He had scarcely been popular at Eton, for he avoided both the river and the playing fields, and was one of a set who kept aloof6 from the rest, talked together upon politics, philosophy, and poetry, held mildly democratic opinions as to the improvement of the existing state of things, were particular about their dress, and subdued7 in their talk. That they were looked upon with something like contempt by those who regarded a place in the eight or the eleven as conferring the proudest distinction that could be aimed at, they regarded not only with complacency, but almost with pride, and privately8 considered themselves to belong to a far higher order than these rough athletes. At college, his mode of life was but little altered. He belonged to a small coterie9 who lived apart from the rest, held academic discussions in each others' rooms upon many abstruse10 subjects, were familiar with Kant, regarded the German thinkers with respectful admiration11, quoted John Stuart Mill and Spencer as the masters of English thought, were mildly enthusiastic over Carlyle and Ruskin, and had leanings towards Comte and Swedenborg.
It was only at the union that Lord Everington, as he then was, came in contact with those outside his own set, and here he quite held his own, for he was a neat and polished speaker, never diverging12 into flights of fancy, but precise as to his facts and close in his reasoning. His speeches were always listened to with attention, and though far from being one of the most popular, he was regarded as being one of the cleverest and most promising13 debaters at the union. Just as he was leaving college a terrible blow fell upon him, for at the sudden death of his father, he succeeded to the title. To some men the loss would not have been without its consolations14. To him it meant the destruction of the scheme on which he had laid out his life. He had intended to enter Parliament as soon as possible, and had sufficient confidence in himself to feel sure that he should succeed in political life, and would ere many years become an Under-Secretary, and in due course of time a member of the Cabinet.
Now all this prospect15 seemed shattered. In the Peers he would have but slight opportunity of distinguishing himself, and would simply be the Earl of Halliburn, and nothing more. It was, however, to his credit that even in the dull atmosphere of the Gilded16 Chamber17 he had, to some extent, made his mark. He studied diligently18 every question that came up, and, while clever enough not to bore the House by long speeches, he came, ere long, to be considered a very well-informed and useful young member of it, and had now the honour of being Under-Secretary for the Colonies. It was a recognition of his work that he enjoyed keenly, although he felt bitterly how few were his opportunities in comparison to what they would have been had his chief been in the Peers and he in the Commons.
As it was, his fellow peers evinced no curiosity whatever in regard to colonial matters, and it was of rare occurrence that any question was asked upon the affairs of which he had charge. Nevertheless, it was a great step. It brought him within the official circle, and more than once the mastery of the subject shown in his answers had won for him a few words of warm commendation from the Leader of the House.
Then came, as he now thought it, the unfortunate idea of marriage. It would add to his weight, he had considered. As a bachelor his house in Park Lane, his place in the country, and his wealth, were but of slight advantage to him, but, as his chief one day hinted to him, he would be able to be of far more use to his party were he in a position to entertain largely.
'We are rather behindhand in that respect, Halliburn. Four-fifths of the good houses are Tory. These things count for a good deal. You may say that it is absurd that it should be so, but that does not alter the fact that it gratifies the wives and daughters of the country members to have such houses open to them. You have plenty of money, and you don't throw it away, so that you can afford to do things well. If I were you, I should certainly look out for a wife.
'She need not be a politician. She need not even belong to one of our families. Whatever her people's politics she will naturally, as your wife, come in time to take your views; and besides, there is no harm, rather the reverse, in keeping up a connection with that side. You must see as well as I do that the time is fast coming when there will be a considerable change in politics. Even now we are far nearer, upon all important points, to the Tories than we are to these Radical19 fellows who at present vote with us, but who in time will want to control us. The Tories have come much nearer to us, and we to them. Already we are scarcely in a majority on our own side of the house, and it will not be many years before we shall have to concede the demand to give a large share of ministerial appointments to Radicals20. We shall then perceive that we must choose between becoming the followers21 of men whose ways and politics we hate, or the allies of men of our own stamp, whose way of looking at things differs but very little from our own. Therefore, I should say it would be just as well for you to choose a wife from their ranks as from your own.'
Lord Halliburn had, as was his custom, thought the matter over coolly and carefully, and had come to the conclusion that it would be well for him to marry. He was by no means blind to the fact that there would be no great difficulty in his doing so. He was not unobservant of the frequency of invitations to houses where there were daughters of marriageable age, and had often smiled quietly at the innocent man?uvres upon the part both of mothers and daughters. He had, however, never seriously given the matter a thought, being rather of opinion that a wife would interfere22 with his work, would compel him to take a more prominent part in society, and would expect him to devote a considerable proportion of his time to her. Now that the matter was placed before him in another light, he saw that there was a good deal to be said on the other side. The fact that the suggestion came from his chief was not without weight, and he decided23 accordingly to marry.
He proceeded about the matter in the same methodical manner in which he carried out the other work of his life, and was not very long in deciding in favour of Miss Hawtrey. She was one of the belles25 of the season, and, as was no secret, had refused two or three excellent offers. There would, therefore, be a certain éclat in carrying her off. She belonged to an old county family. Her father, although a Conservative, had taken no prominent part in politics, and his daughter would no doubt soon prove amenable26 to his own opinions and wishes. Above all, she would make a charming hostess. Having once made up his mind, he set to work seriously, and soon became interested in it to a degree that surprised him.
To his rank and his position in the Ministry27 he speedily found that she was absolutely indifferent, and was as ready to dance and laugh with an impecunious28 younger son as with himself. This indifference29 stimulated30 his efforts, and as a man, as well as a peer and politician, he was gratified when he received an affirmative reply to his proposal. His chief himself congratulated him upon his engagement, and he knew that he was an object of envy to many, for in addition to being a belle24, Miss Hawtrey was also an heiress, and for a short time he was highly gratified at the course of events. It was thus he felt cruelly hard when, within a fortnight of his engagement, this unpleasant affair took place.
It seemed intolerable to him that the lady whom he had chosen should be the subject of these libellous attacks. He did not for an instant doubt that she was, as she said, wholly ignorant of the author of these letters, and that there was nothing whatever on which these demands for money could be based. Still, the business was none the less annoying, and in his irritation31 he had taken the step that had unfortunately resulted in the matter becoming public. He was angry with himself; angry, although he could have given no reason for the feeling, with Dorothy; very angry with society in general, for entertaining the slightest suspicion of the lady whom he had selected to be his wife. That such suspicion should, even in the vaguest manner, exist, was in itself wholly at variance32 with his object in entering upon matrimony. The wife of the Earl of Halliburn should not be spoken of except in terms of admiration; that the finger of suspicion should be pointed33 at her was intolerable.
His house might even be shunned34, instead of the entry there being so exclusive as to be eagerly sought for. Of course, it was not her fault, and it should make no difference as to his course. Still, the affair was, he freely owned, annoying in the extreme. He had had but few troubles, and bore this badly. The belief that the clerks in his office were talking of his affairs kept him in a state of constant irritation, and he fancied that even the impassive door-keeper smiled furtively35 as he passed him on his way in and out. Being in the habit of attaching a good deal of importance to his personality he believed that anything that affected36 him was a matter of much interest to the world at large, and that it occupied the thoughts of other people almost as much as it did his own. For the first time he felt that there were some advantages in a seat in the Upper House. In that grave, and for the most part scanty37, gathering38 of men, generally much older than himself, he could feel that his troubles elicited39 but little more than a passing remark, and, indeed, the only sign of their knowledge of them that even his irritated self-love could detect was a slightly added warmth and kindness on the part of two or three of his leaders.
With the younger men it was different. 'I never thought much of that fellow Halliburn,' said Frank Delancey, who had been in his form at Eton, and was now, like himself, an under secretary, but in the Commons. 'I never believe in fellows who moon their time away instead of going in for the water or fields, and Halliburn is showing now that he is not of good stuff. He has not got the cotton out of his veins40 yet. Of course, it is not pleasant for a girl you are engaged to, to be talked about; but a man with any pluck and honour would not show it as he does. Instead of going about looking bright and pleasant, as if such a paltry41 accusation42 was too contemptible43 to give him a moment's thought, he gives himself the airs of Hamlet when he begins to suspect his uncle, and walks about looking as irritable44 as a bear with a sore head. He hasn't even the decency45 to behave like a gentleman when he is with her, I hear. Young Vaux, of the Foreign Office, told me yesterday that he met them both at dinner the day before, and the fellow looked downright cross, instead of being, as he ought to have been, more courteous46 and devoted47 than usual. I fancy that you will hear that it is broken off before long. I don't think Dorothy Hawtrey is the sort of girl to stand any nonsense.'
'No, I quite agree with you, Delancey,' his companion—Fitzhurst, member for an Irish constituency—said. 'Still, I should say it would last until this blows over. As long as the engagement goes on it is in itself a sort of proof that everything is all right, and that these reports are but a parcel of lies. The girl would feel that if she broke it off fresh stories would get about, and that half the people would say that it was his doing and that the stories were true, after all.'
'I will bet you a fiver that it does not come off, Tom.'
'No, I would not take that, but I would not mind betting evens that it lasts three months.'
'Well, I will go five pounds even with you, and I will take five to one, if you like, that it does not last another month.'
'No, I will take the even bet, but not the other. There is no saying what developments may turn up.'
But Dorothy had even before this offered to release Lord Halliburn from the engagement; he had refused the offer with vehemence48, declaring himself absolutely unaffected by the story, and, indeed, taking an injured tone and accusing her of doubting his love for her.
'I am not doubting your love, Algernon,' she replied, 'but it is impossible for me to avoid seeing that the matter is a great annoyance49 to you, and that it is troubling you very much. You have several times spoken quite crossly to me, and I am not in the habit of being spoken crossly to. My father is naturally quite as annoyed as you are, but as he believes, as you do, that the accusations50 are entirely51 false, he is not in any way vexed52 with me.'
'Nor am I, Dorothy; not in the slightest degree, though I own that the knowledge that people are talking about us does irritate me; but certainly I did not mean to speak crossly to you, and am very sorry if I did so.'
And so the matter had dropped, but Dorothy had none the less felt that at a time when Halliburn ought to have been kinder than usual, and to have helped her to show a brave front in the face of these rumours53, he had added to instead of lightening her troubles.
One morning at breakfast Dorothy gave an exclamation54 of surprise upon opening one of her letters.
'What is it, my dear?'
'I don't understand it, father. Here is a letter from Gilliat, saying he would be obliged if I will hand over to an assistant who will call for it to-day, whichever of the two diamond tiaras I may have decided not to retain, as he expects a customer this afternoon whom it might suit. I don't know what he means. Of course I have not been choosing any jewels. I should not think of such a thing without consulting you, even if I had had money enough in my pocket to indulge in such adornments.'
She handed the letter to her father.
'It must be some mistake,' he said, after glancing it through; 'the letter must have been meant for some one else. It must be some stupid blunder on the part of a clerk. We will go round there together after breakfast. I have not bought you anything of the sort yet, dear, and was not intending to do so until the time came nearer; indeed, I had intended to get your mother's diamonds re-set for you. Of course, I should have gone to Gilliat's, as we have always dealt with his firm.'
After breakfast they drove to Bond Street.
'I want to see Mr. Gilliat himself, if he is in,' Mr. Hawtrey said.
Mr. Gilliat was in.
'My daughter has received a letter which is evidently meant for some one else, Mr. Gilliat. It is about two diamond tiaras, which, it seems, somebody has taken in order to choose one of them. Of course it was not intended for her.'
Gilliat took the letter, glanced at it, and then at Dorothy. 'I do not quite understand,' he said doubtfully.
'Not understand?' Mr. Hawtrey repeated with some irritation. 'Do you mean to say that Miss Hawtrey has been supplied with two diamond tiaras?'
'Would you mind stepping into my room behind, Mr. Hawtrey?' the jeweller replied, leading the way into an inner room. As he closed the door his eye met Dorothy's with a look of inquiry55, as if asking for instructions. Hers expressed nothing but surprise. 'Am I to understand, Mr. Hawtrey,' he asked gravely, after a pause, 'that Miss Hawtrey denies having received the tiaras?'
'Certainly you are,' Mr. Hawtrey said hotly, 'she knows nothing whatever about them.'
The jeweller pressed his lips tightly together, thought for a moment, and then touched a bell on the table. An assistant entered. 'Ask Mr. Williams to step here for a moment.'
The principal assistant entered: 'Mr. Williams, do you remember on what day it was that Miss Hawtrey selected the two tiaras?'
'It was about three weeks ago, sir; I cannot tell you the exact day without consulting the sales book.'
'Do so at once, if you please.'
Mr. Williams went out and returned in a moment with the book.
'It was the 15th of last month, sir—July.'
'You served her yourself, I think, Mr. Williams, or, rather, perhaps you assisted me in doing so?'
'Certainly, sir.'
'What was the value of the tiaras, Mr. Williams?'
'One was twelve hundred, the other was twelve hundred and fifty, sir.'
'She took them away herself?'
'Certainly, sir; I offered to place them in the carriage for her, but she said it was a few doors up the street, and she would take them herself.'
'You have not a shadow of doubt about the facts, Mr. Williams?'
'None whatever, sir,' the assistant said, in some surprise.
'You know Miss Hawtrey well by sight?'
'Certainly, sir; she has been here many times, both by herself, for repairs or alterations56 to her watch or jewellery, and with other ladies.'
'Thank you, Mr. Williams, that will do at present.'
The door closed and the jeweller turned to his customers.
Mr. Hawtrey looked confounded, his daughter bewildered.
'I do not understand it,' she said. 'I have not been here, Mr. Gilliat, since the beginning of May, when I came to you about replacing a pearl that had become discoloured in my necklace.'
'I remember that visit perfectly57, Miss Hawtrey,' the jeweller said gravely, 'but I must confirm what my assistant has said. Allow me to recall to you that, in the first place, you told me that in view of an approaching event you required a tiara of diamonds, and of course, having heard of your engagement to Lord Halliburn, I understood your allusion58, and came in here with you, and had the honour of showing you five or six tiaras. Of these you selected two, and said that you should like to show them to Mr. Hawtrey before choosing. I offered to send an assistant with them, but you said that your carriage was standing59 a few doors off and that you would rather take them yourself. Our firm having had the honour of serving Mr. Hawtrey and his family for several generations, and knowing you perfectly, I had, of course, no hesitation60 in complying with your request. I may say, as an evidence of the exactness of my memory, that Miss Hawtrey was dressed exactly as she is at present. I had, of course, an opportunity of noticing her dress as she was examining the goods. She had on that blue walking dress with small red spots, and the bonnet61 with blue feathers with red tips.'
'Will you give me the hour as well as the day at which you say my daughter called here?' Mr. Hawtrey said sternly.
'My own impression is that it was about three o'clock,' the jeweller said, after a moment's thought.
'Will you call your assistant and ask him?'
Mr. Williams being summoned said that he had no distinct recollection as to the precise time, but that it was certainly somewhat early in the afternoon. He had returned from lunch about two, and it was not for some little time after that that Miss Hawtrey called; he should say it was between three and half past three.
'That will be near enough,' Mr. Hawtrey said. 'You shall hear from me again shortly, Mr. Gilliat; I know that I can rely upon you to say nothing in the meantime to anyone on the subject.'
'Certainly, Mr. Hawtrey.'
'Now, Dorothy, let us be going.'
Dorothy at the moment was unable to follow her father; she had sunk down in a chair, pale and trembling; her look of intense surprise had given way to one of alarm and horror, and it was not until she had drunk some water that the jeweller brought her, that she recovered sufficiently62 to take her father's arm and walk through the shop to the carriage.
'Well, Dorothy,' Mr. Hawtrey said, as they drove off, 'what does all this mean?'
'You still say that you did not go to the shop—that you did not examine those tiaras and choose two of them?'
'Of course I say so, father. I have never been in the shop since I went about that pearl. Surely, father, you cannot suspect me of having stolen those things.'
'I am the last man in the world to suspect you of anything dishonourable, Dorothy, but this evidence is staggering. Here are two men ready to swear to the whole particulars of the incident. They are both sufficiently acquainted with your appearance to be able to recognise you readily. They can even swear to your dress. That you should do such a thing seems to be incredible and impossible, but what am I to think? You could not have done such a thing in your senses; it would be the act of a madwoman, especially to go to a shop where you are so well known.'
'But why should I have done it, father? I could not have worn them without being detected at once.'
'You could not have worn them,' her father agreed, 'but they might have been turned into money had you great occasion for it.'
Dorothy started.
'Do you mean, father—oh, surely, you never can mean that I could have stolen those things to turn them into money in order to satisfy the man who has been writing those letters?'
'No, my dear. I don't mean that myself, but that is certainly what anyone who did not know you would say. There, don't cry so, child,' for Dorothy was sobbing64 hysterically65 now; 'do not let us talk any more until we get home. We have got the day and hour at which you were supposed to have been at Gilliat's. Perhaps we may be able to prove that you were engaged somewhere else, and that it was impossible you could have been at Gilliat's about that time.'
Nothing more was said until they reached home.
'You had better come into my study, Dorothy; we shall not be disturbed there. Now, dear,' he said, 'let us have the matter out. I can only say this, that if you again give me your assurance that you are absolutely ignorant of all this, and that you never went to Gilliat's on the day they say you did, I shall accept your assurance as implicitly66 as I did before; but before you speak, remember, dear, what that entails67. These people are prepared to swear to you, and will, of course, take steps to obtain payment for these things. If such steps are taken the whole matter will be gone into to the bottom. Remember everything depends on your frankness. It will be terribly painful for you to acknowledge that, after all, you had got into some entanglement68, and that you did in a moment of madness take these things in order to free yourself from it. It would be terribly painful for me to hear this, but upon hearing it I should of course take steps to raise this twenty-five hundred pounds, for at present I do not happen to have so much at my bankers, and to settle Gilliat's claim. But even painful as this would be it would be a thousand times better than to have all this gone into in public. On the other hand, if you still assure me that you know nothing of it I must refuse to pay the money, both because to do so would be to admit that you took the things, and because, in the second place, whoever has taken these tiaras—for that some one has done so we cannot doubt—may again personate you and involve us in fresh trouble and difficulties.'
'I did not do it, father; indeed I did not do it. I have had no entanglement; I was in no need of money; I have never been near Gilliat's shop, unless, indeed, I was altogether out of my mind and did it in a state of unconsciousness, which I cannot think for a moment. I have worried over this until I hardly knew what I was doing, but I never could have gone to that shop and done as they say without having a remembrance of it. Why, the last place I should choose if I had ever thought of stealing would be a place where I was perfectly known. Indeed, father, I am altogether innocent. I cannot account for it, not in the least, but I am sure that I had nothing to do with it.'
'Then, my dear, I will not doubt you for another moment,' Mr. Hawtrey said, kissing her tenderly. 'Now we just stand in the same position as we did in regard to the other affair; we have got to find out all about it. In the first place, get your book of engagements, and let us see what you were doing on the afternoon of the 15th.'
Dorothy went out of the room and soon returned with a pocket book.
'Not satisfactory, I can see,' Mr. Hawtrey said, as he glanced at her face.
'No, father; here it is, you see—"Lunch with Mrs. Milford;" nothing else. I remember about that afternoon now. I drove in the carriage to Mrs. Milford's, and had lunch at half-past one; there was one other lady there. Mrs. Milford had tickets for a concert, at St. James's Hall I think it was, but I am not sure about that. I had a headache, and would not go with them; and, besides, I had some shopping to do. I got out of her brougham in Hanover Square. I went into Bond Street certainly, and I got some gloves and scent69; then I went into Cocks' and looked through the new music and chose one or two pieces, then I went into the French Gallery. Mrs. Milford had been talking about it at lunch, so I thought I would drop in. There were very few people there, so I sauntered round and sat down and looked at those I liked best. It was quiet and pleasant. I must have been in there a long time. When I came out I took a cab and drove straight home. It was six o'clock when I got back, and I remember I went straight up to my room and had a cup of tea there, then I took off my gown and my maid combed my hair, as it was time for me to dress for dinner. My head was aching a good deal and it did me good. We dined at the Livingstones' that evening.'
'It is unfortunate, certainly, Dorothy. I had hoped we might have been able to have fixed70 you somewhere that would have proved conclusively71 that you could not possibly have been at Gilliat's that afternoon. As it is, your recollections do not help us at all, for your time from somewhere about three till six is practically unaccounted for. The people you bought the gloves and scent from could prove that you were there, but you probably would not have been many minutes in their shop. Cocks' may remember that you were there a quarter of an hour or so.'
'I think I was there half-an-hour, father.'
'Well, say half-an-hour; the rest of the time you were really in the picture gallery, but it is scarcely likely that, even if the man who took your money at the door or the attendant inside noticed you sufficiently to swear to your face, they would be able to fix the day, still less have noticed how long you stayed. At any rate it is clear that it would be possible for you to have done all you say you did that afternoon and still to have spared time for that visit to Gilliat's.'
'I see that it is all terrible, father, but what can it all mean?'
'That is more than I can understand, Dorothy. At present we are face to face with what seems to me two impossibilities. I mean looking at them from an outsider's point of view. The one is that these shopmen should have taken any one else for you when they are so well acquainted with your face, and are able to swear even to the dress. No less difficult is it to believe that did you require money so urgently that you were ready to commit a crime to obtain it, you would go to the people to whom you were perfectly well known, and so destroy every hope and even every possibility of the crime passing undetected. One theory is as difficult to believe as the other. Those letters were a mystery, but this affair is infinitely72 more puzzling. I really do not know what to do. I must take advice in the matter, of course. I would rather pay the money five times over than permit it to become public, but who is to know what form this strange persecution73 is to take next?'
'Do you think there is any connection between this and the other, father?'
Mr. Hawtrey shook his head. 'I do not see the most remote connection between the two things. But there may be; who can say?'
'I would rather face it out,' Dorothy said, passionately74. 'I would rather be imprisoned75 as a thief than go on as I have been doing for the last six weeks; anything would be better. Even if you were to pay the money the story might get about somehow, just as the other did. Then the fact that you paid it would be looked upon as a proof that I had taken the diamonds. Who will you consult, father?'
'My lawyers would be the proper people to consult, undoubtedly76; but they were quite useless before, and this is wholly out of their line, I think. I will take a hansom and go across to Jermyn Street, and see if I can find Ned Hampton in. I have great faith in his judgment77, and no one could be kinder than he has been in the matter. You don't mind my speaking to him?'
'Oh, no, father. I would rather that you should speak to him than to any one.'
Captain Hampton was in and listened in silent consternation78 to Mr. Hawtrey's story, and for a long time made no answer to the question.
'I can make neither head nor tail of it, Ned. What do you think?'
At first sight it seemed to him that this story explained the meeting he had seen opposite the Agricultural Hall. She had either turned the diamonds into money or had handed them over to this man to buy his silence. Then his faith in Dorothy rose again. It was absolutely absurd to suppose for a moment that she should have thus committed a crime which must be certainly brought home to her, and which would ruin her far more than any revelations this man might make could do.
'It is an extraordinary story, Mr. Hawtrey,' he said, at last; 'even putting our knowledge of your daughter's character out of the question, is it possible to believe that any young lady possessed79 of ordinary shrewdness would go to a place where she was well known, and, have acted in the way that she is reported to have done?'
'It would certainly seem incredible, Ned, but here are two or three people prepared to swear that she did do so, and that they identified her by her dress as well as by herself.'
'We must look at the matter in every light, Mr. Hawtrey; however confident you may feel of her innocence80, we must look at it from the light in which other people will regard it. They will say, of course, that Miss Hawtrey had urgent need of money for some purpose or other, and will naturally suppose that reason to be her desire to silence the author of those letters. They will say, that although she would of course know that the bill would be sent in to her father, she would be sure that he would rather pay the money than betray her sin to the world.'
'I quite see that,' Mr. Hawtrey agreed, 'but if she had been driven to desperation by this fellow, why did she not come direct to me in the first place, instead of committing a theft to drive me to pay, when she might be pretty sure in some way or other the facts would leak out, and do her infinitely more harm with the world than any indiscretion committed years ago could do? Besides, had she done it for this purpose, would she not have carried through that course of action, and when the bill came in have implored81 me to pay it without question, and so save her from disgrace and ruin?'
'That certainly is so,' Captain Hampton said, as his face brightened visibly; 'the more one thinks of it the more mysterious the affair seems. I should like to think it all over quietly. I suppose you will not go out this evening?'
'Certainly not. There will be no more going out until this mystery has been cleared up. It has been hard enough for Dorothy to bear up over her last trouble, but it would be out of the question for her to go into society with this terrible thing hanging over her.'
'Then I will come round about nine o'clock. I shall have had time to think it over before that.'
Captain Hampton's cogitations came to nothing. He walked up and down his little room until the lodger82 in the parlour below went out in despair to his club. He tried the effect of an hour's stroll in the least frequented part of Kensington Gardens. He drove to Mr. Slippen's to inquire if any clue had been obtained as to Truscott's movements. He ate a solitary83 dinner at his lodgings84 and smoked an enormous quantity of tobacco, but could see no clue whatever to the mystery. The meeting he had witnessed was to him a piece of evidence far more damning than that of the jeweller and his assistants. If she could explain that, the other matter might be got over, though he could not see how. If she could not explain it, it was evident that he had nothing to do but to advise her father to settle the business at any cost.
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bestowal
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worthily
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aloof
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subdued
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privately
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coterie
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abstruse
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| adj.深奥的，难解的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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diverging
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| 分开( diverge的现在分词 )； 偏离； 分歧； 分道扬镳 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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consolations
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| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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diligently
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| ad.industriously;carefully | |
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radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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radicals
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| n.激进分子( radical的名词复数 )；根基；基本原理；[数学]根数 | |
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followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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belle
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| n.靓女 | |
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belles
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| n.美女( belle的名词复数 )；最美的美女 | |
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amenable
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| adj.经得起检验的；顺从的；对负有义务的 | |
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ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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impecunious
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| adj.不名一文的，贫穷的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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variance
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| n.矛盾，不同 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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elicited
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| 引出，探出( elicit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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accusations
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| n.指责( accusation的名词复数 )；指控；控告；（被告发、控告的）罪名 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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alterations
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| n.改动( alteration的名词复数 )；更改；变化；改变 | |
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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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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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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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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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hysterically
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| ad. 歇斯底里地 | |
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implicitly
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| adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
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entails
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| 使…成为必要( entail的第三人称单数 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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entanglement
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| n.纠缠，牵累 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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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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conclusively
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| adv.令人信服地，确凿地 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lodger
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| n.寄宿人，房客 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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