"What can be the matter with you, my dear?" questioned Mrs. Cleeve, seizing on the first opportunity that they were alone together.
"The matter with me, mamma!" returned Lucy, making believe not to understand why the question should be put: though her face flushed to hectic5. "Nothing is the matter with me."
"There most certainly is, Lucy; with your health or with your mind. You could not be as you are, or look as you do unless there were."
"I suffered a great deal from the heat," said poor Lucy.
"My dear--you are suffering from something else; and I think you should enlighten me as to its nature. After that fever even you did not look as you are looking now."
But not an iota6 of acknowledgment from her daughter could Mrs. Cleeve obtain. Lucy would not admit that aught was amiss in any way; at least, that she was conscious of it. Mrs. Cleeve next appealed to Miss Blake.
But that young lady, absorbed by her own pursuits and interests; by the Reverend Mr. Cattacomb and the duties at St. Jerome's, had really not been observant of Lucy's fading face. She could be regardful enough in a contemptuous sort of way of Sir Karl's delinquencies, and of what she looked upon as his wife's blind infatuation; she did not omit to note the signs of trouble and care too evidently apparent in him, and which she set down as the result of an uneasy conscience: but she had failed to note them in Lucy. One cause of this perhaps was, that in her presence Lucy invariably put on an air of lightness, not to say gaiety: and Miss Blake was rarely at home, except at meals; if she did get an hour there she was up to the ears in silks and church embroidery7. What with Matins and Vespers, and the other daily engagements at St. Jerome's; what with looking after St. Jerome's pastors8; what with keeping the young fry in order, including Tom Pepp, and seeing to the spiritual interests of their mothers, Miss Blake had so much on her hands that it was no wonder she was not very observant of Lucy.
"I do not think there is anything particular the matter with Lucy," was the answer she made to Mrs. Cleeve.
"You must see how ill she looks, Theresa."
"She is not ill. At least, that I know of. She eats her dinner, and dresses, and goes out, and has company at home. I really had not observed that she was looking ill."
"She talks of the heat," continued Mrs. Cleeve; "but that is all nonsense. Extreme heat may make a person thin, but it cannot make them sad and spiritless."
"Lucy is neither sad nor spiritless--that I have noticed."
"Perhaps you have not noticed, Theresa. You have so many out-of-door pursuits, you know. I suppose," continued Mrs. Cleeve, with some hesitation9, and lowering her voice to a confidential10 tone as she put the question, "I suppose there is nothing wrong between her and her husband?"
"Wrong in what way, do you mean?" rejoined Miss Blake.
"Any misunderstanding or unpleasantness."
"I should say not," returned Miss Blake, with some acrimony. "It is rather the other way. Lucy is blindly, absurdly infatuated with Sir Karl. If he boxed her on the one ear, she would offer him the other."
"It cannot be that, then," sighed Mrs. Cleeve. "I only thought of it because there was nothing else I could think of. For I cannot help fancying, Theresa, that the malady12 is on her spirits, more than on her health. I--I wonder whether that ague-fever left unsuspected consequences behind it that are developing themselves now?"
Theresa, her attention given to the employment in her hand--a cross she was working in gold thread to adorn13 some part or other of Mr. Cattacomb's canonicals--a great deal more than it was given to the conversation, allowed the doubt to pass undiscussed. Mrs. Cleeve had always been accustomed to worry herself over Lucy: Theresa supposed it was the habit of mothers to do so, who had only one daughter. So the subject of Lucy's looks dropped for the time.
"What is that for?" resumed Mrs. Cleeve, directing her attention to the small gold cords.
"This? Oh, a little ornament14 I am making. Please don't touch it, Mrs. Cleeve, or you will entangle15 the threads."
Thus rebuked16, Mrs. Cleeve sat for some moments in silence, inhaling17 the fresh air through the open window, and the perfume of the late flowers. The mignonette, in its large clusters, seemed as though it intended to bloom on until winter.
"Theresa, how much longer do you intend to remain here?" she suddenly asked. "Your stay has been a very long one."
Theresa was aware of that. She was slightly suspicious that Sir Karl and his wife had begun to think the same thing, though in their courtesy they were not likely to let it appear. In truth the matter was causing her some little reflection: for she would willingly have made the Court her permanent home. While Mr. Cattacomb remained at St. Jerome's, she should remain. It might have been somewhat of a mistake to institute St. Jerome's, and to bring Mr. Cattacomb to it: Miss Blake could recognise it now: but as that step had been taken, she could only abide18 by it.
"I am not likely to leave at present," she replied. "It would be very dull for Lucy to be here without me. As the winter weather comes on, my out-door duties will be somewhat curtailed19, and I shall be able to give her more of my time. Lucy would be lost by herself, Mrs. Cleeve. She was always rather given to moping."
Yes. There was no doubt Lucy did "mope." Mrs. Cleeve sighed deeply. A cloud lay on Foxwood Court, and she could not trace out its source.
The cloud, she thought, lay on Sir Karl as well as on Lucy. That is, his sadness, his weary face, and his evident preoccupation were quite as visible to Mrs. Cleeve as were her daughter's. But for Theresa's emphatic20 assurance to the contrary, she might still have doubted whether the cloud did not lie between them. She was a single-minded, kind-hearted, simple-natured lady, not given to think ill, or to look out for it: but in this case she did try to observe and notice. She could not help seeing how seldom Karl and his wife were together. Karl would drive Lucy out occasionally; but as a rule they saw but little of him. He was generally present at meals, and always sociable21 and kind, and he would come into the drawing-room when visitors called, if at home; spending his other time chiefly in his own room, and in walking out alone. Late in the evenings he would usually be absent: Mrs. Cleeve noticed that. She had seen him walk across the lawn in the gloom to one of the little gates; she had seen him come in again after an hour or two's interval22; and she wondered where he went to.
The truth was, Karl was obliged to go to the Maze23 more frequently than he used to go, or than was at all prudent24. Mr. Moore had not yet pronounced the fatal fiat25 on Sir Adam that Dr. Cavendish had--doubtfully--imparted to Mr. Detective Tatton; but he concealed26 from none of them that the case was one of extreme gravity; ay, and of danger. That Sir Adam grew more attenuated27 might be seen almost daily; he himself assumed that he had but a short span left of life; and he would not allow Karl to be for one single evening absent. Sometimes in the day Karl also went there. The conviction that Adam would not be long among them lay on every heart more or less: and it will be readily understood that Karl should sacrifice somewhat of caution to be with him while he might.
"Karlo, brother mine, you'll come over to-morrow morning?" Sir Adam would say, when their hands met for the evening farewell--and he would keep the hand until the answer should be given.
"If I can, Adam."
"That won't do. You must. Promise."
"I will, then. I will, if I can do it with safety."
And of course he had to go. Under other and happier circumstances, he would never have quitted the invalid28 night or day.
The lack of what Karl considered "safety," as he spoke29 it in his answer, would have consisted in the highway before the Maze gates being peopled; in his being seen to enter. It was so very unfrequented a road that not a soul would pass up or down for a quarter of an hour together; nay30, for half one; and, as a rule, Karl was safe. But he exercised his precaution always. He would saunter towards the gate, as though merely taking a stroll on the shady side path; and then, the coast being clear, ring--for by day-time he never used his own key. His ears and eyes alike on the alert; he, if by mal-chance some solitary31 passenger should appear, would saunter over to Mr. Smith and talk to him: and then slip in when the intruder should have passed, Ann Hopley having the door by that time ready to open. Karl would use the same precaution coming out: and hitherto had escaped observation.
It was not always to be so.
The time passed on: Sir Adam fluctuating, some days fearfully ill, some days feeling well and hearty32; and Mrs. Cleeve continuing at Foxwood, for she could not bear to leave Lucy.
Karl went across one morning soon after breakfast. His brother had been very ill indeed the evening before: so ill that Karl had brought most unpleasant thoughts away with him. He was ringing at the gate when it suddenly opened; Ann Hopley was letting out Mr. Moore.
So far as his visits went, there had been no trouble. Foxwood had taken care to inform itself as to what patient at the Maze it was that Mr. Moore was again in regular attendance upon, and found it to be Hopley the gardener. The old man had caught an attack of rheumatic fever, or some other affection connected with age and knee joints--said the Miss Moores to the rest of the fair flock going to and from St. Jerome's. There was neither interest nor romance attaching to the poor old man; so the doctor was at liberty to pass in and out at will without the slightest thought being given to it. In the doctor's day-book the patient, was entered as "James Hopley, Mrs. Grey's servant" The doctor's assistant, a fashionable young man from London, who wore an eye-glass stuck in his eye, could have the pleasure of reading it ten times a day if he chose.
"How is he?" asked Karl of Mr. Moore.
"Oh, better this morning--as I expected he would be," was the surgeon's answer. "But I have ordered him to lie in bed for the day. This time I think he will obey me, for he feels uncommonly33 weak."
"Every fresh attack makes him weaker," observed Karl.
"Why of course it does: it must do so. I don't half like the responsibility that lies on me," continued the doctor. "We ought to have another opinion."
"How can it be had?" remonstrated34 Karl.
"There it is--how? I wish he could be in London under the constant care of one of its practised men."
"We wish this, and wish the other, Mr. Moore," said Karl, sadly, "and you know how impossible it is for us to do more than we are doing. Answer me truly--for I think you can answer. Would there be a fair chance of his recovery if we had other advice than yours? Would there be any better chance of it?"
"Honestly speaking I do not think there would. I believe I am doing for him all that can be done."
Ann Hopley drew the gate open again, and the doctor went out. Karl passed on through the labyrinth35.
Sir Adam liked to use his own will in all respects, and it was the first time he had made even a semblance36 of obeying Mr. Moore's orders of taking rest by daytime. He looked very ill. The once handsome face seemed shrunk to nothing; the short hair was almost white; the grey-blue eyes, beautiful as Karl's, had a strangely wistful, patient look in them.
"I thought you would be here, Karlo. I have wanted you ever since daylight."
"Are you feeling better, Adam? Free from pain?"
"Much better. Quite free from it."
"Moore has been saying he wishes we could get you to London, that you might have more skilled advice."
"What nonsense!" cried Adam. "As if any advice could really avail me! He knows it would not. Did it avail my father, Karl?"
Karl remained silent. There was no answer he could make.
"Sit down, old fellow, and tell me all the news. Got a paper with you?"
"The papers have not come yet," replied Karl, as he drew a chair to the bedside.
"Slow coaches, people are in this world! I shall get up presently."
"No, Adam, not to-day. Moore says you must not."
"Good old man! he is slow too. But he won't keep me in bed, Karl, when I choose to quit it. Why should I not get up?" continued Sir Adam, his voice taking a tone of its old defiance37. "I am the best judge of my own strength. If I lay here for a month of Sundays, Karl, it would not add a day to my life."
Perhaps that was true. At any rate, Adam was one whom it was of no use to urge one way or the other.
"What's the old adage38, Karlo?--'a short life and a merry one?' Mine has not been very merry of late, has it?"
"I wish we could get you well, Adam."
"Do you? We are told, you know, that all things as they fall, are for the best. The world would say, I expect, that this is. I wonder sometimes, though, how soon or how late the enemy would have shown itself, had my life continued smooth as yours is."
Smooth as yours is! The unconscious words brought a pang39 to Karl's heart; they sounded so like mockery. Heaven alone knew the distress40 and turbulence41 of his.
"I got Moore into a cosy42 chat the other day," resumed Sir Adam: "the wife was safe away, trimming the plants in the greenhouse--Rose is nearly as good a gardener as I am, Karl."
"I know she is fond of gardening."
"Ay, and has been amidst it for years, you see. Well--I led Moore on, saying this, and asking the other, and he opened his mind a bit. The disease was in me always, he thinks, Karl, and must have come out, sooner or later. It was only a question of time. I have said so myself of late. But I did not look to follow the little olive branch quite so quickly."
"We may keep you here a long while yet, Adam. It is still possible, I hope, we may keep you for good. Moore has not said to the contrary."
"You think he knows it, though?"
Karl was really not sure. His own opinion was this--that Adam had less chance of getting well where he was than he would have had under those of the London faculty43, whose specialty44 embraced that class of disease.
"Shall you put on mourning for me, old fellow? It will be a risk, won't it? I shan't care to be held up to the world as Adam Andinnian, dead, any more than I do, alive. You'll not care to say, either, 'This black coat is worn for that brother of mine: the mauvais sujet who set the world all agog45 with his scandal.'"
What kind of a mood was Sir Adam in this morning? Karl's grave eyes questioned it. One of real, light, careless mockery?--or was it an underlying46 current of sadness and regret making itself too uneasily felt in his heart?
"Don't, Adam. It jars on every chord and pulse. You and I have cause to be at least more sober than other men."
"What have I said?" cried Sir Adam, half laughing. "That you may have to put on mourning for me. It is in the nature of things that the elder should go before the younger. You look well in black, too, Karl; men with such faces as yours always do."
"I hope it will be a long while before I have to wear it," sighed Karl, perceiving how hopeless it was to change his brother's humour.
"I'd bet Foxwood with you that it will be before Christmas."
"Adam, is it right to speak in this way?"
"Is it particularly wrong?"
"Why do you do it?"
"Need of change, I suppose. I have had a solemn night of it, old fellow: and I hardly know yet whether I was asleep or awake. It was somewhat of both, I expect: but I thought I was amidst the angels. I can see them now as they looked; a whole crowd of them gathered about my bed. And, Karlo, when a man begins to dream of angels, and not to be able to decide afterwards whether it be a dream or a shadowed reality, it is a pretty sure sign, I take it, that no great time will elapse before he is with them."
Before Karl left, Adam had talked himself into a doze47. With his worn and haggard face turned to the wall, he slept as peacefully as a child. Karl stole away, and went into the greenhouse. Rose was there amid the plants; the sunlight shining on her beautiful hair turned it into threads of gold. She lifted her white face, with its sad expression.
"I knew you were with him, Karl, so I did not come in. Don't you think he looks very, very ill this morning."
"Yes, he certainly does. He is asleep now."
"Asleep! In the daytime!"
"He had a bad night, I fancy."
"Do you think there's hope, Karl?" she piteously asked--almost as if all hope had left herself.
"I don't know, Rose. Mr. Moore has not told me there is none."
"Perhaps it is that he will not say," she rejoined, resting her elbow on the green steps amid the plants, and her cheek on her hand. "I seem to see it, Karl; to see what is coming. Indeed, you might tell me the truth. I shall not feel it quite so much as I should had our circumstances been happier."
"I have told you as far as I know, Rose."
"There's my little baby gone: there's my husband going: all my treasures will be in the better world. I shall have nothing to do but live on for, and look forward to, the time when I may go to them. Six months ago, Karl, had I known Adam must die, I think the grief would have killed me. But the apprehension48 we have undergone the last few weeks--Adam's dread49, and my awful fear for him--has gone a great way to reconcile me. I see--and I think he sees--that Death would not be the worst calamity50. Better for him to be at rest than live on in that frightful51 peril52 night and day; each moment as it passes one of living agony, lest the next should bring the warders of Portland Island to retake him. No wonder it is wearing him out."
Karl went away echoing the last sentence; every word she had spoken leaving its echo of pain on his heart. No: it was no wonder that fatal illness had seized on Adam Andinnian before its time.
Well, on this day Karl was not to escape unnoticed so easily. Ann Hopley unlocked the gate, and then both of them stood listening according to custom. Not a sound broke the stillness, save the furious chirping53 somewhere of two quarrelsome sparrows: not a step could be heard awaking the echoes or the ground. Ann Hopley drew back the half of the gate, and Karl went forth54.
Went forth to find himself, so to say, in the very arms of Mrs. Cleeve and Miss Blake. They were standing11 quite still (which fact accounted for their footsteps not being heard) gazing at these same two fighting birds in the hedge. What with Karl's naturally nervous organization, and what with the dread secret he had just left, every drop of blood went out of his face. But he did not lose his presence of mind.
"Looking on at a fight, Mrs. Cleeve!" he exclaimed in a light tone. "Birds have their hasty passions as well as men, you see. You wicked combatants! Let one another's heads alone. They'll not look any the better without feathers."
One of the noisy birds, as if in obedience55, flew away to a distant tree; the other followed it. Karl stayed talking for a minute with the ladies; heard that they had come out for a little walk; and then he went on to his home. Mrs. Cleeve, as she continued her way, glanced inquisitively56 at the iron gate in passing.
"Do the same people live there still, Theresa? Let me see--a Mrs. Grey, was it not?"
"Oh yes, she lives there," slightingly returned Miss Blake. "She had a baby at the close of summer, but it died."
"A baby! Why, she was a young widow? Stay--no--what was it?--Oh, her husband was abroad. Yes, I remember now. Has he come home yet?"
"As much as he ever will come, I expect," observed Miss Blake. "The girl has just as much a husband as I have, Mrs. Cleeve."
"Why, what is it that you would imply?" cried Mrs. Cleeve, struck with the words and the tone.
"I once, quite accidentally, heard her sing, 'When lovely woman stoops to folly57?' You know the song? It was, in one sense of the word, sung in character."
"Oh, dear!" cried Mrs. Cleeve! "But--but what does Sir Karl do there?"
"Sir Karl? Oh--he is her landlord."
The taunting58 kind of way in which Miss Blake said it, turned Mrs. Cleeve's delicate cheeks to a rosy59 red. All kinds of unpleasant thoughts began crowding into her mind.
"Theresa, what do you mean?" she asked, her voice dropping with its own dread. "Have you any meaning?"
And the chances were--taking into consideration the love of gossip and of scandal so inherent in woman--that Theresa Blake would there and then have disclosed that she had a meaning, and what the meaning was: but in that self-same moment she happened to turn her eyes on Mr. Smith, the agent. He was leaning over his garden gate, playing with a bunch of late roses; and he gravely lifted his hat to Miss Blake as she looked at him.
There was something in the grave look, or in the sight of the man himself, or in the roses, telling of summer, that recalled most vividly60 to Miss Blake's mind the private conversation she had once held with Mr. Smith, and the caution he had given her. At any rate, Jane Shore and the lighted taper61, and the white sheet, and all the other accessories, rose up before her mental vision as plainly as one can see into a mirror. The penance62 looked no more palatable63 to Miss Blake now than it had then. As well keep clear of such risks, great and small. She changed her tone.
"I really don't know anything about the young woman, Mrs. Cleeve. Pray do not take up a mistaken notion. She is Sir Karl's tenant64; that is all."
"But if she is not--quite--quite circumspect65 in her conduct, it must be rather unpleasant to have her close to the Court," said Mrs. Cleeve.
"Oh, she lives a perfectly66 retired67 life."
"She is very pretty, I think?"
"Beautiful as an angel."
Nothing more passed. The two sparrows came flying to a proximate tree, and began fighting again. But an uneasy impression was left on Mrs. Cleeve's mind; for she could not forget the strangely-significant tone in which Miss Blake had spoken, and its too sudden change to cautious indifference68.
Karl was pacing one of the broad paths that evening, in his grounds, when he found himself joined by Mrs. Cleeve. She had thrown a warm shawl over her grey silk evening dress. He gave her his arm. The shadows were deepening: the evening star was already twinkling in the clear sky.
"I want to tell you of a little plan I have formed, Sir Karl, and get your assent69 to it. It cannot have escaped your notice that Lucy is looking very ill."
"I have seen it for some time," he answered.
"And I should have spoken to you of it before," resumed Mrs. Cleeve, "only that Lucy herself seems so much annoyed when I allude70 to it, telling me that nothing is the matter with her, and begging me not to take up fancies. Are you aware of anything being wrong with her general health?"
"No, I am not: there is nothing wrong with it that I know of," returned Karl, unpleasantly conscious that he was not likely to know more about his wife's general health than any other of the Court's inmates71.
"Well, what I wish to do is this: to take Lucy to town with me when I leave, and let some physician see her."
"But you are not leaving us yet?"
"Not just yet, perhaps; but when I do go. In fact, I really must take her. I could not be easy to go back home and leave Lucy looking as she is, without having some good medical opinion. Have you any objection to this?"
"Not the slightest. I do not fancy any physician could do much good to Lucy--she has certainly, as I believe, no specific disease--but I think change of air and scene may be of much benefit to her. I am glad that she should go."
"Well, now that I have your permission, Sir Karl, I shall know how to act. Lucy has been telling me that she does not need a physician, and will not see one; and that she does not care to go to London. But that we have never had consumption in our family, I should fear it for Lucy."
Karl was silent. That Lucy had taken the unfortunate secret to heart in a strange manner, and that it was telling upon her most unaccountably, he knew.
"It is rather ungrateful of her to say she does not care to go to London, considering that she has never stayed with her aunt since that time of illness at Winchester," resumed Mrs. Cleeve. "Though, indeed, Lucy seems to have no energy left, and her cheerfulness appears to me more sham72 than reality. Lady Southal is anxious for her to go up with me."
"Are you intending to stay again with Lady Southal yourself?"
"I shall now; as long as Lucy does. And, armed with your authority, I shall insist on Lucy's going up with me. I wish you would come too, Sir Karl: my sister would be so glad to see you."
With his unfortunate brother dying at the Maze, it was not possible for Karl to quit Foxwood. But he was exceedingly glad that Lucy should be absent for a time. It would leave him more at liberty. At least, in spirit. With Lucy's intense contempt and hatred73 for the Maze and its troubles, Karl never went there but he was conscious of feeling something like a school-boy, who is in mischief74 away from home.
"I cannot leave home just now," said Karl. "But you must tell Lady Southal that I shall be most happy to take a future opportunity of paying her a visit."
"Are you busy, that you cannot leave?"
"My Uncle Joseph's papers are not arranged yet; I am anxious to get on with them," he said, by way of excuse. And in truth that, so far, was so. In his mind's terrible distress the sorting of the papers had been much neglected.
"At least, you will come to town to fetch Lucy home."
"Of course I will."
The affair decided75, they strolled the whole length of the walk in silence. Karl's thoughts were no doubt busy: Mrs. Cleeve was wishing to say something else, and did not quite know how to begin.
"What a nice evening it is!" cried Karl. "How fair the weather continues to be!"
"Yes. But the hedges are showing signs of winter. I noticed it particularly when I was out with Theresa this morning. That was the Maze, I think, that we saw you coming out of."
Karl assented76. There was no help for it.
"Does the young lady live there alone still?"
"She has her servants with her."
"But not her husband."
"Mr. Grey, it is understood, spends a good deal of his time in travelling."
"Sir Karl, I think I must ask you plainly. I have been wanting to ask you," she said, taking courage. "Is there any reason for supposing that this lady is not--is not quite what she ought to be?"
"Why, what do you mean?" returned Karl, standing still in his surprise. "Are you speaking of Mrs. Grey?"
"It is almost impossible to avoid attaching some doubt to a young and lovely woman, when she lives so unaccountably secluded77 a life," returned Mrs. Cleeve, calling up the most plausible78 excuse she could for her suspicions.
"The very fact of her keeping herself so secluded ought to absolve79 Mrs. Grey from it," said Karl warmly. "She is a good and honourable80 lady."
"You feel sure of that?"
"I am sure of it. I know it. Believe me, dear Mrs. Cleeve, that Lucy herself is not more pure and innocent than that pure lady is," he added, taking Mrs. Cleeve's hands in his earnestness, in his anxiety to convince her. "She has had great trouble to try her; she may be said to live in trouble: but heaven knows how good she is, and how persistently81 she strives to be resigned, and endure."
Mrs. Cleeve kept the sensitive hands in hers; she saw how worthy82 of trust he was in his earnestness; and every doubt went out of her.
"I am very glad to hear it. I hope she and you will pardon my foolish thoughts. You go to see her sometimes, I believe?"
"When I think I can be of any use, I go. Her husband was once my dear friend: I go there for his sake."
"Why does he not live here with her?"
"He cannot always do just as he would. Just now he is in bad health."
"And she lost her baby, I hear."
"Yes. It was a great grief to both of them."
The sounding of the dinner-gong stopped the questioning. We may be assured Karl lost no time in conducting Mrs. Cleeve to the house.
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intercourse
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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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rims
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utterly
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hectic
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iota
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embroidery
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pastors
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hesitation
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confidential
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standing
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malady
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adorn
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ornament
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entangle
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rebuked
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inhaling
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abide
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curtailed
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| v.截断，缩短( curtail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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fiat
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| n.命令，法令，批准；vt.批准，颁布 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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attenuated
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| v.（使）变细( attenuate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）变薄；（使）变小；减弱 | |
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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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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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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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adage
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| n.格言，古训 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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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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turbulence
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| n.喧嚣，狂暴，骚乱，湍流 | |
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cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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specialty
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| n.(speciality)特性，特质；专业，专长 | |
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agog
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| adj.兴奋的，有强烈兴趣的； adv.渴望地 | |
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underlying
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| adj.在下面的，含蓄的，潜在的 | |
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doze
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| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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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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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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chirping
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| 鸟叫，虫鸣( chirp的现在分词 ) | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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inquisitively
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| 过分好奇地； 好问地 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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taunting
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| 嘲讽( taunt的现在分词 )； 嘲弄； 辱骂； 奚落 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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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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penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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palatable
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| adj.可口的，美味的；惬意的 | |
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tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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circumspect
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| adj.慎重的，谨慎的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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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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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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absolve
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| v.赦免，解除（责任等） | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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