Now in the slack of that same day, after the midday dinner and before the coming of the afternoon customers, this disastrous1 Chitterlow descended2 upon Kipps with the most amazing coincidence in the world. He did not call formally, entering and demanding Kipps, but privately3, in a confidential4 and mysterious manner. Kipps was first aware of him as a dark object bobbing about excitedly outside the hosiery window. He was stooping and craning and peering in the endeavour to see into the interior between and over the socks and stockings. Then he transferred his attention to the door, and after a hovering5 scrutiny6, tried the baby-linen display. His movements and gestures suggested a suppressed excitement.
Seen by daylight, Chitterlow was not nearly such a magnificent figure as he had been by the subdued7 nocturnal lightings and beneath the glamour8 of his own interpretation9. The lines were the same, indeed, but the texture10 was different. There was a quality about the yachting cap, an indefinable finality of dustiness, a shiny finish on all the salient surfaces of the reefer coat. The red hair and the profile, though still forcible and fine, were less in the quality of Michelangelo and more in that of the merely picturesque11. But it was a bright, brown eye still that sought amidst the interstices of the baby-linen.
Kipps was by no means anxious to interview Chitterlow again. If he had felt sure that Chitterlow would not enter the shop, he would have hid in the warehouse12 until the danger was past, but he had no idea of Chitterlow’s limitations. He decided13 to keep up the shop in the shadows until Chitterlow reached the side window of the Manchester department, and then to go outside as if to inspect the condition of the window and explain to him that things were unfavourable to immediate14 intercourse15. He might tell him he had already lost his situation . . .
‘‘Ullo, Chit’low,’ he said, emerging.
‘Very man I want to see,’ said Chitterlow, shaking with vigour16. ‘Very man I want to see.’ He laid a hand on Kipps’ arm. ‘How old are you, Kipps?’
‘One-and-twenty,’ said Kipps. ‘Why?’
‘Talk about coincidences! And your name, now? Wait a minute.’ He held out a finger. ‘Is it Arthur?’
‘Yes,’ said Kipps.
‘You’re the man,’ said Chitterlow.
‘What man?’
‘It’s about the thickest coincidence I ever struck,’ said Chitterlow, plunging17 his extensive hand into his breast coat pocket. ‘Half a jiff and I’ll tell you your mother’s Christian18 name.’ He laughed and struggled with his coat for a space, produced a washing-book and two pencils, which he deposited in his side pocket, then in one capacious handful, a bent19 but by no means finally disabled cigar, the rubber proboscis20 of a bicycle pump, some twine21 and a lady’s purse, and finally a small pocket-book, and from this after dropping and recovering several visiting-cards, he extracted a carelessly torn piece of newspaper. ‘Euphemia,’ he read, and brought his face close to Kipps’. ‘Eh?’ He laughed noisily. ‘It’s about as fair a Bit of All Right as any one could have — outside a coincidence play. Don’t say her name wasn’t Euphemia, Kipps, and spoil the whole blessed show.’
‘Whose name Euphemia?’ asked Kipps.
‘Your mother’s.’
‘Lemme see what it says on the paper.’
Chitterlow handed him the fragment and turned away.
‘You may say what you like,’ he said, addressing a vast, deep laugh to the street generally.
Kipps attempted to read. ‘WADDY or KIPPS. If Arthur Waddy or Arthur Kipps, the son of Margaret Euphemia Kipps, who —’
Chitterlow’s finger swept over the print. ‘I went down the column, and every blessed name that seemed to fit my play I took. I don’t believe in made-up names. As I told you. I’m all with Zola in that. Documents whenever you can. I like ’em hot and real. See? Who was Waddy?’
‘Never heard his name.’
‘Not Waddy?’
‘No!’
Kipps tried to read again, and abandoned the attempt. ‘What does it mean?’ he said. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘It means,’ said Chitterlow, with a momentary24 note of lucid25 exposition, ‘so far as I can make out, that you’re going to strike it Rich. Never mind about the Waddy — that’s a detail. What does it usually mean? You’ll hear of something to your advantage — very well. I took that newspaper up to get my names by the merest chance. Directly I saw it again and read that — I knew it was you. I believe in coincidences. People say they don’t happen. I say they do. Everything’s a coincidence. Seen properly. Here you are. Here’s one! Incredible? Not a bit of it! See? It’s you! Kipps! Waddy be damned! It’s a Mascot26. There’s luck in my play. Bif! You’re there. I’m there. Fair in it! Snap!’ And he discharged his fingers like a pistol. ‘Never you mind about the ‘Waddy.’’
‘Eh?’ said Kipps, with a nervous eye on Chitterlow’s fingers.
‘You’re all right,’ said Chitterlow, ‘you may bet the seat of your only breeches on that! Don’t you worry about the Waddy — that’s as clear as day. You’re about as right side up as a billiard ball . . . whatever you do. Don’t stand there gaping27, man! Read the paper if you don’t believe me. Read it!’
He shook it under Kipps’ nose.
Kipps became aware of the second apprentice28 watching them from the shop. His air of perplexity gave place to a more confident bearing.
‘— who was born at East Grinstead.’ I certainly was born there. I’ve ‘eard my Aunt say —’
‘I knew it,’ said Chitterlow, taking hold of one edge of the paper and bringing his face close alongside Kipps’. ‘— on September the first, eighteen hundred and seventy-eight —’
‘That’s all right,’ said Chitterlow. ‘It’s all, all right, and all you have to do is to write to Watson and Bean and get it —’
‘Get what?’
‘Whatever it is.’
Kipps sought his moustache. ‘You’d write?’ he asked. ‘Ra-ther.’
‘But what do you think it is?’
‘That’s the fun of it!’ said Chitterlow, taking three steps in some as yet uninvented dance. ‘That’s where the joke comes in. It may be anything — it may be a million. If so! Where does little Harry29 come in? Eh?’
Kipps was trembling slightly. ‘But —’ he said, and thought. ‘If you was me —’ he began. ‘About that Waddy —?’
He glanced up and saw the second apprentice disappear with amazing swiftness from behind the goods in the window.
‘What?’ asked Chitterlow, but he never had an answer.
‘Lor! There’s the guv’nor!’ said Kipps, and made a prompt dive for the door.
He dashed in, only to discover that Shalford, with the junior apprentice in attendance, had come to mark off remnants of Kipps’ cotton dresses, and was demanding him. ‘Hallo, Kipps,’ he said, ‘outside —?’
‘Seein’ if the window was straight, Sir,’ said Kipps. ‘Umph!’ said Shalford.
For a space Kipps was too busily employed to think at all of Chitterlow or the crumpled30 bit of paper in his trouser pocket. He was, however, painfully aware of a suddenly disconnected excitement at large in the street. There came one awful moment when Chitterlow’s nose loomed31 interrogatively over the ground glass of the department door, and his bright little red-brown eye sought for the reason of Kipps’ disappearance32, and then it became evident that he saw the high light of Shalford’s baldness, and grasped the situation and went away. And then Kipps (with that advertisement in his pocket) was able to come back to the business in hand.
He became aware that Shalford had asked a question. ‘Yessir, nosir, rightsir. I’m sorting up zephyrs33 tomorrow, Sir,’ said Kipps.
Presently he had a moment to himself again, and, taking up a safe position behind a newly unpacked34 pile of summer lace curtains, he straightened out the piece of paper and re-perused it. It was a little perplexing. That ‘Arthur Waddy or Arthur Kipps’— did that imply two persons or one? He would ask Pearce or Buggins. Only —
It had always been impressed upon him that there was something demanding secrecy35 about his mother.
‘Don’t you answer no questions about your mother,’ his aunt had been wont36 to say. ‘Tell them you don’t know, whatever it is they ask you.’
Now, this —?
Kipps’ face became portentously37 careful, and he rugged38 at his moustache, such as it was, hard.
He had always represented his father as being a ‘gentleman farmer.’ ‘It didn’t pay,’ he used to say, with a picture in his own mind of a penny magazine aristocrat39 prematurely40 worn out by worry. ‘I’m a Norfan, both sides,’ he would explain, with the air of one who had seen trouble. He said he lived with his uncle and aunt, but he did not say that they kept a toy-shop, and to tell any one that his uncle had been a butler — a servant!— would have seemed the maddest of indiscretions. Almost all the assistants in the Emporium were equally reticent41 and vague, so great is their horror of ‘Lowness’ of any sort. To ask about this ‘Waddy or Kipps’ would upset all these little fictions. He was not, as a matter of fact, perfectly42 clear about his real status in the world (he was not, as a matter of fact, perfectly clear about anything), but he knew that there was a quality about his status that was — detrimental43.
Under the circumstances —?
It occurred to him that it would save a lot of trouble to destroy the advertisement there and then. In which case he would have to explain to Chitterlow!
‘Eng!’ said Mr. Kipps.
‘Kipps!’ cried Carshot, who was shop-walking. ‘Kipps Forward!’
He thrust back the crumpled paper into his pocket, and sallied forth44 to the customer.
‘I want,’ said the customer, looking vaguely45 about her through glasses, ‘a little bit of something to cover a little stool I have. Anything would do — a remnant or anything.’
The matter of the advertisement remained in abeyance46 for half an hour, and at the end the little stool was still a candidate for covering, and Kipps had a thoroughly47 representative collection of the textile fabrics48 in his department to clear away. He was so angry about the little stool that the crumpled advertisement lay for a space in his pocket, absolutely forgotten.
2
Kipps sat on his tin box under the gas-bracket that evening, and looked up the name Euphemia, and learnt what it meant in the ‘Inquire Within About Everything’ that constituted Buggins’ reference library. He hoped Buggins, according to his habit, would ask him what he was looking for, but Buggins was busy turning out his week’s washing. ‘Two collars,’ said Buggins, ‘half pair socks, two dickeys. Shirt? . . . M’m. There ought to be another collar somewhere’.
‘Euphemia,’ said Kipps at last, unable altogether to keep to himself this suspicion of a high origin that floated so delightfully49 about him. ‘Eu-phemia; it isn’t a name common people would give a girl, is it?’
‘It isn’t the name any decent people would give to a girl,’ said Buggins, ‘common or not.’
‘Lor!’ said Kipps. ‘Why?’
‘It’s giving girls names like that,’ said Buggins, ‘that nine times out of ten makes ’em go wrong. It unsettles ’em. If ever I was to have a girl, if ever I was to have a dozen girls, I’d call ’em all Jane. Every one of ’em. You couldn’t have a better name than that. Euphemia, indeed! What next? . . . Good Lord! . . . That isn’t one of my collars there, is it, under your bed?’
Kipps got him the collar.
‘I don’t see no great ‘arm in Euphemia,’ he said as he did so.
After that he became restless. ‘I’m a good mind to write that letter,’ he said; and then, finding Buggins preoccupied50 wrapping his washing up in the ‘sox,’ added to himself, ‘a thundering good mind.’
So he got his penny bottle of ink, borrowed the pen from Buggins, and with no very serious difficulty in spelling or composition, did as he had resolved.
He came back into the bedroom about an hour afterwards, a little out of breath and pale. ‘Where you been?’ said Buggins, who was now reading the Daily World Manager, which came to him in rotation51 from Carshot.
‘Out to post some letters,’ said Kipps, hanging up his hat. ‘Crib hunting?’
‘Mostly,’ said Kipps.
‘Rather,’ he added, with a nervous laugh; ‘what else?’
Buggins went on reading. Kipps sat on his bed and regarded the back of the Daily World Manager thoughtfully.
‘Buggins,’ he said at last.
Buggins lowered his paper and looked.
‘I say, Buggins, what do these here advertisements mean that say so-and-so will hear of something greatly to his advantage?’
‘Missin’ people,’ said Buggins, making to resume reading.
‘How d’yer mean?’ asked Kipps. ‘Money left and that sort of thing?’
Buggins shook his head. ‘Debts,’ he said, ‘more often than not.’
‘But that ain’t to his advantage.’
‘They put that to get ‘old of ’em’, said Buggins. ‘Often it’s wives.’
‘What you mean?’
‘Deserted wives try and get their husbands back that way.’
‘I suppose it is legacies52 sometimes, eh? Perhaps if some one was left a hundred pounds by some one —’
‘Hardly ever,’ said Buggins.
‘Well, ‘ow —?’ began Kipps, and hesitated.
Buggins resumed reading. He was very much excited by a leader on Indian affairs. ‘By Jove!’ he said, ‘it won’t do to give these here Blacks votes.’
‘No fear,’ said Kipps.
‘They’re different altogether,’ said Buggins. ‘They ‘aven’t the sound sense of Englishmen, and they ‘aven’t the character. There’s a sort of tricky53 dishonesty about ’em — false witness and all that — of which an Englishman has no idea. Outside their courts of law — it’s a pos’tive fact, Kipps — there’s witnesses waitin’ to be ‘ired. Reg’lar trade. Touch their ‘ats as you go in. Englishmen ‘ave no idea, I tell you — not ord’nary Englishmen. It’s in their blood. They’re too timid to be honest. Too slavish. They aren’t used to being free like we are, and if you gave ’em freedom they woudn’t make a proper use of it. Now, we — Oh, Damn!’
For the gas had suddenly gone out, and Buggins had the whole column of Society Club Chat still to read.
Buggins could talk of nothing after that but Shalford’s meanness in turning off the gas, and after being extremely satirical about their employer, undressed in the dark, hit his bare toe against a box, and subsided54, after unseemly ejaculations, into silent ill-temper.
Though Kipps tried to get to sleep before the affair of the letter he had just posted resumed possession of his mind, he could not do so. He went over the whole thing again, quite exhaustively.
Now that his first terror was abating55, he couldn’t quite determine whether he was glad or sorry that he had posted that letter. If it should happen to be a hundred pounds!
It must be a hundred pounds!
If it was he could hold out for a year, for a couple of years even, before he got a Crib.
Even if it was fifty pounds —!
Buggins was already breathing regularly when Kipps spoke56 again. ‘Buggins,’ he said.
Buggins pretended to be asleep, and thickened his regular breathing (a little too hastily) to a snore.
‘I say, Buggins,’ said Kipps, after an interval57.
‘What’s up now?’ said Buggins, unamiably.
‘S’pose you saw an advertisement in a paper, with your name in it, see, asking you to come and see some one, like, so as to hear of something very much to your —’
‘Hide,’ said Buggins, shortly. ‘But —’
‘I’d hide.’
‘Er?’
‘Goo’-night, o’man,’ said Buggins, with convincing earnestness. Kipps lay still for a long time, then blew profoundly, turned over and stared at the other side of the dark.
He had been a fool to post that letter!
Lord! Hadn’t he been a fool!
3
It was just five days and a half after the light had been turned out while Buggins was reading, that a young man with a white face, and eyes bright and wide open, emerged from a side road upon the Leas front. He was dressed in his best clothes, and, although the weather was fine, he carried his umbrella, just as if he had been to church. He hesitated, and turned to the right. He scanned each house narrowly as he passed it, and presently came to an abrupt58 stop. ‘Hughenden,’ said the gateposts in firm, black letters, and the fanlight in gold repeated ‘Hughenden.’ It was a stucco house, fit to take your breath away, and its balcony was painted a beautiful sea green, enlivened with gilding59. He stood looking up at it.
‘Gollys!’ he said at last in an awe-stricken whisper.
It had rich-looking crimson60 curtains to all the lower windows, and brass-railed blinds above. There was a splendid tropical plant in a large artistic61 pot in the drawing-room window. There was a splendid bronzed knocker (ring also) and two bells — one marked ‘servants.’
‘Gollys! Servants, eh?’
He walked past away from it with his eyes regarding it, and then turned and came back. He passed through a further indecision, and finally drifted away to the sea front and sat down on a seat a little way along the Leas and put his arm over the back and regarded ‘Hughenden.’ He whistled an air very softly to himself, put his head first on one side and then on the other. Then for a space he scowled62 fixedly63 at it.
A very stout64 old gentleman with a very red face and very protuberant65 eyes sat down beside Kipps, removed a Panama hat of the most abandoned desperado cut, and mopped his brow and blew. Then he began mopping the inside of his hat. Kipps watched him for a space, wondering how much he might have a year, and where he bought his hat. Then ‘Hughenden’ reasserted itself.
An impulse overwhelmed him. ‘I say,’ he said, leaning forward to the old gentleman. The old gentleman started and stared.
‘What did you say?’ he asked fiercely.
‘You wouldn’t think,’ said Kipps, indicating with his forefinger66, ‘that that ‘ous there belongs to me.’
The old gentleman twisted his neck round to look at ‘Hughenden.’ Then he came back to Kipps, looked at his mean little garments with apoplectic67 intensity68, and blew at him by way of reply.
‘It does,’ said Kipps, a little less confidently.
‘Don’t be a fool,’ said the old gentleman, and put his hat on and wiped out the corners of his eyes. ‘It’s hot enough,’ panted the old gentleman indignantly, ‘without Fools.’ Kipps looked from the old gentleman to the house, and back to the old gentleman. The old gentleman looked at Kipps, and snorted and looked out to sea, and again, snorting very contemptuously, at Kipps.
‘Mean to say it doesn’t belong to me?’ said Kipps.
The old gentleman just glanced over his shoulder at the house in dispute, and then fell to pretending Kipps didn’t exist. ‘It’s been lef me this very morning,’ said Kipps. ‘It ain’t the only one that’s been lef me, neither.’
‘Aw!’ said the old gentleman, like one who is sorely tried. He seemed to expect the passers-by presently to remove Kipps.
‘It ‘as,’ said Kipps. He made no further remark to the old gentleman for a space, but looked with a little less certitude at the house . . .
‘I got —’ he said, and stopped.
‘It’s no good telling you if you don’t believe,’ he said.
The old gentleman, after a struggle with himself, decided not to have a fit. ‘Try that game on with me,’ he panted. ‘Give you in charge.’
‘What game?’
‘Wasn’t born yesterday,’ said the old gentleman, and blew. ‘Besides,’ he added, ‘look at you!’
‘I know you,’ said the old gentleman, and coughed shortly and nodded to the horizon, and coughed again.
Kipps looked dubiously69 from the house to the old gentleman and back to the house. Their conversation, he gathered, was over.
Presently he got up and went slowly across the grass to its stucco portal again. He stood, and his mouth shaped the precious word, ‘Hughenden.’ It was all right! He looked over his shoulder as if in appeal to the old gentleman, then turned and went his way. The old gentleman was so evidently past all reason!
He hung for a moment some distance along the parade, as though some invisible string was pulling him back. When he could no longer see the house from the pavement he went out into the road. Then with an effort he snapped the string.
He went on down a quiet side street, unbuttoned his coat furtively70, took out three bank-notes in an envelope, looked at them, and replaced them. Then he fished up five new sovereigns from his trouser pocket, and examined them. To such confidence had his exact resemblance to his dead mother’s portrait carried Messrs. Watson and Bean.
It was right enough. It really was all right.
He replaced the coins with grave precaution, and went his way with a sudden briskness71. It was all right — he had it now — he was a rich man at large. He went up a street and round a corner and along another street, and started towards the Pavilion, and changed his mind and came round back, resolved to go straight to the Emporium and tell them all.
He was aware of some one crossing a road far off ahead of him, some one curiously72 relevant to his present extraordinary state of mind. It was Chitterlow. Of course, it was Chitterlow who had told him first of the whole thing! The playwright73 was marching buoyantly along a cross street. His nose was in the air, the yachting cap was on the back of his head, and the large freckled74 hand grasped two novels from the library, a morning newspaper, a new hat done up in paper, and a lady’s net bag full of onions and tomatoes . . .
He passed out of sight behind the wine-merchant’s at the corner, as Kipps decided to hurry forward and tell him of the amazing change in the Order of the Universe that had just occurred.
Kipps uttered a feeble shout, arrested as it began, and waved his umbrella. Then he set off at a smart pace in pursuit. He came round the corner, and Chitterlow had gone; he hurried to the next, and there was no Chitterlow; he turned back unavailingly, and his eyes sought some other possible corner. His hand fluttered to his mouth, and he stood for a space on the pavement edge, staring about him. No good!
But the sight of Chitterlow was a wholesome75 thing, it connected events together, joined him on again to the past at a new point, and that was what he so badly needed . . .
It was all right — all right.
He became suddenly very anxious to tell everybody at the Emporium, absolutely everybody, all about it. That was what wanted doing. He felt that telling was the thing to make this business real. He gripped his umbrella about the middle, and walked very eagerly.
He entered the Emporium through the Manchester department. He flung open the door (over whose ground glass he had so recently, in infinite apprehension76, watched the nose of Chitterlow), and discovered the second apprentice and Pearce in conversation. Pearce was prodding77 his hollow tooth with a pin and talking in fragments about the distinctive78 characteristics of Good Style.
Kipps came up in front of the counter.
‘I say,’ he said. ‘What d’yer think?’
‘What?’ said Pearce over the pin.
‘Guess.’
‘You’ve slipped out because Teddy’s in London.’
‘Something more.’
‘What?’
‘Been left a fortune.’
‘Garn!’
‘I ‘ave.’
‘Get out!’
‘Straight. I been lef twelve ‘undred pounds — twelve ‘undred pounds a year!’
He moved towards the little door out of the department into the house, moving as heralds79 say, regardant passant. Pearce stood with mouth wide open and pin poised80 in air.
‘No!’ he said at last.
‘It’s right,’ said Kipps, ‘and I’m going.’
And he fell over the doormat into the house.
4
It happened that Mr. Shalford was in London buying summer sale goods, and, no doubt, also interviewing aspirants81 to succeed Kipps.
So that there was positively82 nothing to hinder a wild rush of rumour83 from end to end of the Emporium. All the masculine members began their report with the same formula. ‘Heard about Kipps?’
The new girl in the cash desk had had it from Pearce, and had dashed out into the fancy shop to be the first with the news on the fancy side. Kipps had been left a thousand pounds a year — twelve thousand pounds a year. Kipps had been left twelve hundred thousand pounds. The figures were uncertain, but the essential facts they had correct. Kipps had gone upstairs. Kipps was packing his box. He said he wouldn’t stop another day in the old Emporium not for a thousand pounds! It was said that he was singing ribaldry about old Shalford. He had come down! He was in the counting-house. There was a general movement thither84. (Poor old Buggins had a customer, and couldn’t make out what the deuce it was all about! Completely out of it, was Buggins.)
There was a sound of running to and fro, and voices saying this, that, and the other thing about Kipps. Ring-a-dinger, ring-a-dinger went the dinner-bell, all unheeded. The whole of the Emporium was suddenly bright-eyed, excited, hungry to tell somebody, to find at any cost somebody who didn’t know, and be first to tell them, ‘Kipps has been left thirty — forty — fifty thousand pounds!’
‘What!’ cried the senior porter. ‘Him!’ and ran up to the counting-house as eagerly as though Kipps had broken his neck.
‘One of our chaps just been left sixty thousand pounds,’ said the first apprentice, returning after a great absence to his customer.
‘Unexpectedly?’ said the customer. ‘Quite,’ said the first apprentice . . .
‘I’m sure if Any One deserves it, it’s Mr. Kipps,’ said Miss Mergle; and her train rustled85 as she hurried to the counting-house.
There stood Kipps amidst a pelting86 shower of congratulations. His face was flushed, and his hair disordered. He still clutched his hat and best umbrella in his left hand. His right hand was any one’s to shake rather than his own. (Ring-a-dinger, ring-a-dinger, ding, ding, ding, dang you! went the neglected dinner-bell.)
‘Good old Kipps!’ said Pearce, shaking. ‘Good old Kipps!’ Booch rubbed one anaemic hand upon the other. ‘You’re sure it’s all right, Mr. Kipps?’ he said in the background. ‘I’m sure we all congratulate him,’ said Miss Mergle. ‘Great Scott!’ said the new young lady in the glove department. ‘Twelve hundred a year! Great Scott! You aren’t thinking of marrying any one, are you, Mr. Kipps?’
‘Three pounds five and ninepence a day,’ said Mr. Booch, working in his head almost miraculously88 . . .
Every one, it seemed, was saying how glad they were it was Kipps, except the junior apprentice, upon whom — he being the only son of a widow, and used to having the best of everything as a right — an intolerable envy, a sense of unbearable89 wrong, had cast its gloomy shade. All the rest were quite honestly and simply glad — gladder, perhaps, at that time than Kipps, because they were not so overpowered . . .
Kipps went downstairs to dinner, emitting fragmentary disconnected statements. ‘Never expected anything of the sort . . . When this here old Bean told me, you could have knocked me down with a feather . . . He says, “You ben lef money.” Even then I didn’t expect it’d be mor’n a hundred pounds, perhaps. Something like that.’
With the sitting down to dinner and the handing of plates, the excitement assumed a more orderly quality. The housekeeper90 emitted congratulations as she carved, and the maidservant became dangerous to clothes with the plates — she held them anyhow; one expected to see one upside down, even — she found Kipps so fascinating to look at. Every one was the brisker and hungrier for the news (except the junior apprentice), and the housekeeper carved with unusual liberality. It was High Old Times there under the gaslight, High Old Times. ‘I’m sure if Any One deserves it,’ said Miss Mergle —‘pass the salt, please — it’s Mr. Kipps.’
The babble91 died away a little as Carshot began barking across the table at Kipps. ‘You’ll be a bit of a Swell92, Kipps,’ he said. ‘You won’t hardly know yourself.’
‘Quite the gentleman,’ said Miss Mergle.
‘Many real gentlemen’s families,’ said the housekeeper, ‘have to do with less.’
‘See you on the Leas,’ said Carshot. ‘My —!’ He met the housekeeper’s eye. She had spoken about that expression before. ‘My eye!’ he said tamely, lest words should mar23 the day.
‘You’ll go to London, I reckon,’ said Pearce. ‘You’ll be a man about town. We shall see you mashing93 ’em, with violets in your button ‘ole, down the Burlington Arcade94.’
‘One of these West End Flats. That’d be my style,’ said Pearce. ‘And a first-class club.’
‘Aren’t these Clubs a bit ‘ard to get into?’ asked Kipps, open-eyed over a mouthful of potato.
‘No fear. Not for Money,’ said Pearce. And the girl in the laces, who had acquired a cynical95 view of Modern Society from the fearless exposures of Miss Marie Corelli, said, ‘Money goes everywhere nowadays, Mr. Kipps.’
But Carshot showed the true British strain. ‘If I was Kipps,’ he said, pausing momentarily for a knifeful of gravy96, ‘I should go to the Rockies and shoot bears.’
‘I’d certainly ‘ave a run over to Boulogne,’ said Pearce, ‘and look about a bit. I’m going to do that next Easter myself, anyhow — see if I don’t.’
‘Go to Oireland, Mr. Kipps,’ came the soft insistence97 of Biddy Murphy, who managed the big workroom, flushed and shining in the Irish way as she spoke, ‘Go to Oireland. Ut’s the loveliest country in the world. Outside currs. Fishin’, shoot-in’, huntin’. An’ pretty gals98! Eh! You should see the Lakes of Killarney, Mr. Kipps!’ And she expressed ecstasy99 by a facial pantomine, and smacked100 her lips.
And presently they crowned the event. It was Pearce who said, ‘Kipps, you ought to stand Sham101!’ And it was Carshot who found the more poetical102 word ‘Champagne103.’
‘Rather!’ said Kipps, hilariously104; and the rest was a question of detail and willing emissaries. ‘Here it comes!’ they said, as the apprentice come down the staircase, ‘How about the shop?’ said some one. ‘Oh, hang the shop!’ said Carshot; and made gruntulous demands for a corkscrew with a thing to cut the wire. Pearce, the dog! had a wire-cutter in his pocket-knife. How Shalford would have stared at the gold-tipped bottles if he had chanced to take an early train! Bang went the corks105, and bang! Gluck, gluck, gluck, and sizzle!
When Kipps found them all standing106 about him under the gas flare107, saying almost solemnly ‘Kipps!’ with tumblers upheld, ‘Have it in tumblers,’ Carshot had said, ‘have it in tumblers. It isn’t a wine like you have in glasses. Not like port and sherry. It cheers you up, but you don’t get drunk. It isn’t hardly stronger than lemonade. They drink it at dinner, some of ’em, every day.’
‘What! At three and six a bottle!’ said the housekeeper, incredulously. ‘They don’t stick at that,’ said Carshot. ‘Not the champagne sort.’ The housekeeper pursed her lips and shook her head —
When Kipps, I say, found them all standing up to toast him in that manner, there came such a feeling in his throat and face that for the life of him he scarcely knew for a moment whether he was not going to cry. ‘Kipps!’ they all said, with kindly108 eyes. It was very good of them, and hard there wasn’t a stroke of luck for them all!
But the sight of upturned chins and glasses pulled him together again . . . They did him honour. Unenviously and freely they did him honour.
For example, Carshot, being subsequently engaged in serving cretonne, and desiring to push a number of rejected blocks up the counter in order to have space for measuring, swept them by a powerful and ill-calculated movement of the arm, with a noise like thunder, partly on to the floor, and partly on to the foot of the still gloomily preoccupied junior apprentice. And Buggins, whose place it was to shopwalk while Carshot served, shopwalked with quite unparalleled dignity, dangling109 a new season’s sunshade with a crooked110 handle on one finger. He arrested each customer who came down the shop with a grave and penetrating111 look. ‘Showing very tractive line new sheason’ sunshade,’ he would remark; and after a suitable pause, ‘Markable thing, one our ‘sistant leg’sy twelve ‘undred a year. Very tractive. Nothing more today, mum? No!’ And he would then go and hold the door open for them with perfect decorum, and with the sunshade dangling elegantly from his left hand . . .
And the second apprentice, serving a customer with cheap ticking, and being asked suddenly if it was strong, answered remarkably112,
‘Oo, no, mum! Strong! Why, it ain’t ‘ardly stronger than lemonade’ . . .
The head porter, moreover, was filled with a virtuous113 resolve to break the record as a lightning packer, and make up for lost time. Mr. Swaffenham of the Sandgate Riviera, for example, who was going to dinner that night at seven, received at half-past six, instead of the urgently needed dress shirt he expected, a corset specially114 adapted to the needs of persons inclined to embonpoint. A parcel of summer underclothing selected by the elder Miss Waldershawe was somehow distributed in the form of gratis115 additions throughout a number of parcels of a less intimate nature, and a box of millinery on approval to Lady Pamshort (at Wampachs) was enriched by the addition of the junior porter’s cap . . .
These little things, slight in themselves, witness, perhaps none the less eloquently116 to the unselfish exhilaration felt throughout the Emporium at the extraordinary and unexpected enrichment of Mr. Kipps.
5
The bus that plies117 between New Romney and Folkestone is painted a British red, and inscribed118 on either side with the word Tip-top’ in gold amidst voluptuous119 scrolls120. It is a slow and portly bus; even as a young bus it must have been slow and portly. Below it swings a sort of hold, hung by chains between the wheels and in the summer time the top has garden seats. The front over those two dauntless, unhurrying horses rises in tiers like a theatre; there is first a seat for the driver and his company, and above that a seat, and above that, unless my memory plays me false, a seat. You sit in a sort of composition by some Italian painter — a celestial121 group of you. There are days when it doesn’t go — you have to find out. And so you get to New Romney. So you will continue to get to New Romney for many years, for the light railway concession122 along the coast is happily in the South Eastern Railway Company’s keeping, and the peace of the marsh123 is kept inviolate124 save for the bicycle bells of such as Kipps and I. This bus it was, this ruddy, venerable and, under God’s mercy, immortal125 bus, that came down the Folkestone hill with unflinching deliberation, and trundled through Sandgate and Hythe, and out into the windy spaces of the Marsh, with Kipps and all his fortunes on its brow.
You figure him there. He sat on the highest seat diametrically above the driver, and his head was spinning and spinning with champagne and this stupendous Tomfoolery of Luck; and his heart was swelling126, swelling indeed at times as though it would burst him, and his face toward the sunlight was transfigured. He said never a word, but ever and again as he thought of this or that, he laughed. He seemed full of chuckles127 for a time, detached and independent chuckles, chuckles that rose and burst on him like bubbles in a wine . . . He held a banjo sceptre-fashion and resting on his knee. He had always wanted a banjo, now he had got one at Melchior’s, while he was waiting for the bus.
There sat beside him a young servant, who was sucking peppermint128, and a little boy with a sniff129 whose flitting eyes showed him curious to know why ever and again Kipps laughed, and beside the driver were two young men in gaiters talking about ‘tegs.’ And there sat Kipps, all unsuspected, twelve hundred a year as it were, except for the protrusion130 of the banjo, disguised as a common young man, and the young man in gaiters, to the left of the driver, eyed Kipps and his banjo, and especially his banjo, ever and again, as if he found it and him, with his rapt face, an insoluble enigma131. And many a King has ridden into a conquered city with a lesser132 sense of splendour than Kipps.
Their shadows grew long behind them, and their faces were transfigured in gold as they rumbled133 on towards the splendid west. The sun set before they had passed Dymchurch, and as they came lumbering134 into New Romney past the windmill the dusk had come.
The driver handed down the banjo and the portmanteau, and Kipps having paid him, ‘That’s aw right,’ he said to the change as a gentleman should, turned about, and ran the portmanteau smartly into old Kipps, whom the sound of the stopping of the bus had brought to the door of the shop in an aggressive mood and with his mouth full of supper.
‘‘Ullo, Uncle, didn’t see you,’ said Kipps.
‘Blunderin’ ninny,’ said old Kipps. ‘What’s brought you here? Ain’t early closing, is it? Not Toosday?’
‘Got some news for you, Uncle,’ said Kipps, dropping the portmanteau.
‘Ain’t lost your situation, ‘ave you? What’s that you got there? I’m blowed if it ain’t a banjo, Goolord! Spendin’ your money on banjoes! Don’t put down your portmanty there — anyhow. Right in the way of everybody. I’m blowed if ever I saw such a boy as you’ve got lately. Here! Molly! And look here! What you got a portmanty for? Why! Goolord! You ain’t really lost your place, ‘ave you?’
‘Somethin’s happened,’ said Kipps, slightly dashed. ‘It’s all right, Uncle. I’ll tell you in a minute.’ Old Kipps took the banjo as his nephew picked up the portmanteau again.
The living-room door opened quickly, showing a table equipped with elaborate simplicity135 for supper, and Mrs. Kipps appeared.
‘If it ain’t young Artie!’ she said. ‘Why, whatever’s brought you ‘ome?’
‘‘Ullo, Aunt,’ said Artie. ‘I’m coming in. I got somethin’ to tell you. I’ve ‘ad a bit of luck.’
He wouldn’t tell them all at once. He staggered with the portmanteau round the corner of the counter, set a bundle of children’s tin pails into clattering136 oscillation, and entered the little room. He deposited his luggage in the corner beside the tall clock, and turned to his aunt and uncle again. His aunt regarded him doubtfully; the yellow light from the little lamp on the table escaped above the shade, and lit her forehand and the tip of her nose. It would be all right in a minute. He wouldn’t tell them all at once. Old Kipps stood in the shop door with the banjo in his hand, breathing nosily137. ‘The fact is, Aunt, I’ve ‘ad a bit of luck.’
‘You ain’t been backin’ gordless ‘orses, Artie?’ she asked. ‘No fear.’
‘It’s a draw he’s been in,’ said old Kipps, still panting from the impact of the portmanteau, ‘it’s a dratted draw. Jest look here, Molly. He’s won this ’ere trashy banjer and throwd up his situation on the strength of it — that’s what he’s done. Goin’ about singing. Dash and plunge138. Jest the very fault poor Pheamy always ‘ad. Blunder right in, and no one mustn’t stop ‘er!’
‘You ain’t thrown up your place, Artie, ‘ave you?’ said Mrs. Kipps. Kipps perceived his opportunity. ‘I ‘ave,’ he said. ‘I’ve throwed it up.’
‘What for?’ said old Kipps.
‘So’s to learn the banjo!’
‘Goo Lord!’ said old Kipps, in horror to find himself verified. ‘I’m going about playing,’ said Kipps, with a giggle139.
‘Goin’ to black my face, Aunt, and sing on the beach. I’m going to ‘ave a most tremenjous lark140 and earn any amount of money — you see. Twenty-six fousand pounds I’m going to earn just as easy as nothing!’
‘Kipps,’ said Mrs. Kipps, ‘he’s been drinking!’
They regarded their nephew across the supper table with long faces. Kipps exploded with laughter, and broke out again when his aunt shook her head very sadly at him. Then suddenly he fell grave. He felt he could keep it up no longer. ‘It’s all right, Aunt. Reely, I ain’t mad, and I ain’t been drinking. I been lef money. I been left twenty-six fousand pounds.’
Pause.
‘And you thrown up your place?’ said old Kipps.
‘Yes,’ said Kipps, ‘rather!’
‘And bort this banjer, put on your best noo trousers, and come right on ’ere?’
‘Well,’ said Mrs. Kipps, ‘I— never — did!’
‘These ain’t my noo trousers, Aunt,’ said Kipps, regretfully. ‘My noo trousers wasn’t done.’
‘I shouldn’t ha’ thought that even you could ha’ been such a fool as that,’ said old Kipps.
Pause.
‘It’s all right,’ said Kipps, a little disconcerted by their distrustful solemnity. ‘It’s all right, reely! Twenny-six thousan’ pounds. And a ’ouse.’
Old Kipps pursed his lips and shook his head.
‘A ’ouse on the Leas. I could have gone there. Only I didn’t. I didn’t care to. I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to come and tell you.’
‘How d’yer know the ’ouse —?’
‘They told me.’
‘Well,’ said old Kipps, and nodded his head portentously towards his nephew, with the corners of his mouth pulled down in a strikingly discouraging way. ‘Well, you are a young Gaby.’
‘I didn’t think it of you, Artie!’ said Mrs. Kipps.
‘Wadjer mean?’ asked Kipps, faintly, looking from one to the other with a withered141 face.
Old Kipps closed the shop door. ‘They been ‘avin’ a lark with you,’ said old Kipps, in a mournful undertone. ‘That’s what I mean, my boy. They jest been seein’ what a Gaby like you ‘ud do.’
‘I dessay that young Quodling was in it,’ said Mrs. Kipps. ‘‘E’s jest that sort.’
(For Quodling of the green-baize bag had grown up to be a fearful dog, the terror of New Romney.) ‘It’s somebody after your place, very likely,’ said old Kipps.
Kipps looked from one sceptical reproving face to the other, and round him at the familiar shabby little room, with his familiar cheap portmanteau on the mended chair, and that banjo amidst the supper-things, like some irrevocable deed. Could he be rich indeed? Could it be that these things had really happened? Or had some insane fancy whirled him thither?
Still — perhaps a hundred pounds —
‘But,’ he said. ‘It’s all right, reely, Uncle. You don’t think —? I ‘ad a letter.’
‘Got up,’ said old Kipps.
‘But I answered it and went to a norfis.’
Old Kipps felt staggered for a moment, but he shook his head and chins sagely142 from side to side. As the memory of old Bean and Shalford’s revived, the confidence of Kipps came back to him.
‘I saw a nold gent, Uncle — perfect gentleman. And ‘e told me all about it. Mos’ respectable ‘e was. Said ‘is name was Watson and Bean — leastways ‘e was Bean. Said it was lef me.’
— Kipps suddenly dived into his breast pocket —‘by my Grandfather —’
The old people started.
Old Kipps uttered an exclamation143 and wheeled round towards the mantelshelf, above which the daguerreotype144 of his lost younger sister smiled its fading smile upon the world.
‘Waddy, ‘is name was,’ said Kipps, with his hand still deep in his pocket. ‘It was ‘is son was my father —’
‘Waddy!’ said old Kipps.
‘Waddy!’ said Mrs. Kipps.
‘She’d never say,’ said old Kipps.
There was a long silence.
Kipps fumbled145 with a letter, a crumpled advertisement and three banknotes. He hesitated between these items.
‘Why! That young chap what was arsting questions —’ said old Kipps, and regarded his wife with an eye of amazement146.
‘Must ‘ave been,’ said Mrs. Kipps.
‘Must ‘ave been,’ said old Kipps.
‘James,’ said Mrs. Kipps, in an awe-stricken voice. ‘After all — perhaps — it’s true!’
‘‘Ow much did you say?’ asked old Kipps. ‘‘Ow much did you say ‘e’d lef you, me b’y?’
It was thrilling, though not quite in the way Kipps had expected. He answered almost meekly147 across the meagre supper-things, with his documentary evidence in his hand,—
‘Twelve ‘undred pounds.’ Proximately, he said. Twelve ‘undred pounds a year. ‘E made ‘is will jest before ‘e died — not mor’n a month ago. When ‘e was dying, ‘e seemed to change like, Mr. Bean said. ‘E’d never forgiven ‘is son, never — not till then. ‘Is son ‘ad died in Australia, years and years ago, and then ‘e ‘adn’t forgiven ’im. You know —‘is son what was my father. But jest when ‘e was ill and dying ‘e seemed to get worried like, and longing148 for some one of ‘is own. And ‘e told Mr. Bean it was ’im that had prevented them marrying. So ‘e thought. That’s ‘ow it all come about . . . ’
6
At last Kipps’ flaring149 candle went up the narrow, uncarpeted staircase to the little attic150 that had been his shelter and refuge during all the days of his childhood and youth. His head was whirling. He had been advised, he had been warned, he had been flattered and congratulated, he had been given whisky and hot water and lemon and sugar; and his health had been drunk in the same. He had also eaten two Welsh rarebits — an unusual supper. His uncle was chiefly for his going into Parliament, his aunt was consumed with a great anxiety. ‘I’m afraid he’ll go and marry beneath him.’
‘Y’ought to ‘ave a bit o’ shootin’ somewhere,’ said old Kipps.
‘It’s your duty to marry into a county family, Artie — remember that.’
There’s lots of young noblemen’ll be glad to ‘eng on to you,’ said old Kipps. ‘You mark my words. And borrow your money. And then good-day to ye.’
‘I got to be precious careful,’ said Kipps. ‘Mr. Bean said that.’
‘And you got to be precious careful of this old Bean,’ said old Kipps. ‘We may be out of the world in Noo Romney, but I’ve ‘eard a bit about solicitors151 for all that. You keep your eye on old Bean, me b’y.’
‘‘Ow do we know what ‘e’s up to, with your money, even now?’ said old Kipps, pursuing his uncomfortable topic.
‘‘E looked very respectable,’ said Kipps.
Kipps undressed with great deliberation and with vast gasps152 of pensive153 margin154. Twenty-six thousand pounds!
His aunt’s solicitude155 had brought back certain matters into the foreground that his ‘Twelve ‘undred a year!’ had for a time driven away altogether. His thoughts went back to the wood-carving class. Twelve Hundred a Year. He sat on the edge of the bed in profound meditation156, and his boots fell ‘whop’ and ‘whop’ upon the floor, with a long interval between each ‘whop.’ Twenty-six thousand pounds. ‘By Gum!’ He dropped the remainder of his costume about him on the floor, got into bed, pulled the patchwork157 quilt over him, and put his head on the pillow that had been first to hear of Ann Pornick’s accession to his heart. But he did not think of Ann Pornick now.
It was about everything in the world except Ann Pornick that he seemed to be trying to think of — simultaneously158. All the vivid happenings of the day came and went in his overtaxed brain —‘that old Bean’ explaining and explaining, the fat man who wouldn’t believe, an overpowering smell of peppermint, the banjo, Miss Mergle saying he deserved it, Chitterlow vanishing round a corner, the wisdom and advice and warnings of his aunt and uncle. She was afraid he would marry beneath him, was she? She didn’t know . . .
His brain made an excursion into the woodcarving class and presented Kipps with the picture of himself amazing that class by a modest yet clearly audible remark, ‘I been left twenty-six thousand pounds.’ Then he told them all quietly but firmly that he had always loved Miss Walshingham — always, and so he had brought all his twenty-six thousand pounds with him to give to her there and then. He wanted nothing in return . . . Yes, he wanted nothing in return. He would give it to her all in an envelope and go. Of course he would keep the banjo — and a little present for his aunt and uncle — and a new suit perhaps — and one or two other things she would not miss. He went off at a tangent. He might buy a motor-car, he might buy one of these here things that will play you a piano — that would make old Buggins sit up! He could pretend he had learnt to play — he might buy a bicycle and a cyclist suit . . .
A terrific multitude of plans of what he might do, and in particular of what he might buy, came crowding into his brain, and he did not so much fall asleep as pass into a disorder87 of dreams in which he was driving a four-horse Tip–Top coach down Sandgate Hill (‘I shall have to be precious careful’), wearing innumerable suits of clothes, and through some terrible accident wearing them all wrong. Consequently, he was being laughed at. The coach vanished in the interest of the costume. He was wearing golfing suits and a silk hat. This passed into a nightmare that he was promenading159 on the Leas in a Highland160 costume, with a kilt that kept shrinking, and Shalford was following him with three policemen. ‘He’s my assistant,’ Shalford kept repeating; ‘he’s escaped. He’s an escaped Improver. Keep by him, and in a minute you’ll have to run him in. I know ’em. We say they wash but they won’t’ . . . He could feel the kilt creeping up his legs. He would have tugged161 at it to pull it down, only his arms were paralysed. He had an impression of giddy crises. He uttered a shriek162 of despair. ‘Now!’ said Shalford. He woke in horror, his quilt had slipped off the bed.
He had a fancy he had just been called, that he had somehow overslept himself and missed going down for dusting. Then he perceived it was still night, and light by reason of the moonlight, and that he was no longer in the Emporium. He wondered where he could be. He had a curious fancy that the world had been swept and rolled up like a carpet, and that he was nowhere. It occurred to him that perhaps he was mad. ‘Buggins!’ he said. There was no answer, not even the defensive163 snore. No room, no Buggins, nothing!
Then he remembered better. He sat on the edge of his bed for some time. Could any one have seen his face, they would have seen it white, and drawn164, with staring eyes. Then he groaned165 weakly. ‘Twenty-six thousand pounds!’ he whispered.
Just then it presented itself in an almost horribly overwhelming mass.
He remade his bed and returned to it. He was still dreadfully wakeful. It was suddenly clear to him that he need never trouble to get up punctually at seven again. That fact shone out upon him like a star through clouds. He was free to lie in bed as long as he liked, get up when he liked, go where he liked; have eggs every morning for breakfast, or rashers, or bloater-paste, or . . . Also he was going to astonish Miss Walshingham . . .
Astonish her and astonish her . . .
He was awakened166 by a thrush singing in the fresh dawn. The whole room was flooded with warm, golden sunshine. ‘I say!’ said the thrush. ‘I say! I say! Twelve ‘Undred a Year! Twelve ‘UNDRED a Year! I say! I say! I say!’
He sat up in bed and rubbed the sleep from his eyes with his knuckles167. Then he jumped out of bed and began dressing22 very eagerly. He did not want to lose any time in beginning the new life.
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1
disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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3
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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4
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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5
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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6
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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7
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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8
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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9
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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10
texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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11
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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12
warehouse
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| n.仓库；vt.存入仓库 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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proboscis
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| n.（象的）长鼻 | |
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twine
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| v.搓，织，编饰；（使）缠绕 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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mar
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| vt.破坏，毁坏，弄糟 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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mascot
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| n.福神，吉祥的东西 | |
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gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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apprentice
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| n.学徒，徒弟 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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zephyrs
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| n.和风，微风( zephyr的名词复数 ) | |
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unpacked
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| v.从（包裹等）中取出（所装的东西），打开行李取出( unpack的过去式和过去分词 )；拆包；解除…的负担；吐露（心事等） | |
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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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portentously
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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aristocrat
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| n.贵族，有贵族气派的人，上层人物 | |
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40
prematurely
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| adv.过早地，贸然地 | |
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41
reticent
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| adj.沉默寡言的；言不如意的 | |
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42
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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43
detrimental
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| adj.损害的，造成伤害的 | |
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44
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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45
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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46
abeyance
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| n.搁置，缓办，中止，产权未定 | |
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47
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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48
fabrics
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| 织物( fabric的名词复数 )； 布； 构造； （建筑物的）结构（如墙、地面、屋顶）：质地 | |
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49
delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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50
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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51
rotation
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| n.旋转；循环，轮流 | |
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52
legacies
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| n.遗产( legacy的名词复数 )；遗留之物；遗留问题；后遗症 | |
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53
tricky
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| adj.狡猾的，奸诈的；(工作等)棘手的，微妙的 | |
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54
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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55
abating
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| 减少( abate的现在分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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56
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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57
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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58
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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59
gilding
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| n.贴金箔，镀金 | |
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60
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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61
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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62
scowled
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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65
protuberant
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| adj.突出的，隆起的 | |
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66
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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67
apoplectic
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| adj.中风的；愤怒的；n.中风患者 | |
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68
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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69
dubiously
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| adv.可疑地，怀疑地 | |
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70
furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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71
briskness
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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72
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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73
playwright
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| n.剧作家，编写剧本的人 | |
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74
freckled
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| adj.雀斑；斑点；晒斑；（使）生雀斑v.雀斑，斑点( freckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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75
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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76
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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77
prodding
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| v.刺，戳( prod的现在分词 )；刺激；促使；（用手指或尖物）戳 | |
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78
distinctive
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| adj.特别的，有特色的，与众不同的 | |
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79
heralds
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| n.使者( herald的名词复数 )；预报者；预兆；传令官v.预示( herald的第三人称单数 )；宣布（好或重要） | |
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80
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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81
aspirants
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| n.有志向或渴望获得…的人( aspirant的名词复数 )v.渴望的，有抱负的，追求名誉或地位的( aspirant的第三人称单数 )；有志向或渴望获得…的人 | |
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82
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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83
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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84
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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85
rustled
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| v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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86
pelting
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| 微不足道的，无价值的，盛怒的 | |
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87
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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88
miraculously
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| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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89
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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90
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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91
babble
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| v.含糊不清地说，胡言乱语地说，儿语 | |
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92
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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93
mashing
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| 捣碎 | |
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94
arcade
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| n.拱廊；(一侧或两侧有商店的)通道 | |
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95
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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96
gravy
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| n.肉汁；轻易得来的钱，外快 | |
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97
insistence
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| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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98
gals
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| abbr.gallons （复数）加仑（液量单位）n.女孩，少女( gal的名词复数 ) | |
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99
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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100
smacked
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| 拍，打，掴( smack的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101
sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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102
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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103
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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104
hilariously
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105
corks
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| n.脐梅衣；软木( cork的名词复数 )；软木塞 | |
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106
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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107
flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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108
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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109
dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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110
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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111
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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112
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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113
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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114
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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115
gratis
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| adj.免费的 | |
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116
eloquently
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| adv. 雄辩地(有口才地, 富于表情地) | |
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117
plies
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的第三人称单数 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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118
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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119
voluptuous
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| adj.肉欲的，骄奢淫逸的 | |
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120
scrolls
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| n.（常用于录写正式文件的）纸卷( scroll的名词复数 )；卷轴；涡卷形（装饰）；卷形花纹v.（电脑屏幕上）从上到下移动（资料等），卷页( scroll的第三人称单数 )；（似卷轴般）卷起；（像展开卷轴般地）将文字显示于屏幕 | |
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121
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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122
concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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123
marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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124
inviolate
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| adj.未亵渎的，未受侵犯的 | |
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125
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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126
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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127
chuckles
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的名词复数 ) | |
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128
peppermint
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| n.薄荷，薄荷油，薄荷糖 | |
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129
sniff
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| vi.嗅…味道；抽鼻涕；对嗤之以鼻，蔑视 | |
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130
protrusion
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| n.伸出，突出 | |
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131
enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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132
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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133
rumbled
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| 发出隆隆声，发出辘辘声( rumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 轰鸣着缓慢行进； 发现…的真相； 看穿（阴谋） | |
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134
lumbering
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| n.采伐林木 | |
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135
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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136
clattering
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的现在分词形式） | |
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137
nosily
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| 好打听地，爱管闲事地 | |
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138
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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139
giggle
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| n.痴笑，咯咯地笑；v.咯咯地笑着说 | |
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140
lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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141
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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142
sagely
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| adv. 贤能地，贤明地 | |
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143
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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144
daguerreotype
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| n.银板照相 | |
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145
fumbled
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| （笨拙地）摸索或处理（某事物）( fumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 乱摸，笨拙地弄； 使落下 | |
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146
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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147
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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148
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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149
flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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150
attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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151
solicitors
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| 初级律师( solicitor的名词复数 ) | |
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152
gasps
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| v.喘气( gasp的第三人称单数 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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153
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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154
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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155
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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156
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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157
patchwork
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| n.混杂物；拼缝物 | |
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158
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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159
promenading
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| v.兜风( promenade的现在分词 ) | |
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160
highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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161
tugged
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| v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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162
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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163
defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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164
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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165
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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166
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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167
knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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