DR. SHORT arrived, approved Dr. Phillips’s treatment, and said the case was severe but not hopeless, and he would call again. A bed was prepared in the house for Mr. Hardie: but neither he nor any of the Dodds closed an eye that sorrowful night.
About midnight, after a short slumber1, the sufferer became uneasy, and begged to be left with Julia. Julia was sent for, and found her a good deal excited. She inquired more than once if they were quite alone, and then asked for paper and a pencil. She wrote a few lines, and made Julia put them in a cover and seal them. “Now. dear friend,” she said, “promise me not to open this, nor even to let your mother; it is not for your happiness that what I have written should be seen by her or you; no, no, much better not. Come; dear friend, pledge me your honour.” Julia pledged her honour.
Then Jane wrote on the cover, “From a dying sister.” Julia saw that; and wept sore.
Jane comforted her. “Do not weep for me, love: I am content to go, or stay. This is not my doing; so I know it must be for the best. He is leading me by a way that I know not. Oh, my beloved friend, how sweet it is to lie in His hands, and know no will but His. Ay, I thank Him for crossing my will, and leading me to Himself by His own good way, and not by poor blind, foolish mine.”
In this spirit of full resignation she abode3 constant, and consoled her weeping friends from time to time, whenever she was quite herself.
About daybreak, being alone with her father, she shed a few tears at his lonely condition. “I fear you will miss me,” said she. “Take my advice, dear; be reconciled with Alfred at once, and let Julia be your daughter, since I am leaving you. She is all humility4 and heart. Dying, I prize her and her affection more highly; I seem to see characters clearer, all things clearer, than I did before my summons came.”
The miserable5 father tried to be playful and scold her: “You must not talk nor think of death,” he said. “Your bridal-day is to come first; I know all; Edward Dodd has told me he loves you. He is a fine noble fellow; you shall marry him: I wish it. Now, for his sake, summon all your resolution, and make up your mind to live. Why, at your age, it needs but to say, ‘I will live, I will, I will;’ and when all the prospect6 is so smiling, when love awaits you at the altar, and on every side! If you could leave your poor doting7 father, do not leave your lover: and here he is with his mother crying for you. Let me comfort him; let me tell him you will live for his sake and mine.”
Even this could not disturb the dying Christian8. “Dear Edward,” she said; “it is sweet to know he loves me. Ah, well, he is young; he must live without me till I become but a tender memory of his youth. And oh, I pray for him that he may cherish the words I have spoken to him for his soul’s good far longer than he can remember these features that are hastening to decay.”
At ten in the morning Mr. Hardie’s messenger returned without Alfred, and with a note from Dr. Wycherley to this effect, that, the order for Alfred’s admission into his asylum10 being signed by Mr. Thomas Hardie, he could not send him out even for a day except on Thomas Hardie’s authority; it would be a violation11 of the law. Under the circumstances, however, he thought he might venture to receive that order by telegraph. If, then, Mr. Hardie would telegraph Thomas Hardie in Yorkshire to telegraph him (Wycherley), Alfred should be sent with two keepers wherever Mr. T. Hardie should so direct,
Now Mr. Hardie had already repented12 of sending for Alfred at all. So, instead of telegraphing Yorkshire, he remained passive, and said sullenly13 to Mrs. Dodd, “Alfred can’t come, it seems.”
Thus Routine kept the brother from his dying sister.
They told Jane, with aching hearts, there was reason to fear Alfred could not arrive that day.
She only gave a meaning look at Julia, about the paper; and then she said with a little sigh, “God’s will be done.”
This was the last disappointment Heaven allowed Earth to inflict14 on her; and the shield of Faith turned its edge.
One hour of pain, another of delirium15, and now the clouds that darken this mortal life seemed to part and pass, and Heaven to open full upon her. She spoke9 of her coming change no longer with resignation; it was with rapture16. “Oh!” she cried, “to think that from this very day I shall never sin again, shall never again offend Him by unholy temper, by unChrist-like behaviour!”
The strong and healthy wept and groaned17 aloud; but she they sorrowed for was all celestial18 bliss19. In her lifetime she had her ups and downs of religious fervour; was not without feverish20 heats, and cold misgivings21 and depression; but all these fled at that dread22 hour when the wicked are a prey23 to dark misgivings, or escape into apathy24. This timid girl that would have screamed at a scratch, met the King of Terrors with smiles and triumph. For her the grave was Jordan, and death was but the iron gate of life everlasting25. Mors janua vitae. Yet once or twice she took herself to task: but only to show she knew what the All–Pure had forgiven her. “I often was wanting in humility,” she said; “I almost think that if I were to be sent back again into this world of sin and sorrow I am leaving behind, I should grow a little in humility; for I know the ripe Christian is like the ripe corn, holds his head lower than when he was green; and the grave it seems to be ripening26 me. But what does it matter? since He who died for me is content to take me as I am. Come quickly, Lord Jesus, oh, come quickly! Relieve Thy servant from the burden of the flesh, and of the sins and foibles that cling to it and keep her these many years from Thee.”
This prayer was granted; the body failed more and more; she could not swallow even a drop of wine; she could not even praise her Redeemer; that is to say, she could not speak. Yet she lay and triumphed. With hands put together in prayer, and eyes full of praise and joy unspeakable, she climbed fast to God. While she so mounted in the spirit, her breath came at intervals28 unusually long, and all were sent for to see Death conquer the body and be conquered by the soul.
At last, after an unnaturally29 long interval27, she drew a breath like a sigh. They waited for another; waited, waited in vain.
She had calmly ceased to live.
The old doctor laid down her hand reverently30, and said “She is with us no more.” Then with many tears, “Oh, may we all meet where she is now, and may I go to her the first.”
Richard Hardie was led from the room in a stupor31.
Immediately after death all the disfiguring effect of pain retired32, and the happy soul seemed to have stamped its own celestial rapture on the countenance33 at the moment of leaving it; a rapture so wonderful, so divine, so more than mortal calm, irradiated the dead face. The good Christians34 she left behind her looked on and feared to weep, lest they should offend Him, who had taken her to Himself, and set a visible seal upon the house of clay that had held her. “Oh, mamma,” cried Julia with fervour, “look! look! Can we, dare we, wish that angel back to this world of misery35 and sin?” And it was some hours before she cooled, and began to hang on Edward’s neck and weep his loss and hers, as weep we mortals must, though the angels of Heaven are rejoicing.
Thus died in the flower of her youth, and by what we call a violent death, the one child Richard Hardie loved; member of a religious party whose diction now and then offends one to the soul: but the root of the matter is in them; allowance made for those passions, foibles, and infirmities of the flesh, even you and I are not entirely36 free from, they live fearing God, and die loving Him.
There was an inquest next day, followed in due course by a public trial of James Maxley. But these are matters which, though rather curious and interesting, must be omitted, or touched hereafter and briefly37.
The effect of Jane’s death on Richard Hardie was deplorable. He saw the hand of Heaven; but did not bow to it: so it filled him with rage, rebellion, and despair. He got his daughter away and hid himself in the room with her; scarce stirring out by night or day. He spoke to no one; he shunned38 the Dodds: he hated them. He said it was through visiting their house she had met her death, and at their door. He would not let himself see it was he who had sent her there with his lie. He loathed39 Alfred, calling him the cause of all.
He asked nobody to the funeral: and, when Edward begged permission to come, he gave a snarl40 like a wild beast and went raging from him. But Edward would go: and at the graveside pitying Heaven relieved the young fellow’s choking heart with tears. But no such dew came to that parched41 old man, who stood on its other side like the withered42 Archangel, his eyes gloomy and wild, his white cheek ploughed deep with care and crime and anguish43, his lofty figure bowed by his long warfare44, his soul burning and sickening by turns, with hatred45 and rebellion, with desolation and despair.
He went home and made his will; for he felt life hang on him like lead, and that any moment he might kill himself to be rid of it. Strange to say, he left a sum of money to Edward Dodd. A moment before, he didn’t know he was going to do it: a moment after, he was half surprised he had done it, and minded to undo46 it; but would not take the trouble. He went up to London, and dashed into speculation47 as some in their despair take to drink. For this man had but two passions; avarice48, and his love for his daughter. Bereaved49 of her, he must either die, or live for gain. He sought the very cave of Mammon; he plunged50 into the Stock Exchange.
When Mr. Hardie said, “Alfred can’t come, it seems,” Mrs. Dodd misunderstood him, naturally enough. She thought the heartless young man had sent some excuse: had chosen to let his sister die neglected rather than face Julia: “As if she would leave her own room while he was in my house,” said Mrs. Dodd, with sovereign contempt. From this moment she conceived a horror of the young man. Edward shared it fully51, and the pair always spoke of him under the title of “the Wretch52:” this was when Julia was not by. In her presence he was never mentioned. By this means she would in time forget him, or else see him as they saw him.
And as, after all, they knew little to Mr. Hardie’s disadvantage, except what had come out of “the Wretch’s” mouth, and as moreover their hearts were softened53 towards the father by his bereavement54, and their sight of his misery, and also by his grateful words, they quite acquitted55 him of having robbed them, and felt sure the fourteen thousand pounds was at the bottom of the sea.
They were a little surprised that Mr. Hardie never spoke nor wrote to them again; but being high-minded and sweet tempered, they set it down to all-absorbing grief, and would not feel sore about it.
And now they must leave the little villa56 where they had been so happy and so unhappy.
The scanty57 furniture went first; Mrs. Dodd followed, and arranged it in their apartments. Julia would stay behind to comfort Edward, inconsolable herself. The auction58 came off. Most of the things went for cruelly little money compared to their value: and with the balance the sad young pair came up to London, and were clasped in their mother’s arms. The tears were in her tender eyes. “It is a poor place to receive my treasures,” she said: Edward looked round astonished: “It was a poor place,” said he, “but you have made a little palace of it, somehow or another.”
“My children’s love can alone do that,” replied Mrs. Dodd, kissing them both again.
Next day they consulted together how they were to live. Edward wished to try and get his father into a public asylum; then his mother would have a balance to live upon out of her income. But Mrs. Dodd rejected this proposal with astonishment59. In vain Edward cited the ’Tiser that public asylums60 are patterns of comfort, and cure twice as many patients as the private ones do. She was deaf alike to the ’Tiser and to statistics. “Do not argue me out of my common sense,” said she. “My husband, your father, in a public asylum, where anybody can go and stare at my darling!”
She then informed them she had written to her Aunt Bazalgette and her Uncle Fountain, and invited them to contribute something towards David’s maintenance.
Edward was almost angry at this. “Fancy asking favours of them,” said he.
“Oh, I must not sacrifice my family to false pride,” said Mrs. Dodd; “besides they are entitled to know.”
While waiting for their answers, a word about the parties and their niece.
Our Mrs. Dodd, born Lucy Fountain, was left at nineteen to the care of two guardians61: 1, her Uncle Fountain, an old bachelor, who loved comfort, pedigree, and his own way; 2, her Aunt Bazalgette, who loved flirting62, dressing64, and her own way; both charming people, when they got their own way; verjuice, when they didn’t: and, to conclude, egotists deep as ocean. From guardians they grew match-makers and rivals by proxy65: uncle schemed to graft66 Lucy on to a stick called Talboys, that came in with the Revocation67 of the Edict of Nantes, known in pedigrees as “the Norman Conquest.” Aunt, wife of a merchant of no Descent, except from a high stool, devoted68 her to Richard Hardie. An unlooked-for obstacle encountered both: Lucy was not amorous69. She loved these two egotists and their quadrupeds; but there she stopped dead short. They persisted; and, while they pulled her to and fro and ruffled70 her native calm, David Dodd, first mate of the Something or other East Indiaman — brown cheek, honest speech, heart of gold — fell deep in love and worshipped her at a distance. His timidity and social insignificance71 made him harmless; so egotist Fountain had him in to dessert to spin yarns72; egotist Bazalgette invited him to her house to flirt63 with. At this latter place he found Hardie and Talboys both courting Lucy; this drove him mad, and in his fury he popped. Lucy declined him secundum artem: he went away blessing73 her, with a manly74 sob75 or two. Lucy cried a little and took a feminine spite against his rivals, who remained to pester76 her. Now Talboys, spurred by uncle, had often all but popped; only some let, hindrance77, or just impediment had still interposed: once her pony78 kept prancing79 at each effort he made towards Hymen; they do say the subtle virgin80 kept probing the brute81 with a hair pin, and made him caracole and spill the treacle82 as fast as it came her way. However, now Talboys elected to pop by sea. It was the element his ancestors had invaded fair England by; and on its tranquil83 bosom84 a lover is safe from prancing steeds, and the myriad85 anti-pops of terra firma. Miss Lucy consented to the water excursion demurely86, designing to bring her sickly wooer to the point and so get rid of him for ever and ever. Plot and counter-plot were baffled by the elements: there came an anti-pop out of the south-west called a gale87. Talboys boated so skilfully88 that he and his intended would have been united without ceremony by Father Nep, at the bottom of the British Channel, but for David Dodd, who was hovering89 near in jealous anguish and a cutter. He saved them both, but in the doing of it missed his ship, and professional ruin faced him. Then good-hearted Lucy was miserable, and appealed to Mr. Bazalgette, and he managed somehow to get David made captain of the Rajah. The poor girl thought she had squared the account with David; but he refused the ship unless she would go halves, and while her egotists bullied90 and vexed91 her, he wrought92 so upon her pity, and teased her so, that to get rid of his importunity93 she married him. In time she learned to love him ten times better than if she had begun all flames. Uncle and aunt cut her tolerably dead for some years. Uncle came round the first; some antiquarian showed him that Dodd was a much more ancient family than Talboys. “Why, sir, they were lords of sixteen manors94 under the Heptarchy, and hold some of them to this day.” Mrs. Bazalgette, too, had long corresponded with her periodically, and on friendly terms.
The answers came on the same day, curiously95 enough. Uncle Fountain, ruined by railway speculation, was living on an allowance from creditors96; but his house was at their service, if they liked to live with him — and board themselves.
Mrs. Bazalgette’s was the letter of a smooth woman, who has hoarded97 imperishable spite. She reminded her niece after all these years, that her marriage with David was an act of disobedience and ingratitude98. She then enumerated100 her own heavy expenses, all but the L. 400 a year she spent in bedizening her carcass, and finally, amidst a multitude of petty insults, she offered to relieve Mrs. Dodd of — Julia. Now Poetry has reconciled us to an asp in a basket of figs101; but here was a scorpion102 in a bundle of nettles103. Poor Mrs. Dodd could not speak after reading it. She handed it to Edward, and laid her white forehead wearily in her hand. Edward put the letter in an envelope and sent it back with a line in his own hand declining all further correspondence with the writer.
“Now then, ladies,” said he, “don’t you be cast down. Let this be a warning to us, never to ask favours of anybody. Let us look the thing in the face; we must work or starve: and all the better for us. Hard work suits heavy hearts. Come, have you any plan?”
“To be sure we have,” said Julia eagerly. “I mean to go for a governess, and then I shall cost mamma nothing, and besides I can send her the money the people give me.”
“A pretty plan!” said Edward sadly; “what! we three part company? Don’t you feel lonely enough without that? I do then. How can we bear our burdens at all, if we are not to be all together to cheer one another along the weary road? What! are we to break up? Is it not enough to be bereaved?”
He could say no more for the emotion his own words caused him; thinking of Jane, he broke down altogether, and ran out of the room.
However, he came back in an hour with his eyes red, but his heart indomitable; determined104 to play a man’s part for all their sakes. “You ladies,” said he, with something of his old genial105 way, that sounded so strange to one looking at his red eyes, and inspired a desire to hug him, “are full of talent, but empty of invention. The moment you are ruined or that sort of thing, it is, go for a governess, go for a companion, go here, go there, in search of what? Independence? No; dependence106. Besides all this going is bosh. Families are strong if they stick together, and if they go to pieces they are weak. I learned one bit of sense out of that mass of folly107 they call antiquity108; and that was the story of the old bloke with his twelve sons, and fagot to match. ‘Break ’em apart,’ he said, and each son broke his stick as easy as shelling peas. ‘Now break the twelve all tied together:’ devil a bit could the duffers break it then. Now we are not twelve, we are but three: easy to break one or two of us apart, but not the lot together. No; nothing but death shall break this fagot, for nothing less shall part us three.”
He stood like a colossus, and held out his hand to them; they clung round his neck in a moment, as if to illustrate109 his words; clung tight, and blessed him for standing110 so firm and forbidding them to part.
Mrs. Dodd sighed, after the first burst of enthusiastic affection, and said: “If he would only go a step further and tell us what to do in company.”
“Ay, there it is,” said Julia. “Begin with me. What can I do?”
“Why, paint.”
“What, to sell? Oh dear, my daubs are not good enough for that.”
“Stuff! Nothing is too bad to sell.”
“I really think you might,” said Mrs. Dodd, “and I will help you.”
“No, no, mamma, I want you for something better than the fine arts. You must go in one of the great grooves111: Female vanity: you must be a dressmaker; you are a genius at it.”
“My mamma a dressmaker,” cried Julia; “oh Edward, how can you. How dare you. Poor, poor mamma!”
“Do not be so impetuous, dear. I think he is right: yes, it is all I am fit for. If ever there was a Heaven-born dressmaker, it’s me.”
“As for myself,” said Edward, “I shall look out for some business in which physical strength goes further than intellectual attainments112. Luckily there are plenty such. Breaking stones is one. But I shall try a few others first.”
It is easy to settle on a business, hard to get a footing in one. Edward convinced that the dressmaking was their best card, searched that mine of various knowledge, the ’Tiser, for an opening: but none came. At last one of those great miscellaneous houses in the City advertised for a lady to cut cloaks. He proposed to his mother to go with him. She shrank from encountering strangers. No, she would go to a fashionable dressmaker she had employed some years, and ask her advice. Perhaps Madame Blanch113 would find her something to do. “I have more faith in the ’Tiser,” said Edward, clinging to his idol114.
Mrs. Dodd found Madame Blanch occupied in trying to suit one of those heart-breaking idiots, to whom dress is the one great thing, and all things else, sin included, the little ones. She had tried on a scarf three times; and it discontented her when on, and spoilt all else when off. Mrs. Dodd saw, and said obligingly, “Perhaps were I to put it on, you could better judge.” Mrs. Dodd, you must know, had an admirable art of putting on a shawl or scarf. With apparent nonchalance115 she settled the scarf on her shapely shoulders so happily that the fish bit, and the scarf went into its carriage; forty guineas, or so. Madame cast a rapid but ardent116 glance of gratitude99 Dodd-wards. The customer began to go, and after fidgeting to the door and back for twenty minutes actually went somehow. Then madame turned round, and said, “I’m sure, ma’am, I am much obliged to you; you sold me the scarf: and it is a pity we couldn’t put her on your bust117 and shoulders, ma’am, then perhaps a scarf might please her. What can I do for you, ma’am?”
Mrs. Dodd blushed, and with subdued118 agitation119 told Madame Blanch that this time she was come not to purchase but to ask a favour. Misfortune was heavy on her; and, though not penniless, she was so reduced by her husband’s illness and the loss of L. 14,000 by shipwreck120, that she must employ what little talents she had to support her family.
The woman explored her from head to foot to find the change of fortune in some corner of her raiment: but her customer was as well, though plainly dressed as ever, and still looked an easy-going duchess.
“Could Madame Blanch find her employment in her own line? What talent I have,” said Mrs. Dodd humbly121, “lies in that way. I could not cut as well as yourself, of course; but I think I can as well as some of your people.”
“That I’ll be bound you can,” said Madame Blanch drily. “But dear, dear, to think of your having come down so. Have a glass of wine to cheer you a bit; do now, that is a good soul.”
“Oh no, madam. I thank you; but wine cannot cheer me: a little bit of good news to take back to my anxious children, that would cheer me, madam. Will you be so good?”
The dressmaker coloured and hesitated; she felt the fascination122 of Dignity donning Humility, and speaking Music: but she resisted. “It won’t do, at least here. I shouldn’t be mistress in my own place. I couldn’t drive you like I am forced to do the rest; and, then, I should be sure to favour you, being a real lady, which is my taste, and you always will be, rich or poor; and then all my ladies would be on the bile with jealousy123.”
“Ah, madam,” sighed Mrs. Dodd, “you treat me like a child; you give me sweetmeats, and refuse me food for my family.”
“No, no,” said the woman hastily, “I don’t say I mightn’t send you out some work to do at home.”
“Oh, thank you, madam.” N.B. The dressmaker had dropped the Madam, so the lady used it now at every word.
“Now stop a bit,” said Madame Blanch. “I know a firm that’s in want. Theirs is easy work by mine, and they cut up a piece of stuff every two or three days.” She then wrote on one of her own cards, Messrs. Cross, Fitchett, Copland, and Tylee, 11, 12, 13, and 14, Primrose124 Lane, City. “Say, I recommend you. To tell the truth, an old hand of my own was to come here this very morning about it, but she hasn’t kept her time; so this will learn her business doesn’t stand still for lie-a-beds to catch it.”
Mrs. Dodd put the card in her bosom and pressed the hand extended to her by Madame Zaire Blanch; whose name was Sally White, spinster. She went back to her children and showed them the card, and sank gracefully125 into a chair, exhausted126 as much by the agitation of asking favours as by the walk. “Cross, Fitchett, Copland? Why they were in the ’Tiser yesterday,” said Edward: “look at this; a day lost by being wiser than the ’Tiser.”
“I’ll waste no more then,” said Mrs. Dodd, rising quietly from the chair. They begged her to rest herself first. No, she would not. “I saw this lost by half an hour,” said she. “Succeed or fail, I will have no remissness127 to reproach myself with.” And she glided128 off in her quiet way, to encounter Cross, Fitchett, Copland and Tylee, in the lane where a primrose was caught growing — six hundred years ago. She declined Edward’s company rather peremptorily129. “Stay and comfort your sister,” said she. But that was a blind; the truth was, she could not bear her children to mingle130 in what she was doing. No, her ambition was to ply131 the scissors and thimble vigorously, and so enable them to be ladies and gentlemen at large. She being gone, Julia made a parcel of water-colour drawings, and sallied forth132 all on fire to sell them. But, while she was dressing, Edward started on a cruise in search of employment. He failed entirely. They met in the evening, Mrs. Dodd resigned, Edward dogged, Julia rather excited. “Now, let us tell our adventures, she said. “As for me, shop after shop declined my poor sketches133. They all wanted something about as good, only a little different: nobody complained of the grand fault, and that is, their utter badness. At last, one old gentleman examined them, and oh! he was so fat; there, round. And he twisted his mouth so” (imitating him) “and squinted134 into them so. Then I was full of hope; and said to myself; ‘Dear mamma and Edward!’ And so, when he ended by saying, ‘No,’ like all the rest, I burst out crying like a goose.
“My poor girl,” cried Mrs. Dodd, with tears in her own eyes, “why expose yourself to these cruel rebuffs?”
“Oh, don’t waste your pity, mamma; those great babyish tears were a happy thought of mine. He bought two directly to pacify135 me; and there’s the money. Thirty shillings!” And she laid it proudly on the table.
“The old cheat,” said Edward; “they were worth two guineas apiece, I know.”
“Not they; or why would not anybody else give twopence for them?”
“Because pictures are a drug.”
He added that even talent was not saleable unless it got into the Great Grooves; and then looked at Mrs. Dodd, she replied that unfortunately those Grooves were not always accessible. The City firm had received her stiffly, and inquired for whom she had worked. “Children, my heart fell at that question. I was obliged to own myself an amateur and beg a trial. However, I gave Madame Blanch’s card: but Mr. — I don’t know which partner it was — said he was not acquainted with her: then he looked a little embarrassed, I thought, and said the Firm did not care to send its stuff to ladies not in the business. I might cut it to waste, or — he said no more; but I do really think he meant I might purloin136 it.”
“Why wasn’t I there to look him into the earth? Oh, mamma, that you should be subjected to all this!”
“Be quiet, child; I had only to put on my armour137; and do you know what my armour is? Thinking of my children. So I put on my armour, and said quietly, we were not so poor but we could pay for a piece of cloth should I be so unfortunate as to spoil it; and I offered in plain terms to deposit the price as security. But he turned as stiff at that as his yard measure; ‘that was not Cross and Co.‘s way of doing business,’ he said. But it is unreasonable138 to be dejected at a repulse139 or two; and I am not out of spirits; not much:” with this her gentle mouth smiled; and her patient eyes were moist.
The next day, just after breakfast, was announced a gentleman from the City. He made his bow and produced a parcel, which proved to be a pattern cloak. “Order, ladies,” said he briskly, “from Cross, Fitchett, and Co., Primrose Lane. Porter outside with the piece. You can come in, sir.” Porter entered with a bale. “Please sign this, ma’am.” Mrs. Dodd signed a receipt for the stuff, with an undertaking140 to deliver it in cloaks, at 11 Primrose Lane, in such a time. Porter retreated. The other said, “Our Mr. Fitchett wishes you to observe this fall in the pattern. It is new.”
“I will, sir. Am I to trouble you with any money — by way of deposit, sir?”
“No orders about it, ma’am. Ladies, your most obedient. Good morning, sir.”
And he was away.
All this seemed like a click or two of City clock-work: followed by rural silence. Yet in that minute Commerce had walked in upon genteel poverty, and left honest labour and modest income behind her.
Great was the thankfulness, strange and new the excitement. Edward was employed to set up a very long deal table for his mother to work on, Julia to go and buy tailors’ scissors. Calculations were made how to cut the stuff to advantage, and in due course the heavy scissors were heard snick, snick, snicking all day long.
Julia painted zealously141, and Edward, without saying a word to them, walked twenty miles a day hunting for a guinea a week; and finding it not. Not but what employment was often bobbed before his eyes: but there was no grasping it. At last he heard of a place peculiarly suited to him; a packing foreman’s in a warehouse142 at Southwark; he went there, and was referred to Mr. A.‘s private house. Mr. A. was in the country for a day. Try Mr. B. Mr. B. was dining with the Lord Mayor. Returning belated, he fell in with a fire; and, sad to say, life was in jeopardy143: a little old man had run out at the first alarm, when there was no danger, and, as soon as the fire was hot, had run in again for his stockings, or some such treasure. Fire does put out some people’s reason; clean. While he was rummaging144 madly, the staircase caught, and the smoke cut off his second exit, and drove him up to a little staircase window at the side of the house. Here he stood, hose in hand, scorching145 behind and screeching146 in front. A ladder had been brought: but it was a yard short: and the poor old man danced on the window-ledge2 and dare not come down to a gallant147 fireman who stood ready to receive him at great personal peril148. In the midst of shrieks149 and cries and shouts of encouragement, Edward, a practised gymnast, saw a chance. He ran up the ladder like a cat, begged the fireman to clasp it tight; then got on his shoulders and managed to grasp the window-sill. He could always draw his own weight up by his hands: so he soon had his knee on the sill, and presently stood erect150. He then put his left arm inside the window, collared the old fellow with his right, and, half persuasion151, half force, actually lowered him to the ladder with one Herculean arm amidst a roar that made the Borough152 ring. Such a strain could not long be endured; but the fireman speedily relieved him by seizing the old fellow’s feet and directing them on to the ladder, and so, propping153 him by the waist, went down before him, and landed him safe. Edward waited till they were down: then begged them to hold the ladder tight below; he hung from the ledge, got his eye well on the ladder below him, let himself quietly drop, and caught hold of it with hands of iron, and twisting round, came down the ladder on the inside hand over head without using his feet, a favourite gymnastic exercise of his learnt at the Modern Athens. He was warmly received by the crowd and by the firemen. “You should be one of us, sir,” said a fine young fellow who had cheered him and advised him all through. “I wish to Heaven I was,” said Edward. The other thought he was joking, but laughed and said, “Then you should talk to our head man after the business; there is a vacancy154, you know.”
Edward saw the fire out, and rode home on the engine. There he applied155 to the head man for the vacancy.
“You are a stranger to me, sir,” said the head man. “And I am sure it is no place for you; you are a gentleman.”
“Well; is there anything ungentlemanly in saving people’s lives and property?”
“Hear! hear!” said a comic fireman.
The compliment began to tell, though. Others put in their word. “Why, Mr. Baldwin, if a gentleman ain’t ashamed of us, why should we be ashamed of him?”
“Where will ye get a better?” asked another; and added, “He is no stranger; we’ve seen him work.”
“Stop a bit,” said the comic fireman: “what does the dog say? Just call him, sir, if you please; his name is Charlie.”
Edward called the fire-dog kindly156; he came and fawned157 on him; then gravely snuffed him all round, and retired wagging his tail gently, as much as to say, “I was rather taken by surprise at first, but, on the whole, I see no reason to recall my judgment158.”
“It is all right,” said the firemen in chorus; and one that had not yet spoken to Edward now whispered him mysteriously, “Ye see that there dog — he knows more than we do.”
After the dog, a biped oracle159 at head-quarters was communicated with, and late that very night Edward was actually enrolled160 a fireman; and went home warmer at heart than he had been for some time. They were all in bed; and when he came down in the morning, Julia was reading out of the ’Tiser a spirited and magniloquent description of a fire in Southwark, and of the heroism161 displayed by a young gentleman unknown, but whose name the writer hoped at so much the line would never be allowed to pass into oblivion, and be forgotten. In short, the ’Tiser paid him in one column, for years of devotion. Now Edward, of course, was going to relate his adventure; but the journal told it so gloriously, he hesitated to say, “I did all that.” He just sat and stared, and wondered, and blushed, and grinned like an imbecile.
Unfortunately looks seldom escaped the Doddesses. “What is that for?” inquired Julia reproachfully. “Is that sheepish face the thing to wear when a sister is reading out an heroic action? Ah, these are the things that make one long to be a man, to do them. What are you thinking about, dear?”
“Well, I am thinking the ’Tiser is pitching it rather strong.”
“My love, what an expression!”
“Well, then, to be honest, I agree with you that it is a jolly thing to fight with fire and save men’s lives; and I am glad you see it in that light; for now you will approve the step I have taken. Ladies, I have put myself in the way of doing this sort of thing every week of my life. I’m a fireman.”
“You are jesting, I trust?” said Mrs. Dodd anxiously.
“No, mamma. I got the place late last night, and I’m to enter on my duties and put on the livery next Monday. Hurrah162!”
Instantly the admirers of fiery163 heroes at a distance overflowed164 with grief and mortification165 at the prospect of one in their own family. They could not speak at all at first: and, when they did, it was only “Cruel! cruel!” from Julia; and “Our humiliation166 is now complete,” from Mrs. Dodd.
They soon dashed Edward’s spirits, and made him unhappy; but they could not convince him he had done wrong. However, in the heat of remonstrance167, they let out at last that they had just begun to hope by dint168 of scissors and paint-brush to send him back to Oxford169. He also detected, under a cloud of tender, loving, soothing170, coaxing171 and equivocating172 expressions, their idea of a Man: to wit, a tall, strong, ornamental173 creature, whom the women were to cocker up, and pet, and slave for; and be rewarded by basking174, dead tired, in an imperial smile or two let fall by their sovereign protege from his arm-chair. And, in fact, good women have often demoralised their idols175 down to the dirt by this process; to be sure their idols were sorryish clay, to begin.
Edward was anything but flowery, so he paraded no manly sentiments in reply; he just bluntly ridiculed176 the idea of his consenting to prey on them; and he said humbly, “I know I can’t contribute as much to our living as you two can — the petticoats carry the brains in our family — but, be a burden to you? Not if I know it.”
“Pride! pride! pride!” objected Julia, lifting her grand violet orbs177 like a pensive178 Madonna.
“And such pride! The pride that falls into a fire-bucket,” suggested prosaic179 mamma.
“That is cutting,” said Edward: “but, soyons de notre siecle; flunkeyism is on the decline. I’ll give you something to put in both your pipes:
‘Honour and rank from no condition rise.
Act well thy part; in that the honour lies.’”
“Yes, yes,” said Mrs. Dodd, “only first choose your part; and let your choice be reasonable.”
“Mine was Hobson’s, and he never chooses wrong. Come, come,” said he, and appealed calmly to their reason, by which means he made no impression at all. Then he happened to say, “Besides, I must do something. I own to you I am more cast down than I choose to show. Mother, I feel like lead ever since she died.” Now on this, their faces filled with sympathy directly. So encouraged he went on to say: “But when I got my hand on that old duffer’s collar, and lowered him to the ladder, and the fire shot roaring out of the window after him, too late to eat him, and the crowd cheered the fireman and me, I did feel warm about the waistcoat, and, for the first time this ever so long, life seemed not quite ended. I felt there was a little bit of good left, that even a poor dunce like me could do, and she could approve — if she can look down and see me, as I hope she can.”
“There, there,” said Mrs. Dodd tearfully, “I am disarmed180, But, my darling, I do not know what you are talking about: Stay; why, Edward, surely — I hope — you were not the young gentleman in the paper, the one that risked his life so nobly, so foolishly — if it was you.
“Why, mother, didn’t I tell you it was me?” said Edward, colouring.
“No, that you did not,” said Julia. “Was it? was it? oh do be quick and tell one. There, it was.”
“Well, it was: ah, I remember now; that splendiferous account shut me up. Oh, I say, didn’t the ’Tiser pitch it strong?”
“Not at all,” cried Julia; “I believe every word, and ever so much more. Mamma, we have got a hero, and here he is at breakfast with us, like an ordinary mortal.” She rose suddenly with a burst of her old fire and fell upon him and kissed him, and said earnestly how proud she was of him; “And so is mamma. She may say what she likes.”
“Proud of him! ah, that I am; very proud, and very unhappy. Heroes are my horror. How often, and how earnestly have I prayed that my son might not be brave like his father, but stay quietly at home out of harm’s way.”
Here remonstrance ended; the members of this family, happy by nature, though unhappy by accident, all knew when to yield to each other.
Unfortunately, in proportion as all these excitements great and small died, and her life became quiet and uniform, the depth of Julia’s wound showed itself more and more. She never sang nor hummed, as she used to do, going about the house. She never laughed. She did burst out with fervid181 sentiments now and then, but very rarely; on the whole, a pensive languor182 took the place of her lovely impetuosity. Tears rushed in a moment to her eyes with no visible cause. She often stole to the window, and looked all up and down the street; and when she was out of doors, she looked down every side street she passed; and sometimes, when a quick light step came behind them, or she saw a tall young gentleman at a great distance, her hand twitched183 her mother’s arm or trembled on it. And, always, when they came home, she lingered a moment at the door-step and looked all round before she went in.
At all these signs one half of Mrs. Dodd’s heart used to boil with indignation, and the other half melt with pity. For she saw her daughter was looking for “the Wretch.” Indeed Mrs. Dodd began to fear she had done unwisely in ignoring “the Wretch.” Julia’s thoughts dwelt on him none the less; indeed all the more as it seemed; so the topic interdicted184 by tacit consent bade fair to become a barrier between her and Mrs. Dodd, hitherto her bosom friend as well as her mother. This was intolerable to poor Mrs. Dodd: and at last she said one day, “My darling, do not be afraid of me; rob me of your happy thoughts if you will, but oh, not of your sad ones.”
Julia began to cry directly. “Oh no, mamma,” she sobbed185, “do not you encourage me in my folly. I know I have thrown away my affections on one who —— I shall never see him again: shall I, mamma? Oh, to think I can say those words, and yet go living on.”
Mrs. Dodd sighed. “And if you saw him, would that mend the chain he has chosen to break?”
“I don’t know; but if I could only see him to part friends! It is cruel to hate him now he has lost his sister; and then I have got her message to give him. And I want to ask him why he was afraid of me: why he could not tell me he had altered his mind: did he think I wanted to have him against his will? Oh, mamma,” said she imploringly186, “he seemed to love me; he seemed all truth. I am a poor unfortunate girl.”
Mrs. Dodd had only caresses187 to soothe188 her with. She could not hold out any hopes.
One day Julia asked her timidly if she might be a district visitor: “My dear friend was, and advised me to be one too; but I was wilful189 in those days and chose to visit by fits and starts, and be independent. I am humbled190 now a little: may I, mamma? Since she died every word of hers seems a law to me.”
Mrs. Dodd assented191 cordially; as she would to anything else her wounded one had proposed.
This project brought Julia into communication with the new curate; and who should it prove to be but Mr. Hurd? At sight of him she turned white and red, and the whole scene in the church came back to her. But Mr. Hurd showed considerable tact192 for so young a man; he spoke to her in accents of deep respect, but confined his remarks strictly193 to the matter in hand. She told her mother when she got home; and expressed her gratitude to Mr. Hurd, but said she wished they did not live in the same parish with him. This feeling, however, wore off by degrees, as her self-imposed duties brought her more and more into contact with him, and showed her his good qualities.
As for Mr. Hurd, he saw and understood her vivid emotion at sight of him; saw and pitied; not without wonder that so beautiful a creature should have been jilted. And from the first he marked his sense of Alfred’s conduct by showing her a profound and chivalrous194 respect which he did not bestow195 on other young ladies in his parish; on the contrary, he rather received homage196 from them than bestowed197 it. By-and-bye he saw Julia suppress if not hide her own sorrow, and go sore-hearted day by day to comfort the poor and afflicted198: he admired and almost venerated199 her for this. He called often on Mrs. Dodd, and was welcome. She concealed200 her address for the present from all her friends except Dr. Sampson; but Mr. Hurd had discovered her, and ladies do not snub the clergy201. Moreover, Mr. Hurd was a gentleman, and inclined to High Church. This she liked. He was very good-looking too, and quiet in his manners. Above all, he seemed to be doing her daughter good; for Julia and Mr. Hurd had one great sentiment in common. When the intimacy202 had continued some time on these easy terms, Mrs. Dodd saw that Mr. Hurd was falling in love with Julia; and that sort of love warm, but respectful, which soon leads to marriage, especially when the lover is a clergyman. This was more than Mrs. Dodd bargained for; she did not want to part with her daughter, and under other circumstances would have drawn203 in her horns. But Mr. Hurd’s undisguised homage gratified her maternal204 heart, coming so soon after that great insult to her daughter; and then she said to herself: “At any rate, he will help me cure her of ‘the Wretch.’” She was not easy in her mind, though; could not tell what would come of it all. So she watched her daughter’s pensive face as only mothers watch; and saw a little of the old peach bloom creeping back.
That was irresistible205: she let things go their own way, and hoped for the best.
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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doting
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| adj.溺爱的，宠爱的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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violation
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| n.违反(行为)，违背(行为)，侵犯 | |
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repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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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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celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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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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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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ripening
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的现在分词 )；熟化；熟成 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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unnaturally
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| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
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reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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snarl
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| v.吼叫，怒骂，纠缠，混乱；n.混乱，缠结，咆哮 | |
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parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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bereaved
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| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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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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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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bereavement
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| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
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acquitted
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| 宣判…无罪( acquit的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（自己）作出某种表现 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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auction
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| n.拍卖；拍卖会；vt.拍卖 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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asylums
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| n.避难所( asylum的名词复数 )；庇护；政治避难；精神病院 | |
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guardians
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| 监护人( guardian的名词复数 )； 保护者，维护者 | |
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flirting
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的现在分词 ) | |
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flirt
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| v.调情，挑逗，调戏；n.调情者，卖俏者 | |
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64
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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65
proxy
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| n.代理权，代表权；（对代理人的）委托书；代理人 | |
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66
graft
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| n.移植，嫁接，艰苦工作，贪污；v.移植，嫁接 | |
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67
revocation
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| n.废止，撤回 | |
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68
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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69
amorous
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| adj.多情的；有关爱情的 | |
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70
ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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71
insignificance
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| n.不重要；无价值；无意义 | |
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72
yarns
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| n.纱( yarn的名词复数 )；纱线；奇闻漫谈；旅行轶事 | |
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73
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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74
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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75
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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76
pester
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| v.纠缠，强求 | |
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77
hindrance
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| n.妨碍，障碍 | |
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78
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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79
prancing
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| v.（马）腾跃( prance的现在分词 ) | |
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80
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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81
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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82
treacle
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| n.糖蜜 | |
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83
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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84
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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85
myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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86
demurely
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| adv.装成端庄地，认真地 | |
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87
gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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88
skilfully
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| adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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89
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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90
bullied
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| adj.被欺负了v.恐吓，威逼( bully的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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91
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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92
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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93
importunity
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| n.硬要，强求 | |
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94
manors
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| n.庄园（manor的复数形式） | |
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95
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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96
creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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97
hoarded
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| v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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98
ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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99
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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100
enumerated
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| v.列举，枚举，数( enumerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101
figs
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| figures 数字，图形，外形 | |
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102
scorpion
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| n.蝎子，心黑的人，蝎子鞭 | |
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103
nettles
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| n.荨麻( nettle的名词复数 ) | |
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104
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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105
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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106
dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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107
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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108
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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109
illustrate
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| v.举例说明，阐明；图解，加插图 | |
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110
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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111
grooves
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| n.沟( groove的名词复数 )；槽；老一套；（某种）音乐节奏v.沟( groove的第三人称单数 )；槽；老一套；（某种）音乐节奏 | |
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112
attainments
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| 成就，造诣； 获得( attainment的名词复数 )； 达到； 造诣； 成就 | |
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113
blanch
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| v.漂白；使变白；使(植物)不见日光而变白 | |
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114
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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115
nonchalance
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| n.冷淡，漠不关心 | |
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116
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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117
bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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118
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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119
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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120
shipwreck
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| n.船舶失事，海难 | |
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121
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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122
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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123
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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124
primrose
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| n.樱草，最佳部分， | |
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125
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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126
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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127
remissness
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| n.玩忽职守；马虎；怠慢；不小心 | |
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128
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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129
peremptorily
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| adv.紧急地，不容分说地，专横地 | |
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130
mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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131
ply
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| v.(搬运工等)等候顾客，弯曲 | |
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132
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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133
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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134
squinted
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| 斜视( squint的过去式和过去分词 )； 眯着眼睛； 瞟； 从小孔或缝隙里看 | |
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135
pacify
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| vt.使(某人)平静(或息怒)；抚慰 | |
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136
purloin
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| v.偷窃 | |
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137
armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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138
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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139
repulse
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| n.击退，拒绝；vt.逐退，击退，拒绝 | |
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140
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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141
zealously
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| adv.热心地；热情地；积极地；狂热地 | |
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142
warehouse
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| n.仓库；vt.存入仓库 | |
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143
jeopardy
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| n.危险；危难 | |
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144
rummaging
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的现在分词 )； 海关检查 | |
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145
scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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146
screeching
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| v.发出尖叫声( screech的现在分词 )；发出粗而刺耳的声音；高叫 | |
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147
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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148
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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149
shrieks
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| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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150
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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151
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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152
borough
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| n.享有自治权的市镇；(英)自治市镇 | |
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153
propping
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| 支撑 | |
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154
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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155
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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156
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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157
fawned
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| v.（尤指狗等）跳过来往人身上蹭以示亲热( fawn的过去式和过去分词 )；巴结；讨好 | |
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158
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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159
oracle
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| n.神谕，神谕处，预言 | |
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160
enrolled
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| adj.入学登记了的v.[亦作enrol]( enroll的过去式和过去分词 )；登记，招收，使入伍（或入会、入学等），参加，成为成员；记入名册；卷起，包起 | |
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161
heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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162
hurrah
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| int.好哇，万岁，乌拉 | |
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163
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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164
overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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165
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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166
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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167
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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168
dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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169
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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170
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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171
coaxing
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的现在分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱；“锻炼”效应 | |
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172
equivocating
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| v.使用模棱两可的话隐瞒真相( equivocate的现在分词 ) | |
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173
ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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174
basking
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| v.晒太阳，取暖( bask的现在分词 )；对…感到乐趣；因他人的功绩而出名；仰仗…的余泽 | |
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175
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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176
ridiculed
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| v.嘲笑，嘲弄，奚落( ridicule的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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177
orbs
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| abbr.off-reservation boarding school 在校寄宿学校n.球，天体，圆形物( orb的名词复数 ) | |
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178
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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179
prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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180
disarmed
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| v.裁军( disarm的过去式和过去分词 )；使息怒 | |
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181
fervid
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| adj.热情的；炽热的 | |
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182
languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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183
twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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184
interdicted
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| v.禁止（行动）( interdict的过去式和过去分词 )；禁用；限制 | |
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185
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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186
imploringly
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| adv. 恳求地, 哀求地 | |
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187
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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188
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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189
wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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190
humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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191
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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192
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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193
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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194
chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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195
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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196
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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197
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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198
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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venerated
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| 敬重（某人或某事物），崇敬( venerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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200
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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201
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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202
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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203
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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204
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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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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