Never had poor Lucy Andinnian felt the estrangement2 from her husband so cruelly as now. At first the excitement of resentment3 had kept her up, and the sojourn4 of her father and mother, together with the almost daily gaiety, had served to take her out of herself: it was only at night during the lonely hours, when trouble prevented sleep, that she had felt its keenest sting. But now: now when she and Karl were alone, save for Miss Blake: when she sat in her lonely room hour after hour, and had leisure to realize her true position, Lucy gave way to all the abandonment of grief her trial brought. It was indeed a bitter one; a fiery5 trial: and when she looked back to it in after days, she could never imagine how she had contrived7 to bear it.
Love is an all-powerful master: an overfilling tyrant8. In the first torments9 of awakened10 jealousy11, it is all very well to take refuge in revengeful anger, and snap our fingers metaphorically12 at the beloved one, and say he may go promener. The reaction comes. Jealousy, alas13, does not tend to extinguish love, but rather to increase it. Lucy Andinnian found it so to her cost. Her love for Karl had in no whit14 abated15: and the very fact of knowing he paid these stolen night visits to the Maze16, while it tortured her jealousy, in no way diminished her love. She was growing pale and thin; she questioned whether she had done wisely in undertaking17 this most cruel task of bearing in silence and patience, hoping it might bring him back to his true allegiance; for she knew not whether she could endure on to the end.
There were moments when in her desolation she almost wished she was reconciled to her husband on any terms, even to the extent of condoning18 the wrong and the evil. The strict reader must pardon her, for she was very desolate19. The idea always went away at once, and she would arouse herself with a shiver. Perhaps, of all phases of the affair, the one that told most upon her, that she felt to be more humiliating than the rest, was the fact of its having been brought close to her home, to its very gates: and a thousand times she asked herself the ambiguous question--Why could not Sir Karl rid the Maze of its inmates20, and convey them to a distance?
She might have schooled her heart to care for Karl less had they been separated: he at the North Pole, say: she at the South. But they were living under the same roof, and met hourly. They went to church together, and paid visits with each other, and sat at the same breakfast and dinner tables. For their public intercourse21 was so conducted that no suspicion of the truth should get abroad, within doors or without. As to Karl, he was waiting on his side with what patience he might until his wife's mood should alter; in fact, he had no other alternative; but he treated her with the most anxious kindness and consideration. That she had taken the matter up with unjustifiable harshness, he thought; but he excused it, knowing himself to be the real culprit for having married her. And thus they went on; Lucy's spirit wounded to the core, and her anguished22 heart pining for the love that she believed was not hers.
She was sitting one Saturday evening under the acacia tree, in the delicate muslin she had worn in the day, when Karl came down from his dressing-room ready for dinner, and crossed the lawn to her. He had been to Basham, and she had not seen him since the morning.
"You are very pale, Lucy."
"My head aches badly: and it was so pleasant to remain here in the cool that I did not go in to dress," she said to him in a tone of apology.
"And why should you?" returned Karl. "That is as pretty a dress as any you have. What has given you the headache?"
"I--always have it now, more or less," had been on the tip of her tongue; but she broke off in time. "The heat, I think. I got very hot to-day, walking to Margaret Sumnor's."
"It is too hot for walking, Lucy. You should take the carriage."
"I don't like the parade of the carriage when I go to Margaret's."
"Would you like a little pony-chaise? I will buy you one if you----"
"No, thank you," she interrupted hastily, her tone a cold one. "I prefer to walk when I go about Foxwood. The heat will pass away sometime."
"You were saying the other day, Lucy, to some one who called, that you would like to read that new book on the Laplanders. I have been getting it for you."
He had a white paper parcel in his hand, undid24 it, and gave her a handsomely-bound volume. She felt the kindness, and her sad face flushed slightly.
"Thank you; thank you very much. It was good of you to think of me."
"And I have been subscribing25 to the Basham library, Lucy, and brought home the first parcel of books. It may amuse you to read them."
"Yes, I think it will. Thank you, Sir Karl."
She had never called him "Karl" when they were alone, since the explosion. Now and then occasionally before people, she did, especially before her father and mother. But he understood quite well that it was only done for appearance' sake.
The dinner hour was at hand, and they went in. Very much to the surprise of both, Mr. Cattacomb was in the drawing-room with Miss Blake. Lucy had neither heard nor seen him: but the acacia tree was out of sight of the front entrance.
"I have been telling Mr. Cattacomb--he came to me in the heat, on business of St. Jerome's--that you will be charitable enough to give him some dinner," said Miss Blake, introducing Mr. Cattacomb to Sir Karl in form--for it was the first time he had met that reverend man. Of course Karl could only return a civil answer; but he had not been at all anxious for the acquaintanceship of Mr. Cattacomb, and was determined27 not to treat him precisely28 as though he had been an invited guest.
"I think you may perhaps prefer to take in your friend Miss Blake, as Lady Andinnian is a stranger to you," he said, when Hewitt announced dinner. "We are not on ceremony now."
And Sir Karl caught his wife's hand within his. "I was not going to leave you to him, Lucy," he whispered.
So they went parading in to dinner arm-in-arm, this estranged29 man and wife, brushing past Hewitt and the tall new footman, who wore powdered hair.
"It is just as though he did care for me!" thought Lucy, glancing at her husband as he placed her in her seat at the table's head.
Mr. Cattacomb and Miss Blake, seated opposite each other, talked a great deal, Karl scarcely at all. When alone, the dinners at the Court were simply served, Sir Karl carving30. He was attentive31 to his impromptu32 guest, and sent him of the best: but he thought he had never in all his life been in company with so affected33 and vain a man as that belauded clergyman. Once, with the fish before him, Karl fell into a reverie. He woke up with a start, looking about him like a man bewildered.
"Some more fish, Lucy, my darling?"
Lucy's plate had gone away long before. They all saw that he had been, so to speak, unconscious of what he said. He rallied then; and did not lose himself again.
Dinner over, Mr. Cattacomb, making an apology, hurried away for some slight service at St. Jerome's, Miss Blake accompanying him as a matter of course. Lucy disappeared: and Karl, thus abandoned, went to his smoking-room. Not to smoke; but to muse26 upon the acute angles of his position--as he was too much given to do. Karl Andinnian was as a man in a net: as things looked at present, there seemed to be no chance of freedom from it, no hope of it at present or in the future. And his ill-fated brother again! The past night he, Karl, had dreamt one of those ugly dreams. He thought he saw Adam fleeing from his pursuers; a number of them, and they all looked like warders of Portland Prison. Panting, crying, Adam rushed in, seized hold of Karl, and begged him, as he valued salvation34 hereafter, to hide and save him. But the warders burst in and surrounded them. Poor Karl woke up as usual in fright and agony. This dream had been recurring35 to his mind all day: it was very vivid now in the silent evening hour after sunset.
"I'd give my life to place him in safety," ran his thoughts. "Not much of a gift, either, for I verily believe this constant, distressing36 suspense37 will kill me. If he were but safe in some distant land! He might--Why, what is Lucy doing?"
Opposite this south window there was a beautiful vista38 through the trees of the grounds beyond. Sir Karl had seen his wife running swiftly from one walk to another, and suddenly stoop--as he fancied. Looking still, he found she did not get up again.
"She must have fallen," he exclaimed, and rushed out.
He was with her in a minute. She was getting up after her fall, but her ankle felt intolerably painful. Karl was very tender: he had her in his arms, and took her to a leafy arbour close by. There he put her to sit down, and held her to him for support.
"I have twisted my ankle," she said. "It's nothing."
But the tears of pain stood in her eyes. He soothed39 her as he would have soothed her in the bygone days; holding her in his firm protection, whispering terms of sweet endearment40. What with the ankle's sharp twinges, what with his loving words, and what with her chronic41 state of utter wretchedness, poor Lucy burst into sobs42, and sobbed43 them out upon his breast.
"My darling! The ankle is giving you pain."
"The ankle's nothing," she said. "It will soon be well." But she lay there still and sobbed pitiably. He waited in silence until she should grow calmer, his arm round her. A distant nightingale was singing its love-song.
"Lucy," began Karl, then, "I would ask you--now that we seem to be for the moment alone with the world and each other--whether there is any sense in living in the way we do? Is there any happiness for either of us? I want you to forgive all, and be reconciled: I want you to see the matter in its proper light, apart from prejudice. The past is past and cannot be recalled: but it leaves no just reason in the sight of God or man for our living in estrangement."
Her head was hidden against him still. She did not lift her eyes as she whispered her answer.
"Is there no reason for it now, Karl? Now, at the present time. None?"
"No. As I see it, NO; on my word of honour as a gentleman. The notion you have taken up is an unsound and utterly44 mistaken one. You had grave cause to complain: granted: to resent; I admit it all: but surely it was not enough to justify45 the rending46 asunder47 of man and wife. The past cannot be undone--Heaven knows I would undo48 it if I could. But there is no just cause for your visiting the future upon me in this way, and making us both pay a heavy penalty. Won't you forgive and forget? Won't you be my own dear wife again? Oh, Lucy, I am full of trouble, and I want your sympathy to lighten it."
Her whole heart yearned49 to him. He drew her face to his and kissed her lips with the sweetest kisses. In the bliss50 and rest that the reconciliation51 brought to her spirit, Lucy momentarily forgot all else. Her kisses met his; her tears wet his cheeks. What with one emotion and another--pain, anguish23, grief and bliss, the latter uppermost--poor Lucy felt faint. The bitter past was effaced52 from her memory: the change seemed like a glimpse of Paradise. It all passed in a moment, or so, of time.
"Oh, Karl, I should like to be your wife again!" she confessed. "The estrangement we are living in is more cruel for me than for you. Shall it be so?"
"Shall it!" repeated Karl. "Is there need to ask me, Lucy?"
"It lies with you."
"With me! Why, how? How does it lie with me? You know, my darling----"
A slight ruffle53, as if some one were brushing past the shrubs54 in the opposite path, caused Sir Karl to withdraw his arm from his wife. Miss Blake came up: a note in her hand. Sir Karl politely, in thought, wished Miss Blake at York.
"As I was coming in, Sir Karl, I overtook a woman with this note, which she was bringing you. It was the servant at the Maze--or some one very like her."
Miss Blake looked full at Sir Karl as she spoke55, wishing no doubt that looks were daggers56. She had added the little bit of information, as to the messenger, for Lucy's especial benefit. Karl thanked her coolly, and crushed the note, unopened, into his pocket. Lucy, shy, timid Lucy, was limping away. Miss Blake saw something was wrong and held out her arm.
"What is the matter, Lucy? You are in pain! You have been crying!"
"I slipped and hurt my ankle, Theresa. It was foolish to cry, though. The pain is much less already."
Miss Blake helped her indoors in lofty silence. Anything like the contempt she felt for the weakness of Lucy Andinnian, she perhaps had never felt for any one before in all her life. Not for the weakness of crying at a hurt: though that was more befitting a child than a woman: but for the reprehensible57 weakness she was guilty of in living on terms of affection with her husband. "Must even sit in a garden arbour together hand in hand, listening to the nightingales," shrieked58 Miss Blake mentally, with rising hair. "And yet--she knows what I disclosed to her!"
The note was from Mrs. Grey. Had Miss Blake herself presided at its opening, she could not reasonably have found fault with it. Mrs. Grey presented her compliments to Sir Karl Andinnian, and would feel obliged by his calling to see her as soon as convenient, as she wished to speak with him on a little matter of business concerning the house.
There was nothing more. But Karl knew, by the fact of her venturing on the extreme step of writing to the Court, that he was wanted at the Maze for something urgent. It was several days since he had been there: for he could not divest59 himself of the feeling that some one of these nightly visits of his, more unlucky than the rest, might bring on suspicion and betrayal. To his uneasy mind there was danger in every surrounding object. The very sound of the wind in the trees seemed to whisper it to him as he passed; hovering60 shades of phantom61 shape glanced out to his fancy from the hedges.
He stayed a short while pacing his garden, and then went indoors. It was getting dusk. Miss Blake had her things off and was alone in the drawing-room. The tea waited on the table.
"Where's Lucy?" he asked.
"She went to her room to have her ankle seen to. I would have done anything for her, but she declined my services."
Karl knocked at his wife's little sitting-room62 door, and entered. She was leaning on the window-sill, and said her ankle felt much better
after the warm water, and since Aglaé had bound it up. Karl took her hand.
"We were interrupted, Lucy, when I was asking an important question," he began--"for indeed I think I must have misunderstood you. How does the putting an end to our estrangement lie with me?"
"It does lie with you, Karl," she answered, speaking feelingly and pleasantly, not in the cold tone of reserve she had of late maintained when they were alone. "The estrangement is miserable63 for me; you say it is for you; and the efforts we have to make, to keep up the farce64 before the household and the world, make it doubly miserable for both of us. We cannot undo our marriage: but to continue to live as we are living is most unsatisfactory and deplorable."
"But it is you who insisted on living so, Lucy--to my surprise and pain."
"Could I do otherwise?" she rejoined. "It is a most unhappy business altogether: and at times I am tempted65 to wish that it had been always kept from me. As you say--and I am willing to believe you, and do believe you--the past is past: but you know how much of the consequences remain. It seems to me that I must give way a little: perhaps, having taken my vows66 as your wife, it may be what I ought to do; a duty even in God's sight."
"Do you recollect67 your words to me on the eve of our wedding-day, Lucy, when I was speaking of the possibility that a deeper blow might fall: one that would dishonour68 us both in the world's eyes, myself primarily, you through me, and cause you to repent69 of our union? You should never repent, you said; you took me for richer for poorer, for better or for worse."
"But I did not know the blow would be of this kind," murmured Lucy. "Still, I will do as you wish me--forget and forgive. At least if I cannot literally71 forget, for that would not be practicable, it shall be as though I did, for I will never allude72 to it by word or deed. That will be my concession73, Karl. You must make one on your side."
"Willingly. What is it?"
"Clear the Maze immediately of its tenants74."
He gave a slight start, knitting his brow. Lucy saw the proposal was unpalatable.
"Their being there is an insult to me, Karl," she softly said, as if beseeching75 the boon76. "You must get them away."
"I cannot, Lucy," he answered, his face wrung77 with pain. "I wish I could! Don't you understand that I have no control over this?"
"I think I understand," she said, her manner growing cold. "You have said as much before. Why can you not? It seems to me, if things be as you intimate, that the matter would be easily accomplished78. You need only show firmness."
He thought haw little she understood. But he could not bear to enlarge upon it, and said nothing.
"There are houses enough, and to spare, in the world, Karl."
"Plenty of them."
"Then why not let the Maze be left?"
"More things than one are against it, Lucy. There are wheels within wheels," he added, thinking of Smith the mysterious agent. "One great element against it is the risk--the danger."
"Danger of exposure, do you mean?"
"Of discovery. Yes."
Never had Karl Andinnian and his wife been so near coming to an enlightenment on the misunderstanding that lay between them and their peace. It passed off--just as many another good word passes off, unsaid, in life.
"My hands are tied, Lucy. If wishing the Maze empty would effect it, it would be vacant to-morrow. I can do nothing."
"I understand," she said bitterly, even as she had said once before, all the old resentful indignation rising up within her. "I understand, Sir Karl. There are complications, entanglements79; and you cannot free yourself from them."
"Precisely so."
" Is the sin of the past?" she asked with flashing eyes and a rising colour; her voice betraying her frame of mind. He gazed at her, unable to understand.
"Why of course it is past, Lucy. What can you mean?"
"Oh, you know, you know. Never mind. We must go on again as we have been going on."
"No, Lucy."
"YES, Sir Karl. As long as those people remain in the Maze, tacitly to insult me, I will never be more to you than I am now."
It was a strangely harsh decision; and one he could not account for. He asked for her reasons in detail, but she would not give any. All she said further was, that if he felt dissatisfied, she could--and should--seek the protection of her father and declare the truth.
So they parted again as they had parted before. Hemmed80 in on all sides, afraid to move an inch to the left or the right, Karl could only submit; he could do nothing.
"I was charged by Miss Blake to tell you that tea is ready," he said, turning on his heel to quit the room.
"Ask her to send me a cup by Aglaé, please. I shall stay here to rest my ankle." And as Karl closed the door upon her, poor Lucy burst into a flood of tears, and sobbed as though her heart would break. Underlying81 all else in her mind was a keen sense of insult, of slight, of humiliation82: and she asked herself whether she ought to bear it.
Pacing the gravel83 path round the trees of the Maze after dark had fallen--as much dark as a summer's night ever gives us--were Karl Andinnian and Mrs. Grey. She, expecting him, went to wait for him just within the gate: as she did the evening Miss Blake had the satisfaction of watching and seeing. It was a still, hot night, and Mrs. Grey proposed that they should walk round the outer circle once, before going in: for she had things to say to him.
"Why have you 'kept away these last few days, Karl?" she asked, taking the arm he offered her. "Adam has been so vexed84 and impatient over it: but I should not have ventured to write to you for only that--I hope you were not angry with me."
He told her he was not angry. He told her why he had kept away--that an instinct warned him it might be imprudent to come in too often. It seemed to him, he added, that the very hedges had eyes to watch him. She shivered a little, as though some chill of damp had struck her; and proceeded to relate what she had to say.
By a somewhat singular coincidence, a copy of the same newspaper that contained the mysterious paragraph had been bought at the little newsvendor's in Foxwood by Ann Hopley, who was fond of reading the news when her day's work was over. She saw the paragraph, took alarm, and showed it to her master and mistress.
"It has nearly frightened me to death, Karl," said Mrs. Grey. "The paper was a week old when Ann bought it: and I am glad it was, or I should have been living upon thorns longer than I have been."
He told her that he had seen it. And he did what he could to reassure85
her, saying it was probably but an unmeaning assertion, put in from
dearth86 of news.
"That is just what Mr. Smith says," she replied. "He thinks it is from the brain of some poor penny-a-liner."
"Mr. Smith!" exclaimed Karl. "How do you know?"
"Adam would see him about it, and I sent for him. He, Smith, says there's nothing for it now but staying here; and Adam seems to be of the same opinion."
"Were you present at their interview?"
"No. I never am. The man is keeping us here for purposes of his own. I feel sure of it. He has been a good friend to us in many ways: I don't know what we should have done without him; but it is his fault that we are staying on here."
"Undoubtedly87 it is."
"Adam is just as careless and gay as ever in manner, but I think the announcement in the newspaper has made him secretly uneasy. He is not well to-night."
"What is the matter with him?"
"It is some inward pain: he has complained of it more than once lately. And he has been angry and impatient of an evening because you did not come. It is so lonely for him, you know."
"I do know it, Rose. Nothing brings me here at all but that."
"It was he who at last made me write to you to-day. I was not sorry to do it, for I had wanted to see you myself and to talk to you. I think I have discovered something that may be useful; at least that we may turn to use. First of all--Do you remember a year or two ago there was a public stir about one Philip Salter?"
"No. Who is Philip Salter?"
"Philip Salter committed a great crime: forgery88, I think: and he escaped from the hands of the police as they were bringing him to London by rail. I have nearly a perfect recollection of it," continued Mrs. Grey, "for my uncle and aunt took great interest in it, because they knew one of the people whom Salter had defrauded89. He was never retaken. At least, I never heard of it."
"How long ago was this?"
"More than two years. It was in spring-time, I think."
Karl Andinnian threw his recollection back. The name, Philip Salter, certainly seemed to begin to strike on some remote chord of his memory; but he had completely forgotten its associations.
"What of him, Rose?" he asked.
"This," she answered, her voice taking even a lower tone: "I should not be surprised if this Mr. Smith is the escaped man, Philip Salter! I think he may be."
"This man, Smith, Philip Salter!" exclaimed Karl. "But what grounds have you for thinking it?"
"I will tell you. When Mr. Smith came over a day or two ago, it was in the evening, growing dusk. Adam saw him in the upstairs room. They stood at the window--perhaps for the sake of the light, and seemed to be looking over some memorandum90 paper. I was walking about outside, and saw them. All at once something fell down from the window. I ran to pick it up, and found it was a pocket-book, lying open. Mr. Smith shouted out, 'Don't touch it, Mrs. Grey: don't trouble yourself,' and came rushing down the stairs. But I had picked it up, Karl; and I saw written inside it the name, Philip Salter. Without the least intention or thought of prying91, I saw it: 'Philip Salter.' Mr. Smith was up with me the next moment, and I gave him the pocket-book, closed:"
"His Christian92 name is certainly Philip," observed Karl after a pause of thought. "I have seen his signature to receipts for rent--'Philip Smith.' This is a strange thing, Rose."
"Yes--if it be true. While he is planted here, spying upon Adam, he may be hiding from justice himself, a criminal."
Karl was in deep thought. "Was the name in the pocket-book on the
fly-leaf, Rose--as though it were the owner's name?"
"I think so, but I cannot be sure. It was at the top of a leaf certainly. If we could but find it out--find that it is so, it might prove to be a way of release from him," she added; "I mean some way or other of release might come of it. Oh, and think of the blessing93 of feeling free! I am sure that, but for him, Adam would contrive6 to escape to a safer land."
There was no time to say more. The night was drawing on, and Karl had to go in to his impatient brother. Impatient! What should we have been in his place? Poor Adam Andinnian! In his banned, hidden, solitary94 days, what interlude had he to look forward to but these occasional visits from Karl?
"I will think it over, Rose, and try and find something out," said Karl as they went in. "Have you told Adam?"
"No. He is so hot and impulsive95, you know. I thought it best to speak to you first."
"Quite right. Say nothing to him at present."
In quitting the Maze that evening, Adam, in spite of all Karl could say or do, would walk with him to the gate: only laughing when Karl called it dangerous recklessness. There were moments when the same doubt crossed Karl's mind that had been once suggested to him by Mr. Plunkett--Was Adam always and altogether sane96? This moment, was one. He absolutely stood at the gate, talking and laughing in an undertone, as Karl went through it.
"Rubbish, Karlo, old fellow," said he to the last remonstrance97. "It's a dark night, and not a soul within miles of us. Besides, who knows me here?"
Karl had locked the gate and was putting the key in his pocket, when a sound smote98 his ear and he turned it to listen. The tramp, tramp, as of policemen walking with measured steps was heard, coming from the direction of the railway-station, and with it the scuffle and hum of a besetting99 crowd. It brought into his mind with a rush and a whirl that fatal night some twelve months before, when he had heard the tramp of policemen on the other side the hedge--and their prisoner, though he knew it not, was his brother, Adam Andinnian.
"Adam, do you hear!" he cried hoarsely100. "For the love of heaven, hide yourself." And Sir Adam disappeared in the Maze.
What with the past recollection, what with his brother's near presence, what with the approach of these police--as he took them to be--what with the apprehension101 ever overlying his heart, Karl was seized with a panic of terror. Were they coming in search of Adam? He thought so: and all the agony that he often went over in his dreams, he suffered now in waking reality. The hubbub102 of exposure; the public disgrace; the renewed hard life for him at Portland Island; even perhaps--Karl's imagination was vivid just then--the scaffold in the distance as an ending! These visions surging through his brain, Karl flew to the other side of the road--lest his being on the side of the Maze might bring suspicion on it--and then walked quietly to his own entrance gates. There he stood, and turned to await the event, his head beating, his pulses leaping.
With a relief that no tongue could express, Karl saw them pass the Maze and come onwards. Presently, in the night's imperfect light, he distinguished103 a kind of covered stretcher, or hand-barrow, borne by a policeman and other men, a small mob following.
"Is anything amiss!" he asked, taking a few steps into the road, and speaking in the quietest tones he could just then command.
"It's poor Whittle104, Sir Karl," replied the policeman--who knew him. There were a few scattered105 cottages skirting the wood beyond the Court, and Karl recognized the name, Whittle, as that of a man who lived in one of them and worked at the railway-station.
"Is he ill?" asked Karl.
"He is dead, Sir Karl. He was missed from his work in the middle of the afternoon and not found till an hour ago: there he was, stretched out in the field, dead. We got Mr. Moore round, and he thinks it must have been a sun-stroke."
"What a sad thing!" cried Karl, in his pitying accents. "Does his wife know?"
"We've sent on to prepare her, poor woman! There's four or five little children, Sir Karl, more's the pity!"
"Ay; I know there are some. Tell her I will come in and see her in the morning."
A murmur70 of approbation106 at the last words arose from the bystanders. It seemed to them an earnest that the new baronet, Sir Karl, would turn out to be a kind and considerate man; as good for them perhaps as Sir Joseph had been.
He listened to the tramp, tramp, until it had died away, and then turned in home with all his trouble and care: determined to search the newspapers--filed by Sir Joseph--before he went to rest, for some particulars of this Philip Salter.
"Oh that Adam were but safe in some less dangerous land!" was the refrain, ever eating itself into his brain.
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lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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estrangement
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| n.疏远，失和，不和 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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metaphorically
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| adv. 用比喻地 | |
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13
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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14
whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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abated
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| 减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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16
maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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17
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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18
condoning
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| v.容忍，宽恕，原谅( condone的现在分词 ) | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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20
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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21
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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22
anguished
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| adj.极其痛苦的v.使极度痛苦(anguish的过去式) | |
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23
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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24
Undid
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| v. 解开, 复原 | |
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25
subscribing
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| v.捐助( subscribe的现在分词 )；签署，题词；订阅；同意 | |
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26
muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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27
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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28
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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29
estranged
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| adj.疏远的，分离的 | |
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30
carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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31
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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impromptu
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| adj.即席的，即兴的；adv.即兴的(地)，无准备的(地) | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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34
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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35
recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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36
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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37
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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38
vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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39
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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40
endearment
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| n.表示亲爱的行为 | |
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41
chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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42
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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44
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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45
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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46
rending
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| v.撕碎( rend的现在分词 )；分裂；（因愤怒、痛苦等而）揪扯（衣服或头发等）；（声音等）刺破 | |
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47
asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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48
undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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51
reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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52
effaced
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| v.擦掉( efface的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；超越；使黯然失色 | |
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53
ruffle
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| v.弄皱，弄乱；激怒，扰乱；n.褶裥饰边 | |
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54
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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55
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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56
daggers
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| 匕首，短剑( dagger的名词复数 ) | |
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57
reprehensible
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| adj.该受责备的 | |
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58
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
divest
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| v.脱去，剥除 | |
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60
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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62
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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63
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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65
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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66
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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67
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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68
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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69
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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70
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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71
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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72
allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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73
concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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74
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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75
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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76
boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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77
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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78
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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79
entanglements
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| n.瓜葛( entanglement的名词复数 )；牵连；纠缠；缠住 | |
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80
hemmed
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| 缝…的褶边( hem的过去式和过去分词 )； 包围 | |
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81
underlying
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| adj.在下面的，含蓄的，潜在的 | |
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82
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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83
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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84
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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85
reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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86
dearth
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| n.缺乏，粮食不足，饥谨 | |
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87
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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88
forgery
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| n.伪造的文件等，赝品，伪造（行为） | |
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89
defrauded
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| v.诈取，骗取( defraud的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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90
memorandum
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| n.备忘录，便笺 | |
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91
prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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92
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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93
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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94
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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95
impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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96
sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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97
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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98
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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99
besetting
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| adj.不断攻击的v.困扰( beset的现在分词 )；不断围攻；镶；嵌 | |
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100
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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101
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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102
hubbub
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| n.嘈杂；骚乱 | |
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103
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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104
whittle
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| v.削（木头），削减；n.屠刀 | |
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105
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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106
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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