At one of these open windows, which looked out upon a pretty prim14 little garden, bordered on the confines of the broad shady alley7 down to which it stretched by some trees nobler and more rich in foliage15 than their fellows, the strollers in the alley might have observed three gentlemen in earnest and protracted16 conversation. One was seated in a large arm-chair, which occupied one of the sides of the bay-window; a second leaned against the open frame of the central compartment17; and the third, a shorter and slighter man than either of his companions, stood upright between them, and as he spoke18 turned his head and his keen eyes from one to the other with an animated19 and characteristic gesture. The gentleman seated in the arm-chair was a tall, frostily gray, scrupulously21 dressed, laboriously22 polite elderly man, who constantly twirled a heavy gold eye-glass in very white and bony hands. He seemed agitated--indeed, so much so, that some of his acquaintances in the far-off English district which had the honour of being his home would have found some difficulty in recognizing him. He was hardly pompous23 as he sat this fine morning looking out on the Taunus, and taking note of neither mountain, nor valley, nor forest; his manner was actually that of a man seeking and welcoming sympathy; it really seemed possible that an observer of the scene might have ventured on taking the liberty of feeling sorry for Mr. Carruthers of Poynings.
The smaller, slighter man, who formed the centre figure of the group, was of somewhat remarkable24 aspect. Very wiry and alert of frame, well knit and upright, his figure had a certain youthfulness about it which was contradicted by his face--that of a man who had passed the confines of middle age. His face was handsome, thoughtful, and bore the impress of heavy trouble, and in the dark eyes, and generally in the straight and refined features, it presented a strong resemblance to that of Mrs. Carruthers.
Not unnaturally25, for the gentleman in question was Mark Felton, Mrs. Carruthers's brother.
The third component26 of the group, a young man, who leant against the frame of the open window and looked out, his face turned away from the speaker and the "other listener," his tall loosely-built figure distinctly visible from the road, was George Dallas.
"Under these circumstances, and seeing that waiting was inevitable27, and that I could do nothing in that matter actively," Mark Felton was saying, "I determined28 to come on here at once. All I heard at Poynings--"
"I hope you were properly entertained there?" said Mr. Carruthers, in the old "of Poynings" manner.
"Perfectly29, my dear sir--perfectly. As I was saying, all I heard at Poynings, and what George told me"--he cast a quick glance at his nephew here, in which there was already hearty30 liking--"made me more than ever anxious to see Laura. Besides, I was exceedingly anxious to make your acquaintance without any further delay."
"A wish which I reciprocated31, I assure you, Mr. Felton."
"In bringing George with me, I acted on my own judgment32, and on a conviction that you would regard the matter as I do. I believed you would consider him entitled to see his mother, and would be glad to learn from me that his prospects33 in life are as much improved as his inclination34 and determination to do them honour are genuine and strong."
"You are quite right, Mr. Felton," said the honourable35 old gentleman, who had begun to feel himself somehow beaten by fate, and was, secretly, immensely relieved that his stepson had made his appearance without having been sent for, and in such unexceptionable company. "It is necessary now that Mr. Dallas--that--that George" (he got out the word with an immense effort, and it meant everything) "should be near his mother. I am glad to know he has found a friend in you."
"And I am still more glad to believe," said Mr. Felton, not precisely36 interrupting Mr. Carruthers, but taking advantage of a slight pause to speak--"I am glad to know that he found me just when he was learning to do without any one."
It is possible that a good deal of Mr. Carruthers's trouble--and he had suffered severely37 since he had left England--had had its origin in a conviction, which had stolen upon him at first, and latterly had threatened to overwhelm him, that he had not been faultless in his conduct towards his wife and his treatment of her son. He had found out very shortly after they had left Poynings--for in the deadening of her faculties38, forgetfulness of her fear of him had come--how mistaken he had been in supposing that he had suppressed her love for George, her constant remembrance of him, or had supplied by all he had given her for the boon39 he had withheld40. In her placid41 way, when she would sit for hours talking softly to herself, his wife had administered some very telling lessons to Mr. Carruthers. It was with an uneasy surprise that he came to feel how very dear she was to him, how indispensable to his life, how strangely the things which had held the first places in his estimation, behind which he had ranked her, and she had been content humbly42 to follow, fell away into complete insignificance43. He actually forgot Poynings at times, and was not worried by fears that the lawn was not properly mown and smoothly44 rolled, or by visions of fallen leaves lying about in the sacred places. His "business papers" were duly forwarded to him, but they did not interest him much; his mind dwelt almost entirely45 on his wife's state, and he was rapidly passing, as might be expected from a man whose moral perceptions had been suddenly awakened46 and enlarged, from the recognition of his true share of blame in the calamity47 which had befallen them, to an exaggeration of that share, which rendered him almost oblivious48 of the provocation49 he had received. Had George Dallas suddenly appeared before his stepfather at Poynings, he might not have been well received; the influences of old habits, and associations, in the sense of the promulgation50 of the old edict of banishment51, might have successfully overpowered the new influences striving with pride and obstinacy52 in the by no means bad heart of Mr. Carruthers. But the occasion had been most auspicious53. Here, in a foreign place, where Mr. Carruthers was positively54 oppressed with a sense of strangeness, and where no one was present to know anything about the concession55 he was making, he had but trifling56 difficulties to overcome, and the meeting between the three gentlemen had been kindly57, unreserved, and cordial.
The report of his wife's condition, which Mr. Carruthers had made to her son and brother, was not very reassuring58, and was doubly distressing59 to George, in consequence of the stress which his stepfather laid upon the good effect to be anticipated by his restoration to her. Had Mr. Carruthers been in a less charitable frame of mind, he might have taken the silence and sadness with which George received his assurances on this point for sullenness61; but he did not, he was actually learning to make allowance for the temperaments62 and the feelings of other people.
Mr. Felton and his nephew had arrived at Homburg on the preceding evening, and Mr. Felton had communicated by letter with Mr. Carruthers, who had named an early hour on the following day for receiving his unknown brother-in-law and his little-known stepson. Their interview had lasted some time, when Mr. Carruthers expressed his belief that good might result to his mother from seeing George.
The young man turned his face from the speaker, and made no answer.
"It will be necessary, of course, to have her physician's advice and permission in the first instance," said Mr. Felton, "before either George or I can see her. I suppose she is in good hands here?"
"In the best possible," replied Mr. Carruthers. "Dr. Merle is famous in the treatment of these strange mental maladies; indeed, it was in order to consult him that I changed my plan, and came here instead of going to the south of France, as I had intended."
"So Miss Carruthers told me," said Mr. Felton; which simple observation caused George Dallas to start perceptibly, and to turn abnormally red in the face.
"Indeed," said Mr. Carruthers. "I did not know you had seen my niece."
"No?" said Mr. Felton. "I suppose she left it to me to tell you of her prompt politeness to an intruder. When I had seen your housekeeper63 and learned all she could tell me, especially that my sister had not received my letters, and knew nothing of my return to England, I quickly made up my mind to join you abroad. Miss Carruthers being in correspondence with you, and therefore able to give me all the information I wanted, was clearly the person I ought to see, so I started for the Sycamores, saw her--and a very beautiful and charming girl she is--heard from her all she had to tell me, and then went up to town to make acquaintance with my nephew."
Mr. Carruthers felt and looked rather conscious and uneasy while Mr. Felton was making this explanation. Clare had a considerable involuntary share in the self-reproach and regret he was experiencing. His wife had been, to a certain extent, sacrificed to her, and the remembrance disconcerted him. As for George, where was all his resentment64 against his stepfather now? Where was all his exultation65 that he and destiny united had outwitted the proud and pompous old tyrant66, as he had called him in his thoughts, and brought about a meeting, which his inner consciousness told him had had no trifling result for either, between him and the jealously-guarded heiress? It augured67 well for George's future that he felt deeply sorry at the moment the girl's name was mentioned that his stepfather had sustained this unintentional and unknown wrong at his hands. As things were going now, he and Clare might have met, in all probability, openly and blamelessly; and George felt, in his altered mood, that he would willingly part with the romance and mystery which now attended their acquaintance to escape from the sense that he had been uncandid, that he had misled the girl by her ardent69 fancy, and under the temptation of resentment against his stepfather. It was too late now, as George felt bitterly, for such regret; the future would enable him only so far to retrieve70 the past as the most scrupulous20 abstinence from availing himself of the opportunity whose occurrence he now regretted might retrieve it. Clare would probably know him in his true character soon; for he saw at once that Mr. Carruthers, having taken the generous resolution, had taken it thoroughly71; and she would despise him for the deceit he had practised towards her, forgetting, in his hot-headed resentment against her uncle, and infatuation with herself, that such knowledge must come, and such contempt come with it. Heavily the punishment of the past was falling upon George Dallas, even in this hour of reconciliation72, or rehabilitation73, of absolute good fortune. His uncle had been impressed in his favour beyond his expectations; he had learned not to expect much from young men and only sons; and George had been perfectly candid68 with him, so that the elder man had gained an insight into his character, full of encouragement and hope. Mr. Felton had told him that he should make his future safe, so far as pecuniary74 independence could secure it; and though George had suffered severely from want of money, and knew well from how much evil he might have been preserved by its possession, he did not over-estimate the extent of that security; so that the tide of fortune had indeed turned for the prodigal75 son. But the husks were still between his teeth, and bitter in his mouth. There were two women in the world infinitely76 dear to him, and he had injured them both: the one, probably, mortally; the other basely, as he now knew and felt--how severely, time alone could tell. The fortune with which his uncle would endow him could not purchase the reversal of these facts; the respectability with which he could cover the past could not efface77 that stain.
"As a man soweth, so shall he reap;" and harvest-time was heavy for George.
Thus thinking, George's attention had wandered from the conversation between the others, and was only recalled by Mr. Felton's addressing him directly.
"Your mother was always in possession of your address, George, was she not?"
"Certainly," replied George, "until lately--until her illness. I left London for Amsterdam just before it commenced, and did not hear from or write to her, beyond a few lines, until I got your letter, sir," turning to Mr. Carruthers.
"That decides it, you see," continued Mr. Felton, in pursuance of the remarks which George had not heard. "My sister evidently never received any letter or message from Arthur, or, as you suggest, she would have put George in communication with him. I can only conclude that he left England again to return to some of his continental78 haunts--they were not too reputable," said Mr. Felton bitterly--"and has not yet returned. I must only wait, and for every reason I had better wait here."
"Certainly," said Mr. Carruthers. "I am very sorry you should have anything to distress60 you, in addition to my wife's illness, in coming to England, especially in connection with your son."
A footman--one of the "suite11" who had attended Mr. and Mrs. Carruthers of Poynings on their departure from that deserted79 locality--now entered, and announced that Dr. Merle had arrived. As it had been previously80 arranged that Mr. Carruthers should consult that high authority in their absence, the uncle and nephew took their hats and went out into the prim little garden, whence they reached the shady road. There they paced up and down, passing and passed by the groups of loungers, some of whom were attracted by the preoccupied81 and serious air with which the two gentlemen conversed82.
"If I did not know that he had sufficient money to last for a longer time than I have been without news of him, and also that he has a happy knack83 of making money wherever he may be, in some way or other, I should at once communicate with the police," Mr. Felton was saying.
"Yes," said George; "but the worst of it is, we don't know what police to communicate with, whether English or foreign. If he had not taken his money out of the Liverpool bank, we might suppose him to be in England; but that looks conclusive84, doesn't it?"
"It certainly does," said Mr. Felton. "The only clue I have is the fact that he did draw the money, and wrote me the line I told you of"--he opened his pocket-book mechanically as he spoke, glanced at a letter placed within the leaves, replaced the book in his breast-pocket, and went on--"promising further particulars. It is almost incredible that he should be in England, and not have written again. My letters to him, addressed to the Liverpool bank, have not been sent for. He got one when he drew the money."
"Yes, I know," said George. They had talked the matter over many times, and never drew nearer a conclusion. It was evident to George, on the present occasion, that the character of his uncle's apprehensions85 was undergoing a change. At first, he had treated his son's silence as only one additional example of the utter callousness86 and indifference87 to which the father was only too well accustomed. George, to whom his cousin was an utter stranger, had accepted his uncle's view of the matter, at first, unquestioned; but he had become unsatisfied and uncertain about it of late, and was anxious, without alarming Mr. Felton, to lead him to take active steps for obtaining information of the whereabouts of his son.
"I feel satisfied he left England again, and knows nothing of my movements. He will write out to New York, however; and if he has only done so now, there will be some delay before he knows I am in Europe."
"Don't you think," asked George, hesitatingly, "he would send to Liverpool for the letters, if he were in any uncertainty88, before writing to New York? I confess I don't like his leaving them unclaimed. None of the reasons which may explain his silence reach to an explanation of that. I don't think you ought to let much more time go over. If you had a likeness89 of him--" He hesitated very much here, and looked aside at his uncle, who turned sharply towards him, and said:
"Well! What! If I had a likeness--"
"You might have had it copied, and the photographs distributed to the police; so that, if anything should be wrong--"
"Wrong? In what sense, George? Do you begin to fear that anything has happened to him? You never said so at first."
"Because I did not think so, uncle: and I am not seriously uneasy now--not at all; but I think a reasonable time has elapsed, and we ought now to make active inquiry90. When he turns up, and finds out what trouble and anxiety he has given, he will be more considerate in future."
"Ah," said Mr. Felton, with a sigh, "I don't think Arthur is open to any conviction of that kind. What do you think it best to do, now?"
"Well, uncle, you see you have been three weeks in Europe, and those three weeks make a considerable addition to the time since you heard from him. If you write by the next mail to New York for a copy of his photograph-- You are sure you have not one with you?"
"Quite sure. Since I found I had not one in my desk, I have searched everywhere among my luggage, but I have not one."
"Well, then, if you write by this mail for a copy, and it is sent by return mail, if he has not turned up in the mean time, and things go on well here, I think you had better put the matter into the hands of the police. It is true you do not know whether Arthur is in England now, or abroad; but the last place in which you know him to have been is London, and from that information they must work."
"True," said Mr. Felton; and then continued, in a slow reluctant tone, "I shrink from it, I confess. A matter which is placed in the hands of the police always implies something disgraceful; and though I don't expect to find that Arthur has disposed of his time and his money very creditably, I don't like to make so sure of it as I feel convinced a close investigation91 will make me."
Mr. Felton spoke with some agitation92, and George thrilled with a mingled feeling of pity and dread93, he did not know of what. But he said, cheerily:
"Well, sir, let us hope there will be no occasion for making any such investigation. You can't have an answer for nearly three weeks, and a great deal may happen in that time. Arthur may be here long before then, to answer for himself, and laugh at us for our anxiety about such a citizen of the world, old and new."
"I don't like it," George thought, as he walked on in silence by the side of his uncle--"I don't like it. And it's very plain I am not the only black sheep in the family flock, nor, I suspect, the blackest. I will see that he writes to New York; and I will tell Routh all about this when he comes, and hear what he says. My uncle will not mind my telling him now, I dare say."
"When do you expect your friends, George?" asked Mr. Felton, striking the chord of George's thought, after the fashion which every one knows and nobody can explain.
"To-morrow, or the day after, sir," replied George. "Routh wrote from Paris yesterday."
"I am sorry for Mrs. Routh," said Mr. Felton; "she's too secretive and too cautious, too silent and too cunning, for my fancy; but she is an interesting woman and a wonderfully good wife, I am sure, though of the stony94 order."
"That is come to her lately," said George, in an eager tone, "since her health has failed so much. You cannot imagine what a different creature she was only a little while ago. She was as bright as the sunshine and as gay as a lark95. She is, indeed, a wonderful wife--the most devoted96 I ever knew; and her usefulness in everything, in all a woman's ordinary ways and in many quite extraordinary, in all Routh's business matters, is marvellous. Even her delicate health, though she has lost her good looks very much, and her spirits quite, has not made any alteration97 in that. I cannot conceive what Routh would do without her."
"H'm! I wonder if he is quite so uncertain," said Mr. Felton drily, and to George's surprise. "I don't like your friend, and I don't trust Mm."
"What do you mean?" asked George. "Don't trust him? Do you mean that you don't trust his feelings or his conduct to Harriet?"
"Precisely so, my dear boy. Mrs. Routh is a devoted wife; but I am very much mistaken--and remember I have been playing looker-on for a fortnight or so, and interested in my part, too, considering what you told me about yourself and these people--if she is not a very unhappy one. I do not pretend to explain my convictions, but I am quite clear about them. She loves Routh--that's plain enough--but she is miserable98 with him."
"Do you really think so? She is dreadfully changed, I know, but I thought it might be only in consequence of her ill health. Miserable with him! At all events, he is not unkind to her. I know he is very anxious about her health; for he has left London, at much inconvenience and great risk of loss, to bring her here for the waters."
"And for a turn at the gaming-tables for himself, I fancy. Routh has to me the air of a man who has been constrained99 into temporary respectability, and is heartily100 tired of it."
"I am sorry you have so bad an opinion of him, sir," said George, who could not resist an uneasy impression that his uncle was right, and that the experiment of a renewed intimacy101 with Routh was not likely to be brilliantly successful, "for I was thinking of consulting him about the best way of finding out Arthur's whereabouts."
"No, no," said Mr. Felton, quickly and emphatically; "say nothing to him about any business of mine; give the man no pretext102 to fasten an intimacy upon me. We want no cleverness of his kind in our work."
"Very well, sir," said George. He was discontented with his uncle, because he had formed what the young man knew in his heart was a just opinion of Routh, and discontented with himself because he could not combat it. "Of course I will speak of your affairs to no one without your permission. But one thing I must say for Routh, I do think he loves his wife."
"And I think he hates her," said Mr. Felton.
They had turned in their walk, and were close by the little garden gate as he uttered these words. At that moment it opened, and a servant appeared. He told the two gentlemen that Mr. Carruthers wished to see them, and they followed him silently into the house.
"I am quite clear that the experiment may be tried with safety and advantage," said Dr. Merle, at the close of a long conversation with Mr. Felton and George Dallas. Dr. Merle was an elderly gentleman, with a bald head, a thin face, and eyes as piercing, as strong, and as resolute103 as those of an eagle; a sort of man to be "quite clear" about his ideas and decisions in general. "I have felt persuaded all along that the state of Mrs. Carruthers's nervous system was produced by a shock, though Mr. Carruthers had no knowledge of the fact, and could supply me with no particulars."
Here was a pretty state of things; Mr. Carruthers of Poynings obliged to listen to a stranger informing him that his own wife had received a shock on his own premises104 without his knowledge, confirming the opinions of two other presuming individuals, and totally indifferent to the effect upon his feelings. But Mr. Carruthers of Poynings bore it wonderfully well. He actually nodded acquiescence105 towards the presumptuous106 doctor, and did not feel in the least angry.
"Yes," repeated Dr. Merle, emphatically, "there has been a shock, no doubt about it. The nerves are still very weak, very much shaken, but the general health so much re-established, that I do not anticipate anything but the best results from the attempt to communicate a pleasant and happy impression to Mrs. Carruthers, though, owing to her distressing state just now, that impression must necessarily take the form of a shock also. But"--and Dr. Merle smiled, and looked at each of his hearers in turn--"I think you will agree with me, gentlemen, that there is little, if any, reliable evidence that any one was ever killed or hurt by an agreeable surprise. Mr. Carruthers has been so good as to convey to me that it would be an agreeable surprise to my patient to see him and her son together, and I am quite clear that the sooner the experiment is tried, and that Mrs. Carruthers knows there is also another pleasure in store for her"--with a bow to Mr. Felton--"the better."
George stood up, and followed his stepfather mechanically. His conviction, from the first moment he had heard of his mother's state, had been strong that she would be roused to recollection by the sight of him, and restored to a condition which would permit him to dissipate the delusion107 which had so terribly affected108 her. He only knew the secret--he only could undo109 the ill. Should this fail, he would reveal all to Mr. Felton and to his stepfather, whose altered conduct to him had removed the danger of any ill results to his mother from such a revelation.
Mr. Carruthers preceded George across a wide corridor to a large and airy room, where the windows were wide open--where white curtains fluttered in the air, scented110 by the breath of flowers. Just inside the door he motioned to George to remain there, and then approached a large chair, whose high back hid its occupant from George's sight. He stooped over the chair, and said, in a softer voice than the Poynings household had been accustomed to hear:
"Laura, I have brought some one to see you this morning."
George could not see from where he stood, but he concluded there was a sign of assent111, for Mr. Carruthers beckoned112 him rapidly forward, and the next instant he was by his side, and had seen his mother's face. Another, and his mother had started up, and, with a piercing cry of "George! My son! my son!" had fallen senseless into his arms.
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1
mustered
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| v.集合，召集，集结（尤指部队）( muster的过去式和过去分词 )；（自他人处）搜集某事物；聚集；激发 | |
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2
tithe
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| n.十分之一税；v.课什一税，缴什一税 | |
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3
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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6
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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7
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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8
alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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10
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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12
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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13
regale
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| v.取悦，款待 | |
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14
prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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16
protracted
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| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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compartment
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| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
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18
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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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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21
scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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unnaturally
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| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
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component
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| n.组成部分，成分，元件；adj.组成的，合成的 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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29
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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30
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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31
reciprocated
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| v.报答，酬答( reciprocate的过去式和过去分词 )；（机器的部件）直线往复运动 | |
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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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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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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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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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insignificance
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| n.不重要；无价值；无意义 | |
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smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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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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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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promulgation
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| n.颁布 | |
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banishment
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| n.放逐，驱逐 | |
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obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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auspicious
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| adj.吉利的；幸运的，吉兆的 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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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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reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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sullenness
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| n. 愠怒, 沉闷, 情绪消沉 | |
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temperaments
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| 性格( temperament的名词复数 )； （人或动物的）气质； 易冲动； （性情）暴躁 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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augured
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| v.预示，预兆，预言( augur的过去式和过去分词 )；成为预兆；占卜 | |
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candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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retrieve
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| vt.重新得到，收回；挽回，补救；检索 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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rehabilitation
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| n.康复，悔过自新，修复，复兴，复职，复位 | |
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pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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efface
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| v.擦掉，抹去 | |
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continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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conclusive
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| adj.最后的，结论的；确凿的，消除怀疑的 | |
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apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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86
callousness
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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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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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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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alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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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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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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101
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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103
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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104
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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105
acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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106
presumptuous
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| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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109
undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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110
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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112
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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