Sir Henry did not find the task of gaining his bride very difficult. He had succeeded in establishing a sort of intimacy2 with old Mr. Bertram, and it appeared that permission to run down to Hadley and run back again had already been accorded to him before Miss Baker3 and Caroline arrived there. He never slept, though he sometimes dined in the house; but he had always something to talk about when an excuse for going to Hadley was required. Mr. Bertram had asked him something about some investment, and he had found out this something; or he wanted to ask Mr. Bertram's advice on some question as to his political career. At this period he was, or professed4 to be, very much guided in his public life by Mr. Bertram's opinion.
And thus he fell in with Caroline. On the first occasion of his doing so, he contrived5 to whisper to her his deep sympathy with her sorrow; on his second visit, he spoke6 more of himself and less of Bertram; on his third, he alluded7 only to her own virtues8; on his fourth, he asked her to be Lady Harcourt. She told him that she would be Lady Harcourt; and, as far as she was concerned, there was an end of it for the present.
Then Sir Henry proposed that the day should be named. On this subject also he found her ready to accommodate him. She had no coy scruples9 as to the time. He suggested that it should be before Christmas. Very well; let it be before Christmas. Christmas is a cold time for marrying; but this was to be a cold marriage. Christmas, however, for the fortunate is made warm with pudding, ale, and spiced beef. They intended to be among the fortunate, the fortunate in place, and money, and rank; and they would, as best they might, make themselves warm with the best pudding, ale, and spiced beef which the world could afford them.
Sir Henry was alive to the delight of being the possessor of so many charms, and was somewhat chagrined10 that for the present he was so cruelly debarred from any part of his legitimate11 enjoyment12. Though he was a solicitor-general, he could have been content to sit for ten minutes with his arm round Caroline's waist; and—in spite of the energy with which he was preparing a bill for the regulation of County Courts, as to which he knew that he should have that terrible demi-god, Lord Boanerges, down upon his shoulders—still he would fain have stolen a kiss or two. But Caroline's waist and Caroline's kisses were to be his only after Christmas; and to be his only as payment accorded for her new rank, and for her fine new house in Eaton Square.
How is it that girls are so potent13 to refuse such favours at one time, and so impotent in preventing their exaction14 at another? Sir Henry, we may say, had every right to demand some trifling15 payment in advance; but he could not get a doit. Should we be violating secrecy16 too much if we suggested that George Bertram had had some slight partial success even when he had no such positive claim—some success which had of course been in direct opposition17 to the lady's will?
Miss Baker had now gone back to Littlebath, either to receive Adela Gauntlet, or because she knew that she should be more comfortable in her own rooms than in her uncle's dismal18 house—or perhaps because Sir Lionel was there. She had, however, gone back, and Caroline remained mistress for the time of her grandfather's household.
The old man now seemed to have dropped all mystery in the matter. He generally, indeed, spoke of Caroline as Miss Waddington; but he heard her talked of as his granddaughter without expressing anger, and with Sir Henry he himself so spoke of her. He appeared to be quite reconciled to the marriage. In spite of all his entreaties19 to George, all his attempted bribery20, his broken-hearted sorrow when he failed, he seemed to be now content. Indeed, he had made no opposition to the match. When Caroline had freely spoken to him about it, he made some little snappish remark as to the fickleness21 of women; but he at the same time signified that he would not object.
Why should he? Sir Henry Harcourt was in every respect a good match for his granddaughter. He had often been angry with George Bertram because George had not prospered22 in the world. Sir Henry had prospered signally—would probably prosper23 much more signally. Might it not be safely predicated of a man who was solicitor-general before he was thirty, that he would be lord-chancellor or lord chief-justice, or at any rate some very bigwig indeed before he was fifty? So of course Mr. Bertram did not object.
But he had not signified his acquiescence24 in any very cordial way. Rich old men, when they wish to be cordial on such occasions, have but one way of evincing cordiality. It is not by a pressure of the hand, by a kind word, by an approving glance. Their embrace conveys no satisfaction; their warmest words, if unsupported, are very cold. An old man, if he intends to be cordial on such an occasion, must speak of thousands of pounds. "My dear young fellow, I approve altogether. She shall have twenty thousand pounds the day she becomes yours." Then is the hand shaken with true fervour; then is real cordiality expressed and felt. "What a dear old man grandpapa is! Is there any one like him? Dear old duck! He is going to be so generous to Harry25."
But Mr. Bertram said nothing about twenty thousand pounds, nothing about ten, nothing about money at all till he was spoken to on the subject. It was Sir Henry's special object not to be pressing on this point, to show that he was marrying Caroline without any sordid26 views, and that his admiration27 for Mr. Bertram had no bearing at all on that gentleman's cash-box. He did certainly make little feints at Mr. Pritchett; but Mr. Pritchett merely wheezed28 and said nothing. Mr. Pritchett was not fond of the Harcourt interest; and seemed to care but little for Miss Caroline, now that she had transferred her affections.
But it was essentially29 necessary that Sir Henry Harcourt should know what was to be done. If he were to have nothing, it was necessary that he should know that. He had certainly counted on having something, and on having something immediately. He was a thoroughly30 hard-working man of business, but yet he was not an economical man. A man who lives before the world in London, and lives chiefly among men of fortune, can hardly be economical. He had not therefore any large sum of money in hand. He was certainly in receipt of a large income, but then his expenses were large. He had taken and now had to furnish an expensive house in Eaton Square, and a few thousand pounds in ready money were almost indispensable to him.
One Friday—this was after his return to town from the ten days' grouse-shooting, and occurred at the time when he was most busy with the County Courts—he wrote to Caroline to say that he would go down to Hadley on Saturday afternoon, stay there over the Sunday, and return to town on the Monday morning; that is to say, he would do so if perfectly31 agreeable to Mr. Bertram.
He went down, and found everything prepared for him that was suitable for a solicitor-general. They did not put before him merely roast mutton or boiled beef. He was not put to sleep in the back bedroom without a carpet. Such treatment had been good enough for George Bertram; but for the solicitor-general all the glories of Hadley were put forth32. He slept in the best bedroom, which was damp enough no doubt, seeing that it was not used above twice in the year; and went through at dinner a whole course of entrées, such as entrées usually are in the suburban33 districts. This was naturally gratifying to him as a solicitor-general, and fortified34 him for the struggle he was to make.
He had some hope that he should have a tête-à-tête with Caroline on the Saturday evening. But neither fate nor love would favour him. He came down just before dinner, and there was clearly no time then: infirm as the old man was, he sat at the dinner-table; and though Sir Henry was solicitor-general, there was no second room, no withdrawing-room prepared for his reception.
"Grandpapa does not like moving," said Caroline, as she got up to leave the room after dinner; "so perhaps, Sir Henry, you will allow me to come down to tea here? We always sit here of an evening."
"I never could bear to live in two rooms," said the old man. "When one is just warm and comfortable, one has to go out into all the draughts35 of the house. That's the fashion, I know. But I hope you'll excuse me, Sir Henry, for not liking36 it."
Sir Henry of course did excuse him. There was nothing he himself liked so much as sitting cosy37 over a dining-room fire.
In about an hour Caroline did come down again; and in another hour, before the old man went, she again vanished for the night. Sir Henry had made up his mind not to speak to Mr. Bertram about money that evening; so he also soon followed Caroline, and sat down to work upon the County Courts in his own bedroom.
On the next morning Sir Henry and Caroline went to church. All the Hadleyians of course knew of the engagement, and were delighted to have an opportunity of staring at the two turtle-doves. A solicitor-general in love is a sight to behold38; and the clergyman had certainly no right to be angry if the attention paid to his sermon was something less fixed39 than usual. Before dinner, there was luncheon40; and then Sir Henry asked his betrothed41 if she would take a walk with him. "Oh, certainly, she would be delighted." Her church-going bonnet42 was still on, and she was quite ready. Sir Henry also was ready; but as he left the room he stooped over Mr. Bertram's chair and whispered to him, "Could I speak to you a few words before dinner, sir; on business? I know I ought to apologize, this being Sunday."
"Oh, I don't care about Sunday," said the stubborn-minded old man. "I shall be here till I go to bed, I suppose, if you want me."
And then they started on their walk. Oh, those lovers' rambles43! A man as he grows old can perhaps teach himself to regret but few of the sweets which he is compelled to leave behind him. He can learn to disregard most of his youth's pleasures, and to live contented44 though he has outlived them. The polka and the waltz were once joyous45; but he sees now that the work was warm, and that one was often compelled to perform it in company for which one did not care. Those picnics too were nice; but it may be a question whether a good dinner at his own dinner-table is not nicer. Though fat and over forty he may still ride to hounds, and as for boating and cricketing, after all they were but boy's play. For those things one's soul does not sigh. But, ah! those lovers' walks, those loving lovers' rambles. Tom Moore is usually somewhat sugary and mawkish46; but in so much he was right. If there be an Elysium on earth, it is this. They are done and over for us, oh, my compatriots! Never again, unless we are destined47 to rejoin our houris in heaven, and to saunter over fields of asphodel in another and a greener youth—never again shall those joys be ours! And what can ever equal them? 'Twas then, between sweet hedgerows, under green oaks, with our feet rustling48 on the crisp leaves, that the world's cold reserve was first thrown off, and we found that those we loved were not goddesses made of buckram and brocade, but human beings like ourselves, with blood in their veins49, and hearts in their bosoms—veritable children of Adam like ourselves.
"Gin a body meet a body comin' through the rye." Ah, how delicious were those meetings! How convinced we were that there was no necessity for loud alarm! How fervently50 we agreed with the poet! My friends, born together with me in the consulship51 of Lord Liverpool, all that is done and over for us. We shall never gang that gait' again.
There is a melancholy52 in this that will tinge53 our thoughts, let us draw ever so strongly on our philosophy. We can still walk with our wives;—and that is pleasant too, very—of course. But there was more animation54 in it when we walked with the same ladies under other names. Nay55, sweet spouse56, mother of dear bairns, who hast so well done thy duty; but this was so, let thy brows be knit never so angrily. That lord of thine has been indifferently good to thee, and thou to him has been more than good. Up-hill together have ye walked peaceably labouring; and now arm-in-arm ye shall go down the gradual slope which ends below there in the green churchyard. 'Tis good and salutary to walk thus. But for the full cup of joy, for the brimming spring-tide of human bliss57, oh, give me back, give me back— — —! Well, well, well; it is nonsense; I know it; but may not a man dream now and again in his evening nap and yet do no harm?
Vici puellis nuper idoneus, et militavi. How well Horace knew all about it! But that hanging up of the gittern—. One would fain have put it off, had falling hairs, and marriage-vows, and obesity58 have permitted it. Nay, is it not so, old friend of the grizzled beard? Dost thou not envy that smirk59 young knave60 with his five lustrums, though it goes hard with him to purchase his kid-gloves? He dines for one-and-twopence at an eating-house; but what cares Maria where he dines? He rambles through the rye with his empty pockets, and at the turn of the field-path Maria will be there to meet him. Envy him not; thou hast had thy walk; but lend him rather that thirty shillings that he asks of thee. So shall Maria's heart be glad as she accepts his golden brooch.
But for our friend Sir Henry every joy was present. Youth and wealth and love were all his, and his all together. He was but eight-and-twenty, was a member of Parliament, solicitor-general, owner of a house in Eaton Square, and possessor of as much well-trained beauty as was to be found at that time within the magic circle of any circumambient crinoline within the bills of mortality. Was it not sweet for him to wander through the rye? Had he not fallen upon an Elysium, a very paradise of earthly joys? Was not his spring-tide at the full flood?
And so they started on their walk. It was the first that they had ever taken together. What Sir Henry may have done before in that line this history says not. A man who is solicitor-general at eight-and-twenty can hardly have had time for much. But the practice which he perhaps wanted, Caroline had had. There had been walks as well as rides at Littlebath; and walks also, though perhaps of doubtful joy, amidst those graves below the walls of Jerusalem.
And so they started. There is—or perhaps we should say was; for time and railways, and straggling new suburban villas61, may now have destroyed it all; but there is, or was, a pretty woodland lane, running from the back of Hadley church, through the last remnants of what once was Enfield Chase. How many lovers' feet have crushed the leaves that used to lie in autumn along that pretty lane! Well, well; there shall not be another word in that strain. I speak solely62 now of the time here present to Sir Henry; all former days and former roamings there shall be clean forgotten. The solicitor-general now thither63 wends his way, and love and beauty attend upon his feet. See how he opens the gate that stands by the churchyard paling? Does it stand there yet, I wonder? Well, well; we will say it does.
"It is a beautiful day for a walk," said Sir Henry.
"Yes, very beautiful," said Caroline.
"There is nothing I am so fond of as a long walk," said the gentleman.
"It is very nice," said the lady. "But I do not know that I care for going very far to-day. I am not quite strong at present."
"Not strong?" And the solicitor-general put on a look of deep alarm.
"Oh, there is nothing the matter with me; but I am not quite strong for walking. I am out of practice; and my boots are not quite of the right sort."
"They don't hurt you, I hope."
"Oh, no; they don't actually hurt me. They'll do very well for to-day." And then there was a short pause, and they got on the green grass which runs away into the chase in front of the parsonage windows. I wonder whether wickets are ever standing64 there now on the summer afternoons!
They were soon as much alone—or nearly so—as lovers might wish to be; quite enough so for Caroline. Some curious eyes were still peeping, no doubt, to see how the great lawyer looked when he was walking with the girl of his heart; to see how the rich miser's granddaughter looked when she was walking with the man of her heart. And perhaps some voices were whispering that she had changed her lover; for in these rural seclusions65 everything is known by everybody. But neither the peepers nor the whisperers interfered66 with the contentment of the fortunate pair.
"I hope you are happy, Caroline?" said Sir Henry, as he gently squeezed the hand that was so gently laid upon his arm.
"Happy! oh yes—I am happy. I don't believe you know in a great deal of very ecstatic happiness. I never did."
"But I hope you are rationally happy—not discontented—at any rate, not regretful? I hope you believe that I shall do my best, my very best, to make you happy?"
"Oh, yes; I quite believe that. We must each think of the other's comfort. After all, that I take it is the great thing in married life."
"I don't expect you to be passionately68 in love with me—not as yet, Caroline."
"No. Let neither of us expect that, Sir Henry. Passionate67 love, I take it, rarely lasts long, and is very troublesome while it does last. Mutual69 esteem70 is very much more valuable."
"But, Caroline, I would have you believe in my love."
"Oh, yes; I do believe in it. Why else should you wish to marry me? I think too well of myself to feel it strange that you should love me. But love with you, and with me also for the future, will be subordinate to other passions."
Sir Henry did not altogether like that reference to the past which was conveyed in the word future; but, however, he bore it without wincing71.
"You know so thoroughly the history of the last three years," she continued, "that it would be impossible for me to deceive you if I could. But, if I know myself, under no circumstances would I have done so. I have loved once, and no good has come of it. It was contrary to my nature to do so—to love in that mad passionate self-sacrificing manner. But yet I did. I think I may say with certainty that I never shall be so foolish again."
"You have suffered lately, Caroline; and as the sore still smarts, you hardly yet know what happiness may be in store for you."
"Yes; I have suffered," and he felt from the touch on his arm that her whole body shuddered72.
He walked on in silence for awhile considering within himself. Why should he marry this girl, rejected of her former lover, who now hung upon his arm? He was now at the very fullest tide of his prosperity; he had everything to offer which mothers wish for their daughters, and which daughters wish for themselves. He had income, rank, name, youth, and talent. Why should he fling his rich treasures at the feet of a proud minx who in taking them swore that she could not love him? Would it not be better for him to recede73? A word he well knew would do it; for her pride was true pride. He felt in his heart that it was not assumed. He had only to say that he was not contented with this cold lack of love, and she would simply desire him to lead her back to her home and leave her there. It would be easy enough for him to get his head from out the noose74.
But it was this very easiness, perhaps, which made him hesitate. She knew her own price, and was not at all anxious to dispose of herself a cheap bargain. If you, sir, have a horse to sell, never appear anxious for the sale. That rule is well understood among those who deal in horses. If you, madam, have a daughter to sell, it will be well for you also to remember this. Or, my young friend, if you have yourself to sell, the same rule holds good. But it is hard to put an old head on young shoulders. Hard as the task is, however, it would seem to have been effected as regards Caroline Waddington.
And then Sir Henry looked at her. Not exactly with his present eyesight as then at that moment existing; for seeing that she was walking by his side, he could not take the comprehensive view which his taste and mind required. But he looked at her searchingly with the eyesight of his memory, and found that she exactly tallied75 with what his judgment76 demanded. That she was very beautiful, no man had ever doubted. That she was now in the full pride of her beauty was to him certain. And then her beauty was of that goddess class which seems for so long a period to set years at defiance77. It was produced by no girlish softness, by no perishable78 mixture of white and red; it was not born of a sparkling eye, and a ripe lip, and a cherry cheek. To her face belonged lines of contour, severe, lovely, and of ineradicable grace. It was not when she smiled and laughed that she most pleased. She did not charm only when she spoke; though, indeed, the expression of her speaking face was perfect. But she had the beauty of a marble bust79. It would not be easy even for Sir Henry Harcourt, even for a young solicitor-general, to find a face more beautiful with which to adorn80 his drawing-room.
And then she had that air of fashion, that look of being able to look down the unfashionable, which was so much in the eyes of Sir Henry; though in those of George Bertram it had been almost a demerit. With Caroline, as with many women, this was an appearance rather than a reality. She had not moved much among high people; she had not taught herself to despise those of her own class, the women of Littlebath, the Todds and the Adela Gauntlets; but she looked as though she would be able to do so. And it was fitting she should have such a look if ever she were to be the wife of a solicitor-general.
And then Sir Henry thought of Mr. Bertram's coffers. Ah! if he could only be let into that secret, it might be easy to come to a decision. That the old man had quarrelled with his nephew, he was well aware. That George, in his pig-headed folly81, would make no overtures82 towards a reconciliation83; of that also he was sure. Was it not probable that at any rate a great portion of that almost fabulous84 wealth would go to the man's granddaughter? There was doubtless risk; but then one must run some risk in everything, It might be, if he could play his cards wisely, that he would get it all—that he would be placed in a position to make even the solicitor-generalship beneath his notice.
And so, in spite of Caroline's coldness, he resolved to persevere85.
Having thus made up him mind, he turned the conversation to another subject.
"You liked the house on the whole; did you?" Caroline during the past week had been up to see the new house in Eaton Square.
"Oh, yes; very much. Nothing could be nicer. Only I am afraid it's expensive." This was a subject on which Caroline could talk to him.
"Not particularly," said Sir Henry. "Of course one can't get a house in London for nothing. I shall have rather a bargain of that if I can pay the money down. The great thing is whether you like it."
"I was charmed with it. I never saw prettier drawing-rooms—never. And the bedrooms for a London house are so large and airy."
"Did you go into the dining-room?"
"Oh, yes; I went in."
"There's room for four-and-twenty, is there not?"
"Well, I don't know. I can't give an opinion about that. You could have three times that number at supper."
"I'm not thinking of suppers; but I'm sure you could. Kitchen's convenient, eh?"
"Very—so at least aunt Mary said."
"And now about the furniture. You can give me two or three days in town, can't you?"
"Oh, yes; if you require it. But I would trust your taste in all those matters."
"My taste! I have neither taste nor time. If you won't mind going to ——"
And so the conversation went on for another fifteen minutes, and then they were at home. Caroline's boots had begun to tease her, and their walk, therefore, had not been prolonged to a great distance.
Ah, me! again I say how pleasant, how delightful86 were those lovers' walks!
Then Caroline went up to her bedroom, and Sir Henry sat himself down near Mr. Bertram's chair in the dining-room.
"I wanted to speak to you, sir," said he, rushing at once into the midst of his subject, "about Caroline's settlement. It is time that all that should be arranged. I would have made my lawyer see Pritchett; but I don't know that Pritchett has any authority to act for you in such matters."
"Act for me! Pritchett has no authority to act—nor have I either." This little renunciation of his granddaughter's affairs was no more than Sir Henry expected. He was, therefore, neither surprised nor disgusted.
"Well! I only want to know who has the authority. I don't anticipate any great difficulty. Caroline's fortune is not very large; but of course it must be settled. Six thousand pounds, I believe."
"Four, Sir Henry. That is, if I am rightly informed."
"Four, is it? I was told six—I think by George Bertram in former days. I should of course prefer six; but if it be only four, why we must make the best of it."
"She has only four of her own," said the old man, somewhat mollified.
"Have you any objection to my telling you what I would propose to do?"
"No objection in life, Sir Henry."
"My income is large; but I want a little ready money at present to conclude the purchase of my house, and to furnish it. Would you object to the four thousand pounds being paid into my hands, if I insure my life for six for her benefit? Were her fortune larger, I should of course propose that my insurance should be heavier."
Sir Henry was so very reasonable that Mr. Bertram by degrees thawed87. He would make his granddaughter's fortune, six thousand as he had always intended. This should be settled on her, the income of course going to her husband. He should insure his life for four thousand more on her behalf; and Mr. Bertram would lend Sir Henry three thousand for his furniture.
Sir Henry agreed to this, saying to himself that such a loan from Mr. Bertram was equal to a gift. Mr. Bertram himself seemed to look at it in a different light. "Mind, Sir Henry, I shall expect the interest to the day. I will only charge you four per cent. And it must be made a bond debt."
"Oh, certainly," said Sir Henry.
And so the affair of the settlement was arranged.
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dallying
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| v.随随便便地对待( dally的现在分词 )；不很认真地考虑；浪费时间；调情 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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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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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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chagrined
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| adj.懊恼的，苦恼的v.使懊恼，使懊丧，使悔恨( chagrin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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exaction
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| n.强求，强征；杂税 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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bribery
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| n.贿络行为，行贿，受贿 | |
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fickleness
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| n.易变；无常；浮躁；变化无常 | |
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prospered
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| 成功，兴旺( prosper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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prosper
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| v.成功，兴隆，昌盛；使成功，使昌隆，繁荣 | |
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acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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wheezed
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| v.喘息，发出呼哧呼哧的喘息声( wheeze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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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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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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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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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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mawkish
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| adj.多愁善感的的；无味的 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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consulship
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| 领事的职位或任期 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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spouse
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| n.配偶(指夫或妻) | |
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bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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obesity
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| n.肥胖，肥大 | |
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smirk
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| n.得意地笑；v.傻笑；假笑着说 | |
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knave
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| n.流氓；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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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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seclusions
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| n.隔绝，隔离，隐居( seclusion的名词复数 ) | |
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interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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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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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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wincing
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的现在分词 ) | |
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shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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recede
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| vi.退(去)，渐渐远去；向后倾斜，缩进 | |
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noose
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| n.绳套，绞索（刑）；v.用套索捉；使落入圈套；处以绞刑 | |
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tallied
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| v.计算，清点( tally的过去式和过去分词 )；加标签（或标记）于；（使）符合；（使）吻合 | |
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76
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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78
perishable
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| adj.（尤指食物）易腐的，易坏的 | |
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79
bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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80
adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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81
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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82
overtures
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| n.主动的表示，提议；（向某人做出的）友好表示、姿态或提议( overture的名词复数 )；（歌剧、芭蕾舞、音乐剧等的）序曲，前奏曲 | |
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83
reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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84
fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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85
persevere
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| v.坚持，坚忍，不屈不挠 | |
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86
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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87
thawed
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| 解冻 | |
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