"I've sent a line to your mother, Robert, and told her not to frighten herself; and I've had a bed put ready for me in the comer; so you've nothing to do and nothing to think about except getting well."
"Well, and Katharine; but there's nothing to be done until you get well--think of that, my dear fellow, and try--except what I have done, what I did last night when you were asleep."
Robert's hollow eyes questioned him eagerly.
"I wrote to Miss Annie Burton," said Yeldham, sitting down by the bed, "telling her the circumstances briefly10, and entreating11 her to give us any information in her power. I assured her, in case her friend should have reposed12 any confidence in her, either as to her residence or otherwise, which she might hesitate to violate, that no attempt would be made to control Mrs. Streightley's movements in any way; that the object of the inquiry13 was to rectify14 a misapprehension on her part, and to procure15 some relief of mind for her husband, whom her departure, and his ignorance of what had become of her, had nearly killed. I said that, Bob; I made it strong; and indeed I believe it, old fellow."
Robert covered his face with his hands, and groaned16. Yeldham jumped up immediately, at once remembering the doctor's injunctions.
"We have only to wait, then?" said Robert wearily.
"Yes, to 'wait and hope,' as Monte Christo told his young friends," said Yeldham, with a very poor attempt at gaiety. "I'm off now, to engage in an interesting question about Farmer Shepperton's ten-acre meadow."
During the few following days the grind which Mr. Charles Yeldham had instituted for himself, and had without interruption or question kept up for several years, received many irruptions and incursions at this period of his life, was broken in upon here, and suddenly put a stop to there, in a manner that would have annoyed any but the best-tempered and largest-hearted man in the whole world. While Robert Streightley lay ill in his bed, it was not to be expected that Charley Yeldham could remain quiet, poring over his law-papers, without running in now and then to see how his friend was getting on; whether he wanted any thing; whether the perpetual scratching of the pen disturbed him; whether the preternatural silence did not drive him mad; and other queries18, such as men in rude health propose to those whom, being ill, they take to be fanciful. Then there was the doctor's visit, the consultation19 afterwards, the getting the sick man to acquiesce20 in all the necessary arrangements, the despatch21 of Charley's lad for the medicines, and a hundred other little performances, all of which Charley had to take part in; thus giving up his work and withdrawing himself from his desk. He did not mind so very much; for Charles Yeldham's position was now secured, and he knew that the attorneys must await his pleasure. His was no bumptious22 self-conceit; he had won his spurs in fairest fight and by hardest exertion23, by sheer determination and indomitable energy; and he was as incapable24 of affecting a deprecation of his legitimate25 success as he would have been of swaggering before that success had been legitimately26 obtained. So, notwithstanding his innate27 love of work, he had no hesitation28 in tearing himself from "treadmill29" to attend to his friend, whom he pitied with all his large heart, with a profound pity which had long ago buried blame out of sight.
One morning, when Robert Streightley was sitting in the easy-chair at the open window looking on to the Thames, gazing, with that calm uninterested feeling which comes to us in illness, on the life below--the nursemaids and valetudinarians in the Temple Gardens; the squad30 of Inns-of-Court volunteers in private clothes, but carrying their rifles, being put through the mysteries of company-drill by the attendant sergeant31; the steam-boats on the river, cutting in and out among the heavy barges32; the distant bridges crowded with traffic, and the shore immediately in front resonant33 with the work of the Embankment,--as he sat, very weak in body, very anxious in mind--for no answer had as yet come to Yeldham's letter to Miss Burton--Charley Yeldham opened the door, and coming up to him, laid his hand gently on his shoulder, and asked him how he was.
Robert answered that he was better; "progressing--quietly, he thought he might say."
"That's good hearing, old boy! that's glorious hearing! You certainly have more colour to-day, and your eyes are brighter, and you look more yourself. How do you feel about your nerves?"
"What a wonder you are, Charley! No other man in the world would ask such a question, knowing perfectly34 that if my nerves were in a queer state, there is nothing so likely to knock them over as being asked after them. However, they're tolerably right, thank God!--Why?"
"Well, I suppose it was a very stupid question; and I'm not about to mend it by what I'm going to say now. I was going to say, if your nerves are tolerably right, and you feel decently strong and able to bear it, there's somebody in the sitting-room--Good God, Robert!"
He might well exclaim, for Robert Streightley had fallen forward on the table, his face ghastly pale, his hand shaking and trembling, his voice, sunk to a whisper, muttering, "Has she come at last? has she come?"
"No, no, my dear fellow; a thousand times no. Compose yourself, for heaven's sake. What a tremendous ass8 I am in any matter like this--sure to make a mess of it! No, no; there's no 'she' there at all; only an old friend of mine and an acquaintance of yours; and I thought if you were well enough, you might like to see him. I may as well tell you at once it's Gordon Frere."
Streightley started as though he had been cut by a whip, seemed about to speak; hesitated for a moment; and finally said, "I'll come in and see him at once."
"You will?" said Charley Yeldham, overjoyed beyond measure; "you will? That's first-rate. I'm delighted, Robert."
"Why should I not?" said Streightley. "If he were to refuse to see me, I could understand that well enough; but now when I, who--and I'm determined35 that I won't let slip this opportunity of telling him--"
"Robert, Robert, what nonsense you're talking! Frere, of course, like all the rest of the world, has heard of Mrs. Streightley's departure; and as he has a tolerably clear head, he might be of use in our difficulties; but as for going back into bygones, I forbid it utterly36. Now, will you see him or not?"
"Give me your arm, Charley, old fellow, and help me into the other room at once."
The few days' illness, with all the suffering and suspense37 which had preceded it, had had a grievous effect on Robert Streightley's appearance; so that Gordon Frere--usually impassive, as society required him--gave a great start when he saw him entering the room leaning on Yeldham's arm; and, hastily advancing, took him by the hand and murmured a few words of kindness and sympathy. Robert Streightley was in a very weak state still; his eyes filled with tears, and the pressure with which he endeavoured to return Frere's manual greeting was a very feeble one.
"Now sit down, Gordon, here, close by Streightley--for we mustn't let him exert himself too soon after his illness--and let us have a quiet talk," said Charley Yeldham. "Our friend Frere is an old friend of mine, as you know--and--well--what the world talks of, you know--in fact, he's heard the story of Mrs. Streightley, and--having known her and taken some interest in her--he has come, hearing you were here, to inquire for you, and ask what news we have of her. I've told him what I know--what we all know; but as for particulars, Lord help us, who could give them?"
"Our dear old Charley here," said Gordon Frere, "puts in his own peculiar38 way--which of course you know, Mr. Streightley, as well as or better than I--the state of affairs. I heard at the time of what had happened; but I, like every one else, I suppose, expected it would all blow over in a few days. I should have liked to have seen you then, and tried to cheer you up, but I thought it better not. However, as my wife sees a good deal of your sister, we have heard that things are not as we hoped they would have been; and yesterday I heard of your illness, so I have come, having long had the pleasure of Mrs. Streightley's acquaintance, and having--if you will permit me to say so--a great esteem39 for you, to ask Yeldham if I could be of any assistance in the matter."
The old courtly manner; how well Robert remembered it! As Gordon Frere spoke40 to him, he saw him taking leave of Katharine on horseback in the Park, bending over her in the opera-box, whispering to her at the Botanical Gardens, in that happy time now so far away. He remained perfectly quiet, thinking over this for a minute or two; then he said in a deep voice, and with his eyes cast down:
"No one has a stronger claim to confidence in this matter than Mr. Frere."
Gordon looked astonished, both at the words and the solemn tone in which Streightley spoke; but Charles Yeldham interposed nervously41:
"Yes, yes, of course. Gordon is an old friend of the Guyon family--known Miss Guyon--Mrs. Streightley, that is to say--since--ever so long."
"Not merely on that account, but on another----"
"For God's sake, Streightley! You're weak and ill, and not yourself----"
"My dear Charley Yeldham, I'm weak--and ill--and--well, not my former self, at all events; but I cannot see that you are justified42 in stopping me in what I was about to say."
"But did not you promise me?"
"Certainly not. I came into this room with the full intention of saying what I am now going to say. When Mr. Frere knows that the saying it will have given me relief--and I need relief--I think he will comprehend my anxiety on the point."
Frere glanced from one to the other in mute amazement43. He was not what is generally called "quick at taking things," and this dialogue was unintelligible44 to him. Robert continued:
"You are aware, Mr. Frere, that Mrs. Streightley has long left her home, and that as yet we are unhappily in ignorance where she may be?"
"I had heard so, to my very great regret."
"But you cannot be aware of what is really the fact--that you are to a great extent implicated45 in her departure."
"I? Mr. Streightley----"
"Hear me out. Our good friend here thinks I am in the wrong in entering into this story to you."
"Very likely not; but then you have not carried the weight about in your bosom47 for months, or you would hail such a chance of relief with delight. A chance indeed; but I have often contemplated48 seeking you, and telling you what you are now about to learn. I am fortunate indeed in an opportunity offered by your kindness." He was speaking clearly and steadily49 now; so he spoke until the end. "Mr. Frere, I owe you an explanation of my last remark to you, and I'm proceeding50 to give it; but you will have to pardon my feebleness and give me time. You were acquainted with Miss Guyon long before I was introduced to her?"
"I was."
"And--I am speaking to you frankly51 of yourself; you will see how frankly I shall speak of myself presently--and you admired her very much?"
"I thought--I think," said Frere, after an instant's hesitation, "that there never was a more beautiful woman."
"Nor a more heartless one, I suppose you would add. That woman, as you imagine, fooled you to the top of your heart, gave you every encouragement to seek her hand; and when you did so, frankly and honourably52, deliberately53 threw you over for the richer prize which came in her way."
"Mr. Streightley," said Frere, in an earnest voice, "I'm sure you must have some very strong motive54, or you would never touch upon a subject which must be so painful to both of us."
"I have a strong motive, sir, as you will speedily find. Your calls were unnoticed, your letters disregarded, your honourable55 and manly56 offer rejected, almost with contempt. Shortly afterwards Miss Guyon was married to me. Now, Mr. Frere, I am coming to my point. Katharine Guyon's rejection57 of you and her acceptance of me were alike the result of a base conspiracy58 against you and her. In matters concerning you she was hoodwinked and deceived; your visits were not mentioned to her; your letters were kept back from her. The very offer of your hand she never received, and until the day of her father's death she was in ignorance of its having been made."
Gordon Frere had started back at the beginning of this disclosure, and now sat staring wildly, scarcely able to comprehend what he had heard. After a pause, he said, "Good God, how awful! And by whom was this treachery perpetrated?"
"By two men, one of whom has gone to his account, with all his imperfections on his head; while the other, mercifully spared so far to repent60 and make such atonement as lies in his power, is before you."
At these words Gordon Frere started from his chair; for an instant remained erect61, taking no heed62 of Yeldham's hands outstretched in warning; then, as his eyes fell on Streightley's worn and haggard face, he sank quietly back into his seat.
"I can fully59 understand what you must feel, Mr. Frere," said Robert; "and I shall shrink from nothing you may say to me. But there is a little more to be told yet, and I may as well finish it. I said that you were somehow concerned in my wife's flight; and what I meant was this. Her discovery of this plot, the rage and humiliation63 which she felt at having been made one of its victims, led her to leave her home. I am confident she had no other motive. She----" Robert stopped for a moment, and then continued, "I can't say much more. I'm not strong yet, and--I only wanted you to know that my crime has not been unpunished. God knows my share in that miserable64 compact has never been absent from my thoughts, and now retribution has overtaken me."
He ceased speaking, and leaned back in his chair, faint and pale. Nor was Gordon Frere much less pallid65 as he rose and said:
"I'm taken so aback by all this, that I can say nothing at this instant. I want ten minutes by myself to collect my thoughts. Charley, give me your key; I'll go into the Gardens for a few minutes, and then I'll come back to you."
Although the Temple Gardens were Mr. Yeldham's favourite and only exercising ground; and although Gordon Frere, in the old days lazily lounging out of the window with his pipe in his mouth, had often seen his friend tearing round and round them, doing his constitutional in the intervals66 of "treadmill," it is probable that the young man himself had not been in them more than half-a-dozen times in his life, and knew nothing of their various beauties. Certain it is that he saw nothing of them on the present occasion. He walked among the nursemaids and the town-made children, and the misanthropes67 and the valetudinarians; but he saw none of them. He saw the staircase at Mrs. Pendarvis's house, and the conservatory68 and the landing, and Katharine with her head bent69 down, listening to his soft familiar phrases--which are not, indeed, the language of love, but which form such a pleasant prelude70 to it. He saw the saucy71 toss of the head with which she would greet his late arrival in society where they had arranged to meet, and that half-bashful, half-earnest look in her eyes when they were about to part. Gordon Frere's heart beat very rapidly as he thought of these things, and he bit his lip impatiently; but he was a thorough nineteenth-century man, with a horror of giving expression to or even indulging in any strong feelings, and he had long outlived the boyish passion for Katharine which had glorified72 that past time. His pride was sharply hurt, and the gentlemanly sense of honour, which alone among a man's feelings the nineteenth-century code does not require him to repress, revolted against the story he had just heard from the shattered invalid73 within there. How right he had been, when he first heard from Hester of Katharine's flight, and had instinctively74 justified her, even though he then believed she had treated him so badly! So, while he was regarding her as a jilt, she was thinking that he had basely trifled with her. Poor Katharine! he pitied her. Did he pity himself? Well, not much; it was over--the glamour75 was gone, and he was none the worse; but she, sold to this man--a poor man now--homeless, self-exiled, with burning anger in her proud heart. He never for a moment thought of the possibility that Katharine might love him, Gordon Frere; still something he did not pause to analyse told him she did not--that the dream was over for her as for him. The waking was very different though. Father and husband lost; home and position forfeited76; a wanderer, and poor. Katharine Guyon was all this. How bright was his own fate in comparison! Mr. Guyon's part in the transaction galled77 him. He had so heartily78 despised the dressy, boasting, foppish79, frivolous80, false old man, and had so often laughed at his little tricks and cheateries, that to have been so thoroughly81, so completely done by him, was, even in such distant retrospect82, decidedly humiliating and unpleasant. He had that letter somewhere, with its infernal hypocritical condolence, and its coolly impudent83 messages from Katharine. All a lie, was it--infernal old scoundrel! Dead though, that must be remembered, even in the utmost scorn and anger. And Streightley--how he pitied him! The man knew so little of the world, and Guyon had made him so completely his tool. He liked Robert, and all the more since Hester had behaved so ill about it all. He wished now he had seen him at once, when this happened; had not been kept back by any fear of Hester's "queerness," as he called it. Things had never been quite comfortable between them since, and he had avoided the subject. But now why should he be angry with this poor broken fellow, who had lost Katharine too, if it came to that? No; he pitied him, and he would help him to the best of his ability; and now he would go and tell him so.
Such is a rapid résumé of Mr. Gordon Frere's thoughts as he walked round the Temple Gardens; and such was the conclusion at which he arrived before he again entered his friend's rooms.
He walked straight up to the chair in which Robert Streightley sat, and taking his thin wan hand, said, "I've thought carefully over all that you have told me, Mr. Streightley, and the result is, that, so far as I am concerned, the matter is put away and buried for ever. It shall never be mentioned by me again, and I think I may say it shall never rise in my mind to your prejudice. The only thing that I will say about it is, that I am glad I have heard this explanation, because by it Miss--Mrs. Streightley is freed from the suspicion of double-dealing and--well, I must say it--heartlessness, which at one time I attached to her. And now," said Gordon, changing the tone of his voice, and laying his hand kindly84 on Streightley's shoulder--"now we must devote all our energies to finding her and bringing her back. I'm sure, when she hears that I have--I mean when she knows that you've told me all--and--yourself so ill--and--that she'll give in at once--eh, Charley?"
"My dear fellow, I agree with you entirely85; I have very little doubt that if we could communicate with Mrs. Streightley, who is a particularly sensible woman, all might be arranged happily at once. But the difficulty is to find her."
"Have you no clue?"
"We had not until quite recently; and even what we now have is very slight indeed." Then Yeldham repeated to Frere all that has been already told respecting Mrs. Stanbourne's letter, and that which he had written to Miss Burton.
"She has not yet answered my letter," he went on to say, with a glance of significant anxiety at Robert, which Gordon understood. "But she may be away from Paris."
"Certainly," said Frere; "nothing more likely. She may have gone home, you know; and the people at the convent may have sent on the letter. We must not be discouraged by a little delay, must we, eh, Charley?"
"O dear, no," said Yeldham; "there is nothing to be discouraged about. We must have patience, and Robert must gain strength. Suppose we got a letter now, and knew where she is, he wouldn't be fit to go to her."
"O yes, I would!" cried Robert. "I should get strength for that. Be sure of me, so far as that goes."
"Well, well; we will discuss that when the time comes," said Yeldham, who was impatient for the termination of this agitating interview. "And now, Gordon, I'm going to turn you out."
"All right, old fellow," said Gordon cheerfully. "I'll soon come and see you again, Mr. Streightley; meantime, if you have any good news, you'll let me have the pleasure of sharing it. I understand now why Yeldham has never spoken much of you to me; but that's all over, is it not?" And the handsome, happy young man held out his hand, with all the irresistible86 grace of his peculiar manner, to Robert, who clasped it fervently87 in his poor thin fingers. Yeldham left the room with Gordon, and the two held a brief colloquy88 on the landing.
"Will he find her, do you think?"
"I fear not. If ever a determined woman lived, she is that woman. And he has no hold on her--no knowledge of her past, no intimacy89 with her intimates."
"She hadn't any, I believe," said Gordon. "I don't think she had a friend in the world. She was dangerous, you see, being so handsome, and so poor; and her father was so deuced disreputable. Did she make many friends since her marriage?"
"I fancy not; I never heard--except Mrs. Frere."
"O, she knows nothing about her," said Gordon hurriedly. "Good-bye, Charley. Go back to the poor fellow; he wants you."
Gordon Frere had taken a step down the stairs, and Yeldham's hand was on the door, when the former turned and came back.
"By Jove, Charley," he said, "I was just going away without telling you one of the principal things I came to say. That fellow Thacker, you know, he manages all Hester's business--as far as she allows any one but herself to manage it, that is to say--and very well he does it, I fancy. However, that's not the news, and this is. She gave him a lot of money to invest on one occasion, and he invested it, it appears, in a thingummy--a loan--you know what I mean--where you get the place if you are not paid up to time."
"Yes; a mortgage. Go on, Gordon."
"Well, then, a mortgage on Middlemeads; and of course, then, you know Streightley smashed; and the end of it is, Middlemeads belongs to us--to her, I mean--and she wants to go and live there when the season's over. Deuced unpleasant, isn't it, Yeldham? especially after the story that poor fellow has just told us; looks as if I did it out of spite to Katharine. I can't explain to Hester; and there's no reasonable reason why she shouldn't have the place, is there, Charley? 'Pon my life, I don't know what to do."
"It's a strange coincidence, Gordon, and that's all that can be said about it. And, after all, it is only strange to us three, because only we know that it is a coincidence at all. To other people Mrs. Frere is much more strictly allied90 with the Streightleys than you are. As for Robert, he won't mind it in the least; he never thinks about the place. He was eager enough about it, poor fellow, when he and I saw it first; but I don't think it ever costs him a thought or a regret now. You may go and live there without a scruple91, take my word for that."
"Do you really think so, Charley? That's very nice indeed, and a great relief; for I would not hurt Streightley for the world. Good-bye again."
He ran downstairs gaily92, and his friend stood for a minute looking after him, thinking of the story that had been told to him, thinking of his own confidences about Katharine in the very same room, and wondering at, a little envying, perhaps a little despising, his invincible93 light-heartedness.
There was something odd, he thought, about the Middlemeads transaction. He had never heard Robert mention the mortgagee's being Mrs. Frere: but he would say nothing about it; it might agitate94 him. So he dismissed the matter from his mind, and went cheerfully back to Robert, whom he found pale and depressed95, and willing to talk only of the one engrossing96 topic--when an answer must surely come from Miss Burton.
"What a fine fellow he is!" Robert thought sadly, in Yeldham's absence, as he reviewed Frere's conduct in their interview. "How nobly generous and forgiving! What a contrast to me! And yet he cannot have loved her as I love her, or no generosity97 could avail to make him pardon the man who robbed him of her. Ah, no; who could ever love her as it is my torment98, my punishment, and yet my life, my pride to love her?"
A few hours more, and suspense, so far as the clue with which Mrs. Stanbourne had furnished Robert was concerned, was ended. The following morning brought a letter to Mr. Yeldham from Miss Burton, written, not from Paris, but from an obscure village in the Pyrenees, where a religious house of the order to which she belonged had lately been established. Its contents were conclusive99. She had never heard from or of Katharine from the time she had received the intimation of her marriage; she had it not in her power to afford the slightest information or assistance, beyond writing to the superior of her former convent in Paris, and entreating her, should Mrs. Streightley make inquiry there for her, to detain her if possible, but in any case to communicate with her friends. She expressed the liveliest concern and inquietude concerning Katharine, and the deepest regret for her own inability to help in this sore strait.
Profound discouragement fell upon the friends when they had read this letter; nevertheless Robert bore the disappointment better than Yeldham expected. He had a settled sense of the sin he had committed upon him, and a resigned conviction that the punishment was not to be escaped or lessened100. The uttermost farthing was to be the sum of the payment to be exacted from him; he did not rebel against the conviction he suffered. "I will never give up seeking her, though I don't believe I shall ever see her face again," he would say to Yeldham, when his friend strove to encourage him, to exhort101 him to a hope he himself was far from feeling.
Yeldham answered Miss Burton's letter, thanking her warmly for her good wishes, and the precaution she had taken in their behalf; and then he had nothing more to do--the weary waiting had to be resumed.
Many were the councils held by the three friends, as the days, which resembled each other only too closely to him, to whom not one of them brought hope or relief, passed by. Robert had returned to Brixton shortly after the arrival of Miss Burton's letter, and had improved since then in health. The demands of society on Gordon Frere were not quite so insatiable as in his bachelor days; and many a long summer evening found the friends together, sometimes on the river, sometimes in some quiet country nook, a little railway-run from town, and secluded102 as a desert; but oftener still in Yeldham's chambers.
Robert was a busy man again, to a certain extent; though now he worked for others, in a subordinate position, which seemed to hurt his pride but little, if at all. "I can't live in idleness on my mother, Charley," he said; "and--and if I never see her face again"--that sentence in her letter haunted him--"I should like to leave her something."
Charles Yeldham encouraged Robert in these resolves, and had the satisfaction of seeing him become more tranquil103 and cheerful, when with him. He had always the gratification of knowing that to others he never afforded an indication of the suffering of his mind.
"You are clear, then, Charley," said Gordon Frere on one occasion, when he had "run up to town" from Middlemeads--they were living there now, and it was late in the autumn--"you are clear, then, that there is nothing, positively104 nothing, to be done? She is certainly not within the limits of the United Kingdom; for I am confident we have fished out every mortal creature she ever knew, intimately or slightly, and no one has heard of her directly or indirectly105."
"I am perfectly clear on that point, Gordon. The case stands thus: we have exhausted106 all private sources of information known to us, and must now wait until some others discover themselves. Mrs. Stanbourne is keenly interested in our success, and she has access to such foreign information as we could not command. The only other likely clue is that secured to us, in case of its usefulness, by Miss Burton. I have always maintained that this was not a case for detective work; because, in the first place, it would not avail; and in the second, Katharine never would pardon the employment of such means. The fatal loss of time at first--the only time in which detective work is ever good for any thing--disposes of that resource, if no other objection existed. Robert, Lady Henmarsh, and myself having concluded, most naturally, that she had gone to Mrs. Stanbourne, the trail was effectually lost before we knew that we were mistaken. She had more than time to hide herself, long before it ever occurred to us that she intended concealment107; for you must remember, Gordon, the desperate defiance108 of her letter to Robert by no means necessarily implied that."
"You are sure she had no other friends abroad but Mrs. Stanbourne and Miss Burton--no friends among foreigners, I mean?"
"Quite certain. Lady Henmarsh knows; and indeed Katharine had told Robert herself that she had never been abroad for more than a fortnight, or farther than Paris, till their marriage, and she knew no foreigners."
"Where did they go to after the marriage?" asked Gordon.
"To Switzerland. But they returned very soon, and did very little tourist business, I fancy; for Katharine had a severe illness at Martigny, which upset all their plans. No, no; there's not a chance in that direction. Robert and I have not left an incident undiscussed, not a speculation109 untried."
And they believed so. But one individual connected with their stay at Martigny had entirely escaped Robert's memory and mention. Had he remembered Dr. Hudson, however, it would never have occurred to him that in that direction any help could lie. He knew nothing of the profession and the promise with which the doctor and his beautiful patient had parted.
So, like the children in their games of hide and-seek, Gordon had unconsciously strayed near to the concealed110 treasure of knowledge when he asked his careless question, but had wandered away again--no hint given, no warning cry, "You burn! you burn!"
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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astute
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| adj.机敏的，精明的 | |
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enjoined
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| v.命令( enjoin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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agitating
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| 搅动( agitate的现在分词 )； 激怒； 使焦虑不安； （尤指为法律、社会状况的改变而）激烈争论 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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apprehended
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| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 )； 理解 | |
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exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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entreating
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
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reposed
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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rectify
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| v.订正，矫正，改正 | |
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procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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queries
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| n.问题( query的名词复数 )；疑问；询问；问号v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的第三人称单数 )；询问 | |
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consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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acquiesce
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| vi.默许，顺从，同意 | |
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21
despatch
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| n./v.(dispatch)派遣；发送；n.急件；新闻报道 | |
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22
bumptious
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| adj.傲慢的 | |
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23
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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24
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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25
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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legitimately
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| ad.合法地；正当地，合理地 | |
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innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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29
treadmill
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| n.踏车；单调的工作 | |
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30
squad
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| n.班，小队，小团体；vt.把…编成班或小组 | |
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sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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barges
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| 驳船( barge的名词复数 ) | |
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resonant
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| adj.(声音)洪亮的，共鸣的 | |
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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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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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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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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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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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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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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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44
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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implicated
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| adj.密切关联的；牵涉其中的 | |
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growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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honourably
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| adv.可尊敬地，光荣地，体面地 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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rejection
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| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
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58
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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59
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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63
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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misanthropes
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| n.厌恶人类者( misanthrope的名词复数 ) | |
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conservatory
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| n.温室，音乐学院；adj.保存性的，有保存力的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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prelude
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| n.序言，前兆，序曲 | |
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71
saucy
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| adj.无礼的；俊俏的；活泼的 | |
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glorified
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| 美其名的，变荣耀的 | |
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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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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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75
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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76
forfeited
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| （因违反协议、犯规、受罚等）丧失，失去( forfeit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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galled
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| v.使…擦痛( gall的过去式和过去分词 )；擦伤；烦扰；侮辱 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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79
foppish
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| adj.矫饰的，浮华的 | |
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80
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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81
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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82
retrospect
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| n.回顾，追溯；v.回顾，回想，追溯 | |
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83
impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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84
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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85
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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86
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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88
colloquy
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| n.谈话，自由讨论 | |
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89
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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90
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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91
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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93
invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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94
agitate
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| vi.(for,against)煽动，鼓动；vt.搅动 | |
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95
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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96
engrossing
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| adj.使人全神贯注的，引人入胜的v.使全神贯注( engross的现在分词 ) | |
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97
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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98
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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99
conclusive
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| adj.最后的，结论的；确凿的，消除怀疑的 | |
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100
lessened
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| 减少的，减弱的 | |
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101
exhort
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| v.规劝，告诫 | |
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102
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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103
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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104
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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105
indirectly
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| adv.间接地，不直接了当地 | |
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106
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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107
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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108
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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109
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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110
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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