"All your fault, you blunder-headed brute14, it was! The lady sat him like a bird, but he got the bit between his teeth and came bolting down the Row; and when she tried to turn him over the rails, he jumped short, the beast, and went slap on to his head. Yarr!" and he gave the horse another chuck in the mouth, and looked as if he would have liked nothing so well as to punish him on the spot.
As he spoke15, a carriage drawn16 by a pair of horses came whirling down the Drive. It contained two ladies, one of whom, seeing the crowd, sat up, and pointed17 it out to her companion. Then they both looked eagerly out, and checked the coachman just as they reached the spot. By his mistress's orders the footman descended18, inquired what had happened, and returned to the carriage to report. The next minute Alice Schr?der, closely followed by Barbara Churchill, was kneeling by Kate Mellon's side.
What was it?--how had it happened?--who was the lady?--did any one know her?--had a doctor been sent for? These questions were asked in a breath, and almost as speedily answered. The story of the accident, so much of it at least as had been witnessed, was narrated19. The park-keeper knew the lady by sight as a constant rider in the Row, always splendidly mounted, generally with other ladies, who, he thought, were pupils like; real ladies, the latter, and no doubt about it; for he thought he saw a glimmer20 of distrust in Barbara's eye; and this poor lady regularly like one of themselves. Poor lady! always so affable, giving "Good morning" to him and the other park-keepers--never knew her name, no; but no harm in her--one of the right sort, take his word for it. Had a doctor been sent for? Yes; two of the vagrant boys had been started off by the man with the book to fetch the nearest surgeon; but in the mean time several other persons had come up; among them a tall thin gentleman on an old white horse. This gentleman dismounted at once, quietly pushed his way through the crowd, knelt down by poor Kate Mellon's senseless body, and placed his finger on her pulse; then, looking up with a grave, thoughtful, professional smile into Mrs. Schr?der's face, said:
"You are a friend of this lady's?"
"Only in my desire to serve her," said poor little Alice, who was the best-hearted little creature in the world, and who was bursting with philanthropy. "Why do you ask?"
"Simply that she must be moved to the nearest house as quietly and as quickly as possible. I am Dr. B.," continued the gentleman, naming a well-known physician; "but this is a surgeon's case, and should be seen by a surgeon at once. I fear St. George's is almost too far off."
"St. George's!" said Alice. "Oh, she must not go to an hospital; she--"
"My dear lady," said the old physician, "she could not go to any place so good; but it is a little far off."
"Then let her go to my house," said Alice. "I live close here--in Saxe-Coburg Square--just through Queen's Gate. Let us take her there at once, and--"
"My dear young lady," said Dr. B., "you scarcely know what trouble you are entailing21 on yourself. This poor girl is in a very bad way, I am sure, from the mere22 cursory23 examination I have been able to make. And--and, pardon me," he added, glancing at Alice's widow's-cap, "but you, surely, have seen enough trouble already for one so young."
"Will you be kind enough to superintend her being lifted into the carriage?" was all Alice said in reply. And the doctor bowed, and looked at her with a wonderfully benevolent24 expression out of his keen gray eyes.
Where had Barbara been during this colloquy25? Where, but at the side of the prostrate26 figure, staunching the little stream of blood that welled slowly from the wound in the forehead, and bathing the deadly-cold brow and the limp hands with water that had been fetched from the neighbouring Serpentine27. And then, at the doctor's suggestion, the park-keeper fetched a hurdle28 from the enclosure, and this they stretched across the seats of the carriage, and, covering it with Shawls and cloaks and wraps, lifted on to it the prostrate form of Kate Mellon, and with Alice and Barbara attendant on her, and the doctor riding close by, they drove slowly away.
Informed by the doctor that it would be dangerous to attempt to carry the patient upstairs, Mrs. Schr?der had sent the footman on with instructions; and by the time they arrived at the house they found that a bed had been prepared in the library, a room on the ground floor, unused since Mr. Schr?der's death. As they passed through Queen's Gate Dr. B. had cantered off, promising29 to return in a minute, and they had scarcely laid poor Kitty on the bed before he appeared, followed by a handsome bald-headed man, with a keen eye and a smile of singular sweetness, wham he introduced as Mr. Slade, the celebrated30 surgeon of St. Vitus's.
"I thought I recognised Slade's cab standing31 at a door in Prince's Terrace. He drives the most runaway32 horse in the most easily over-turned vehicle in London; but I suppose he thinks he can set his own neck when he breaks it, which he is safe to do sooner or later; so I rode round, and fortunately caught him just as he was coming out. And now I'll leave the case in his hands; it would be impossible to leave it in better." And so saying, Dr. B. bowed to the ladies, exchanged a laugh and a pinch of snuff with his brother-professional, and took his leave.
Mr. Slade then approached the bed, and made a rapid examination of the patient, the others watching him anxiously. His face revealed nothing, nor did he speak until he sent one of the servants for a small square box, which was, he said, in his carriage. While waiting for this, Alice took heart to speak to him, and ask him if the case was very serious.
"Very," was his quiet reply. "Could scarcely be worse."
"But there is hope?"
"There is always hope," said the old man, his lace lighting33 up with his sweet grave smile; "but this is a very bad case. The poor girl's ribs34 are severely35 fractured, and there is concussion36 here," pointing to the head, "which causes her insensibility. The box--thank you. Now, ladies, will you kindly37 leave the room, and I will join you presently."
When he came into the drawing-room, he said, "It is a compound fracture, and of a very bad kind. I fear she will never pull through; if she does, she must never dream of work again. I presume you ladies have been pupils of hers?"
"Pupils!" said Alice; "no, indeed; was she a governess?"
"We do not even know this poor lady's name," said Barbara; "we saw the accident, and Mrs. Schr?der had her brought here at once."
"Mrs. Schr?der is an angel of mercy," said Mr. Slade, with an old-fashioned bow. "This poor girl lying downstairs is Miss Mellon, a riding-mistress; a most correct and proper person, I've always heard, and one who had a great deal to do in breaking and training horses. I've often seen her in the Park; she rode splendidly; and I cannot conceive how this accident occurred."
"Do you think her senses will return--that she will be able to express any wishes--before--"
"I should think so," said Mr. Slade, not permitting Barbara to finish the sentence; "I think she will probably recover from the concussion, and then she will be sensible. It is the fracture I fear. I'll send a man to her place in Down Street, to let them know where she is, and I'll look round again this evening."
SO there Kate Mellon lay helpless, senseless, motionless, watched over unconsciously by two women, one of whom she hated deeply, and by the other of whom she was held in the greatest detestation. There she lay through the dreary38 afternoon, through the long evening,--when Mr. Slade came again bringing with him one of the hospital-nurses,--and through the dead solemn night. Very early the next morning, between seven and eight, Barbara, on her way from her bedroom to the library, was surprised to see Mr. Slade enter the hall, and expressed her surprise.
"Well, it is early," said the kind-hearted surgeon; "but, my dear Mrs. Churchill, I've taken a great interest in this poor girl; and as I always take a constitutional round the Park before breakfast, I thought I'd just run across and see her.--Well, nurse, what news? None, eh? Just raise that curtain the least bit--that'll do. Hm! she'll get rid of the concussion; but--hm! well, well, not our will, but Thine; hm, hm! Any body come after her yesterday?"
"An old bailiff or stud-groom," said Barbara, "came down in the evening, and entreated39 to be allowed to see his Mistress. I told him that was impossible, and explained the state of things to him myself. Poor fellow, he was dreadfully overcome, the tears rolled down his cheeks, and he bemoaned40 his mistress's fate most bitterly."
"Hm! right not to let him see her then; could have done no good. But she'll probably come to her senses during the day, and then, if she asks to see any body--well, send for them. The refusal might irritate her, and--and it can make very little difference."
"You think then she is--in danger?" asked Barbara.
"My dear young lady," said he, taking her hand, "in the greatest danger. If inflammation of the lungs sets in, as I much fear it will, nothing can save her.--Nurse, I'll write a prescription41 for a cordial. If she speaks, and sends for any one, give it to her just before they come. It will revive her for a time."
About midday, when Alice had gone out for a little air, and Barbara was left alone with the nurse and the patient, there came a groan42 from the bed, and running up together, they found Kate with her eyes open, staring vaguely43 before her. After a few minutes she spoke, in a hoarse44 strange voice.
"What's this?" she said. "Have I missed my tip at the ribbons and had a spill? Lord, how old Fox will give it me! A-h, my side! This must have been a bad cropper, eh? Hollo! I was fancying I was at the old circus, again. Where am I? who are you? what has happened?"
"You are, with friends," said Barbara, kneeling by the bed; "you have had an accident, and--"
"Yesterday, about this time."
"And I was brought here--to your house! What a kind voice you've got! and I'm bad, eh? I know I must be from the pain I'm in; my side hurts me most awful. Has the doctor seen me? what doctor?"
"Mr. Slade: you've heard of him?"
"Oh, yes, seen him often; drives a rat-tailed bay in a D'Orsay cab; goes the pace; often wondered he didn't break his neck. What does he--oh! my side!" She groaned46 deeply, and while groaning47 seemed to drop off into a heavy stertorous48 slumber49.
When she roused again Mr. Slade was standing over her holding her pulse. "Well," he asked in a gentle voice, "you know me? Ah, of course you do! I've seen you taking stock of my old rattletrap, as you've spun50 by me, and laughing at my nag51. Pain still? kind of pressure, eh? Yes, yes, my poor lass, I know what you mean; so dreadfully weak too; yes, yes. What, danger? Wen, my dear, there's always danger in these cases; and one never knows. Not afraid? no, my brave girl, I know your courage; but--well, there's no harm in settling any little matters which--eh? if in God's will we come all right, there's no harm done, and,---yes, yes; rest now a bit; I'll see you again to-night." And Mr. Slade hurried into his carriage, blowing his Rose very loudly indeed with his red-silk pocket-handkerchief, and with two large tears on his spectacle-glasses..
When the door had shut behind him, Kate called the nurse in a feeble voice, and bade her send for the lady to whom she had previously52 spoken. In answer to this call, Barbara was speedily by the bedside.
"You--you don't mind my sending for you! do you, dear?" asked Kate, in a low tremulous voice.
"Mind, my poor child,--mind! of course not. What is it, dear?"
"I want you to--do you mind, giving me your hand? I can't reach it myself--so, dear; thank you. I want you to do something for me. I--I'm dying, dear--oh, don't shrink from me--I know it; he tried to hide it from me, that kind old man, and bless him for it! but I saw how he looked at the nurse, and I heard her whispering to him behind the screen. I don't fear it, dear. I know--well, never mind! I want to see two people before I go; and I want you to send for them and let them come here, and let me talk to them--will you, dear?"
"Why, of course, of course," said Barbara, the tears streaming down her cheeks; "but you mustn't talk in this way,--you mustn't give way so--no one can tell how this will turn out."
"I can," said Kate quietly. "I seemed to know it when I heard the click of that horse's shoes against the iron railing. It all rose before me in an instant, and I knew I was a dead woman. You can't conceive--I haven't said much--but you can't conceive what torture I'm going through with my side. It burns and burns, and presses--there! I won't say any more about it. Now, dear, will you put down the names of the people who are to be sent to?"
"I shall recollect them; tell me now."
"Well, Mr. Simnel, Tin-Tax Office, Rutland House--"
"Yes; and--"
"And Frank Churchill, Esq.--oh, how your grasp tightens53 on my hand! Frank Churchill, Esq., Statesman newspaper-office--in the City somewhere--they'll find it. What is the matter, dear? You heard me?"
"Yes," said Barbara faintly; "they shall be sent for at once."
"At last," said she to herself when she had regained54 her own room, after despatching the messenger--"at last I shall be enabled to fathom55 this horrible mystery, and to show those who have doubted, that I was not wrong, after all, in taking the decisive step which I did. If this wretched creature prove to be--as I suppose she will--Frank's correspondent both at Bissett and at home; if--and yet Mr. Slade said he believed her to be a perfectly56 correct and proper person, else he would not have permitted her to be received here. Mr. Slade's belief--what is that worth? Is it possible that--no! Here is a woman, poor creature, believing herself to be on her deathbed, and sending for my husband,--a woman of whose existence I have never heard, who is obviously not a person of society, and yet who--great Heavens, if it be proved!--if the worst that I have dared to imagine be proved! And yet lately I have felt that that is impossible, in thinking over Frank's character and ways of life, in thinking over all he has said of dishonour57 and deception58, I have felt certain that--and yet here is this woman sending for him not to his private house,--'Statesman office, somewhere in the City--they'll find it.' Statesman Office! That's where the first letter was addressed, and redirected to Bissett; and the second letter,--the envelope, I mean,--now I think of it, was sent to the same place. It must be the same. And yet how sweet, and patient, and resigned she is! how quiet and calm, and--Frank Churchill, Esq.--no mistake in both the names! Who is the other man, I wonder? Frank Churchill! what an extraordinary fate has planned this for us! I'll see their interview, and hear all that she has to say; and then if--of course it can't be otherwise--what other solution can there be? If Frank has intrigued59 with this--and she going to die too; lying there at the point of death, and looking up into my face with so much gratitude60 and affection--oh, Heaven direct me! I'm at my wits'-end!" and Barbara threw herself on her bed and wept bitterly.
The short dim twilight61 had faded into dusk before the cab containing the messenger and the two gentlemen whom he had been sent to fetch arrived at the house. They were ushered62 at once into the dining-room, where they were received by Pilkington the butler, who produced refreshment63. That being declined, they were shown into the library. In the middle of the room stood the bed in deep shadow; across the far end of the room stood a large folding screen, almost hidden by which was a woman with her back to them, bending over a table and apparently64 engaged in compounding some medicine or drink. A shaded lamp placed on a table between the bed and the screen shed a dim light throughout the room. As the door opened, Mr. Simnel entered first, with a faltering65 step, strode swiftly to the bedside, and then dropped on to his knees, burying his face in his hands. Kate moved her arm with great difficulty until her hand rested on his head, and then she said, half trustingly, half reproachfully, "Robert!" There was no spoken reply, but the man's big strong frame heaved up and down convulsively, and the tears came rushing thick as rain through his closed fingers.
"Robert, my poor fellow! you must not give way so; you'll break me down. I hadn't a notion you--and yet how faithfully you've served! I saw it, Robert; I knew it long ago, when--ah, well, all over now; all over now, Robert, eh?--What, Guardy, you here too! That's well. Ah, I feel so much more composed now I see your dear solemn old face. You came at once."
"Came at once, my poor child--my poor dear child--" and Churchill's voice failed him and he stopped.
"Now, Guardy, come! You won't have much more trouble with your bothering charge, and you must be steady now. It gives me fresh courage, I declare, to hear your solemn voice and to know that you're at my very side for all sorts of serious advice.--Now, Robert, you know that I'm in a bad way; that I'm going to--no, no, be a man, Robert; you'll upset me, if you give way so,--Guardy, this gentleman, Mr. Simnel, has been very, very kind to me for a long, long time. He wanted to marry me, Guardy; and wanted me to have a proper place as his wife, and so he's been hunting up all about my friends and my birth and that, and he's found out a lot. But he doesn't know about you, Guardy; and as I wanted to tell him about that, and to settle one other thing, I sent for you both to-night. The--the medicine!--ask nurse--I'm a little faint!"
Both men rose; but Simnel was nearest, and it was into his hand that the woman behind the screen placed the glass. When Kate had swallowed the cordial, she said, in firmer tones:
"I told you, Robert, that when I left old Fox's circus I was fetched away by two gentlemen, an old fellow and another. This is the other. When we got to the hotel that night, the old man said to me, 'Never you mind who I am, my lass; you won't see me any more after I've once started you in town; but you will see this gentleman, and you'll have to send to him whenever you want advice or any thing else. He's your guardian,' he said, 'and he'll look after you.' I recollect I laughed, and said he looked very young, and giggled66 out some girl's nonsense; but he--I can see you now, Guardy!--put his hand on my head and told me he was much older than I, and that he'd had plenty of experience to teach him the ways of the world. I've never seen the old man since; but, oh, how often I've sent for Guardy! I've worried him day and night, written to him whenever I wanted to know any thing: how to treat swells67 who wouldn't pay, or who were getting troublesome in other ways; when I wanted the landlord seen, or fresh land bought; when--good Lord! when I lost heart over--something--and thought of giving the place up, and selling off and going away, he's kept me as straight as a die; he's never shown the least ill-temper with all my worryings and fidgettings; he's always shown me what to do for the best--and has been my kindest and least selfish and best friend."
"You say too much, Kate," said Churchill; "any thing I have done you have repaid long since by your good sense and docility68."
"You could never be repaid, sir, I see plainly enough," said Simnel; "there are few men who would have so acquitted69 themselves of each a charge, and I shall ever honour and esteem70 you for it. But may I ask how you came to be known to the other person of this story, who from some knowledge I guess to be Scadgers the bill-discounter?"
"It is easily explained. When I arrived in London from Germany, and determined71 to make my bread by literature, I wrote where I could, and for what I could get. Some article of mine was seen by Mr. Scadgers. who then owned, amongst other lucrative72 speculations73, a weekly newspaper and a cheap periodical. Pleased with what he had read--or had recommended to him more likely--he sent for me, and after a little discussion, made me editor and manager of both his literary speculations. He paid liberally, and seemed pleased with all I did; then wanted me to undertake the management of others of his affairs, which I declined. But one night in his office he told me the story of this girl--incidentally, as a suggestion for a tale for the paper, I believe; and so interested me that I suggested his removing her from the life she was then leading, and giving her a chance of doing something for herself. After some discussion he agreed, on the understanding that he should never appear in the matter; but that if he provided the necessary funds, I would manage the whole business and undertake a kind of guardianship74 of the girl. I hesitated, until I saw her at the circus; then, being somewhat of a physiognomist, and thinking I saw in her face promise of what was wanted--honesty, endurance, and a power of keeping straight in front of adverse75 circumstances--I consented. The rest you know."
"Will you take my hand, Mr. Churchill?" said Simnel in a low voice; "God Almighty76 bless you for--for your kindness and your trust!"
"That's right!" said Kate on whom the action had not passed unobserved--"shake hands, you two, good fellows both of you! And now look here--but one word! I didn't catch all you said, Guardy, but you and Robert seem to have made it all right. And now I want to tell you about something--about--when I'm gone, you know--oh, you silly fellow, Robert, how can I speak if you go on so!--I've put away some money, you know; and I want you to have it, Guardy. You're married, some one told me; and you'll want all that; and you won't despise it, eh? You know it's all honestly come by, and you've seen how it's been made--my accounts, you know, you used to say they were very decently kept; and there'll be no shame in taking it--your wife, I mean, and that sort of thing; you can tell her about it. I wonder what she's like. I should have liked to have seen her, Guardy, though perhaps she wouldn't have cared for such as I. Oh, poor old Freeman and the men at The Den--let them have a year's wages; I've put it all regular in a will which I made last year; you'll find it in the desk; and sell the stud--high prices, most of them. I--my side's awful now; don't go yet; let me have a little--just a little rest. I'm faint, and in such--such dreadful pain!"
She fell back exhausted77. Simnel still knelt by the bedside convulsed with grief; but Frank Churchill looked round the screen to summon the nurse. No one was there, so he went to the door and called softly. The nurse responded at once and passed by him; but as he turned back he saw the butler, who beckoned78 to him.
"Will you please to step this way, sir?" said the man; "you're wanted in the dining-room."
Churchill followed him; and as the dining-room door shut behind him, found himself face to face with his wife.
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1
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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jauntily
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| adv.心满意足地；洋洋得意地；高兴地；活泼地 | |
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cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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vagrant
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| n.流浪者，游民；adj.流浪的，漂泊不定的 | |
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whooping
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| 发嗬嗬声的，发咳声的 | |
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foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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trickling
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| n.油画底色含油太多而成泡沫状突起v.滴( trickle的现在分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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wrench
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| v.猛拧；挣脱；使扭伤；n.扳手；痛苦，难受 | |
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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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comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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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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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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narrated
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| v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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entailing
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mere
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cursory
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| adj.粗略的；草率的；匆促的 | |
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benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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colloquy
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| n.谈话，自由讨论 | |
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prostrate
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serpentine
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| adj.蜿蜒的，弯曲的 | |
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hurdle
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| n.跳栏，栏架；障碍，困难；vi.进行跨栏赛 | |
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promising
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celebrated
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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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runaway
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| n.逃走的人，逃亡，亡命者；adj.逃亡的，逃走的 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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concussion
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| n.脑震荡；震动 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bemoaned
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| v.为（某人或某事）抱怨( bemoan的过去式和过去分词 )；悲悼；为…恸哭；哀叹 | |
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prescription
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| n.处方，开药；指示，规定 | |
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groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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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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groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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stertorous
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| adj.打鼾的 | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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nag
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| v.(对…)不停地唠叨；n.爱唠叨的人 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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tightens
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| 收紧( tighten的第三人称单数 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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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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dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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intrigued
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| adj.好奇的，被迷住了的v.搞阴谋诡计(intrigue的过去式)；激起…的兴趣或好奇心；“intrigue”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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giggled
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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swells
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| 增强( swell的第三人称单数 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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docility
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| n.容易教，易驾驶，驯服 | |
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acquitted
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| 宣判…无罪( acquit的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（自己）作出某种表现 | |
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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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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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lucrative
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| adj.赚钱的，可获利的 | |
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speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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guardianship
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| n. 监护, 保护, 守护 | |
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adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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