Holding herself, as she did, so aloof3 from her neighbours, there was little wonder in madam's having remained unconscious of the fact that some months ago, nearly twelve now, a young lady had come to reside with Mrs. Cumberland. Part of the time Mrs. Cumberland had been away. Madam had also been away: and when at home her communication with Dallory and Dallory Ham consisted solely4 in being whirled through its roads in a carriage: no one indoors spoke5 unnecessarily in her hearing of any gossip connected with those despised places; and to church she rarely went, for she did not get up in time. And so the sweet girl, who had for some time now been making Arthur Bohun's heart's existence, had never yet been seen or heard of by his mother.
For Mrs. Cumberland to be seen abroad so early was something marvellous; indeed, she was rarely seen abroad at all. On this morning she came out of her room between eleven and twelve o'clock, dressed for a walk; and bade Ellen Adair prepare to accompany her. Ellen obeyed, silently wondering. The truth was, Mrs. Cumberland had picked up a very unpleasant doubt the previous day, and would give the whole world to lay it to rest. It was connected with her son. His assurances had partly pacified6 her, but not quite: and she determined7 to have a private word with Mr. North. Ellen, walking by her side along the road, supposed they were going in to Dallory. Mrs. Cumberland kept close to the hedge for the sake of the shade: as she brushed the bench in passing, where she had sat the past night, a slight shudder8 seized her frame. Ellen did not observe it; she was revelling9 in the beauty of the sweet spring day. The gates of Dallory Hall gained, Mrs. Cumberland turned in. Ellen Adair wondered more and more; but Mrs. Cumberland was not one to be questioned at will on any subject.
On they came, madam watching with all her eyes. Mrs. Cumberland was in her usual black silk attire10, and walked with the slow step of an invalid11. Ellen wore a morning dress of lilac muslin. It needed not the lilac parasol she carried to reflect an additional lovely hue12 on that most lovely face. A stately, refined girl, as madam saw, with charming manners, the reverse of pretentious13.
But as madam, fascinated for once in her life, gazed outwards14, a certain familiarity in the face dawned upon her senses. That she had seen it before, or one very like it, became a conviction to her. "Who on earth is she?" murmured the lady to herself--for madam was by no means stilted16 in her phrases in leisure moments.
"Are you going to call at the Hall, Mrs. Cumberland?" inquired Ellen, venturing to ask the question at length in her increasing surprise. And every word could be distinctly heard by madam, for they were very close to her.
"I think so," was the answer, given in hesitating tones. "I--I should like to tell Mr. North that I feel for his loss."
"But is it not early to do so--both in the hour of the day, and after the death?" rejoined Ellen, with deprecation.
"For a stranger it would be; for me, no. I and John North were once as brother and sister. Besides, I have something else to say to him."
Had Miss Adair asked what the something else was--which she would not have presumed to do--Mrs. Cumberland might have replied that she wished again to enlist17 the Hall's influence on behalf of her son, now that Mr. Alexander was about to leave. A sure indication that it was not the real motive18 that was drawing her to the Hall, for she was one of those reticent19 women who rarely, if ever, observe candour even to friends. Suddenly she halted.
"I prefer to go on alone, Ellen. You can sit down and wait for me. There are benches about in the covered walks."
Mrs. Cumberland went forward. Ellen turned and began to walk towards the entrance-gates with the lingering step of one who waits. Mrs. Cumberland had gone well on, when she turned and called.
"Ellen."
But Ellen did not hear.
"Ellen! Ellen Adair!"
A louder call, this, falling on the warm summer air, echoing in the curious ears covered by the lace mantilla. Mrs. North gave a quick, sharp start. It looked very like a start of terror.
"Ellen Adair!" she repeated to herself, her eyes, in their fear, flashing out on the beautiful face, to see whether she could trace the resemblance now. "Ellen Adair? Good Heavens!"
Ellen had turned at once. "Yes, Mrs. Cumberland."
"Do not go within sight of the road, my dear. I don't care that all the world should know I am calling at Dallory Hall. Find a bench and sit down, as I bade you."
Obedient as it was in her nature to be, the young lady turned into one of the side paths, which brought her within nearer range of madam's view. She, madam, with a face from which every atom of colour had faded, leaving it white as ashes, stood still as a statue, as one confounded.
"I see the likeness20: it is to him," she muttered. "Can he have come home?"
Ellen Adair passed out of sight and hearing. Madam, shaking herself from her fear, turned with stealthy steps to seek the house, keeping in the private paths as long as possible, which was a more circuitous21 way. Madam intended, unseen, to make a third at the interview between her husband and Mrs. Cumberland. The sight of that girl's face had frightened her. There might be treason in the air.
Mrs. Cumberland was already in Mr. North's parlour. Strolling out amongst his flowers, he had encountered her in the garden, and taken her in through the open window. Madam arriving a little later, passed through the hall to the dining-room. Rather inopportunely, there sat Bessy, busy with her housekeeping books.
"Take them elsewhere," said madam, with an imperious sweep of the hand.
She was not in the habit of giving a reason for any command whatever: let it be reasonable or the contrary, the rule was to hear and obey. Bessy gathered her books up and went away, madam fastening the bolt of the door after her.
Then she stole across the soft Turkey carpet and slipped into the closet already spoken of, that formed a communication--though never used--between the dining-room and Mr. North's parlour. The door opening to the parlour was unlatched, and had been ever since he put his slippers22 inside it an hour ago. When her eyes became accustomed to the darkness, madam saw them there; she also saw one or two of his old brown gardening coats hanging on the pegs23. Against the wall was a narrow table with an unlocked desk upon it, belonging to herself. It was clever of madam to keep it there. Opening the lid silently, she pulled up a few of its valueless papers, and let them appear. Of course, if the closet were suddenly entered from the parlour--a most unlikely thing to happen, but madam was cautious--she was only getting something from her desk. In this manner she had occasionally made an unsuspected third at Richard North's interviews with his father. Letting the lace hood24 slip off, madam bent25 her ear to the crevice26 of the door, and stood there listening. She was under the influence of terror still: her lips were drawn27, her face wore the hue of death.
Apparently28 the ostensible29 motive of the interview--Mrs. Cumberland's wish to express her sympathy for the blow that had fallen on the Hall--was over; she had probably also been asking for Mr. North's influence in favour of her son. The first connected words madam caught were these:--
"I will do what I can, Mrs. Cumberland. I wished to do it before, as you know. But Mrs. North took a dislike--I mean took a fancy to Alexander."
"You mean took a dislike to Oliver," corrected Mrs. Cumberland. "In the old days, when you were John North without thought of future grandeur30, and I was Fanny Gass, we spoke out freely to each other."
"True," said poor Mr. North. "I've never had such good days since. Ah, what a long time it seems to look back to! I have grown into an old man, Fanny, older in feeling than in years; and you--you wasted the best days of your life in a hot and unhealthy climate."
"Unhealthy in places and at certain seasons," corrected Mrs. Cumberland. "My husband was stationed in the beautiful climate of the Blue Mountains, as we familiarly call the region of the Neilgherry Hills. It is pleasant there."
"Ay, I've heard so. Getting the cool breezes and all that."
"People used to come up there from the hot plains to regain31 their lost health," continued Mrs. Cumberland, whose thoughts were apt to wander back to the earlier years of her exile. "Ootacamund is resorted to there, just as the colder seaside places are here. But I and Mr. Cumberland were stationary32."
"Ootacamund?" repeated Mr. North, struck with the name. "Ootacamund was where my wife's first husband died; Major Bohun."
"No, he did not die there," quietly rejoined Mrs. Cumberland.
"Was it not there? Ah! well, it does not matter. One is apt to confuse these foreign names and places in the memory."
Mrs. Cumberland made no rejoinder, and a momentary33 silence ensued. Madam, who with the mention of the place, Ootacamund, bit her lip almost to bleeding, bent forward, and looked through the opening of the door. She could just see the smallest portion of the cold, calm, grey face, and waited in sickening apprehension34 of what the next words might be. They came from Mrs. Cumberland and proved an intense relief, for the subject was changed for another.
"I am about to make a request to you, John: I hope you will grant it for our old friendship's sake. Let me see the anonymous36 letter that proved so fatal to Edmund. Every incident connected with this calamity37 is to me so full of painful interest!" she continued, as if seeking to apologize for her request. "As I lay awake last night, unable to sleep, it came into my mind that I would ask you to let me see the letter."
"You may see it, and welcome," was Mr. North's ready reply, as he unlocked a drawer in his old secretaire, and handed the paper to her. "I only wish I could show it to some purpose--to someone who would recognize the handwriting. You won't do that."
Mrs. Cumberland answered by a sickly smile. Her hands trembled as she took the letter, and Mr. North noticed how white her lips had become--as if with some inward suspense38 or emotion. She studied the letter well, reading it three times over; looking at it critically in all lights. Madam in the closet could have struck her for her inquisitive39 curiosity.
"You are right, John," she said, with an unmistakable sigh of relief as she gave the missive back to him; "I certainly do not recognize that handwriting. It is like no one's that I ever saw."
"It is a disguised hand, you see," he answered. "No doubt about that: and accomplished40 in the cleverest manner."
"Is it true that poor Edmund had been drawing bills in conjunction with Alexander?"
"Only one. He had drawn a good many I'm afraid during his short lifetime in conjunction with other people, but only one with Alexander--which they got renewed. No blame attaches to Alexander; not a scrap41 of it."
"Oliver told me that."
"Ay. I have a notion that poor Edmund did not get into this trouble for his own sake, but to help that young scamp, his brother."
"Which brother?"
"Which brother!" echoed Mr. North, rather in mockery. "As if you need ask that. There's only one of them who could deserve the epithet42, and that's Sidney. An awful scamp. He is but twenty years of age, and he is as deep in the ways of a bad world as though he were forty."
"I am very sorry to hear you say it. Whispers go abroad about him, as I dare say you know, but I would rather not have heard them confirmed by you."
"People can't say much too bad of him. We have Mrs. North to thank for it: it is all owing to the way she has brought him up. When I would have corrected his faults, she stepped in between us. Oftentimes have I thought of the enemy that sowed the tares43 amidst the wheat in his neighbour's field."
"The old saying comes home to many of us," observed Mrs. Cumberland with a suppressed sigh, as she rose to leave. "When our children are young they tread upon our toes, but when they grow older they tread upon our hearts."
"Ay, ay! Don't go yet," added Mr. North. "It is pleasant in times of sorrow to see an old friend. I have no friends now."
"I must go, John. Ellen Adair is waiting for me, and will find the time long. And I expect it would not be very agreeable to your wife to see me here. Not that I know wherefore, or what I can have done to her."
"She encourages no one; no one of the good old days," was the confidential44 rejoinder. "There's no fear of her; I saw her going off towards the shrubberies--after Master Sidney, I suppose. She takes what she calls her constitutional walks there. They last a couple of hours sometimes."
As Mr. North turned to put the letter into the drawer again, he caught sight of a scrap of poetry that had been found in Arthur Bohun's desk. This he also showed his visitor. He would have kept nothing from her; she was the only link left to him of the days when he and the world (to him) were alike young. Had Mrs. Cumberland stayed there till night, he would then have thought it too soon for her to depart.
"I will do all I can for your son, Fanny," said Mr. North, as they stood for a moment at the glass-doors. "I like Oliver. He is a steady, persevering45 fellow, and I'll help him on if I can. If I do not, the fault will not lie with me. You understand?" he added, looking at her.
Mrs. Cumberland understood perfectly--the fault would lie with madam. She nodded in answer.
"Mr. Alexander is going, John--as you know. Should Oliver succeed in getting the whole of the practice--and there's nothing to prevent it--he will soon be making a large income. In that case, I suppose he will be asking you to give him something else."
"You mean Bessy. I wish to goodness he had her!" continued Mr. North impulsively46; "I do heartily47 wish it sometimes. She has not a very happy life of it here. Well, well; I hope Oliver will get on with all my heart; tell him so from me, Fanny. He shall have her when he does."
"Shall he!" ejaculated madam from her closet, and in her most scornfully defiant48 tone--for the conversation had not pleased her.
They went strolling away amidst the flowers, madam peering after them with angry eyes. She heard her husband tell Mrs. Cumberland to come again; to come in often; whenever she would. Mr. North went on with her down the broad path, after they had lingered some minutes with the sweet flowers. In strolling back alone, who should pounce49 upon Mr. North from a side path but madam!
"Was not that woman I saw you with the Cumberland, Mr. North?"
"It was Mrs. Cumberland: my early friend. She came in to express her sympathy at my loss. I took it as very kind of her, madam."
"I take it as very insolent," retorted madam. "She had some girl with her when she came in. Who was it?"
"Some girl!" repeated Mr. North, whose memory was anything but retentive50. "Ah yes, I remember: she said her ward15 was waiting for her."
"Who is her ward?"
"The daughter of a friend whom they knew in India, madam. In India or Australia; I forget which: George Cumberland was stationed in both places. A charming young lady with a romantic name: Ellen Adair."
Madam toyed with the black lace that shielded her face. "You seem to know her, Mr. North."
"I have seen her in the road; and in coming out of church. The first time I met them was in Dallory, one day last summer, and Mrs. Cumberland told me who she was. That is all I know of her, madam--as you seem to be curious."
"Is she living at Mrs. Cumberland's?"
"Just now she is. I--I think they said she was going out to join her father," added Mr. North, whose impressions were always hazy51 in matters that did not immediately concern him. "Yes, I'm nearly sure, madam: to Australia."
"Her father--whoever he may be--is not in Europe then?" slightingly spoke madam, stooping to root up mercilessly a handful of blue-bells.
"Her father lives over yonder. That's why the young lady has to go out to him."
Madam tossed away the rifled flowers and raised her head to its customary haughty53 height. The danger had passed. "Over yonder" meant, as she knew, some far-off antipodes. She flung aside the girl and the interlude from her recollections, just as ruthlessly as she had flung the blue-bells.
"I want some money, Mr. North."
Mr. North went into a flutter at once. "I--I have none by me, madam."
"Then give me a cheque."
"Nor cheque either. I don't happen to have a signed cheque in the house, and Richard is gone for the day."
"What have I repeatedly told you--that you must keep money by you; and cheques too," was her stern answer. "Why does Richard always sign the cheques? Why can't you sign them?"
She had asked the same thing fifty times, and he had never been goaded54 to give the true answer.
"I have not signed a cheque since Thomas Gass died, except on my own private account, madam; no, nor for long before it. My account is overdrawn55. I shan't have a stiver in the bank until next quarter-day."
"You told me that last week," she said contemptuously. "Draw then upon the firm account."
He shook his head. "The bank would not cash it."
"Why?"
"Because only Richard can sign. Oh dear, this is going over and over the old ground again. You'll wear me out, madam. When Richard took the management at the works, it was judged advisable that he should alone sign the business cheques--for convenience' sake, madam; for convenience' sake. Gass's hands were crippled with gout; I was here with my flowers."
"I don't care who signs the cheques so that I get the money," she retorted in rude, rough tones. "You must give me some to-day."
"It is for Sidney; I know it is for Sidney," spoke Mr. North tremulously. "Madam, you are ruining that lad. For his own sake some check must be put upon him: and therefore I am thankful that to-day I have no money to give."
He took some short hurried steps over the corners of paths and flower-beds, with the last words, and got into his own room. Madam calmly followed. Very sure might he be that she would not allow him to escape her.
Ellen Adair, waiting for Mrs. Cumberland, had not felt the time long. Very shortly after she was left alone, the carriage came back from the station, bringing Arthur Bohun: Richard had been left at Whitborough. Captain Bohun got out at the gates, intending to walk up to the house. Ellen saw him come limping along--the halt in his gait was always more visible when he had been sitting for any length of time--and he at the same time caught sight of the bright hues56 of the lilac dress gleaming through the trees.
Some years back, the detachment commanded by Arthur Bohun was quartered in Ireland. One ill-starred night it was called out to suppress some local disturbances57, and he was desperately58 wounded: shot, as was supposed, unto death. That he would never be fit for service again; that his death, though it might be lingering, was inevitable59; surgeons and friends alike thought. For nearly two years he was looked upon as a dying man: that is, as a man who could not possibly recover. But Time, the great healer, restored him; and he came out of his sickness and danger with only a slight limp, more or less perceptible. When walking slowly, or when he took any one's arm, it was not seen at all. Mrs. North (who was proud of her handsome and distinguished60 son, although she had no love for him) was wont61 to tell friends confidentially62 that he had a bullet in his hip35 yet--at which Arthur would laugh.
The sight of the lilac dress caused him to turn aside. Ellen rose and stood waiting; her whole being was thrilling with the rapture63 the meeting brought. He took her hand in his, his face lighting52.
"Is it indeed you, Ellen! I should as soon have expected to see a fairy here."
"Mrs. Cumberland has gone to call on Mr. North. She told me to wait for her."
"I have been with Dick to take my uncle and James to the station," spoke Captain Bohun, pitching upon it as something to say, for his tongue was never too fluent when alone with her. "He has been asking me to go and stay with him."
"Sir Nash has?"
"Yes. Jimmy invites no one; he is taken up with his missionaries64, and that."
"Shall you go?"
Their eyes met as she put the question. Go! away from her!
"I think not," he quietly answered. "Not at present. Miss Bohun's turn must come first: she has been writing for me this long time."
"That's your aunt."
"My aunt. And a good old soul she is. Won't you walk about a little, Ellen?"
She took the arm he held out, and they paced the covered walks, almost in silence. The May birds were singing, the budding leaves were green. Eloquence65 enough for them: and each might have detected the beating of the other's heart. Madam had her ear glued to that closet-door, and so missed the sight. A sight that would have made her hair stand on end.
Minutes, for lovers, fly on swift wings. When Mrs. Cumberland appeared, it seemed that she had been away no time. Ellen went forward to meet her: and Captain Bohun said he had just come home from the station. Mrs. Cumberland, absorbed in her own cares, complaining of fatigue66, took little or no notice of him: he strolled by their side up the Ham. Standing67 at Mrs. Cumberland's gate for a moment in parting, Oliver Rane came so hastily out of his house that he ran against them.
"Don't knock me down, Rane," spoke Arthur Bohun in his lazy but very pleasing manner.
"I beg your pardon. When I am in a hurry I believe I am apt to drive on in a blindfold68 fashion."
"Is any one ill, Oliver?" questioned his mother.
"Yes. At Mrs. Gass's. I fear it is herself. The man who brought the message did not know."
"You ought to keep a horse," spoke Captain Bohun, as the doctor recommenced his course. "So much running about must wear out a man's legs."
"Oughts go for a great deal, don't they?" replied the doctor, looking back. "I ought to be rich enough to keep one, but I'm not."
Captain Bohun wished them good-day, and they went indoors. Ellen wondered at hearing that Mrs. Cumberland was going out again. Feeling uneasy--as she said--about the sudden illness, she took her way to the house of Mrs. Gass, in spite of the fatigue she had been complaining of. A long walk for her at any time. Arrived there she found that lady in perfect health; it was one of her servants to whom Oliver had been summoned. The young woman had scalded her hand and arm.
"I was at the Hall this morning, and Mr. North showed me the anonymous letter," Mrs. Cumberland took occasion to say. "It evidently comes from a stranger; a stranger to us. The handwriting is quite strange."
"So much the better, ma'am," heartily spoke Mrs. Gass. "It would be too bad to think it was wrote by a friend."
"Oliver thinks it was madam," pursued Mrs. Cumberland, lowering her voice. "At least--he has not gone so far as to say he thinks it, but that Mr. Alexander does."
"That's just what he said to me, ma'am. Alexander thought it, he said, but that he himself didn't know what to think, one way or the other. As well, perhaps, for us not to talk of it: least said is soonest mended."
"Of course. But I cannot help recalling a remark once innocently made by Arthur Bohun in my hearing: that he did not know any one who could imitate different handwritings so well as his mother. Did you"--Mrs. Cumberland looked cautiously round--"observe the girl, Molly Green, take her handkerchief from her pocket whilst she stood here?"
"I didn't see her with any handkercher," was the answer, given after a slight pause. "Shouldn't think the girl has one. She put her basket on the sideboard there, to come forward to my geraniums, and stood stock still while she looked at 'em. I don't say she didn't go to her pocket; but I never saw her do it."
"It might have been so. These little actions often pass unnoticed. And it is so easy for any other article to slip out unseen when a handkerchief is drawn from a pocket," concluded Mrs. Cumberland in a suppressed, almost eager tone. Which Mrs. Gass noticed, and did not quite like.
But there is still something to relate of Dallory Hall. When madam followed her husband through the glass-doors into his parlour, an unusually unpleasant scene ensued. For once Mr. North held out resolutely69. He had no other resource, for he had not the money to give her, and did not know where to get it. That it was for Sidney, he well believed; and for that reason only would have denied it to the utmost of his feeble strength. Madam flounced out in one of her worst moods. Mrs. Cumberland's visit and the startling sight of Ellen Adair had brought to her unusual annoyance70. As ill-luck had it, she encountered Bessy in the hall, and upon her vented71 her temper. The short scene was a violent one. When it was over, the poor girl went shivering and trembling into her father's parlour. He had been standing with the door ajar, shrinking almost as much as Bessy, and utterly72 powerless to interfere73.
"Oh, child! if I could only save you from this!" he murmured, as they stood together before the window, and he fondly stroked the head that lay on his breast. "It's cue of the troubles that are wearing me out, Bessy: wearing me out before my time."
Bessy North was patient, meek74, enduring; but meekness75 and patience can both be tried beyond their strength.
"Oliver Rane wants you: you know that, Bessie. If he could see his way to keeping you, you should go to him tomorrow. Ay! though your poor brother has just been put into his grave."
Bessy lifted her head. In these moments of emotion, the heart speaks out without reticence76.
"Papa, I would go to Oliver as he is now, and risk it," she said through her blinding tears. "I should not be afraid of our getting on: we would make shift together, until better times came. He spoke a word of this to me not long ago, but his lips were sealed, he said, and he could not press it."
"He thought he had not enough for you?"
"He thought you would not consider it so. I should, papa. And I think those who bravely set out to struggle on together, have as much happiness in their makeshifts and economies as others who begin with a fortune."
"We'll see; we'll see, Bessy. I should like you to try it, if you are not afraid. I'll talk to Dick. But--mind!--not a word here," he added, glancing round to indicate the precincts of Mrs. North. "We shall have to keep it to ourselves if we would not have it frustrated77. I wonder how much Oliver makes a year."
"Not much; but he is advancing slowly. He has talked to me about it. What keeps one will keep two, papa."
"He comes into about two hundred a-year when his mother dies. And I fear she won't live long, from what she tells me. Poor Fanny! Not that I'd counsel any one to reckon on dead men's shoes, child. Life's uncertain: he might die before her."
"He would not reckon on anything but his own exertions78, papa. He told me a secret--that he is engaged on a medical work, writing it all his spare time. It is quite certain to become a standard work, he says, and bring him good returns. Oh! papa, there will be no doubt about our getting on. Let us risk it!"
She spoke in a bright, hopeful tone--her mild eyes shining. Mr. North caught a little of the glad spirit, and resolved--Dick being willing: sensible Dick--that they should risk it.
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inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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pacified
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| 使（某人）安静( pacify的过去式和过去分词 )； 息怒； 抚慰； 在（有战争的地区、国家等）实现和平 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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revelling
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| v.作乐( revel的现在分词 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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pretentious
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| adj.自命不凡的，自负的，炫耀的 | |
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outwards
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| adj.外面的，公开的，向外的；adv.向外；n.外形 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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stilted
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| adj.虚饰的；夸张的 | |
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enlist
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| vt.谋取(支持等)，赢得；征募；vi.入伍 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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reticent
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| adj.沉默寡言的；言不如意的 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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circuitous
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| adj.迂回的路的，迂曲的，绕行的 | |
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slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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pegs
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| n.衣夹( peg的名词复数 )；挂钉；系帐篷的桩；弦钮v.用夹子或钉子固定( peg的第三人称单数 )；使固定在某水平 | |
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hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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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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crevice
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| n.(岩石、墙等)裂缝；缺口 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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ostensible
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| adj.(指理由)表面的，假装的 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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stationary
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| adj.固定的，静止不动的 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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epithet
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| n.（用于褒贬人物等的）表述形容词，修饰语 | |
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tares
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| 荑；稂莠；稗 | |
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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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persevering
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| a.坚忍不拔的 | |
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impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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pounce
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| n.猛扑；v.猛扑，突然袭击，欣然同意 | |
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retentive
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| v.保留的，有记忆的；adv.有记性地，记性强地；n.保持力 | |
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hazy
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| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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goaded
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| v.刺激( goad的过去式和过去分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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overdrawn
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| 透支( overdraw的过去分词 )； (overdraw的过去分词) | |
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hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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disturbances
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| n.骚乱( disturbance的名词复数 )；打扰；困扰；障碍 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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confidentially
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| ad.秘密地，悄悄地 | |
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rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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missionaries
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| n.传教士( missionary的名词复数 ) | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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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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blindfold
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| vt.蒙住…的眼睛；adj.盲目的；adv.盲目地；n.蒙眼的绷带[布等]； 障眼物，蒙蔽人的事物 | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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vented
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| 表达，发泄（感情，尤指愤怒）( vent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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meekness
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| n.温顺，柔和 | |
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reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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frustrated
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| adj.挫败的，失意的，泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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