth with you. But instead of that, my lord said calmly, ‘That was understood; he loved me too well to steal me from her to whom he was indebted for me.’ Oh, he has always an answer ready. And that makes him such a p-pest.”
“It was an answer that did him credit.”
“Dear mamma! now did it not? Then at parting he said he would come tomorrow, and ask you for my hand; but I must intercede168 with you first, or you would be sure to say ‘No.’ So I declined to interfere169: ‘W-w-what was it to me?’ I said. He begged and prayed me: ‘Was it likely you would give him such a treasure as Me unless I stood his friend?’ (For the b-b-brazen Thing turns humble170 now and then.) And, oh, mamma, he did so implore171 me to pity him, and kept saying no man ever loved as he loved me, and with his begging and praying me so passionately172 — oh, so passionately — I felt something warm drop from his poor eyes on my hand. Oh! oh! oh! oh! — What could I do? And then, you know, I wanted to get away from him. So I am afraid I did just say ‘Yes.’ But only in a whisper. Mamma! my own, good, kind, darling mamma, have pity on him and on me; we love one another so.”
A shower of tender tears gushed out in support of this appeal and in a moment she was caught up with Love’s mighty173 arms, and her head laid on her mother’s yearning174 bosom. No word was needed to reconcile these two.
After a long silence, Mrs. Dodd said this would be a warning never to judge her sweet child from a distance again, nor unheard. “And therefore,” said she, “let me hear from your own lips how so serious an attachment175 could spring up. Why, it is scarcely a month since you were first introduced at that ball.”
“Mamma,” murmured Julia, hanging her head, “you are mistaken; we knew each other before.”
Mrs. Dodd looked all astonishment176.
“Now I will ease my heart,” said Julia, impetuously, addressing some invisible obstacle. “I tell you I am sick of having secrets from my own mother.” And with this out it all came. She told the story of her heart better than I have; and, woman-like, dwelt on the depths of loyalty177 and delicate love she had read in Alfred’s moonlit face that night at Henley. She said no eloquence178 could have touched her like it. “Mamma, something said to me, ‘Ay, look at him well, for that is your husband to be.’” She even tried to solve the mystery of her soi-disant sickness: “I was disturbed by a feeling so new and so powerful,5 but, above all, by having a secret from you; the first — the last.”
5 Perhaps even this faint attempt at self-analysis was due to the influence of Dr. Whately. For, by nature, young ladies of this age seldom turn the eye inward.
“Well, darling, then why have a secret? Why not trust me, your friend as well as your mother?”
“Ah! why, indeed? I am a puzzle to myself. I wanted you to know, and yet I could not tell you. I kept giving you hints, and hoped so you would take them, and make me speak out. But when I tried to tell you plump, something kept pull — pull — pulling me inside, and I couldn’t. Mark my words! some day it will turn out that I am neither more nor less than a fool.”
Mrs. Dodd slighted this ingenious solution. She said, after a moment’s reflection, that the fault of this misunderstanding lay between the two. “I remember now I have had many hints; my mind must surely have gone to sleep. I was a poor simple woman who thought her daughter was to be always a child. And you were very wrong to go and set a limit to your mother’s love: there is none — none whatever.” She added: “I must import a little prudence164 and respect for the world’s opinion into this new connection; but whoever you love shall find no enemy in me.”
Next day Alfred came to know his fate. He was received with ceremonious courtesy. At first he was a good deal embarrassed, but this was no sooner seen than it was relieved by Mrs. Dodd with tact and gentleness. When her turn came, she said, “Your papa? Of course you have communicated this step to him?”
Alfred looked a little confused, and said, “No: he left for London two days ago, as it happens.”
“That is unfortunate,” said Mrs. Dodd. “Your best plan would be to write to him at once. I need hardly tell you that we shall enter no family without an invitation from its head.”
Alfred replied that he was well aware of that, and that he knew his father, and could answer for him. “No doubt,” said Mrs. Dodd, “but, as a matter of reasonable form, I prefer he should answer for himself.” Alfred would write by this post. “It is a mere179 form,” said he, “for my father has but one answer to his children, ‘Please yourselves.’ He sometimes adds, ‘and how much money shall you want?’ These are his two formulae.”
He then delivered a glowing eulogy180 on his father; and Mrs. Dodd, to whom the boy’s character was now a grave and anxious study, saw with no common satisfaction his cheek flush and his eyes moisten as he dwelt on the calm, sober, unvarying affection, and reasonable indulgence he and his sister had met with all their lives from the best of parents. Returning to the topic of topics, he proposed an engagement. “I have a ring in my pocket,” said this brisk wooer, looking down. But this Mrs. Dodd thought premature182 and unnecessary. “You are nearly of age,” said she, “and then you will be able to marry, if you are in the same mind.” But, upon being warmly pressed, she half conceded even this. “Well,” said she, “on receiving your father’s consent, you can propose an engagement to Julia, and she shall use her own judgment183; but, until then, you will not even mention such a thing to her. May I count on so much forbearance from you, sir?”
“Dear Mrs. Dodd,” said Alfred, “of course you may. I should indeed be ungrateful if I could not wait a post for that. May I write to my father here?” added he, naively184.
Mrs. Dodd smiled, furnished him with writing materials, and left him, with a polite excuse.
“ALBION VILLA, September 29.
“MY DEAR FATHER — You are too thorough a man of the world, and too well versed185 in human nature, to be surprised at hearing that I, so long invulnerable, have at last formed a devoted186 attachment to one whose beauty, goodness, and accomplishments187 I will not now enlarge upon; they are indescribable, and you will very soon see them and judge for yourself. The attachment, though short in weeks and months, has been a very long one in hopes, and fears, and devotion. I should have told you of it before you left, but in truth I had no idea I was so near the goal of all my earthly hopes; there were many difficulties: but these have just cleared away almost miraculously188, and nothing now is wanting to my happiness but your consent. It would be affectation, or worse, in me to doubt that you will grant it. But, in a matter so delicate, I venture to ask you for something more: the mother of my ever and only beloved Julia is a lady of high breeding and sentiments: she will not let her daughter enter any family without a cordial invitation from its head. Indeed she has just told me so. I ask, therefore, not your bare consent, of which I am sure, since my happiness for life depends on it, but a consent so gracefully worded — and who can do this better than you? — as to gratify the just pride and sensibilities of the high-minded family about to confide189 its brightest ornament190 to my care.
“My dear father, in the midst of felicity almost more than mortal, the thought has come that this letter is my first step towards leaving the paternal191 roof under which I have been so happy all my life, thanks to you. I should indeed be unworthy of all your goodness if this thought caused me no emotion.
“Yet I do but yield to Nature’s universal law. And, should I be master of my own destiny, I will not go far from you. I have been unjust to Barkington: or rather I have echoed, without thought, Oxonian prejudices and affectation. On mature reflection, I know no better residence for a married man.
“Do you remember about a year ago you mentioned a Miss Lucy Fountain to us as ‘the most perfect gentlewoman you had ever met?’ Well, strange to say, it is that very lady’s daughter; and I think when you see her you will say the breed has anything but declined, in spite of Horace mind his ’damnosa quid non.‘ Her brother is my dearest friend, and she is Jenny’s; so a more happy alliance for all parties was never projected.
“Write to me by return, dear father, and believe me, ever your dutiful and grateful son,
“ALFRED HARDlE.”
As he concluded, Julia came in, and he insisted on her reading this masterpiece. She hesitated. Then he told her with juvenile192 severity that a good husband always shares his letters with his wife.
“His wife! Alfred!” and she coloured all over. “Don’t call me names,” said she, turning it off after her fashion. “I can’t bear it: it makes me tremble. With fury.”
“This will never do, sweet one,” said Alfred gravely. “You and I are to have no separate existence now; you are to be I, and I am to be you. Come!”
“No; you read me so much of it as is proper for me to hear. I shall not like it so well from your lips: but never mind.”
When he came to read it, he appreciated the delicacy193 that had tempered her curiosity. He did not read it all to her, but nearly.
“It is a beautiful letter,” said she; “a little pomposer than mamma and I write. ‘The paternal roof!’ But all that becomes you; you are a scholar: and, dear Alfred, if I should separate you from your papa, I will never estrange194 you from him; oh, never, never. May I go for my work? For methinks, O most erudite, the ‘maternal dame,’ on domestic cares intent, hath confided195 to her offspring the recreation of your highness.” The gay creature dropt him a curtsey, and fled to tell Mrs. Dodd the substance of “the sweet letter the dear high-flown Thing had written.”
By then he had folded and addressed it, she returned and brought her work: charity children’s great cloaks: her mother had cut them, and in the height of the fashion, to Jane Hardie’s dismay; and Julia was binding196, hooding197, etcetering them.
How demurely she bent her lovely head over her charitable work, while Alfred poured his tale into her ears! How careful she was not to speak, when there was a chance of his speaking! How often she said one thing so as to express its opposite, a process for which she might have taken out a patent! How she and Alfred compared heart-notes, and their feelings at each stage of their passion! Their hearts put forth198 tendril after tendril, and so curled, and clung, round each other.
In the afternoon of the second blissful day, Julia suddenly remembered that this was dull for her mother. To have such a thought was to fly to her; and she flew so swiftly that she caught Mrs. Dodd in tears, and trying adroitly199 and vainly to hide them.
“What is the matter? I am a wretch. I have left you alone.”
Do not think me so peevish200, love! you have but surprised the natural regrets of a mother at the loss of her child.”
“Oh, mamma,” said Julia, warmly, “and do you think all the marriage in the world can ever divide you and me — can make me lukewarm to my own sweet, darling, beautiful, blessed, angel mother? Look at me: I am as much your Julia as ever; and shall be while I live. Your son is your son till he gets him a wife: but your daughter’s your daughter, ALL— THE—— DAYS— OF HER LIFE.
Divine power of native eloquence: with this trite201 distich you made hexameters tame; it gushed from that great young heart with a sweet infantine ardour, that even virtue can only pour when young, and youth when virtuous202; and, at the words I have emphasised by the poor device of capitals, two lovely, supple arms flew wide out like a soaring albatross’s wings, and then went all round the sad mother, and gathered every bit of her up to the generous young bosom.
“I know it, I know it!” cried Mrs. Dodd, kissing her; I shall never lose my daughter while she breathes. But I am losing my child. You are turning to a woman visibly: and you were such a happy child. Hence my misgivings, and these weak tears, which you have dried with a word: see!” And she contrived203 to smile. “And now go down, dearest: he may be impatient; men’s love is so fiery204.”
The next day Mrs. Dodd took Julia apart and asked her whether there was an answer from Mr. Hardie. Julia replied, from Alfred, that Jane had received a letter last night, and, to judge by the contents, Mr. Hardie must have left London before Alfred’s letter got there. “He is gone to see poor Uncle Thomas.”
“Why do you call him ‘poor?’”
“Oh, he is not very clever; has not much mind, Alfred says; indeed, hardly any.”
“You alarm me, Julia!” cried Mrs. Dodd. “What? madness in the family you propose to marry into?”
“Oh no, mamma,” said Julia, in a great hurry; “no madness; only a little imbecility.”
Mrs. Dodd’s lip curved at this Julian answer; but just then her mind was more drawn31 to another topic. A serious doubt passed through her, whether, if Mr. Hardie did not write soon, she ought not to limit his son’s attendance on her daughter. “He follows her about like a little dog,” said she half fretfully.
Next day, by previous invitation, Dr. Sampson made Albion Villa his head-quarters. Darting205 in from London, he found Alfred sitting very close to Julia over a book.
“Lordsake!” cried he, “here’s ‘my puppy,’ and ‘m’ enthusiast,’ cheek by chowl.” Julia turned scarlet206, and Alfred ejaculated so loudly, that Sampson inquired “what on airth was the matter now?”
“Oh, nothing; only here have I been jealous of my own shadow, and pestering207 her who ‘your puppy’ was: and she never would tell me. All I could get from her,” added he, turning suddenly from gratitude208 to revenge, “was that he was no greater a puppy than yourself, doctor.”
“Oh, Alfred, no; I only said no vainer,” cried Julia in dismay.
“Well, it is true,” said Sampson contentedly209, and proceeded to dissect210 himself just as he would a stranger. “I am a vain man; a remarkably211 vain man. But then I’m a man of great mirit.”
“All vain people are that,” suggested Alfred dryly.
“Who should know better than you, young Oxford212? Y’ have got a hidache.”
“No, indeed.”
“Don’t tell lies now. Ye can’t deceive me; man, I’ve an eye like a hawk213. And what’s that ye’re studying with her? Ovid, for a pound.”
“No; medicine; a treatise214 on your favourite organ, the brain, by one Dr. Whately.”
“He is chaffing you, doctor,” said Edward; “it is logic215. He is coaching her; and then she will coach me.”
“Then I forbid the chaff-cutting, young Pidant. Logic is an ill plaster to a sore head.”
“Oh, ‘the labour we delight in, physics pain.’”
“Jinnyus, Jinnyus;
Take care o’ your carkuss,”
retorted the master of doggrel. “And that is a profounder remark than you seem to think, by your grinning, all of ye.”
Julia settled the question by putting away the book. And she murmured to Alfred, “I wish I could steal your poor dear headaches: you might give me half of them at least; you would, too, if you really loved me.”
This sound remonstrance216 escaped criticism by being nearly inaudible, and by Mrs. Dodd entering at the same moment.
After the first greeting, Sampson asked her with merry arrogance217, how his prescription had worked? “Is her sleep broken still, ma’am? Are her spirits up and down? Shall we have to go back t’ old Short and his black draught218? How’s her mookis membrin? And her biliary ducks? an’— she’s off like a flash.”
“And no wonder,” said Mrs. Dodd reproachfully.
Thus splashed Sampson among the ducks: one of them did not show her face again till dinner.
Jane Hardie accompanied her brother by invitation. The general amity219 was diversified220 and the mirth nowise lessened221 by constant passages of arms between Messrs. Sampson and Alfred Hardie.
After tea came the first contretemps. Sampson liked a game of cards: he could play, yet talk chronothermalism, as the fair can knit babies’ shoes and imbibe222 the poetasters of the day.
Mrs. Dodd had asked Edward to bring a fresh pack. He was seen by his guardian angel to take them out of his pocket and undo223 them; presently Sampson, in his rapid way, clutched hold of them; and found a slip of paper curled round the ace12 of spades, with this written very clear in pencil,
“REMEMBER THY CREATOR IN THE DAYS OF THY YOUTH!”
“What is this?” cried Sampson, and read it out aloud. Jane Hardie coloured, and so betrayed herself. Her “word in season” had strayed. It was the young and comely224 Edward she wished to save from the diabolical225 literature, the painted perdition, and not the uninteresting old sinner Sampson, who proceeded to justify her preference by remarking that “Remember not to trump226 your partner’s best card, ladies,” would be more to the point.
Everybody, except this hardened personage, was thoroughly227 uncomfortable. As for Alfred, his face betrayed a degree of youthful mortification228 little short of agony. Mrs. Dodd was profoundly disgusted, but fortunately for the Hardies, caught sight of his burning cheeks and compressed lips. “Dr. Sampson,” said she, with cold dignity, “you will, I am sure, oblige me by making no more comments; sincerity is not always discreet229; but it is always respectable: it is one of your own titles to esteem. I dare say,” added she with great sweetness, “our resources are not so narrow that we need shock anybody’s prejudices, and, as it happens, I was just going to ask Julia to sing: open the piano, love, and try if you can persuade Miss Hardie to join you in a duet.”
At this, Jane and Julia had an earnest conversation at the piano, and their words, uttered in a low voice, were covered by a contemporaneous discussion between Sampson and Mrs. Dodd.
Jane. No, you must not ask me: I have forsworn these vanities. I have not opened my piano this two years.
Julia. Oh, what a pity; music is so beautiful; and surely we can choose our songs, as easily as our words; ah, how much more easily.
Jane. Oh, I don’t go so far as to call music wicked: but music in society is such a snare. At least I found it so; my playing was highly praised, and that stirred up vanity: and so did my singing, with which I had even more reason to be satisfied. Snares230! snares!
Julia. Goodness me! I don’t find them so. Now you mention it, gentlemen do praise one; but, dear me, they praise every lady, even when we have been singing every other note out of tune231. The little unmeaning compliments of society, can they catch anything so great as a soul?
Jane. I pray daily not to be led into temptation, and shall I go into it of my own accord?
Julia. Not if you find it a temptation. At that rate I ought to decline.
Jane. That doesn’t follow. My conscience is not a law to yours. Besides, your mamma said “sing:” and a parent is not to be disobeyed upon a doubt. If papa were to insist on my going to a ball even, or reading a novel, I think I should obey; and lay the whole case before Him.
Mrs. Dodd (from a distance). Come, my dears, Dr. Sampson is getting so impatient for your song.
Sampson. Hum! for all that, young ladies’ singing is a poor substitute for cards, and even for conversation.
Mrs. Dodd. That depends upon the singer, I presume.
Sampson. Mai — dear — madam, they all sing alike; just as they all write alike. I can hardly tell one fashionable tune from another; and nobody can tell one word from another, when they cut out all the consonants232. N’ listen me. This is what I heard sung by a lady last night.
Eu un Da’ ei u aa an oo. By oo eeeeyee aa Vaullee, Vaullee, Vaullee, Vaullee, Vaullee om is igh eeaa An ellin in is ud.
Mrs. Dodd. That sounds like gibberish.
Sampson. It is gibberish, but it’s Drydenish in articulating mouths. It is —
He sung Darius great and good, By too severe a fate Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, Fallen from his high estate, And wiltering in his blood.
Mrs. Dodd. I think you exaggerate. I will answer for Julia that she shall speak as distinctly to music as you do in conversation.
Sampson (all unconscious of the tap). Time will show, madam. At prisent they seem to be in no hurry to spatter us with their word-jelly. Does some spark of pity linger in their marble bos’ms? or do they prefer inaud’ble chit-chat t’ inarticulate mewing?
Julia, thus pressed, sang one of those songs that come and go every season. She spoke233 the words clearly, and with such variety and intelligence, that Sampson recanted, and broke in upon the —” very pretty “—“how sweet”— and “who is it by?” of the others, by shouting, “Very weak trash very cleanly sung. Now give us something worth the wear and tear of your orgins. Immortal234 vairse widded t’ immortal sounds; that is what I understand b’ a song.”
Alfred whispered, “No, no, dearest; sing something suitable to you and me.”
“Out of the question. Then go farther away, dear; I shall have more courage.”
He obeyed, and she turned over two or three music-books, and finally sung from memory. She cultivated musical memory, having observed the contempt with which men of sense visit the sorry pretenders to music, who are tuneless and songless among the nightingales, and anywhere else away from their books. How will they manage to sing in heaven? Answer me that.
The song Julia Dodd sang on this happy occasion, to meet the humble but heterogeneous235 views of Messrs. Sampson and Hardie, was a simple eloquent236 Irish song called Aileen Aroon. Whose history, by-the-bye, was a curious one. Early in this century it occurred to somebody to hymn a son of George the Third for his double merit in having been born, and going to a ball. People who thus apply the fine arts in modern days are seldom artists; accordingly, this parasite237 could not invent a melody; so he coolly stole Aileen Aroon, soiled it by inserting sordid238 and incongruous jerks into the refrain, and called the stolen and adulterated article Robin239 Adair. An artisan of the same kidney was soon found to write words down to the degraded ditty: and, so strong is Flunkeyism, and so weak is Criticism, in these islands, that the polluted tune actually superseded240 the clean melody; and this sort of thing —
Who was in uniform at the ball?
Silly Billy,
smothered241 the immortal lines.
But Mrs. Dodd’s severe taste in music rejected those ignoble242 jerks, and her enthusiastic daughter having the option to hymn immortal Constancy or mortal Fat, decided49 thus:—
When like the early rose,
Aileen aroon,
Beauty in childhood glows,
Aileen aroon,
When like a diadem243,
Buds blush around the stem,
Which is the fairest gem181?
Aileen aroon.
Is it the laughing eye?
Aileen aroon.
Is it the timid sigh?
Aileen aroon.
Is it the tender tone?
Soft as the string’d harp’s mean?
No; it is Truth alone,
Aileen aroon.
I know a valley fair,
Aileen aroon.
I know a cottage there,
Aileen aroon.
Far in that valley’s shade,
I know a gentle maid,
Flower of the hazel glade244,
Aileen aroon.
Who in the song so sweet?
Aileen aroon,
Who in the dance so fleet?
Aileen aroon.
Dear are her charms to me,
Dearer her laughter free,
Dearest her constancy.
Aileen aroon.
Youth must with time decay,
Aileen aroon,
Beauty must fade away,
Aileen aroon.
Castles are sacked in war,
Chieftains are scattered245 far,
Truth is a fixed246 star,
Aileen areon.
The way the earnest singer sang these lines is beyond the conception of ordinary singers, public or private. Here one of nature’s orators247 spoke poetry to music with an eloquence as fervid248 and delicate as ever rung in the Forum249. She gave each verse with the same just variety as if she had been reciting, and, when she came to the last, where the thought rises abruptly, and is truly noble, she sang it with the sudden pathos250, the weight, and the swelling251 majesty252, of a truthful253 soul hymning truth with all its powers.
All the hearers, even Sampson, were thrilled, astonished, spell-bound: so can one wave of immortal music and immortal verse (alas! how seldom they meet!) heave the inner man when genius interprets. Judge, then, what it was to Alfred, to whom, with these great words and thrilling tones of her rich, swelling, ringing voice, the darling of his own heart vowed254 constancy, while her inspired face beamed on him like an angel’s.
Even Mrs. Dodd, though acquainted with the song, and with her daughter’s rare powers, gazed at her now with some surprise, as well as admiration, and kept a note Sarah had brought her, open, but unread, in her hand, unable to take her eyes from the inspired songstress. However, just before the song ended, she did just glance down, and saw it was signed Richard Hardie. On this her eye devoured255 it; and in one moment she saw that the writer declined, politely but peremptorily256, the proposed alliance between his son and her daughter.
The mother looked up from this paper at that living radiance and incarnate257 melody in a sort of stupor258: it seemed hardly possible to her that a provincial banker could refuse an alliance with a creature so peerless as that. But so it was; and despite her habitual259 self-government, Mrs. Dodd’s white hand clenched260 the note till her nails dented261 it; and she reddened to the brow with anger and mortification.
Julia, whom she had trained never to monopolise attention in society, now left the piano in spite of remonstrance, and soon noticed her mother’s face; for from red it had become paler than usual. “Are you unwell, dear?” said she sotto voce.
“No, love.”
“Is there anything the matter, then?”
“Hush! We have guests: our first duty is to them.” With this Mrs. Dodd rose, and, endeavouring not to look at her daughter at all, went round and drew each of her guests out in turn. It was the very heroism262 of courtesy; for their presence was torture to her. At last, to her infinite relief, they went, and she was left alone with her children. She sent the servants to bed, saying she would undress Miss Dodd, and accompanied her to her room. There the first thing she did was to lock the door; and the next was to turn round and look at her full.
“I always thought you the most lovable child I ever saw; but I never admired you as I have to-night, my noble, my beautiful daughter, who would grace the highest family in England.” With this Mrs. Dodd began to choke, and kissed Julia eagerly with the tears in her eyes, and drew her with tender, eloquent defiance263 to her bosom.
“My own mamma,” said Julia softly, “what has happened?”
“My darling, said Mrs. Dodd, trembling a little, “have you pride? have you spirit?”
“I think I have.”
“I hope so: for you will need them both. Read that!”
And she held out Mr. Hardie’s letter, but turned her own head away, not to see her girl’s face under the insult.
收听单词发音 |
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aged
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hustled
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| 催促（hustle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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strutted
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| 趾高气扬地走，高视阔步( strut的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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schooner
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prescription
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| n.处方，开药；指示，规定 | |
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middle-aged
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solicitor
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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bouquet
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winding
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ace
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| n.A牌；发球得分；佼佼者；adj.杰出的 | |
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starch
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provincial
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encumbered
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placidity
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placid
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furtively
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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graceful
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gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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23
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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24
hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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25
obliquely
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| adv.斜； 倾斜； 间接； 不光明正大 | |
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26
mawkish
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| adj.多愁善感的的；无味的 | |
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27
arrogantly
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| adv.傲慢地 | |
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28
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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29
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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30
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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31
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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32
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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33
authoritatively
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| 命令式地，有权威地，可信地 | |
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34
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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35
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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36
zephyr
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| n.和风，微风 | |
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37
gushes
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| n.涌出，迸发( gush的名词复数 )v.喷，涌( gush的第三人称单数 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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38
displease
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| vt.使不高兴，惹怒；n.不悦，不满，生气 | |
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39
misgiving
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
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40
pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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41
sneers
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| 讥笑的表情（言语）( sneer的名词复数 ) | |
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42
penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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43
feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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44
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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45
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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46
grandiloquence
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| n.夸张之言，豪言壮语，豪语 | |
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47
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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48
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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49
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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50
romp
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| n.欢闹；v.嬉闹玩笑 | |
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51
wrestle
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| vi.摔跤，角力；搏斗；全力对付 | |
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52
despondently
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| adv.沮丧地，意志消沉地 | |
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53
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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54
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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55
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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56
intoxicating
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| a. 醉人的,使人兴奋的 | |
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57
supple
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| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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58
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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59
unison
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| n.步调一致，行动一致 | |
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60
saluting
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的现在分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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61
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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62
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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64
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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65
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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66
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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67
detraction
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| n.减损；诽谤 | |
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68
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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69
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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70
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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71
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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72
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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73
demurely
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| adv.装成端庄地，认真地 | |
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74
demure
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| adj.严肃的；端庄的 | |
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75
stammering
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的现在分词 ) | |
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76
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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77
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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78
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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79
sparse
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| adj.稀疏的，稀稀落落的，薄的 | |
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80
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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81
misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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82
impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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83
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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84
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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85
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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86
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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87
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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88
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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89
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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90
expound
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| v.详述；解释；阐述 | |
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91
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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92
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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93
impiety
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| n.不敬；不孝 | |
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94
bridling
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| 给…套龙头( bridle的现在分词 )； 控制； 昂首表示轻蔑（或怨忿等）； 动怒，生气 | |
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95
enthusiast
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| n.热心人，热衷者 | |
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96
flirt
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| v.调情，挑逗，调戏；n.调情者，卖俏者 | |
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97
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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98
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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99
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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100
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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101
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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102
apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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103
precocious
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| adj.早熟的；较早显出的 | |
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104
lulled
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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105
penetrating
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|
| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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106
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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107
shuffled
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| v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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108
dexterity
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| n.(手的)灵巧，灵活 | |
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109
evading
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| 逃避( evade的现在分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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110
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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111
functionary
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| n.官员；公职人员 | |
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112
treasurer
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| n.司库，财务主管 | |
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113
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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114
despatch
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| n./v.(dispatch)派遣；发送；n.急件；新闻报道 | |
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115
obsolete
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| adj.已废弃的，过时的 | |
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116
jargon
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| n.术语，行话 | |
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117
penetrates
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| v.穿过( penetrate的第三人称单数 )；刺入；了解；渗透 | |
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118
redundant
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| adj.多余的，过剩的；(食物)丰富的；被解雇的 | |
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119
idols
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| 偶像( idol的名词复数 )； 受崇拜的人或物； 受到热爱和崇拜的人或物； 神像 | |
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120
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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121
bowler
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| n.打保龄球的人，（板球的）投（球）手 | |
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122
funky
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| adj.畏缩的，怯懦的，霉臭的；adj.新式的，时髦的 | |
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123
tirade
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| n.冗长的攻击性演说 | |
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124
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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125
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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126
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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127
adorning
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| 修饰，装饰物 | |
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128
perishable
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| adj.（尤指食物）易腐的，易坏的 | |
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129
blighting
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| 使凋萎( blight的现在分词 )； 使颓丧； 损害； 妨害 | |
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130
shun
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| vt.避开，回避，避免 | |
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131
snare
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| n.陷阱，诱惑，圈套；（去除息肉或者肿瘤的）勒除器；响弦，小军鼓；vt.以陷阱捕获，诱惑 | |
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132
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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133
iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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134
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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135
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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136
reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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137
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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138
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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139
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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140
dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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141
ambush
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| n.埋伏(地点)；伏兵；v.埋伏；伏击 | |
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142
descry
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| v.远远看到；发现；责备 | |
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143
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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144
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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145
plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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146
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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147
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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148
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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149
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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150
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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151
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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152
besieger
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| n. 围攻者, 围攻军 | |
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153
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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154
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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155
artistically
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| adv.艺术性地 | |
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156
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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157
scudded
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| v.（尤指船、舰或云彩）笔直、高速而平稳地移动( scud的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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158
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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159
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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160
cower
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| v.畏缩，退缩，抖缩 | |
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161
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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162
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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163
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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164
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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165
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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166
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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167
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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168
intercede
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| vi.仲裁，说情 | |
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169
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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170
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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171
implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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172
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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173
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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174
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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175
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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176
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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177
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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178
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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179
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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180
eulogy
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| n.颂词；颂扬 | |
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181
gem
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| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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182
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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183
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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184
naively
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| adv. 天真地 | |
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185
versed
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| adj. 精通，熟练 | |
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186
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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187
accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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188
miraculously
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| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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189
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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190
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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191
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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192
juvenile
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| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
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193
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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194
estrange
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| v.使疏远，离间，使离开 | |
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195
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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196
binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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197
hooding
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| v.兜帽( hood的现在分词 )；头巾；（汽车、童车等的）折合式车篷；汽车发动机罩 | |
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198
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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199
adroitly
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| adv.熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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200
peevish
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| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
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201
trite
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| adj.陈腐的 | |
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202
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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203
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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204
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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205
darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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206
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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207
pestering
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| 使烦恼，纠缠( pester的现在分词 ) | |
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208
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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209
contentedly
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| adv.心满意足地 | |
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210
dissect
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| v.分割；解剖 | |
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211
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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212
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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213
hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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214
treatise
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| n.专著；(专题)论文 | |
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215
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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216
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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217
arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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218
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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219
amity
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| n.友好关系 | |
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220
diversified
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| adj.多样化的，多种经营的v.使多样化，多样化( diversify的过去式和过去分词 )；进入新的商业领域 | |
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221
lessened
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| 减少的，减弱的 | |
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222
imbibe
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| v.喝，饮；吸入，吸收 | |
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223
undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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224
comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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225
diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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226
trump
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| n.王牌，法宝；v.打出王牌，吹喇叭 | |
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227
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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228
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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229
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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230
snares
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| n.陷阱( snare的名词复数 )；圈套；诱人遭受失败（丢脸、损失等）的东西；诱惑物v.用罗网捕捉，诱陷，陷害( snare的第三人称单数 ) | |
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231
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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232
consonants
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| n.辅音，子音( consonant的名词复数 )；辅音字母 | |
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233
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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234
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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235
heterogeneous
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| adj.庞杂的；异类的 | |
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236
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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237
parasite
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| n.寄生虫；寄生菌；食客 | |
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238
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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239
robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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240
superseded
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| [医]被代替的，废弃的 | |
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241
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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242
ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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243
diadem
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| n.王冠，冕 | |
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244
glade
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| n.林间空地，一片表面有草的沼泽低地 | |
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245
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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246
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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247
orators
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| n.演说者，演讲家( orator的名词复数 ) | |
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248
fervid
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| adj.热情的；炽热的 | |
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249
forum
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| n.论坛，讨论会 | |
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250
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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251
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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252
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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253
truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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254
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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255
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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256
peremptorily
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| adv.紧急地，不容分说地，专横地 | |
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257
incarnate
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| adj.化身的，人体化的，肉色的 | |
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258
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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259
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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260
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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261
dented
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| v.使产生凹痕( dent的过去式和过去分词 )；损害；伤害；挫伤（信心、名誉等） | |
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262
heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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263
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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