Only a quarter of an hour before he was to come on to the platform Karl was with him in the artist’s room, trying to occupy his mind in talk, but watching him with ever-increasing nervousness, as he walked up and down like a caged animal between door and window. Once Martin took out a cigarette, bit the end off as if it were a cigar, and threw it away. Then he asked a question, paid not the slightest attention to the answer, and finally sat down on the edge of the table. His face was flushed, his eyes very bright; had not it been that Karl knew how excited he was, he would have thought he was ill.
“I shall break down,” he said. “Look at my hands; look how they tremble. I can’t keep them still. I could no more play a series of octaves than I could fly. It would be like the ‘Tremolo’ stop on Chartries organ.”
“My dear boy, I have told you that that does not matter in the slightest degree,” said Karl. “The moment you touch the notes that will cease absolutely. Why, even now my hands always tremble before I begin!”
Martin apparently11 was not listening.
“And I have not the remotest notion how the ‘études Symphoniques’ begin,” he said.
Karl tried to laugh, but he was not very successful. As a matter of fact he was quite as nervous as Martin.
“That’s a great pity,” he said, “as you open with it. I don’t know either.”
But Martin did not smile.{318}
“What will you do if I break down?” he said; “if I can’t begin? It is more than possible.”
“I shall hiss12; I shall boo; I shall demand the return of my money,” said he.
But Martin still remained perfectly13 grave.
“Ah, don’t,” he said; “the others may boo if they like, and I shan’t mind—much. But I couldn’t stand it if you did.”
“Did you drink a good, stiff glass of whiskey-and-soda for lunch, as I told you to?” demanded Karl.
“I tried to, but I should have been dead drunk if I had gone on. So what will you do if I break down?” he asked again. “You told me, but I have forgotten.”
Karl rose from his chair.
“I shall break my heart, Martin,” he said.
Then he spoke14 to him quickly, peremptorily16, seeing he was really on the verge17 of hysterics.
“We’ve had quite enough of this nonsense, my dear boy,” he said. “If you give me any more of it, I shall lose my temper with you. You are not going to break down, I forbid you, and you are to do as I tell you. You are going to play your very best,—better than you have ever played before. Now I must get to my place. Give them five minutes law before you appear, and as soon as I see the top of your black head coming up the stairs I shall have all the doors closed till the end of the études. We’ll have no interruptions; they are frightfully distracting. You know where I shall be sitting, don’t you? Bow twice, right and left, walk straight to the piano, and begin instantly, without playing any fluffy18 arpeggios. It is going to be a great day for you. And for me.”
Martin looked despairingly round.{319}
“Don’t leave me, don’t leave me,” he said. “Can’t you sit by me?”
“And hold your hand? Ah, this is altogether childish!”
For the first time the shadow of a smile crossed Martin’s face.
“I know it is,” he said. “I can just, just see that. I think I had better try to be a little man for a change.”
The hall was crammed19 to overflowing20, as if some pianist of world-wide fame was to make his appearance, and not a young man who had never performed in public before. Several causes had contributed to this, the first and most important being that Mr. Martin Challoner was actually a pupil of Karl Rusoff’s, who for years had never consented to teach. Furthermore, Karl Rusoff had the very highest opinion of him,—exaggeratedly high perhaps, since he was his pupil,—and had not only allowed, but wished him to give a concert. Surely, then, he would run no risks; Martin Challoner must have some merit. In addition, no English pianist of more than mediocre21 powers had appeared for years, and patriotism22 called. Finally, for the last fortnight Lady Sunningdale had worn her coachman to a shadow and her horses to skin and bones, so incessantly23 and unintermittently had she driven about, first of all to the houses of her intimates, then of her ordinary friends, and lastly of the merest acquaintances, practically insisting that they should all appear. Karl Rusoff had done what he could to discourage this, but his efforts were totally void of effect, for Lady Sunningdale had told him that it was her “duty” to do her best for Martin. She seldom used{320} the word “duty,” but when she did, it might be defined as anything she was irrevocably determined24 to do, from which no argument could move her.
So for the first time Martin found himself in that unspeakable position of being alone on the shore of a sea of faces, the owners of which had paid money in anticipation25 of the pleasure he had undertaken to provide for them. Opposite him, a few yards off only, but looking misty26 and unreal, was the Steinway Grand, and he found himself wondering what on earth it was for. When he remembered, he felt towards it as a condemned27 man may feel when he sees the execution shed, at a few minutes before eight. Then he bowed in answer to a very fair reception, and walked straight to the piano. He glanced at his programme, and saw he had to begin with Schumann’s “études Symphoniques.” He sat down, waited a moment for silence, and began.
He played one bar only and then stopped. He had not the very faintest idea of how it went on, and in a sort of mild despair—he felt as if his powers of feeling were packed in cotton wool—looked down to where Karl was sitting in the third row. Those great grey eyes were fixed28 on him with an expression of supreme29 appeal; he could see the master’s hands clutching convulsively at the back of the seat in front of him. And at that sight, at the sight of the agony Karl was in, Martin was able for one moment to forget himself and all the bewildering crowd of faces. So, fighting against the paralysis30 that was on him, no longer for his own sake, but for Karl’s, he again turned to the piano.
But still he could think of nothing, nothing; he{321} could not even remember the first bar that he had played just now, and he bit his lip with his teeth till the blood came, saying to himself, “It will break his heart; it will break his heart.” The numb31, dulled sense was gone, in that half-minute he endured an agony of years.
Then, quite suddenly, like the passage of the sun from behind some black cloud, all came back to him, and he sat still a moment longer, in sheer happiness. At the concentrated thought of what Karl was suffering, his nervousness, his paralysis of mind went entirely from him, and with complete certainty, with the assured knowledge, too, that he was going to play his very best, he began again.
At the end of the slow Thema he paused, looked up at Karl and smiled nearly to laughing-point at him, pushed back the plume32 of hair that drooped33 over his forehead, and—played. And at that smile and at the gesture that was frequent with him, Karl gave one immense sigh of relief that Martin could hear. But now it meant nothing to him: he was busy.
Martin’s face, during those few horrible moments, had grown absolutely colourless, so that Karl had thought, and almost wished—for so the public shame would be lessened34 and people would be compassionate—that he was going to faint. For when for the second time Martin had turned to the piano and still could not begin, he believed for that moment that the boy could not pull himself together; that unless he fainted he would simply have to walk off the platform again. But now the colour came back, slowly at first, then, with sudden flushes, the dead apathy35 of his face changed, and began to live again. Soon his mouth{322} parted slightly, as if wondering at the magic of the music which blossomed like roses underneath36 his flying fingers. Once or twice between the variations he brushed back his hair again; once he looked up at Karl, with the brilliant glance his master knew and loved, asking with his eyes, “Will that do? Will that do for you?” before he went on interpreting to the breathless crowd the noble joy which must have filled the composer as he wrote. Full of artistic37 triumph as Karl’s life had been, never before had it mounted and soared so high as now, when not he, but his pupil, held the hall enchained.
And in that moment his own ambitions, which he had so splendidly realised for so long, dropped dead. He and Martin, he knew now, were master and pupil no longer; it was the master’s turn—and with what solemn joy he did it—to sit and learn, to hear—and he longed for a myriad38 ears—what was possible, for even Martin had never played like that before. Even admiration39 was dead; there was no room for anything except listening. Admiration, wonder, delight, laughter of joy might come when the last note had sounded, but at present to listen was enough.
Martin held the last chord long. Then he took both hands off, as if the keys were hot, and rose, facing the hall. For him, too, just then, personal ambition was dead; he had played, as David played before Saul, in order to drive from his master’s face the demon40 of agony that he had seen there. And he looked not at Stella, not at Lady Sunningdale, not at Frank and Helen, nor did his eyes wander over the crowded rows, but straight at Karl, while the hall grew louder and louder, till the air was thick with sound, still asking{323} him, “Did I play it well?” And when Karl nodded to him, he was content, and bowed in front of him and to right and left, thinking “How kind they all are!” He caught Stella’s eye and smiled, Frank’s, Helen’s, Lady Sunningdale’s. Then he sat down at the piano again.
But it was quite impossible to begin, and for his own amusement (for now, it must be confessed, he was enjoying himself quite enormously), he struck an octave rather sharply and heard not the faintest vibration41 from the strings42 above the uproar43. So he rose again, bowed again, and still bowed, and bowed still, till he felt like a Chinese mandarin44, and knew everybody must think so, too. Then he sat down and waited till the phlegmatic45 English public had said “thank you” enough.
A ten minutes’ interval46 had been put down on the programme, and tea was waiting for him in the room below. But he forgot all about it, and went straight through. The recital was carefully chosen not to be too long, and in the ordinary course of events the audience would have been streaming out into the street again after an hour and a half. But they refused to stream; Martin gave one encore, and after a pause a second, but he was still wildly recalled. Once before in the summer he and Helen had sent “London” mad about them; this afternoon he did it alone. And, at last, in a despair that was wholly delightful47, as the hush48 fell on the house again, when he sat down for the fourth time, he played “God save the King” solemnly through, and his audience laughed and departed.
Lady Sunningdale found that she had burst her left-hand{324} glove and lost her right-foot shoe when she came to take stock of what had happened, as Martin finally retired49 after “God save the King.” Karl was sitting next her.
“Don’t speak to me, anybody,” she said, “because there is nothing whatever to say. That is Martin. I knew it all along. Yes, a shoe, so tiresome50, I don’t know how it happens. Thank you, Monsieur Rusoff. Stella dear, we start from Victoria to-morrow morning, not Charing51 Cross. What did I tell you when we talked last? Do you not see? That is Martin. If any one speaks to me, I shall slap him in the face and burst into floods of tears. I should like to see that darling for one moment, just to tell him that he has not been altogether a failure. Which is the way? I suppose he is drinking porter now, is he not? or is it only singers who do that? Eight o’clock, Stella. Quarter to eight, Frank, because you are always late. Dearest Helen, how is the Bear? Yet Martin has only got eight fingers and two thumbs like the rest of us. And was it not too thrilling at the beginning? I knew exactly how he felt. It was pure toss-up for just one moment whether he would be able to play at all or send us empty away like the “Magnificat.” Through this door, isn’t it?”
Karl Rusoff showed her the way through the short passage into the room where two hours ago he had sat with Martin on the verge of hysterics. But now a great shout of boyish laughter hailed them, and Martin went up to Karl, both hands outstretched.
“Ah, it was you who pulled me through,” he said. “I couldn’t have begun otherwise. But it hurt you so dreadfully. I—I felt it hurt you. And shall{325} I ever play like that again? I never played like it before!”
Karl looked at him a moment without speaking. Then he raised the boy’s hands to his lips and kissed them.
“I mean that,” he said. “Ah, Martin, how I mean that!”
Martin stood quite still. Had such a thing ever suggested itself as possible to him he would have felt ready to sink into the earth with sheer embarrassment52. But now, when the unimagined, the impossible had happened, he felt no embarrassment at all.
“You did it all,” he said, simply. “Thank you a hundred thousand times.”
Then the pendulum53 swung back again, and he was a boy himself, and boyishly delighted with success.
“Oh, I enjoyed it all so,” he said. “After that first terrible minute, I just revelled54 in it. Can’t I give another concert this evening?”
Here Lady Sunningdale broke in,—
“You not only can, but you must, after dinner,” she said. “Martin, you played really nicely to-day. I am going to begin to practise to-morrow morning. Scales. No, not to-morrow morning, because I shall be otherwise engaged on the English Channel. Why can’t they run a large steam-roller over the sea between Dover and Calais? Nobody can tell me. However, I’m told it is rather healthy than otherwise. My dear, red velvet55 sofas, tin basins, Stella, and I. Also Suez Canal. Sahara is not yet in a fit state. It is too terrible. Eight o’clock to-night, Martin. And I shall never forgive you for this afternoon. You gave me the worst five minutes I ever had.”{326}
“I tried to make up for it,” said he.
Lady Sunningdale turned quickly back in the doorway56.
“I adored you,” she said. “And next time I shall wear large eights. Perhaps they will not burst quite so soon.”
Martin turned a thirsty eye on Karl when she had gone.
“And can I have my whiskey-and-soda now?” he asked. “I want it frightfully.”
Then quite suddenly his face changed, as if a lamp had been put out. He looked tired, worn out.
“And I have such a headache,” he said. “I think I have had it two days, but was too excited to think about it. It went away altogether when I was playing. But it has come back in force!”
Karl rang the bell.
“Yes; you want a good rest,” he said; “you are tired without knowing it; you have been living on your nerves the last day or two. But anything worth doing is worth being tired over. Dear boy, I hope your headache is not really bad. Anyhow, you have done the thing worth doing. Don’t go out to-night. Go back home, and go to bed early.”
Martin shook his head, smiling.
“Ah, I won’t give up an hour of to-day for fifty headaches,” he said. “Besides, Stella and Lady Sunningdale leave to-morrow. My father was not at the concert, I suppose?”
“No; not that I know of.”
“I sent him a ticket, although I thought he would not come. He does not even approve of my wasting my time at the piano,” he added, with an irritability57 to{327} which this horrible stabbing pain in his head contributed.
He drank his whiskey-and-soda with feverish58 thirst.
“And I had better have left that unsaid,” he remarked. “Now I shall go home, I think, and sleep off my headache before dinner. But I must just look at the platform once more.”
He ran up the steps, and looked round the empty hall. The lights were being extinguished, and gangway carpets being rolled up. The Steinway Grand still stood there, and he felt somehow as if he were saying good-bye to it.
“Well, that is done,” he said to himself.
Lady Sunningdale and Stella left London for the Riviera next morning, and later in the day Martin went down to his uncle’s at Chartries, and Helen back home to the vicarage. The reaction from the excitement of the last few days had left him, naturally enough, rather indolent and tired, and also, naturally enough, rather irritable59 and disposed—not to put too fine a point on it—to be cross. He found the railway carriage insufferably hot, and pulled down a window; that, however, made it draughty, and he changed his seat, and sat with his back to the engine. This was no good, because for some unexplained reason it made him feel ill, and changing back once more, he fell into a heavy sleep that lasted till they got to their station. Even then the stopping of the train did not arouse him, and Helen had to shake and poke15 him into consciousness, for which kind office she got growled60 at.
But he had come to Chartries with the definite object{328} of seeing his father, and while Helen’s luggage was being put into the pony-cart from the vicarage the two talked this over.
“It’s no use putting it off,” he said, “so will you tell father that unless I hear from him to stop me, I will come over to-morrow afternoon to see him. And I hope,” he added, with his usual candour, “that my temper will be a little improved by then. Lord, how cross I feel! And this time yesterday I was in the middle of it all.”
Helen looked at him a moment rather anxiously.
“You’re all right, aren’t you, Martin?” she said; “not ill?”
“Ill? No. But I’m all on edge and I’ve got two headaches. It’s rather cold waiting here. I think I’ll walk on and let the carriage catch me up. Good-bye, Helen; see you to-morrow.”
Martin woke next morning, after long, heavy sleep, with the same sense of lassitude and tiredness which had oppressed him all the day before and the same headache lying like a hot metallic61 lump inside his head, pressing the back of his eyes. The man who called him had brought him a couple of letters and a note from his father, which had been sent over from the vicarage. He opened this first.
“My Dear Martin,—Helen has given me your message, that you wish to see me. I have thought about it very carefully, and I wish to tell you quite candidly62 the conclusion I have come to.
“You know what I felt about your going over to the Roman Church; I feel that all still, and as strongly as ever. You have deliberately63 left your own church, and for reasons, as far as I can understand, which are frivolous64 and unessential. And I am afraid—I know in fact—that if I saw you I should, without being{329} able to help myself, express to you what I feel. Now, I do not think this would do any good, it would only widen the gulf65 between us; and one of the great aims of my life now is to do the opposite. I do not suppose my opinion will ever change, it cannot, in fact, but in time I shall, I suppose, get more used to what has happened, and shall be able to see you without bitterness. At present I am unwilling66 to tear open a wound which may be beginning to heal. But all this is to me still so keen a daily and hourly pain that I feel sure we should be wiser not to meet yet. But Helen, of course, is quite free to come and see you, and you to come and see her.
“It gives me great pain to write this. But I cannot separate you from what you have done.
“I am rejoiced to hear from her of the great success of your concert. Personally, as you know, I have no educated taste in music, but I gather that your master is satisfied both with your progress and your industry, which is more important than success.
“My dear boy, I wish I could see you; I wish I could trust myself!
“Your affectionate father,
“Sidney Challoner.
“P.S.—Your Aunt Clara, I am sorry to say, is in bed with a sharp attack of influenza67.”
Martin read this through twice before he got up; then he dressed, his cold bath making him shiver, and went downstairs. The sight of his own face in the looking-glass, as he brushed his hair, was somehow rather a shock to him; it did not look exactly ill, but it was unfamiliar68, it looked like the face of somebody else. His uncle was not yet down, and he strolled out on to the terrace, waiting for him, into the warm, windy sunshine of the April morning. But here again he had the same impression of unfamiliarity69: the sun did not feel to him the same, nor did the sunshine look the same,—both light and colour had an odd dream-like unreality about them. It was as if some curious, hard{330} barrier had been put up between his sense of perception and that which he perceived. Then, with a feeling of relief, he remembered his father’s postscript70. Probably he had influenza, too.
That explanation, or the divine freshness of the morning, made him feel rather better, and half-laughing at himself for his vague fear that there was something really wrong with him, he went indoors again. People were coming to stay at Chartries that afternoon, but this morning he and his uncle were alone. Lord Flintshire was already seated at breakfast when he came in.
He gave him his father’s letter to read, unconscious that his uncle looked rather closely at him as he entered, being also struck by a curious drawn71 look in his face, but he said nothing on the subject, and read the letter through.
“I think your father is wrong about it,” he said, “and if you approve, I will tell him so. There is surely no need to enter into theological discussion. You want just to see him and shake hands with him.”
Martin had taken some fish, but gave it up as a bad job, and drank tea instead.
“Yes, just that,” he said. “I hate being on bad terms with anybody, especially him.”
Lord Flintshire looked at him again.
“The boy’s ill,” he said to himself. Then aloud,—“Well, let us walk over after breakfast, if you feel inclined. You can see Helen while I go in and talk to your father. You don’t look particularly fit this morning, Martin. Anything wrong?”
“I feel beastly,” said Martin, with directness. “I shouldn’t wonder if I had got influenza, too.”{331}
“Are you sure you feel up to coming over? Yes, your father mentions that Clara has got it. If the doctor is there, he might just have a look at you. Or, if you don’t feel up to coming, I would send him back here.”
Martin pulled himself together. The tea had made him feel quite distinctly better.
“Oh, no, I’m quite up to it,” he said. “Probably the doctor will tell me to go for a long walk and eat a big dinner. And I should like to see my father as soon as possible, and get it over. It will all be easier after that.”
His uncle got up.
“Shall we start in half an hour, then? We shall be sure to catch him before he goes out. Cigarette?”
“No, I think not, thanks,” said Martin.
Their way lay down through the woods where Helen and Frank had met a month ago, and the gracious influence of springtime had gone steadily72 forward with the great yearly miracle of the renewal73 of life. The green that had then hung mist-like round the trees was now formed and definite leaf, exquisitely74 tender and clear, and in this early morning hour shining with the moisture and dews of night. Daffodils still lingered in sheltered places and the delicate wood-anemone flushed faintly in the thickets75. Below the chalk-stream, where Martin last summer had spent that hour of self-revelation, was brimful from bank to bank of hurrying translucent76 water, which combed the subaqueous weeds and turned to topazes the yellow pebbles77 and into heaps of pearl the beds of chalk that flashed beneath the water. But this morning he was heavy-eyed and{332} clogged78 of brain; he felt that somebody else was seeing these things, that somebody else was putting foot in front of foot, while he himself had dwindled79 to a mere pin-point set in the centre of a great lump of hot metal which filled his head. Sometimes this body that was once his felt sudden flushes of heat, sometimes it shivered for no reason. Then, after an interminable walk, so it seemed to him, they turned through the church-yard and went up the gravel80 path that ran to join the carriage sweep in front of the vicarage door. And, in spite of all, it was with a wonderful sense of coming home that Martin saw the grey creeper-covered walls again, the long box-hedge, and the croquet-lawn wet and shining with dew in the sun.
“I’ll wait out here while you see my father,” said he. “Perhaps you would tell Helen I am here.” And he sat down all of a heap on a garden seat.
This tired, spiritless boy was so utterly81 unlike Martin that his uncle felt suddenly anxious.
“Are you feeling bad, Martin?” he asked. “Do you feel faint? Hadn’t you better come indoors?”
“Oh, no. I shall be better when I’ve rested a minute. But my head aches so. Lord, it gets worse every minute.”
Lord Flintshire left him and went straight to Mr. Challoner’s study, where he was at work.
“Good-morning, Sidney,” he said. “I have come over with Martin, who wants to see you. I also want you to see him; but we can talk of that afterwards. Now, is the doctor in the house? Martin is not at all well. He looks to me very ill. He——“
But at that word there was no longer any thought{333} of “talking of that afterwards.” All that was human and tender, all that was loving, all that there was of “father” in Mr. Challoner sprang to that call.
“Dear lad, where is he?” he said. “Yes; the doctor is with Clara now. He will be out in a minute. But where is Martin? I must go to him.”
Lord Flintshire just laid his hand on his brother’s shoulder.
“I knew you would, Sidney,” he said. “He is outside by the front door.”
Martin had dropped heavily on to the garden seat, and sat there with his eyes closed. That lump of hot metal in his head had grown larger and hotter; he felt as if something must burst. And he was so terribly tired; his walk had not done him the least good. Then he heard quick steps behind him on the gravel, but simply could not be troubled to look round. And then came his father’s voice.
“My dearest lad,” he said, “come indoors at once.”
Martin sat up with a jerk, and some chord of old memory twanged on the surface of his brain.
“You’re not angry with me, father?” he said, nervously82.
Mr. Challoner bit his lip to stifle83 the exclamation84 of pain that rose bitterly within him.
“Angry?” he said. “What put that into your dear old head? There, Martin, take my arm, and lean on me. Come inside out of the wind. There, old boy, steadily; there’s plenty of time. I hope we shan’t have you down with influenza, too. But it’s the luckiest thing in the world. The doctor is here now with your aunt, and he shall have a look at you.”
But it needed all Mr. Challoner’s courage to get{334} through with this cheerful chattering85. Martin looked terribly ill to him. But he got him into his study, arranged the cushions on the sofa he so seldom used himself, and made him lie down.
“Ah, that’s better,” said Martin. “Thanks, thanks ever so much, father.”
He held out his hand to his father, who pressed it, and his voice trembled a little as he answered.
“God bless you, my dear lad, for wanting to come and see me,” he said. “Now, is there anything you want? I shall send Dr. Thaxter to you as soon as he leaves your aunt.”
Dr. Thaxter was a merry, rosy-faced little man with a manner so reassuring86 that one felt quite well directly, and in a few minutes he came bustling87 into the room.
“Ah, Mr. Challoner,” he said, “your father tells me you are a bit knocked up. Not uncommon88 in this spring weather. Quite right to lie down. There, put that under your tongue, and don’t bite it.”
He adjusted the thermometer and went chattering on.
“And you’ve walked over from Chartries with your uncle, have you? Fine place that, and a fine healthy situation. Of course, you only came down yesterday. I saw the account of your concert in the paper. Ah, I wish I had been there. Now, I think we’ve given the thermometer long enough. Thank you. And you feel rather——“
The little doctor stopped suddenly in the middle of his sentence when he saw what was recorded on it.
“You have a headache, I think your father said.”
“I have nothing else, I think,” said Martin.{335}
Dr. Thaxter drew a chair close to the sofa, and sat down, looking at him very closely.
“Ah, yes; that is to be expected with a little fever. You are rather feverish. Now, when did you begin to feel ill? When did you first feel a headache? Try to tell me all about it.”
“Oh, five days ago now. No, six, I think. I don’t think I felt anything else, except that everything seemed rather queer all the time.”
He made a movement to sit up, but the doctor gently pressed him back again.
“Better not sit up,” he said. “You’ll be far more comfortable lying down. And you can tell me nothing else? Just a bad headache.”
“Am I ill?” asked Martin, suddenly. “Really ill, I mean? What’s the matter with me?”
“My dear Mr. Challoner, I can’t possibly tell you, because I don’t know. And when one doesn’t know, one takes precautions against anything that it may conceivably be. Perhaps it is influenza. If it is, it’s a pretty sharp attack. I wonder at your being able to walk over this morning. Now, will you promise me to lie quite still while I just go and talk to your father and settle with him what we shall do with you.”
The little doctor went quietly out of the room and across the hall to the drawing-room. Helen, her father, and Lord Flintshire were all there. He did not look quite so brisk and cheerful as he had done before he saw Martin.
“He has a very high temperature,” he said; “much higher than I like. It may, of course, be an attack of influenza. I have seen cases of it with temperatures higher than that. But he must be nursed as if something{336} more serious was the matter. He has probably had a temperature for nearly a week.”
Mr. Challoner turned to him almost fiercely.
“What is it?” he said.
“It may be several things. Perhaps I can tell you when I have seen him again, when we have got him to bed. Now, there is a good spare-room in this house?”
“Yes; his own,” said Helen.
“Very well; he must be moved there, just as he is, without getting up. If you and Lord Flintshire will help me, we will do it at once. And is there a room where a nurse can sleep?”
Helen took a step nearer him.
“Is it typhoid?” she asked.
“I am afraid it may be. It looks very like it.”
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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agitated
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serene
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consolation
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legitimately
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justifiably
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recital
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mere
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9
exclusion
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| n.拒绝，排除，排斥，远足，远途旅行 | |
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10
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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11
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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12
hiss
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| v.发出嘶嘶声；发嘘声表示不满 | |
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13
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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14
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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15
poke
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| n.刺，戳，袋；vt.拨开，刺，戳；vi.戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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peremptorily
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| adv.紧急地，不容分说地，专横地 | |
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17
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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18
fluffy
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| adj.有绒毛的，空洞的 | |
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19
crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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20
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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21
mediocre
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| adj.平常的，普通的 | |
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22
patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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23
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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24
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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25
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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26
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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29
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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30
paralysis
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| n.麻痹(症)；瘫痪(症) | |
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31
numb
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| adj.麻木的，失去感觉的；v.使麻木 | |
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plume
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| n.羽毛；v.整理羽毛，骚首弄姿，用羽毛装饰 | |
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33
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lessened
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| 减少的，减弱的 | |
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apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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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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myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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40
demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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41
vibration
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| n.颤动，振动；摆动 | |
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42
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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43
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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44
Mandarin
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| n.中国官话，国语，满清官吏；adj.华丽辞藻的 | |
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phlegmatic
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| adj.冷静的，冷淡的，冷漠的，无活力的 | |
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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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47
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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48
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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51
charing
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| n.炭化v.把…烧成炭，把…烧焦( char的现在分词 )；烧成炭，烧焦；做杂役女佣 | |
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52
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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53
pendulum
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| n.摆，钟摆 | |
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54
revelled
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| v.作乐( revel的过去式和过去分词 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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57
irritability
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| n.易怒 | |
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58
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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59
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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60
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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metallic
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| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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candidly
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| adv.坦率地，直率而诚恳地 | |
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63
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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65
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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66
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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67
influenza
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| n.流行性感冒，流感 | |
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68
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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69
unfamiliarity
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70
postscript
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| n.附言，又及；(正文后的)补充说明 | |
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71
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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72
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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73
renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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74
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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75
thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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76
translucent
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| adj.半透明的；透明的 | |
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77
pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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78
clogged
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| （使）阻碍( clog的过去式和过去分词 )； 淤滞 | |
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dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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81
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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82
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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83
stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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84
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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85
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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86
reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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87
bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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88
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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