The question came from Hewitt, who had looked in to ask for orders for the morning, arousing his master from a curious train of thought.
"I don't mind a drop of hot brandy and water, Hewitt. Half a glass. Something or other seems to have given me the shivers. Is it a cold night?"
"No, Sir Karl; the night's rather warm than cold."
"Has my mother any particular trouble or worry upon her, Hewitt, do you know?" he asked, as he mechanically watched the mixing of the spirit and water. "She seems to be very much put out."
"I have noticed it myself, sir; but I don't know what the cause is," was the answer. "For my part, I don't think she has been at all herself since Sir Adam's death. Loving him as she did--why, of course, sir, it was a heavy blow; one not to be got over easily."
"And that's true, Hewitt. How many servants have you here?" resumed Karl, asking the question not really with any particular care to know, but simply to turn the subject.
"There's me and two maids, sir."
"You and two maids!" echoed Karl, in surprise. "Yes, sir, me and two maids. That's all; except the out o' door gardeners."
"But that's not enough for Foxwood. It is only what we had in Northamptonshire. How does the work get done? Why does my mother not keep more?"
"My mistress says she can't afford more, Sir Karl," returned Hewitt, who seemed sore upon the point, and spoke1 shortly.
"But she can afford more," returned Karl, impulsively2; "a great many more. Her income is a large one now."
Hewitt rubbed his bald head with an air of perplexity. Karl spoke to him of things that he would not have entered on with any less esteemed3 and faithful servant. Hewitt had been so long in the family that he seemed like an old confidential4 friend. From his boyhood's days, Karl had looked up to Hewitt with respect The man stood before his master, as if intending to wait and see him drink the brandy-and-water.
"There can be no debts, you know, Hewitt," spoke Sir Karl, hastily.
Hewitt did not evince any surprise whatever at the implied suggestion. It seemed to be rather the contrary.
"I have fancied that my mistress had some embarrassment5 on her mind, sir, such as debt might cause," was the rejoinder, much to Karl's astonishment6. "I have fancied her money goes somewhere--though I should never hint at such a thing to anybody but you, sir; nor to you if you had not asked me. Perhaps Sir Adam left some debts behind him."
"No, he did not, Hewitt. Any debts left by Sir Adam would have been paid out of the estate before it came to me. Plunkett and Plunkett informed me at once that there were no debts at all: except the costs of the trial."
"Then it must be some that have cropped up since: that is, the claim for them," surmised7 Hewitt. "It is what I've thought myself, Sir Karl."
"But why have you thought it?"
"Well, sir, one can't help one's thoughts," answered Hewitt, falling away from the question--but not intentionally8. "One evening, sir, when my mistress seemed fit to die with trouble, I asked her if anything had happened to vex9 her: and she answered--after looking at me sternly in silence--No, nothing fresh; only some sorrow of a good many years ago. It was the evening after that gentleman called, Sir Karl: a gentleman who came and stayed with her ever so long."
"What gentleman?" asked Karl.
"Some stranger, sir; I didn't know him. He came up to the house and asked for Mrs. Andinnian. I told him (they were my general orders) that Mrs. Andinnian was not well enough to see visitors. Oh, indeed, he said, and asked to come in and write a note. I was standing10 by when he began to write it, and he ordered me to the other end of the room: I suppose he feared I might look over. It seemed to me that he wrote but one or two words, Sir Karl; not more: quite in a minute the paper was folded and sealed--for he told me to light the taper11. 'There,' said he, 'take that to Mrs. Andinnian: I think she'll see me.' My mistress was very angry when I took it to her, asking why I disobeyed orders; but when she opened it, her face went deadly white, and she bade me show the gentleman up to her sitting-room12. He was there about two hours, sir."
Karl thought this rather strange. "What sort of man was he, Hewitt?"
"A well-dressed gentleman, sir; tall. He had had a hurt to his left arm, and wore it in a black silk sling13. When he took it out of the sling to seal the note, he could hardly use it at all. It was that same evening after he had been, sir, that my mistress seemed so full of trouble: a great deal more so than usual."
"Did you hear his name?"
"No, sir, I didn't hear his name. A tray of luncheon14 was ordered up for him; and by the little that I heard said when I took it in and fetched it away, I gathered that he was a gentleman applying for the agency of your estate."
"But I do not require an agent," cried Karl in some wonder.
"Well, sir, I'm sure that's what the gentleman was talking of. And my mistress afterwards said a word or two to me about the place being neglected now Sir Karl was absent, and she thought she should appoint an agent to look after it."
"But the place is not neglected," reiterated15 Karl. "How long was this ago?"
"About three weeks, Sir Karl. I've not heard anything of it since, or seen the gentleman. But my mistress seems to have some secret care or uneasiness, apart from the death of Sir Adam. She seems always to be in an inward worry--and you know how different from that she used to be. It has struck me, Sir Karl, that perhaps that stranger came to prefer some claims left by Sir Adam."
Karl did not think this likely, and said so. But neither of them could be at any certainty.
"I wish you would write to me from time to time during my absence, Hewitt, and let me know how my mother is," resumed Karl, dropping the unsatisfactory subject.
"And that I will with pleasure, Sir Karl, if you will furnish me with an address to write to."
"And be sure, Hewitt, that you send to me in any trouble or sickness. I wish my poor mother's life was a less lonely one!"
Hewitt shook his head as he left the room. He felt sure that his mistress would never more allow her life to be anything but a lonely one: the light of it had gone out of it for ever with her beloved son.
Sir Karl went up to his chamber16 shortly. Before he had well closed his door, a maid knocked at it, and said Mrs. Andinnian wished to see him. Karl had supposed his mother to be in bed: instead of that, he found her standing by the fire in her little sitting-room, and not undressed.
"Shut the door, Karl," she said--and he saw that her face was working with some painful emotion. "I have been debating a question with myself the better part of this evening, down stairs and up--whether or no I shall disclose to you the trouble that is upon us: and I have resolved to do so. Of two evils, it may, perhaps, be the least."
"I am very glad indeed, my mother."
"Hush17!" she solemnly said, lifting a warning hand. "Speak not before you know. Glad! It has been consideration for you, Sir Karl," she added, in that stern and distant tone that so pained him, "that has alone kept me silent. You have no doubt been thinking me unnaturally18 cold and reserved; but my heart has been aching. Aching for you. If I have not loved you with the passionate19 love I bore for your poor brother--and oh, Karl, he was my firstborn!--I have not been so neglectful of you as you may imagine. In striving to keep you away from Foxwood, I was but anxious that your peace should not be imperilled earlier than it was obliged to be."
"Let me hear it mother. I can bear it, I daresay."
"You may bear it, Karl. A man can bear most things. But, my son, I dread20 to tell it you. You will regard it as an awful calamity21, a frightful22 perplexity, and your spirit may faint under it."
Karl smiled sadly. "Mother, after the calamities23 I have undergone within the past year I do not think Fate can have any worse in store for me."
"Wait--and judge. Your anger will naturally fall on me, Karl, as the chief author of it. Blame me, my son, to your heart's content: it is my just due. I would soften24 the story to you if I knew how: but it admits not of softening25. What is done cannot be undone26."
Mrs. Andinnian rose, opened the door, looked up and down the corridor, shut it again, and bolted it. "I do not need to fear eaves-droppers in the house," she observed, "and the doors are thick: but this secret is as a matter of life or death. Sit down there, Karl,"--pointing to a chair opposite her own.
"I would rather stand, mother."
"Sit down," she reiterated: and Karl took his elbow from the
mantel-piece, and obeyed her. He did not seem very much impressed with what he was about to hear: at least not to the extent that her preparation seemed to justify27. Each leaned forward, looking at the other. Mrs. Andinnian had her arms on the elbows of her chair; Karl's were crossed.
"First of all, Karl, you will take an oath, a solemn vow28 to God, that you will never disclose this secret to any human being without my consent."
"Is this necessary, mother?"
"It is necessary for you and for me," she sharply answered, as if the question vexed29 her. "I tell you nothing unless you do."
Karl rose, and took the oath. Resuming his seat as before, he waited.
No, she could not say it. They sat, gazing at each other, she in agitation30, he in expectancy31; and for a minute or two she literally32 could not say what she had to say. It came forth33 at last. Only four words.
Only four words. But Karl Andinnian as he heard them sprang up with a cry: almost as the ill-fated man Martin Scott had sprung, when shot to death by his brother.
"Mother! This cannot be true!"
Mrs. Andinnian went over to him and pushed him gently into his chair. "Hush, Karl; make no noise," she soothingly34 whispered. "It would not do, you see, for the household to be alarmed."
He looked up at his mother with a kind of frightened gaze. She turned away and resumed her seat. Karl sat still, tumultuous ideas crowding on him one after another.
"You should have disclosed this to me before I engaged myself to marry," he cried at last with a burst of emotion.
"But don't you see, Karl, I did not know of your intended marriage. It is because you have informed me of it to-night that I disclose it now."
"Would you have kept it from me always?"
"That could not have been. You must have heard it some time. Listen, Karl: you shall have the story from beginning to end."
It was one o'clock in the morning, before Karl Andinnian quitted his mother's room. His face seemed to have aged35 years. Any amount of perplexity he could have borne for himself, and borne it calmly; but he did not know how to grapple with this. For what had been disclosed to him ought to do away with his proposed marriage.
He did not attempt to go to bed. The whole of the rest of the night he paced his room, grievously tormented36 as to what course he should take. The wind, howling and raging around the house--for it was one of the most turbulent of nights--seemed but an index of his turbulent mind. He knew that in honour he was bound to disclose the truth to Colonel Cleeve and Lucy; but this might not be. Not only was he debarred by his oath; but the facts themselves did not admit of disclosure. In the confusion of his mind he said to his mother, "May I not give a hint of this to Lucy Cleeve, and let her then take me or leave me?" and Mrs. Andinnian had replied by demanding whether he was mad. In truth, it would have been nothing short of madness.
What to do? what to do? In dire37 distress38 Karl Andinnian strode the carpet as he asked it. He might make some other excuse, if indeed he could invent one, and write to break off the marriage--for, break it off to their faces he could not. But, what would be the effect on Lucy? Colonel Cleeve had not concealed39 that they gave her to him to save her life. Were he to abandon her in this cowardly and heartless manner, now at the eleventh hour, when they were literally preparing the meats for the breakfast table, when Lucy's wedding lobe40 and wreath were spread out ready to be worn, it might throw her back again to worse than before, and verily and indeed kill her. It was a dilemma41 that has rarely fallen on man. Karl Andinnian was as honest and honourable42 a man as any in this world, and he could see no way out of it: no opening of one. He might not impart to them so much as a hint of the dreadful secret; neither could he inflict43 the stab that might cost Lucy's life: on the other hand, to make Lucy his wife, knowing what he now knew, would be dishonour44 unutterable. What was he to do? What was he to do? There was absolutely no loophole of escape, no outlet45 on either side.
Karl Andinnian knelt down and prayed. Man, careless, worldly man, rarely does these things. He did. In his dire distress he prayed to be guided to the right. But all the uncertainty46 came back as he rose up again, and he could not see his course at all. Very shortly Hewitt knocked at his door: saying it was time for Sir Karl to get up, if he would catch the passing train. When Sir Karl came forth Hewitt thought how very quickly he had dressed.
"It is a rough morning, sir," said Hewitt, as he opened the hall door.
"Ay, I can hear that. Farewell, Hewitt."
Delayed a tide by the non-controllable winds and waves, Sir Karl reached Paris only on the evening of the eleventh. He drove at once from the station to the Avenue d'Antin, and asked to see Lucy in private. Torn by conflicting interests, he had at length resolved to sacrifice his own sense of honour to Lucy's life. At least, if she should not decide against it.
She was looking radiant. She told him (in a jest) that they had considered him lost, that all had prophesied47 he had decamped and deserted48 her. Karl's smile in answer to this was so faint, his few words were so spiritless and subdued49, that Lucy, a little sobered, asked whether anything was the matter. They were standing on the hearth-rug: Karl a few steps apart from her.
"What should you say if I had deserted you, Lucy?"
"I should just have said Bon voyage, monsieur," she answered gaily50, never believing the question had a meaning.
"Lucy, my dear, this is no time for jesting. I have come back with a great care upon me. It is a fact, believe it or not as you will, that I had at one time determined51 to desert you: to write and give you up."
There was no immediate52 answer, and Karl turned his eyes on her. The words told home. Her blanched53 face had a great terror dawning on it.
"Sit down, Lucy, while you listen to me," he said, placing her in a chair. "I must disclose somewhat of this to you, but it cannot be much."
Remaining standing himself, he told her what he could. It was a most arduous54 task to speak at all, from the difficulties that surrounded it. A great and unexpected misfortune had fallen upon him, he said; one that from its nature he might not further allude55 to. It would take away a good deal of his substance; it ought in short to debar his marriage with her. He went on to tell of the conflict he had passed through, as to whether he should quit her or not, and of his final resolve to disclose so much to her, and to leave with her the decision. If she decided56 against him, he would invent some other plea to Colonel and Mrs. Cleeve for breaking off the marriage; or let the act appear to come from her, as she should will. If she decided for him, why then----
"Tell me one thing, Karl," she said as he broke down. "Has this matter had its rise in any dishonour or ill-doing of yours?"
"No," was the emphatic57 rejoinder. "I am as innocent in it, and until a day or two ago, was as unconscious of it as you can be. You need not fear that, Lucy."
"Then on your part you need not have doubted me, Karl," she said, the glad tears rising to her eyes with the intensity58 of her relief. "It was cruel of you to think of a separation now. I am yours."
"Lucy, look fully59 into the future. At least as fully as these indefinite words of mine will admit of. I hope--I trust--that no further complication may come of it; that it may be never known
to the world. But it may, and probably will, be otherwise. A great calamity may fall upon us; in the world's eyes we should both be dishonoured--dishonoured, Lucy; I through others, you through me."
"I am yours; yours for all time," was the reiterated answer.
"Very well, Lucy. So be it. But, my darling, if that blow should fall, you may repent60 of your marriage with me. I know your parents would repent it for you."
"Hush, Karl!" she whispered, rising from her seat to the arms opening to receive her. " I repent? That can never be. My dearest friend, my almost husband, I am yours for weal or for woe61. Have you forgotten the vows62 I shall take to you to-morrow in the sight of God? For richer for poorer, for better for worse."
"God bless you, Lucy! May God bless and protect us both." And as Sir Karl held her to him, his frame shook with its own emotion, and a scalding tear fell on her face from an aching heart.
The second week in March, just as nearly as possible a month after the marriage, Sir Karl Andinnian received at Florence, where he and his wife were staying, a telegram from Hewitt at Foxwood. It stated that Mrs. Andinnian was ill with some kind of fever; it had taken a dangerous turn, and her life might be a question of a few hours.
As quickly as it was practicable for them to travel, Sir Karl and Lady Andinnian reached Paris. Mrs. Cleeve and Miss Blake were still there; the Colonel was in London. The Cleeves had let their house at Winchester, and could not yet get back to it. Sir Karl left Lucy with her mother: not daring, as he said, to take her on to Foxwood, lest the fever should be infectious. The change in Lucy was wonderful: her cheeks were plump and rosy63, her eyes told their own unmistakable tale of happiness. Mrs. Cleeve could do nothing but look at her.
"We did well to give her to him," said she to Theresa. But, for answer, Miss Blake only drew in her lips. The sting had not left her.
"O Karl, my darling, don't stay long away from me!" whispered Lucy, clinging to him in the moment of his departure. "And be sure take care of yourself, Karl, and do not run any risk, if you can help it, of the fever."
With many a sweet word of reassurance64, murmured between his farewell kisses of passionate tenderness, Karl answered her. To part with one another, even for this short and temporary space of time, seemed a great trial.
A change for the better had taken place in Mrs. Andinnian, when Karl arrived at Foxwood. She was in no immediate danger. Mr. Moore, the surgeon at Foxwood, informed him that he must not trust to this improvement. The fever had in a degree subsided65, but her state of prostration66 was so great that he feared she might yet die of the weakness. Karl inquired the nature of the illness: Mr. Moore replied that it was a species of low fever more than anything else, and appeared to have been induced chiefly by the sad state of mind Mrs. Andinnian had been brought into, grieving over the fate of her elder son. Dr. Cavendish of Basham (the neighbouring market town) had attended regularly with Mr. Moore. Sir Karl at once telegraphed to London for a physician of world-wide reputation. When this great doctor arrived, he only confirmed the treatment and opinion of the other two; and said that nothing could well be more uncertain than the recovery of Mrs. Andinnian.
Karl wrote these various items of information to his wife in Paris, and showed her how impossible it was that he could quit his mother during the uncertainty. Lucy replied by saying she should think very ill of him if he could; but she begged him to allow her to come to Foxwood and help him in the nursing, saying she was not afraid of the fever. She added a pretty and affectionate message to Mrs. Andinnian that she would find in her a loving daughter. The same post brought Karl a letter from Mrs. Cleeve, who evidently was afraid of the fever. " Do you take precautions for yourself, dear Sir Karl, and do you fumigate67 all letters before you send them out?" Such was its chief burthen.
Karl believed there was no danger from the fever: but, alas68, he dared not have Lucy. He had reached Foxwood only to find more complication than ever in the unhappy secret disclosed to him by his mother. Only a word or two dropped by her--and in her weak, and sometimes semi-lucid state, he could not be sure she would not drop them--and Lucy might know as much as he did. Besides, there was no establishment at Foxwood sufficient to receive Lady Andinnian.
Hour after hour, day after day, he sat by his mother's bedside. When they were alone, she could only whisper of the trouble she had disclosed to him. Karl felt that it was wearing her out. He told her so, and she did not deny it. Never for a moment did she let the subject rest: it filled her mind to the exclusion69 of everything else in the world.
Karl felt that death would inevitably70 end it: and he watched her grow weaker. The strain upon his own mind was great. Brooding over the matter as he did--for, in truth, to think of any other theme was not practicable--he saw what a wrong he had committed in marrying Lucy. Sir Karl's only interludes of change lay in the visits of the medical men. Dr. Cavendish came once a day; Mr. Moore twice or thrice. The latter was rather brusque in his manner, but kindly71, keen, and sensible. He was plain, with a red face and nose that turned up; and brown hair tinged72 with grey. The more Karl saw of him, the more he liked him: and he felt sure he was clever in his calling.
"It is a great misfortune that Mrs. Andinnian should have taken poor Sir Adam's death so much to heart," Mr. Moore one day observed to Karl, when he found his patient exhausted73, restless, in all ways worse. "While she cultivates this unhappy frame of mind, we can do nothing for her."
"Her love for my brother was a great love, Mr. Moore; quite passing the ordinary love of mothers."
"No doubt of that. Still, Sir Karl, it is not right to let regret for his death kill her."
Karl turned the conversation. He knew how wrong were the surgeon's premises74. Her regret for his brother's death had been terrible: but it was not that that was killing75 Mrs. Andinnian.
The days went on, Mrs. Andinnian growing weaker and weaker. Her mind had regained76 unfortunately all its activity: unfortunately because she had not strength of body to counterbalance its workings. Karl had a great deal to do for her: consultations77 to hold with her and letters to write; but even yet he was not admitted to her full confidence. During that night's interview with her, when he had learned so much, he had enquired78 who the gentleman was that had called and taken luncheon. Mrs. Andinnian had declined to answer him, further than it was a Mr. Smith who had applied79 for the agency of Sir Karl's estate. Hewitt informed him that Mr. Smith had called again the very day succeeding Sir Karl's departure. He had held a long interview with Mrs. Andinnian, and she had never been well since that hour.
It was very strange: strange altogether. Karl now found out that Mr. Smith had been appointed the agent, and had had a house side by side with Foxwood Court assigned to him as his residence. The information nearly struck Karl dumb. He felt sure there was more behind, some inexplicable80 cause for this: but no more satisfactory explanation could he obtain from his mother. " She was ill, he was going to live abroad, therefore it was necessary some responsible person should be on the spot to look after things," was all she said. And Mr. Smith arrived at Foxwood and took up his abode81: and Sir Karl did not dare to forbid it.
To Karl's intense surprise, the next letter he had from his wife was dated London. They had left Paris and come over. With his whole heart Karl hoped they would not be coming to Foxwood; and in his answering letter he talked a good deal about the "fever."
As to himself, he was wearing to a shadow. One might surely have thought he had a fever, and a wasting one. In writing to Mrs. Cleeve he admitted he was not well; and she wrote him back four pages full of instructions for fumigation82, and beseeching83 him not to come to them. There is nothing like trouble to wear out a man.
The event that had been prognosticated by the doctors and feared by Karl took place--Mrs. Andinnian died. In the midst of praying for a few days' longer life, she died. Only a few days, had run her incessant84 prayer; a few days! Karl's anguish85, what with the death, and what with the weight of other things, seemed more than he could bear. Mrs. Andinnian's grave was made close to that of her son Adam: and the funeral was a very quiet one.
Karl remained at Foxwood, ostensibly fumigating86 the house and himself preparatory to joining his wife in town. He looked as much like a skeleton as a man. Mr. Moore noticed it, and asked what was coming to him.
One day Mr. Smith, the agent, called, and was shown in to Sir Karl. The interview lasted about twenty minutes, and then the bell was rung.
"Is the gentleman going to remain here as your agent, sir?" enquired Hewitt, with the familiarity of an old servant, when he had closed the door on the guest.
"Why, yes, Hewitt, while I am away. My mother appointed him. She thought it better some one should be here to act for me--and I suppose it is right that it should be so."
Freely and lightly spoke Karl. But in good truth Mr. Smith fairly puzzled him. He knew no more who he was or whence he came than he had known before; though he did now know what his business was at Foxwood. Mr. Smith's conversation during the interview had turned on the Foxwood estate: but he must have been aware Sir Karl saw all the while that his agency was only a blind--a blind to serve as a pretext87 for his residence at Foxwood. The two were playing a shallow part of pretence88 with one another. Mrs. Andinnian had fixed89 the amount of salary he was to receive, and Sir Karl meant to continue the payment of it. Why?--the reader may ask. Because Sir Karl dared not refuse; for the man knew too much of Mrs. Andinnian's dangerous secret: and it lay in his power to render it more dangerous still.
At length Sir Karl went up to London to rejoin his wife. Lucy gave a startled cry when she saw him--he was looking so ill; and Mrs. Cleeve accused him of having had the fever. Karl turned it off lightly: it was nothing, he said, but the confinement90 to his mother's sick-room.
But Miss Blake, who was growing very keen in her propensity91 for making the world better than it is, could not understand two things. Why Karl need have lingered so long at Foxwood, or why he could not have had his wife there.
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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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impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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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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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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surmised
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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intentionally
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vex
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| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
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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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taper
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| n.小蜡烛，尖细，渐弱；adj.尖细的；v.逐渐变小 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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sling
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| vt.扔；悬挂；n.挂带；吊索，吊兜；弹弓 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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unnaturally
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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dread
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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calamities
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| n.灾祸，灾难( calamity的名词复数 )；不幸之事 | |
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soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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expectancy
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| n.期望，预期，（根据概率统计求得）预期数额 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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lobe
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| n.耳垂，（肺，肝等的）叶 | |
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dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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prophesied
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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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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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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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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blanched
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| v.使变白( blanch的过去式 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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arduous
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| adj.艰苦的，费力的，陡峭的 | |
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allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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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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emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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reassurance
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| n.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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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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prostration
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| n. 平伏, 跪倒, 疲劳 | |
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fumigate
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| v.烟熏；用香薰 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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exclusion
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| n.拒绝，排除，排斥，远足，远途旅行 | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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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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tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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consultations
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| n.磋商（会议）( consultation的名词复数 )；商讨会；协商会；查找 | |
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enquired
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| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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81
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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fumigation
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| n.烟熏，熏蒸；忿恨 | |
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beseeching
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| adj.恳求似的v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的现在分词 ) | |
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incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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fumigating
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| v.用化学品熏（某物）消毒( fumigate的现在分词 ) | |
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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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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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confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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propensity
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| n.倾向；习性 | |
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