Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.”
WORDSWORTH.
“They order,” said I, “these things better in France.”
STERNE.
THE next morning was bright and sunny. Marion woke early, feeling, thanks to her eighteen years, perfectly1 rested and refreshed. Under these circumstances too, as might be expected, her spirits were considerably2 better than they had been the previous night, when she cried herself to sleep in her fatigue3 and distress4.
She lay quietly for a few minutes, hazily5 glancing round at the quaint6 little room, exquisitely8 clean and fresh, certainly, for Madame Poulin was a model housewife, but looking somewhat bare to Marion’s thoroughly9 English eyes. Still, the very strangeness was pleasant, and the sunshine pouring in through the uncurtained window, was bright enough to fill even this plain little room with light and beauty.
Feeling buoyant and cheerful, Marion sprang up, and was nearly dressed, when a small tap at the door, and the request, “May I tum in?” announced the presence of Master Charlie. His tidings were not of the cheeriest.
“Poor Mamma was very tired and couldn’t get up, and May was not to wait breakfast.” It was really not to be wondered at, for Cissy was by no means a robust10 person, though fortunate in the possession of a most cheerful disposition11 and a wonderful amount of energy and spirit. Notwithstanding, however, all the good will in the world, she was now forced to confess herself on the point of being very thoroughly knocked up; so Marion breakfasted alone. But for the remembrance of Harry13’s letter, she would have felt very bright and happy this first morning at Altes. The weather was exquisitely beautiful. From the little terrace on to which opened most of their rooms, there was a lovely view of the mountains, standing12 out sharp and clear against the intense, perfect blue of the sky. What a colour! How utterly14 indescribable to those who have never chanced to see it! How different from the bluest of our northern skies is this rich intensity15 of azure16! In the reaction of the present clay against exaggeration of sentiment or language, it has, I know, become the fashion to disbelieve and decry17 many “travellers’ stories” that used to be undoubtingly accepted. Still, as all reactions do, this one has gone too far, and a spirit of cynical18 scepticism is fast undermining much of the pleasure simple-minded stay-at-home people (certainly a very small minority now-a-days) used to derive19 from the descriptions of their more fortunate sight-seeing neighbours.
People are told that it is all humbug20 and nonsense about southern skies having a richness and depth of colour unknown in those of the north. That the Mediterranean21 is just like any other sea, and the tints22 of its waters not one whit23 more varied24 or brilliant than may be seen at any English coast on a sunny day. Doubtless, the north has its own peculiar25 and precious beauties, and well and fitting it is that its children should appreciate and prize them. But why therefore set ourselves to ignore or make light of the more vivid and striking loveliness we must turn southwards to see? For my part I can only tell of things as they seemed to me; and I come too of an older generation; one in which people were not ashamed to wonder and admire, heartily26 and even enthusiastically. No poor words of mine could ever in the faintest degree picture the marvellous perfection of those blue skies of the south, at which I gazed with a very ecstasy27 of delight, or of the waves like melted emeralds and sapphires28 lapping softly the silvery sparkling sands. They come to me in my dreams even now, and I wake with a vain longing29 to hear their gentle murmur30.
Think, in contrast, of the faint, sickly hues31 brought before us by our English words “sky-blue “and “sea-green!” Assuredly those who love chiefly beauty in colour, must not look for it hereabouts.
Marion stood on the terrace for some little time in perfect enjoyment32. She was just at the age to take unalloyed pleasure in the loveliness of the outer world. It woke no painful remembrance, stirred up no bitter association or fruitless longing. Alas33, alas, that there should be so few, so very few, to whom, in later years, the beauty of this beautiful world, if not altogether hidden by the thick veil of past sorrows, is truly what is always meant be, a delight, a refreshment34, “a joy forever.”
Surely it is more or less in our or power keep or make it so? At least, one cheering thought might be drawn35 from it by even the most weary and heavy-laden spirit. It tells us that we and our sorrows are not forgotten, for there, before us in every leaf and blade of grass the Universal Beauty reveals to us the Universal Love. But a girl at eighteen does not stop to analyse the sensations of pleasure aroused by a beautiful landscape. Marion only thought that it was lovelier than anything she had ever imagined, and well worth corning so far to see. She was fortunate in being so fresh to such scenes. It seems to me most mistaken kindness to take young children sight-seeing, even of nature’s sights. They become familiar with beauty of these noblest kinds long before it is in the least possible that they can feel or appreciate it. And this familiarity ends generally in utter indifference36; ignorance in short that there is anything to admire. Not that children should be brought up among dinginess37 and ugliness. The prettier and sweeter their surroundings the better. But oh parents and teachers, do leave the little creatures simple and fresh! To my mind a child of ten years old, who has been half over the continent, and chatters38 pertly of Switzerland and Mont Blanc, Naples and Mount Vesuvius, is in-finitely more to be pitied than we children of long ago, who talked to each other with bated breath of these wonders we should see “when we grow big,” and who believed implicitly39 in Robinson Crusoe and the Swiss family, if not in Liliputland and Hassan of Balsra!
Some time passed, and then Marion reluctantly withdrew from the terrace and re-entered the little salon40. It looked quite dark from the contrast with the flood of light outside; and as the girl’s eye fell on her little writing-desk which she had set on the table intending to write to Harry, it seemed as if the darkness had entered her heart too.
“What can I say to him?” thought she, “and poor Cissy ill and tired. I can’t even talk to her!”
And then there came before her a picture of Harry compelled to confess all to his father. A terrible scene of parental41 reproaches and harshness. Harry cast of for ever, perhaps running away to sea, and his life utterly separated from hers, and from all happy and wholesome42 influences. It was too dreadful to think of! Very foolish and exaggerated no doubt. Still such things have been! Then too, there was great excuse for Marion’s anxiety, even if carried too far. Harry, though little more than two years her junior, had been almost like a son to her as well as a brother. She was naturally stronger in character than he, and also much more thoughtful and considerate. And then to a gentle unselfish girl it comes so naturally to act a mother’s part at almost any age. I think as I write of a tottering44 nursemaid of six or seven, all but overwhelmed by the baby in her arms, at first glance quite as big as herself. A cold day and the clothing of both babies of the scantiest45. Of course the small nursemaid has a tiny shawl. Small nursemaids always have. Her charge at last succumbs46 to cold and sets up a dismal47 howl. Then see the poor little woman, poor baby that she is, untaught, unkempt, uncared for. With what sweetest tenderness she soothes48 the crying infant, seating herself with infinite pains on a door step, and wrapping round the other the poor little rag of a shawl which was the only protection of her own shivering shoulders. Dear, good little girl. True-hearted, unselfish child. How many such as these are in our streets! Ugly, dirty little creatures we shrink from them as we pass, who yet are already fulfilling nobly, in utter unconsciousness, their part of woman’s work.
As Marion’s dismal imaginations had reached their height, she was again interrupted by Charlie.
“Mamma is awake and wants to speak to you,” was his message, which Marion was very glad to hear.
“May,” said Cissy, after assuring her cousin that she was much less tired now and would be quite herself by the afternoon, “May dear! do you know I’ve been thinking ever so much in the night about this affair of Harry’s. Don’t think me hard or cruel for what I am going to say, for I’m sure I don’t mean to be; but I can’t help having a sort of feeling that perhaps after all it would be best for you to advise Harry to tell all to your father. Though he is stern I don’t think he is really hard-hearted. And then it is such a pity for a boy to begin any concealment50 from his father. Don’t you think so yourself, dear?”
“As a rule certainly I do,” said Marion, “but in this case it is so different. Cissy, you don’t know Papa. It is not the harshness at the time that I so dread43 for Harry, though that would be bad enough. It is the thought of the dreadfully galling51 way he would be treated afterwards. Papa would make him feel that he had utterly lost confidence in him. He would run away before long, I am sure. And think what might become of him! No, Cissy, I can’t advise him to go to my father if there is any possible way of avoiding it.”
“Well, dear, I suppose you know best,” replied Mrs. Archer52, “only thinking it over last night it seemed to come before me that it would be right for Harry to confess his fault (for after all it was undoubtedly53 his own fault), to Uncle Vere, and take his reproaches manfully as a merited punishment. Not that I do not feel very sorry for him, poor fellow, for after all it was a mere54 piece of boyish folly55.”
“And folly which he bitterly repents56, I assure you,” said Marion; “but oh, Cissy, can’t you think of any plan to help him? I must write to-day.”
“I can help you so far,” said Cissy. “I can lend you the money for two or three months. You see we are sure to be here for six months, and I can let some of my bills, the rent, I dare-say, run on till Christmas any way. So there will be no fear of our running short. I only wish I could clear poor Harry of this horrible debt altogether. But if the worst comes to the worst I can write to George and he will only think I have been rather more extravagant57 than usual.”
“That you certainly shall not have to do, dear Cissy,” exclaimed her cousin; “rather than that, I would face Papa myself and risk the worst he could say or do to me, for he should never know it had been Harry’s debt, though I fear he would suspect it; but if you can really lend me the money, Cissy, I promise you I shall find some way of repaying it before we leave Altes. I shall not tell Harry how I have got it, as he would be dreadfully hurt at my having told you, and still more ashamed of my having borrowed it in this way, so remember it is my debt and not his, and if I don’t pay, it you may put me in prison,” he added, gaily58, so great her relief at the thought of Harry’s safety.
“Very well, you may be quite sure that I shall do so,” replied Cissy, “and now run off and write your letter. I will give you three ten pound notes, so that you may send the first halves of them to-day.”
Gratefully kissing the kind little woman, Marion obeyed. Her high spirits lasted till her letter was written, and with its precious enclosure carefully posted with her own hands. Then as she walked slowly homewards a little of the weight returned to her mind. How was she now to repay Cissy? That her cousin should suffer more than the mere temporary inconvenience of having advanced the money she was determined59 should not be the case. Certainly there was no immediate60 hurry about the matter, but Marion was not one of those people who think it quite time enough to face a difficulty when it is close at hand, and her active imagination at once set to work on all manner of possible and impossible schemes.
She would take in fine needlework and get up at unearthly hours to do it without Mrs. Archer’s knowledge, She would paint same exquisite7 landscapes that would be sure to sell.
On reflection, however, she saw obstacles in the way of executing either of these projects. She was not, in the first place, remarkably61 proficient62 with her needle, nor was she conceited63 enough to think that her water colours were much above the average of most young-lady-like productions of the kind.
And in the second place, supposing she had anything to sell how could she, an utter stranger in a foreign town, find a purchaser?
And so one after another or half-a-dozen promising64 looking schemes was passed in review and rejected by her common sense as impracticable.
Still on the whole she was rather amused than distressed65. Her mind at ease about Harry, all other considerations seemed trifling66. There was even something, exciting and exhilarating about the novelty of the idea. And she was young and strong, and to such the grappling with a difficulty has a curious charm of its own. Even about such a sordid67 matter as the making or earning of thirty pounds! That in some way or other her voluntary promise to her cousin should be redeemed68 she was determined. And the girl was not one to undertake what she would not fulfil.
It was too hot to leave the house for some hours after noon. Cissy herself on a sofa in the coolest earner, declaring it felt something like India, and then suddenly remembered her housewifely responsibilities, rang for Madame Poulin, and entered, somewhat vaguely69 it must be confessed, on the subject of dinners. All, however, was charmingly satisfactory. Though not professing70 to do much cooking herself, the good lady assured Madame all could be agreeably arranged, for her brother was the head of the best hotel in Altes, but a two minutes’ walk beyond the post-office, and would supply regularly a dinner for any number from two to a dozen, at a really moderate price. Or if ces dames71 would prefer a little variety now and then, there was the table d’h?te at this same hotel every day at five, where the choice of viands72 would be greater and the company of the most select.
“That would be rather amusing now and then for a change” observed Mrs. Archer.
Marion preferred the idea of a private repast, but agreed that they might go and “see what it was like.”
For to-day, however, Madame Poulin was requested to order a comfortable little dinner in their own quarters, and after some further conversation on the subject of Charlie’s tastes, the pleasant old lady retired73, leaving behind her a decidedly favourable75 impression, which longer acquaintance only confirmed.
A few minutes passed in silence till it occurred Marion that it would be as well for her to write her father announcing their safe arrival. This task accomplished76, and Cissy declaring she was too tired to go out, Marion settled herself in a snug77 corner by the window with an interesting book, which she had read half of on the journey. But alas for her pleasurable intentions! Hardly had she opened the volume when an interruption appeared in the person of Charlie in a state of tremendous eagerness to write a letter to Foster. The poor little fellow had really been very good all day, doing his best to get on pleasantly with Thérèse, who was certainly good nature itself, and had been making, on her side, super-human efforts to amuse her small charge and to understand his observations. Still as she was us wholly innocent of English as the child of French, it was rather trying work for both. Marion felt that, Charlie deserved some reward, so she laid down her book and established him on her knee with a sheet of note-paper before him and a pencil in his hand.
The nature of their occupation being a very engrossing78 one Marion did not hear the sound of a carriage drawing up at the door below the little terrace, nor did she pay attention to the slight bustle79 of bell-ringing, enquiries made and answered, which ensued.
In another moment, however, the door of the room opened and Thérèse ushered80 in a visitor, whom Cissy started up to receive. Marion was reluctant to disturb Charlie, and being almost hidden by the curtains sat still, quietly observing the new corner who, cordially greeting Mrs. Archer, had evidently not noticed that there was anyone else present.
The visitor was an elderly lady, tall, and well dressed, with some remains81 of former beauty, of a pleasing, though not very striking, kind. Her expression was gentle, but somewhat anxious and uneasy, which was soon explained, by her announcing herself to be very deaf.
“Very deaf, indeed, my dear,” she repeated to Mrs. Archer in her fussy82 way. Whereupon poor Cissy, of course, set to work shouting in a shrill83, high-pitched tone, of all others the most impossible for a deaf person to catch the sound of.
After one or two trials, however, she got on a little better, and succeeded in explaining to Lady Severn, as Marion had already guessed her to be, her regret at having failed in meeting with a desirable young lady as governess, owing to the delay in the letter’s reaching her which contained her friend’s request.
Lady Severn was evidently disappointed, but consoled herself by entering at great length into her troubles and anxieties with respect to her grand-daughters’ education. Mrs. Archer listened sympathisingly, as was her wont84. But so absorbed was the elder lady by her own recital85, that it was not till she rose to go, that she remembered to make enquiry for her hostess’s child, or children, and for the last news of Colonel Archer.
The satisfactory state of her husband’s health having been communicated, Cissy, suddenly remembering that, in the confusion of Lady Severn’s unexpected entrance, and the subsequent discovery of her deafness, she had not introduced her young cousin, turned to look for her. There the pair was still seated in perfect content. Charlie, perched on Marion’s knee, as quiet as a mouse, had found ample amusement in peeping from behind the curtains at the funny old lady whom Mamma was shouting to.
But now, at a sign from his mother, he slipped down and ran forward to be kissed and admired as a fine little fellow, and “so like his papa was when I first remember him,” said Lady Severn, adding in an undertone, as a tear glistened86 in her eye, “They were two such fine boys, my dear, your husband and my poor John. And he left no son to succeed him, you know. Only the two little girls. Not but what they are very dear creatures, but I can’t help wishing there had been a boy. And so does Ralph himself, for that matter! But it can’t be helped.”
Marion listened with some curiosity to these allusions87 to the family history she had already heard. Half unconsciously stepping forward into the room, Lady Seven’s glance at last fell upon her, and Cissy hastened to apologise and explain. Unfortunately, however, in her eagerness to introduce her pretty guest, Mrs. Archer pitched her voice badly, and the result was that the old lady caught no words of the sentence but the two last.
“Miss Vere,” Cissy had ended with.
“Miss Freer,” repeated Lady Severn with satisfaction at her own acuteness. “Miss Freer, I hope you will like Altes. And you, too, my dear little fellow”—to Charlie—“there are some lovely walks in the neighbourhood, which I do not think Miss Freer will consider too far for these sturdy little legs.”
“Vere,” ejaculated Cissy, “my cousin, Miss Vere.”
“Miss Vere,” again repeated Lady Severn with perfect satisfaction; “oh yes, I caught the name, thank you. I am generally rather clever at catching88 names correctly. Besides, it is familiar to me. It is the name of our much-respected surgeon at Medhurst. Perhaps he may be a relation of yours, Miss Freer? It is not a very common name.”
Marion replied, with malicious89 calmness, that she was not aware that she had any relations at Medhurst. But, by this time, Cissy was beyond attempting further explanations. She controlled herself sufficiently90 to accompany Lady Severn to the head of the stairs, where the good lady favoured her with some further remarks still more distressing91 to her gravity, on the subject of Miss Freer; and then she rushed back into the room, scarlet92 with suppressed laughter, though, at the same time considerably annoyed.
“Marion, how could you,” she exclaimed, “standing there in that demure93 way, and answering that you had no relations at Medhurst? Do you know that the old goose thought you were my companion or Charlie’s governess? I am not sure which. Imagine Uncle Vere’s face, if he had seen it! She told me, as she said goodbye, that she only wished she could meet with just such a young lady for her two dear creatures. I tried to explain, but it was hopeless. Really, you might have helped me.”
“Truly, I don’t see how,” said Marion: “would you have had me confuse the poor lady still more by shouting my name into her one ear while you were doing the same into the other? And she was so pleased at her own cleverness. It would really have been a shame to undeceive her. Besides,” she went on more seriously, “I truly don’t see what harm it does me for Lady Severn, or anybody else, to take me for a governess. Don’t vex94 yourself about it, Cissy. It really doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter,” said Mrs. Archer almost angrily, “and it was all my own stupidity, too, in not introducing you properly at first. But I was all but asleep when she came in, and then I couldn’t make her hear.”
“But how does it matter?” asked Marion gently, seeing that her cousin was really annoyed.
“In a hundred ways. I want you to enjoy your visit here, and have a little more variety than in your dull life at home. I want you to make some nice acquaintances, and to be admired, and all that sort of thing, you know. And what a stupid beginning, to be mistaken by our only acquaintance for a governess!”
“Governesses are not altogether debarred from all the pleasant things you name, are they?” said Marion, “I really can’t see anything dreadful either in the mistake or the reality, had it existed. But seriously, Cissy, leave off thinking about it, do.”
This incident, however, or something, gave Marion herself ample subject for reflection; for she was unusually thoughtful and silent all the afternoon. In the course of the evening, Mrs. Archer received a note from Dr. Bailey, apologising for not having already called to see her, and expressing hopes that, when she had got over the fatigue of her journey, Mrs. and Miss Bailey might have the pleasure of making her acquaintance.
“He must be a civil, kindly95 old man,” said she after reading it, “but I don’t exactly see the necessity of a friendship with Madame and Mademoiselle. I wonder how they know anything about me, unless they call in a semi-professional sort of way on all the papa’s lady-patients.”
“I should hardly think they could find time for that,” said Marion “but perhaps they have heard about you from some one.”
“Oh, yes, by-the-bye,” exclaimed Cissy, “I remember Lady Severn said she had got my address from the Baileys. Really, Marion, it was horribly rude of me not to answer her letter! I suspect it was her eagerness on the governess question that brought her to call so quickly. But I daresay she’s very good and kind. Indeed, I know she is, for George says she was almost like a mother to him, long ago, when his own mother was in India.”
“Lady Severn doesn’t look particularly delicate,” remarked Marion, “do they always spend the winter abroad?”
“Oh dear no. She’s not delicate, if by that you mean a consumption, or anything of that kind. I daresay she is not remarkably strong, and then she is no longer young. Sir John’s death aged96 her terribly, I believe. But it is principally on account of one of the little girls, that they have spent the last two or three years on the Continent. The younger one, I think—Sybil she is called—who was very ill soon after her father’s death, and her grandmother thought she was going to die, and came abroad in a fright. The child’s all right again now, but I suppose Lady Severn is over anxious and fussy. I fancy, too, she dislikes the idea of returning to Medhurst, for it was there her son died.”
“I can’t help thinking,” said Marion, after a minute or two’s silence, “that there is some-thing unnatural97 in Lady Severn’s devotion to the memory of the one son, and apparent indifference to the other. Even what she said to-day, about regretting that Sir John had left no boy, struck rue49 as a curious thing to say, considering that Sir Ralph is her own son. Unless, indeed, he is peculiarly unlovable, or has, in some way or other, forfeited98 his mother’s affection by his own fault?”
“Well, it does seem queer,” replied Cissy, “but still from what I have heard, I can understand it in a sort of way. You see from boyhood John Severn was looked upon as the heir, and Ralph was so different. Quiet and grave, and not the sort of character to be much noticed in any way. Whereas Sir John must have been a splendid fellow really. I don’t suppose it ever occurred to any one that Ralph could become the head of the house! But if you are interested in the family, May, I dare say you will have opportunity enough while here to study their various peculiarities99.”
“What is the other child called?”
“I don’t know, or if I ever did I’ve forgotten. Girls of ten and twelve don’t interest me particularly; though I liked you, May, when you were a little girl,” said Mrs. Archer, affectionately; “you were such a dear, shy little thing, and you had such funny, quaint ways. I never can believe you are the same. You seemed to me to become grown-up all in a minute. With my never seeing you all these years after toy marriage, I kept fancying in that silly way that I should come home and find you just as I left you.”
“Then you don’t think me very childish now, do you?” asked Marion, rather anxiously, “do I look much younger than I am, do you think, Cissy?”
“What has put that in your head all of a sudden?” said Mrs. Archer, laughing. “I thought you were far too wise ever to think about outward looks at all. That’s the very thing about you that is so unlike most girls. You are such an indescribable mixture of extreme girlishness and preternatural wisdom. You look such a perfect child sometimes, at the very moment that I am shaking in my shoes before you, and your dreadfully good advice. You certainly would make a capital governess, Marion, if you kept your pupils in as good order as poor me! Only you are fa too pretty. All the big brothers and gentleman-visitors would fail in love with you to a certainty.”
“Don’t Cissy, please don’t joke in that sort of way. I want to ask you seriously; do you really think I should make a good governess?”
“Of course you would. I believe you might make a good anything you chose. You are certainly clever enough to manage me in a way that fills me with amazement100 and admiration101. But do think of something more interesting than governesses. Thank goodness there’s no fear of your ever having to be one.”
“Isn’t there? Well, I don’t know. Stranger things happen every day. Why Papa might loose all his money, and I might have to earn my bread like a model young lady in a story book.”
“You might, undoubtedly, but also you might, not,” answered her cousin, carelessly, and then changing the subject, she continued: “What should you say to our dining at the table d’h?te to-morrow? Wouldn’t it be rather amusing?”
“If you like,” replied Marion, “though it would be pleasanter if we knew anyone likely to be there. Didn’t you, say you knew another family there?”
“Oh, yes, the Berwicks. I must, look them up, I suppose, for they are old friends, and they don’t know I’m here. But I’m getting sleepy, Marion. Are you ready to say good night? I hope you won’t mind breakfasting alone again, for I want to be quite rested by to-morrow afternoon, so that we may go a walk or a drive. I’m afraid it has been very stupid for you today.”
“But it would be much more stupid if you were to get ill, Cissy dear,” said Marion, “so rest by all means. I shall have breakfast early and perhaps go out a little walk on my own account, with Charlie and Thérèse, before you are up.”
As she spoke102 her eye fell on a calling-card lying on the table. It was that of Lady Severn, which, Thérèse being rather untaught in such matters, had followed instead of preceding her into the room. Marion took it up and looked at it closely. In the corner was written the temporary address: “Rue des Lauriers, No. 5.” A trifle, but it decided74 a good deal. “Now that I know the address,” thought the girl, “I can go there in the morning before Cissy is up.”
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considerably
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fatigue
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distress
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hazily
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quaint
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exquisite
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exquisitely
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thoroughly
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robust
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disposition
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standing
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harry
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utterly
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intensity
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azure
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derive
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Mediterranean
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22
tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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25
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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26
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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27
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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28
sapphires
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| n.蓝宝石，钢玉宝石( sapphire的名词复数 )；蔚蓝色 | |
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29
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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30
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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31
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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32
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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33
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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34
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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35
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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37
dinginess
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| n.暗淡，肮脏 | |
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38
chatters
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的第三人称单数 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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implicitly
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| adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
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40
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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41
parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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42
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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43
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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44
tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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45
scantiest
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| adj.（大小或数量）不足的，勉强够的( scanty的最高级 ) | |
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46
succumbs
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的第三人称单数 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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47
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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soothes
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| v.安慰( soothe的第三人称单数 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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49
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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50
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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51
galling
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| adj.难堪的,使烦恼的,使焦躁的 | |
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52
archer
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| n.射手，弓箭手 | |
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53
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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repents
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的第三人称单数 ) | |
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57
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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58
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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59
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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60
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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61
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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62
proficient
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| adj.熟练的，精通的；n.能手，专家 | |
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63
conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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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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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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69
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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professing
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| 声称( profess的现在分词 )； 宣称； 公开表明； 信奉 | |
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71
dames
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| n.（在英国）夫人（一种封号），夫人（爵士妻子的称号）( dame的名词复数 )；女人 | |
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72
viands
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| n.食品，食物 | |
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73
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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75
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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76
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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77
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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78
engrossing
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| adj.使人全神贯注的，引人入胜的v.使全神贯注( engross的现在分词 ) | |
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79
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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80
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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82
fussy
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| adj.为琐事担忧的，过分装饰的，爱挑剔的 | |
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83
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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84
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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85
recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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86
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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87
allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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88
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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89
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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90
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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91
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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92
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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93
demure
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| adj.严肃的；端庄的 | |
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94
vex
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| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
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95
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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96
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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97
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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98
forfeited
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| （因违反协议、犯规、受罚等）丧失，失去( forfeit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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100
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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101
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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102
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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