"The old gentleman," said Dr. Merle to Mr. Felton, "and a fine old gentleman he is--a little peculiar2, but it would not do the world any harm to have a few more of this sort in it--has told me a good deal of the family history intentionally3, and some of it unintentionally; and I have not the least doubt that the root of Mrs. Carruthers's disease is simply her son."
"He has given her some trouble, I know," said Mark Felton, with a sigh; "but hardly so much as that comes to, I fancy."
"Well, well, I won't be positive; but I think so. No young man ever tells all the truth about his follies4; and, indeed, no middle-aged5 or old man, for that matter; and rely upon it, his mother knows more than any one else. She will do well, Mr. Felton. She sees him all right, no matter how wrong he may have been; there's nothing gravely amiss now. We may leave her to time now, and her son's society."
"Do you think I may venture to see her soon?"
"Impossible to say, for a day or two, my dear sir; impossible to say. Mr. Carruthers and Mr. Dallas must explain your coming to her. I don't prescribe two shocks, you know, even pleasant ones; and then I have no doubt you will perfect the cure."
Mr. Felton acknowledged the smooth speech with an absent sort of smile, and Dr. Merle took his leave.
"You are sure there is nothing wrong with you, George? You are quite sure you are in no danger?" said Mrs. Carruthers, late in the afternoon of that day, to her son, as she lay quietly on a large sofa drawn6 close to the window, where the panes7 were glittering in the dying light. Her face was turned towards him, her dark eyes a little troubled, and not so bright as they had been, resting fondly and with a puzzled expression upon his face, and one thin hand fondly clasped in his. George was lying on the floor beside her sofa, his head resting against her pillow, and the fingers of her other hand were moving softly among his rich brown curls.
"Nothing, indeed, mother. All is well with me--much, much better than I ever expected or hoped; but you must not agitate8 yourself, or ask any questions. Dr. Merle and Mr. Carruthers have put me on my honour not to talk to you of the past, and we must keep our word, you know;" and the young man tenderly kissed the hand he held in his.
"Yes, yes," she said, in an absent, searching tone; "but there is something--there was something--I--"
"Hush9, mother! In the time to come you shall know everything, but for the present you must simply trust me. Indeed, there is nothing wrong. I am here with you, brought here and welcomed by Mr. Carruthers. You remember that he did not like me, and he had good cause; yes, he had good cause, but that is all over now. I am here with his full sanction and approbation10, and you must be content to know that, to feel it, and to rest. You have to get strong and well now, mother, and then we shall all be quite happy."
"Yes, George, yes. I can rest now," said his mother. And she nestled down upon her sofa, and he drew the coverings around her, and they both kept silence; and presently, in the autumnal evening, when the moon rose over the dark Taunus, and the lights began to sparkle all over the little white town, Mrs. Carruthers fell asleep, with her hand clasped in that of her son and her worn but always handsome face resting against his brown curls.
The days went by, and with the lapse11 of each Mrs. Carruthers made an advance towards the recovery of her health and her faculties12. Very shortly after their meeting George had spoken to her of his uncle; and though he found it difficult to fix her attention or engage her interest, he succeeded in ascertaining14 that she remembered all the circumstances of her brother's life, and that he had expressed a wish and intention to come to England.
"Mark is not happy in his son," she said one day to Mr. Carruthers and George, who had been talking to her by preconcerted arrangement on the subject. "I fear he has given him a great deal of trouble. I remember in many of his letters he said he was not blessed, like me, with a son of whom he could be proud."
George reddened violently as his mother's harmless words showed him. how she had concealed15 all her grief from her brother, and struck him with sudden shame and confusion in his stepfather's presence. Mr. Carruthers felt inexpressibly confused also; und as readiness was not the Grand Lama's forte16, he blundered out:
"Well, my dear, never mind about his son. You would be glad to see your brother Mark, wouldn't you?"
Mrs. Carruthers looked earnestly at him as she raised herself from her pillows, and the faint colour in her cheek deepened into a dark flush as she said:
"Glad to see my brother Mark! Indeed I should be. Is he here too?"
So, after long years, the brother and sister met again; and Mark Felton was a little diverted from his anxiety about his son by the interest and affection with which his sister inspired him, and the strong hold which George Dallas gained upon the affections of a man who had been sorely wounded in his own hopes and expectations. He was not under any mistaken impression about his nephew. He knew that George had caused his mother the deepest grief, and had for a long time gone as wrong as a young man could go short of entering on a criminal career. But he divided the good from the evil in his character; he discerned something of the noble and the generous in the young man; and if he laid too much to the account of circumstances, and handled his follies too tenderly, it was because he had himself suffered from all the grief which profligacy17, combined with cold and calculating meanness, can inflict18 upon a parent's heart.
George Dallas yielded easily to the influence of happiness. His gay and pleasant manner was full of fascination19, and of a certain easy grace which had peculiar charms for his Transatlantic uncle; and his love for his mother was a constant pleasure to her brother to witness, and an irresistible20 testimony21 to the unspoiled nature of the son. True, this affection had not availed to restrain him formerly22; but the partial uncle argued that circumstances had been against the boy, and that he had not had fair play. It was not very sound reasoning, but there was nothing to contradict it just at present, and Mr. Felton was content to feel rather than to reason.
Mr. and Mrs. Routh had arrived at Homburg immediately after Mr. Felton and George had reached that place of fashionable resort. Their lodgings23 were in a more central situation than those of Mr. and Mrs. Carruthers, and were within easy reach of all the means of diversion which the wicked little resort of the designing and their dupes commanded. George Dallas did not see much of Routh. He had been disturbed and impressed by Mr. Felton's exceedingly emphatic24 expression of opinion respecting that gentleman; he had been filled with a vague regret, for which now and then he took himself to task, as ungrateful and whimsical, for having renewed his intimacy25 with Routh. His levity26, his callousness27, respecting the dreadful event concerning which he had consulted him, had shocked George at the time, and his sense of them had grown with every hour's consideration of the matter (and they were many) in which he had since engaged. Nothing had occurred to him to reverse or weaken the force of Routh's opinion; but he could not get over his heartlessness. They met, indeed, frequently. They met when George and his uncle, or his stepfather, or both, walked about the town and its environs, or in the gardens; they met when George strolled about the salons28 of the Kursaal, religiously abstaining29 from play,--it was strange how the taste for it had passed away from him, and how little he suffered, even at first, in establishing the rule of self-restraint; but they rarely met in private, and they had not had half an hour's conversation in the week which had now elapsed since Routh and Harriet had arrived at Homburg.
But George had seen Harriet daily. Every afternoon he escorted his mother during her drive, and then he called on Mrs. Routh. His visits tortured her, and yet they pleased her too. Above all, there was security in them. She should know everything he was doing; she should be quite sure no other influence, stronger, dangerous, was at work, while he came to her daily, and talked to her in the old frank way. Routh shrank from seeing him, as Harriet well knew, and felt, also, that there was security in his visits to her. "He will keep out of George's way, of course," she said to herself, when she acquiesced30 in the expediency31 of following Dallas to Homburg, and the necessity for keeping him strictly32 in sight, for some time at least. "He will not undertake the daily torture. No; that, too, must be my share. Well, I am tied to the stake, and there is no escape; only an interval33 of slumber34 now and then, more or less rare and brief. I don't want to tie him to it also--he could not bear it as I can."
And she bore it well--wonderfully well, on the whole, though the simile36 of bodily torture is not overdrawn37 as representing what she endured. By a sort of tacit mutual38 consent, they never alluded39 to Deane, or the discovery of the murder. George, who never could bear the sight of a woman's suffering, had a vivid recollection of the terrible emotion she had undergone when he disclosed the truth to her, and determined40 to avoid the subject for the future. She understood this, but she felt tolerably certain that if any new complication arose, if any occasion of doubt or hesitation41 presented itself, George would seek her advice. She should not be kept in ignorance, and that was enough. She had ascertained42, before they left London, that George had not mentioned the matter to Mr. Felton; and when the young man told her how otherwise complete his explanation with Mr. Felton had been, she felt a degree of satisfaction in the proof of her power and influence afforded by this reticence43.
The positive injunction which Mr. Felton had laid upon his nephew aided George's sensitiveness with respect to Harriet. He felt convinced that if his uncle had known her as he knew her, he would have been satisfied to confide44 to her the trouble and anxiety under which he laboured, and whose origin was assuming, to George's mind, increasing seriousness with every day which passed by without bringing news of Mr. Felton's son. But he would not, however he might find relief and counsel by doing so, discuss with Harriet a matter which he had been positively45 forbidden to discuss with her husband: he could not ask her secrecy46 without hurting her by an explanation of Mr. Felton's ill opinion of Routh. So it happened that these two persons met every day, and that much liking47, confidence, and esteem48 existed on the man's part towards the woman, and yet unbroken silence was maintained on the subject which deeply engaged the minds of both. Philip Deane's name was never mentioned by Harriet, nor did Dallas speak of Arthur Felton.
So Mrs. Carruthers improved in health. Mr. Carruthers was very gracious and affable to his stepson, and terribly nervous and anxious about his wife, on whom, if the worthy49 physician could have been brought to consent, he would have kept Dr. Merle in perpetual attendance, being incapable50 of recognizing the importance--indeed, almost the existence--of any patient of that gentleman's, except Mrs. Carruthers, of Poynings. Mr. Felton heard nothing of his son, and waited, frequently discussing the subject with Mr. Carruthers and his nephew; and the bright sweet autumn days went on. Afterwards, when George reviewed their course, and pondered on the strange and wayward ways through which his life had lain, he thought of the tranquillity51, the lull52 there had been in that time, with wonder.
The change of scene, the physical effort, a certain inevitable53 deadening effect produced by the lapse of time, more powerful in cases of extreme excitement than its space would seem to warrant, had had their effect on Harriet's spirits and appearance. She looked more like herself, George thought, when he came to make her his daily visit. Perhaps he had become more accustomed to the change he had noted54 with solicitude55 on his return to London; she was certainly more cheerful. He did not take account of the fact that he did not see her in Routh's company, though his uncle's comment on her husband's feelings towards her frequently and painfully recurred56 to him. Harriet questioned him frequently about his mother, and George, full of gratitude57 for her kindness and sympathy, spoke13 freely of her, of his uncle, of the altered position in which he stood with his stepfather, and of his improved condition and hopes. There were only two persons of interest to him whom he did not mention to Harriet. They were Arthur Felton and Clare Carruthers.
"Have you ever been to the Kursaal in the evening?" he asked Harriet one day, as they were talking, and looking at the groups of gaily-dressed men and women lounging past the window where they were seated.
"Yes, I have gone in there once or twice with Stewart; but I got tired of it very soon, and I don't want to go again."
"My uncle met an old acquaintance there last evening," George went on; "he does not particularly care about it either; but we were strolling about the gardens until rather late, and then we went in and had a look at the ball-room. I had been watching a lady for some time, out-and-out the best dancer in the room, when she came up to my uncle and spoke to him, and I find out she is quite a celebrity58 here."
"Indeed," said Harriet, not vehemently59 interested.
"Yes, quite," said George; "and judging by what my uncle says, I should think she was a celebrity in New York too. I should like to show her to you, Mrs. Routh; she is like one of those impossible women in the American novels, with clusters of currants made in carbuncles, and bunches of cherries in flawless rubies60, in their hair--you know the kind of thing I mean. I fancy the Phoenix61 would look shy about insuring her wardrobe, and Hancock feel dubious62 about matching her diamonds. Such a twinkling, flashing, guttering63, coaxing64, flippant mortal I never met in my life. I wonder if she dresses as gorgeously under the sunshine as under the gas."
"She has quite taken your fancy, George. Did Mr. Felton introduce you?"
"Yes. There she stood, looking up in his face, but I am quite sure seeing me and every other person in the room at the same time, and chattering65 like a Yankee magpie66; so my uncle presented me to--Mrs. Ireton P. Bembridge, as he called her, in American fashion. She was there, with a whole host of people, and I didn't fancy them, 'ke-inder didn't,' as she would say, no doubt, and went away as soon as I could."
"Is she a widow?"
"Yes--at least, I think so; I heard nothing of Ireton P."
"She will be cultivating your uncle, or yourself, George. A handsome, rich young widow, and an old acquaintance of your uncle's, eh?"
"I don't feel in the least like it, Mrs. Routh, and I am sure the sparkling, flashing, dashing lady I met last night would fly at no such mean quarry67. I have rather a notion, too, that my uncle does not like her."
"Have you? Did he seem displeased68 at the meeting?"
"Not exactly displeased--but--but I am beginning to understand him now wonderfully well, and in some things he is so like my mother. Now, with her I can always feel whether she likes a person or not without her saying a word--I could formerly, I mean, when she was more susceptible69 to impressions than she is now. It's just the same in my uncle's case; and I knew, in a minute, he didn't like Mrs. Ireton P. Bembridge."
"Where is she staying? At the 'Quatre Saisons,' I suppose?"
"No," said George; "she has one of the Schwarzchild houses. You know them, Mrs. Routh?"
"Yes, I know them," said Harriet. "I saw the Frau Schwarzchild yesterday, rejoicing in a pink parasol with a coral handle, set with turquoises70 in clumps71."
"That's the woman. Shouldn't wonder if the parasol were a waif from the wardrobe of Mrs. Ireton P. Bembridge. She has, then, one of those huge houses for herself and her attendants."
"Did she tell you all this in the ball-room?"
"All this? Bless your innocence72, she got through such trivialities as these in about two minutes. I might have heard her whole history, and Ireton P.'s, no doubt, particulars of his last illness--if he had a last illness--included, if I had asked her to dance. And, by Jove!" said George, starting up and pushing back the muslin curtain which impeded73 Harriet's view of the street somewhat, "there she is, coming down the street in a pony-carriage, and looking like a whole triumphal procession on one set of wheels."
Harriet looked out with an assumption of more curiosity than she felt. In a low, elegant, but rather over-ornamented equipage, drawn by two gray ponies74, likewise rather over-ornamented, but very handsome and of great value, sat a lady of beauty as undeniable as that of her horses, and elegance75 as striking as that of her carriage. Woman-like, Harriet remarked the magnificence of her dress before she noticed the beauty of her face, set off as it was by the aid of the most perfect hat and feather ever put together by the milliner's art. That beauty was at once of the correct and the sparkling order. Her features were of statuesque regularity76, but they had all the piquant77 brilliancy of rich, glowing, passionate78 life. Cheeks and lips flushed with the full colour of health, masses of hair of the darkest, glossiest79 brown coiled up in endless braids and rolls under the inimitable hat; eyes so dark that to call them black was a venial80 exaggeration; teeth which shone like jewels; and in the face, the air, over the whole person and equipment of the woman, from the wrists outstretched over the reins81 she held, and on which broad bands of jewels flashed, to the tip of the satin boot which protruded82 beneath the silken carriage-wrap spread daintily over her knees, an intolerable consciousness and domineering boldness which was simply odious83. Her ponies were stepping leisurely84; her glittering eyes were looking right and left, as though she were searching for some one among the scattered85 groups she passed, and every member of which stared at her without disguise. As much of her dress as could be seen was a magnificent mixture of satin and lace and jewels; and even in her dress there was a daring, reckless something, indefinable but distinct, which made the gazers feel that in staring at her there was no offence.
"Stunning86, isn't she, Mrs. Routh? I beg your pardon for the slang, but there is really no other word. Blinding, dazzling, and all the rest of it."
"Stunning, certainly, George," said Harriet, smiling; "but, somehow, I don't think you care particularly to be stunned87."
"Not in the least. She is not a bit my style;" and George, thinking of what "his" style was, and how widely it differed from the triumphant88 figure in the ornate carriage out there, let the muslin curtain drop, and turned away from the window. Harriet sat down and took up her work.
"A woman whom men would love for a little while, and hate bitterly after, I fancy; but whom women would hate at once, and always."
Mrs. Ireton P. Bembridge had not found among the loungers in the town the individual whom her bright black eyes were seeking, when George Dallas and Harriet Routh had marked her from the window. She had driven rapidly away past the gardens and the Schloss, and when fully35 two miles outside the town she overtook a gentleman sauntering leisurely along, with his hands thrust deep into his pockets, and his moody89 eyes fixed90 upon the ground. The carriage was close upon him before he looked round, though the sound made by the wheels and the trotting91 horses had been distinct in the clear air, as they came along the empty road. Then he turned and greeted the lady with effusion. In a moment he had taken his place beside her, and was whirled away into the green and golden distance of the forest, under the brow-crest of Taunus.
"How very odd that you should know him," said the gorgeous lady of the pony-carriage to the gentleman seated beside her, as she walked her ponies along a shady road, where the slim trees stood on guard on either side, and the fallen leaves rustled92 under the wheels.
"Not so very odd. He is a near relative of one of my most intimate friends."
"Ah, his nephew, I suppose you mean, a tall young man with good eyes, and a remarkably93 rich expression of countenance94."
"I recognize the description certainly, and it is not flattering. That is the individual; his name is Dallas."
"A booby, I'm convinced. How he can be an intimate friend of yours I cannot understand."
She said this rather sulkily, which, by adding to its character of sincerity95, made the indirect flattery in which she was a proficient96 all the more delicious. Her companion's eyes flashed with pleasure as he turned them upon her with a look which she did not raise her eyes to receive, but which dyed her cheek a deeper rose-tint than before. Then she went on:
"He is come here with Mr. Felton to meet his cousin, I suppose. Arthur Felton will not like that, I fancy. He regarded this fine family reunion as a very decided97 nuisance, I can assure you."
"I don't quite understand you," her companion said. "Mr. Felton's son is not here, that I know of; he certainly had not arrived yesterday, for Dallas was at my lodgings, and would have been sure to mention it."
"No," replied the lady, with a slow provoking smile, which lighted her eyes up with mischief98, and showed more of her faultless teeth than always glistened99 on the world. "I know he is not here, but he is coming. I gave him a rendezvous100 here for this very week, in Paris, last March."
The gentleman looked at her in such extreme surprise that it quite amused her. She did not only smile now, she laughed.
"I will explain my meaning," she said, "in very few words. I have known the Feltons all my life, and Arthur has been more or less in love with me since he was a boy; rather less than more, perhaps, for that's his way, and not at all to the detriment101 of his being quite as much in love with any number of women besides. He and his father never got on well. Mr. Felton did not like 'his ways' as the goodies and gossips say, and, in particular, he did not like his being in love with me, for he can't bear me. Frightfully bad taste, isn't it? Get along, President," this to one of the ponies, as she touched him up with her whip; "you've had walking enough. Awfully102 bad taste--thank you, you needn't say yes; you're looking unutterable things. Of course, I don't mind that particularly, and I don't care for Arthur Felton in the ve-ry least," with a most enchanting103 drawl and the faintest pout104 of the crimson105 lips. "He made himself a perfect nuisance in Paris, and I really must have quarrelled with him, if I had not gone away with some friends who wouldn't have Arthur--no, not in the ve-ry least," and she repeated the before-mentioned little performance quite enchantingly.
"Agreed to meet him here! How ridiculous you are! I gave him rendezvous, which I beg to observe is not precisely107 the same thing as agreeing to meet him."
"Sounds like it," said the gentleman, still more sulkily.
"Very true; but it isn't. I meant to come here--I always lay my plans long beforehand--just at this time, and I thought I might as well let him come here as have him constantly teasing me in the mean time. It was a long while off, remember." And her black eyes danced with mischief and enticement108.
"And where is he now?" asked her companion, after he had given her another look which brought the burning colour to her cheeks once more.
"How on earth should I know?" was her answer; and as she made it she turned her head round, and looked him full in the face. "How on earth should I know?" she repeated. "You don't imagine, I suppose, that I correspond with all the friends of my youth. No, no; I never think of people when they are out of my sight. I have no one that I care about enough to think of in absence, and I never write a letter if I can possibly avoid it."
"I understood, when Mr. Felton came to London, he had not heard from his son for some time, and he has certainly not seen him there."
"Very likely; Master Arthur is not a particularly dutiful son. However, his father will see him here, if he stays till next week, that's a fact."
"What sort of person is Mr. Felton's son? I can't say I admire the old gentleman much."
"No! Don't get on with him? I should think not, neither do I; but Arthur's not in the ve-ry least like him. Not nearly so good-looking; not like the Feltons, I should say, at all; like his mother. His cousin, though he's a big booby, is a good-looking fellow, and looks like a gentleman. Now that's just what Arthur does not look like."
"And what is just what he does look like?" asked her companion, who took what he thought was a secret pleasure in hearing this unknown admirer of the beautiful woman who had captivated his fancy spoken of in depreciating109 terms. But he was quite mistaken. Mrs. Ireton P. Bembridge discerned this amiable110 sentiment with perfect distinctness, and gave it all the nutriment to be supplied by the most consummate111 and dexterous112 coquetry.
"H'm!" she said, with a bewitching air of thought and deliberation. "What does Arthur Felton look like? Very like a Yankee, and a little like a Jew;" and she laughed most musically.
As Mrs. Ireton P. Bembridge drove her gray ponies towards the little white town, the carriage passed, near a turn in one of the level shady roads, a bench placed between two tall slim trees. Between the bench and the road lay a broad pathway, with a grassy113 edge. A lady, simply-dressed, of a small slight figure, and whose face was bent114 downwards115, but in whose air there was unmistakable refinement116, was sitting on the bench, and leaning a little forward, was making marks on the ground with her parasol, less in idleness than in the abstraction of thought. As the ponies trotted117 merrily by, and their mistress laughed, rather loudly but musically, the lady looked up, and the eyes of the two women met. The gentleman who sat by the fair American, and who was on the side of the carriage nearest to the pathway, was so absorbed in the animated118 conversation being carried on between them, that he did not notice the solitary119 figure, nor see that anything had attracted his companion's attention. Indeed, the attraction was but momentary120; the look had hardly been interchanged before the carriage whirled past Harriet Routh.
She came forward upon the footpath121, and looked after the fast-receding figure of her husband, as he bent deferentially122 towards the woman she had seen that morning, until she could see it no longer; and still stood there when the level shaded road was blank and empty.
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1
apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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intentionally
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| ad.故意地，有意地 | |
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follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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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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panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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agitate
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| vi.(for,against)煽动，鼓动；vt.搅动 | |
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hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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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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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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ascertaining
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的现在分词 ) | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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forte
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| n.长处，擅长；adj.(音乐)强音的 | |
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profligacy
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| n.放荡，不检点，肆意挥霍 | |
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inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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irresistible
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testimony
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formerly
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lodgings
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emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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26
levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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27
callousness
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28
salons
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| n.（营业性质的）店( salon的名词复数 )；厅；沙龙（旧时在上流社会女主人家的例行聚会或聚会场所）；（大宅中的）客厅 | |
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29
abstaining
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| 戒（尤指酒），戒除( abstain的现在分词 )； 弃权（不投票） | |
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30
acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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31
expediency
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| n.适宜；方便；合算；利己 | |
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32
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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33
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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34
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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35
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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36
simile
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| n.直喻，明喻 | |
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37
overdrawn
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| 透支( overdraw的过去分词 )； (overdraw的过去分词) | |
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38
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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39
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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40
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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41
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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42
ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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43
reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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44
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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45
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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46
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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47
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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48
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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49
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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50
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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51
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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52
lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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53
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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54
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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55
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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56
recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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57
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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58
celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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59
vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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60
rubies
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| 红宝石( ruby的名词复数 )； 红宝石色，深红色 | |
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phoenix
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| n.凤凰，长生(不死)鸟；引申为重生 | |
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dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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guttering
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| n.用于建排水系统的材料；沟状切除术；开沟 | |
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64
coaxing
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的现在分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱；“锻炼”效应 | |
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65
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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magpie
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| n.喜欢收藏物品的人，喜鹊，饶舌者 | |
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67
quarry
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| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
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68
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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69
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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turquoises
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| n.绿松石( turquoise的名词复数 )；青绿色 | |
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71
clumps
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| n.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的名词复数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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72
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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73
impeded
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| 阻碍，妨碍，阻止( impede的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ponies
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| 矮种马，小型马( pony的名词复数 )； ￡25 25 英镑 | |
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75
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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76
regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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77
piquant
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| adj.辛辣的，开胃的，令人兴奋的 | |
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78
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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79
glossiest
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| 光滑的( glossy的最高级 )； 虚有其表的； 浮华的 | |
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80
venial
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| adj.可宽恕的；轻微的 | |
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81
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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82
protruded
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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83
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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84
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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85
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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86
stunning
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| adj.极好的；使人晕倒的 | |
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87
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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88
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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89
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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90
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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91
trotting
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| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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92
rustled
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| v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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93
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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94
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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95
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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96
proficient
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| adj.熟练的，精通的；n.能手，专家 | |
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97
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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98
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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99
glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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100
rendezvous
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| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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101
detriment
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| n.损害；损害物，造成损害的根源 | |
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102
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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103
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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104
pout
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| v.撅嘴；绷脸；n.撅嘴；生气，不高兴 | |
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105
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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106
moodily
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| adv.喜怒无常地；情绪多变地；心情不稳地；易生气地 | |
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107
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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108
enticement
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| n.诱骗，诱人 | |
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109
depreciating
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| v.贬值，跌价，减价( depreciate的现在分词 )；贬低，蔑视，轻视 | |
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110
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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111
consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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112
dexterous
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| adj.灵敏的；灵巧的 | |
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113
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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114
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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115
downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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116
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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117
trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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118
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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119
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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120
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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121
footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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122
deferentially
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| adv.表示敬意地，谦恭地 | |
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