So that those who may have imagined that Chudleigh Wilmot had given up all relish21 of and interest in life must have been grievously disappointed. When he first went abroad, grief and rage were in his heart, and he cared but little what became of him. When he first received the news of Mr. Foljambe's bequest23, there sprung up in him a new feeling of hope and joy, such as he had never had before, which lasted but a very few hours, being uprooted24 and cast out by the announcement of Madeleine's marriage in the newspaper. When he returned to London, his mind was so far made up, that he contemplated25 very calmly the possibility of such an existence--without Madeleine, that is to say--as a few hours previously26 he had deemed impossible; and though on first entering on the new life the old ghosts which "come to trouble joy" would occasionally await him; and though after that chance meeting with Madeleine and Lady Muriel in the Park he was for some little time much disturbed, yet, on the whole, he managed to live his life quietly, soberly, peacefully, and not unhappily.
The man who, after years of active employment, inherits or obtains a competency, and straightway lies upon his oars28 and looks round him for the remainder of his life, immediately falls into a sad way, and comes speedily to a bad end. Wilmot was quite sufficient man of the world to be aware of this; and though he had retired29 from the active practice of his profession, indeed from practising in any way, he still kept up his medical studies, and now became one of the most sought-after and most influential30 contributors to the best of our scientific publications. In this way he found exercise enough for his mental faculties31, which had been somewhat burdened and overtasked with all the hard work which he had gone through in his early life; and as for the rest, he found he had done society a great injustice32 in estimating its resources so meanly as he had been used to do. By degrees he gave up the rule which he had at first kept so strictly33, never to go into ladies' society; and the first plunge34 made he felt that he enjoyed himself therein more than in any other. He found that his reputation, which had been considerably35 increased by the literary work on which he had recently engaged, smoothed the way for him on first introduction; and that the fact of his being a middle-aged36 widower37 secured for him that pleasant license38 accorded to fogies, of which only fogies are thoroughly39 conscious and appreciative40. Instead of losing caste or position, he felt that he had gained it; all the best people who had been his patients in the old days kept up their acquaintance with him, and asked him to their houses; and after the publication of a paper by him on a momentous41 subject of the day, containing new and striking views which at once commanded public attention and attracted public comment, he was placed on a Royal Commission among some of the first men of the time, and an intimation was conveyed to him that Government would be glad to avail themselves of his services.
And the old wearing, tearing feeling of love and disappointment and regret which had blighted42 so many hours of his life, and which he thought at one time would sap life itself, was gone, was it? Well, not entirely43. It had been an era in his life which was never to be forgotten, which was never to be otherwise renewed. Night after night he saw pretty charming girls, all of whom would have been pleased by a flattering word from the celebrated44 Dr. Wilmot, many of whom would have listened more than complacently45 to anything he might have chosen to say to them,--"he is very rich, my dear, and goes into excellent society." But he never said anything, because he never thought anything of the kind. Sometimes when alone, in the pauses of his work, he would look up from off his book or his paper, and then straightway he would see--although his thoughts had been previously engrossed46 with something entirely different--a bright flushed face, with blue eyes, and a nimbus of golden hair surrounding it. But for a moment he would see it, and then it would fade away; but in that moment how many memories had it evoked47! Sometimes he would take from a special drawer in his desk a small knot of blue ribbon, and a thin letter, frayed48 in its folds, and bearing traces of having been for some time carried in the pocket. Slight memorials these of the only love of a lifetime which had now extended to some forty years; not much to show in return for an all-absorbing passion which at one time threatened to have dire1 effect on his health, on his life--yet cherished all the more, perhaps, on account of their insignificance49! These were memorials of Miss Kilsyth, be it understood: of Mrs. Ramsay Caird Chudleigh always rigidly50 repeated to himself that he knew nothing--that he never would know anything.
But one morning Chudleigh Wilmot was sitting in his library after his breakfast, his slippered51 feet resting idly on a chair, he himself in placid52 enjoyment53 of the newspaper and a cigar, which, since he had freed himself from professional restraint, he had taken as a pleasant solace54, when suddenly, and without being in any way led up to, the subject of his dream of the previous night flashed suddenly across his mind. It was about Madeleine. He remembered that he had seen her lying outstretched on her bed dead; there were Christmas berries in her golden hair, and the robe which covered her was embroidered55 with the initial letters of his name twisted into a monogram56, such as was engraved57 on the binding58 of a present of books which he had recently received from one of his great friends, and on the little finger of her hand, which lay outside the coverlet, was Mabel's signet-ring. He remembered all this vividly59 now; remembered too how, when he had gone forward with the intention of taking off the ring, a female form, clad in dark sweeping60 garments, but with its face shrouded61, had risen by the bedside and motioned him away. He remembered how he felt persuaded, although the face was hidden, that the form was known to him--was that of Henrietta Prendergast; how he had persisting in approaching; and how at length the muffled62 form had spoken, saying only these words, "It was not to be!" What followed he could not remember: there was a kind of chaos64, out of which rose figures of Whittaker and Colonel Jefferson, the man whom he had met in Scotland, and Ronald Kilsyth in full uniform, with his sword drawn65 and pointed22 at his (Chudleigh's) heart; and then he had waked, and the whole remembrance of the dream had departed from him until that moment, when simultaneously66 the door of his room was thrown open, and Ronald Kilsyth stood before him.
That was no dream. Wilmot thought at first that his waking fancies were running in the track of his sleeping thoughts; but there was Ronald Kilsyth, somewhat changed from the man he remembered--less grim and stoical, a trifle less cynical, and a trifle more human,--but still Ronald Kilsyth standing67 before him.
"You are surprised to see me, Dr. Wilmot," said Ronald, advancing hesitatingly,--"surprised to see me here, after--after so long an interval68."
"On the last occasion of our meeting, Captain Kilsyth," replied Wilmot, "you were good enough to tell me that you objected to the ordinary set phrases of society, and preferred straightforward69 answers. I have not forgotten that interview, or anything that passed therein; and I have every desire, believe me, to accommodate you--at least so far as that wish is concerned. My straightforward answer to your question is, I am surprised to see you in this house."
"I looked for no other reply. You seem to forget that, even so far ago as our last meeting, you were pleased to fall in with my whim70, and to answer me with perfect candour, however painful it might have been--it was--to you. That conversation will doubtless be remembered by you, Dr. Wilmot."
What did this mean? Was the man come here, in the assurance of his own cold, calm stoicism, to triumph over him? Whence this most indecorous outrage71 on his privacy, this insult to his feelings? Of all men, this man knew how he had suffered, and how he had borne his sufferings. Why, then, was he here, at such a moment, with such words on his lips?
"You will spare me, then, a great deal of acute pain in referring to it," said Ronald. "Refer to it I must, but my reference will be of the most general kind. I sought that interview beseeching73 you"--Wilmot gave a short half-laugh, which Ronald noticed--"Well, you stickle for terms, it appears,--demanding of you to give up a pursuit in which you were then engaged--a pursuit to which you attached the greatest interest, but which I knew would not only be futile74 in its results to you, but would be fraught75 with distress76 and danger to one who was very dear to me. You acquiesced77 in my reasoning--at great sorrow and disappointment to yourself, I know--and you gave up the pursuit."
"You are very good to make such large allowances for me, Captain Kilsyth," said Wilmot in a hard dry voice. "Yes, I gave it up; at great sorrow and disappointment to myself, as you are good enough to say."
"I can fully27 understand the feelings which now influence you, Dr. Wilmot," said Ronald, far more gently than was his wont78; "and, believe me, I do not quarrel with or take exception at the tone in which they are now expressed. You gave up that pursuit, and you carried out the intention you then expressed to me of leaving England."
"I did. I left England within a fortnight of that conversation. I should not have returned when I did--I should not have returned even now, most probably--had it not been for circumstances then utterly79 unforeseen, but of which you may have heard, which compelled me to come back at once."
Ronald bowed; he had heard of those circumstances, he said.
"And now, pardon me, Captain Kilsyth, if I just run through what has occurred. It cannot be, you will allow, less unpleasant for me to do so than for you; but since we have met again,--at an interview not of my seeking, recollect80,--it is as well that they should be understood. You told me in my consulting-room in Charles-street that you had reason to believe that your sister, Miss Kilsyth, was--let us put it plainly--loved by me. You said that, or at least you implied that, you had reason to believe that she was interested in me. You told me that any question of marriage between us was impossible; first, because I had originally made your sister's acquaintance when I was a married man; secondly81, because my station in life--you put it kindly82, as a gentleman would, but that was the gist83 of your argument--because my station in life was inferior to hers. I do not know, Captain Kilsyth," continued Wilmot, whose voice grew harder as he proceeded, "that your reasoning was so subtle in either case as not to admit of controversy84, perhaps even of disproof; but I felt that when a young lady's name was in question, when there was, as you assured me there was--and you were much more a man of the world than I--the chance of the slightest slur85 being cast on her, it was my duty to sacrifice my own feelings, however strong they might have been in the matter. I did so. To the best of my ability I stamped out my love; I pocketed my pride; I gave up the best feelings of my nature, and I did as you and your friends wished. I went abroad, and remained grizzling and feeding on my own heart for months. At length I heard of a stroke of good fortune which had befallen me. I had previously made for myself a name which was respected and honoured; and you, who know more of these things than your compeers, or people in your 'set,' can appreciate the worth of the renown86 which a man makes off his own bat by the exercise of his talents; and by the chance which I have named I had now inherited a fortune--a large fortune for any man not born to wealth. When this news reached me, my first thought was, Now, surely, my coast is clear. I can go back to England; I can say to Miss Kilsyth's friends, I am renowned87; I am rich; I am, I hope, a gentleman in the ordinary acceptation of the term. If this young lady will accept my court, why should it not be paid her? Within twenty-four hours of my learning of my inheritance, of my determination, I heard that Miss Kilsyth was married."
"There was no stipulation88, I believe, Dr. Wilmot--at least so far as I am concerned--no compact, no given time during which Miss Kilsyth should keep single, in the view of anything that might happen to you?"
"None in the world; and so far as Miss Kilsyth is concerned--her name is being bandied between us in the course of conversation, but it is my duty to say that I have not the smallest atom of complaint to make against her. To this hour, so far as I know, she is unacquainted with my feelings towards her, and can consequently be held responsible for no acts of hers at which I may feel aggrieved89. But you must let me continue. I will not tell you what effect the intelligence of Miss Kilsyth's marriage had on me. I had been raised to the highest pinnacle90 of hope, I was cast down into the lowest depths of despair. That concerned no one but myself. I returned to England. Miss Kilsyth was Mrs. Ramsay Caird--I had learned that from the public prints--no private announcement, no wedding-cards awaited me. The story of my vast inheritance got wind, as such things do, and all my friends--all my acquaintance, let me say, to use a more fitting word, called on me or sent their congratulations. From your family, from Mrs. Ramsay Caird, I had not the slightest notice. The young lady whose life--if you credit her father--I had saved a few months previously, and her family, who professed91 themselves so grateful, ignored my existence. To this hour I have had no communication with Kilsyth, with Lady Muriel, with the Ramsay Cairds. I met Lady Muriel and her daughter once by the merest accident--an accident entirely unsought by me--and they bowed to me as though I were a tradesman who had been pestering92 for his bill. What am I to gather from this treatment? One of two things--either that I was regarded merely as the 'doctor' who was called in when his services were needed, but who, when he had fulfilled his functions and saved the patient, was no more to be recognised than the butcher when he had supplied the required joint93 of meat; or that, by those who knew, or thought they knew, the inner circumstances of the case, my moral character was so highly esteemed94 that, guessing I had been in love with Miss Kilsyth, it was judged expedient95 that I should have no opportunity of acquaintance with Mrs. Ramsay Caird. I ask you, Captain Kilsyth, which of these suppositions is correct?"
Wilmot spoke63 with great warmth. Ronald Kilsyth looked on with wonder; he could scarcely imagine that the man who now stood erect96 before him with flashing eye and curled lips, every one of whose sentences rang with scorn, was the same being who, on the occasion of their last interview, had urged his suit so humbly97, and accepted his dismissal with such resignation.
After a short pause Ronald said: "You speak strongly, Dr. Wilmot, very strongly; but you have great cause for annoyance98; and the fact that you have borne it so long in silence of course adds to the violence of your expressions now. I think I could soften99 your opinion--I think I could show that my father and Lady Muriel have had some excuse for their conduct; at all events, that they believed they were doing rightly in acting100 as they did. But this is not the time for me to enter into that discussion. I have come to you in the discharge of a mission which is urgent and imperative101. You know me to be a cold and a proud man, Dr. Wilmot, and will therefore allow I must be convinced of its urgency when I consented to undertake it. I have come to say to you--leaving all things for the present unexplained, and even in the state in which you have just described them--I have come to say to you my sister is very ill; will you go and see her?" He was standing close by Wilmot as he spoke, and saw him change colour, and reel as though he would have fallen.
"Very ill?" he said, after a moment's pause, with white lips and trembling voice. "Mad--Mrs. Caird, very ill?"
"Very ill; so ill, that my father is seriously alarmed about her; so ill, that I have obeyed his wishes, and ask you to come to her."
Wilmot was silent for a moment, in thought; not that he had the smallest doubt as to what he should do; but the news had come so suddenly upon him, that he could scarcely comprehend its significance. Then he said, "Where is she? in town?"
"She is--at her own house. I know I am asking you a great deal in begging you to go there, but--you won't refuse us, Wilmot?"
"I will go at once to your sister, Captain Kilsyth," said Wilmot, pressing Ronald's outstretched hand; "and God grant I may be of service to her!"
"I won't say any thanks; but you know how grateful we shall all of us be. Perhaps Madeleine had better be a little prepared for your visit; if you were to meet quite unexpectedly, it might agitate102 her."
Wilmot agreed in this, and promised to come that afternoon.
It was three o'clock--just the hour when Squab-street woke up, and became alive to the fact that day had dawned. The light had indeed penetrated103 the little street at its usual hour, and the sun had shone; but still Squab-street could not be considered to be fully awake. Tradesmen had come and gone; area-bells had rung out shrilly104; grooms105 on horseback had followed the Amazon daughters of the natives to the morning-ride in the Row; governesses had arrived, and had taken their young charges into the neighbouring square garden for bodily exercise and mental recreation; neat little broughams had deposited neat little foreigners, whose admission into the houses had been immediately followed by the thumping106 of the piano and the screaming of the female voice; but the cream of Squab-street society had not yet been seen, save by its female attendants. Three o'clock, however, had arrived; luncheon107 was over, carriages began to rattle108 up and down, the street resounded109 with double knocks indefinitely prolonged, and all the little passages were redolent of hair-powder. All society's mummers were acting away at their hardest; and all who passed up and down Squab-street were too much engrossed with themselves or their fellow-performers to notice a very blank and mournful face looking out at them from the drawing-room window of the little house at the corner of the mews. This was Kilsyth's face, which had been planted against the window for the previous half-hour, in anxious expectation of Wilmot's arrival. Sick at heart, and overpowered by anxiety, the old man had taken his position where he could catch the first glimpse of him on whom his life now solely110 rested; and he scanned every vehicle that approached with eager eyes. At length a brougham, very different from that in which he used to pay his visits in his professional days, perfectly appointed, and drawn by horses which even Clement111 Penruddock himself could not have designated as "screws," drew up at the door, and Wilmot jumped out. Two minutes afterwards Kilsyth, with his eyes full of tears, was holding both his friend's hands, and murmuring to him his thanks.
"I knew you would come!" he said; "I knew you would come! No matter what had happened in the interval--no matter that, as they told me, you had retired from practice and went nowhere--I said, 'Let him know that Madeleine is very ill, and he'll come! he'll be sure to come!'"
"And you said right, my dear sir," said Wilmot, returning the friendly pressure; "and I only hope to Heaven that my coming now may be as efficacious as it was when you summoned me to Kilsyth--ah, how long ago that seems! Now tell me--for my conversation with Captain Kilsyth was necessarily brief, and admitted of no details concerning the state of his sister--the tendency to weakness on the lungs, which I spoke to you about just before I left Scotland, has increased, I fear?"
"It has been increasing rapidly, we fancy, for the last few months; and she is now never free from a cough, a hollow, dreadful cough, the paroxysms of which are sometimes terrible, and leave her perfectly exhausted112. She never complains; on the contrary, she makes light of it, and struggles to hide her pain and weakness from us. But I fear she is very, very ill!" The old man's voice sunk as he said this, and the tears flowed down his cheeks.
"Come, come, you must not give way, my good friend; while there's life there's hope, you know; and what is very dreadful and hopeless to an unprofessional eye has a very different aspect frequently to those who have studied these diseases. I think Captain Kilsyth came here to prepare Mrs. Caird for my visit?"
"O yes, she expects you. She was greatly excited at first; so much so that we were afraid she would do herself harm; but I think she is calmer now."
"Then perhaps I had better go to her at once. It is always desirable in these cases as much as possible to avoid suspense113. Will you show me the way?"
They went upstairs together; and when they arrived at the room, Kilsyth opened the door, and left Wilmot to enter by himself. As the door closed behind him, he looked up, and saw the woman whom he had loved with such devotion and yet with such bitter regret. She was lying on a sofa drawn across the window, propped114 up by pillows. She turned round at the noise of his entrance; and as soon as she recognised her visitor, her cheeks flushed to the deepest crimson115. Wilmot advanced rapidly, with as cheerful a smile as he could assume, and took her hand--her hot, wasted, and trembling hand--within both of his. She was dreadfully changed--he saw that in an instant. There were deep hollows in her cheeks, and round her blue eyes, which were now feverishly116 bright and lustrous117, there were large bistre circles. She wore a white dressing-gown trimmed with blue,--such a one as was associated with his earliest recollections of her; and as he saw her lying back and looking up at him with earnest trusting gaze, he was reminded of the first time he saw her in the fever at Kilsyth, but with O what a difference in his hope of saving her!
"You see I have come back to you, Mrs. Caird," said Wilmot, seating himself by the sofa, but still retaining her hand. "You thought you had got rid of me for ever; but I am like the bottle-imp in the story, impossible to be sent away. Now, own you are surprised to see me!"
"I am not indeed, Dr. Wilmot," Madeleine replied, in a voice the hollow tones of which went to Wilmot's heart. Ah, how unlike the sweet, clear, ringing tones which he so well remembered! "I am not indeed surprised to see you. I had a perfect conviction," she said very calmly, "that I should see you once again. At that time--at Kilsyth, you remember--I thought I was going to die, you know; and when I knew I should recover, as I lay in a dreamy half-conscious state, I recollect having a presentiment118 that when I did die you would be near me--that you would stand by my bedside, as you used to do, and--"
"My dearest Mrs. Caird, I cannot listen to you; my--my child, for God's sake don't talk in that way! I used to have to tell you to calm yourself, you know; but now you must rouse up--you must indeed."
"O no, Dr. Wilmot; not rouse myself to any action, not wake up again to the dreary119 struggle of life! O no; let me sink quietly into my grave, but--"
His hand trembled with emotion as he laid his finger lightly on her lip, and his voice was choked and husky as he said: "I must insist! You used to obey me implicitly120, you recollect; and you must show that you have not forgotten your old ways. And now tell me all about yourself."
Half an hour afterwards, as Wilmot was descending121 the stairs, he met Kilsyth at the drawing-room door, with haggard looks and trembling hands, waiting for him. They went into the drawing-room together; and the old man, carefully closing the door behind him, turned to his friend, and said in broken accents; "Well, what do you say? what--what do you think?"
Wilmot's face was very grave, graver than Kilsyth had ever seen it, even at the worst time of the fever, as he said: "I think it is a very serious case, my dear friend--a very serious case."
"The disease has spread very rapidly--very rapidly indeed."
"And you--you think that she is--in danger?"
"I think--it would be useless, it would be unmanly in me to withhold123 the truth from you; I fear that Mrs. Caird's state is imminently124 dangerous, and that--"
Wilmot stopped, for Kilsyth reeled and almost fell. Recovering himself after a moment, he said, in a low hoarse125 whisper: "Change of climate--Madeira--Egypt--anywhere?"
"No; she has not sufficient strength to bear the journey. If she had spent last winter at Cannes, and had gone on in the spring to Egypt--but it is too late."
"Too late!" shrieked126 Kilsyth, bursting into an agony of grief; "too late! My darling child! my darling, darling child!"
"My poor friend," said Wilmot, himself deeply affected127, "what can I say to comfort you in this awful trial? what can I do?"
"One thing!" said the old man, rising from the sofa on which he had thrown himself, "there is one thing you can do--visit her, watch her, attend her; you'll see her again, won't you, Wilmot?"
"Constantly--and to the end. She knows that. I made her that promise just now;" and he wrung128 his friend's hand and left him.
"Dr. Wilmot, I believe? Will you oblige me by two minutes' conversation? You don't remember me? I am Mr. Caird. In this room, if you please."
Wilmot, thus inducted into the dining-room, bowed, and took the chair pointed out to him. He had not recognised Mr. Caird at the first glance in the dim little passage; but he knew him again now, albeit129 Mr. Caird's style of dress and general bearing were very different from what they had been in the old days. Mr. Caird had just come in, and brought a great quantity of tobacco-smoke in with him; and a decanter of brandy, an empty soda-water bottle, and a fizzing tumbler, were on the table before him.
"I beg your pardon for troubling you, Dr. Wilmot; but I didn't know you were expected, or I should of course have been here to meet you. The people in Brook-street manage all these matters in--well, to say the least of it, in a curious way. You have seen Mrs. Caird--what is your opinion of her?"
What Wilmot knew of this man was that he was courteous130, gentlemanly, and good-tempered--all in his favour. He had heard the rumours131 current in society about Caird, but they had passed unheeded by him; men of Wilmot's calibre pay little attention to rumours. So he said, "Do you wish me to tell you my real opinion, Mr. Caird?"
Then Wilmot repeated what he had said to Kilsyth.
The young man looked at him earnestly for a moment; shook his head as though he had been struck a sudden, stunning133 blow; then muttered involuntarily, as it were, "Poor Maddy!"
Wilmot rose to go, but Caird stopped him. "One question more, Dr. Wilmot--how long may--may the end be deferred134?"
"I should fear not more than a few--three or four--months."
When Wilmot was gone, Ramsay Caird, having lit a fresh cigar, said "Poor Maddy!" again; but this time he added, "since it was to be, it will be, about the time;" and for the next hour he occupied himself with arithmetical calculations in his pocketbook.
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dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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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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deteriorating
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| 恶化，变坏( deteriorate的现在分词 ) | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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bemoan
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| v.悲叹，哀泣，痛哭；惋惜，不满于 | |
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dwelling
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perfidy
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| n.背信弃义，不忠贞 | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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deplored
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| v.悲叹，痛惜，强烈反对( deplore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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imbibe
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deference
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rococo
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| n.洛可可；adj.过分修饰的 | |
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brazen
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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serpentine
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relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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bequest
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| n.遗赠；遗产，遗物 | |
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uprooted
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| v.把（某物）连根拔起( uproot的过去式和过去分词 )；根除；赶走；把…赶出家园 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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31
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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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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34
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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36
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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37
widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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38
license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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39
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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40
appreciative
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| adj.有鉴赏力的，有眼力的；感激的 | |
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41
momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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42
blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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43
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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44
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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45
complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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46
engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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47
evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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48
frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
insignificance
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| n.不重要；无价值；无意义 | |
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50
rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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51
slippered
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| 穿拖鞋的 | |
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52
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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53
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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54
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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55
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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56
monogram
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| n.字母组合 | |
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57
engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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58
binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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59
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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60
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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61
shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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63
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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64
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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65
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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67
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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68
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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69
straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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70
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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71
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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72
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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73
beseeching
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| adj.恳求似的v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的现在分词 ) | |
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74
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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75
fraught
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| adj.充满…的，伴有(危险等)的；忧虑的 | |
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76
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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77
acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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78
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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79
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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80
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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81
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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82
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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83
gist
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| n.要旨；梗概 | |
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84
controversy
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| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
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85
slur
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| v.含糊地说；诋毁；连唱；n.诋毁；含糊的发音 | |
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86
renown
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| n.声誉，名望 | |
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87
renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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88
stipulation
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| n.契约，规定，条文；条款说明 | |
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89
aggrieved
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| adj.愤愤不平的，受委屈的；悲痛的；（在合法权利方面）受侵害的v.令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式)；令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式和过去分词) | |
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90
pinnacle
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| n.尖塔，尖顶，山峰；(喻)顶峰 | |
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91
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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92
pestering
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| 使烦恼，纠缠( pester的现在分词 ) | |
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93
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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94
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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95
expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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96
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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97
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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98
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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99
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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100
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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101
imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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102
agitate
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| vi.(for,against)煽动，鼓动；vt.搅动 | |
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103
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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104
shrilly
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| 尖声的； 光亮的，耀眼的 | |
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105
grooms
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| n.新郎( groom的名词复数 )；马夫v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的第三人称单数 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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106
thumping
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| adj.重大的，巨大的；重击的；尺码大的；极好的adv.极端地；非常地v.重击(thump的现在分词)；狠打；怦怦地跳；全力支持 | |
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107
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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108
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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109
resounded
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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110
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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111
clement
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| adj.仁慈的；温和的 | |
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112
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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113
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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114
propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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115
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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116
feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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117
lustrous
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| adj.有光泽的；光辉的 | |
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118
presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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119
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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120
implicitly
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| adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
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121
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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122
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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123
withhold
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| v.拒绝，不给；使停止，阻挡 | |
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124
imminently
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| 迫切地，紧急地 | |
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125
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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126
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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127
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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128
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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129
albeit
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| conj.即使；纵使；虽然 | |
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130
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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131
rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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132
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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133
stunning
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| adj.极好的；使人晕倒的 | |
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134
deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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